Blog? What Blog?

Holy crapola. Really? It's been that long since I posted anything? I feel like I'm failing you all.

Life. Is. Crazy. Which is why I'm back on crazy pills, because when I started having mild panic attacks I figured I should get some help before they developed into not-so-mild panic attacks and I end up rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere. God bless modern pharmaceuticals.

My therapist and friends all agree this was actually an indication of how far I've come in the last few years, considering I asked for help BEFORE the crazy became The Crazy. Just sayin'. Also: I love my people. There's nothing like a time of high anxiety to bring home just how awesome a support structure I have these days. Not the least of which is a very, very beloved and supportive MTL. The hurricane winds may be blowing, but the foundation is holding firm.

So. My seniors are gone.

Excuse me a minute while I go do a happy dance.

[Insert holding music here]

Whew. They're gone, they're out of here, I managed to get all but two out the door to graduation, some squeaking through by mere tenths of a percentage point. One huge load is off my shoulders: only several dozen left to carry!

My juniors and sophomores have been very patient the last few weeks as I've neglected grading much of their work in order to focus on the seniors. Now I have time to wade through their essays, including their massive term papers (seven to ten pages for sophomores; ten to twelve pages for juniors: EACH). I have exams to create, quiz and test grades to enter, and a classroom to clean and organize. I can do that in the next eight school days, right?

Right.

Dammit. I left my meds at home.

Probably the biggest source of stress (now that the seniors are--GLORY HALLELUJAH--gone) is the impending shift at home. I can't go into all the details here, but there have been massive changes chez MTL's Ex, and the girls are moving in with us.

And there's an element to the situation that I can't discuss--yet--but suffice it to say: DRAMA WILL ENSUE.

So. Yeah.

Nothing to be anxious about. Nothing at all.

OH! There is one lovely new addition to my life! Are you ready for this?

I. Got. A. Smartphone.

Oh yes. I, the phone-technophobe, have officially Grown Up and gotten a phone that's more like a hand-held computer than a phone. A Droid X, to be exact. And I just may be in love. MTL says that I'm acting like a kid who's had her first ever taste of chocolate.

Angry Birds? Check.

Words With Friends? Check.

Sudden addiction to apps? Check, check, and absolutely check.

Hmm. You think they have a support group for that?

Seven! Seven Things To Count! HA HA HA HA HA! (Insert Crashes of Thunder)

It's been AGES since I've done something as spontaneous and yet meme-ish as a Seven Quick Takes Friday, as originated over at Conversion Diary, but something bloggish in me woke up and said, Today! Write today! So I am. Except I can't get Count von Count's voice out of my head, for some odd reason, so we'll be doing this his way.

--One! One Quick Take! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

This morning I pulled on new jeans purchased on sale from Old Navy yesterday. They're the same style that I always wear (I am, apparently, The Flirt), but one size up. It was rather marvelous to pull on jeans that don't feel like sausage casings. I am sad to report that MTL's birthday gift to me is still sitting in the corner of the living room. I've used it about four times, which means that each seven minute ride cost about $50. Damn, but I'm out of shape. I keep swearing I'm going to do something about it, and then the siren song of the couch drowns out everything else.

On a positive note, MTL appreciated being able to actually grab my butt this morning as he walked by on his way out the door, rather than encountering the immovable force of straining denim. There's always a silver lining.

--Two! Two Quick Takes! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

Upon arriving at daycare this morning, The Widget informed me that he felt like throwing up. He then proceeded to do exactly that. All over his shirt and the floor, with a bonus splattering on one of my shoes. Although he did have a nasty stomach bug last weekend, I have a strong suspicion that this morning's gift was the product of too much sinus drainage (thank you, environmental allergens!) and his refusal to swallow the chewed-up Claritin chewable pill that ended up on the floor along with the semi-digested remains of last night's tacos.

News flash: I have apparently lost the cast-iron stomach I developed during those early years of parenting. I was unabashedly grateful that he threw up on the daycare's floor rather than mine. All I had to do was wipe him down and get him back into the car. God bless the heroic and plastic-gloved daycare teacher who tackled the floor.

--Three! Three Quick Takes! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

I can't say I'm thrilled about how often The Ex's girlfriend is at the house. This has nothing to do with her--I rather like her, truth be told, and I'm relieved he's moving on and I'm happy she's good with the kids. I do, however, resent that I'm still paying almost half of the mortgage on a house I don't live in, and that I'm essentially paying for them to live there. Trust me, I only agreed to this in the settlement for the kids' sake (plus she wasn't staying there back then). And yes, there is a time limit, but still. Don't even get MTL started on that, either.

However, I did find myself rather grateful to discover that she was there this morning and doesn't have work today, because she's able to watch the Widget. For some reason daycare centers don't let vomiting children stick around.

--Four! Four Quick Takes! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

I love my coworkers.

Thanks to one of them, my students were able to enter my classroom, be made aware of the situation, and get started on their work for the day. I was only ten minutes late to work, but mine is not a job with flexible start times. Thanks to another, those kids also had a watchful pair of eyes during those ten minutes. You'd be amazed what a bunch of juniors will try to do during ten minutes' unsupervised time.

Sometimes I wonder how much of a difference there really is between my job and a kindergarten teacher's.

Oh, right. We don't have recess.

--Five! Five Quick Takes! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

Speaking of kindergarten, DramaBoy is currently going through a phase of Marvelous! Wonderful! Near-perfect behavior! both at school and at home, which is a lovely respite from phone calls about how many kids he's hit on a given day and battles over how many bites of that horrible healthy food he'll have to eat tonight. I'd enjoy it more if I didn't keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Also, since children learn how to tag-team at birth, The Widget is In A Mood almost every day right now. I'm fairly certain he was flung into a maelstrom of jealousy, insecurity, and angst by having his eight-month-old cousin around for a few days and having to Share Attention--particularly from my parents, whom he views as his personal attendants. I mean, how DARE they?

Not that I would know anything about how that feels, or ever tormented The Widget's cousin's mother for coming along and dispelling my belief that the universe revolved around my three-year-old self. Nah. I wouldn't have done that. Ahem.

(Sorry, SoccerSister. Again.)

--Six! Six Quick Takes! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

I hate politics.

I know this isn't news, but I think it deserves restating.

And while I will not, out of deference to DraftQueen's sensibilities, say that I hate all politicians or that they are all corrupt and horrible people, I will say that I have very little faith in most politicians.

However, if Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert ever run for office, I'm voting for them.

Just sayin'.

--Seven! Seven Quick Takes! Ha ha ha ha ha!--

The Old Spice commercials are awesome. In fact, an Old Spice ad torn from a magazine is clipped to my inbox where I can see it and be reminded to smile. Not because Isaiah Mustafa is pretty decent eye candy (though he is), but because the sheer over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek ridiculousness of these ads brings a little sunshine into my gloomy days.

I wonder if they'll have any effect on lowering the acceptable age for men to wear Old Spice. MTL can hardly wait until he's allowed to wear it, in fact--and felt that way even before these ads. Fortunately, I'm not allergic to that particular cologne.

In the meantime, I'll just keep enjoying the ads.

You're welcome.

Happy Friday!

Dregs

I'm just too tired. Drained, really. It's not just the whole moving thing or school starting thing or occasional money thing or the fact that my car decided NOW NOW NOW when we have so many start-up costs to require ALL FOUR WHEEL BEARINGS AND THE ATTACHED TIRES to be replaced (though we're doing them in stages, for sanity's and wallets' sake).

Oh no. There has also been Angst and Drama of the sort that has me, MTL, and his ex running to our parents to sob out our apologies for everything we ever did to torment them back when we were teens.

Also, we're rather grateful that we somehow survived and weren't strangled in our sleep by enraged parents.

Not, mind you, because they weren't enraged. We're fairly sure they all were. Multiple times.

It's the not-strangling-us thing that has us grateful.

I can't really go into it all more than that. Not really. For privacy's sake. But I think you get my drift. Fill in the blank, peoples. Really, let your imaginations roam.

