It’s been busy. Very busy. Not the good kind with fun events, but just crazy going going going. This makes me tired. And less amused by the endless stream of antics by my kids. Which then leaves me with fewer things I am willing to recount in a blog.

It’s the kind of week where when Mac bellows “MOM! X-Man has ice cream sandwiches in his pockets!” makes total sense. Sure enough, X-Man had shoved frozen confections into four different pockets of his and made a break for the backyard. He was willing to share the purloined items with Cinco, who was waiting under the slide.

Cinco is at the end of her rope. She graced me with an epic meltdown as she was unable to participate in her older sisters’ soccer camp. She feels that her year and half worth of tagging along to various soccer events and practices has earned her the right to join in with all the other girls. Or her brother’s practice. Any chasing of any ball will do. But it must be with the big kids. Of which she is one.

Baby won her fourth soccer tournament of the summer. It was a feisty few games, in which I half expected to see Baby throw a punch. She isn’t ever the aggressor in a situation, but she does not suffer shoving patiently and will give as good as she gets. It appears that she is visualizing Baba as she goes full bore. She’s a spitfire, hiding behind a shy grin.

X-Man just discovered the cookies I hid. In the laundry room. In the cabinet above the washer. I think my time here is done.

For the first time this summer, we had a free weekend. It hadn’t occurred to me until halfway through Friday. I was plowing through the third kid’s drawers, removing the too small clothing, sorting and folding. I had cleaned the closets and all the drawers. Where was I getting all this time? Why did it take until August to get to this? What do I typically do on Fridays?

Oh yeah, that’s right. I run to soccer tournaments.

Immediately the guilt hit me. Here we had one free weekend and I was cleaning, and making the kids clean as well. Quickly I tried to salvage the remainder of the day. I grasped at straws, realized that I would be in over my head at the river, chances were literally, so I went to the next best option. The pool. With lifeguards.

It wouldn’t have been an option a week earlier, but Cinco had eventually fallen in love with water the last weekend, so the whole concept of staying within arms’ reach of both Cinco and X-Man seemed plausible. Until I remembered it was X-Man.

Sure enough, X-Man charged into the pool. He started in the ankle deep water and didn’t stop until he was in over his head. He grudgingly turned around and headed back until he could breathe. Cinco sat down in the ankle deep water and refused to move. X-Man did the exact opposite of refusing to move. And Baby, Baba and Mac assumed that I had brought them to the pool so that they could have a wonderful time.  They took off.

So I chased X-Man, tried to play with Cinco and fantasized about laying on a floaty while drinking a margarita. The lifeguards took pity on me and offered X-Man a little life jacket. It was a nice gesture and prudent. But also, a very bad thing. See, X-Man suddenly felt invincible and saw no need to worry if his feet could touch the bottom. He could just kick and be off. Swell.

So Cinco had to get comfortable on my hip while I chased X-Man. As well as one can when walking through water, holding a baby. And chasing a motivated three year old. Cleaning closets wasn’t such a hard life after all. Typical X-Man, he wasn’t satisfied fighting for survival in a pool that went up to four feet. Nope, he climbed out, and made a beeline for the larger lap pool. He was not impressed with my mom voice. I even used his middle name. Nope, nada. Well, he didn’t jump right in, which I saw him contemplate, but he sat down on the edge. Which is where the lifeguard caught up with him. She blocked his path with her floatation device. He looked up at her with his gargantuan brown eyes and said “Peeze?” She denied his request. He tried again. “Peeze, Dank you!” Nope. He looked dejected, probably because he could see me coming.

And that’s when I got to give my first time out at a pool. I was especially cruel. I made him sit on the stairs. Watching the fun. Wailing away. If we weren’t going to have a relaxing time, nobody was.

A subdued X-Man returned to the water, little duck in hand. He spent the rest of the afternoon chasing people with the duck. He has an odd noise, that’s supposed to sound like quacking…..I think. In general, it’s disturbing. But occasionally he’d bump into someone and yelp “GOOSE!!!!”

We survived. The father figure came home to me lying on the couch, refusing to move. I had never been so sore in my life. I also think I’d never been as tense. The father figure asked why, and I explained about my day’s choices. He heard five children and pool and interrupted “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” I mumbled something about being a good mom…….he helpfully commented “Well that’s your problem right there.”

In case you were wondering, Cinco still hates baths, with an insane passion. Pools yes, baths no. Which makes absolutely no sense. And so, is fitting in our life. 

The highlight of my week was watching the CrossFit games on ESPN. Not because of the competition, but because X-Man had to get in on the action. He observed for a while then ran into the kitchen where dinner was prepared but waiting for Daddy. He grabbed two corn cobs and began to do deadlifts. It took me a few seconds to figure out what he was doing, fortunately he was grunting along with his lifts, to help clarify.

