Mommy Multitasking

I Confess

2012-01-30T08:08:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, my husband and I sleep on top of our covers at night because we're too lazy to make the bed in the morning.

Yesterday, I marched past our new neighbors wearing a hoodie, my striped pajama pants, polka dot socks, and husband's Crocs. My hair had also not been combed from after my nap. I figure, if you're going to make a first impression you might as well go all out.

I'm completely afraid of public coat racks. I may love you, but the last thing I want is your coat touching mine.

I think breakfast is awful.

Lately, I can't make a decent cookie. Too hard, too soft. Goldilocks should try the pastries at my house.

You Can't Lose a Beat

2012-01-28T17:11:00.001-08:00

The Husband: Let's go take a nap.

The Boy: (falling on the floor) I'm dyyyyying.

The Husband. Let's go die in bed.

Happiness Is--The I Skipped New Year Resolutions Edition

2012-01-23T10:25:00.000-08:00

The end of a sore throat
Children who still nap
Sole power over the remote control
The 15 minutes when all laundry is complete
When gray clouds roll in (makes for perfect crawl-under-a-blanket weather)
When gray clouds move out
Fresh linens
A yummy snack

The Little Nut

2012-01-21T12:07:00.000-08:00

There's something to be said for child psychology.

Presently, the baby has three must-have, huge, heavy blankets that he insists go everywhere with him. Three. He makes Linus from "Charlie Brown" seem reasonable. These blankets must go to bed with him, and travel around the house with him. Every time I see a heap of blankets moving across the living room, I know to look for tiny feet underneath to locate the baby.

Usually, this is all worth a good laugh, except for nights like last night when we forgot to turn down the heat before we went to bed. As it turns out, leaving a baby in warm jammies with all his necessary blankets will make him a little, um, warm.

We spent the night filling his bottle so he'd cool off. I'm not sure how many times he drained it. Do you suppose it occurred to me or my husband to haul our lazy buns out of bed and actually turn down the heat? No.

And now I'm washing all the baby's clothes and precious blankets. Those diapers only hold so much, people. And the baby did sleep until almost 10:30 after all.

Go figure.

I'm Sick

2012-01-18T20:09:00.000-08:00

I was such a smart parent before I had children. My kids were never going to screw up.

I'd like to take pre-children Lindsey and smack her.

Last Friday, the husband and I took Jackson and Matthias to the dinosaur museum. We're reading a book about a triceratops for school, and I thought Jackson especially would enjoy going to see one as a mental reference for our story. (He's been there plenty of times, but it seems that colossal creatures never bore little boys.)

Once we were done with our museum tour, we stopped briefly just to look at things in the museum gift shop. Jackson was admiring a box nearly overflowing with colored rocks (I hate that junk. Why must every touristy-type thing have crap rocks?) while my husband and I drifted to various parts of the store. When I came back by, Jackson asked for some rocks and I said, "No." We weren't planning to buy anything that day.

Fast forward to today.

I pulled the blankets out of the baby's bed this morning to wash them when what should I see? A bright pink rock, quite similar to those young Jackson was admiring a few days prior. My heart fell to my belly button as I pulled it out of the baby's bed and took it downstairs. "Jackson, why did I find this in Matthias's room?" I questioned when I arrived downstairs where he was sitting.

His head dropped to his chest, and I knew he was my culprit. Long story short, he thought the rock was cool and decided to keep it. I still wasn't sure how it came to be in the baby's possession, but he admitted to taking it and I sent him to the car faster than you can say "juvie hall." We headed straight to the museum where I told Jackson what his next step was going to be.

I have to credit that museum gift shop worker for her grace under pressure. "We have something that belongs to your store," I said when we arrived. Her expression went from "Huh?" to "I know what's just about to happen here" in exactly 2.25 seconds. I shoved Jackson forward, he explained what happened and apologized, and that sweet woman shook his hand and thanked him for choosing to come back and return the rock. I wanted to throw handcuffs on that hand, but I suppose that's beside the point.

I took my little felon to his dad's work after that (he'd already been made aware of the situation), where Jackson had to recount his actions again and the tears really started to fall. My own heart was breaking when he told his tale. He was hurting, and I had to fight every motherly desire in me to make him feel better because this was a hurt I knew I needed to let him feel.

Jackson said a prayer when he got home, and made one final apology for his actions. His words to his Father in Heaven let me know, too, that he knew he'd made a serious mistake, and he promised never to let anything like that happen again. I hope he remembers this day, and that even though doing the right thing hurts sometimes, doing the wrong thing and having to fix it later usually hurts worse.

Madness

2012-01-17T21:06:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have days when you wonder why reproducing seemed like a good idea? My kids really handed it to me today. Jackson seemed to forget how to do much else besides blink, and the baby spent the better part of his time dumping things on the floor, getting himself locked in the pantry, and trying to climb on the counter by way of the (hot, hot, hot) oven door.

It was one of those days. I ran around in a maroon hoodie, jeans, lime green socks and some kind of hairdo--I'm not sure what I'd call it, really--spouting things like, "Come on, if we're counting by fives, what's after 25?" That would be followed by "Stop CLIMBING on the table!" And then I'd move back to "No. Not forty-two. No. Not 27. Fives. We're counting by FIVES."

(One probably shouldn't try to home school a six-year-old and monitor an overzealous toddler while experiencing a sinus headache. The only thing I can say for my head right now is that it's still on my neck.)

I sometimes wonder how better parents get through days like these. How is it that on the days I want to try hard and make it a special, interactive, exciting time, my children experience some sort of personality malfunction? Am I the only parent who believes offspring-induced stress tastes better buried under ice cream?

By heaven's grace, we did finish our school day with more than the requisite number of hours, with the baby's limbs all in tact, and with hearty chicken strips shoved down everyone's bellies for dinner. I have managed to sweep and vacuum the floors yet again, and will now enjoy my clean house for 15 minutes before I go to sleep and the short people wake up again tomorrow.

Sometimes I Wonder

2012-01-10T13:17:00.000-08:00

Jackson, as I interrupted him to stop what he was doing and start some school lessons: "Moommmm, I'm trying to save the world here!"

I sometimes wonder what would happen if we stopped interrupting children and their projects.

Trying Harder

2012-01-06T08:22:00.000-08:00

Well, isn't this blog turning into all kinds of ridiculous? I'm not sure when the last time was that I got this sporadic about my writing.

Christmas, and New Year's, and visiting all kinds of family, and Jackson's first Christmas concert (How in the world is my baby old enough to be performing in school concerts?), and baking, and returning to school, and trying to keep my house sort of clean, and looking for writing work have all kept me a little busy.

Plus, you know, I've been trying to make dinner for my family again--that got a little sketchy for awhile there, too.

I've spent so much time this week frustrated. The linen closet was driving me nuts, and under the bathroom counter was a madhouse, and all kinds of too-small baby hats and socks and bibs were mushrooming out of Matthias's closet. I bought some plastic storage tubs and sorted all those things out, and then when I saw the junk heap we pretend is Jackson's dresser, I lost the will to do much more than take an arm and sweep all his crap into another tub. Hey, it looks better, and I'll pitch his treasures when he's not looking later.

I've also started crocheting an afghan. --like I have time to do that. But my yarn tub is making me a little loony, so I'm taking every random piece of yarn I can and seeing just how well purple, pink, maroon, fuzzy blue, and neon orange and green go together. For some reason, I've always wanted to make an ugly blanket, just to see if irony will strike and it actually comes out looking okay. So far, I'm not sure, but creating is really fun.

Yesterday, as I was starting to despair about all the work I'd done on, well, everything really, and how few results were readily visible, I contemplated hurling myself of Dirty Dishes cliff. Then I realized something: I've been trying harder lately. Meals are improving. I'm creating a big blanket that will either be beautiful or pulled out only when it's dark. I'm getting many small projects done and eliminating things that are annoying me. This week, Jackson finally reached a big goal of being able to identify all 50 states on the map--fifty!--and I saw where out school efforts are paying off. Plus, I'm really getting a lot done with my church responsibilities.

I'm trying harder, and the results are coming slowly but surely. I'll keep plugging away and remember that the effort is certainly worth something.

Happiness Is--That's It for This Year Edition

2011-12-21T20:04:00.000-08:00

A husband who says "thank you" for a dinner that was clearly awful
Slobbery baby kisses
Hearing "You're sure a good mom" from my little one
Extra space on a winter road when the truck coming at me lost control
Christmas
My Savior
My chickadee Christmas ornament
Snowmen
Garages on a frosty morning

Oh, Internet

2011-12-19T17:54:00.000-08:00

Why hasn't my blogging been happening? Or my housework? Or cooking? I'm not even in the middle of a writing project right now. (Would you believe I just typed "write now" and had to erase it?)

The most productive thing I have done today is sharpen 30 pencils for Jackson. I tried to nap, but even that didn't turn out right.

It's not easy being this amazing.

The View from the Bathroom Floor

2011-12-09T21:11:00.000-08:00

My family might be dying.

For the last two weeks, we've dealt with some mystery bug which has had Jackson and Matthias throwing up at random intervals ever since. Every time I think we're past it, someone loses it all over their bed or in my purse (and I'm so not kidding about the purse).

Wednesday night, this bug took me by storm, and I spent my time sleeping on the bathroom floor in between horrendous bouts of diarrhea and vomiting (if you've been coming here awhile, you know I have no problem with over sharing). Believe me, labor and childbirth was sounding way more appealing by the time the night was almost over.

But that's not the point. Do you want to know what bothered me the entire time I was on that stinking floor? I had just cleaned the toilets earlier that day, and I was sure I'd done a good job. Oh, was I wrong. I'd missed some kind of something, and there this stain was literally staring me in the face all. night. long.

It took everything I had to roll over and keep from looking at it. If my husband hadn't been up the entire night taking care of our infirmary--the boys went down again on Wednesday, too--I totally would have had him come clean the throne for me.

After all, there's nothing like puking in a fresh toilet.

Lost and Found

2011-12-02T10:17:00.000-08:00

In my car...7 of the baby's socks

In the pantry, in the box of weight loss shakes...my toothbrush

In the bath tub...a partially eaten hot dog

In the bathroom drawer (where the toothbrush should have been)...two monster truck toys.

In my refrigerator...another sock

In the baby's diaper...uneaten Cheerios

In the garbage can...a t-shirt, a spoon, and a toy car

And my sanity? With these children around? Will probably never be found

Possible Christmas Tree Themes the Baby is Going For

2011-12-01T14:16:00.000-08:00

The Bottom Half Really Doesn't Need Ornaments
Ornament Clump
Lady, I'm Going to Keep Eating These Candy Canes as Long as You Keep Sticking Them On

Getting Schooled

2011-11-30T13:33:00.000-08:00

I haven't written much lately--mostly because I'm finding out how arrogant I was to believe I could keep a house, raise two kids, home school one of them, hold down extensive church responsibilities, and return to work part-time--but I think I have a few minutes today to talk about a few of the things I've been learning.

~It's funny how life slaps you around a little when you think you know things. I used to think home schooling families were weird religious zealots, all dressed in skirts and long braids and otherwise ignorant about the real world.

I couldn't have been farther from the truth. These kids are smart, fun, and educated (and dressed just like my boy is, as if that matters). Some of their parents made religion at least part of the reason they home schooled, but many just genuinely feel this is a better option for their little ones. To each their own.

~Home schooling, done correctly, is not easy. For me, the shock is sort of like knowing you'll be fat after having a baby and then finally seeing how many pounds you've gained when you put your pre-pregnancy clothes back on for the first time. I end nearly every day tired from everything we've learned.

~For us, life has actually been more peaceful. I love that we aren't rushing in the morning. When we're ahead on the hours we need to put in, it's no problem to take a day off and head out for a field trip. If we're sick? No problem. I'm the administration around here, baby.

~I love too, that Jackson can pursue his interests, as long as they're the right ones. I definitely don't fall into the camp of parents who think children should be in charge of their own learning. If I say we need to read, we will be reading today. Jackson can pick when we do it, but he knows that by the end of the day, his reading will have happened. If he wants to learn about space and I have a space unit planned later for science, that's another story. We rearrange schedules when he's asked for something I already anticipated doing. If he feels ready to learn it, I figure that will be the best time to teach him.

(After all, this isn't entirely a dictatorship.)

~Mostly, I've learned that it's okay to do what you think is right. Sometimes, that means going with the masses, and other times, it means trying something a little less mainstream. As long as we're working hard, I figure we'll be alright.

Happiness Is--Thanksgiving Edition

2011-11-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

Having a husband who is finally sharing with me in the glory of being 30.
Having a baby who says, "dat youuu," (thank you) every time we do something for him that he likes. Nose wiping, bum wiping, handing him a snack, giving him a hug, this little one knows how to be grateful and it makes my day. (And I think he's also highly aware of how nasty his nose and fanny have been lately.)
New fleece pajamas.
Blessed silence at the end of a busy day.
Seeing my kindergartener pick up books and read on his own.
Chocolate covered raisins.
Christmas shopping that's nearly finished.
Staying in pajamas all day.
Take-out.
Hugs.

