Three Under Five and Still Alive

Under Where? Under There. Do You Wear Underwear?

2013-08-23T22:58:00.000-04:00

I got the shout out from Lil tonight. From my bedroom. That the movie was over. I went up to tuck her and Grady into bed. Grady was already asleep. On his back. Arms above his head, legs spread out in a V. With a pillow covering his entire body. I whip the pillow off. Only to discover he's completely naked. Not what I was expecting. But really, I should have expected it. I think I saw him smirk in his sleep. Because this is Grady's idea of a 'weally' funny prank.

I did find this weally funny.  And it weally was a welcome change. From the other side. The cracked side.

Because you see...I am cracked out. On butt cracks.

Grady and Lillian do not wear underwear. And at an official 32.8 and 42.9 pounds, respectively (their official weight with clothes, not to include underwear) they do not have much junk in their respective trunks. I blame this on their father.   Because I, however, do have much junk in my trunk. And I wear underwear. In case you were wondering. Their lack of junk has lead to what I will refer to as 'butt crack syndrome'.  Their bottoms fall down and their butt cracks creep out.

When Grady had his 4 year old check up this week, the nurse asked him to remove his shirt and shorts as she was leaving the exam room. In preparation for the doctor's arrival. I casually mentioned that he doesn't wear underwear.  She suggested that I ignore her previous suggestion. I quickly told her that I do wear underwear.  I had to.  To cover my own ass of course.

We spent last week at a lake house in the Adirondacks. Each morning, a duck family swam up to our dock. One duck in particular got quite lucky. The kids liked him. They fed him the cereal part of their Lucky Charms. After they ate all of the marshmallows out of it. They liked him so much, they lovingly named him 'Butt Crack". Because that's how they roll. Grandma encouraged them to call him 'Butt Quack'.  They tossed that name aside like a brand new pair of underwear.

When Sean's mother and grandmother came to visit a couple of weeks ago, we got slightly distracted one evening while preparing dinner. The boys were missing. Sean found Grady biking his way up the street. In his underwear. And nothing else. With Dempsey in pursuit. Perhaps trying to catch him. To remind him that he was wearing underwear. And should definitely remove it before biking. Because what else are brother's for?

Now Grady can be a bit temperamental when it comes to other people not wearing their underwear.

The last time he saw me naked he told me that he still liked me. Even when I'm naked. And promised that he wouldn't even laugh. He would only laugh if I told him something funny. While I was naked.

Now Nanny on the other hand. Well she received a much colder reception when she chose to go commando under her bed time clothes. When Nanny invited Grady to sit next to her in bed to watch a movie, he told her I don't want to sit next to you because you're not wearin' underwear and I don't want to see your penis. See. He's a bit confused. About everything.

Here's what you can take away from all of this. If it looks like a duck. And quacks like a duck. It might just be Butt Crack.

Butt Crack the Duck declined to be photographed for this story.

I will never show my face again. Only my butt crack.

Uncle Conor and Grady. All cracked out.

Lil, Uncle Conor, and Grady. The clothed cracks.

Aw man. Why are you talkin' about my butt crack again mom?

She refused to give a statement regarding her excessive exposure of butt crack.

The Marathon.

2013-07-27T23:45:00.001-04:00

So here's my deal. I'm running a marathon. This fall. My first time back.  Since having children.

I was too scared to run while pregnant with Lillian and Grady. I ran throughout my pregnancy with Dempsey. Never those long runs though.  The ones that I adore. The kind where you have no idea how far you've run or how far you have left to go. You're just running. Away from something? To something? I never know. I just keep running.

Then breastfeeding got in the way. I've heard stories of women pumping mid-run. But I was afraid I might scare someone with my floral hooter hider. On the side of the road. With my double negative A's.

I'm really excited. I've always liked to run. But it means so much more to me now. It's just for me.   It's a break for my brain. Hours at a time, spent on a trail.  Alone. Running. Thinking. I rarely hear my own voice.  Or anyone else's.

In my childhood days, running meant playing tag or sports. In college, it was running for the keg. But I still ran to it. Really fast.

Now running is just a part of me.  A part that I keep for myself.

I'm stronger this time around. I've spent six years pushing a jogging stroller. And I still do.  Sometimes. But not on Saturdays. My day. The day I do my longest run.

Pushing a stroller has made me stronger. So has having children. And being married for eleven years. Being part of a family for thirty five years. And a friend for almost as many. I've beaten things I never thought I'd have to confront. I've lost at times too. But I've always had me.  And a body that could run. I am blessed.

I've committed myself to my kids. And my husband. And my family. And my friends. I am blessed. To have those people in my life.

But I'm stealing my blessed self away for a little bit now. And giving myself up to my running addiction. I'm going to immerse myself in me.

So I may not be posting as much this summer. And early fall. But it's only because I am running.

For me.

My Chemical Addiction. To Windex. You Temptress You.

2013-07-12T20:11:00.000-04:00

So I thought I had kicked the habit. I was a believer. I made the change. It saved me money and rescued my children from unscrupulous fumes. I was a new woman for years. I avoided it.  I invented my own concoctions, patted myself on the back, and went to work. Cleaning. With vinegar, water, and a dash of dish detergent. Until that frightful day. When she went on sale.

Oh, Windex, how I love you! I've missed your spellbinding scent. Your guaranteed, streak free shine.   You are delicious. At least I would imagine that you would be, if I tasted you. Not that I have, of course.

I know, I know. Chemicals are bad, bad, bad. If only they weren't so, well, intoxicating. Maybe this relationship wouldn't be so hard to end.

But here I am. Spraying Windex. On everything. She does more than just clean windows. In case you were wondering.

It started with the first bottle. On sale. I used the whole damn thing the first day. I sprayed everything. I was skipping from room to room. Using excessive amounts of paper towels and spraying until my trigger finger screamed for a beer and a bottle opener. So my thumb could have its exhausting turn.

That fateful day.   When I turned on my computer and logged onto Safeway just for U. I had no intention of undoing all my hard work. I clicked on coupons for bananas, and turkey, and green beans. But then, there she was.  She called my name. My old friend Windex. In all her glory. For nearly half her going rate. Where have you been? She quietly asked. Where did I go wrong? What did I ever do to you? You left me. Just like you left that old, too small, three bedroom home! You bitch! She raged. And rightfully so. I had left her. High and wet.

It only got worse. She got nasty. I didn't know what to say. So I invited her back. Into our new, larger home.  Then things really went awry . I invited my children to participate.

He had to close his eyes. She was that good.

I admit, I asked Dempsey to hold the bottle. He'd never met her before. Never gazed upon her clear blue liquid. Or snorted her vapors as they fell to the floor. I just had to see them together. Just once. He couldn't resist her tempestuous ways. He sprayed me. And I discovered one more use for her. She melts away mascara. Like the goddess that she is.

But alas, that time of night has come. I must relent and return her to her sleeping spot. Under my pillow. I'm off to give the children their Clorox Wipe sponge bath. And I'll be sure not to forget the nightcap. Bedtime milk with a shot of Red 40.

Disclaimer
Do not allow your ordinary children to spray Windex in your face with the hope of removing residual eye makeup. We are professionals. And my children are very advanced. I also have a rediscovered love affair with Windex. She would never blind me. As long as I purchase her for full price from now on. Of course. I suspect she has something going on with Safeway on the side. Just sayin'.

The Big Red Flags.

2013-06-23T22:57:00.002-04:00

We arrive at the beach. Sean pushes our double BOB stroller, full of beach gear, while the Triple Threat and I amble behind. A trail of stares follows us. We set up two blankets and five towels. Each child promptly runs to the ocean.  They get their feet wet, run back through the sand and tromp all over the two blankets and five towels.   Then Dempsey takes off. Down the beach.  And jumps into the water right in between the two gigantic read flags that each picture a swimmer with a big X through it. I get it that the kid can't read, but come on Demps.  Duh. There are no words. It's just like a picture book. Figure it out. See? Swimmer. Big X. Red flag.  And all this time I thought you were advanced. Now I see that your sister and brother are way smarter. You slacker.

Sean was scheduled to fly on a trip last week.  It was an early morning alert so he had to report to the air force base hotel the night before. We decided to take the kids to a nearby beach that day and spend the night in the hotel with him.

We've been at the beach for three minutes.

