Parenting: Easy? Never!

I read an article in the paper today entitled, "Parenting Is Not Always Easy".  What?  That seems to imply that parenting is usually or even sometimes easy, when my opinion is that parenting is never easy.

And don't get me wrong. I love being a parent.  It's my most favourite job.  Is it completely worthwhile?  Yes.  Would I do it again?  Yes.  Is it often fun and interesting and wonderful?  Yes.  But easy?  No way.

It's the hardest job I have ever done.  Again, not because it's so terrible, but because it's so important.  We are raising these three little people who will become big people who we hope will be compassionate and positive contributors.  This is a huge job.  There are so many things that can go wrong!

And children are extremely vulnerable.  The worry alone is hard.  Worrying about whether they're eating right and enough.  Worrying if they're sick.  Worrying if they get a note from the teacher about behaviour and whether it will become a pattern....or maybe that's just me.

And there are so many details; so many decisions to make at all times.  You think planning a wedding is hard?  Try raising a human being!  The details never stop!  With every phase, they just change to different details.

Thank goodness we have the hugs, the 'I love you's', the holiday excitement, the fascination with watching little people learn and grow.

The worst part is that, although I want to do the right thing, it's not always clear what that is.  Most of the time you just take a deep breath and take a leap of faith.  You do what you think is right and you hope against hope that everything will work out okay.

All you parents out there, I think you know what I mean.  I've decided that the hardest jobs are the most worthwhile.  And anyway, easy jobs are for amateurs.

Now That's Sincerity!

My sons were arguing, as unfortunately they do a lot.  My one son had written his brother a note that said, 'You are a big fat dummy!'  I was happy he was practicing his writing skills, but really... the content left something to be desired.  Deciding that a 'natural consequence' would be best, I told him he now had to write a note saying sorry to his brother.

He wrote the note and I took a look at it hopefully.  It said, starting off in really tiny letters that coincidentally kept getting bigger and bigger:  'I am sorry  that you are a BIG FAT DUMMY!'

Ah, sincerity.  It's a beautiful thing.  On to the next note...

I Am Not, Repeat, NOT Cranky!

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  My son had apparently grown an entire foot since last winter, and I didn't have any warm pants he could wear, so I thought I would take all the kids to Zellers to buy pants.  I usually try to avoid taking even one child shopping, let alone three, so I'm not sure exactly what I was thinking but let's say I was extremely optimistic.

It started out well.  When I picked them up at school, they wanted to have friends over, so I said enthusiastically that we couldn't do that because we had to go shopping!  Surprisingly, they didn't pick up on my happiness.  They became very upset and complained loudly about it.  So we were off to a good start.

We got into the van.  My one son began going on and on about how the last thing in the world he wanted to do right then was go to Zellers.  I tried to lighten the mood by talking about my oldest son's birthday.  That backfired, as my daughter began crying because it wasn't HER birthday.  You can't anticipate these things.

I noticed I was clenching both my jaw and both hands on the steering wheel.  I said, "Can everyone just stop being so cranky?"

My son yelled, in the most irritable voice ever, "I am NOOOOTTTTTTT cranky!!!"

There was a startled pause, and then we all began laughing hysterically.

I felt much less cranky after that.

Separation Anxiety: Or 'Clingy Like Saran Wrap'

My daughter is three and a half and she is extremely clingy right now.  I call her 'Saran Wrap' (lovingly).  She cries whenever I leave, even if I've been with her all day and I'm just going out for a run.

I knew it was getting bad when I tried to take a shower the other day, and she began crying.  Tearfully, she told me that she didn't want me to take a shower because she loved me.  I said, "Honey, I love you too, but I'm just taking a shower.  I am, in case you haven't noticed, still RIGHT HERE.  I'm not leaving the house; I'm just going behind this curtain!  It's not like REALLY LEAVING!"

She got into the shower with me.

