Blessings in Contrast

Check out these dance moves

My daughter is a typical three year old. She tests boundaries, has limited awareness of where her limbs are, and unbridled exuberance when something appeals to her. She is a little ball of energy barely tempered by the knowledge that there are somethings that have consequences... if mommy catches her doing it. If she could get away with it she would prance, dance, and run headlong through life.
Yesterday we were at Chick-fil-a, the mom mecca, as my sister-in-law calls it, and it was time for us to go. I had two bags on one shoulder and my 20 lbs one year old on the opposite hip. I stopped at the counter to get a refill on my caffeination, aka sweet tea, therefore all my hands were occupied.

"I'm ready to go now."

Baby girl had a monster truck that one of my children had smuggled in from the car. This in hand, she took off down the length of the counter, barely dodging a young couple, driving this truck at top speed. I apologized and called her back to me. Instead of walking back to me, the way someone in my brain that fails to learn from past experiences expected her to, she turned, verbally revving the trucks engine, and shot back down the counter, startling a woman as she dodged in front of her and that same couple that I had already apologized to before stopping at my side. I look up, second apology on my lips but before I could do more than stutter the woman looks right at me and says, "How can you let your child run wild?!"...
Me, the couple, and the kid behind the counter all just stared at her for a few shocked moments as my brain tried to process what she had just said. I was hurt, embarrassed, and beginning to feel indignant.

My oldest sons 7th birthday, we went to
Chick-fil-a after school and got a
sweet suprise.

The couple were the first to recover and looking my way said softly, "That was so rude!" to which the kid behind the counter replied, "That was totally uncalled for."
Their votes of solidarity brought the air back to my lungs. And I walked out with my head held high thankful that those kind of people were the ones that I typically found in Chick-fil-a.
Chick-fil-a is a safe place for me and other moms. The staff knows us by name, opens the door for me when I have to drag fussing children out of the building, and always offers a smile when I ask for anything, no matter how bizarre. The other customers are typically good humored, understanding, and willing to pardon unintended offenses committed by my children.

Cow Appreciation Day 2015

So what I want to say to this woman, who it feels called every fiber of my motherhood into question, is thank you, Thank you for reminding me why I come here, why I feel so comfortable here, and for laying out in stark contrasts the loving and patient people that I find every day. I don't know what your day had been like but I hope that at the end of it you feel half as loved and blessed as I do every day.

Time Out Blues

I got the don't wanna sit

Makes me wanna spit

Momma won't let me play

Gotta stay here all the live long day

Time Out Blues

So what if I kicked my brother

He was being such a bother

Don't ask me about my sister

Does it count if I missed when I hit her?

The Time Out Blues

I cry til my nose runs clear
I shed every remorseful tear
I promise I'll never to it again
As long as they follow my plan
The Time Out Blues

My stomach is starting to hurt

My eyes are full of something like dirt

My mind abounds with random fears

My maladies fall on Moms deaf ears to my

Time Out Blues

What is that noise I hear?

The kitchens timer tone rings clear

Suddenly freed I feel all better

Now that I'm released from my fetters

Now that I'm all through 

With the Time Out Blues. 

Sitcom Perfect

     There was water on baby girls floor and it wasn't pee, thank goodness. And here is how I know:

You're so funny Mom.

     First of all, because I had been with her all morning, and second of all, because it was up against the wall which is a really hard place to have an accident.
     I could also tell you the smell and temperature were wrong but that might be TMI.
     So I checked the utility closet next to her room and found the pan under the water heater was over flowing. (It turned out that it had to do with condensation from the AC but that is only marginally relevant.)
Which is why at 3:00 pm a very nice plumber shows up at my house to fix the problem. This is the most amazing thing my baby girl has ever seen in her life so I spend the next hour and a half trying to keep her from sitting next to this strange man, touching his tools, and asking a steady stream of questions while he tries to work in the tiny cramped hall way where the utility closet is.
     I am also trying to get the toys out from under his feet, keep up with the little prince who wants to play in the wet carpet, and get things ready for dinner in the messy kitchen.
     I finally give them both a snack and thus wrangle a full five minutes of time to clear the counters and set out suppers ingredients.
     By this time it is 4:15 or so. You know what that means. Nothing good happens at that time of day. Nothing!

