Fighting off Frumpy

Who Pooped on the Pug?

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 25 May 2012 13:16:00 +0000

If you've read my blog with any sort of regularity, y'all know that I deal with an insane amount of poop (actually, disgusting fluids in general). Thanks to our three kids and our expanding animal menagerie - the tally is up to two dogs, three cats, and a fish now - and their various bodily functions (and malfunctions), I go through more paper towels and carpet cleaner and sanitizing products than a janitorial service.

You'd think I'd be used to it, and I guess for the most part, I'm as "used to it" as I'm ever gonna get ... until something ridiculous happens. Do any of you remember the Phantom Pooper? Or the Phantom Pooper's revenge? Or the time someone (or something) defiled my pillow?

Anyway, lately the ridiculousness has been in full swing. Because Coby, my two year old, was doing really well at the whole potty training thing ... until a few days ago. And then there was a swift and complete and surprising regression, with a twist: he's now taken to doing his business on the floor.

I don't know what happened. Perhaps it's the impending baby. Or the fact that we've had company (yes, for nearly a week already) and our typical schedule has been thrown for a loop. But whatever the reason, I've been cleaning up more than my share of disgustingness lately. The other day, when I thought he was playing quietly in his brothers' bedroom? He was actually playing Poop Picasso (warning: scroll down with your eyes closed if you're eating and/or exceptionally squeamish).

Nice, huh? Did I mention that he scooped it off the (freshly professionally steam-cleaned) carpet before smearing it all over the closet door?

But this was just the beginning. Because the very next day, Colin yelled, "Peeeeeee!" (The gleeful way in which he announces these incidents makes me want to slap him silly, by the way.)

I looked, and sure enough, Coby had whipped off his Pull-Up and peed on the floor in our bedroom. So I dealt with the mess, and I dealt with him, and thought it was over. Only it wasn't. Because then, I hear Colin yell, "Pooooooop!"

Sure enough, there's a couple of random spots in the hallway. Not actual turds, just ... spots. Weird. I cleaned that up, and then checked Coby's butt for smears. But there was nothing. He was clean as a whistle.

And then our pug wandered into my line of sight. And she smelled funny. And I realized that the reason she smelled funny was that her back was splattered with poop. As though someone had, like, squatted over her and sharted (if you don't know what a "shart" is, do yourself a favor and look it up. It's very important terminology, especially if you've got kids).

So I had to bathe her. And wash her collar. And wonder, as I so often do, what the hell happened and why am I the one destined to take care of the situation.

Wanna know what's ironic? As I was writing this very post, Coby was sitting behind me at the kitchen table, peacefully eating his eggs. Naked, of course, because the first thing he did this morning was remove his Pull-Up. And he was being so quiet, and so sweet, and eating so well, that I turned around and said over my shoulder, "I love you, baby."

And he whispered guiltily, "I love you too. Now turn around please."

And why did he want me to turn around?

So I wouldn't see that he had peed all over his chair.

... At least it wasn't poop.

PS - If you haven't already, don't forget to click on the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab for your chance to win some cute and customized clothing from eShakti.com! Woot!

Labor Lunacy (and a New Giveaway!)

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 21 May 2012 14:31:00 +0000

Ten days from now (if not before since I am trying every. single. possible labor-inducing technique known to woman), I will officially be in charge of four - F-O-U-R - children. Labor is being induced on the 31st, and I'm getting a serious case of cold feet over here, y'all. I've heard that handling four kids is not much different than handling three, but still - if anybody could mess it up, it'd be me.

Anyway, because I'm busy ~~obsessing~~ planning for Corbin's impending arrival, any blog posts between now and then will be completely baby-centric and possibly full of crazy, ranty blathering. Since that's, you know, what the inside of my head sounds like lately. Kinda like this: babybabybabyeatbabybabybabysleepbabybabybabybathroombabybabybabycleanbabybabybabylaundrybabybabybabyohcrapIhavethreeotherkidsdon'tI.

So. To make up for the totally infant-centered tone of the blog of late, I'm having a SWEET customzied clothing giveaway from eShakti.com! Click on the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab at the top of this page to find out more ... and to enter, because it is a completely great deal and I for one am jealous that I can't just award the prize to myself.

Now it's time to stuff my face with fresh pineapple and douse my breakfast in hot sauce and bounce relentlessly on an exercise ball while tweaking my nipples and walk until I feel like I'm going to split in half and smear evening primrose oil caplets in places I can barely reach (y'all get my drift), in hopes that I'll go into labor on my own and won't have to do this for another ten days.

Wish me luck - and go check out that giveaway!

Can I Get a Stork Up in Here?

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 18 May 2012 13:26:00 +0000

So have I mentioned before how ready I am to get this baby OUT?

... Oh, only like 8,537 times?

Sorry.

But I am. I really, really, am. I want to hold him already. I want to be able to walk without feeling like a wishbone being split in half. I want to be able to go to Walmart without feeling like a sideshow spectacle. (I'm considering getting a T-shirt printed up that says Yes, there's only one. No, I'm not overdue. Yes, it's extremely uncomfortable. Yes, I know I'm huge. Now leave me the eff alone.)

Yesterday I went to my regularly scheduled doctor's appointment, where they did an ultrasound to estimate his weight. And y'all? He weighs over eight pounds already. His head alone is measuring 41 weeks gestation by one calculation (um, ouch?). But they refuse to induce me for two more weeks. Can you imagine what a behemoth he's going to be two weeks from now? Hello, I realize the vagina is a remarkably elastic thing, but my nether-regions are not made of Silly Putty.

I seriously almost cried sitting there in the doctor's office. "The 31st?" I said, trying hard not to sound too dismayed. "But ... but ... that's two more weeks. And he's already over eight pounds. And ..." my voice broke "... I'm ready to just get him out."

"Go into labor then," my doctor said coyly.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

If I could go into labor, I would. I so would. I would "poof" myself into labor right this very minute if I were able, even in my present undressed, un-showered, house-not-company-ready state. I have tried all the "at home labor induction" techniques - and I won't enumerate them here, but there are a lot of them, and none of them work. I swear I'm going to just have to coax Corbin out with a pork chop.

But, as ready as I am, at least the end is in sight. My induction is scheduled for 7 a.m. on May 31st. That means I'll have thirteen days from today to finish preparing, which will feel better in the long run, anyway. Yesterday I spent like five hours on my kitchen and laundry room floors: mopping them twice, going over the grungy perimeters with Clorox wipes, and then slapping on double-coats of Mop & Glo. And what do you know? This morning I woke up to a river-sized puddle of Labrador piss and an equally huge pile of crap on the laundry room floor. When I got that cleaned up, I came into the kitchen, and - whaddaya know? - stepped right into a mess of cat barf. ON MY FRESHLY MOPPED FLOORS.

I can't keep anything clean.

At least I have two more weeks to try ...

A Fart on the Chart

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 17 May 2012 13:24:00 +0000

Yesterday morning when I woke up, I was all, "Ugggghhhhhh" and "Urrrrrrrrghh" and "Blaaaaaahhhh." I seriously could not move more than a few steps before my heart would start to pound out of my chest and I'd be gasping for breath as if I were suffocating. My peripheral vision would blacken like I was going to pass out, and I would get lightheaded. Curtis had already gone to work, so I moved through my usual morning routine this way - getting the kids and myself fed and dressed, tending to our ridiculous animal menagerie, starting a load of laundry. It was all punctuated with me having to sit down every two minutes or less. It sucked.

By the time I came home from taking Colin from school, I couldn't even make it up the eight steps from the garage to the main floor. I had to sit until I was physically able to climb up the rest of the way. So I did the unthinkable: I called my doctor.

This is a really uncommon occurrence for me, y'all. I hate going to the doctor unnecessarily; I think it stems from my childhood when I felt like I was at the doctor all the time for one reason or another. (The last time I was really sick, I stayed at home for two days with a 105-degree fever and a raging strep infection before grudgingly consenting to be dragged to the Urgent Care clinic.) So now that I'm an adult and can actually choose when I go ... well, I never go. Except when I'm pregnant. Or dying. And yesterday I was thinking that maybe both of those criteria applied.

As I thought, they wanted me to come in. So I did. And after they checked me out at the doctor's office, they sent me to the hospital, up to the labor and delivery floor to monitor the baby. "The baby's fine!" I wanted to say. "I'm the one who's all jacked up!" But when you're pregnant, the one in utero is the one who takes top priority. So labor and delivery it was.

I got into one of those stupid flimsy backless gowns. They took a urine sample. They started an IV. They tested my glucose. But as unpleasant as all that was, there was one awesome surprise. One of the nurses came in (shoutout to Crystal!) and was like, "I know you!"

I was thinking oh Lord, am I supposed to know her? Because I don't think I do. She doesn't look familiar at all. Has she introduced herself to me at one of my Zumba classes, and I'm such a flake that I don't even remember? Should I pretend like I know her too?

And then she said, "You're the 'Fighting off Frumpy' blogger!"

Y'all? I just about fell off my little hospital bed. Someone knew me. Exclusively from my blog. It was awesome. Except for, you know, the meeting-her-while-half-naked part.

I so hope she's on duty when I actually deliver. Maybe she can hook me up with a celebrity birthing suite a la Beyonce.

... Or, you know, a hospital mug full of ice water or something.

Anyway, with all the monitoring, there was a lot of sitting around. Curtis had the kids and they were getting restless, so he took them home and fed them before finding someone to watch them for an hour or so (thanks Erica!). So I was alone in the little room a lot of the time. I watched my baby boy's heart beating away on the monitor, and watched my intermittent contractions register. Every time Corbin would move, I would hear it, and it would register as a little "blip" on the printout.