Watch What You Say

2011-11-22T21:13:00.000-08:00

It's always tough hearing your children turn your own words against you. After I hollered about stubbing my toe tonight, Jackson said smugly, "Well, you've got to watch where you're going!"

Oh Monday, You Mock Me

2011-11-21T12:41:00.000-08:00

Listen, Monday, I'm sick of just a few things this week.

Last night, the baby granted me about three hours of sleep. Do you have any idea how mean I get on that little sleep? I think my entire family caught my wrath way too early this morning, and I walked around using all my apologies for the day by about 8:30.

Then I caught the baby dipping a cup in the toilet. I'm pretty sure he took a drink before I found him.

There's also my older son, who seems to think it's hilarious to fall on the floor any time the house needs a comedic moment.

Right now, I'm watching the baby beat his corn dog on his high chair tray like a drumstick.

I've managed to keep the house pretty clean, though, which I think will keep me off the ceiling. We'll see how I'm doing by Tuesday.

Then again, I still have this huge writing project I'm trying to wrap up, so I may need Dairy Queen therapy after all. How in the world am I going to get that done in time to watch the Dancing with the Stars finals?

It's kind of hard when you run out of words

2011-11-13T17:44:00.000-08:00

I miss my blog.

I've picked up a major writing assignment (35,000 words due in a month, people), and between that, home schooling, constantly retrieving my baby from off the kitchen table and making feeble attempts at pretending I'm a housekeeper, I've been just a little tired.

And when you've got an eager kindergartener sucking up knowledge faster than you can say Merriam-Webster, you start running out of words.

So, I'll leave you with my son's words today:

"Mom? We can't have 12 kids in our family because we don't have enough beds. People would have to sleep in the chair."

Stop and Smell the Jack-o-Lanterns

2011-11-01T10:13:00.000-07:00

If there's anything I'm finally starting to learn about my kiddo, it's that he loves to enjoy every aspect of life. He'll stop and explore blades of grass, study ladybugs, ask everyone he meets if it's okay for them to be friends, and much more. He doesn't rush through life the same way I often find myself stumbling through it.
It's probably time for me to take a page from his book.

Last night we went trick-or-treating. Trick-or-treating is almost never warm in Montana. Well, I guess it's warm if you don't have to wear snow boots under your fairy costume. Almost every Halloween I remember as a kid involved finding some way to fit a snow suit under whatever you wanted to be, or a way to renovate last year's polar bear costume. It can get a little cold here.

But last night wasn't entirely freezing. We made it with sweatshirts and hats, and Jackson took his time savoring every minute out on the streets. We kind of thought he'd be like the rest of the children, flying on a sugar high and racing from one house to the next. Oh no. Our boy wandered slowly, enjoying the night air, and studying every single jack-o-lantern we passed. Every. One. His pumpkin bucket was only about one-third full when he decided he was done. The pumpkin studying appealed to him more than the goodies did.

My husband and I marveled at how he loves to study all aspects of life. While we sometimes struggle to stop and enjoy those simple things, Jackson relishes them. He won't be rushed. Believe me. He won't be rushed. Sometimes, it's infuriating, but most often, he does our little family a big service by being the way he is. (We're not going to talk about the Sundays when we have 4 minutes to make the 10-minute drive to church and he's too busy enjoying the morning to get his tush in the car.)

Keep working on us, Jackson. Sometimes you really do just have to stop and admire the jack-o-lanterns, and I hope we'll eventually catch on.

The Big Day

2011-10-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

I'm alive.

Let me tell you, one of the worst things about living in Montana is the distance between, well, anything really.

We've been driving 60 miles round trip the entire week so Jackson could attend play practice for his home school theater group. (Hear my martyr cry?) Do that with a baby and a big writing deadline hovering over you and road construction and a child who is certain he isn't going to survive the fact that you signed him up for said theater group in the first place.

The week wasn't without its glitches. Four hours of play practice a day is enough to send any young thespian swinging from the stage curtains. Jackson nearly died in the first practice, and to make a long story short, that day ended with us having him write "I will do good things" 50 times when we got home.

The next day, he didn't try a fraction of the crap he pulled on the "good things" day. I considered it a triumph, and he learned that the directors were actually nice people when you paid attention to them.

Today was the big performance. Jackson was a little nervous. He'd been working so hard on good behavior that he hadn't entirely registered that he was actually going to be showing his act to an auditorium full of eager parents and bored siblings today. Reality hit when the directors tried to usher the youngest children into their costumes for the dress rehearsal.

Several minutes after Jackson's age group departed, I started seeing his peers come back dressed for the show. My little pumpkin came trailing behind his group, in the same clothes he'd worn to the theater, with tears dangerously close to running down his face. Turns out, throwing a child who prides himself on modesty into a room full of people he's known for exactly four days and telling him to strip down and put on a strange outfit will throw him off a little.

He wouldn't even come out to do the dress rehearsal after that. As far as he was concerned, the stunt the directors had just pulled meant he was done.

I immediately panicked and fortunately found the right mixture of praise, coaxing, threats, and bribery to get him dressed and participating in the second run-through of the play. I was on the edge of an anxiety-induced mommy meltdown migraine by this evening when the play took place. Oh, I wanted my little one to be perfect. I was afraid of what the crowd might think, what Jackson's directors might think, and what he might do on stage if he got upset again.

And yet again, the things I worried about didn't matter. Jackson wasn't perfect up there, but somehow to my dumb surprise, none of the other kids did everything right either. My little one belted out his line, and got the best laugh from the crowd out of anyone in his group (It's true.) I realized I've been expecting too much from him this week: perfection. How did I expect my six-year-old to give something I'm not capable of?

The best lesson I learned from a silly school play is that imperfection can be pretty perfect as long as we're learning along the way.

Try-outs

2011-10-24T19:40:00.000-07:00

Today Jackson had auditions for home school theater week. About 40 kids are hamming it up for a production of "Pinocchio" this Friday. Now, my little one is only in kindergarten, so we're just sticking our toes in the waters of "Pressure for Academic Success," but I had to laugh at the competitive nature we tend to have as parents even when our children are small. Mind you, I think my pumpkins are just as brilliant as you believe yours are, but aren't we starting to peg them as Olympic athletes and Tony Award winners and ground-breaking physicians and academics just a tad too early these days?

"What part do you want him to get?" a mom asked me before the auditions started.

"I'm not that worried about it," I replied.

She looked at me perplexed.

"Our goals for this week are good listening skills, a happy memory, and a little more confidence for him," I explained further. (My same little goofball was falling on the floor with nervous energy later. How could I worry about whether he had a magnificent part or not when I wasn't even sure if he would melt into a puddle of six-year-old weirdness?)

When I finished my thoughts about the coming week, she walked away with only a "Huh!"

I might not be the most competitive mom on the planet, but sometimes, I think we need to work a bit harder to remember our youngsters are only as old as they are. And it's okay to let them be and act that age.

When You Run Out of Ideas, You Sometimes Abandon Your Blog

2011-10-18T19:02:00.000-07:00

And then finally come up with another confessions list:

I'd let my kids have cookies for dinner every day if I could.
The cleaning supplies sat on the bathroom counter for three weeks before I finally got around to wiping down the sink and toilet.
I think housework happens too often.
I sometimes pretend I'm asleep so my husband will help the baby during the night.
I think he sometimes does the same thing.
Our baby will probably need therapy because of it.
I eat supper for breakfast. My favorite thing to have is tacos.
In my mind, I'm athletic.

He Just Doesn't Understand

2011-10-13T20:30:00.001-07:00

"I thought you were tired."

"I am."

"Then why did you leave?"

"I needed a cookie."

"Getting a cookie also requires turning on Star Trek?"

"Yes."

Happiness Is--October Edition

2011-10-03T19:32:00.000-07:00

Surviving a child who throws up in the car without, um, making it worse yourself.
Smelling Fall in the air.
Hearing someone tell you that you look slimmer.
New pillows.
Spare time.

Hide and Seek

2011-09-30T13:05:00.000-07:00

My kids like to hide things, which means I've pulled funny, exciting, disgusting things out of numerous places over the years. Here's what I've found:

In the fridge

Socks
Toy cars

Under the couch

Socks
Toy cars
Watermelon
Apples
Forks
Popcorn
Cheerios. Probably boxes and boxes worth of Cheerios.

Under the bed

Bottles
Binkies
Pants
Underwear

In the sink

A shoe

In the garbage

A t-shirt
A spoon
A vacuum attachment
Markers

Who says motherhood doesn't have it's rewards?

Sign Me Up

2011-09-26T11:14:00.000-07:00

My husband tells me I'm becoming a boy.
Mind you, I still have boobs, so I'm not always sure I believe him when he tells me this, but I am, apparently, starting to develop a pretty good liking for boy things. For instance, I'm always thrilled to enter the boy half of the toy aisle. Those toys are awesome! Barbie has nothing on the Transformers Bumblebee that's now saving our house from destruction.

Dress up? Trust me. Way more cool with a superhero cape. And there's no stinking baking going on in this house, let me tell you. Every time I try, I'm pulled outside for a junior entomology lesson on the horrible spiders trying to make a winter home on our porch. It could be that I called one "cool" not long ago. Earwigs? Not quite as terrifying as they used to be, but I see no good reason for those pincher things on their butts.

Mothering boys takes some energy.

In the last week, my boys and I have rescued a lost puppy and witnessed the amazing technicolor action that happens when Rolos and blue crayons go unnoticed in little boy pants pockets until Mommy empties the clothes dryer. Matthias just finished standing up in his little lawn chair and howling like Tarzan. Presently, these goofballs are roaring around the living room, with "Babysaurus" being chased by "Jacksonsaurus."

"Mom!" Jackson exclaimed. "Tell him the Jacksonsaurus has gotcha!"

"Matthias," I replied, "the Jacksonsaurus has got you!"

"No! Got-cha."

See? There's even a boy-specific language to learn.

Before this day is over, I'll have vacuumed my floors three times (hopefully not vacuuming up a loose pair of shorts like I did a few days ago), cleaned up several toys with pointy parts that really hurt bare feet, and removed sliced grapes from at least three places in the house where they don't belong.

At church a few weeks back, I asked a father of four boys, including a set of twins, whether life ever gets simpler when you're raising someone who clearly belongs in a scene from The Jungle Book.

"No," he smiled.

I scoffed.

"I'm sorry," he said, fake-seriously. "I'm not going to be the one to give you false hope."

I wandered off, contemplating my fate. Then, I looked down at my own baby, whose amazing fussing action was the reason I'd been in the hall and able to talk to that father in the first place.

These kids are who they are, and statistics have proven they're not going to change.

So if I can't beat them, I'll join them.

Dear Jackson

2011-09-19T07:20:00.000-07:00

You broke your promise. A couple years ago, I asked you if you'd stay three, and you happily agreed.

But I'll forgive you and wish you Happy Sixth Birthday anyway, buddy. You've turned into quite a little man. I'm not really sure whether I can call you my baby anymore. Whenever I try, you sternly remind me that you're big now. I suppose you're right. You read books by yourself, fix a few meals for yourself, ride your bike up and down the street with the neighborhood kids, and do an amazing amount of kindergarten work independently.

Kindergarten. Have you really been with us six years already? Am I really the mom to a school kid?

Turns out, I am. It's amazing to watch you. You're so quick to offer your friendship to someone, and all you ask is that they be kind in return. Not many people are that way--willing to befriend anyone they meet. I hope that's a trait you maintain. You're just as fast to run to someone's aid when they need something, whether it's a bandaid, a help up after a fall, or even a door held open. Your powers of observation about people and about the world are very keen. Dad and I are always amazed at the things you pick up on.

We've got high hopes for you, and are so looking forward to seeing you become more refined, less of the "little kid" you don't seem to want to be anymore, and more of a mature youngster. I often wish I could keep you as my little boy, but I know you want to grow up and I'll somehow have to learn to content myself with that reality.

So, since you won't stay three, enjoy being six. And next year, I'll cope with the fact that you'll certainly be very eager to turn seven.

Love,
Mom

Dear Matthias

2011-09-16T11:17:00.000-07:00

Somehow, time stole a year from me and you turned one yesterday.

One. You're a toddler now, climbing, crawling, and walking all over the place. It hardly feels like a year has passed. I remember well the five days of early labor and hard labor I went through with you (more to come on that when you're old enough for your father to tell you how cranky I was at the end of those five days). I remember the day you were born, when the doctor checked to see how my labor was progressing and she got a look of concern on her face. A few seconds later, she told me there was too much blood and we had a real potential problem on our hands.

I remember how fast they wheeled me to the operating room for an emergency cesarean, and how I did my best to stay calm while I was prepped for surgery and waited for your dad to come in and hold my hand. I remember feeling better when he got there, how he kept peering over the curtain that separated my top half from my bottom half, and how I thought about firing our OB on the spot when she announced that you looked like him.

And I remember how none of that mattered when you were delivered and your dad held your blinking, fresh face to mine so we could meet each other. You were so precious.