I'm not really sure how to handle this, because I haven't had to deal with it for my two older boys.  And my daughter is extremely loving and nurturing and sensitive (not like anyone I know) and I don't want to hurt her.

Also, I know the boys went through so many phases and I'm thinking if I can just hang on, this will be another phase that will pass.

I have come to realize that (as my good friend said when I discussed the best way to leave her when she's crying): "It's like a band aid - the quicker you take it off, the quicker it stops hurting."

However, I also think about when she will be sixteen and how she might (sob) hate me and be embarrassed by me and never want to be seen with me, and then I feel like saying, "That's okay, I'll hold you while I make dinner.  I don't mind at all!  You want to hold my hand the entire day?  GOOD!  Let's do it!" 

You've got to get it while you can, right?

Stop It, Mommy!

Once you're a mom, it's hard to turn off that mom voice.  Even when you wish you could.  Even when you can tell that you're annoying your child, but you just can't stop!  Heck, sometimes I'm annoying MYSELF, and I still can't turn it off.

I know I can't keep my children in bubbles, and I know they need to make mistakes in order to learn.  So why is it so hard to let them do it, then?

I think it's because we're also supposed to protect our children; that's our job too.  And I love my children so much that it's hard to see them hurt themselves or fail something.

They're young yet, as well.  I hope the 'letting go' will happen more when they're teenagers....because I need several years to practice!

My oldest son (eight) was at a track meet, and I was there to watch him.  I kept bugging him about drinking enough fluids so he wouldn't get dehydrated, and he kept brushing me off (rolling his eyes and walking away).  But I was persistent, unfortunately for him.

I followed him around, holding out his juice box.  "How about some apple juice?"  I suggested brightly.  "What about water?  Hmmm?  Some nice cold water?"

I suppose the key would be pretending that I didn't care at all, but by then it was too late for that.

"You need to drink enough fluids...." my voice trailed off feebly as my son literally ran away from me.

Later on I noticed that he and his friends were lying on their backs, having a chugging contest with their water bottles.  They were each trying to drink the entire water bottle all at once; that was the game.

You'd think I would be happy that he was finally drinking something.  Sadly, no.

I rushed over and in front of all his friends I said, "Colin!  You shouldn't do that.  You're about to run and you don't want to run with tons of water sloshing around in your tummy."

Again, the rolling of eyes and the sigh.  Poor kid.  I can't help myself!  I'm going to have to learn how to bite my lip and keep my mouth shut.

The other day my mom was admonishing my 32 year old brother about wearing sunscreen, and he rolled his eyes as well, just like my son.  I guess some things never change. 

As I was leaving the track meet, without thinking I yelled in earshot of all his friends, "Bye Honey! I LOVE YOU!"  

Oops.

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day to all you moms out there!  You know, the ones with spit-up in their hair.  The ones with glazed, half-open eyes who would give anything, ANYTHING, for a complete nap.  The ones who would be happy just to be able to finish a sentence without having to get a snack or soothe a crying child.

I remember when I first became a mom.  It's such an amazing experience.  I looked down at my first baby, swaddled in a hospital blanket and lying on the bed beside me.  The nurse had put him in the little crib thing at first but I wanted him right beside me.  I was so tired and sore.  I looked down at him and wished I could kiss him all over his face, fingers and toes.  And then I realized that he was mine, and I could!  It was a great feeling.

So many changes occurred after that.  I started to carry a diaper bag instead of a purse.  I realized how I had enjoyed unbelievable, humongous truckloads of time before I had children.  And I had wasted it!  I remembered the times I had whined about my homework with shame.  I was probably lolling around on the couch when I said it, wondering whether I should watch TV or read a book!  I was so naive!  All of a sudden I was busy 24/7. 