And then? I farted.

And I could hear it on the monitor, just like Corbin's movements. Frrrrrrp. Frrrrrrrrrrrrp.

And I was all, OMG did that just register on that paper? Is there a printout of my fart? Are the nurses going to look at it and be like, "Tee hee, did you see this? She must have farted right here."

I've never had documentation of a fart. Evidence in the form of a lingering odor, perhaps - but never an actual, tangible printout of the deed. I'm surprised the little squiggly lines on the paper didn't spell out "FART."

It's bad enough that passing gas in private is usually a surefire way to get someone to come in. I can personally attest to this phenomenon: in my early twenties, I worked stocking the freezer section of a grocery store at night. I'd be in there at 3 o'clock in the morning and not see another soul for an hour or more at a time - until I had to slip out a little somethin' somethin'. And then inevitably, it would be like a beacon calling everyone within a ten-aisle radius to suddenly come over to my section.

Anyway, when Curtis joined me at the hospital, I told him about it. And he was like, "I MUST see this printout." He was poring over it, looking for "the incident," when I started laughing so hard I couldn't stop, and the printout of that was all over the place, and then my monitoring belt nearly slipped off my belly. Oops.

Fun times in labor & delivery.

(And now Crystal is probably gonna see my scheduled induction on the charts and make SURE she takes that day off.)

They didn't find anything wrong. I guess that's a good thing, although I wish I would've known what the hell caused me to feel that way. And today I feel a little better - still exhausted, but that's normal when you're twelve hundred months pregnant and the size of a barn.

I've got an ultrasound scheduled for this afternoon to peep out how big Corbin is, and after that I see the doctor. Hopefully he'll be like, "Let's just get this mammoth kid out of there today!"

Hey, a girl can hope, right?

Car-pet Peeve

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 15 May 2012 14:17:00 +0000

There was some hot, steamy action going on in my house over the weekend. In fact, it went on in almost every room of my house. Not just the bedroom, but the living room, the kids' room ... even the hallway. Oh, and the stairs. I'd been wanting it for a long time, and boy, did I get it good. I feel SO much better.

What? It was my Mother's Day present from Curtis. And frankly, I could celebrate every holiday that way. Awwwww yeaaaahhh.

Flip your "dirty-minded" switches to the off position, you pervs ... I'm talking about having my carpet cleaned. And no, "having my carpet cleaned" is not some euphemism for an X-rated activity (although I guess it could be. I mean if you can have your salad tossed ...). I'm not talking about carpet of the does the carpet match the drapes variety: I'm talking about my actual carpet. The dingy, stained, ripped-in-some-places-thanks-to-a-certain-destructive-dog carpet that stretches its dismal, discolored way across my floor.

Yeah, I'm not too happy with it. Can you tell?

It wasn't all that great when we moved in almost five years ago, but oh my Lord ... what three boys, two dogs, and three cats will do to floor coverings! Ugh! And what's worse, I swear it stains when you look at it wrong. You can literally spill a little bit of water and guess what? You've got a stain. From water.

It was so embarrassing. I'm weird about people judging my house when they come in anyway (is that a cobweb in the corner?) and I always envisioned someone coming in and secretly being all, "Oh my goodness, this carpet is so gross I'm afraid to walk on it lest I contract some sort of exotic foot fungus from the random stains."

So when Curtis told me that for Mother's Day he was going to have the Stanley Steemer peeps come in and take care of the carpet, I was ecstatic. Ecstatic in the way that most women would be if they were presented with, say, some sort of sparkling diamond or a really expensive pair of shoes. Seriously, that man knows the way to my heart.

Anyway, they did a fantastic job. The carpet is much cleaner. (And no, this is not some sort of paid endorsement, although hey Stanley Steemer ... call me.) Not all the stains came up, but the overall grossness went away; I can look at it without shuddering now. And if somebody came over I wouldn't be embarrassed.*

*Unless they looked at my boys' bathroom because OMG. Gross.

But since they left? I've gone all carpet-commando on my poor family. I swear I spend a good portion of my day now yelping, "Get that off the carpet! No more eating or drinking in the living room! Get back into the kitchen with that!" Also, I'm doing something that I actually reeeeally dislike: making everyone take their shoes off at the door. Not houseguests, because I just think that's excessive and we don't really have guests all that often anyway, but my dirty-footed kids who track through mud and poop and who knows what else. I mean, they run around naked most of the time anyway, so it's not that much of a change. And my husband, who for the record does not run around naked, but who works in an industrial facility with dust and oil and crap all over its floor.

I just hope I can keep it looking decent for more than, like, a week. Anybody got any tips for me? Do any of y'all have as many issues keeping your carpet nice as I do?

Labor and Duh-livery

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 14 May 2012 13:55:00 +0000

Baby Corbin is full-term, so theoretically I could drop him at any time. And I'm huge enough to be a circus spectacle. The other day, while I was walking across the parking lot of my doctor's office, a lady slowed down in her car and was all, "Whoa, ma'am, are you in labor?" Over the weekend, when we took the kids to the playground, I passed by a woman who gawked visibly and said, "WOW!" And that's not all. During trips to Kohl's and Walmart, in addition to the usual gasps and exclamations, I heard, "That looks like it hurts," and "Is there only one in there?" and "You've got to be overdue," and, "Oh, bless your heart!" I'm soooo over being a walking freakshow, y'all.

That being said, I wouldn't really mind if Corbin decided to make his appearance. And last night, I thought maaaaaaybe I was going into labor.

Problem is, I'm not sure what "going into labor" actually feels like.

Yes, I'm aware that this is my fourth child. I've been in labor before, multiple times. But I've always been induced. With my oldest, Colin, the induction was because I had developed pre-eclampsia (for which delivery is the only cure). With Cameron and Coby, I actually asked to be induced because, well, it was so much more convenient. I mean, with an induction, I know when I'm supposed to be at the hospital and I just show up at an appointed time: showered and shaven, completely packed, with childcare secured at home and my house left in decent order. It's actually pretty nice for a ~~control freak~~ person like me who likes to have her ducks in a row.

And plus? I have huge babies. At three weeks early, Colin was 8 lbs. 9 oz. At two weeks early, Cameron was 8 lbs. 14 oz. ... and at one week early, Coby weighed a whopping 9 lbs. 2 oz. So honestly? The less poundage I have to force through my you-know-what, the better.

But the issue with inductions is that - like I said - I'm afraid I wouldn't know "natural" (i.e., un-induced) labor if it kicked me in the cervix. In the movies it's so sudden and sure: the broad is shopping or walking down the street and then suddenly she's gripping her abdomen and is like, "Ouch! I'm in labor!" I'm pretty sure that in real life, it's not that cut-and-dried. Consequently, I'm petrified that I'll go into labor on my own, wait too long, and then give birth in the car or something. Because that's another thing - my labors have been shorter with each child: 10, 7, and 5 hours, respectively. I'm scared that I'll be the woman you see on TV who stays at home too long and then tries to get to the hospital with an infant in her pants.

Anyway, last night I just felt ... weird. I was mildly nauseated. I was shivering periodically for no apparent reason. The baby was moving around a LOT, which is a little unusual lately since he's gotten so cramped in there. I kept having those misleading Braxton-Hicks contractions, coming every three to five minutes for quite a while. And I just had a general feeling of unease. I laid in the bed, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, but the weirdness in my body just kept waking me up. I kept thinking, my bag is not packed. My mom is not here to watch the kids as planned. I haven't shaved in a week. I didn't finish cleaning.

I did my best to shrug it off, because the last thing I needed was to wake the neighbors so I could make a trip to the hospital, only to have it be nothing. So I finally ended up going to sleep. But I woke up like every hour. Once, I was so hot that I stripped off all my clothes and ~~waddled~~ marched naked into the hall to change the thermostat to 68 degrees. Air conditioning in May? Hell yes.

This morning I feel a little more normal. Still having a few mild contractions here and there, but nothing alarming. I have to admit I'm a little disappointed - because as largely unprepared as I feel, it was kind of exciting to have that "this is it" feeling. But I guess it's still possible.

Maybe I should pack that bag ...

PS - Click on the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab if you want an AWESOME deal on some cute new eyewear!!

For My Mom ...

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 11 May 2012 14:15:00 +0000

Dear Mom,

As I'm sure you're aware, it's almost Mother's Day. And since I ~~have all these children now and am too broke to buy you flowers or jewelry~~ live four hours away from you, I thought I'd write you a nice heartfelt blog post in lieu of a fancy present.

First of all, thanks for giving me some of your best traits: charm and wit. (That almost - almost - makes up for the fact that you also gave me small boobs and frizzy hair. Oh, and the propensity to gain like a zillion pounds while pregnant.) And your eye shape. We've always been told we have pretty eyes, and now my boys' eyes have the same shape - so when I look at them, I see not only myself, but you. I hope I look like you when I'm your age; you've always looked so young. This was not a great thing when you'd substitute-teach at my high school and my guy friends would comment about how hot you were (barf!) but now that I'm hurtling at warp-speed toward middle age, I guess that wouldn't be the most terrible thing that could happen.

Also ... I forgive you for the bleach-blonde helmet and frosted blue eyeshadow (and those practically-nonexistent shorts! And that orange tan-in-a-bottle! And that cigarette!) you sported in the '80s:

Nice couch, too, by the way.