Chances are, if you have or have had teens, or were one of those particularly TEENISH teens yourself, your imaginations are getting somewhere around the mark.

I'll tell you this much, though. I chose this life. It may not always be remotely what I expected (MTL keeps shaking his head over my incurable optimism) (and then admits freely that it's one of the many reasons he loves me) but it is the life I chose. For better or worse. And even when there are these trials by fire, I keep choosing it. I wouldn't want another.

Hey. I always told you I'm crazy.

Sometimes Eventually Happens

How do you and MTL deal with real life so easily? she asked, and I sat there thinking how on earth to respond to that. It was a bit of a shocker, really. I don't view myself as someone who "deals" all that well, truth be told, considering the more or less daily soap opera playing out in my head for three decades. Days of My Life: now with more child actors.

But I think I know from whence her question came. She and her best friend, both former students, had called me up late at night in fear and anguish, and MTL and I had gathered them up, plunged into their drama, and been the safe haven they could not find elsewhere. She also knows a good bit about my own drama played out over the last two years. And because of their own sufferings, I had talked with them about what happened when I was five.

I suppose MTL and I have dealt with "real life" and its sorrows better than many. It's the "easily" part that struck me, because it has not been that, not for either of us. What seemed so easy to her?

It isn't really our own strength, I told her. We both have faith in God, not to take all the hardships away or make everything go right, but to give us the strength we need to deal with what comes. We've both had to lean on him pretty heavily at times. That's what makes it look easier than it is.

I've been reminded these last two weeks just how much I do need to rely on that strength and grace, because life has been messy and draining and complicated. Those friends' drama, with its unhappy and maddening and ongoing outcome. Learning the ins and outs of a blended family and providing for and monitoring and parenting five children (plus the occasional friend staying over, which makes us a full-blown Brady Bunch even without the kitten). Attempting to deal with an angst-ridden fourteen-year-old girl who does not want to go to a new school in a new district with new people on top of starting high school.

It's bringing back some awful memories, that last one. I'm remembering too well the anger and depression of being fourteen, coming back to Michigan for a one year furlough, going into my sophomore year with people I either did not know or who might remember me vaguely from fifth grade as that weird girl from Africa. And who wants to make friends with someone who doesn't have a clue about anything that is Important like the popular clothes and music and movies and TV shows, and will be leaving at the end of the year anyway?

I get it. All too well. Add all that drama to the natural angst of being female and fourteen...

It's been interesting around here.

So last weekend when The Dark One invited me and MTL to go with her to her church (she wanted us there! with her! in a public place!) we went. We were rather delighted with the service. And the pastor, who is an energetic young man with four kids and dreadlocks. We'll be going back.

Before his sermon, Pastor Devine (pronounced "Devin") talked about the need to hand over all our burdens and worries to God so that we could come freely before Him, and he asked us to bow our heads and then raise a hand if we were in a situation where we needed that strength and grace. My right hand shot up. I felt MTL's hand cover my other, and we held each other tight as we prayed. There's grace right there, I thought, this man standing beside me.

This week has been a testing of that prayer. Each day has gotten busier and crazier as I have performed the tasks of chauffeur, launderer, cook, maid, mother, stepmother, and teacher. Yesterday was the peak. I hadn't actually written out a list of everything I needed to accomplish (which might have helped my focus, really), but if I had, it would have covered at least two pages.

At one point I caught myself getting strident as I urged the children to get their chores done and rooms cleaned before I had to take the four oldest (MTL's three + The Dark One's BFF, who has adopted us as her parents and calls us Mommy and Daddy) the 50-minute drive out to their mother's place. One of the many, many things I've learned from this new family experience is that when I start getting strident, things get worse. The kids get sulky, resentment builds, and I end up feeling guilty and mean.

So I took a break. I went upstairs and closed myself away in the sanctuary of our bedroom, and I picked up the book I had grabbed at random off my bedside table the day before. It was a God-step, because in the pages of Anne Lamott's Grace (Eventually) I found the words I needed to bring me back to center, accompanied by the wry humor that appeals to me about her work. I even underlined some lines, the ones that spoke to me and reminded me that (1) we're all in this together and we're all a mess, (2) I'm not in charge, (3) yes, parenting is hard, but that's normal, and (4) God loves me and sometimes that's not a warm and fuzzy thing.

Let me share, because she puts it all so much better than I can (well, outside my head, where this blog post was ever so much more eloquent this morning, let me tell you):

We're invited more deeply into this mystery on a daily basis, to be here as one-of; a mess like everyone else, and not in charge. That's why we hate it. (125)

Why was he [her son Sam] sabotaging himself like this...and for what? Well, this is what teenagers have to do, because otherwise they would never be able to leave home and go off to become their own people. Kids who are very close to their parents often become the worst shits, and they have to make the parents the villains so they can break free without having it hurt too much. Otherwise, the parents would have to throw rocks at them to get them out of the house. (190)

It turns out that all kids have this one tiny inbred glitch: they have their own sin, their own stains, their own will. Putting aside for a moment the divine truth of their natures, all of them are wrecked, just like the rest of us. That is the fly in the ointment... (193-194)

I had behaved badly? It all started up in me again, but this time it didn't take over, because something got there first. You want to know how big God's love is? The answer is: It's very big. It's bigger than you're comfortable with. (125)

Then I said the stupidest thing to God: I said, "I'll do anything you say." Now this always gets Jesus' attention. I could feel him look over, sideways, and steeple his fingers. And smile, that pleased-with-himself smile. "Good," I heard him say. "Now you're talking. So go home already, and deal with it." (192)

So I took a deep breath and tossed a mute Help! and I'm sorry! and Thank You! up to God, girded my mental loins, and headed back into the fray. But I made sure to talk to The Padawan and apologize for my tone and thank him for all the help he's been giving and the good job he's been doing with his chores and the little kids. And I took the time to talk to KlutzGirl about how I know it's hard to suddenly be the only girl with a bunch of boys so much of the time. And I made sure to give DramaBoy and The Widget some hugs and cuddles, however brief, in between dashing about Getting Things Done. And when I picked The Dark One up from her orientation that she hadn't wanted to attend and over which she had actually cried, I took her to 7-11 to buy a Monster, and I told her how proud I was of her for going and trying even when she really really really didn't want to.

That's grace, really, in those small yet not-so-small moments: the strength and patience to do what needs to be done without losing track of the hearts and minds and souls of those God has placed in your life. It's stretching me, making me grow in ways I never dreamed, widening my capacity for love and patience. If you had given me the same sort of day with the same sort of To-Do list just a couple of months ago, I would have broken down. Instead, the day ended in smiles and laughter and connectedness.

It all has its rewards. Last night when MTL held me close and told me how much he loves me and how much he appreciates everything I do, I told him that I finally am starting to understand what some of my friends have been saying: these friends with big families and crazy lives who say that they find joy in the insanity, that they have a sense of fulfillment in parenting such large broods.

I feel the challenge, yes, but I'm also feeling the blessing.

Today they're all gone, all of these children small and large, off to their other homes and other parents. There's a part of me that relishes the silence and sanity and prospect of uninterrupted hours spent with MTL. And there is, against all logic, a large part of me that misses them and their noise and squabbling and laughter and craziness.

It's not easy, this life. But it's full of unexpected grace and joy.

--------------------------------------------------
All quotes taken from Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lamott.

Guilt (Mine) and Consequences (DramaBoy's)

Apparently the most votes are for details on DramaBoy's Full Day Time Out, and really I will write about that, but first I want to note that today I am in enforced idleness. No, really. I had planned to head back to the house while The Ex was at work and do what packing I can do until we have our Official Negotiations over items like CDs and DVDs and dishes and pots and pans and children's clothing and toys. Also, I was going to watch the recorded sessions of "So You Think You Can Dance" from the last couple of weeks.

