Give me my crown already!

So this morning Wild Man decided he no longer likes one of his favorite breakfasts ever...the "op tart," and I found myself a little frustrated because it was one of those mornings that frequently happens after the holidays. The kind where you hover in that sort of limbo between the holiday itself actually being over and not really knowing what to do next, what with it being a brand new year and all. And having had a little person sneezing and coughing and showering a whole myriad of bodily fluids in my direction for over a week now, I was feeling a little under the weather and quite frankly was looking forward to a no-brainer breakfast this morning. One that involves nothing more than ripping it open, as Wild Man does not require that his tarts actually be popped.



Well.



In the kindest, most patient tone I could muster, I asked His Royal Hiney, if not a pop tart, then what would he be having for breakfast this morning?

"Peanut Budder pweeze."

Peanut Butter? Are you kidding me? The thought of it first thing in the morning, I must admit, made me gag a little, but he does love it. And he asked so politely. And well, you know, I aim to please.

So here was his breakfast.



Yes, those are "cookies." You got a problem with that? I figured as long as I was racing toward a "Mother of the Year" award what with serving my 2 year old peanut butter for breakfast, I might as well seal the nomination with some cookies a la carte. Besides, I didn't have the energy or the stomach to actually spread that stuff on bread that early in the morning and have to endure the smell. In fact I actually considered just handing him the jar, but being nominated and all, I took the extra loving and motherly step and actually spooned a glob of it into a bowl so he could dip his "treks" cookies into it.


While watching a little t.v.


I know! Am I gonna win or what? Then I decided that while he was occupied with what those health and fitness kooks experts might possibly consider THE MOST NUTRITIOUS BREAKFAST EVER, I could quickly check my email in the next room.

And came back to find this.



and this



and I swear I couldn't have been gone for more than 5 or 10 minutes...tops (in dog years).

But it's o.k. As long as I am in the running for M.O.T.Y., I will not only indulge him with the best breakfast ever, I will also let him participate in another of his very favorite activities.



The boy does love a good shower. A good long shower. Almost as much as he likes getting mucked up with food and dirt. If only the hot water would last, I could go do my shopping for the week and drop by Roe's for a quick trim. Oh heck, and highlights.

Oh I kid. You know I wouldn't have time for the trim. That's just silly.

So let's recap.

I fed my son peanut butter for breakfast.

With cookies.

While unattended.

And watching t.v.

Then stuck him in the shower.

A nice looonnnggg shower.

I don't mean to brag, but I seriously think I'm a shoe-in for this award.

By the way, how do you like my hair?

ringin' in the new year

dance with the one that brung ya or at least one that looks slightly familiar from the neck up. whoo hoo! here's our tribute to spiking and nogging of the egg. oh, i kid. why ruin it with nog? oh, there i go again. i'm such a kidder. go ahead. get your dance on!

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Toddler Talk

Conversations this week with my little parrot 2 year old.


while sitting on the stairs playing with toys...

Wild Man: "I hate this toy!"

Me: (a little surprised at *hate*) "What sweetie?"

Wild Man: "I HATE this toy!"

Me: "Aw, that's not very nice. I thought you liked that toy."

Wild Man: "Yeah, I wike it. See my belly button?"

I believe in giving credit where credit is due. This one falls squarely in the hands of older siblings. Ex: "I HATE doing dishes!"


later that day...


Me: "Are you ready for lunch?"

Wild Man: "I want pizza."

Me: "I don't have pizza. I'm making you a sandwich. Want some goldfish too?"

Wild Man: "No. You being mean to me."

Me: whuh? "I'm being nice to you by making your lunch, silly."

Wild Man: "I want pizza."

Me: "You're having a sandwich today."

Wild Man: (slightly under his breath) "Meany."

Again, credit here to big brother and sister who when asked to clean their room, do a chore, ANYTHING they don't want to do, usually reply, "You're SO mean!"


*Yeah, then why don't you cook your own meals and wash your own laundry you ingrates?! Your room looks like you share it with a herd of wild boars. And theirs is the clean side! And while you're in there changing your clothes, see if you can change your attitude!*


I'm sorry, I was daydreaming for a minute. I'm back.


Wild Man: "What's 'Wijah' eating?"

Me: "Baby food. Let's see, garden vegetables and bananas."

Wild Man: "Wemme twy it."

Me: "Ok. Here ya go." (making sure to give him a good taste of it)

while swallowing hard and squinting

Wild Man: "That's nasty!"

