It's day four of the Dodge Caravan Hostage crisis of 2013. And frankly I'm tired of getting things accomplished.

The father figure came home for lunch today. He was eating and I was reading the paper to him. It was an interesting article about traffic and then we discussed the coupons and various sales that were happening. We're old. I was a bit taken a back by how stereotypical we were, and slightly alarmed. But not enough to actually change my behavior.

As a hostage of the uncooperative car, I was able to set up the train table in the boys' room. It's similar to the tables that you might find at Barnes and Noble. I bought it for Mac's third birthday. It seemed like a reasonable purchase. He played with the tables at whatever stores had them and wailed something fierce as I pried his hands off. But rather than sit quietly and drive trains, like he typically did, Baby help him discover that the train tracks came apart and could be used as weapons. Also, you could color on them.

So the table went away. Shortly after we moved into our new house, X-Man began to talk a lot more. And one of his mostest favorite things is Thomas the Tank Engine. Or should I say, Homas the Hank Engine. It's the cutest thing ever. He's so happy when he shows you the Homas' in the book or his own Homas he got for his first birthday. He also likes to tell you the sound that Homas makes.

He truly appreciated the Homas table. He squealed as each piece can out and he had to run and show his siblings. It was very cute. And totally worth the effort to get the track together. And of course, as soon as it was set up, Mac and Baby and Baba all had to come play with it. Within minutes, it was spread all over the floor. I put it back together in time for X-Man's nap, not really sure why, but I did. And sure enough, I peeked in three hours later and there was X-Man, asleep on his intact table.

I loved talking to X-Man about Homas, mostly because it's so darn cute. And I was treasuring it until I over heard the father figure say "Hey X-Man, what's your favorite terrorist organization?" X-Man looked up from his train book and yelled "Homas!" And now that memory is ruined.

If you give a mouse a cookie, he will ask for a glass of milk. If you give a threenager a cookie, he will crumble it up, throw it in the air and shout “Look Mom, snow! Messy snow!!!!”

He will also strongly object to the necessary shower and hair combing that the sudden snow shower requires.

X-Man has been carefully juggling a grape with his knees. He keeps telling me it’s a soccer ball. Guess he’s been watching the World Cup along with his sisters.

X-Man wandered into the office today, as I was trying to wrap up the school year. He dropped his trousers, bent over and grasped both cheeks of his hiney in order to spread himself wide and bellowed “ouch Ma! Kiss it.”

Now I admit, I wondered if there was a master plan and he was about to pull and prank on me. But I am X-Man’s mom and when he asks for kisses I comply. At least somewhat. So I dubiously looked at my son, kissed my hand and patted his bare rear. This was not acceptable. He objected “No Mom! Ouch” and bent further over, pulling his cheeks even farther apart. I repeated my attempt to render first aid. He was most certainly not satisfied. Bending even further over, so that his head was resting on the floor (oh those were the days) he glared at me through his wide stance “MOM OUCHES!!!!” I was unmoved. And confused. Exasperated X-Man gave what can only be described as a teenage sigh,  straightened up, took my hand and said “Kiss it!” I complied. He then firmly smacked it on the other bare cheek and pulled his pants up and carried on with his day. 

Ah Monday. The day that I wake up and discover that there is no coffee in the house. Also, the day I am informed that not one, not two but all three of my soccer playing children have games at 10:30am Saturday morning. At three different locations. On opposite sides of town. Of course.

Monday is also the day after Sunday, typically. So it is the day after the father figure stood outside church with a child screaming “NO CHURCH!!!! PLAYTIME!!!!” “NO QUIET!!!! PLAY!!!!” I give the boy props for being honest. He knows what he wants and he most definitely demands it.

He tried that approach with me today. He wanted to watch TV. I am not interested in using the TV as a babysitter any more than I already do, so I sad ‘No”. Clearly I misunderstood his demands, so he screamed them. As he is approaching three years of age, I have begun to stop my previous method of dealing with his tantrums, walking away. I know put him in his time out spot and start the timer. In theory, he is supposed to not scream while sitting there, in theory. At this point, I still have to keep him sitting, and he doesn’t do well with time frames. The minute he quieted down, his chubby arms shot out expecting me to pick him up. So it was a struggle for both of us, as we both really wanted to hug before the two minute timer was up.

Two minutes comes quickly so we did hug it out and I had to chase down his sister. She had taken to dancing on the table, celebrating the fact that her mother was distracted. Determined to not have any child of mine comfortable with dancing on tables, the baby and I found ourselves locked in a battle of wills as to what furniture and kitchen fixtures were permissible to be climbed on. `She decided that if she hid under the table, she would leave with her dignity intact. And also, eat the Cheerios she had thrown under it during breakfast. Judge me, I was wrestling with a toddler.

With Cinco slightly contained, I went in search of X-Man. This is how my day goes, find the baby, find the toddler, lose the baby, lose the toddler. Stop the baby, save the home.

