Anna-isms

Being four, she has her own way of understanding the world.  Sometimes, I worry.

10.  Her brother received a robot T-rex with glowing red eyes. It roars.  She petted its head and said, "There there. Easy boy. Easy."

9.  Walking back from the bus, "I can't wait until I'm twenty."   she said.
"Why?  What happens when you're twenty?" I asked. 

"I'll be older."  

8.  We went to Toy's R Us.  She saw the Halloween costumes.   I now have a 4 year old "Harley  Quinn."   

7.  Getting in the car.  "You're my best mom, my favorite mom because you give me food."

6.  "I don't have enough kitties."  (She's holding three stuffed kittens, with four more jammed into her backpack).  

5.  After hugging her brother when he fell, she came to me and asked, "I gave Paul a hug. Am I like God?"

4.  "Mom! The sun is burning me, save me from the sun!"  --she wanted to walk in my shadow.

3.  Me: "We're out of raisins." 

     Her:  (fighting the urge to be upset).  "The world is not perfect. It's not perfect because we're out of raisins.  But big girls don't get upset.  They never give up and they can wait until we go to the store." 

2.   She made "Have you seen me?" posters for her two beanie boo stuffed animals she can't find and hung them around the house.  She also called out for them and complained when they didn't answer.

1.   At mass,  "I'm blowing kisses to God."  

I know it's not 1000 words, but I'll get back to writing this afternoon.  Have an errand this morning. 

Rules of the Two Foot Dictator

Despite coming very heavily referenced by my multiple siblings, these parents haven't yet to understand the true nature of my role in their lives.  As such, I am stepping out beyond my normal comfort zone and putting thoughts into words to convey the scope and breath and depth of my every day needs and their role in fulfilling them.   It is I confess, a sacrifice on my part, but one I'm willing to bear if it will bring them along to be better servants.

10) Walking is what you do.  Walking is not what I do.  As a means of transportation, if I need to get to point B, please be advised that your arms are the optimal mode for such an endeavor. 

9) Don't put me down unless I say so.  And sometimes, I don't really mean it. 

8) Pick me up when I say so.  Even if I just said to put me down. 

7) About the car and car seat...see #10.  Further "road trips" (ahem, vacations, errands, long drives) shall incur my instant wrath.

6) Phones, I-pads, laptops, remotes and computers amuse me.  Do not take them away....they are mine.

5) I do not like the shower. You do not like me when I'm in the shower.  The screaming is hard on my throat and your ears. So we agree.  No more showers.

4) I do not like the bath. I do not like you washing my hair (a.k.a. waterboarding).   I insist.  No more baths.

3) I consent to eating, but only in  your lap. Do not serve me elsewhere.  Those high chairs are for other people. Not me.

2) My other siblings are not suitable substitutes for your arms.  Don't even try it.

THIS ISN'T MOM OR DAD!

1) Lastly, I love you utterly even though I expect/demand/crave/need utter devotion first.   Now pick me up. 

Pssst.....really not dead....I promise.

Okay, so this past week blogging has been at the bottom of the to do list, somewhere between organizing the back basement, folding socks, gardening and filing.    Why?

Well, it's not because I've been organizing the back basement, folding socks, gardening or filing.

I've been adjusting to having three teenagers home.  Three toddlers are easier...but I have both.

Getting up.

Toddlers: Easy.  You get them up. They are up. You get them dressed.  You feed them. They eat what you serve.  It is straight forward.
Teens: They are not up.  You can set alarms. You can go in and wake them yourselves.  You can tell them they cannot sleep all day and what do they have to be tired from?  They do not get up until after noon. They then present themselves to you and say, "I'm hungry."  You offer food. They reject it in favor of different food.  They fix their food.  They leave to go get dressed and you will not see them again until around 4, when they will again say, "I'm hungry" and refuse the food you offer. 

Going out.

Toddlers: Not easy.  You get them to the car. They kick off their shoes and socks. You strap them into their seats.  You debate furiously in your head whether it is worth it to re sod said children or wait until you get to where you are going to re sod children. 

Teens: Easy...but terrifying.  They are ready, already ready, really ready, can we go already ready to get in the car.  They're driving.

Chores:

Toddlers: Want to help. It is not terribly effective but it is sweet.
Teens: You want them to help.  It is also not terribly effective. 

Bedtime.

Toddlers: Bath, brush teeth, story, kisses, tuck in...play Whakamole with children until they give up while you camp outside the room on the floor with the laptop. 

Teens:  After dinner, you don't see them again until the next day.  Unless you are obnoxious like me and turn off the internet at 10 p.m and hang out near the switch with said laptop to let them know, you have lots of practice with Whakamole.

So I'm back....why today?  Because Dad got tickets for said three teens to go to a baseball game and it's the second to last day of school, so the house with only toddlers, is oddly much more manageable.  

Though once school lets out, this blog may have to post only monthly.  :)

Destruction in Their Pathway

Look at any baby store, any parent magazine and you will discover that the home we live in 24-7 is unsafe for children and requires at least two thousand dollars worth of specialized equipment to help them reach the tender age of four. But for all the talk of how one has to make a house safe for an infant, the reality is steeper than a newbie parent can possibly bear.

Alas, those veterans out there know it well; a baby needs no protection from the house. The house needs protection from the baby. As my Grandfather and Grandmother would say (and they raised nine), "Destruction in their pathway! Destruction in their pathway!"

The following policies have been devised over years of extensive research (born of hard knocks), to prevent maximum property devaluation from occurring before said toddler reaches the age of reason or the domicile is condemned.

Rules for Toddler Proofing a Home.

Rule #1. Ban writing equipment. As of this moment, all pens, markers, crayons, pencils, paint brushes, nail polish applicators, lip sticks, high lighters, sharpies, white out, paint, India ink, mascara and glue are officially illegal. They may not be purchased. They may not be borrowed. They may not be accidentally brought home in one’s purse or briefcase or backpack. Older children in school will have to complete their assignments either before coming home or on the computer. Those needing to use actual writing utensils will be taken to a separate location, like a library, neighbor’s house, or large rural vacant field and allowed to return only after the assignment has been completed and a thorough body search has revealed no contraband crayons, pens, pencils or markers are entering the vicinity.