Instead, I am sitting on the couch contemplating how I can make this day Useful and Productive in other ways, because this morning I received a text from The Ex requesting that I not go to the house today. I don't know why. Perhaps he's working from home today; perhaps his girlfriend will be there; perhaps it's trashed and he doesn't want me there until he cleans (though that's unlikely). It doesn't really matter. The end result is the same.

I find that, as lazy as I am and can be, I don't deal well with Doing Nothing, at least by myself. Apparently I can spend hours and days and weeks Doing Nothing (well, nothing Productive, at any rate) in company with MTL and be as content as a cat on a sunny windowsill. Find myself alone with nothing much to do for a day and the Guilt begins. I mean really, God forbid I spend a day doing nothing but relaxing.

So far I plan to fold that load of laundry that is still in the dryer, mail MTL's Jury Summons Questionnaire (he's SO EXCITED), pick up Change of Address cards, go to a couple of banks, and call my former student C. who needs a responsible adult *giggle* to chaperone her in some driving practice so she can get her license. Don't worry, you legally-minded people: she graduated, so I'm no longer in that teacher/academic legal position.

Oh, and I may also go shopping for my cousin's wedding present and perhaps even some things for my sister's baby shower.

I'm living on the edge, Peoples.

*********************************

So you want to know how this whole Full Day Time Out thing happened with DramaBoy, huh? Okay, here goes.

I mentioned a while back that DramaBoy is a mini-me in more than looks: he's also all-too-frequently full of defiance and disobedience. Don't get me wrong. He's a good kid at heart. Well, let me rephrase that. He's not a bad kid. I'm not worrying about him ending up in Juvie. Yet.

He is, however, a handful and a half. Lately MTL and I (and apparently also The Ex, when we discussed it) have been noticing a disturbing trend. DramaBoy has developed an attitude that, frankly, pisses us off. And I helped create it. You see, I've always insisted that when DramaBoy and The Widget do something wrong, they have to apologize for it. Over time, that became part of the end point of punishment. Somehow, in DramaBoy's mind, this came to mean that if he apologizes for something, then everything is over--and he started acting like that should be enough. He apparently thinks that if he says sorry, he shouldn't get punished.

Ha.

On top of that, his apologies have stopped meaning anything. They have become flippant, something that he seems to see as a joke. He's become cocky and arrogant, or as much so as a four-year-old can be. And he's stopped paying attention much to what Adults In Charge are saying.

(MTL and I spotted a t-shirt the other day that, if it had come in DB's size, I might have bought for him. It read It's Cute How You Think I'm Listening To You. We agreed that might as well be DB's motto. Enough said.)

The first day up north at Nana and Papa's (MTL's parents) place was like a dream. DB behaved perfectly. He was outside all day playing, having fun, staying out of trouble, being a wonderful big brother to The Widget and "almost brother"/playmate with KlutzGirl. He was cheerful and polite and helpful. MTL and I both praised him for it, wanting to give some positive reinforcement for such behavior.

Sunday morning went well too. Then in the afternoon things took a turn for the worse. DB started playing around the outdoor air conditioning unit, putting things like leaves and wood chips through the wire mesh. Nana told him to stop, that what he was doing was dangerous. He ignored her. Then when she called him over and lectured him about listening and obeying, out came that attitude. So off he went to Time Out in a lawn chair--and the attitude kept coming. That earned him a Gibbs. He ended up falling asleep in the chair, and we hoped that a nap would help. After he woke up, he apologized to Nana, and we let him run off and play again.

So we figured he could go along when we all went off to Dairy Queen that night. Except when we arrived (we had to take two cars), MTL came over to my car to talk to DB: The Padawan had informed him during the drive that DB had been throwing sticks at MTL's car as well as climbing on my car and had been rude and disobedient when told to stop. MTL asked DB if he had done this.

And DB said Yep. With a look on his face like So what? What you going to do? And then he said, Sorry! Again with a look like I don't give a damn, but I'll toss you an apology to keep you happy.

And the attitude kept coming, even after punishment, even after being denied ice cream, even after the long wait and then the long ride home. I told him to say sorry for real to MTL, and he said the words--but the look on his face and the tone of his voice said that it was all a joke to him. MTL refused to accept his apology. And I was fed up.

Tomorrow, I told him, you are grounded. You'll be in Time Out all day. No playing, no toys, no TV, no fun. 

But I said sorry! he protested.

It's not enough to say sorry, I replied. You have to mean it. And if you were really sorry, you wouldn't keep doing these things. You would listen. You wouldn't do what you know is wrong. And you wouldn't have this attitude. You're not getting grounded because you threw sticks. You're getting grounded because you don't care that you did something wrong and you won't listen to the Adults In Charge.

So that was that. The next day, from the time he woke up until the time he went to bed, he had to either sit in a chair next to me or, when it started raining and we went inside where there was the TV, lie on Nana and Papa's bed in the back room. With no toys, no books, nothing.

MTL and I both talked to him about the situation throughout the day, emphasizing that the problem lay with his attitude. DramaBoy protested a few times in the morning, and once again tried "apologizing" in the hopes of getting out of the punishment, but we stuck to our guns. By afternoon he was resigned to his lot and remarkably cooperative. He fell asleep for a while, and then came out to eat pizza while The Widget was put back in Nana and Papa's room for a nap. Once DB was done eating, he went back to lie down on the bed again--without even being told. He didn't try to sneak toys in, he didn't complain, nothing. He only got out of bed to go to the bathroom and then to tell me that The Widget was awake and crying for me.

We were all rather impressed, truthfully.

The next day the grounding was lifted, just in time to climb into the car and head home. And lo and behold, DB lied to MTL about something as we were getting ready to go, and then at a pit stop disobeyed me about something else--and the attitude flooded back.

So MTL slung the boy over his shoulder, dumped him back into the car, and traded keys with me so that I could drive his car while MTL drove mine--with The Widget and a screaming DramaBoy inside.

There are many reasons I love that man.

Apparently DB was quiet and obedient for the remainder of the ride. Meanwhile, I easily quelled a few incipient quarrels between KlutzGirl and The Dark One while The Padawan slept, and I drove in relative peace for the second half of the drive.

So. Did the grounding work? I think it did. I'm not naive enough to have expected it to fix the problem in one Swell Foop, but it did lay some solid groundwork. I talked with The Ex about it, and we're all going to be tackling that attitude problem.

I think DramaBoy's about to find out that he's messing with the wrong adults. He may be stubborn, but so are we. And we outnumber him.

Thank God.

Any advice from all of you Peoples? What have you done with your Strong Willed Children?

Our Eyes

Last night MTL was teasing me and I was teasing back in a faux-pouty sort of way, when he suddenly pulled back, looked at me askance, and said, Uh, hello there, DramaBoy!

Apparently I was using the exact facial expression, exact words, exact look as the sort that DramaBoy pulls out from time to time.

There's a reason I call him my mini-me. It's not just his physical appearance, though that alone causes commentary everywhere we go. Our temperaments are nearly identical (thus the fulfillment of my mother's curse) (have I apologized lately, Mom and Dad? I AM SO SORRY) and the source of many of our conflicts. Odd how two strong-willed, quick-tempered, ridiculously stubborn people will spark off each other.

I will say this: his eyes are no longer purely mine. They used to be. Now, while they're still hazel, they've become brown-hazel rather than green-grey-hazel. They've become much more like his father's over the last year or so. Still, when I look into his eyes--I see myself.

And it scares the sh*t out of me.

You see, I was broken for so very, very long. I was tormented by my dragons for nearly thirty years, and I lost the battles until I forgot how to fight. And while there were outside forces and trauma that I experienced that I pray God will never be part of DramaBoy's life, still I wonder how much of my life was simply the path I took as the person I am.

And I can't (and won't) "blame" my parents. No parents are perfect, but to this day I place no blame on mine for the broken road I traveled. They were and are amazing people, amazing parents. MTL is already starting to get a certain smile when I reference them, because I do it so very often. We don't agree on everything, my parents and I, but I respect them deeply.

