Halloween Candy

Every year I do it.

And every year I use the tired excuse that I'm getting a head start in preparation for Halloween. I actually think I kind of believe that excuse, at least when I'm caught up in the frenzy of the holiday-goody-aisle.

I should absolutely know better than to purchase ridiculously oversized bags of chocolatey goodness weeks before the big day.

Weeks are far too long. And chocolate is far too tempting.

This year the bags remained unopened for about one day. And in all honesty, that's just because I forgot about them due to the top secret hiding place I stashed them.

Who would ever look for chocolate in the laundry room? The answer is nobody. At least I'm certain my husband would never search there since he seldom graces that room with his presence. Ahem. If he asks, I never said that.

I'll admit that I occasionally hide things from the other family members in this household. It's my duty as a mother. It's in the Mom's Essential Handbook somewhere, I can assure you. Every holiday, I feel the need to hide the candy bags from my children and husband because I know how gluttonous they can be when it comes to sweets. Give the kids vegetables and they're suddenly "not hungry" but give them sugar and they'll eat for days.

I am the mother therefore I am responsible for making decisions with their well-being in mind. Because we all know that kids aren't old enough to make wise choices when it comes to sugar. And husbands, well, they're like super-big, hairy children with no concept of sugar-overload, either.

In all honesty though, it is I who has been gluttonous. It is I who almost single-handedly finished an entire bag of assorted chocolate goodies--some of which I don't even like that much. I mean, if Reese's had been in that bag, it would have been completely emptied. And I wouldn't have looked back. I love me some Reese's.

Now, less than a week before Halloween, I must go and buy more candy to make up for the candy that I have so excessively eaten. Not only do I have a stomachache, I now have a few extra pounds to start off the holidays. Which is exactly the way I wanted to start things off! I'm sure you caught my sarcasm and if you didn't here is your disclaimer: I was being sarcastic.

I knew I should have bought the cheap bag of knock-off candy. But I hated to do that to the children. It's really all for the children, you know.

Plus, Mama hates the junk in that bag.

D-Day

The Story of Keaton: (This is an old blog post but I was thinking about my last delivery so I went back and found where I had written about it. And it brings back horrific memories)




So, Keaton Gray is finally here.

On Friday night, we sat in the hospital room awaiting the results of my bloodwork—thinking there might be a chance we would get to go home.

When my doc walked in he instantly said, "Well, we're having a baby tomorrow."

So, that was that.

I actually felt a little relief in that moment because I was really tired of being pregnant and swollen.

Plus we were ready to meet our little guy.

Then, my doc busted my bubble of excitement by uttering the words I had dreaded hearing.

He told me my platelets were even lower now and I couldn't have an epidural. It would be too dangerous.

All these thoughts were running through my mind. “What? Did I hear him correctly? This isn’t the 1920’s…it’s 2011. Give me my epidural!”

But, I tried to act brave and simply said, “okay”, as if the thought of another human coming out of me while feeling the excruciating pain of it all didn’t bother me one little bit.
So, that was that.

I guess I was half-expecting it, since he had warned me on Thursday that this could be a reality.

But, I really think that deep down I thought it would work out so that I would get my beloved epidural.

So, I took a sleeping pill that night—because I wouldn't have been sleeping a wink without one.


The next morning at 5:00 am we headed to the delivery room to begin the birthing process.

Little did I know the process was going to take for-ever.

And it was going to suck. Really badly.

When we got in the room, the nurses began my IV.

Then, we waited.

My doctor wasn't going to be in until about 8:00 or so and that's when they were going to break my water.

In the meantime at around 7:30, they started my Pitocin to try and get things moving.

When, my doctor came in and "checked me"—which is a horrendous act in itself—I was at a one (crush my spirit) and the baby was still too high to break my water.
A one?

I just knew I was more than that. He must have made a mistake.

So, we waited and waited through contractions that weren't all that painful yet.

After several more checks I was still a one.

One.

I never thought I would hate that number so much.

Finally at around 4:00 pm, I felt a painful popping sensation.

Then, the waters broke loose.

And from that point on, it was game time.

At least as far as my pain was concerned. But, as far as things starting to happen—it was not game time.


My heavy contractions started the minute my water broke.

The nurse came in to check me and what do you know, I was still a one.

A freaking one.

I wanted to scream in her face—even though I guess it wasn’t really her fault.

I was in disbelief and almost tears, because this "one" felt about like the four or five I experienced with Cale (right before they gave me an epidural) .

And this time all my pain was in my back lower half, which I didn't experience at all with my first child.

I hear that's called "back labor".

Whatever it is, it sucks.

As time passed, the pain got worse and worse.

I went from grimacing to self-consciously moaning to almost yelling.

I remember I kept looking at the clock as I slowly became more dilated...and thinking "I can't do this. I'll never be able to tolerate what a "ten" is going to feel like."

The hard thing is, there is absolutely no turning back. There’s no way to get out of the pain.

It must be endured.

Earlier in the day my husband had kept saying things like—"Oh I bet this baby will be here by early afternoon."

Then, when early afternoon came and went with no baby he said, "I bet this baby will be here by 7:00".

When 7:00 came and went, he started to make another prediction but quickly stopped when I snapped, "Just shut your mouth".

And apparently that’s around the time I got mean.


Through the course of getting from a one to a ten, I told my husband to "shut-up" repeatedly and to "quit touching me".

I told him I felt like I was "dying".

I slapped the phone out of his hand as he began to type a text.

I can actually remember being appalled when he picked up his phone.

It infuriated me off that he felt comfortable at that moment—comfortable enough to have a friendly conversation with someone—while I was lying there practically being tortured right before his eyes.

And he thought he was going to make a call.

Dummy.

The closer I got to a ten I evidently even tried to bite him a few times. The reason I say "apparently" is because the medicine they give you when you don't have an epidural—knocks you out.

This sounds great, right? Well, it only knocks you out in between contractions.

Every time a contraction started back up, I was awoken by the excruciating pain.

But, hey, at least in between I got some relief.

One of the things I remember thinking was how mad I was that fast food burger place that I was craving was going to be closed by the time I got this baby out of me.

Not that I was hungry in those moments, but that was supposed to be my reward for childbirth and I knew I wasn't going to get it.


Finally at about 10:15 or so, I had made it to the magic number: Ten.

It was time to start pushing. Really I had no choice because when you can actually feel the pain of labor, and it's pushing time, there's no denying it.

I don't think it would be possible not to push by that time.

Looking back, it's funny. I remember telling Carl early that morning that I hoped I didn't “let one” during the pushing because that would be absolutely mortifying.

It was a fear I had when I delivered the first child. But luckily, I was gas-free during that delivery.

Well, let me just say that a mere poot would've been a blessing.

What actually happened was a pregnant girl's worst nightmare.

Me and my husband’s marital relationship has gone to a whole other level.

A disgusting level.

I'll leave it at that.

Luckily the pushing only lasted about forty-five minutes or so.

Yes it hurt. It hurt very badly.

But I actually think the hours of contractions themselves without the pushing, were worse.

My mom would be proud of me. Throughout the whole ordeal, the worst "profanity" I uttered in those moments was, "goodness".

No curse words came out—even though I'm pretty sure I thought a few—or thirty.

At 11:01 pm Keaton was born.

I can't tell you how relieved I was that it was over.

Or so I thought.

Just like last time, the nurses scooped Keaton up and instantly started doing their thing. I’m not really sure what they do in those moments.

I kept trying to catch glimpses of him as my doctor sewed me up.

Now, the next part is probably TMI, but here goes.

About tem minutes after I had Keaton my doctor started pushing on my stomach to try and get the placenta out. Somehow this part usually gets left out of childbirth stories.

Maybe because, to people who have epidurals, this isn’t a very big deal because they still have some pretty good pain medicine coursing through their bodies.

But for me, it was a big deal.

In fact, I think this is an inhumane act. For real.

After about ten minutes of pushing, my doctor realized it wasn't going to be easy.

I had some type of problem with my placenta not detaching.

He told me I had two options at this point:

1. He could knock me out, take me into surgery, and do a D & C procedure or

2. He could go for it—push with all his strength—but it would be painful.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I said "go for it".

