LAST Day at Home

How is it the end of August?  Anyone?  Where have I been all summer?  WHAT'S GOING ON?

Um, I got a job.  A good job.  A full-time job in healthcare instead of government which will be very different and very exciting and will help me grow and introduce me to cool people and get me back into the world of the living!  The team is so awesome, it already has a Maggie!  Except she lost her "e" somewhere along the line, poor Maggi, so people will be able to tell us apart.  Biggest foreseeable challenge, obviously, is writing emails and spelling her name right.  I mean, I already know the advanced spelling of her name but I have major muscle memory when I type, so I'm sure I'll have to go back and correct myself all the time.  But no worries: I have the same issue when I type out the name of the country, France.  Since I spell my sister's name, "Francie," more often, when it comes a moment for the country, I type "F-r-a-n-c-i-e-spacebar-delete-delete-delete-e-spacebar."  That's how my fingers are so in shape.*

I am so incredibly grateful for the new job.  I'll start 10 months to the day since I left my last job and we've got some financial catching up to do.  Plus, I'm starting to become a hermit and a wuss.  We're talking like I need a nap after I go to the grocery store kind of wuss and when people ask me if I can help out with something, I'm trying to come up with a coherent answer while mentally performing a full Scarlett O'Hara faint.  I need smelling salts to get the mail.  It's bad.

Audrey's First Encounter with Contact Lenses

I was super tired last night.  My contacts were super dry and all I wanted to do was crawl into my bed, but I could not find my contact lens case.  There was a tower of small candles on the back of the toilet, so I had the presence of mind to realize there was a strong probability that a little girl had found my pretty little lime green contact case and hidden it somewhere that makes sense to her.  I wasn't about to wake her up by looking in the play blender in her play kitchen, so I fumbled around in the bunch of contact cases stacked in our medicine cabinet.

We have a bunch of contact cases stacked in our medicine cabinet because: 

1. They're sold that way because, according to the contact lens case company, you're supposedly supposed to change out your case every month to keep the contact lens case company in business for optimal contact lens care, and 

2. When I bought the six-pack of cases, Aaron and I both wore contacts so it seemed economical.  Then of course within a few months, Aaron was approved for corrective vision surgery and within a few weeks that was done so I have cases to last at least a few more years.  This is much more dumb than economical: I don't need as many contact cases as I have shoes so I bet I'll get careless with them and then find myself needing one and having to buy another six.  

My hand closed in on a familiar shape and emerged victorious with a light blue option.  It's prettier than the lime green, so it will probably be in the play blender soon, but I was exhausted and thankful that I didn't have to go searching for another one.  I took out my contacts and went to bed.

This morning, I opened the Right side and discovered two contacts floating in an excess of contact solution.  I was so tired last night, I put both in one side!  I put the thicker of the two in my right eye, blinked a few times and looked in the mirror.

The me in the mirror blurred and the room spun a little bit.  I blinked to try and de-blurify everything but it didn't work.  The contact felt really thick and uncomfortable which meant that it was not my contact at all.  I had unearthed a time capsule from April that contained only my husband's contacts. HOLY CRAP, this man definitely needed eye surgery.  I threw the contacts in the trash, re-cleaned my contacts, put them in, and got in the shower.  

I set a Saturday morning shower record: I was already rinsing off when the curtain flew out and I heard Audrey's slow "Mommmmmmy?  You in da showwwwooo?"

Audrey loves when I take a shower because she gets to stack the candles and do her make-up and make bouquets of q-tips and identify little treasures that I will have to live without until they reappear in her "titchen" and various purses.  The longer it takes for Audrey to realize I'm in the shower, the less likely it is that I'll have to clean up broken glass or a lotion-covered toilet (she likes to paint).  The shower is a race against time.

I turned off the water, grabbed the towel and smiled down at the little girl who was wearing nothing but a Little Mermaid Pull-up.  "Yep!  I'm ALLLL done my shower!"

"Oh otay, Mommy.  You all done da showoo."  Audrey crashed into disappointment.  With me out, she couldn't claim her forbidden perch on the toilet.  Her eyes searched for something to make the trip worthwhile.  She bent down and stood up, suddenly fixated with something small in her fingers.  "Mom, what's dis?"

"That's Daddy's contact lens.  It's trash."

"It's twaaaaash?"

"Yeah, it's yuck."

She was fascinated with the gooey little disk, still moist with cleaning solution.  Audrey sized it on each of her fingers.  It was sticky, like a sticker, so it went on her chest.  It flipped inside-out, and she caught it by her belly button, noting that it was almost the same size.  Wait!  I could see the wheels turning as she discovered the use for these two little circles that could almost stick to her chest.  She wandered out of my bathroom, holding the contacts close as she tried to place them both where they obviously went.

And that is how my daughter discovered that contact lenses are the perfect size and shape... to cover her nipples.  

Happy Saturday

When I finally got out of bed this morning (my eyelids were glued shut, so I fought the battle until 8:30), Aaron had already watered the yard, done some dishes, and set the kids up to eat their leftover donuts at their small table.  I tried to act like I'd been there the whole time by starting laundry and making coffee so my darling productive husband could sit down and play his new video game.

(Before anyone gets distracted by the relative merit of video games, please note that the main reason I'm even near the computer right now is that I'm looking up how to kill random bosses or whatever in the game.  I think I just used 1992 language to talk about a 2013 video game, but this is my husband's hobby after all and I think interrupting my morning article reading to look up this stuff is enough dedication.  I don't need to learn current terminology.  Plus, I'm a Mom now so I need to stay several years behind on "the lingo" or I would deny my children a full Mom experience.  Or I just used the term "bosses" correctly in which case, YEAH, I'm ON IT.)

And so, back to this morning...

I was making coffee so I could complete the eyelid-ungluing and eat my donut, but was distracted by a little girl who was running back and forth behind me, wearing nothing but Big Girl Underwear with her hair in a messy librarian bun.  She was also screaming "YAY YAY YAY!" while she ran.  This is God's way of seeing if you are really committed to your morning coffee - if you can do it while your eardrums are violently shaking, the angels will make it extra specially delicious.  I pushed the button to start the coffee maker.

"YAY YAY YAY!  Mom I so CITED!"
"I'm excited TOO!  I'm having coffee!  Why are YOU excited?"
"Be-TUZZ!!!  YAY MADIGAN YAY!"
"Oh yay Madigan!  What did Madigan do?"
"I gave her my donut and she ATE IT ALL!  YAY MADIGAN!"

The DJ of my life screeched the excited happy child/morning coffee music to a halt.  My smile disappeared.  "Audrey, let's not feed the dog donuts.  It will give her a tummy ache."

Aaron joined in from the other room: "Audrey!  Do NOT give the dog any food!  ONLY DOG FOOD!"

On the momentum of an "OooooooooTAY," Audrey sprinted down the hall, followed by Madigan... followed by a scream from Sebastian.

I was pouring the coffee when he came in with a devastated look on his face.  "Madigan ate my donut."

It seems that Audrey's method of dog training is especially effective.  We will have to work hard to help our dog unlearn this donut eating trick.

Since you're wondering, no, my coffee was not extra specially delicious this morning: it turns out the angels do not smile on people who allow a two-year-old to run around naked and teach their dog how to eat donuts.  Also I had to share my donut with a very disappointed little boy.

Happy Saturday.

The Shoe Police

Madigan and I were outside for her walk this morning, since she can't use the re-sodded backyard for 30 days (this should be a fun month), and got to talking to my neighbor, Katrina, who walked across the street for a short morning chat.  After about 5 minutes,  my front door opened, and revealed Audrey, wearing nothing but a pull-up and hot pink sneakers.  She pushed her hair out of her face, then casually strolled out, swinging her arms and calling to Madigan.  I didn't even try to convince her to go back inside since Katrina is her favorite person and Audrey's all-but-naked presence only complimented the towel I had worn on my head for a "short walk."  We're classy like that.

Audrey walked right up to Katrina, like she usually does.  We both expected her to put both arms up and ask to be held.  Instead, she looked down and said, loudly and with authority:

"Ms. Trina!  YOU don't have your SHOES on!"

Contagious Accents

Sometimes I don't realize I have an accent.  I grew up in Central Virginia, but assimilated pretty well when I lived in Chicago for two summers, so I got a little Midwestern.  Then I lived in Louisiana for a year, where I settled into a deeper Southern accent, but I thought that a few years in Northern Virginia had neutralized me a bit.

I was wrong.

I have had Siri on my phone for over a year now and I never use it because she can't understand a word I'm saying.  When I ask her to call my husband, Aaron, she offers to look things up on the internet.  When I enunciate, I hear this twang come out and I throw the phone across the room in horror.  Siri's dumb anyway.  I don't REALLY have an accent.

If I have an accent, it would rub off on my kids, and they would say things in some random dialect that I've picked up and they wouldn't know where it came from.  Can't be having that.  Plus, since we're a military family, we'll be moving all over the place and my kids need a Newsanchor Neutral accent so everyone can understand them.

I had a close call years ago, when my Little Man was born.  Aaron's mom brought it to my attention.  She hails from Pennsylvania and spent years moving with the military before settling in Virginia, so she's the source of Aaron's pretty neutral accent peppered with what I think are Pennsylvania-isms (ex: The laundry "needs washed."  Who skips the "to be" that should be in there?  I think it's Pennsylvanians).  I have a notably stronger accent than Aaron, but it doesn't take much.