This year has been wonderful, and I can't believe how fast you're growing up and trying to conquer the world. You started crawling at six months old. You started walking at almost one year old. You have 15 teeth already and you're gums are swelling for your two-year-old molars. You can crawl up and climb down our stairs at lightening speed. At your birthday dinner yesterday, you refused to eat until you finally got hold of a fork and could feed yourself. Minus the few bites that ended up in your hair, you did surprisingly well. It was as if you knew a milestone had arrived and you were going to take things up a notch.

You got a new little chair for your birthday yesterday, and you love it. I love that for once, you seem to have stopped fighting me, your dad, and your brother (mostly your brother) for a spot in the recliner. I'd love to share the recliner with you, but you're seldom happy unless you have that big, giant chair to yourself. Frankly, I'm not sure you know you're little.

Forgive me if I try to make you stay small from time to time. I'm prone to doing that. But I'm looking forward to watching you grow up, too. You're pretty amazing.

Love,
Mom

Birth Control

2011-09-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

My children are on some sort of rampage. The next phone call I make with either be to child services to come take these people away, or to my gynecologist to have my tubes tied.

Sunday was a big day for my family. Our church held what's called stake conference, or a gathering of the smaller congregations from my town and the surrounding areas. This is always a fun time to be in contact with friends from an hour or two away that we don't always see often. Even better, however, one of our church's twelve apostles, a relatively important figure in our faith, was attending the conference. This hasn't happened where I live in 16 years. We. were. excited.

Naturally, wanting it to be a spiritual, uplifting day, I pictured our family sweetly getting ready for church and riding to the chapel in the car singing songs. You know, something that's almost never happened in my home.

Nope.

My husband ended up having to leave for the meeting two hours early to take care of some business that surfaced, leaving me to get the kids and myself ready and there on time. Almost as soon as the door clicked to signal his departure, the baby started using the vacuum attachment as a trumpet and Jackson commenced his newest dance routine. When I got that settled down and herded them upstairs to get church clothes on, the baby made his way to the bathroom and then started scrubbing the garbage can with my toothbrush.

I took the toothbrush, and a major fit commenced, all around poor Jackson, who actually was trying to get his hair to lie flat. In between my taking the pilfered toothbrush and chucking it in the garbage permanently, Matthias fell over and knocked his head on the toilet bowl.

Let's just say "Love at Home" wasn't playing in the background by this point.

We somehow survived the rest of getting ready, and made it to church where things continued to stay at a low status quo. My husband ended up taking the baby out about 30 minutes into the meeting, never to return. Jackson waited 15 more minutes than that to start peppering me with questions about when we'd get to go home and eat. By the time we left, I was tense from the top of my head to my shoulders, and hurt so badly that I was dizzy.

Now that it's Tuesday, these kids are no better. Matthias ate a loose piece of licorice and the sugar made it to his system in record time, Jackson is twirling everywhere, and I'm holding a wooden spoon over my head like a samurai. I'm not sure what prison is like, but I just may see if the sheriff would be willing to do me a favor and lock me up for awhile.

September 12

2011-09-11T21:31:00.000-07:00

I saw a lot of Facebook posts about September 11 today. Clearly, this is an event most of us will never forget and will likely always remember with a touch of pain in our hearts. The world was altered forever that day.

But I felt mixed about so many of the posts I read and news stories about the tributes people had planned.

Please don't get me wrong. Especially for those whose hearts were broken by the loss of loved ones, these tributes are very much necessary and appropriate. For someone like me who was a naive college student at the time, a safety net I didn't even realize was there was torn in two that day. We must take a moment to remember on a day like this the blessings that come from living in a free country.

I struggle though because I sometimes feel patriotism comes in waves. We clearly feel a special touch of love for our country on days like today, yet I seem to notice growing numbers of people who don't place their hand over their heart when the flag goes by in a Fourth of July Parade. We post little Facebook flags on a day of heartfelt remembrance, but I think many treat Memorial Day as a good time for a barbecue instead of an opportunity to thank a veteran. Or, we do fly flags on the Fourth of July, but make a terrible issue of saying the Pledge of Allegiance in school.

I find it all a little perplexing, and I'm not sure whether I mostly appreciate tributes like I saw today, or I feel mildly annoyed.

Patriotism is important to me because I have relatives who have fought in five different wars. Like many people who have veterans in their family, I greatly appreciate their sacrifices that keep me home and safe blogging at my computer whenever my fingers itch to start typing. I wonder if my family veterans and others like them feel appreciated as often as they deserve.

I hope my husband and I are able to instill a spirit of patriotism in our boys. I want them to pay attention any time a flag goes by, to know that Memorial Day is more than an extra day off. I want them to have a spirit of community service and country loyalty that surfaces more than on special holidays. It's important. I want and need to demonstrate more gratitude for my freedoms to my children.

I want them to remember patriotism on a day like today, and make sure they don't forget it by the time September 12 rolls around.

How do I love him? Let me Count the Ways

2011-09-08T16:00:00.000-07:00

Okay. So I adjusted that title a little.

I ask that question about my husband a lot. A LOT. Sometimes, it really is, "How is it I love him?" while I pick up his dirty socks which he's oddly folded back up and set on top of our dresser. Who does that? How do I love a man who folds his dirty socks and tries to save them?

I ask that question when I'm putting back the living room furniture after he's shoved everything out of the way to do some exercising. "I'm happy you're exercising," I fake sweetly smiled just this morning. "But I'll be annoyed soon if I have to keep putting the furniture back." How is it I love a man who doesn't remember that where he's left the recliner is not where it normally lives?

This man I love is also the same man who can't remember to get my tupperware to me within five days of having used it for lunch. How many times must I gag and make odd sounds as I deal with that? How can I love a man who tries to deprive his wife of tupperware that doesn't smell? How can I love him when these are his ways?

Well, he's hot, for starters.

I love him because he loves me back. When he hurts my feelings and I tell him about it, he owns up to it and apologizes instead of demeaning what I've told him. He tells me that he's glad I'm smart, and that he would have been disappointed if I hadn't finished college. He's not the best communicator; in fact, he's often a terrible communicator, but I'm blaming it on the "y" part of his "xy" make-up and choosing to be thankful for the fact that he is trying to improve here.

I love my husband because we're very much a team. If one of us is working, the other one cooks dinner and gets it cleaned up. If one has a headache and the children are dancing around like little beasts, the other one whisks them away for awhile or tries to trade them on the street (or get them ready for bed.) We have our jobs, but they're by no means etched in stone. Day-to-day life isn't that predictable. Why should our roles be?

I love my husband because I know he considers me every bit his equal. Our marriage is a happy one. I read a disturbing blog post not long ago about how many perceive the roles of women in my faith and it's had me troubled for some time. I'm no doormat. I'm educated, smart, liked by others, and happy. I stay home with my children because it's where I want to be, not where I have to be. I read great books, work, and have ambitions. I even home school my son and don't consider that odd.

Color me opressed.

I really had no idea so many viewed us that way, and I don't know that there's much I can do about that. Fortunately, I know my husband (and my marriage) are not exceptions, but much more the norm than many may know.

And this little post is what I have to say about that.

For more about what I believe, check here.

Dang

2011-09-06T15:44:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here watching my almost one-year-old baby walk around my living room. Just get up and walk away.

Somehow I missed Heaven's memo about the fact that children grow up without their mothers' permission.

I have no idea how to file a complaint about that.

No More Charades

2011-09-04T12:29:00.001-07:00

There comes a point in everyone's life when we must stop lying to ourselves about something.

Me? It's time to stop pretending I'm a good housekeeper.

Matthias pooped out a star sticker yesterday. He'd gotten into a sheet of stickers I use for Jackson's schooling, but I never realized he'd eaten one. (You should have seen me and Jackson studying that diaper together.)

We have some great "shooting star" jokes flying around the house now.

Here's What I Can Do

2011-09-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

I read the most interesting post today on the C.G. Ward Photography blog related to the bra color/pregnancy games/purse location status updates women post on Facebook in order to raise breast cancer awareness.

I'll admit. When that bra status thing happened, I participated mindlessly. I mean, why not have a fun secret from men, right? The bra business was some phenomenon.

But critics, I think, are right. What good has it done? Unless it got a woman thinking about her breasts, or a man thinking about his loved one's breasts (Stop giggling. I'm talking about making sure she checks them regularly.), it's little more than a game that will be forgotten as soon as someone else comes up with a "secret" status idea.

Because I think education is a good way to start really getting at the meat of an issue, here's some information that I thought would be helpful to include on my little blog:

Basics of Breast Cancer, by Mayo Clinic
U.S. News Cancer Center, by U.S. News & World Report
How to Conduct a Breast Self-Exam, by BreastCancer.org
Breast Self-Exam Demonstration Video, by Discovery Health (NOTE: While medical in nature, I consider this video only appropriate for adult viewership.)
Mammogram Discussion, by WebMD
Fundraising, advocacy, awareness, and support, by Susan G. Komen for the Cure
National Breast Cancer Awareness Month (NBCAM), and support, by NBCAM

The Last Two Days

2011-09-01T19:14:00.000-07:00

I was told there'd be days I absolutely loved homeschooling and days I'd want to rip my hair out.

Um, yeah.

Because I kind of like my hair, I've opted for shoving cake and licorice in my face every time the kids have pushed my to the brink of seeking mental help. Seriously. Cake straight from the pan.

Jackson has been doing great at school. That's really true for the most part. But today? Geez. I think he senses summer leaving us and is trying to get in every last bit of fun he can before nine months of Montana winter set in. He gave me three awesome days of school work this week. Today? Let's just say I'd rather try to herd snakes than have put in this day with him.

And the baby. My soon-to-be one-year-old is getting two-year-old molars. Truly. He's already got something like 15 teeth, and I can feel his gums swelling with the next round of molars. He was terrible all day yesterday, and it carried over into today. As I was about to toss him and his diaper bag to the curb with a "Free" sign this afternoon, I took one last guess at what was bothering him and shoved my finger in his mouth. Yep. More chompers.

(The cake I'm eating even as I type this--yes, straight from the pan--is really good, by the way).

Did I mention my husband is home with an awful cold and I'm on germ patrol? What's the web address for Jenny Craig?

I don't know what you do with days like these, except survive them. I wish I could say I've gotten through the last 48 hours without throwing a fit or two. I haven't. Jackson won't stop carrying the baby around like some helpless puppy. The husband is breathing all over the place. The baby is teething all over me. I'm cranky and don't even have my period to blame.

But I'm surviving. We're still here, and that's got to count for something. Maybe that's our problem as women: sometimes, we forget surviving is just as much an achievement as actually getting through things gracefully, too. We can't always do it all.

I've got to find a better coping mechanism than cake, though.

It's his party and he'll set the rules if he wants to

2011-08-31T10:39:00.000-07:00

Me: "Jackson, do you want to invite _____ to your birthday party?"

Him: "Yes."

Me: "And do you want to invite _____ to your party?"

Him: "No. He'll mess up my cake."

Countdown

2011-08-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

The Husband and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary today. After eight years, we:

Have been married 8 years (Obviously, but we needed an 8).
Said, "I'm sorry at least 7 times a day." (This is my husband's contribution to the list.)
Have one almost 6-year-old.
Have had 5 cars, spent 5 1/2 years getting my husband through college, and my husband has held 5 jobs
Have seen me change jobs 4 times. (Turns out, writers are easy to lay off.)
Spent 3 years trying for our second baby.
Had 2 homes, and 2 children.
Watched my husband earn 1 college degree.

Happy anniversary, honey. I'm excited to see what our countdown looks like a few decades from now.

Who's the Boss?

2011-08-26T22:36:00.000-07:00

Remember that show? So cool, but pretty unrelated to my post, except for the fact that we seem to be asking that question a lot around here lately.

The baby has reduced my husband and me to sleeping on the floor in our home. Yep. Our perfectly good bed goes unused for an hour or three a night.

Don't ask me why, but the kiddo is still sleeping in our room. He's nearly a year old. It's totally time to end this and get him in the third bedroom we've been so dutifully holding in our home for him. But in our room he sits...or lies.

This summer, Matthias had a really nasty fever that lasted for three days. He was so clingy and teary that we didn't have the heart to make him sleep in his own bed. He ended up sleeping in the majority of our bed, while my husband and I teetered precariously on the edges of our respective sides so we wouldn't squish him. Then,we went camping, and he slept between us on our queen air mattress. Then we went to visit my husband's family, and he slept between us on that queen bed. Then we went to see my parents and he slept between us on that queen size bed. He felt like a little king (but didn't know kings actually sleep even better still).

And so, I'm sure you've noticed the foundation for our sleeping trouble.

When vacation ended, we put His Majesty back in his decidedly smaller bed and he waged a screaming war against the tyrants who had dared reduce him to such squalor. We didn't give in, though, and he eventually went to sleep until 2:30 a.m. Then he started again and we were too tired to fight. Into our bed he came.

The next night was much of the same. Scream and go to sleep. Scream at 2:30 and get in the big bed. Repeat nightly for about three weeks.

This week, the husband and I decided to take our bed back. Matthias, however, still got up at 2:30. The first night of our coup, I was wrestling the baby for so long that my husband finally hissed, "Either pull him in or we'll have to leave."

We left.