Please understand that these precautions may not protect your walls from toddler creativity entirely. Once, I found my daughter drawing on the window with a banana; inspiring rule #2.

Rule #2. Hide Consumables. All food shall be placed at a height of 60, no… they can use chairs and a broom, 70, no… they can climb, 84 inches or higher to prevent scavenging. This includes traditional foods thought to be the preferred choices of toddlers, like multi-colored gold fish, Oreo cookies, apples and juice boxes, and some items that most adults would consider at the very least, unusual; examples of this alternative eating include free basing Maple Syrup, chomping a stick of butter like a candy bar and grabbing whole fists of ground beef before it’s cooked.

Rule #3. No Car For You! Like your vehicle? Hide your keys. Why? Car keys are fun. They make excellent experimental objects for scratching things like dishwashers, wall paper and actual cars. Keep keys in a box on the top shelf of the cabinet to guarantee maximum safety or be willing to suffer the damages plus the embarrassment of being awakened on a Sunday by the annoying car alarm going off that turns out to be yours.

Rule # 4. Constant Vigilance! Consider installing a close circuit TV and an ankle bracelet. Why? Because toddlers do 16 things in the time it takes an average adult to pour a cup of coffee. In the time you’ve spent reading these tips, your anniversary watch just went into the pewter pitcher in the lower cabinet. Because that particular pitcher is the one you use for special occasions, you’ll find your watch next Mother’s Day preferably before you go to pour in some orange juice.

Upside: You’ll find out all your kid does.
Downside: Humanity cannot always bear that much reality.

Rule #5.  Fairness and Order. Explain to older children it is unjust to use the fact that they are living with an essentially non civilized entity with opposable thumbs to their own advantage. The two year old did not mess up your room or strip the bed or leave the toilet scrubber in the middle of the room. Okay, maybe that last part, but own your own mess. Even SHE can’t have done all of this.
Veteran Tip: If you implement rule 4, you can even produce evidence, though in some cases, you might opt to destroy the tapes.

Rule # 6. Contain Yourself. All liquids stored in the house, be they ketchup or water, Windex or shampoo, will be triple sealed to prevent a "help yourself" mentality that has lead to more than a few moments of hyperventilating on the part of Mom. They will also be stored out in the garage. Yes it’s a pain but keep reminding yourself of how long it took to clean up the olive oil from the carpet and you will see the wisdom of this system.

Drinks served at meal time will be in sippy cups for all family members. No exceptions. This will prevent any unfortunate run-ins with electronic equipment that does not like liquid. Cabernet with a touch of ice does surprisingly well in a plastic container.

Special Veteran Note: Do not mix up sippy cups!

ONE FINAL NOTE:
Take lots of pictures of her when she draws her arm entirely purple with the one marker left in the house, or when she stomps on grapes in the kitchen. This impossible stage fortunately is blessedly short, and you’ll want proof for when she has two year olds herself one day of why you can just listen and laugh.

Editor’s Note: These six rules were compiled from the antics of nine different children going through the stage of being two. Cupie Doll, a.k.a. Miss Chief, it wasn’t all you.

Biting Humor

My youngest son has decided the easiest way to create a good impression is with his teeth.  It's a problem in part because we never know when this cute almost 2 year old wannabe member of Team Edward will strike. 

Now I used to teach biters and have been trained on how to get someone to release; you push back into the bite so that the head of the biter is pushed back and that causes him to open his mouth a bit more and thus the arm, hand or what have you that is being bitten, can escape.   However, even I remain fearful of using this technique since pushing back into my son's mouth might strain his neck. Down Syndrome children can sustain injury from a blow to the head that results in paralysis; the neck moves too far back.

Thus my children and I remain at least at present, the human version of teething rings whenever his need to nosh strikes.  

It's not that we don't shout "OW" or "No." or cuff his nose when he starts clamping down or put him in time out; it's that he views the whole thing as one big game.   He shakes his head no back at us with a big happy smile even as we place him in the playpen.  We cuff his nose and his eyes twinkle as he reaches out to repeat the gesture back.  We say "OW, that hurt!" and he claps and laughs.  So either he's the smallest sadist in the world or he just doesn't yet get what we are trying to convey.  

Part of the problem is my son loves stuffed animals; specifically one unimaginatively named Monkey,  stuffed monkey.  When Monkey is in his crib, Monkey gets kissed, hugged and his ears get bitten multiple times.  Monkey does not mind this and Paul showers Monkey with biting love.

However the rest of his family and the general population at large do not share Monkey's stuffed ears or capacity to tolerate however many tons of metric pressure one two year old with abnormally sharp cuspids, bicuspids, incisors and molars can bring to bear in a death grip.

So we now have taken extraordinary measures to keep our youngest out of biting range except in controlled environments.  Jean jackets work almost as well as chain mail; so do layered preppy look sweaters except when he goes for the arm.  For the men and boys and those who hate either of these two looks in the family, holding Paul facing away is an effective alternative, though that is much harder on the back; and the umbroller has become the vehicle of choice out in public.   I rejected the idea of a muzzle and/or retainer to keep his jaws under wraps.  

One of the children suggested making him walk everywhere possible in hopes that by wearing him out, he won't have the energy to take a bite out of us.    The problem with that solution is two-fold: 1) It reduces the speed at which we move to .0001 miles per hour and allows for other children to thus get into mischief and 2) the internal mental discipline required of the adults moving the party along that pace is as demanding as the physical conditioning needed to run a 10 K in whatever a decent time for a 10 K would be.  

The only real solution to this lies with our young son and the every day maturation process that is taking place.  We'll keep saying no, putting him in the pen and cuffing his nose until he gets it.  In the meantime, if our family portrait this year shows everyone in life preserver vests, I hope you'll understand.

Character Witnesses

Being the primary caretaker of the under five set for over 17 years, I've developed patterns over the course of raising nine children designed to minimize injury to them, craziness to myself and the potential for extensive property damage. 

Hence, I don't tend to send them outside without me, or to the basement without me, or most places, without me.  If I need to go somewhere without them, like say, the facilities, there are three options:  1) Feed the baby and put him down for a nap and then give the girls both sippy cups and bowls of gold fish and put on Dora and then bolt 2) take the baby with me and be willing to have the possibility of extensive conversations that will involve explaining why Mommy is behind closed doors 3) wait until the older ones get home or drive to a friends house so I can excuse myself while providing cover supervision.  The Doctor's office or Dentist or  school secretary are also good in a pinch, as well as the hair dresser who gives the girls lollipops. 

