Virtues I do NOT have.

Getting ready for church is no small feat in our house.  First of all, everyone needs to be clean.  At the same time.  In the spirit of portraying ourselves as something we generally are not, we like to show up at church freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes, looking like a wholesome, All-American family.  Occurrences of all five of us being bathed and cleanly dressed all at the same time are rare.  The boys usually bathe at night.  Small gets a Bio-Hazard Bath when he has a particularly eventful day in the diaper department, and then sporadically throughout the week.  Mommy showers sometimes.  But on Sundays, we all bathe or shower before church.

Bio-Hazard Bath . . . straight to the sink; do not pass GO.

Hubby had to go in to the office today, so the arduous task of getting everyone ready for church was left solely to me.  We needed to be at church and in Sunday School class at 9:45.  Naturally the process began at 6:45.  Small had an eventful morning – see reference above.  I stuck him in the bath first.  Large came into the bathroom when he heard all the splashing and general fun-having, so I got Small out and ran a bubble bath for Large and Medium.  Honestly, getting them ready for church was a breeze.  They bathed without splashing, dressed themselves for church, and met me downstairs for a hearty breakfast of cold cereal and gummy vitamins. 

The hard part of getting ready for church is ME.  I got everyone settled and preoccupied so I could have a few minutes of alone time to get ready.  I just colored my hair on Friday night, because I’m a party animal like that.  (Doug walked in to the bathroom and saw this: me, still dressed at 8:30 pm in my workout capris and tank top left over from the yoga class I took at 8:30 that morning, with my hair parted dramatically at 20/80 and slathered in an orangey paste.  I winked and asked him if he wanted to “hit this.”  He immediately announced that he needed a beer and took off for a friend’s house.)  Because this morning was a wash-my-hair day, my legs look like shag carpeting. 

My biggest challenge came when I put on my stockings.  I know, who wears stockings anymore?  (And who says stockings?  Well, ME, because I hate the word pantyhose.)  I decided to wear stockings this morning because my legs are so white (and hairy) that I really felt it is what God would want me to do when visiting His House.  Putting on stockings is like stuffing a sausage, and it looks just as sexy.  As usual, I stuck my thumb through the material as I was attempting to stuff that last bit of fat leg into the reinforced panty part.  I could almost hear the little threads of fabric screaming for dear life . . . “Must!  Hold!  On!  Just!  Stretch! A Little!  More!”  Nevertheless, I continued inserting my wobbly bits into the stockings and reminded myself that when I am making my weekly prayer for patience perhaps I should also pray that the hole doesn’t visibly extend below the hem of my skirt before the service is over. 

We made it to church on time, and I was able to offer my silent apologies for being so cranky last week, and AGAIN to ask for patience with myself and my family.  So I’m gonna put his out in the Universe - these are the virtues with which I need help, in no particular order:

1. the Willpower to put down the Thin Mints, for the love o’ pete.
2. a little Solitude.  Just a little.  Even just using the potty without an audience will suffice.
3. Humility when I know that chick in the convertible BMW is checkin’ out my Swagga Wagon.  Because I got it goin' on!
4. enough Patience to not get frustrated when Medium says, “um, I think I forgot to wear underwear.”
5. the Fortitude to build a strong army, even though I always get stuck with the tan guys, who are seriously outnumbered by Medium’s green guys.
6. Frugality until my replacement Starbucks gold card arrives in the mail.  Currently I’m paying cash for my caffeinated goodness.  What are we, cave men?
7. Common Sense.  If you found your yoga mat to be directly behind Cap’n Balsac (he of loose shorts and increased flexibility,) you’d move, right?  Me?  Halfway through the class before I realize my mistake. . . .
8. Sobriety.  At least until next Friday at 3:30 or so, when my girlfriend comes home from work so we can go to our Happy Place.
9. Vitality, especially at 6:45 a.m., and preferably in the form of coffee.
10. Modesty.  I’ve been told I could use some.