I have to pee. The water is very cold. I carry Dempsey into the ocean with me. He's my distraction. I pee in knee deep water. Hoping no one sees the stream. It's a very strange feeling. Being in frigid water with hot pee running down your leg. I must admit it's quite liberating. I wish I could do this everywhere.

The children demand that I find them sand crabs. I get on my hands and knees and dig furiously every time a wave retreats and air bubbles appear in the sand.

Now Sean is also in the water, with Dempsey, in between the big red flags. The flags with the swimmer.  The mock swimmer who happens to have an X through him.

Grady throws Lillian's bucket of sand crabs into the ocean. The crabs wail. Lillian wails. She grabs Grady's bucket. Grady wails.

Sean and Dempsey wade, illegally, pretending that they don't know us.

It's now seven minutes after our initial arrival at the beach.

Sean and Dempsey return. Grady collects shells. He get knocked over multiple times by waves full of my pee. He laughs with his mouth wide open. Swallowing gallons of my pee. Pay backs.

Two minutes later we decide it's time for ice cream on the boardwalk. The boardwalk. Where the children excitedly play in the showers used to rinse off the sand. Because really, why would you want to get wet in the ocean when there's a shower right here?

After some shower swimming, Dempsey squeezes through a one inch fence opening and gallops onto the dunes. Then ones that have signs posted on them. Reminding people that if you do manage to squeeze your fat ass through the miniscule opening, it only means that you have a squishy butt. Not that you're actually supposed to be tramping all over the nature preserve. But eh, Dempsey can't read. Words or pictures. We've covered that part already. Right? Sean is mortified. He calls Dempsey back. But not only does Dempsey not read words or pictures, he doesn't listen either. Okay, so never mind. I have no idea why on earth I ever thought he was advanced. He can, however, karate chop and sword fight.

I'm laughing so hard I have to pee again. I'm tempted to let that hot stream run down my leg again. Perhaps while I'm standing under the cold squirts of water coming from that super fun shower. But alas, my earlier distraction is now distracted, running amuck on the dunes.  Lil and Grady are now chasing after him and I can only assume that Sean would be mortified if I held him while I peed on the boardwalk.

Upon our return to our spot on the beach, we discover that at least only one of our blankets has been swallowed up by the high tide.

The family sitting behind us asks if the kids are all ours and if the boys are twins.   How far apart are they? How did you do that?  The woman inquires. Well, I could tell you. But then I'd have to kill you.  Instead, I'll just have one of them kick some sand on your blanket for not pulling ours up a couple of inches when the tide came in.

We leave. A trail of stares following us.

We drive to the base. Sean checks into the hotel. We take the kids to the pool, to pick up a pizza, and to the playground. We buy beer.

We return to the hotel. With the children. We take two trips up to the third floor. Both times on the elevator. The children are loud. And so is the sound of the alarm button that Dempsey punches each time.

It is bed time. They have got to be tired right?   They are not. There is chaos. In one room. In a hotel. I can't jump out the window. They don't open. Damn these hotel windows.

Everyone sleeps. Eventually. Four in one bed. One in a pack and play. Sean gets alerted very early in the morning. The children sleep late. They are tired. Of course they are.

When it's time to leave, I make three trips down three floors. With three children. And three loads of their stuff. Three elevator excursions. Three quick hits of the emergency button. So people know we're coming.

On the second trip down, Dempsey takes off running down the hallway. Chucking his pizza crust, from the morning's breakfast, onto the floor. My hands are full. Of coolers, a pack and play, and the hair I've pulled out of my head. A nice man that works for the hotel kindly says he will take care of it.

On the third and final trip, we go to the front desk to check out.

The woman behind the counter looks at me.  Then looks at the Triple Threat.  Her gaze turns back to me. Did all of those children sleep in the room with you? Um. Is this a trick question? I have only seconds to come up with a response. I'm speechless. I quickly think that maybe there's a cut off. Like you're only allowed to bring two children. Because if you have more, you're considered crazy. And they don't allow crazy people into the hotel. I tell her the truth.

Children are not allowed in this building. She finishes.

As we are vacating the child free building, Dempsey dashes back, hurtling himself into the elevator. He holds the emergency button down for three full seconds.

You should have put up a sign lady. One on a big red flag. With my kids' picture on it. And a big X through their faces.

But eh, we can't read pictures. And even if we could. They kids would have stayed anyway. They're kind of like that.

Lil's attempt to pose her brothers for a picture.

Huh? Sign? What sign?

Lillian, the rule follower, convincing Dempsey to come off the dunes.

Who's Your Daddy?

2013-06-14T22:05:00.000-04:00

So Lillian is officially a first grader. She can read. She can write. She knows what lockers are. When Grady was at school recently, he thought the lockers were cages. He told me he really liked the cages. I like cages too Grady. You wanna get in?

Now Lil will be home every day. Home for the entire day. Every day. Home for approximately seventy, entire days. Not that I'm counting. I will have four children at home. Monday through Friday. And I'm not counting Sean. I recently swiped someone else's kid. His name is Gavin. He is three. I'm trying to convince him that he likes ~~cages~~ lockers too. Gavin is the son of a friend of mine. She trusts me not to put him in cages.

Recently, I took Grady, Gavin and Dempsey to Home Depot. On a Monday morning at 8:30am. If you are ever in need of a baby daddy, this is the time and place to go. There are hoards of men. Everywhere. However, I have all the baby daddy that I need. I was on the hunt for Rust-Oleum. So I could spray paint the kids some random color for whatever holiday is coming up next.

The St. Patrick's Day painting event.

Dempsey thinks he is hilarious. He innocently looks at each man he sees at Home Depot and asks, "Daddy?" Or more definitively roars, "Hi Daddy!".

Gavin and Grady, who also find themselves to be quite funny, follow Dempsey's lead.  So now I have a cart full of two and three year olds shouting out "DADDY" at random men. At Home Depot. At 8:30am. On a Monday morning. I could have said, Yes, you are right, you little smart ~~asses~~ boys, they all do look like your daddies. Since in fact, the trio did have multiple daddies...but that didn't sound quite right either.

Where the hell are the cages?  Or the duct tape? Damn you Home Depot. Or should I now refer to you as Daddy Depot? You should have duct tape in every aisle.

I didn't find a new baby daddy at Home Depot. But I did find other things this week.

I found Dempsey picking up a piece of poop from the bathroom floor at the pool.

The day after that, I unearthed a rock from the bottom of the washing machine. Only to discern that this particular rock was made of poop. Why of course it was!

Last night, Sean and I fell upon a bigfoot booby trap right in our very own bedroom.

And then of course, after the booby trap was set, my beloveds had to prepare a home for bigfoot. And his family. So they could crash at our place. Maybe bigfoot is a woman after all. And they are also searching for their baby daddy.

I could barely find my baby daddy in all this mess. But eventually, I did. And spared myself another trip to Home Depot.

Happy Father's Day... to my one and only... baby daddy.

No Underwear

2013-05-30T22:45:00.001-04:00

So it wouldn't be right if we didn't at least pop in to say hello to an ER doc over our Memorial Day weekend camping adventure. We had almost made it to one year after all. One year. Without a visit. To an emergency room. Or a ride in an ambulance. Almost. But not quite. ~~Sigh~~ Giggle.   We'll try again next year. Try. And try again. Fail more times than we try. Laugh a lot. Smack myself in the head often. Then think about trying again. I like to think about trying tomorrow. Just call me Scarlett.

We thought Grady broke his foot. Again. Never mind the communicable looking disease that was making it's way up his arm. When the triage nurse asked why we were there, we pointed to his foot. Then mentioned his arm. So which are you here for? She wanted to know. Well, the foot. And while we're here...could you check out the arm?   We were those people. As always.

The kid hadn't bathed in nearly four days. Unless you count creek water. Which I do. His diet had consisted of Airheads, Sour Patch Kids, a case of soda, and some orange juice out of a wine glass.

Grady had to remove his pants for the x-ray. I cringed. I knew what was coming. Surprise! For them. Not for me.  No underwear. Because not one kid in our family wears underwear. Not one. Ever. I made a rule that everyone wears underwear to school. But I forgot the rule a couple of days after I made it. Who can remember all these rules anyway. And alas, it wouldn't have helped. Preschool graduation was last week.

The foot wasn't broken. No one knew what the hell the rash was. Poisoning by sugar is my diagnosis. But no one ever listens to me. Because I wear underwear.