There he was, in my bedroom, on my bed. The bed I was trying to make when he came demanding TV.  He was most definitely trying to make my bed. The blankets were shoved around and he was stacking the pillows, one on top of the other as I found him. He turned to me beaming, “All done mama, watch TV?”

He accepted playing Thomas the Tank Eng

ine instead. And lots and lots of hugs.

Today's soccer commute took me in opposite directions. In theory, I only had fifteen minutes to make the drive that, as I learned today, can be made in thirty. Fortunately Baba's coach had a team practicing before hers, so she got dropped off early. Local folks I'm talking Skyview High School to Harmony Complex and back. Truly about as opposite as you can get in Clark County. Because the girls are playing for different clubs this year. Clubs that practice on the same days and just about the same time.

This, along with many other factors, contributed to my response to a soccer dad tonight. He asked me how it was going. Without thinking about how I should paint a rosier picture of my life I responded "It's been the kind of day where I find myself chanting 'prison orange does not look good on me, prison orange does not look good on me.' So far it's working" We were standing together watching our daughters practice and I could see him repeating what I had just said. Unfortunately, it all clicked as he was taking a swig of his drink, resulting in spewing and gagging. And him turning to me and saying "You're FUNNY!"

Please do continue to laugh at my life.

Lest the wrong child be blamed for my newest mantra, should I be incarcarated anytime soon the blame should fall squarly on Cinco's shoulders. She's faster, more nimble and her abs have got to be out of this world, considering the stunts she's been able to pull.

Cinco has recently developed all sorts of awesome new skills. She now knows how to operate the water dispenser on the fridge. Concerned, as X-Man has ceased to water the kitchen floor, she has picked up his slack. At least someone around here is noticing what isn’t getting done and doing something about it. Of course, everyone else, including the father figure, keeps forgetting that we know have to lock the dispenser so I get to explain every five minutes how to get water again. That doesn’t get old.

Cinco can also open the washer door. This is my one complaint with my front loader. Well that, and the fact that Mac took a bite out of the gasket. Which isn’t really the front loader’s fault, but still someone should have seen that coming. Someone other than me. But back to Cinco. She can open the washer door. And does so. Yes, the door has a lock, but it’s a lock that can be disabled should you push the right button. There’s only like five buttons available, so the kid finds it. Also, the door only locks if the cycle is going, which means only rarely is Cinco briefly foiled. I only discovered that she could disable the wash cycle; excuse me for making my bed, when she started screaming. She wasn’t hurt, just royally ticked off. See, X-Man, who had been pilfering the cereal, the laundry room and the pantry are one in the same, saw what she was up to and decided to make sure it was safe. This meant trying to climb in, while Cinco was attempting to as well. The washer, filled with clothes was unable to accommodate both renegades. However, this wasn’t discovered until both were stuck in the washer. Naturally I blamed X-Man for this, up until I caught Cinco turning off the washer all by herself.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. I mean, this is the child I caught climbing up on the table, to the counter and then opening cupboards. And that was the good escapade. I made the mistake of thinking that I could use the bathroom. I don’t know why I thought this, five children in, but I did. Won’t make that mistake again. Seeing that I found Cinco sitting in the middle of the stove, trying to turn on the burners. She didn’t even push a chair over for that one. She climbs up on the handles of the drawers, and then uses the oven handle. All features that do need to remain in my kitchen. With the exception of the baby on the stove.

Cinco is very competitive with X-Man. She has been for a while. It started with me and spread to all people. She is oh so shy, unless her grandparents are paying attention to X-Man, then she’s right there making sure everyone is aware of her cuteness. She is certain that anything and everything that X-Man does, she should be able to do. That includes using the potty. If X-Man uses the potty, she demands her turn. Should mommy be busy helping X-Man wash his hands, well she’ll just climb up there herself. Again, the abs of this child! And then she falls in. At least she acts as If it was by accident. Keep in mind; this is the child who calls Amnesty International every time she is given a bath. But toilet water…..MORE PLEASE!!!!! And don’t you dare try to remove her or clean her up. It’s just further proof that you love X-Man more. Fortunately X-Man still looks forward to flushing the potty, unlike other siblings of his, so the situation could be significantly worse. I mean, I could be wearing prison orange.

And while prison orange lacks appeal, I have to say, padded rooms are looking more comfortable by the minute.

In today’s first world problems:

Baby has learned why I insist she read the book before seeing the movie. Recently she’s seen The Book of Ember and the two Percy Jackson movies. She is still indignant. She kept a running commentary of everything they were doing wrong and why the books were so much better. She was almost offended that they even thought they were telling the same story.

Mac is very pleased that he has learned to ride his bike. However, he would like it to “not be so sweaty.”

Cinco has decided that I am not busy enough. So she has taken to climbing. Everything. In the three minutes it took me to get the older girls situated with their tests, Cinco climbed up on the table, walked across it, climbed onto the counter, opened the cupboard and started removing coffee cups. It is an act of extreme cruelty to remove her from this position.

