I'm all for tree climbing but told them that the basic rule is this: if you go up, you've got to be able to figure out how to come back down. So far, so good.
And for a boy, there is really nothing quite like the fun of climbing trees, is there?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Climbers
I have nothing witty to say about this because it's late (like that matters - I am always tired) but just felt like posting these pictures of the older two boys, who have now officially entered the tree climbing phase.
I'm all for tree climbing but told them that the basic rule is this: if you go up, you've got to be able to figure out how to come back down. So far, so good.
And for a boy, there is really nothing quite like the fun of climbing trees, is there?
I'm all for tree climbing but told them that the basic rule is this: if you go up, you've got to be able to figure out how to come back down. So far, so good.
And for a boy, there is really nothing quite like the fun of climbing trees, is there?
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Reorganizing
It's not that I am particularly DISorganized, but I must admit that keeping some parts of my life organized is a real challenge.
One of these areas is my kitchen cabinets and pantry. Let's just say, my spices are NOT alphabetized. An avalanche upon opening a cabinet, an extra big shop at Costco, or my mom finding a few spare minutes are typical catalysts for finally pulling everything out and replacing it neatly, coherently.
And about the time I do actually kick into cleaning mode, it's only because I have discovered not one but seven open boxes of Oreos, or a complete depletion of my baby food supply when the hungry munchkin is already strapped into his high chair and screaming for nourishment.
I reached my wits end the other day when I was halfway through cooking an already late dinner and couldn't find a single can of tomato paste. Tomato paste! Isn't that one of those pantry supplies that you never run out of? That mysteriously multiplies like rabbits when the pantry door is closed? Or is that only my perception because I buy it in big boxes at Costco, only to buy it again two weeks later because my mush brain couldn't remember if I recently bought any or not?
Anyway, I was so annoyed by my lack of ability to find the stuff that despite being in the midst of dinner, I frantically started pulling things out so that the cans - and I - could regroup.
At some point Tadpole and Tigger wandered over to grab a few carrots off my chopping board and casually ask what I was doing. Knowing how my kids LOVE to help, I thought carefully about my response. I wanted to do it myself for the sake of organization and efficiency, so I simply stated, "Reorganizing. It's a very important Mommy job."
They didn't bat around my words, just left. Perhaps I looked a bit crazed and scared them off.
Dinner finished, boys in bed, I still had a mess on my countertops... but stuck to task, replacing everything in the pantry neatly (yes, found the tomato paste), and smiled in satisfaction at the small victory I just won over my chaotic pantry. It was worth the time and effort.
Until the next day, when I disappeared into the bathroom briefly to slap on some make up, and returned to discover two of my little helpers reorganizing my pantry. To their standards, of course, not mine. Apparently they thought they were doing a very important job in helping me.
Which begs the question: why do I bother?
One of these areas is my kitchen cabinets and pantry. Let's just say, my spices are NOT alphabetized. An avalanche upon opening a cabinet, an extra big shop at Costco, or my mom finding a few spare minutes are typical catalysts for finally pulling everything out and replacing it neatly, coherently.
And about the time I do actually kick into cleaning mode, it's only because I have discovered not one but seven open boxes of Oreos, or a complete depletion of my baby food supply when the hungry munchkin is already strapped into his high chair and screaming for nourishment.
I reached my wits end the other day when I was halfway through cooking an already late dinner and couldn't find a single can of tomato paste. Tomato paste! Isn't that one of those pantry supplies that you never run out of? That mysteriously multiplies like rabbits when the pantry door is closed? Or is that only my perception because I buy it in big boxes at Costco, only to buy it again two weeks later because my mush brain couldn't remember if I recently bought any or not?
Anyway, I was so annoyed by my lack of ability to find the stuff that despite being in the midst of dinner, I frantically started pulling things out so that the cans - and I - could regroup.
At some point Tadpole and Tigger wandered over to grab a few carrots off my chopping board and casually ask what I was doing. Knowing how my kids LOVE to help, I thought carefully about my response. I wanted to do it myself for the sake of organization and efficiency, so I simply stated, "Reorganizing. It's a very important Mommy job."
They didn't bat around my words, just left. Perhaps I looked a bit crazed and scared them off.
Dinner finished, boys in bed, I still had a mess on my countertops... but stuck to task, replacing everything in the pantry neatly (yes, found the tomato paste), and smiled in satisfaction at the small victory I just won over my chaotic pantry. It was worth the time and effort.
Until the next day, when I disappeared into the bathroom briefly to slap on some make up, and returned to discover two of my little helpers reorganizing my pantry. To their standards, of course, not mine. Apparently they thought they were doing a very important job in helping me.Which begs the question: why do I bother?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Must Be Chaos
[To the tune of one of our Christmas favorites, Must Be Santa]
Must Be Chaos
Where can you go to find four small boys?
My wild house has four small boys.
Where can you go to hear lots of noise?
My wild house has lots of noise.
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house
Must be my chaotic house.
Where can you go for wrestling fun?
My wild house has wrestling fun.
Where can you go and get nothing done?
In my wild house you’d get nothing done.
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house.
Where can you go for testosterone?
My wild house has testosterone.
Where can you always find a tumbling zone?
My wild house is one big tumbling zone.
Tumbling zone, testosterone
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house.
Where can you go where life’s never tame?
At my wild house it’s never tame.
Where can you go for days never the same?
At my wild house days are never the same.
Never the same, life’s not tame
Tumbling zone, testosterone
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house.
Tantrums wrestling tattling tackling
Running jumping playing whacking
Never the same, life’s not tame
Tumbling zone, testosterone
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house...
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house!
Must Be Chaos
Where can you go to find four small boys?
My wild house has four small boys.
Where can you go to hear lots of noise?
My wild house has lots of noise.
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house
Must be my chaotic house.
Where can you go for wrestling fun?
My wild house has wrestling fun.
Where can you go and get nothing done?
In my wild house you’d get nothing done.
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house.
Where can you go for testosterone?
My wild house has testosterone.
Where can you always find a tumbling zone?
My wild house is one big tumbling zone.
Tumbling zone, testosterone
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house.
Where can you go where life’s never tame?
At my wild house it’s never tame.
Where can you go for days never the same?
At my wild house days are never the same.
Never the same, life’s not tame
Tumbling zone, testosterone
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house.
Tantrums wrestling tattling tackling
Running jumping playing whacking
Never the same, life’s not tame
Tumbling zone, testosterone
Nothing done, wrestling fun
Four small boys, lots of noise
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house...
Must be my house, must be my house,
Must be my chaotic house!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Happy Returns
A sure sign of having lots of little kids presents itself when I need to return an item to the store. Inevitably the receipt was shoved into an already overcrowded purse in the first place, so it didn't stand much of a chance of staying neatly folded and safe. By the time a few weeks pass and I find myself regretting a purchase or teetering on getting busted by Hubby for an excessive Target bill, the receipt has probably been through the laundry, stuffed into a myriad of different pockets, or chewed or colored on or wadded into a golf ball by one of the kids.
This morning while I got dressed, Quatro laid in the middle of my bed and somehow reached my purse. (I tell ya, that kiddo is on the move... let the fun begin. Again.) Luckily I don't carry choking items such as loose change or diamond stud earrings, though it has been known to collect loose sticky Skittles or random cracked acorns.
And what did the little cutie find? The Target receipt that I had spent 45 precious minutes searching for last night. Which was not a good thing since I was headed there after school drop-off to return a few items I had purchased in a whirlwind, I-don't-have-time-to-actually-think about-whether-or-not-this-is-the-right-size/style/function shopping trip.
Here is the receipt after I managed to pry it out of his grip prior to him actually ingesting it.
As you may imagine, I was rather fearful that the good folks at Target would laugh in my face when I arrived at Customer Service. Smartly, I had the younger two children with me, kinda a defense for my argument.
I handed the young man the receipt. "Uh. What happened here?" he asked slowly. I pointed to my charming, grinning baby and simply said, "THAT happened."
"Uh. Oh. Okay. Well I can't really read this..." Of course he couldn't. But, he refunded it to me anyway.
Yet another reason to love Target, like I needed one...
This morning while I got dressed, Quatro laid in the middle of my bed and somehow reached my purse. (I tell ya, that kiddo is on the move... let the fun begin. Again.) Luckily I don't carry choking items such as loose change or diamond stud earrings, though it has been known to collect loose sticky Skittles or random cracked acorns.
And what did the little cutie find? The Target receipt that I had spent 45 precious minutes searching for last night. Which was not a good thing since I was headed there after school drop-off to return a few items I had purchased in a whirlwind, I-don't-have-time-to-actually-think about-whether-or-not-this-is-the-right-size/style/function shopping trip.
Here is the receipt after I managed to pry it out of his grip prior to him actually ingesting it.
As you may imagine, I was rather fearful that the good folks at Target would laugh in my face when I arrived at Customer Service. Smartly, I had the younger two children with me, kinda a defense for my argument.
I handed the young man the receipt. "Uh. What happened here?" he asked slowly. I pointed to my charming, grinning baby and simply said, "THAT happened."
"Uh. Oh. Okay. Well I can't really read this..." Of course he couldn't. But, he refunded it to me anyway.
Yet another reason to love Target, like I needed one...
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Hard Habit to Break
Lately - and I have no idea how this began - the boys have started a habit of sneaking into our room and into our bed when they wake up in the morning. A bad dream, eager to start the day, anxious for a cuddle, this reason and that... different reasons. But we have found that nearly every morning in the last week, by 6:45am there are somewhere between two and four little boys in our bed.
I absolutely love this (when it's AFTER 6.30am).
But Hubby and I both agree that as a general rule we do NOT like the kids in bed with us.
Oh, but how sweet is the early morning cuddle with a tiny baby and cute toddlers not yet awake enough to be whacking each other over the head and shoving each other off the bed. They snuggle in close and "tunnel" down under the covers, entertaining the baby and laughing so sweetly.
I want to savor it, because of course the phase is somewhat short lived. I mean, can you picture my 13, 14, 15, and 16 year old lanky teenagers squeezing like sardines into our bed, let alone wanting to, let alone even being ALLOWED into my bedroom?
To allow them to continue to join us in the wee hours of the morning, or not? I don't know. Because it is so sweet, it's definitely a hard habit to break.
I absolutely love this (when it's AFTER 6.30am).
But Hubby and I both agree that as a general rule we do NOT like the kids in bed with us.
Oh, but how sweet is the early morning cuddle with a tiny baby and cute toddlers not yet awake enough to be whacking each other over the head and shoving each other off the bed. They snuggle in close and "tunnel" down under the covers, entertaining the baby and laughing so sweetly.
I want to savor it, because of course the phase is somewhat short lived. I mean, can you picture my 13, 14, 15, and 16 year old lanky teenagers squeezing like sardines into our bed, let alone wanting to, let alone even being ALLOWED into my bedroom?To allow them to continue to join us in the wee hours of the morning, or not? I don't know. Because it is so sweet, it's definitely a hard habit to break.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Ornamental Catastrophes
I've always had in my head a pretty picture of a sweet family tradition - decorating the tree together. In pursuit of my dream, we started having "Tree Decorating Night" last year. That didn't go over very well, as we had purchased a prelit fake one and didn't think to plug it in to check that the lights work until AFTER we had set up the entire tree and even started putting ornaments on it. By that time, the kids were restless, we were annoyed, and it was way past bedtime for the three little guys and a tired pregnant mommy.
This year we attempted the tradition again. My parents came over, we made hot apple cider and big, soft, chewy gingersnap cookies, cranked up the non-traditional Christmas music (much to Hubby's horror), checked that the lights were still working, and proceeded to open up the bins of ornaments.
Thinking only of the two-year-old who would wipe out all the ornaments within two minutes if they were in his reach, I smartly decided to place all the ornaments higher up... on the kitchen table. This way, I figured, the older boys could reach them and Cubby couldn't, we could help Cubby select and hang them on the tree, and everything would be, as they say, honky dorey. (Where did THAT phrase come from anyway?)