Me: "Elijah likes it."

Wild Man: "That's uh-scust-ing!" (disgusting)

Again, credit goes to 'Bubba' and 'Sissy'


That's it for today. Tune in next time for more Toddler Talk.

i should be packing...

...but i don't wanna. i know. i know. just enjoy the pics and stop looking at me like that. i'll pack tomorrow.

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mad mad dancin' skillz

Rather than bring you the usual posts of spiritual enlightenment, political prowess, cutting-edge journalism and meaningful insights...

Wait, that's not my blog That writer, whomever she is, doesn't exist is on hiatus.

Instead, we bring you the usual something completely new...

Mindless drivel! Or in our house dribble.

Check out our Christmas elves!

it's time to change my pants

O.K. So I'm driving on the interstate this morning on my way to work on our never gonna be ready to move in next week no matter what we do to it, latest money-pit, lovely brick home with loads of potential.

I'm jamming to some Christmas tunes on the radio, enjoying the quiet of my van because I am alone. I'm almost giddy because I'm rarely alone. Being alone sounds sad and lonely, but when you have four children, being alone has nearly the same effect as eating large amounts of chocolate that you don't have to share or spending a day at the spa. Let me say it again while I bask in the beauty of the words themselves...I'm alone! Eeeek! Fantastic!

I hired a babysitter for the day in order to actually get some work done which inevitably includes running to our neighborhood home improvement type store for "stuff" and being the lunch-getting person to feed our friends who come and volunteer their time because they feel sorry for us, are biding their time until they can find better friends, they love us and just want us to finally settle. Somewhere. For the love of God and all things holy, could you just get somewhere and stay a while, they plead? But I digress.

So I'm driving on the interstate and notice a blue truck up ahead, pulled rather far off the shoulder of the road in a semi-gully. Hmm. Wonder what he's doing down there.

Well.

As I get closer, I see that he is changing his clothes. His pants to be specific. Right there on MY side of his blue truck. The side where all the cars with PEOPLE in them are whizzing by.

After I realize I've just been half-mooned by some stranger wearing tighty-whities, I begin to laugh. Out loud. For a long time. I am once again glad I'm alone. I begin to think about why someone would choose to change their pants on the side of the road because that's just the kind of gal I am. And I continue to laugh. Why? Because y'all, it's just funny.

I wonder why Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow has decided to take his clothes off on the side of the road for passersby to see. Has he spilled some boiling hot McCoffee on his lap? Does he suffer from incontinence, poor thing? Perhaps unbeknownst to Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow, a family of ants have moved into his truck and are marching up his leg in search of a new place to conquer and call home, and Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow in an effort to save himself, has decided these pants have got to go. Right this instant! Or maybe he's fashion conscious and just realized that his pants just don't go with his shirt. I just wonder why, that's all.

Well, I guess I'll never know for sure. But if I may, I'd like to offer a small bit of advice to Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow or anyone else thinking of whipping off the side of the road for a wardrobe change.

1. Kindly step around to the side of the vehicle NOT facing all the known world.

or


2. Invest in a snazzy pair of boxers.


Thank you. That's all.

things i would never have known if it weren't for my kids

that silence for longer than .08 seconds means somebody's into something

that a 2 year old can find and then carry an almost full container of liquid detergent from the laundry room to the kitchen

that he can then open and empty an almost full container of detergent all over the floor without any accomplices his older siblings seeing or hearing anything

that a 2 year old boy drenched in liquid laundry detergent is slippery

that after a thirty minute shower, a 2 year old will remain sticky to the touch

that towels used to soak up gooey mess cannot be washed in a single load without a volcanic type eruption of bubbles cascading out of the washing machine

that each sock of a two year old boy sitting in a puddle of liquid laundry detergent harbors enough cleaning power to do one load each (this would have been good to know before washing the stupid towels)

that the kitchen floor remains a hazard up to several weeks after said incident

that in order to slide like a monkey on a banana peel glide across the floor with all the panache of an Olympic figure skater, all you do is add water

that he's lucky he's cute...it makes it easier to let him live another day

wassup spidey?

Happy 8 months li'l man!

It's hard to believe we are cruising at warp speed toward one year with you. You are such a joy! Your big brothers and sister love you so much, and it's so sweet to see the way you light up when they come in the room or talk to you.

Mommy and Daddy think you are the cutest, sweetest, and the most intelligent by far, eight month old we hang out with. Thank you for making our days brighter, more fun, and infinitely more meaningful just because you grace us with your presence.