X-Man successfully thwarted my newest attempts to torture him. His first trip to the dentist started at the

prize box and ended at the prize box. And he only head butted me once.

Gestated Cinco has been gestated for ten months now. We are at a bit of a loggerheads right now.

Cinco believes she is old enough to have full access to my phone. And that it is unfair that I attempt to hide it from her. She most definitely old enough to stalk me and discover all of my stashing places.

Cinco also thinks she should be allowed to feed herself. And only she knows how to properly use silverware. And while her discerning palate cannot tolerate pureed mixed vegetables, she is a big fan of broccoli smuggled to her under the table by X-Man.

She is certainly big enough to climb the stairs all by herself. But she would prefer that I always remain in her line of site. Unless she has a magnificent treasure that she's purloined, in which case she would prefer it that I make myself scarce.

In return, Cinco has recently decided that sleeping through the night isn't such a bad thing. But she still wakes up at night a feels the need to remind us that she is indeed in her own bed, and isn't the biggest fan of the arrangements.

I have had another break through with X-Man when it comes to the potty. And this time, there has been consistent success. The first step was to have him go diaperless. The second step was to reward him with something he consistently desires. So the diaperless X-Man's been using the potty independently and then yelling to watch his "honies." That's right. I'm potty training my son using "My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic." The father figure isn't sure how he feels about this. I am completely sure. X-Man has figured the system out already. He goes enough to make it through a twenty minutes episode and then runs back into the bathroom. But I don't care. He's a fan of candy, but can certainly live without it. He apparently cannot go with his ponies. I don't care if he self identifies as a "brony." Bronies wear underwear.

Driving to swimming lessons today, the older kids were playing a game of "guess what I'm drawing." From the back I heard "Is it a frog?" "Is it a park?" "A soccer ball?' "Dinosaur?" "A monster?" "MOM'S FACE???"

It was a cup of hot chocolate. The art does not run deep in this family.

nobodysopinion.com

The Snowpocalypse has come and gone. Although we ended up snowed in, there's something about a disruption to your life, no matter the form, that just throws everything out of whack. Maybe it was the kids running in and out of the house. Maybe it was the increase in laundry. Maybe it was the bundling up of X-Man, who desperately wanted to be outside, followed by the unbundling of X-Man because snow is cold. But everyone is outside, so out we must go. But it's freezing!

So, that's how the last four days went. The kids hiked to the grocery store with the father figure. I took them to a coffee shop. We made good use of the snow days, even got more caught up with my grading that I have to do.

We had a few highlights to the days. X-Man discovered that when you throw a blanket over your head and run around the house, eventually you will run into something. Ignoring mom comes with a price. He seemed to think that I set him up the bump (see what I did there?) and was fairly outraged.....at me. I mean I did put the hutch there......seven weeks ago. But clearly I am to blame here.

I remembered why I don't cook with hamburger meat. I tend towards ground turkey, but my FIL bought ground beef on sale and gave some to us. So I used it, and had to drain it several times. This, in and of itself, wasn't an issue. It wasn't until I came out of the pantry to X-Man gagging and sputtering that I realized the extra downside to draining the meat. Thankfully, X-Man waited until I disappeared into the pantry before attempting to sample the grease. That wait length allowed it to cool noticeably. Besides, there would be no way that mom would allow X-Man to climb up onto the table, push a chair towards the counter, climb on to the counter and grab the grease. (As a responsible mother, I had kept it away from little hands....or so I thought). He got what he deserved. Although his nice jacket that he was still wearing did not deserve to be covered in a spit and grease mixture. Again, somehow I was to blame for grease tasting like grease does. At least how I assume it tastes, I've never actually drank it before.

I'm fairly sure Bob Costas gave us pink eye. We watched the Olympics and the next morning, Baba and Mac woke up with it. And of course we were thoroughly snowed in at this point. Now, one might think this would be the worst health outbreak of the Snowpocalypse. You would be wrong. X-Man figured he might as well spice things up by vomiting. Starting bright and early in the morning. Yucky stomachs means no food in my world. No food means torture in X-Man's world. He did not handle the deprivation well. I found him huddled in a corner in the kitchen, eating a contraband banana. This would not have been too serious a problem, had he not been so sweetly sharing with Cinco. He'd take a bite, she'd take a bite. I screeched in horror. They were not satisfied with a different banana for Cinco. They were not interested in Cinco having the bottom half of the banana, that was sans X-Man vomitus germs. Nope, alternating bites or scream city. I preferred scream city to the clean up that might have followed.

Later, X-Man stole my coffee, and Cinco followed him in the laundry room where they partook in the stolen delight. I figured that I had left the cup somewhere, and looked over almost the whole house, before discovering them. For the record, the father figure was allegedly watching the babies.  By that time, they had determined that it was more fun to spill the coffee on the floor, splash in it and then try to climb into the washing machine. Because, you know, they were dirty. I was alerted to their presence in the laundry room by, what else, screaming. X-Man and Cinco cannot both fit in the washing machine at one time.