Anyway, Sebastian was like six months old and Aaron's mom mentioned that the women in her aerobics class asked how the "Little May-un" was doing.  My eye sockets expanded so fast I had to catch my eyes before they popped out.  She immediately looked embarrassed, but I laughed.  I knew exactly where it came from - my brain already had a montage ready of me cooing a six-syllable "man" at my child for this moment when I realized I was passing on some serious Southernness to this innocent baby.  I fretted about it for months, and successfully reduced my term of endearment from 4-6 syllables to a comfortable 2-3.

Fortunately, Sebastian's babysitter was a Mexican woman who had previously lived in London, so when he started talking and somehow picked up the term "Oh Man," the word came out kind of surfer-Californian - and thankfully, only one syllable.  I celebrated and forgot all about accent modification, figuring that if I kept my children around enough other people - especially Aaron - they would be immune.

Then last week, Sebastian asked me which car we were taking: the green one or the "vay-un."  The next day, he lectured Audrey about dragging her blanket on the "gray-ound."  The final straw was when, through his four-year-old speech impediment, I heard him ask for Ironman fruit snacks, with an empathic "Eye-oon MAY-un!"

Maybe Audrey - whose speech patterns deserve their own homage - has somehow been saved?  No.  She might sing the "Spiderman" theme song as "Spi-Mahn," with that same surfer-style single syllable that Sebastian used to use, but if you ask her to open her Eye-oon Mahn fruit snacks by herself, she'll tell you sadly that she "tay-un't."

These poor innocent children...

AFTERWORDS: After finishing this post, I heard myself asking Aaron if I could read it to him, when he gets a "chay-unce."

See Fish Hide

As you might remember, we got the kids each a betta fish several months ago.  They lived in a small aquarium in Sebastian's room with a divider down the middle so they wouldn't fight and the kids could each see their fish at night and everyone was happy.  Except me.  Because Audrey's fish sucked at life.

We got a "baby betta" that never grew, and it pretended to be dead every day because it hated me or it was making a bubble nest but more likely because it hated me.  It was my nemesis.

But I'm not going to dwell on that because the problem seemed to resolve itself during our trip to Virginia in May.  When I returned, I went to feed the fish and found that the divider keeping Sebastian's awesome blue fish from her sucky pink fish had been removed.  I confronted Aaron (because I would have preferred he scheduled the death match when I was in town), but he said he took it out after finding the little pink fish dead at the top of the tank.  I like to imagine that the little pink fish was just playing dead to try and mess with Aaron the same way it's been messing with me for months and then came to life briefly while it was flushed, feeling fear and remorse and cursing my name as the water drained it into the sewage system, but Aaron insists it was seriously dead this time.

We did what most good parents do when a child's fish died: We didn't tell Audrey and debated whether to pick up another one that looked similar in case she asked.  Avoidance is underrated.  We were tacitly united in this decision, though Aaron decided not to buy a new one before I decided not to buy a new one.

I got caught in a tight spot the other day, when Audrey asked me to lift her up to see her fish.  I said "Well, um..." and froze.  Aaron and I had not covered protocol for this moment, but it seems he had found himself here before with Audrey and she filled me in.

"Mom, pick me up so I can see my fish hiding!  Daddy show me my fish is hiding in the leaves!"

Of course!  While Aaron and I did not confer on the new strategy, I see where he has helped me to evolve to the next step in good parenting, shifting seamlessly from Avoidance to White Lies.  Glad Audrey caught me up.

Good bye fish!  And good riddance!

The Nuclear Option

Every inch of my legs is burning with fire ant bites, real and imagined.  One bite on my left calf has a 5 inch radius of swollen, hot skin.  I took an antihistamine.  I had more than a few glasses of wine last night.  We ran out of ibuprofen.  As I nursed my numerous wounds, I had but one thought to comfort me: The Exterminator is Coming.

Let me give credit where credit is due: Audrey is the one who started all this, when she fell on a hill getting into the house the other day.  My little run-in from Tuesday night was chalked up to Personal Stupidity (which has been beating me for years) until Aaron told me about Audrey's little incident.  That night, I dreamt that the dog was covered in fire ants, that she disintegrated like The Mummy, and I had to get my kids onto a spaceship.  I checked the yard the next day and we have upwards of thirty ant hills on our tiny yard.  The back yard also has an infestation.

Whatever do I mean by fire ants?  Excellent question.

When I grew up in Central Virginia, we always had ant hills.  They were a little red/orange mound of dirt and we had two ant varieties: black and red.  Black ants supposedly didn't bite, but red ants supposedly did.  I don't think I ever got bitten by an ant, though I would pick up the black ones whenever I got the chance.  I'd find a tiny one and let him scurry over my hands while I walked, naming him and talking to him until I put him back on an ant hill.  When he arrived on the new ant hill, he probably upset the new tribe and was torn limb from limb, but I gladly went along my merry way, satisfied that I had given my ant friend a ride.  Awwww...

Fast forward about 25 years and I'm in Texas and ants are NO JOKE.  I'm always running around outside barefoot, so I got my first ant bite in April or so, when I was checking out my garden.  I was surprised to see one of my old ant friends running away from my foot, but I didn't learn my lesson.  I keep going outside barefoot to ask a neighbor a question and inevitably, no matter how careful I am, I get bitten. They'll bite and keep running too - I caught one on my bicep the other week and from the time I felt the pain (immediately) to the time I grabbed him was mere milliseconds and he was biting me while he was sprinting, not kidding.  Over the next three days, my entire upper arm, from shoulder to elbow, was red, hot, and swollen from two close bites from ONE TINY FIRE ANT.

Another fun trick from my childhood was dropping a cookie on the ground next to an ant hill, then watching the ants descend and demolish it over the afternoon.  I'm sure my mother liked that too, since I always got an extra cookie for the ants.

That also doesn't work with Fire Ants, as I learned today.  I put a cracker on their hill to show my kids a fun childhood moment.  Thousands of ants showed up, but the cracker is still there hours later so it got boring once the ants stopped moving.  Some are guarding it as part of the hill, but nary a bite has been taken.  Now I remember: in April, I found a dead baby bird in our yard, missing its head and heart thanks to our former neighbor's sadistic cat.  I reported it to our housing office, ants covered it.  Animal Control showed up the next day, and there wasn't so much as a baby bird beak left as evidence.  Lesson learned: fire ants feast on flesh.  And dog food - Madigan hasn't been able to eat outside for a while now.

Anyway, after Tuesday night, I was plotting my own revenge.  I went on Pinterest and Google to find Fire Ant treatments.  I foresaw a drawn out battle where I would try a new kind of torture on every ant hill to see what worked, taking glee in their suffering.  Aaron and I have used water to wash away the hill, but it comes back (the ants are underground).  My father-in-law told us at dinner that he and his friends used firecrackers or something when he was little.  The explosion was cool, but didn't kill the ants.  I silently decided to set my yard on fire and spent dessert debating how to build a fire break to protect the house.

Yesterday morning, I put in the work order before I could stop myself.  I went outside and looked at the ants.  The slightest touch and hundreds came to the surface.  I wondered where the matches were but then remembered the work order.  As a temporary Texan, that resonated and I modified an old battle cry to channel my anger and guide the fight: "Remember the Work Order!"  Then I thought about fashioning a fur cloak as a Stark of Winterfell to tell people "The Exterminator is Coming."  Then I got old school and went "The Ant Man Cometh" and this devolved so that I was distracted for a moment.  Until I started itching again and looked for a lighter and came full circle with "Remember the Mantras!"

When the kids came home, I decided to show them a new 2-foot ant hill that had popped up overnight, to educate them about the ants before the exterminator drove in with his own Enola Gay to blindside these antropolises.  Antropoli.  Antropoles.  Whatever.  We were standing a safe distance from the New Ant City when I noticed Sebastian's shoe was covered in angry fire ants, who had emerged from a new suburb we hadn't noticed.  SON OF A...

We ran inside, I threw his shoe out the front door and scrambled to check both kids feet before my own.  As I finished, the phone rang.  The exterminator would be here the next day (today).  I nearly wept with gratitude.  It would have been very awkward if that woman had shown up at the house to deliver the news in person because I would have collapsed in her arms.  With Sebastian standing there lecturing me about throwing shoes.

The company said they would be here between noon and 4, but I have waited since 6:30 this morning.  I have not showered: I really didn't want to miss the guy.  I kept the kids home to watch, though they are suddenly not interested.  If I wasn't having lunch with Aaron and talking to the landscapers who suddenly showed up to fix our backyard (in response to my December work order, yeah), I would have put on my war paint.

When the gentleman came, I walked him to every ant hill on our tiny rental property, though he assured me he knew which type of ant this was and what type of stuff to use from the moment he saw a bunch on our tree that we hadn't noticed.  I showed him my leg.  He understood it was personal and he let me walk the battlefield.  I'm supposed to wait an hour, but a part of me wants to be out there, kicking the hills and watching the colonies go silent.  This is war.

I had but one request at the end of this war, but I didn't think the exterminator could comply, and Aaron was right there and would probably have undermined the seriousness of the request.  ALL I want, all I want in the WORLD, is the thorax of each of those wretched little fire demons, hand delivered to me.  I will thread them together in the dark of moon, creating armor the likes of which the world has never seen.  When any other fire ant dares to return to this property, I will put on that Fire Ant Thorax Armor with my face painted, and I will charge out the door, yelling "FOR FREEDOM!"