I guess it was because about a month after my first delivery I ended up having to have a D and C because I was having massive bleeding.

I guess I figured I didn’t want to do that again.

After about thirty minutes of extreme pushing, that was truly worse than the contractions and birth, my doctor gave up and told me they were going to take me into surgery to get a D&C.

I can remember my doctor apologizing as he pushed on my stomach and I cried out, all my shame and self-consciousness long gone.

I also remember feeling like a whiny little kid, thinking, "This isn't fair. It's supposed to be over. I'm supposed to be holding my little boy, enjoying congratulations from close family members, and scarfing down on my burger, fries, and coke. This isn't supposed to be happening."

Well, besides the cold, bright surgery room, I don't remember anything else until about 7:30 the next morning.

I remember waking up totally disoriented at first and coming to my senses and thinking, "It's over, it's actually over".

Then, I got really excited because I remembered that I hadn't really even seen my little boy. So, I woke my husband up and asked him to go to the nursery to get Keaton.

I think the second thing out of my mouth was, "We're not having any more babies".

Wouldn't you know the on-call pediatrician was making his rounds and I didn't get to see our little guy for about another hour.

And breakfast wasn't going to be served for about another hour.

Seriously ya’ll, they treat people better than this in prison.

But, it's over now. We're all home now as a family.

Childbirth is a memory—not quite a distant memory and still a little horrific--but a memory nonetheless.

I've been pretty uncomfortable since the birth, but hopefully I'll feel better in a week or two.

All-in-all, things are pretty great.

Mark my words: NO MORE BABIES FOR ME.

No more being pregnant, no more swelling, no more getting bigger each day, no more dorky pants that go up to my boobs, no more labor pains, no more uncontrollable gas—no more.

Our family is complete.

Camping for Mother's Day

Well, my husband decided that we needed to go camping on the Saturday night before Mother’s Day. Seeing how I just LOVE sleeping outside in the cold, on the ground, with snakes potentially crawling all around me and mosquitos biting me.

This was a great Mother’s Day gift! (Surely you picked up on the sarcasm dripping from my voice, right? I mean, I laid it on pretty thick.)

Now, I’m all about doing things with my boys. I love spending time outside, riding four-wheelers, roasting marshmallows. Just doing all those wonderful outdoor, country activities. We spend tons of time outside as a family.

I could never be accused of being an “indoor” girl. So don’t even go there.

But I kind of draw the line when it comes to sleeping outside. I just don’t like it. I love my bed. I love the smell of my house. I love easy access to a toilet. You know, the little things.

And it doesn’t help that the two camping experiences I had before this last one, have not been great.
Both were fine until it came time to actually go to sleep. On camping trip number one we slept on a blow up mattress that my mother- in - law bought for us at a garage sale. It was pretty cool because it actually sat on top of a stand, so it was up off the ground (which gave this snake-fearing- mama a little peace).

But what wasn’t cool is that this mattress apparently had a hole. So, every thirty minutes or so it would totally deflate and we would be left lying with metal bars jabbing our backs. And I was about five months pregnant so this was an added bonus.

My husband had to pump the mattress up with the electric air pump, which was really loud. He had to do it about ten times that night. There were other campers all around us, so I’m sure they weren’t too happy about that.

I literally got NO sleep that night. But at least that was before we had our first child and I could actually take a nap and catch up on missed sleep.

Our second camping experience was about a year ago. My husband decided we would take our, then three -year old, camping in the woods near my parents’ house. We decided to leave our one-year old at home with my mom and dad because we knew he wouldn’t do too well with the whole sleeping outside on the ground thing.

I tried to convince my husband that I would be much better off at my parents’ house as well. I mean, our one -year old needed me. But, he insisted that I must stay in the tent.
He’s so irritatingly persistent, that husband of mine.

On this trip, when it was bedtime we had to deal with a fussy three-year old who wasn’t used to sleeping with us, or outside for that matter. He cried and screamed, which wouldn’t have been so bad except that a friend and his son were camping in the tent next to us.

I spent the whole time totally paranoid that we were waking them up. (Which I’m sure we were).
It was pretty cold that night. We had borrowed an inflatable bed from one of my husband’s friends and it turns out this bed also had a hole. So we ended up sleeping on a deflated mattress that enabled us to feel every bump and rock on the hard ground.

I spent the whole night tossing and turning, nervously listening to the howling of coyotes that sounded much too close for comfort and a four-wheeler driving by that also sounded much too close for comfort.
Right in the middle of hunting season was probably not the best time to camp in the woods.

I spent most of the night fearing a stray bullet. And also the rustling of a strange animal right outside of the tent.

I woke up the next morning completely exhausted. And since we had two kids, I was never able to get that re-energizing nap.

So, this time when my husband said he wanted to camp, I tried my darndest to get out of it. I said I would stay until midnight and then go home.

I love the camping festivities. I just hate the sleeping
situation.

But, my husband can be very persuasive. (Or totally bossy.) And so I stayed in the tent--with both boys this time.

They actually did really well. They went to sleep pretty easily. Well, after a major knock-down drag out over the iPad which I brought so I could turn on a movie in hopes of lulling them to sleep quietly.

Well, my four-year had other ideas. He snatched that thing before I even realized and was playing Angry Birds: Star Wars… his newest addiction .

My two-year old, who is completely in the “ego-centric” phase tried to take it from him. Because I guess at two years old all things should inevitably be yours.

No matter who may had them first--which is totally beside the point, in his eyes. The point being — he wants them.

Well, when my two-year old starting tugging on the iPad and messing up my older son’s game of Angry
Birds…all heck broke loose.

Finally I got the iPad away and turned on The Lorax, much to the infuriation of my four-year old, who angrily turned over and said, “I’m NOT watching that movie. Humph!”


I think he added two or three more “Humph’s” at the end. I guess he was trying to make more of a dramatic impression. You know, really put me in my place.

The funny thing was, about thirty seconds after his last “Humph”, he was out. Totally asleep.
Our two -year old followed not long after.

Things were going pretty good.

My husband had actually purchased two brand new inflatable queen-sized beds for us. Yes, I said brand new. Not garage-sale or borrowed.

These beds actually stayed firm and inflated the whole night.

Some friends of ours camped out in a tent right next to us with their little boys, same ages as ours. The husbands stayed up and talked by the campfire while us moms got the “rewarding” job of getting the kids to go to sleep.

I don’t know what the heck kind of reward that was supposed to be.

Why does it work like that? I would’ve loved to sit by the fire and girl-talk for an hour while the men listened to the crying and broke up the physical battles that were occurring inside that tent.

But, nope. Not an option.

At one point, after both boys were asleep, I realized that I had to pee. Like, was-not-going-to-be- able-to- hold-it-all-night need to pee. I didn’t want to go right outside the tent because the men were still awake.

And I sure as heck wasn’t going to walk back into the deep dark woods and squat down, only to be eaten by a bear or wolf or more likely an armadillo.

So I was in a predicament. I finally found a Styrofoam cup. I thought better of it, but then decided it was the only option.

So, I squatted down inside the tent, and peed in the cup.
I actually filled that thing all the way up.

See I told you I would’ve never been able to hold it all night.

Then, I realized the problem with this. Hmmm, what to do with the cup. That is a wonderful question.

And I hadn’t quite thought that through beforehand.

Well, I could just sit the cup to the side in the tent but of course it would inevitably be knocked over in the night and then I would have to falsely accuse our four-year old for peeing in the bed.

What? I sure wouldn’t want to own up to that. And our four-year old does wet the bed on occasion so it would be totally believable.


Or I could pour it right outside the tent. But that doesn’t seem appropriate with us walking in that area.

So, I swallowed my pride, unzipped the tent a little, and called,
“Hey, Carl. Um, could you come here a minute.”

I handed him the almost- overflowing cup, to his horror, and asked him to go pour it in the woods. He told me that I was “disgusting” but then slowly walked, trying not to slosh, to the woods like a good little husband.

After a minute, I heard him call to the other dad. “Hey, come here and look at this!”
Thinking I was about to have to punch my husband in the gut for showing my cup of pee to our friend, and also wondering what the heck was wrong with that cup of pee that made it interesting enough to call his friend over to see, I lay there frozen in terror.