He repeated the scene a couple days later with his father's flip flops. The boy is impressive.

We spent the weekend in a hotel suite. Or as Cinco and X-Man decided, a zoo cage. Fortunately there was a pool where they could blow off steam. Cinco began still terrified of water. Eventually though, her desire to do everything that X-Man does won over. Safe in her daddy's arms, she took to the water like a delicate swan. Acceptable for her legs to get wet, but not so much her torso.

X-Man clarified for me that he has absolutely no restraint or self preservation instincts. We entered the pool area and he charged yelling "WATER!!!!!" I caught him and showed him how to use steps to enter a pool. A pool that is WAY TOO DEEP for you unattended. He made it down the second one before he jumped. Now the water was just three feet, but still too deep for him. Did he panic? Of course not, he just figured that someone would save him. An assumption that proved valid.

He loved to jump in. His first time, he decided that he didn't need to wait for anyone. I assumed that he would be so frightened that he would wait for mom each time after. Not exactly. As I was walking Cinco around the pool, she was working up her desire to do everything X-Man does, X-Man climbed out. The father figure was swimming along in the pool to the other end where X-Man was headed. X-Man saw the father figure coming, but decided it was too long to wait. Baby was there, so might as well jump!

Baby saw the world's largest toddler flying through the air, towards her. She shrieked and ducked. X-Man splashed down near her and the father figure grabbed him by the leg. Undaunted the boy bobbed up and yelled "AGAIN!!!!"

Cinco and I headed back to the hotel room while X-Man was straddling his father's back yelling "FASTER!" That evening I discovered my first grey hair.

I am sitting at Mac's flag football practice looking at all the pretty, pretty hair. Longer and more coiffed than mine. It's a coed team, but it would be the boys who are rocking the flowing locks. Down to the side braid action. It was unexpected.

Baba is unfamiliar with any doo-wap music because, as she explained to her father, she doesn't listen to '80s music. And totally not '70s either.

It isn't a good thing, when visiting family, to hear your nephew say "Hey X-Man, wait......where are your pants." It good thing that a toddler can't move too fast with arms full of toys and pants around the ankles.

Cinco's still mad that I wouldn't let her wander around the house with a steak knife. Also, I still labor under the assumption that coffee should not be served in a communal family cup. Which is a personal affront to 

Cinco. Furthermore, I won't let her drink the bubbles. 

And now there's crying in football.....I'm so confused. Looks like Mac's practicing his touchdown dance. All in all, for the family introduction to football......it's going to be interesting. 

How to exercise with a toddler

Plan to get your workout done while it is still cool, keeping yourself on a tight schedule, as you will have to pick up the older kids from sports camp soon. Begin by getting the children settled in their morning routine. Remove the pull-up the toddler was wearing and put his underpants on. As you have for the last six months. Randomly, the toddler will announce “NO PANTS! Pull Up!” And remove his underpants. You will commence a battle of wills over not wearing pull-ups.

Do attempt to short circuit the meltdown by marching the toddler to the bathroom and having him use the toilet. As he does, approximately one second after being placed on it, do not try to understand why he is still screaming for a pull up. It will use energy better spent on your workout.

Eventually he will toddle upstairs and you can begin your 25 minute workout. Excitedly start the online radio station that boasts “exercise music”. Be very annoyed when it starts playing a song entitled “soothing songs for yoga.” Skip the song; discover the next song in line is “nature sounds for evening yoga.” As the baby steals the phone, you figure whatever she stumbles upon is better than “waves to squat by.”

As the intensity of the workout picks up, prepare yourself to be pelted with pull-ups. The toddler will have returned, not wearing underpants, but carrying a package of pull-ups. He will hurl them at you while bellowing “pull-ups mommy!” Dodging them will increase your heart rate, so over all, it’s a plus. Eventually, he will tire of throwing pull ups and start to gather them up again. He will sort them into piles of Buzz and McQueen. Apparently he will hold you responsible for the paucity of McQueens . You will be more distracted by the exercises you are supposed to be doing and the fact that the baby has turned off the music and is now texting someone.

As you move into jumping jacks, the toddler will realize that he left a couple pull ups behind you and he will need to get them immediately. In order to get them, he will need to crawl in between your legs and retrieve them. He will then feel offended when he gets squashed by your jumping jacks.

As he complains loudly, you will try to make him feel better. You will make yourself feel better by observing that even Shaun T isn’t doing his squats while wrestling a fifty pound toddler. You then move to calf raises, which become more challenging as the baby, eager to get in on the action, is now hanging off your leg.

It becomes impossible to continue on while holding children, so you have to peel them off you. Place them on the floor and proceed to jump over them. They will still carry on as if you have threatened to sell them into slavery. However, they will also complain when you stop jumping over them.  So continue on.