And sorry about the prunes, little buddy. Somebody said it would help.

Blog Warning!

No one told me! Blogging should come with a warning!
I think of it day and night
It's the first thing I think of when I rise in the morning
I've got to go check out more sites

I'm equally addicted to writing and reading
I'm becoming more helpless each day
I find that I'm wanting, no, more like I'm needing
To post when I've nothing to say

Cute pics of the kids, videos, crazy stories
All have a place, I suppose
But we never, ever intend to be boring
A good read's what we want, heaven knows

Some make us laugh, and some make us cry
Everyone has their own style
Some make us think and question why
Others beckon us to just stay awhile

But, oh the blogs, they call out my name
"Come read me or you will miss out!"
"I'm coming my friends...be there in a minute!"
To read lots of new posts, no doubt

Because I Said So, how does she do it?
Being Mommy to all of those kids
With Pokemon cards that she auctioned on Ebay
My Word! She got how many bids?!

Mommy Off the Record is charming and witty
Sweet Alicia's just begun Renewed in Him
Finslippy wrote the. best. post about her kitty
Miss Paula's got a great Gathering of Friends

Piper of Love had a date with a real Prince Charming
You must see WouldaCouldaShoulda's Christmas letter
breed 'em and weep's "sky-diving" mice were, um, alarming
Slurping Life...aaah, it doesn't get much better!

Sgt. and Mrs. Hub with the beautiful pics
BooMama's funny stories of fallin'
Organized Doodles is worth the clicks
The rest of you--I hear you callin'

So many blogs! So little time!
New ones are birthed every day
How's a girl to just stop on a dime?
There must be a better way!

help me?

you get my Dreft?

I finally made it, reached the highest height
The journey seemed endless, the goal out of sight
But with nothing to lose and everything to Gain
I stayed the course, though my energy waned

Load after load, I wanted to Shout
Though no one would care that I started to doubt
That I'd ever be able to finish it All
"Wisk me away!" I wanted to call

Though I Spray and I Wash, I need a Fresh Start!
"Out damn'd spot!" I'm losing heart
In the sun and the Surf I'm tempted to hide
For this task is too much---like a rising Tide

This laundry Biz is an unending saga
For I know it will start all over tomorra
But as for now, the end is here
Hooray! It's all done! It's time to Cheer!

On the Road Again

I feel the need to sing this loud and proud as we embark on yet another move. In less than a year. During the Christmas season. To another fixer-upper lovely brick home loaded with potential. On Possum Hollow Lane. In Mississippi. Can you really get more redneck rural than that??? At least I'm not pregnant this time, but I'm cranky nonetheless.

You see, in nearly 15 years of marriage, we have moved...let me see...how many times? These timelines are approximate. Not exact. But close enough. Get off me, ok? I think a have a mental block when I try too hard to remember.

* out of our 900 sq ft dump honeymoon haven which we lived in for a couple of years, to the first home we purchased (while pregnant)

* 3 years later to an apartment...after being struck by a tornado (pregnant again)

* 3 months later back to the repaired house (still pregnant)

* 1 year later, out of state

* 2 years later, out of state again

* 3 years later we moved our stuff 5 times (mini-moves) until our money-pit fixer-upper was ready to inhabit. (preggers again? yep, soon)

* 2 years later, we evacuated (moved) out of state with a 2 month old for that little storm, Hurricane Katrina (Our second natural disaster, third if you count the blizzard. In March. In the South. The day we were married.) It should have been a beacon, a herald, a harbinger of things to come. *sniff sniff* But I digress.

* 3 months later, another move in state

* 11 months later, out of state and knocked-up pregnant again

* and here we are, "On the Road Again"

Counting this move, we will now have a grand total of 14 moves. That is insane. Do you hear me? You would think I would be good at it by now. I'm not. I hate packing. And worse, I hate unpacking. The best I can hope for is a huge purge of junk perfectly usable, 'donatable' belongings. And for those of you who are wondering, NO! I AM NOT PREGNANT! That is so not funny. Did I mention I hate moving?

I know I am not in control here, but I am not kidding about this. As far as it is up to me and barring another tornado, hurricane, volcanic eruption, earthquake, ozone evaporation, nuclear meltdown, apocalypse and rapture, I AM NOT MOVING AGAIN. I plan to raise my ungrateful urchins precious children here. Our family can come visit. One day, our grandchildren can come visit their favorite grandparents us here. I plan to rot grow old here. You will find my cold, dead body on Possum Hollow Lane.

