Mommy Might Have Been Lying About a Few Things...

I know that you are suspicious, my Big Five Year Old. Why else would you sneak back down the stairs after being tucked into your bed, or slyly try to catch a glimpse of the photo I just took of you with my cell phone? You are getting so big, and with that comes the realization that maybe, just maybe, Mommy has been lying about a few things. Well, it's true.

• Yes, that was a piece of chocolate I just put in my mouth. You were right, that was a candy wrapper you heard me opening. No, you can't have any. I am a grown up and if I want to eat a piece of candy for breakfast with my now cold cup of coffee because of all of the running around getting you and your brother ready to face your days, then I will.

• Yes, I did just take a picture of you. You were doing something cute, and I wanted to capture the moment so that I can look back on it the next time I am ready to pull out my hair because you can't find your shoe, stuffed dog, hat, library book.... It is called an insurance policy.

• No, I am not always working when I lock myself in the office. Usually I am but sometimes I just tell you that in order to gain a few minutes of "me" time where you and your brother are not wearing me like a coat.

• Yes, Daddy and I stay up late and watch TV. The party starts the minute your bedroom door is closed. Sometimes I even hold his hand. I know these are two things very close to your heart- watching TV and holding Mommy's hand, but sometimes I do them with Daddy as well.

• Yes, I lie to you about not having any  money in my purse to buy Apple Dippers from McDonald's. But we can't buy apples every day when we have them at home!

• Yes, sweetie, I also occasionally lie to you about the TV, car radio, and  my iPhone being "asleep".

• Yes, the toys at the store are actually for sale. Not every family goes to "visit" them like we sometimes do. Some families, with more walking around money and far better storage, actually buy these toys and bring them home. I suggest you make friends with those families.

There are a few secrets I am not yet ready to give up. Yes, that was Santa I was on the phone with the other day. Yes, your baby stuffed hamster does nibble at your leftover food when you leave for school. And yes, you will spontaneously combust if you wear yesterday's underwear. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!

my thoughts for upcoming reality shows

I don't watch The Bachelor. I don't watch any reality TV shows unless they involve cooking, virgin home purchases, deadly crab fishing, families with WAY to many kids, aging commitment phobic rock stars,  or driving heavy semi's over roads made of ice. OK, I watch A LOT of reality TV.  What I don't watch are those shows involving love, celebrity relationships, remote islands, racing around the world, or roses. Especially roses. But a lot of my friends love that rose show. Which got me thinking. Any couple should be able to make it work in the beautiful and peaceful settings of this show. A stately mansion, sandy beaches, sunsets, champagne.... if I only saw my husband by the light of the moon while wearing a beautiful dress and sipping expensive bubbly we would be the happiest couple in the world, all the time.

If you ask me, shows like this one are missing an important component. Where is the drama? The real life tests? In case any producers are reading, here are a few thoughts for upcoming episodes.

• Have the happy couple take an 8 hour car trip with at least two children under the age of five strapped into the backseat. Provide a cooler of juice boxes in a flavor both kids loved last week but now only one will drink. Also in the cooler should be an uneven number of snacks, assuring the kids will whine and fight every time the snack bag is opened, which will be approximately every eight minutes for the entire duration of the trip. Assure cooler does not contain any adult friendly snacks or anything with alcohol in it. Also in the car should be a package of baby wipes with only two wipes left,  25 kid's music CD's, enough diapers to last 7 of the 8 hours, and 1,000 cheerios. There should also be enough toys to stock a small toy store, preferably toys with small parts and/or made of hard plastic to assure real pain when one of the little monsters  angels wings it into the front seat. Forget the map, GPS and pain relievers at home.

• Find out true compatibility by having the couple  enjoy an overnight visit to the local emergency room with at least one very sick child. Everyone must wear mismatched pajamas and no one may have cash to pay the parking valet at the ER entrance or purchase cold beverages and coffee. For extra credit assure that at least one of the adults is also suffering from whatever illness has attacked the child. 

• Have one member of the couple spend a fair amount of time and a lot of energy scrubbing the kitchen, including the floor, until it is sparkling clean. Exactly two minutes after cleaning is finished have other adult wander into kitchen trailing two small boys. This will assure that after only three minutes alone in the kitchen at least three cupboard doors will be open, counters will be sticky, cheerios will be on the floor, the "keep them busy at the table" toy box will be emptied onto the floor and the freezer door will be left slightly open. Invite the one who did the cleaning back into the kitchen and watch the fun unfold!

Oh the scenes we could create! Now that is a show I might watch!

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the sweetest litte compliment...

My boys are so cute. They have sweet smiles and they both love to make silly faces, usually right after saying or doing something that they know will get them in big trouble. They give great hugs and kisses and they know just how to melt my heart. And now I know that God created them that way for a reason. Yes folks, there is a reason that little kids are so darned cute. Because if they weren't, we would spend much of our days mad at them for the backhanded compliments that come out of their mouths.

They mean well, right? I am sure the compliment made sense in their sweet little heads. But something happens between thinking the compliment and actually saying it.

• I love to hug you Mommy, you are so squishy! ("squishy" is the medical term for "need to exercise more".)
• Mommy, I like how your hair is kind of white on top, it is pretty. (obviously it is time to color the roots again...)
• Mommy, please don't dance.
• You hair looks crazy like mine! ("crazy" is a good thing in my big five year old's mind, but not really a look I wish to sport.)
• Mommy,  your teeth look clean but I don't like your toothpaste, it makes your mouth smell funny. (uh, honey, I'm thinking I need MORE toothpaste...)
• Look Mommy! This pillow pet is the same size as your bum bum!
• Mommy, I am smart like you and I am not even OLD like you are!

And all of that is just from the big five year old. When the tiny toddler starts complimenting me I may just have to go into hiding!

if mothering were a drug, it would be a Category "C"

I was pregnant once, for about a week. And then there was another time that I was "possibly" pregnant. Yes, through the wonders of IVF you can be "possibly" pregnant. "Your levels are high enough to maybe be pregnant but we really need to wait a few days and take another few gallons of blood to be sure." But the other time, when I was really truly pregnant my husband and I received the startling news while in the hospital ER, where I had gone for a totally unrelated issue. Imagine our surprise - we weren't even trying to have a baby. I came home from the hospital dazed and surprised, and armed with pamphlets on how to care for myself, safely, especially how to treat the horrible case of flu I was suffering. I landed squarely in the world of drugs and their alphabetical categorizations.

Category "A" are the drugs considered completely safe for a pregnant woman to ingest. Basically, it's vitamins. Category "B" are generally safe. These drugs have been proven to not have any adverse effects on the baby. The categories go down to "D", if I remember correctly. Category "D" drugs you don't even think about taking, no questions asked.

But Category "C" is the one that always worried me. These drugs are sometime safe. Sometimes not. Sometimes it depends on the doctor prescribing them, as every doctor has a different opinion. often the decision to take these medications is based on the potential outcome. If the expected outcome outweighs the potential risks then you take the drug. Category "C" is a very gray area. I understand gray areas, and even enjoy them in some aspects of my life. Many a passionate discussion has been had over a "gray" area - religion, politics, sexual orientation, career choices - I am thankful that this world is not black and white. But when it comes to parenting I wish it weren't so gray. When it comes to my parenting decisions I often feel as though I am trapped in a Category "C" kind of life. I find that Category "C" is a tricky place to be. And I feel as though many of my motherhood decisions fall into this gray and confusing category.