Also, make sure you dodge the water spilled by the baby. She’ll get bored and go back to playing in it. The toddler will try to clean it up, mostly with a baby doll. He will also find another pull up and throw it at you. It will work well as a fan, so hang on to it.

After the longest twenty five minute workout of your life, you will look forward to a well-earned shower. It’s at this point you realize that you are alone in the house with a two year old and a one year old. Good times.

At least you’ll be all sweaty like the kids you have to pick up from camp.

Soccer tournament season is in full swing now. Soccer is also extremely expensive. So it is perplexing that love to schedule tournaments on Fridays.  Doesn't someone somewhere have to pay for the uniforms?  And tournaments.  Apparently the work week in the soccer world ends 9am Friday morning.

So this left me in the unenviable position of having to take all five children to a tournament myself last Friday.  Baba was playing, which meant I was flying fairly solo. Naturally, our trip began with me shopping for bribes. Never underestimate the effectiveness of purchasing all sorts of treats at Costco, announcing that they are only for soccer games. And children who behave at soccer games. 

While I was anticipating misbehavior from a child or two, ahem X-Man, I wasn't expecting my van to revolt. But, at Costco, it decided that all the sliding doors should be opened. Always. And if I closed them, they should open again. And that all the door alarms should go off the entire time. And when I finally tricked a door into closing and locking it into place, it should continue to try to open it during the drive home. Did I mention ALL the door alarms?

A quick google and I discovered that my car was not actually possessed. It is just a Chevy Venture. And this is what it does. The simplest solution, considering I was about to embark on a rush hour timed drive and the dinging door alarms were fraying the nerves of all the passengers, was to remove fuse #21. This was the solution most recommended by other suckers who had purchased the same vehicle. 

Fuse #21 was not where the manual said it would be. But"Where's fuse #21?" Did I mention that the doors were still open and dinging away? Yeah, they were. 

I am a resourceful woman. I pulled out my phone, took a picture of the fuse box, took a picture of the manual and sent them to the father figure. And I asked the very reasonable question

He texted back "You are looking at the wrong fuse panel. Look around the dashboard." Helpful....and yet not. I could not find the fuse panel. I did call the father figure and asked him to tell me where it was. In the car that he could not see. It didn't work. Although he got to hear the alarms going off and agreed that it was all very annoying. 

I couldn't find the fuses, so I returned to wrestling the doors closed. That was more successful, although wiping down the contacts did exactly nothing. And as I was not in a position to adjust the torque of the door, which was another suggestion on the Internet, I did the next best thing. I hunted the father figure down. Fortunately he drives a rather identifiable vehicle. 

So there in a parking lot, the father figure removed fuse #21. Blessed silence. Until Mac realized that the dinging was done and started talking again. And, by the way, the fuse panel was on the passenger's side, on the outside of the glove box. With is definitely not under the dashboard. 

Removing fuse #21 eliminated the warning chimes. And the backup sensor, which I was a fan of. It also eliminated the one non negotiable I had when buying a car, remote open doors. Of course. But my sanity is worth it, at least for the moment. 

As a side note, everyone behaved themselves quite nicely at the game and pretty much just are snacks the whole time. I should have known it would be leaving them with the father figure that would be the disaster. But as I am in a contest which requires seven hours of sleep a night (it's harder than you think), that's a story that will wait until tomorrow. 

"Hey! Who's kid is that?" Those are never good words to hear. Especially at a soccer game. Especially if you realize you don't know where X-Man is.

No worries. Two full teams, and their families, knew right where X-Man was. Two fields over, there was my son. Standing in the middle of the field, staring intently at my phone. The phone I handed him while saying "sit down right there and don't move." Well that worked well.

It's not that I was ignoring him. It was that I was trying to keep Cinco controlled. It had occurred to her, apparently for the first time, that soccer is played with a ball. And she should have the ball. Immediately. So I tried to distract her with another ball, which was not the ball that the other girls were playing with and therefore unacceptable.  Furthermore, there was a white line painted on the grass. Clearly in was intended to be crossed, so cross it Cinco would. No matter the lengths Mom went to stop her.

She fought the good fight, complete with shrieking,  tears and hitting. Her mother ensured that a good time was not had by all.  So it was inevitable that wanderlust would hit X-Man at the same moment.

He tried to play it cool, casually strolling through the crowds and across the fields. He stayed focused on my phone while ambling through the middle of a field of play. But he did pause and make eye contact with me. And that's when that sly smile crept across his face. The smile that says "Look at me mom, I'm being naughty." It's a smile that was introduced to me by my oldest but X-Man has turned it into a masterpiece,  complete with arched eyebrow. 

The eyebrow unarched quickly when X-Man was scooped up by a father and ushered off the field.  He was not amused and fairly certain that he had been victimized somehow. His displeasure was recorded and  noted. Meanwhile Cinco noted my distraction and made a break for it.

