A few of my least favorite things

Sometimes I wonder if the people who dream up toys, clothes, books and gear for children have ever actually spent time with a child. Or a parent. Or maybe even other humans.

These products are meant to make my life more convenient or be fun for the kids. Really, they just become part of the daily irritants that send me to the candy closet to hide with a cold Diet Coke. Whenever my husband and I see a fancy kid product in a store, we consider it for a second and then come to one of the following conclusions: destroyed in a day or pieces lost or scattered so far we wouldn't find them until the kids move out. We come into quite a bit of our baby and kid products second hand. But we're also unwittingly convinced that we need many of these products before we wise up and realize how completely unnecessary and annoying they are.

Here are a few of my least favorite "kid- or parent-friendly" products:
 
Outfits with snap up legs. (or, as we call them around here, stripper pants) Whoever thought this one up never had to wrestle a very strong baby hellbent on rolling over and wiggling. It takes me at least five minutes to snap the baby back up. It's just easier to pull pants on and off.

Zip up pajamas in any size beyond 2T. Are you nuts? I'm trying to potty train my kid. Why would I make it more difficult to go to the bathroom? Although, I must say, we got a bunch of these for Christmas and Big Brother loves them and does well getting them on and off. He, much like his father, is a fan of the creature comforts and would wear these jammies all day if I let him, which I don't. I still don't like them. There's always the risk of them dangling into a toilet bowl full of pee or worse. And, besides, they look like babies in those things.

Onesie-style tops (that is, tops that snap in the crotch) in any size beyond 2T. See above. And besides, they just look ridiculous on big kids.


Books that make noise. Books should not make noise. Ever. When my parents wanted us to stop yammering at them or bickering at each other, they told us to go read a book. I get it. They wanted quiet. One day, for a fun, educational clean-up activity, I told the kids to pick up all the books off of the floor and sort them into two piles: Books that mommy likes and books that mommy hates. They did an excellent job as you can see. And now they don't bring me any of these books to read them. In fact, I haven't heard any of these books in a while. How's that for retention of a lesson? Maybe I'll make a good homeschool mom after all.



Pop up books and books with flaps. These really don't last long in our house. My kids are about as gentle as billy goats. I regularly throw these things out. The kids don't really care if the pages are torn, but it really makes mommy twitch. And lately, I find the baby chewing on the loose and dangling pieces of these books; much like a billy goat would, actually. (You know, it really does feel like I am the shepherdess of a herd of small goats some days.)

Sippy cups. I hate sippy cups. I hate cleaning them. I hate keeping up with all their pieces and parts. I hate tracking them down. I hate breaking up fights over them. I hate that they leak when I'm promised that they won't. Recently, I banned sippy cups. Now my kids drink from cups at the kitchen table. Girlface does surprisingly well. We do have a lot of spillage, but I only ever give the kids water. I had surmised that this would make our floors cleaner, but it hasn't. It just gets my socks wet and makes the floor slippery. I kept a handful of straw cups for smoothies and water bottles for traveling but have even considered bringing a thermos and cups to the park. My hatred right now is that deep. I'll probably start The Baby on a cup at 11 months or so.

Fair weather mom

A few months ago, my husband, my son and I were huddled in the kitchen listening to an indignant and wild-eyed Girlface shrieking outside the closed Dutch door. It felt an awful lot like being under siege.

We had kicked her out of the kitchen after tiring of the nightly dinner drama: an overturned plate of food, thrown cups and silverware, climbing onto the table, grabbing at everyone else's food, whining and grunting and crying, barely eating anything. (And, no, we cannot put her in a high chair anymore. She has rendered the seat unsafe by thrashing about too violently when confined. Come to think of it, she's a lot like her mother in that respect.)

She was about 15 months old at the time. We're still under siege, only it's intensified quite a bit here lately.

Right now, my daughter isn't just a handful; she's about 20 handfuls. On daily basis, I come upon scenes that would terrify even the most seasoned parent. I've found her halfway up the bookshelf, wielding a knife in the kitchen, standing on the desk with a pair of scissors that I thought were out of reach, climbing into her crib and trying to climb out, in The Baby's bassinet (when The Baby was not, thank God), trying to pick up his bouncy seat with him in it.

Everything she does right now is an exercise in frustration for her and us. She wants whatever someone else has and whatever is out of reach or off limits. We're really hoping that this is a toddler thing and not her actual personality.

She walks about all day long with an outstretched hand, whining and hyperventilating. We offer her a toy, she runs away crying. We offer food or drink, she knocks them from our hands. We tell her no, she cries indignantly for very long periods. (One day at lunch, she spent 45 minutes screaming indignantly at us as we directed her to stay seated.) We try to hold her, she squirms so violently that she hurts us. I've been bumped in the face with her head, scratched, poked and almost bitten.

My shins are bruised. My nerves are shot. My feelings are hurt. I wonder how many more days, week, months this behavior will go on. I also wonder just when we should call in an exorcist.