So what does that mean for me? I struggle every day with parenting practice. I feel like I'm trying to catch up from years of being out of touch, correct countless bad habits (both mine and the children's), and piece together the puzzle that is parenting.  MTL helps. He's been doing this longer than I have, including the single parenting gig. But ultimately he can't and won't tell me what decisions I must make for my children.

What if it's too late? What if my son is already heading down a path similar to the one I trod? For all the love and growth and beauty that has come to me at this point in the road, I would never ever wish that journey for my son. I would never desire for him the pain and despair and brokenness I experienced.

I can't live his life for him. I can't protect him from all harm. But I cannot help but feel tremendous fear.

Because when I look into his eyes...

All I can see is that broken road.

The Good, The Bad, and The Whiny

Yo.

I'm back. Amazingly enough, I'm back in one piece and of sane mind--well, as much as I usually am, which I suppose is up for some discussion. I'm sure there are quite a few people who would have a few opinions to express on the matter. Shut up. It's not your blog.

Heh.

So how did the Great Camping Adventure go? Well, as Boy Crazy said in her post about her weekend, I'm a fan of selective memory. Therefore, I am choosing to remember

• multiple small children running about bare foot playing tag while MTL and I cooked breakfast/lunch/dinner
• The Widget sitting contentedly on the beach, just out of reach of the water, piling sand on his legs/torso/curly head
• DramaBoy finally getting brave enough to wade out in the water up to his waist
• both DramaBoy and The Widget eating their hotdogs across the top (corn-on-the-cob style) rather than from one end
• roasting marshmallows over the fire
• The Widget wanting a marshmallow properly toasted, taking it in his hands, then handing it back with an "ick" face, complaining that It's squishy! It's too squishy! despite assurances that its squishiness was, in fact, a desirable characteristic
• The Widget marching about in board shorts and a hoodie, face adorably framed by the hood
• DramaBoy climbing everything in sight like the monkey he is
• sitting by a fire sipping cold drinks while laughing over MTL's family's stories (his sister et famille and his parents were there as well, which raised the adult-child ratio to a marvelous and anxiety-reducing level)
• eating a delicious if very messy Choco-Raspberry Burrito grilled over the fire (though we'll use foil on the grill next time and add more cinnamon)
• toasting on the hot sand while the kidlets splashed about in the lovely clear lake
• getting into a water fight with MTL and his kids (mine stayed safely out of range on the beach)
• moments of pure, unadulterated happiness

And I simply am choosing NOT to remember

• the whining
• trying (with limited success) to remove sand from scalps and every possible crevice of small dirty children
• protests over eating the food we brought versus the (apparently superior) food brought by MTL's sister and parents
• the whining
• biting flies and mosquitos
• trying to get three small exhausted children to STAY IN BED and GO TO SLEEP when (horror of horrors) the sun was still up and other people got to stay awake
• the whining
• dealing with fighting and complaints and various difficult requests from two kidlets in the back seat while driving for hours and hours without anyone in the passenger seat to help
• the sheer exhaustion (shared by MTL) that resulted from tending camp, cooking food, bathing children, ferrying children to the potty, being woken in the too-early hours of the morning by small kidlets, driving for hours, and generally Being In Charge While On Vacation

and did I mention

• the whining?

That second list? Didn't happen.

It couldn't have, because MTL and I have agreed that camping is something we want to do frequently. We're even going to prep some permanent camping bins and make some lists (yay! lists!) to make sure we don't forget certain key items. Like, oh, a can opener. Or dish soap.

Thank God MTL's parents were there in their fully-stocked RV.

I should note, however, that we plan to make a good number of those camping trips kid-free. Then we can spend hours reading and relaxing and doing things whenever we feel like it rather than on Kidlet Time.

Hopefully that means we can take the h out of whine.

And that, dearest readers, would be something to remember.

I've Got Them Under My Skin. Kind of Like Chiggers.

So Wanderlust tagged me for a meme about Seven Things That Get Under My Skin (but not in the Frank Sinatra sort of way) and it's honestly more about narrowing down the list than coming up with ideas. Especially today because OMG I was hanging on to my temper with a death grip at one point this afternoon, I kid you not. It was one of those moments where I had to shut my mouth and just breathe, then decide NOT to address the issue that was standing there in the room like the biggest frickin' pachyderm ever described by Rudyard Kipling (Oh Best Beloveds) and instead move on while talking in a very very very calm and soft voice. This served to send every student in the room into a stock-still nervous hush because they could tell the slightest slip might send me over the edge and they apparently wanted to survive the day.

Smartest thing they did all hour.

Anywho, here are my grumpy seven things that are currently getting under my skin (and I'm keeping a smallish scope here, people, because it could get ugly otherwise.)

--1--

Politicians. Pretty much all the time and everywhere, but especially (right now) the Michigan ones who have apparently decided that their budget woes can be solved by screwing all the public servants and state employees, especially the teachers, police officers, and firefighters. BECAUSE THEY CAN.

--2--

Lazy students. Like mine today. The ones who've had a week to work on a project WITH class time to do so and chose today--the Due Day--to come up and tell me they weren't done and needed more time. Or the ones who had a presentation but had obviously invested as little effort as possible. It's a good thing this year is almost over, both for my blood pressure and their continued existence.

--3--

The smokers whining about the changed law here in Michigan. Especially the ones who believe that second-hand smoke is a myth. I KID YOU NOT. Makes me want to grab their little cancer sticks and shove them in a different orifice so they can enjoy a special kind of smoking experience.

--4--

The legal system. Especially the way it's been designed to make it as difficult as possible, if not practically impossible, to do anything without resorting to lawyers. It's a self-propagating, parasitic process that sucks us "regular" people dry. As Arby commented to me last week, judges are just lawyers in a referee outfit. And as Shakespeare wisely humorously wrote in Henry VI: The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.*

--5--

Bureaucratic nonsense--especially bureaucratic nonsense that costs money. The district hired a firm to run an audit of all the dependents carried on health insurance by district employees. You know, to make sure we're not lying bastards or whatever it is they think we are. I never received my audit in the mail, or it got misplaced (you know, what with the whole weird living situation thing), so here I get an email today about it, and I have to come up with all this paperwork proving the existence of my dependents. It needs to be postmarked by May 31st. WHICH IS MEMORIAL DAY. /headdesk

So I'm scrambling to get that together and mailed by Friday at the latest.

And how is this audit being funded? Oh, don't worry. It's not being paid for up front by the district. No, it will be paid out of the premium savings made through the audit.

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

--6--

Telling a certain someone that he needs to get a certain task accomplished for OVER A MONTH only to discover, yet again, that it was not accomplished. And knowing full well, all the time, that eventually I will have to give in and just do it my own damn self, give him the receipt, and have him pay for it this time because I paid for it last time. Just like almost every one of these kinds of tasks we share. Passive aggressive, much? Also see: insanity.

--7--

KIDS WHO WILL NOT GO TO SLEEP even though it's getting insanely late and they'll be super grouchy in the morning when I have to get them up to go to school. I mean, at least they're being quiet. But the morning's gonna be a bitch.


There you go. I think I may have used up my grump allotment for the day. But WHOO does it feel good to get it out!

I'm now tagging:

DraftQueen at The Drafts Folder
Beth at BurkinaMom in France
Aunt Becky at Mommy Wants Vodka
MaryMac at Pajamas and Coffee
Nicola at Some Mothers Do Ave Em
Melissa at Rock and Drool

And since the whining gets to even me, let's relax a bit and listen to something much nicer.

------------------------------------
*For the sake of legal protection, I state for the record that I am not, in fact, promoting or condoning violence toward anyone, no matter how scum-sucking or sharklike he or she may be. Ahem.

No Escape From Reality

Single mommyhood. Rollercoaster rides. They have much in common, only single mommyhood has more screaming.

Last night was a Toggle Day, and I arrived at the boylets' school to be greeted by the news that The Widget had officially completed his transition from Early Learners (30-36 mos) to Skill Builders (3-4 years), better known as *sob* Preschool. It's official. My not-so-babyish baby is a preschooler. He proudly showed me his new cubby and the pretty picture he had drawn for me and announced, I went potty in the TOILET!!!

