Wednesday, January 28, 2015

The father figure is a texter. He's not one for conversation, but he randomly texts me through the day. Often, random thoughts. But I enjoy the fact that he's thinking about me.

If you scroll through our text messages, you'll notice that most of them are about various children and their performances at whatever soccer game we're at. Or the father figure sharing his thoughts on whatever diaper he's recently changed. I'm glad we get to share this parenting thing. Really, it's great.

Yesterday, as I was sitting down to lunch with some friends, the father figure sent me this message.....

Well then. I made sure to stay extra long at lunch. No need to rush.

On the way home from more soccer, the father figure was kind enough to send this helpful tip.....

It should be pointed out that up until this week, Cinco was good and terrified of baths. And while this posed problems, mostly of the hygienic kind, it was manageable. But the father figure decided that Cinco needed to be cured of this. So he dumped bubbles into her bath and threw her in. After panicky screaming for two minutes, Cinco determined that she wasn't actually dying and this was fun. So now, she asks for baths. Well actually, she asks for "bubbles." And the hysterics that last week came from being put in the bath now come from not being put in the bath.

This is a situation entirely of the father figure's making.

I'm going to go ahead and let him think those are all my shoes.

Monday, January 26, 2015

MOM! Baby hid my nerf darts!!!!!!
I did because you were shooting me with them!!!
I only shot you with them because you told Cinco to come sit on your bed!
I had to keep Cinco safe because you put nail polish on my cheek!
But you put chapstick in my hair!
NO! You were spinning around and spun into me and got chapstick in your own hair!
NOOOO! You were pushing me away from you and YOU got it in my hair! And then I got it in my hair brush and that’s your fault.
Cinco was near me, I was keeping her safe from your spinning.
Cinco was dancing with me!
Cinco was hiding from you!
No, she was chewing on your nerf darts.
And I took them away.
Oh ok.

Maybe they don’t listen to me because I tune them out myself.  I call it my coping mechanism. I also think that I’m going to need to upgrade my coping mechanism. More along the lines just not getting out of bed.  I mean, what else can you do if your children will fight over nothing. Quite literally nothing. Baby and Baba have always been scrappers. When both were quite young, I was still pregnant with Mac, piercing screams came from their bedroom. Investigating led me to the ultimate girl fight. Baba and Baby, three and one years of age, where attempting to smack each other. However, they were more interested in stretching themselves away from the other’s flailing limbs.

The cause of their fight, each one of them wanted to put a flower on the baby doll’s head. So, being the oh so clever mother I was at one time, offered them both a magic, invisible flower to place on the baby’s head. I left the room feeling smug and accomplished. Until they started screaming again, because Baby put her flower right where Baba wanted to place hers.

Of course.

I remember fighting with my sisters. A lot. And as we still all like each other, I am not too concerned with the daily, even hourly, squabbles. I figure part of it is them growing into themselves. Choosing what music they like, typically whatever the other doesn’t. Stealing each other’s clothing, but explaining that “it’s ok; I don’t even like that anyway.” They spend so much time together; they grate on each other’s nerves. Heck they grate on mine.

This makes the moments when they are supposed to be doing school, but are instead whispering to each other, rather sweet.  Until one of them realizes the other is using her pencil. Or eraser. Or something. And so mom yells at them. And they are reunited in their fight against the “mom.”

Yay, Mondays!

I’m going back to bed. 

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Observations from the last few weeks:

The father figure bought my a vacuum cleaner and wine glasses for Christmas. I think that pretty much sums up my life. I also think my younger, more militant self, would be horrified by how excited I was by a vacuum. And by the fact that I was hoping for one for Christmas. Although I was hoping for a robot/vacuum. I did not get that. Which, after reading the  reviews about it talking to you, most likely judging you both on the state of your floor and the junk your kids are eating, I made my peace with it missing from my life.

Which led me to enthusiastically unwrapping a vacuum cleaner and exclaiming "wait in plugs into the outlet thingy (formally known as a cigarette lighter but now days....who knows. "Thing that powers the dvd player and keeps me sane thingy")! Cool, I can use it while I am sitting in a parking lot!" Which I do, alarmingly often. And messy cars make me twitchy, so it's actually quite practical.

The wine glasses are because Netflix is pulling Phineas and Ferb at the end of the month.

Mac is incapable of loosing a tooth without auditioning for a role in the Walking Dead. I've never seen such horror in my life. Blood splattered on the mirror. For a tooth that was on it's last legs. It was phenomenal. He whacked (on accident...Mac's not a risk taker) his loose tooth on his bed railing. Or he murdered a small marsupial. It was hard to tell through all the blood.

X-Man is behaving well. Except when My Little Ponies.....Friendship is Magic, but Make Sure To Yell at Anyone Who Turns Us gets bumped for mommy's workout time. Then he retreats to festivus mode and engages in airing of his grievances. He will up it to feats of strength if he discovers the remote while you are in downward dog. I don't care how much Shawn T yells at you, it's impossible to focus while a toddler is tantruming and splicing the workout with moments from Equestria.

