Life is a highway

Life is a highway, I wanna ride you all night long

- Jason, Age 4, singing to himself while (supposedly) brushing his teeth.

What's Cialis?

Recently I took the kids to the doctor. I don't like this new doctor, though I thought I would at first. We'd had brief interaction with him before we moved four or five years ago. When we returned, I thought he'd be good, and after the first appointment, I felt confident. He explained things.

After a few trips I realized he doesn't just explain things, he condescends.

One of the things I hated about our last pediatrician was that, while a nice lady, she seemed to always be on the lookout for sins. One time she gave my son the once over and said,

"Bruises look normal."

Awesome. I've been working on that.

This new doctor does the same thing, just in a different boat. "So, how much TV does he watch?"

After some years on the WIC program, I've learned how to answer this question.

"Too much."

I'm tired of feeling like a bad mom because my kids drool in front of the TV every now and...ok, more than they should. When we lived in a 900 square foot apartment...among other issues, the TV was awesome.

Squirrel!
I hate having to defend myself to a pediatrician who knows nothing about me. I hate the "he's a cute kid. Great kid. Aren't you a great kid?"

The new doc condescends to my kids, most recently it was Jason.

People, I make a concerted effort to not condescend to my kids, so when someone else does, they always have this "WTF?" look on their face.



But anyway. Do they watch too much TV? While most times it's just on for noise and they're off emptying entire bottles of baby powder or shampoo on a freshly cleaned bathroom floor...Yeah. They probably watch more than they should.

Here's how I know:

One time we were at the store. I needed aluminum foil. I reached for the cheap stuff, but Abbie stopped me:

"No! You need Reynolds Wrap, Mom!"

It doesn't happen on a regular basis, but every now and again they'll stop me dead in my tracks. The most frightening thing is when they tell me I need something because a commercial told them so.

That's usually when I snap out of it, turn off the TV, and tell them to go dump a bottle of baby powder on the freshly cleaned bathroom floor.

Then there are the "ED" commercials. You know. Erectile Dysfunction. These commercials are on all the frickin' time. I wince every time one of these commercials comes on. I get little visions of what may be coming our of our childrens' mouths:

"What's 'ED,' Mom?"

"Why does he look so happy?"

"Daddy, you need that."

They're just bad commercials, cheesy, stupid. Not that I don't think they're doing some men a service, but all. the. time.

So far, though, so good. Until the other day. You know these commercials are ridiculous, and sometimes in the spirit of mockery, I repeat lines from things - commercials, tv shows, etc. Without thinking, I repeated one of the lines from a Cialis commercial.

Abbie wastes no time. "What's Cialis?"

TP? Who needs TP?

Yesterday my son was wiping himself, got a little crap on his thumb, and decided that wiping it on the wall would be the logical solution.
I'd just cleaned the bathroom too.

At least he does it for a reason.

So my son thought it would be a nice surprise if Mom and Dad woke up to a clean fireplace.

That's right.

Eric woke up to the smell of burning plastic.

I want to precede this with this: lately, because Eric and I are absolutely beyond tired, the kids have taken to getting up, putting on a movie; Jason makes everyone breakfast, and they chill until Eric gets out of his shower. Neither one of us is really certain when they wake up some mornings.

It's been good. I mean, make your own breakfast, don't wake us up - yay!

Except this morning.

We just recently started using our fireplace. It's awesome (read: cheap) and the kids get such a kick out of the thing. We've tried to beat it into the kids' brains that you do not touch the fireplace nor anything within the fireplace.

We've used reason.

We've used threats.

You just don't touch the damn thing!

But Jason, like he tells me often these days, does stuff "for a reason!" We think him making breakfast for everyone makes him think he's the man of the house. He likes to be a big guy. He likes being "the boss."

(Really quick: be careful if you ever try telling your kid he's the boss of himself. That doesn't really jive with little kid logic.)

So this morning he decides that he's going to clean out the fireplace. The coals are still hot. Red. Yeah. Mostly out, but we all know how firefighters are always looking for even the slightest red coal in the ashes after a fire, right? Right.

He takes the shovel, opens the door, and shovels out the ash, carries it across the living room and then throws it into the trash can.

You know, just your standard trash can fire.