I remember my dental hygienist saying that when mothers told her they didn't have time to brush their teeth, she would think, "Yeah, right."  When she became a mother she understood.  I laughed and told her that when I was a new mom I remember very clearly thinking that I could either brush my teeth or wash my face, but I didn't have time to do both.  That's because my son would start crying like clockwork at 7 p.m. every night and I had to be ready for the onslaught.  And I guess I would have been ready before that, if I hadn't been breastfeeding, changing diapers, or playing with the baby!

I perfected 'the sway'.  I realized this at a Christmas get-together.  I was swaying gently from side to side, shifting my weight smoothly and humming softly, when I noticed I was getting a few strange looks.  I looked down at the cheese plate cradled in my arms.  Oh, that's right - my HUSBAND was holding the baby.

It became harder and harder to get it together.  I mean, after you have one child, you realize how you had tons of time before that.  Then you have two children and you realize you really weren't that busy with one child.  He napped!  For three hours!  What you wouldn't give for THAT kind of time when you have two children.  I won't even talk about the time factor with three children, because you get the idea...

I think we can all feel overwhelmed by the enormous demands of motherhood.  Maybe there will be times when you too will look at your disorganized house, your not-back-where-you-want-it-yet figure, and you will despair.  But I try to put it in perspective: those things are fixable, and not really that important in the whole scheme of things.  And I have three wonderful children who I love getting to know.  And maybe by the time they're ready to go to university....the house will be organized!

The Tooth Fairy Lives....I Swear!

Last night the Tooth Fairy visited our house. 

I've had several ups and downs with the Tooth Fairy.  And that's only with one of my three kids!  The other two haven't even started to lose their teeth yet.

The first time my son lost his tooth, he was SO excited about the Tooth Fairy coming for the first time.  He was the last person in his class to lose a tooth, and he had been quite despondent about it, and became firmly convinced that his baby teeth were going to stay in FOREVER.

Anyway, the big day arrived!

It was the first time I had to perform 'Tooth Fairy' duty, and I was ready.  I had some money all prepared.  I was happy; I love to do these things.  It would be so much fun! 

My son has a double bed with two pillows on it, side by side.  That night his brother Ryan was going to try to sleep in the same bed.  We will occasionally let them do this if it's not a school night.  It never works out, though, and one eventually has to go back to his own bed.  That's what happened; Colin ended up sleeping alone.

I had to wait up late to ensure my son would be fast asleep, and then I tiptoed in and put the money under the other pillow, not wanting to wake him.

Well, in the morning I expected my son to be ecstatic that the Tooth Fairy had visited and left money, and I was excited to see his reaction.

He was in tears.

"The Tooth Fairy left the money for my brother instead of me!"  he wailed.  "And he didn't even lose his tooth!"

The sheer injustice of it all was mind-boggling. 

I was nonplussed.  I began sputtering, "But...but...it's YOUR bed!  In your room!"

He shook his head sadly.  "But it was under the pillow RYAN was sleeping on."

"Yes," I agreed wearily, "for about FIVE SECONDS!  And it's still your bed and your pillow!"

What a fun, happy memory this was turning out to be.

The next time I was determined to do better.  I placed the money directly under the pillow my son was actually sleeping on.  (Who knew?)

Anyway, the next morning, again hoping for all smiles and joy, my son once more greeted me with despair.

"The Tooth Fairy didn't come!"  he announced sadly, and then, without any melodrama at all, threw himself headlong on the couch face-down.

(I think he had looked forward to this moment for so long that it couldn't possibly live up to the reality.  Isn't that the way it goes?)

Anyway, I went to go 'help' him look.  Smugly, I put my hand under the pillow.  Nothing.  I searched around under both pillows.  I couldn't find the money either.  I began tearing at the bedsheets with a crazed look on my face.

I couldn't exactly yell, "I KNOW the money is here because I PUT IT THERE MYSELF!"   Instead, tight-lipped, I just began throwing pillows and blankets off the bed in a desperate frenzy.

Finally after several tense moments I found the money; it had slipped off the mattress and wedged itself between the mattress and the bed frame.