I forgive you for the brunette 'fro (it's like you were channeling Cher) and super-high-waisted jeans (oh my gawd, they're eating your boobs!) of the '90s:

I can't say much about those black leggings and turtle-print T-shirt I'm wearing, but hey, we're talking about you ... not me.

In all seriousness, though ... when I think about you, Mom, I think of your grit and fortitude and determination. I watched you go through a lot with my father, who was just plain heartless most of the time, culminating in a messy divorce. You raised me, the last child left in the house, as a single mom. You worked two jobs and went back to college, all at the same time. You worked your ass off to better our lives. You taught me how welfare is supposed to be used: as a hand-up, not a hand-out. We may have been on food stamps and Medicaid, but your goal was clearly to use it while we desperately needed it, and then give it up the second we didn't. (Plus you refused to use the food stamps to buy anything but healthy stuff instead of the soda and junk food that I wanted - which I hated at the time, but now I see you were setting a good example. Remember the time you grudgingly let me use them to buy a Lunchable on my birthday? Hehe. It's the little things.) And on top of all that, no matter what kind of apartment or house we lived in, you always kept it neat and tidy and cute. ALL. THE. TIME. (Which actually kind of gives me a complex now about why I can't seem to keep my house that way.)

You were busy all the time, but I never doubted that you loved me. Of all the changes our mother-daughter relationship has undergone throughout the years, that's one thing that has always remained constant. I know you love me, and I know you're proud of me, unconditionally. Even when I'm not so proud of myself.

Now that I'm an adult, our relationship has been pretty awesome. You're still my friend, but now we can relate to each other as fellow mothers - and I get to watch you love my boys the same way I do.

And I like your hair better now, too.

So happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you more than words can say - on a blog or otherwise. Thank you for being an amazing mother. I can't wait to see you in a few weeks when I give you the ultimate Mother's Day gift of a new grandson to love!

Yeah, that's it ... the baby is your gift this year.

Sweet.

PS - Wanna give Mom some "specs appeal" for Mother's Day? Click on over to the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab for a sweet deal!

Dumb Mom Moments

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 08 May 2012 13:57:00 +0000

Sometimes we all need a parenting manual.

I'm super-excited to be the featured guest poster over at parenting BY dummies today! Dumb Mom is one of my absolute favorite bloggers, and she asked me to write about a "Dumb Mom Moment." (Probably because she knows that those moments make up 90% of my parenting.)

So which moment did I pick, since there were approximately 2,999,012 to choose from? Was it the time I seriously failed at taking the kids to a parade? Or the time my son caught me in a lie? Or maybe when I accidentally taught Colin a dirty slang word?

Nope. I wrote about my personal favorite: the time I nearly got my kids drunk. And if you click here, you can run on over to Dumb Mom's and check it out (and stay to browse through her stuff, natch, 'cause she's awesome).

If you're coming here from pBd, thanks for stopping by! I suggest you click over to yesterday's post ... if you're not afraid of a few F-bombs. Shewww, ka-pow! (← those are my bomb noises. No wonder my boys never want me to play with them.)

Stay the F**k in Your Own Bed: a Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 07 May 2012 12:38:00 +0000

Disclaimer: if you are uncomfortable with the f-bomb, or if you're somehow under the impression that I never use it (bless your delusional little heart!), you may want to click away now. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I didn't set out to be one of those "crunchy" moms. You know, the breastfeeding, baby-wearing, co-sleeping, organic-eating, Birkenstock-sandal non-armpit-shaving type?

I mean, I don't even own a pair of Birks, y'all. And I do shave my armpits on a regular basis.*

*And by "regular basis" I mean whenever the pit hair starts to snake out conspicuously from beneath my sleeve.

But the breastfeeding, the co-sleeping ... I do that. Not because of any strong convictions, necessarily (if you give your kids formula or Jack Daniels or whatever, I'm not hatin') but just because it's been what has worked for my kids.

So until last week, Coby, my two year old, had literally never slept in his own bed ... eh-ver. He has slept in my arms and under my covers and with his feet in my hair and his butt in my face since he was a newborn. But seeing as we've got another newborn on the way in just a few short weeks, who will likely also sleep in our bed (oh my gawd two more years!!), we figured it was time to give Coby a boost in the direction of his own room. So we set him up with a cool new "big boy bed" and a cowboy picture on the wall and an awesome rug and new comforter and all the sweet perks of independent sleeping. And he was excited. And so were Mommy and Daddy! Bed to ourselves if you don't count the multiple dogs and cats for the win!!

The first night went down like a dream. I mean, it was smooooooth sailing. We put him to sleep in his new bed and he didn't move a muscle until 6:30 the next morning. Then the next night, he woke up once, but only once - so I was still optimistic. But then the next night ... he woke up two or three times. And the next, five or six. And so it's been. And guess which lucky parent gets to heave her gargantuan pregnant arse out of bed and haul him back to his own?

Yeah. Yours truly.

Last night was an epic big-boy-bed fail, with me leaving the comfort of my bed to lead him back to his no fewer than eight or nine times during the night. He never cries or protests, but I can't leave him until he actually goes back to sleep or he'll just get right back up and follow me. So I totter on the edge of this teeny-tiny twin bed, waiting impatiently to hear his little snore.

It's maddening, y'all.

It was during one of these dragging-Coby-back-to-bed sessions that I (deliriously) came up with the following. I'm sure you've heard by now of the best adult-children's-book ever, "Go the F**k to Sleep" by Adam Mansbach? (If you haven't, do yourself a solid and pick it up for a good laugh. It's hilarious.) Anyway, this is a poem inspired by that classic piece of literature ... and I call it, "Stay the F**k in Your Own Bed." Mr. Mansbach, if you're reading this, I'm available to write a sequel. Call me.

*ahem*

It's 8:30, and you're getting sleepy,
The books have already been read.
We've done kisses, hugs, prayers, and tuck-ins;
Time to stay the f**k in your own bed.

The room is all darkened and cozy,
You've a pillow just right for your head.
Your blankets are so soft and snuggly, my dear,
So stay the f**k in your own bed.

I know that you like to be cuddled,
And you'd rather be with us instead.
You just don't know the value of having some space
Now just stay the f**k in your own bed.

Your silence makes mommy sleep soundly;
But your footsteps, they fill me with dread.
Because I know that means getting up, yet again,
PLEASE stay the f**k in your own bed!

12:30 ... you don't need a juice box.
1:20 ... you don't need to be fed.
2:12 ... yes I know you want to sleep with us ...
But stay the f**k in your own bed!!

Looky here, kid - your room is so awesome,
A sweet setup, brand new, blue and red;
What's so great about our bed? Sagging mattress, old box springs?
Stay the f**k in your own awesome bed!

Sometimes I just want to say "screw it,"
And give in, and forget what I said,
But each parenting expert I call on proclaims,
"Get that kid the f**k back to his bed!"

I know that someday, it'll work out,
I'll be able to sleep like the dead.
But before that day comes, I'll be up every hour
'Til you STAY THE F**K IN YOUR OWN BED!!!

People with Housekeepers Have It Maid

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 04 May 2012 15:24:00 +0000

My house is never cleaner than it is right before I'm about to have a baby. I'm not talking about your standard dusting and vacuuming and mopping; I'm talking about an all-out, floor-to-ceiling scrubdown.

I hate to use the term "nesting" (if you've been around for a while, you'll know how much I dislike that word). I prefer to call it "the uncontrollable urge to get the joint super-clean before we have company so they'll be under the impression that it always looks this way." Because infants? They don't care so much about whether the inside of your microwave is splattered with some kind of unidentifiable orange crust. Or how dusty your ceiling fans are even though you just cleaned them like ~~four months~~ a few weeks ago. But along with infants come houseguests - especially when, like ours, your extended families live in another state. And I don't want any of those houseguests to come along and be all, "Oh my gosh. I was going to warm up this cup of tea but just look at this microwave ..."

So I've been making my (huge, waddly) way through the house, gradually attending to the stuff that hardly ever gets attention. Rearranging closets. Scrubbing out the insides of trash cans. Bleaching shower curtain liners. Washing shower curtains. Washing window curtains. Cleaning the aforementioned orange crust out of the microwave. Polishing light fixtures. Wiping down the top of the fridge. Disinfecting my silverware drawer. (I know. That's probably bordering on excessive.)

I've been standing on chairs and counters for days. My shoulders ache from constant scrubbing and reaching motions. And it's maddening. Because I see a spot of dirt, or a cobweb, and I must get it. It becomes an obsession. And y'all? We have cathedral ceilings in some places in our house. *groan*

I wish I could stop. But it's a mission. A quest. (And, okay, a mild form of insanity.) Yesterday, I started washing the walls ... all of them.

You don't fully realize how grubby your walls are (or is it just mine?) until you start cleaning them. And then once you start cleaning them, you can't stop because check this out:

See the difference? It took a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (extra-strong!) to make me realize that holy balls my walls are filthy! Ugh!

I mean, yeah, we've lived here for nearly five years and I've never actually cleaned them before. But still. Who cleans walls?

Oh yeah, me. When I'm pregnant.

Since this is my last baby, they may never be clean again.

Marvel at my Superior Parenting Skillz

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 03 May 2012 13:32:00 +0000

Photo from MyBadParent.com

So ... I just rolled my four-year-old's finger up in the car window. And then? I went kinda temporarily blank when he started screeching and froze for like three seconds because I didn't want to push the button the wrong way and roll it up more.

I know.

In all fairness, I've told him a bazillion times not to put his fingers there in case of just such an event. And did he listen to me? Obviously not.