What are they feeding you?

     So I've been hearing some… shall we say straining noises... from the prince so I figure he is done and I'll go change him before I actually start cooking.
     I pick him up, walk to the changing table, lie him down and feel some thing strange on my arm. I look down and see that the diaper has leaked, to put it kindly, all over my shirt and I just put my arm in it.  We are talking a blob of ick... smeared. I look at the baby and can't tell where the ick coming from so...
    When you are unable to asses the extremeness of the fecal situation your best move is to take it all to the tub to try to contain... or, moderate... or at least have a smooth, non-absorptive surface and access to water.
     So, I dangle the baby by the underarms, not wanting to smish him back into the smear and head for the bathroom... and then change course for the other bathroom.
     Dangling baby can't be cleaned off in the bathroom that the plumbers using to empty his shop vac and poop smeared Momma really can't strip in a room with no access to clean clothes... so the other bathroom it is...
     ...where there is no tub... where the is only one towel.... in what amounts to a 4x4 room... where the hot water takes a good 5 minutes to arrive since its on the other side of the house. Yep. Trying to clean poop shrapnel in there? Not ideal… to say the least.
     So we get showered off and I wrap the prince in the towel.
     From my room, where I am frantically trying to get dressed, I hear the continual chatter that has become the hallmark of my little girl getting closer and closer to my door. And then, knock, knock, yes... there is a plumber knocking at my door, while I'm naked, after being covered in poop, and then, of course the three year old opens to door, telling the man, "My Mommy's in here." as I yell "Just a minute!"
I manage to slam the door in her poor little face, throw on some clothes, and have a reasonable conversation with the plumber, while holding a baby wrapped in a towel, after a brief apology and an attempt at an explanation.
You can't make this stuff up.
Moral of the story... there is no moral... unless it's that plumbers and babies don't mix.

The Day of Rest, and Other Such Nonsense

     It all started with something that would normally be an exciting thing. I fit into a pair of pants that I haven't been able to wear in two years. Go me!

     I was nervous about wearing them to church so I asked my sweet husband how they looked and though they looked great he noticed a small tear in them that meant that the kids got to sit in the car while I hurriedly tried to change outfits. This made them more than a little antsy but it was over quickly, and I felt that disaster had been averted, (ha ha ha). I jumped in the car and we headed out.
      Once at church Daniel took off because he was leading singing and teaching the kids class upstairs so he had a ton of last minute prep work to do. All I had to do was feed the kids and keep everyone contained until church started. No sweat... (once again, ha ha ha)!

That is the grin I'm talking
about. Pure mischief.

     Within five minutes the food was abandoned and the mobile children were off. So I had a seat while my little prince smeared pancakes on my pants and shirt and... anything else he could reach. A few moments later the children came to find me to see if they could go play outside.
     Before church, in your dress clothes with no one free to make sure that you don't get run over? I think not. The answer is a firm no.
     The prince finishes his smearing and I set him down to try brush some of the mush off my person. Within moments I hear crying, I spin around and see that baby girl is laying on her little brother, and, obviously, he wasn't a fan. Her mischievous grin made it clear that she was aware of his disapproval.
     Sensing that justice was approaching she hopped up, turned around and took off out the front door which my oldest was holding open for some unknown reason. Perhaps he was an accomplice. I take off after her, pull her inside, and am in the middle of giving her a vicious talking to when I hear screaming behind me. Taking a deep breath I once again spin around to confront what ever disaster is brewing behind me.
     Baby girl makes her escape, the little prince heads off to try to eat a bug, and as I turn around I am sure that I am about to discover that my sweet boy has a hangnail since that is the level of harm that has resulted in such shrieking for the last week or two.

Bugs?! I don't eat... oh wait,
yeah, I'll eat bugs.