Some of my mothering decisions falls very easily into an understandable category. Kissing my boys goodnight, Category "A". Taking my shoe off and beating my child with it- Category "D". Give a time out when the 2 year old refuses to sit at the dinner table? Category"C".  Do enough research on a discipline or children's medical issue and you will find experts weighing in on both sides of the equation. I feel as though many of the decisions I make regarding my boys are Category "C" decisions.

• pulling the preschooler out of school all day for mommy and matthew time
• allowing the tiny toddler to eat the cheerios he just found on the floor, even though I cannot remember when we last had cheerios. On the one hand, they may have been there a while, but on the other hand, I scrub the floor frequently, so how old could they really be?
• letting my big four and a half year old ride his scooter without a helmet.
• the occasional all day pajama and television fest that occurs in my living room.
• letting the big four and a half year old occasionally sleep in my bed with me when he wakes up at the crack of dawn.
• giving my boys juice. in sippy cups.
• giving my big four and a half year old most of his drinks in sippy cups instead of  teaching him how not to spill.
• occasionally giving the boys popsicles for breakfast.
• pulling pants out of the hamper for the boys to wear again.
• testing the truth in advertising when they say those diapers will hold for 12 hours. (please don't judge me. most of those hours are spent asleep.)
• allowing the boys to watch tv during breakfast on a school day just so they will, for god's sake, eat and get moving.
• putting the baby to bed in the crib awake. not crying, but awake.

My Catagory "C" list could go on and on. Daily I allow my boys to do something that I feel maybe I shouldn't do. We all do, I am sure. As mothers, we are sometimes frustrated, in need of a few moments of peace, or just plain tired.

We all allow Catagory "C" to creep into our daily routines. I don't know about you, but I know that I need to give myself a break when this happens. And if your Catagory "C" moments are weighing on your heart, then you need to give yourself a break too. Besides, I have to say, I don't think my boys are any worse off for my moments of weakness. This parenting job is a long exhausting journey and there are going to be Catagory "C" moments. Which is hard for me, a past straight A student. I want to always be an A. I strive to always  be an A. But sometimes, I will be lucky to be a C. And I need to be ok with that.

side note: this former straight A student can't spell the word "category" and misspelled it every single time in this post. Thank goodness for spell check. The word shows up at least 15 times here- it took me longer to fix the spelling errors than to write the post!

statistics, beth style

25% of us cannot see a thing in this picture.

25% of us are probably peeing during this photo.

75% of us are not getting enough sleep. 50% of us can blame 25% of us for the lack of sleep.

25% of us responds to reason 25% of the time.

25% of us never responds to reason, but always responds to apple sauce pouches.

25% of us responds to reason 75% of the time, and to hot chocolate 100% of the time.

50% of us never drink white milk, straight.

25% of us can be convinced that water is juice.

50% of us have mastered standing while peeing, most of the time.

75% of us hold U.S. passports.

50% of us have foreign country passports.

50% of us get to take a nap every weekday, while only 25% of us manage same nap on weekends.

50% of us dream of nap time while never getting to partake.

25% of us eats the equivalent of 1 grape for dinner most nights.

75% of us can not make it through the night without peeing.

25% of us showered this morning.

75% of us got to play today.

50% of us own 90% of the space in the house.

75% of us love sweet tea.

25% of us drink sweet tea out of a sippy cup.

50% of us are only clean for approximately 10 minutes a day.

50% of us have birthdays coming up in the 3 months and only 25% of us are excited about it.

50% of us can forgive every sleepless moment, every spilled cup of milk, every toy stepped on in the middle of the night with just 1 kiss from the other 50% of us.

As you all know, I became a mother of two this year. My big four and a half year old was, well, four and a half years old, so he was starting to get past some of the weird and clingy  sweet and cute baby/toddler behaviors just in time for us to bring home a new baby/toddler. And the cycle started again, only this time it was a little more intense.

Being a mommy means...

you will learn eye/hand signals that rival the military and that allow you to converse, silently, with your husband. Eye contact, head jerk towards the hallway, fingertip to the lips in that universal "don't make a sound" gesture totally tells my husband my plan to sneak away from the children and lock myself in the bathroom. and if I flash my cell phone at him he knows I am not sneaking away to answer nature's call.

you will make three variations of each meal, despite your pre-children mandate that you would never do this. grown up mommys cannot live by chicken nuggets and applesauce alone! if creating child friendly versions of the grown up meals we like means extra work for mommy, it is so worth it. besides, I have yet to find a wine that pairs nicely with chicken nuggets...

never leaving the house on time. at any given moment one of your little monsters  angels will lose their hat, refuse to leave the house without their stuffed monkey, decide to use to the bathroom after the heavy coat is zipped and buttoned, or need a major diaper change.

someone is always hungry.

your view of "clean" changes. Pants that were thrown onto the bottom shelf of the changing table are certainly clean enough to wear again. Socks that were shoved into shoes and are the only pair you can find are clean enough. if the living room floor only has three matchbox cars, two stuffed animals, a handful of fruit gummies and one sippy cup half filled with pear juice you declare it clean enough.

your kitchen cabinets become storage for all those things you need to keep out of little sticky hands. Simply placing your cell phone and sharp scissors on the counter will not keep it away from tiny toddlers with super human strength who are capable of moving heavy kitchen chairs and hurling little bodies up onto counters.

you are never clean. at any given moment you have peanut butter, chocolate, glitter, snot, or something even worse somewhere on your clothes.

you eventually get to the point where you have changed so many poopy diapers that you begin to smell poop when there are no children around. this results in your looking like a maniac as you smell your fingers and try to finger out where the hell the smell is coming from.

you are never without children. even when they are not physically with you you are thinking about them.

you will never eat a snack or drink a drink you prepared for yourself again.

you can sense the fight brewing between your children in the living room and you choose to stay in the kitchen and turn up the radio.

you become a pro at "backwards math". if little johnny needs to be at school by 8:30 then we have to be in the car at 8:05 which means breakfast has to be done by 8:00 so we have to be dressed by 7:40 which means the kids need to be out of bed by 7:25 which means I need to be out of bed by 6:45 although if I don't wash my hair or put in my contacts I can sleep until 7:15. and you still wind up driving them to school in your pajamas.

every so often you realize, usually in the  middle of the crowded grocery store, that you forgot to brush your teeth/put on deodorant/comb your hair.

you are simultaneously thrilled and terrified when your kids sleep past 7:30am.

you need at least a week's notice for any "spontaneous" outing with your spouse or friends in order to secure babysitting and prepare yourself for a night out. (i.e. shave your legs.)

you have driven, alone in the car, for at least 30 minutes before you realize your son's Laurie Berkner Band CD has been playing and you continue to sing along.

you are always at least a little tired. always.

you are amazed at what you can do with a bottle of white glue, yarn and one googly eye.

your lap is never empty.

you can read your kindle/phone/laptop screen through the fingerprints.

you know what love truly is.

bad mommy moments

Bad Mommy Moment #862: dinnertime. The tiny toddler demanded to be free of his high chair so that he could go play trains with his older brother, who had already been excused from the table after hoovering down his dinner in one gulp. (The tiny toddler ate nothing. He may forever remain a tiny little guy.) They somehow found their way upstairs, where we could hear them playing nicely together. for about a minute. Then we hear lots of banging. And giggling. And then, nothing. And we just kept eating.

