Holding an "A"ce

Whenever I request help folding the laundry, washing the dishes or for general cleaning, there is a stampede to the restroom. Having gotten wise to this diversionary tactic, I make my pronoucements armed with the toilet scrubbing brush.

So my older children have sought a new out from the dreaded chores of daily house maintenance. Homework. Even if I've preemptively asked, "Is everyone done with their homework?" and received a yes, they suddenly remember extra assignments.

It's hard to say, "You have to clean" when they are giving me the puppy dog eyes of panic, begging to work on their papers or research or math. This happened all weekend. So, I'm here and I'm cleaning for them while they spend time writing, reading, creating Christmas projects. I haven't complained but I have occasionally asked, "Are you done yet?" The answer remained "No." until it was time to shower up and call it a day. I felt had when I wrangled out of two that they had worked ahead.

But they've started this challenge, so I have a counter. "If I'm working this hard, you better get A's."

Beautiful Link of the Week

http://wwwourunexpectedjourney.blogspot.com/2009/03/price-of-children.html

Wish I was as talented with my blog. My tech knowledge doesn't even allow pictures really. My talents lie elsewhere. This blog is a breathtaking acceptance of great gifts, like another blog friend's, Mighty Mom's "My Wonderful Life." Both inspire and say, "Hey Sherry, get off the stupid computer and back to mothering."

Will do. Thanks ladies.

Pottying by Numbers

Because we have one newly trained toddler, I'm now trying for two. My apologies to anyone eating breakfast or lunch or even thinking about eating while reading this blog. You have been warned. I will try to be delicate.

There are three problems with introducing a young toddler to the art of going the bathroom.

1) They will show no interest and you will be frustrated.
2) They will show excessive interest in the products and you will be appalled.
3) They will show no interest in going and tons of interest in the product and you will be both frustrated and appalled.

Guess which one I got.

We were giving showers and my new potty trainer had gone. While I was stripping her for the shower, her younger sister toddled in, delighted to see that a shower was pending. She began to strip of her own accord. Checking the water and preparing the first, I had not yet emptied the pot. Then from the corner of my eyes, I saw someone...painting...on my door.

"There is No Painting with Pee!" I managed to get out before grabbing the brush and tossing it in the trash. I decided not to answer "Why?" despite repeated requests.

The first daughter got in the shower. I took off the diaper of the second daughter and caught her in the act and decided to plop her on the potty. It would be a fake success, but visually undeniable. She didn't want to sit, she wanted to squat, but I wouldn't let her move. It took five minutes, by which time; the first daughter explained she wanted to see.

I toweled off the first, thinking she could reinforce the praise I heaped on the second. "She made a butterfly." my newly showered daughter said. "My poop is just rocks." There was a touch of envy. The creator was curious and considering what this strange thing might be. One could see the wheels turning...where's my paint brush...followed by a hint of trauma as I swooped in to throw out the proof before too much fascination was shown. It was then my second daughter got her shower.

Evidently, this whole experience was too much for her, as she finished her business in a diaper to avoid any further scrutiny of her bowel movements. I for one appreciated her discretion and have tabled further potty training sessions for the younger for the time being. But I do know one thing, her motivational prize...a pack of water colors and a pad of paper, but I'm going to eliminate the yellow and brown paints just to be safe.

Cold and Flu Season

It's February.

To avoid getting what everyone is coughing up, (which naturally, being Mom, I tend to stoop to catch), I have determined a few coping devices for the primary caregiver to all minors with unhealthy germs to share.

10) Burn all clothing after wear. Given that this will reduce your laundry load, it might be a more permanent solution to the issues of children not putting away clothing or dropping their dirties in a laundry basket. However, the HOA and EPA might object.

9) Declare a sick week and require all healthy kids to hang out with the sickies until everyone gets it so it's all over at once. Post a large guard dog outside the room to ensure no one sneaks out. Slip food, reading materials and parental judgments about fights that occur within, under the door.

8) Go into Deep Denial.

7) Even though the weather isn't good, pitch a tent outside. Sleep there.

6) Consider applying for "Wife Swap," provided it's this week.

5) Budget Buster: Call in painters and re-carpet. It's easier than cleaning all the places they've touched.

4) Call Congress to determine if water boarding one's self with Listerine is considered a violation of human rights.

3) Show up at the Pediatricians' with everyone and beg for a gallon sized bottle of amoxicillin.

2) Go into Deeper Denial.

1) Hang a sign on the door. Quarantined. Hope by March, you get to peek outside to see your shadow.

P.S. No one is actually sick right now; this was inspired by a friend whose daughter has been very ill. She needed a laugh.It's February.

So kids get sick.

The Riddle of the Sphinx Solved!