I've never admitted this to anyone, probably because it's just starting to dawn on me, but I like my kids when they're behaving and dislike them, sometimes intensely, when they're not. And I should stop here and define behaving as whenever they're having fun, doing as they're told for the most part, easy to please, not crying and whining at me, sleeping pretty well, and eating at least some of what I put in front of them. 

The rest of the time I find myself wondering why my kids are so abnormal and crazy and why I, as a parent, can't just accept them the way they are with all their imperfections. I mean, really, Jesus can do it. Why can't I?

Mostly it's because I suck at empathy (and there's that whole not being perfect thing). I know that most moms have these feelings toward their children from time to time. What disturbs me, however, is the fair weather nature of my feelings toward them. My children shouldn't feel that they have to behave to be worthy of my love or just my somewhat joyful attention. Some days it takes a mighty effort to not sigh heavily and growl at her. I certainly have not been well-behaved in my life but have never felt unloved because of those shortcomings by anyone, least of all my creator or my parents.

Trust me, I want to respond with patience and tolerance. But after the 500th time of telling my daughter to sit on her bottom or get off the spinning desk chair, my reserves are just a little low.


Family lore has it that on a trip to West Palm Beach when my sister was 18 months old, my father sighed heavily and surely shook his head and smiled as he told her "You better do something cute kid or I'm gonna throw you out the window."

It was at that moment she looked up at him and said, in a sweet sing-song voice, "West Palm Beach."

And that's precisely what 18 month old Girlface is like. When my nerves are completely shot and my patience is at it's breaking point, she does something cute like lean over and kiss her baby brother on the head or offer me a lick of her Popsicle or rock her glow baby back and forth when it's playing Rockabye Baby.

Maybe I won't sell her to gypsies this week after all.

Serenity NOW

Today The Baby is two months old. I'm seeing signs that he is getting "organized."  He takes a morning nap, is starting to take a more solid afternoon nap and sleeps in three hour shifts overnight. He even smiles, laughs and talks to us. This glimpse of the routine to come is cause for celebration. After all, as my best friend put it today "Doesn't he know who his mother is?"

Actually, his mother is someone who is trying to be less organized, or at least trying to just turn it all over to God for a fix. That is one odd thing to ask of God, but being organized is almost a disease for me. It's chronic and it's crippling. It's an underlying symptom of one major defect: Perfectionism.

For years, I've made a weekly menu. I adhered to strict rules like no meat on Mondays (it's just cheaper, adds variety and is healthy, not that I'm trying to justify myself.), spaghetti and meatballs on Wednesdays in the colder months, tacos on Tuesdays during the warmer months, fish on Fridays always, pizza on Saturdays. Some of the rules are just born of nostalgia ... Saturday was always pizza night when I was a kid and those who grew up in the Northeast will surely remember that Wednesday is Prince spaghetti night. I haven't made a menu since mid-April. Somehow we haven't starved to death. And once, a few weeks ago, we even ate pizza on a Sunday and tacos, with beef, on a Friday. I have no idea what we're having for dinner tonight. It might just show up at our door around 6. It might be cheesy and fattening and cost about $15 plus tip.

For me, unfolded clothes piled in a laundry basket is the equivalent of living out of a suitcase. For a chore that I dislike, I certainly have a lot of rules for folding and organizing clothes. Maybe it's my way of finding some order in the chaos. I fold outfits and two-piece pajamas together, organize the kids' clothes in their drawers or by drawer, and even organize my own shirt drawer by color of the shirt. My husband seems to organize the clothes in his dresser by frequency of use, as far as I can tell. The fact that I even try to make sense of how someone else organizes their own stuff is an indication of how sick I am. I've been known to refold my husband's t-shirts right after he's folded them. My husband and even my sister have suggested that I might ought to back off just a scoche. Jim even suggested putting Big Brother's unfolded clothes in a basket in his room and letting him put them away (um, no). As a compromise, I let Big Brother put folded clothes away and I don't fold underwear anymore. And I've ceased stuffing the babies' pocket diapers when they come out of the wash because, really, what's the point? Around here, when it's half past diaper washing time, it's time to wash again.


I have even left dishes in the sink overnight. I blame my mother for this one. All my life, I've heard the story of how the pipes froze in the trailer when I was a baby and my mother had a pile of dishes in the sink that couldn't be cleaned for days, maybe even a week. There may have even been some roaches in this story. I don't remember. Like most stories, it gets more dramatic the more times it's told. Now, as you guessed it, I can't bring my self to leave dishes in the sink.

One thing I'm learning about having three kids is that you have to let go of a lot of the little things. My children can suck the serenity right out of me and I must make the minute-by-minute decision whether to act upon (read: correct or discipline) or to let go of whatever serenity-sucking behavior they are engaging in. Those daily mental gymnastics leaves little time for all of the above.