Aw man! That sounds about right awful. I don't want my obituary to say Possum Hollow. We may have to move just one more time. I don't want to die there.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

If you've grown a little tired of all the "Happy Holidays" greetings, "Holiday" catalogs, "Family Trees" and the myriad of other so-called politically correct references for the celebration of the birthday of Jesus Christ, commonly known as CHRISTMAS, for Pete's sake, click here.

And watch this!

toofs and fairies

So "Rufus" is still losing "toofs." Will it never end? This is the same kid, who once he realized that cash was involved, would actually wiggle not-yet-loose teeth until they surrendered and vacated his mouth...simply for the promised bounty. I guess I thought that he'd run out of stuff to pull. Alas, not yet.

This is a picture of "Rufus" during one of his not-so-bright ideas. He has tied dental floss around the dangling tooth, anchored by one lonely, yet stubborn little root, to the door knob. See?



I think he may be rethinking his decision. Ahhh, don't we love teaching moments?



And this is "Rufus" when the family gathered around him, all biding their time and awaiting their chance to yank that little sucker out. Can you see the panic?



Ok. So it's getting to be lunchtime, and this has been going on for approximately 30 minutes, from the couch to the door. Enough drama, already. Here is how the rest played out...good Mother that I am.

"Pull that stupid tooth or you're not eating lunch!"

I promise you, not 2 minutes later, somehow, mysteriously the tooth just came out. A little incentive never hurt anyone...especially a pre-teen with the appetite of a rhinoceros.

Yep! We're done!

Ok, so if there were even the slightest molecule of doubt still lingering (like the smell of fish in the garbage can two days after you've consumed it for dinner) concerning my child-bearing possibilities, this morning certainly quenched it for me.

You see, I have this theory that the number of children I've given birth to unequivocally corresponds to the number of brain cells I have left. This whole "after-birth" thing is just code for brain matter. No one told me that I'd get exponentially 'stupider' after each kid. I'm not sure it would have changed my choices, but come on people! A little warning would not have hurt. Perhaps I could have braced myself.

I woke everyone this morning at 7:00. To fully grasp the painfulness of this feat, please remember that we are also on break from school. Anyway, I fed and changed the baby, (who comfortably remained in his cute little jammies), dressed the toddler, dragged the big kids out of bed saying, "Let's go, let's go, let's go! Get dressed, brush your hair, grab some breakfast, leaving at 7:30!" I threw on clothes and tried to recycle yesterday's hair because I didn't even have time to shower yet. Make-up, shmake-up. I've never been more thankful for relatively good skin. Grab some gloss and let's go. Everyone is dragged to the van, kicking and screaming (actually just the big kids who wished they were still sleeping), buckled in and away we went.

"Where are we going?" you ask. Well, we're off to the lab for a TB test. Don't worry; everyone's fine. It's just protocol before beginning a new med for my RA. So we go be-bopping (more like careening) into the parking lot and parked right in front of the door. I jump out, leaving everyone buckled in to go see how long it will be. There is no need to drag four sleepy kids (actually just two are sleepy) into a medical office if it is only going to take ten minutes. I know what you are thinking. Please don't go there. I would never, ever, leave the little ones alone in the van. "Rufus" who is now 12 is perfectly capable to take the helm for a few minutes every now and then. He was in charge of helping the toddler with his breakfast (dry cereal thrown into a snack bag and a sippy-cup of juice) and "Princess" kept an eye on the already fed baby just to keep him happy.

I had been told if I arrived at 8:00 when they opened, I would most likely be seen right away and that it would not take very long. So I enter the office, brandishing my order for the test and my insurance card in front of me like a maniac so they'll know that I, more than the other goons in the chairs, am in a hurry. Sign in, sit down, watch my van out the window, tap foot, try not to appear perturbed or insane. When my name is called, I quickly walk to the window and chatter,

"Good morning. Yesterday, the nice lady in the third window (whose chair is currently empty) scheduled my appointment for 9:30, but told me if I arrived first thing that I could be seen."

"Um, just a minute..." and then she taps furiously on her little keyboard, "Yes, I see. That is for Wednesday...tomorrow."

"Whuh?"

"If you want to come in early tomorrow, we'll be glad to do your test. (Apparently sensing my confusion, she points to the paper that the nice lady in the third window had given me yesterday that I never even looked at because all I heard was come in early, blah blah blah, which clearly says Wednesday!) Now, which doctor placed this order?"