It seems I have plenty to work on this week.

The Light Bulb Fairy and the Joy that IS Homework

I’m supposed to be stuffing the Holiday cards, but I’m inching my way towards a diabetic coma and feeling VERY sleepy.  I just made a batch of Nestle Toll House cookies, mostly so I could eat raw cookie dough for breakfast.  Epic Weight Watchers FAIL.  (And by “bake,” I mean break the pre-made dough, place it gently on a cookie sheet, and patiently stare into the oven for 10 minutes.)

Having just ingested half of the cookies and some of the dough, I realize that blogging about it consequently puts it out there in the universe.  It is possible, (although not probable since my own spouse is NOT a regular reader of the literary brilliance I post,) that Hubby will now know that I just ate cookies for breakfast.  It’s one of those Stay-at-Home Mommy secrets that I should really keep to myself.  Cookies for breakfast is highly classified information, along with how light bulbs get changed in our house.  When I was on bed rest last winter, I had to break it to him that there is no Light Bulb Fairy.  Don’t worry though; I didn’t tell him about Santa.

How many members of the
BoyMommy Family does it take to
change a lightulb?
According to Hubby, ZERO!

I don’t think Hubby has changed a lightbulb in the 11 blissful years we’ve been married.  He either thinks

a)     that the lighbulbs that were installed in the house when it was built are SUPER efficient and long-lasting, or

b)    the Light Bulb Fairy is responsible.  The LBF purchases the correct bulb and has it handy so that when a bulb blows out, it can immediately be replaced, and no one will ever know it was ever without light.

Also, in the throw-my-husband-under-the-bus category, there’s this little gem.  Yesterday I overheard Medium tell Hubby to “acknowledge Large!”  How many five-year-olds have acknowledge in their vocabulary AND know how to use it correctly?  My little sponge has heard me say it to his daddy a few times – usually when I am so tired of hearing “Daddy!  Daddy!  Guess what?  Dad.  Dad!  Guess what?!  Daddy!!” that I finally break and say, “acknowledge your children!”  (To be fair, the boys have little to no concept that Daddy might be doing something important and that not everyone in their sweet little lives is going to devote 100% of his or her attention to THEM at all times.)

He came home from work early last night to help me out, which is MUCH appreciated.  However . . .

I get to sit with my Big Brother
AND I get to do homework?  Woohoo!

He “suggested” that maybe the boys should begin their homework earlier so that we’re not all subjected to Medium’s incessant whining during the witching hour, which is actually the three hours between 5-8 pm.  He has a good point.  Waiting until after dinner but before baths to do homework, especially with a child who is clearly overwhelmed by the magnitude of tasks such as writing his name five times and practicing tying his shoes, is probably not the wisest strategy.  I like to let them play for a while when they first get home though.  I figure they’ve got some pent-up energy that needs to be released.  Plus, at the beginning of the school year I was trying to get Medium excited about his work by having the big boys sit at the table together, and I could strap Small into the Bjorn and make dinner while supervising homework.  Yesterday was not a shining example of this strategy, however.  Instead, it was chaos.  In fact, when Hubby walked in from work, I was yelling at kindly encouraging Medium to focus.  When Hubby went to empty his morning coffee mug into the sink, he could not do so because there was a child in it.  (Another diaper blowout necessitated the Biohazard Bath.)  So the new plan is for Medium to do his homework before Large even gets home from school.

Interesting, though, that Hubby’s “suggestion” came on a Monday night.  Monday is easy; it gets worse as the week progresses and you ain’t seen nothin’ until you’ve seen the chaos of Thursday night homework!  It would be easier to get the Hell's Angels to switch to organic natural fibers than it is to get my kids to do homework without complaint by the end of the week.

Poop. Lots and lots of Poop.