Baby was obvious to the chaos. She was feeling rather unchallenged during the game and had taken to shooting  goals with

her left foot. Or so I was told. I wasn't really focused on her game. I was enjoying the different scenery in which to yell at my children.

It's been beautiful here. So while the three older kids were in class, I decided pull out the stroller and take the younger two for a walk. It seemed like the good mother thing to do. Also, I hadn't worked out so I made sure to head towards the big hill. About halfway up I realized that I was pushing sixty plus pounds of dead weight up a very steep hill. Dead weight isn't entirely accurate. In an attempt to make the experience more pleasant for all involved, I placed Cinco in the front seat of the double stroller. She did not approve. Mostly of the seat, I think. Whatever her reason, she spent the entire hike up the incline trying to crawl out of her seat. So it was a race against time. Jillian Michaels, eat your heart out.

I am starting a new blogging venture with several other ladies. Well, I'm not starting, I'm just following along and promising to tone down the sarcasm, which means I'll keep sharing my unfiltered thoughts here. Part of the start up is collecting bios of the women writing. It was suggested that our significant others compose them. Here's what the father figure produced.......

My wife is the second child in a large Shiite Catholic family. She placed in a national speech writing competition and asked to work as a speech writer by a US Congresswoman until she found out that she was only fourteen. Wife has a Degree in Philosophy/Theology with a near minor in Mathematics, a Ph.D in rocket science, has earned a paralegal certificate, and dabbles in brain surgery.  Wife is currently working for (a school with whom she would like to stay employed and therefore will remain anonymous) as a teacher on top of home schooling her six children (if you include her husband).  Where she finds the time to work, home school, run all of her kids to soccer, be an accomplished blog writer, and a loving, thoughtful wife, I’ll never know.

There may be some embellishment going on there. I mentioned to the father figure that it wasn't entirely accurate. He responded that that's how his Father in Law told it to him. It does sound similar to a Christmas letter my father wrote one year..........

Again with the chaotic weekend. I discovered that Cinco appears to be very friendly while out and about. It looks like she's waving at anyone and everyone. If people smile and respond, she gets very excited. She smiles broadly, bounces vigorously and waves more frantically. One might think she wants them to hold her. They would be wrong. She wants them to give her their phone. Sadly, if you are not holding a phone, Cinco won't even make eye contact with you. Not because she's shy, but because she is scanning for someone with a phone.

Over the weekend, I was reminded why I don't wait for the father figure to come home before showering. I had been in the shower a full minute when the door flew open and X-Man shoved an unopened graham cracker box into the shower and yelled "I have some mom?" I yelled for the father figure, who meandered in and removed X-Man. But the father figure remained to ask me the pressing question "How long has Cinco been scared of this bunny rabbit toy? See watch...." Sure enough he was holding Cinco in one arm and the bunny of fear in the other arm. And she was crawling up him to escape it. I pointed out that that particular creature hopped on its own which might be the source of the concern and if he did not shut the door and leave me in peace before the hot water ran out he was going to wish it was the zombie apocalypse.

I managed to forget it was Monday. So I forgot I had appointments with students. Later this evening I thought it was Thursday. It's a cruel, cruel world.

The father figure and I had a miscommunication when it came from retrieving Baba from soccer practice. The kind of miscommunication that results in both parents showing up to retrieve one soccer player. Which, considering the various miscommunication that could have occurred, well, it could have been worse. I was hoping the father figure would be able to pick her up, so I wouldn't have to wake the sleeping X-Man, who decided that 6pm was actually the appropriate nap time. But, as I didn't get confirmation that he was able to, I went and got her myself. The father figure thought he was supposed to call if he was unable to get her.

The father figure and the coach looked for the apparently missing child. The coach was getting very concerned. The father figure was slightly concerned. I think he was as concerned about calling me. Probably because he got to the field after practice was over, therefore technically being late, so if Baba had indeed disappeared, and he had been late, I would indeed kill him. As it was, we all chuckled about it, except for possibly the coach.

So in the end, I had to wake X-Man up for nothing. And put pants on him for no reason. Life is hard.

Thirteen years ago, the father figure and I celebrated our first Valentine's Day together as a couple. I was away at college and he sent me three dozen long stemmed red roses and a dozen chocolate covered strawberries. Last year, he brought me a bag of M&Ms the day after Valentine's Day because that's when they were on sale. I'm interested in seeing what this year brings.


It was a day of chaos. The kind of chaos that comes when children have non stop questions about their schoolwork. And the washing machine leaks. Mac discovered the mess and bellowed "EWWW X-MAN PEED ALL OVER THE PLACE!" With that kind of an intro, I was actually relived to find it was simply the washer. Well, that and it was an easy fix. X-Man was oblivious to the slander, mostly because he was hanging out in the bathtub. I've found that to be a very useful method of corralling the boy. Cinco is highly annoyed by the fact that I don't let her join in the fun and that water seems to be an essential component of the fun. Both facts irritate her greatly.