And then I will probably feel a small burning pinch on the back of my leg that will send me back to the work order website.

Whispers in the Dark

It happens almost every night, in the wee hours.  Normally between 2:30 and 3:30, just as the dark is darkest and my dreams are most vivid.  The streets are silent, all cars are parked, not a dog is barking in the city.

A whisper.

Moooooommmmmm.

At first, I believe it is part of the dream, because it comes from the mouth of my fourth grade teacher or the police officer handling the rogue circus elephant or the person who is handing me the Hope Diamond to watch for a few days.

Moooooommmmmm.

I try to figure out how this works in the context of the dream.  Do I have kids if I'm only 10?  Why isn't someone babysitting them with this elephant running around?  Is the curse of the Hope Diamond so real that the kids can't even touch it?  And how do I keep it from Audrey when it coordinates so well with her princess skirt?

I neeeeeed mooowwwwwwwk.

"What?" I ask, suddenly recognizing that I'm a bit groggy to be handling a rogue elephant.

I neeeeeed mooowwwwwwwk.

"There's milk in the fridge."  That makes sense in any situation.

Moooooommmmmm.  I need mooowwwwwwwk.

"I know."  Let's please get back to the Hope Diamond.

Doe deeeettttttttt it!  Doe det da mooowwwwwwwk!  Moooooommmmmm.  Doe det iiiiiittttttttt!

My eyelids peel back.  It's Audrey.  I need to doe det da mowk for Audrey.  I always need to go get milk for Audrey.  Suddenly everything comes together: the weight on my arm, the hot moisture on my ear, the small fingers pushing my hair around.  I stumble out of bed, trying to figure out how I didn't know she had crawled into our queen-sized bed, how I missed Aaron's instinctive little pushes that protect his side from invaders and squish her farther onto my pillow.

I check the time.  It is 2:39 AM, of course.  I get the milk, remind myself to do this before bedtime and to show her where it is so I might sleep through the night for once.

I stumble back to my room, where Audrey looks to be in a state of deep sleep, sprawled on my side of the bed.  I take in her slumbering form and wonder if it was all a ploy to take my side of the bed.  I sigh.

Audrey jumps up, gathers Ninnie (her blanket), and grabs the milk from my hand.  She takes a swig and scurries down the side of the bed, navigating expertly to the door.  In the light of the hallway, she breaks into a run.

"I doe sleep in my bed!  Duh'night Mom!"

Rain and Housetraining

Iiiiiiiiitttttttttt's raining outside.

Not just raining, but angry-heaven raining that's been going on for three (four?) days now.  Which means our backyard is a mud pit.  It won't be a mud pit for long: the housing maintenance guys came by to measure for the sod and they plan to fix it soon.  Of course, they measured to re-sod about three weeks ago and it was in response to my December 28 work order, so let's take "soon" with an ocean of salt.  Which is better than an ocean of mud which, incidentally, can be used interchangeably with "my backyard."

This means that Madigan is in the house... all day... every day...

It was nice at first.  The rain cut the heat and she and I have been folding laundry together.  She's enjoyed more than her share of treats.  She's been great with the kids, so sweet with us, and completely incompetent at, you know, NOT POOPING IN MY HOUSE.

We've been walking her in the morning and the evening but (as I understand) many dogs have issues with going during an active rain.  I've been trying to go out in the dryer moments, made walks more frequent, and I'm praising her a lot when she pees, but somehow she just won't go.

As usual, this wouldn't be as much of a problem if it was just between us, but I have two particular individuals who make the situation that much more fun.

Yesterday, Audrey saw it.  There was a pool of pee from the dining table that was quickly approaching the rug in the living area, where the dog had left a huge pile.  I immediately lurched into action, cleaned it up, Resolved the crap out of the carpet (haha, see what I did there?) and bleached the tile floor.  I'm not kidding.  That stuff's disgusting.  Audrey, meanwhile, decided to seize the moment with her best impression of a two-year-old who has discovered questions.

"MOM!  Did Madigan pee and poop in the HOUSE?  WHY did Madigan pee and poop in the house?  Madigan!  Do NOT pee and poop in the house ANYMORE!  Mom!  Is Madigan supposed to pee and poop in the house?  Why did she pee and poop?  Does Madigan always pee and poop?  Are you cleaning up the pee and poop?"

I think I almost vomited more from the repeated reference than the actual cleaning.

Tonight, I actually had a day-long job interview (exciting, right?), then we had dinner, and everything was going well.  Madigan was inside, didn't try to eat anyone's chicken, and waited calmly through our dinner, which she spent in her crate because we really don't trust her with our chicken (and Audrey, who is very generous).  When we let her out of the crate, she was jumping and it seemed like she wanted to go out so I praised her for letting me know and we went outside.

Where she didn't... do... anything.

We went inside.  She still freaked out.  We went outside.  I expanded the walk to right next to our backyard.  She peed.  She sniffed around.  I waited.  I felt a bite on my ankle.  I felt another bite on my calf.  I looked at my sneaker and, in the faint light from the street, saw the FIRE ANTS crawling ALL over my right foot.

I was standing on a fire ant hill and my dog was still sniffing.

Because God created fire ants to torment people while they are trying to do the right thing.

Five more fire ant bites.  I waited.  I felt another bite on my calf.  That was it.  I moved away from the backyard, closer to the street.  I'm still outside with a fire ant family reunion on my foot, but I WAITED BECAUSE I WAS PROUD OF MY DOG.

We went inside.  I took off my shoes and threw them out the front door.  I picked all the ants out of the welcome mat and squished them.  I pulled my pant legs up and found more, which also met their end rolled in my fingers.  The dog was calm, so I went in the kitchen to wash my hands.

I felt eyes looking at me and glanced to my left.

Our eyes met.

My dog was squatting.  In my house.

After we had been outside twice.  For that very purpose.  And I had suffered for it.

Just to drive that point home, at that very moment, one of the ants in my jeans bit the back of my knee.  Again.

I took Madigan outside again, wearing a different pair of shoes.  I waited again.  She tried to walk across the street.  I pulled her into my yard.  After a moment, she just sat and looked at me.  I felt an ant bite the bottom of my toe.  I backed off the yard and looked at the shoe, again covered in ants from a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PART OF THE YARD.  So help me, my dog is in league with the little demons.

We went inside and she went to her crate.  I took my shoes off and scoured them for ants.  I took off my jeans, turned them inside out, and picked 11 fire ants off of them, include three that had been super-sized.  I don't know what we've been feeding them.

So there I was, without pants or shoes, and trying desperately to figure out whether the stings I felt were old or continued punishment for walking the dog in the rain.  That, of course, is the moment Sebastian asked me to bring juice to his bed.

I opened the door.  He noted my lack of pants.  I told him he was one to talk.  I also mentioned that I had ants in my pants from walking Madigan after she pooped on the floor.

"MOM!" He said.
"Yes Honey?"
"You need to turn around and look to see if poop is coming out of the heiny!"
"What?"
"You need to LOOK and SEEEEEE if poop is coming OUT of Madigan's heiny and if it IS you get the LEASH and you put it ON her and you take her OUTSIDE and she will poop OUTSIDE and then she won't poop in your HOUSE!  You needed to get the LEASH this time and she will not poop in your house next time!"

I let the door close on its own.  I don't need another small creature stinging me repeatedly about this poop thing.

I can't wait until the rain stops.

The Thought

It's the thought that counts.

No, no it's not.

I've been thinking about writing for weeks.  Actually, I've had blog posts drafting in my head most days, but somehow I never make it to the computer and then all my beautiful and witty posts never see the light of day.  Sorry, Reader(s).

First there was May, aptly named because in retrospect the entire month may or may not have happened.  Sometime in April I decided that a road trip to Virginia was in order to see my little sisters graduate college (GO HOKIES!) and my other three siblings who descended upon my parents' house for the event.  It was good times.  We were all together, in the same house/city/state/country, for all of 36 hours.  And then suddenly we were dispersed again.

The time there was fabulous, but it was a 20 hour drive.  Yes, 20 hours.  In my rocking minivan.  With Sebastian and Audrey and Pixar movies to pass the time.  There is a fine fine line between bravery and stupidity, but I was very clearly on the stupid side.  I didn't realize that until I was 12 hours in, somewhere in Tennessee, hanging up the phone from making a hotel arrangement 100 miles ahead of me, and the sky opened up and rained on me.  At that moment, I realized that both of my kids scream in their sleep on occasion and there was no way of predicting it on a rainy Tennessee highway.  That moment is seared in my memory.  I extended the stay at my parents' house for a few days just because I was dreading the ride back.

It was lovely and there were many stories, but I did a good job staying away from the computer, so I'll have to relive them in writing eventually... I hope.

So three weeks in Virginia and then Audrey got into daycare and, since we were paying for that, plus my kids were asking to go "home" (What do you mean, we're at my MOM'S HOUSE!  That's HOME!), plus my little sisters needed some time to chill before starting their post-college life (sniff!), I decided it was time to bite the bullet and drive back to Texas.  It took two overnights on the way back, but we got here.  I hope I get the same amnesia about the long drive that I got after labor with Sebastian because the visit was definitely worth it.