The weekend ended with me falling into the lake. With my camera. The camera was fine. Saved by the case. Which was soaked. Then I put the camera back into the wet case. Because I wear underwear.  And suffer from a communicable disease. Called Dumbassness.   I won't tell you who I caught it from.

Grady did eventually walk on his foot again. After being carried around for the day by his twelve year old camp girlfriend. That kid's got game. And communicable diseases. But no underwear. He'll be just fine.

Origin of the communicable disease.

My Kids' Favorite Four Letter Word

2013-05-18T21:53:00.000-04:00

I've come to the realization that my kids don't know their heads from their asses.

Dempsey farts and says he burped. I correct him. "Oh. I want to do it again!"

I tell Grady to sit down. He stands on his head. And says, "Sit down is my middle name mom."

Ha. No one sits in this family. It's a dirty word around here. A four letter word. Ohhhh, he sits.

People sometimes ask me how I do it?   Manage the triple threat. Our neighbor asked me, just this week.  He said he thinks we'd have to be drunk all the time. I think he sits at his front window. Analyzing our recycling bin.

Then there's the ice cream truck.   Always in our neighborhood.  It sits. And waits. For us to be begged to death and poked at with wooden swords.   Having our money stolen from us by thirty pound members of the official Triple Threat Gang.

Except for the day when I desperately want it to sit in front of our house. The day the Triple Threat Gang starts asking at 6am when the truck of frozen treats will be arriving.

It doesn't show up that day.  Mostly likely it sits.  In another neighborhood. Avoiding our children. Because it knows.

Instead, the Edible Arrangements truck arrives. With flashy pictures plastered on its' side. To deliver a gift to the neighbors. For putting up with us.  The picture looks like huge bouquets of ice pops. And while the truck clearly reads Edible Arrangements, to my illiterate children it clearly states, kill me for ice cream.  Lillian shrieks violently while Dempsey runs directly into the path of the still moving vehicle, screaming "ice cream! ice cream!" Dempsey is what we refer to as super illiterate. Kill you...Kill me...same difference. Grady, armed with a green plastic knife, bikes furiously over to the truck.  "I'm going to kill you!" He shouts. And all this time I'm simply trying to have a normal conversation on the phone with my mother-in-law. She hangs up when she hears, "kill you!" and "Grady, drop the knife!" But don't worry, she always calls back.

Okay.  So I know this sounds terribly ~~awesome~~ awful. A two year old. Committing ice creamicide.  A homicidal three year old. With a knife.  Going after some poor guy who's just trying to deliver some fruit on a stick. To the unfortunate neighbors who have to tolerate these pint sized beasts everyday. But really, who hasn't had a moment when they would kill for some ice cream? We've all been there right?

So then there's me. Holding the green plastic knife. As the bearer of fruit bouquets scrambles back to safety.

I scream, you scream, who ~~kills~~ sits for ice cream?

A day in the life. Of us. Where no one sits. Not even for ice cream.

And that is how we offed the Edible Arrangements guy.

Crabs for Mother's Day

2013-05-12T21:29:00.001-04:00

Her first radiation treatment was May 17th, 2012. Her last wish, before the treatments began, was to eat steamed crabs for Mother's Day. She ate them. And so did I. They were fabulous. And so was she. My mom.

She had a sore spot on her throat. It only bothered her when she ate tomatoes. Or drank Coors Lite.  She thought it was just an annoyance. A boo boo that would go away. It didn't.

It was cancer.  Then came the surgeries.  And the claustrophobic mask fittings. To ensure the rest of her face wasn't subjected to the harsh rays. She endured radiation. Hospitalizations. And months on a feeding tube. Endless doctor's appointments.   Exhaustion. The inability to talk on the phone. A near daily occurrence for us. Before.

She was unable to work. Or keep her beloved grandchildren for sleepovers.   It was hard for her to swallow.  Anything. Even water.  Her mouth was burned. Her throat was burned. But she didn't give up.

Today, Mother's Day 2013, she ate steamed crabs.  And so did I. They were fabulous. And so was she. My mom.

To my mother on Mother's Day,

I didn't ask to be born. But boy am I glad I was. Thank you for creating me. Thank you for carrying me. Thank you for giving birth to me.

Thank you for hugging me. And kissing me. Thank you for showing me right from wrong. And to always say 'please' and 'thank you'. You led by example.

Thank you for teaching me. Lots of things. Like the importance of a hand written thank you note. And how to smile. At everyone. Even when you may want to punch a couple of them in the face.

Thank you for always believing that the glass is half full. I can't imagine life any other way. But full. I know that mine is. Because of you.

Thank you for cursing me. With multiple children that act exactly like me. I couldn't live without them. For they have made me a mother.

Thank you for telling me to never doubt myself or my beliefs. That is why I never doubted you.

Thank you for setting rules and curfews. Making me roll my eyes. And let's be honest, driving me absolutely crazy. I guess I can't blame it on the children after all.

Thank you for all of the unsolicited advice. I didn't want it. But now I realize, I desperately needed it. Now I'm glad I held onto it. In my heart. Most of it anyway. I wish I would have written the rest of it down.

Thank you for making me feel okay about driving my own children crazy. I know they will thank me one day. Just like I am thanking you.

Thank you mom. For eating steamed crabs today. Happy Mother's Day.

Love,

Lisa
Love You More Than All The Tea In China
xxxxxxooooo

I'm Old. Blah.

2013-05-03T21:34:00.001-04:00

I am old. I turned 35 exactly 11 days ago. Not that I'm counting. The first time that 35 smacked me in the face was at my semi annual dental check up. I was 35 and 3 days old. The hygienist hit me up with a periodontal exam. At first I giggled. "I've never had this test before. This must be because I'm old right?" She giggled. Bitch.

When I was 35 and 8 days old, I discovered a bunion on my foot. Yes, a bunion. The world's most disgusting.word.ever. I can't believe I'm even admitting to it. I convinced myself that my feet were just getting skinnier. And the bones were protruding. When I was 35 and 9 days old, I glared at it. I did this instead of reading books to the children. I didn't even feed them.   Eh.  Who can eat when your mom has a bunion anyway? At the end of 35 and 10 days old, I realized that I will be asking Lillian to rub my bunion.  For a quarter. A whole quarter!   I'll just call her Rusty. For this story's sake.  And I'll give ~~Audrey~~ Grady a quarter too. See, I knew I wasn't wasting my time watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation over. and over. and over again. I can finally put that knowledge to good use. Now that I'm 35. And 11 days old. And know that it's acceptable to ask someone to rub your bunion for a quarter. Because they do it in the movies.

My children have sucked the life out of my boobs. And pooped it right out. My boobs have gone right into the Diaper Genie II. That bitch. Some genie you are.

There are spider veins on my thighs. My thighs and I? We were just starting to get along. And spiders?  We've always gotten along!  What have I ever done to you? But let you live in my home. And eat my pests. Children included. Now? You suck. I'm stamping out every single one of you. From this day forward. You can mark it in your calendar, 35 years and 11 days old. Bitches. I'd be happy to have a mosquito bite me in the boob right about now. Who needs you Mrs. Spider!

My gray hair is multiplying like our children. I used to blame it on Sean. He rubs his head against mine while I'm sleeping at night. I swear that he does. Now I blame it on the children. And my boobs. And the spiders. And the fact that I'm 35 and 11 days old.

So what do I love about 35? I love that I don't care so much about what other people think of me. I love my family. I love my kids. I love my husband. I love my job.  Even if my bosses are constantly full of shit. Whose aren't? I love my home. I love my life. And...I love my butt.  Especially since I make an ass out of myself. Every.single.day. But who cares? I'm 35. And 11 days old.

Take that 35.

And the butt that I love so much. Okay, so maybe it's not really mine. But it's totally awesome right?

One Hundred Boys

2013-04-26T23:10:00.000-04:00

Lillian Mom. If you had a hundred boys, would you freak out?

Grady When I'm a grown up and have one hundred boys, I'll freak out.

Grady And if I have one thousand? My house will pop out!

Yes, boys do make me freak out. But then, so does a girl.

Thursday was a rough day for the girl...and the boys.

Lillian refused to get out of the van. Again. When I dropped her off at school.

Grady got sent to the office. For repeatedly discussing Mr. Potato Head's butt.