I held it up triumphantly, panting slightly but hugely relieved: "Here it IS!"

My son looked at me with a puzzled expression.  "Why did the Tooth Fairy HIDE it in my bed frame?"

I needed my coffee, I really did.  I tried to put a cheerful tone in my voice.  "That Tooth Fairy, she's pretty tricky!"

Was it all worth it, really?

Next, our neighbours' daughter, whose family has lots of money, told my son that the Tooth Fairy gave her $20.00 a tooth.  Then my son was really depressed.  "Why does the Tooth Fairy give her more money than me?"  he demanded to know.

I opened and shut my mouth a few times but nothing emerged.  "Hmmmm......."  I stalled for time.  "I guess the Tooth Fairy knows you don't need that much money!"  I answered finally, exhausted.

My son frowned and looked as if he really wanted to argue with the Tooth Fairy's logic, so I quickly slipped away.

Back to last night.  Right before we were putting the kids to bed, I whispered to my husband, "I don't have any change, do you?"

"No!" he whispered back.  I only had a $5.00 bill; Jerry only had a $20.00.  And neither of those amounts was going to happen.  We have a cheap Tooth Fairy, and besides, I wasn't willing to set that kind of precedent.  I have three kids who each have 16 baby teeth.  You do the math!

Anyway, then we both forgot about the issue in the tumult of putting three kids to bed.  My husband went to play hockey.

At 2:00 a.m. I woke up, gasping.  "Oh no!  The Tooth Fairy!"

I ran downstairs.  My husband had fallen asleep on the couch.  I woke him up and hissed at him, "The TOOTH FAIRY!"  

He looked at me sleepily, grunted, "Oh, right,"  got up and stumbled upstairs to bed.  Thanks, honey!  (In the morning he'd have no recollection of our little chat.)  I was hoping he'd gotten some change when he was out for the night.  So much for that.

Anyway, after reviewing my options, I did what any good mother would do.  I stole money from my other son.

Then, in the morning, when my oldest son retrieved the Tooth Fairy's gift, he sighed.  "I only got a dollar!"

I just lay on the couch with my eyes closed.  "Someone get me an Advil and make it snappy!"  I yelled.

I've Become THAT Mom

I used to live beside a woman who had three kids. I only had one baby at the time.  I used to hear her yelling at the kids all the time at her doorway.  I really liked this woman; she was very nice.  But I was kind of  hoping I wouldn't be yelling that much at my kids.

Well.  Too late.  I have become THAT mom.  And I don't really see any chance of that stopping, either.  At least until the kids are older and more independent.  It's not that I WANT to yell at them; I don't.  I am constantly telling myself that I need to stop yelling so much.  But I have realized that in several situations it is necessary.  I want my children to behave.  And when you have three children running around, no one would be able to hear me if I didn't yell. 

Sometimes I do just count; you know the 1-2-3 Magic routine.  This does work for me and I use it all the time.  But when we're trying to get out the door on time, it doesn't work to time someone out.  We need to move quickly!  It's really about trying to make sure they're all ready simultaneously.  It's like timing a complicated Thanksgiving dinner, but food is much more co-operative than small human beings.

I read an article in which someone suggested to whisper to your kids instead of yelling because your kids would be intrigued by the novelty and would listen better than if you yelled.  Let me say this politely: ha.  That novelty would wear off in about one nanosecond.  If I used this strategy, I would have become a heap in the corner, sobbing, a long time ago. 

And it's the doorway thing too.  I yell the most at the front door, probably just like my old neighbour.  It's because that is where I have so much trouble - getting them all out the door, on time, dressed appropriately, with teeth brushed, with all the backpacks full of the right lunchboxes, agendas, and clothing.

It happens when my boys are wrestling instead of putting on their coats. It's where you'll hear me yelling, "I've told you four times to put on your boots, which is one time more than I had to ask you to brush your teeth!" while my child looks at me blankly and says, "Boots?  What boots?"