I love a neat, orderly and serene home, but, as I found this past weekend with my toy purge, there's an easier way to accomplish that. I didn't need to do more cleaning and organizing. I needed fewer toys.

No time or energy to plan, much less make, meals? Just wing it. I've been planning and cooking meals almost nightly since just before Big Brother was born and I happen to live with a chef. Who cares if dinner is just sandwiches and chips? And, I've found, that it really is okay to let people bring you meals, even when the baby is two months old and I should be able to handle this by now (I'm a little hard on myself, can't you tell?). We had two lovely, hot meals this week courtesy of neighbors.

Who cares if the laundry is wrinkled and unfolded? It's just going to get crumpled on the way to the dresser and filthy dirty two minutes after they're dressed for the day.

Who cares if the some dishes are left to, um, soak overnight? Unless the ants leave the start making their way to the counter, I'm just not going to sweat it. I'll just think of  the crunchy kitchen floor buffet beneath the kids' seats as a decoy.

When new serenity inducing ideas are not forthcoming, no matter how many deep breaths I take, I can just stand in my kitchen and do what George Constanza's dad does.

Yell, at the top of my lungs, "Serenity Now." Surely, God will hear me.

Live like a toddler

My childhood pediatrician used to tell my mother, "You girls stop having babies just as you start to get good at it." His words ring true with me once I get past the fact that he referred to grown women as girls (huge pet peeve of mine). It was the 70s, after all. I wonder, though, if we had stopped at two children whether I would feel nearly as competent as I do now in the midst of this three ring circus. Would I always wonder whether we could have handled one or two more? Or would I rest on my laurels and feel certain that two kids were enough?

I always wanted at least three kids. Two kids seemed like it would be boring. Three kids under the age of four is anything but. That fact is never more apparent than when all five of us are crammed in the kids bathroom for bathtime; two splashing in the tub, the baby hanging out on the changing table talking to himself in the mirror and the two of us watching the kids and shuffling mountains of laundry around. I should have been more specific with God about the timing of these children, shouldn't I have?


My husband and I both come from large families; each of us is one of four children. Some in his extended family have had as many as seven children. Having three children is a novelty among our friends, however. Many of them think we must be exhausted (we are). Many can't believe we even attempt outings like going to the lake or the grocery store with all three in tow (we can't either). I've been to the library, the lake, the pool, several parks and the Sam's Club with all three and it hasn't been a disaster. Of course, I've had help from friends, family and a mother's helper who comes twice a week.

Beyond the assistance, though, here's what I think the secret is: don't slow down or stop moving. If you slow down, the full and painful implications of your situation hits you. If you stop moving, you fall asleep (probably for the next 5 years if I'm lucky).

Toddlers seem to know this little secret. And the more toddlers I add to my brood, the more I learn. They move nonstop until you physically incapicitate them in a crib or car seat. It's then they realize that they're tired or that their teeth hurt or that eating more than two bites of oatmeal at breakfast might have been a good idea. And they often move so fast that they have little time to dwell on past indignities such as the snack they were denied or the whack they received from an older sibling.

If I routinely lived like this, I'd probably lose all of my baby weight and be a lot less annoyed by the daily chaos. Actually, I have to live this way just to survive here. Most mornings I hit the ground running. I don't remember the last time I brushed my teeth. I get a shower on Wednesdays and Saturdays (don't ask me why those days seem to work better than the others). When I stop for too long, I fall asleep. When I dwell on the past (and by past I mean whatever tantrum, mess or heinous incident happened two minutes prior), the resentment affects my dealings with the children until I let it go. When I skip activities, errands and invites, I actually become more overwhelmed by the children. Besides, the best thing about outings is the car ride when my kids are physically unable to approach me. I can ignore their wails as long as they can't come near me.

It's really just easier to keep going. And if nothing else works, I follow the advice my husband heard from his mother whenever he wanted to stay home from school or football practice: "Take a shower. You'll feel better."

It must not be that bad around here after all. I get by just fine on two showers a week.

The other adult in the house

If I ever appear to be talking to myself, I don't have a blue tooth and I'm not crazy. I'm just talking to God. Some days he's the only adult around until my husband gets home. And I'm pretty sure he's listening because I haven't been on the evening news yet as the crazy-exhausted mommy who drove her minivan full of kids into a ditch.

However, my conversations with God are often full of "Yeah buts ... " and sarcasm. It seems irreverent, I know, but, sometimes, it's the only way he and I get to talk. And I think he knows that and meets me where I am. Many of our conversations lately sound like this:

God, are you sure about this three kids business? I mean, my husband is back at work and I'm ALONE with them.

You're not alone. You've got me. And besides, you said you wanted kids.

Yeah, but they're so close in age and I'm getting old. And gray. And really tired. And one of them pooped his pants the other day.

You wanted three of them, remember?