Sigh.

Conversations with a 4 year old boy

It's after dinner, and we were lazy tonight. Kids ate at the table, Mom and Dad chilled on the couch.

A couple hours later, I decide to clear off the table. There's food on the table, plates, cups, ketchup bottle and...

"Uhm, why is there ketchup on these trucks?" Nevermind why are they on the table. They've been on the table on a daily basis as of late.

"Oh," Jason responds offhandedly. "I was just licking it off."

Right.

Baby brain

You'd think I was seriously suffering from ADHD the way I'm prone to lose track of time. Little things (oh! a butterfly!) often distract my attention and before you know it, I'm late.

Here is a short victim list of the things I often forget about - or at least remember perhaps a little later than I'd like.

Take Abbie to school.

When it's not fifty below outside and I remember to get everyone ready around 7:30, we walk to school. More often than not, though, I glance at the clock and find that it is actually 7:40-7:45, nobody has their shoes on, etc., and we need to bust a move...now.

If you have children, you'll understand that this concept of "now" doesn't always compute. Abbie, poor thing, had a break down the other day. I was so angry until I realized that I've reacted by throwing a fit before when my system was overloaded and I wasn't prepared.

Every day after school we look at her papers which sometimes include little announcements. Last Friday, however, her cousin was having a birthday party and we only had time to get home, get her dressed in her princess attire, and then split. No looking at the papers, that's right. Saturday and Sunday pass and I don't look at the papers.

I say it's Abbie's fault.

Anyway, Monday morning rolls around and I have her stick her snack in her bag (I remembered!!) and she pulls out this red piece of paper with a list of themed days for the week. Monday was Pajama day.

Oh if I'd only known.

Mind you, it's 7:40 and Abbie isn't so sure about this PJ day. Totally goes against the grain, right? Who wears PJs outside of the house (except for that one time. Abbie thought that was pretty cool, though).

She's had a rough morning to begin with, and now I'm pressuring her. She wants to wear something atrocious to school (holes, unmatching), and while I'm rather liberal with the kid in letting her dress as she likes, sometimes you have to draw a line. I do need to teach her how to match and look nice, too.

System meltdown.

...what point was I trying to get at again?

Oy.

Eat Breakfast

You know, sometimes I don't "forget" to eat, I just don't want to put forth the effort after making breakfast for three little ones. Sometimes after dropping off Abbie, I race to get errands done because if not now, never, and before you know it, it's ten o'clock and I haven't eaten yet.

Pick up Abbie

Again. I've only forgotten - er, lost track of time - once, but the boys and I were in that van so fast. No shoes, nothing. Just jump in and drive like Cruella DeVille around the block. Her teacher sat beside her, chatting away with another teacher while Abbie sat beside another neglected, forgotten schoolmate.

Abbie didn't say anything or cry about me forgetting about her when we pulled up. Gigantic smile, arms wide open - totally forgiven, if she even suspected I'd committed a horrific crime that only proves parents don't really care. Come the teen years, she'll undoubtedly remember this one occasion (and I do leave room for the real possibility of more) so she can guilt trip me to death about how neglected she is. I'm just doing my part in fueling future teen angst.

But for this first offense, there was no crying. She looked perfect, acted totally normal. Then I went and opened my big mouth and gasped to her teacher "I'm so sorry I'm late. I lost track of time - thank you so much for waiting with her."

Her teacher was awesome about it, but Abbie picked up on her cue right away.

"How come you're late? Mommy, I was waiting so long."

"Oy."

Remember to do homework with Abbie.

When we get home, for some reason I am completely spent. I feed the mouths and plop down in front of the computer. More often than not, my brain just feels full to overflowing and I just.want.peace.

So I put off homework. Sometimes I put it off thinking we'll do it before Abbie goes to bed, but after the boys do. They like to help.

Abbie's nagging comes in rather handy here, though. She won't let me forget. I know, I'm a horrible parent and she's beyond her years in maturity, but oh well. Being the master manipulator that she is (and she is), she discovered quickly that if we happen to not do homework during the day, she can get out of bed and remind me. Guilt strikes, and we go over her flashcards right away.

Now she gets out of bed even if we've already done her flashcards.

Eh - kid's gotta try.