What I didn't worry about - but clearly should have - was the older boys actually handling the ornaments. One by one they hauled them off to the tree to hang them, and one by one they started breaking. With a CRASH CRASH here and a CRASH CRASH there, here a CRASH, there a CRASH, everywhere a CRASH CRASH... Yes, several made it safely on to the tree, but they were not breakable in the first place.
Somewhere around the seventh breakage, including sentimental ones from Hubby's childhood like Mickey Mouse and an ornament we got during our first year of marriage, my impatience started to collide with my love of Christmas decorating and my desire to begin this family tradition. I took a few deep breaths, however, and pressed on with a smile. I gobbled about four gingersnaps in a row at this point too, to ease the pain.
It was then that I remembered a few ornaments that I had purchased for 2009, stuffed in a Target bag in my closet. (Which is a funny statement in itself, because there is a sea of Target bags covering my closet floor and rendering it impossible to actually walk IN to my walk in closet and retrieve any clothing. Which is why I wear the same three shirts all the time - they get hung over a chair in my room and I don't actually HAVE to attempt to walk into the closet for clothing.)
Um. What am I writing about? (It's extremely late. 9:00pm.) Oh - new ornaments. I retrieved them, and with great fanfare hid them behind my back and presented them to my husband, saying, "Honey! I found the most wonderful new ornament for us this year!" Tada! It was a Big Ben, which of course, sweetly represented our first four years of marriage which were spent in London. "Cool!" he replied! "Big Ben!" the boys sang in unison. "Perfect!" my parents proclaimed!
And "CRASH" went my precious new ornament, right out of my hands, sending teeny shattered shards of glass all over the lovely new hardwood floors.
Oops.
Pout.
This year we attempted the tradition again. My parents came over, we made hot apple cider and big, soft, chewy gingersnap cookies, cranked up the non-traditional Christmas music (much to Hubby's horror), checked that the lights were still working, and proceeded to open up the bins of ornaments.
Thinking only of the two-year-old who would wipe out all the ornaments within two minutes if they were in his reach, I smartly decided to place all the ornaments higher up... on the kitchen table. This way, I figured, the older boys could reach them and Cubby couldn't, we could help Cubby select and hang them on the tree, and everything would be, as they say, honky dorey. (Where did THAT phrase come from anyway?)
What I didn't worry about - but clearly should have - was the older boys actually handling the ornaments. One by one they hauled them off to the tree to hang them, and one by one they started breaking. With a CRASH CRASH here and a CRASH CRASH there, here a CRASH, there a CRASH, everywhere a CRASH CRASH... Yes, several made it safely on to the tree, but they were not breakable in the first place.
Somewhere around the seventh breakage, including sentimental ones from Hubby's childhood like Mickey Mouse and an ornament we got during our first year of marriage, my impatience started to collide with my love of Christmas decorating and my desire to begin this family tradition. I took a few deep breaths, however, and pressed on with a smile. I gobbled about four gingersnaps in a row at this point too, to ease the pain.
It was then that I remembered a few ornaments that I had purchased for 2009, stuffed in a Target bag in my closet. (Which is a funny statement in itself, because there is a sea of Target bags covering my closet floor and rendering it impossible to actually walk IN to my walk in closet and retrieve any clothing. Which is why I wear the same three shirts all the time - they get hung over a chair in my room and I don't actually HAVE to attempt to walk into the closet for clothing.)
Um. What am I writing about? (It's extremely late. 9:00pm.) Oh - new ornaments. I retrieved them, and with great fanfare hid them behind my back and presented them to my husband, saying, "Honey! I found the most wonderful new ornament for us this year!" Tada! It was a Big Ben, which of course, sweetly represented our first four years of marriage which were spent in London. "Cool!" he replied! "Big Ben!" the boys sang in unison. "Perfect!" my parents proclaimed!
And "CRASH" went my precious new ornament, right out of my hands, sending teeny shattered shards of glass all over the lovely new hardwood floors.
Oops.
Pout.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Man Talk
It was obvious that the widespread downpours meant that the older two boys did not get out on the playground at school this morning, because it took less than five minutes upon arrival back at home before they were wrestling and tackling each other.
Several times I thought about breaking it up, but figured that we'd be eating lunch soon enough and it was good for them to at least get a few minutes of energy out. I decided to kept my eye on them and listen instead.
About two minutes later I witnessed Tigger tackle Tadpole and inadvertently whack him in the crotch region. I waited for the scream, but instead Tadpole, in a very calm, adult-like voice, said, "Be careful! You can hurt a man like that."
Wonder who they picked that up from.
Several times I thought about breaking it up, but figured that we'd be eating lunch soon enough and it was good for them to at least get a few minutes of energy out. I decided to kept my eye on them and listen instead.
About two minutes later I witnessed Tigger tackle Tadpole and inadvertently whack him in the crotch region. I waited for the scream, but instead Tadpole, in a very calm, adult-like voice, said, "Be careful! You can hurt a man like that."
Wonder who they picked that up from.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Upside
Last night was rough, a trend lately, it seems. I was up four or five times (who's counting) in the night, and all six of my family members were awake from 4-5am.
The reason for everyone being up at 4, but not the reason for my blog, was this: Hubby trying to calm a screaming baby, me changing a stinky nappy on Cubby, and suddenly during those events, a wild scream from Tadpole who unusually fell out of bed, woke his frightened brother Tigger, and greeted me in his doorway with a blood covered mouth (he somehow managed to cut his lip and chin).
So this morning, Hubby asked me for the following information: how much sleep I got (he sweetly asks me this daily, as my level of exhaustion is a top concern for him, albeit somewhat out of his control) and the rundown on everyone's ailments.
I launch into the list: I was in bed eight hours, but awake nearly three of those. Tadpole has been coughing all night and since he woke up, feels sluggish, and has a gash on his lip and chin. Tigger seems to be fine, but told me that he "did not get enough sleep" (that means trouble by about 3pm today) and promptly upon waking had a bad bout of the dreaded runs. Cubby happens to have eczema on his bum, compounded by horrific nappy rash that sprung up overnight and has left his bum nearly raw. He also awoke with a diaper blowout and a terribly runny nose. Quatro is on day 15 of a bad body-covering rash, continues to run a slight fever after the four shots he had on Tuesday, is coughing like his eldest brother, and is generally cranky because he just cut his first tooth and is in all likelihood, since teeth arrive in pairs, cutting his second one.
My husband looked at me wide-eyed (probably thinking to himself that he's glad to have to go to work today) and simply commented, "There's one positive to all of that." I couldn't imagine what in the world it would be, when he responded, "It will make a really interesting blog entry."
I suppose that's one way to look at it...
The reason for everyone being up at 4, but not the reason for my blog, was this: Hubby trying to calm a screaming baby, me changing a stinky nappy on Cubby, and suddenly during those events, a wild scream from Tadpole who unusually fell out of bed, woke his frightened brother Tigger, and greeted me in his doorway with a blood covered mouth (he somehow managed to cut his lip and chin).
So this morning, Hubby asked me for the following information: how much sleep I got (he sweetly asks me this daily, as my level of exhaustion is a top concern for him, albeit somewhat out of his control) and the rundown on everyone's ailments.
I launch into the list: I was in bed eight hours, but awake nearly three of those. Tadpole has been coughing all night and since he woke up, feels sluggish, and has a gash on his lip and chin. Tigger seems to be fine, but told me that he "did not get enough sleep" (that means trouble by about 3pm today) and promptly upon waking had a bad bout of the dreaded runs. Cubby happens to have eczema on his bum, compounded by horrific nappy rash that sprung up overnight and has left his bum nearly raw. He also awoke with a diaper blowout and a terribly runny nose. Quatro is on day 15 of a bad body-covering rash, continues to run a slight fever after the four shots he had on Tuesday, is coughing like his eldest brother, and is generally cranky because he just cut his first tooth and is in all likelihood, since teeth arrive in pairs, cutting his second one.
My husband looked at me wide-eyed (probably thinking to himself that he's glad to have to go to work today) and simply commented, "There's one positive to all of that." I couldn't imagine what in the world it would be, when he responded, "It will make a really interesting blog entry."
I suppose that's one way to look at it...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wait in Line!
Today, we hogged the swingset - my boys took up all the swings at the playground! Luckily the line of kids waiting to use it wasn't too long.
This will be a lot easier when a few of them learn to propel themselves!
This will be a lot easier when a few of them learn to propel themselves!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Inevitable
It was bound to happen, and today was the day.
Capping off a return home from the grandparents for Thanksgiving, a work day full of time-consuming projects that would not be finished and required multiple trips to Home Depot, mommy with the flu and a sore throat not allowing her much voice, daddy with an aching back, high out-of-daddy's-reach (ack! dangerous!) tree climbing by Tadpole, excessive whining from a cold-stricken Tigger with red chapped cheeks, 2-year old Cubby's post birthday party letdown, and itchy day 11 of baby Quatro's who-knows-what-caused-it rash, was this:
Tadpole decided to experiment with how much toilet paper he could stuff into the potty. And the floods came. And the mommy screamed for help. And the rugs got soaked. And the realization that we have no plunger hit. And the daddy had to reach in and fish out all the jammed toilet paper. And the bathroom had to be cleaned. And the floors had to be mopped. And the washing machine had to be utilized.
Thank goodness Baba was here to rescue us and show us how to shut the water off quickly before the water reached the hallway carpet. (In the moment, grabbing the camera was far from my mind. Bummer.)
To his credit, we probably have never point blank explained to Tadpole that the toilet cannot handle more than a few wipes worth of paper. He did look wide-eyed and innocent enough when we called him down from his tall tree to investigate the damage and threaten him that it had better not EVER happen again.
But with three more younger, curious boys? Ah, should I be so lucky...
Capping off a return home from the grandparents for Thanksgiving, a work day full of time-consuming projects that would not be finished and required multiple trips to Home Depot, mommy with the flu and a sore throat not allowing her much voice, daddy with an aching back, high out-of-daddy's-reach (ack! dangerous!) tree climbing by Tadpole, excessive whining from a cold-stricken Tigger with red chapped cheeks, 2-year old Cubby's post birthday party letdown, and itchy day 11 of baby Quatro's who-knows-what-caused-it rash, was this:
Tadpole decided to experiment with how much toilet paper he could stuff into the potty. And the floods came. And the mommy screamed for help. And the rugs got soaked. And the realization that we have no plunger hit. And the daddy had to reach in and fish out all the jammed toilet paper. And the bathroom had to be cleaned. And the floors had to be mopped. And the washing machine had to be utilized.
Thank goodness Baba was here to rescue us and show us how to shut the water off quickly before the water reached the hallway carpet. (In the moment, grabbing the camera was far from my mind. Bummer.)
To his credit, we probably have never point blank explained to Tadpole that the toilet cannot handle more than a few wipes worth of paper. He did look wide-eyed and innocent enough when we called him down from his tall tree to investigate the damage and threaten him that it had better not EVER happen again.
But with three more younger, curious boys? Ah, should I be so lucky...
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Speaking of Surprises...
And now for the shocking surprise: the night I described just yesterday in my post? The night in which I had an early waking baby, unexpected cuddler, and the need for a wee hours shower with my poo-covered one year old? Yeah, well that EXACT same scenario happened again last night. Yes, including the blow-out and shower!!!
Here's to an ueventful night tonight (translate: quiet, calm, and with more than four hours of sleep).
Here's to an ueventful night tonight (translate: quiet, calm, and with more than four hours of sleep).
Monday, November 23, 2009
Oh What a Night
Was thinking tonight about how amusing (I’m trying to see the humor in this) are the ‘surprises’ that await me in the night these days versus 10 years ago.
Ten years ago it looked like this: a phone call from a friend at 2am upset about her horrible late-night chat with an ex-boyfriend, a spontaneous decision at 10pm to go meet some friends out for a drink, a movie marathon with my roommates at midnight on Friday because we’re awake and bored and hey, we can sleep in the next day… you get the idea, and I’m trying to keep it tame here.
Nowadays it looks like this: unexpected inconsolable cries from the baby who doesn’t usually wake up as early as 9pm, whining at 5am from my four year old whose covers are messed up, little boys crawling into my bed at midnight wanting a cuddle because they just had a bad dream… or, like last night (wait, all of these things happened last night) a full blown shower and a stinky load of laundry at 2am because my one year old just had a massive diaper blowout requiring immediate attention.