Well, if we had stuck to my plan we'd have had kids two years earlier than we got them and I wouldn't be so, well, old, you know.

If we'd gone with your plan, we wouldn't be having nearly as many conversations, now would we?

Touche. Can you please just make it so I don't end up on the 6 o'clock news? I don't want to be THAT mom.

I'll give you the good sense not to get behind the wheel when you're exhausted, okay?

So, that's a "No" on making my children sleep longer?



Silence ...

Great.

Reading just happens ... really.

Even when you don't have cable, you still wind up watching mindless crap, we've found. We've also discovered that there's never anything good on the tele on Monday nights. When that happens, we wind up reading our daily Wall Street Journal, chatting and taking in bits and pieces of a home show on one of the network's HGTV substitutes called Live Well HD.

A segment this evening was about making a reading area for children. The host covered different types of shelving, lighting and other ambiance-enhancing items. She suggests having comfy pillows, reading mats and small LED lights (which don't emit any heat) - mostly from IKEA, of course. She also imparted the importance of having a place in your home where parents and children can read together.

Then she described how her son loves Godzilla and how they read books about Godzilla together and how they talk about the story afterward. To which my husband said, "Yeah, and then he stomps all over the pillows and hits his sister with them, right?" She went on to talk about how she and her son "made" their own book and hung it on a bulletin board in his reading corner.
 
After listening to this, I'm convinced this woman is lying about having children or is on Prozac or her kids are on some sort of drug.

Let me first say this: There is no such thing as confining one activity, like reading, to an "area" when you have children. They are like a gas ... they take up all available space. Try as I may to make distinct play areas for the children, their toys wind up in the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway, my bathtub, their bathtub, beneath my bed, in the hampers, in the sink, under the dining room table ... well, you get the idea. Everywhere I look on my evening cleanup jaunt, there's a toy mingling with the dust bunnies. Some nights, to avoid bending over one more time, I just leave them to enjoy each other's company on the floor.

Anyhow, here's what happens when I read my son a book about his favorite topic: cars. He shouts, "Gotta get my cars" then runs them up and down my legs and arms and in my hair and throughout the roads in the book, making vroom-vroom noises the whole time. Oddly enough, despite the seemingly distracted behavior, he can later retell the story.

We do have a few shelves with books within the kids reach. Here's what happens: Every morning, Godzilla-ette clears books from the shelf in Big Brother's room, then moves on to the shelves in her bedroom and the living room. She does bring me books and lets me read to her, though, unlike her brother at that age who was more interested in, well, anything else. And as for making his own book? His attention span for anything remotely crafty is maybe 2 minutes. Then his sister would get a hold of his craft and try to eat it.

We have a tent with pillows and a blanket in it for the kids to chill out in. Here's what happens: They rough house in the tent, hit each other with pillows and roll around. Eventually one hurts the other, everyone's in tears and I have a headache.

As for having a place for children and parents to read together, well, reading happens everywhere in our house from the kitchen table over breakfast and lunch to the bathroom on the potty and in the tub to the bedroom to the living room and even sometimes while he's watching television (yes, my kid watches television and still managed to develop an interest in books. imagine that.).

Seems to me that the mantra to read, read, read to your children as early as possible is rather overbearing. If you do have a kid who is interested in books early on, great. If not, no big deal. That interest will develop whether or not you reserve an "area" for them to engage in that activity or incorporate reading into your routines. If my kid is more interested in eating the book or flipping the pages, forcing the activity on them will likely turn them off to reading, wouldn't you think? This incessant read, read, read mantra seems to be born of a deep-seated mistrust in the innate ability and desire of children to learn with little prompting from adults.

Here's the dirty little secret: You and what you are doing is the most interesting thing in the world to your kids. (Seriously, it's why they stalk me when I'm doing laundry or emptying the dishwasher or making dinner or reorganizing a cabinet. And later, when I could reasonably expect some help with these things, they will, of course, be completely uninterested.) If they see you reading, then they'll want to read, too. No special area complete with IKEA furniture is required, really.

Mommy superpowers

You know that arcade game of whack-a-mole? Some days that's what life feels like around here.

The one-year-old has just figured out the child-safety lock on the cabinet under the sink. Meanwhile, the 3-year-old has put his Spiderman rain boots on and let himself out into the partially fenced back yard to find his "racing cars."

The one-year-old is about to climb on the table and grab a knife while the the 3-year-old is starting the launch sequence for meltdown over a dropped fork.

The one-year-old has just pooped while the 3-year-old is in full-on poop posture and resisting efforts to get him to the potty.

The one-year-old is bumbling around on a slide platform 5 feet off the ground while the 3-year-old is trying to mount the swing on his own, alternately refusing and begging for help.