And Dempsey got written up for taking flying leaps from the top of the sliding board.

We rolled up to the 'kiss and go' line of Lil's school. She 'kissed' me. But didn't 'go'. Again.  The assistant principal and guidance counselor were called in for back up. They glanced at the lump of a kindergartner balled up on my minivan floor as my two, make me want to freak out, boys sat clueless. Possibly discussing Mr. Potato Head's butt. And plots of leaping off of the sliding board at their shared school. Then they probably moved onto writing their book, The Dummies Guide to Freaking Out Your Mother.

Lillian relented with the carrot of being featured on the video morning announcements.

Turns out she missed her chance. The announcements were over by the time she made it inside. Because she kissed but didn't go.

She was promised the opportunity for the next morning. Today. This morning. Which also happened to be 'Dress for Success Day'. She was to be the 'Dress for Success' model.

Everyday in our house is 'Dress for Success Day'. If you're dressed, it's a success. But Lil's school had something else in mind.   They were supposed to dress as if they were showing up for a job interview. Lil wanted to wear 'nice jeans'.   I told her it had to be a dress or a skirt. She compromised. How about a dress over 'nice jeans'?   That makes mommy want to do a keg stand. Moving on.

We discuss reasons why she doesn't want to go to school.   She tells us about a mean kid. For anonymity purposes, I'll refer to him as Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight. Lil tells us that Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight called her friend 'stupid'. We tell her to stick up for her friends. "That's why we chase Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight on the playground mom."  She rocks. I want to be her friend.

We talk about treating others how you would like to be treated. Sean points out that mommy and daddy follow this rule and we have many friends. "You don't have any friends daddy. Uncle Ryan is your only friend." Lil retorted. Okay, so maybe daddy is a bad example. But mommy has lots of friends! Think about all those people she talks to everyday! There's that Fed Ex guy. Her friend that delivers the mail. And that person who comes to check the meter! And don't forget about mommy's special friend, Mr. Beer! Never mind. Mommy sucks too.

In the end, Lillian wore a dress to school. Without the jeans. Grady kissed Mr. Potato Head's butt and they made up. And Dempsey promised to never, ever, go to school again. Mommy and daddy still have no friends. But there's always beer.

Now that's a butt I'd want to kiss.

The Things My Kids Bring Home From School

2013-04-20T22:51:00.000-04:00

So I'm all about sending our kids to Catholic preschool. They learn to pray, hang out with Father Jeff, meet a couple of nuns, and get free rosaries. Grady really loves the free rosaries. He also loves to pick up random things that don't belong to him. Like sharp objects, car keys, mail from the neighbors' mailboxes, used chewing gum, and um, this...

This is what I found in Grady's school folder last week. I slammed that sucker shut so fast the wind of it nearly forced that brochure to flutter to the ground. In front of all the other mothers. The one's whose children do not have pornography literature in their backpacks. I snuck another peek. Yup. That's what I thought it said. I checked again. Yup. Still says it. I'm pretty sure Grady pilfered it from the church's book rack during his class's Mass day. And stashed it in his backpack. I think he was pissed that Father Jeff told the kids to stop plucking flowers from the plants that decorate the church. So instead of plucking flowers, he plucked a pornography brochure. Take that Father Jeff.

So all this pornography stuff got me thinking about worms. It's worm season again.

They're breaking into our home. All shriveled up. Dempsey carries them around the house and then tosses them into puddles in the backyard. To freshen them up a bit. Then he preserves them in plastic baggies. Lillian and Grady hook them onto their fishing rod. And go fishing. In the beer cooler.

All this time I spend thinking about pornography and worms, got me thinking about erectile dysfunction. Or maybe it was just that damn commercial that constantly replays on my favorite Sirius radio channel. The one I listen to repeatedly. In the van. With the kids. Not even noticing that our entertainment is a commentary on dysfunctional penises. Because I'm too busy daydreaming about worms and pornography. Until one day Lillian asks, "Mom, what is ED?" Well sweetie. It's a story about worms. And how they Eat Dirt. Grady will show you the brochure.

A Dose of Reality

2013-04-05T21:09:00.000-04:00

If I get called a 'babypoopyhead' one more time...by a baby, poopy head... someone is going down. And it won't be this 'babypoopyhead'. I'm sure I've been called worse in the past. And I'm sure I will be called worse in the future. But this 'babypoopyhead' thing? It's driving me to poop. On my head. And think it's okay. Since I am a baby after all. And because really, most days, what is the difference between my head and a toilet? Not much. Both are full of crap. And scream to be cleaned.

Boys have super human strengths. They can snap the blade right off of a ceiling fan.

And where was I, you might ask? Pooping.

They blamed it on this guy.

But I'm pretty sure it was this one.

Or quite possibly this one.

They also have a way with words.  No, you may not go into a public bathroom by yourself. You are a pain in the butt mom.

And so are you.  We'll call it even.

They can apologize. Sorry mom, I might have wiped some snot on you when you buckled me in.

They boast about you to their friends. My mom drives really fast.

They know how to entertain a friend. When we get home, we can throw my sister's clothes all over the house and then we can pee on the floor!

They are always trying to help out. I don't help anyone on Sundays. It's not Sunday. What? What day is it? It's Monday. I don't help anyone on Mondays.

Yeah, me neither. Let's go throw your sister's clothes all over the house and pee on the floor.

I have visions. Visions of the future. When they're all grown up. Married. And tortured by children of their own. Then I have Lillian to bring me back to reality.

Mom, can you imagine Dempsey when he's all grown up? He'll be runnin' all over the place. No one will want to marry him.   Thanks Lillian.   Because what are girls for? A dose of reality. And boys? The reality that you need a lot of doses.

She can't blame it all on the boys.

Because they learned it from watching her.

Her prodigies.

Camp Twistypants

2013-03-22T23:01:00.002-04:00

That first wiggly tooth. I couldn't help but check. Every.day. Before a single tooth was even wiggly. But then one wiggled. Finally. And I got all wiggly inside.

Lil was going to lose her first tooth. Three weeks after it first wiggled.

Lillian began teething at three months old. At Camp Twistypants. An annual camping tradition, with many beloved friends, on Labor Day weekend. I can't tell you why it's call Camp Twistypants. I'd have to kill you. But I can tell you, pants get twisted. And pants come off. Lillian was conceived there. So it was only fitting that her first tooth would erupt in that exact same spot. On a 370 acre Christmas tree farm. In a tent.

The night before her tooth fell out, I tried to pull it out. I was that excited. And so was she.

She climbed up into the bathroom sink. "I'll be in charge of pulling out the tooth." Grady told us. I put him in charge of the camera instead. This is what we got...

A big, black ass.

No idea who this guy is.

How does he keep getting back in?

I told her to jiggle it. Front and back. Side to side. I suggested she twist it. I tried to grasp it with toilet paper. Clean, of course. You never know in this house. I yanked it with tweezers. I fed her an apple. I roped it with dental floss. And pulled. I squeezed her neck. Hey, like I said, you never know. She got mad. Then I sat my big, black ass down. And gave up.

The tooth fell out the next day. At school. Lil came home with it. In a tiny, blue treasure chest. Taped shut. I warned her. Do not untape the box. Do not show it to your brothers. Hide it.

Grady begged. "Please tell me where you're going to put it!"

Lil headed up the stairs. She turned to me and said, "Mom, he looks like he's thinking of a plan to get it! Look at his face!"

Grady found it. Separated the treasure from its' chest. And lost it. I found it. Lillian hid it again. Dempsey found it. And took his turn losing the tooth.

My mom, the infamous nanny, texted me that night.

Nanny And did u have her rinse several times with warm salted water?

Me No, you nut ball.

Nanny That is what u r supposed to do...just like I did 4 u when u were little...u nut ball.

Moral of the story? Pants get twisted. Pants fall off. Teeth get twisted. Teeth fall out. And without pants and teeth...we're all a little bit nutty. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

The Mall

2013-03-15T22:06:00.000-04:00

When Lillian was a baby, the two of us would stroll the mall for hours. Walking. Looking. At people. At window displays. Stopping to nurse in dressing rooms. Trying on clothes. I didn't buy anything.   Not even lunch. I would pack a turkey sandwich and eat it while we rambled. I didn't buy coffee. I wasn't a coffee drinker at the time. I couldn't grasp the fascination of coffee.   I didn't like hot drinks. Until Lillian was two. And we were still calculating Grady's age by months. And I got knocked up with Dempsey. Then I started drinking coffee. While I was nursing.   And pregnant.  Sounds about right.