Yeah, my nights are certainly a bit different these days.
Ten years ago it looked like this: a phone call from a friend at 2am upset about her horrible late-night chat with an ex-boyfriend, a spontaneous decision at 10pm to go meet some friends out for a drink, a movie marathon with my roommates at midnight on Friday because we’re awake and bored and hey, we can sleep in the next day… you get the idea, and I’m trying to keep it tame here.
Nowadays it looks like this: unexpected inconsolable cries from the baby who doesn’t usually wake up as early as 9pm, whining at 5am from my four year old whose covers are messed up, little boys crawling into my bed at midnight wanting a cuddle because they just had a bad dream… or, like last night (wait, all of these things happened last night) a full blown shower and a stinky load of laundry at 2am because my one year old just had a massive diaper blowout requiring immediate attention.
Yeah, my nights are certainly a bit different these days.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!
Here's one that I can't figure out. Tigger, newly three, is going through a phase where he changes his clothes numerous times in any given day.
I would not at all think of him as clothing obsessed, fashion forward, or a budding designer. He doesn't change clothes to play dress up, and he's not girly in an "oooh-let's-try-THIS-cute-number-on" way.
It is, in fact, so subtle that I barely noticed it coming on until I started wondering what's with the 20% increase in laundry and why doesn't Tigger ever have any "short pants" in his drawer.
My powers of observation were clearly focused on my own personal workload, not my son's appearance.
One day I clued in, though, because I had specifically noted (and wondered if I should meddle with the fact) that he had oddly selected orange shorts and a red t-shirt to wear to school in the morning. I do typically make it a rule to let my kids choose what they wish to wear, only directing them if it is not appropriate for the occasion or the weather.
Not fifteen minutes after he was ready, he disappeared into the bedroom and came out wearing a different shirt. I asked him why he changed, hoping in that short span of time he had been gifted with newfound fashion sense, but figuring that perhaps he had just spilled pancake syrup all over the tee.
He replied by just shrugging his shoulders and making an adorable “who knows!” kind of face, and went about his business. At which I made it MY business to investigate. The t-shirt was perfectly clean, thrown into the dirty clothes hamper. Hmmm.
Must’ve been a random fluke, and I’ve got better things to focus on, I thought to myself. Plus, in the spirit of my new fave book The Power of Positive Parenting, I decided not to draw attention to it, since behavior that is given attention is typically repeated.
But the next day I noticed this clothes change again. So I started watching more closely. Tigger would disappear for quiet time or to go potty or in search of a toy, and emerge from the bedroom with something new on. Socks, underwear, shorts, shirts… but something. I have counted up to 9 changes in one day. All for no apparent reason.
I have confronted him a few times, always with the same nonchalance and simply replies.
Honestly, it’s like he just gets completely BORED with the item and is ready to move on. It’s seriously the only explanation I can come up with.
Needless to say, I have started requesting his help with the laundry. Luckily he thinks hurling clothes into various baskets and then into a huge whirling drum is kinda fun.
I would not at all think of him as clothing obsessed, fashion forward, or a budding designer. He doesn't change clothes to play dress up, and he's not girly in an "oooh-let's-try-THIS-cute-number-on" way.
It is, in fact, so subtle that I barely noticed it coming on until I started wondering what's with the 20% increase in laundry and why doesn't Tigger ever have any "short pants" in his drawer.
My powers of observation were clearly focused on my own personal workload, not my son's appearance.
One day I clued in, though, because I had specifically noted (and wondered if I should meddle with the fact) that he had oddly selected orange shorts and a red t-shirt to wear to school in the morning. I do typically make it a rule to let my kids choose what they wish to wear, only directing them if it is not appropriate for the occasion or the weather.
Not fifteen minutes after he was ready, he disappeared into the bedroom and came out wearing a different shirt. I asked him why he changed, hoping in that short span of time he had been gifted with newfound fashion sense, but figuring that perhaps he had just spilled pancake syrup all over the tee.
He replied by just shrugging his shoulders and making an adorable “who knows!” kind of face, and went about his business. At which I made it MY business to investigate. The t-shirt was perfectly clean, thrown into the dirty clothes hamper. Hmmm.
Must’ve been a random fluke, and I’ve got better things to focus on, I thought to myself. Plus, in the spirit of my new fave book The Power of Positive Parenting, I decided not to draw attention to it, since behavior that is given attention is typically repeated.
But the next day I noticed this clothes change again. So I started watching more closely. Tigger would disappear for quiet time or to go potty or in search of a toy, and emerge from the bedroom with something new on. Socks, underwear, shorts, shirts… but something. I have counted up to 9 changes in one day. All for no apparent reason.
I have confronted him a few times, always with the same nonchalance and simply replies.
Honestly, it’s like he just gets completely BORED with the item and is ready to move on. It’s seriously the only explanation I can come up with.
Needless to say, I have started requesting his help with the laundry. Luckily he thinks hurling clothes into various baskets and then into a huge whirling drum is kinda fun.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Munchies
Looks like my Cubby had the mid-morning munchies.
It was quiet for just a weeeee bit too long (which, with him, means 90 seconds), so I wandered into the kitchen to see this on the floor. Nevermind the question of how he got into the cabinets with the “childproof” safety latches.
At least it’s better than some of his more recent eats…
I know that babies put everything in their mouths, but to my recollection that ended with both my previous kids at around the age of 15-16 months.
Not Cubby.
Crayons? Yum. Playdough? Tasty. Dirt? Couldn’t be happier. What gives? What sort of food is he missing from his diet that he STILL feels the need, just shy of his second birthday, to eat everything imaginable, edible or not? And when will this obsession end?!
It was quiet for just a weeeee bit too long (which, with him, means 90 seconds), so I wandered into the kitchen to see this on the floor. Nevermind the question of how he got into the cabinets with the “childproof” safety latches.
At least it’s better than some of his more recent eats…
I know that babies put everything in their mouths, but to my recollection that ended with both my previous kids at around the age of 15-16 months.
Not Cubby.
Crayons? Yum. Playdough? Tasty. Dirt? Couldn’t be happier. What gives? What sort of food is he missing from his diet that he STILL feels the need, just shy of his second birthday, to eat everything imaginable, edible or not? And when will this obsession end?!
Perfect
At lunch today the kids and I were discussing crafts and creating. As conversations tend to do, it twisted and turned into another discussion, this one about God being the ultimate creator.
Tadpole, my ever-curious, big-thinking four-year-old child, posed a deep question: how many attempts did it take for God to “get it right” when making humans? (The question alone was enough to blow my mind.)
I paused before taking a stab at an understandable answer, and simply stated that perhaps it only took once, that He got it perfect on the first attempt!
Which in turn prompted Tadpole to ask me, “What does PERFECT mean?”
Ah, I told him, it means when something is absolutely correct, without blemish, ideal, sinless. Perfect. Like God himself. “After all,” I stated, “God is the ONLY ONE who is truly perfect.”
Tadpole stared blankly at me for an instant before replying, “But Mommy, you always tell ME that I am perfect.”
Perceptive catch, Tadpole. Because he’s right, I do often tell him that he is perfect – exactly the way he is.
Tadpole, my ever-curious, big-thinking four-year-old child, posed a deep question: how many attempts did it take for God to “get it right” when making humans? (The question alone was enough to blow my mind.)
I paused before taking a stab at an understandable answer, and simply stated that perhaps it only took once, that He got it perfect on the first attempt!
Which in turn prompted Tadpole to ask me, “What does PERFECT mean?”
Ah, I told him, it means when something is absolutely correct, without blemish, ideal, sinless. Perfect. Like God himself. “After all,” I stated, “God is the ONLY ONE who is truly perfect.”
Tadpole stared blankly at me for an instant before replying, “But Mommy, you always tell ME that I am perfect.”Perceptive catch, Tadpole. Because he’s right, I do often tell him that he is perfect – exactly the way he is.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Underwear
Tigger turned three this week. What a cute age on that kid, I cannot believe it. I am sure I say that about each of my kids at each age, but good grief. His words, his funny faces, his humor?ok not his ear piercing screams. But the rest: adorable adorable adorable. I am so in love.
But I digress. So my mom asked him last week what he wanted for his birthday. Thinking carefully and after a suspenseful pause, he confidently replied "Mickey Mouse underwear!"
This is what I love: in a world of bigger and better and lights and sounds and action and flashiness... the little guy wanted underwear.
The other gifts have been played with, fought over, and taken to show and tell already, but it's Mickey who has caused him giddiness every morning.
And THAT is adorable.
But I digress. So my mom asked him last week what he wanted for his birthday. Thinking carefully and after a suspenseful pause, he confidently replied "Mickey Mouse underwear!"
This is what I love: in a world of bigger and better and lights and sounds and action and flashiness... the little guy wanted underwear.
The other gifts have been played with, fought over, and taken to show and tell already, but it's Mickey who has caused him giddiness every morning.
And THAT is adorable.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Boredom
My oldest child Tadpole seems eternally bored when it comes independent play.
Note first off that I am speaking of my FIRSTBORN, who requires much attention and has never been as self-sufficient as any of my subsequent children.
Puzzles, games, trucks, books, cars, Legos, trains, ride-on toys, LightBrite, crayons, sticker books, craft supplies, dinosaurs, Space Shuttles, activity workbooks, shape sorters, educational toys, an entire science box filled with some of his favorite things like magnifying glasses and pulleys and compasses… oh my!… but put the kid in Quiet Time for one hour and he is completely, utterly BORED.
This, as you may guess, presents a daily challenge for me to help encourage and teach him to play on his own, discover, invent, create, and enjoy. WITHOUT bothering mommy, who desperately needs one – even one – short hour in which to experience down time (or rather cook dinner, feed the baby, or fold laundry, as is more often the case.)
In my world of chaos and activity, baby feeding and toddler taming, tantrums and sibling rivalry, Quiet Time has recently become my biggest challenge: how to understand my child enough to figure out what makes him tick. Or at least, what will motivate him to play alone for the next 60 ticks on the clock.
When we are successful at finding something that does engage him, it honestly is cause for celebration. Today was one of those days.
Pennies! Who knew that dirty pennies would drive my son to the kitchen sink where he could mix water, soap, and vinegar (“because, Mommy, that is the ONLY liquid that will truly clean a penny”) into a large plastic bowl and methodically rub Q-tips on each one, slowing bringing back some of their lost luster.
Who knew?!
Of course, tomorrow is a new day. And another challenge: what could occupy his busy, curious mind today?
Note first off that I am speaking of my FIRSTBORN, who requires much attention and has never been as self-sufficient as any of my subsequent children.
Puzzles, games, trucks, books, cars, Legos, trains, ride-on toys, LightBrite, crayons, sticker books, craft supplies, dinosaurs, Space Shuttles, activity workbooks, shape sorters, educational toys, an entire science box filled with some of his favorite things like magnifying glasses and pulleys and compasses… oh my!… but put the kid in Quiet Time for one hour and he is completely, utterly BORED.
This, as you may guess, presents a daily challenge for me to help encourage and teach him to play on his own, discover, invent, create, and enjoy. WITHOUT bothering mommy, who desperately needs one – even one – short hour in which to experience down time (or rather cook dinner, feed the baby, or fold laundry, as is more often the case.)
In my world of chaos and activity, baby feeding and toddler taming, tantrums and sibling rivalry, Quiet Time has recently become my biggest challenge: how to understand my child enough to figure out what makes him tick. Or at least, what will motivate him to play alone for the next 60 ticks on the clock.
When we are successful at finding something that does engage him, it honestly is cause for celebration. Today was one of those days.
Pennies! Who knew that dirty pennies would drive my son to the kitchen sink where he could mix water, soap, and vinegar (“because, Mommy, that is the ONLY liquid that will truly clean a penny”) into a large plastic bowl and methodically rub Q-tips on each one, slowing bringing back some of their lost luster.Who knew?!