This is where you'll hear a child say, "I just remembered I left my mitten at Nora's house!"  when we have exactly two minutes to get to school so we won't be late.

And then the other child will say, "I forgot to eat my breakfast, and boy, am I hungry.  Oh...and I can't find my Epi-Pen." 

That is when I take a big gulp of coffee and count to ten very slowly while trying to remember to breathe.

I have taken to using military language: "Move 'em out!  Move 'em out!  Look sharp!  March, march, march!"  It doesn't help much.

Sometimes I get heartily sick of the sound of my own voice, honestly.  It would be so much easier to just be quiet, and let the kids rip each other to shreds, and make huge messes that you never make them pick up because you are far too tired of standing over them and making them do things.  It is very hard to be a good parent.

But worth it.....right?  Tell me the hard work will pay off!

That's A Pretty Short Ponytail!

The group of kids were competing about who would have the shortest pony tail. 

It started off when my oldest son commented on how long his sister's pony tail was getting.  Then he pulled at his hair and declared that he would have the shortest pony tail in the world.

My other son, always happy to disagree with his brother, argued that in fact, his hair was shorter, so HE would have the shortest pony tail in the world.

My son's friend got in on the action by saying that he knew another guy who had shorter hair than everyone present, and that consequently this person would have, by far, the shortest ponytail in the world.

My five year old chimed in excitedly, certain that he had definitively won the argument, "Oh yeah?  Well, my Grandpa has ALL OF YOU beat!"

Grandpa's bald.

Elementary School for Parents?

You go to pick up your young child from school, and as you watch him approaching you with a smile on your face, suddenly you notice something different.  Is it that....oh, no, it can't be - your smile begins to fade - but yes, you see that your child has another backpack, and is happily clutching a bear.

I dread that darn bear.  You know the one.  He is YOUR homework.  You, the parent.  Not your child, who loves the bear and is ready to play with it for the next day or so.  When we had just gotten into our van, my son was already holding the bear up in the air, yelling:  "The adventure begins!!" 

For who, is the question?  I'll show you an adventure!  That !@#$%^ bear just adds to my already overwhelming workload.  My young son is supposed to do a journal entry.  But who is going to help him do his letters and spell correctly?  Not the bear!  And who is going to take the pictures for the journal and print them out, suddenly realizing that you're out of computer paper and must run to the store late at night in a snowstorm just to finish your son's homework?  That's right.  You.

I thought that bear was trouble enough.  But now one of my children is learning about pioneers.  He's going on a field trip, and not only do I have to dress him in period clothing (luckily I have some gray flannel trousers and suspenders hanging in my closet...or, no, sorry, that's not me, because I live in the 21rst century!) but I have to bake period food for him to take with him in his lunch pail with no Tupperware or anything.  Oh, yes, and I have to bake the cornmeal biscuits over a fire pit in the woods in a big black antique pot, in the middle of winter, also dressed in a gingham dress and an apron.  I can't wait!  But I'm not bitter or anything.  Do I sound bitter?

Anyway, it's my own fault.  Because I take up the challenge of the visiting bear and the pioneer day.  I do the journal entries and the pictures.  I baked the cornbread biscuits and packed milk in a glass jar.  And I dragged out 'pioneer-like' clothes.  I did it....and now I'm going to take a nap!

 

Nobody Told Me There'd Be Days Like This

There are some mornings when you get up, and your nightie is on inside-out and backwards, and you could care less.  In fact, you will snap at anyone who dares to mention it.  In addition, deep down inside, you kind of want someone to mention it just so you CAN snarl at them.

These are the mornings that usually occur when you've been up several times in the night, and you wake up in a bed with four people and a cat in it because two children snuck in during the night, and you can't turn over because it's crowded, and your legs are asleep because the cat is a dead weight on top of them, and already you're looking forward to the next night before you've even had your day, just in case you actually get some rest.