To the baby's room.

There aren't big beds in babies' rooms. In fact, ours houses Jackson's old toddler bed, which is waiting for Matthias to use it. Dear husband curled up on that, I fell on the floor, and we both covered up our arms with the tiny baby blankets stored in there. The baby screamed for an hour, and we managed to doze somehow. (It's possible that nobody else in our building did.)

We stumbled back into our bed at 4:30 a.m. By 5, we were stumbling back to the baby's room again.

Repeat the next night.

He went down without a fight on night three. When 2:30 rolled around, he stood up in his bed, peered over the edge, extended a chubby little hand and whimpered, but we didn't move. He hollered a little, and we still didn't move. Then he flopped back down and went to bed. It was a sweet little revolution on our part.The next few nights continued with his smaller pleas until he finally gave up and went back to sleep.

Last night, though? Something went wrong. He was back to the same loud protesting, trying to convince the neighborhood that he's abused.

But we're not using that toddler bed anymore. No. We're far too tired, and 30 really is too old for that sort of thing. We threw our pillows onto the floor on the opposite side of our bed, pulled off the top blanket, slithered onto the floor and went to sleep.

Isms

2011-08-24T20:40:00.000-07:00

During the almost six years of Jackson's short little life, I've probably considered donating him to charity a thousand times. (Don't even judge me.)

I think he knows this.

And to postpone his need to find alternate living arrangements, he knows just what to say to keep my feathers from getting too ruffled and remind me that he is pretty cute.

Upon noticing the baby's curls as I was drying him off after his bath: "Matthias, you look like a bluebird!" (I'm still trying to figure out where this imagery came from.)

As I was finishing up my hair and make-up in preparation for an appointment: "You're going to be so beautiful, Mom."

Really. How could I not keep him?

Letting Go

2011-08-23T12:53:00.000-07:00

Am I really on Day 7 of homeschooling Jackson? I think? Have I washed my hair, even?

I'm pretty sure we are, and my hair at least doesn't seem greasy.

I can't believe really are in Week Two of homeschooling. It's been an adventure. Day 1 was confusing for Jackson. We'd gone from "teaching moments here and there" to "teaching all the time," and it was an adjustment. On Tuesday, he was excited to revisit some of the workbook units he'd enjoyed on Monday, and Wednesday brought even more enthusiasm. On Thursday, the gig was up, and I had to prod a little harder to get through our lessons. By Friday, neither of us cared who didn't survive the week, but we were pretty sure someone wasn't going to make it.

Yesterday, we put in five solid hours of work, and Jackson hung with me every step of the way, doing his best on every page or lesson I gave him. I filled a request of his and we started learning about space, adding some videos from the NASA web site, and starting our own painting of a solar system on a piece of black poster board I picked up for him. He ran around the rest of the day spouting facts about space to anyone who would listen (the baby tried his very best to understand his brother). I was exhausted by the end of the day, but so excited to see his enthusiasm for learning.

Today has been, well, a little more challenging. I actually think he's still tired from yesterday, so we're heading to a local museum to check out their frog exhibit and planetarium, which I'm hoping will be nice supplements to our space lesson and the story he read today about a frog.

As for myself, I've bitten off a whole big helping of kindergarten. I knew on some level I was taking on a big challenge, but it's been nothing like I imagined. I go from the minute the alarm sounds in the morning til the time we put the kids in bed. The shock has been similar to knowing I'd be chubby after having a baby and actually seeing what happened the first time I put pre-pregnancy jeans back on.

So, I'm learning to let go. Sometimes, I will go to bed without mopping. Sometimes, I will go to bed without figuring out where the baby hid his binkie and the missing bites of hot dog. Sometimes, we won't make it through as much math or science or reading as I want. But as long as we're making good progress, sometimes I'll have to learn to let go, too.

She'll Cope

2011-08-20T09:36:00.000-07:00

The Lindsey of 10 years ago would just shake her head at today's Lindsey.

I've mentioned before that when I went to college for my journalism degree, I was headed to...somewhere, I wasn't sure exactly...but I wanted to be a big correspondent.

Now, my days are spent wrestling a baby who tries to flee every poopy diaper change, explaining the wonders of the world to an inquisitive kindergartener, still renting a home instead of purchasing a dream house, and freelancing here and there when I find someone who needs an article written. My wardrobe is blue jeans and t-shirts, and on brave days when I think the baby won't rip it off, I throw on a necklace.

As I wrestled babies and grocery bags into the house last night, after an evening out consisting of a trip to the mall, dinner, and ice cream, I sighed, thinking about the woman I thought I'd become. Then, Jackson said his bedtime prayers and told Heavenly Father he "had a good time at family time today," and I felt like a million bucks.

Dear Ten Years Ago Lindsey: life hasn't gone how we originally planned it. In fact, we're about as far off course as we could be. But I'm going to need you to cope, because what we've got today is pretty cool.

Love,
Lindsey a/k/a Mom, Honey, Mama, Babe, Mommy, Are you awake?

How We Spent Our Summer Vacation

2011-08-16T06:07:00.000-07:00

Should I believe him?

2011-08-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

The confessions a woman makes in her sleep are terrible.

Husband: Do you remember sitting up last night and telling me, "Shhh, it's quiet time?"

Me: What?

Husband: Yes! You sat up going "Shhhh!" And you sounded really annoyed when you said, "It's quiet time!"

Me: *laughing* No! I don't!

Husband: What? Then I asked if you were okay and you said, "I don't know. I'm going crazy."

Folks, I don't remember any of this. It's terrible. But the serious amount of laughter in his voice clearly said it was all true.

One baby was hard?

2011-08-11T12:04:00.000-07:00

We survived our vacation week and came home minus one kid. Dear little Jackson didn't have the heart to leave Grandma's house and come home with us yesterday. The husband's at work. The baby's napping. I've finished my writing assignment for the day, and put away half the camping gear/Grandma's house luggage/week's worth of traveling supplies we dropped in the living room. I've also started laundry, cleaned up most of the kitchen, and started some dishes.

I remember when Jackson was Matthias's age. I was convinced I was overworked, underpaid, and not appreciated nearly enough. Today, I've accomplished the same amount of work I was doing then, and hardly broken a sweat--not that I'm bragging.

Okay. Maybe I'm bragging a little.

My point is, I don't think parenting ever gets easier, but if my boredom today is any proof, it sure does become a lot more manageable. I think we grow to fit the demands placed on us, and that's a good thing.

But about the baby: I'm pretty sure he knows his brother is missing. The look on his face this morning said, "I'm really gonna need you to step it up and get interesting."

Confessions

2011-08-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid of the dark.
I love watching "old" shows like The Cosby Show, Mad About You, Gummy Bears, and Alf.
I wish I wasn't so painfully shy in a crowd.
Sometimes I'm really lonely.
I've always wanted to be better at making friends.
I worry a lot. About almost everything.
If I wasn't completely lacking in athletic ability, I think it would be great fun to be a ballroom dancer.
I can't stand whining, but sometimes I do it anyway.

It doesn't work that way?

2011-08-07T20:39:00.001-07:00

Friday night:

Me: What are you going to dream about tonight?

Jackson: Throwing a ball way high in the sky!

Saturday morning:

Me: How did you sleep?
Jackson: Bad.

Me: Oh no! Why?

Jackson: My dream about throwing a ball way high in the sky! They didn't pick it!

An interview with the five-year-old who plans to live forever

2011-08-04T21:13:00.000-07:00

When you have your own house, how many bedrooms will it have?

Four.

How many kids will you have?

Just a baby. Four babies. Is that a lot of babies?

What are you going to do when you grow up?

Work at the bank. No. I'm going to get bad guys.

How old are you going to be when you get married?

99 years old. When I turn 100 years old, I will know how to jump on the fence.

How old is Dad?

29.

How old was Dad when he got married?

12.

How old is Mom?

30 years old.

How old was Mom when she got married?

12.

Are you going to college?

Yeah. I'm going to turn into a Dad and I'll go to college, too.

What are you going to learn?

How to do good. Teach other people. I'll be police and help people. If I'm police I won't be with you anymore. I won't live with you anymore. When I turn 100,000 dollars years old, I will do a lot of good things.

Do you love your brother?

Mmm-hmm.

What's your favorite candy?

Red candy. Starburst and Skittles.

What's your favorite cartoon?

Garfield.

What's your favorite color?

When I turn 100 years old, it's going to be purple. Can we be done talking?

Happiness Is--August Edition

2011-08-04T11:08:00.000-07:00

Seeing the baby's sense of triumph when he climbs into the recliner on his own
Making a big decision and sticking to it
Fresh zucchini bread
My favorite song playing on the radio
Watching our little bucket garden grow

We'll Make a Series

2011-08-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted my parenting handbook line on Facebook, and my friends ran with it. Here are a few more handbooks we're planning to write:

Parenting: 1,001 Ideas that Don't Work
1,001 Potty Training Methods That Don't Work
1,001 Ways to Ensure Your Child Continues Throwing Tantrums
1,001 Ways to Destroy Your Child's Sleeping Habits
1,001 Ways to Clean Your House with no Results
‎1,001 Reasons to Feed Your Child Just Pixie Sticks and Chocolate
‎1,001 Ways to Send Your Child into Therapy Before She's out of the House
1,001 Things Not to Buy When You Have Small Children
1,001 Ways Your Child Can End the Question: Can I...? (with bonus chapters solely dedicated to outings to the store)
1,001 Noises You Don't Want to Know About
1,001 Phrases You Never Thought You Would Say

What would be on your list?

Bright Ideas

2011-08-02T15:03:00.000-07:00

One of these days I'm going to write a handbook called Parenting: 1001 Ideas That Don't Work.

Matthias had some three-day mystery fever that broke a few days ago. Now Jackson has it. He's doing his best to be tough, but he has been a little whiny. When he told me he just couldn't eat lunch today and wanted to take a nap in my room, I agreed. Matthias is sleeping there, too, so I gave Jackson strict orders that they were to both go to bed with no unnecessary noise.

Fat chance. I know I sound like that teacher on Charlie Brown.

A few minutes later, I was hearing strange growling sounds from both of them that left me thinking I'd find two little heads spinning in complete circles by the time I got up there. They were both giggling and I wasn't sure whether to scold or be grateful Matthias had been able to provide Jackson some humorous relief.

"It's time for quiet now," I said semi-sternly. I laid Matthias back down and tried to cover him back up, but his squirms and giggles wouldn't allow for it. "Matthias made noise, too," Jackson reminded me.

"Yes. Yes he did," I answered, giving up on covering the baby. I turned on some music and left.

I'm officially in the blame stage of child rearing with no clue what to do about it.

Birdbrains

2011-08-01T21:42:00.000-07:00

Turns out, some secrets are only good for so long. Remember the bird's nest my family discovered?

Well, a couple days ago, my neighbors proudly announced that they'd found the birds in our tree, too, and "took a couple inside to feed and play with them."

I wish I could have come up with something more than a blank stare to give them. My annoyance was just too powerful to allow me to think.

Somehow, leaving the baby's stinky diapers on their doorstep doesn't seem appropriate.

Out with it

2011-07-24T18:53:00.000-07:00

I've been running around for the last couple months or so like I have some kind of morality problem (just to clarify: I don't).

We've decided to homeschool Jackson. There. I said it.

It's been a long decision for us, and one that's not come easily. We don't have a problem with public school (well, maybe a few quibbles), but we feel that given what we know about Jackson's personality and how he learns best, home schooling is the best choice for him right now.

We've spent the last two months avoiding answering kindergarten-related questions directly. Any time I tried dipping my toe in the home school confession waters, I've heard how weird home schoolers are, how they lack social skills, or how generally strange they turn out to be. It's been a little nerve-wracking.

All the while, though, we've been accumulating curriculum materials, white boards, school supplies, flash cards and other materials we want to use for our upcoming school year. We've contacted a home school group where we live, and are jumping on board for field trips, theater groups, and family socials. We've read ample articles about home school performance statistics and we've been intrigued.

And you know what? During the last month, I've finally stopped feeling odd. We don't have to be like everyone else. Our job is doing what we feel is best for our boy. This is going to be quite an adventure--probably a little bumpy at times--but in August we're setting sail.

We. Are. Excited.

Because copying Facebook updates is too easy when I'm busy

2011-07-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

(Is that lame?)

I just put capes on both the boys. Somehow, I was still surprised when I heard a big crash, followed by, "This superhero cannot fly."

It took us three weeks to train the neighbor boy to knock on our door rather than just coming in. Now, he knocks, then comes right in.

Starting the day with brownies. Sugar shock is the only thing that's going to help this morning.

A little family of cedar waxwings has hatched in the tree by our parking spot, which has been a wonderful treat. Also, I hate summer.

I've decided to offer Jackson's services on "What Not to Wear." When we saw a blue-haired lady in Wal-Mart yesterday, he said (very loudly and with disgust in his voice), "Mom! LOOK at her hair!"

And for Lindsey's next trick, she'll attempt to wash a week's worth of vacation laundry in one day.

I just hit the floor and crawled out of my room so the baby wouldn't see me when he started to stir from his nap. This is such a new low.