Of course, tomorrow is a new day. And another challenge: what could occupy his busy, curious mind today?
Monday, October 26, 2009
Nice to Meet You
Recently our church was ‘interviewing’ a potential pastor, and he and his wife attended a church-wide picnic. Trying to get to know her and make her feel welcome, I spent some time chatting with her while the boys were otherwise occupied with their friends in the pool.
At one point, Tadpole sat down next to me and munched on some food, interrupting me occasionally to ask a random question, as small children do. In my continual efforts to teach good manners, I gently reminded him a few times not to interrupt but to wait patiently for Mommy to finish talking.
After a few of these interjections and responses, Tadpole started saying, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy,” in a quiet but persistent voice. Determined to set a good example to the potential pastor’s wife, I sweetly turned once again to him and said “Just a moment.” He waited somewhat impatiently by my side, but quieted, and I continued on with my chat.
Just as my mind secretly drifted away from our discussion on cold Chicago winters to how proud I was that my son was obediently waiting to interject again, I heard a long, low whine and felt warmth on my feet. I looked down to see that he had accidentally peed all over my flip-flopped foot, and it had splashed onto the pastor’s wife’s feet.
Well, he hadn’t told me he had to go potty! The kid has been potty-trained with a near perfect record for over two years, so it never dawned on me that he might be interrupting for the purpose of informing me that he had to go!
Fast forward to later that afternoon when we stopped by the beautiful “our-house-was-featured-in-Southern-Living-magazine” home of some super sweet, friendly, southern grandparent-aged neighbors of ours. They had met my charming husband and showed him their gorgeous home when he attended his first HOA meeting as a new member of the neighborhood. After striking up a conversation about remodeling and gardening, they suggested he bring me by sometime to look at their house.
We pulled into their driveway as the baby was desperate to feed and Tigger had fallen asleep only two minutes prior. After sitting for a few minutes in the car, we decided it might look rather odd, so Hubby headed into the house with Tadpole and Cubby with the plan that he would explain my absence and I would follow in about 10 minutes.
As if that bizarre entry wasn’t dramatic enough when meeting someone for the first time, we had to make it even more interesting. I woke up a sleepy (thus fussy) Tigger and together with the baby we strolled up the impeccably manicured walkway to the welcoming doorstep. As I rang the doorbell, Tigger started doing the potty dance and screaming, “I have to pee! I have to pee!”
Not wanting any embarrassing repeats of earlier, I eagerly pushed the ornate doorbell a half dozen times in a row and knocked (in case it wasn’t working, of course) knowing that everyone was probably outside in the designer backyard. I had faith in my well-potty-trained son that he could make it another minute until we were let into the house and could rush through all the formalities and down the hall to the nearest potty, so I remained calm and encouraged him that a visit to the potty was only a few short moments away.
And then, at the exact same moment that my lovely and proper neighbor curiously opened her door, my precious two-year-old dropped his eyes to his shoes and we all watched the effects of two juice boxes and two hours in the pool drain out from under his shorts.
“Uh… Nice to meet you,” I stammered.
You can't imagine my recovery from that one. Embarrassing. But, I take comfort in the fact that every mom has been there at some point…
At one point, Tadpole sat down next to me and munched on some food, interrupting me occasionally to ask a random question, as small children do. In my continual efforts to teach good manners, I gently reminded him a few times not to interrupt but to wait patiently for Mommy to finish talking.
After a few of these interjections and responses, Tadpole started saying, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy,” in a quiet but persistent voice. Determined to set a good example to the potential pastor’s wife, I sweetly turned once again to him and said “Just a moment.” He waited somewhat impatiently by my side, but quieted, and I continued on with my chat.
Just as my mind secretly drifted away from our discussion on cold Chicago winters to how proud I was that my son was obediently waiting to interject again, I heard a long, low whine and felt warmth on my feet. I looked down to see that he had accidentally peed all over my flip-flopped foot, and it had splashed onto the pastor’s wife’s feet.
Well, he hadn’t told me he had to go potty! The kid has been potty-trained with a near perfect record for over two years, so it never dawned on me that he might be interrupting for the purpose of informing me that he had to go!
Fast forward to later that afternoon when we stopped by the beautiful “our-house-was-featured-in-Southern-Living-magazine” home of some super sweet, friendly, southern grandparent-aged neighbors of ours. They had met my charming husband and showed him their gorgeous home when he attended his first HOA meeting as a new member of the neighborhood. After striking up a conversation about remodeling and gardening, they suggested he bring me by sometime to look at their house.
We pulled into their driveway as the baby was desperate to feed and Tigger had fallen asleep only two minutes prior. After sitting for a few minutes in the car, we decided it might look rather odd, so Hubby headed into the house with Tadpole and Cubby with the plan that he would explain my absence and I would follow in about 10 minutes.
As if that bizarre entry wasn’t dramatic enough when meeting someone for the first time, we had to make it even more interesting. I woke up a sleepy (thus fussy) Tigger and together with the baby we strolled up the impeccably manicured walkway to the welcoming doorstep. As I rang the doorbell, Tigger started doing the potty dance and screaming, “I have to pee! I have to pee!”
Not wanting any embarrassing repeats of earlier, I eagerly pushed the ornate doorbell a half dozen times in a row and knocked (in case it wasn’t working, of course) knowing that everyone was probably outside in the designer backyard. I had faith in my well-potty-trained son that he could make it another minute until we were let into the house and could rush through all the formalities and down the hall to the nearest potty, so I remained calm and encouraged him that a visit to the potty was only a few short moments away.
And then, at the exact same moment that my lovely and proper neighbor curiously opened her door, my precious two-year-old dropped his eyes to his shoes and we all watched the effects of two juice boxes and two hours in the pool drain out from under his shorts.
“Uh… Nice to meet you,” I stammered.
You can't imagine my recovery from that one. Embarrassing. But, I take comfort in the fact that every mom has been there at some point…
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Garbage Trucks and Drill Rigs and Ambulances... Oh My!
So I’m writing this blog in honor of the two-week anniversary of our adventure to Orlando Touch a Truck. (Hey, if I had written this the evening of the event, you might falsely conclude that I have too much free time on my hands. Anyway, I’m cool with being two weeks behind.)
Have you heard of this event? I’m telling you – not to be too stereotypical or anything – but this was like little boy heaven. Having said that, I was a wee bit of a tomboy and would have LOVED this event as a girl, and there were plenty of young girls there, too.
But when my mom’s group friend emailed us on Friday night about this event Saturday morning, it took about .45 seconds to make up my mind that we were going. Four little boys and 30+ vehicles to explore? Could any event be more exciting?
What an absolutely brilliant concept. (Not to mention genius fundraiser for the host preschool.) They bring in all sorts of trucks, construction equipment, community service vehicles, and public safety cars. Kids are allowed to sit in them, honk horns, turn wheels, touch levers, and even talk to the drivers and operators who were in uniform. Army jeeps and diggers and streetsweepers, oh my! Fire trucks and police cars and cement mixers, oh my!
Had it not been for the scorching sun and record-setting hot temperatures that day, I truly think we could have spent 8 hours there exploring and investigating. As it was, the boys enjoyed crawling into over a dozen trucks, meeting a police man, and learning about robot thingies with cameras on the end that creep into underground pipes and take pictures.
I cannot WAIT to go to the event again next year. The only thing that could make it better is if it’s at least 10 degrees cooler!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sleeping Bookworm
My little Tigger has always been a bit wacky when it comes to sleep. Out of all the kids, he is the one who seems to put himself to bed when he's tired, who is awake hours after the others have fallen asleep, and who naps in all sorts of crazy positions.
The latter prompted me to photograph a week's worth of napping. You'll notice that most of the time slumber has been induced by book reading... he takes after his Momma!
Day 1 - Under the bed
Day 2 - Reading his favorite, Curious George
Day 3 - Reading George again
Day 4 - Didn't make it to bed this time
Day 5 - No nap today!
Day 6 - The Incredibles made him incredibly tired
Day 7 - Notice the neat, fixed bed and animal friends... so sweet
The latter prompted me to photograph a week's worth of napping. You'll notice that most of the time slumber has been induced by book reading... he takes after his Momma!
Day 1 - Under the bed
Day 2 - Reading his favorite, Curious George
Day 3 - Reading George again
Day 4 - Didn't make it to bed this time
Day 5 - No nap today!
Day 6 - The Incredibles made him incredibly tired
Day 7 - Notice the neat, fixed bed and animal friends... so sweet
Sunday, September 27, 2009
If I Had a Penny...
...for every time I heard the phrase “Wow! You have your hands full!” I seriously could afford a part-time nanny.
(This is a perfect opportunity to say Thank God for my mom, who actually is like a part-time nanny since she comes to help out every week. Thanks, Mom!)
Not long ago I was on one of my favorite websites, Café Press. I love this site; you can find anything imaginable. Just type in a keyword or phrase and chances are someone has designed something fun on the subject that can be made into t-shirts, aprons, hats, buttons, etc. That said, I have encountered some worthless, boring, tacky designs.
Was wasting precious time online one day when I ran across the cutest and most appropriate design featuring the phrase, “If you think my hands are full, you should see my heart.” (Maybe someone hint-hint will buy me the tee or tote for my birthday.)
I LOVE this. Because it’s true, really. I hear it EVERY single day – even when I don’t have all the kids in tow, because they are obviously so close in age – that my hands are full. And each time I think to myself how blessed and privileged I am to have all these amazing, unique, tiny boys in my life, in my heart.
Full indeed. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world!
(This is a perfect opportunity to say Thank God for my mom, who actually is like a part-time nanny since she comes to help out every week. Thanks, Mom!)
Not long ago I was on one of my favorite websites, Café Press. I love this site; you can find anything imaginable. Just type in a keyword or phrase and chances are someone has designed something fun on the subject that can be made into t-shirts, aprons, hats, buttons, etc. That said, I have encountered some worthless, boring, tacky designs.
Was wasting precious time online one day when I ran across the cutest and most appropriate design featuring the phrase, “If you think my hands are full, you should see my heart.” (Maybe someone hint-hint will buy me the tee or tote for my birthday.)I LOVE this. Because it’s true, really. I hear it EVERY single day – even when I don’t have all the kids in tow, because they are obviously so close in age – that my hands are full. And each time I think to myself how blessed and privileged I am to have all these amazing, unique, tiny boys in my life, in my heart.
Full indeed. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Chubbs
We are rounding the corner on Quatro's 4 month birthday, and I am still breastfeeding. This is amazing, because it is longer than I breastfed all of the other three combined.
Of course it also means I am in unchartered territory, at least for me. And as every breastfeeding mom will agree, there are endless opportunities to second guess your ability to adequately feed your infant.
I have found myself doing just this, continuously. Is he getting enough food? Why is he pulling off? Should I supplement with formula? When do I know he's getting enough food during the day so I can help push him to sleep through the night? It's endless!
And then the other day reality hit when I was photographing. Do you see how chubby this little guy is? He must be getting enough food! Why am I always second guessing myself? Look at those rolls! See those cheeks! Check out that double chin! How about those thighs!
Clearly, I need'nt underestimate my ability to feed him.
Of course it also means I am in unchartered territory, at least for me. And as every breastfeeding mom will agree, there are endless opportunities to second guess your ability to adequately feed your infant.
I have found myself doing just this, continuously. Is he getting enough food? Why is he pulling off? Should I supplement with formula? When do I know he's getting enough food during the day so I can help push him to sleep through the night? It's endless!
And then the other day reality hit when I was photographing. Do you see how chubby this little guy is? He must be getting enough food! Why am I always second guessing myself? Look at those rolls! See those cheeks! Check out that double chin! How about those thighs!Clearly, I need'nt underestimate my ability to feed him.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Nappy Madness
Yesterday I was changing Cubby's fifth (?!) stinky nappy of the day when I noticed Tadpole staring at me contemplatively. I gave him a quizzical look and he observed, "Mommy, you change nappies really super duper crazy fast."
(Yes, that is one English word that has held over from my London mommying days - nappy. Try as I may, I cannot seem to say "diaper" without sounding disgustingly deliberate and feeling silly. They are, and always will be, nappies to me.)