By then it was Memorial Day and I logged into Blogger and went "SERIOUSLY???" and then went back off the grid.  Or I posted, I don't know.  I have a lot of drafts from that time, so they might show up.  I know I posted a lot to Facebook and I'll probably put those over here because I like having a more searchable record of my parenting exploits, but I basically dragged myself into June trying to draft my road trip post in my head.

Of course, this happened to be the week that Audrey started daycare.  This was a very very very good thing.  We've been on the waiting list since AUGUST but I'm not going to dwell on that.  Both kids have been super excited about getting back to school and Sebastian has been reminding me that I need to get a JOB so I can "buy money" and "get him toys."  Jobs are where you buy money, by the way.  This is where online banking has gotten us: my kids don't understand the excitement of a bank drive-thru and the rocking lollipops that come out of that chute.  I need to join a local credit union whenever we move.

Her first week was hard (I have two draft posts about that, not even kidding) and I would hold her for waaaay too long when I dropped her off because she was crying and we all knew that I was taking Sebastian home to watch Netflix in his underwear while I did some laundry.  Then her teachers asked when he was going back to school and I was like "HE'S ON THE WAITLIST, OKAY?  STOP ASKING ME!" and they recommended I call the waitlist lady.  She had a spot for him.  He started preschool last Thursday.  Alas, my everlasting summer break is drawing to a close, just in time for all my teacher friends on Facebook to start pumping their fists in the air to harold in the three month break.

All this meant that I got even more serious about my job search and my imminent PMP certification exam.  Also, laundry and dusting.  I feel like Harry Potter toward the end of the Deathly Hallows, when he's seen all of Snape's memories and he's walking through chaos in silence, listening to his own breathing and heart-beating and being like "What have I done with my life?  How did I miss all of this?"  My time at home is coming to an end (I hope, I still don't have a job), and I keep looking around my house like "What is this clutter?  Why haven't I read this book?  How did I not take up running or something in seven months of nothing but time?"

It's all very boring, you know, the things I have to talk about these days.  Aaron comes home and I'm like "I made the bed and did the dishes.  Did you see how awesomely shiny our sink is?" and he's all "Yeah... you do that every day."  Because I do.  I do that (almost) every day before lunch and I still act like I should be served a Nobel on a silver platter when I see him, but it's partly because I know that if I have to commute an hour each way to work, I won't see a shiny sink for months.  Also, if I stand and admire my shiny sink, it keeps me from having to look at the laundry.  Oh my gosh there will never not be laundry in my life.

And so tonight, it is a Friday, and I am drinking wine while Aaron is cutting some bowls out of this wood he got today.  The kids finally went to bed - Sebastian bored himself to sleep on the first page of his Thomas the Tank Engine book, which was completely understandable because he decided to sound out the word "Thomas" eleventy-thousand times and was sick of the entire book before he could move onto the second word.  I read no verbs tonight and would have been out on nouns too if I kept my mouth shut during the title reading.

Part of the reason I mention all of this is because it is now almost officially halfway through June and I'm starting to get my head together, but had this writer's block about my blog.  Maybe you all both wondered where I've been, felt betrayed and alone in your own parenting mishaps.  Oh no, I have been making all kinds of wonderful mistakes - bringing Audrey into a pool with a regular diaper on, invoking the honor system on teeth-brushing with a 4 year old, letting the kids "help" with, you know, anything, and driving 20 hours each way to my mom's house.  I just haven't been documenting it all.

But, you know, I was thinking about writing.

Raincheck High Five

Everything is quiet in the house until I get on the phone or try to have a moment by myself.  And things are completely unpredictable, but normally entertaining for the person on the other end of the line.  Take, for instance, tonight's little exchange...

I was on the phone with my sister and Sebastian came running down the hall, opened the kitchen trash, threw something in, closed it, and ran directly into the living room.  He had an enormous proud smile on his face, slid into a stop right next to my chair, and held up his hand for a high five.  Then he said:

"Mom!  I picked up the cat frow-up and frowed it in the twash can!  High five AND a fist bump!"

I tucked my free hand under my leg, smiled, and said "How about you go wash your hands and THEN I'll give you a high five AND a fist bump?"  To stop the fading of his excitement I added "I AM proud of you for cleaning up the cat throw up and throwing it in the trash!"

He zoomed away and I went back to my conversation.  Or I would have, if my sister wasn't laughing so hard.  AWESOME.

One Sunday Evening

It's not every day you're chilling in the living room, having a nice Sunday evening beer, and someone comes running in with an urgent mission.  I have to commend myself on my awesome tuning-out-but-paying-attention skills because at that moment, I was aware of what my mission was.  Captain American and Hulk-Tinkerbell were using their Virginia Tech thunder sticks to save the lost treasure from Mordu (pronounced very Scottish/French by both kids, like Mowrdieu or Mowrduuh), the big ugly bear from Brave, which had taken over Thomas the Tank Engine's cargo only a few minutes earlier.  Our Thomas tent was still flattened in the entry to the living room, a casualty of the battle.

Mordu had moved through the house - Sebastian's room, Audrey's room, the bathroom, the hallway  The situation seemed to be more and more dire, with Sebastian stopping to ask if Audrey was Hulk-Tinkerbell or Thor-Tinkerbell (she was wearing her Tinkerbell pajama dress and TInkerbell Crocs), depending on whether Mordu should be Smashed or have a hammer thrown at his head (Sebastian knows better than to throw his shield).  He ran in to ask me to velcro his Iron Man costume and converse with the Jarvis voice on his helmet, to determine that they did, in fact, need to "Activate Countermeasures" or "Attimate Cowtoomissules!"  Audrey was impatient, and she ran back in, breathlessly yelling "OH NO!  Mowrdieu is in the tichen!"  Then both were off again with a screamed "AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!" so I went back to my beer and the iPad.

It had been 10 minutes of steady fighting and screaming - Batman was called in, Princess Tiana joined the fight, and the kids even had to use a rocket at one point when Mordu got to Sebastian's bed.  They opened the back door when Mordu was attacking Madigan and they leaned out to scream to the neighborhood that our very confused dog needed to fight back.  At one point, Ultraman showed up and I was informed that he needed a Jello jiggler from the fridge because he has a hole in his mask for his mouth.  Actually, Ultraman needed two jigglers and Audrey would feed him one.  I told both kids that a hero who demands dessert is no hero at all, so they went to tell him and found Mordu in the closet.

"HULK!  HULK!"  That was my cue, since I was the big green guy at Halloween last year.
"Yes?"
"Here, put on your Hulk hand.  Mordu is in your bedroom and you need to SMASH him.  And use my  Spiderman glove so you can spin a web and trap Mordu.  Wait, I have to go find my other Spiderman glove, but Mordu is in your bedroom."

I dutifully suited up, a 5-year-old Spiderman glove on one hand, a big foam Hulk hand on the other.  This was not a moment I could sit out, no matter how many dessert-demanding invisible superheroes arrived to help.  Sebastian came back with the other Spiderman glove, and we both looked at my bedecked hands, trying to figure out how to make a third glove work.  Audrey ran in, panted "MOWRDIEUUUUUU!" and, in unison, we yelled "AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!!!!!" and ran down the hall to fight that huge invisible beast.

And that's where my husband found us, emerging from his woodshop with a newly turned Christmas ornament in hand.  Aaron stopped for a second, surveyed the scene, then accompanied us all to the bedroom, where he told me all about the new project while I shot invisible webs out of my wrist and punched a Hulk hand in the same direction Sebastian was swinging his shield and Audrey was waving her inflatable thunder stick.

I don't know if we got Mordu (actually, we didn't - he was somehow hiding on the ceiling fan when we returned to the living room), but I saw myself in the mirror putting up a very active fight.  Aaron placed the ornament with his other projects and went back into the woodshop without a word.

So yeah, that's what happened in my house when I sat down to chill and enjoy a single Sunday evening beer.

Pride and Cat Treats

I'm trying to impart some wisdom on my kids, to make them fully-functioning adults.  I knew I would have to teach them lots of things - reading, potty-training, listening, proper public behavior, hygiene, safety, how to dress themselves, share, how to say "no" to strangers.  These seemed like more than enough to fill a lifetime of learning, and while I knew there were more lessons out there, I had no idea how weird it could get.

We got the cats some "Pounce" treats - the Moist Caribbean Catch Tuna Flavor if you're interested - so that maybe we could bribe them out of killing two kids who like to chase them and pick them up.  I bought them three days ago, figuring 2-3 treats per cat per day.  Half of the 6.5 oz bottle is gone, thanks to my two very enthusiastic cat lovers.  I just cleaned a handful off the floor a few minutes ago and then Audrey showed me another thing she needs to be taught.  Hopefully you can teach your children without the level of horror and disgust I just had to experience.

Audrey came running across the room with a big smile on her face, breathing heavily through her nose.  Her hair looked really awesome - she had pulled her loose bun out and I almost took a picture, it was so adorable.  I commented on her hair, then realized she was breathing really loudly and she looked REALLY proud of herself.  She's never that proud of her hair unless it's sticking straight up in the bathtub.  I looked at her with confusion, noticing the slight bulge at the bridge of her nose.  I listened again to her breathing and then I did what I normally do in this situation.

Okay, yes, there is a "what I normally do" because there has been a case, once or twice, where my daughter stuck something up her nose.  We had one thing, thought it was a fluke, then two beads in a row, so we promptly removed them and she was punished and it hasn't happened in months.  