I work hard at not being too sentimental here. But there is a special joy that come to a mother when she sees her little girl bound off the soccer field, soaking wet, with a huge smile on her face. Baby is back at the outdoor sessions again, and she was thrilled. It almost made the bouncing between her and Baba's practices worth it.

Also, Cinco kisses. She lunges towards you with her mouth wide open. But unlike each of her siblings, she doesn't bite anything, nor does she lick or attempt to suck any part of your face. She just plants her drooly mouth on your cheek with a loud "MAH". If you kiss her back, she gets very excited and repeats the process. It's heavenly.

One should not live stream Olympic Ice Skating with Cinco. She will love it greatly, and in her enthusiasm, attempt to participate. Mostly by bouncing along to the music while flailing her limbs. This inevitably results in her hitting the keyboard and pausing the process. And she is devastated. Eventually, the Zamboni comes out and while X-Man's interest is piqued, Cinco's heartbroken. But what should she expect from a mom who insists on making baths for X-Man only and with water!

Leaving soccer today, we walked past some cheerleaders. Mac said "Look mom, there are some girls doing girl scout stuff." He might be a bit surprised when he attends his first cub scout meeting later this week.

There's not much to share. Work is keeping me very busy along with trying to keep five children alive. The biggest threat they face most days is a sibling of some sort. Mostly X-Man. He's huge and lives on the warpath. He still likes to hit me when he's angry. Only he's figured out that's not the best idea as far as self preservation is concerned. So while he's screaming and thrashing around, he pats me. There's no honest way to call it a hit. It's most definitely a pat. But I'm fairly certain it's no love pat. I still tell him no hitting mommy and he still doubles down, or better yet, goes limp on the floor. It's no picnic trying to lift 45 pounds of dead, yet outraged, toddler weight.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit my motherhood fail. Which, to regular readers of this blog, is most certainly saying something. I bought Cocoa Puffs for the first, and last time, today. Mac asked for it and I said yes. Mostly for the reason why he wanted it. He wanted the prize inside. A little Minion from a movie. Now, I admit, I have a hard time saying no. Although as the children stack up it does become easier. But Mac has wanted a Minion forever. He almost won one at Six Flags, not once, not twice but three times. Three times he had the Minion in the stupid claw and was carrying it over to the drop slot and, oh what a surprise, it suddenly dropped each time. I'm still annoyed about it, so the way to stick it to the null at Six Flags was most obviously to buy Sugar Frosted Cocoa Bombs. I showed them.

Mac wanted to eat cereal for dinner. I did manage to draw the line there. Probably about six feet too late.

Here in the PNW, there has to be lightening in order for soccer practice to be cancelled. So monsoon weather aside, it's business as usual.

X-Man is completely uninterested in soccer. He is, however, smitten with football. He kept toddling away from Baby's practice field and settling himself down on the football field itself. One does not think agile when looking at X-Man. One does think linebacker. So, we'll see what happens.

A chunk of the day was spent hauling the debris from the house we managed to destroy without even living in. The kiddos did a remarkable job clearly it up. They vigorously campaigned to watch X-Man rather that haul sheet rock. Mac said it best  "I'd rather watch X-Man so I can play."

X-Man had yet another meltdown. This one was instigated when he realized that Cinco was in the baby carrier, not abnormal, however she was on my back so I could carry debris. The back in X-Man's location, Cinco belongs in the front. And this alarmed X-Man greatly. He stumbled around behind me screeching "MA Up, up MA UP!!!" Whatever it takes to convince the child he's not a baby and therefore ought to be using the potty.

It takes trust exercises to a whole 'nother level when you allow your husband to take a sledge hammer to your living room. Or it's a special form of crazy. Time will tell I guess.

Mac got upset at soccer tonight. For some reason he was giving puny little passes. His coach encouraged him to put some leg into the whole process. He obliged, complete with a running start, stop,  aim and wiped out. Whiffed it completely. It was as if I myself was on that field. And naturally laughter followed. Led, possibly, by his mother. He turned to his coach, almost tearfully and said "Everyone is laughing at me."

Now that's a mommy fail.

Even so, I was happy to hear him say that. For too long, as yes I realize the boy is still just five, he really seemed to thrive on being goofy. The class, or team, clown, if you will. He would act out, get laughs and up the ante. So to hear him want to just try, and fail, but just be left alone to try again, was actually exciting for me.

So I made sure to only offer encouragement from the sidelines after that. The "oh get up your fine" did weasel its way in to my commentary, but I did enjoy watching my little guy get serious about something. And to watch him work hard at something that he's not particularly good at. Bodes well for first grade.

Today was Mac's first soccer practice of the season. He only got his head stuck in the net once. So there's that.