It isn't broken, not swollen, just a little bruised ... at least so far. But still. I feel terrible about it.

I rushed him in the house and thrust a bag of frozen peas at him. "Here, Cameron!" I said. "Put this on your finger!" Because frozen peas are, like, high-grade first-aid equipment. (I'm pretty sure they carry them on ambulances.) Then I sat him on the couch and turned on some brightly-colored kids' show and soothed him with a cookie.

Because yesterday, when he had a fever? He told me that the only thing that sounded good to eat were "some of Mommy's delicious cookies." And how could I have resisted that kind of sweetness? Plus I wanted some cookies.

So we have cookies. And right now, my kids are sitting on the couch, shoveling cookie into their faces, watching a cartoon, with one of them nursing his poor mangled finger back to health on a bag of frozen peas.

I should have told him yesterday, "I know cookies sound good, but they aren't very good for your body, especially when you're sick. Let's eat orange slices instead!" But he was so sweet and pitiful, asking about them. And I totally wanted cookies too.

I should have looked into the back seat to ensure that nobody's fingers/other body parts (because with my boys this is totally possible) were going to get rolled up in the window. But I was in a hurry to roll up the windows as soon as we pulled into the garage because, well, thanks to the trash and the dog and cat food and all the other musty crap we store in there, the garage has this lingering funk and I didn't want it to permeate my Jeep's pristine* interior.

*And by "pristine" I mean there are only a few stale French fries and old receipts and crumbs and used sucker sticks and fortune cookies and Legos and toy cars.

I should have properly doctored his finger with, like, a real live ice pack and elevation and compression and whatever else a nicely prepared mother would have. But I have frozen peas. I don't know what has become of my ice packs. They must have gone off to the faraway land which houses all the socks and spoons that also mysteriously disappear.

I should have turned on an educational program that would teach them about, like, the solar system or how to add and subtract. But instead I turned on something that was all, "Boink!" and "Zoing!" and "Wheeee!"

Also? I might as well get it all out now: I didn't comb anybody's hair this morning except for Colin's, because he was the only one who'll be seen in public. And they requested omelets for breakfast, but I gave them cereal. And it wasn't bran flakes or Cheerios ... it was Cookie Crisp.

*hides face*

Mother of the year right here, y'all.

Formerly-Infertile Myrtle

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 01 May 2012 14:19:00 +0000

It's May. Oh my goodness. That means that by the end of this month - the 31st at the very latest - I'll be holding my newest (and last, sniff sniff) little man in my arms instead of in my grotesquely bulging abdomen.

Seeing as this is my last pregnancy, I'm really trying to enjoy it ... but, y'all? I can't sleep. I can't walk without feeling like a wishbone about to split in half. I can't climb four stairs without huffing and puffing. I'm hot and sweaty all the time. I have like two shirts left that still (kinda) cover my belly. And I'm getting the looks every time I go out in public - not to mention the comments. Literally everywhere I go, I'm asked a.) if there's more than one baby in there or b.) if I'm overdue. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

There isn't. And I'm not. I'm just huge, okay? Sheesh.

But when I feel extra-complainy (that is totally a word, by the way), I think about the years I spent wishing - more than anything in the world - that I could experience this. I think about the despair and desperation when, each month, for years on end, I wasn't pregnant yet again. The feeling of isolation when it seemed like everyone else was. The searing, involuntary jealousy every time I'd see a baby bump. The frustration at not being able to do what, as a woman, my body was designed to do. The inability to attend a baby shower, or even walk through the baby section of a store, without mourning something I thought I'd never be able to have. The sting of the well-meaning but hurtful comments and suggestions like, "Just relax," and "All my husband has to do is look at me and I get pregnant, har har."

Every month, I was pumped full of fertility-assisting drugs and monitored and poked and prodded in places that most women only have to expose to their doctors once a year. The bend of my right arm bears a permanent scar from the sheer volume of blood draws I underwent to check my hormone levels. I had exploratory surgery and injected syringes of medication into my abdomen on a daily basis. My brain, my emotions, sometimes felt like PMS times a thousand. My privacy and dignity, and my husband's, were handed to the fertility specialist on a sterilized stainless-steel tray as he tried to do in his office what most people can accomplish in their bedroom (or, you know, the couch).

And I prayed, ceaselessly. And I hoped, fervently, with every fiber of my being. And I thought about it all the time. And every month, I went through hell ... only to look down at a pregnancy test with one stark, lonely line; a cruel visual confirmation of my body's repeated failure. It was a crushing blow, equally hard each time. But every time I thought I couldn't take another poke or jab or comment or baby shower invitation or negative test, I thought about the purpose - my sole reason for going through all this in the first place - the chance to have a child.

Now I'm one of those women who, theoretically, could brag about my fertility. I mean, I'm about to give birth to my fourth child ... whose presence, although as joyous as any of the others, wasn't exactly planned. I never in a million years expected to be in this position, and I don't know how it happened. Not the pregnancy (I'm pretty sure I know exactly how that happened) but the fact that I could get pregnant at all after everything that we went through. The fact that my slow-learning body just happened to "get it" one day and was like, "Oh. So this is how you do it." No explanation has ever been offered, no solutions ever found. There was never a magic key, nothing I did that suddenly allowed me to get pregnant.

But however it happened, whatever miraculously "clicked" ... I have what I wanted most. Our amazing, beautiful, wonderful sons ... and one more to add to the mix in a matter of weeks.

So while I may be uncomfortable (and just as I typed that, I felt a tiny knee or elbow or foot scrape painfully against my bladder), I can't complain. Not really. Not legitimately. Not when there are countless women (and their partners) out there who would give anything - everything - to experience this. All of it. The simple physical discomfort I'm going through is laughable compared to the suffering they're feeling, every day, every week, throughout the whole never-ending cycle. Because I know that at the end of all this, I'll be holding a baby.

And they don't have the luxury of knowing that.

And that's the worst part of all.

If you know someone who's having trouble conceiving, hug them extra tightly as soon as you can. Offer no advice. Don't try to console, only commiserate. Just be a shoulder if they need one to cry on. And if you're pregnant, or can get pregnant without effort, or can tuck your kids in at night and watch them as they sleep peacefully ... be sure to count your blessings. Today and every day.

She Doesn't Dare

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 14:05:00 +0000

Sometimes marketing totally annoys me. If you're surprised at that, you must not have read this post. (Or this one, this one, this one, or this one.)

And the latest commercial for Pantene shampoo is no exception.

I don't see many commercials any more unless they air during children's programming. I sometimes watch a little bit of TV while the kids nap, but it's always Jerry Springer (er, I mean, documentaries) and the commercials during that are always for lawyers or online universities. But last night I was flipping through the channels after the boys went to bed, when I caught this Pantene anti-breakage shampoo commercial featuring Eva Mendes.

Now, Eva Mendes is a glamorous actress and spokesmodel. A famous chick. We all know she be makin' some bank. So it irritated the ever-living piss out of me when I heard her say something along the lines of this:

"They dared me to try this shampoo."

Seriously, Eva Mendes? You want us to believe that we're seeing you onscreen, hawking the Pantene shampoo that you'd probably turn your nose up at actually buying, because they dared you to try it? What, did the Pantene peeps just contact you like, "Hey Eva, we've got a new shampoo, and we dare you to use it and then be on a commercial about it!"

That's the kind of stuff that happens to people like me, an underpaid blogger who gets emails like, "Please blog about how awesome our product is and include five pictures and ten links to our website. On your main page. And we'll give you THREE WHOLE DOLLARS!"

I don't go for that crap, and neither would Eva-freaking-Mendes.

Nothing else about the commercial stood out to me. Not the amazing anti-breakage properties of the shampoo. Not how glorious and thick and luscious her hair looked. But the fact that she was saying she was "dared" to use this product. I think I'd have been more inclined to buy it if she was like, "Hey, they paid me thousands of dollars to say how awesome this shampoo is! I wouldn't know, because nothing but salon products touch my gorgeous tresses, but it's only like five bucks so if you don't like it at least you didn't spend that much."

Maybe I should chalk it up to pregnancy hormones and general all-around irritability, but Eva Mendes saying she used the shampoo "on a dare" is like Bill Gates saying he has "a few dollars" or the Octomom saying "my methods of conception/boobs/lips are natural": a complete exaggeration.

I think I need a nap.

Sweaty Pits, Trails of Turds, and Mama Bears

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 14:16:00 +0000

You know how sometimes you've just got random stuff to say and none of it will fit neatly into a cohesive and well-formatted blog post ~~or you're just too lazy to think that hard~~? Well, that's why today's post is kinda all over the place. Bullet-pointed for your reading pleasure.

- It was 80 degrees here in Iowa yesterday. I walked (okay, waddled) around perpetually pit-stained and sweating in places where only somebody's fat grandpa should sweat. Yet by Saturday? It's supposed to be like 49 degrees. What the eff, Midwestern weather? I should be used to these ridiculous temperature fluctuations, having been born and predominantly raised in this general region, but holy crapola. Don't mess around with me like that, Mother Nature, especially while I'm pregnant.

- Speaking of pregnant. I went to the doctor yesterday. I'm 35 weeks with a GARGANTUAN belly (seriously, y'all) and I was sincerely hoping the doctor would be like, "Oh my goodness! Let's just get that baby on out of there because obviously he weighs like nineteen pounds by now."

See what I mean? I took this one two weeks ago. And believe it or not, there's been significant belly gain just in those two weeks. Ugh!