"Oh, um, Dr, Quinet. Yeah, I'm sorry. I thought she said today. I can, um, maybe come back in the morning. Yeah, ok, have a good day."

I turn around to leave and can almost feel the drool hanging from my lip, and I try not to drag my leg behind me as I exit the building, and I am hoping I can find my van (which remember is practically on the sidewalk) and am suddenly concernced about remembering the way home. Yep, that's how stupid I felt.

As I climbed back in the van, approximately six minutes later, "Rufus" said, "That didn't take long." Trying not to give myself away, I said, "Yeah, well, they want to do it tomorrow because the results have to be read in 48 hours, and what's 48 hours from now? --trying to sound excited-- "Oh, yeah, Thanksgiving," he replied and went back to reading his book after a long stare. I smile nervously. I think he's on to me.

So we head home. I didn't talk much, maybe because I was concentrating on remembering the way. Nah, I think I was rehashing the morning and how utterly ridiculous it all has been. The kids were all quiet, in their sleepy little stupors, when all of the sudden, I take a turn too close and whack my tire against the curb. Well, that woke 'em all up! "Rufus", in the passenger seat next to me, looks up slowly from his book with "that look" on his face as if to say, "Dang! Just let me drive, would you?" And the rest of them can't help chiming in. All I'm thinking, barely three minutes from home is, "Good Lord in Heaven, please just get us home, and I promise not to leave the house again...well, except for haircuts at 12:30, but other than that, I promise, and please, oh, please, don't let me have burst a tire."

Well, obviously, we made it home because I'm sharing my stupid story with you. And so far, so good on the tire situation. Self-reflection can be a real kill-joy, but in the midst of it all, and through tears from laughter, I think this morning can actually be a learning experience.

Oh, who am I kidding? What I learned today is that yep, we're done. I cannot spare anymore brain cells. And, please don't get me wrong. I am by no means saying that parents of large families are somehow deficient in the mental arena. I know plenty of them who are quite functional and bright. I am saying, that in my case, my theory is proving more and more true and on a daily basis, and that I am becoming what my son calls a motard. That's ok. I am just glad we figured out the correlation before it was entirely too late, and that I have not yet been reduced to periods of drooling and/or the "sit and stare." I can, however, sometimes be found rocking...sometimes in the chair, and sometimes with the baby...and sometimes all by myself. That's ok, right?

spin this

Ok. So today I washed what I swear must be the four-hundred-and-thirty-seventh load of laundry for what feels like the tenth day this week...and what do I find? Paper...washed, dried, and now shredded into a bazillion tiny pieces that cascade out of the dryer when I open it. The rest of the statically charged pieces are stuck to every other piece of freshly laundered clothing. ARGH! I just grumble to myself and continue unloading the dryer. What else do I find? A pocket knife, hair ribbon, ponytail holder, action figure, faded receipts and money. YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME! Well, at least it wasn't the ENTIRE WALLET this time!

I'VE HAD IT! I've washed jeans that somehow have one leg normal and the other inside-out. How do you do it? Am I living with contortionists? Socks wadded into a ball, one packed tightly inside the other. Do we not supply you little people with enough toys? Must you make baseballs out of your dirty socks? Shirts with one arm dangling and the other one mysteriously tucked inside. Am I missing something? Are you trying to make me crazy? And now a plethora of the most random things comes tumbling out of the dryer!

THIS IS IT! CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED! From this day forward, you bring it down, I'll wash it. Pretty simple, eh? I WILL NOT, however: empty your pockets, turn your socks right-side-out or your shirts or boxers or jeans or tighty-whities or whatever else you seem to mangle while placing in the laundry basket. I spend what amounts to an entire wash cycle detangling, turning around, shaking out, and otherwise "preparing" clothes to be washed. NO MORE! My clothes somehow seem to make it to the laundry just fine. What's wrong with the rest of you, I humbly ask? Is it so hard to check your pockets? Is it too difficult to place your garments right side out in the basket? This is not brain-surgery people!

AND ANOTHER THING...finders keepers. If I find anything of value that I wish to keep that you have carelessly left in your pockets, I will consider it your generous tip to the laundress who daily scales Mt. Washmore on your behalf. Thank you in advance for your undoubted contribution to my cause.

the toeses knowses

We have actually had a few chilly nights here in Louisiana, but I guess it's about time since it's almost the middle of November already. We found Wyatt's one remaining pair of jammies with the feet in them (we really don't need super-warm pajamas very often down here), and got him dressed for bed. When he woke up the next morning, this is what we found.