      Instead I see him with his arm pinched in the hinge of the front door. A totally shriek worthy experience. I rush over to release him and hold him for a moment before forcing him to let me look at his arm. A bloody looking bruise has already formed and so I hurry to get ice on it.
     I set him down in a pew, round up the escapee and the bug eater and settle us all down. My poor sweet boy is unusually calm as he ices his injury but the other two make up for his lack of enthusiasm and activity. Since Daniel is up front leading singing some wonderful friends sit at the other end of the pew to act as bouncers when, not if, one of the overly active children attempts to escape. Bless them!
     So over the course of the singing part of the service the younger two break my necklace, losing the charm somewhere down my shirt, and pour out a pencil box of crayons, all this punctuated with bouts of flailing and whining. But the pièce de résistance is when baby girl grabs the bag that had once held ice for sweet boys arm, and now holds ice cold water, and shoves it down my shirt.

The cuteness belies the craziness
they exude from every pore. 

     Now I'm the one flailing, and by some miracle, not screaming. Daniel has just sat back down with us as this happens so I lob the ice bag somewhere down the pew, toss the child to Daniel and try to pull myself together as communion comes down the aisle.
This is the moment where I glance at Daniel and I have two choices, hysterical tears or hysterical laughter. Daniels mouth twitches and my shoulders begin to shake... with laughter, and a few tears, but mostly laughter. 
     The poor guy passing the tray down our pew gives us a strange look, and I still had to fish my broken necklace out of my cleavage, but Daniel took the little prince up with him to do announcements, and I got half a moment to breathe. 
     In much the way that any landing you can walk, or limp, away from is a success, any Sunday morning that you can laugh at is a successful Sunday morning. Not a pleasant, uplifting, or enjoyable Sunday morning, but certainly a successful one. 
     Even my successful Sundays could hardly be qualified as a "Day of Rest" but I know that by being there, teaching them to sit, and praying that some essence of my love for God and the church drifts their way I am laying a foundation for the rest of their lives. Therefore I embrace the craziness and the laughter and vow to wear a turtle-neck next week.

Clean Car Days

You know what I am doing?

Cleaning my van. Sounds impressive, doesn't it?

It's not.

We spent forever cleaning
this room before breakfast.

It is the "Anger Management Strategy of the Day" aka, the thing that I am doing to avoid totally losing every shred of my cool with my middle child. She is what is commonly referred to as a threenager. And by the end of this day she will have spent more time in her room than out of it, culminating in a 5:00 pm bedtime. Primarily the purpose of the room time out is so that I can put some distance between her and I. Every time that I have had to put this child in the car today it has been a wrestling match, and the two hours of "nap time" resulted in every thing, toys, clothes, books, everything, being thrown about in her room. It makes my stomach clench to think of it,...

...That is why we are now pulling all the seats out of the van so what we can be sure that we get every iota of dirt, and orange peels, and church worksheets, and tater tots, and who knows what else, out from under them.

 I think her sweet compliant nature up until the beginning of this year meant that the defiance that suddenly started around that time felt like a real slap in the face, a punch in the gut, a spit in the proverbial eye, and it makes me want to scream and cry and rant, all at the same time, a lot...

...So I am out here furiously scrubbing the windows on my vehicle, which are covered in stickers, saliva, chocolate and other unrecognizable things, so that I won't hear her kicking the door and barge in like the maternal maniac I feel like.

 I'm running out of strategies and if I am completely honest there are days when I don't even employ them. I just go from 0 to rage in 3 seconds flat blowing right through the tiny voice in the back of my head that is telling me that I am going to regret this....

So there it is. This is why I am shaking out the dead flowers, rocks, granola bars, and playground sand from my floor mats.

Dinner before a 5 pm bedtime
is sparse at best.

Every time I lose my cool it just feeds that monster in the darkest parts of thoughts that continually whispers that I'm a bad mom. That I don't know what I'm doing. That is messing it all up. And there are many days that I can't find much fodder to argue with him. When I yell, and huff and puff and threaten, I regret it instantly. I want to be a calm collected person, dolling out consequences with a side note of love and affection and not this red faced troll bellowing at every misstep.

So I take deep breaths, I try to think through the consequences I am going to give and how reasonable they are, I text my friend phrases like "Ahhhh!", and when all else fails...

... I spend some time shaking all the cheerios, animal crackers and chicken nuggets out of the car seats.

