Santa came. And then the vomit came. My experience over the last several years is that vomit is the price you pay for a visit from Santa. Maybe we have some special reindeer allergy or something. But it's about as regular as St. Nick's visit itself.

It's been a week since I've written. Since then we've hosted a Christmas Eve party, went to Midnight Mass, arranged St. Nick's benevolence, did Christmas, did Christmas at my parents house, cleaned up vomit, watched Baby clean up in a soccer tournament, went to a rehearsal dinner (an hour away from our home), got all my family members of the wedding party to their scheduled locations at the assigned times (unlike the rest of the party....I really need to remember that schedules during weddings are nothing if not fluid) got X-Man, Mac and Cinco and myself dressed and out the door for a wedding over an hour away (the father figure and the older girls were already there, left in two separate caravans) and survived and marathon of a wedding. In case you think I exaggerate, I give you a two hour wedding ceremony. Ok fine, it was an hour and fifty minutes...I rounded. It's impressive that I myself made it through, but considering I had X-Man and Cinco at nap time (the happy couple chose to ignore the memos I sent concerning their wedding choices. I'm still confused as to why they did not factor my needs into their wedding planning.) The father figure was a groomsman, and although both he and my brother in law had a great plan that involved them sneaking off to assist their wives with the fruit of their....well you know, both ended up sitting in the front row sans children. That was until I marched up there and dropped X-Man in the father figure's lap. Much like he had done to me just around three years ago. Not that X-Man wasn't actually being very well behaved, especially as hour two rolled around and he was still napless. However, at some point Cinco figured out that I was not holding her, and that just didn't sit right with the young lady. In the end, X-Man watered my corsage in the drinking fountian while Cinco licked whatever makeup I had still on my face. Just in time for pictures.

Not that the week was over. There was a cocktail hour to head to. And then a formal dinner. And then dancing. And then more vomit. And then a twelve year wedding anniversary. And then more vomit.

This is why I have not written for a week. Lovely as almost every event was in actuality, I hope to never have another week like it again in my life.

It's not been a good "holiday" time. At least as far as accomplishing much of anything. I haven't baked anything at all. Supposedly I'll do something tonight, but I just want to curl up and nod off.

Not that I've been taking it easy or anything. I did finish an annual project I oversee every year. It seems to be getting bigger and more complicated, but I am certain that the addition of more mobile children to the mix certainly isn't helping. Neither are either one of the abscesses I've managed to develop. It's very important to me, for reasons I can't explain, I make it clear that neither one of these teeth had cavities. Which made this situation even more special. Of course, due to my life looking like it does, I only bothered to go in to the dentist after I developed a huge lump on my jaw. Nothing life waiting until the last minute has passed. And your insurance changes so that which would have cost nothing out of pocket now most definitely costs.

So this is how I found myself in Trader Joe's instantly regretting numerous life choices. The trigger for this particular moment was letting X-Man have his own child sized shopping cart. The chaos surprised even me. He wasn't interested in following me but he was more than happy to race through the aisles yelling "Guys guys with meeeeee!!!! And so I found myself chasing after X-Man, while pushing Cinco in a cart weaving through the crowds. Next stop was the Dollar Tree because I've given up and am throwing all gifts in bags. The Dollar Tree does not have little shopping carts but does have penguins. X-Man determined that penguins would be an acceptable substitute and he should hold ALL the penguins. I was of the opinion that he should hold NONE of the penguins. Epic meltdown commenced.


I have blocked most of it out, but I do distinctly remember saying "Santa does not come for young men who bite their mothers!" It did not make an impact. X-Man was so forceful in his rage that the lady ahead of me let me cut in front of her. She complimented me on my patience. I didn't tell her it was most likely the drugs due to my root canal.

And that seems to sum up how this month has been going. Found myself threatening to shoot Santa out of the sky if he ignored my instructions to stay away. Baba casually mentioned that I say that every year. I didn't remember threatening Santa's well being before, but apparently I have. Which I guess means that I'm not abnormally overwhelmed. And they're not being abnormally naughty. That's not really comforting.

So we put the Christmas tree up. Because, for a brief moment, I forgot that I have an eight month old and a two year old. A two year old who is currently standing on the table fighingt his chicken nuggets. Go ahead and judge me. I'm too busy judging Mac's dance moves. He wants to know if I would give him "fives." I guess so. I've kept him in swimming and soccer as much as possible because the boy needs to burn all his excess energy. It had not occurred to my to turn dance music on. This could actually work well for me.