Some days I hardly know which child to save from himself. And with a third one on the way in about month, I'm starting to panic. What I really need is a set of superpowers beyond the ones I already possess. I have the super hearing which allows me to wake from a dead sleep when one child lets out a lone cry in the night and drifts peacefully back to sleep (meanwhile, I'm wide awake for the next 30 minutes). I can function on six hours of broken sleep and very little food (thanks to B vitamins, caffeine and Luna bars), lift both children if I need to, tell exactly when my son has to poop, get more done in three child-free hours than most people can do all day and still manage to get dinner on the table by 5 every single night.

But my wish list begins with having the arms reach of Mrs. Incredible, the Stretch Armstrong of our day. That alone would save me the trouble of deciding which kid to stop in his tracks.


In my mommy tool belt, I need a remote control with a mute button for each child, fast forward button for the witching hour and a rewind button for do overs (like tantrum prevention, spilled milk and snacks, and when mommy says a bad word that then comes tumbling out of the 3-year-olds mouth). A magic enema wand would be just plain fantastic -- to ensure that all the poop comes out in one sitting so we're not held daily hostage by an exceptionally stubborn little pooper.

And I really want my husband's daddy super power: the ability to honestly say that, no, he didn't hear the children screaming in perfect harmony at 2 a.m.

Happy New Year, honestly

Ah, the holidays are finally over. I'm not one to rue the passing of time, at least not these days. I rather enjoy it, often even savor it, especially when it gets us past such pesky periods as the seasonal joy manufactured by a consumer culture that desecrates all that is sacred. No need to adjust your perception. I've been a bit grinchy this year and have been looking forward to getting back to our usual routine.

Today we nestled back in. Monday is library day and drive by the fire department day and stalk the trash man day - you know, all the things that just delight 3 year old boys and barely one-year-old little girls tolerate. It may sound boring to some, but these days I enjoy routine more than chaos. I suppose there's something between those two extremes. However, living between those extremes is a goal but not yet a strong point for me.

There was a time, though, when I unknowingly preferred chaos to normalcy. It was about a year after I stopped drinking when I realized this. See, I had just started a new job, was dating a wonderful man who is now my husband and was sharing a lovely house with a friend. Happy with two out of three, I promptly decided that the job was just all wrong. It had to be. I'd been there all of two months and I could just feel it. (Incidentally, I stayed there for three years, now consider it one of the best jobs I'd ever had and wish I'd appreciated it more at the time. Shows what I know.) I began to doubt my entire career path and life and just wanted everything to be different and better RIGHT AWAY. I applied for every job that I was remotely qualified for. I even looked into getting my teaching certification and going into the classroom. And to further exacerbate my flight from living in the moment, I had just set up a 401K and the financial adviser wanted me to give a rough estimate of how long my savings needed to last me in retirement. In other words, I was being asked to estimate just when I thought I might die. Everything was wonderful, yet I was miserable and certain that something was wrong, even if I couldn't put my finger on it.

Someone suggested to me then that perhaps my unfamiliarity with normalcy was causing my uneasiness. "It's called serenity, honey. You'll get used to it," she said.

"Um, when exactly?" I wanted to know.

The answer? Right about the time you hit 10 years of sobriety.

The irony here is that the chaos of a household with two small children is my normal, my sanctuary, my place in the world where I feel like I'm doing the most good at this moment. I am content with what my life has become even on my worst days - those days when I feel utterly powerless over when and for how long my children sleep, whether they eat what I serve or anything else, how much of that food and drink winds up on the floor (GRRR) or where one of them decides to, um, deposit his bodily waste (which more and more of late has been in parent-approved waste receptacles). I don't always accept these matters as gracefully as I imagine other mothers do, but at least these days I'm not wishing to be somewhere else, doing something else. Unless we're talking about sleep ... because I'm always fantasizing about more sleep. I want to be some sort of hibernating animal in my next life.

I do apologize for the long lapse in posting here, probably my longest in quite some time. I could blame the holidays or say that, between my pregnancy and the two children, I spend most of my time in either the kitchen or the bathroom. The kitchen and the bathroom thing is actually closer to the truth ... seriously!


And it's certainly not due to a lack of subject matter. Believe me, it's been, um, interesting here. (I'll fill you in later.) It's due to a lack of subject matter that I think will portray me and my household in the most positive light possible while entertaining, enlightening and inspiring you, my dear readers (all 10 of you anyway).

That last admission was brought to you by my one and only, sort of, kind of New Year's resolution: BE MORE HONEST ABOUT MY FEELINGS. That means you may be hearing from me here on those days when I'm wondering why God thinks I'm capable of raising these children or when I truly believe God is mocking me for all those years I wished in vain to conceive these children or when I wish my children would leave me alone for just five friggin' minutes so I can pee in peace or brush my teeth or get the contact lens unstuck from my eyelid or when I'm considering selling them to gypsies in exchange for just a few more hours of sleep.

And the companion to that resolve, I'm sure, will be to not hurt anyone else's feelings or scare the hell out of innocent bystanders while I'm at it.