My eighth child is so silent, we've had her ears and speech evaluated. It turns out, if you exhaust all genetic possibilities, you do occasionally get a quiet kid.

This does not mean she is docile.

Like the Mighty Sphinx, she sits in her high chair and points at that which she desires. Her loving loyal subjects, (all the older kids adore her), scramble to meet her silent wishes. I have taught the olders how to prompt speaking. Offer her a choice. Show her the choices and ask, "Do you want Milk? Or Juice?" She waits and watches as these simple servants of hers repeat the question solicitously.

Eventually, she wearies of the demand for a decision and renders her judgment with a single point.We try this same technique with every meal, with toys, with clothing and with activities. Do you want to read a book or color? Would you like a shower or a bath? Her response is always the same, quiet indifference until she finally deigns to let us know what she wishes.

The other day, I served ice cream to everyone and she dropped the pretense. Her eyes bugged out. "Ice Cream." She refused to surrender her cup when she finished until the last trace elements of her dessert were gone and this was just plain Vanilla bean. We asked at several intervals, if it was good and got nods, smiles and even a rare "Yes."

Handing us the cup, the Queen put her fingers together contented. Then she realized, she'd been talking with the plebeians and went back to the stony "I shall not be moved." stance by shutting her eyes and turning her head away.

It took all my mom discipline not to yank her chain by asking, "Hey Baby Girl, do you want some more ice cream?" Who knew frozen dessert could thaw the ice princess? Next week, I'm going to really get her, I'm buying Rocky Road.

It's Not Just My Kids...but it Could be

Most of these stories are plucked from my life with slight modifications. Sometimes, I get stories from family or friends. Here's one I got from sitting at a softball game. Much thanks to K.

They had come home from a carnival. The kids had a blast. All three had balloons. Going to the kitchen, one of them decided her balloon lacked style. It needed detailing. So, she broke out the markers. Her sisters quickly followed suit. The balloons now were a multitude of colors, heavy on the purple. Play could resume.

Five minutes later, the balloons floated up to the ceiling.

It's not quite how one sponge paints a wall to create texture but it was a conversation piece.

I'm now imagining my little darlings decorating our living room which is two stories high via balloons. I'm also envisioning me attempting to attach a Mr. Clean bar to a pool cue duck taped to another pool cue and scrubbing the ceiling from the second floor.

Memo to me: No balloons. Secondary memo to me: No markers! Third Memo to me: Surrender and paint the walls purple now.

More fun than a home makeover! Humor-Blogs.com!

Mom's Middle Name is Icarus

Motherhood is a lifelong lesson in humility. In the beginning, you surrender your body. When you first see the child face to face, any part of your heart still your own gets engulfed. But the ego takes a while to whittle down to nothingness, and that comes with the long haul of raising a human being.

I’ve lost two pounds of pride in the past week.

Monday, I was supposed to feel smart. After all, I had an article in the Washington Post. It was my second ever.

Then my nine year old son asked me to play Stratego.

He schooled me.

I didn’t get even close.
The first game, he found my flag in three easy moves using scouts.

The second game, I snapped at him for watching as I arranged my pieces, certain I was telegraphing the location of my flag with every flick of a hand. I tried doing a shell game as I shuffled pieces but then I got confused. He mowed down one row and just flooded the back side, destroying my carefully laid defenses. I believe my casualty rate was 80% and 20% for him. Maybe General Custard had it worse, but few can chalk up such appalling numbers on a field of battle in such consistent play and not be removed from command.

My son tried to console me. “Maybe next time, you’ll do better.” He smiled. “It’s the first two times I’ve won.” He grinned again. He had been playing his dad and older brother. I wondered if the Stratego skill was on the Y chromosome. My son eagerly set up the game again.

“How about chess?” I offered.
No.
“Scrabble?”
Nyet.
“Go Fish?”
He gave me a pittying look and shook his head.

The phone rang. Desperate for a reprieve from another beating, I pounced on the receiver. I would have consented to hear a sales pitch for timeshares at that point but as luck had it, it was my husband. “Hey Honey, I got you several papers. The article looks good.” I temporarily basked in glory again. “She was smart once.” I thought.

My son jumped on the phone. “Dad! Dad! I crushed Mom! It was beautiful! She never had a clue where my flag was and I Won!” Back to Earth.

My other son came into the room, looked at my reactive set up to the prior game’s obliteration and started giving me pointers. Proof that it really had been as bad as I thought; my victorious son did not protest my getting help. He even offered some strategic tips. Fifteen minutes of tutorial on feints and defenses, strategic losses and the effective use of the spy and I still lost splendidly. Again. And Again. And Again. Now I know there are games where you have to lose multiple times to grasp the concept, games like Chess and Go, Hearts and Spades, but after a perfect record of 0 and 6, my son must have felt bad, as he didn’t ask for another game.