Anyway, so I went to the doctor. First I saw an intern, who measured me and then got all frowny and checked my chart and measured me again and was like, "Wow, you have big babies, don't you? Oh, and they get bigger each time?! Har har har." And then I saw my actual doctor who measured me yet again - for good measure, I guess (insert laugh track here) - and he literally said, "Whoa, that's a huge baby. Well, see you in two weeks!"

Meanwhile, I feel like I'm about to split in half and everywhere I go, people think I'm either a.) about to give birth on the floor or b.) shoplifting. How the hell am I supposed to last another month? The baby is gaining like a pound a week. Where am I going to put another four pounds of baby?! If you read a news story about an expectant mother just exploding, you can be all, "Hey, I know that girl!"

- Coby is potty training like a CHAMP. I could not be more thrilled. Since I wrote about it last (oh my exciting life!) he is pretty much using the toilet 95% of the time ... on his own. Meaning I don't have to take him and manually place him on the throne 9,855 times a day. This is working out beautifully as long as he isn't wearing pants. I know that eventually I will have to get the child dressed from the waist down, but I'm hoping that by the time we need to go anywhere for more than an hour at a time, he'll be enough in the habit to stay dry.

Just a minute ago, I heard him messing with the toilet, so I went to see what he was doing. There was a turd trail from the boys' bedroom, a huge smear on the toilet seat, and his tiny little rear-end was covered with poo - but there was some in the actual toilet, so I count that as a success! Woohooo! I've just got to keep a positive attitude about it: while I'm cleaning up the kid with baby wipes and the mess with Clorox wipes, I keep repeating to myself two kids in diapers. Two kids in diapers. Two kids in diapers. It could be worse!

- Remember the other day when I blogged about Colin's suspiciously changed behavior at school (read it here)? Well, Curtis and I have an appointment to meet with his teacher on Friday. But yesterday, even though Colin had nothing but a smiley face in his daily report, he came out of school telling us that he'd been sent to the office at lunchtime for something that another kid did. He was pretty upset about it, so Curtis called the school to clarify what had happened. Long story short, the lunchroom monitor straight-up admitted to my husband that she had sent Colin to the office instead of the other boy because the other boy is confrontational and Colin is not.*

*bolded and italicized so the ridiculousness of that statement can truly sink in

EXCUSE ME?? You dumped my kid's lunch tray in the trash and sent him to sit out the rest of lunch in the office because you didn't want to deal with a confrontation from the kid who caused the problem??

I'm furious about this. And the school hasn't heard the last of it. Tell me, before I make an utter ass of myself: am I overreacting, Mama-bear style, or is this actually as infuriating as I think it is?

- Curtis went to the store for peanut butter and brought home Peter Pan All-Natural. Normally I love me some Peter Pan (I guess I'm not such a "choosy mom" since I don't choose JIF), but this variety is DRY as a BONE. OMG. I took a bite off a spoon and it took me like fifteen minutes to swallow.

Okay. I think that's all. Random enough for ya?

Bribery is a Dirty Business

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 13:28:00 +0000

My boys are decently-behaved when we go to the store ... most of the time. But once in a while, due to a delayed dinner or a put-off naptime, someone is a little extra cranky. And that's when bribery comes in handy.

Which is why I'm all about the Target "Dollar Spot," y'all. No, this is not a sponsored post. Target did not contact me like, "Hey Rita, why don't you give our cheap items a little plug on your super-awesome blog?" (Although Target people, if you're reading this ... haaaaaay.) I just like that particular section of their store because, hello, cheap items? They should have just named it the "Perfect-for-Behavioral-Bribery" section because I'm sure I'm not the only parent out there who uses it for such purposes.

The dudes know that this doesn't happen every time, and that they'd better keep their ever-yapping mouths shut and be good whether they're getting anything or not. But I figure sometimes it's okay to preface a shopping trip with, "If you use your best manners and best behavior the whole time, you may each have a dollar to spend when we're finished."

It's amazing how much kids adore even the most ridiculous of little trinkets. Case in point: the stuff that the boys chose after our Target shopping excursion yesterday. Colin picked out a Sesame Street coloring and activity book, so he could use it to play school and pass out "worksheets" to his little brothers (he's kind of in perpetual nerd-mode, which is fine with me). Coby picked out a big watergun, which actually rang up at $2.50 (grrr). He calls it his "shotgun" and stalks around the house with it "shooting deers." (I swear, I didn't know "redneck" was an inborn trait until I birthed this child.) And Cameron? Well, he picked this:

I'm not sure what it is, exactly. A dog? A hedgehog? A hippopotamus with back hair? All I know is that it didn't even have a price tag. It's squishy and kind of sticky and filthy. And as hard as I tried to get Cameron to pick something else out ("Look! Your brother's getting a watergun! Look! There's a Scooby Doo book!"), he stubbornly clung to this pitiful, grungy hippo-dog-a-mus as if it was some sort of priceless treasure.

When we got to the checkout, the lady looked at it and was all, "Umm, was this something you brought into the store?"

Nope. It's just a dirty bribe. Literally.

Cameron calls it his "Adventure Pug." (WTF?) He loves the stupid thing so much that he slept with it last night. I feel like dousing his entire body with hand sanitizer and burning his sheets. I mean, who knows what ickiness lurks on Adventure Pug's slightly-tacky rubber surface? Ewww.

Adventure Pug: $1
Hand sanitizer: $1.50
A child's (inexplicable) love for his dirty Dollar-Spot treasure: priceless

I Put the "Pro" in "Procrastination"

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 14:27:00 +0000

I'd usually be teaching Zumba on a Friday morning, but I've taken my official leave until this mammoth infant vacates my uterus (five weeks - if that - in case anyone besides me is counting). And honestly, it's nice to have a break from teaching. Nobody would ever tell me this to my face, but I'm pretty sure I was looking like Humpty Dumpty up there. And instructing Zumba requires a certain swivel that my increasingly-immobile midsection just won't allow. Darned baby. I'm pretty proud of myself though - I mean, I managed to teach six classes a week until I was eight months pregnant. (Eight classes a week throughout my entire yucky first trimester!) So I think it's a pretty well-earned break.

If I could, I would probably lay in bed all day surrounded by a fort of pillows and watch horrible TV while wearing nothing but a Snuggie. But. I can't do anything close to that, because there's still the matter of these three boys I have to take care of, and oh yeah, a household to keep working like a well-oiled machine.

So while I'm on break, I'm going to do a few things that really need to be done. Namely:

#1: Clean out my closets and cabinets so that when my mother comes she thinks I'm always this tidy.
Here's the thing about my mother: she's a neat freak. Go to her house on any given day - do a surprise drop-by, even - and I guarantee you'll find nary a dust bunny under the bed or crumb on the countertop. Open her linen closet and you'll see stacks of neatly folded towels and sheets. Her drawers? Not a single thing left unfolded or crumpled and stuffed in. And though she would never say a word about it, I know she'd be secretly horrified at the state of my closets and stuff. Here's why:

Yeah. And this is after I organized it like two months ago - but the kids play in there (apparently vacuum attachments make great guns). I'm not even going to show you my bedroom closet because every time I open the door, I risk a crap-avalanche. Just picture my linen closet, but like ten (okay, twenty) times worse. It's because I don't have a dresser, and everything that gets folded and stacked on the closet shelf ends up toppling over and we just sift through it. (Also: I'm lazy.)

Mom, I know you're probably going to read this, and I know you're going to graciously say, "Don't worry about it! You've got more important things to do!" But I can't help thinking about the horror that would creep through you upon seeing the behind-the-doors messes. It would be traumatic, and I love you too much to subject your delicate, tidy sensibilities to that kind of torture.

#2: Potty train Coby so that I won't have two kids in diapers ... again.
For those of you who've been reading The Frump in the nearly three years since Coby was born (sniff, sniff ... where did my baby go?!), you may remember that I over-eagerly tried to potty train Cameron before his baby brother came along, resulting in this. And then, regrettably, this.

The thing was, I was sooooo scared of having two children simultaneously in diapers that I overlooked the fact that Cameron was one and a half, and just not ready to be potty trained. And it totally freaking backfired. And I ended up with two children simultaneously in diapers ... for like a year. Blah!

But I think we can do it with Coby. He'll be three in September, and he seems to be aware of his bodily functions. Although he's at that frustrating point where he'll only pee and poop in the big boy potty if a.) he is physically taken there and plopped onto the toilet, and b.) he's naked from the waist down. But we went through this same phase with Cameron at one point, and as I recall, it wasn't too long before he had it down. So. I've got a month to do this. Surely I can get it done in a month, right?

... Right??

*sigh*

#3: Make my children totally independent so that I don't have as much to do when the baby comes.
I'm only sort of kidding here. I know that at six, four, and two, they're not quite old enough to like completely take care of themselves ... but I have this case of cold feet when it comes to taking care of four kids. Specifically: OMG how the hell am I going to do this? So I've been taking steps to get them in the habit of doing things for themselves. I'm letting Colin pour his own milk sometimes (cringe). I'm letting Cameron and Coby walk into the grocery store together, holding hands so nobody makes a break for it, instead of carrying Coby which is far easier at this point. I'm making them put their own plates in the dishwasher after every meal. Sometimes things like this aren't always easy, and they lead to more messes for now - but the way I figure it, I'd rather have an extra mess to clean up now than when I have an infant vying for my attention.

So anyway. That's my plan for my Zumba hiatus. Anybody wanna take bets on how much of it will actually be accomplished?

Oh, Behave!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 14:02:00 +0000

I just don't flipping get it.