Then I heard my husband say that there was an armadillo and two baby armadillos right behind our tent.
See, I knew there was a good reason for not going into the dark woods to pee. I would’ve most definitely been attacked by a vicious mother armadillo.

I’m sure armadillos attack. I mean, they wear armor, for gosh sakes. Right?

Finally, I managed to fall asleep. During the night it got cold. I mean C-O-L- D.

My two-year old and I were on one bed, and my husband and older child on the other.

My two-year old doesn’t give off that much body heat apparently. I had covered us with several blankets and a sleeping bag but seriously it just felt like I had covered myself with ice- cold sheets.

It was awful. I cuddled and cradled him in an effort to keep him warm. And myself, I’m not gonna lie.

I held his little feet the whole night.

When we awoke early the next morning, I noticed his feet looked like someone who’d been journeying across the United States barefoot for weeks. Without a shower. They were black. I mean, completely covered in disgusting smudge.

Those “sweet” feet that I had been ever-so-lovingly cradling the whole night.

Disgusting.

I desperately needed a shower.

My children desperately needed a shower.

It was time to go home.

Can someone tell my husband that a more appropriate gift for Mother’s Day next year would be a
reservation for one at a hotel.

No honey, I didn’t make a mistake. Just one. You understand, right?

Sometimes moms just need a little alone time. You feel me?

Three Years Old

On my way home from school yesterday I decided to stop at a Redbox and rent a DVD for our family to watch.

It’s been super-cold out so there has been pretty much no going outside for the boys.

And “inside” usually leads to trouble.

Much of the time, the trouble is in the form of fighting.

And screaming.

And arguing.

Between the boys—not my husband and I.

Well, at least not most of the time.

Besides fighting, inside also always leads to extreme boredom in our three-year old—who for some reason has not developed much of an interest in toys yet.

Oh, he’s interested—for about .5 seconds.

And he wants each and every toy he sees in Wal-Mart.

But then, almost immediately, the toy is forgotten and he’s on to bigger and better things.

Which in reality usually are bigger, but hardly ever better.

If someone had informed me a year ago that our (then two-year old) would still be getting into anything and everything at three, I probably would have cried.

Or ran away for a while.

I’m pretty sure it’s best I didn’t know.

If he’s quiet and hasn’t been seen for a few minutes, it is inevitable that he’s up to no good.

For example, last night during our family movie night, my husband went downstairs for a second.

Keaton followed, while Cale and I kept watching.

After about five minutes, my husband yelled for me.

And that pretty much always means that one of the kids has done something.

Keaton had barricaded himself in the pantry and was eating chocolate milk mix out of the carton.

And I keep that stuff on one of the top shelves.

But, there’s not a shelf tall enough to keep Keaton away.

We’ve caught him standing on top of a cooler which he placed on top of an overturned laundry basket in order to get to a basket of birthday goody bags that were hidden on top of the freezer.

Or so I thought.

So, in the pantry he had chocolate everywhere—on himself and covering the floor.

And in the midst of his chocolate-binge, he apparently needed to go to the bathroom.

But, he wasn’t about to end his sugar-high by stopping to go to actually go> to the toilet.

I think he knew it was just a matter of seconds before he got caught.

So, he went in the pantry.

And now the chocolate milk powder was mixed on the floor.

With pee.

Which just made it that much more of a joy to clean up.

And this behavior is pretty much constant.

This kid really needs a hobby. I’ve tried everything.

Coloring.

Blocks.

Tractors, trains, trucks, super heroes, pirates.

And it always comes back to meddling in drawers.

And we don’t even keep anything good in any of them.

The other day, our five-year old ran down the stairs yelling about his brother.

We went upstairs to find Keaton on top of the bathroom counter, completely covered in butt paste.

Like, head to toe.

The sink was almost overflowing with water and was filled with an assortment of items.

And I wasn’t even surprised.

Not really.

I know this phase will have to end soon.

Literally, it has to.

And I’m not even going to get started talking about the tantrums.

Three is the new two when talking about terrible—at least in our experience.

The other night, I referred to Keaton as “Chuckie”.

Surely you remember Chuckie.

And I’m not saying it was the most endearing nickname to call our baby boy, but I’m also not saying I feel bad about it.

He's scary. Cute, but scary.

These Things Always Happen to Us

About three years ago, I wrote a post entitled Poop and Run. Here's a snippet:

"So, one of my most embarrassing mom moments happened on our trip. The condo we stayed in had a nice, big pool and Cale loved splashing around in it. They also had a zero entry baby pool with fountains that was Cale's favorite because he was able to run free without the constraints of "mom and dad" holding him back. On about day three, we took Cale to the pool once again.

He wasn't really acting like himself. He wasn't "swimming" in the baby pool or getting under the fountains, he was just kinda standing there. This should have been our clue. I thought he was just tired with naptime being pushed back and his sleeping all out of whack. Then, suddenly I saw it. It was orangish brown and floating in the pool. It took me about three seconds to realize that it was coming from our son.

He'd pooped in his little swimmers and into the pool. And don't even get me started on swim diapers. Seriously, does anybody really think those things actually keep much of anything in? Not to get too graphic, but it wasn't exactly the kind you can just scoop out. Okay, I'll just say it. It was diarrhea. Horrified, I very nonchalantly,<b> pointed out the mess to my husband, and I think we were out of that pool and back to our car in less than a minute.

That was so wrong--fleeing the scene of the "accident", but I panicked. I wasn't thinking clearly.

Diarrhea had clouded my thoughts--and the pool.

Needless to say, we didn't make any more trips back to swimming pool. Partly for fear of a repeat offense, but even more for fear of someone recognizing us as the "poopetrators" from the other day."


Well, that was then. But plenty of embarrassing bathroom moments have happened since. Too many, really. In fact, something may be wrong with our children. We should probably get that checked out.

About a month ago in Lowe's, we had another one of those endearing child moments. As we were walking the aisles picking out items for the house we just built, we noticed our youngest son Keaton. He was doing "the walk".

You know what I'm talking about, right? Legs spread so far apart he can barely walk at all. And it's more of a waddle than a walk.

And it can only mean one thing: I've got something really big in here.

Knowing that he had a giant surprise for us in his drawers--I started towards him. Right before I picked him up, it fell out.


On the floor.

In Lowes.

It had made it's way out of his pull-up, smeared down his leg, and landed with a plop (I'm sure there had to have been a plop) on the concrete floor of Lowes.

Frantically I began looking for the kinds of things that good mothers have readily available at all times.

Like tissues. Or wipes. Or napkins. Or a small baggie.

I didn't have any of those things.

Luckily my mom was with us and she scrounged up a tissue from her purse. And without a second to waste, she scooped that thing up and headed to the bathroom.

Fearful of a second round, we scooped our son up, and practically ran out of that place--probably leaving a smelly fog behind us.

I've thought about it a few times since. Mainly my mom's part in the whole incident. That thing was pretty big.

And that tissue was pretty small. And thin.

It must have been a really uncomfortable walk to the bathroom, carrying it in her hand.


Thanks mom. And I promise we didn't laugh about it at all.

Okay, maybe I can't promise that.

A Leisurely Day Out With Two Kids (Snort)

A while back, my husband and I had an apparent brain fart and decided that we would try taking both boys to a movie. Our four-year old loves going to the movies and can sit through just about anything, cartoon or not, like a champ.

But then, there’s our two-year old. We tried taking him about four months ago to a new, very popular animated movie. He made it about twenty minutes. During those twenty minutes he wiggled, he made loud noises, and he bummed popcorn from the family sitting behind us who we happened to be acquainted with, thank goodness.

My husband had the brilliant idea that we should go watch Iron Man 3 in 3D at the IMAX Theater, in a town about an hour away. The IMAX Theater is a pretty cool experience, so I guess I let the thought of the ginormous screen paired with 3D graphics cloud my good judgment.

Well, when we arrived there was already a line coming out of the building. Because we decided to go on opening weekend, of course. Because we’re just smart like that. The only remaining seats were on the bottom row, second from the very front.