Maybe I wasn’t enough of a challenge. He disappeared for a while. Just when I was starting to feel perky again about my piece in the Post, my son returned with a new game board under his arm. “You need to work on strategy Mom. So I thought maybe we should play checkers instead.”

I’m not telling who won, but the scale says I lost another pound.

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To Dream Perchance of Them Sleeping

Some nights bedtime is like playing Whack A Mole at the carnival, except it’s the gophers that have the mallets and they’re playing Whack a Mom or Make a Mom Wacky, depending upon how late it gets. After bathing, brushing hair, brushing teeth and bedtime stories, prayers and kisses, I’m done…and if I want it all done by 8:30, the bath water has to start running at 7:15 …am.

Summer has not helped matters. With no place to have to be, the kids have far less incentive to sleep. We have tried explaining, parents have an evening expiration time, at which point, they no longer wish to keep functioning as Mom and Dad. We need downtime…when we could read, write, eat Moose Track Ice Cream without sharing. The children think such things would lead to parental idleness.

Getting them up early to face the consequences of late nights as grown-ups must sounded promising. But tired children fight. Tired children growl. These “See now you’ll understand and listen to me because you’ve experienced the consequences of your actions” lessons never work out the way we intend.

We’ve sought to be creative about this process, alternating nights between boys and girls for shower purposes, pairing readers with non readers to speed up the routine, even ignoring some of the choices for sleepwear that indicate no change of clothes had taken place. I'm not a crazy person; I just want all sentient and non sentient beings under the age of 18 in their rooms and officially out of our jurisdiction after 8:30 pm.

The strategies we've employed have all worked about equally well, which is to say, they function for the duration that they enjoy the added glow of novelty. Turning off every light and sitting in darkness has just meant we got to field requests for water, kisses; finding books/stuffed animals, extra stories, etc. while being unable to see. Threatening carnage on the first child to come down the stairs has always meant we had to deal with a preventable crisis, the direct result of offspring following our never before enforced draconian edicts.

Oftentimes, the kids employ craft to stay out of their rooms at night. They give Dad back rubs. They bring him milk in a tall glass, ask him about his day, and offer him cookies. With me, they figure sheer numbers will keep me from getting to them individually for at least 20 minutes, and they’re right. Lacking the energy to enforce my will, I decided to try being Dad.

“Can I have a glass of milk?” I asked my nine year old. He got me one.

“And a foot rub?” I asked hopefully. Two children immediately began massaging my feet. It occurred to me, I could have a spotless home if I allowed the kids to stay up as long as they kept working.

My feet being massaged, three more children showed up. “Oh good, you’re just in time, I need a few people to fold the clothes.” I beamed. “I’ve decided, you may all stay up if you fold all the laundry.” I point to Mt. Everest sitting in the red room awaiting a good hour of work. “And then the dishes.”

The sounds of swiftly shutting doors and lights being flicked off left me thinking, “Darn, should have just stayed with the foot rub.”

If this didn't make you nod off, you might let them know over at Humor-Blogs.com

Pawns in the Picture

If pictures are worth a thousand words, there are at least a million stories in my house left undeveloped.

Yesterday we were getting ready for a party, wherein we were supposed to do none of the work. That meant we only got up at six to clean. While cleaning and decluttering,five fully shot undeveloped cameras were discovered.

After the party, I took the rolls to be developed.

Based on the results, we had a lovely time at my daughter’s fifth birthday, which was over a year ago. One camera was absconded by a toddler with shall we say up close results of her and her brother’s face, but never all of the face. The third was of a camping trip my husband and sons took last summer, the fourth, a lost roll from our youngest daughter’s first days of life in the hospital, but the fifth was the treasure; my son’s first communion this year.

Therein, were shots from the mass and the reception, complete with a shot of the whole family. Everyone is dressed nice. Most of us are looking in the same direction. The back row includes me and my oldest two daughters and son and the baby. We’re all smiling. No one's eyes are shut or red.

The front includes my husband, two toddlers, the first communion boy and his six year old sister. The toddlers are appropriately squirming but still friendly. They also are pining desperately for the food at the reception. We decided to do pictures before red punch ruined the effect of having dressed up for the day. The first communion child looks dapper and neat. Even his eyes are smiling.

The one catch?

The six year old sister, who was asked by the camera woman to move, has her arms crossed and a pout. When we first sat, everyone was happy. My husband had arranged people according to who would get along with who.

The camera lady decided the arrangement wasn’t artistic enough and began moving children like chess pieces. The kids resisted. “Why do we have to move?” one of them asked.

“I’m a professional photographer.” She explained.