"I've changed a lot of them, honey, and practicing something a whole lot usually means you get better and faster at doing it."
This got me to thinking about how many consecutive days of nappy changing I've had: about 1,500. Let's just say I averaged 10 nappies per day, which is probably conservative given the nonstop newborn nappies and the fact that I've had multiple kids in nappies for all but about 400 or so of those days. Anyway, if it was only 10, that means I've changed about 15,000 nappies so far. Wait, can that be right?? FIFTEEN THOUSAND.
And I am not done. Figure in about 26 more months of nappies, or 780 days, which equals another 7,800. Which totals 22,800.
Now. If each nappy takes about 2 minutes to change (conservative, once again, because I am not factoring in chasing down the stinky child, cooing at the cute but wet baby, rounding up and changing into a new outfit after the last one suffered from a poo blowout, refilling the nappies in the changing table, searching for a new packet of wet wipes with a wiggly naked baby in tow, etc etc, etc...) that's 45,600 minutes. Or 760 hours.
Which means that I will have spent the equivalent of one continuous, non-stop month of my 30s doing absolutely nothing but changing nappies.
This doesn't include pull-ups. Or sick days. Or friends/playdates/babysitting nappies.
Twenty two thousand? Really? Did I do my math correctly? That just seems absurd.
And then I wonder where all my time goes.
Now to think about how much landfill space I've used, and how much money I've spent........
(Yes, that is one English word that has held over from my London mommying days - nappy. Try as I may, I cannot seem to say "diaper" without sounding disgustingly deliberate and feeling silly. They are, and always will be, nappies to me.)
"I've changed a lot of them, honey, and practicing something a whole lot usually means you get better and faster at doing it."
This got me to thinking about how many consecutive days of nappy changing I've had: about 1,500. Let's just say I averaged 10 nappies per day, which is probably conservative given the nonstop newborn nappies and the fact that I've had multiple kids in nappies for all but about 400 or so of those days. Anyway, if it was only 10, that means I've changed about 15,000 nappies so far. Wait, can that be right?? FIFTEEN THOUSAND.
And I am not done. Figure in about 26 more months of nappies, or 780 days, which equals another 7,800. Which totals 22,800.
Now. If each nappy takes about 2 minutes to change (conservative, once again, because I am not factoring in chasing down the stinky child, cooing at the cute but wet baby, rounding up and changing into a new outfit after the last one suffered from a poo blowout, refilling the nappies in the changing table, searching for a new packet of wet wipes with a wiggly naked baby in tow, etc etc, etc...) that's 45,600 minutes. Or 760 hours.
Which means that I will have spent the equivalent of one continuous, non-stop month of my 30s doing absolutely nothing but changing nappies.
This doesn't include pull-ups. Or sick days. Or friends/playdates/babysitting nappies.
Twenty two thousand? Really? Did I do my math correctly? That just seems absurd.
And then I wonder where all my time goes.
Now to think about how much landfill space I've used, and how much money I've spent........
Friday, September 18, 2009
Cuddles
I’ve started this little ritual of cuddling with the older two boys in their beds at bedtime, and it has ROCKED MY MOMMY WORLD.
Perhaps I am the last mommy on earth to do this, and it is normal routine for moms to curl up in bed and bond with the kiddos at night. So I’ll start by telling you why, up until now, I haven’t.
My weight would sadly collapse a pack-n-play, so I don’t do it with baby Quatro. I’m not about to high jump over the crib walls to squeeze into the fetal position with my wiggly 22-month old, so no in-bed cuddles with Cubby. Until we moved into the new house, Tigger was in a toddler bed – and though I’m short, I still hung off the end. And crawling into the bottom bunk with Tadpole was possible, but not likely given that the boys were all in the same room and I never really thought about just snuggling with one.
Now that we’ve moved, the older two boys bunk, unbunked, together in one room (the littler two share another). With the twin beds parallel to each other, it is now physically possible and actually comfortable to lay down with them.
I still hadn’t really considered doing it regularly, until one night a few weeks ago when they were still wound up from the activities and guests of the day, asking me a thousand “why” questions, and generally delaying their bedtime with a variety of amusing childlike ‘needs’. I think there were some tears going on, too, but honestly I can’t remember why because the next ten minutes melted away any negative memories of that night.
I slunk in next to Tadpole, for starters – I do remember he was the one that was upset. As we whispered little words and hugged, he relaxed and I softened. We shared the joys of the day and I asked him if there was anything upsetting him that he wanted to talk about. He did. That doesn’t happen very often.
Don’t get the false idea that it was this intense, dramatic conversation with revelations left and right and bright new insight into my eldest child’s mind. It wasn’t. But it was real, and innocent, and sweet, and necessary, and memorable – at least to me.
And here’s what floored me. With all the testosterone, aggression, energy, and general “boyness” that goes on daily, the nighttime cuddles with both boys have been calming, joyful, lovey-dovey, and… coveted. Just one night of a five-minute cuddle and chat with each of them, and we have all been left hungry for more. A night isn’t complete now without that treasured time.
I’m a sentimental mess, and this kind of stuff adds kindling to my emotional fire. I can have the best or worst day, I can be physically and mentally drained, I can even be questioning what on earth I have done popping out four boys in such rapid succession – but 10 minutes at the end of my day for nose kisses, secrets, happy and sad recaps of the day, and closeness makes every. single. moment. worth it.
Perhaps I am the last mommy on earth to do this, and it is normal routine for moms to curl up in bed and bond with the kiddos at night. So I’ll start by telling you why, up until now, I haven’t.
My weight would sadly collapse a pack-n-play, so I don’t do it with baby Quatro. I’m not about to high jump over the crib walls to squeeze into the fetal position with my wiggly 22-month old, so no in-bed cuddles with Cubby. Until we moved into the new house, Tigger was in a toddler bed – and though I’m short, I still hung off the end. And crawling into the bottom bunk with Tadpole was possible, but not likely given that the boys were all in the same room and I never really thought about just snuggling with one.
Now that we’ve moved, the older two boys bunk, unbunked, together in one room (the littler two share another). With the twin beds parallel to each other, it is now physically possible and actually comfortable to lay down with them.
I still hadn’t really considered doing it regularly, until one night a few weeks ago when they were still wound up from the activities and guests of the day, asking me a thousand “why” questions, and generally delaying their bedtime with a variety of amusing childlike ‘needs’. I think there were some tears going on, too, but honestly I can’t remember why because the next ten minutes melted away any negative memories of that night.
I slunk in next to Tadpole, for starters – I do remember he was the one that was upset. As we whispered little words and hugged, he relaxed and I softened. We shared the joys of the day and I asked him if there was anything upsetting him that he wanted to talk about. He did. That doesn’t happen very often.
Don’t get the false idea that it was this intense, dramatic conversation with revelations left and right and bright new insight into my eldest child’s mind. It wasn’t. But it was real, and innocent, and sweet, and necessary, and memorable – at least to me.
And here’s what floored me. With all the testosterone, aggression, energy, and general “boyness” that goes on daily, the nighttime cuddles with both boys have been calming, joyful, lovey-dovey, and… coveted. Just one night of a five-minute cuddle and chat with each of them, and we have all been left hungry for more. A night isn’t complete now without that treasured time.
I’m a sentimental mess, and this kind of stuff adds kindling to my emotional fire. I can have the best or worst day, I can be physically and mentally drained, I can even be questioning what on earth I have done popping out four boys in such rapid succession – but 10 minutes at the end of my day for nose kisses, secrets, happy and sad recaps of the day, and closeness makes every. single. moment. worth it.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Impromptu Science Lesson
One thing I like about my boys is their curiosity, especially when it comes to science. There are numerous science projects you can do with kids, from creating volcanoes to constructing cacti.
Today we were talking about taste buds and ended up doing an impromptu science lesson. Hurray for the Internet (to find ideas quickly) and food (always a lure with the boys)!
Prepping for the taste testing of BITTER, SOUR, SALTY, and SWEET things:
Let the tasting of wacky items commence:
This sort of constructive project typically brings out the camaraderie in my boys:
By the end, Tadpole was going experimental crazy, mixing brown sugar (sweet) with cocoa (bitter) and pickle juice (sour):
Today we were talking about taste buds and ended up doing an impromptu science lesson. Hurray for the Internet (to find ideas quickly) and food (always a lure with the boys)!
Prepping for the taste testing of BITTER, SOUR, SALTY, and SWEET things:
Let the tasting of wacky items commence:
This sort of constructive project typically brings out the camaraderie in my boys:
By the end, Tadpole was going experimental crazy, mixing brown sugar (sweet) with cocoa (bitter) and pickle juice (sour):
Sunday, September 6, 2009
First
On the first day of school this year, I was first in car line for pickup. If I don’t blog about how this miracle came to be, you will not believe it. That would be because I was a complete. and. utter. wreck. Oh no, not emotionally. Just physically. Getting the boys rounded up and out the door was a feat in itself. But the rest of the morning? A mess. Here’s what went down.
Tadpole had class from 9-12, and Tigger a shortened day from 9.30-11. Just by stating that you know there was trouble brewing.
Fortunately, we made it to Tadpole’s class on time. We barely got in before the door swung shut behind us, but we made it. Then I had 30 minutes to kill with an eager “why-hasn’t-my-class-started-yet” first-time preschooler, an exploration-happy 22 month old, and a baby who typically feeds at 9.30am.
I decided to sit outside Tigger’s classroom where there just so happens to be a contained area of outdoor toys just large enough to entertain but not so big as to lose kids. (Or so I thought). Tigger and Cubby went at it full force, while I decided to sit on one of those utterly uncomfortable toddler-sized chairs to feed Quatro. Let’s just say that 15 minutes passed with various comedic but not wholly unfortunate events which included a super fussy feeder who was sweating so much in the early morning FL heat that he couldn’t stay put long enough to log two minutes of consecutive nursing time, and a restless eager one year old who managed to sneak out the gate of the play area.
Anyway, at 9.22 I couldn’t take it anymore, and decided to request that Tigger be allowed to enter his new classroom. Luckily the teacher was Tadpole’s from last year. She was familiar with me and my frequently frantic family, and she let us in. Ah, I thought, I will get Tigger settled and take the younger two out to the car as soon as possible.
It was then that I noticed that Quatro had a poo. Not just a nice, teeny, sweet-scented baby poo, but a fully blown out one that had progressed down the sides of his legs.
As luck would have it, the classroom contained a small bathroom with a baby changing station, so I excused myself into it, leaving Tigger and his brother Cubby in the classroom to explore. Error number one. Or one hundred. But who’s counting?
It wasn’t until I started changing Quatro that I discovered he actually had poo everywhere – all over his new onesie (mind you, as a fourth boy he only has about 2 outfits that are all his, not hand-me-downs, and this was one of them) and all over his back even up to his shoulders.
No worries, I am quick at changing a nappy and besides, every good mom knows to carry around extra outfits for her newborn, and I had repacked the nappy bag that morning and confidently remember putting a spare green “up all night” outfit and a turtle/seashell onesie in the bag.
Apparently the changes didn’t make it into the nappy bag though. [Indeed, I came home to discover the outfits sitting unmoved in the exact place on the kitchen counter that I had repacked the nappy bag.]
So I exited the bathroom with a naked baby in a diaper (hello, Raising Arizona), hoping that it wasn’t too obvious, only to find that Cubby had pulled bins and bins of toys out from the cabinets of the freshly organized “welcome-to-your-first-day-of-school” classroom. As I held the baby and corralled Cubby into his cheap, filmsy, “we’ll-use-this-only-for-day-trips-to-Disney” umbrella stroller from Target, the other freshly made-up, showered, and pressed Moms and Dads calmly walked into the classroom with their doll children.
To make matters worse, have you ever tried pulling a strong 22-month old away from a world of fun and games and other children, and buckling him into a stroller, one-handed? Just as I had basically dropped him into the buggy, I heard a large splat and suddenly felt this wet sensation all over my feet. I looked down, and to my horror, the baby had puked – no, this wasn’t just a spit up – but actually vomited his entire that’s-what-happens-when-you-feed-me-in-the-sweltering-heat breakfast all over my feet and the sparkling clean classroom floor. Sweet.