It wasn't always this mad, but my two girls seem especially capable of inflicting maximum damage to a room, appliance, each other with minimum time regulations. But they're very cute the two of them, so my family doesn't always get my rather tether strung method of parenting these younger children. 

They think I should relax and let them go outside and that I can watch them from the window as I work.  But I've seen them go outside; they start by hang from trees trying to break the branches.  They get out their brother's scooter and take turns cruising perilously close to the side of the van, just millimeters from creating a bit of detailing.   I was presented with every petal from every bud of every bulb we'd planted; all picked to make a fairy crown that I apparently was to sew.   They also took all the rocks from the wall and moved them to the picnic table to make a castle.  I called them in when the older one turned on the hose to either wash the car or water the garden, I forget which.   All of that was in the span of 24 minutes the time I needed to make a conference call.  Email is now the best means of communication for me if you're wondering.  Someone suggested Skype to me and I just laughed.   Like I want this stuff on tape.   

But you're thinking Sherry, you overprotective silly mommy you, the basement is full of toys.  Let them go down and be kids.  Let them play. Lighten up.  Let them live a little.  "You're too stubborn about this. You need to relax a bit." I've been told.  But no one has to tell these two daughters of mine to seize the day, they own it. 

Downstairs is Rockband.  I can't operate the DVD player but the four year old can sign on to do a triple set no fail mode including the words to some songs from the Talking Heads.  I'm almost 44 and I don't know the words to songs from bands of my era that were and still are considered cool.   It's not that I'm a complete slacker as a parent either.  I've patrolled the basement.  I've combed through the bins to try and make it an inviting and safe place for those two to really play.  I've even created boxes with stuff I thought they'd totally love, blocks, barbies, animals.  But there's always something I missed.  It can be anything, masking tape, their sister's beloved art picture, their brother's hero clix collection, sharpies, and the result is well, purple armed children sound really cute in print but trust me, the joke wears thin long before the marker fades.   

But I take great comfort in the reality of Guardian angels; for one day, should I be so blessed, I'll have two unimpeachable witnesses to confirm, "She wasn't nuts....well, at least not about that."  and "here's why.  Let's roll to the video tape."   Also, they might know the real reason why the younger one decided to color her arms deep purple.

7 Quick Takes

1.

Spring is here..or was...

Three days ago, it was gorgeous and the frogs and toads and bunnies and 12 deer roamed through our back yard.  Today it is freezing.  In an unrelated event, three days ago my son announced that he was going to catch some frogs to show his siblings.  He marched out with gloves and a bucket.  Shortly thereafter, I heard the yip of joy that indicated a successful amphibian hunt. "I got two! I got two! They're huge and guess what!  They're stuck together!" 

I know it's just nature. I know I shouldn't anthropromorphosize creatures but I felt really sorry for these two toads stuck in a home depot bucket with five children peering down on them in their twitterpated state.  "Put them BACK in the POND." was all I could muster.  "Why?" was the obvious chorus outcry at the parent demand.  "Just trust me. They'll be much happier back in the water."  Oy.  Not sure the toad population will recover. 

2.  Let Sleeping Parents Lie...

Yesterday I was tired. I didn't know I was that tired, but I was.  Helping my second grader with her homework, we were stationed on the floor going over her papers.  I put my head down.  I awoke to find I'd been tucked in under a comforter with a pillow and a stuffed bunny and she had finished her math. 

3.  Gotta Dance! Don't Have to Know How to Walk Before I Do.... 

Paul now groves to southern fried rock. If there's a piano plinking down with a base electric guitar, he pulls up in his crib and dances and sometimes just for a second, lets go of the railing.  So when Paul learns to walk, he'll owe it all to Eric Clapton, ZZtop and a few others who happen to be on this mix CD.  

4. Just Keep Swimming

Yesterday, I signed up six of the nine for lessons.  As a parent, there are times when you set your teeth, this is going to happen.  This summer, I have set my teeth, that four of the six signed up will have the skills necessary to swim a lap without touching the ground by the time September has rolled around.  

5.  A Nag from the Book I wasn't Reading about the Book I've not finished Writing

As some of you may know, I have a 3/4th of the way finished book, the Book of Helen.  I've been stuck for some time and not really wanted to address the you wrote without an outline so look where that got your mess that resulted.  But last night, I knocked over a book I'd received several years ago about the compelete writings of Leonardo DaVinci and it landed on a quote about Helen and her feelings about growing old.  So I started editing again last night.   Chapter 1.  Sigh.  I don't want to produce the next great American novel. I want to produce the next Great American Best Seller.  

6. When Toddlers giggle too much

When you hear sounds of song and laughter, how long is the lag time where you can enjoy hearing them before YOU know you must investigate because they are probably doing something unthinkable?  Answer: I'll be right back....they were singing and dancing on my bed. It made a splendid stage.  It right now does not look like a very good bed. 

7.  FYI

The Erma Bombeck Conference has one opening left. I can't go but you could and if you like writing, I highly recommend it, it's loads of fun and several of the presenters were there as participants last time around.  Bruce Cammeron and Suzette Standring are two of the speakers and valuable resources for any aspiring columnist itching to become a household name.  Go to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference. I know it will say it is closed. It is not.  If you hustle, you can go to Dayton April 15-17th and have a weekend filled with great tips not to mention a lot of laughs. 

Find other 7 Quick takes at http://www.conversiondiary.com/! 

Petite Fours and Discreet Twos

It was an odd discovery; an entire bag of Chips Ahoy! cookies demolished and yet still there. 

I didn't think it strange that my children had found and devoured the bag of chocolate chip cookies, I found it odd that they'd found and sort of eaten the bag of cookies.   I followed the trail.  There were crumbs everywhere.  The trail had pieces that had been carved out, broken intentionally, showing deliberative thought about how the cookies were to be destroyed.  Every cookie had been partially consumed and looked poxed and excavated; like a mountain side into which mines had been carved. 

And then it hit me as I spied my two year old daughter beaming a chocolate smile.  She only wanted the chips.  The cookies she left to share with the rest of us. 