Imagine this said in an adorably squeaky little Widget voice and your heart will melt much as mine did.

Then we went outside to collect DramaBoy off the playground, where he bounced over to me with a treasure clutched in his fist. His fingers uncurled to present me with....

A WORM.

I heroically fought down my shudders, exclaimed appropriately over its Awesome Worminess, and suggested that perhaps he needed to put it back in the dirt where it lives. Thank the dear Lord above he didn't try to bring it home as a pet. I draw the line at...well, at pretty much anything nonmammalian, and most mammals too. I'd rather not even have the frickin' dog, but that's a story for another day.

(Dog lovers, please don't hate me. If you knew the story, you'd understand. Some of my readers already do. Trust me on this.)

So, happy and wormless, we headed home; the Widget playing happily with a Viewmaster and DramaBoy spelling words on his little toy computer, myself singing (and dancing, because that's how I roll) along with the radio.

This was the Fun Part.

Once we got home, the ride took a sinister turn. I committed the great sin of lifting The Widget out of the car rather than letting him get out by himself, and the resulting tantrum wended its way from the garage floor to the hallway floor to his bed, where I informed him he could stay until he got himself under control.

DramaBoy made snarky comments from the sidelines. Which made things SO MUCH EASIER.

And it went downhill from there. I found myself dealing with a temporarily bipolar Widget, a DramaBoy who kept changing his mind which game he wanted me to watch him play and losing his patience with my inability to focus on any of them, a phone call from a bill collector for a credit card I'd forgotten about, a dear friend who needed to vent on Facebook, and a dog demanding to be fed. I was also trying to make dinner, change out of my work clothes, counsel MTL over the phone about his daughter's school issue, and not scream at anyone.

Finally I had enough. I shut down everything. I let the oven keep heating without putting in the biscuits, put the phone on silent, and sat down (in pajama pants and my work shirt) with a kidlet on either side.

We watched this



and then this



and then this



and then I let the now happy and giggling boylets sit on the couch by themselves and watch this



while I changed my shirt, popped the cheesy biscuits in the oven, heated the soup, finished my conversation with MTL, and got dinner on the table.

Then I sat down with my boylets, put on Barenaked Ladies' Snacktime CD (my favorite children's album, because with song lyrics like these, how could I not love???) and we ate our meal while singing and dancing along.

There was a brief hiccup in the bliss when DramaBoy temporarily objected to the soup selection before he'd even taken a bite.

What kind of soup is this? he asked. I don't like green soup.

It's broccoli soup, I answered. You love broccoli.

I like BROCCOLI, he responded, but I don't like broccoli SOUP.

I'll confess right here that I lied to him. Without even a twinge of conscience.

Of course you do! I said. You liked it the last time you had it!

Oh, okay! he said, and that was that.

Keep in mind that yes, DramaBoy does love broccoli, but he has never had it in soup form before. I FEEL NO SHAME. Sometimes you just do what you have to do to survive.

After all, you never know what's coming once you crest that next hill. That drop might be a bitch.

I'll admit, they're awfully cute. I guess I'll keep them. For now.

Backbone

There are times when silence clogs my throat and I cannot say what needs to be said. I am fixed by uncertainty, frozen by fear. What will be the reaction to my words? Will they be met by scorn, ridicule, disappointment?

Habit. Years of keeping my tongue still, swallowing my words, saying only what I think will be met with approval. Years of fearing to make my own decisions or suggestions or, God forbid, demands.

When I was a little girl, I was very opinionated. According to my parents, I was the very definition of the Strong Willed Child. My children come by their Attitudes honestly. Well, that and apparently God was listening when my mother cursed me lo, those many years ago.

Somewhere along the way that little girl crawled into a corner of my mind and my backbone went AWOL.

How pitiful is this: when someone asks me what I'd like for dinner or which restaurant I'd prefer or what activity I'd enjoy, I rarely respond with anything other than Oh, I don't know. It doesn't matter to me. I might indicate a few options I would NOT like, but I am far more comfortable with the decision being made for me. That way, you see, I won't chance ridicule or disagreement.

How sad is this: I went up north this last weekend to MTL's parents' place. Saturday morning MTL and I both woke early and, unable to sleep, took our coffee out on the back porch to enjoy the sunrise. The morning air was damp and chilly. When MTL rose to find the off switch for the glaring porch light, I suggested he bring out a sleeping bag to cover our legs. I had been thinking about this for five minutes and had to overcome enormous reluctance to make the suggestion. His response? A big smile and a comment about how smart I am. What I subconsciously expected? A scowl and a comment about it not being THAT cold, and if I was chilled, maybe I should go get the blanket myself. Which, I should mention, is not typical of MTL. That didn't matter. It was still my automatic apprehension.

I started thinking.

Put me in charge of a group of students and I have no problem being Queen and Goddess of the Classroom. Put me in a professional setting with my coworkers and my Voice is Heard.

Put me in a social setting with my peers and I falter. I follow rather than lead, give way rather than stand strong.

Don't get me wrong: if something is suggested with which I strongly disagree, I won't do it. I'm not mindless. But when it comes to anything that is smaller in scope, that doesn't involve moral or legal issues, I'd rather not rock the boat.

I'm better than I used to be. Saturday I overcame my illogical fear and suggested the blanket. And the blanket was fetched. Monday, when asked what I wanted for dinner, I responded, Taco salad. And taco salad we had.

I'm building my backbone. It helps that my dearest friends and loved ones have been responding with encouragement rather than disapproval. It helps that I've had to stand on my own for a year now, that I've had to learn to say

No. 

This is the line I will not cross. 

That won't work for me. 

This is what will work for me.

This is what I need.

This is what I want.

The healing continues. I just keep wondering what happened to the little girl who always had to Have It Her Way and why it's taken so long for her to show up again.

PSA for Parents

You know when your kidlet decides to have a meltdown in the middle of the mall? As in full-force Mach 5 tantrum with screaming, crying, hitting, and "I hate you"s as a special bonus?

You have two choices: (1) be utterly humiliated and drag the brat kicking and screaming the entire length of the mall while uttering threats and avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone, or (2) find your sense of humor, try very hard not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, and drag the brat kicking and screaming the entire length of the mall while saying I'm sorry you feel that way. I love you! and smiling at all the gawkers.

I'll give you a hint: Choice Number Two doesn't give you a migraine and tends to result in amusement from onlookers rather than surreptitious searches for the phone number to the Department of Human Services.

Oh, and DramaBoy? I still love you.

In Which the Men in White Coats Nearly Had Their Way With Me

Around 12:35 in the wee barely-morning hours of Sunday morning, I posted on Facebook the following status:

THEY ARE STILL AWAKE. DEAR GOD HELP ME. THEY ARE STILL AWAKE.

For some reason this only seemed to elicit amusement from the general masses. Many of whom are parents themselves, and who apparently have already been initiated into the insanity that is The Sleepover. I, as a newb to its reality, was struggling to find the humor in it all.

I was, however, forced to chuckle at one former schoolmate's response: He hears you [TeacherMommy], He hears you. And He's laughing his head off.

I always knew God had a sense of humor. My students are living proof.

So how did I get into this insanity? Well, DramaBoy's best friend is a little girl about four months younger than he. Let's call her ADHDGirl. It just so happens that I taught her older sister last year when she was a junior. I am also good friends with her mother--we met at daycare and had one of those instant connections that would keep us standing in the parking lot for an hour talking. She has had a difficult life, to say the least, and recently has been having a particularly Tough Time. So when I talked to her on the phone the other day and heard that edge in her voice that I know has been in mine on far too many occasions, I told her that she was going to drop ADHDGirl off on Saturday night and could pick her up Sunday morning, and that she had no choice in the matter.

And then I stocked up on multicolored goldfish, apple juice, and Xanax.

Oh, I'm kidding. There wasn't enough time to get the apple juice.