Then there are mornings when you actually had a good sleep, and you wake up in a bed that only has you and your husband in it, and you woke up on your own without two children telling you they absolutely cannot go downstairs or face the day unless you personally accompany them.  These mornings your nightie is on right side out, and you take the time to stretch and to put on a robe, and you say, "Good Morning!" pleasantly to everyone.

Aaahhhh.  Those are the days.  And if there's coffee, they're just about perfect.

A Bad Mommy Moment

When I went to pick up my daughter at her child care centre today, I was informed by a staff member that my daughter's tights had a hole in the toe.

"So I went to her bag to get an extra pair of socks," the staff person continued, "and the extra pair of socks had a big hole in the heel!"

She fixed me with a look and concluded: "I had to put a pair of daycare socks on her!"

I had a bad mommy moment.

The worst part was that almost this exact same thing had happened a week earlier, except that the staff person couldn't find any extra socks in Ella's bag, so she told me to put some in just in case.  I had done that.  I mean, they were rolled up - I didn't know the extra socks I had put in had a hole in them!

And I didn't mention that her dad had dressed her those mornings.  We have about a pile of six different kinds of tights on the couch to choose from.  I need to have lots on hand, because Ella will only wear dresses at this point in her life (I'm not complaining - you go, girl!).

Immediately upon getting home, I ran up to Ella's closet and picked out two very nice pairs of socks, and I unrolled them to check for holes, and then I threw out the tights with the very small hole in the toe.  Whew!

I did this in between checking on the 5 kids in the house (because two of them were having play dates), putting away lunchboxes and sorting school information from the day, and making dinner.

Then I noticed that my son's pants, which had appeared completely intact that morning, now had two huge holes in each knee.

"What did you do?"  I asked my son in exasperation.  "Go at them with the scissors during your nutrition break to show solidarity with your sister?"

I told my husband the whole story when he arrived home.  He laughed, and then, as he walked away, I noticed that he had two big holes in the heels of his socks, and a hole in the back of his pants.  Who dressed him this morning, anyway?

Guess I need to go shopping!

When I Grow Up...I Want to Annoy My Mommy

My son in Senior Kindergarten had to wear the costume of his favourite Community Helper to his class.  He chose to be a police officer, so we bought the costume at the dollar store. 

I was thinking, "That's a good choice; someone who works for justice!"

Then I thought about it a little more.  Just in case, I decided to ask my son why he wanted to be a police officer.

He looked at me gleefully, answering, "Because I get to carry a GUN!"

I took a deep breath.

I looked at my son with a frown on my face.  "Wrong answer, Ryan!  Try again!"

He looked up at me, his confidence wavering slightly.  He murmured tentatively, "Ummm....because I get to shoot people?"

I sat down in despair.  "NO!  Not appropriate!  Listen to the words coming out of my mouth.  You...want...to...help...people!  You know, Community HELPer.  A person who HELPS, not who shoots everyone to Kingdom Come!"

My son repeated it after me, not looking very convinced.  I could just see him thinking, 'BORRRING'.  He wants to be the superhero type.

The next morning he ran up to me before class and said anxiously, "Mommy, can you write that thing I'm supposed to say down for me?"


I remember the time my other son was asked what he wanted to do when he grew up, and he said, "Live in a trailer park."

That's great, honey.  Aim high.  Aim high. 

He soon switched his choice to an archaeologist.  I won't say whew, but...whew!

We were having a conversation again the other night about what the kids would be when they grew up.

My son said to my daughter, "You can be a princess when you grow up, Ella!"

She looked at him in disbelief, her eyes rolling.  "I'm a princess ALREADY, Colin!"  She didn't say it, but you could easily hear the 'hello?' implicit in her statement.

My five year old son then said, "Yes, and Daddy is a prince right now."

I was about to interrupt and say, "Hold on, there,"  but Ryan continued.

"And you're the queen, Mommy."