Do you ever feel like your oldest kid is a glorified guinea pig? Like the poor child is subjected to all your mistakes and missteps and poor parenting judgments, all your moments of "duh, what do I do now?" and all the things you do before you realize hey, that was a terrible idea? I hate that feeling. I figured it would get easier with time ... that, since Curtis and I have been parenting Colin for nearly seven years now, we'd feel more confident. More secure in the decisions we make on his behalf.

But, uh ... we don't. Or at least, I don't.

Y'all remember this post? In a nutshell, I was griping about the seemingly-endless stream of negative notes Colin was bringing home from school in his daily planner. Seriously, almost every day there was something different from someone different: the art teacher. The gym teacher. The music teacher. The classroom teacher. The recess monitors. The lunchroom monitors. Colin wasn't following procedures. Colin was bothering other students. Colin was using inappropriate language (seriously, they called us in for an emergency middle-of-the-day parent-teacher meeting because he said "chicken poop." WTF!). I dreaded opening his planner, like, "Who's hating on my kid today?" I felt like a horrible parent because they obviously felt that my son was the "bad seed." I felt deeply sad because I know he isn't a bad seed, and they just didn't know the Colin that we know. I felt confused, because we'd tried everything from punishments to positive reinforcements.

And still nothing changed. Note after note.

And then Curtis went to the school and talked with several of Colin's teachers, and the principal. He told them what we've been telling them for eons - that if they'd give Colin more of a challenge, he'd likely fall into line. He told them we were frustrated with his behavior and with the bad reports, and mentioned that we were seriously considering homeschooling him.

He said their response was surprising. Like, "Oh no, we'd hate to see Colin leave, we love him so much, he's just a little sweetheart, he's so interesting to talk to!"

My response when he told me that was, "Huh?" I mean, if he's such a sweetheart, if they love him so dearly, then why the negative notes home every day? I just didn't get it.

And now there's something else I don't get.

Since that meeting? There have been NO NOTES. None. It's been almost a month. Colin gets a smiley face in his planner every day. He has been bringing home small prizes, like a mini-Slinky and a curly straw, for good behavior. The art teacher, the music teacher, the gym teacher, the lunchroom ladies ... they're all silent. No "Colin was doing this" or "Colin wasn't doing that" or "Please remind Colin of blah blah blah."

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I'm not sure I get it. Nothing has changed at home as far as the way we deal with Colin. He is the same kid here that he's always been. He's bringing home the same homework and still complaining that it's too easy (and it is). Yet he's done a total 180 at school and gone from the kid they loved to gripe about d-a-i-l-y to the kid whose behavior is so good it merits a prize?

Why? What's going on?

Any theories? Because I have no idea. Were they seriously that afraid of losing him (and if so, why in the heck?) that they stopped the notes because they don't want us to pull him out of school next year? Are they keeping his bad behaviors to themselves because they thought we were complaining about the volume of notes? Did they realize that things like saying "chicken poop" aren't really that big of a deal and back off? Or has he really made this miraculous transformation? And if so, what the heck happened?!

We thought we had come up with a good solution for next year. There's a school here in our district that they're making into multi-age classrooms, where the kids advance at their own pace - which we feel would be perfect for Colin. But now that he seems to have renewed enthusiasm for his school - and they seem to have renewed enthusiasm for him - is it a good idea to transfer him?

It's all so effing confusing. I think he left his instruction manual inside my uterus when he came out.

I'm emailing his teacher today to set up a meeting. We've got to go down there and find out what in the h-e-double-hockeysticks is the deal with this abrupt (and unnerving, and weird) change. I guess I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, but it seems fishy.

One, Two, Punch!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 14:44:00 +0000

My friends from Zumba are throwing me a baby shower this Sunday (awww!), and I'm not gonna lie - I am super stoked. Because everybody assumes that since I already have three boys, and am expecting a fourth, I've already got everything I need. But, y'all? Nothing could be further from the truth. Once your stuff goes through three kids - three destructive, hole-ripping, stainy boys at that - it's pretty much toast. In fact, I haven't needed this much new baby stuff since, well, the first time I had a baby nearly seven years ago. So I'm definitely excited.

I know the concept of a shower is that the mother-to-be is supposed to just sit back and be the guest of honor, but I can't. I've never been comfortable with having much of a fuss made over me. Like at my wedding, when "The Wedding March" started playing and I began my trek down the aisle and everybody stood up, I wasn't thinking of my handsome groom at the altar ... I was thinking, "Oh my gosh, please sit down, it's just me."

Anyway, because I felt I had to do something for my shower, I volunteered to supply the punch. Because, you see, I am directly descended from a master punch-maker. My grandma Sibyl made punch for every wedding reception, shower, birthday party, Bible school, and random festive occasion that took place in our small town. Seriously, the woman kept supplies on hand, because at least once a month she was asked to contribute some of the delicious slushy punch she was famous for. I had it at my wedding shower, my reception, my baby shower, and my children's birthday parties.

So I figured it was only fitting that I just, you know, whip up a quick batch for this shower.

I thought it would be easy. I have the recipe. I can follow a recipe.

But if your grandma is anything like mine was, you know that grandmas tend to just know things, and they don't always write them down because they just assume you'll know them too. Like, for example, whether the "two boxes of Jell-O" the recipe calls for are the little boxes or the big boxes. And, uh, what flavor they're supposed to be.

At times like these, I desperately wish I could call Grandma and be like, "Old woman, what the heck do you mean by 'two boxes of Jell-O?' Be more specific!" But she went to heaven three years ago next month, and I can't phone her up with my silly questions any more.

So I forged ahead with the small boxes. The recipe instructed me to boil them with some water and sugar, so that's what I did. Only, oh noooo ... what was this pink scummy-looking stuff crusting along the edges of the pot? Was that supposed to be there? I whisked it. The scum disappeared. All was safe.

A half-cup of lemon juice, the recipe said. Only I didn't have bottled lemon juice. So I had to squeeze fresh lemons. Dang, it takes a lot of lemons to produce a half-cup of juice. And ouch, I didn't realize I had so many hangnails until I got all this lemon juice in them. And then once I got the juice squeezed, I had to strain out the seeds and most of the pulp and make sure it was - OMFG the pot is boiling over!!!

Boiled-over Jell-O and sugar splashed across the stovetop is not my friend.

But at least the gelatin was dissolved.

I stirred in the hard-earned half-cup of lemon juice, and then consulted the recipe again. Four cups of cold water - I could do that. Two 46-ounce cans of pineapple juice ... got 'em.

But oh, crap. My pot wasn't big enough. I don't have a pot in this house that was big enough.

So I divided the boiled Jell-O mixture in half between two pots, and put a can of pineapple juice in each. Crisis averted. But then? I had to figure out how to get it into the empty juice bottles I planned to freeze it in. So I dipped in a measuring cup and used it to pour the punch mix into the narrow bottle openings, making a HUGE mess in the process. There was more punch on the stove. Punch dripping down the sides of the measuring cup. Punch dripping down the sides of the juice bottle. A big red ring of punch on the recipe card. Several big red rings of punch staining my kitchen counter. I said some words I'm certain my grandma never used while she was making punch. And then?

I realized with dismay that my two little juice bottles weren't going to hold it all. Well, piss.

Grandma, she had some plastic gallon-sized ice cream buckets that she always used to freeze her concentrated punch. I had no such thing. Luckily, all I needed was one extra juice bottle, and I had a nearly-full one in my fridge. I poured the juice into a pitcher, washed the bottle out, and filled it with the remainder of the punch. Success!

Then I realized that I hadn't actually tasted it, and what if I used the wrong proportions of something and it was nasty? So I frantically tipped the pot up to my lips and drained the last drops of it into my mouth. As soon as the sweetness hit my tongue, I was flooded with both relief, and memories of showers and parties and occasions gone by. It was just like Grandma used to make.

Only, you know, more of a mess.

Now as long as the bottles don't explode in the freezer, we'll be good to go. I hope everybody likes punch ...

I Hate Late

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 14:12:00 +0000

I'm a fairly prompt person. I like to be on time ... and even a little bit early, if possible. Which is why Colin has never been late in his two years of public school education.

... Which is why this morning, I took him to school in my pajamas, with glasses and uncombed hair, and two little brothers who were dressed in jeans and shirts but coatless-and-shoeless-in-under-forty-degree-weather. (Parent of the year right here, y'all.)

What?? We weren't getting out of the car. At least Colin was seasonally appropriate, with his hair combed and shoes tied and jacket on and stuff. And at least he wasn't late, like he would've been if I had taken time to put on things like shoes and jackets and bras.

I swear, I woke up in time. Six o'clock, I was lying awake in bed. And with my typical morning routine, I can even get out of bed at 7:00 (not that I ever get to, mind you) and still make it out the door by 7:50. But for some reason this morning everything just conspired against me. I walked into the living room and nearly stumbled into a puddle of pee on the carpet. I believe it came from the pug, but who knows? Anything is possible. So I had to remedy that. And then deal with the fact that Coby had managed to keep his Pull-Up dry overnight, but pooped in it immediately upon waking up. Blah. (Yeah, potty training is going phenomenally, thanks.) Changing a poopy Pull-Up is not like changing a poopy diaper. They're not equipped to handle such disasters.

Then Colin wanted his waffles cut up like his brothers, which he never does. In fact, he usually gets mad if I cut them up. But he has a loose tooth, and it's sore, and I should have remembered our exchange from yesterday's breakfast ...