Free to good home: one baby. Knows how to take off his diaper and pee all over his bed. Bottles included. Diapers apparently unnecessary.

I'm done cleaning house. We're just going to start moving more often.

Cute sign I saw: "Chateau Debris: This is what happens when you fire all the servants."

Gave Music on Main a try tonight. I'm clearly behind on fashion because I had no idea adult onesies were so popular.

Dear Thursday: No funny stuff.

Today, I learned that the problem with babysitting four boys is there will come a point when they realize they have you outnumbered.

Sooo tired. I actually just answered when someone called on the TV.

Mario, Luigi, and a Reading Lesson

2011-07-18T16:07:00.000-07:00

It's so nice having an enthusiastic new reader in our home. Really, I'm loving it.

Except for when the English language and my new reader have a head-on collision over a Mario Brothers video game.

"Mom!" Jackson exclaimed when I came in the living room. "I'm going to get some more it-ems!"

"What?"

"It-ems!"

"Some what?"

"It-ems. See?" He pointed to the word "items" on the television screen.

"Oohhh!" I replied. "That's 'items,' babe. Remember when two vowels go walking?"

He totally doesn't remember. And he totally doesn't get it. I can't wait for "I before E except after C," followed by some sort of rationalization for the spelling of "science."

This might not be so funny when I've had some sleep

2011-07-17T15:15:00.003-07:00

His fatherly advice after Jackson asked his fifth "Where is my..." question of the afternoon:

"Jackson, you may think we're all-knowing, but we're plenty stupid."

A Very Merry Un-Birthday

2011-07-16T10:24:00.000-07:00

Matthias turned 10 months old yesterday.

At 10 months old, our little man:

Has 8 teeth, and a molar very close to breaking through
Can whistle when he concentrates very hard, and only when he sucks air in
Crawls everywhere
Can climb our 15 stairs to the second floor in under two minutes
Loves to play hide-and-seek in curtains, or in his dad's shirts in the closet
Shakes his head when we say "no, no, no"
Can say, "up," "Da (dad)," "Mama," and we think "Jackson" (It was more of "Ja-see,"which is very close to his "Jacksi" nickname.)
Still sleeps with the Pooh Bear his big brother picked for him after he was born
Has travelled to Idaho and been on a camping trip
Plays in the toilets if we forget to put the lids down

In which you know I have boys because I talk about a lot of poop

2011-07-13T05:50:00.000-07:00

So, it turns out that children locked in a hotel for eight hours with nothing but their mother and a slew of their own fabulous toys go just a little insane by the end of...well, I was going to say the day, but by the end of hour three, really.

Yesterday, we spent a little time photographing our hotel room so we could send pictures to grandma. Our room has: a hole in the wall about the size of my fist, ketchup (I'm calling it ketchup) right at the top of the very high curtains in the room, water damage on the ceiling, an iron burn in the floor, and crayon or scuff marks all over the wall. This is a major hotel chain we're staying at here, but I won't tell you which one in case someone from the hotel reads my little blog some day and decides to take me to the cleaners for making them look bad.

When we were done taking pictures of our cell, we watched a little television, then decided we'd go swimming. I went to change the baby's regular diaper and put on his swim diaper, and he got crap all over the bed sheets. The white bed sheets, no less. I had no idea all that was going on down there when I whipped that bad boy off his bum, or I'd have thrown down a changing pad, for sure. I'd lived in fear of those white sheets (and comforters) from the minute we stepped into the room. Seventy-six diaper wipes and soapy washcloths later, I had most of the poop out of the linens, the baby was freaking out because it was now past nap time, and Jackson, who'd been in his swimsuit from the minute I'd said, "Lets go swi...," immediately got a look on his face that told me he knew our plans had drowned.

Insert more TV.

Finally, at 11:40, it was getting near the time I knew my husband would be coming to fetch us for lunch. He showed up by noon, and by 12:45, we were back in the room, having inhaled Junior Cheeseburgers and chili and fries at Wendy's so fast I wasn't sure we'd eaten. I crossed my fingers we'd left the husband enough time to get back to his work meetings.

I insisted on naps for everyone when we got back, hoping they'd help everyone's moods, and they fortunately did. We got more ice. I told Jackson at least 17 times to please remember to close the door to the little fridge in our room, and finally decided we needed an excursion, 80-degree heat and forgotten stroller be darned.

Insert dollar store very close to hotel.

There's very little that excites my children more, I'm learning, than cheap junk. Jackson's eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning when we walked in that place, and Matthias followed him for cues. Immediately, Jackson picked up some glow-in-the-dark bracelets and offered a little plea.

"Yes," I said. "You can pick two things here."

Well, I was probably too limiting for just a dollar store. He alternated between bracelets and a Pez dispenser, bracelets and some huge plastic trumpet thingy, the Pez dispenser and a huge squirt gun, and finally a Pez dispenser and a gun that shoots plastic balls. I found a few school-type supplies, and figured we'd play some word games, too, since Jackson is progressing well with his reading.

Poor Matthias only got a stuffed caterpillar, but he loves it and has yet to learn about social injustice. And there are only so many small plastic parts I'm willing to let my baby near.

Mid-way through our shopping wonders, Jackson struck a funny pose and shot me a terrified look. "Mom, I gotta poop."

Well, at least he'd told me this time.

I tracked down a store employee and asked her where the restroom was. She offered some instructions and I left thinking, "There's really a bathroom key attached to a smiley face balloon?"

Oh yes, there was.

We grabbed our balloon and strode down the $1 kitchen supply aisle. I had to ask one more time where to find the bathroom--something about running around with a balloon made me forget. And finally, we were at the throne.

With no toilet paper.

I groaned, grabbed the baby, thinking Jackson might still at least sit down and get to work while I went, and found some teen nit-wit who works there. After telling her our plight, she gave me a look, then said, "I'll go get my manager."

"No," I thought. "I'd really rather you get toilet paper."

I ran back to the bathroom and stepped back inside to see that Jackson hadn't done a thing. Truthfully, I think he was as unimpressed with that bathroom as I was. The manager finally showed up with her industrial-sized roll of toilet paper, shoved it at me, and walked away without a word. Like I knew how to get it in the dispenser.

"Mom?" Jackson said. "It's gone. I can't go."

I nearly said a poo-related expletive, but refrained.

We headed to the check-out line with our junk and our balloon, and by that time, my husband actually walked in. He'd been waiting at the hotel a little while. I'd forgotten my phone, but he finally remembered I'd mentioned going to the dollar store if things got ugly. He helped us carry our purchases back, and Jackson finally handled the business he couldn't finish in the store.

Then a big rainstorm hit.

Strike 37 for the day. Our outdoor plans we'd made for the evening were shot, but we managed to find a nice restaurant for dinner. When we got back to the hotel, we decided we'd re-attempt to go swimming, but poor Jackson was the unlucky recipient of more toilet mayhem. He'd stopped for a quick potty break before we headed to the pool, and it wasn't 10 seconds after he'd flushed that we heard water hitting the floor. Our toilet was flooding. Fortunately, we had plenty of white towels and were able to get the water turned off before it hit the carpet.

The husband went down to reception to get some help after that, and came back with a 13 1/2 months pregnant employee who had a plunger an another sack of towels to clean up our flood. Immediately, I felt sorry for even thinking of having someone clean up the mess instead of just using hip waders and the public restroom by the pool for the rest of our stay. Then, she made me not feel so bad.

"Oh yeah," she said dryly. "This toilet is infamous for this." My remorse was over.

She plunged the toilet with a half-hearted effort, and the toilet started draining very slowly. I knew immediately her attempt hadn't done the job. My almost six years of parenting and adventures with over-toilet papered toilets have taught me that much. Later, my husband traipsed down to the lobby again and came back with the plunger himself to get it done right.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally heard a good flush from the bathroom. It had been quite a day. But for our new day, at least we're armed with $7 of dollar store junk that I really think will keep us busy.

Can you spend an hour getting ice in a hotel?

2011-07-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

Well, this should be interesting.

I was convinced to tag along with my husband to a training conference he has to attend for work. While he works, the kids and I are relaxing in the hotel for three days.

Check that. The kids are relaxing. Translation: already losing their minds by 9 a.m. on day one, the husband is peacefully attending his conference, and I'm working on making sure that at least the third floor of guests doesn't know we're here. I'll make no guarantees for the second floor.

We're off to go get ice. Again. That is, if I can pull the baby out of the big curtains where he's already playing hide-and-seek.

That's How We Roll

2011-07-10T17:24:00.000-07:00

Late Saturday night:

"See?" I explained to my brother and his wife. "There's just very little we do publicly anymore that's without drama."

Jackson had just announced that he'd pooped his pants.

My brother and sister-in-law had joined us part-way through our weekend at the Montana Folk Festival. This is an event I've written about here before: three days of music, demonstrations, and great cultural opportunities from around the world all converging on one little Montana town in the midst of sweltering summer heat. It's become quite the ritual for our little family, and something we've grown to love.

But it sure is interesting with children. After two hours of festival entertainment on Friday, six more during the early Saturday afternoon and evening hours, and another two more hours after my brother and sister-in-law were able to join us, Jackson and Matthias were ready to start raiding cotton candy stands, stripping off too-full diapers, and generally letting the public know what they thought about their abusive parents. Matthias had even thrown up in my husband's hair by the time we were saying goodbye to my family.

"Did he really poop his pants?" my brother asked.

"Yeah. I'm thinking so," I answered. Then I burst into a fit of laughter. This trip had become such a spectacle and I started replaying how comical the last 24 hours or so had been.

When we arrived at camp Friday evening:

I'd forgotten a laundry list of things that I'd originally intended to load in the car before we left: salt and pepper; washcloths and soap; pants for myself. You know, stuff that doesn't matter much. My husband also forgot the pump to our air mattresses, so our first night was spent on the cold, hard ground, tossing and turning over the lumps in our camping spot, feeling like 30 really IS old, and doing our best to keep our little ones covered up in the cold night air.

On Saturday morning:

I was determined that we'd never sleep that poorly again, so I blew up our full-size air mattress using nothing but my own hot air supply. And I did it, people. Oh yes, it was definitely an "I am mommy, hear me roar" kind of moment. So what if my head ached and my face tingled and my hands even felt funny when I was done. I probably was about to pass out and bonk my head on some lump in our campsite, but there was no way I wasn't going to feel good about that accomplishment. (My dear husband has one of the worst colds I've ever seen him experience, so that pretty much ruled him out for having enough wind to blow up the mattress himself.)

Back to the poopy-kid in the parking lot as we were bidding my brother and his wife farewell.

"And tonight," I wheezed through more laughter, "I'm going to blow up the twin mattress for Jackson! This is a joke!"

He and his wife shook their heads, gave us hugs and headed off down the highway toward their home. We arrived back at our lovely KOA site, where my husband whisked Jackson off to the showers, and I set to getting the twin mattress ready. I had it finished by the time they returned, and even managed to get the baby to sleep, too. My face wasn't tingling nearly as bad this time.

Of course, by 4 AM, we learned that the patch job my husband had done a few days earlier on the full mattress he and Matthias and I were using didn't hold. Jackson had fallen off his twin mattress twice by that point and was wedged in between his bed and ours, and the baby was starting to squawk. I scooted down to the foot of our bed, decided to use what air I could muster to see if I could keep us from sinking again for a few hours more, and then wiggled back under the covers, shivering from the ridiculous chill in the air. My husband had crawled over to Jackson's bed to see if he could keep him from falling off anymore and proceeded to freeze to death with the help of a five-year-old cover hog. I slept, head and feet elevated on our leaking mattress, butt touching the ground below, with a Bunsen burner baby on my chest, trying to decide whether my husband or I had it worse.

As I thought about our trip, I realized something: not one person in our little crew complained about a thing that went wrong. We act and probably look like a strange little band of gypsies on excursions like this, but we've set a strict rule in our home to not fret about things that can be fixed. And complaining is not allowed if it won't help the situation. Despite our setbacks, we'd laughed our way through all of them. That's how we roll.

And I'm proud of us.

Happiness Is--The I See No Good Reason for This Heat Edition

2011-07-06T13:05:00.000-07:00

Watermelon
The hope of at least one good pumpkin from our little bucket garden for Halloween
Ice water
Fans
A cheap hose and sprinkler on the lawn
Smoothies
Ice cream cones

Since Becoming a Mother

2011-07-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

I've accepted that the vacuum has pretty much become a piece of furniture in my living room
I've seldom eaten a meal without sharing some of it with someone
I've had a lot of dirty hands and faces--especially runny noses--wiped on my shirt
I've taken to wearing aprons a lot more often because I'm tired of having only four unstained shirts
I've made countless snacks
I've spent a lot of time trying to convince people that green beans, peas and oranges are good for you
I've picked up a whole lot of shoes
I've tripped over countless toy cars and nearly broken flesh on pointy toys
I've found dirty underwear crammed in the oddest places
I've found shoes in the oddest places, too
I've served popcorn for dinner a few times, and ice cream for breakfast
I've lost a lot of sleep, but had some of the best naps curled up with my little ones
I've had countless telephone conversations interrupted by requests for food, diaper changes, or help finding a lost toy
I've had a whole bunch of fun

When Sheer Terror Meets a Happy Day

2011-07-02T18:59:00.000-07:00

I love the Fourth of July. There's the fireworks, the getting woken up at 11:30 p.m.--or later--by rotten people who don't follow the city rules for when they can set those things off, the picnics, the rodeos, the candy, the sunburns, the patriotism, the parades...