The father figure hurt his back. There is an Italian male in some pain in the house. I was raised by a woman who herself was raised by some no nonsense pioneer descendants in Wyoming. I don't know how to handle Italians in discomfort. Or, I don't have the patience for it. I'm not cut out for nursing. I can remember to pick up the prescriptions, but will forget the icy hot patches. And I will observe that I had the same tweaked nerve....while pregnant. Which should make me sympathetic, but actually makes me annoyed. Especially since the father figure has stayed home from work, which tends to destroy the rhythm of a homeschooling day. And since he discovered that he can lay down on the bottom bunk of the boys' bed and reach the top bunk and grab small persons' feet and arms. The screaming has been going on for over an hour. I'm about ready to hide his pain pills. It was a lot quieter when he couldn't move.

X-Man calls Baby "Baby". He calls Mac "Mac." He calls Baba "You Guys." As with all things X-Man....the reasoning escapes me.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Cinco has learned that the maximum amount of cookies she can successfully steal, while climbing down from off the counter and running away is four.  She can run very fast. And I now remember why I don’t bake. Ever.

I also discovered that I will never go to Target again with or without children. Just never again. Have you ever just wanted to sit down just wanted to sit down in the aisle and cry? For the first time in my life that was me.

The problem was I had a vision. It was the father figure’s birthday and I imagined shopping for gifts to give him, both that evening and on Christmas. He had observed some games that he thought he would enjoy playing with the kids. I rolled my eyes enough at them in the store, successfully moving him away from them so that I could return with the kids to pick them up. Christmas surprise achieved. His rarely reading this blog comes in handy sometimes.

So we would go shopping, while sipping peppermint hot chocolate, browsing the aisles for the prettiest bows and wrapping paper. The only wrinkle in the plan was my children. As per usual.

For reasons I can’t remember, I was already annoyed by the time we got to the store. It had been a long work day; follow by having to feed people breakfast. It’s enough to put anyone in a bad mood.

I did not get them hot chocolate, I could see it being spilled everywhere and I wasn’t in the mood to wait for five hot chocolates to be made. And, fortunately, I have taught my children that Starbucks is the place where you get water. And coffee. But mostly water.  And X-Man and Cinco are still thrilled. The older kids know to smile and shut up and so we’re all able to pretend we’re happy.

I asked for two waters to go with my latte (go ahead judge me). I got one. I considered asking for a second one but was distracted by X-Man. He was standing, in the cart, pointing to the overhead Starbucks sign yelling “Q R S T.” I was excited by the possibility that maybe I had somehow taught my son something, so we focused on letters. I tried to point out the right letters, but he just continued to yell over me “Q R S T.”  I took it and ran.

X-Man settled down with his water, and suddenly Cinco decided that she had to have the water IMMEDIATELY or she would break and die.

So I wrestled the water away from X-Man and handed it to Cinco. She took it, smiled in a self-satisfied manner and sat, prim and proper. She didn’t drink anything. She just held it. And looked at X-Man, who was howling.

I was about to intervene when X-Man took the situation into his own hands. He stood up in the cart, still bellowing and ripped his shirt off. Which he then threw at Cinco. The shirt landed on the straw, which outraged Cinco greatly.  Baba volunteered to get a second water.

We continued on. My mood hovered around terror code orange. X-Man yelled “mis mis” at everything and Mac found the cd display and continued to press the button that played “Let it Go.” Or at least the first fifteen seconds of it. Cinco ignored the water and decided to dance instead. Which successfully rocked the cart into a Christmas tree display.

X-Man decided that he wanted to help fix the tree, so he climbed out of the cart. This wouldn’t have been all that problematic, if he had been wearing pants. He had been wearing pants very recently. Within the last three minutes. And yet, he was most definitely not wearing pants. Underwear….yes. #soblessed.

X-Man was distracted by Baby’s very audible gasp and remembered that he was sans trousers. He had a decision to make, whatever his reason was for climbing out of the cart…..or run. He chose run. He chose wrong.

Meanwhile Cinco saw that X-Man wasn’t in the cart and wiggled her way out of her seat belt to join in the fun. And the fun she intended to join was in the opposite direction. At least she was wearing pants. #blessediguess.

I brought X-Man back, Baba brought Cinco back. Only Cinco was clutching an Elsa/Anna ornament to her chest. The girl moves fast.  She gave me look that implied that as she was wearing all her clothes Elsa/Anna was coming home with her. #sooverit.

At some point in time X-Man also removed his shoes because….why not?  Probably because I removed Cinco’s pink shoes to try on some special sparkly Christmas shoes.  She was outraged. Completely outraged. Almost like I had taken away her Elsa/Anna ornament. And here I was trying to buy her shoes! It’s like she isn’t even my kid.

So Cinco was mad and demanded her shoes be put back on her feet. She was passionately negative about every pair of shoes that would fit hit. Meanwhile X-Man had removed his shoes and was offering to try on whatever pair I thought he should.