Bad Mommy Moment #863: right after dinner. The boys had found their way back downstairs, no harm done. They had brought down a shelf shaped like a train they found in the big four and a half year old's closet and were "riding" it like a train through the living room. Dare we sneak out of the kitchen into the dining room where it is quiet? Dare we? I quietly pushed back my chair, snuck over to the counter to refill my ice tea and tiptoed into the dining room. My husband followed right behind. We had at least 4 minutes of talking to each other before they found us.

Bad Mommy Moment #864: right after our dining room hiding spot was discovered. A sudden burst of energy, possibly brought on by the steroids I just finished taking, prompted me to do a massive toy clean up. I emptied the toy box, sorted toys by type, put them back in their individual bins. I shooed my boys out of the empty toy box so I could put it all back in. And then I gathered up everything left on the floor, looked my big four and a half year old in the eye and said, "No, sweetie. Mommy's not going to throw these toys away." Bad Mommy.

mother of the year takes shoeless kid to Walmart to buy, well, shoes...

It was a sitcom kind of morning at the Wilkison household. I cannot shake this cold that I caught from my germ ridden  loving boys. The older I get the less my asthma bothers me, but give me a cold and it kicks right back in. I was up during the night with an asthma attack which found me rummaging around in my sock drawer for an inhaler. And before you judge me about keeping meds in the sock drawer let me tell you that I used to keep my inhaler in my nightstand, before the kids and their hands that touch everything came along.

Thursday is one of the two week days that both my boys go to daycare/preschool. Both my boys. Gone. All day. I get to be home, alone.  No diapers to change. No demands for juice. No playing with cars on the floor or singing Itsy Bitsy Spider 17 times in a row. I love my boys and this unplanned time at home with them has been a true blessing. I cherish my time with them. But like everyone else, I still need a break. So I live for Thursday. Nothing will stop me from driving those two boys to that school. How far will I go? This morning I nearly had to teach my big four and a half year old how to dial 911, and I actually dragged the boys into Walmart, one wearing only socks on his feet, to buy a pair of shoes to replace the pair missing in the sea of toys in our living room. I am exhausted just thinking about it.

In one hour this morning I managed to:

• take enough asthma medicine to feel as though I ran a marathon.
• feed my babies cheese puffs, fruit gummies, and Halloween candy for breakfast. (don't judge me. I worked hard to get them to school by morning snack time, which included apples today, so if we count that they also had fruit.)
• tear through my living room, which is covered in toys, looking for the baby's shoe. he is wearing hand me down shoes and currently only one pair of my older son's shoes fit him, so if we lose these shoes, well, that is how you end up racing through Walmart at top speed.
• race through an empty Walmart, at top speed,  with the tiny toddler in the cart seat and the big four and a half year old race walking next to me, repeating "Mommy, I can't walk this fast. Mommy slow down!". The tiny toddler must have sensed the urgency because he did not attempt to stand up in the cart, his usual trick, one time. oh, and while I was there I remembered why I dislike Walmart so. Even empty that store annoys me.
• get my boys to school before 8:45 am, with coats, shoes, and lunches. score!

I feel much better now but I'm not going to chance it. I'm going back to bed...

no cats, or tiny toddlers, were harmed in the writing of this essay

When I was in college I lived in a two unit house just up the street from the center of town. For a long time it seemed to be a music majors house, as renter after renter all passed through the halls of the Hugh A. Glauser School of Music. I lived there for a few years, with a very interesting room mate and her thought he was interesting but really wasn't interesting at all boyfriend. And a very large, very loud bird. A bird that needed to go to bed every night by 9:00pm, which meant that no one could enter the living room. Not even if you paid rent. Which the bird did not. What on earth did that bird need so much sleep for anyways? Big final the next day? Tough commute to the office? Why?

Also living with us in this house were a few loving cats and a huge fish tank made of hand blown glass, (not always the best idea, as the glass occasionally broke and we had first row seats to the circle of life.) But the cats, they were cool.

One of these cats was truly not bright. Dim. Very very dim. But he loved to be outside, so my room mate would sometimes put him on a leash and let him hang out with us on the front porch. Until the day he fell off the porch rail, while the leash was attached to the front door. I'll give you a minute to get the mental picture. Basically, a cat, on a string, hanging off the side of the porch, feet not touching the ground. Thank God we were there to rescue him.

Fast forward twenty years a handful of years to this afternoon. My mother in law recently gave my tiny toddler a hand made blanket that my husband used as a baby. Doing the math we know that this blanket is at least 40 years old. I was terrified that it would just fall apart when I washed it before giving it to my son, but it held up like a trooper. So I gave it to my little guy, and he loves it. He knows it was Daddy's blanket and I think that is why he loves it so.  He carries it all around the house. I know, right? Everyone say it together, awwwwww. So this blanket is  slightly larger than your normal baby blanket, which means it drags behind him like a bridal train. Which is normally not a problem until his oh so loving big brother steps on it, causing the little guy to stop in his tracks and snap backwards. The yarn this thing is made from has a lot of give to it.

I don't think that my tiny toddler had ever encountered a set of stairs until we brought him to our hotel in Russia. Thanks to the daily rain we had the horror  pleasure of investigating every inch of the hotel, including the stairs. My little man spent hours crawling up to the top and then sliding down, on his belly, feet first. Once home he taught my big four and a half year old how to do this little stunt and it caught on. Even though he is tall enough now to actually walk up and down the stairs he still slides down at top speed. He goes so fast that one day I actually saw him hit the bottom step and fly into the front door. He rolled over onto his back, put him hand to his head, and giggled.

This is a lot of back story just to tell you this: today after his nap my tiny toddler grabbed his over sized knit green and white blanket and headed down the hall to the steps. As he rounded the corner to begin his death defying slide down the stairs his blanket trailed behind him. And then it got caught on the door stopper on the hallway side of the ledge at the top of the stairs. He didn't know this, however, so he began his slide and got halfway down before the slack in the blanket caught up with him. He stopped dead in his tracks, literally dangling on the stairs, hanging on to the blanket. The look on his face was priceless. Total confusion.

He refused to let go of the blanket so by the time I freed him he had rolled around on the steps to the point of capture. He looked like a crab in net. And you would think he would be maybe just a little bit scared, but not this tough little guy. When he was finally free he bent down, scooped up the offending blanket, and shook his tiny finger at it while loudly yelling "no, no blanket!"

So history does repeat itself. A blanket doing it's second tour of baby duty created the same scene as a leash some twenty years later, only now there was a baby hanging off the end, instead of a cat.

a letter of apology to the lawn service guy

Dear Lawn Guy,

Please accept this apology for my curt tone during your call earlier today. And for the sarcasm. And for possibly hanging up on you. About that - I thought we were done. I, at least, had said everything I needed to say. But I realized as I was slamming the phone down on the counter that you may have still been talking. Again, sorry. Please read the following letter and select whichever answers best fit your mood. I assure you, they all apply.

I know that it is your job to be pleasant and talk to everyone your computer randomly dials. I also know that I don't have to pick up the phone every time it rings. I know what you are thinking.  If it is not a good time then I just shouldn't answer, right? And normally I would agree. But today I answered the phone because:

A. my sweet little toddler has mysteriously gotten his hands on the phone repeatedly and dialed a variety of people, including Daddy at his office and 911. Both of whom called right back, and one of whom who was none too pleased to not have an emergency to dispatch help to. I felt I had to answer it - who knows who he could have called this time - the mayor, captain crunch, barney...