Oh - well.  Okay then...

Fabulous Forty

Here's a tip for all you people out there.  When someone says, "You're invited to my 40th birthday party," don't hesitate, don't ask any questions, don't break eye contact.  You just say, as quickly as humanly possible, "That must be a mistake!  You can't possibly be forty.  You don't look a day over thirty-five!"

It's like the 'Does this make me look fat?' question women pose to their husbands.  This is what we call a 'no-win situation'.  Husbands need to learn that they don't proceed to check out their wife's body after hearing this; no.  They don't say, "Hmmm....turn around?"  They don't pause and consider the question.

No.  None of the above.  The man should not even take a breath; he shouldn't let his wife finish the sentence; he should yell forcefully and with great conviction, "NO!  Absolutely not!  In no way, shape or form!"  It is at THIS point that he can take a breath and run in the opposite direction, now that he is safe.

I hope that's clear.

And I've decided that is what people should do for any big birthday that people announce.  It's polite, and it will just make that person feel so much better.

Or you could just say what Steven Tyler said on American Idol the other night: "You don't look a day over fabulous!"

Hello Kitty Is My Worstest Enemy

My son had cut his finger, and we were all out of Star Wars band aids.  "I NEED A BAND AID!"  he yelled frantically.

"Okay, that's fine.  The only kind we have left are 'Hello Kitty' ones."  I replied.

My son gasped in horror.  "Hello Kitty!  I can't wear that.  Hello Kitty is my worstest enemy!"

I can see that.  As my husband said, that cute little kitty with the tiny red bow - she's pretty vicious.  You don't want to cross THAT kitty.  She'll best you every time.  It's always the small ones you have to watch.

I decided to try the sympathetic, compassionate approach.

"You will wear the Hello Kitty band aid and you will LIKE it."  I announced.

My son took a deep breath, sighed and held out his finger in resignation.

As I put on the band aid, I whispered, "Hello Kitty's going to get you!"

(I said it in a mature way, of course.)

Me! No, me!

My boys had been fighting and they were saying sorry.  I watched in disbelief as they began to argue over who was more sorry.

"I am more sorry than you!"  Colin announced.

"No!"  Ryan protested strongly.  "I'm WAY more sorry than you."

Colin shook his head vehemently.  "I TOLD YOU I was more sorry!"

"I am the absolutely MOSTEST SORRIEST!"  Ryan countered, not giving an inch.

Their voices started rising.

It soon disintegrated into the 'me', 'no, me!' kind of argument and then they started rolling around on the floor wrestling about it.  "I'm MORE sorry!"  Bam.  "NO, I'M more sorry!"  Whack.

It was a beautiful moment between brothers.  It was enough to bring tears to my eyes, honestly. 

I just watched them with my mouth wide open.  This has got to be a new low, isn't it? 

Or maybe that was when my oldest invented an 'Atomic Wedgie Machine'...

What a Nightmare!

Last night I had this terrible dream.  I dreamt that my children had grown taller than me!  And  - if you can believe how crazy this dream was - they were talking back.  I know.  Unbelievable, right? 

Currently I am still much taller than all my children.  In the dream, however, I remember distinctly that I had to lift my head up to look up at them; they were at least a head taller than me.

I woke up, and said to my husband, "Whew!  What a bad dream.  Luckily it was just a dream that has no basis in reality.  You know, there's absolutely no way that will ever come true...right?"

Oh, fine, I know it's just a matter of time.  I'm sure my boys will be taller than me.  Now about the talking back part...

I was speaking with a colleague who has teenaged sons, and she was mentioning a time one swore at her.

"Oh no!"  I exclaimed.  "They're going to swear at me?"

"Of course they will,"  she explained patiently, giving me an 'are you kidding me' look. 

And here I thought them yelling 'NEVER' was bad.

"Now wait until you get to the point where you swear back!  It's very liberating."  She laughed.