These are the good days. When I find something to help me make it through the day. The days where I remember that there are better days ahead and behind.

 The days that I write about, that I post pictures of on Facebook, those are the best days. I put them there to remind myself that sometimes the best of me wins and my child finds reason to smile at me. So don't judge me because my Facebook makes my life look all hunky dory with sunshine and poppies. Its not that I am trying to project a false image, pretend that my life is perfect, or show off in anyway. I'm just trying to hold on to the things that are worth remembering. Just like my now pristine car sometimes the result belies the cause. Perhaps next time you see overly happy pictures or a perfect family on some sort of social media you can just smile with them.
Or next time you see a woman with a spotless minivan, you can give her a hug and tell her she is a good mom because we all need to hear that more.

How Kids Are Like Heroin

     Kids are heroin. They are destructive to your physical, mental and societal well being, and you keep coming back for more, you just can't resist.

Your first pregnancy, the one where you took naps without the risk of waking up to wanton destruction, and subsequent child lure you in with the false high of their first smiles, the adorable babbling, and the tiny clothes.
So you think... "Let's have another. We can handle this."

Then there is two of them...
Here is where you start to feel the pain... the lack of sleep, money, and time, not to mention no cuddles with the hubby (unless you are forming a two year old sandwich).
But, somehow, it getting harder is a challenge, as if you are waving red in front of a bull.
People say three is so hard. But you can do it. The oldest can be so much help now. You are ready for this! You got it!
So you pep talk your self into having a third...

This is when you realize where your addiction has left you...
Broke. Tired. Bruised. Sore.

How likely is she to sit on
the baby if I go potty?

...and the high from those little booties and the tiny giggles just doesn't quite break through the fog that your sleep deprived zombie brain lives in. You stare at the third, loving them more than anything in the world, trying to formulate coherent sentences but only gibberish comes out.

Here is your life on three kids...
You dress thinking things like...
     How much spit up will this shirt hide?
     If a child hangs on my pocket will these pants end up around my ankles in the middle of a Walmart parking lot like last time?
     Can you really even see that hole?

There really is no reason to spend time thinking about what actually looks good on your body because your body has been so stretched by pregnancy, sleeplessness, stress, and a deep craving for chocolate ice cream that even when your blessedly wonderful husband extols the beauty of your form you stare at him wondering if photoshop has somehow been installed directly into his brain.

Of course the baby needs to
wear the choking hazard
wings, Mom.

You can no longer carry on a conversation.
Instead you have disjointed half finished bits of information exchange floating around, each sentence puntuated by "No, no, no!", "Get that out of your mouth!" and "We don't hit our friends." until most of the meaning is lost and never mind there being a point.

You long for escape
 Then they leave...
 Kindergarten, summer camp, or weekend with the grandparents...
 And all you can do is talk about the kids, what are they doing, what are we going to do when they get back, what they did last week.
And worse than that you worry, worry, worry...
Every night that they are gone you lie awake very aware of the fact that you didn't check to see if they were breathing and sniffling about the fact that when you dropped them off they didn't even look at you, just mumbled "Bye mom" and took off running.

Selfie of a six year old.

You rush back to pick them up envisioning running towards one another with open arms and instead you find that the joyful energetic child you dropped off has used up all their good behavior points while gone and you get the leftover troll points instead.
Within an hour you're ready to send them back so that you can miss them again.

But then your baby, the third, the one who didn't get a nursery, who ate off the floor, didn't have a changing table, and developed an early and uncanny ability to pull full glasses of liquid into your lap, learns to walk.
...

Your heart starts beating fast, your palms get sweaty...
You don't have a baby, you have a toddler!

Your mind starts to wander towards the inevitable place... but your push the thought aside and sleep though the night for the third time in a row.
But it keeps popping up...
Finally you hold someones newborn.
You really should have known better.
And then the last straw.
The moment when you cross the line and there is no turning back.
You really just can't help yourself...

You smell it!

That is when those sneaky addiction thoughts slip in and the what if's start...
     What if we have one more?
     What is the big deal about adding another?
     Four isn't that many more than three in the grand scheme of things.
     You've done it before and it worked out just fine.
     Just one more...
     Just one last time...
   