OMG. I had no idea that adding one little four-year-old to the mix would make life so...interesting. For much of the evening I simply stayed out of the way, chatting online to friends (many of whom were laughing at me) and wishing the water I was sipping was wine and occasionally yelling a reminder that YOU ARE FRIENDS AND NEED TO TREAT EACH OTHER THAT WAY and trying not to twitch. Then I spent several hours trying to get them to STAY in the bed into which they had been tucked. Yeah right.

DramaBoy, of course, woke up way too early the next morning, but at least he stayed quiet for the one hour before the other two rioted their way down the stairs. Then chaos reigned again. I was so worn out and grumpy that a friend who lives down the road took pity on me and showed up at my doorstep with a large coffee. Which may have saved my life.

At least when my friend who owes me so frickin' badly whom I love dearly arrived to pick up ADHD girl, she looked much more sane. Which is good, because one of us should be. And which made it all worthwhile.

And if you needed more proof that I am crazy, I even told her I'll probably do it again.

But I'm going to upgrade to Prozac first.

Parenting in the Age of Bakugan

A conversation while driving home:

DramaBoy: If you are very good, I will give you a surprise!

TeacherMommy: You'll give me a surprise?

DB: Yes!

TM: If I'm good?

DB: Yes!

TM: What do you mean by being good? What do I have to do?

DB: If you wash the dishes all the time, then  I will give you a surprise!

TM: Really? Wash the dishes?

DB: Yes! But if you wash them only two times--only one time, then maybe I will give it to you right now.

TM: So if I only wash the dishes once, I'll get the surprise right away?

DB: Yep! I will find my Bakugan! I haven't found them all yet.

TM: I see. Bakugan. Hmm. I'm not so sure I would really want Bakugan, honey.

DB: You're right. You don't really like Bakugan. You only like work.

TM: ....

DB: Look! I will give you something for work!

*he picks up a travel coffee mug off the floor of the car where it must have fallen from my bag*

DB: See?

TM: Thank you, honey! I wondered where that had gone.

DB: You're welcome! Now go wash the dishes!

I May Have Missed THEM, but I Didn't Miss THAT

Ahh, kidlets. It had been just a little over a week since I saw mine, since they went down to Florida with their father for a week of kinda-sorta-warm vacation. It was a good week for me and them, in our mutually exclusive Weeks O' Fun, but I was starting to miss them. I went out bowling and to dinner on Saturday and tiny peoples were EVERYWHERE and I found  myself looking at them all awwwww and fighting the urge to squeeze them. At the bowling alley there was a birthday party (OMG the little people were everywhere and so dang cute and all the little pink coats on the little girls and pretty shoes and for a split second I ALMOST wanted another kid--i.e. small daughter to dress up--one day and then my brain kicked in and told me I'm an idiot) and a tiny boy who had to be maybe a year-and-a-half old wandered over and tried to pick up my bowling ball. Mind you, I'm a wimp, so I had a very lightweight ball, but there was no way he was going to manage it. So I got his mind off the ball and then realized he seemed a little lostish. Of course my mama self kicked in and I was all Where's your mommy, honey? and he was looking around with growing panic before a woman walked with the correlating Where's my baby? look on her face and they had a joyful reunion.

All together now: Awwwwww.

Where was I? Oh yes, MY babies. Except that when I saw them last night they weren't babies. Because apparently one week away = OMG THEY GREW UP. I swear they each sprouted an inch or two, and The Widget has made a sudden linguistic leap and is speaking in pretty dang complete sentences. As in Mama, we took pictures at Mickey Mouse's castle!!! I mean, when he left two Fridays ago, that would have been more like Mama! [DramaBoy] and me! Pictures Mickey Mouse! Castle! which I totally would have interpreted, but now he's adding in all these subjects and verbs and prepositions. He still has that totally adorable squeaky little voice of his that makes me all melty inside, but he's starting to sound like a little boy instead of a toddler. He is also stretching out and developing that little boy body. He's still all soft and cuddly, but there's hardly any chub left, and I miss my chubbers.

Le sigh.

I texted this to a friend and received back the very comforting reply, Don't blink or they'll be in college and I was all GAH! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME?!

And then DramaBoy came in during the night and peed on the carpet next to my bed because he was still mostly asleep and obviously very confused and I started looking forward to the days when I would no longer be on potty duty.

Because, peoples, when they're all big boys and stuff, I am so not cleaning their bathrooms. In fact, I may have to figure out how to have a separate bathroom entirely. I still have nightmares remember what my male college friends' bathrooms looked like. *shudder*

You think they're too young to start learning how to scrub toilets?

A, B, C, D, E, F, G...

My children are still awake. I know this because the lugubrious strains of the ABC song, duet version, are wafting from their room. Earlier I had to remove a box of wooden blocks from their possession. Before that it was Candyland.

Their bedtime was two hours ago.

If this was a weekend night, I wouldn't be too concerned. However, it is Wednesday night, and this means that in a matter of eight short hours (a little less, now) they will be required to rise from their beds, dress, and get out the door, cereal bars clutched in their bemittened hands, so that I won't be late for work. They will be whiny. They will be limp and uncooperative. The chances of my getting them to dress themselves are roughly 25 to 1. The chances that I will lose my limited morning temper and bark orders at them at some point are roughly 2 to 1. (You never know. Miracles do happen.)

...H, I, J, K, LMNOP...

I am lying on the bed in a t-shirt and highly attractive (heh) eleven-year-old purple sweatpants. It occurs to me that these are the sweatpants my soon-to-be-former-stepbrother-in-law purchased on the way to the hospital on Christmas Eve 1998 to pick me up. I had been there for three days recovering from the abdominal surgery that would later require me to have cesarean rather than vaginal births. My then-boyfriend had slept through his alarm and his roommate had turned off the phone ringer, so no one had shown up to drive me home that morning. In desperation, I called his stepbrother, with whom I attended college. I couldn't fit jeans over my swollen belly, so D. picked up a pair of sweatpants for me. He also paid my bill for fees not covered by insurance. I was so very grateful. The nurses had been growing restless.

This information is appropos of nothing other than it occurred to me. Also, these sweatpants are almost three times as old as DramaBoy and four times as old as The Widget.

...Q, R, S, T, U, V...

This afternoon was busy. My chiropractor remarked on the progression of my forehead's adornment and asked me if I'd get cosmetic surgery if the scar doesn't fade. I was a little taken aback. I mean, it's barely an inch long and just a little scar on my forehead.

No, I said. I'll just have a scar.

Oh, good, he responded, obviously surprised in turn. I guess it's good you're not very girly.

Really? Hasn't he seen my shoes? Actually, I know he has. He comments on them. I suppose what he means by "girly," however, is "high maintenance." He's pretty much right. I try to keep things fairly simple and low key in that regard.

Judging by his attitude, he must be familiar with a lot of high-maintenance women. And you know that old maxim Familiarity breeds contempt?

Yeah.

...W, X, Y and Z...

I took the boys to MacDonalds tonight, since it was late by the time I finished grocery shopping and picked them up from school. Then we took the car through a car wash, which DramaBoy loves and The Widget endures, hands firmly clasped over his sensitive ears. Finally we stopped at CVS to negotiate the transfer and refill of some medication. The pretty young pharmacist told me the wait would be thirty minutes. I looked over at my not-quite-rampaging offspring with some dismay and asked if there was any way they could rush it a bit. Obviously simultaneously charmed by my boys and sympathetic to my apprehension about keeping them contained that long, she said she'd see what they could do.

I was already fond of that CVS, but they have my deepest gratitude after tonight. Not only did they have a convenient little children's nook by the waiting area, stocked with crayons and coloring books and a random helium balloon, they managed to get the order processed in less than fifteen minutes. I was able to escort my hyper young sons out of the store before their patience ran out and any real damage could be perpetrated on defenseless merchandise.

It's nice to know that there are still people who care about customer service, even in the big chain stores. 

...now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me.