These were the highlights of our day. It was pretty swell. By the time we ended up at dinner, the waiter took one look at me and said “Mom will be happy to know that we are in happy hour now.”  I was.


Wednesday, December 17, 2014

It’s a good thing my kids number five. Because I. Can’t. Even.

X-Man is trying. Either trying to behave for Santa or just trying me. Recently he decided that he was incapable of removing his pants before using the restroom. But he still tries. Then gets them tangled about his ankles, face plants and bellows for me. He recovers quickly though. He announces that he’s through using the facilities by doing headstands as close to me as possible. I swear he waits until I sit down on the couch so he can vault right over the back onto his head. Usually with his cute little toosh right up in my face. And he says it’s gross when I kiss him.

I don’t craft. I’ve never claimed to. But that doesn’t stop Baby from deciding that this is the Christmas where she makes ALL THE THINGS. She has very particular visions in mind. I’ve been very straight with her. I’ll get the supplies and keep the babies away from her projects, but the rest is on her. Because I will break whatever it is she’s working on. When those visions don’t come to fruition, she gets frustrated. And annoyed with me. I think she holds me responsible for her lack of artistic talent. And she has a point.

The kids had their last Atrium classes for the year. So it was teacher gift time. For reasons that seemed to make sense to me in another life, I decided to bake them cranberry white chocolate pound cakes. Things went well, up until they came out of the oven. I set them cool, and fell asleep on the couch. I blame my boring book. I started awake to a definite X-Man voice saying “Yummy baby have some.” There’s  no scenario where that’s a good thing.

I entered the kitchen to find X-Man sitting on the counter next to the oven. Cinco was sitting demurely on the chair he had pushed over. She was not removing chunks from the bread. X-Man was. Cinco was  eating them.  X-Man beamed at me and said “Hi Mom want some?” See things are only naughty if he’s benefiting. If he’s being magnanimous with others’ Christmas gifts…..well that’s just the spirit of the season. Or some tortured logic. He also figured quickly that hastily beaten retreat was in everybody’s best interests.

Oddly enough, I think X-Man is the first child to be truly affected by my mom glare. He was doing something naughty and got caught by me. I radiated disapproval and he cowered down, covering his eye and started waving me off yelling “Stop it mom, stop it. Don’t look.” Fortunately he wasn’t looking at me as I had lost it at that point.

Anyway, X-Man was no match for my angry glare. And the damage wasn't all that bad. Nothing that a little extra white chocolate and cranberries couldn't fix. At least that's what I told myself. 

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

There was a time when X-Man ate whatever was put in front of him. And asked for more. This is not that time. He carefully picked all the vegetables out of his soup and piled them on the table. I instructed him to not do that. He carefully picked them up and dumped them in Mac’s bowl.  Looking back the whole incident, clearly Cinco rubbing the garlic bread in her hair shouldn’t have been my priority. Even though I don’t know how I’m going to wash her hair, as she’s still scared of water. 

Except when I’m taking a shower, then she’s convinced she should get in with me. Until I actually let her in…..them defcon hysteria.

X-Man’s finicky eating is still very toddler-esque. He won’t eat any dinner placed in front of him. He will eat dinner if he is sitting in my lap and eating off my plate. The father figure frowns on this greatly. As I should, but half the time I’m just happy he’s eating. Not that my fifty pound three year old is undernourished at all.

I should encourage the lack of eating in order to curb the boy’s energy. He’s upped the busyness to match the excitement of the season. He’s convinced that I’m holding out on him and that there really are bouncy balls hanging on the Christmas tree. He’ll find them if he has to test every. single. one.  Meanwhile Cinco is convinced that the snowflake ornaments are really cookies. She thinks she’s sly. The glitter on her lips betrays her.

I’d keep writing by X-Man just crawled into my lap, gave me a kiss and ran off. Which means he just did something very naughty. And messy.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

It’s never good when your just turned seven year old leans out the car door and bellows “MOM!!!! Do we have any wipes????” It’s especially not good when you are trying to get updated by the soccer coach and you left X-Man and a full cup of coffee in the car.

And now I have to shampoo the carpet in my car.

The father figure recently started eating his vegetables, even when we weren’t eating a family dinner. He will grudgingly choke them down if the kids are watching, but he never freely eats them. So I was surprised, and touched to see him eating not just broccoli but also squash. I understood. He has another birthday coming, and, soon, will be entering into a new decade. He needs to take care of himself. He’s worked hard and we are planning for the future. He needs to eat healthy if he wants to enjoy those golden years with me.

I stared at him, dreamily, envision the upcoming years when my coffee won’t be dumped all over my car. He smiled back, holding a large scoop of squash on his spoon. “Gotta start eating better.

Yes, yes of course you do dear.

My twenty year high school reunion is coming up.


Which just reminded me that I will have to attend his high school reunion next year. I grabbed a spoon and started eating squash with him. I’ve got five of stud muffin over there’s kids to work off.