From the file of "What do they think I'm doing?"

Yesterday, I discovered my two toddlers had done a number on their sister's room. Not wanting the despair and anger that would ensue if this trespassing on private property was discovered, I helped repair the damage. My toddlers were safely ensconced in front of the television. Dora the Explorer ended and I was still in the room cleaning.

"Mom?"
"Mom?"
"MOMMMM!"

"I'm upstairs cleaning your sister's room."

"Oh. We thought you'ld been eaten by a bear."

Pillow Talk

Sometime after a child manages to climb out of the crib, he or she decides that Mom and Dad’s bed is the only place to hang out after dark. Consider our latest two-year-old, who views head butts as a means of greeting a sleeping adult. At four in the morning, usually one is only dimly aware of having the covers invaded. Most of our earlier two year olds were content to snuggle up to the parent of their choice and hope general fatigue would prevent eviction.

Not so this one. She Who Would Be Two must have an audience on which to work her kewpie doll toddler magic, so Mom or Dad must wake up.

Wham!****

Curiously, the intensity of pain increases as one becomes more alert.

Oh, ow, ow, Ow, Ow, OW, OW, OW! I’m up. I’m up. Ow! I’m up.

She Who Would Be Two, having accomplished objective one, has started phase two of her plan, singing a soft sweet lullaby as if nothing happened. She hopes to melt any potential irritation brought on by a throbbing head and tender nose with cuteness. She looks at me and giggles. It works. Her Father and I the Mom have a standing rotation of alternate nights as to who gets to handle wandering monsters. Nothing happened last night.

It figures.

“Come here.” I the Mom take her in my arms and pull the covers over us both, hoping she will drop off quickly and then I can carry her to her own bed. I the Mom am completely gone in less than a minute.

It’s boring sitting in the dark with two sleeping adults who should be up and playing games with She Who Would Be Two.

She dimly recognizes that if she pushes too hard, either Her Father or I the Mom will carry her back to her own bed. So She Who Would be Two tries finding a comfortable position. For the uninitiated to the world of toddlers, this involves stretching to one’s maximum height and lying down perpendicular to the adults, ensuring that most of the real estate of the mattress is in the toddler’s domain. (It’s just more comfortable that way).

Adults vaguely aware of losing property rights, scoot and contort their bodies in an effort to remain unconscious for as long as possible, even allowing legs or arms to drape off the edge or surrendering all covers and pillows as a concession for being allowed to continue sleeping. Alas, appeasement seldom works. She Who Would Be Two remains listless.

There is a phone next to the alarm clock, keys, wallet, a CD player and a lap top. She Who Would Be Two has watched her parents use these. They look like fun. I the Mom somehow register that in the middle of the night, something is not right and open one eye to discover the wallet has been emptied. She Who Would Be Two has also turned off the alarm and placed a call. She is still talking on the phone. Someone is answering her back.

Fully alert, I snatch the phone from her hands. "Hello." I say into the phone a bit too loudly. "I'm sorry my daughter..." It is a recording. I hand the phone back to my tearful daughter and tell her to hang up. She is satisfied with an "How Rude." look at me as she hangs the phone up.

Taking back the keys and the wallet, she pouts at me. She's in the wrong and I feel bad. She sucks her thumb and shuts her eyes in a contented smile and pulls the covers up. I was going to move her. Looking at her sweetly almost sleeping, I can't believe I would be so cruel. Then I'm mad I'm such a sap.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The early get up and agoing alarm has sounded, waking She Who Would Be Two but not Her Father. She cries.

The conscious adult I the Mom must then make the calculated judgment, difficult at a predawn time. Should I get up? Should I take her to her bed? Can I go back to sleep? If I get up now I could….insert tedious task here.

Changing diapers, offering water and tucking in doesn’t earn much time in the morning, but it does stand the outside chance of predisposing She Who Would Be Two to go to sleep or at least lie quietly in the bed for a little while. Following the dutiful adult routine, the now completely zombified I the Mom returns to bed, just in time for the second nag alarms to sound their evil call. Hitting the snooze, I crawl under the covers, sleep is coming fast, I the Mom can feel it.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I wake again, feeling the tender part of my nose, a parting gift from She Who Would Be Two. Making a fist to smash the alarm, I the Mom blink and survey the room. There is a new trail of toys showing the path the toddler took to get to Mom and Dad’s room. Picking up a stuffed monkey puppet, naked Barbie, three shoes, sippy cup and bed spread, I the Mom swallow a yawn while considering the morning ahead.

Can I collapse the schedule to grab another fifteen minutes or will slowness now result in a hectic day where every event would be easy if only I had fifteen more minutes then. Just as I’ve abandoned common sense and put my feet into the cave of the still warm blankets, She Who Would Be Two is back.

“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two says expectantly with all the innocent sweetness and full sincerity she can muster.

It’s not going to work this time I the Mom think as I set my will. I’m going to sleep.

“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two repeats.

When she ages, maybe I'll rechristen myself I The Mom Who Sleeps.

And That's Why They Watch TV

"I don't believe in a no win scenario." --James T. Kirk.
Captain Kirk never was a Mom.  --me. 

My children can tell when I'm in one of these moods, when all screens are evil. I'll announce that I've changed the pass codes to all the televisions and disconnected the Wi-Fi except to my own laptop which has a password none of them know. In my zealous madness, I hide the remotes and batteries separately and have been known to unplug all the machines as well so that there is defense in depth against children getting to vegetate before a TV, computer or video game.


"Outside! or Homework! or Practice!" A choice of three very different hells born of boredom awaits my offspring. The older ones groan and take their pick, usually opting to get the school stuff out of the way, hoping to pacify my need to crack down with dutifulness. It's been known to work. Middles try to extract bargains. These get shot down but it does give them more stall time on starting their assignments.

Mom's dictatorial ruthless outlawing of all things on Cable, DVD's, Wii and DS never lasts long. It would be even shorter lived if those kids paid attention to the ones calling all the shots, the toddlers.

It was a warm winter day, the kind made for bike riding, for discovering the outdoors when there are no bugs and it isn't so unpleasant that you need gloves. Unloading from school, the olders scurried in for snacks but the 2nd, K and younger set pulled out the scooter and the trikes and the bikes and started drawing a road for traffic patterns.