It was an educational few days.

Today we're observing a fun game called "Well Played X-Man."

Misbehave in church and lose your doughnut privilege. Decide you need to use the potty, reveal a completely dry diaper and indeed use the potty. Hop off the potty and ask "noughnut mommy?"
Well Played X-Man.

Lay in bed and start screaming. Continue to scream until Mac comes to get mommy. Scramble up the ladder to the top bunk. Pretend to be sleeping when mommy come to your rescue.
Well Played X-Man.

Give Baba a kiss. Give her a second one. Pucker up your lips for a third. When she leans in, lick her face. Chortle in glee when she screams.
Well Played X-Man.

Climb into the bath tub. Scream when removed. Chase after daddy as he leaves the house. Face plant in the garden. Requiring bath.
Well Played X-Man.

See that mommy and daddy are leaving. Race after mommy to give her a big hug and kiss. Push yourself out the door yelling "bye Daddy!" but immediately divert to the large pile of snow yelling "missmiss!!!"  Yell "I want missmiss" when carried back inside.
Well Played X-Man.

Get angry at mom. Hit her. While hitting her yell "High five mommy."
Well Played X-Man.

If it was physically possible to drop kick a Pontiac Trans Am....I would have done it by now.

A rookie mistake when parenting is being overly ambitious. And being foolish enough to start special traditions with your kids, because when there's one of them it's easy and seems fun. Then you wake up one morning, and it's 15 degrees outside, five kids and a whole bunch of empty shoes to fill.

I like the St. Nicholas tradition. When I had two kids, I used it as a time to give them new shoes for Christmas. And that was very exciting for them. When that got to be a bit challenging, timewise, sizewise, moneywise, I downsized to Christmas socks or slipper socks  or something festive. Accompanying all gifts was some chocolate and treats.

Suddenly it was December 5th and Baba oh so helpfully reminded everyone else that they needed to leave their shoes out. And of course they all left a pair out not the one as dictated by tradition. Baba even made sure that Cinco had her shoes out.

And so I came to one of the hardest decisions for me to date. Do I write a letter purportedly from St. Nicholas chastising the absurdly over the top shenanigans of my children, or do I allow the good saint to stay in favor with my children and I do my dirty work myself. I have to say, that's a very unpleasant thought.

It's not that I have bad children. It's just that in my family we celebrate Festivus every single day. There are feats of strength that inevitably result in the airing of grievances, loudly and angrily. And then engage in more feats of strength to express how truly grieved they are by....whatever.

It's gotten so bad that Baby was shrieking in the middle of the kitchen "MOOOOOM! Baba isn't cleaning the kitchen! " (It's a joint chore) Of course Baba was taking the recycling out as part of cleaning the kitchen and Baby pounced on the opportunity to be grieved. At this point Baby is in gold medal contention.

I made Mac brush his teeth and change his underwear. While not as grievous as the washing of X-Man's face I engaged in, Mac was broken up over the need to remove his Batman underwear....BATMAN Mom!!!!

The girls have to share a bedroom. Yet both seem to be insulted by the possibility of eye contact. Although they present a united front if the boys try to enter their room. Unless.....there is possibility of a large uproar if Baba gives Mac permission to come in while Baby rages.

Back and forth. Louder and more obnoxious. The bickering escalates until I loudly decree that if they have oxygen with which to fight, it means they aren't working hard enough around the house. While this doesn't end the squabbling, it does reduce it to mere hissing.

Then, as I'm cleaning up the office, I stumble upon a pile of Christmas cards that Baby's made for everyone in the family. They were next to the book Baba's writing for Mac. So, the tirade from St. Nick was shelved for another year.

I've been trying extra hard to be a good mother. So that means making sure to read every night to the boys. It does not go well. Mac wants only one story, The Boy Who was Followed Home. Then he has to talk about how unfortunate his life is as he, being homeschooled, is not presented with the opportunity to be followed home from school by any assortment animals.

X-Man has his own approach. He likes me to read him his Lightening McQueen story. He loves both the race car and Mater. And he knows the story. The problem is, I don't. It's not that I can't read. It's that X-Man has clearly told himself a story, narrated by the pictures. When I try to read the words, he gets annoyed. And frustrated. He'll take the book from my hands, narrate the story, rather unintelligibly I'm afraid, and hand the book back to me. He has a look of expectation as I begin again. And do it wrong again. After grabbing the book a few more times, he settles himself into my lap and retells the story more emphatically. Again, I fail to tell the story correctly, or, sadly, understand his story. Eventually, he took my fingers in his hand and pointed them emphatically at both cars, more incoherent babbling and jabbing. And frustration.

You might think the solution would be to read a different book. That is entirely unacceptable however. I am to read the story he has in his mind to him. It's not working.