Speaking of progress,  X-Man is so exhausted from fighting off the potty that he very meekly takes his antibiotics. Yay.....I guess.

Gestated Cinco is doing her best to no longer be my favorite child. She's become mobile. Oddly so. I can't figure out how she moves, but moves she does. It's like the worm meets a tumbleweed meets a fish out of water. The long and the short of it is, she moves. And has moved herself off the "good child list" and onto the "definitely conspiring against me" list.

Baby was told to take off her soccer cleats and socks upon arrival at home. She cried and reminded us how cruel the world is. Because it was mean to tell her that her socks stink. Never mind that she's the one who asked, oh so exasperatedly "WHY?" when told to take off her shoes and socks. I told her that it wasn't my problem that the smell had broken her nose and yes her socks did smell even if she did not smell them. And yes, I know that her nose works. Oh, by the way, in the amount of time you have wasted proclaiming that 1) your socks don't stink 2) even if they did stink it would be mean to say so and 3) your nose works fine, you could have taken of said pungent socks, put them in the hamper and run a 5K, like three times over.

Baba has nothing for me to add to this list. So, by default, she's my favorite tonight.

Mac just informed me that he needs medicine.  Apparently he saw a commercial that references frequent trips to the bathroom at night. That's right, my five year old is asking for prostate medication, because he has to use the bathroom at night. Don't ask me, I just feed them.

X-Man is angry with me. Again. This time it's because I won't let him carry Gestated Cinco. I'll let him hold her, but he has to sit down. He thinks he should be able to carry her. Presumably with his arms around her neck and her feet dragging on the floor, but who cares about details?

He's also taken to responding to any instructions with a most definite "ahhhhh....NO". He finishes it off with a coy look and slight smile. And running.

As a result, due to the simmering tension between the two of us, X-Man spent today following me around the house shooting me with a little purple gun. "Boom Mama".

This last weekend, as many weekends this summer, was spent at a soccer tournament. The Mount Hood Challenge is one of the larger tournaments in the country. 600 teams, 26,0000 spectators. And $150 in gas. I only wish I was exaggerating. Both Baby and Baba were participating. Of course, they would play in varying venues, never closer to each other than forty minutes.

Baby struggled in the tournament. Not with her soccer playing. She's still the rockstar in that department. However, she and gravity were engaged in a fierce battle that resulted in numerous victories for the forces. Literally. I think it's because she was playing for a new coach, as her old coach had yelled at her, more than once "Baby stay on your feet or I will pull you from the game!" And he wasn't being harsh, she was quite the road hazard.

By her final game, Baby had figured out how to fall down, take two opposing players with her and pop back up with the ball, while the others were still trying to figure out what happened. See, when you've been falling down for months on end, you're not confused by the experience. She actually managed to score once on that move. And, as she was always to first to fall, she didn't actually foul anyone. She also had a beautiful cross for a score that involved both a flying ball and a flying shoe. The shoe also hit an opposing player, causing mass confusion as Baby took off after the ball, shoeless, leaving the opposing player to wonder if it had actually started raining shoes.

Baba played a much smoother game. I must salute the Mount Hood Challenge committee for managing to pair up two teams that were as evenly matched as humanly possible. At half time, the score was 0-0. End of game 1-1. Five minutes of sudden death....scoreless. Second five minutes of sudden death....scoreless. Time for penalty kicks. Seven on each side, final score 1-1. At this point, the ref was looking a little annoyed. I loudly suggested that the coaches arm wrestle at mid field. The surrounding parents applauded this idea. Since no one can repeat their penalty kicks, it was time to pull players off the benches. Now, you might assume that someone, at some time would actually get the ball in the goal. But if that was the case, we wouldn't have needed ALL THE OVERTIMES IN THE WORLD. So we plowed through entire bench. In the end, their goalie shot against our goalie. The ball touched the white line as the goalie was grabbing it. The ref saw it and decided "close enough!" And we were done. 45 minutes after the game allegedly ended.

I was unable to get Baby to her game and Baba to her game at the same time, in locations thirty minutes away. So Baba caught a ride with her coach. And as a result, she walked away with a commemorative t-shirt that he bought for her, along with one for his daughter.

I decided to proof read Baba's thank you note. It started out very generically, very polite. It crescendoed into her joyful announcement "I was really wanted to get one. But I didn't think I would because I knew my mom wouldn't buy one for me."  Ay yi yi.

Meanwhile, the father figure is very excited to learn that the local parks and rec starts flag football at age 3. He has big plans for X-Man. I still only see inebriated penguins when that boy runs.

again with the titles!

I first saw “Finding Nemo” ten years ago. It made me cry. It still makes me cry. At least I think so.  I was lying on the floor, snuggled up with the kiddos watching it today. Mac and Baby were on either side of me. They were arguing with each other over where the most comfortable place to lay their heads on my body was. And by comfortable they meant squishy.  They had designated several areas. I’m pretty sure it was the movie that was making me cry.