Fast forward four plus years. And two additional kids later. The mall sucks. And the kids love it. Of course they would.

Santa Claus is there. And the Easter Bunny. There is a playground. Chick-fil-a. Ice cream. Candy kiosks. Water fountains. Penny fountains. Naked mannequins.  That they like to molest.  While calling her 'mommy'.  Oh, and there's open space. To run.

Did I mention they like to run? Head first into trash cans. They shoulder bump with the shoes. Displayed atop large blocks.   That fall over easily.  When you run into them. Just sayin'.  Because I know. They hide amongst the clothing racks. Grady makes faces at the Easter Bunny. From afar. I'm pretty sure that furry white guy still saw him.

That Easter Bunny is going to kick Grady's ass. With his big, fat, fluffy feet. While Grady sleeps. On Easter Eve.

I'm going to leave directions to Grady's room. At the front door. Just so he won't be confused. And I'm pretty sure that bunny will leave him something wrapped in shiny foil. But it won't be chocolate. It will be poop.

The worst part? He was wearing a rosary. Grady. Not the Easter Bunny. The one Father Jeff gave him at preschool that morning. Doesn't work Father Jeff. Just thought you should know. For future reference.

They like to perform. On stage. In the food court. They're free. Just in case. Just in case you may be hiring dinner time entertainment. Or know someone that is. They do breakfast too. The butt shakes are extra. That will cost you an ice cream cone.

I need a drink. And it isn't coffee.

That's Not My Breath! That's My Butt!

2013-03-08T21:11:00.001-05:00

Kindergarten is hard. For Lillian. And even harder for me. The teachers? It's hard to believe that they come back. Every.day.

It's tough. Every.morning.

The 'kiss and go' lane is brilliant. You pull up to the front of the school. Remaining behind the wheel. With your under four crew, still buckled into place.   You kiss your school aged kid. And they go. Into the school. Except when they don't.

One day recently, I pulled up to school. Kissed Lillian. And she refused to get out of the van. I had no choice but to drive away.  There was a line of parents just waiting to shove their offspring out the door.

Oh, don't mind us! We just forgot our underpants! Just running back home for a quick sec! What? Oh, no, no, no. My kid isn't refusing to get out of the van. Why on earth would you think that? Maybe the fact that she's grasping onto the seat's headrest for dear life? What is wrong with you people? What is going on in this place? Kindergartners can't get ice cream at lunch? Well this place sucks! I wouldn't want to go either!

The night before, Lil had asked me, "So, do we get to just play all day tomorrow? Or do we have to learn stuff?" This is going to be a long year.

The ride to school, leading up to this particular drop off, was no indication of what was to come. She had never actually refused to get out of the van before.

It was the usual.  Lillian turned to Grady. "Your breath stinks! Did you brush your teeth?" To which Grady calmly replied, "That's not my breath, that's my butt!" Great. Just great.

So I pull out of the 'kiss and go' lane, and into the parking lot. What to do, what to do. Lillian still has her fingers tightly wrapped around the metal rods holding up the head rest. I look at Grady. He's a mess. Pajamas. No shoes and socks. Jacket-less. And hair that looks like it was brushed with an egg beater. I look at Dempsey. He's dressed at least. But there's something green hanging from his nose. And a Frosted Flake is stuck to his eyebrow. At least he still has eyebrows. No one has shaved them off yet.  They'll save that for next week. He also has no shoes and socks. And is without a jacket.

I call the school. "Um, hi. I'm sitting in your parking lot and my kid is refusing to get out of the van." I describe my vehicle. In case they might miss the two, half naked boys covered in boogers and Frosted Flakes doing the Chinese Fire Drill. And the girl being yanked from the van by her ankles. School sucks. We all hated it kid. Get over it. When this part is over, you get to be a grown up. It sucks even more. Then you die. Blah.

A mom comes out. One that helps in the drop off lane. We see her every day. She rocks. And even laughed a couple of days earlier when Grady told her his stuffed dog's name is 'poop'. Because what else would you name your stuffed dog?

She coerces Lillian inside. With the promise of a pop the next day. I'm so thankful for my kid's pop addiction. It works.

I think Lillian worries about what she misses all day while she's gone.  When I'm home with the boys. Alone. This is exactly what she misses...

Grady finding a screwdriver and unscrewing the light switch covers. Because he wants to replace them.
Grady and Dempsey stomping off with their blankies while Grady tells him, "Come on bud, we don't really like her."
Grady taking pictures of me, with my phone, while I'm in the shower.

The shower. And the shower curtain. There I am. Behind it. Hi.

Me. In the shower. Behind the curtain. Wait. The phone is ringing. I think it's the Victoria's Secret Model Department. Nope. Just the neighbors. A kid got out again.

Dempsey escaping into the back yard while I'm showering. In the rain. He escaped into the rain. I wasn't showering in the rain. Although that may be more efficient. I run after him. In my bath towel. After being alerted of the emergency. By the kid who unlocked the sliding glass door for him.
'Playtime' in the gym's racquetball court

What do you mean you can't get out?

And she's right. I would miss all these things too. If I weren't here for them.

But I'm the grown up. I'm supposed to pretend this sucks. Go to school kid. Because before you know it, you'll be grown up.

Some people feel lucky when they find money on the ground. Me? It's a sign of good things to come when I spot a Magic Hat beer cap.

Just Kidding.

2013-03-01T22:14:00.003-05:00

jk

This was the first of a slew of texts I received from our babysitter last night. jk. Just kidding. About what? That the triple threat has finally pushed her to the brink? She's run away to never return?   Leaving the Triple Threat to start gnawing on each other when they run out of pops?

I've know Miss Rachael since she was in the fifth grade. She's now in her twenties. And the official Triple Threat Babysitter. She's been our sitter since Lil was born. I heart her.

The next text comes in. Actually the first one. I have an old phone.  It flips open. And the messages come in pieces. Sometimes the last one comes first.

You all owe me.

Yikes. This can't be good.  Is she still seething over the time the Triple Threat locked her in the bedroom and Sean and I had to return home to set her free?  Or is this just a general statement? Since we do owe her. More than we could ever pay her. For agreeing to be our babysitter.  And coming back. Or is this about my push for our eleven o'clock curfew?

Then came the picture.

The nemesis. Way worse than the Triple Threat.

Miss Rachael is deathly afraid of spiders. And we have lots of them in our basement. I don't even notice them anymore. I kind of like them in fact. I talk to them. And they don't talk back.

And here is how the rest of the spider story plays out.

Me: Have Grady flush it! I'm sorry!
Rachael:  He won't go near it! It's a big one! We tried to go out the back door but the deadbolt is on.
Me: Oh no! Will Dempsey get it?
Rachael: He's in bed. Plus this thing has big punchers.
Rachael: Pinchers.
Rachael: Lil and I are trying to construct a big spider whacker.
Me: I bet the kids are loving it.
Rachael: Lil is about to cry.  Grady is chanting KILL KILL.
Rachael: And Doc McStuffins, that bitch, is singing about checkups!
Rachael: We just smashed the crap out of him and broke our spider whacker.
Rachael: He's dead.  And smashed well. We shoved him in the corner of the top step. I told them he's in spider heaven.

The whacker. We've already put in for the patent. So don't even think about it. And the sofa stains? Mine. All mine. Patented for years now.

RIP spider.

And Doc McStuffins, please be a little more compassionate next time. You have your own show. You don't have to be so cocky about it. You heal stuffed animals. You don't save the world. Humans need help sometimes too. Your bedside manner sucks.

Grady practicing spider avoidance.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Heart Spiders
1. They don't talk.
2. I've never seen a spider poop. Not once.
3. They don't count the number of beer caps scattered around me. I'm so thankful I never taught my    children to count higher than ten.
4. They squirt venom into things that annoy them.  Then liquify the sucker who pissed them off.
5. They have eight legs. Not one of which has a foot that requires a shoe or sock.
6. You can lock them out of the house and the neighbors don't call the police.
7. When you're tired of being around them, you can squish 'em.  And people think you're brave.
8.  You can flush them down the toilet. And they don't get stuck.  Sorry Dempsey.
9.   I know exactly where to find them.
10. If she's having a bad day, the female spider eats her mate. Because she can.