Desperately seeking sanity ... at a Starbuck's

I escaped this evening. My husband was cleaning the kitchen after dinner and he suggested that he take the kids to Lowe's while I get out of the house. (I know, doesn't it just make you sick how nice my husband is?)

I spent about a half hour at the thrift shop perusing books, shoes and other cast offs. I left with a James Dobsons' classic, "The Strong Willed Child," which apparently was a must-read in the household in which I grew up and was recently suggested to me by none other than my own mother. (What's that they say about apples and trees?) I then headed to Starbuck's for a hot cup of decaf and a pumpkin cream cheese muffin (I LOVE fall). My plan for total coffee and creamy pumpkin bliss fell apart as I was informed that Starbuck's, at least not the one I wandered into, no longer serves decaf after 11 a.m. They just weren't selling enough decaf after that time, they told me.

Huh? Who are these people drinking decaf in the morning and regular coffee at night? Is that why people drive like idiots? They're uncaffeinated in the morning and overcaffeinated at night? I don't need to be up all night, thank you very much (although my 7-month-old daughter will argue that point with you).

Today was just going too well. A beautiful, cool morning in the park with some of my mommy friends and their cute kiddos, no pee pee accidents, a pleasant baby, early and synchronized naps. I even got a nap this afternoon.

I just knew it had to end. The post-nap was not so serene.

The toddler insisted that I read "There's a wocket in my pocket" again and again and again. And then there was "Clifford and the big ice cream mess" over and over and over.

The baby crawled after me in the kitchen as I prepared dinner crying, "Mamamamamamamamama." She hasn't' figured out that my name has two, not ten, syllables.

The toddler kept throwing his pajamas at me and refused to stop. (Yes, there were at least two days worth of pajamas in the playroom today.)

The toddler was found splashing in the toilet bowl (with a fresh poop in it) twice. The first time he was stuffing toilet paper into the bowl and grabbing big hunks of it -- working on a paper mache project, perhaps? At least the second time he was using the scrub brush (you know, it's about time that thing was used by someone other than my mother). Oh, and my husband figured out how to chase Big Brother from the bathroom ... just turn the fan on. He hates it.

The toddler later tried to shut the door while his sister was crawling through it. Maybe he was trying to close it so she wouldn't go through it? Hopefully?

Meanwhile, the baby whined and cried whenever the warm flesh of another body, any body, was not pressed next to hers.

Back to Starbuck's ... The clerk acknowledged that their policy made no sense and that they've tried to get corporate to change it. She then offered me a free sample size of a cafe americano.

So I just needed something in my life to make sense at 7 p.m. when, with shot nerves, I considered running away from home or at least to a hotel or even a park bench for a good night's sleep and needed a little cup of decaffeinated love to go with my muffin. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK STARBUCK'S?? I think not.

My evil twin

I have an evil twin. She stops by when the kids aren't sleeping, the toddler isn't listening, the laundry's piling up, I've forgotten to eat or drink enough water - basically when all the little annoyances get together for a little party.

So, last week, after the fourth straight night of Girlface waking up every two hours, she's back and she's wavers between anger and indifference. Her standards are little more lax than mine. Whenever my high standards occasionally clash with reality my evil twin seems to step in and encourage the exact opposite of those standards.

Cooking? Forget about it. McDonald's for lunch at least once this week and dinner out the past two nights. Healthy and frugal snacks for play group? Big Brother was very popular last Thursday morning ... he had Spiderman "fruit" snacks and a ... gasp ... packaged granola bar. Compost attracting fruit flies in the kitchen? Just throw 'em in the trash instead of the compost (I haven't separated my compost in a week). Naps at 12:30 sharp? Big Brother mosied up the stairs around 1 p.m. one day last week and found me sacked out on the bed in Girlface's room while she played on the floor. He promptly commanded "Get up Mommy."

My evil twin tells me that the baby would sleep through the night if I just gave her a little formula to fill her belly and didn't go to her every time she cried.

My evil twin tells me that my son really needs to be in preschool a few mornings a week despite our intention to homeschool our kids. "It'll be impossible to teach that boy anything. He doesn't listen to a friggin' thing you say," she bellows.

My evil twin tells my son to "Back off" instead of gently reminding him that Mommy needs her space and that the Matchbox car is just as super cool if it's a foot from my nose instead practically up it.

My evil twin tells me to ignore the baby for at least 15 minutes (unless, of course, she's maneuvered herself into a corner or is banging her head against a wall in an effort to crawl). "Hell, maybe she'll learn to entertain herself instead of seeing you as a one-woman broadway show," she says.

My evil twin tells me to just get a high-paying job and stick the kiddos in day care. "They don't seem to appreciate your efforts anyway," she says.