There is silence now. I think they are finally asleep, with a mere seven hours and change before they have to get up. For that matter, I only have six and a half hours left before my cruel clock sounds its smug alarm. In the interests of peaceful dreams, I may need to convince my elderly, flatulent cat that she really doesn't need to sleep with me. I appreciate her desire to keep me from loneliness, but the odor she produces is considerably more expansive than her petite form would lead you to believe.

Bon nuit. It's time to investigate what messages my subconscious mind holds for me tonight. 

Different Wavelengths

DramaBoy: Are you bored? Are you having fun, just sitting at your computer and watching TV?

Me: Yes, I'm having fun.

DramaBoy: No! You are NOT having fun! It is more fun to play! Don't you want to come upstairs and watch me play my game?

Me: That doesn't make any sense. Your game is a computer game. So wouldn't I just be sitting at the computer and sort of watching TV?

Silence.

********************

Three minutes later:

DramaBoy (with a tone of great concern): Mama, are you SURE you want to watch us play Batman? Are you SURE you want to watch us play?

Me: No, I'm not sure.

DramaBoy: Okay, you can watch us play. And then when you want to work, you can take your computer with you and not watch TV.

For two people as good with words and communication as we both are, I'm not convinced we're getting our messages across.

Twenty-Four Hour Sunday

I cannot sleep because my head hurts and at the same time a million thoughts are whirling through it. Perhaps the two are linked. I am finally drifting off around two in the morning when a friend who is far too young and doesn't realize that some people might need to sleep texts me and jerks me out of my doze.

I am still awake fifteen minutes later when my youngest son begins coughing and crying in his room. He has been suffering from the sniffles and his congestion is making him miserable. I lift him, his warm but thankfully not-feverish body solid in my arms, and take him to my bed. He falls asleep nestled against my chest, and then I manage a parenting twist on the classic hug-and-roll technique, depositing him safely beside me.

Half an hour later I am still awake, this time because there is no way I can sleep easily with a small sniffling person jamming his feet into my side. There is a noise from the doorway and I roll over to see my slightly larger small son shuffling in. Mama, I want to sleep with you. I can't sleep in my bed, he whispers. I sigh and open my arms, the signal for him to clamber over my body and take up most of what little space his brother has left. I rearrange both children and finally gain a precious ten inches of space for myself.

Slumber does not come easily when elbows and knees are being jammed into one's extremities with the occasional whack of a hand across one's face, but my children are kind enough to sleep in two hours later than usual, so I do not wake until almost eight in the morning. My bed is warm and full of snuggles.

************************

I survey the catastrophe that is the house in the aftermath of three small people having a late-night playdate. For a moment I regret passing on my friend's offer to help clean last night, but it was already almost 11:30 when we got back and she still needed to drive home with her little girl. I am glad my boys had so much fun, but the chaos is a bit overwhelming.

Time to clean up the mess! I announce to my small boys. You can watch TV while you clean up, but all these toys need to be put away. All the train stuff goes in that box, and the Legos in their bin, and everything else goes back on the toy shelves.

Can we have a snack? DramaBoy asks.

After you clean this up, I reply, and they slowly start to pick things up.

I climb the stairs and face the four large baskets of clean clothes waiting to be folded. With the boys downstairs working at a snail's pace while they watch Backyardigans, I am free to watch my non-kid-friendly shows like CSI and Cold Case and The Soup while I fold clothes. There's nothing like crime and gore and celebrity stupidity to make chores go faster.

************************

The giggles erupting from the bedroom alert me to my children's lack of focus. Snacks of chips and raisins and a lunch of macaroni and cheese have kept them going all day as they worked through their mess, but there's only so long they can concentrate on the task at hand. I walk in to discover them wrestling on the floor clad only in underwear and pull-ups. Thankfully they have already picked up the toys that could hurt them in their rough housing. All that's left are the clean clothes still strewn about the floor, now performing the role of wrestling mat.

I cannot bring myself to be stern with them. Their giggles are infectious and I soon am on the floor with them, turning the wrestling match into a tickling match with some wet raspberries thrown in for good measure. Finally they conquer me and I end up on my back, two small bodies bouncing merrily on my belly. Worn out, I rescue myself and stumble from the room, promising them a treat if they finish cleaning the room. I still have a duffle bag to pack and two more loads of laundry to wash, dry, and fold. Their giggles are diminished but still bubbling as I walk down the hall.

************************

Do you want to go out in our pajamas and go through a drive-through tonight, or do you want me to have pizza delivered? I ask the small Spiderman-clad boy in front of me.

I want to go to Lucky Duck Pizza and get pizza! he declares.

No, baby, I say. We're just in our pajamas and so if we go out, we have to go to Taco Bell or Arby's or somewhere like that.

We can wear our pajamas? he asks.

Yes, I say.

Mama? he asks, a twinkle beginning in his eyes.

What, honey? I say.

We have to wear our shoes if we're going to get our booty! he says and bursts into giggles.

I snort back laughter and hope he's referring to playing pirates.

************************

I sink deep into the liquid heat, the bubbles rising up until my chin is covered. I breathe the sweet scent of vanilla and exhale, muscles loosening one by one. I wiggle my toes against the end of the tub and reach for my book. I hear the hushed murmur of my boys' voices from their room but relax in the knowledge that they are unlikely to emerge again tonight. I open the pages and submerge myself in another mind's world. Perhaps by the time I crawl between the newly laundered sheets my own will be soothed enough to allow sleep to come quickly.

Silence falls upon the house.

Odd How My Bank Account Gets Smaller the Bigger They Get

These little people called kidlets (you may have heard of them before) have this bizarre habit of growing up. And changing. Oh, and costing money. Strange how those go together. I'm not sure if my boylets are in some sort of conspiracy, but this week has been one to make my head reel.

First there's all the talking from the Widget and that crazy writing thing that DramaBoy is doing these days, and now they're daring to grow physically at the most inconvenient times. You'd think they could hold off a week or two so that Christmas gifts could fulfill some needs, but no....So out comes the debit card and a couple of pesky emergency purchases are made.

The first emergency has been, in reality, creeping up for a couple of weeks, but I was in denial. You see, neither of the boys could fit comfortably into one of the car seats in my car. Not just any car seat, but the very first car seat we ever had. The car seat in which we brought home the teensy tiny DramaBoy, who was so very small that I had to wedge him about with rolled-up receiving blankets so that his wee head wouldn't bobble out of control. The car seat which then held the almost as teensy tiny Widget when he came along less than a year-and-a-half later, also wedged with rolled-up blankets.

Tangent: What would we do without those things? The blankets, I mean. I had about thirty of them and never seemed to have enough. Note to new mothers: you can NEVER have too many receiving blankets!!!

Anyhow, DramaBoy could no longer be forced into the seatbelt in that thing at all, and The Widget was having to hold his breath most each trip we took. Too tight! he would say, patting his chest with a look of mild desperation. Too tight, Mama!

It was time and more than time. Yesterday I headed off to Target to grab one of their Cosco brand transition seats--you know, car seat one way and booster chair another? As I pulled its simple plastic-wrapped bulk off the shelf, I couldn't help but chuckle over how we had researched car seats for months and purchased the (quite pricey) deluxe suede-and-faux-leather car seat (HA! What were we thinking? Ever tried to clean baby vomit out of suede?!?) all those many years ago, whereas here I was snagging the very basic store brand seat that cost perhaps one-sixth as much, if that.

Ah, parenting. How time changes one's perspective.

The old seat cradled the new one on the way back to the house:

I hope its feelings weren't hurt too much.

Farewell, thou old friend. You have been through the wars. May you rest in pieces peace.

What you can't see in this picture: the cuts, the stains, and who knows what else...

Both my boys are now safely strapped in and (bonus!) able to breathe. All good, right?

HA. Today as I was putting on DramaBoy's shoes at the mall play area, I realized there was a gaping hole in the toe:

Finger shown for display purposes. This would have been his toe, without a sock.

So we had no choice but to head off to Target yet again (Who would have thought five years ago it would have become my go-to store? Ah, the realities of parenting...) to search for shoes. The Widget's were looking a little worn and tight as well, not to mention that buying new shoes for one boy and not the other would NOT go over well.