See...

Heroin

4:00 pm Comes For Us All

 

Too cute to be the source of so much
trouble, right?

     Baby girl came to me with her toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. That is where is all started.

     "I want to brush my teeth Mommy."

     Such a sweet simple statement. And 15 minutes later I find myself on the verge of hysterics.

     I should start by saying it was after 4:00 pm. And all the moms say, "Ahhhh..." in that understanding way. That really should have clued me in. Nothing good starts after 4:00 pm. That is when the children go crazy because they are getting tired, hungry and/or bored and they know if they go crazy at 4:00 then all the craziness damage is done and dealt with before Daddy can get home to put a stop to it. It is all part of their plan to take over the world, but that is another post.

     So, as I said it was 4:00 and baby girl wanted to brush her teeth. My little prince often gets the grumps about this time so I had him in the wrap to soothe him while I got a little something done, at least that was my theory until someone wanted to brush their teeth. 

     I pasted up the toothbrush, tightened the lid back on very securely, and sent her to the bathroom to brush to her little hearts content all the while thinking how proud I was of her for making such good choices. The happy mommy moment should have been a clue too.

     My sweet boy runs by to let me know he is using my bathroom because baby girl is in theirs. So far, so good. Nothing to see here. I walk by the bathroom, I no longer remember why, and see that girl child with her mouth around the tube of toothpaste... yes... eating it!

     Let me take a moment to say, ew!

     She pulls it out of her mouth and stands there looking guilty. 

     "Did you eat the toothpaste?" I ask her and she says "noooooo" in that long, I think I'm giving the answer mom wants to hear sort of way.

     I've been a mom long enough to be pretty sure the two year old is lying to me so I ask again after a long pause and she says yes, she ate the toothpaste. Ate it! 

     Why, why, why!!?? 

     Why do I still even ask why?! 

     The tube tells me to call poison control and I keep their number on the fridge, easy access for just such occasions. This is not my first rodeo and at least I don't have them on speed dial... yet.

     So I'm talking to the nice, calm lady a poison control and am giving her all the information from the tube, the concentration of fluoride, what type of fluoride and how much she might have eaten. The tube was mostly empty and travel size to begin with so I was fairly sure that she was fine but when they are so little you never know and I would rather be safe.

     The nice lady begins to tell me that she is fine and would have to eat more than the whole full tube to do any harm but if I give her a glass of milk it will counteract even the harmless but uncomfortable symptoms of eating toothpaste like an upset stomach. 

It's all part of the master plan
mom! When you least
expect it.

     I start pouring the milk as she is telling me this when my sweet boy bursts into the kitchen from the direction of my bedroom. "Mommy! There is a potentially dangerous situation!" he breathlessly tells me. I assume this means there is an ant in the bathroom or my straightener is on the bathroom counter and tell my oldest son that I'm on the phone and it will have to wait. This is his cue to notice that I'm getting his sister some milk, the unfairness of which is far more important, so he abruptly changes tracks and begins to whine for milk. Why? Because it's 4:15 pm.

     The nice lady is still talking and asking a few questions which I am miraculously managing to answer when I hear, as I walk to find the girl to give her the milk, "Mommy! I had an accident!" This is when I think the nice lady started struggling to not laugh at me and once she heard me say "Why are you in your brothers crib?!" she got off the phone with me awfully quickly and her voice had the quirky sound of someone who was about to laugh her head off once she was out of ear shot. 

     So now I have a half naked toddler in the baby's crib, an accident next to the crib (thank goodness!) complete with a little pile of pants and underwear, a kindergartner explaining why it's not fair that his sister is getting milk, and I catch a whiff of spit up from the baby strapped to my front. Why not? I give the toddler the milk, put a towel over the accident, take a deep breath and then ask my sweet boy what he was trying to tell me about while I was on the phone.

"Oh, the toilet won't flush! It just fills and fills and fills with water!" 

...

Of course...

     I walk to my bathroom, check that the toilet has not yet overflowed, close the door, and then just walk away, all the while mumbling things about help me Lord, children, where is your father, it was just 15 minutes, and how I hate 4:30 pm.