And while I don't act on all of her impulses, I must admit her presence does make me wonder whether my own high standards make motherhood unnecessarily difficult. Having two under the age of two is difficult on its own without an evil twin plus that multi-generational mob of moms who just love to put in their unsolicited two-cents. Their opinions on everything from childbirth, breastfeeding and sleeping to education and discipline seem to represent extremes on both sides of the spectrum. If there's a middle ground here, no one is talking too loudly about it.

Those who don't like traditional education and lean toward homeschooling see any kind of alternative to parental instruction as a shirking of your duties.

Those who advocate attachment parenting are convinced your child won't be properly bonded to you if you don't co-sleep and wear your child every minute of the day. (You know, slings are great when I need to get things done, but sometimes, I just want to sit down ALONE. Have I mentioned that I don't even go to the bathroom alone these days?)

Those who feed their children only organic fruits, vegetables and other snacks are convinced you're child will be fat and get diabetes or leukemia.

There are the sleep trainers who say the baby should NOT need to eat in the middle of the night by the age of 4 months. (Really? Did some baby reveal this information? Who is this mythical child and why is he talking to his parents? I wonder.)

Just shut up. All of you, please.

And one thing my evil twin and I do agree on ... if anyone so much as utters a word about any grammar, spelling, punctuation errors or the like in this (or any other post), I'll do something ... you're lucky I'm too exhausted to exact an appropriate revenge.

That is all.

What every mother knows

There are some things that no one ever tells you about being a mother. You just find out as you go along. Here are just a few (in no particular order):

1. You will wind up nursing an infant or reading a book to a toddler while sitting on the toilet because you can't get a potty break any other way.
2. You will get more done in one day on less sleep than you ever did when you had no children. (Remember when going to the post office and the bank in one day was a major accomplishment?)
3. You will understand nearly every whine, grunt and groan your toddler utters even as you insist that he "use his words." (This will amaze you because your nieces' and nephews' utterances were never so clear.)
4. You will look forward to nap time before you even go to bed the night before.
5. You will lose your dignity to toddler who announces "Poop mommy" every time you pass gas (which happens often when your pregnant, by the way).
6. You will know how much time you have to get in and out of a grocery store before your toddler begins to melt down.
7. Your creativity will be sparked as you determine how to spend your first week alone with two children when ALL your usual activities have been canceled.
8. You will hide in the bathroom to eat cookies, candy and anything else you don't want to share.
   
9. You will be able to tell what your child ate in the past 24 hours just by looking at a poopy diaper.
10. Your love for your children will be immeasurable even as you're sure that you won't survive toddlerhood with your sanity intact.

The beginning of guilt

Tonight we got our first glimpse of what guilt looks like on a 2-year-old's face. It's been hard to tell whether Jim and I are getting through to Danny. Our disappointment or anger at his behavior doesn't seem to phase him. But as Jim was putting the finishing touches on our new booth cushions for our breakfast nook and Danny was eating dinner, it finally happened.

Danny was flailing about as usual at the dinner table. In the process, his tomato-sauce covered hands wound up on newly upholstered, but not yet Scotch Guarded, cushions. (I'll post some photos soon of our latest dollar renovation.) Our reaction was more to the tomato sauce on the new fabric than to him. We must have had really stricken looks on our face. He just stared at us somberly as we told him calmly, but in a very disappointed tone, not to touch the cushions with dirty hands. He started repeating slowly, "don't touch, dirty hands." Then he burst into tears. Jim got this incredulous, happy look on his face and said, "This is good." It is, of course, good to see him react to our disappointment. We don't want him to feel excessively guilty, but we do want him to want to behave, to know that he's done something wrong, something he should avoid doing in the future. Maybe he'll really remember not to put his dirty hands all over the furniture. Maybe he'll also start remembering to not throw toys, scream inside or flail about at the table.

But I nearly started crying myself as this little drama unfolded (partly because I'm pregnant, three days overdue and extremely hormonal). I felt a little bad for Danny. It was the first time that I've seen him learn a lesson and experience feelings of guilt. Jim went over and asked him if he needed a hug, which he did. Then Danny sat on my lap and let me feed him the rest of his dinner. All was right with the world again.

And here's a closeup of the latest fat lip:

Toddlers are tricky.

Ours seems impossible sometimes. He definitely senses something big is going on. I'm cranky, achy, impatient and overdue. Friday night, the midwife stopped by around 6:30, definitely an odd event for him to have non-family guests over that late. Friday was particularly hard. It was a warm day, but the yard was very muddy, so we didn't go outside and there was no Parents Morning Out. By late afternoon, I suggested we all take a walk down the court across the street from our house. A walk is an opportunity for us to teach Danny about walking on the street, keeping out of the middle, walking on the sidewalks, looking out for cars, etc. Toddlers rarely walk in a straight line. Danny was all over the place, very unhappy that we kept steering him toward the curb. Soon, Danny started running along the road. We told him to slow down. He didn't. He bit the pavement, came up bloody and now has a fat lip. We told him that he got hurt because he didn't listen. Are we horrible parents or what?