Baths.

I'm horrible about baths. I don't want to do it, mostly because I'm still doing the majority of them. Eric's very busy and he does help when he can, but it's still rather a rarity.

Most days I just forget.

It's hard to forget, though, when the kids come in caked in mud, or when Joe craps in his underwear *groan*

Sometimes I wonder if they do that on purpose. Wouldn't surprise me. Wouldn't blame them.

They love baths.

Oy.

Dinner.

You mean it's 3:30? What're we going to have for dinner? I made a list of what we could have for dinners this week, but a hell of a lot of good that does me when I throw the damn thing away, right?

Pizza. I was going to make pizza this week...but it's too late to get the dough going.

Maybe we should just hit up Little Ceasars. Yeah.

(Speaking of, did I mention balancing the checkbook? Oh, I can do it. I just can't remember to do jack these days. That's a scary one to forget.)



All of this, day in and day out. I've asked for it by wanting to do things for myself, and in all honesty, probably being a smidge too selfish about it. I have dealt with six years of doing most everything domestic myself, and now that I've added writing to the mix, my brain is protesting.

If you give me one more thing to worry about, think about, I'm going to make you say or do something absolutely ridiculously stupid.

And I often do. In front of family, friends, or just on the Internet. Words spill out without appropriate transitions to make them intelligible - but to me: perfect sense.

People are going to start questioning my intelligence. I can't even spell these days, my fingers have gone dyslexic on me, and remembering to click on the little spellcheck button is apparently beyond my ability.

Baby brain. I swear, baby brain. Blame it on the babies.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to post here at least once a week. With the election and post election stuff going on, and the other blog I've been asked to contribute to (Mormon Democrats), and the fact that I want to write a fiction story and articles and you know, the three monkeys and that man I love more than life itself...I'm at capacity. I'll try, though. My weekends are for my fiction. Maybe I'll share someday - hopefully in published form :)

You just have to see it.

So Abbie has proved to be quite the little writer/drawer.

Just like someone some of you all might remember (hint! me)

Of course, some of this may stem from the fact that she observes me writing on a daily basis and has seen me draw cartoon characters.

But still. Her attention to detail astounds me.

Yesterday, she was sitting at the table while I was in the middle of trying to keep my mind focused. This is a near-impossible feat as of late. I could have to vomit and forget that I had to if
I was trying to keep my mind focused on what I was writing at the moment.

"Mom, how do you spell room?"

The words spill from my mouth as fast as I can get them out. "R-O-O-M, Abbie."

"Okay."

A minute passes.

"Mommy, how do you spell you?"

"Sweetie, puh-lease. This is the last one. I'm trying to do something. Y-O-U. Now you have to sound out the rest. I can't think!"

Oh if I only knew.

Some minutes later, she comes to me asking for a piece of tape so she can place her new sign on her door. I glance at the paper she's speaking of because, honestly, I'm not so sure this is a good idea. Memories of my mom telling me as a kid it wasn't a good idea to tape things to doors like the ones we have flood my mind. I don't want to ruin the doors, but there's always paint.

"Lemme see your paper."

Instead of telling you what it says, I'd rather show you. It's absolutely hilarious and adorable
all at the same time:

She then explains to me that this paper is to "keep the boys out."

To be fair, the girl made one for Jason as well.

...And then they all played. In each other's rooms.

It's things like this that make the insanity a little more bearable.

Kindergarten Words, Part 2

"Yes."

I flip a card.

"That."

Another card.

"Is."

And then comes this card. I giggle before the quizzical expression even appears in her forehead.

"Sound it out, Abbie."

"Ahh."

I point to the other word. "What sound does this letter make?"

"Sssssss."

"Right. Now put them together."

"Ah - ss...Ahss.

Ass!"

Fresh!

My brain is absolutely shot.

Sure, it has enough room for about one topic, one train of thought. That's it, though. My mind is so saturated with fatigue and this one thing that I didn't even notice the one red flag all children have a tendency to wave:

Silence.

Every parent craves silence. I foam at the mouth for it. I have been known to clasp my hands over my ears and sing "lalalala, I can't heeaaar yoooou!" just to get my point across.

Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Mature, I know. But surround yourself with children all day and tell me you don't feel like doing that at least once in a while. I actually do it.