I reached out and slid my thumb and pointer down her nose, easing whatever this bead was out of her nostril.  She broke a bead necklace yesterday, so I was almost grateful for the opportunity to get one of the beads back.  As it emerged, I realized with horror that this was not a bead "as usual" (what has my life become?) but was, in fact, a fish-shaped Moist Caribbean Catch Tuna Flavor Pounce cat treat.

It was at that moment that I discovered one of the more challenging lessons that a parent has to teach, realizing the delicate balance I needed to strike:
A. When you put a cat treat in your nose, you do need to tell someone.
B. When you tell them, you should not be proud to show them how you breathe with a cat treat up your nose. 

It was just like the one pictured, but I threw away the slimy one.  Audrey would have been in this picture, but she kept trying to re-enact the moment, which means I didn't teach her anything.  I took great pains to take this picture far away from her so she wouldn't get the connection between dimes and cat treats, which wouldn't be a far cry from dimes and her nose.  I think I might start captioning all my pictures with a whole other blog post but probably not.  I would like to make this caption even longer to note, for my keener-eyed reader(s), I matched this font color to the cat treat as best I could.  Gross, right?

About 15 minutes later, Audrey came up to hug me before her nap.  Everything about her smelled like cat treats, including her breath.  I asked if she had eaten a cat treat and she squealed in surprise:

"NO eating cat treats!  Cat treats for ca-ats!"
(Actually it was more like "NO ee-ding dat-feats!  Dat feats foe da-ats!")

She and Sebastian laughed and laughed.  I put them down for a nap so I don't have to look at or smell her right now.

Here's hoping she doesn't have any more surprises up her nose...

Things I'm Bad At: Opening SnackPacks

I bought SnackPacks for the first time in... forever?  The kids like Jello and I don't have the space in my fridge for it, so I decided this was a great choice.  Today, I had to open two of them.  Here is the packaging, Audrey's SnackPack, and the top of Sebastian's:

It tastes delicious if you can earn your way into the packaging.

First, you have to use your teeth - there's not enough top for peeling and I think I stubbed my finger trying.  If I didn't bite my nails, I probably would have broken one.

Second, it's not going to come off the edges because the packages are SO well sealed, so you'll have to try several times and it will tear and your kids will jump with their spoon impatiently.

Third, I cut the inside of my bottom lip.  Also, I think I still have a little glue on my teeth.

Fourth, if you cut the inside of your bottom lip, it's hard to keep hold of the SnackPack aluminum in your teeth, so that falls on the floor and the little droplets get on the rug.

It's delicious, but I think anyone who sends these in their kids' lunches should know that your kids are A, Trading them to kids with knives or really sharp teeth; B, going to lose their grown-up teeth trying to eat them; C, Seasoning the 10% Strawberry Fruit Juice with blood from their inner lip instead of High Fructose Corn Syrup.

Or maybe I'm just really bad at opening them.  That might be a possibility.

My lip hurts.

"She Didn't Even MEOW!"

Every day is pretty much the same, where the cats are concerned: The kids like the cats.  The cats spend all day playing Hide and Sleep.  In the evenings, I give them "I'm sorry the kids kept finding you" treats and keep them out of my bedroom so they don't attack me in their sleep for ruining their happy life with Aaron with two kids and a dog.  I don't really think they will, but there was this one time that Aaron put masking tape on the cat's paws because they messed up the rental carpet and the cat peed on my chair and ruined a rather nice feather throw pillow my mom had gotten from TJ Maxx.  That cat knew Aaron did it, but she took her revenge on my favorite chair.  That was how she trained me to sleep behind a closed door.

The cats love me.  They jump on my lap, sit by my shoulders when I'm reading, move the iPad out of the way with their heads so we can have "us" time.  That's also a revenge-taking move - I share a bed with Aaron, wake up to the dog's paws and head nudging my belly, and spend the day peeling children off of me while I try to remember to vacuum, so once I have a moment in my favorite chair, the cats are all about crawling all over me.

That's part of the reason I assert my authority by promising one of the cats for nap or bed time.  If Sebastian stays quiet for FOUR minutes, I'll bring Piano into his room to cuddle.  They sleep by him in the middle of the night, so they ought to adjust to him during the day.  Of course, I understand if they don't do that yet.

Sebastian yelled out in triumph from the kitchen today.  Did he find juice from yesterday?  Successfully open a Kraft Single without tearing it?  Rebuild a broken Lego tower?  I would know soon enough, when he ran in the living room to high-five me multiple times.

Much to my surprise, he walked slowly into the living room, "Mom!  Look what I can do!"

His face was surprised as he carried the cat in front of him, her body stretched and her hind legs slightly brushing the floor.  One hand was under her leg, around her torso, but the other was around her neck.  Forte was not struggling, but was also very much not amused.

"Look Mom!  I picked up the cat!  And she didn't even MEOW!  She LIKES me!"

Or she just CAN'T meow because you're holding her windpipe.  I plastered a smile on my face and resolved to keep calm.  "YEAH she does!  Wow Sebastian, I'm SO PROUD of you!"

He stopped and bent to let the cat down.  Forte froze for a moment, took a few slow steps, then darted over to the hidden end table before he could catch her again.  Sebastian wiped his hands and I told him that now that he's Big and Strong, we can practice holding the cats.  We moved onto something else.

A little while later, I was making lunch and noticed Forte, staring at me from across the room.  She hoped I hadn't forgotten, because she sure hadn't...

I'm going to have to deadbolt my bedroom door tonight.

I SAARRRRY!

Audrey took Sebastian's lollipop.  Just to look at it, but she took it and that was more than enough for Sebastian's 4-year-old patience, so he punched her in the shoulder.  She flopped down on me and started crying.  Sebastian turned around and sat down to sulk.  That is where our dialogue begins.

ME: Sebastian, you need to say 'I'm sorry' to Audrey.
AUDREY: I saarry Bashion!
SEBASTIAN: <Giggles from the floor>
ME: No Audrey, you don't need to say I'm sorry.  Sebastian needs to say he's sorry for punching you.
AUDREY: Okay, I saaaaaaaarry Bashion!
SEBASTIAN: That's okay Audrey.
ME: No ma'am, Sebastian needs to say it.  You don't.
AUDREY: Okay, I SAAAAAAAAARRRRY Bashion!
SEBASTIAN: <Laughing> That's okay Audrey!
ME: NO!  NO!  AUDREY!  Do NOT say 'I'm sorry!'  SEBASTIAN!  Say I'M SORRY TO AUDREY BECAUSE YOU PUNCHED HER.
AUDREY: I saaaarry -
SEBASTIAN: <Giggling> It's o-
ME: NO! NO MA'AM!
AUDREY: I saaarry Mommy!
ME: No, you have nothing to be... SEBASTIAN!
AUDREY: MOMMMMMYYYYYY!

And she sobbed into my chest and Sebastian collapsed into a fit of giggles.  And she still has no idea how to take an apology.

Big And Strong!

In our house, we have this ever-expanding list of things that will make us "Big And Strong."  I have no idea where it started, but Sebastian really caught the Big And Strong bug and we just ran with it.  He needs to finish his breakfast, because that will make him Big And Strong.  He has to eat all of his vegetables because it will make him Big And Strong.  He should have an apple instead of a piece of chocolate because that will make him Big And Strong.  Audrey's in on it too, but that figures: she has secret dreams of towering over everyone and b-slapping them at her whim.  We're all going to be the little faceless city residents and Audrey will be Godzilla in a princess dress with a Hulk mask.  If vegetables can make that happen, she's all for it.

Sebastian found our list incomplete and has made it his mission to educate us on things that can help us to grow bigger and stronger.  Here are some, in no particular order:
Hot Dogs
Butter
Cake (all kinds)
Cool Whip
Nerds
Ketchup
Cadbury Cream Eggs
Soda (aka "Spice")
Fruit Snacks (Ice Age, Avengers, and Brave varieties so far)
Mayonnaise
Popsicles (pronounced "pocksible")
Ice Cream

He's also recognizing the value of activities that will make you Big And Strong, like:
Playing Trumpet
Coloring with Sidewalk Chalk
Brushing Your Teeth (good one!)
Throwing the Dog's Ball Over the Fence So a Grown-up Has to Go Get It
Watering Plants (I like it...)
Using the Hose in General, Especially with the Spray Nozzle
Watching Mom Do the Laundry

By the way, Picking Up Your Toys is an activity that has been specifically noted to NOT make you Big And Strong.  And even if two parents say this and get Audrey to nod along, it's really not going to change Sebastian's Facts.

It's an ongoing adventure, and I get a little exhausted keeping track.  I took a little break from Being Watched Doing The Laundry (which makes Moms Big And Strong) and sat in our recliner, which still had a back massager set up and plugged in from the other night when Aaron had a little back pain.  I sat and closed my eyes.

Suddenly, the chair started vibrating at full-force - the seat, the lower back, and the upper back.  I opened my eyes in surprise to find Sebastian holding the remote control with a big grin on his face.  He switched the controls at random, increasing and decreasing the vibration, and then dropped the remote on the floor.  My butt and upper back were going strong, but the lower back was completely off, and the heat function was just starting to make itself known.  I struggled to maneuver out of the shaking seat to find the remote control.

"There Mom!  The seat is shaking your heiny!  Does that feel GREAT?  When the SEAT shakes your HEINY, THAT's when you grow BIG AND STRONG!"