First, an admission: I took a big, fat nap this morning. I’m exhausted.  Hubby has been out of town for the past two nights, and I never sleep well when he’s gone.  I have this irrational fear that someone’s going to need me in the middle of the night and I’m not going to hear him, although this has NEVER happened.  Mommies have special Mommy Hearing, I swear.  I rarely used baby monitors because I just figured if my baby needed me, I’d know it.  My mind tends to reel as I’m trying to fall asleep, and it just gets worse when Hubby’s gone.  Add to that the fact that Small woke up five times on Monday night and three times last night.  Hubby usually goes in and gives him his pacifier and he falls right back to sleep, but if I go in, he thinks it’s Schnack Time.

Adding to my exhaustion is the fact that, for some reason, I thought it was a good idea to take all three kids grocery shopping last night.  Do you think Michelle Duggar takes all 19 kids with her when she runs to the Safeway?  I doubt it.  She’d end up with 19 different flavors of Pop-Tarts, because lord knows they each have to pick out their own or else “it’s not fair.”  (That woman’s hoo-ha must be like a log flume by now.)  Good times.  I actually had another mommy at the store call me a “good woman” when she saw me maneuvering the grocery cart with the car on the front as if it were a Greyhound Bus in Aisle 7.  As I’m sure you know, mommies can be very snarky towards one another, (*see previous comment regarding Michelle Duggar’s log flume,) so to have a fellow soldier acknowledge my grocery-getting plight was like earning a Congressional Medal of Honor.  She probably called me a dumb*ss under her breath, but still. . . .

I got home from the bus stop this morning and Small and I settled in to watch last night’s Parenthood.  When he was ready for his morning nap, I decided I was too.  And I don’t mean the lay-on-the-couch-with-the-remote kind of nap or the fall-asleep-with-the-book-on-my-chest-just-like-they-do-in-the-movies kind of nap (because that has never happened to me either.  Once I start going cross-eyed and the words look drunk, it’s time to call it a night.)  Oh no . . . I did it right.  I took my *ss back to bed, got under the covers, got out my little eye mask, and set the alarm so I wouldn’t be late to pick Medium up at the bus stop.  Judge me if you will, but I know, and you know, and I know that you know you’d do the same damn thing if you could. 

Medium’s behavior was less-than-stellar today.  I put a lot of pressure on myself to “make” him behave, but you know that old adage – you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him pick up the Tinker Toys if he really doesn’t want to.  I’ve read all the parenting books and I’ve tried all the strategies.  He is my “spirited” child, and he has good and bad days just like the rest of us.  Today was a bad day.  I know that a lot of times he starts misbehaving when I’m not giving him my undivided attention, which was a big problem when Small was first born.  And sometimes I’m so desperate for some adult conversation (with other adults, not about “adult” subjects. . . wink, wink,) that I’ll check email or Facebook (Mommy’s crack) while he’s otherwise occupied and he’ll start misbehaving.  But today was not one of those days.  We made a messy Halloween gingerbread house, I read him books, we worked on writing the alphabet, and I downloaded and cut out a template of a Texas Longhorn.  Seriously, I brought my A-game. 

And yet he had THREE temper tantrums.  

I have explained to him that he is five-and-a-half years old and that normally children have temper tantrums because they are so young that they can’t express themselves otherwise and they vent their frustration through tantrums.  He can express himself, so I’ve tried to teach him to breathe deeply, count to ten, ask for help, and all the other bullsh*t methods we’re supposed to teach our kids.  Sometimes our best efforts just don’t work.  Timeout #1 happened when he could not draw a proper Texas Longhorn – it kept coming out too smiley and not at all menacing.  Not good.  Timeout #2 happened when the brown marker was dried up, probably because one of my little geniuses put a dried-out marker back into the bin with the other, fully-functioning markers.  Timeout #3 was a doozy.  While sitting in The Timeout Chair, he started kicking and making snide comments, such as:

“Oh!  I see!  I’m just supposed to SIT HERE??”

and

“Can you HEAR me?  Are you LISTENIN’? You’re just gonna ‘gnore me?  Huh?  Is that it?”