I literally could have stretched my arms and almost touched the screen.

Things were okay at first. That is, until the lights went out and the previews came on. I’ll tell you. There is definitely a difference in the persona of movie goers attending an animated, kid movie and movie goers attending a non-cartoon super hero movie.

They latter are not forgiving. I’m pretty sure I got disapproving looks before my child even started making any noises.

And before he even started making noises, I realized this was a completely ridiculous idea.

I had noticed that the ticket said the movie was about two and a half hours. Now, I didn’t think for a minute that my child would sit quietly for that long. Even if we did stuff him with endless popcorn, coke, and candy.

Well, after preview number one, I had to pull out the candy that I had hidden in my purse because we are too cheap to buy a $5.00 bag of “rip-off” at the movies. So we sneak our candy inside instead.

Don’t tell me that you don’t do that. You do, right?

Well, it’s pretty bad when the previews have only been going for four minutes and you already have to dig into your sugary-ammunition. There are only so many Skittles in that bag, you know? They need to be rationed.

Especially if they’re going to last through a two-hour movie. Which, of course there’s no way they ever would.

Keaton insisted on sitting in a chair by himself. He sat back with his little feet sticking off the end of the seat. There was a man sitting in front of him, on the very front row. He had leaned his seat back as far as it would go in an attempt to ease the strain on his neck, I guess.

Well, in doing so, Keaton’s feet were touching the top of his seat.

This was actually the man’s fault, since my two-year old son is about the size of a big cabbage patch doll. But I guess the man didn’t see it that way. He glanced back a couple of times giving us dirty looks as Keaton tapped his feet.

We tried to get our little one to stop, but my goodness, if you get a two-year old to actually sit down for any period of time you’ve performed a miracle. Asking him to sit and keep his feet completely still is totally unrealistic.

Not gonna happen.

Well, he tapped his feet once more, even after our warnings. (Imagine that.) This time the man turned around and said, “Get your kid!” I wanted to explain to him that he was practically sitting in my kid’s lap and that if a normal-sized human being was sitting in my son’s seat there is no way in you-know-where that he would be able to lean that far back.

Yeah, I wanted to say that.

But, instead I took that as my cue to snatch my son and bolt out of there.

As soon as we got in the lobby of the theater I felt the sweet relief of freedom. Freedom from the judging, disapproving eyes of Iron Man die-hards. Much of whom obviously must not have children of their own or else they might’ve had a little more patience for two-year old foot tapping.

Then, I felt the not-so-sweet dread of having to keep a two-year old occupied for over two hours, while my husband and oldest son finished the movie.

Luckily this movie theater is located in a promenade shopping center. But, unluckily I didn’t bring a stroller or anything (not that my child would have willingly sat in one). Shopping with a toddler is nearly impossible anyway. Shopping with a toddler, by yourself, and without a stroller, is dang near hopeless.

But, what other choice did I have?

So, off we went. On a “fun” shopping excursion.

After the first store, I realized that I wasn’t actually shopping at all. That wasn’t what this was. I was actually entangled against my will in this game of hide-and-go-seek with my toddler. As soon as he would get out of my arms, off he would go. I would frantically look around the store, sometimes spotting him.

Sometimes not.

If I didn't spot him, most times he ended up being found under a rack of clothing or in the dressing room. So, I resorted to holding him in the store.

Which is about as dang near impossible as taking a two-year old to the movies.

And try getting your items (none of which you had time to try on) on the checkout counter, get out your wallet, get your debit card out of that wallet, swipe your debit card, and enter your pin number. All the while holding a fairly heavy purse and a super heavy child.

A child who is in no way cooperating.

He’s trying with all his might to escape, like a wild animal that doesn’t want to be caged. He all but bit me. Even he knew better than that.

By the time I left that first store, I was sweaty, holding a purse, an agitated toddler, and bag containing items that I didn’t even get to try on. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I had bought.

In store number two, my son tried the whole hide-and-seek game once again. But, this time he was pretty easy to find. In fact, all I had to do was sniff. Of course, he had a dirty diaper. And by the smell of things, it was a whopper.

So, we left the store in search of a bathroom. We walked all the way to the end of the promenade only to find no bathroom. So, we walked all the way to the other end of the promenade. Still no bathroom that I could see.

Finally we stopped inside a small ice-cream shop and used their bathroom.

When I opened that diaper it was just as bad as I had thought. And realizing that in an attempt to carry less, I had thrown a diaper in my purse and left the diaper bag in the car.

So, I had a new diaper but no wipes. Sweet.

This often is no big deal. At least when it’s a number one. But, a number two is a much different story. So, I got some toilet paper wet and began attempting to clean my smelly son.

After ten minutes we emerged from the bathroom.

There was a sign on the wall that read “Only Customers Can Use the Bathroom”. So, I decided we better order some ice-cream. It was our duty as law abiding citizens, right?

Plus I kind of felt like I deserved it. As we were eating our ice-cream I looked at the time, nervously. We still had an hour and a half. An hour and a half. Are you stinking kidding me?

Lord help us. Okay, Lord help me.

Realizing that we better not go to any more stores for a while I decided to let my son down to explore. But instead of staying in the grassy area that I had let him down in, he took off for the beautiful, perfectly manicured flower garden that is displayed outside the theater.

He was romping and stomping right in the middle of all the flowers. I kept yelling at him to get out. But for some reason he didn’t seem to hear me. Oh wait. I remember the reason now.

He’s two-years old and therefore NEVER “hears” me. Also, he's male. Yes, I said it.

As people walked by, some laughed at the sight of my son crushing flowers by the second. Some shot disapproving looks our way. And some had expressions of pity. Finally I had to climb in myself and pull him out, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Seriously. That was THE longest two and a half hours of my life. I will now cross “movies” off of the list of enjoyable leisurely things to do.

Just one more thing my kids took away from me. Along with any shred of youth and energy I might have left in this tired body of mine.

Embarrassing Moments in Wal-Mart

As if my multiple trips to Wal-Mart each week aren’t bad enough, sometimes I am even forced to take my children. Both of them. Shudder.

This most definitely makes shopping much harder and more painful. From the endless “No, we don’t need that. No, that’s too expensive. Put that back. Sit down. Put your shoes back on. Don’t hit your brother. Stop picking your nose. Use your quiet voice. Don’t sit on the bread!” to the out-of-the-way detours in a desperate effort to bypass the toy section.

It’s exhausting. And I get looks. Most of the time they’re looks of pity. It must be bad when we’re walking down aisles and people are feeling sorry for me.

Sometimes it feels like we’re a freak show.

And what’s really annoying is when I see a mom with her five or six children all sitting calmly in the cart and walking along peacefully with her. How in the heck does she do that? What kind of trance did she put on them? A sedative? That’s the only logical explanation.

And I feel like a big fat failure with my two maniacs yelling and bouncing.

Last Friday afternoon, we decided to head to Wal-Mart to pick up an assortment of popsicles for my niece Kenzie since she had her tonsils out the day before. We spent about twenty minutes perusing the frozen goody aisle. Both boys wanted everything they saw and kept forgetting that we were actually there to get treats for their cousin.

After filling our cart with frozen items for Kenzie (and of course some for our household since I often cave in these situations) we headed to the check-out line.

This line seems to be the place where my children lose it. I mean, they’re not great throughout the store. But, it’s like all heck breaks loose in the line.

And the candy. Oh the candy. At hands-reach. Little hands.

Well, in this line on this particular afternoon one of my most embarrassing mom-moments happened. I got all our items on the counter while at the same time repeatedly grabbing bags of candy out of my two-year old’s hands. I was so glad when the cashier put my last item in the bag and gave me my total.

We were just about to get out of there. Then, I reached in my purse to grab my wallet. And my heart sank.

It wasn’t there.

My mind began racing and I immediately started sweating. Then, it’s like the Heavens opened and I found my checkbook. Overwhelmed with relief, I quickly wrote a check to pay for our items.

I had our sacks in our cart, ready to go when the cashier spoke the words I secretly feared: “May I see your driver’s license?”

The license that was in my wallet—the wallet that was sitting on the end table beside my couch from earlier in the day when I made an online purchase. Stinking online shopping.