Oh, the parades.

We headed out of town to see a parade today. It was 90 minutes of pure enjoyment. Even our un-napped (Is that a word? I'm making it a word.) baby had a blast watching all the horses and floats and people going by. Jackson made out like a bandit, and looked like a filthy, sticky, candy-faced, patriotism bedazzled gypsy by the end.

Once the parade finished, we packed up all Jackson's treasures, stuffed the going-to-start-wailing-any-minute-I'm-so-doggone-tired baby into his stroller, and found our way back to our car via a craft show along the busy street. We had a great time wandering, and the softie in me stopped briefly to pick up a bag of cotton candy to tip Jackson off the sugar coma cliff.

On and on we went past booths of all kinds, when my husband and I decided to veer out of the pedestrian traffic flow to look at one that interested us.

Actually, only three of us veered out.

My dear, tired, inattentive five-year-old kept on going.

We'd only been at the booth about three minutes when I realized Jackson wasn't there. My husband quickly strode out into the crowd, and I followed as closely behind as I could, resisting the urge to throw out my elbows and start mowing down people with the stroller while I searched for my little cub. We hadn't gone 20 yards before I saw my husband coming back, Jackson's hand in his, and my little boy right on the verge of tears.

"Momma, I was so scared and I was trying to find you," he said with a quiver in his voice.

"I know, baby, I'm so sorry," I answered, pulling him close.

Fortunately, an attentive woman had noticed our little one and was starting to ask him if he was lost right as my husband got there. I was so thankful she had slowed him down just long enough for his dad to catch up.

We walked out of the craft fair together, and I started to get a little teary myself. My perfect afternoon was nearly ruined by the incredible urge to throw up that follows the realization one of your kiddos is missing.

We finally relaxed, though, and talked to Jackson about what had gone on. While he can recite my name and my husband's, his age, address, phone number, and birthday, we'd never actually talked about what to do if you get lost in a crowd. How in Heaven's name have we not had that talk? But he knows now. And so this weekend, along with being incredibly grateful for living in an amazing country, I'm also quite thankful that what could have been after that parade, wasn't.

Really?

2011-06-28T13:39:00.000-07:00

I just had two vacuum salesmen, both reeking of cigarette smoke, accuse me of allowing my children to wallow in filth.

Really?

And they were surprised when I showed them the door.

The Great Poo Redemption

2011-06-26T21:26:00.000-07:00

Frankly, there's a lot about being a mom that stinks.

Really.

When Jackson was a baby, we had a hard time keeping his bowel movements...moving. The boy could go a week at a time without doing a thing in the Number 2 department. The kid had so much trouble that we sat him on the toilet at around a year old because it seemed like the easiest place for him to go. (I'm not one of those fools who actually thinks it's worthwhile trying to potty train an infant.)

Anyway, I used to envision a kid who finally became so constipated that he'd end up like Aunt Marjorie on Harry Potter. (Oh yes, this is where my worried mom mind sort of went in those early years.) Plenty of research and experimenting later, I finally found a good combination of peaches, some yogurt, a few green vegetables, and eventually, prunes that kept things working for him.

Insert one daddy who was working full-time back then, had extensive church commitments, and was also attending college part-time, and we eventually had a problem. On a rare afternoon off, he fed Jackson some of the pureed prunes I'd set out for him and I went off to do some work. The next day, I was busy working at my computer at home, enjoying the free time Jackson's naps gave me to get some things done for my employer.

Not long into my work session, I decided to take a break and make sure Jackson was still sound asleep in his crib. He wasn't. I walked into his room to find a boy who was not only awake, but who'd painted his crib, his bedding, and the wall behind him in poop. I died a fast mommy death, right there.

"What did you do?" I shrieked to my husband on the phone. "How many prunes did you give him?"

"Well, all of them," he said, with a confused tone.

"Five BITES!" I howled. "You only needed to give him a few bites! These are prunes!"

"He liked them!" he laughed in response.

I've never let him live that down. And today, I found sweet poo redemption.

Exactly two minutes after we arrived at church today, I went down the wing where the children's classrooms are located to drop off some materials I would need when it was time for their classes. My husband found me there and said, "Diaper bag."

"Is that him I smell?" I said, nodding toward Matthias, who was sitting in the crook of his arm.

"Oh yeah."

The first meeting of the day nearly started when my husband came and sat down.

"Was it bad?" I asked.

He just nodded and rolled his eyes, then held out his arm to show the poop stain on his white shirt.

Oh yes. Matthias's diaper soaked through his pants onto my husband's lovely white church shirt. The music for the meeting started, so I sat there, silently, smiling to myself at the long-wished for revenge that finally struck five years later.

So maybe, not everything about being a mom stinks.

Life Continues

2011-06-25T11:29:00.000-07:00

It's been almost a week since I last wrote, which should be some indication of the ~~rockin'~~ rocky week I've had. Screeching baby, writing assignment deleted by a five-year-old, unplanned 5 1/2-hour babysitting sessions for the neighbors, a five-year-old who thinks "Soorrryyy" is now just something you say to get out of trouble instead of actually meaning it, you name it, it's happened this week.

And naturally, I've been feeling a little grumpy.

Yesterday, though, my husband discovered a little bird nest in the tree next to where we park our car. He pointed it out to me and Jackson, and we all said appreciative "ooohs," while trying to maintain a distance from the nest. I couldn't believe the mama had picked such a low-hanging branch to raise her family.

Today, I opened the front door, and heard the bird chattering away in her tree. Jackson and I threw out some bread crumbs, which we later found her picking up. I was caught up in the sweetness of life happening from behind the safety of the leaves. Jackson is dying to look closer at that nest, and truthfully, so am I. But I have explained to him the dangers for the babies if we get too close, and he's agreed to respect her space.

This morning, I've found myself feeling pretty grateful for my little life. I've got two (well, three, if you count the big one) sweet and busy men of all sizes who fill me with smiles and joy. The laundry's piling up again, and I've pulled out a handful of cereal--plus a dried old apple slice--out from under the couch, and the baby's got a molar coming, and I'm struggling to find writing work. But we're still here and doing okay.

Life has it's ups and downs, and fortunately, it's filled with unexpected surprises along the way that let you stop and observe how fragile and wonderful it really is.

Thank you, mama bird. And I'll personally make sure the neighborhood kids stay out of your tree.

Because I know you love my Facebook life

2011-06-20T21:01:00.000-07:00

I could be facing a real issue if we don't get rid of this supply of Hershey bars.

So far I have: one toy car repair underway, a boy who's decided he's Castle and I'm Beckett, another boy with three outdoor escape attempts, a request for toast made from "yes bread," and a baby who appears to be under arrest. Ah, I love a Monday.

I've never wrestled a pig, but I'd imagine it's pretty similar to trying to catch my naked, screaming baby as he tries to escape the rest of a diaper change.

I've got one child drinking out of a bowl and insisting I call him "Brutus" today, while another one is crawling around and making a pretty good yipping sound. I'm about to take a rolled-up newspaper after them both.

I'm learning that children who are teething and children with ear infections are best treated with an air mattress in the living room and an "all-day campout" declaration from Mommy. I'll be self-medicating with cookies shortly.

I love an average morning. I had cookies for breakfast. The baby is licking a movie case, and Jackson is desperate to kill the fly in the kitchen.

Husband: "It's not every day you see two children crawl out from behind the couch.

Why, yes, Rotten Day. I will have a S'more. It's only 10:30 a.m., you say? Then I'll take two.

Starting to wonder if I'm raising puppies. Lately I keep catching myself saying things like, "Stop! No, no, no! Come! Come HERE! Sit down!"

Signs of a laundry strike gone too far: your disappointed five-year-old is sitting on his bed in his underwear deciding whether he'll put his only clean pajama bottoms back on or wear his swimming suit.

This Morning

2011-06-17T07:26:00.000-07:00

Today, I woke up feeling like I had so much to so that I didn't know where to start.

So I prioritized and began by snuggling the baby.

I still have a ton to do, but at least I feel better now.

I Should Remember That Boys Think This Way

2011-06-15T13:13:00.000-07:00

Me: Whew! I'm pooped!

Jackson: Did you crap yourself?

Dear First-Time Parents Next Door

2011-06-14T19:33:00.000-07:00

I've tolerated you for awhile now.

I've listened to you tell me how your baby loves fruits and vegetables and decided against telling you my infant has already had a French fry.

You've regaled me with your thoughts on why the library's "Books and Babies" program is so important for your little one, and I've resisted stating how many pages of our books and magazines my baby has ripped out.

You've explained to me that she's going to skip crawling and just move on to walking as my son motored on past you on all fours.

I've watched you nearly have strokes when my baby crawled within 12 inches of a pile of sawdust and laughed inside as you picked every bit of grass out of your daughter's mouth. Frankly, I was just glad mine had steered clear of the dog poop.

I've held my tongue while I watched you love and treasure and coo and brag about your new baby. It's as it should be. You're doing your jobs.

But today you scolded my oldest boy when his ball merely bumped your little one. All she did was blink. Because I remember that new parent feeling, I held my tongue again. Jackson blew it off, so I would, too.

I am, however, willing to not be so nice if you do that again.

Meanwhile, my husband and I will be saving you seats in the "Reformed Neurotic Parents" club.

Signed,
I'm Not That Dumb Anymore, and Eventually You Won't Be Either

Because it's Good to Think Ahead Like That

2011-06-14T15:55:00.001-07:00

Jackson: "Mom? When I'm a dad, I think I'm going to wear a belt to church."

While on the Phone

2011-06-11T14:18:00.000-07:00

Me: "Oof. I'm picking up a Costco-sized box of tampons."

My Mom: "You're what?"

Me: "Picking up a Costco-sized box of tampons Matthias scattered all over the upstairs. I'm just glad I didn't have to tell Jackson what they're for."

My Mom: "Nosebleeds. Just tell him they're for nosebleeds."

Moral of the story: When in doubt, lie.

Today I Learned

2011-06-10T14:30:00.000-07:00

Ear infections can crop up at any time in small heads, really, but they much prefer the middle of the night
My pediatrician is wonderful about squeezing appointments in
I'm no longer afraid to rush out into public with no make-up
A baby's diaper can hold powerful amounts of pee when you're forced to forgo their diaper change and get right in the car to take the infected five-year-old in for a squeeze-in appointment
Mouth wash is just fine if you don't have time to brush your teeth (Isn't this all Jessica Simpson does?)
My son, even when his head is throbbing, will still be able to boss you around. When the doctor said he was going to take a look in Jackson's ears, my boy promptly responded, "My ear HURTS!"
Jackson will, however, change his tune when a sucker is made as a peace offering.

Technology Confessions

2011-06-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

I have only a very basic idea of what an "app" is.
I'm 30 years old and only recently got my second CD player ever.
I still only own some of my favorite movies on VHS.
My husband is desperate for a new sound system, but I won't let him. If anything "woofs" or "sub-woofs" in this house, it's going to be a dog.
To me, an electronic book seems entirely unnecessary.

She'll be Alright. I Think.

2011-06-08T05:00:00.000-07:00

My Mom got a Facebook account yesterday. She didn't want to, but she did it.

Sadly, my hometown is flooding, and many people are communicating vital information via Facebook. I've been her Facebook ambassador for the last while, filling her in on any important updates. She decided, though, that she needed to be able to check information herself and said, "Set me up an account."

"Alright!" I exclaimed. (I've been trying to convince her for awhile now that the Internet doesn't hurt.)

In the middle of my excitement, her determination to only put her toe in the Internet waters came bursting through.

""But I don't want friends!" she added. "Can I do it without friends?"

Walking Through History

2011-06-07T05:02:00.000-07:00

I love the Old West--absolutely all of it. Hand me a Little House on the Prairie book or a Dr. Quinn episode, or show me a pioneer museum and I'm there.

Imagine my pleasure when, after surviving the goat trail to the nature preserve and a near run-in with wild beasts, we came across an old cemetery to explore as we made our way home. This cemetery was filled with the wonderful air of history. Maybe they upset some people, but with old grave sites in particular, I suddenly find my mind lost in what the lives of the people resting there might have been like.

This particular cemetery housed a few original settlers of the Centennial Valley, which is where the Red Rock Lakes National Wildlife Refuge is located. The husband and the small men explored an outbuilding nearby where several birds had made nests while I read headstones. Some people there had lived pretty long lives. Others were shorter. One little girl died just a few days after birth. Another passed away at two years old. Still another girl's life was cut short at 21 years old.

"How must the mother of the baby felt when she lost her little one?" I wondered to myself. Already, my boys had outlived her child considerably. "What happened to the two-year-old? Did the 21-year-old live long enough to fall in love, or was her life marked by the hardships that certainly filled the valley when she was here?" I was just 19 when I found the guy I would one day marry. I watched him with the boys for awhile, then continued to the next grave.