So, so charming.

The sassiness resulted in Timeout #3, which took place in his room.  I gave strict instructions, based on previous experiences, to not rip books, slam doors, or kick walls.  I told him I’d come back for him when I was ready to see him again. 

I endured about 10 consecutive minutes of “how much LONGER???”

Then, 20 minutes later, he sheepishly came out of his room and said, “I’m ready to get it together.”

I love it when the kids repeat things back to us that they’ve heard us say. . . like when Medium once said, “hello?!  Earth to Mommy . . . come IN Mommy . . . “ or Large asked Hubby during a particularly pungent diaper change, “Aww son, what’d you eat?”

Medium LOVES to do his homework.  The next 12 years are gonna rock!

Medium did pretty well for the rest of the day, although homework time was about as enjoyable as Caillou’s voice.  Surely the day would get better from here, right?  Do you recognize a rhetorical question when you read one? 

Small woke up from his nap a little earlier than I expected, but I figured he heard all the tantrum-throwing and woke up to see what all the fuss was about.  I got him out of his crib and headed back downstairs when I realized my arm felt warm where I was holding his back.  I worried that he had gotten too warm during his nap and that’s why he had woken up, but no.  That. was. NOT. it.

It was poop.  Lots and lots of poop.  So much poop that it had seeped through his diaper, his onesie, his t-shirt, his overalls, and now the sleeve of my shirt. 

Small used to poop once a day, which was manageable, but somewhere within the past few months he has stopped pooping regularly.  Instead he saves it all up for a few days and then virtually explodes.  He hadn’t pooped since Sunday night, so in retrospect, I probably should have put some safeguards in place – plastic sheeting or an industrial-grade tarp perhaps.  He’s like his daddy, who only poops at the office.  Hubby is some sort of freak of nature who “goes” regularly, but only when he’s at work, which makes a week of vacation increasingly unpleasant for him, and therefore for all of us.  (He’s going to be SO stoked that I used this forum to discuss his poop habits.)

Trust me when I say that what exploded out of Small’s body was like nothing I have ever seen before, and I have THREE sons . . . I’ve seen a lot of poop in my day. 

I was not privy to a particular episode in which Hubby fed a baby Large Pop Rocks against Mommy’s advice and had to purchase an entirely new outfit because they were in the mall food court.  That was a lesson that Hubby had to learn himself, the hard way, and I feel that the passers-by who were literally throwing napkins at him as he tried to clean the high chair would agree with my warning that giving a toddler Pop Rocks is a bad idea. 

I placed Small on the changing table and assessed the situation. How was I going to be able to get him out of his clothes without getting poop everywhere?  When I slid the overalls off, it got all over his legs.  When I slipped the t-shirt off, it got in his hair.  The onesie was plastered to his back, so I folded it under so I could get to the diaper, the contents of which were liquidy and bubbling – I kid you not.  (I was gonna say I sh*t you not, but it just seemed too trite.)  I sent Medium to the pantry for two plastic bags – one in which the clothes could make their trip to the laundry room and one for the diapers and the wipes I was using to scrub Small’s legs.  I had visions of leaving a trail on my carpet all the way up the stairs to the bath tub, so I sent Medium upstairs for supplies while I put Small in the kitchen sink.  He splashed and frolicked like it was playtime, without regard for the fact that my kitchen sink is now a biohazard. 

That's Medium sitting on my kitchen counter.  In his pajamas.  At 2:45 on a Wednesday.
Apparently Pajama Fashion Show was how he entertained himself during Timeout #3.

It’s a good thing he’s cute, because, in the words of Medium, “he’s disgustin’.”

Update: the onesie didn’t make it.  After a trip through the wash immediately following The Poopie Incident, I decided that it had met its demise. 






SHAMELESS PLUG!!
Click here to vote for BoyMommy!