The problem with silence is when it comes without you somehow demanding it, and yesterday that happened. My brain was so dead that it didn't realize it until it was too late.

The boys, bless 'em for getting along, put their little heads together and decided to see what the bathrooms (plural) would look like covered in baby powder.

I walked into the hallway, probably to use the bathroom, thinking "huh, what's that smell? *cough* smells good."

HA!

Fortunately for them, I'm too beat up lately to flip out at that. I'm a little unstable lately. You really never know what will set me off and what won't, but the baby powdered bathroom didn't do it. I shrugged, told them to go play outside and, uh, left it alone for another few hours.

I'm tired!

And really, compare that to the time I walked in on Jason dipping a paper cup in a toilet full of crap, finding crap on the toilet paper roll, the wall, the towels...baby powder is nothing.

Seriously, though: I think Eric and I both deserve a week off. The kids, too. At this point, we'd take a weekend easy. The last time we took a weekend we did nothing but sleep. I actually fell asleep at 7:30 one night. Lame!

So much for a romantic weekend, right? Slept like rocks. Woke up only to eat. This is why we need a week. A weekend to sleep, a few days to actually see each other.

I might miss them after a week. Maybe. Probably. I know I'd miss them after two weeks. I love my kids to death, and I'm only half-joking, but it would do us all a bit of good.

I just need my brain to wake up.

Where's a lamp to rub when you need one, anyway?

I am seriously considering taking a photography class.

Really, if I took all the classes I wanted, I'd never graduate. Right now I want to delve more into history (international and national), political science, English, English, English, French, Spanish, photography, etc.

I still want next to nothing to do with math and science. Some math sparks my interest, but for the most part it still makes my thoughts writhe into dyslexia. I'll leave the math up to Eric when the kids want to know what the hell they're supposed to be doing.

Take last night. Eric was showing off the stuff he wanted to do with the kids in class today, and part of it was identifying a problem as "associative or dissociative." While I recognized the terms, I couldn't remember for the life of me what they meant, even though it's a pre-Algebra concept, even though I've gotten as far as Algebra II (er, well, that "liberal arts math" class, which was, actually, rather interesting once you finished making all the jokes).

Yeah. I'll leave the math up to him. I may have to take Trig or something, but even then I'd probably have to retake (again) Algebra II just to remind myself what was what.

And science. It's not that I find it useless, I just don't particularly care for it. I think it's law that if you're a language person, you're immediately not a science person. Must be in the genes. Someone scientific ought to look into that.

But anyway, I want to go back to school. Sometimes I wonder why after seeing Eric want to wither away and just be done with it already, but I miss it. I think I owe it to myself and my kids to go back, because they deserve to know even Mom finds it important enough. I know, I know. I have an A.A. in General Studies (I'll allow you a moment to recover from your "awe").

As much as I want to be selfless, as much as the guilt kicks in and tells me I ought to throw everything away for them, I know I can't live that way. I know all of that selfless crap is a lie, because sometimes, sometimes, you need to be selfish to make sufficient space for selfless. I've lived too long giving up everything, and it doesn't work. I've seen and experienced what it does to those around you, to you. Sometimes selfless isn't enough. It does. not. (always) work.

I have to remind myself almost minute-by-minute some days that the grass isn't greener on the other side, but I still let it shade my complexion. It looks good. It smells good. Sounds amazing. I'm just glad I can't taste it because what I have I could never ever give up. In my right mind, I wouldn't want to.

Back to wishes, though, and that A.A. I couldn't even bother getting an A.A. in anything...decent. I'm still two classes short of being able to transfer to a university without having to retake a bunch of crap. And let's face it: an A.A. degree is hardly a college degree. It's a glorified high school diploma.

In dreamland, I'd actually like to get my master's degree in English. Whether this will happen is completely up to me, and my reasons may or may not be good. Either way, its one possibility for me. Something my thoughts paw at like a ball of yarn.

The fact is that other dreams might take its place, like getting my rogue novel finished and published. The master's can come when I will, when I can. I just want one dream to come true in my own time, now. One selfish dream.