Eventually, it was time to go. The goat trail ended, and I rejoiced at the site of the highway. A few more miles, and we saw a sign that said Bannack State Park was a mere 21 miles away. When you've come 200, and you're still more than 120 miles from home, that measly 21 doesn't feel like much. Neither the husband or I had been to Bannack before, so off the interstate we went. Soon, we were walking the main street of the ghost town that was the first territorial capital of Montana.

I've been in ghost towns before that aren't as people-friendly. Bannack is maintained enough to allow visitors through most of the structures, but not so much as to detract from the age, discoloration, and drooping these buildings have earned with time. We peered into the windows of the assayer's office, and I imagined dusty miners coming in, eagerly hoping the earth was yielding the riches they dreamed of. We studied the intricacies of the stairway banister at the Hotel Meade. Here, I pictured refined women, hoping for a bit of sophistication in a bustling, probably dirty, and most likely raucous, mining town.

Down the street we continued. We sat in the chairs at the Methodist church, and also learned about a woman considered the "belle of Bannack." I wondered how she lived in a town where men were likely starved for female attention. Did she like it there? What prompted her to come, and stay? Had any miners ever caught her eye?

We crossed the street and stepped in a home where patients were frequently quarantined when disease hit the town. Plenty of children died there, the guidebook stated. The house had a different feel to it, tempting visitors to believe what the guidebook said about it possibly being haunted.

We saw some stores, and found our way to the doctor's house. I thought about him, too. He'd probably spent considerable hours in the quarantine house, fighting to keep little ones and others alive, and certainly feeling a little despair now and then when his efforts weren't successful. Part of me felt sorry for him, and another part knew he likely saved lives along the way.

There was a school house, too, and a bootlegger's cabin. My mind placed children in the house, trying to focus on the teacher's lessons when excitement and the hope of a big gold strike lingered outside and someone sat, secluded, making moonshine. My mind kept churning and churning as I imagined the stories left behind.

We stayed until exactly five minutes before the park was set to close. I was sad to leave, but grateful to let the writer in me craft so many stories and picture so many scenes.

I'm excited to go back.

About the Nature Preserve

2011-06-06T12:42:00.000-07:00

So, my husband has been wanting to see the Red Rock Lakes National Wildlife Refuge for weeks. Weeks, I'm telling you. It's got an abundant supply of birds, and he desperately wanted to take photographs of more so he could build his portfolio.

I love birds, too, and usually have a great time exploring nature. But here was the thing: the Web site for the refuge says to be certain you have a spare tire with you because the roads will eat your wheels. The nature guidebook we use also says the roads love tires. This is where my mind naturally went (even though I know having a spare is only smart, no matter what):

We're exploring some out-of-the-way wilderness that has a goat trail leading into it.
The goat trail is going to eat our tires. All four of them, plus the spare.
My husband is going to have a beast of a walk to make when we get five flats because
I don't hike, not unless I have a fishing pole in hand. Otherwise, I can take a walk in town without driving three hours to get to where I'm going to walk. And finally,
There's no cell service in the wilderness. And if my husband is making this beast of a walk, I certainly don't want to be left to the elements with my babies. I'm no Boy Scout. I wasn't even a Girl Scout.

But you know? Paranoia be darned, we made it in and were having a great time until Jackson went to explore a snow bank. I was watching some birds in a tree and turned around to check on my boy when, what should I see? A fox. A fox, people, marching in like no body's business while I was oh-so-far out of reach of my baby. I started striding over toward Jackson, yelling my ever-loving head off and calling for my little one and my husband.

"Jackson!" I bellered. "Come here! Come here now!"

"What? What? I'm sorry!" he said, confused, as he turned.

"Now! Come here!"

"I'm sorry!" he said again, having no clue why I was yelling at him for no apparent reason and speeding to a trot back to me. (What must he have been thinking when he saw my head burst into flames and all he had done was kick the snow?)

The husband finally came up from the lake where he was photographing, certain I'd found a bear, and probably readying himself to jump into the car through the open window.

"A fox!" I said when he showed up.

"Wha? Lindsey, look," he said, pointing toward the fox as the man-disgust registered in his voice. "He's going." He was using the tone that only a man can muster when he comes to the painful realization he's married an idiot.

"Darn right, that fox better be going," I thought to myself. Otherwise, I was going to have a fox homicide on my hands.

So, the moral of the story is: gravel roads, okay; bird watching, brilliant; husband's bright ideas, fine most times; the scene this mama can make when wild beasts come too close to her babies? Epic.

(There were no flat tires.)

Kid Speak--Summer Has Begun

2011-06-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

On hour four of what would eventually become an 11-hour trip in the car, my husband started failing dismally in his navigating duties. He turned to the back seat and asked Jackson whether he would care to navigate. Jackson said, "Sure, I'll be the havergator."

When hour 9 rolled around and we finally found civilization (we had been exploring a FAR out-of-the-way nature preserve), we came across the blessed golden arches. Jackson requested a hamburger, and we forgot to order one with no pickles. Of course, this being hour nine and all, he was tired and borderline weepy. You know how kids get. He lifted the bun off his burger to survey the contents, saw the pickles, and said in despair, "It has fruit on it!"

Happiness Is--Motherhood Edition

2011-06-03T07:10:00.000-07:00

A baby's tooth that finally comes through
The sleep that follows the tooth
A child who, after years of nagging, constant watching, and general parenting-type threats, behaves himself in a store where there are breakable items at every clutzy turn.
A compliment from a store clerk who says she followed your child all around the store and couldn't believe how well-mannered he was. (It's okay if you have to check and make sure it was, in fact, your child.)
Little arms grabbing your legs while you try to type a blog post.
Gazing down into a perfectly round Charlie Brown baby face while you type.
Family pictures where at least 50 percent of the children are looking the right direction.
Indulging a request of cookies for dinner.
Knowing that some day, your baby will not wipe his snotty nose on your pants. Or your shirt. Or your furniture.

It's a Love/Hate Relationship

2011-05-29T18:45:00.000-07:00

It's been raining most of the week, so naturally, my kids decided to make me walk the Parenting Plank of Insanity.

We'll start with Mr. Matthias. He has a cold and another tooth that's been teasing us (and torturing him) for at least three weeks. He's also decided 5:30 a.m. is a perfectly wonderful time to start the day, and that the best time to take a nap is when his brother wakes up. He loves to sit on the couch and play with his toys, but he becomes irate when he can't get down and I haven't anticipated his thoughts and desires beforehand. We're working on teaching him how to climb down.

Then there's Jackson. Who? Jackson. Huh? Jackson. What did you say? JAAAAACKSOOOOONNNN! (Think about how Fred hollers, "Wwwiillllmaaaa!") This child won't listen, and when he does listen, he contradicts me at every turn lately. I'd pay $50 to turn back the sands of time and return to his "Whatz dat?" phase if it meant I'd have even a day of from the "But why?" phase. Why didn't anyone tell me a child's ears will break when he turns five and the sixth sense, called "I'll See if I Can Defy You and Pretend I Haven't Heard You at Every Turn," emerges?

Because there are times when I think everyone must remind themselves why they love their children (and that procreating wasn't a horrible idea), here are a few things I love about my kids:

Matthias:

The way he presses his forehead to mine to show affection.
The way he say, "Hewhoa." (Hello.)
Watching his bum wiggle when he crawls really fast.
Hearing him giggle.
Seeing how he loves his brother.

Jackson

His sense of humor.
When he tells a joke.
Our goodnight ritual. I say, "You're my favorite Jackson." He always answers with, "You're my favorite mom."
His love of learning.
The way he loves his brother.
His incredible desire to help others and his ability to see and start filling a need even without being asked.

Okay. Maybe these little people aren't so bad.

I Wish

2011-05-25T12:48:00.000-07:00

Cookies weren't fattening.

The baby would sleep all night. For the LOVE OF PETE. Please sleep all night, baby.

I could say with certainty that my son will remember to flush the toilet every time.

Housework wasn't such an everyday occurrence.

The boys would be as excited to spend the day with me as they are when their Dad comes home.

Dancing with the Stars wasn't so addicting.

I could say that if I peeked under my couch, there would be no food under there.

Dusting wasn't so horrible.
Toilets weren't worse than dusting.

Lullaby

2011-05-23T13:11:00.000-07:00

Matthias won't go to bed without music. For the first 6.5 months of his tiny life, he wouldn't go to sleep to anything other than one church CD we have. Of course, we tried to be the compassionate parents and indulge him. For 6.5 months. MONTHS. My religion is important to me. I'm a big fan of religious music. But babies sleep a lot. And when you only have one CD you hear many times a day, even that gets old.

So, we've spent the last six weeks trying to expand the baby's listening pleasure. Here's his current list of acceptable sleeping material.

Dances with Wolves
The Mormon Tabernacle Choir Love Is Spoken Here CD (his original favorite)
The Man from Snowy River
Enya
Music from Charlie Brown
La Vent du Nord
Bill Cosby (A complete accident from an inattentive mommy who just pushed an iPod button and left quickly. But it totally worked, and thus makes the list.)

Making It

2011-05-18T15:24:00.000-07:00

Nobody is going to accuse me of getting through every day gracefully, but I've concluded that a well-fed, content, fully-dressed family is good enough for me. Today I've:

Stuck to my goal of exercising every day this week (I'm all about accountability with weight loss right now).

Handled Jackson and his friend tattling on each other at least 15 times before I finally decided to call a time-out and bring Jackson in for a nap. He wouldn't nap because he was hungry, so I fed him three different things and then said it was time for a nap. When he told me he was still hungry, I scooped some salad on his plate I knew he wouldn't like. He said he was ready to nap. Procrastination solved.

Gotten the baby ready for a nap...I think. As I'm writing this, he managed to find the TV remote buried under the couch and turned it to the local ABC station. Based on the number of graham crackers scattered under his kitchen table/baby hideout, I think he's full, too. One bum change, and he might be set.

Done a good amount of writing on an assignment that's nearly finished. It feels good not to have stories still to write at 9 tonight.

My husband texted me and asked how I was doing this afternoon. I was honestly able to say I was "hanging in there." A friend told me once that "hanging in there is better than falling off," and I'd have to say he's right. If not, I'm going with Buzz Lightyear's approach and declaring that I'm "falling with style."

It's Time

2011-05-17T12:56:00.000-07:00

Here's my secret: I'm tired of how far out my thighs squish when I sit down.

So, for the last week now, I've been exercising. Yep. Me. Lindsey who doesn't do such things. (I walked way fast when I was at the end of my pregnancy with Matthias and it threw me into labor, so exercise sort of annoys me.)

But it's time to shed this baby weight. Time to stop blaming Jackson for the baby weight fat rolls I'm still sporting. My goal is to need a new pair of jeans.

And I'm two pounds lighter than I was a few days ago. So be proud of me.

Faker

2011-05-13T17:08:00.000-07:00

Jackson lost his third tooth today. Three. This only adds to my theory that he's growing up too fast.

Anyway.

He's been working on this tooth for about three weeks, and I was so very tired of seeing his hands in his mouth wiggling the little guy. Imagine my pleasure when I saw it hanging by a thread today. (It's okay if you have to gag. I kind of did.)

I handed him a napkin and told him to give it a tug, but instead it just started to bleed a little. Oh, the trauma that ensues when you've severed a major tooth artery. You wouldn't believe the wailing and whining and moaning and blubbering that went on whenever I encouraged him to try again.

So when my husband got home, I said, "I need you to traumatize your son."

"You don't mean 'kill him,' do you?" (He was referencing a Bill Cosby skit we think is hilarious.)

"No, no, no. That tooth needs to come out tonight, but he's being a little dramatic about it."

We called Jackson in, and the man talk ensued.

"You want me to pull that for you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

I handed the big man a napkin.

"Open up. Bigger. Did I get it?"

"Yep. Thanks, Dad. Can I go play?"

And I groaned in disbelief.

Sharing

2011-05-12T10:08:00.000-07:00

I think Oreos are gross.
Every time we eat at McDonald's, I always take a bite out of my husband's hamburger--just to annoy him.
There are days when I'm pretty sure spell check has ruined me.
I snore (not a lot, my husband tells me).
Blue is my favorite color.
I turned 30 in April. I never wanted to be 30. The 20s felt young, but 30 feels like the start of old.
I'd love to have five kids.
I'm so grateful I finally have a work-at-home writing career that keeps me sufficiently busy.
I think Yellowstone Park is one of the best places ever.
We're saving money to buy a new couch, dining set, and mattress and I'm beyond excited.
Some day, I want to be a campground host.
I'd love to visit Yugoslavia.