Colin: It's kind of hard to chew on my right side because I have a wiggly tooth.
Me: So chew on your left side.
Colin: ... but I'm right-handed.

????

So anyway, the extra cutting-up-of-waffles took another chunk out of my time budget this morning. And then Colin's button-up shirt needed a quick ironing.

While I was ~~burning the piss out of myself with the blasted steam setting~~ ironing, I told Colin to go ahead and get his pants and shoes and socks on. Which is what I thought he was doing. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him, and he was asking me a million and one questions about why irons use steam and why steam makes things wet and did I know he saw a real live leech at school? I answered his questions as quickly and dismissively as possible, interspersing them with, "Colin. I hope you're getting dressed while you're doing all this talking."

Guess what? He wasn't. So I had done all this ironing, which took like eight minutes, and he was still standing in the living room pantsless.

And sockless. And shoeless. And with his hair sticking up in ten different directions. And with two naked little brothers, and a braless and pajama-clad mother. And we had, like, four minutes to make it out the door.

I swear, if I'd had access to a cattle prod this morning I probably would have used it. A dawdly child (or three) is the enemy of the morning routine. And no threat of, "You're going to be late for school!" seemed to faze anybody ... at all.

Even when we got to school, Colin lingered incessantly in the car while I "dropped him off." (Pushed him out, is more like it.) He had to give his brothers hugs and kisses. He had to put his backpack on his back instead of carrying it. He had to ask a ton of the random questions Colin is famous (or perhaps infamous?) for. I seriously felt like opening his door, giving him the boot, and speeding away.

But I didn't, because I'd already reached my bad-mom quota for the morning, what with the underdressed children in the back seat. So I patiently but firmly let him know that there would be no more talking, that he had to get out of the car. And he did.

With one minute to spare.

Thank goodness nothing happened on the way back home ... no breakdowns or fender-benders. Because a late slip from school, we could handle. But an accident while braless in public? I shudder to think. (... And probably, so would everybody else.)

To the First-Time Moms ...

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 15:05:00 +0000

I don't usually shell out unsolicited advice. But to anyone reading who's pregnant with her first child?

ENJOY IT. Enjoy it like crazy. And then enjoy it some more, for those of us who don't have the luxury.

And trust me, it is a luxury.

Oh sure, you may be sick or swollen like a blimp or feel like you've been kicked in the crotch or are sprouting weird hairs in unfortunate places. I don't mean you have to enjoy that. But, y'all? Savor the fact that you still have the ability to do something about it; this is largely confined to your first pregnancy, unless you have a devoted house-husband to tend to your every need and whim (and if so, I hate you).

If you're swollen, you can sit down and put your feet up for a while without having to worry about someone - or multiple someones - climbing all over you like a jungle gym (or needing help with something in the other room the second your butt touches the couch). Those hairs? You can lock yourself in the bathroom with some wax for as long as it takes, without worrying that someone is sprinkling sugar all over your kitchen or pooping in an unacceptable location. If you're sick? You can get in the bed, alone, or at least hang over the toilet without hearing, "Mommy! Mommy, are you throwing up? Mommy, can I watch?" Perhaps exhaustion is your problem? Then going to bed at 6:30 is your prerogative ... no waiting until baths and homework are complete and Scooby Doo is over or it's "dark enough" outside. Too tired to cook? Then don't! There's no one in your house unable to feed him or herself ... yet! Not one iota of bad-mom guilt to worry about!

I remember being pregnant with Colin, seven long years ago, and doing things like napping on the couch and eating cookies for dinner just because that's what I wanted. Now those things seem like a faraway dream. I've got stuff to do that just can't be neglected unless I want Child Protective Services knocking at my door. Like feeding my kids (relatively) balanced meals and providing them with clean clothes and basic hygiene, since for the most part they're all too young to do any of that themselves. And helping Colin get ready for school and stuff. And refereeing brotherly squabble after brotherly squabble. It doesn't matter if I've had five hours of spotty sleep and feel hung over and look like somebody's grandpa.

So. If you're expecting your first child? SAVOR THE EXPERIENCE. At no other time will you be able to take care of yourself the way you can right now. Each pregnancy will get progressively more tiring, and there won't be a damn thing you can do about it.

... Except take to your blog and complain bitterly. Not that I'd know anything about that. ;)

Pre-Easter Feasting

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 13:35:00 +0000

Don't worry, my pretties, you're safe ... it's the chocolate I'm after.

Sometime last week, my husband came home with a bag of Easter candy. "This isn't everything I want to get for the Easter baskets," he said, "but at least we've got a head start." And he put it in the closet, hidden from the boys.

But y'all? When there's a bag of Easter candy in my closet, I totally have to see what's in there.

And oh my word. He got chocolate.

If it had been anything else, I could have stayed out of it. In fact, the marshmallow Peeps are still in there, unopened. So are the fruity little suckers, and a couple of other unappetizing things. But ... there were caramel-filled Cadbury eggs! And mini Cadbury eggs! And Reese's peanut butter eggs! You know how I get when faced with peanut butter and chocolate. And I'm pregnant. With cravings.

You see where this is going, right?

Yesterday when we were doing some grocery shopping, I casually mentioned that we needed to finish the Easter baskets. And Curtis was all, "At least we already have the candy." And I was all, "............"

He swiveled around to face me. "We do have the candy ... right?"

"We have Peeps," I said. "And suckers. And those, like, cheap waxy chocolate coins."

"... But the caramel Cadbury eggs? The mini Cadbury eggs? The Reese's eggs?"

I hesitated.

"You didn't," Curtis said.

".... I did," I replied sheepishly. "I mean, it took a few days ..."

He sighed. Probably thinking about what a fat gluttonous cow his wife has become, what with eating all the Easter candy meant for the children and such.

When we got to the checkout counter, someone had left a six-pack of Reese's eggs randomly laying there. So I said, "Maybe we should get these, you know, to replace the ones that are ... um ... missing?"

Curtis snatched them out of my hands. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "There's still a week until Easter. We'd have to buy two more packs to replace this one by the time it actually rolls around." And then, mumbling to himself: "I need to hide the candy better next time."

He's right. It would take a ~~padlocked safe and a couple of heavily armed guards~~ good hiding place to keep me out of that crap.

A Sh*tty Surprise

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 13:48:00 +0000

So last night I was picking up toys in the boys' room. And before you get all perfect-parent on me, yes, I know they should be doing that themselves. You're probably like, "Well. My kids always clean their own rooms" as you peer disdainfully at your smudge-less screen and click the mouse with your perfectly manicured nails. You with your fixed hair and your daytime clothes on. Hmmph.

... No, I don't have a complex, why do you ask?

Anyway. Last night I was picking up the boys' toys because it was just toooooo much of a mess for me to stand around while they picked it up themselves. I don't have the patience for that crap. I want it clean, and I want it clean now, and if I had waited for the kids to do it, it would have gone something like this: throw smallest toy into toybox. Pick up one more. Play with it. Be scolded by Mom. Keep playing with it while inching painfully slowly toward the toybox. Argue because brother is in your way and because IIIIIIIII wanted to pick up that toooooooy!!! Be scolded by Mom.

... Ad infinitum.

It would have taken forever, is my point - and it was like ten minutes 'til eight and nearly bedtime. So I was ~~doing it myself~~ lending a hand just to save my own sanity. And as I was throwing things left and right into the big plastic bin in their closet, and listening to the umpteen toys talking in there - the stuffed frog that says, "That's the red circle!" and the broom that says, "I'm Sweepin' Sam!" and the truck that says, "Now that's some serious power!" and the annoying Barney banjo that just. will. not. QUIT - I made a most unpleasant discovery.

Poop.

But not just any poop. Ohhhhh, no. Not semi-petrified turds that can be easily plucked from their resting place or anything that simple. Nope. It was a bunch of droplets. A spray. As if someone had filled a mister with liquid feces and just went to town on my carpet. And it was dried.

"BOYS!" I bellowed. "How is there poop sprayed on your carpet?"

They both looked at me with blank faces. Only they weren't "I-genuinely-have-no-idea" blank ... they were "I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-know" blank. And no one said a word.

So I asked again. "How is there POOP. Sprayed on your CARPET?"

Colin was the first to crack. "I think Cameron did it!"

This would in no way surprise me, so I swiveled toward Cameron. "How did you do this?"

He paused. Then, "Um ..." he began sweetly in the tiniest little voice, "it might just be diarrhea. Maybe I just farted or something."

"You farted on your carpet?" I shrieked. "Pantsless?"

"... Or maybe it was Colin."

Colin protested, but still looked guilty. I was almost positive they both had a better idea of what had happened than they were letting on, but nobody was talking - at least not saying anything that made any sense. I got the feeling that it was some kind of collaboration, like the time Colin had convinced his brother to pee in the baby bathtub ... but seeing as it was an old crime, and the evidence was already dried onto the carpet, the statute of limitations had passed. It was a cold case, and it was nearly bedtime, and I was tired.

Plus, I wasn't even sure I really wanted to know ... ya know??

So I wearily busted out the Resolve carpet cleaner and the paper towels and went to work on the mysterious spray. But you better believe I left the rest of the toys for the boys to clean up - and they did it quickly, without protest.

I can't exactly say it was worth it, but that's one way to get them to pick up their own stuff.

The Perils of Peeing While Pregnant

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 14:04:00 +0000

In my dreams ... if I could sleep long enough to have any.