I had no debit card or credit card. I had no ID. So, I had to hand each bag back to the cashier.

Now, this sucked for several reasons. First of all, I had just endured a trip to Wal-Mart with both my children. And it was all for nothing. Second of all, we had been in the store for nearing thirty minutes. Third, it was a little embarrassing to have to hand my bags back. Fourth, I knew that we would have to make yet another trip to Wal-Mart as soon as I could get my wallet.

And the fifth most important reason this totally sucked was my children. When I handed the bags filled with popsicles and ice-cream back to the cashier, my four-year old instantly began crying.

Which, of course, made my two-year old start crying. They were both screaming as I started to walk away, dragging their limp, lifeless bodies out of the store as quickly as physically possible.

Then, my four-year old began crying, “I HATE Wal-Mart! I HATE Wal-Mart”.

We really were a freak show. They are never going to let us back in that place. My husband is going to have to do the grocery shopping from now on. Wait a minute, maybe that’s not such a bad thing…

I guess I could have told my son that really it was actually mommy’s fault (not Wal-Mart’s) because I forgot the money at home.

But I didn’t think that pointing the blame would have done any good at that moment.

When we got outside, both kids still crying, it was raining. Of course it was.

After a frustrated call to my husband, we headed to the bank where he works to get some cash.

And then, because there was no other choice, we headed back to Wal-Mart to repeat the whole process. I would’ve rather cut off my arm. But there still wouldn’t have been ice-cream or popsicles so that wasn’t an option.

We retraced our steps in the store, a little faster this time. I had chosen to wear some pretty tall wedges on this trip. We were going to dinner later that evening and I thought I would dress up a bit.

Stupid move. What was I thinking? I’m a mom. Wedges are never a good idea. My feet were killing me by the time we left Wal-Mart.

On our way out, as we walked through the rain, I spotted our SUV. But the weird thing was the driver’s side door was wide open. My first thought was, “Did someone break into our truck?”

Then, I realized that in the craziness of things, I had forgotten to shut the door.

How do you forget to shut the stinking door? When it's raining?

Two upset kids. A second trip to Wal-Mart. Rain. Sore feet. Deteriorating mom-brain cells.

That’s how. I really don’t think I’ll have any brain cells left by the time they’re teenagers.

I quickly got the kids in their seats, the bags put in the back of the SUV, and then sat down in my sopping wet seat.

We were finally done. I opened up a popsicle for each of the boys to eat on the way to give the get-well treats to their cousin. I didn’t really care at that point about the potential mess that eating a popsicle in the car would create.

And I might have opened up a popsicle for myself to eat while driving down the road. I deserved it.

I actually deserved a whole stinking, giant-sized banana split.

It was just a typical afternoon with two small boys. Makes you want some sons, right?

Fourth of July--Fail

What says “Fourth of July” better than diarrhea and vomit? Right? Right?

Our two-year old woke up this morning with some sort of stomach bug. Poor baby. We didn’t figure out there was a problem until we got to the park and noticed him waddling around, awkwardly.

Which in Keaton-translation means “I’ve got a big, nasty, undeniably smelly, diaper situation”.

And because mamas are so lucky like this, he insisted on me changing his diaper. (I guess my husband has tricked our son into falsely assuming his fatherly-incompetence in many of the areas of personal hygiene). How do men do that?

As I changed him by the car, I kept looking toward the road behind me thinking there had to be some sort of dead animal nearby. The smell was nothing like I had smelled from my son before. It was a smell that usually oozes from a five-day old mushed possum or armadillo or something equally grotesque.

And of course the liquid mess had already covered the inside of his shorts. And of course I had no other shorts. And of course, we had just arrived at the park when this happened. And Keaton hadn’t even had any time to play.

So, there was no saying, “It’s time to go, boys!” So, he played in his diaper. I’m sure we looked like, “those people” as cars drove by and saw a diaper-clad two-year old at the park with no pants.

After several more diarrhea diapers, which luckily happened in the convenience of our home, with a bathtub accessible, we headed over to my mother-in-law’s house. (Which by-the-way is about to be our house because we are building again and our current house has sold. So we have to get out in a few weeks).

On the way, Keaton was being extra moody. He was whining and kind of whimpering. Then, suddenly he vomited. And vomited. And vomited. About four times. From his mouth, his nose, and I think maybe even his eyeballs. Okay, not his eyeballs.

But, believe me, it was a LOT of throw-up. And it was chunky. Hey, I’m trying to help you understand just what we were dealing with. And maybe trying to get you to feel an ounce of my pain.

We completed the smelly-twenty minute drive and then tried to get Keaton out of his seat, while trying to make as small of a mess as possible.

Which was impossible. I got Keaton out without too much trouble. But when I pulled his seat out, chunky vomit splashed out on both my legs.

Thank goodness he’s my child. If the puke had belonged to anyone else, well besides he or his older brother, I just might have died.

Or frantically attempted to be hosed off in a treatment facility for radioactive waste exposure.

When we got home, I also got the fun job of cleaning the truck of the puke that was covering the seat, some of the carpet, and the seatbelt. Because I guess being a mom entails having some kind of magical cleaning power that my husband does not possess.

It’s strange. I’m pretty sure I’m not even that good at cleaning.

No matter how much resolve and Febreze I sprayed on, the smell would not come out of that seatbelt. I wonder how much a new one would cost?

So, Keaton and I ended up staying home from the fireworks festivities. Luckily he didn’t realize he was missing anything. And thank goodness we had a small Fourth of July celebration at our house the night before and so he got to enjoy some fireworks and fun.

I got Keaton to bed early, since it was just he and I in the house. I did a quick house-clean, and then spent the rest of the evening drinking coffee and browsing Pinterest.

And then I was awoken at 1:15 am with horrible stomach pains--and other issues. Keaton passed his bug along to me.

Of course.

Was cleaning the puke-covered child, the chunky, liquid filled car-seat, and about six road-kill smelling diarrhea diapers not enough?

Looking at what I just typed, it’s no wonder I caught the bug as well. I really need to invest in a hazmat suit.

And never take it off. Ever.

Eating Out: A Family of Four

We know better. We really do. We’ve actually known better for quite some time now. However we still continue to do it. We go out to eat as a family.

In public.

Where people can see us.

I don’t know what it is that makes us keep repeating this mistake. Oh wait—yes I do. I hate cooking.

I didn’t used to hate cooking. But then “kids” happened. And my whole cooking experience changed.

What cooking looks like now: Throw unmeasured ingredients together in a pot as fast as humanly possible while the kids are sitting on the couch watching TV because I know that it will only be a matter of time until the screaming, hitting, and mass chaos will begin.

Barely get a chance to stir “said” food in between breaking up fights; filling up sippy cups’ trying to convince a two-year old that he does not “need” a third popsicle because we’re eating dinner soon; caving spinelessly and giving my two-year old the third popsicle just so that I can get some peace and quiet for a second; cleaning up the spills from the first two popsicles that my little one sucked on while toddling around the house; and mentally preparing myself for the mess that the third popsicle is going to make.

All of this, while also trying to load or unload the dishwasher, start some laundry, clean water bottles from school, and a super long list of additional things.

So, yes. Cooking is no longer enjoyable. It’s barely survivable. And half the time my stuff isn’t even good. That really ticks me off.

The one absolute way I know the prepared meal wasn’t any good is when my husband asks, “So…did you like that?”

If you don’t know, that’s husband for “That meal tasted like a giant ball of crap.”

He doesn’t understand why this question makes me want to throw the dishes at his head, one-by-one, and never cook again.

All that work and it wasn’t even good. What a rip-off.

So, we end up eating out a decent amount of the time. Even though sitting in a restaurant with two little kids is about as much fun as inserting a bobby pin into your eyeball repeatedly.

Which I probably would have done on several occasions had I been able to find any bobby pins. But now that I have kids, I can’t be trusted with the things.

Plus, doing anything to my hair that includes bobby pins, takes way too much time and would never happen at this point in my life.

I have exactly two hairstyles: Hair all the way down or ponytail.

That’s it.