Lately, he's having trouble with transitions that once were easy for him and us, like getting out of the tub, going up for a nap, sitting in the cart at the grocery store. The five minute warning system that we thought was mastered is in shreds. He starts fussing as soon as he hears "Five more minutes to play then we have to [fill in the blank]." Oddly enough, he doesn't do any of this for Nana and PopPop or anyone else. Jim commented last night that Danny just doesn't understand why we tell him what to do. I replied, "And he probably won't until he's 18 or maybe even older."

Lately, I just can't figure out why he imitates everything we do but won't do as we say. He sees us doing things around the house, like cleaning up, putting dishes in the dishwasher or sink, taking naps, taking showers, etc., but resists doing these things on his own or at our direction. I have noticed that when we're at playgroup, he'll mimic what other kids are doing, like cleaning up toys. Peer pressure may be working on him already, which makes me wonder anew whether I should put him in some sort of nursery school setting twice a week. He has started saying things like, "Put it back" as he's putting a toy in the basket. But he also likes to break the rules as he's telling me what they are. For example, he screams in the house and then puts his little finger up to his mouth and says "Shhhh."

Here we go again

Though it's totally against my educational beliefs, I've started exploring preschool for Dan again. This is one of those issues where we have to carefully examine our motives before committing our most valuable assets - time and money. Right now, my motivation seems to be that Dan and I need a break from each other. Whether that's a good motivation, who knows?

He's been a bear lately, with lots of tantrums and defiance. But in the past few days, he's had a language explosion and become a bit more bearable. Of course, my assessments of him are often more generous between Friday night and Tuesday, I've noticed. I work all weekend and this past weekend, he spent the night at Nana and PopPop's house. He's nearly speaking in full sentences, having somewhat coherent conversations and making connections that he couldn't have made, or at least expressed, a week ago. For example, Jim and Danny were reading Family Circus in the comics this evening. Danny pointed out that the mom had a vacuum and some other cleaning supplies. Jim asked him, "What do you think she was doing in there?" He replied, "Clean." I can't wait to hear what he has to say about Baby Ona.

All the things he can do at the preschools I've investigated are things we can give him at home. I'm not big on preschools where the main goal is to prepare children for indoctrination, I mean, traditional school. The two programs that I have looked into use some combination of learning through free-play approaches that encourage child-led development, like Waldorf or Reggio Emilio, We could pay up to $200 a month for a two-day program in a home-like setting. But it begs the question ... why would I pay that much to mimic the home environment? Is it the social aspect I think he's missing? Most young children parallel play in large groups, not really interacting with other children. Danny does have play dates of varying sizes throughout the week, from one on one to up to 16 kids of varying ages at church. How will this integrate into our plans to home school? I can't see putting him in preschool and then taking him out when he's too old for a program. Just how do you explain that to a five year old? "Honey, you're too old for the schools we can afford because the government steals our money to fund schools we would never dream of sending you to." Maybe that could be his first civics lesson.

As much as Danny and I may need a break from each other, he'll need me more once Baby Ona gets here. Maybe we can get on a waiting list and revisit the issue in the fall. Besides, I can't very well put him in preschool now ... he curses randomly and asks for beer whenever Jim is drinking root beer or ginger ale or he sees a commercial during football games.

An almost TV-less morning

Danny has been getting too attached to TV. And, of course, it is partly my fault. Being pregnant, sick in the morning, exhausted (Danny now says "Mommy tired") tends to shape our morning. I do manage to get our oatmeal mix made the night before so all I have to do is add water. But, lately, I turn on the TV and put him in his high chair with his apple sauce while the oatmeal cooks. He's also been giving us trouble going to bed, mostly because he wants to keep watching TV after Curious George is over.

I've been worried about it because once the baby comes, from what my two-child girlfriends have told me, the TV may become a bit of a babysitter for a few weeks. I don't think all TV is bad, but we do want to start setting some limits. So this morning, I decided to not turn on the TV until Sesame Street at 10 a.m. Amazingly enough, he asked for the TV only once and accepted my answer without tears.

I got out a few toys and he brought out one that he wanted to play with. In less than an hour, he had exhausted his interest in the Aquadoodle, Megablocks, Funky Footprints mat and his Little People zoo and was downstairs "feeding the cat" again. A few days ago, we found him down by the cat's dish scooping cat food into a nearly empty bowl. Now, he's fascinated with the process. Next, I decided to start some sewing while he was occupied. He came over and I gave him a box of ribbons and sewing notions (yes, I removed all the pins and needles) and he played for about a half hour exclusively with zippers, bobbins, ribbons and snaps. Bonus: I got to sew one more diaper, this one from an old felted wool sweater and an old prefold diaper. Photo to come, if you're interested.

Silly me, I was afraid we had ruined his attention span with all that TV. He's now watching Sesame Street and I'm going to go finish my turkey meatballs and clean up the sewing notions strewn about behind me.