Great...I can't wait to be liberated!

The Difference Between Boys and Girls

My three year old daughter is currently obsessed with baths and showers.  Every day she wants to have a bath.  Sometimes twice a day.  She loves it.  Sometimes I actually argue with her about it, saying, "Honey, you had a bath this morning!  You don't need another one already!"

"But Mama,"  she protests, "I LOVE BATHS!"

That's great.  And there's nothing cuter than her singing to herself and pouring water into different boats with her hair pulled up in a little bun on top of her head.

And then there's my boys.

We're currently in a life-and-death struggle over wearing clean socks. 

I put out clean socks and underwear every day for them.  But then I started finding clean socks under the couch and the coffee table.  What was going on?

One day my oldest son stuck his foot in my face and I almost lost consciousness.

"Your feet STINK!"  I yelled.

He leaned over and smelled them himself.  He got a bit wobbly and his eyes watered.  "Whew!  You're right, Mom."  he agreed pleasantly.

There was a long silence while we looked at each other.  He was looking at me blankly, I should add.

Finally I got tired of the impasse and suggested gently that he change into clean socks.

He looked at me with a mystified air.  "Why?"

Shrove What?

Today I made pancakes for dinner.  I told the kids we were having pancakes because of Shrove Tuesday, and that's what you do on that date.  I said it with great self-importance.

They were just happy to be able to eat pancakes for dinner so they didn't question me any further.  My three year old daughter did her little 'pancake dance'.  We were all content.

My husband came home and when I announced we were having pancakes, he asked why.

"It's Shrove Tuesday, of course."  I answered nonchalantly, brandishing my spatula in the air.  "I mean, come on...everyone knows THAT."

"What is Shrove Tuesday?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence as I thought about it.

Finally I sighed and admitted, "I have absolutely no idea.  None.  Not a clue."

He just looked at me.

"Fine!"  I yelled as I ran to the computer.  I looked it up. 

Christians have pancakes on Shrove Tuesday because it's the day before Lent, when they typically give up the ingredients that are in pancakes such as fat, butter, and eggs.  'Shrove' comes from the word 'shrive' which means to confess your sins, which Christians do before Lent.

Anyway, we don't celebrate Lent.  But hey, for Shrove Tuesday....count me in!

Transition to Crazy...

My husband and I were at a party recently and he was telling a funny story about when I was in transition during the labour of our third child, our daughter.  He said I was yelling a word that I didn't think I'd ever said in my life.  I have nothing against swearing - I do it quite often under my breath or in my head - I just have no memory of ever saying this particular word. 

Transition is funny.  Technically it's the time when you're dilating the last 8 - 10 centimetres.  It is described as a time when a woman becomes quite different than usual - possibly irrational too.  I'd heard of women screaming at their husbands and throwing things.   But I mean, you try giving birth and see how rational you are!

I had read about transition and frankly it scared me, because I didn't like the thought of losing control.  But I wanted a natural labour so I accepted it.

After our first child was born I questioned my husband anxiously whether I'd sworn at him or done anything crazy.  He assured me I hadn't, and I felt relieved.  The same after our second child was born.  You'd think I would have known, but at some point during labour you are kind of in your own world.  I know what you're thinking, but I didn't have any drugs at all, and I was still in my own world.

I guess our third was different.  I think by then my body thought, 'well, here we go again, let's just give it our all; why hold back?  I'll show you crazy!'  At one point, in between contractions, I whispered to him, "All I feel like doing is swearing!"  (She was a big baby.)

I guess I did go through the irrational part, too.  I remember at one point thinking to myself, "No way am I pushing anymore.  This is too hard.  It's just NOT going to happen.  No one can make me!" 

I remember my midwives telling me to push and me yelling back, "NO!"  (See what I mean?) 

This made me feel better for a few minutes.  Until my sanity returned.  "Wait a second!  What am I thinking??  Push!  Push!  PUSHHHH!"