I also learned that not one but two children can scream during an hour long car trip through rush hour traffic and still not sleep that night. And that it is difficult to drive one handed, while holding a phone that is playing NetFlix. I guess complaining about the lack of streaming capabilities during a rush hour drive might just be first world of me, but man, it was chaos as I have never experienced it. And that, folks, is saying something.

It's Monday. That means X-Man christened my new furniture, the father figure's car still doesn't run, although it's been "fixed" three times, the police haven't contacted me back about the report I filed. The Christmas gifts I ordered are out of stock, sorry we forgot to update the website.  And I'm out of diaper wipes. In care you're wondering, there's been a plethora of poop today.

Cinco's been crabby and refused to sleep last night. She made sure to keep us informed of her whereabouts all night. Right next to my ear. Never left. Never quit. As I was complaining to a friend, who is helping clear up the chaos of a project I'm supposedly running, I happened to feel a tooth up top her mouth. Context provided. It helped clear things up, especially since the father figure had been insisting that she was feverish and should have Tylenol last night. And by should have, he meant that I should get out of bed and get her some because he most certainly didn't. He was on to something. This also means that this delightful behavior should last another couple of weeks. Wahoo.

Google maps is creepy folks. We used Android tracker to narrow my stolen tablet's location down to approximately twenty meters. Based upon the wifi usage. The father figure pulled up google maps to try to determine which out of the two houses it was most likely at. We saw soccer balls in the front yard and went with that one. While we both indulged in fantasies of ringing the door bell, in this nice middle class neighborhood, and asking if they had stumbled upon a tablet by chance, it's just a little disturbing to know this much about someone. Although, I guess you're asking for your privacy to be violated the minute you stick your hand in someone else's purse.

I'm considering investing in a taser for X-Man. I'm at my wits' end. In the five second it took me to answer Mac's math question, X-Man managed to dump three cereal boxes worth of cereal on the floor of the pantry. He settled himself down and was crushing each piece individually with his fingers. He also opened the oven while dinner was cooking "Wow hot Ma!". He's figured out how to turn off the lock on the water dispenser on the fridge. He had a spectacular temper tantrum involving a sealed box of Cheezits, after the cereal display I don't understand why he thought I'd be allowing him near any open containers, although I could sure use an open container. And he jumped on my back and put me in a sleeper hold while I was working out.

The result was that when reading him his ABCs, I told him that E is for exorcist.

If there's puke involved, it's a Monday. Especially if the father figure is going all white knight on the situation and decides to handle it. And reassures you that it's all good. Just on a hunch, it not being a first rodeo or anything, you decide to double check. And find that the little bit of spew that occurred in the bathroom and that the father figure cleaned up was preceded by copious amounts of spewing in the bedroom. Like the bed, and the floor and the clothing thrown on the floor because people still don't use hampers in this house.

Life with five kids is always complicated. It gets especially complicated when Cinco decides that she does want to eat anymore. At least during daylight hours. Because there are way better things to do like look at ceiling fans, trying to crawl and nurse at the same time and chew on my computer. But mostly look at ceiling fans or wonder why mom and dad bought a house with a stunning paucity of ceiling fans.

It's not that she's interested in table food. Well she is, until she actually tastes it. Cinco gets frenetically excited when she sees food. I'm still expecting her to take off with the hysterical flapping she does. However, she has yet to be impressed with what she's been fed so far. I consider it training for the rest of her life eating her mother's cooking. Never lives up to your expectations.

Now Cinco's the active little girls. She hauls diaper at a remarkable pace. So she does find herself needing nourishment, after her entertainment. So, when the lights go down, she starts to eat. All night. And my little girl who so perfectly slept through the night for the first few months of her life, threw that game plan out and wrote a new one. I'm not a fan of the new one.

After a couple of weeks of watching Cinco drift off for good around 5am and knowing that I had to teach a math class at 7am, I decided to write my own game plan. So I now have to pump a bottle for Cinco and feed it to her. It's a win win, she eats and sleeps.

The downside is that I have to pump. Which takes up it's own time, time that I don't really have. And it attract unnecessary attention. Mostly from X-Man. The first few times he just pointed and laughed. But obviously he thought the process over. He came over tonight and pointed and shrieked with delight "Mommy robot. Robot!"

I believe that I have solidified my standing as the coolest parent. I'm a robot parent. The father figure can take them to Chuck E. Cheese all he wants. I'm a robot!

Starry eyed home  buyers saw the wood floors through the house and thought "how beautiful." They did not consider the consequences of placing a nearly mobile infant fully clothed on said wood floor. And she's outta here!

Seriously, even Cinco surprises herself as to how fast she can move her little diaper across any floor on the lower level. Her mixture of vaulting, army crawling and sliding is quite effective. The only direction she's  interested in heading is the direction of power cords. Any and all. Which makes our quality work time in my office not nearly as productive as you might think.