  

I recently switched swim lesson times for Mac. The whole 5:55pm thing wasn’t awesome. We were transitioning acceptably up until the end of the lesson. Mac insists on changing in the boys’ dressing room. I respect his decision, especially since the sign posted above the dressing room says parents may accompany their children under the age of five. So rules being rules Mac gets to use the dressing room while I wait outside.

That doesn’t mean he’s completely unsupervised. I’ve yelled at him to stop bellowing Christmas carols (in March) and to hurry up and get dressed. I’ve loudly suggested that he shut the curtain while changing his clothes. I’ve demanded that he put on underpants before running to the bathroom.  He is most certainly not left to his own devices.

Most of Mac’s antics have occurred during sparsely attended classes mid-day. He seemed to tone them down during the evening class as well. Mostly due to his passionate focus on making it to dinner. But now he’s back to late morning classes and has much to say.

A dad came out of the dressing room and asked me if that was my red headed boy. It is my experience that there is no way this conversation is going to end comfortably for me.  Apparently Mac sauntered out of his changing stall and surveyed the dressing room. Arms akimbo he decreed “Hey, you’re a girl, you’re not supposed to be in here.” Fortunately the dad of the little girl was chuckling as he was retelling the story. Mac reappeared soon after, wearing pants and commented “Hey, you’re still here, good thing I’m wearing pants.”  Good thing indeed.

Fortunately I can still simply say “I blame the red hair” and people seem to understand. Eventually they’ll start blaming the parents though. About that time I’ll start blaming the bossy older sisters he has.

Again, I have to wrap the blog up early. We’re having a major family crisis. The father figure visited Red Box to pick a movie for family movie night. He came back with the new Iron Man. And by new Iron Man, he means new Iron Man from Japan. Animated. And rated PG-13. So the kids are wailing about having to read during family movie night. And I’m alarmed by animation from Japan and what it takes for them to thinks it’s bad enough for a PG-13 rating. And X-Man’s still sitting in the family room, holding the Cars DVD and bellowing in protest.

blogger is wigging out and making me title this

Wrestling alligators should be a mandatory part of child birth classes. It’s possible that you won’t use those skills immediately, but you will need those skills. Like say when the ear, nose and throat doctor suggests that nasal spray will be the treatment of choice for your soon to be two year old. I don’t know who in their right mind thinks that a sane course of action involves keeping a toddler in a sleeper hold while shoving things up his nose, but if it avoids general anesthesia.  And if you think asking the pharmacist during his consult for some tips, be prepared for uber helpful suggestions like “uh, ooh, that’s hard. Um yeah, he’s not going to like it. Maybe try bribing him.”

It’s close to 100 degrees here. So Baba’s soccer team thought that a hike would be a good idea. From the reports I heard, it was seven miles up hill. Always up hill. Not that that kept them from swimming for three hours after that. And I was the mean one, calling it a day ten hours in “but we were about to roast marshmallows!” Something tells me that the 8am speed and agility camp is going to be an ugly reality come tomorrow.

Baba’s coach mentioned that she and one other teammate were lagging behind during the hike. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, helping hold the other’s backpack. They were chattering away. He was pulling up the rear, and strained to listen. He had to redouble his efforts because it sounded like they were talking about division. He was surprised and continued eavesdropping. Yep, division it was and why decimal division was so “not cool.”  He happened upon them later on trying to explain pi to another teammate.  The conversation went something like “no it’s not cobbler, it’s 3.14” “what? What are you talking about?” “Pi” “pie?” “Yeah, in math.” “You mean when you cut it into fractions?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Well where does it come from?” “I don’t know. Who’s your favorite singer?”

Over all it was a decent showing. Now if I just hadn’t heard Baby spelling car with a “k”.

                                            

Never sign your children up for a sports camp. Especially if said sports camp commences at 8am.  And you know you live 40 minutes away. If you never sign your children up for a sports camp that commences at 8am, 40 minutes from where you live, you won’t ever have to deal with learning that it indeed actually takes place an hour from you, having been moved due to soggy field conditions.

Consider this your PSA of the week.

Baby was not happy to be participating in a speed and agility training camp. That is until she actually went, posted the fastest time in all five trials and then decided to not complain about the camp but rather complain that the camp was done for the day.  There is no winning with her. 

My master plan for potty training involved psychological warfare. I purchase the cheapest diapers I can find simply to make the child training as uncomfortable as possible. It is working.  Sort of. Mostly during nap time. X-Man is not a fan of cheap diapers and removes them. However he’s not convinced of the need to make it to the potty. Just not have the cheap diapers touch his loins. He is peeing occasionally in the potty. He sits on it while watching a movie. He might wonder, in future years, why, when he hears the theme to Wreck-It Ralph, is he overcome with the desire to use the facilities. 