My husband was trying to accommodate her wishes but pointed out, they’re all here and ready, why not take the picture.

“I'm not ready yet.”
He and I both sensed the danger.

“I want cake.” My youngest son whined, spying two children walking by stuffing their faces with white frosting goodness.

“Me too.” Became the chorus. One of the children started chanting…”Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake!” Others in the pack took up the cause.

“Take the picture.” I said through gritted teeth.

She didn’t get the hint. “This will look great. Trust me, I’m a professional. I arrange people all the time.” She bragged.

She shuffled the back row. She switched the toddlers on my husband's lap and straightened my son's tie. It was then she made one move too far, taking our emotional kindergartener from her preferred spot next to her dad, to the side of her true nemesis, the first communion boy.

Check.

My daughter sulked. She huffed. She cried. She stomped her foot. "I want to be next to Daddy!" she complained.

Having declared her reputation, the professional tried to fix the problem. She couldn’t have a crying child in the front row. The photographer tried relocation to the back. Being bumped from the front to the back in favor of her older sister was another unbearable blow. More sobs. A crowd was gathering to watch the ensuing drama.

Check.

My husband took charge. He asked the daughters to switch back and assured his still wet faced daughter she could sit next to him at the restaurant. Her face shone in triumph. She returned to the front.

“How did you?” the lady asked.

“I’m a professional mover of these eight people.” He replied.”Take the picture.”

“Now smile.” The photographer ordered.

Everyone did except the daughter in question, who was perfectly happy with the world but not about to obey the orders of a woman who had so inelegantly offended her sensibilities.

Checkmate.

It’s not a bad shot. It may even be next year’s Christmas photo.

Except, after putting the photos away in the closet, I have this disposable camera from the party yesterday that hasn’t been developed yet.

Top Ten Things Never to Say to a Pregnant Woman

Nine pregnancies means I’ve just about heard everything…so as a public service announcement to all well wishers and curious strangers, I provide the following tips to avoid a faux pas in the presence of an expectant mother.

10. "Did you plan this?" If the answer is yes…so? If the answer is no…again…so?

9. "You’re so big! I bet you’re due any day now!" First, if you’ve never seen the woman before, you have no frame of reference for size. Second, unless you’re an obgyn, guessing how far along a woman is in her gestation is a dangerous prospect…if you think due today and she’s seven months, you risk having a large hot chocolate or diet coke jammed up a nostril. Any jury of women would think you got off lightly with only a warning in such a situation.

8. Discussing/dismissing prospective mother’s birth plan…and proposing own alternative –drugs/no drugs/ at home/induction…whatever the substitution/alteration…it’s not what the doctor and patient ordered. This is like going to a restaurant, up to your girlfriend’s table and telling the waitress…I know she ordered Caesar salad and the pasta with cream sauce but she really would like ice tea, some wedding soup and the chicken pesto bowtie pasta. Then telling the girlfriend, “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

7. You’re carrying high/low, sideways, it must be…boy/girl. This changes daily and even by the moment and is also dependent upon wardrobe choices for the day, and gender, well, I’ve taken to saying, “If I didn’t know, I’d say there’s a 50% chance you’re correct.” I’ve had total strangers assure me that the ultrasound was wrong based on their analysis of how my tummy was aligned at the moment. My moral compass forbids me from then asking them, “Want to bet?”

6. Are you going to have any more? Family size decisions involve only two people. ‘Nuff said.

5. Offering to or actually patting the belly before receiving clearance or after clearance has been denied. Big No No.

4. Are you sure there aren’t twins in there? Similar to number 7 and number 9, there is no way that this comment can be considered a compliment.

3. Relating delivery horror stories…72 hours, no epidural worked…husband stuck at job, broken car, had to be delivered by neighbor’s yard man…these bring no comfort to the awaiting pregnant lady. They are battle stories…that create or revive memories of labor that rival post traumatic stress syndrome.

2. Labor inducement tricks…eat olive/mushroom pizza at this restaurant…try jalepenoes in brownies…these things work as well as guess the baby by how she’s shaped. They also usually involve gross combinations that can make even the steeliest of stomachs ill.

1. "Haven’t had that baby yet? Stick a Fork in You, You’re done…" Trust me, the woman 38 weeks pregnant wants to be done…she’d love to be delivering…when she is, you won’t see her…she’ll be at the hospital unless the yardman had to take over because her husband’s stuck at work.

So…what do you say? "Congratulations, how wonderful! When are you due? How are you feeling? And Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?" Then, if the gestator wishes, who knows, she might even let you feel the baby kick.

Hopefully, this post will save grace, face, and keep all those women suffering through the summer gestating, from stuffing soda/straw up stranger's nose incident free. This has been a public service announcement. We now return you to your regularly scheduled humor blog content.