B. my husband was in Cleveland at a football game and if he called I certainly did not want him to miss my complaining joy at being home alone with two hyper enthusiastic young boys.

C. I wished to spread my joy to  whomever dared call my home that day.

D. all of the above.

When you spoke, at great length, about a service that, once you checked your records you could see we had already purchased, I may have been a tad less than sweet in my reply. I was frustrated with having to tell you, again, that this particular service was already scheduled because:

A.  Let's see you spend the day repeating "don't touch that. don't hit your brother. don't tackle your brother. yes, hitting him with that pillow is still hitting. no more juice! milk is all we have. no, milk. then drink water. you know why you are in time out. if you don't want your brother to slobber on froggy then put him up. why did you think it was a good idea to stand on the rocking chair? what did you want from the mantle? did you hurt yourself? did you hurt the chair? no more video games! alex, we don't throw. gentle hands. gentle hands. gentle hands. GENTLE HANDS!", and still be sane.

B. I have wasted far too much time with your company to spend another minute talking about something I purposely scheduled in advance in order to avoid this exact conversation.

C. again, all of the above

I know I asked you to please speed up your sales pitch and get to the point. I would like credit, however, for saying "please". I distinctly remember saying "please". I needed to get off the phone quickly because:

A. my two year old was climbing out of the high chair, over my head, using my shoulder as a stepping stone, with one foot wedged between my right ear and my shoulder and the other firmly planted on the kitchen counter. His little fists were hanging on tightly to my hair, which was the anchor that allowed him to complete this feat. I realize the conversation that followed might have been confusing to you.

"Stop!" "No, not you." "You, lawn guy, keep talking," "STOP DOING THAT!" "Lawn guy, keep it moving! Don't stop talking!"   sigh...

B. My big four and a half year old had spiraled down into "me" mode, as he frequently does when I am on the phone. His repeated cries for juice, (see above), television shows, candy, world domination... they truly are quite distracting.

Again, I apologize. The chaos winding up in my kitchen was not your fault. You could not have known what you were getting yourself into. It could have all been avoided had you just checked your records, but seriously, how could you have known? One thing was clear, however, with the way you held onto that sales pitch and kept valiantly plowing ahead despite my obvious need to wrap things up proves one thing:

you  do not have children. 

Sincerely,

well, you know who I am. I am fairly certain you have flagged my account so all future callers are forewarned.

not one of my better moments!

do I look like a meth addict to you?

My first clue should have been the runny nose my tiny toddler sported all weekend long. He wasn't acting sick, which is kind of hard to tell with him. After all, there is no rhyme or reason to his eating patterns. His normal mood fluctuates between sweetness and cranky, so nothing new there. He is often a surly little man who stands at the fridge simultaneously screaming for food and refusing to eat anything offered. So when his ick travelled to my husband, I knew it was going to be a long week. I said goodbye to my planned dinners, my zone cleaning and a portion of my sanity. I'll see y'all next week.

When I picked my big four and a half year old up from preschool Monday evening his teachers told me that he had been telling them that he felt like an old man. Hmmm, there's a new one. As we walk out to the car, my older son hits his  point home by pantomiming walking like a old man. The tiny toddler, who mimics every move his older brother makes, also began walking like an octogenarian. As funny as it was, I still had no idea why  we were walking like grandpas to the car. Once we were all buckled in the answer became clear. The youngest took his shoe off and threw it at the oldest, a normal event in our car, sadly, and the oldest burst into tears. Not a normal reaction. The big four and a half year old was sick.

By the time we got home the toddler had both shoes and socks off, his arms out of the seat belt straps and was working on taking off his jacket. The other one was still crying. And the husband was home. Sick. Great. Just great.

I settle my husband and son each on their own sofas, grab the two year old and head out to CVS for medicine for everyone. Now, I didn't want to take the little one on this trip, but he wouldn't leave his older brother alone and I feared there would be a crime scene when I returned. And no one wants to drive down their street and see the crime lab truck in their driveway. So the two year old came with me.

Monday is a stay at home with the two year old day so I had already had a long and tiring fulfilling day at home with my little man. He was hungry, we were both a mess. He had some mysterious red stains on his gray sweat pants and his nose had developed that crust that kids get when their noses run all day long. He had peanut butter in his hair. I had my glasses on, which I could barely see through from all the smudges and tiny fingerprints, battle wounds from them being yanked off my face at least 500 times earlier in the day. I was wearing my gray yoga pants and a back sleeveless polo shirt, which normally is an OK look but not when covered in peanut butter, coffee, and something sticky. Something really sticky. My hair was dirty and frizzy. My straightening iron lost the fight with the electrical outlet converter in Russia and I have yet to replace it, so even on a good day my hair is a mess. This was not a good day. (As a side note I would like to urge all of you out there to shower when you can. Don't put it off. If you wait until later in the day because you think you're not going anywhere, you don't need to look good then you will end up in a drug store attempting to convince a pharmacist that you are not a meth addict. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)

So I stuff the screaming toddler into the cart at CVS because I know if he is walking he will pull down entire displays and I will wind up coming home with a bag of tissues and chiclets. I have to navigate the aisles very slowly and right down the center because the wing span of my little guy is wider than you'd think for someone so small. I find the children's Tylenol and the honey and am thinking, great, I am almost ready to go and we have not created a scene. Another shining mommy moment!

Then I realize I can't find the grown up cold medicine. I finally find where it should be and there is only a paper card in the spot where the medicine usually sits. It takes me a minute to realize that they are not just out of this medicine- they have moved it to behind the counter and I have to ask for it. So I push my cart, now full of children's Tylenol and screaming baby, and proceed to wait in line at the pharmacy counter.

We play 100 rounds of "look up, there's a light!". We repeat every word my little guy can say, twice. We play "drop the tennis shoe and watch Mommy pick it up" about 1,000 times. We pretty much annoy everyone around us. But I don't feel too bad about it, because, to be honest, they were all annoying me as well. Finally, our turn!

"Why do you want to purchase this medicine?" uh, my husband is sick.
baby screams loudly.

"Why isn't he purchasing it for himself? see my previous answer.
baby screams loudly, grabs shoe from back of cart and throws it at teenager in line behind us.

"Why this particular brand/type? I like the shiny red packaging.
baby figures out he can makes lots of clanking noise by leaning forward in cart seat, lifting bottom off seat and plopping back down. Repeats this as he screams "no no no".

"Do you know this medicine has been used to make illegal drugs?" do I look like I make illegal drugs in my basement? I look at my attire and my misbehaving toddler. wait, don't answer that.

Then the pharmacy guy needs my driver's license, which is in the car. Oh. My. God. People. I just want to get the drugs and go home. Yeah, I don't sound like an addict at all. I drag the cart to the front of the store, haul the baby out, run outside in the rain, get my license, go back in, stuff now screaming baby back into cart (he thought he was free, poor thing), and arrive back at the pharmacy desk out of breath, wet, and a little strung out. And I get the drugs. score.