Back to eating out. I think part of the reason we keep making the mistake is also because every once in a while our kids will do surprisingly well. Which I guess gives us false confidence that they are finally old enough to behave like normal human beings in a restaurant.

Instead of uncivilized cave people.

But, it’s like they only have about one good “eating out” experience in them a month. And by the next time, they’re back to their old ways.

Ways which include, eating on the floor under the table like a mangy dog. I wouldn’t even be that opposed to this, because at least they’re quiet under there and nobody can see them.

But, the problem is there is usually other food under the table. Food from earlier guests.

And if they’re not under the table then they are inevitably standing on top of their chairs or bouncing on the seat of the booth we’re in.

It’s like they forget what a chair is even for when we’re in a public eatery. They become wild animals, eating food with their fingers. And I’m not talking “finger foods” like French fries or chips.

No, they’re shoving their fingers in the mac-n-cheese like they’ve never laid eyes on a fork in their lives.

It’s embarrassing. Seriously, it probably looks like we give our children slop in a bucket for dinner on the back porch and just let them go at it like beasts.

The other day we were eating burgers, when two policeman that my husband knows sat down near us. They were chatting with my husband and one of them mentioned that his wife had quit working and was staying home with their small child.

As if my husband had read my mind he said, “I don’t think I could pay my wife to stay home with our kids.”

I was half-embarrassed, realizing that I probably sounded like an awful mom at this point. A mom who doesn’t like to spend time with her children.

I quickly stepped in and said, “Oh, they would wear me out if I was with them all day. They’re pretty wild.”

Just as I was finishing my sentence, a half-eaten corn dog flew by my face, just inches from hitting my nose, and landed near the table of the police officers.

I guess my youngest child was reading my mind as well.

Thanks son for stepping in and validating what I said about you guys being pretty wild. I can always count on you to do whatever it takes to get the job done. Even if it means throwing wieners.

At least now the nice police officer probably understands why I choose to be a working mom.

As much as I love my boys, I think having a little time away from them isn't a bad thing.

Sleeping With Two Small Children

I would’ve thought my sleep issues would be long gone by now.  I mean, my kids are four and two years old.  Don’t most people only deal with sleepless nights when they have infants? 

 

So why in the heck do my kids wake up more times a night than a newborn baby?  And they don’t go back to sleep nearly as easily either.   Why am I being punished?

 

I always thought I would never be one of those parents whose children slept in the bed with them.  As babies, both our little guys slept in their own cribs.  I always secretly smiled on the inside when I heard mom’s talking about the struggle of getting their babies to start sleeping in their own beds.

 

I had overcome that hurdle.  Well, really at that time I had never even encountered the hurdle.  My children slept in their own rooms.  Always had, always would.  And I was proud.

 

But, then our oldest child turned three, developed nighttime fears of some sort, and began begging to sleep with us.  Because he was “scared”.  Give me a break.

 

And so it began. 

 

By four years old, we were carrying his limp, sleeping body from his own bedroom to our bedroom when it was time for us to go to sleep.  We have concluded that it is just easier this way.  If we bring him into our room, he stays asleep and then sleeps through the night.

 

If we don’t, he comes barreling through our door sometime in the middle of the night usually awake enough that he’s either talking, crying, or begging for a drink or snack.  And believe me, it’s torture trying to get him to go back to sleep.

 

So, we had our little nighttime routine down and really I didn’t mind it all that bad. Plus, our child sleeps almost on top of my husband, so for me it’s practically like he’s not even there.

 

But then, our little sleeping world was rocked once again. 

 

My husband and I did a completely ignorant thing a couple of months ago.  We took the crib out of our two-year old son’s room.  And the number one reason this action qualifies as “ignorant” is because the kid wasn’t even climbing out of the crib. 

 

Nope, he was pretty content in the darn thing. It was US who decided it was time to move on.  It was US who decided that we were ready to get the crib out of his room. 

 

As my husband carried the pieces of the baby crib up to rest in the dusty attic, he also carried up our last remaining chances of uninterrupted sleep.  

 

And at point all heck broke loose.

 

Why did we do this?  What was wrong with the crib?  Besides the fact that it was covered in baby bite marks and smelled mysteriously of curdled milk, even though it had been cleaned a million times. 

 

Okay, it hadn’t.  But I had sort of wiped it down a time or two.

 

Our two-year old has figured out that his big brother sleeps in our bed and understandably he feels that he should get to as well.  And I guess technically he should, if we’re being totally fair and all. 

 

So, now he is the one barreling in at all hours of the night, begging for a drink, and keeping me from ever getting a good night’s rest. 

 

Ever again

 

And a good parent, who understood that this was a vital learning experience for the newly-toddler-bed-sleeping son, probably would’ve told the child no and sent him back to his bed. 

 

Because we don’t just get up in the middle of the night anytime we want.  Even if we convince ourselves we think we’re dying of thirst.

 

Night time is for sleeping.  And sleeping only.

 

But I guess I’m not a good parent.  I’m more of a sleep-deprived parent.  And if dragging myself out of bed to fill his sippy cup with apple juice will get me back to sleep any faster—then that’s what I’m doing. 

 

I can’t lie.  I also can’t be held accountable for my parental actions at 2:00 am. 

 

But, even after my two-year old finally goes to sleep, I still can’t get any rest.  I mean, for some reason he pushes me to the edge of the bed every night.  I don’t know how his thirty-four pound chubby body can press my—ahem—“a little more” pound body to the edge. 

 

It’s beyond me.

 

It’s like when he’s sleeping he becomes this immovable statue.  Like Thor’s hammer or something.  I try to scoot him. He doesn’t budge.  I try to roll him.  He doesn’t budge.  Sometimes I even try to pick him up and move him.

 

Oh, he budges when I do this, but he also gets angry and starts crying and then I regret ever having tried to move him. 

 

And within seconds, he has me pushed to the edge once again.  It sucks.  I mean, we have a king size bed and I am forced to sleep on a space about the width of a yard stick.  And I am much more than the width of a yard stick. 

 

Maybe I should just go sleep in his toddler bed.  At least then I would have more space. 

 

You know, these kids really have no right to be running the show around here.  They don’t work.  They don’t pay the bills.  They really don’t contribute to this household in any way whatsoever.

 

Yet, they get exactly what they want.  They get every room in our house.  And just so we’re clear, it’s not our house.  It’s not been our house since they exited the womb.  It’s theirs.  We just rent the space, take care of the space, and pay for everything that’s in it. 

 

They’re simply the landlords.  A position in which they have done nothing to earn, mind you.  But inevitably it’s theirs. 

 

And they suck.

  

 

"Easier" is not in our Near Future...

This morning I woke up not feeling too well. Sore throat, stuffy nose, symptoms that make you feel blah. Both boys had been struggling with cold-like symptoms for days,and had coughed off and on all night. So, I decided this would be a good day to take off work and go to the doctor. FYI: Taking both my boys to the doctor at the exact same time is one of my least favorite things to do. It's right up there with cleaning poop-splosions...which I got to do later in this same day...don't you worry. (It wouldn't be a story without poop, right?) And because we're lucky like this, it always seems to be the on-call doctor that we have to see each time we decide to visit the clinic. Us and about a hundred other people. Which means a much-longer-than-normal wait.

So, I dressed both boys and attempted to get them in the car on time, wiping Keaton's runny nose the entire way there on his shirt sleeve, my shirt sleeve...anything I could find at the moment. And of course once we were all in the car, Cale decided he needed to go to the bathroom. Why in the world he didn't figure this out five seconds ago...I don't know? Try asking a three-year old. You won't get very far past, "I just now had to go". Funny thing is, even when they're second graders, the excuse is still the same.

We made it to our appointment on time, amazingly. I was armed with little more than two sippy cups, which the boys had already pretty much chugged on the way to the doctor, and a bag of goldfish crackers. Thank goodness for those goldfish. After about twenty minutes of waiting, I opened the bag and I don't think Keaton stopped eating for more than a couple minutes the rest of the time we were there. I'm pretty sure when the nurse finally called us back, we left a nice mess of smashed crackers in the carpet. To be honest, I'm surprised there were any crackers left on the carpet because Keaton spent much of his time crawling under the chairs and picking up any stray he could find and...throwing it in the trash. Okay, well actually he was eating the fish and I know this was well past the five-second rule but cut me some slack. At the doctor's office, with two little ones, who were already in a bad mood before we ever left the house, and only one bag of goldfish to share between the two of them...it's all about survival. And if that means letting your kid eat off the floor, and pretending you don't notice...then so be it.