I woke up in the middle of the night ... on my back. I hate that, because anybody who's ever been pregnant knows that you're supposed to sleep on your left side. Sleeping on your back apparently hinders, like, the flow of blood and oxygen and other stuff to the baby. So when I realized I was on my back, I felt a pang of guilt and envisioned poor Corbin all glazy-eyed and slack-jawed dealing with developmental issues because his selfish back-sleeping mother deprived him of vital nutrients in utero.

After the guilt washed sufficiently over me, I realized I had to pee. But the thing is, I'm pretty big. And sleeping in a too-small bed with a big husband and a toddler who sleeps sideways and a cat or two and an occasional Labrador retriever and a pug who, despite being a small breed, sure can pin down the covers like nobody's business.

Yeah, I've got too many animals, shut up.

Anyway, when you're sleeping under those particular conditions, getting up to pee becomes a bit of a challenge. I mean, when your belly is the size of a beach ball and the heft of a bowling ball, just getting up is hard enough. It didn't help that there was a cat laying on my hair.

Once that problem was remedied, I still had to get out of bed. And I was still on my back. So I looped my hands around my right thigh for leverage and sort of rocked back and forth until I could sit up. (Think of how a turtle would get up if it were lying on its shell. You know, if a turtle could actually get up from that position unassisted.)

When I stood up, I felt a little dizzy - I guess from all that horrible horrible back-sleeping (for shame!). So I wavered around in the dark for a minute, stumbling my way toward the bathroom, tripping over a scooter and some sort of helmet and all the other crap I was too lazy to pick up last night. The baby had slid into his normal position (head or whatever part firmly planted in my bladder) which intensified the need to pee by, like, infinity. And holding your pee in is terrible when you're trying to get to a toilet and can't make it immediately. So I waddled across the floor with my knees buckled, trying to maneuver around whatever obstacles were lurking in the darkness, praying that I could reach the bathroom without a leak ... or worse.

Miraculously, I made it to the toilet without falling over or pissing myself. When I did, I was immediately accosted by cats. I don't know what it is, but I guarantee if you're wandering around my house in the middle of the night, you'll have a cat prancing around your feet like you're wearing a nightie made of fish fillets. They come out of nowhere. So on my way out of the bathroom, instead of waddling around with buckled knees, I was shuffling so as not to step on anyone.

I managed to creep back to the bed, but it was dark, and it takes my eyes like eight thousand hours to adjust to the darkness, and plus I didn't have my contacts in and y'all know how blind I am without my corrective vision. I couldn't just lay down in the bed ... ohhhhh no. Because when you vacate a spot in my bed, it fills up immediately - kind of like a footprint in really gloppy mud or sand, you know, the kind that goes away a few seconds after you leave it? I couldn't risk laying on someone because at this point I would totally squish them.

I fumbled for my phone, but couldn't feel it. Luckily it was on the charger so all I had to do was grope along the cord, starting at the wall. Turns out, the phone had somehow fallen behind the bed. So I slid my hands into the crack between the bed and the wall, huffing and puffing and searching. Disconnected the phone. Turned it on. Shined the light on the bed to assess the situation. Sure enough, Coby (the toddler) had scooted over into my spot, Thurman (the cat) was on my pillow like he wasn't just winding around my feet five seconds ago, Destiny (the pug) was laying on the covers, and Curtis (the husband) had thrust his elbow over into the spot where Coby was supposed to be.

Ugh.

So I shooed away the cat, and shoved the pug to the center of the bed, and heaved Curtis's dead-weight elbow back onto his side, and scooted Coby back into the center (pleasepleasepleasedon'tlethimwakeup) and fluffed my cat-indented pillow and retrieved the pillow that I keep between my knees and finally, finally, hefted myself back into the bed.

By that time, I was wide awake. So since I had my phone in my hand, I went ahead and checked Facebook, which made it worse. And by the time I finished looking at Facebook and could think about going back to sleep, Curtis was snoring like a freight train - I swear the bed was vibrating from the sound. So I ended up laying there awake for like an hour.

But at least I didn't have to pee.

Warm-Weather Woes

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 14:30:00 +0000

It's the first day of spring! Oh, the awesomeness! My windows are open, I can hear the birds singing (well, kind of faintly, over the noise of squabbling and Nick Jr. and the dog and the washing machine), and there are buds on the trees.*

*Ha! Speaking of buds, I totally just remembered that I dreamed about going fishing in the dark last night, and pulling out a backpack full of soggy marijuana stashed in empty paper towel rolls, and taking it with me to an Applebee's where I waited nine hours, without complaining, to be served. How random!

Anyway.

I'm so excited for the warmer weather because that means no coats! No boots! No mittens! No hats! It means just saying, "Okay guys, get in the car," and not having to stop and bundle everyone up first. Because when you have three kids with assorted sizes of outerwear, finding everyone's everything and helping put it on is a huge ~~pain in the ass~~ undertaking. Which is why I am a terrible mother and rarely let my children play outside in the winter. Once I dress them in layers of clothing and the coats and stuff, inevitably someone has to pee, or has an itch underneath his this-or-that which must be scratched. By the time they take care of the problem and re-dress and get bundled and ready to go out, it's been forty-five minutes and the neighbor kids who are waiting to play have gotten cold and gone inside.

I guess it's not too much less of a pain to send them outside even in the warm weather. I wish we had a fence and I could just be like, "Hey, go out and play!" but I can't. We don't even have a swing set, so I have to go out with them and keep everybody out of the street and the flower bed and the creek that runs through our back yard. Which pretty much rules out sitting there with a book, chillin'. Booooooo.

And then there's still the issue of getting them dressed, because as y'all know, my children are nudists. Yep, even the two-year-old, who can now (proudly) take his own clothes off. Since it's not quite shorts-and-flip-flops weather, there are still jeans to snap and zip and socks to struggle with and shoes to tie. Even if I hurry, all this takes at least fifteen minutes.

There's a little boy in the neighborhood who comes by with his grandpa sometimes and rings the doorbell, asking if my kids can play. That's nice and all, but what they don't realize is, it's not a quick process. It's not like I can just say, "Yeah, sure!" and send them out. First of all, I have to go out with them, because proper etiquette dictates that I can't just shove them out the door for the grandpa to watch. Which means I myself have to be dressed, wearing a bra, generally presentable to the outside world - and not doing anything important, which is like, never. Then there's the matter of getting the boys all ready.

The other day the kid came by right at naptime. Two of my three boys were asleep. I wasn't going to even answer the door, but then Cameron rushed up to the window and was all, "Hey! There's a kid with a Scooby Doo shirt who wants to play!" in his unnaturally-loud voice. Fortunately I was wearing a bra, so I went to the door. I explained that, sorry, it wasn't a good time for the boys to play since two of them were sleeping. Which made Cameron upset, and he began to cry. Loudly. In the meantime, both the dogs decided to squeeze past me and run out into the yard. And when they run outside, they run. Like, away. Irritated, I ordered Cameron to stay in the house and not to open the door, and I ran out to chase the dogs down. Which meant running down the street, like four houses down. Hugely pregnant. In my bare feet. While leaving my kids in the house by themselves. Crouching occasionally like an idiot and yelling, "JoJo!" at Josie in that ridiculous falsetto voice that she loves. It took me like seven minutes to wrangle the dogs back into the house, by which time Cameron's superloud bawling had woken up his brothers, who were upset because I was gone. And I was having contractions like crazy.

Ugh.

I was polite, but it was all I could do not to yell, "See! This is what happens when you just randomly ring my doorbell!" Because it is. This is not an exception, but the rule. Something like this will happen every time someone comes to the door unexpectedly - the dogs will try to make a break for it and the kids will go crazy. Or I'll have to yell at them to stay away from the door because they will totally come down there pantsless or whatever. (I know this because we once accidentally traumatized a Chinese delivery dude.) I know it's irrational to blame that on someone else, but it would just be so much easier if no one ever stopped by unannounced.

... Not even in spring.

Tact vs. Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 14:10:00 +0000

My kids are at a dangerous age: the age of brutal, uncensored honesty. At six years old, Colin is pretty much growing out of it. (And thank goodness, because he has been the worst so far. Remember this ... or this?) But Coby, who will be three in September, is just beginning. And Cameron, newly four ... well, he's right in the thick of it.

Honesty is one of those things it's really tricky to teach your kids about. I mean, you tell them they should be honest at all times - no matter what. Then you might amend that to add, "Well, you should be honest as long as it isn't hurting anybody's feelings." But the problem with that explanation is that kids this young have a limited scope of what hurts people's feelings. They've never felt the sting of being called fat, for example, so they don't know that commenting on someone's weight can be hurtful.

Enter Cameron and his big uncensored mouth.

The other day when I was getting dressed, he was all, "Mommy, you have a really big butt."

A simple observation, yes. A true one? ... Um, perhaps. But did I want to hear it? Abso-frickin-lutely not.

"Cameron!" I admonished with a frown. "That's not a nice thing to say!"

I could tell by the look on his face that the poor little guy was confused. It was though I had scolded him for saying "the sky is blue" or "the grass is green." I felt bad momentarily, but he needed to learn that he can't just go around remarking on the size of people's posteriors. He didn't say anything else.

Fast-forward to a few days later. I was tugging my Zumba pants over my rear end when Cameron came into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at me for a minute, obviously noting my struggle. And then he said, in a very sweet voice ......

"That's a small butt you've got there."

I thanked him and gave him a hug, feeling slightly guilty, but proud that he had retained my lesson. Because I may not be teaching him to be honest, exactly, but I am teaching him one of the most fundamental skills of being a man: when it comes to weight or age, tact is often better than truth.

He'll thank me someday ...