Then we repeat the whole waiting in line scene again at the front while we try to check out. What a nightmare. Note to CVS - I realize I may, occasionally, look like one, but I am not a drug addict. Seriously. I would have so much more energy...

at least I didn't get another ticket

I had a little run in with a very nice police officer on my way to pick up my big four and a half year old from preschool today. I hate being pulled over. I get nervous, my heart starts to beat too fast and I feel as though I might burst into tears at any moment. I hate it so much that you would think I would just slow down. Which, despite what my husband thinks, I have. I have really slowed down. There are times that I have caught myself so wrapped up in what the boys are doing in the backseat or in having a conversation with them that I am surprised to find that cars are passing me, some not too happy. So I have slowed down. Today was not one of those days...


A while ago, maybe last summer, my oldest son and I were on the way to Amish country for a family "girls and small boys under 4 years old weekend". I was within inches of getting off the highway when I was pulled over for speeding. My son, ever helpful, leaned forward in his car seat and very loudly, but politely informed the officer that the other cars were driving faster than Mommy. The officer, not missing a beat, replied, "Well, I didn't pull over the other cars, I pulled over your mommy. And now I am giving her a ticket."


At least today I didn't get a ticket. As soon as I saw the lights come on behind me I started to shake a little. I just have this thing about being in trouble. I don't like it. It's a weird personality trait, seeing as I am perfectly capable of taking down a store for poor customer service or holding my own when it comes to messing with my kids. But authority is different. You should have seen how sweet and nice I was in all of those immigration offices on my way home from Russia. I knew the laws stated I could travel in and out of their countries with a baby Russian immigrant, but still I held my tongue and bowed to authority. Which, of course, is always the right thing to do when in a foreign country. But back to today.

After a quick trip to the bank located inside my least favorite grocery store, (or my second least favorite, I should say. Walmart tops my list as least favorite places to shop in many categories.), I tied down lovingly strapped my screaming two year old into his car seat and got in the car. I am not driving the favorite car this week so I had to take some time to mess with the air conditioner, which comes and goes in this car. I fought with the seat belt because it is stuck down inside the seat belt thing in the door and so doesn't pull out properly. Which means that when it is finally latched it is so tight that I can barely turn my head to back out of the parking spot.

564 radio stations later my sweetie is still screaming. It would seem that he had other plans for this afternoon that did not include running errands and riding around in the backseat of the car. Maybe he was missing his favorite XM radio stations. Maybe he likes the toys in the favorite car better. Maybe he was just working on his plan for world domination. Who knows why he was screaming. All I know is we needed to get to the church to pick up his older brother like five minutes ago. I swear, I didn't realize I was speeding. And to be honest, I was barely speeding. Barely.


So there is the officer at my window, which doesn't stop my tiny toddler from screaming. The officer pokes his head into the window and asks me if everything is OK, ma'am. Ma'am? No time to worry about that now. Look at this car, officer. There is a screaming two year old in the back seat. There is another car seat, so clearly this family has at least two small kids. There are toys, clothes, books, and crayons covering the entire floor of the backseat. My hair needs washed, there is a  mystery stain on my shirt and I am sweating due to the a/c issue. There is a shoe and a pacifier resting on the dash - where they landed after being launched at my head from the backseat. OK, officer, I do not need a ticket. Clearly I am being punished enough today.


Of course I didn't say any of that. It didn't seem as though the officer had a sense of humor. Or maybe I am just not all that funny. Who knows. Instead I looked around me, mentally inviting him to do the same.


It seems he agreed. Or he didn't want yet another strung out mommy to burst into tears on his watch. After being told to "slow down but have a nice day" he sauntered back to his car. My tiny toddler stopped screaming long enough to strain his neck trying to see where the man with the shiny badge was going. As soon as the officer ducked into his car and was out of sight my little man started screaming letting his opinions be known again. And didn't stop until we pulled into the church, which he recognizes as the place we go every day to pick up his favorite big brother. Suddenly he was all smiles and sweetness. Me, on the other hand, not so sweet. At least I didn't get another ticket a ticket...

today's labels will include the words "tuba" and "cucumber"

I'm  a little concerned about some of the people out there who may be accidentally winding up on this blog, thanks to their odd little key word searches. That's right people. I can see what key words brought you to my little part of the blogasphere. And some of you are starting to scare me. Here's an example:

Someone has found my blog by searching "bob the tomato + crying". What's the back story here? Does someone want Bob the Tomato to cry? Does Bob the Tomato make this person cry? Make this person's kids cry? I don't know much about Bob the Tomato - maybe he does  lot of crying? I have never seen him cry and he always looks happy and seems quite helpful, I mean we have a book where he helps carry Larry the Cucumber's tuba up a hill, but maybe that is all a ruse. Maybe Bob the Tomato is harboring a secret crush on Madame Blueberry. Wow, secret crushes on blueberries. That should disappoint a few late night Internet searchers when I put that sentence in the list of key words...

he looks happy enough here...

although she is kinda cute...

Someone else has found my little bog by searching "licking toddlers toes". Which, I can't stress strongly enough, was not what that post was about. Why would anyone be searching this particular topic? Again, I think I may be disappointing a few people here.

All of you searching for Starbucks who wind up here- hee hee hee. I talk about coffee a lot. Deal with it.

The phrase "throwing toys at Russians" has also led at least one person my way. I have no idea what this is all about but I can somewhat confidently say that I doubt this was a parenting or adoption related search. I have never thrown a toy at my little Russian, nor do I plan to. So who is throwing toys at Russians? And what sort of toys are we talking about here?

Both "How to Moon" and "How to Moon Walk"  have led readers to my post on moon pies for the Autumn Moon Festival. I get the desire to learn to moon walk - I mean, who doesn't wish they could glide backwards as if on air? But who needs to turn to the Internet too learn how to moon someone? It is true what they say, everything is out there on the Internet...

So, if you have been led to my online ramblings by a wayward keyword search, I hope you stick around. Well, most of you. I promise to keep throwing just enough info into the labels to keep drawing in your fellow weird Internet searchers. Today's labels will include the words "tuba" and "cucumber". Let's see who that sends our way.

5: number of meatballs thrown on the floor

Sunday was not a great day at my house. My tiny toddler is now sweet at least 80% of the time. Which is pretty much my percentage as well. Sunday his percent went down, drastically, as did mine. The afternoon spun out of control as he hit his big brother, (who never once hit him back, God bless him), threw toys at me, and pretty much singlehandedly destroyed the living room. Wonderfully Patient Daddy took him upstairs to play at one point, which seemed to help. Problem solved! What great parents we are!

But then Daddy and my tiny toddler showed back up in the newly put back together living room and the downward spiral started again. And again. And again. And nothing worked. And that is when the countdown to bedtime began.

Here's a breakdown of the numbers:

5:   number of hard plastic toys thrown at my head before I finally started handing over plush ones.

8:   number of times I was hit in the eye, ear, or mouth by 7 sets of eyes and one shoe string on aforementioned plush toys.

1,287: number of alternative toys, snacks, beverages, music and books offered.

27:   number of times my big four and a half year old ran at me at top speed yelling "uh oh, Mommy, here he comes!", as his little brother lunged at him, yet again.

2:   number of times I was convinced I had chipped a tooth

675: number of times my sweet little boy shook his finger at me and said "no, no, no!"