Pleased as I unloaded the baby that they were using their imaginations and exercising and being outdoors, I smiled, filled with the pseudo virtue that comes from being a Mom, catching your kids doing something good, and having had nothing to do with it whatsoever. Inside the house, I started fixing snack. I wouldn't call them in I decided, I didn't want to interrupt the fun. That would be mean.
I fed the baby. I heard a few sounds of happy laughter. Silly laughter. By this point, my mom radar should have registered “check,” but I was still trying to pretend I was offhanded and relaxed, to bask in the coolness of having four kids outside playing, four inside doing homework, and a happy 15 month old working on solid foods.

Thwack! Slurp. It sounded like something was thrown. It sounded like something mushy hit something. More giggles. Thwack! Thwack! Slump. SLump. SLump. "WOW!" "MOMMMMM."

Racing and already knowing I'm too late, my son comes in, his white shirt doing a splendid imitation of a Dalmatian. He is covered, speckled with mud. His two sisters come after him, happy and semi-horrified respectively. They too are caked from the knees down. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. My van is also spackled with mud balls.

A child is still playing. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I try to just have volume, not irritation. It isn't very convincing.

"I'm making mud soup. Just like in that book." She explains. She is forking a giant puddle of mud with a large stick, stirring it to make even more.

"You're a mess."

"Oh. Does this mean I have to come inside?"

Three showers, a carwash and four loads of laundry later, exhausted, I handed my daughter the remote. "Dora the Explorer is on, channel 56. The code is 1441."

Disciplining Cupie Doll

If children define themselves by what they are called most often, my toddler’s first name is No!

No! Baby! She just drew with blue marker on the walls in her room.

No! Sweetie! She tried to pick up her sister.

No! Stop. Bad Idea! She pushed a chair over to the refrigerator to get at the chocolate syrup.

No! No! No! No! She just unrolled a whole spool of toilet tissue and ran with it streaming behind her when I discovered her fun.

Fortunately, she still has that super cute toddler power to prevent parents from being too outraged, just overwhelmed.

The parent magazines say to try and catch the toddler “being good.” This is a silly statement. It’s not like I’m going to happen upon my two year old donating her piggy bank to the Salvation Army or find her on the phone soliciting funds for the March of Dimes. She’s two for crying out loud. She has two modes of operation, mischief and sleep. At least I think she sleeps sometimes.

That she sometimes doesn’t spike the wooden block on her brother’s head when they are playing together is not an incident of her “being good.” It’s the baseline. I expect them not to intentionally injure each other while playing.

These same helpful rags maintain that children this young don’t know what cause and effect is. So why does she run like lightning when she hears me start to yell NO! as she’s climbed up to the sink and turned on the tap? It seems to me she’s got a firm grasp on the boundaries of life she routinely exceeds. I’m not buying it. A kid that can climb onto the table to get the M&m’s and unwrap the rubber band holding them closed to get at the contraband chocolate she hasn’t earned because she didn’t potty, is sentient enough to be told “Knock it off!”

The discipline gurus stress that under two should not be put in time out for more than 2 minutes, as they have no sense of time. I need at least those two minutes plus to regain composure. I believe in punitive minutes for excessive destruction. I don't care if they're for me.

They also maintain that spankings are taboo and ineffective. So the kid can pull all the clothing out of a closet, pour grape juice on the carpet and push over a vase of flowers, and open the Oreos inside the pantry to feast before breakfast while I’m making kids lunches, and the proper discipline approach should be told ”No no no…” in an indoor calm voice. I don’t think so.

I’ve figured out a better way to discipline a toddler.

Sibling rivalry. I bet your brother can clean his room before you do….he’s so much bigger after all…off she goes…

Tom Sawyer rules. Scrubbing the colored walls with Mr. Clean sponges. “Wow, this is so much FUN!” “Let me! Let me! Let me! My Turn!”

Political spin: If only we could get this table cleared, we could play Candyland, but oh, woe, it’s just so much work. Put hand on head as if to swoon. “Help!” said with an overly dramatic helpless Southern accent, “What ever will I do?” “I’ll help Mom.” Says my son. “Help Mom.” Says my toddler.

And when they are engaged in a truly lethal action, like fencing on the pool table with the pool cues, I pull out the “NO!” that sounds vaguely possessed and is loud enough to shake the foundation of our home.

Oddly enough, they bug out fast to this sort of thing. Wonder if Parents magazine would be interested in my discipline tips for toddlers?

I Finally have a good Sound Track if not Sound Mind

Anyone who has known me in my childhood or adolescence knows I have the definitive record for the worst music collection from that era for all time. Granted, it was the 70's so there was lots of badness to cherry pick from, but my passionate devotion to poorly chosen tunes began with being exposed to the Eagles by our terribly hip babysitter. She showed me the cover of "One of These Nights" and played the music.


I got nightmares of giant flying cow skulls coming to trap me in my room. I blame her for my subsequent reactive decisions to purchase three seasons of the Kids from Fame's Greatest Hits.

Now most of us have nightmare moments, messy elements of our lives that we hope not to impose or create for our children. Human nature remaining perpetually flawed, I have discovered when we seek to employ countermeasures, we usually exacerbate matters.

Given the many different ages with the choice of music in the car, I get requests for Pokemon or the latest Kids Bop CD from McDonalds, for Disney show tunes and for simple control of the radio to find something good. To eliminate music as proof of the pecking order in our car, I opted to play "None of the above" and put on classical music.

To occasionally allow for a break from Bach, Beethoven and Saint-Sans, I brought tunes that I hoped everyone would like, music I deemed retro enough not to give points to the olders for controlling the sound, and cool enough not to sabotage my children's social future or present. Foreigner, Boston, Styx, the Eagles, Billy Joel, Jimmy Buffet, Cheryl Crow and Faith Hill seemed like a decent enough mix to meet the diversity needs of my kiddos while keeping me from listening to commercials for Viagra or IVF or the political lobbying ads that permeate every hour when you live around DC.

Because toddlers spend more time in the car than the olders, they heard the songs more. My four year old daughter fell in love with the Eagles. Every time we got in the car, she'd beg for a particular song,"There's a New Kid in Town." The first time I heard her croon along with Glen Frey and Joe Walsh, I fell in love. Subsequently, I indulged her request, enjoying the small choir singing "You look in her eyes, the music begins to play..." as her sister would occasionally chime in as well.