I know I'd rather write, though. If I can't get my degree now, I can get it later. Much as it sounds like a poetic hyperbole, it's true: writing is as much a part of me as is breathing. I have to make time for what I can, and I don't have time right now for much. Kids, house, Eric, and something for me. I worry sometimes that it's either school or writing, and right now, writing matters more. I also know writing is somehow easier, and I'm afraid that's what would make me choose it. Committing to a degree is frightening, but I'm afraid my brain and my wit will atrophy if I don't do something. There's something about diapers full of crap and hearing nothing but "Abbie hit me!" all day that makes me want something more.

Because, let's face it: people will tell a stay-at-home mom all day long that she's doing something amazing, but they don't act like it. I get asked how the kids are, the faux laughs when I make a lame joke about how tired I am, but I can never express it enough because I don't get the chance to. I tuck myself back into my quiet world because I don't know if I'm alone. It's like some kind of shame to let someone know you understand. Instead, it seems everyone wants to ignore it with a sweeping I know what you mean chuckle...and yet, there's nothing to follow it up. No hug. Nothing to really show that camraderie (sp?) that only other stay-at-home moms know. I've tried for months to figure out what exactly it is that isn't quite right, and I think I've got it.

Ask me what I think about something. Don't pretend to care about what I do. Ask me what I think, and know that I will still respect you in the morning should we disagree. I just hope you will respect me too.

For Eric, there is actual conversation, the kind that all too often reminds me that there's a world out there I'm not a part of - and I want to be. I'm just in the background, wiping up chins and making lunches and telling someone to please stop jumping on the couch. There are the moments that make it *so* worth it, but mostly I just feel like the background. The Mom.

I know it's supposed to be horrible to say, but there's more to me than that. So much more. The problem is, I've forgotten just what that all is, but I know its there. I just have to rediscover it - and not just for myself - for my kids, too. They need to know just as much as I do.

While I'm at it, I'd also like to travel...Europe. Canada. The East Coast. Colorado. Anywhere cold and near the ocean. Anywhere full of history, culture, and fog. I miss culture. I really feel there was more culture in Chico, and I wish I had had the chance to take advantage of it.

I will now redirect you to entry #1.

Kindergarten Words

Abbie's teacher sends an envelope of flash cards home with her every Monday, and we're to return it by Thursday at which time she is tested on her ability to memorize - er, on her knowledge.

She's learning to sight read. I think to a point this is necessary, but anyway...She does really, really well. When she struggles, I help her sound it out. This pisses her off, and not just during homework time. At various times during the day I'll hear this:

"Mom, how do you spell 'dog'?"

I don't even look up. Usually I've already helped her spell out dozens of other words, or have had to explain why "ehdyu" isn't a word. Usually, by this point, my head is about to explode.

"Sound it out."

"I don't want to!"

Reminds me of all those times I was told by an exasperated parent to "look it up."

Anyway, the other day we were going through the cards. She's got "see," "the," "and," and a few others down pat. She calls these her "kindergarten words" and it's been fabulous. Whenever she insists she's bored or we're in a waiting room, I tell her to grab a mag and look for her kindergarten words. She finds this thrilling, fortunately enough.

There are a few words she struggles with, though. "It" is one of those words. You'd think a kid who knows - out of the blue - how to spell "here" or "she" would get "it" but whatever. I don't care. What's funny is how she sounds it out.

"Eye...Eye..."

"No, sweetie. This one makes an "eh" sound."

"Eh...ehhh..."

"Good. What sound does the t make?"

"Teh. Teh."

"Awesome. Put them together now."

Her forehead furrows. "Eh-teh. Eh teh. Eteh."

Her eyes widen with the relieving joy that is personal revelation.

"Tit!"

Radars

There was a time I referred to my kids as "my posse," but I'm starting to think "paparazzi" may be more accurate. I've concluded - and there could be more - that small children have at least three different radars:

1) The Sex Radar
2) The Bathroom Radar
3) The Phone Radar

If you're a parent, you know exactly what I'm talking about. For those who may yet be ignorant, I'll explain.

The Sex Radar
Eric and I used to joke about getting Abbie (then Jason and Joseph) a t-shirt that read "NO MORE BABIES!" because every single time we'd get some time alone, Abbie would start screaming. It wouldn't matter if she'd been asleep for hours, or if she was happily watching Sesame Street - hell, I'm not all that certain I didn't hear her scream from Grandma's house that one time.