When we questioned his near-nakedness (the cowboy hat was really just a secondary issue at the time) and why he had removed his pajamas, Wyatt answered, very seriously, "I hadda wiggle my toesies."

Well, you can't really argue with that logic, can you? Even grown-ups like to stick a foot out to "breathe." 'Nuff said.

'dips' in the gene pool...I mean into

Ok. So this is our eldest (about ten years ago). Look at that face. Cute, huh? He was such a funny, bright little kid. He loved dinosaurs, building with blocks and was working 200 piece puzzles by the time he was three years old. As with most first children, we had high hopes for this one. I remember talking with my husband and having discussions like...

"I wonder what he'll be when he grows up," I'd say dreamily.


"Oh, it's hard to say," my husband would reply smugly, "a rocket scientist, a Nobel prize winner, the President...yep, hard to say."



Flash forward ten years...

"Rufus" as we lovingly refer to him is still very smart. The boy loves to read and is rarely without some big book in his hand. He also loves t.v. He is extremely proficient at kicking our rumps at most video games. And then gloating. He's taking guitar lessons and beginning to show all the signs of becoming a teenager. He could get along better with his sister, but all in all, he's a great kid.

You see, there are some attributes that I would run to the front of the line to try and claim proudly that I've passed down to him...things like his musical ability, intellect and quick wit. (Who wouldn't want to take credit for those things!) He gets jokes, though he's not great at telling them, and he can be king of the comeback (which if not used carefully can get him into trouble). You see, he can make me laugh, and the bad thing is he knows it. For instance, he thinks it is endlessly funny while I'm trying to correct him or discuss something in school to gesture to me by patting his chest and saying in his silliest voice, "Bring it on, old lady." Well, the first time it's really funny. But when you are REALLY trying to get him to do something, it can be extremely annoying. It makes me want to "bring it!"

That being said, there are other traits he possesses that scientifically cannot be linked to my DNA, that make me worry about his future and wonder what happened to my sweet child in the picture...and must therefore be attributed to his father. Like...the boy could belch the entire Bill of Rights if I did not interrupt him by shrieking, "Stop that! That is so gross! Don't you want to date some day?! EWWW!!!" His response? "So...rry." (sometimes burped) And then he falls out in the floor laughing. Seriously, is this just a guy thing? When was the last time you saw a girl behaving like this? I think there must be something attached to the y-chromosome related to belching and flatulence. It's the only plausible explanation.

Please do not write to me and try to explain that I'm being too hard on him and that it's "a part of nature" and he can't help it. I'm not buying it. It is not natural or normal to be able to belch long documents at will. I cannot be convinced otherwise. Don't waste your time.

Well, luckily for us, his good qualities overshadow (most of the time) these anomalies, again attributed to the paternal side of the ol' gene pool, and "Rufus" is a keeper. He really is a fantastic big brother, at least to the little boys. I think it's because on some level, he knows he will be able to "pass on" all these things that right now he thinks are fabulously funny. Elijah is a little young yet, but he's already started with Wyatt...you should hear him belch the preamble...

**********************************************************

DISCLAIMER: Lest anyone think Rufus actually knows the Bill of Rights, I simply meant the boy can burp, and at superhuman, unnatural lengths and volumes. He cannot literally or otherwise quote the Bill of Rights. It was the first lengthy document which came to mind while blogging about the boy and his unusual "talent." My apologies for any misunderstandings.

Migraine Mama and the Monday Meltdown

I love my kids. And I would die for them. And it's a good darn thing because they are killing me. Slowly. Yesterday, parenting felt like being pecked to death by a horde of broke-beak chickens. (Sorry. I'm practicing for when we move to Possum Hollow Lane.) It was like being stabbed to death with a butter knife. Yes, that's how it felt yesterday.

I woke up not feeling so great. It happens. But since moms can't call in sick, usually you just try to do what you can to make yourself feel better and then get on with your day. Or on the rare occasion when your husband is home, you milk it for all it's worth by telling him it's something mysterious and "female" (which guarantees you'll be left alone for fear you'll explain in great detail what is ailing you). Or you tell him that you feel all "woozy" and that if you have to stand up, you are certain that you'll experience an episode of vertigo or syncope that will cause you to fall and hit your head and then he'll have to watch the kids for 3 days instead of just today. If he buys it, you've done your job. If he is still skeptical, perhaps it will at least buy you some time on the couch where you can parent from the supervisory position, instead of the usual hands-on one. Anyway, I knew it was going to be a tough day, and no, Jay was not at home.