It's ok. There is a time to work and a time to snuggle my little sweeties. They are little for such a few precious moments, and it's a tiny fraction of those short moments when they actually want to sit still in mama's arms. So drink it in, bury your face in their ridiculously over grown curls. Enjoy them as they tickle your nose, he won't allow you to savor them for long. Hold their little chubby baby hands in yours. Trace their fingers with yours, don't worry about the dirt encrusted in their nails, don't wonder how it got their and why seven consecutive baths don't improve the situation at all. Rub their little jean clad thighs, let not your mind wander to whatever it is crusted on their pants. It's probably just peanut butter, from lunch. Because you put clean pants on today...didn't you? Took them out of the drawer. Of course Mac was cleaning up the room last night so who knows what got shoved  in where. Sweet little darlings. What's the point of shoes if you take them off the minute you get outside? Where have you taken those feet? Focus! These moments pass so quickly. And as much as they love you, they don't always fit in your lap. It is priceless time. A time that your heart will ache for. All too soon.

A mother will have a physical reaction when snuggling her little one. There's a peaceful relaxation that takes over. Knowledge that every second is a gift. And if that little hand reaches up to stroke your face while starring off in the distance....melt. You slide into a puddle of mushy joy. You can feel the love literally spread through your body, its warmth washing over you. Warm snugglinesss. And wet, wet too. Yeah.....

So wrapped up in the moment, missed the missing diaper. Good to know he's perfectly comfortable.

For reasons she won't explain. Gestated Cinco is bound and determined to pull the phone off the shelf and onto her head. Again. She apparently thinks it's still her best hope for rescuing.

As of tomorrow I will have an attic. An insulated attic that is. An attic in which I can lock my children. Oh did I say that aloud. I mean, an attic in which I will lock my children's clothes and various other things that they continue to outgrow yet I seem to still need. This will go a long to to clearing out my living room. And hopefully taming the zoo that is our home. Although, as we will all still be living here, it's a minor victory.

I was stopped at a traffic light, puzzled as to why my car was rocking. Much to the father figure's dismay, I keep the bass turned way down. So it wasn't that. I craned my neck and saw X-Man rocking out. There really is no other way to describe it. He was literally rocking his carseat, fortunately anchored, back and forth while thrashing his head and kicking the back of my seat. I am impressed with that boy's power.

It's not so much that the boy has soul. More that as he is now in a big boy bed, in a room full of toys that no one else can bother him in, he kinda skips out on the nap. He'll stay in there for three hours, enjoying his peace and quiet. As a result, as we head off to afternoon soccer, he's bound and determined to do whatever he physically can to keep himself from passing out. Because you never know what exciting things you might miss in the commute to soccer.

Cinco enjoys the show. She starts squealing, with then encourages him further. Then she gets even more excited. Today, the joy cumulated in a thrown binky. Which hit me in the head as I was driving. The arm on that child is most impressive. Of course, both were startled when I let out a yelp. The three older kids didn't even lift their eyes from the Calvin and Hobbes they were reading. I caught the two little ones exchange looks of wide eyed concerned, followed by more giggling. I think X-Man was hoping Cinco would stumble upon another binky.  My clean driving record appreciated her inability to.

I used to think that typing while nursing was hard. Now I miss those days (does that make me sound old?). While typing this, Cinco has gone from bouncing herself on my leg, to laying on my leg gnawing my knee, back up and vaulting towards my nose to holding my thumb and licking the keyboard. We're calling it a night.

Sunday morning found the father figure and I playing beat the clock as we attempted to find ourselves with time to actually reach church on time. Somehow this led to a conversation that contained the phrase (uttered by me) "Your fat wife." The father figure responded in a sassiest voice possible while still possessing a y chromosome "If you mean P H A T girlfriend." Well played husband, well played. We will never be having that conversation again.
I'm sitting in the car with Mac, X-Man and Cinco while Baba and Baby are practicing soccer. Of course they are in different parts of town, my life doesn't get to be that simple. X-Man is determined to remove the Lightening McQueen from the base of Mac's umbrella. Mac is convinced the umbrella ought to be opened in the car. Cinco knows she's missing out.

Today's car trip went something like this.

X-Man "MA!!!!!"
"What?"
"I dunno"
"Ok."

"MOM?!"
"What"
"I dunno"

"MA!!!!"
"Do you know what's going on X-Man?"
"Nope"

Because that's not annoying or anything. Lest I became bored while driving X-Man kept things lively with the unmistakable sound of a rather full glass of water being dumped.

I find myself retaliating at times. Mostly just for kicks, because I'm a bad mother.

"MA!!!!"
"X-Man."

Pause

"Ma!"
"X-Man"

Pause

"NO. MOMMY!"
"X-Man."

Irritated pause. The child is not amused.

"MOM. ME. MOM. ME"
"X-Man."

At this point he crumpled to the floor, head in hands and began to wail. Until he realized that Cinco had vacated her swing and he was on a mission.