She convinced us that she had no intentions of ever welcoming another baby into the family. That would mean she'd lose the exclusive attention, and we know we just can't have that.

By the way, The Sex Radar also includes those times when Eric and I just want some time alone in the bedroom. We don't necessarily have to be doing anything - maybe just *gasp* talking, but they will follow.

The Bathroom Radar
Even as a kid, the bathroom became my refuge from siblings and parents alike. I had to share bedrooms and so rarely had a place to just breathe.

Even then, my younger stepsister would follow me and pound on the door. "I have to go potty!"

They always wait until you're in there.

As a teenager, if I was having a particularly hard day (anxiety-ridden) and I was somewhere other than home, I would often hide in the bathroom.

But now? Hell no. Life will be good for a couple hours - Abbie will be at school, the boys will be outside actually playing well together, but the minute I decide to use the bathroom I hear this:

"Mooooooooom! Where are you?"

After a sigh, I decide to wait until Jason either figures it doesn't matter or he'll come looking. I don't want to yell.

But no.

"Moooooooommmmmmyyyyyy!"

"I'm in the bathroom!"

The doorknob turns. "What you doing?"

"Don't come in! I'll be right out."

He knocks. "What you doing?"

"Going potty! Go play!"

"I don't want to!"

@*&#%#!!!

The Phone Radar
Much like The Bathroom Radar, the kids will be playing nice, eating their snack, watching a show, something - but the minute that phone rings, I'm surrounded and interrogated.

"Who is it?"

"No one! Go play!"

"Is it Grandma?"

"No, shh!"

"Daddy? I want to talk to Daddy!"

"It's not Daddy!"

"I want to talk to Daddy!"

@*&#%#!!!

Jason has decided to take matters into his own hands. He knows the approximate time Daddy calls, and he will run into our bedroom to pick up the other handset. He's stealth about it, too. I'm starting to think he's part Ninja.

It's cute the first few times, but after a while it's irritating, and I realize that it's also entirely too convienient for him. Mommy and Daddy's room is far too much fun - and I'm sorry, but that is sacred territory. I try to keep it that way: kid free, toy free, etc. It doesn't always work, but that's my space.

When the bathroom doesn't work, that is.

I'm sure there are more kid radars - I'm at a loss at the moment, but I'm certain they will come to me. If you have any you know of, feel free to share.

If you're eating, don't read this.

There is something horrifying about the sound of children coughing and burping - and not because it might be rude, but because after too much experience with the flu ambushing my family, I know the difference in intonation between a regular burp or cough and the prelude to projectile vomit.

We went to Eric's mom's house for Christmas last year. Our little family had just recovered from some awful version of the flu - it felt like the flu and food poisoning had bred to form something that took us just short of death. But we overcame. It took us a month, but by the end of December we were good. We could have Christmas. We were lucky.

Eric's stepsister and her family were there as well, as was my other sister in law and her family. This particular year, we were all sitting around the table at dinner, enjoying the meal and company. Eric sat beside his niece when we heard her hiccup.

We both looked at each other, our thoughts shooting across the table. Did you hear that? That didn't sound good.

No one else seemed to notice, but they hadn't just gone through what we had. When the baby hiccuped again, Eric's hand flew under her mouth to catch the vomit before anyone else had the chance to compute. Once she finished, her mother and father, red from embarrassment, apologize profusely as if they put their daughter up to it in a joke that went bad. No one really cares though, beyond the fact that it sucks to have a sick baby.

The rest of the family continued eating - yes, even with the mess on the table.

After a while, you become numb to things other people would balk at. One experience I have in particular involves a "blowout," a little boy, and a johnny jumper. Use your imagination.

Not much bothers me anymore.

So about a week ago, Abbie woke up around midnight, moaning and telling me her stomach hurt. Knowing she can be a bit of a drama-queen, I didn't think much of it, but I let her lay beside me for about ten minutes. We watched something about dinosaurs on the Discovery Channel before I asked her if she was ready to go back to bed. She nodded, and I walked her back.

Ten minutes later I heard coughing--and not the good kind.