Sometimes they're as bad as twins.

Ah, but we couldn't just get any old shoes. DramaBoy made it clear he wanted Spiderman shoes or, at the very least, some sort of superhero. The Widget chimed in with his parrot act agreement. And lo, Target had Spiderman shoes, in both "good" and "bad" versions. And lo, there was a pair in The Widget's size! And...oh crap. None in DramaBoy's. We searched high and low. Nothing. No other shoes were deemed suitable for replacement, either.

Finally, in desperation, I called another Target and sent the poor customer service lady in search of Spiderman shoes (either moral compass acceptable from my point of view, though DramaBoy insisted he really wanted the "bad" Spiderman) in the right size. She was quite confused at first, but finally found one pair ("good" Spiderman) in size 9. SCORE!!! I informed DramaBoy that if he didn't want the "good" Spiderman, he could settle for a pair of the "bored" shoes. All or nothing, buster.

We bought The Widget's pair and then travelled the twenty minutes to the other store, where the shoes were waiting at the Guest Services desk. They fit, DramaBoy decided (after a look at my face) that the "good" Spiderman was just fine (Now The Widget and I have the same kind! he declared with a fixed smile), and he wore them out of the store so that his poor tootsies would no longer be wet and frozen.

The heels flash when they walk. 

This way I can find the boys when they try to hide from me. 

Mwahahahaha!

Call me a sucker for giving in to my child's demand for brand name merchandising, but whatever. The price was right, my boylets are happy, and I no longer look like a mother who can't keep her children's toes covered.

It's all Win.

Boylets, Brothers, and Bragging

Yesterday I got to see my two boylets for the first time in six days. The Widget was still asleep in his little daycare cot when I arrived, and I kissed his soft cheek until he awoke, realized it was me, and flung himself into my arms for a snuggly cuddle. Then we went off to find DramaBoy, who raced across the room with a joyous MAMA! and flung himself in turn into my arms, only to then begin whining and snarking about this and that for the next several hours. It's his way of letting me know I'm being punished for my absence. I may be used to it, but it doesn't make me any happier.

I also discovered, because I'm so on top of things, that last night was the official Holiday Celebration at daycare, and DramaBoy's class was scheduled to perform for parents. So we went back to the house and bumbled around for a couple of hours, but returned by six for the performance.

It was my first ever official holiday performance to attend as a parent!!!!

Holy crap, my kidlets are growing up.

It seems that every time I turn around (especially these days when I go for some time without seeing my boys) they're maturing and changing in leaps and bounds. The Widget's speech is expanding extraordinarily. No longer is everything in shorthand. Instead of simply demanding Water!, he now says Mama, I want water. Instead of simply observing Tree! when he sees a Christmas tree, he now says Look at Christmas tree! It is Christmas time! Instead of simply reporting [DramaBoy]! Hurt! Ow!, he now says Mama! [DramaBoy] hit me! He hurt me! (Ah, the joys of brotherhood.) He asks full questions. He plays little jokes. He carries on conversations instead of merely listening.

As for DramaBoy...Oh my. A week and a half ago he moved up from the Preschool class to the Pre-Kindergarten class. He is now the youngest in the class at just-barely-four. And last night when I was wandering around his classroom, I saw this:

He can write. He can write whole words, with readily identifiable letters, including both capital and lowercase, and they're more than just his name.

I had a mini-heart attack when I saw it, then promptly took a picture and texted it to half a dozen people.

Not to brag (okay, who am I kidding, I'm totally bragging), but his teacher told me that he is better at letter recognition and writing than quite a few of the kids who have been in that class for a year.

I'm so proud I can hardly stand it.

Then we went into another room where all the parents perched precariously on tiny chairs and about a dozen tiny people filed into the room and sang "Jingle Bell Rock" for us. DramaBoy knew every word and even did those fist/arm pump thingie motions when they sang the word "rock." So. Dang. Cute.

Then we ate lots of yummy food and the children played and I caught up with a good friend whose daughter is DramaBoy's best friend.

When we went back to the house, they ate some yoghurt and got into their superhero jammies and went to bed and had way too much fun talking and playing with each other until well after nine o'clock.

And my heart was full.

I'm Not Sure Why I'm Even Posting This, and Some of You May Never Be Able to Look at Me in the Eyes Again. Sorry, Grandma.

 How do they always know?

They'll be happily ensconced on the couch, watching The Backyardigans. Or playing with trains in their room. Or eating a yummy snack. They should be content. They should stay put.

And then, invariably, just as I'm nice and nekkid, they walk in.

It doesn't seem to matter WHY I'm clothing-free at the time. I'll be in the shower, or just getting in, or just getting out. I'll be getting dressed in the walk-in. I'll be, Mr. Hanky help me, settling down for a nice leisurely--er, um, session--on the toilet.

It's all quite innocent on my part, you see. It's not like I'm running the place like it's Hedonism II (Hey, never been--just honeymooned down the beach a ways. Stop looking at me like that!) I'm just doing the ordinary everyday things that people do in their homes, generally in the area of the bathroom. And my little nosey parkers always manage to choose that particular time to locate me, because, apparently, that is exactly when The Widget suddenly needs a hug or DramaBoy has a pressing question that Cannot Wait, Mommy!

This was all very well and good when they were small beings who could barely remember how to put one foot in front of the other without rediscovering gravity. Time passed, and I kept convincing myself they wouldn't remember much of what they saw, and it was all natural and all, right? Even when the inevitable questions started regarding the differences between my body and theirs (after all, I'm the odd female out around here), I just answered them and figured it was all a good anatomy lesson.

(I'm still not sure DramaBoy understands how my body can possibly operate with such different plumbing. He gets worried about whether or not I can actually pee without a penis. I just explain I am built differently and can indeed accomplish this important task. I decline to show him the details.)

But...DramaBoy is turning four in just over two weeks, and he has become very much Boy lately. And I cannot continue to pretend he will not remember things, because that child has a mind and memory like a steel trap (well, for the things he wants to remember.) I'm starting to wonder just how much I really want him to remember about me in all my Botticelli glory.

Especially when it involves the toilet.

I've been trying to teach them about the need for privacy, but so far that seems to result in More Privacy For Them and no discernible difference in the level of Privacy For Me. I mean, by all means I am happy not to have to wipe DramaBoy's behind all the time, but doing laundry can be a bit disconcerting these days.

The other day I decided enough was enough and dared to (gasp) lock the doors to the bathroom.

I know.

Those hypersensitive ears of theirs must have heard the tiny clicks, because within nanoseconds there was a knocking on the door.

Mama? I need to come in!

No, DramaBoy. Mama needs some privacy!

Why is the door LOCKED, Mama?

Because I want some privacy, DramaBoy!!

But MAMA, I need to go POTTY!

Go downstairs. There's a perfectly good potty down there.

But I WANT to go potty in THERE!

No, DramaBoy!

But MAMA!!! I NEED to come IN!!!!

NO, DramaBoy!!!!

And then, of course, the wailing and gnashing of teeth began. Which was then magnified tenfold by The Widget, who was attracted to the scene of the crime and went into full blown Panicked Mama's Boy mode when he realized a wooden door was thwarting him from attaching himself to my nearest body part.

(Which is disconcerting when you're trying to--ahem--process things. Just sayin'.)

So tonight when I tucked DramaBoy into my bed because he has a touch of croup and I'll need to keep an ear out for his breathing, I denied his request to sleep nekkid, as is his wont. After all, I'll be next to him all night. There are lines, people.

Truth be told, he gets that from me. I just don't sleep clothing-optional much these days.

Not sure why I even care that much about these minor points of propriety. Because at this point their future therapists are already going to have a field day.

Am I the only one who experiences all this? Because if I am, I think I might take up showering in my bathing suit.

At least that way I won't keep bashing my delicate parts with various toiletries in my desperate attempts to maintain the dignity my progeny stole from me years ago.