"Ma"
"Get out of the swing X-Man."

He was triumphant. He won. I was almost as amused as when Baby wails to the father figure "I'm hungry" and he responds "I'm Daddy." Now those are some fireworks.

Everything went well until the car was parked. The father figure removed X-Man from his carseat and asked "ready to go to church?" X-Man was definitely in the not so church going sort of mood. And that's how I came to be outside the church with a wailing X-Man. Fortunately it hadn't rained recently, so I didn't have to keep him from trying to drink the rain water accumulated on the railing. Not that he didn't go looking for it. I got to lug the 40 lb heathen around because he hadn't forgiven the father figure for driving him there. How he knew there were no doughnuts, I have no idea, but it would have been nice for him to spread the word to his siblings. Fewer questions for me to field. 

Mac has a new game he plays with his cousins. It’s called the “Cutie Game.” No wait, it gets better. He shoots candy and rainbows. When I heard this, I admit it was with trepidation that I asked “from where?” “From my stomach. I do it like this.” He then punched himself in the stomach.

From what I could tell, this game was an excuse to make retching and barfing noises for his cousins. Occasionally I would look over and he’d reassure me “It’s ok, I’m just shooting rainbows.”  I guess this is what comes of playing “kid friendly” Wii games. You decide to vanquish spiders with kit kats.

Or, it’s how you play weird violent games with your cousins while holding your mom at bay. Your guess is as good as mine. 

I hate to break it to ya’ll, but I don’t actually know if the child I’m gestating has red hair. I mean, you can keep asking me “is this baby going to have red hair?” and I will most likely stick with my current answer “Well, it depends on who the father is.” Admittedly, this does make the father figure cringe, but what the heck else am I supposed to say.  Maybe it’s some sort of innate bigotry on my part, but I feel strongly that only reasonable questions deserve reasonable answers.  I used to respond—because yes, I have been asked this question way more times than anyone should be comfortable with—“Well I did mark that box on the order form". But I decided I didn’t really like what that might imply for Baby and X-Man and, quite possibly, Gestating Cinco. Red hair is not the be all end all. However, I am still checking the “potty trained” box. Who knows, that might just come through for me one of these times.

I learned during my first pregnancy that babies, and the protrusion they cause, belong to the world. And I’m ok with that. I think there’s something beautiful about that. It’s one thing to rub my belly. It’s another to rub it and say “baby kick me.” Really? Why are you trying to provoke my child into a violent frenzy?  I don’t find that well-adjusted behavior.

You are, of course, absolutely the first person ever to ask me if I know what causes pregnancy. I’m so glad you asked, see I was homeschooled. The blank look that answer produces is pretty darn satisfying. And if you suggest that we start watching more TV, or get cable, I will tell you “If you think watching TV is better, you’re doing it wrong.” The funny thing is you’ll end up way more uncomfortable than I will.

Please do ask me if I am going to circumcise my son. See there’s nothing more I like to discuss with strangers than my son’s genitals. That’s not creepy at all. And it’s not weird that when I say “boy” that’s the first thing that comes to mind.

I absolutely LOVE being pregnant, thanks for your observation. I don’t know which is better, hemorrhoids or heartburn. Although nothing is as awesome as labor. Thank you for suggesting that I get an epidural as soon as I walk in the hospital door, your advice is so helpful since I haven’t done this several times before. Oh and I’m so glad you reminded me to go drug free as to not interfere with my baby bonding. I knew there was a reason why I just don’t seem to like X-Man. Hey you’re the one who brought it up, don’t go be all horrified when I agree with you.

I needed to hear your breastfeeding horror stories. See, after doing this four times, I didn’t have any myself.

I truly appreciate your smug comments that I will need to tuck, lift and rejuvenate certain areas of my body if I want to keep my husband. He’s gotten me pregnant five times, why would I want him to stick around?

X-Man is sitting next to me, outraged. He’s playing with one of the set of Tonka trucks Santa brought him. Stupid Santa. There are six in the set and each has three different noises, so yeah, that’s eighteen unique noises in the hands of a nineteen month old. He was in Heaven all Christmas.

But now they are nothing but a source of frustration. He has his preferred cars, and which is the unfixable issue, his favorite noises. But they are on a three noise cycle. So he can only hear his favorite noise every three times. He keeps thrusting the offending car, with the offending noise at me. And I’m supposed to fix it. He doesn’t talk yet, but he does imitate the noise that he wants quite well. So through tears and rage, and assisted with a sniffly version of the siren he’s seeking, we struggle through together. He’s disillusioned as I don’t produce it immediately, followed by sheer joy that comes with finding the right sound. And then he rubs his nose on my shoulder, and we repeat the cycle.