862: number of time outs attempted

1:   number of time outs that actually occurred

15:  number of times I pictured the wine in the pantry

5:   number of meatballs thrown on the floor at dinner

2:   number of meatballs thrown at my big four and a half year old's head during dinner

2.5: number of projected hours between dinner and bedtime

1.5: number of actual hours between dinner and bedtime

*writers note: this list does not include the number of times I was brought to near tears during the day. Oh, and some of the numbers may be slightly inflated. But I swear, if asked in the heat of the moment, these numbers would have been my best guess.

the day I nearly, single handedly, took down the lobster tank

My big four and a half year old loves loves loves those carts with the cars attached at the grocery store. He climbs in and screams, "Wait until I buckle, Mommy!", at the top of his lungs. I then have to stand there, in the cart corral, while other shoppers attempt to pull carts from around me and my son attempts to buckle his seat belt. Which he never can, usually due to the fact that one end of the buckle is frequently chewed off, frayed, or missing alltogether. Which drives me crazy, by the way. Especially on restaurant high chairs. Why do these people think I wanted the high chair in the first place? To tie my child down. If there is no working seat belt then basically I am just setting my tiny toddler in a chair that is three and a half feet off the ground and giving him a fork with which to poke an eye out on the fall to the floor. But I digress. Back to the grocery store.

So my oldest son loves these carts. I hate them. Come on, who's with me? Those things are harder to drive than a zamboni on sand. (I actually do not know how hard or easy it might be to drive a zamboni on sand, but since it is made to drive on ice, and ice is, well, icey, I figure sand has got to be harder, right?) But he loves them. And they seat two kids, which I occasionally need. Only occasionally though because two kids at the grocery store is not my idea of fun. But what the older one does the youngest must mimic, so they both now love the car cart.

I found myself at the grocery store with my two year a few days ago. Just the two year old. Now usually, if he is alone with Mommy, my sweet little guy will sit in the seat in a regular, normal cart. The kind of cart that actually turns without dislocating a shoulder. Or at least he used to. I can cross that off the list of things he is now too "grown up" to do. International adoption often means bringing the child into your family a little older, which means those milestones come flying at you at top speed. My baby no longer wants to sit in the cart. Even if his older brother is not there he now insists on sitting in the car cart. groan.

My couple of years of driving this cart has not helped me learn anything about how to naivigate through a busy store. Within minutes of strapping Alex into the car I had hit the Clorox wipes dispenser standing by the door (which I love, by the way!). The dispenser sits atop a very thin pole, which, in my opinion, is not enough support. Had that stockboy not been standing right there to catch it...

During the shopping experience I managed to run into the apple display, two carts being pushed by unsuspecting fellow shoppers, the end cap display in the card aisle and the lobster tank. Probably the most excitement those lobsters saw all day. And don't even get me started on trying to unload those giant carts. I am just way to short to reach over the car part to the basket part. So this is what it looks like: I stand on my tippy toes by the car, squeezed between the cart and the candy bar display, leaning up and over to the basket, grab something and toss it back over the car onto the conveyor belt, all while hopping from one foot to the other as my tiny toddler alternates between pinching and tickling my lower legs.

Maybe if we all band together we can ban the use of these carts before someone gets hurt! Or at least before I pull a muscle trying to unload it...

all this strangeness is keeping me young

As far as I know my big four and a half year old has never seen the movie Madagascar 2. Which is why I find it a little odd that he was shaking his booty and singing I Like to Move It  at the urgent care last night. Don't get me wrong, watching my baby boy bent forward, elbows sticking out, hips wiggling, singing "I want to to move it move it" at the top of his little lungs was too cute. And I saw the uptight pediatrician who walked in on my son's little concert smiling as he turned his back to wash his hands.

My ninth wedding anniversary is coming up in a few weeks. If nine years ago someone had told me that one night I would be sitting in an urgent care with a four year old Chinese boy who was dancing and singing to a will.i.am song while holding his wrist and waiting for the results of his xray I would have said pass me some of whatever that is you're drinking. But watching my son do his little dance was not strange to me in the least. It wasn't even the strangest thing that happened to me that day.

I can be brought nearly to laughter induced tears by watching my tiny toddler dance to Hell to the No  from Glee. Totally inappropriate, I know. But he loves the song. The part that makes me laugh so hard I nearly cry is the fact that my little sweetie copies all the dance moves. Watch the video and imagine the song being sung by a two year old. oh. my. god. 

The two year old hides things in his diaper. Sometimes when I change him his little treasures fall out. I have found quarters, a plastic Coke bottle cap, a tiny hair barrette, a nice selection of matchbox cars and a spoon. And yes, I threw the spoon away. Or sent it to work with my husband in his lunch. But I'm pretty sure I threw it away...

The four and a half year old wants to name our dog, which we don't even own yet, "Aidan". I have no clue why. He says that it doesn't matter that we plan to get a girl dog. Which I would find strange, but we currently have a male cat named Hewitt that we call a girl. It's a long story.

So there are a lot of strange things in my current life. Boy cats we treat as girls, tiny toddlers wagging a finger in the air as he dances to a totally inappropriate music video. Big four and a half year olds shaking it in the urgent care. Matchbox cars falling out of diapers.

I have a two year old who has mastered the art of hiding his sippy cups. I swear I give him a drink ten minutes before dinner and by the time we sit down at the table that cup is nowhere to be found. Nowhere. How the hell does he do that? We usually find the cup much later, sitting right out in plain sight. And we still have not found Brad's keys.

So add that to the list of strange things occurring in my life. Their shoes multiply. Their faces are always dirty. And don't even get me started on their fingernails. They dance. Last week the toddler chased me around the backyard with a baseball bat. As I was running for cover I remember thinking "this is weird. he weighs like 23 pounds. how can he run so fast while holding that heavy bat?" That was strange.

So all of this was running through my mind last night as I sat on that hard plastic chair in the exam room at the urgent care watching my sweet little boy knock out, if I do say so myself, an awesome dance to a song by a rapper, ( I think), that I have never heard of. Maybe none of this is strange. Maybe I am just old. But if I am, then all this strangeness is keeping me young!

a linoleum floor, a pair of socks and full bottle of valve oil

This is definitely not my mother's motherhood. My mother was a young bride in 1954. My sister was born in the early 60's and I followed in 1970. I don't feel old. Usually. Some days I do, thanks to fertility drug induced arthritis pain and night after night of staying up way too late. But usually, on a good day, I don't feel that old. Until I start to think about how different my mothering is. The mothers of the 60's and 70's certainly didn't have the worries we enlightened mothers of today share. The ignorance of an entire generation can be deafening. Are we too safe? Are we too easy on our kids? Should our parents maybe have put down the cigarettes and buckled us into the car once in a while? (My parents did not smoke- my dad quite when he married my mother, at her insistence, I hear. But many of my friend's parents did smoke. Everywhere.) All I know are two things.

1. We all survived our childhoods, leading me to believe that parents are destined to screw up their children. If they didn't mess us up in a fiery car crash where we flew through the windshield thanks to the lack of car seats then they pushed us into therapy in countless other ways. And while our little ones will always be safely protected behind car seats, bike helmets, knee pads and bubble wrap, we will still screw our little angels up in our own special way.

and

2. this ain't our mother's motherhood, people.

seat belts
When I was a kid my mother had an old blue car. I think it was a Chevrolet but I am really not sure. Perhaps years of hitting my head on the back of the front seat has marred my memory. I do remember this: that car had no seat belts in the back. My grandfather installed seat belts for his prescious young grandchildren. But I can't stress enough that the car rolled off the line with no seat belts. I remember being allowed to stand up in the backseat, my arm on the back of the front bench seat as though I was ordering a drink at a bar. I also remember that this particular car had rust spots on the backseat floor boards. You could actually see through the floor, which was fun in the driveway and absolutely terrifying on the road. At one point some helpful soul placed a metal trash can lid on the floor, to stop our little feet from pushing through.