Capturing the next few minutes into words is impossible. You really had to have been there to witness me trying to hold frantic naked baby, clean up vomit, wipe my slippery feet, re-find and re-corral Cubby into said wimpy stroller, buckle in baby, find nappy bag again, mutter words of apology to pristine parents, graciously thank teaching assistant for help with out of control child situation, and excuse myself from the classroom, all while forgetting to actually say goodbye to Tigger, whom I was leaving for the first time in a school setting. Needless to say, retrospect wishes I had all that on video.
I would like to say the craziness ended there – and it almost did – except for the minor mishap of being 20 minutes late to pick up Tigger from his first day of school. (That is a whole different story.) Good thing the kid is relatively secure and calm and oblivious to the fact that every other Mommy had returned to take her child home for lunch and here he was, still hangin’ with the teacher.
Being that he is in a 2-1/2 year old class, I am required to physically walk in and retrieve him, instead of being able to simply pick him up in car line. So when I arrived at school, I went ahead and parked in the car line, woke my sleeping baby, unbuckled the Cubby of Pent Up Energy, left a car full of melting groceries, and quickly ran to Tigger’s class to pick him up. Thankfully he was blissfully unaware of my tardiness and was simply pleased to see me, which I was to see him, as well, and we all happily piled back into the Mommy Bus to wait for Tadpole’s class to be released for the day.
And that is the story of the day that Four Boy Mom managed to beat out all the other anxious moms to be first in car line. By the time Tadpole arrived in the car, I probably seemed calm and completely put together to the teacher who delivered him back to me.
But now you know… I wasn’t.
Tadpole had class from 9-12, and Tigger a shortened day from 9.30-11. Just by stating that you know there was trouble brewing.
Fortunately, we made it to Tadpole’s class on time. We barely got in before the door swung shut behind us, but we made it. Then I had 30 minutes to kill with an eager “why-hasn’t-my-class-started-yet” first-time preschooler, an exploration-happy 22 month old, and a baby who typically feeds at 9.30am.
I decided to sit outside Tigger’s classroom where there just so happens to be a contained area of outdoor toys just large enough to entertain but not so big as to lose kids. (Or so I thought). Tigger and Cubby went at it full force, while I decided to sit on one of those utterly uncomfortable toddler-sized chairs to feed Quatro. Let’s just say that 15 minutes passed with various comedic but not wholly unfortunate events which included a super fussy feeder who was sweating so much in the early morning FL heat that he couldn’t stay put long enough to log two minutes of consecutive nursing time, and a restless eager one year old who managed to sneak out the gate of the play area.Anyway, at 9.22 I couldn’t take it anymore, and decided to request that Tigger be allowed to enter his new classroom. Luckily the teacher was Tadpole’s from last year. She was familiar with me and my frequently frantic family, and she let us in. Ah, I thought, I will get Tigger settled and take the younger two out to the car as soon as possible.
It was then that I noticed that Quatro had a poo. Not just a nice, teeny, sweet-scented baby poo, but a fully blown out one that had progressed down the sides of his legs.
As luck would have it, the classroom contained a small bathroom with a baby changing station, so I excused myself into it, leaving Tigger and his brother Cubby in the classroom to explore. Error number one. Or one hundred. But who’s counting?
It wasn’t until I started changing Quatro that I discovered he actually had poo everywhere – all over his new onesie (mind you, as a fourth boy he only has about 2 outfits that are all his, not hand-me-downs, and this was one of them) and all over his back even up to his shoulders.
No worries, I am quick at changing a nappy and besides, every good mom knows to carry around extra outfits for her newborn, and I had repacked the nappy bag that morning and confidently remember putting a spare green “up all night” outfit and a turtle/seashell onesie in the bag.
Apparently the changes didn’t make it into the nappy bag though. [Indeed, I came home to discover the outfits sitting unmoved in the exact place on the kitchen counter that I had repacked the nappy bag.]
So I exited the bathroom with a naked baby in a diaper (hello, Raising Arizona), hoping that it wasn’t too obvious, only to find that Cubby had pulled bins and bins of toys out from the cabinets of the freshly organized “welcome-to-your-first-day-of-school” classroom. As I held the baby and corralled Cubby into his cheap, filmsy, “we’ll-use-this-only-for-day-trips-to-Disney” umbrella stroller from Target, the other freshly made-up, showered, and pressed Moms and Dads calmly walked into the classroom with their doll children.
To make matters worse, have you ever tried pulling a strong 22-month old away from a world of fun and games and other children, and buckling him into a stroller, one-handed? Just as I had basically dropped him into the buggy, I heard a large splat and suddenly felt this wet sensation all over my feet. I looked down, and to my horror, the baby had puked – no, this wasn’t just a spit up – but actually vomited his entire that’s-what-happens-when-you-feed-me-in-the-sweltering-heat breakfast all over my feet and the sparkling clean classroom floor. Sweet.
Capturing the next few minutes into words is impossible. You really had to have been there to witness me trying to hold frantic naked baby, clean up vomit, wipe my slippery feet, re-find and re-corral Cubby into said wimpy stroller, buckle in baby, find nappy bag again, mutter words of apology to pristine parents, graciously thank teaching assistant for help with out of control child situation, and excuse myself from the classroom, all while forgetting to actually say goodbye to Tigger, whom I was leaving for the first time in a school setting. Needless to say, retrospect wishes I had all that on video.I would like to say the craziness ended there – and it almost did – except for the minor mishap of being 20 minutes late to pick up Tigger from his first day of school. (That is a whole different story.) Good thing the kid is relatively secure and calm and oblivious to the fact that every other Mommy had returned to take her child home for lunch and here he was, still hangin’ with the teacher.
Being that he is in a 2-1/2 year old class, I am required to physically walk in and retrieve him, instead of being able to simply pick him up in car line. So when I arrived at school, I went ahead and parked in the car line, woke my sleeping baby, unbuckled the Cubby of Pent Up Energy, left a car full of melting groceries, and quickly ran to Tigger’s class to pick him up. Thankfully he was blissfully unaware of my tardiness and was simply pleased to see me, which I was to see him, as well, and we all happily piled back into the Mommy Bus to wait for Tadpole’s class to be released for the day.
And that is the story of the day that Four Boy Mom managed to beat out all the other anxious moms to be first in car line. By the time Tadpole arrived in the car, I probably seemed calm and completely put together to the teacher who delivered him back to me.
But now you know… I wasn’t.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Breakthrough!
At three months, Quatro’s typical night schedule is this: feed at 6:30, down by 7:15, bottle from Daddy at 11, wake somewhere between 2-4 for a drowsy snack on the boob, and up again between 6-6:30. And finally last night: we had our breakthrough.
Or so I thought.
About 10, I drifted off to la la land, dreaming, oddly enough, of high school. Any mom can identify with what happened next: I awoke on my own and when I reached over for my handy iPhone, I was shocked to read 5:50! Nevermind that I was lying in a pool of milk; my night owl had made that first sleep-through-the-night breakthrough!!
Or wait. Is he ok? I raced down the long hallway, nearly tripping over the down-then-up step of our 1970s style sunken living room, to check on him. Not wanting the clever little tyke to smell my milk soaked shirt, I slyly reached a hand out to feel the rising motion of his chest, then rapidly tip-toed out.
I did the happy dance back through the hall, already planning in those few seconds the glorious things I would tackle and accomplish now that I would be a well-rested mommy again.
I lay satisfactorily down in my bed – oops, on a huge wet spot – and closed my eyes. Are you kidding? I was too excited (and soaked) to return to sleep, so I leapt up and decided that today I would properly get ready, taking time to not only dress myself before 8:00, but also to put makeup on AND brush my hair. Imagine that! Oh the luxury of it all!
Halfway through my eye makeup I heard a faint but familiar noise. I stepped to the bathroom door. What was that? I stepped into the hallway. OH MY, it was the baby, screaming at the top of his lungs. I whirled around to stare at the monitor, whose lights were dancing loudly but was not producing any noise.
And then it dawned on me that my trusty monitor had been silenced, probably by Cubby who has discovered it’s fun flashy lights and rapid almost-out-of-range beeping, and quite frequently mistakes it as a toy. My little guy probably HAD woken up around 3 am, but silent monitor left me slumbering peacefully in my bed, unaware.
Baby monitors have probably only been around for a few decades, and certainly have been mistakenly turned off or muted by hundreds of moms (or weary husbands!) before me. So I’m not alone in this experience. And Quatro was clearly completely fine.
But so much for the “breakthrough.”
Or so I thought.
About 10, I drifted off to la la land, dreaming, oddly enough, of high school. Any mom can identify with what happened next: I awoke on my own and when I reached over for my handy iPhone, I was shocked to read 5:50! Nevermind that I was lying in a pool of milk; my night owl had made that first sleep-through-the-night breakthrough!!
Or wait. Is he ok? I raced down the long hallway, nearly tripping over the down-then-up step of our 1970s style sunken living room, to check on him. Not wanting the clever little tyke to smell my milk soaked shirt, I slyly reached a hand out to feel the rising motion of his chest, then rapidly tip-toed out.
I did the happy dance back through the hall, already planning in those few seconds the glorious things I would tackle and accomplish now that I would be a well-rested mommy again.
I lay satisfactorily down in my bed – oops, on a huge wet spot – and closed my eyes. Are you kidding? I was too excited (and soaked) to return to sleep, so I leapt up and decided that today I would properly get ready, taking time to not only dress myself before 8:00, but also to put makeup on AND brush my hair. Imagine that! Oh the luxury of it all!
Halfway through my eye makeup I heard a faint but familiar noise. I stepped to the bathroom door. What was that? I stepped into the hallway. OH MY, it was the baby, screaming at the top of his lungs. I whirled around to stare at the monitor, whose lights were dancing loudly but was not producing any noise.
And then it dawned on me that my trusty monitor had been silenced, probably by Cubby who has discovered it’s fun flashy lights and rapid almost-out-of-range beeping, and quite frequently mistakes it as a toy. My little guy probably HAD woken up around 3 am, but silent monitor left me slumbering peacefully in my bed, unaware.
Baby monitors have probably only been around for a few decades, and certainly have been mistakenly turned off or muted by hundreds of moms (or weary husbands!) before me. So I’m not alone in this experience. And Quatro was clearly completely fine.
But so much for the “breakthrough.”
Monday, August 17, 2009
Night Owl
My sweet Night Owl. I also thought this photo was appropriate to post given the new blog background!
Critters
I guess I’d better prepare to constantly have critters around the house, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.
One of my earliest memories is my Dad bringing a garter snake into the house when I was about four years old. I recall my brother (five) and Dad thinking it was hilarious scaring my mom with the snake, but I distinctly remember being aware of my own feelings – fear, creepiness, and plain confusion as to why in the world anyone would pick up a snake, let alone bring one in the house.
Boys, boys. Just two days ago when we were moving out of the rental house, Cubby picked up a dead roach and was holding it in his hand. (It may have ended up in his mouth, had I not horrifyingly screamed and shaken it from his curious fingers.) Tigger and Tadpole are frequently trying to catch lizards, and the bug jar from Tadpole’s “Science Box” quite often has a multi-legged creature dizzily wandering in it.
I was immensely proud of myself for helping capture the baby frog that was hopping down our hallway after a Florida summer afternoon downpour a few weeks ago: a major milestone in my getting used to embracing ALL of God’s creation. I tried not to let my bug-happy kids see the fear in my eye – fear, I suppose, that the thing was going to pounce on me and start munching off my nose and ears.
All this was brought to my mind again when my eldest received to his extreme delight an Ant Farm for his fourth birthday. After all, who needs another truck or car when you can harvest your very own farm of insects in your home? I know the critters are contained, but truthfully, the very thought of purposefully having ants in my house is a bit, well, disconcerting. I don’t know much about Ant Farms, but they better not decide to cleverly tunnel out and make their Great Escape into my kitchen.
I dread the day that one of my own creepy-crawly obsessed boys picks up an oversized beetle or harmless snake and brings him in to the house to scare Mom.