X-Man is having a ball with the Christmas tree. And by ball I mean taking the glass ball ornaments off the tree. And throwing them on the hardwood floor. And then crying when they break. He convinced that it's an evil trick on my part and that if he just throws the right one it will not break. Yeah.

I've made it clear that X-Man and I are at an impasse as to how he should behave when his wishes are thwarted. And when it comes to the Christmas tree, what we have is a failure to communicate. Actually, we communicate just fine, it's that neither one of us wants to hear what the other is saying. X-Man clearly is sick of hearing "DON'T TOUCH THE TREE!" And I'm tired of hearing "MY MISMIS!"

He has the same reaction to me saying no in these circumstances as any other circumstance. He tries to hit me. Now, we've tried time outs, we've tried mommy holding his hands, we've tried gentle redirection, we've tried standing in the corner, we've tried yelling "You don't hit Mommy!" I'm bowling zero right now. And pretty much every time I go, but that's a different tale of woe.

So, I tried a new tactic, the duck and weave. He tried to hit, I jumped backwards. He looked doubly annoyed. Which is odd, since I'm the adult here and he's the temper tantruming toddler. He flailed away again, I dodged again. Greater rage, accentuated with a slight shriek of anger. I was hoping to distract him out of his tantrum and thought I could get him to chase me. He took one look at me scurrying away and collapsed in front of the Christmas tree wailing. Full on child prostrate on the floor, head in hands, big old tears pooling on the hardwood.

Cinco has been taking notes and often does the exact opposite of X-Man. Whereas X-Man's default reaction is weeping, wailing and ragey, Cinco just laughs. Crawling away from mommy during a poopy diaper change. cue the maniacal laughter. Pull the empty hamper down, crawl in it and get stuck and scream, first in rage and then decide it's funny. Because an empty hamper in this house is really that funny an oddity. Pull yourself up into a standing position anywhere in the house, alert mom with your laughter, proudly proclaiming your great strength. Climb up the stairs and get stuck....better not say anything because mom will probably get mad.

So Cinco joined in the fray. Shrieking with laughter from across the room, which drew a reproachful glance from her older brother, she decided that what this needed was some hands on loving from her. So she sped her way across the floor, seriously this child hauls diaper like no one before her, and went to comfort the poor abused X-Man. And by comfort, I mean crawl onto his back and pull his hair. I figured he had it coming. Somehow not being able to hit his mother is life ending, but his baby sister mauling him, well that's hilarious. "Mama, baby silly." Yeah, she's not the only one son.

I'd continue on the odd behavior of my children, but I think the father figure is annoyed with me. I asked him to watch Cinco while I wrote this. I only roped him into it after she helpfully unplugged my computer, attempted to eat the cord and then deleted half a page of my work. Apparently having to watch his offspring is off putting to the father figure because he's retaliating by trying to get Cinco to walk. They are all conspiring against me.

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 can't be the first mom to dig her daughter's under armor out of the hamper, spray it down with Febreeze and and deem it "good enough." In all fairness to me, I'm fairly certain that it was indeed clean and thrown in the hamper as part of "cleaning our room." I felt minimal guilt.

Halloween was anti climactic. I got my fair share of  "five kids? how do you do it?" I pointed to my caravan and said "All this chocolate? They only think it's for them." People laughed as if they thought I was joking.

Mac was done about ten minutes in. He started complaining and wanted to call it a night. X-Man also threw in the towel early. He decided that he should be carted around in the wagon. However, he also wanted candy. So he would shake his pumpkin at me and yell "HANDY MOM!" I did not oblige.And the X-Man determined that he didn't need any candy, or at least his need did not override his desire to stay nice a warm in the wagon.

And, as always, my best laid plans were put asunder by X-Man. I had every intention of taking his Halloween candy hostage, the ransom being potty usage. As is often the error, this plan was based upon a faulty assumption. I assumed that X-Man would want to eat his candy. Nope. His Halloween treasures are to be carried all over the house, in his orange plastic pumpkin. They are to be admired. But not removed from the pumpkin. Not even as a reward.

I made the mistake of offering him a piece, and he collapsed on the floor wailing until I put it back in the pumpkin. Then he took off running with loot in hand. Five days later, he hasn't eaten any yet. I can't shake the feeling that he knew about my master plan and had countered.

Oh, and this weekend I took Cinco into the Urgent Care. We left with a diagnosis of "fussy baby." Well, in all fairness that's what was listed under "symptoms." You would think after all X-Man's experiences with ear infections I would be able to actually recognize one. But no. I just haul babies to the doctor and say "she's crying. Fix her."