Sometimes, she'd ask for it a second time. Again, I'd been charmed and thus saw no danger to the situation, but like peanut butter that becomes the only meal and the blue dress and red socks that become the only outfit, the song became the ONLY song. I understand the psychology behind this choice (unlike the peanut butter or the blue and red thing). Her father told her how we used to sing this one to her as a baby and to her older brother because his name was John, "Johny come lately, there's a new kid in town..."

Suddenly, the very measure I'd used to eliminate pecking order WAS indicating the alpha in the car, and it was my four year old. I tried saying "No." but when you have nine children, is this where you want to engage in battle on a daily basis? She knew I didn't have the steel to nut this one out and she was right. "Who needs it?" I told myself and on went the Eagles. She'd get tired of it... eventually.

My other children were sympathetic at first to my not wanting grief in the car, but they did try removing the CD from the car. "WHERE IS MY JOHNNY SONG? I WANT MY JOHNNY SONG?" until she crashed asleep brought the Eagles greatest hits back to the car pronto. So my oldest daughter tried craft. "This is another Eagles Song. It's a good Halloween song." She considered this for a moment and asked, "Can it be about me?"

"If you want." my daughter responded with the perfect indifference of an adolescent.

We played it. The daughter liked it. She sang along and asked for seconds. Everyone was momentarily charmed and the cycle started again, only now we had a rotation. I'm still not going to fight over the music, but this means we will have to feed this musical narcissist until she tires of it.

Next year, she goes to pre-school. I don't see any trouble for her, but I will have to explain why she croons "Witchy Woman" and glows, "It's my song."

Cookie Monster

My toddler prefers to make her needs known by silence rather than speaking. She remains an enigma amongst my children. Last night, my oldest took it upon himself to boost her vocabulary. He had a plan. After dinner, he produced a box of chocolate coated dunker cookies from Trader Joe’s. Now these cookies are the favorite of every child in my family, including the sphinx herself.

He opened the box. He took out one cookie, showed it to her from all angles. “See this cookie?” he asked. She glared through almost shut eyes and put her thumb up to her pouty lips, pretending not to notice. “This is a cookie.” He explained. “If you want a cookie, you must say cookie please.” He then ate the cookie with great relish, savoring each bite and talking about how this excellent experience of chocolate crunchy goodness could be hers if only she would say the magic words.

She did not even look.

Upping the ante, my son summoned each of his other siblings and proceeded to dole out the dessert for each child that seal-like, smiled and said “Cookie please.” Some came back for seconds and thirds. She stared. Then she turned her head and shut her eyes.

After the others scattered to their rooms/baths, the teenager and the toddler regarded one another in silence for a while. I cleared the table. I heard occasional attempts to restart the lesson. I unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher. I heard him try to dart the cookie just out of range. I vacuumed the kitchen and wiped the counters. My son came into the kitchen and put the remaining dunkers in the freezer. “I’m sorry Mom.” He said. I patted his shoulder. “These things take time.” I explained. He nodded and walked dejectedly upstairs. “I let her out of her high chair.” He called back. I went to check.

Now my youngest son is nine months old and loves his baby saucer, so I had him sitting in that for a bit of exercise while I worked. I expected my daughter to come play with my baby son as he is her favorite toy. She wasn’t there. I called for her. No answer. I began looking.

My main floor is an open circle of rooms such that I managed to just miss her as she scootled around the stairway, but I then heard a second set of feet. And I know, her partner in all things, her next older sibling sister is on the case. Exactly opposite of the Sphinx, the loquacious Pixie doll always knows what her younger sister wants and how to get it.

Within five minutes of having been released from the Teen Boot Camp Cookie Drills, my little girls both had acquired chocolate coated dunkers without the obligatory phrase. They had eaten a bit on the run to make sure no one caught them before they got a bite. Following the crumbs, I found the Sphinx brandishing her cookie in a fat fist, waving it at the baby and saying, “Look Paul, it’s a cookie.”

My teen heard it from upstairs. “That’s my work! I should be getting the credit.”

“Eyes on the prize son, she’s talking.”

The Sphinx turned and ran over to the stairs, raised the cookie in triumph and said absolutely nothing.

Summer Break

Even Congress goes on vacation in August, but the lobbyists in my house, never sleep.

This morning, two of my darlings decided they wanted to go to the pool. They knew they would have to persuade Mom. What motivates Mom? Clean house. It's true. My husband can be persuaded to overlook bedtime with a good back rub. But me, no, my inner bureaucrat requires direct graft in the form of unasked for but well sustained hard labor.

Being three, she saw me wipe a door knob that had become sticky and promptly pounced on the idea. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, she and her sister set about washing each and every door knob. I was feeding the baby and planning the day, dimly aware of her project and the proposed compensation as peppered in her constant stream of chatter.

She then dropped a very wet terry cloth towel in my lap.
"Mom, we cleaned all the doors."

I was then instructed to close my eyes and led through the house to personally inspect each and every glistening door knob. Some had puddles below. "Now the h ouse looks beautiful." She explained. "Can we go to the pool?"

My to-do list shall be shunted to tomorrow. Maybe I can get her to learn how to sort socks.

The Game Show

And now it’s time for every parents’ favorite game show “Do You Hear What I Hear?”

“Hello again and welcome back for another exciting round. Today’s contestants are Veteran Mom, New Dad and Grandmother. Welcome to you all. Now you all know the rules so let’s get down to identifying these sounds. The first one is up for grabs.”

“Slunk. Slunk. Bunk a bunk a bunk pttttttttttah. “
Buzz!

“Yes! New Dad?”

“That would be a football falling down the stairs Bob?”

“No, I’m sorry that is incorrect. Grandmother? Veteran Mom?”

Buzz!

“Is it the sound of a Halloween Pumpkin Candy Holder falling down the stairs?”

“Ooh. Very close. Very close. Contestant Veteran Mom, do you have any idea?”

Buzz!
“Yes?”

“Yes Bob, it is a Halloween Pumpkin Candy Holder, but it was kicked, it didn’t fall.”