I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
One of my earliest memories is my Dad bringing a garter snake into the house when I was about four years old. I recall my brother (five) and Dad thinking it was hilarious scaring my mom with the snake, but I distinctly remember being aware of my own feelings – fear, creepiness, and plain confusion as to why in the world anyone would pick up a snake, let alone bring one in the house.
Boys, boys. Just two days ago when we were moving out of the rental house, Cubby picked up a dead roach and was holding it in his hand. (It may have ended up in his mouth, had I not horrifyingly screamed and shaken it from his curious fingers.) Tigger and Tadpole are frequently trying to catch lizards, and the bug jar from Tadpole’s “Science Box” quite often has a multi-legged creature dizzily wandering in it.
I was immensely proud of myself for helping capture the baby frog that was hopping down our hallway after a Florida summer afternoon downpour a few weeks ago: a major milestone in my getting used to embracing ALL of God’s creation. I tried not to let my bug-happy kids see the fear in my eye – fear, I suppose, that the thing was going to pounce on me and start munching off my nose and ears.
All this was brought to my mind again when my eldest received to his extreme delight an Ant Farm for his fourth birthday. After all, who needs another truck or car when you can harvest your very own farm of insects in your home? I know the critters are contained, but truthfully, the very thought of purposefully having ants in my house is a bit, well, disconcerting. I don’t know much about Ant Farms, but they better not decide to cleverly tunnel out and make their Great Escape into my kitchen.I dread the day that one of my own creepy-crawly obsessed boys picks up an oversized beetle or harmless snake and brings him in to the house to scare Mom.
I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The One-Handed Mom
Back-to-back babies – especially with colicky ones – and the various stages of clinginess and separation anxiety that they’ve each gone through, leaves very little time when I am not holding or carrying around at least one of my offspring.
Which means that for the last four years I have basically been a one-handed mom.
Most new moms become pretty adept at doing a variety of things with one hand, and with four straight years of babies under my belt, I feel confident boasting that I am now practically an expert.
Washing dishes? Clean as the dishwashing machine would do. Whipping up a batch of homemade muffins? As appealing and tasty as the bakery’s. Cooking and setting the table for dinner? Done before you can say “Speedy Gonzalez.” Cleaning the toilets? You could eat off of them, I didn’t miss a speck of bacteria. Folding five loads of laundry? Neater than Martha Stewart could fold 'em.
Want me to help a kid on the potty, put on another’s pair of socks, change the third’s nappy, and pay bills online all while holding a two-month old? Not a problem. Because when you have babies, that’s what you do – you cuddle and calm your little guy in one arm and learn to do everything else with your one free hand.
And if you’re wondering, of COURSE I type this blog with one hand!
Which means that for the last four years I have basically been a one-handed mom.
Most new moms become pretty adept at doing a variety of things with one hand, and with four straight years of babies under my belt, I feel confident boasting that I am now practically an expert.
Washing dishes? Clean as the dishwashing machine would do. Whipping up a batch of homemade muffins? As appealing and tasty as the bakery’s. Cooking and setting the table for dinner? Done before you can say “Speedy Gonzalez.” Cleaning the toilets? You could eat off of them, I didn’t miss a speck of bacteria. Folding five loads of laundry? Neater than Martha Stewart could fold 'em.
Want me to help a kid on the potty, put on another’s pair of socks, change the third’s nappy, and pay bills online all while holding a two-month old? Not a problem. Because when you have babies, that’s what you do – you cuddle and calm your little guy in one arm and learn to do everything else with your one free hand.
And if you’re wondering, of COURSE I type this blog with one hand!
Sunday, July 5, 2009
4,160
Was clipping Tigger's guitar player long fingernails today, when I realized: with four growing kids who need finger and toenail trims each week, I will be clipping 4,160 nails over the course of a year.
Something tells me, with the chaos and busyness in this house, I will barely spend that much time on my own personal grooming!
Something tells me, with the chaos and busyness in this house, I will barely spend that much time on my own personal grooming!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Weapons
If you are the proud parent of boys, it comes as no surprise to you that these cute creatures made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails are also made of swords and guns and knife wielding fun.
So this blog is part vent and part to help my friends with girls to understand: with boys – it is absolute truth – that EVERYTHING can be a weapon.
Obviously, my boys love to engage in pirate play with their "soft" swords, and they love to karate chop each other with sticks. This doesn't surprise me; it does not take only a boy mind to use sticks and bats and other sword-shaped toys as, well, swords.
What never ceases to amaze me are the everyday household items that get repurposed as weapons. Popsicle sticks, crafty pipe cleaners, bubble-making wands – you name it.
Just a few days ago I watched as the boys whipped the flexible straws out of their chocolate soy milk and brandished them at each other with hearty "aaarrrrrrgh"s. Then Tadpole, very seriously and with significant big-brotherly concern in his voice, said "Mommy, Quatro doesn't have a sword [because, of course, my four week old is not yet drinking his beverages with a flexi straw]... we need to get him his own sword!" Sad. It starts sooo early.
And today, while eating a lunch creatively presented by Nana, the boys removed their ruffle-topped cocktail toothpicks out of hot dog chunks, only to start poking each other with them while .
Where, oh where, do they GET these ideas and tendency toward play fighting? They watch only carefully selected, non-combative TV programs and have spent very little time front of movies. Could all of this really stem from a half dozen viewings of the childhood favorite, Peter Pan?
The only explanation is that loud “weapon” play must truly be part of the genetic make-up of boys. And even though I grew up with a brother, I am not used to this kind of play. Oh, what fun I have in store for me.
So this blog is part vent and part to help my friends with girls to understand: with boys – it is absolute truth – that EVERYTHING can be a weapon.
Obviously, my boys love to engage in pirate play with their "soft" swords, and they love to karate chop each other with sticks. This doesn't surprise me; it does not take only a boy mind to use sticks and bats and other sword-shaped toys as, well, swords.
What never ceases to amaze me are the everyday household items that get repurposed as weapons. Popsicle sticks, crafty pipe cleaners, bubble-making wands – you name it.
Just a few days ago I watched as the boys whipped the flexible straws out of their chocolate soy milk and brandished them at each other with hearty "aaarrrrrrgh"s. Then Tadpole, very seriously and with significant big-brotherly concern in his voice, said "Mommy, Quatro doesn't have a sword [because, of course, my four week old is not yet drinking his beverages with a flexi straw]... we need to get him his own sword!" Sad. It starts sooo early.
And today, while eating a lunch creatively presented by Nana, the boys removed their ruffle-topped cocktail toothpicks out of hot dog chunks, only to start poking each other with them while .
Where, oh where, do they GET these ideas and tendency toward play fighting? They watch only carefully selected, non-combative TV programs and have spent very little time front of movies. Could all of this really stem from a half dozen viewings of the childhood favorite, Peter Pan?
The only explanation is that loud “weapon” play must truly be part of the genetic make-up of boys. And even though I grew up with a brother, I am not used to this kind of play. Oh, what fun I have in store for me.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
dB
Decibel (dB): a unit used to express the intensity of a sound wave
Typical average decibel levels of some common sounds (courtesy of www.sfu.ca and -er- my own personal home decibel measurement kit):
Threshold of hearing: 0 dB
Rustling leaves: 20 dB
Quiet home: 40 dB
Normal conversation: 60 dB
One Rudlet home/awake: 70 dB
Loud singing: 75 dB
Motorcycle: 88 dB
Food blender: 90 dB
Two Rudlets home/awake: 92 dB
Inside a subway: 94 dB
Power mower: 107 dB
Three Rudlets home/awake: 115 dB
Chainsaw: 117 dB
Amplified rock and roll: 120 dB
All four Rudlets home/awake: 125 dB
Jet plane: 130 dB
Typical average decibel levels of some common sounds (courtesy of www.sfu.ca and -er- my own personal home decibel measurement kit):
Threshold of hearing: 0 dB
Rustling leaves: 20 dB
Quiet home: 40 dB
Normal conversation: 60 dB
One Rudlet home/awake: 70 dB
Loud singing: 75 dB
Motorcycle: 88 dB
Food blender: 90 dB
Two Rudlets home/awake: 92 dB
Inside a subway: 94 dB
Power mower: 107 dB
Three Rudlets home/awake: 115 dB
Chainsaw: 117 dB
Amplified rock and roll: 120 dB
All four Rudlets home/awake: 125 dB
Jet plane: 130 dB
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Last Firsts
Ah the joys of a newborn! I love those precious firsts – first time in his car seat, first neighborhood visitors, first time he shoots poo across the room while changing him in the middle of the night… precious they are, even though some (first time he leaves you with one cumulative hour of sleep the whole night!) may not seem so precious at the time.
In the whirlwind blur that is my mommy life, every day for the last four years has been full of firsts, and it is easy to forget them. I try to make notes in the journal that sits on my bedside table. As time goes on, finding those few moments to write becomes more challenging, the journal collects dust easier, and I as I drift off to sleep and realize I did not write today’s sweet firsts, I say a pleading, groggy prayer that I just “remember.”
This go ‘round is different, though: the last baby – the last firsts. I am trying to celebrate them and treasure them even more.
Because time is fleeting, my kids are growing quickly, and as a close friend of mine always reminds me, “this is the littlest your family will ever be.”
And THAT is precious.
In the whirlwind blur that is my mommy life, every day for the last four years has been full of firsts, and it is easy to forget them. I try to make notes in the journal that sits on my bedside table. As time goes on, finding those few moments to write becomes more challenging, the journal collects dust easier, and I as I drift off to sleep and realize I did not write today’s sweet firsts, I say a pleading, groggy prayer that I just “remember.”
This go ‘round is different, though: the last baby – the last firsts. I am trying to celebrate them and treasure them even more.
Because time is fleeting, my kids are growing quickly, and as a close friend of mine always reminds me, “this is the littlest your family will ever be.”
And THAT is precious.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Disappearing View of Mommy
As the bump grows, the view up to mommy is disappearing. Here's to the final days of having a bowling ball attached to my front!
Mommy Finger
I’ve got a “mommy finger.” Let’s just think of it as a mommy version of carpel tunnel.
Here’s the deal: my left index finger is often sore. It bothers me when I type or chop vegetables or hold up baby feet when changing a nappy.
But none of those actions are the cause. I just realized the other day exactly what is: I have spent 3.5 years with chubby baby fingers holding on to my index finger, tugging it while learning to pull up into a sitting position, jerking it when trying to walk but taking another tumble instead, and yanking it when getting excited and wanting to run with me to experience a new adventure.
It’s one of the bodily pains I’ve consistently experienced in recent years that I actually enjoy, because it signifies the littleness, the closeness, the dependence of my tiny guys.
All too soon that need for mommy’s finger will go away – the boys will grow up before I know it, and while I’m hoping there will forever be plenty of hugs, kisses, and hand holding, the tugs on my single index finger will become increasingly less frequent.
And there is just something fabulous in that gesture that characterizes the sweetness of this season of life – being the mommy to little ones.
Here’s the deal: my left index finger is often sore. It bothers me when I type or chop vegetables or hold up baby feet when changing a nappy.
But none of those actions are the cause. I just realized the other day exactly what is: I have spent 3.5 years with chubby baby fingers holding on to my index finger, tugging it while learning to pull up into a sitting position, jerking it when trying to walk but taking another tumble instead, and yanking it when getting excited and wanting to run with me to experience a new adventure.
It’s one of the bodily pains I’ve consistently experienced in recent years that I actually enjoy, because it signifies the littleness, the closeness, the dependence of my tiny guys.
All too soon that need for mommy’s finger will go away – the boys will grow up before I know it, and while I’m hoping there will forever be plenty of hugs, kisses, and hand holding, the tugs on my single index finger will become increasingly less frequent.
And there is just something fabulous in that gesture that characterizes the sweetness of this season of life – being the mommy to little ones.