We probably waited a total of an hour and fifteen minutes (and they were busy so I'm not complaining) and by the end...I was tired. Of course I ended up not going to the doctor myself because after that...I didn't think I had it in me to sit in another waiting room with my two kids. Plus we were out of drink and crackers. Word of advice: Never go somewhere expected to wait with your kids if you don't have snacks or drinks. Don't do it. Don't. Just be sick. It's actually less painful.

On the way home, I put the pedal to the metal with only one thing on my mind. Nap time was near. Lunch first. But then the blessed nap time. A time when both kids are sleeping, the house is quiet, and I can do whatever I want. I usually end up cleaning during this time, but still, it's quiet. No screaming. No tears. Well, once they fall asleep, no screaming or tears. It's a sacred time.

After about twenty minutes had gone by, while I was attempting to clean out our closet, I heard a door shut. Since Keaton has yet to climb out of his crib, thank the Lord, I knew this was our three-year old, Cale.

I was a little annoyed because he still wasn't asleep. Plus he apparently was out of his bed which he knows is not supposed to happen. So, I headed that way to give him a "stern talking to". The minute I stepped into the hallway between the boys' bedrooms I could smell it. An unbelievably strong smell of poop. A smell strong enough that even in those few seconds I realized that it must be in multiple places. My heart sank. Literally sank as I stepped on into Cale's room. I couldn't see him at first, but then he stepped out of his closet. His hands were covered. There were multiple spots on the floor. There were places on his rug. I could see hand prints on the wall in a few places. I was speechless, partly for lack of the words to say and partly for fear of the words I might possibly say in that moment. All I could think of was Why? Haven't we been through this before? It's like a reoccuring bad dream. The poop-mare.

Cale told me that it was an accident, which is his excuse for everything bad that he does. Then he informed me that it was on some of his shirts. He had been in his closet when I first walked in. Greaaat. Still unable to say much I grabbed him up, took him to our bathroom, and put him in our jacuzzi tub. I began cleaning him, while the water was still cold. Of course he hated it, but in that moment I didn't have much sympathy. The water turned warm after a minute or two and I made him stay there while I went to clean up the mess.

Long story short. It was in so many places I can't even tell you. Door handles, light switches, the bathroom counter, sink, and faucet where he'd attempted to clean his hands up by himself. The cute little blue bucket that I keep beside the sink to store lotions and such was now filled with dirty, wet tissues. So bleach, water, the Shark steam mop, and I had a meeting in a Cale's room and bathroom. This was supposed to by "my" time. My me-time. I'll admit it. I wanted to throw a tantrum.

If you've read any of my blogs you're probably thinking, "Didn't almost this exact same thing happen before. Like more than once?" Why yes, you are correct. And yes, Cale is older now. Absolutely too old to be doing things like that. Welcome to my world. Sometimes it stinks.

We keep saying that things will get easier the older the boys get. But, I remember saying that exact thing about a year ago. And I would say things are harder now than ever. But, they're also better than ever. The boys, aside from all the bad, crazy moments, are so funny right now. They make us laugh constantly. This kind of makes up for all the other things they do. The yelling, the screaming, the crying, the fighting, the being-way-too-loud-in-public, the mess making, the...pooping. It really is all worth it.

Parking Lot Problems

Well, I'm ashamed at how long it's been. All the crazy moments that could have been potential blog posts and therefore enabled us to remember them in the years to come, have come and gone and not left much time for anything else but mere survival. And some of the moments are still a little too fresh to write about. You know how you laugh about things later on...well it just hasn't been later enough yet for a few things. So, I missed a few memorable moments but there are crazy moments day in and day out around here.

School has begun and we are back in the swing of things. Or I guess you could say back in the "piles and piles of laundry to be done-floor always a mess-pajamas strewn all over the house-lunches to be made-barely make it out the door-completely zonked by 9:00" kinda days.

Every year when school starts I wonder how I am going to get everything done. Seriously. There just aren't enough hours in the day to get what I need to get done and definitely not enough hours to do the things I want to do. That is probably why there is almost always a load of clothes in the hamper, a load in the washer, a load in the dryer, a fresh batch I forgot to fold sitting in the basket getting all wrinkled, and a recently purchased book sitting on my iphone, unread. And also why my gym attendance is shamefully pitiful.

But, I do love this time of year, crazy or not. Fall is nearing and I cannot tell you how happy I am for cool weather. Last week was the hottest, most awful week ever. But, finally this weekend we had sweet relief. And hopefully it's here to stay. I'm seriously tired of sweating.

Cale and Keaton are now going to the same daycare, which is pretty handy. Mornings are a bit wild, trying to get both boys fed, dressed, packed, and locked into their car seats. But that's just the beginning. We then stop and pick up Kenzie...Cale's "favorite girl in the world", and also his cousin. She's no trouble at all and we love having her, but sometimes getting in the daycare door with three kids is pretty tricky. Especially on "bring your lunch" day...which occurs every Wednesday. And sometimes on that same day is "bring a toy" day. And it never fails, this is usually how it all plays out:

I park the car and begin unbuckling seat belts. The kids start to get out, while each handing me their backpack, then their water bottles, their lunch box, and last...their toys. Because of course they can't carry them for some unknown reason. So I have a bajillion things in my hands, a one-year-old on my hip, a three and four-year old running ahead of me, and sweat dripping down my face by the time we reach the door.

Last week, that exact incident occurred. Except that Cale was having one of those mornings that I like to call him "Carl's son". I pulled up to school and began getting Keaton out of his seat. Kenzie quickly got out of her seat on her own. Of course I had to grab all of the items that the kids can't seem to carry, and then I started to walk up to the front door. I noticed that Cale was not getting out of the car, so I headed back and tried to speed him up. He was still sitting in the car messing with some piece on his tractor, his scooper, I believe (probably not the technical term) Now, I would like to say that after firmly but gently talking to him, he decided to get out. But no, it didn't happen that way. After a minute of me threatening him with corporal punishment and a removal of a "good boy" buck from his piggy bank...which he had been saving up to buy a Thor hammer from the super hero section of Wal-Mart (hey, you do what you gotta do), he started to get out of the car.

That's when he noticed Kenzie on the steps by the front door. Shouldn't be a big deal, right? So, she's ahead of him...who cares? But, in three-year old world, on this particular morning, this was THE big deal. Cale stopped mid-step and dramatically threw himself on the ground and began crying. Now not only are my hands full with a bajillion things and a one-year old who would really prefer walking himself, but cannot be trusted to go where he's suppossed to go just yet, but there are parents everywhere dropping their kids off. So I have an audience. Yep, a fellow librarian passed by with her child, who was sweetly walking in while holding her hand. The doctor who delivered me walked past with his child, which reminds me, next time I see him I need to ask him if maybe he got our child mixed up with another that day in the hospital. Hey, it happens. Another teacher-friend I know was dropping her little one off. And all of these kids were walking in like normal human beings. Normal. Why can't things ever be normal for us?

And there I was bending over, trying to grab my child to make him stand, all the while dropping things left and right. As I got him off the ground, he jerked his arm away and took off back to the car, got inside, and slammed the door. I gotta say, on the inside I was beginning to lose it a little at this point. I ran, or awkwardly shuffled, trying to keep my cool and act as if I have this situation completely under control. I threw the door open and grabbed Cale out with more force than I thought I could have, considering my full hands and the thirty-pound ball of energy on my hip. Let's just say if I hadn't had the audience, I would have given Cale "something to cry about". And I probably would have given it to him two or three times.