My moving out pack. For when the spiders take over. Because that's how I roll. Three for them. Three for me.

Wanted. Big, Hairy Man.

2013-02-22T23:18:00.001-05:00

We have monsters in our house. Three of them. Self proclaimed. They huddle up and cry out "Gooo little monsters." After the huddle, they disperse. Set off for the hunt. To find the biggest monster. Bigfoot. Bigfoot has been a part of our lives for a while now. He lives in our home. Apparently. Somewhere. Just one more monster to have around the house. I'm just glad I didn't have to give birth to him.

The huddle.

The march.

The hunt.

The tools. Walkie talkies. And drumsticks.

I've made him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and gotten him Chapstick. Because he likes to have pink lips. According to Grady. And really, what big, hairy man wouldn't?

Grady has an arrangement with Bigfoot. He takes care of him. Sets ups his supplies. Right next to our bed. Thankfully, it's on Sean's side. Because I'm scared of big, hairy men.

We hear Grady at night, shuffling between rooms. Gathering Bigfoot's necessities.

Bigfoot had big needs.

A pen and paper. In case he has complaints.
A scale. To weigh his big, hairy ass.
A green Power Ranger. They join forces. Slaying any unused tampons. Grady and Dempsey taught him that.
A Power Ranger's mask. To go undercover.
Books. To outsmart the little monsters.
Shirt, tie, pants, and a belt. For his day job. Flushing bananas down the toilet.
Binoculars. To spy on the neighbors. Something he definitely didn't learn from me.
Money jar. To pay for his vacation.
Thomas backpack. For his vacation attire.
Pillow and blanket. Just in case someone slips him some Benadryl when he's up too late. Again, I certainly don't condone this.
SpongeBob flashlight. To whack Patrick in case he gets out of hand.
Dream light. Because they're ugly. He likes that.
Boots. For tromping through post bath floods.
Diapers. For his babies. What the hell was he thinking? Hasn't he learned anything living here?
iPad charger. For when he steals our Netflix.
Firetruck. For emergencies. Like when the little monsters play with matches.

Lillian? She's not so nice. She's focused on the capture.

Hole digger.

The obstacle course. Bigfoot's demise.

Fáilte. Welcome. She welcomes him. To fall in the hole. In Celtic style. That little slip of paper? Bigfoot's eulogy.

And me? The hell with Bigfoot. I'm just trying to trap the hairy beast who created these little monsters. If you have any information on his whereabouts, please call 1.800.Scaryhairyman. Please do not approach. He is heavily armed. See picture below.

Wanted. Man on top.

Trickster.

2013-02-08T21:53:00.000-05:00

Grady likes to play tricks.

He dumps out all of the freshly washed clothes. And mixes them with the dirty ones.

He visits each bathroom. And uses everyone else's toothbrush.

He switches around the furniture in Lil's dollhouse while she's at school. When she returns, she finds the toilet in the kitchen.

He puts Lil's old, pink, training potty on the floor of our closet. Beneath Sean's hanging clothes. And pees in it.

He watches out the window for Sean to return from work. He tattles on him. "Daddy is talking on the phone. And driving naked."

He finds Sean's deodorant. Then rubs in on his face. And asks for a big kiss.

He puts milk in the beer fridge.

When I peek in to see if he's asleep, he clenches his eyes shut and snorts. Like a pig. His version of pretend snoring.

Last night, Grady switched the nightstand lamp from my side of the bed, to Sean's side. And switched Sean's phone charger from his side, to my side. We laughed. Then many hours later at 2am, we were jolted awake by the sound of the lamp base rattling by Sean's head.

Grady was stealing the lamp.

But. He got busted.

We sent him back to bed.

This morning when we woke up, he was passed out in our bedroom doorway. He had been waiting for us to fall back asleep. So he could attempt his thievery once more. Trickster.

He makes faces to divert attention from the stolen goods that he's sitting on. He even convinces his brother to get in on the act. Dempsey's eyes give it all away.

Grady's idea of a great outfit.

He sleeps with this on so he can surprise Big Foot in the middle of the night.

Ruff. Ruff.

2013-02-01T22:33:00.000-05:00

I thought we were in the clear.  My boys and I would win the Family of the Day award at Dempsey's two year old check up.  It really couldn't get any worse than what we walked in on as we entered the waiting room. An eight year old  boy on all fours. Wagging his butt and panting. With his tongue hanging out. A bark squeaked out. He pawed at the doctor's legs. "He's really come out of his shell hasn't he?"  Dog boy's mother commented. She was wearing, what appeared to be, pajamas. To my untrained eye of course. The doctor looked down at the boy and calmly said "Well, I'm not up for petting a dog today but I sure could do a high five."

Yup. I'm good. I'm doing great.

My first mistake was taking Dempsey and Grady into the closet sized bathroom with me. The one right next to the waiting room.  And the front desk. And two exam rooms. It's a very small office.  It's also very quiet. Dempsey threw his penny into the sink's drain and started chanting "poop, poop, poop." Just in case someone might be wondering what I was doing in there. At least he wasn't barking.

It's all fun and games until your kid hits you. In front of the nurse. Right after he hits his brother.  Who's flailing on the floor while said nurse listens to his heart. Kids were running from exam rooms, jumping from exam tables, sticking their nasty feet into the sink, and begging for gum.  And they were all mine.  The kids.  The ones doing the naughty stuff.

And next up is the Naughty Family. Oh wait. That's us.

Grady had already lost television privileges for the day. For some cockamamie family house rule like, Don't stab your mother with your breakfast fork. He had also lost out on chocolate milk. That was for screwing up family house rule #4. Thou shall not poop more than three times before lunch.

The last of my awesome mom credibility was lost when the doctor lifted up Dempsey's shirt. He was spotted. Red spots covered his belly. And his back. "Oh." I stated lamely. "That's the first time I've seen that." Said the slack ass mom. Because really, it was the first time I had seen it. But how? How could this be? I had just changed the kid's clothes an hour earlier. Maybe he was allergic to Dr. Stopjumpingoffmyexamtableandgetthehelloutofmyoffice. Or. Maybe. I'm just a slacker. She assured me it was a viral rash. Nothing to worry about. She asked if he recently had a fever. I remembered that someone recently had a fever. Sure! YES! YES, he did just have a fever! It was him! I swear it was him! The kid whose name starts with a D!

I'm back in.

The doctor left and we waited for the nurse to return. It was time to get my game voice on. I had to make a quick recovery. As loudly as Dempsey had chanted 'poop', I shouted, "We mustn't use our feet for jumping in this ~~jail~~ exam cell. Please use your inside voice. Let's clean up this mess and take these borrowed toys back to the waiting room. Just like cleaning up at home!" I winked so hard that I got a headache. They looked at me like I was barking. I sure hope Dr. Stopjumpingoffmyexamtableandgetthehelloutofmyoffice heard me.

I still felt pretty good about myself when we got home. Until I remembered last week. When Dempsey licked the dog. And used his toothbrush to clean out his belly button.

Then I walked in on Grady combing his penis.

Ruff. Ruff.

You licked Finn WHERE???

The Bottle.

2013-01-26T21:32:00.000-05:00

Dempsey recently turned two. This is what Lil and Grady looked like when Dempsey was conceived.

HA HA Mommy...you're pregnant AGAIN???

What were we thinking, you might ask? I.have.no.idea.

I woke up one morning with a symptom. A symptom that I've only ever experienced when I'm pregnant. It has happened every pregnancy and never at any other time. This is what prompted me to take The Test.

I hadn't even finished peeing and there were two bright blue lines. So bright in fact, that the infant that was still attached to my boob took notice. Things were about to get interesting.

We were leaving to go camping with our family in two days. My dear mother-in-law had purchased multiple cases of wine. I just knew she was going to kill me.

How to break your mother-in-law's heart? And oh yes, how to tell the husband?

I did what any awesome wife would do. I went to the liquor store.

I purchased a bottle of Maker's Mark. And five lottery tickets. One for each of us.

I put the tickets, and The Test, in a shot glass on the counter. I placed The Bottle next to it.

When Sean got home from work that night, he walked right past it.

So I did what any awesome wife would do. I asked him if he wanted a shot.

The next thing we knew, Dempsey was born.

Um, yea, he's living where?