What I’ll Miss (Sorta?) About Being Pregnant
As I approach the end of my final pregnancy, I find myself (besides completely exhausted and antsy) thinking about the things I’ll miss about carrying around a baby in my belly. Among the obvious like the squirms and kicks and congratulatory smiles from grandmas and the excuse to eat obnoxiously large quantities of food and the equally wonderful explanation for not having a flat model-quality tummy, are the very fascinating conversations you strike up with complete strangers. And not only that, but the dramatic details they reveal about their own personal experiences and family lives.
I remember this happening from the early days of my first pregnancy. I’d be on the bus or Tube – in London, mind you, where you tend to find that people are tight-lipped and much less inclined to share anything, let alone personal information – and have one of these random chats.
Stranger: “Oh, is this your first baby?”
Me: “Yes, it is!”
Stranger: “Is it a boy or girl?”
Me: “Boy!”
Stranger: “Ooooh! Boys are wonderful. I had one boy and one girl. The pregnancy with my son was easier but the delivery! Oh my! He was so big I couldn’t push him out. The doctor had to use every tool imaginable. First…” [ok you don’t want to hear it all. Neither did I. For that matter, neither did those in the seats around us. But suddenly, it was – because I happened to be pregnant – fair game to share these grossly intimate details.]
Often the chats aren’t so horrifying, but simply tend to reveal incredibly personal information that you wouldn’t normally divulge within the first 30 seconds of small chat with a complete stranger.
Just a few nights ago, an early 20-something guy at the bookstore check-out counter started this exchange:
Dude: “Boy or girl?”
Me: “A boy!”
Dude: “First one?”
Me: “Nope, fourth. Fourth boy.”
Dude: “Wow, that’s wild. At least they all boys. I have a sister, and man is she completely whacked. In high school, I’d just want to chill, go fishing, canoe, you know, check out the alligators and otters, just hang out with my friends and be mellow. Her? She was all into drama. She got into so much trouble. Drugs, guys, experimenting with stuff. There was this one time when…” [and here, once again, you don’t need or want to know all the intimate details of why this youngster thought his sister was “whacked” but he went off for about 3 minutes describing his view of how dysfunctional girls are.]
Unpredictable and random conversations... absolutely amazing!
I remember this happening from the early days of my first pregnancy. I’d be on the bus or Tube – in London, mind you, where you tend to find that people are tight-lipped and much less inclined to share anything, let alone personal information – and have one of these random chats.
Stranger: “Oh, is this your first baby?”
Me: “Yes, it is!”
Stranger: “Is it a boy or girl?”
Me: “Boy!”
Stranger: “Ooooh! Boys are wonderful. I had one boy and one girl. The pregnancy with my son was easier but the delivery! Oh my! He was so big I couldn’t push him out. The doctor had to use every tool imaginable. First…” [ok you don’t want to hear it all. Neither did I. For that matter, neither did those in the seats around us. But suddenly, it was – because I happened to be pregnant – fair game to share these grossly intimate details.]
Often the chats aren’t so horrifying, but simply tend to reveal incredibly personal information that you wouldn’t normally divulge within the first 30 seconds of small chat with a complete stranger.
Just a few nights ago, an early 20-something guy at the bookstore check-out counter started this exchange:
Dude: “Boy or girl?”
Me: “A boy!”
Dude: “First one?”
Me: “Nope, fourth. Fourth boy.”
Dude: “Wow, that’s wild. At least they all boys. I have a sister, and man is she completely whacked. In high school, I’d just want to chill, go fishing, canoe, you know, check out the alligators and otters, just hang out with my friends and be mellow. Her? She was all into drama. She got into so much trouble. Drugs, guys, experimenting with stuff. There was this one time when…” [and here, once again, you don’t need or want to know all the intimate details of why this youngster thought his sister was “whacked” but he went off for about 3 minutes describing his view of how dysfunctional girls are.]
Unpredictable and random conversations... absolutely amazing!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Going to the Mattresses
When I spy a mattress or cushions on the floor, I immediately assess the likelihood of me seizing an opportunity to nap. (I never can.)
Just as instantaneously, my boys conclude that the soft cushy objects are there purely for their wrestling pleasure, and within seconds have plunged toward it and find themselves in a tangled, giggling pile of arms and legs.
This shocks me: even Cubby, who does not walk yet and is not quite on the same physical level as his brothers, joins in without hesitation, as if wrestling is THE ultimate activity. And for once, his brothers allow full interaction with them – not fighting him off saying the baby is “messing up” their game or is “in the way.”
The grappling commences as if they have never before been handed the exciting opportunity to roll around, as though they have encountered a bouncy surface for the very first time.
My hunch is that this phenomenon (like many, I am discovering) is uniquely male. I cannot really imagine that those with female children find that they, too, take every occasion available to wrestle. I know some of it is nurture – and what parent doesn’t roll around with their young ones tickling and goofing off – but am thinking that most of it is nature, a uniquely male instinct to wildly tackle and pin each other to the floor.
Now if I can just keep up the “mommy is fragile” belief so I don’t get painfully pinned in the process!
Just as instantaneously, my boys conclude that the soft cushy objects are there purely for their wrestling pleasure, and within seconds have plunged toward it and find themselves in a tangled, giggling pile of arms and legs.
This shocks me: even Cubby, who does not walk yet and is not quite on the same physical level as his brothers, joins in without hesitation, as if wrestling is THE ultimate activity. And for once, his brothers allow full interaction with them – not fighting him off saying the baby is “messing up” their game or is “in the way.”
The grappling commences as if they have never before been handed the exciting opportunity to roll around, as though they have encountered a bouncy surface for the very first time.
My hunch is that this phenomenon (like many, I am discovering) is uniquely male. I cannot really imagine that those with female children find that they, too, take every occasion available to wrestle. I know some of it is nurture – and what parent doesn’t roll around with their young ones tickling and goofing off – but am thinking that most of it is nature, a uniquely male instinct to wildly tackle and pin each other to the floor.
Now if I can just keep up the “mommy is fragile” belief so I don’t get painfully pinned in the process!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A Tree! A Tree! Oh look and see!
Boys love trees. For a whole host of reasons, I imagine: they are teeming with bugs big and small, they cry out to be climbed no matter their height, they provide a place for forts and hideouts, not to mention the possibility of the age old boy dream, a "no girls allowed" tree house.
My boys are beginning their love of trees with a basic response to nature: an irresistible urge to urinate on every tree in sight. Is this my “fault” for letting them pee on a tree or two in the early days of potty training when you know you are not going to make it to the park’s nasty public bathroom in time? Is this a result of witnessing our dog in action from their earliest memories?
Even my newly potty trained 2-1/2 year old has this urge, asking if he can pee on a tree when we are outside instead of using the tiny, adorable portable potty that we have set up in the back yard for these early days of learning big boy peeing.
This must just be a boy thing, ingrained in their DNA and part of their makeup. I can honestly say, as a female, I have never – to my entire recollection – a thought how fun or cool it would be to pee on or anywhere near any sort of outdoor greenery. (Of course, I have had to out of sheer necessity, as there are always times when hiking or camping when you find you cannot hold it any longer and nature must take its course. This does not mean I enjoyed it or thought myself cool for doing so.)
On the bright side, looking forward to four pee-on-tree happy boys (that sounds like a Dr Suess-ish book idea right there – see below*), I may just have the most vibrant, healthy yard and garden in the neighborhood.
*A tree! A tree!
Pee on that tree,
Mom, may I pee upon that tree?
For I would like to take a wee
If you will just let me, gee!
There is no harm, oh can’t you see
For me to go and take a pee
Pee on that tree!
Pee on that tree!
My boys are beginning their love of trees with a basic response to nature: an irresistible urge to urinate on every tree in sight. Is this my “fault” for letting them pee on a tree or two in the early days of potty training when you know you are not going to make it to the park’s nasty public bathroom in time? Is this a result of witnessing our dog in action from their earliest memories?
Even my newly potty trained 2-1/2 year old has this urge, asking if he can pee on a tree when we are outside instead of using the tiny, adorable portable potty that we have set up in the back yard for these early days of learning big boy peeing.
This must just be a boy thing, ingrained in their DNA and part of their makeup. I can honestly say, as a female, I have never – to my entire recollection – a thought how fun or cool it would be to pee on or anywhere near any sort of outdoor greenery. (Of course, I have had to out of sheer necessity, as there are always times when hiking or camping when you find you cannot hold it any longer and nature must take its course. This does not mean I enjoyed it or thought myself cool for doing so.)
On the bright side, looking forward to four pee-on-tree happy boys (that sounds like a Dr Suess-ish book idea right there – see below*), I may just have the most vibrant, healthy yard and garden in the neighborhood.
*A tree! A tree!
Pee on that tree,
Mom, may I pee upon that tree?
For I would like to take a wee
If you will just let me, gee!
There is no harm, oh can’t you see
For me to go and take a pee
Pee on that tree!
Pee on that tree!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
A Library in the Potty
It’s a lucky thing my boys like a good story, because it’s been a lifesaver for potty training.
“Do you need to sit on the potty?” I ask for the fifteenth time that day. “NO!” comes the reply. But when enticed with a book, my kids - all of them, potty trained or not - can be seen making a beeline for the tiny toilet in anticipation of the next great read.
We read, and read, and read some more, and sitting there just isn’t so painful or dull anymore (besides the smells, maybe).
It’s probably not a coincidence that housed in my own master bathroom are volumes of books, read and unread, pages dog-eared from the last visit to the toilet, piles of magazines and “daily” readers, a New Testament and book of Psalms, and catalogs on everything from fashion to products that promote greater efficiency.
Something tells me there will always be a lively stack of books in the boys’ bathroom, too.
“Do you need to sit on the potty?” I ask for the fifteenth time that day. “NO!” comes the reply. But when enticed with a book, my kids - all of them, potty trained or not - can be seen making a beeline for the tiny toilet in anticipation of the next great read.
We read, and read, and read some more, and sitting there just isn’t so painful or dull anymore (besides the smells, maybe).
It’s probably not a coincidence that housed in my own master bathroom are volumes of books, read and unread, pages dog-eared from the last visit to the toilet, piles of magazines and “daily” readers, a New Testament and book of Psalms, and catalogs on everything from fashion to products that promote greater efficiency.
Something tells me there will always be a lively stack of books in the boys’ bathroom, too.
My Precious Insanity
“You’re insane!” That’s the number one comment I get from both strangers and friends regarding my parental state: being a stay at home mom for four boys under the age of four [currently 3 boys and a quickly expanding pregnant bump].
They could be right. Or I could be a totally blessed, well-rested and emotionally stable Supermom, which is the way I prefer to think of myself – hey, whatever gets you through.
But more likely they are right: I am a wee bit insane.
My days are filled with wacky adventures, loads of little boy energy, excessive screaming, tender cuddles, endless motion, budding conspiracy and mischief, too little sleep, and lots of prayer. But I love every high and low and wouldn’t trade it for the world, and thus I’ve decided to share the insanity.
So here is a summary of my testosterone filled world: First is my husband of 5 years. When we were dating he said he wanted 8 kids. (We’re compromising on 4.) Leading the pack is my MALE pug dog Claussen (4). Then Tadpole (3), vintage 2005. Tigger (2) joined us in 2006. 2007 would have been boring without a new baby…Welcome Cubby (1). And Quattro is expected in May 2009.
Insane? You be the judge. Welcome to my happy, wacky asylum.
They could be right. Or I could be a totally blessed, well-rested and emotionally stable Supermom, which is the way I prefer to think of myself – hey, whatever gets you through.
But more likely they are right: I am a wee bit insane.
My days are filled with wacky adventures, loads of little boy energy, excessive screaming, tender cuddles, endless motion, budding conspiracy and mischief, too little sleep, and lots of prayer. But I love every high and low and wouldn’t trade it for the world, and thus I’ve decided to share the insanity.
So here is a summary of my testosterone filled world: First is my husband of 5 years. When we were dating he said he wanted 8 kids. (We’re compromising on 4.) Leading the pack is my MALE pug dog Claussen (4). Then Tadpole (3), vintage 2005. Tigger (2) joined us in 2006. 2007 would have been boring without a new baby…Welcome Cubby (1). And Quattro is expected in May 2009.
Insane? You be the judge. Welcome to my happy, wacky asylum.
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