I just didn't feel right. We tried to go ahead with our usual "stuff," but as the day progressed, I regressed. Then I realized why. I was getting a migraine. And it just happened to be on a day when no one could seem to get along, that breathing the same air caused weeping and wailing, and the mere suggestion of doing chores and picking up toys caused unbelievable hissy fits and rivers of tears. (I hate it when the kids boss me around.)

I used to hear people complain about having a headache, and I'd think to myself, take a Tylenol and be quiet already. Then sometime in my early twenties, I experienced my first migraine. Clearly neither Merriam nor Webster who defined migraine as an intense, periodic headache, usually limited to one side of the head, have ever actually had one themselves. They didn't even mention the nausea, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, absolute desperation to find quiet, and the propensity to think and/or say irrational things. Nope, I don't think they've ever had one. You factor in four kids, and things can get interesting.

You see, ideally, when one of these headaches from Hades hits, you pop whatever medication you normally take, lie down in a dark, quiet room and just sleep that baby off. And while mixing a cocktail of Benadryl and Nyquil certainly crossed my mind yesterday...on more than one occasion, so did hitting myself in the head with a hammer and lying down with my head underneath the garage door while the kids took turns opening and closing it, that way maybe they could just knock me out and be entertained at the same time. As tempting as these options were at times, I declined. Thankfully, two of the four kids are self-sufficient and also very helpful with the younger ones.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was seriously doubting my capabilities, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should have kept those squishy little orange ear plugs from my MRI. Not just for the noise reduction of the jackhammer in my head or to silence my offspring, but because I became convinced that this searing pain in my cranium must surely be melting my brain and that those plugs could quite possibly hold my now liquefied brains in place until I reach medical help...they'll know what to do; I also was careful not to blow my nose for fear of losing gray matter. I am so thankful I taught Ryan to cook grilled cheese sandwiches, which he does quite capably. It came in handy. About the time the kids sat down to eat their dinner, I told Ryan and Emily, "If I pass out, check for breathing and a pulse. If you find that I am breathing and my heart is beating, just put a pillow under my head, cover me up and call Daddy at his meeting. Everything will be fine." Then I felt the need to reiterate, put the pillow UNDER my head, because unfortunately my eldest son has inherited my husband's sense of humor. I did not want to be inadvertantly smothered just because I suffered from a terrible headache.

Well, somehow we made it through our day. No one got hurt, everyone got fed, some were even bathed, baby napped, toddler played, big kids schooled, and Mama 'hanged on' like a possum in a tree...for dear life and seemingly upside down for most of the day. I finally made it to that dark room sans the Benadryl or Nyquil and just slept. And just as I thought, today was a brand-new day, a chance to begin again. God is good like that. "Morning by morning new mercies I see..."

While cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I noticed the hammer on the kitchen counter. Maybe I was more irrational than I realized...

spring forward, fall...over!

I don't know about you, but I used to enjoy that time of year when we got to change the clocks. I have never been a huge fan of the "springing forward" because I'm a gal who likes... and needs her sleep, and frankly, to lose an hour hurts my feelings. I must admit, however, I do enjoy more hours of sunlight. But the "fall back" part of this whole scenario I used to really look forward to. Though most people I know don't like it getting dark so early, who couldn't use an extra hour of shut-eye? I used to await the changing of the clocks with the same anticipation and gusto that a kid awaits Christmas. Okay, maybe not that much, but close. I remember so loving that extra hour curled up between the sheets, snuggled up with my favorite pillow, relishing the silence of the postponed alarm clock, almost jeering at it in my twilight sleep, "Neener, neener! You can't wake me yet" and thoroughly enjoying my extra snooze time...THEN I HAD KIDS.

This whole Daylight Saving Time thing is lost on people with young children. You see, they arrive on the planet with this sort of built in body clock and yes, their own alarm, and they can't tell time so it really doesn't matter what the stupid clock says. We even try keeping them up later, hoping that we can "trick" them into sleeping later the next morning. Well, the trick's on us. The little toots still wake up when their internal "alarm" sounds and thus we start our day, mumbling and grumbling about the would-be extra hour and how we can't believe we are missing out, and holy cow! Look at the clock! Look how early it is! What is wrong with you little people?! Don't you know that sleep is good?! Blah Blah...yaaawwwnnn...Blah Blah Blah.