Thanks Kid.  When I stop shaking, I'll add it to the list.

Barefoot Booby-Traps

My kids left their toys out.  I know you're thinking "Whaaaaaaaaat?" because my kids are so perfect and you assumed they always cleaned up after themselves, so, yeah, thank you for that.  But they leave their toys out in weird places and we step on them and we vow to NEVER BUY ANOTHER TOY AGAIN like every day so you can stop being all jealous about my perfect-cleaning-up-after-themselves kids.

Today, they left them in the hallway, inside our front door..  I put the kids down for their nap and was like "Sigh..." and bent to pick them up.  Then I realized, the kids hadn't absentmindedly left these toys in the hallway, they had laid a booby trap for Aaron when he gets home!

Man, my kids are funny, and diabolical, and Aaron will NEVER see this coming!  They had left them splayed out close enough to the door to hit their target, but far enough that at least some of the trains would stay in place after the door opened.  It hurts so bad when you don't notice and you step on one of these things with your bare foot.  Aaron would get home, step on one and...

Wait, Aaron would have his work boots on.  He would step on one, maybe crush it, maybe trip a little, and make the kids pick them up.  And he could probably step right by them and just make the kids pick them up.  My diabolical children would only be hurting themselves... Unless Aaron wasn't the target.  

Aaron is wearing boots.  I, on the other hand, am barefoot.  The toys are close to the door, but also far enough into the hallway that an unsuspecting person might step on them if she was, say, on the way into the kitchen to drop off a sippy cup.  As a matter of fact, I noticed these when I was just about to step on them...

Well, good thing I noticed and decided to pick them up!  The kids' plot was foiled again and I could put these away and be the silent victor.  Or...

The kids are napping, and barefoot, and in need of a lesson on leaving their toys out.  Plus, if I actually put the trains away, I would have to open Sebastian's door and ruin his nap.  There's only one thing a smart Mom can do.

Here is a picture of Sebastian's door:

Muahahahahahahahaha...

LIGHTS OFF

I think every Dad, at some point in their Fatherly career, becomes obsessed with lights being left on in the house.  Aaron picked it up two years ago when our neighborhood started giving rebates for lower electricity use, and since then, I have been flashing back to my own childhood as my father's voice comes out of his mouth - "WHO left this light on?"

It's not that I'm against conserving energy - truly, I'm on board.  I love to recycle, we've been reducing and reusing, and I'm slowly but steadily replacing our household cleaners with more environmentally safe versions.  Contrary to popular belief, I go through the house several times a day to turn off the lights.  When the kids were younger, I used to "let" them turn off the light as a reward and if I forgot, they reminded me.  So, as Aaron asks, why are the lights on?

Because other people live in this house.

I grew up as one of six kids.  If you turned off every light when you left a room, someone else was bound to come back in and turn it on again.  My dad, who always figured he would grow up surrounded by books instead of kids, would come home and walk through the whole house:
"WHO left this light on?"  
"WHY is the bathroom light still on?"
"WHEN was the last time ANYONE was DOWNSTAIRS?"

Aaron doesn't believe that happened, because A, my dad seems so well-adjusted and B, whenever we're home, my siblings and significant others and kids are there too so my parents house has lights on all the time.  Much of Aaron's visit is spent silently going through my dad's night-time ritual and he does it several times a day.  Sometimes, I wait for him to do his rounds so that as he comes out from turning off a light, I'm walking in the same room, turning the light back on to change a diaper.  It drives him crazy, but antipsychotic medication has come so far from when my dad had this condition in the 80s and 90s.

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Aaron doesn't want to drive himself crazy.  Recognizing that I'm not his ally in turning off lights (not true - I tune him out so I don't feel like I actually married my father), he has enlisted the help of Sebastian.  Instead of the WHO and the WHY and the WHEN questions, Aaron's just been gently notifying our little Superhero of lights that have been left on.
"Hey Bud!  Do you mind turning off Audrey's light for me?"
"Hey Bud!  Did you remember to turn off your bedroom light?"
"Hey Bud!  How about we check the WHOLE house for lights that we can turn off?"

It's great because Sebastian runs around and turns off the lights and comes out and dances/high fives us because he did such an awesome service.  I found out today that this strategy might have an unforeseen downside for Aaron.

Aaron had just gone back to work after lunch at the house, so the kids and I were settling into our afternoon routine of haggling over when naptime would come ("Not right now Mom!").  I walked into the hallway and noticed - wow! - the kids' bedrooms, my bedroom, the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room lights were on.

"Wow Bud!  We have a lot of lights on in the house!"
"YES WE DO MOM," he called from the living room.  "You turned on Audrey's light when you changed her diaper and Daddy left your bedroom light on when he changed his shirt and you left the kitchen light on after you already made lunch and YESTERDAY!" (he caught his breath) "Yesterday you left your bedroom light on when you went potty and Daddy left the light on in his workshop TWO TIMES and we should not be leaving the lights on when I turn them off..."

I stared at this kid, manically releasing his chronicle of adults leaving lights on in the house.  He continued to prattle about each time we washed our hands, each moment someone put a dish in the dishwasher, that time we fed the dog outside.  My reaction went from shock to "Haha, Aaron left his workshop light on" to "This is what Aaron gets for enlisting the four-year-old to help with lights" to "OH MY GOSH MY SON IS MY FATHER'S CLONE."

So I guess every man gets obsessed with lights being left on in the house and, if you introduce them to it, it'll happen before they even start Pre-K.

Rules for a Two-Year-Old Girl

Rules for a Two-Year-Old Girl
1. The two-year-old girl does not get to do her own nail polish.
2. When that two-year-old girl finds mascara, she should not open it, paint her hands, and then hand it, open, to her unsuspecting mom.
3. The remote control is not the property or responsibility of the two-year-old girl.
4. A two-year-old girl should stay dressed for more than an hour.
5. A two-year-old girl should keep her diaper on.
6. A two-year-old girl does not need to apply her own diaper cream before lunch.
7. A two year old girl should not brush Cool Whip through her hair.
8. A two-year-old girl does not need to put half of a banana on the floor of the dog crate when she's done with it.
9. When that two-year-old girl gets a popsicle in spite of her behavior, she should not set said popsicle on the clean kitchen floor.
10. If that two-year-old girl puts another entire roll of toilet paper into that toilet, so help me...

Rules for the Mother of a Two-Year-Old Girl
1. The warranty on children does not last two years, so you cannot return your two-year-old girl even if she has broken each one of these rules before noon.
2. A crying two-year-old girl will not tell you where the mascara-Cool-Whip-banana-covered remote control is while she's yelling "I dorry!" into your shoulder.
3. Put the nail polish on a high shelf, every time.
4. Buy a new toilet plunger since the last one broke during the last incident with that other entire roll of toilet paper in the toilet.

And most importantly...

5. When it gets to be too much, pick up your half-naked, fed, squirmy two-year-old girl and take her to your big bed, where you can steal her nose, tickle her belly, and play hide-and-seek under the covers  and you know she'll be safely away from make-up, food, and toilets.  (Just make sure she keeps the diaper on.)

Best. Idea. EVER.

Sebastian's Techniques

The kids had strawberries and blueberries in the living room today as a special treat.  Well, not really - they were destined to have strawberries and blueberries because Sebastian has had visions of this moment for weeks.   "Mom, I would like strawberries and blueberries for a snack because when I close my eyes I see strawberries and blueberries and so you need to give me strawberries and blueberries for a snack.  That's what I see when I close my eyes.  LET'S GO!"

I don't know where he got the idea - we haven't had non-frozen berries for months - but he did figure out that if you keep repeating something to the person who grocery shops, you will eventually get the snack you see when you close your eyes.  This is his Psychic Technique.

When Sebastian was done with his snack, he jumped up and made me an offer: "Mom, I would like you to be my helper.  Would you like to be my helper?  You can please take the bowl into the kitchen and be my helper.  Please take my bowl into the kitchen to help.  That would be REALLY GREAT!"

Of course, when he said it, it came out as "WEAWY GWEAT!" so I couldn't refuse.  First, he asked for help (a huge four-year-old lesson).  Second, he was cleaning up after himself (another HUGE four-year-old lesson).  Third, he said please which is an old lesson but good practice.  And lastly, he was totally using one of my tactics on me.  I love my helpers - they shove wet laundry in the dryer, put dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and feed the dog.  If I want to keep my helpers, I probably needed to take a minute to give back when asked.

I thanked him for asking so nicely and promptly picked up the bowl.  I knew as I smiled and walked into the kitchen that I was going to have to be judicious in agreeing to be a helper so Sebastian doesn't just delegate everything.  I made a note in my mind to find an opportunity to say no later.  That opportunity came two hours later when Sebastian finished playing with his trains.

"Mom! How about you be my helper and pick up my train?  Then you can be my helper!"

I looked up from my book.  "No thank you.  You can pick it up because you were the one playing with it!  You can do it, it won't be hard."

Sebastian's smug little smile melted off his face and morphed into surprise.  It wasn't shock - this was the only time he had used the Helper Technique, so he knew there was a chance it might not work - but it was definitely not quite happy.

"FINE!"  he shouted, turning and running to the couch.  He spun into the corner, sat cross-legged, and threw his arms across his body.  "Then I'm NOT gonna be the BEST BOY ANYMORE!"