Beginning in February, Dempsey will go to a two year old program, one day a week. It will be the first time, in over five years, that I'll have two and a half glorious hours to do whatever.I.want. I'm already planning my first day of freedom. I am going for a run. I will chose a route near a playground. I will run past that playground multiple times. Mocking it. I will clap my hands. Then wave them in the air. Next I'll do a fist bump, to no one in particular. Because I can. I won't be pushing a stroller. One worth my weight in kids and the stuff that comes with them. And because no one will be screaming at me that they must.play.now. When my run is complete, I'm going to swing. While guzzling my bottle of Maker's Mark. Take that playground.

Toddlers can attend the two year old program as soon as they turn two. This is different from preschool and kindergarten cut off dates. The cut off date for kindergarten, in our state, is September 1st. Not that it means much. I'm a rule follower. To me that means, if your kid turns five before September 1st, they start that year. If not, the teachers have a reprieve from said child for another year. Apparently, the new thing is to hold your child back. Regardless of when their birthday falls. So they can be the oldest in the class. Have an advantage. Read first, add and subtract first, hit puberty first, and drive first. There are very good reasons for waiting another year to start kindergarten. I'm in full support of those good reasons. But it is kindergarten after all. Not everyone can be first. Or be the best. It's supposed to be a classroom of five year olds. Not seven year olds. It's good to suck at something. I purposely try to suck at something on a daily basis. Other moms are like "HA, HA, you suck! Let's be friends!" Sucking at something = making friends. Kindergarten 101.

I want Dempsey to drink first. So I'm holding him back. So one day, he can bring in The Bottle. Of Maker's Mark. To kindergarten.

What the hell are you cryin' about? I'm the one that's got problems. Mom's making me start kindergarten when I'm FIVE!

Library = High Rate Hooker

2013-01-11T21:51:00.000-05:00

The boyfriend. Tonight, as I scrubbed the kindergarten off of Lil in the bathtub, she told me her friend has a boyfriend. And that she has one too. I started scrubbing harder.   That kindergarten is hard to get off.

Lil - "Daphne has a boyfriend."
Me - "Who?"
Lil - "Cole."
Me - "I think kindergarten is a little young for boyfriends."
Lil - "I have a boyfriend too. Liam. L-I-A-M."
Me - "Since when?"
Lil - "Since the first day of school. I didn't tell you because I know I'm not supposed to have one."
Me - "Well, what does having a boyfriend at school mean? What do you do together?"
Lil - "Well, he doesn't know that he's my boyfriend."

And that my friends, is the best kind of relationship to have. Smartest girl in America. And she knows how to spell too.

I've been slacking. Grady's been wearing shorts and t-shirts out of the house. Without a jacket.  He does wear rain boots. And carries a broken umbrella. With a sharp, metal piece exposed at the top. So he can stab monsters. Dempsey wears a coat. But no shoes. Lil will wear a sweatshirt.  I sneak a jacket into her book bag.  So it looks like I care.  She does put on underwear most days. Chocolate milk and Cinnamon Toast Crunch have been doled out regularly.  Along with other candy bribes. By 9am Grady is reminding me that he hasn't had any sugar yet today.  And I laughed this morning when Grady chucked a sippy cup at Dempsey's head. Because he wouldn't stop talking. I've also been having some relationship issues with the library.

I wish she never knew that she was my girlfriend. That I really, really loved her. The library and I have not been on the best of terms recently. You might say she's trying to dump me. I didn't even know we were officially a couple. Until she started charging me for her services. That temptress! She lures me in with her puppets, movies, play areas, and free books. She issues library cards to each member of the triple threat. Smiling. The.entire.time. Then she has the nerve to expect those books to be returned. On time. All twenty three of them.  Every three weeks. She practically throws books into our laps.  I didn't even want Sneezy Louise or What to Expect When You Find Out Your Girlfriend's a Hooker.   When one happens to go missing? She charges me 25 cents per day. Per missing book! Right now I owe approximately $38.02.   Library = high rate hooker if you ask me.  As of now, Grady and I are DELINQUENT. That's how she refers to us. So we just use Lillian's card instead. That hooker has no idea what she's in for with that girlfriend.

To make ourselves feel better, Grady and I did facials today. Do these look like delinquent faces to you? I think not.

Oh I can Grady. I can. Catch you.

Two seconds later. Mask starts to dry. "It's burning, it's burning!" He screams. Facials with mom, fail.

Bras are way overrated.

Reasons Why I Am Cool

2013-01-07T14:43:00.001-05:00

I had no idea what Gangnam Style was until a week ago. Lillian came home doing this crazy dance, after a sleepover with nanny. I had no idea where this dance came from, only that Lil and nanny thought it was hilarious. I thought they made it up. Lil called it Gangnam Style. I didn't think much of it until one night I asked Sean what the hell it was. He dragged me down to the computer and had me watch the video. I felt so...uncool. My five year old is cooler than me. And so is my mother. How can this be? I had to make a list. So I would remember, why I am cool.

Reasons Why I Am Cool

I can go to the bathroom with a child sitting on my lap.
My cell phone flips open.
I've never paid for a pair of underwear. Thanks mom...and Victoria's Secret Underwear of the Month club.
I write blog posts about dog poop. For money.
I can eat an entire pound of bacon. Two if it's a holiday.
I can run fast. And skate even faster.
I can catch my kids. All three at the same time if I trip two of them.
I eat spinach every morning for breakfast. That's how I have the strength to trip my kids.
I know how to ask "May I go to the bathroom?", in Spanish.
My all time favorite movie is National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.
I still remember how to read.
I wear Converse sneakers. In three different colors.
I've almost mastered indoor stair sledding. All my idea.
I'll never wear skinny jeans. Ever. My butt is too cool for those.
I can shit, shower, and shave faster than Sean.
I can do just about anything one handed.
I'm the mom. And I said so.

So maybe they are all cooler than me.

The cool crew.

You look cool to me mom!

Mom's trying to be cool again. I have no idea who she is.

Relax...I'm the Mom. I Know What I'm Doin'

2013-01-01T08:50:00.001-05:00

It's New Year's Eve. I'm driving in the van with the triple threat. I had changed the course of the evening's events multiple times. Just because I can. I'm the mom. Our plan included dinner and a trip downtown, for a First Night kid's event. Lillian questioned me. As five year olds do. I told her, "Relax. I'm the mom. I know what I'm doin'."

I made up stories as I went.

Well, we have to eat first because the party starts late. We can't go until it's dark.

The ~~bar~~ restaurant was busy.   We left without eating.

Let's have ice cream for dinner!  Downtown!

I pull into a garage to discover that parking is $20 on New Year's Eve.

There are noooo parking spaces! Let's go to McDonald's! We'll eat inside and then have ice cream there!

I find a free parking space.

Let's have ice cream downtown and stay for the party! Then we'll go to McDonald's.  But we'll have to go through the drive through.  The inside will be closed later.  Because it will be dark.  And we can't have ice cream there. Because we already had ice cream.  For dinner.

I lie. A lot. And they believe it.

My friend Amanda mentioned the other day that she had no idea what she was doing as a parent. And she wondered if she was doing things right. I'm with her. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. And I'm pretty sure most of it is not right.

The days go by. Faster and faster. I do things. I don't do things.  We go to sleep and wake up. I do the same things that I said I would never do again.  And I forget to do the things that I know I should do.   Things that I've done that are right. That I say I'll do every day. But I don't. There are time I want them to grow up. Now.  The next minute, I want them to be babies. Forever.

There are mornings I say okay. When the kids ask for a pop at nine o'clock in the morning. I'm feeling fun. Or I think I'm cool. Or maybe I'm just lazy, and don't want to argue. Other days I look at them like they are crazy for asking. Then I wonder why they don't understand when I say no. On days when the morning begins with whining and sibling battles, I tell them it's going to be a long day if they keep that up. Because that statement will stop the whining, right? Lillian tells me she likes long days. It gives her lots of time to play.  Well that backfired.  I must find a different approach. I should do that tomorrow. I think I said that yesterday.