Well, while we're (I'm) complaining, they are just ready to get on with it. Ready to shed what we call the "squishy pants" and don a new diaper. After all, it's a brand new day. They are probably thinking...Wake up! Look at the clock! Let's go, let's go, let's go! What's wrong with you big people anyway?! Sun's up...time to get crack-a-lackin'!

I guess my point is...okay, maybe I don't have one, but this post has made me very sleepy. I think I need a nap.

Mother's Day Out

Jay enrolled Wyatt in Mother's Day Out a few weeks ago. Honestly, I was not sure how it would go. He can be so sweet and loving...and such a handful. I think Jay could sense my apprehension, and proceeded to explain to me, rapidly, that it was only one day per week, and we could see how it goes, and that everything will be fine, and...Okay. Okay. "We'll try it," I said. Still, I couldn't help this nagging feeling inside.

I envisioned phone calls from The Early Learning Center at an area church, during which the nice teachers would tell me in the calmest, most reassuring tone they could muster that little Wyatt, while extremely cute and uncharacteristically bright for his age (you know how they always try to soften you up before the big blow), had...and then my mind went crazy...had what? Colored on the wall? Eaten the other kids' lunches? Unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper from one end of the school to the other...without breaking it? Wrapped himself in scotch tape? What?! Then, I snapped out of it. Silly me. He already did all that at home during the big kids' first week of homeschool. He won't do it there.

As the day approached for his first day of "school," we tried to explain to Wyatt what it would be like. I told him he would meet new friends, play with toys, eat lunch out of his brand-new Spiderman lunchbox, and then I said, "and take a nap." I said it super-fast and sounded a little like when you fast-forward a song to your favorite part, a little high-pitched and garbled. He totally heard me. He looked at me with "that look" he gets sometimes, and I thought to myself, here we go.

You see, Wyatt is a busy little guy. From the time he wakes up, he is basically non-stop. But, yes, I still make him take a nap here at home. I'm the grown-up; he's just 2, and he still needs a rest in the middle of the day (as do I)...besides, most of our neighbors work during the day so they can't hear the head-banging on the crib and the screaming from the upstairs bedroom..."I NOT LAY DOWN!!! I NOT GO SLEEP!!!" Of course, after a few minutes, he does. Either he knocks himself out (literally) or he passes out from sheer exhaustion, but either way, he naps for 2-3 hours every afternoon.

This picture shows him "practicing" taking a nap on his kinder-mat. I think he realized he had the rest of the proposed school day down-pat, but this nap thing might need a little work. He is lying down with "Blue" his bear blanket. (Wyatt's a little like Linus. "Blue" is a seasoned traveler and goes with us almost everywhere. You never know when you might have to sleep.) He also sleeps with "Ducky" a blanket with, you guessed it, little yellow ducks all over it. It's a little much sometimes, dragging these things around, but they seem to do the trick when it comes to nap/bedtime.

Well, like most things we worry about for no reason, "school" has worked out great. The only time Wyatt cried a little was on the first day. Of course when I picked him up I had a thousand questions as I buckled him into his carseat. Poor kid. What did you do at school today? " I pway." Did you meet new friends? "Yes ma'am." Did you eat your lunch? "I eat wunch." Did you take a nap? "I take nap." What else did you do? "I cwy a wittle bit." I knew this already from the teachers, but to hear him say it was different. I took his chubby little toddler hands in mine and looked him in the eye and asked, "Why did you cry, Sweetie?" His little lip started to tremble just a bit, and he said, "I neena Mama." I could feel my eyes begin to well up. For such a rough-and-tumble little guy, he really has a very tender heart, and is still in many ways just a baby himself. I hugged him tight and reassured him that I will always be here and that I will always come to pick him up from school. (He was probably thinking, Geez...I just wanted you there to tuck me in for naptime.) But that's okay. In the midst of all the "I do it myself!"...it's nice to know you're still needed.

There have not been any calls, and Wyatt's teachers tell me every Wednesday afternoon when I pick him up how sweet he is and what a good day he has had. He likes school. He likes to play with his "fins." And he even has a handle on rest time. His teachers tell me that sometimes he naps, and sometimes he doesn't, but he always lays quietly on his mat. (I'd like to know how they do that.)

This growing up thing is hard work. There are new things like school and teachers, lunchboxes and kindermats, friends and unfamiliar toys. How's a parent supposed to cope?