"Abbie! Bathroom!"

She walked and stood in front of the bathroom (which is right outside our bedroom door).

"Do you have to throw up?"

"No."

More coughing.

I don't remember what made me jump up (it was one in the morning), but before I knew it, I was up and catching the remnants of her digested hot dog in my hand as I raced her toward the toilet.

I hadn't slept yet, it was one in the morning, and this crap is on the floor, the wall, and all over my hand. I knew I was lucky. I've dealt with much, much worse.

Once she finished, I took her back into my room, hoping it was just "one of those things" since she didn't have a temp. She chills on the old crib mattress beside my bed for a half hour. When some time goes by with nothing, I had her go back to bed. Once she's in and quiet, I turned off the TV and tried to sleep.

I should've known better.

She snuck back into the room.

"Go back to bed, Abbie. Please. Mommy needs her sleep."

She stood there, defiant. She didn't want to go. So I got up and put her butt into bed.

Some minutes later, she's coughing and hacking and heaving. I'm a little miffed, because I know this girl. She might be bringing it on herself for the attention and an invitation to come back into my room. I let her finish (she had a bucket), then I got up, cleaned her up, and put her back in bed with a song. Sometime later - I don't know when - she threw up again. I made Eric get up that time. I hadn't woken him yet because I knew he'd let me sleep in, but I was done.

I reached behind me, trying to find Eric as if by Braille. Once I did, I smacked him, slurring "Eric, she's throwing up" upon which time I promptly fell back asleep.

Fast forward to the morning, and she had a temp, hadn't moved much from the leather recliner, and couldn't keep much down. All I could think about was the many times Abbie had told me "Eduardo threw up at school today."

I can't be sure, but I think she'd told me this on different occasions, which leads me to believe Eduardo's parents hadn't kept him at home when they should've. I mean, if your kid just has the sniffles, make the kid go to school. If he/she's hurling chunks, you might want to keep him/her home.

All I knew that night was that I had to get up early. The boys don't care that Abbie's sick and I haven't slept, or that Daddy will leave all-too-early for work and I will have to deal with breakfast and Joseph's nasty diaper. They will get up right on time: 6:00. I will let them watch whatever the hell they want. I will give them leftover cake for breakfast. I've given it to them for dinner before. A girl has got to survive.

And besides, I've watched Bill Cosby: Himself. I know cake isn't all that bad.

When the morning came, however, the boys thought it would be cute to hiccup and cough, too. "I sick, Mommy. I sick too."

What's that they say? Imitation is the purest form of flattery?

Not in this house.

It must be inherent.

Abbie can't tell a lie to save her life. She gets that from me. Her eyes wander and the corner of her mouth will twitch like a bad tick until I get full on teeth.

"Abbie, did you do this?"

She stifles a giggle. "No, Mommy."

I put on my best Ricky Ricardo. "Abbie..."

"I don't want a time out!"

Jason, though? That dude will look you right in the eye and lie, even if he knows you witnessed the crime. Here's one conversation we recently had in which I did not see what had happened...but I heard it.

"Jason, did you pee on the floor?"

"Nope."

I decide to use words that wouldn't sound as accusatory. "Jason. Did you have an accident?"

He raises his fists into the air and punches them back down for added emphasis. "NO! I didn't."

"Then how did this spot get wet?"

His deadpan expression includes big brown puppy dog eyes that completely lack the mischevious twinkle you might think a kid caught in a trap might have. His face is the picture of pure innocence. "Joey did it."

This might be a viable answer, except this spot is new, Joe is outside in pull ups, and I heard Jason do it. "Joey's outside, J. What happened?"

His little eyes roll to the upper corners as he considers who might be the culprit. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was really trying to help me figure it out.

"Ummm, Abbie did it."

He's lucky I have patience today. "Abbie's at school. Did you not make it to the bathroom? I'll bet you tried hard."

"Yeah."

Ah-hah. "So did you have an accident?"

"No."

"Are you sure, because I need to know so I know how to clean it up."

He sighs. "Yeah, I just have an accident."

I've learned I have to appeal to his sense of logic. I know - he's only four - but he has a sense of logic. It's weird.