I shove a paci in Grady's mouth when he's grumpy, tired, or just because he's talking to much. Then I tell him I can't understand what he is saying. Because he has the paci in his mouth.  Next, I make up some cockamamie story about Santa needing every single damn paci in our house. To give to the babies.   We did take all the paci's this Christmas Eve. While he slept. He's three and a half. It had become an obsession. It seemed like a good idea.  Until Christmas Eve. I'm horrible. We are horrible parents. We are taking away his beloved PACI! On CHRISTMAS EVE for Christ's sake! Sorry Christ.  Grady will hate Christmas Eve for years to come. FOREVER maybe. We've scarred his future children.   Grady couldn't have cared less. He hasn't mentioned the paci since. Lillian fell for it too. She spotted a baby in the mall. With the exact.same.paci.  That used to be Grady's. "That's Grady's PACI!" She exclaimed. "Santa must have given it to her!" And Grady... he couldn't have cared less about the stupid baby with his paci.   He just wanted to know how long until Santa comes back. I told a him a whole year. "Are you trickin' me?" He asked.  Would I lie to you?

I make Dempsey take a nap at different times every day. Then, some days, I might skip it. If it works better for me, of course. And I wonder why he won't comply. So maybe I've change the time on the clocks a few time. Just for him. In case he's super advanced. And can read a clock. See...it's nap o'clock dempster doodle! Sleepy sleep time! You're tired right? Look, you are yawning! Oh, you are sooooo sleepy.  And poof!  He's asleep! So I lie. A lot.   I'll think about that tomorrow. And remember that I should have thought about it today.

I tell Lillian to slow down. One thing at a time. And stop asking me for so many things at once. Ten minutes later I screech, Put on your socks and shoes. Brush your hair and teeth. Wash your face. Do you have a sweater? Where is your jacket? We are late. We should have left ten minutes ago. Wait...where are your pants? You must wear pants. You can't wear those pants though. Those are play clothes. What do you mean you don't know the difference between play clothes and not-for-play clothes? Those are faded black. The other pair are dark black. Whatever the hell color dark black is. Isn't that a mascara color? Wait, why am I asking you this? I don't want you to know about mascara. Why are you asking me about mascara? You're five. Slow down.   Today I wish she could just get ready all by herself. And meet me by the door. I lied. Wait for tomorrow.

Moms take note. No matter if we are right. Or if we are wrong.  Or if we haven't a clue as to what they hell we are doing. Ever.   Our children believe every single cockamamie story that we tell them. Which means they also believe us when we say I love you. And that's no lie.

This year, I'm going to find something new that I suck at. And something new that I'm great at. I am going to take unscheduled naps and wear play clothes. And I'm going to remind myself to relax.  I'm the mom. I know what I'm doin'. And that's no lie.

No! Mom said I'm her favorite. I get to go first. I lied.

Mom! Dempsey's hanging on for dear life from the tire swing! I'll think about that tomorrow.

Spirit Isn't Just for the Holidays

2012-12-28T23:43:00.000-05:00

We've got spirit yes we do

We've got spirit how 'bout you?

I have spirited children. Three of them.

All three went straight from crawling to running. Jumping on the couch, and off of it. Mistaking the back of it for a balance beam, Dempsey included. They flip off of anything they can get their feet on. Beds, changing tables, and window ledges . Racing in the house and in the yard. Playing at the playground all year long. Riding bikes, climbing trees, scaling fences, and digging dirt.

Spirit rides without his training wheels.

And all along I thought couches were for sitting.

They dive into the bath tub. And jump back out. Then do it all over again. Sneaking in fully clothed. With blankees. Before I get a chance to drain the water. They run up and down the stairs at bedtime. A lot. Until finally crashing.

Spirit is loud. And in your face. At least a cute face, in your face.

What a doll face. When you're drinking spirits of course.

Brushing teeth and hair in the morning requires the four of us to squeeze into the bathroom, with the door shut. So no one can escape. Getting shoes on Dempsey means buckling him into the car seat first. Or sitting on him.

They don't eat much, sleep much, or sit much. But they sure do love much.

Dempsey hiding from nap time. Spirit doesn't sleep.

When they do eat, they cheers their food and drink with one another. They eat pie, right from the pie dish. When they do finally fall asleep, I swear they are still running. Just with their eyes closed. When they sit, it's only to poop.

Pie. It keeps the spirit up.

After a night of running in his sleep.

Story time at the library was a disaster. For every single child. Every.single.time. I tried. Sure they love books. As long as you are chasing them while you read it. Do not try this at home.

They celebrate Halloween. All.year.long. Just in case that costume may earn them an extra piece of ~~candy~~ spirit. They were dragons for Christmas. Roar.

Merry Halloween.

At nighttime, when they are supposed to be watching a show in our bed, they open every button on the duvet cover and climb inside.

I couldn't figure out why our house seemed so cold and the front light was out. I had just changed the light bulb. This went on for days. I didn't have time to think about it. A spirit had clambered up onto the train table, and turned off the bottom five switches of the electrical box. Train tables aren't just for trains anymore.

Celebratory ice pops once the heat was cranking again.

We recently waited for a prescription to be filled at the grocery store pharmacy. It had been called in, but still wasn't ready when we arrived. The line was long. The wait was long. The spirited ones talked to each other on the display cell phones and used the floor as a slip and slide. They ran in circles. They giggled. They weren't hurting themselves or anyone else. I let them do it. With reminders when it got out of hand. Onlookers may have called it inappropriate. I call it spirit. And damn entertaining. I giggled too.

Even their clothes have spirit. For Grady, it's a shirt, tie, and blazer. For Lillian, it's princess garb one day, and her brother's sweatshirt the next. Sometimes, something is missing. And it's not the spirit.

I put the van in reverse, looked back, and saw this.

Spiritwear.

Grady at his preschool Christmas show. This was taken immediately after he untucked his shirt and looked down his pants for a solid 30 seconds. All while on stage. I think there was some spirit in there.

At the mall. See... I almost have a whole handful...already more than mom!

So here's to 2013. Cheers! Shirts off, pops up, and don't forget to check your pants for spirit. It's gonna be a great year.

We've got spirit yes we do

We've got spirit how 'bout you?

My Greatest Fear

2012-12-15T22:04:00.001-05:00

My greatest fear is losing one of my children. It's hard to write those words.

Lillian, Grady, and Dempsey are my morning, noon, and night. My greatest accomplishment. My heart. My soul.  My world. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They bring out the best in me. And at times, the worst.

I worried about my children long before they entered the world.

The first time I became pregnant, I was oblivious to the heartache that is a part of bearing and raising children of your own. I was 27. I miscarried. The thought that this could happen had never crossed my mind. I worried I wouldn't be able to have children.

The second time I became pregnant, I worried. I feared another miscarriage. My water broke one day before my 37th week. Lillian was born the next day, exactly three weeks early. I worried it might be too soon.

When Lillian arrived, I anguished over SIDS. I also doubted the driving abilities of others. I didn't want her to ride in a car without me. I was consoled by the thought that if there was an accident, at least we would go together.

The third time I became pregnant, I miscarried again. I knew what was happening before it actually happened. So I worried. About everything.

The fourth time I became pregnant, Grady arrived, many worrisome months later.  We should have just named him Worry.

With Grady, I doubted we would all make to his third birthday. I feared broken bones, head injuries, and lacerations. They all happened. We made it. To three. Now I worry about four.

The fifth time I became pregnant, people started asking if we knew how this whole getting pregnant thing worked. I assured them we had a pretty good idea.   I worried that we already had two healthy children, would we be as lucky the third time around? Dempsey was born. Healthy.

By the time Dempsey blessed our family, I wasn't worrying quite so much. Maybe I just didn't have the time to think. About anything. I worried that I wasn't worrying enough.

It's a wonderful thing, being so busy. My mind is often preoccupied. I don't have a lot of time to worry. But there are still plenty of things that I worry about.   I worry one of them will get hit by a car. While playing, waiting at the bus stop, or walking through the grocery store parking lot. I worry about car accidents, a fall from a window, and drownings.  I worry about brain tumors and childhood cancers. I anguish about anything that is irreparable. It's a mother's right and duty to worry. It's what we do. All day. Every day.

Never before have I worried that one of my children could be gunned down in an elementary school classroom. That's irreparable. There are twenty moms, just like me, whose babies aren't coming home. They worried about the same things I do. But never that. I'm sure of it.

Twenty children are gone. I am holding on to my three for dear life.  Twenty mothers had their right to worry torn away. I am worrying like I've never worried before. And thankful that I still have children to worry about.   God bless the children. Their mothers. Their fathers. Their sisters. Their brothers.  Their families. We should all be worried.

Thank you.