Ahhhh, The Threat - a classic and not Sebastian-specific technique, but one he got from me.  He has made it his own with this Best Boy business.  I have no idea where he got it - I don't recall ever threatening to not be the Best Mom ANYMORE though I kind of want to try it to see if it will be effective with him.  He does it pretty often and mixes it up so sometimes it's a threat, as above, and sometimes it's a mumbled lamentation ("I broke that thing and now I can't be the Best Boy anymore...").  It's a last resort, but it's definitely a go-to.

I looked at him.  He looked at me.  I cocked an eyebrow.  He pushed his lower lip out and gave me puppy dog eyes.  I started laughing.  He looked confused.  I laughed louder.  He did too.

So we sat in the living room and laughed and laughed.  Audrey joined in because she also loves to laugh.  Sebastian laughed so hard he fell over and hit the couch cushions with his hand.  Within two minutes, we had teared up and were sighing.  Then we picked up the trains together.

Next time he needs something, he'll probably try to use the Loud Laughing Technique.  I can't wait.

Curing the Common Cold

I figured out how to cure the common cold.

Step 1: Find a Very Wealthy Person
(You need funding if you want to cure anything.)

Step 2: Find a Toddler With a Cold
(Why look!  My daughter Audrey has a nasty one!)

Step 3: Bring These People Together to Create a Bond
(I'll drop Audrey at the rich person's house and they will become best friends)

Step 4: Keep Them Together Until the Wealthy Person Understands the Need for the Cure
(It won't take long: This week, I watched Audrey wipe her walrus tusk-looking nose on her arm, then use the same arm to push her hair out of her face, slicking her hair back into a snot helmet.  DONE.  I couldn't eat for the rest of the day.  She needs to just repeat that performance in front of the wealthier person who can do something about it.)
(NOTE TO SELF - Before we cure the cold, could drop her off at a high school health class to solve teen pregnancy)

Step 5: Take Pictures of the Wealthy Person and the Kid to Market the Cure
(Make sure the kid looks CUTE and HAPPY)

Step 6: NEVER SUFFER AGAIN

Sure, there's more money in treating a cold than there is in curing the cold - otherwise NyQuil would have figured it out by now.  Once someone sees a child go from adorable little girl to snot-walrus to snot-helmet, they'll understand why the treatment money isn't worth the suffering of parents everywhere.  For every child who gets a cold, there's a family who cannot stomach dinner.
(NOTE TO SELF - Before we cure the cold, could use child to cure obesity in families)

No!  As many ailments as this can prevent, I cannot live in disgusted fear anymore.  I've been stashing toilet paper rolls in various places around the house because I keep seeing that disgusting creature walk towards me with her yucky face.  I'm always backed into a corner, saying "Oh!  Oh!  Oh Honey!  Just a minute!  Don't move!  ONE Second..." and then I finally find something to wipe her nose and I have to wrestle her while she tosses her head side to side with all her strength.

The common cold destroys family relationships.  It's time for a cure.  I think people would be too disgusted for the Light Green Ribbon campaign, so this is the only way.

I'm off to find a Texas Oil Millionaire to make this happen!

Robbed

"Maggie, where is my iPod?"

I searched my fuzzy Monday morning brain.  Aaron was driving to his appointment, talking to me on the car speakers that normally blast his playlist.  We keep the iPod in the center console.  Why would I take it out?  Wait, did I take it out?

"... The car was open and I know I didn't leave it open.  I wasn't going to mention it, but I can't find my iPod anywhere."

Ohhhhhhh CRAP...

Someone stole the iPod out of our car in the middle of the night.  The van was also unlocked, the glove compartment was open, and some papers had been gone through.  Aside from the open glove compartment, I wouldn't have known the difference from its normal state of disarray.  I've been meaning to clean the van, but I didn't get around to it - sadly, the vandals were not disgusted enough to toss an empty Jamba Juice cup.

I called the police, and two young guys showed up within 15 minutes, after I was dressed (win!) but before I could clean the house (whoops!).  It's always great to have police in your house when you have two empty bottles of wine on the counter and folded laundry all over the couch.  Plus, Audrey immediately hugged one of them around the legs and smiled ("My Friend!") so they got to see that I haven't quite covered Stranger Danger.  At least Sebastian was wearing pants.

Toddlergeist

I decided to bake some banana bread, since I had let some bananas sit a little too long on the counter.  As everyone knows, when your bananas turn brown, God is telling you to make banana bread.  Or you should just not buy so many bananas, even if both your kids suddenly like them.  Plus, I was feeling all domestic since realizing that I'm way behind my neighbors in that category.

I'm kind of a banana bread pro, considering I've spent years repurposing brown bananas that Sebastian didn't eat, so I grabbed the mixer and made it happen.  I was already ahead of the game: the bananas weren't frozen and I had every single ingredient in the recipe, which was a first.  I substituted the oil with applesauce, because I'm all about a moist banana bread without the fat <*wink*> and acted like I meant to throw the cinnamon and nutmeg in the banana mix instead of the flour because who doesn't like a bolder cinnamony-nutmeggy-banana flavor?

It was a little hectic with the kids running around, so I preheated the oven after I'd already mixed the bread and before I greased the loaf pans.  Then I mixed in the walnuts after the batter was already in the pans.  WHATever, I thought as I set the time and left the room, It's going to be fine.

The timer went off and I went to get the bread out of the oven.  Only one problem: there were no oven mitts or potholders, anywhere.  Maybe God wanted me to bake some banana bread, but something in my house did not want me to actually retrieve that banana bread from the oven.

Cultures throughout history have recorded this problem.  A well-meaning person is trying to do something, but some tiny purveyor of mischief must make its presence known by throwing obstacles in the way.  Certainly I did not have elves cobbling shoes or gnomes weeding the garden in the  night.  A leprechaun would too busy collecting and guarding his gold (or nursing his St. Patrick's Day hangover) to mess with my banana bread, so my Irish heritage wasn't getting in my way here.  The obvious solution: a poltergeist.  It had taken my usual ove mitts to cause some havoc - maybe it wanted to see if I would use my shirt sleeve - but we just started grilling, so HA!  I have a THIRD oven mitt that is readily available!  I put the big black thing on my arm - it hits just amove the elbow, and tried to hide my smug smile lest the creature cause a small fire as I opened the oven.

I checked the bread.  It needed five more minutes.  I set the oven mitt on the counter and left the room, knowing full-well that I may have just frustrated a supernatural being intent on my destruction.  I thought of non-flammable alternatives in case the poltergeist attacked again while I was distracted in the living room.

Just as I sat down, I noted an Audrey-sized blur zooming out of the kitchen.  One arm was completely covered in a big black grilling oven mitt.  She screamed "My titchen!  My titchen!" and smiled delightedly as she ran down the hall toward her playroom, where she has an Audrey-sized kitchen that lacks oven mitts.

So......... it's NOT a poltergeist? I thought with relief and confusion, walking slowly down the hall and confiscating her stash before I burned the banana bread.

Cultures throughout history have recorded the problem of little people, of tiny purveyors of mischief who must make their presence known by throwing obstacles in the way of well-meaning people.  They are called "elves" or "gnomes" or "fairies" or "leprechauns."  Some cultures call these unseen supernatural creatures "poltergeists."  My culture calls them "toddlers," and I seem to have an infestation.

Should Have Left it At Shoo

Okay, I may have mentioned how much I dislike these horrible Satan Birds who have come back to town after their winter retreat to wherever abominable birds terrorists go for training.  I don't normally talk about those things, especially to the nice-looking potential friends who have moved into the neighborhood.  Their tiny backyard faces our tiny backyard and they are the proud owners of an awesome looking mutt who will be friends with Madigan once her spay scars heal and I can take off the Cone of Shame.

I don't really know the neighbors, but when I met them last week, they seemed like a nice couple.  Had I spoken to them in the last three days, maybe I could have articulated my dislike for the birds, warned them of the neighborhood menace in a deliberate and delicate manner.  Nah...

The Birds

Our backyard is full of birds.  They were here when we arrived in November, left their nests for a few months, and recently returned with the warm weather.  These aren't just birds: these are the mutated descendants of extras from The Birds.  Not even.  Their ancestors got booted from production for being too scary.  They're shiny black, with super long beaks built for pulling human brains out of ears, about the size of a really fat house cat.  Where other birds sing, these monsters screech so loud you can hear them inside with all the windows closed, sitting under four blankets with earplugs in.  To my knowledge, they have not developed a method of melting human brains with their song, though they're close.  They travel in gangs of at least ten, so they descend on a poor defenseless 70-pound dog like a black curtain of death.

Then they eat her dog food.  Because these birds eat dog food.

"Ma'am? MA'AM! Your daughter..."

I took the dog to get spayed yesterday.  It's done.  No puppies ever from my perfect mutt specimen, but we're in compliance with neighborhood regulations and we reduced her risk of cancer and now the neighbor's chihuahua won't dig under our fence or something.

People get their dogs spayed all the time and it's no big deal.  They drop them off at the local vet in the morning, then pick them up in the afternoon.  They also probably go early enough and late enough so they can leave the kids at home with the other parent because it'll be really quick.  That's the smart way to do it.  That's not the way I did it.

Grocery Adventures

I took the kids to the grocery store today.  It was the best of times (in terms of lack of crowds at the store), it was the worst of times (in terms of the kids' nap routine), but at the end of the day, we have food and the cats have litter.  And some poor boy is probably vowing revenge somewhere and training for a grocery cart rematch, but no big deal.