My kids are buckled tightly, every time. If I'd had tiny ones they would have ridden backwards in their car seats. They will both stay in their car seats until they are both tall enough and old enough. If one of them wriggles an arm out of the five point harness I pull the car over and wrestle them back in their safety cocoon.

music
My kids have a wide variety of kid's music on CD's that we play in the car. Kids Place Live and Radio Disney are the mainstays of a trip in The Equinator. (our favorite car.) If I even think about putting on music I might be interested in listening to I swear an uprising would occur in the backseat.

Let's go back in time to my childhood. My father was a junior high band director. He was a great junior high band director and to reach his level of expertise one must work very hard. Much of this hard work took place in the car with Dad listening to tapes of his bands, over and over and over again. Child welfare agents should have been looking for this man. Clarinets squeaking, trumpets blaring, drums out of sync.And all of it loud. If I played a tape of a fifth grade band playing "Hot Cross Buns", badly, my sweet little angels would be screaming so loud I would wish those squeaky clarinets were in the front seat with me.

toys
Many of my toys were homemade by my grandfather. Crayons, markers and paper were also considered toys. I had a "romper stompers" and a homemade musical instrument consisting of a short length of garden hose and a french horn mouthpiece. And don't underestimate the fun of a linoleum floor, a pair of socks, and a full bottle of valve oil.

now picture these made from coffee cans. yep, coffee cans.

My boys have thousands of dollars worth of toys strewn throughout the house, the garage, both cars and the backyard. They may have thousands of dollars worth of toys but they play with approximately $52.65 worth.

television

I watched Sesame Street, The Electric Company and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, which, by the way, terrified me. That show made no sense to me at all. Here we had a grown man who spends his time alone, playing with puppets. I don't know about you, but I am teaching my children to avoid creepy men like this...

I really can't complain about the television my kids watch. The shows available now for our little ones are fun, educational, and, I'm going to say it out loud here, they give me time to make dinner. Don't judge me.

My big four and a half year old has learned musical terms, counting in English, Spanish and Mandarin, and how many legs it takes to turn an insect into an arachnid. I learned to take off my shoes and put on a beige sweater every time I entered the house.

One more thought on safety. Maybe it was just my dad, but I remember sitting, unbelted, on that hump that many cars had in the middle of the seat. So not only was I not being held back by any sort of safety device but I was also sitting higher that everyone else. I remember being in the back seat of the car with my legs wrapped around a car battery or bottles of poisonous liquids needed to keep the car running. I remember numerous stops by the side of the road to replenish said liquids. I even remember once sitting on the floor of the front seat holding the gas pedal down with my little hand while my dad pushed the car. That seems dangerous for both me and him, now that I think about it. Ahhhh, the good old days. Thank God we all survived!

if I judged you, I am sorry, or, why every mother of a toddler needs to learn the football carry

Last night was a particularly trying evening with our new little guy. We have been having a fair number of these trying times lately. It is normal, I think. Not that I am an expert on the behavior of newly adopted toddlers or anything but it seems to me that it is normal. He is coming into his own. He is very comfortable in his new surroundings. He is bonded with his forever family. His every need is now, finally, being met, and he feels safe. Now is the time for him to try out his new found independence. Bundle that independence up with the language deficit and communication struggles, toss in teething pain and an an occasionally jealous older brother and you have got a recipe for disaster.

I woke up a few times throughout the night last night thinking about my boys. We have certainly had our share of trying times these past few weeks. But we have also had our share of really great, really chaotic, really fun times. And it made me think of all those harried moms I have seen out in public, and all those thoughts I have had, mainly along the lines of "I would never do that!"

To all those moms I unknowingly judged in the past - I'm sorry.

Dear Moms:

I just have to say I am sorry.

I am sorry for judging when you speak tersely to your children in the WalMart parking lot. First of all, WalMart will make anyone cranky. And second of all, I now know what it's like to carry a screaming two year old like a football under one arm while trying to hang on to a four year old's hand, all while carrying slippery plastic shopping bags and attempting to stop the four year old from jumping that puddle up ahead and soaking me from the knees down.

I am sorry for those toys I bought your children that had ink pads and stamps in them. Even if the box said they were age appropriate. Oh dear God, I am sorry! I know you have no reason to be nice to me now, but if you have a secret for getting little inky stamp shapes off the bathroom floor, please, I beseech you, tell me!

I am sorry for looking at your children and thinking, "I would never dress my kids like that." Even as a toddler my oldest son had very definite fashion ideas. And most of them clashed with the Land's End and Old Navy looks I expected any child of mine to be sporting. And now, thanks to the joys of hand me downs, my youngest son will be sporting the same trends that I didn't like the first time.

I am sorry for being disgusted when you took your child out in public with a wet cough. Oh how little I knew! If we stayed inside until the four year old's cough was gone we would spend eight straight months trapped in the house.

I am sorry for thinking you looked disheveled and judging your stained shirts and wild hair. I did not know that a clean, fresh shirt could become wrinkled and stained within thirty seconds of putting it on. I swear, the shirt is clean when I walk down the stairs in the morning. By the time I sit down at the breakfast table every substance in the room has found it's way to my shirt. And don't even ask me about my hair. The two year old won't let me shower without throwing open the door and pushing his way into the shower with me. And his constant tugging at my clothes and pulling at the hair dryer cord while I try to dry my hair makes for a quick dry job. And I have no clue where my mascara is. I did find a tube of Burt's Bees lip balm under the car seat the other while trying to dig out the pacifier, so there's that.

I am super sorry for buying your child any toys that had small parts. Why on earth do all of these toys come with tiny swords, tiny animals, whole tiny villages complete with tiny trees and tiny villagers who, I swear, are mocking me from the toy box. All of my Tupperware is now in the toy box holding Lego's, board game pieces, and other miscellaneous toy pieces that I don't think are even an integral part of the playing but that my son would notice if even one tiny tree got "lost". I have nothing to hold leftovers. Nothing.

I am sorry for thinking, "when I am a mother I will not tolerate those crazy kid behaviors." I open that bathroom door every time the two year old is out there crying and banging on the door. I let him climb in the shower with me. I watch my four year old occasionally roll, yes, I said roll, all the way from the classroom to the door at day care pick up.

I am sorry for judging you when you let your child watch a DVD or play a handheld video game at dinner out. My family was going to sit nicely in their chairs and talk about their days. Right. My family knocks over drinks, drops countless matchbox cars on the floor, throws sippy cups across the room. One time, when Matthew was a toddler, he actually threw an entire piece of buttered toast across a very crowded restaurant. True story. I would consider letting my kids watch reruns of "Oz" if it meant I could sit quietly and talk to my husband while eating my dinner when it was actually hot, without having to fend off flying tiny cars.

And, lastly, I am sorry for thinking you were crazy for not wanting to leave your child, even for a night out with the love of your life. I had no idea how hard it would be. No. Idea.

I'm sorry for thinking my little blessings would be different. Turns out, they're not.

better parenting through coffee

Thank God I know my sister. Alright, well, of course I  know my sister. I guess what I meant was thank God we were both in college at the same time. (don't ask.) We went to different colleges in neighboring towns, so we were able to spend a lot of time studying together. We studied at her student union, we studied at my student union, (although we called it the student center at my school...), we studied at coffee shops. And in between all of that studying my older sister introduced me to joys of coffee.