“That is correct! Veteran Mom, take fifty points. For a bonus point, identify Why it was kicked.”

“His sister ate all the reese's pieces and left only the lime flavored tootsie rolls and candy corn.”
“Correct!”

“Excellent work. Excellent. We’ll start the next round worth one hundred points. Okay, contestants will have thirty seconds to identify this sound.”

“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Huhhhhhhh! ZZZZZZZZZ! Huhhhhhh! ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!”
“Buzz.”
“Buzz. “ “Buzz.”
“New Dad was first on the buzzer. What was that sound?”

“Bob, it was Snoring. It wasn’t me because I don’t snore, but it was snoring.”

“Sorry, that was not the correct answer, we move on to Grandmother. “

“Snoring and the baby was crying Bob.”

“I’m sorry, we have to turn to Veteran Mom.”

“Snoring and the baby crying and the Toddler just climbed out of bed and is staggering around the house looking for his stuffed lion and a sippy cup of water.”

“That is 100% correct! I see we now move to the speed round where we will play a sound. Your job is to identify the situation and whether it requires a run or no run parenting response. Remember, you must indicate the severity of the situation if there is any.”

“Slishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Drip. Drip. Drip. Slisshhhhhhhhhhh. Drip. Drip. Drip.”
“Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.”

“Okay, we have a three way tie between the Veteran Mom, the New Dad and the Grandmother so I’ll have to ask each of you to write your responses, along with run or don’t run.”

“Okay, Grandmother, what was your response?”

“It’s a sink Bob, a child was brushing his teeth and turned off the sink when another child came in and did the same. No run.”

“Ooh. No. I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. New Dad, what was your answer, did you correctly identify the mystery sound and run/no run response?”

“That’s the ice machine in the kitchen, being used to pour drinks for the neighborhood by a five year old and a three year old. Run.”

“I’ll have to check with the judges to determine if they’re willing to give partial credit but in the meantime, let’s check with our final contestant.Veteran Mom?”

“Yes, Bob, that is the sound of a toddler getting a drink out of the toilet. Run and scream at the same time.”

“That is correct and congratulations to our winner Veteran Mom! She gets to move on to the bonus round, while we say good bye to Grandmother and New Dad, thank you both for playing.”

“Now Veteran Mom, you know how this game is played, we give you a sound and you identify the danger level and its origin. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Here is your mystery sound.”
………thirty seconds of silence pass.

“Bob, it is a code red emergency, there are three children upstairs trying to create a bridge out of a sleeping bag, two chairs and a toy box and the youngest has a hammer she is preparing to tap on the window. If an adult does not intervene in the next four seconds, someone will be hurt and something will be broken.“

“Congratulations, Mom is our grand champion!“ Balloons cascade onto the stage and credits begin to roll. A voice over is heard, “There are no prizes awarded in “Do You Hear What I Hear?” other than the peace of mind that comes from knowing what your children are up to all the time and being able to put a stop to it.”

Bob turns to the camera. “Tune in next time when contestants will be asked to speed round mate all white socks and assemble lunches with no white bread available.”

Two

It is a well established fact amongst parents that children don’t so much grow as they reach a new evolutionary stage in development. One day, she was ten, the next, she became an adolescent. The same holds true for younger beings of the human race. My daughter who has ever been the silent, shy and reserved type, watching what everyone else did before plunging into the fray, has made a severe gear shift in cognitive development.

The first sign: My eleven year old daughter plays softball, but she loves to come over and pick up either her baby brother or toddler sister to show off to her teammates. One of the girls bounded over to say “hi.” And my toddler withdrew a bit into her sister’s arms. “She’s very quiet.” My daughter explained by way of an apology. Then, a decidedly unfamiliar voice said, “I’m not quiet.”

The Second Sign: It was a hot sticky day so I handed out retro water guns, the type that only send a thin stream at one, the kind that won’t cause the middle children to sob if they get hit. Even Mom had a pistol. My toddler reached up with her hands, “Annh. Annh.” Amused, I gave her my gun.

She gritted her teeth in a fixed smile, her eyes shined. She held the gun, squirted it at me and said, with perfect clarity, “Die Mom.”

The Third Sign: Now, I’m no rookie mom. The scribbles on the wall at her eye level were a dead give away. This child was now officially embracing her “twoness.” Still, she wanted everyone to be clear on the matter. And so it was that while Mommy was busy feeding the baby, She who was once the sphinx, who once could be given cursory scans to verify safety and good behavior, decided that she would cook today.

She got out a pan. She got out the eggs from the second fridge. It was masked by a collaborative toddler who brought me a diet coke. “Why thank you…how thoughtful.” And they’re thinking….sap. To their credit, there were no shells in the bowl with the eggs, and they did work at the dining room table, and they did wash their hands. Having four eggs cracked, what's a Mom to do? We made a cake.

So when my older toddler knocked on the door this morning and said, “Mom, what’s that red stuff?”

And I muttered from my sleepy stupor, “What red stuff?”
And she said, “You know, red stuff you put on your lips to look pretty.”
I asked why.

“Because it’s in her crib, she’s putting it on.” I was wide awake and scaling the stairs three at a time. It turned out to be a false alarm, as my other toddler then grinned at me from the base of the stairs, holding my purse, but it could not be considered inplausible after the egg incident.

But the definitive sign, was we took her to mass. Now normally, we go in the early morning, trying to get a jump on the day and get them through the process before they’re fully awake enough to give us trouble, but today, we went to the Saturday night vigil.

Never again.

She who never spoke, giggled and enjoyed the unique acoustics of our building, allowing her laughter to echo across the Church walls. She who never was any trouble anywhere, spent the whole mass being a pretzel, a monkey and a popcorn bag in the microwave. She flopped, she lifted her legs in the air, she ran all around the back. She pretended to weigh 5000 pounds, to have no bones and to be a mountain climber on the statue in the back. She pulled open my shirt and asked, “What’s in there?”

We normally give children a grade on mass, something between a 1 and a 4 Star rating. Negative numbers were discussed. But then, she came and gave my face an earnest searching gaze and a gentle kiss on the cheek. What grade could I give such a cherub?

The same grade I give all my 24-35 month children;

two.