A few days pass to find him messing with Abbie's hula hoop. It's easy enough to fix, but I don't fault Abbie for getting pissed off. Jason's constantly "experimenting" with and breaking her toys.
For this particular debacle, we had a conversation much like the one above. It began with the initial interrogation. "Did you break Abbie's hula hoop, Jason?"

"No."

"What happened, then?"

"Ummm, the red ants did it?"

When that doesn't fly, Jason continues to place blame on Joseph, Abbie, and then he even goes so far as to accuse Daddy, who was at work. I send him to his room until he can decide to tell me the truth.

A few minutes later, a humbled little boy comes out to tell me sorry. I ask him if he can tell me the truth. He nods.

"So what happened?"

"It did it by itself?"

My voice firms and I give my best don't you dare look. "J."

His shoulders fall. "I broked it."

And there you go.

Before anyone might think otherwise, no. Joseph just doesn't have the strength. Abbie wouldn't have done it herself--I mean, she might have, I won't lie, the kid is quite the talented manipulator - but I know Jason. He likes to break Abbie's toys to figure out how they work or what they look like inside. He's not a malicious kid, just too curious for his own good. His ability to spit out a believable lie is a little more than nervewracking. What will he be like at fifteen?

On second thought, don't answer that question.

Anyone feeling especially entrepreneurial?

I know it's a bad idea to put out such a fabulous idea for just anyone to pick up, but trust me. This is not a job I want.

After potty training two children within as many years, I'm done. I'm done with the accidents, the "accidents" and the poop-in-the-underwear. I only have so many towels, so much febreeze (vinegar is fabulous, too, bytheway), and so little patience.

I swear, if I had the funds I'd totally consider paying someone to potty train my kid for me.

*insert better segueway here*

Right now, we're having a crisis of definitions. I've been reduced to bribery, and have told my youngest (who will be three in December) that if he pees on the potty, he gets one candy corn; if he poops on the potty, he gets two candy corns. Because I'm a good mom, I institute some good-old-fashioned peer pressure and tell the older two that they, too, will get said amount of candy corn.

Try to contain your own excitement. Candy corn IS awesome.

So Joe decides he has to go pee. Giddy with candy corn anticipation, we run into the bathroom. Abbie can't handle it and lets out a triumphant "Yesss!" as she follows us inside. Joe drops his pants and I hoist him onto the toilet.

He pees, we cheer. He proclaims, "I'm done!" and we all run to get some candy corn.

Since Jason is asleep, I give Abbie her share and hand Joe his one piece.

The dude throws a fit. He's been in this horrible little phase lately, this Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde kind of phase that makes me find out just how much self-control I really do have.

If I wasn't certain he was a boy, I'd swear he was menstrual.

I'm not sure what is going on with this kid, but I'm not going to give him any attention, and he lost his candy when he threw it outside (that's right). He wants more, I say no, he runs to Daddy who - bless his immense patience - comes out to translate for me.

"I think we're having issues with definitions."

Joe considers "poop" and "pee" interchangable and thought he'd earned the right to two candies.

I know. Stupid, right? Just give the boy his piece. I'd want two, too.

But I know this boy, and he's gotta learn. We explain to him the difference, using terms he's well aware of (one of his favorite words is "penis" - I'm sure I will visit that subject rather often). Eric then asks him if he has any "poop in his bum" and Joe says no.

Minutes later, he tells me he has to go potty.

Now, this is the problem with bribery. Every five seconds this kid will squeeze any last drop he's got within him for a piece of candy corn, and eventually I'll have to up the ante and endure more of the miscommunication horrors that are little boys with little girl screams.

But we do it because diapers suck and independence rocks. I've never really been one of those moms who freak out when their kids grow up. Is it weird? Of course it is. Honestly, I'm probably more nostalgic than most people I know, so I don't get it.

What I do know is that one of the real wonders of raising kids is seeing them grow up and do things on their own. That beaming smile makes me swell inside. That's a smile I want to see all the time, and it's a smile that won't go away as they age.

And, really, having your child use the bathroom all by him or herself at night without you is one of the neatest things ever.

Let's get this out of the way.

I love my kids. I really do. I love my husband.

I can't imagine life without them.

I am blessed beyond belief.

I believe and know this.

Really.



Up next: The "But"