We'd had a big day.  We spent the morning around the house, coloring and cleaning, then went to the post office to ship out some hand-me-downs, then to the store to buy Audrey's Big Girl Carseat (and a candle or two), and then to the grocery store.  Small snack, no nap.  This was a bad plan, and it would surely lead to a meltdown or some serious shenanigans.

I always expect a grocery shopping trip to take 30-45 minutes.  I used to shop every other day on my way home from work, stop in for 10-30 minutes, get what we needed plus maybe a bottle of wine for dinner, and then get home.  Big trips to stock-up on necessities maxed out at 45 minutes.  Now, I walk in with a list, try to keep to the list, and then I'm sucked into the windowless, clockless vortex that is the grocery store and I emerge 1.5 to 2 hours later.  I awake in the sunshine, confused like Dorothy returning from Oz, seeing each item clearly for the first time like "You were there! And you! And the ground beef too!"

When I'm with the kids, I decide to keep it under an hour, on-list, plus one small treat (recently, a cake).  I'm racing against tantrums, and I'm in charge.  I'm the Mom.  I'm in charge.  I'm the Mom.  I'm in charge...

...No I'm not.

Alea Iacta Est

Alea iacta est - "The die is cast."

These are the words that Julius Caesar said as he crossed the River Rubicon on January 10, 49 BC, officially leading his army into the civil war over control of Rome.

Today, I crossed the Rubicon.  Firs,t I bought a large Yankee Candle without consulting Aaron.  Then, I came home and lit it.

This is what a lit jar candle looks like on a cell phone camera.  I had to capture the moment.
Look at those high-def apples though.

Our house doesn't quite smell right.  It's an old duplex, with industrial tile floors, white walls, and almost-Soviet windows that don't let much light in.  When I light candles or spray air freshener, there's not much for the scent to cling to, so it goes back to a cold musty smell.  Any cooking scents stay in the closed-off kitchen and they mostly disappear within a little while.  

The only scent that does seem to linger is cigarettes.  Each morning, we get to smoke breakfast with the people on the other side of the duplex, who have a well-established routine.  Once the smoke clears and I can go back into my kitchen, they have another cigarette or two.  I imagine they gather their chairs directly under the vent, toss their heads back, and exhale directly into our wrongfully-shared ventilation system.  It's a service they provide.

The housing office came by to re-seal the outlets and the cabinets.  They fixed a door-sized hole in the duplex firewall, so at least we don't have a full-on cloud in the house.  We still get to smoke every meal, snack, and social event with the people next door.  

We don't eat in the kitchen much.

So this is what led me here, to the Rubicon.

Aaron likes things to smell good.  I like things to smell good.  He wants things to smell like beachy, rainy, men's deodorant, and laundry detergent stuff.  Or vanilla.  And pumpkin or pine trees when the seasons call for it.  That's cool and all, but I think kitchens should smell like apples or pears and bedrooms should smell like lavender.  We go into Yankee Candle every once in a while, because we want to buy something for the house, but the conversation goes like this:

One of Us: "Mmmmm, this one!  I like this one!  Here, smell this." (sticks jar top under the other's nose to get a less obnoxious scent of the candle)

The Other: (breathes deeply) "What IS that?  Ugh, that's just... wrong.  Here, smell THIS one!"

The First: (checks jar) "You've got to be kidding me.  That's just... ugh..."

And then we don't buy anything.  We walk out into the mall and we don't talk about Yankee Candle anymore.  We go back when they have a sale, but we just repeat this process.  

Every single time, I bring up Macintosh apple, because it is the best scent in the world and I think my kitchen should smell like that.  Every single time, Aaron gamely smells the Macintosh candle and then shows me some blue or tan candle that smells like men's soap.  Smelling that Macintosh candle each time really means "I love you."  He just would never buy one or, you know, drive me home from the mall if I decided to buy one.  

Today, my dumb tail took the kids to the post office.  Then, we went to a store to get Audrey's big girl booster seat.  After that, we were planning to go to the grocery store where I planned to stay as close to the list I hadn't really created, or at least just get the essentials.  The kids were so excited to be out of the house, but were getting into Dangerous We Haven't Napped Territory before we finished dropping off boxes at the post office.  I had already shared at least three cigarettes while cleaning the kitchen this morning and was dutifully repeating my basic list to avoid any major grocery mishaps.  This felt like enough suffering/self-sacrifice that I felt perfectly entitled to a little trip to the Yankee Candle display, toting a booster seat and two grumpy kids.

I searched for some blue/white/tan/sand/rain/grass/soap BS, I really did.  I debated each one while Audrey made towers out of the little floaty candles on the floor, shifting my feet and chewing my lip while I narrowed down the choices, stopping to put Audrey's candles away and convince Sebastian that he didn't need an energy drink.  I settled on one, changed my mind, tried to figure out what was Aaron-approved and good for the kitchen and the cigarette smell, started the process over.  

Then it hit me: two people, two candles.  I picked Macintosh.  Aaron got the green Meadow Showers.  We'll light that in our room and the rest of the dang house if he wants, but so help me, my kitchen is going to smell like a Macintosh apple.  

And I'll burn it right under the vent so the neighbors can share it with me at every meal, snack, or social event.  And if Aaron wants to fight me, Julius Caesar, for smell-control of this little half-duplex Roman Empire - well, we'll just see how that turns out.

I mean, I already lit the candle.

The die is cast.

How to Finish an Awesome Day

So let's say you had a really great day.

You got up in the morning - still 4 years old, still a big boy - got to play with Mommy's iPad (yes!) and watched Wreck-it Ralph (awesome!) while snacking on some just-because cake from yesterday.  Then, you went to the doctor where you skipped in the puddles and did NOT get a shot (double awesome!), then took all the paperwork over to the preschool registration office so you can start school soon with all your new friends.

Later, much to your surprise, your parents set you up on a Spiderman blanket for a picnic in the middle of the living room (how GREAT!) and you got to watch The Avengers all night (supercool!!)!  After your little sister fell asleep from all the Avengers excitement - cheering for Hulk and Iron Man while decked out in some Cinderella shirt and pull-up ensemble - you still got to stay up an hour past your bedtime and eat a Daddy-sized piece of the just-because cake!  ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?

After allllll that awesomeness, your mom is going to read a book to you and YOU get to pick the book, so it can even be a long one!

You run to your room - super-fast, like Iron Man - and pick The Lion King.

You dance back into the living room and shake your little groove thing as you place the book in her hands, crawl on her lap, and give her a belly-flop hug.  And then...

Because you love her...

And because you are both smiling and laughing...

You punch her in the throat.

...

Why did you just do that?

...

You probably don't know, that's why you're crying now, asking for Daddy and saying "I made a bad choice" over and over.

...

Give up?  It's because you're a 4-year-old boy.  And it's only going to get worse.

And now, your mom is buying a real Hulk costume... With throat protection...

Fixing the Dog

I just finally made an appointment to have my dog spayed and I'm feeling really weird about it.  On the one hand, she won't be able to have puppies, which is a good thing.  On the other hand, she won't be able to have puppies, which is a disservice to the universe.

We got Madigan on a whim while hanging out at a friend's farm on St. Patrick's Day.  I've woken up with some weird post-St Patrick's Day mornings (most involving green stain on my neck from a full day of wearing green beads and drinking), but the puppy the next morning was bizarre.  Especially since we hadn't been drinking much the day before.  I blame my friend's cooking: he makes these huge amazing burgers and I think I fell asleep at the table twice.  Meanwhile, this perfect little puppy is sitting calmly with us for 45 minutes.

She's a mutt and she's perfect, so when we were like "We'll take her for a two-week trial period and see if the cats like her," I think everyone in the room knew how that trial period would end.  Now we have 70 pounds of love.

We haven't gotten her spayed because we moved, she was in heat, there was a waiting period at the vet, she was in heat again and... basically, we procrastinated.  Plus, one of our neighbors has a beautiful yellow lab and Madigan would have beautiful mutt/lab puppies.  They neutered their dog, but I still hold out hope.

Spaying my dog is the end of an era, for all the good it will do.  It's better for the dog, who will have a lower risk of some cancers.  It's better for us because she'll stop going through heat and will supposedly calm down a bit.  And I guess it's better in some ways because, to paraphrase Gone With the Wind, I don't know nothing about birthin' no puppies.

Plus, there's no guarantee on puppies.  Madigan's a mutt, and a beautiful copper/brown color, so I think she would definitely have some adorable mutt-labs or mutt-hounds or mutt-golden retrievers, and maybe if I gave myself more time, I could set that up.

SHE'S SO PRETTY

Then I look out back and see her communicating with the dog next door.  He's a pure-bred Chihuahua.  He dug holes on his side the last time she was in heat.  I don't like Chihuahuas.  They just kind of creep me out.

So as I take my dog to the vet at the crack of dawn on Tuesday, March 19, I'm going to feel a sadness for the adorable, perfect mutt-lab puppies that will never be.

Then, I will go treat myself to some ice cream for saving the world from the mutt-Chihuahuas that could have been.  Here are some examples of what I've avoided:

Kind of ugly but awwww... PUPPY!!

All right, it's not too bad...

DEAR GOD I NEED TO FIX MY DOG!

Decision is made.  You're all welcome.