Happiness Is--The I'm Behind Everywhere I Look Edition

2011-05-11T15:29:00.000-07:00

Having enough money to plan a few small getaways this summer, despite gas prices
Randomly deciding to take the boys for a lunchtime picnic by the pond and finding a Special Olympics kayak competition to enjoy while we ate
Having the courage to Zumba despite almost complete certainty that I look ridiculous
Chocolate Cheerios
Knowing that some day, the baby will sleep through the night
Watching the baby wave hello
Listening to Jackson plow through the books he had trouble reading just a few days ago
Enough rain to keep my allergies in check for a little while
Birthday money that can be used for clothes

Yesterday's List

2011-05-06T07:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one of those days. We were trying to go to Grandma's house. I had work to do. The car needed packed. I had two stories for work. But with a day bent on working against me, here's how things went:

Spend five hours writing 600 words. Count 'em: five hours and 600 words.

During those five hours, experience countless interruptions with:

A son who fell off his bike and thought he'd amputated his foot when it was really a superficial scrape.
Tending the same son when his hand was slammed in a door later (I felt bad for him on that one).
Feeding a baby whose crawling nickname will henceforth be Lightning McBaby.
Texting with my mom, who was bored.
Answering phone calls.
Watching Jackson and his friend feed ants.
Watching an ant haul away a bit of graham cracker.
Setting up a picnic for Jackson and his friend.
Picking up a kleenex cloud after the baby pulled half the tissues out of the box.
Vacuuming up the l0,000th graham cracker off the floor.
Packing.
Rescuing a desperate baby after he buried himself in his blanket.
Loading the car.
Feeding children.

When we made it to Grandma's house, the baby didn't want to sleep. And he didn't. But I did. And my husband didn't. And I'm not sorry.

The Queen of My Castle

2011-05-04T09:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my husband called me quite early in his work day and said he'd already been sent to lunch. Given that he had to work late, he was pretty sure he'd be starving by the time he came home in the evening.

"I sure wish I could eat whenever I wanted," he said. "You get to be in charge of your whole day."

"I am," I said. "The kids and I eat when we want, go to the park when we want, sit down and work when we want, and watch movies when we want."

He sighed wistfully.

After he hung up, I realized something: it can be pretty tempting to complain about all the toils and troubles that come with being a Work-at-Home Mom (I've decided I'm done calling myself a Stay-at-Home Mom.) But one thing I do have is complete control of my day. Every day is fresh and new, and the kids and I craft it how we'd like it.

That's not a bad gig.

In Which We Try to Pull Rank Over Who Makes the Bottle

2011-04-29T05:08:00.000-07:00

"My body is still scarred from bearing your children."

"My emotions are still scarred from you bearing my children."

In Which Meatloaf Reminds Me Why I Love Him

2011-04-28T11:44:00.000-07:00

I'm learning to appreciate the quiet way my husband handles things. After I complained about the very dry meatloaf I'd made for dinner last night, he silently passed me a bottle of barbecue sauce I hadn't even seen him pull from the fridge. He didn't miss a beat.

Or a bite.

This is part of why I love him.

My Life in Facebook Posts (Again)

2011-04-27T10:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I looked out the kitchen window and saw a horse and rider going down the street. Does this count as an "Only in Montana" kind of thing?

I don't care what the experts say. When I'm this tired, the TV can babysit my child as much as it wants.

I think Jackson needs grief counseling. We've let Matthias play with his old baby toys (which he hasn't paid attention to in years) and it's not going over well.

Babies annoy me: up all night long, first ones up in the morning, and the only ones to spend the rest of the day napping.

I'm learning that "Spring" in Montana pretty much just means you start walking around in the snow with your sandals anyway. Because it is almost May after all.

Free to good home: one baby. Thinks midnight is a perfectly acceptable time to wake up and start the day.

I can't stand my allergies this season. I'm in a constant state of that feeling you get right before you're about to sneeze.

Next on Lindsey's List of Things She Didn't Expect Today: a writing assignment on National Pooper Scooper Week.

Taking a Stand

2011-04-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

I've learned that the quickest way to sour yourself on a holiday is to go to Wal-Mart.

Need one last Christmas stocking stuffer? Wal-Mart in December will make you regret that decision.

Forgotten the yams for Thanksgiving dinner? Make sure you have all your offspring tucked safely into your cart before you dare enter the produce section.

Easter candy? Don't even go there. Really. Just stay out of that aisle.

As I rounded up stupid plastic eggshells and baskets and a few other trimmings for our Easter dinner, I found myself growing increasingly irritated at the people in Wal-Mart and the success we have found at commercializing yet another sacred holiday. And here I was falling for it.

Want to make matters even worse? Couple that with a trip to Costco.

I fretted and stressed and whined at all the things I "had to do" for Easter. My family was coming to our house for dinner. I wanted the boys to have some fun. I wanted the house to be clean. I wanted everything to taste just right. It was Easter and I was running around like I had a Martha Stewart Evaluation coming up at any minute. What if my mom found something amiss in my home?

Well, you know what? What if she did?

As I was dusting and fluffing and scrubbing the house and getting the meal ready and filling stupid plastic eggshells on the Saturday before the big day, I told my husband, "I don't like this. I don't like how I'm feeling. This isn't why we celebrate this holiday."

And I cut back right there. Scalloped potatoes or not, Easter was not going to cause me one more worry.

I grabbed Jackson and we had a nice chat about why we celebrate Easter. He asked a few questions. My husband sat in the recliner in our living room and listened as Jackson and I visited. Truthfully, Jackson was squirmy and I wasn't sure if he "got" a thing I said, but I felt much better that I had at least tried. Later, a neighbor boy came down and was trying to educate Jackson on the importance of the Easter bunny. Jackson offered his thoughts on our Savior to his friend, and I had never been prouder of my little boy and choked back a couple tears as I listened to him talk.

This Easter taught me something: quality time on any holiday (or normal day) is what you make of it, no matter what your personal beliefs are, regardless of whether the little "extras" are present. Clean bathrooms are splendid, but I can definitely cut myself some slack if I forget to fold the end of the toilet paper into a triangle. If your holiday meal is toast and cereal? Celebrate away. You'll be much calmer than some people will be.

Sometimes, it's easy to lose focus. Fortunately, a little trip to Wal-Mart reminded me that groceries there are pretty affordable. And so is perspective.

Dear Winter

2011-04-23T07:58:00.000-07:00

It's time to be done.

You and I have gotten along so well this year. I've kept the house smelling of cloves and cinnamon, worn my favorite sweaters day after day, baked plenty of wonderful smelling goodies and curled up with soft blankets and perfect wintry movies.

But I can't take my children anymore.

Yes. While I can easily tolerate eight months of Montana winter, my children are, in a word, insane. They've been locked up with me these many months, and they can't handle anymore. Today, my oldest was making the baby wear his Easter basket as a hat. The baby has taken to climbing all of our stairs (at a mere 7 months old), and I'm about to run screaming into the street.

As my five-year old keeps saying, "We need fresh air!"

And I agree with him. I'd stay holed up the rest of the year if I could. But if I share my winter haven with my children one more day, one of us isn't going to make it, and I don't care who it is.

So Spring needs to come.

Okay?

Signed,

I'm Serious

Ah well

2011-04-22T07:21:00.000-07:00

When my husband came home from work last night, it was snowing.

Hard.

When we tucked the kids into bed, it was snowing.

Hard.

When we woke up this morning, we peered out the window to a glistening winter wonderland, and the crisp, cool air filled with the distant beeping of the garbage truck on trash day. (Not very romantic, but that's what we heard.)

The morning was lovely as I watched him get ready for work. After I kissed him and he drove off, I sat down and decided to put on some Christmas music.

(Isn't this scene sounding so quaint and lovely?)

Not long into my little party, the baby started wailing and I saw that last night's supper dishes still need to be tended to.

There's something about reality that can send even the most devoted Christmas music fan hurtling back to earth at breakneck speeds. So I sighed, grabbed a bite of chocolate for breakfast and headed off to Mommyhood.

Junior Economist

2011-04-20T07:05:00.000-07:00

Jackson as he overheard me and his dad talking about economic news (particularly gas prices):

"That doesn't make any sense!"

(We'll be sending him to Washington shortly.)

Foul ups

2011-04-19T06:56:00.000-07:00

So I'm pretty sure I'm an awful mom.

We've been having considerable trouble putting "good listening" and "Jackson" in the same sentence lately. I don't care what we're asking him to do as parents. Our words shoot through that thick five-year-old head of his faster than the gas pump gobbles up my credit card.

We've tried talking nicely. We've tried talking loudly. We've had lessons about listening at family night. We've sent him to bed early. We've put him to work cleaning house. We've taken stickers off his very precious reading chart for misbehavior.

And?

Nothing.

I swear. Nothing.

We'll literally finish a chat with him about his behavior and he'll jump almost immediately back into doing what he was doing wrong.

Yesterday, I snapped.

After eight times (I'm not kidding) of asking him to correct some behavior and telling him what I'd like to see him do differently, I lost it.

"Jackson, you're a bad boy."

It's a statement I never, never wanted to hear myself say. My husband and I make it a point to tell him it's the behavior we're upset with. Naturally, we all know we have good kids at heart. They're just...kids.

His face wilted faster than the dandelions he's been bringing me all week to stick in a cup of water in the kitchen window.

I instantly had a horrible pit in my stomach. The last mommy to have possession of the "Meanest Mommy Ever" trophy immediately Fed-Exed it to my house. Jackson said a quiet "I'm sorry" and got back to the task we had been trying to do in the first place.

This scene took place in the morning, and for the rest of the day, I had absolutely no listening problems with him. There was a tiny event in the evening, but in the whole scope of a "Jackson could give a hoot about what I say" day, we'd had a major triumph.

I spent the rest of the day praising him as much as I could for doing well at listening. If there was something good that I missed, he made sure to point it out to me and I heaped on more praise.

My husband, I think, wasn't thrilled with my choice of words either when I told him what had happened. Fortunately, I was already so down on myself that he chose not to be. He checked that I had been praising Jackson, and after a moment of quiet, said, "You know? Maybe this will be okay. To make muscle stronger, you have to tear it and hurt it first. This might help Jackson in the long run."

I sort of felt better, but still decided to find the nearest "Remedial Mom" support group.

Maybe Jackson will remember how awful he felt yesterday. No. I don't want my son to chronically feel like poop on a shoe, but I want him to remember that doing good things feels better.

When we tucked Jackson into bed last night, I gave him the standard good night routine that he and I usually share.

"You're my favorite Jackson," I told him.

"You're my favorite bad mom," he replied back.

"Hey!" I squealed.

At this point, the stern expression he'd had on his face changed to the mischievous grin I've come to love when he's realized he's played a good joke on someone. I think he was giving me a taste of my own medicine.

"You're my favorite Jackson," I tried again.

"You're my favorite mom."

Thank goodness.

As he drove away

2011-04-14T16:49:00.000-07:00

"I love you very much. I want you to know that. I'm not just trying to feed you to the children."

Dear Pet Owners in my Community

2011-04-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

You must love your pets because I see you running around with them all the time. I'm happy you have such a great relationship.

But if you want to know how fast I can go from zero to Your Worst Nightmare, just see what happens when your dog runs after one of my kids. I might like watching your pet, but rest assured that I don't love him nearly as much as you do. I know your pet "won't bite," but here's the problem: I will.

And if your pet unloads his business in the park or in my back yard? Well, I sort of expect you to clean it up. If I wipe poo off my son's shoes and my kichen floor one more time, I'm going to leave said poopy shoes on your back porch.

Here's what going to happen: if my kids run away from me and ruin your family time, I'll tie them up. (Well, not really, but I promise to give them a scolding and get them under control. In fact, I might not even let them run in the area where you and your pet are trying to have a good time in the first place.)

And you also have my solemn promise that if one of my boys does his "business" on your grass--or in the park--I'll clean up after him. I'd hate for your pooch to get his feet dirty.

Signed,
Fed Up and Pooped Out

Some Thoughts

2011-04-12T13:44:00.000-07:00

I've been absent for a few days because I just haven't felt that interesting. (And I really did promise there would be no more flu news, so I'm sticking to that.) Here are a few random things that have made me smile and have mommy moments during the last few days.

Matthias crawled for about a week and while he still does that, he's already pulling himself up on furniture. Jackson made me sad when he was a baby because he grew so fast that I felt like I didn't get to enjoy him being small. Matthias makes me a little sad because while he's not growing as fast as his brother, he's hitting milestones sooner than I anticipated.

Yesterday I caught Jackson and his friend, Stevie, laying in the grass watching clouds go by. I'm glad kids still do that.

With the exception of a few words, Jackson read Green Eggs and Ham by himself today.

I made biscuits from scratch yesterday and they weren't terrible.

Last Saturday, I learned how to make flower bows for my hair and I've been wearing them ever since.

Matthias said, "Dad" today, making the score 2 to 0 in the "Mama, Dada" first words department. Rotten baby. But the smile on my husband's face made me feel pretty forgiving.

I'll be a grandma before I know it

2011-04-07T09:59:00.000-07:00

So I registered Jackson for kindergarten today.

Kindergarten.

And he'll be six when he starts.

Where does time go? Really. I'm asking here. Where does it go? I'm sitting here pouting and thinking about the fact that my boy is growing up without my permission.

Time has already flown so fast. Didn't we bring his scrunched up, wrinkly self home from the hospital just a couple months ago? The next thing I know, I'll turn around and he'll be married and I'll be a grandma.