Ah the joys of children playing. It’s a hilarious experience.  I remember the first really, truly, insane fight I had to break up between Baby and Baba. It was over an invisible flower. Yes, an invisible flower. And where it was to be placed on the baby doll’s head. So, being the understanding, good mom that I am, I gave each of them their own invisible flower. And left the room feeling satisfied. Only to again hear the shrieking and crying again. Because, each child had place her invisible flower on the exact same location on the baby doll’s head.  I believe this was the first time I exclaimed to my daughters “Are you guys for real?!!?” Not my finest moment after all.

They’ve gotten older, and their fights have too. Although it wasn’t that long ago that Baba came running out of their room yelling “MOM Baby won’t let my fairy come to her wedding!!!” Baby was hot on her heals explaining “She has a fever!!!!”

Adding Mac into the equation didn’t do much to mess with their groove. They would play house, along with Mac, Mac’s children would be his assorted baseball bats and trains. Not that there weren’t fights. Baby and Baba came out together to file a complaint. Mac was refusing to bring his knights to their ball. I commented that I believed that fell within Mac’s rights as a human being to not attend every ball his sisters threw.  Baby was completely baffled “But everybody loves a BALL!”

They keep each other entertained.. The girls build fairy houses; Mac builds a haunted house, complete with an octopus. I blame the grandfather who brought back a stuffed cuttle fish from some aquarium. Sometimes Mac hunts monsters with his gun, but more than once that has deteriorated into Baby, armed with his gun, running away screaming “He’s trying to bite me!” Mac, always helpful, shouting his own clarifications “No, I am going to pinch you!”

X-Man has started trying to keep up. He knows that he ought to be the center of attention. So he plows into the middle of whatever and sits himself down. X-Man is still cute enough that he will most likely be accommodated. Mac is the least likely to accept X-Man’s intrusions. Mostly because X-Man is primarily interested in Mac’s toys.

They play together well. I just hope the neighbors aren’t alarmed by the chalk outlines on the driveway.

I’ve spent the last couple of years playing a weird, stressful game with myself. It’s called “Is he a boy? Or is he weird?”

It’s not all that hard. I’ve had family tell me often that Mac is “weird”. That he has “problems” and “autistic tendencies.” It’s not that these thoughts haven’t crossed my mind as well, but it is particularly bothersome to hear from family members. I see the oddities, the quirks and the mannerisms.  On a side note, never, ever take an online “does my child have autism” test. You will end up recognizing that all your children, your husband and your cat all have autism. Not helpful.

My family of origin doesn’t have a whole lot of “boy” experience. Sure there was a son, but he as surrounded by sisters, five of them. He is a laid back personality to begin with. And he didn’t have much of the way of testosterone laidened peers until he was about eight. So he’s not the best measuring stick.

So I’m left wondering “Is he a boy? Or is he weird?” And there’s a case to be made for either one.

Like when Mac explained "I don't like it when I get in trouble." Me "Neither do I, what should we do about that?" Mac "Let me do whatever I want." Not really that weird. Nor all that boyish. Just human.

However, licking sap off his feet and yelling “yummy.” I’m going to have to go with weird.

Campaigning to name preborn X-Man “Peter Parker.” Pretty boyish. Although I’m pretty sure there was a hope that this brought his new brother some superpowers along with it.

"Mac are you doing what I told you to?" "Yep, but don't come check!" Not weird, not boyish. Very kid-like.

Informing me that he’s scared that I’m haunted….gonna have to go with weird.

Mac's creative. When he wanted to leap from counter to table, or from the treadmill, he brought me a book to read. His very insistent "Read this mommy. NO! Look at your book. Don't look at me.” Didn't set off any alarm bells, none so whatsoever. Conniving. Not weird.

Being awakened by my son jumping on the bed, singing, "I'm naked, I'm naked."  Which he indeed was. Weird. The whole, it being 4:26 am, that was just icing on the cake.

Hearing “get dressed” and taking that to mean “sit in the middle of your room and sing....naked." Weird.

Explaining that it's ok that he peed on my bedroom floor "Because I didn't go stinkies" That’s almost lawyer-esque.

Walking out of his bedroom, sitting forlornly on the couch, at 11:15 pm no less "I wish there were bugs in my room. There aren't any. Not yet." Kinda weird.

”Mac don't pick your nose, it's yucky.”  “But it's yummy to me!” yikes.

Mommy tells Mac "no", Mac shoots mommy. It's a work in progress. But understandable in a way.

Is it typical for your young man to commence peeing with a gunshot noise? That’s weird in my book.

After dinner the other night, Mac and I were going through letters of the alphabet and he was telling me what words began with them. For “q” he told me “quest.” I admit, I was impressed. For “b” he began with bomb, and then moved on to a “very important word. Blood.” As he was listing words, he climbed across every chair in the kitchen, until he reached my chair. He ended up in my lap, arms around my neck, listing “r” words. Mac’s legal name starts with “r” so I looked into his brown eyes and asked “Mac do you know what mommy’s absolute favorite ‘r’ word is?” He tightened his grip around my neck, and earnestly replied “Rooster.”

He might just be weird. But he’s my little boy.