By the time we got inside I seriously was sweaty and weak and pretty eager to drop my little "angels" off. It's those kind of moments that make me glad to go to work. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of other moments when I think it would be so nice to spend the day with them instead of working. But, then they wake up and I come to my senses. When I got back outside, I realized I no longer had my key in my hand. So, I searched along the ground and finally found it, in the vicinity of where out little "scuffle" had taken place. I got in my car, took a deep breath, turned on the A/C full blast, made a note to myself to get out the "strong-willed child" book and read it again, and then called Carl to tell him what "his" son had done.

I love my strong-willed older child and his, thankfully, less-strong willed little brother. Love them like crazy. But boy do they make me tired.

Oh, and by the way, this morning we had no meltdowns or tantrums. But, there was still a major catastrophe. Once I was already down Crow Mountain, by Flying J gas station, Keaton vomitted. Four times, actually. All over himself, his car seat, and a little on his cousin Kenzie who was sitting right beside him. What a trooper she was. So, we headed back up the mountain with the windows rolled down, gasping for fresh air. I dropped Keaton off with Carl and then took Kenzie home to change her clothes. I was twenty minutes late for work.

And you think your mornings are hard?

Snake Hater

I have always hated snakes. Despised them. Can't really explain what it is. I don't know how many times my dad gave me the "They're more afraid of you than you are them" speech which I never believed, by-the-way, because I am pretty doggone petrified of the things. Growing up in the country you'd think I would at least be accustomed to snakes, even if I don't much care for them. I used to help my dad haul hay in the summers...mainly just driving the truck and helping him get the bales from the truck to the barn. I can remember being terrified that a snake was lurking in one of those hay bales. Of course my dad told me that was crazy, there were not snakes...you know, the kind of lies parents tell their children to keep them from being afraid. I've since found out, that several snakes have been found in that barn, around the hay in fact. I guess I was risking my life back then in that barn, and didn't even know it. Okay, I guess "risking my life" is a bit of an exaggeration. Maybe not.

During the summer months, my yard becomes a place of caution for me. Every step I take is inspected, for fear that a false move will land my foot on a snake. I just know it will happen one day. And I even get the full-body shakes when I see a snake on the road...when I'm in a car...where the snake can't possibly get me. Absurd, I know.

It doesn't help hearing about stories of snakes in toilets or washing machines. I'm pretty sure I would have to move if I ever found a snake inside my house. I'm just worried about the day when a snake gets around my kids. I mean, I love my kids like crazy...but, a snake? I would like to say my super-mom powers would kick in and I would...I don't know, do something. But, I'm afraid I would do one of two things: 1. Become completely immobilized 2. Run like lightning, forgetting I had kids. Cale and Keaton, who?

Today, I went with my dad, sister, her husband, and my niece to walk down to this waterfall that is near our house. Of course, there's no water right now, but they wanted to know where it was located. I was pretty nervous before even heading out there because I knew the area would be fairly grown up, with tall grass, weeds, sticks...snakey stuff. So, I put on my rain boots in the 90 degree weather, thinking this would at least make me feel a bit more brave. We hadn't walked two minutes, when everyone started yelling at Abree and I. "Snake! Snake! Get over here!". My sister is pretty scared of snakes too, I might add. So she was really screaming at us.

I think I went a little numb and my brain stopped working. I ran in the wrong direction, then darted back in the right direction. I would like to say, I grabbed my niece and made sure she was away from the snake, which they told me was pretty big. I'm sure it was HUGE. At least in my mind. But, luckily Abree took care of herself. I actually don't even think she was afraid of the snake. She's seven and I'm twenty-eight. Of course my dad started spouting off his age-old lie, "They're more afraid of you...", you know the rest. Hogwash.

Needless to say, the rest of the walk made me pretty uneasy. Every branch that touched my shoulder or every grasshopper that hopped in front of me made me jump. The deeper we got into the woods the more nervous I became. Finally as the group got pretty close to the waterfall area...there was no longer a path really, just leaf covered ground with lots of sticks and rocks...I decided to go no further. I told them I would wait right there for them. So, I waited. And waited. And looked up, down, and all around for snakes. And waited some more. They didn't come back. I could no longer hear them.

This sounds so silly to a normal person I guess. But, I was so afraid of seeing a snake that all I could do was just stand there. There's safety in numbers, right? Plus, my dad was leading the way so if there was a snake, he would step on it first. But, without them there... Finally I decided to try and head back up out of the woods. The only problem was, the path had somehow vanished and I wasn't exactly sure how to get back up. Oh, I could get back up if I was willing to walk through some crazy, tall, prickly stuff. But, that was not about to happen.

I felt about five-years old in that moment as I yelled pathetically, "Daaaaaaad? Dad? Hey guys, where are you? This isn't funny." Another five minutes when by. Finally I could hear my dad's voice. He helped me find the path and I got out safely.

So, I let a snake turn me into a child today. Pitiful.

Will my dad ever learn that snakes are not more afraid of me than I am of them? I win for sure. Well, actually the snake wins, I guess if you think about it.

Three...is NOT the magic number.

Three. Three is the new two. I heard someone say that back when Cale was two and I now believe it. I remember thinking when Cale was about 20 months old that he was starting the "Terrible Twos" early. Looking back, knowing what I know now, the twos weren't even all that terrible. More like "tolerable". But three...what words can describe this age? I'm not sure if "terrible" can even scratch the surface.

Now not all "three" moments are bad. Many can be quite pleasant and fun, actually. Three can be full of moments so enjoyable that you start thinking this stage is your favorite so far. Then, BAM. The evil twin, Dalebert shows up. That's the "loving" nickname we've had for Cale ever since he was little. We call him "Calebert" all the time; enough so, that strangers probably really think that's his name. I bet they wonder what in the world we were thinking. But, when Cale's evil twin appears we call him "Dalebert".

Tonight Dalebert graced us with his presence, as he's been doing a lot lately. I say "us" but actually Carl had martial arts class tonight. So, he didn't get the pleasure of Dalebert's company. However, my friend Megon and her husband Jason got a small visit with him. We were eating at Chick-fil-A. There were three adults and four kids...so we were outnumbered which is never a good thing. It's always a zoo when eating with little kids in a restuarant, even fast food. At one point Cale was getting really obnoxious and loud. He gets like that sometimes. Like, forcefully, aggressively loud. At home something physical usually accompanies this kind of loudness. Sometimes it's hitting, sometimes it's slapping. And usually poor Keaton is always the recipient.

I told Cale to quiet down. He looked at me and said pretty hatefully, "NO! You're a dork." And he continued to be obnoxious. I was a little stunned by the "dork" comment and I almost laughed. Not that his hatefulness was funny, but that "dork" was his word of choice. Where did he even hear that word? I scooped him up for a trip to the bathroom, aka the 'spanking-without-getting-judgemental-glances' room. Of course when we went in, there was a lady washing her hands. I have this issue with spanking Cale in front of people. It makes me really self conscious. I kind of think he knows that which doesn't help his public behavior any. So, since we weren't alone I started off telling him that he will not talk like that to adults, blah, blah, blah. He kept saying "Are you gonna spank me? You're not gonna spank me, are you? Don't spank me."

Well, as soon as the stranger walked out the door, Cale got what he was asking for...or not asking for. And believe it or not, after the spanking, that crazy kid looked at me with this mean expression and in an air of suppossed authority snapped, "I told you NOT to spank me!" This boy has a lot of nerve, not much sense, but lots of nerve.

Of course I explained to Cale that I'm the adult and he does not tell an adult what to do. Believe it or not our little untamed stallion proceeded to say "You are NOT the boss!" I don't why he has to push the limits so much.

So, he ended up being banned from going with his cousins after dinner. I knew how much he wanted to be with the girls and I felt like this was the most severe form of punishment I could have given him at that moment. When he heard me tell my sister that he would not be coming, he began wailing. The ride home was filled with buckets and tears and sobbing. I hope he at least learned some kind of lesson from it. I know I learned a lesson. I can never eat out in peace. Ever again.

All I wanted to do was enjoy some chicken nuggets and waffle fries. Is that too much to ask?

Oh, I forgot to mention that Keaton was a really good boy...besides poking his finger through my styrofoam cup, causing my Dr. Pepper to spill all over his clothes and the floor. But that was an accident so I'm okay with it. I hope he stays innocent for awhile longer.