I am fearful that this confession will lead you all to figure out my age but I'm saying it anyways. I grew up in a time when high school kids did not have access to nor did they hang out in coffee shops. There was a coffee place in Kent, which has since closed, (sigh), but until I was in high school we didn't even have fast food coffee available in my tiny little town. "Having coffee" was just not something we kids were doing. (oh my God, how old am I?)

My dad drank a lot of coffee but it was just understood that I was not old enough to partake and was not going to be old enough for quite some time. Then my sister came back to town and poured me my first cup. And I was hooked.

After college my sister moved to Lakewood where I visited her regularly and fell in love even harder with my new caffeinated friend. And now, totally addicted.

Better parenting through coffee. That's me.

I have a new coffee pot that I hate. My old one was over 10 years old when it finally died. It was white and cheap. I replaced it a few months ago with a Mr. Coffee. Which does not work properly. The pause feature doesn't work and the numbers on the clock don't show up all the way. The coffee is good though. And this one is black, which matches my other appliances, so there's that. So I can't really put my finger on why I have this weird dislike of my new coffee pot. All I can say is that I am annoyed when I look at it. Really. My coffee pot annoys me.

Despite it so annoying me I set it up every night to automatically turn on every morning. I love knowing my coffee is downstairs waiting for me as I rouse the boys out of bed and into their clothes every morning. As we walk down the stairs my big 4 year old always says "I smell your coffee, Mommy. Does it make you happy to smell it?" Yes, my boy, yes it does.

I gather up the boys' breakfasts and get them started on eating. Then I pour my first cup. Add the perfect amount of cream and ahhhh. I take a too hot sip and set the coffee down on the kitchen table. I break up a few breakfast table fights, replenish the little one's yogurt or juice- he eats and drinks everything at top speed and then freaks out until more is presented for him. I add the ice packs to the lunch boxes. Take another sip. By now my husband is downstairs and sometimes I sit down with him while he eats breakfast. Maybe another sip or two. Usually not though. Somehow, between getting the kids to eat and all the popping up and down from the table prevents more sipping.

Breakfast over and on to brushing two sets of little teeth, which these days require a lot of cajoling. My big 4 year old hates the taste of his new big kid toothpaste. He loves, however, the spitting that accompanies the new fluoride paste. The two year old likes the taste of his toddler toothpaste but prefers to just suck it off the brush while it remains motionless in his mouth. Shoes are next. Out the door- lunches, school bags, stuffed animals and matchbox cars and sippy cups. Buckle kids in car, hug, kiss, high five them both,  (the actual ritual is "hug, kiss, high five, spit on youuuuuu", but I try to avoid the spit on your part.) Kiss the husband. Stand on front porch signing "I love you" and making funny faces at boys as they drive away. My big 4 year old makes the funny faces back and signs "I love you" as the 2 year old signs his version of  "I love you" through his tears. Leaving Mommy at home is still not so easy for the poor little guy.

Back into quiet house. Coffee is now cold. Drink some of it. Reheat it. Not so good reheated. Clean up breakfast and then begin daily routine of keeping house clean and pulled together. By the time I am ready to start my work day the coffee pot is off. I turn it back on and maybe, if I am lucky, get to drink another cup before it turns off again. I think to myself that I have, once again, made too much coffee. Tomorrow I should make a smaller pot. But then later, when I am getting the pot ready for the morning I will absentmindedly put in the same amount of water and grounds. And the cycle will start again. Best cup of coffee I never had....

Sometimes I have coffee in the evening. Sometimes I use my new french press to make overnight iced coffee. I frequent Starbucks and other coffee shops, and my big 4 year old is so accustomed to coffee shops that he now requests to go and play Uno during our Mommy and Matthew time. Better parenting through coffee. It's all good....

occasionally someone is crying. and it's not always me.

I have noticed a change in my parenting style this second time around. Oh, who am I kidding. What I have really noticed is how much calmer I am with this new little guy. Maybe it's because we spent so much time with him in the orphanage. With such a huge glimpse into his daily life I knew exactly what he had been exposed to and what would be brand new to him. Having received my oldest son in a sterile government office in Guangzhou, China, I had only a small idea of what his days in the orphanage were like. When we came home I watched his every move. My fear of the fact that my son had never seen a flushing toilet, stairs, a stove - I was terrified that something horrible would happen. He had a tent on his crib. (which he loved, by the way, and which we still use with our youngest.) The stairs were gated at the top and the bottom. That baby didn't make a move that my watchful eye missed. The first time he rode the RTA with Daddy and attended his first football game I was a nervous wreck. And when he got hit with that softball during his first tee-ball practice, resulting in a bloody nose, I was mortified. My baby!

The joyful arrival of our second child brought back the crib tent. It brought back the gate at the top of the stairs, which, frankly, I'm pretty sure the little guy can already open. The bottom of the stairs remain open, even though my frisky little twenty-six  month old chases the cat up the stairs at least a hundred times a day. But his arrival also brought something I didn't have the first time. Calm. Security. I knew to expect this, I suppose. It's not like I wasn't aware that second children are often allowed more freedom. I just didn't expect to be letting go of that nervousness quite so quickly.

A typical day for Alex includes the following, happening at least four times, in no particular order:

• climbing out of high chair. even with the harness latched.
• rolling down the bottom two steps. how he makes it all the way up and then almost all the way down, every time, is beyond me.
• getting knocked down by his older brother.
• nearly slipping under the water in the tub while attempting to pull his brother under with him.
• gently rolling off the sofa, accidentally. then climbing back up and falling off on purpose.
• walking into the corner of the kitchen table. one day I watched him walk into three of the four corners, one right after the other, as he rounded the table to head outside.
• getting knocked down by his older brother.
• falling off the coffee table. don't even ask.
• running at top speed into the stove, dishwasher, walls.... he is mimicking his older brother, who thinks it funny to run into a wall and then fall down. he is just pretending. Alex, however, is too young to understand this type of humor and so he is literally running into the oven and falling over. repeatedly.
• oh, and getting knocked down by his older brother.

And I don't even bat an eye. I pick him up, check for broken bones, give him a kiss and set him upright and on his way. I don't blink when I watch him climb down the garage stairs and then stick his thumb in his mouth. I simply wash it off and move on. I watch as he climbs the stairs chasing the cat, knowing all the doors are closed and he can't get anywhere but the hallway. But I don't rush to get him. I let this little guy explore. I let him fall. I let him play rough with his brother. I let him be the boy he is. And in the process, my older son gets to be the boy he is too.

I know that one day my toddler will be riding scooters. I will be pulling candy wrappers, matchbox cars, leaves and dirty rocks from his pockets when doing laundry. And when that day comes I know my older boy will have moved on to big boy bikes and climbing trees. Eventually they will be riding roller coasters, having crushes on girls, driving. (gasp). There will be dirt in my house and on them. There will be loud toys and video games. There will be monster truck shows, demolition derby's, trips to the race track. There will be football and baseball and soccer. (and because they are my boys there will also be music lessons and trips to the library.) My life will be messy, and I won't always be able to control the chaos. So I am glad I have learned this lesson early. My life with these two boys is loud. It's messy. It's often sticky. Someone is usually tackling someone else, and occasionally someone is crying. And it's not always me.

I am the mother of boys, something I never dreamed I would be. And I am just calm enough to tackle each day right along with them.