The Queen

Most of my stuff is slightly altered to create fiction out of what would otherwise be embarrassing reality. I want my kids to still speak to me when they're adults. Some of the crafting of stories for blog entrees are hard to polish. Others are easy. Then there are those that quite literally, get dropped into your...

My nearly two year old often mistakes me for a chair. Being a toddler, she considers herself the Queen of my lap.

I am her favorite spot to think.

She also is considering the prospects of testing pottying. More than once, she has "tested" the seat in imitation of her older sister.

Today, she sat on me and after giving a fierce hug, said, "Spssssssst." "Spssssssst."
Then she got up and toddled off.

"I think she was pretending." I said as I got up in a hurry.
"So do I." My husband responded.

"I may substitute for a throne but not that kind."

"Cheer up, at least it was number 1."

Long live the Queen.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Every Saturday I load up the car with three of my girls for ballet lessons. Today I was relaxed about this because I had located the tutus, shoes and leotards and tights yesterday. I'm slowly learning to preempt my stress.

The older child adores her class and is ready at 7 am for her 10:15 Ballet/Tap course. The younger sister earned her slot in the First Steps Ballet class at 10:30 by becoming potty trained. "Ballerinas don't wear diapers." I explained.

There are a lot of Moms in the waiting room with only one or two children. One mom asked me today, "You're an expert with having so many kids and all...how do you potty train?"

After I stopped laughing manically, (I think I spooked her), virtually every Mom was all ears as I admitted that numbers do not an expert make. Numbers just provide cover for most of my weaknesses. (My house is a mess. It was a mess when I had only one, but now I can blame it on sheer volume). I hate homework. Numbers now require that anyone over third grade be self sufficient for the most part. Organization is a decent skill. Neatness is not. I stress over being late but I'm not punctual.

Basically, I explained that while six children have come through potty training unscathed, their mother has not. Potty training involved the child becoming self willing of the act and thus far, none of my children had willingly submitted to the indignity of self imposed body control without a mighty struggle. Others might have better ideas I volunteered.

Several Moms offered suggestions but basically, all of us said, "Wait until Summer." (The Mom in question is expecting a baby any day now). The dancers interrupted the conversation as class was over.

My daughters came up to me and started sharing the candy they got from the teacher at the end of class. This week's treat was "Smarties," Those sweet and tart little candies that come in a roll stacked like pennies and look like vaguely tinted Tylenols.

As I took off my dauther's tutu and put on her cover ups, she began putting the candies in my mouth. "What are you doing?" I asked. (There were about six she was trying to shove in there).

"Making you smarter." She explained and then gave me a kiss.

"Better give me a whole roll." I quipped as I put on her shoes.

I then turned to her sister to get her ready. The youngest girl was testing out the class; she is considering potty training. This little one almost sucks her thumb. She holds it to her mouth but does not put it in. Likewise, she sits on the potty but that's it. After class, she needed her coat and shoes too.

The first toddler daughter returned and very solemly tapped my shoulder.
She had gone back to the teacher and returned with three "Smartie" rolls.

"Here." she said. "That should do it."

I popped a roll into my mouth and hoped that maybe, it would help me get through the next girl's potty training with minimum of psychological scarring.

Real Impressionists at Work

Anyone who has ever taken an art class knows one of the most basic of teaching techniques is imitation. To learn how to paint, one copies the methods employed by the masters. Through the dabbing of dots of paint, one learns how technique influences form and how carpal tunnel syndrome existed long before portable computers became ubiquitous. The overarching idea is to gain an appreciation for method while forming one’s own judgments about how to best express one’s own concepts of motion, form, color and mood. “Wrapping a line around one’s think.” Sr. Betty used to say.

In the forming of an actual person’s personality, the approach is much the same. One of the jobs of parenting is to expose children to beauty. When driving, a father or mother must draw attention to the scenic vista, the historical marker or the local color shop that seems iconic to the geographic area one is passing through. The problem however, is that being shown beauty does not always have its intended effect. For instance, if I show my kids a mountain, they want to know if we can go skiing or hiking. If I show my kids a river, “When are we swimming?” or “Can we fish?” pops up. Farms trigger “When do we eat?” and “Can we pick our own?” responses. Animals alongside the road invoke clamors for pets, rides or visits to the local zoo.

With every attempt to enrich our children, the responses are immediate and beyond what was intended, resulting in the adults having to either ratchet back expectations or dim enthusiasm. We took the kids to a museum. The natural consequence “Can we paint?” made me shiver involuntarily. I could see my floor covered with blue spats, at least four outfits worth of laundry, three full baths with hair wash, seventeen muddy watercolors in my future that I must simply adore and possibly frame, and the very real possibility of my kitchen walls receiving the Jackson Pollack treatment. Yet the Mom gene in me always ignores these clarion cries and says “Yes.”

Things were going smoothly until one child decided her arm needed to be purple. This started a trend. I was now the proud parent of a Blue Man Group franchise. If I could have sold tickets to have people stare at my oddly hued offspring as they made caterwauling sounds while playing Wii’s Rock Band, this might have been okay. As it was, two hours of scrubbing later still left me with vaguely tinged children, like easter eggs in that PAAS dye that haven’t been allowed to sit. It was winter so long sleeved shirts and gloves mitigated what might have otherwise been an awkward moment at Sunday mass, though my three year old sported a skin tone that might have been considered jaundice if it hadn’t been so Trix cereal yellow in hue.

Now, the artists in my home seize every moment possible to cut paper, glue things and add little extras to our walls. I should buy stock in Mr. Clean, as he and I are constant companions, scrubbing the walls to erase what would be otherwise permanent murals paying homage to toddlerhood. I had come to an uneasy acceptance of this situation until one daughter brought me to see her art. “It’s you.” She beamed proudly, and I gulped at my moral dilemma. Erase the portrait offered with love or leave a scrawl of pencil and crayon clearly visible first thing when you walk in the house.

Wrapping a think around the lines, I grabbed a paint brush. Sure the work was untouchable before but that was when there wasn’t actual paint involved. Within minutes, I had a white door again and several pleased artists, including the revisionist who was now reveling in her “White period.” However, before they get too carried away with thinking that they can redecorate the house, I think I’ll take them out in the car and maybe point out a mountain or a farm or a river.

It will give my husband a fighting chance to clear out all the crayons.

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.