I came home recently to find the father figure’s wedding ring sitting by the computer. It hurt his hand, he said. I opined that that was a fitting metaphor for marriage in general.  I might have also muttered something about delicate baby princess hands. Because I’m nice like that.

Then it was Friday and I had a list a mile long to prepare for our soccer tournament at the beach. Yes, the beach. So of course the father figure texts me and asks me to bring his wedding ring to him at work.  I gave it to him once, eleven years ago, I understood the deal to be it was his responsibility from here on out. I texted him back, couldn’t he just get it when he came back? Then he called me, and asked me to bring it. I guess he thought that once he slipped into his form fitting, oh so flattering brown uniform, he was completely irresistible to the ladies. All the ladies. Always. Or at least that’s the way he chose to play it that way, casually commenting “Well I figured you would want me to wear it.” Not 45 minutes out of my way wanted you to.

Chasing down a UPS truck to return the driver’s wedding ring strikes me as the story line to a bad soap opera. Which might explain why it factored into my life.

So, soccer in the sand. Fun concept, execution pretty challenging. I observed that a sizeable majority of the teams were local teams, who had also traveled two hours and spent the night so we could all play each other. I’m not sure why we couldn’t dump a couple of tons of sand in a parking lot and call it good. But then how would I learn that X-Man is scared of sand. Like high pitched scream scared, can’t let go of the wagon because the sand will touch my delicate feets scared.

Life is all about claiming the small victories, and in this case it is the fact that while I resemble a poached lobster, my tiny humans do not. Although that did not reassure my mother, who, after seeing me said “Oooh what does the baby look like?” Her lack of confidence in me is disappointing.

It was father’s day, and what father doesn’t want to spend the weekend at the beach, watching soccer and admiring the muscle cars that lined the main street. And be given a card lovingly hand made by Baby. It was a picture of Baby and the father figure complete with cotton ball heads, pipe cleaner arms and legs and eyes and mouths (we had to go to three different stores to find the right colors) and hair. Real hair. That she saved after she brushed her hair and carefully glued to the card. There’s a lot of hair and it sticks out of the card at all angles.

The creativity doesn’t come from me. I know that much. The excess hair, yeah that’s from me. 

Mac’s antics are well documented here. So I suppose that it is right and just to document his successes. Last Saturday was a day of triumphs for the Macster. He had a soccer game, which his mother had to miss. Again. Such is the life of a third child, who’s two other sisters are also soccer players.

He scored the first goal at his game. This is exciting in and of itself because Mac’s scored two goals this season, compared to no goals last season. He also kept his, sort of, cool. He was controlled, for Mac, and remarkably focused. He proudly gave me a report on his performance, admitting that he did flap his hands a little bit, but stopped when he remembered to. There was also no taunting of the opposing team, which was a brief issue last week. The father figure loudly corrected “Don’t call names Mac!” To which Mac replied “Oh, Ok.” And ceased. It was as if he hadn’t ever been told not to call names. And as I considered things, I don’t think that was a lesson we had addressed yet. So chalk it up to another parenting failure.

So after a soccer game where Mac could hold his head high, we moved on to the dance recital. Now dance has been a bone of contention for Mac and me. He likes it, sort of. But he’s also the only little boy in a class full of girls. One of the girls has seven brothers, and so she knows all the buttons to push for Mac. And Mac is more than happy to be the class clown. Fortunately his teacher is unflappable and no nonsense and keeps him on a short leash. In general, dance wouldn’t be something I would pick for Mac, but his sisters were in an hour and a half class and this gave him something to do for half of that time. And it was all part of the master plan to wear the boy out.

So for the ballet recital, Mac was given the role of the black sheep.  When the teacher told me her plans, I said “oh, type casting.” And Mac lived up to his role.

He was subdued heading in. He saw the empty chairs and said “oh, scary.” See, he’s all about acting out, but it mostly for his own entertainment, he’s good not being observed. He got ready, costumed up and then waited next to me.  He was content to sit and hold Gestated Cinco. For half an hour. And then it was show time.

As they danced out onto the stage, Mac’s nerves disappeared. He caught sight of me and waved. The he wink and flashed a thumbs up. And he was off. I think it is fair to say, he stole the show.

Mac’s responsible for many of the grey hairs on my head. Mostly because he’s a boy version of me. And I can mostly get what he’s doing, but not always and the lack of impulse control is directly responsible for my high blood pressure. Well that and gestating Cinco, but that’s a different story.

So it didn’t really faze me when I caught sight of Mac in church, hands raised in the air. It was as if he wanted to ask the priest a question. Or he thought we were in a Baptist church. But he said that he was thanking God, and that if God liked his thank you, he would send him a toy.

I don’t care what his motivations were, celestial toys or no, he done me proud this weekend.