At the risk of appearing to be very insensitive, last week was an excellent time to visit Six Flags. There was some pretty bad publicity the week earlier so all the park staff were on their best behavior. In addition, no one else thought it was a good idea to head to a theme park where dying was apparently an option.

So the father figure took it upon himself to plan a family adventure day. Most likely due to the fact that the day in question was both X-Man and my birthday. And we were in California for his cousin’s wedding the next day. So he unilaterally decided to take the family to a Six Flags park. It goes without saying that the father figure is not the consumer of news in our family. And as it was to celebrate my birthday, he spent three hours hunting down various discount codes before purchasing tickets.

So there we were, in an empty theme park, I kid you not, as rides came to an end the attendants would ask “wanna go again?” So a good day was had by all. Although it was not without drama.

X-Man was unimpressed with the whole getting off the rides thing. After his first kiddie ride, I found myself requesting a crowbar with which to pry his chubby little two year old fingers off of the ride bar. He responded by trying to bite me and shrieking “No mama no nice!” Our first attempted solution was to try to rush him as quickly as possible to the next ride, where there was little to no line. However it only caused the hysteria to momentarily subside. For a few moments, I thought that X-Man and I should engage in quality mother/son birthday bonding time by enjoying low key baby rides. But seeing as I get enough toddler wrestling time on a daily basis, the father figure stepped in and I went off with Mac. By the time we were reunited, X-Man had the drill down and was no longer creating international incidents when the time to debark rides came.

Mac had an enjoyable time. I had to force him to ride a big roller coaster, because that’s what good moms do. He complained “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to this….aaaaahhhhh……can we go again?” Of course, the downside to this was that most of the larger rides required an adult to ride along with Mac. The father figure was feeling very magnanimous and insisted I enjoy the experience, each and every time.  Baba was similar. She wanted to try many of the rides, but she certainly had her limits and she wasn’t flexible with them.

Baby, on the other hand, was a roller coaster fiend. She took personal offence to the height requirements which kept her off a grand total of two coasters.  She consoled herself by multiple rides on each of the major coasters that she could ride. And only in the front. She too found herself in need of an adult riding with her. While Baba was tall enough to be the adult, Baba was uninterested in the coasters that called Baby’s name. Which is how I found myself getting off the front seat of a ride listening to Baba say “can we go again? This time I’ll keep my eyes open!”

So for my birthday, I was spun, flipped, and flung for the amusement of my children. I found myself wishing for lines so I could catch my breath. Or talk my kids down to more reasonable experiences. But no such luck, rather I found myself having to explain why we couldn’t come back the following day.

The tooth fairy is on strike. There are few things in life that make you feel like a horrible mother like absent tooth fairies. A couple of years ago Baba left a letter under her pillow asking for the tooth fairy’s name. I think I went with Pearlina. Not so sure thought, but since the tooth fairy’s striking, I guess it’s a moot point.

I have definite mixed success with the whole covert parental operations. Just this last Christmas, Baba told me that “Santa seems to know my personal style.” Now that’s a successful Christmas. But Mac had two Chirstmases in a row when he discovered the Santa stash. The first year, he was only three, so I might have been able to pull it off, but under the Father Figure’s insistence, I made a last minute run to the store.  The next year, came barreling out my room shrieking “Pillow pets, we’re getting pillow pets for Christmas!” They still did get aforementioned animal cushions. Just not from Santa. No real harm done.

Last year, surveying their loot, Baby said to Baba “Do you believe in the Easter bunny?” and shot a furtive glance at me. I just asked “Do you think I would buy you this much candy?” They both emphatically responded “NO!!!”  So that conversation ended.

  I don’t think of continuing these traditions as lying to my kids. And indeed, when Baby indicated skepticism as to the whole fecund mammal bearing chocolate on the Holiest Day on the Christian calendar, we discussed it together. I had to shut down her original thoughts, due to it happening during dinner. But later on we did talk about how a rabbit that cares about chocolate didn’t really make sense. I asked her if she thought it was more of a game that parents enjoyed playing as a special treat for their children. She said that made more sense.

So I thought I had that awkward, life changing conversation was over. That may indeed be still the case. It would explain why Baby stalked up to me today and announced “It’s been two days and the tooth fairy still hasn’t come. I thought you should know.”  Grumpy Baby frowns on the shenanigans that have delayed her payment.

Although, seriously, who came up with the idea to pay a kid for falling apart? Really, this could seriously backfire on me.