I have three kids whom I love very much.

They're all getting older, and, one would think headed toward the sullen and mute stage of adolescence. The headed toward adolescence part is true, at least for my older two, but, the "mute" part? Not so much.

My middle child, especially, is a talker.

No seriously, that child can talk. And talk, and talk, and, talk, and talk.

And, he doesn't move when he talks, either. Forward motion of any kind ceases when he is talking, and, his prime talk time seems to be 3 minutes before we're supposed to head out the door. He's 11 and I've had to physically pick him up and move him to the car sometimes on school mornings, or, we'd never get there.

Some days are worse than others, though. Last weekend was particularly bad.

Another parent brought him home from a birthday party, and, remarked that she wasn't sure how he breathed since he never stopped talking the entire ride home.

I love him, he's funny and interesting (at least most of the time), but, I'm not joking that he can fall asleep talking, and, continue on with the same sentence the moment he wakes up the next day.

Is it bad that I sometimes feel like I need to make sure I have my first cup of coffee in the mornings before I see him? I'm not much of a morning talker.

Now, please don't get me wrong, I'm thankful every single day that my kids are happy and healthy, and, I know my house will be all too quiet someday, but, I'm willing to try out a brief preview of it every now and then.

Posted by Busy Mom at 9:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember the night clearly. The boys would not stop fighting. The girl was clinging to me like Saran Wrap. The dog was chewing anything he could get his slobbery teeth on. Dinner burned. The husband was grouchy. I had hit my limit. With a look of desperation mixed with "don't mess with me", I grabbed my car keys and left. Without one word to anyone as to where I was going or how long I would be gone. I just left.

And it felt great.

That night I drove with the windows down feeling the freedom blow through my hair. I listened to the radio as loudly as I wanted to on a station that I enjoyed. As I felt the sensation of being overwhelmed subsiding a bit, I decided to settle on a location to wait out my frustration and give the family some time to regroup and figure out the truth in the saying "When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."

After I became completely cozied up in a local bookstore complete with attached coffee shop, I sipped my coffee, and looked around me. I watched one mother wrestling her daughter into a stroller. I saw a couple holding hands looking at magazines. And then my eyes met hers. She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs just a section away from where I sat. I didn't know her, but I knew her. That look in her eye said the exact same thing that mine did. "I am overwhelmed and escaped." She must have recognized the look in my eye as well because she raised her cup of coffee to me in solidarity and gave me a weak smile before she returned her attention to the book she held in her other hand.

I am smart enough to know that I am certainly not alone in becoming overwhelmed with motherhood. With life, for that matter. But in that moment, it certainly felt good to see another woman and know that she understood. Sometimes, all we need is to know that we are not in a sinking ship alone. Trust me, Moms. You are not in a sinking ship alone.

I do wonder why I waited until my breaking point to leave that night. I have since learned to step out alone more often and long before I snap and have to leave the house. In fact, I am pondering grabbing my keys as soon as I finish this because I have been interrupted so many times as I post this, I am considering putting in a traffic light to keep the kids from slamming into each other as they race to tell me something that has absolutely nothing to do with anything other than their need to speak. Though, the fact that I am running a fever of 102 and have taken NyQuil, I am guessing my form of escape will be sleep. But can I get a w00t when it comes to an early bedtime when you have three kids?

Just so you know, other mothers are not only feeling overwhelmed, too, some of them even have an escape plan as I do.

Continue reading "You are not in a sinking ship alone. Or the bookstore. Or the library." »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 3:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Sleep. In our house it is something to be treasured. Something to be fought for. Something that you would move heaven and earth for just a little bit more of. Oh sure, I am not completely sleep deprived like say a friend with a newborn is, but I am tired. I mean, at least women with newborns have a good reason for it. They have little adorable babies. Nevertheless, their sleep deprivation makes mine look completely insignificant. I admit that much. However, I am so tired it makes me crazy.

The last time I got a good (and I really mean good) night's sleep was back in 1992. I wasn't pregnant and had no children. We all know that pregnancy sleeping isn't real sleeping. If you aren't awakened by having to pee every other hour, then your belly is in the way or your heartburn keeps you awake. You pray for the day that baby is out because you just want to lie on your stomach and sleep. Get real! You will never sleep again!

After your children are born, forget sleep. I mean it. Forget sleep like you have ever known it before. You will never, ever sleep like that again. Oh sure, the babies grow up and start sleeping through the night. You think "Aha! I have it made." Sure, in comparison you do. Compared to the newborn phase, yes, you will "sleep". However, the days of just closing your eyes and falling flat out into deep, coma-like, slobber-sleeping are over. You've just moved up the sleep ladder a rung to "sleeping with children in the house". You will forever have a subconscious ear listening for children to cry out, puke or begin wandering around a dark house. Even though you appear to be sleeping, you are not completely sleeping.

"But what about when the kids are older and sleep away from the house?" Don't bother dreaming. Even when that happens you are stuck with one of two scenarios: Either they have siblings thus eliminating the "child-free" home or you have that ear listening for the phone to ring in the middle of the night "just in case".

So you can see why I am tired. I haven't had a good night's sleep since 1992. That is a helluva long time to be tired.

Which is why sleeping in, naps and going to bed early are things that we will fight for. We use it as a bargaining tool.

"If I let you sleep in today, then tomorrow you have to get up and deal with the kids."

or

"I am going to take a nap now. Yes, I know you have to go work, but you did sleep in an hour and a half later than I did, so added up over the past 3 days, I am entitled to 4 1/2 hours of sleep. I have it banked. I am cashing in 3 of them."

Then of course there is the favorite:

"Well, okay, I'll do that, but I am going to note the time I lost in sleep and tack it on to tomorrow morning and you have to get up when the alarm goes off."

You'd think we were talking about money or something. But no. Anyone can get money. People with kids know that sleep is a rare, rare thing.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Waking up to the smell of noxious burning is never a good thing.

See, I was under the delusion that since all three kids are home from school today, I might actually get to sleep in beyond five am. When my husband and kids all leaped out of bed at quarter past five, I assumed he would wake me when he wasn't able to supervise them any longer.

Uh, no.

The three kids were in and out of our big bed, and I drifted in that half-sleep, half-awake state that has been so common over the last eight years. I was aware, but not aware.

"Mommy, there's a leg bag in the microwave." My son shook my shoulder. It didn't occur to me to question him about this "leg bag" thing.

I immediately leaped out of bed, in fire-fighter mode. As I passed by the bathroom, my husband yelled "Are you cooking something? I don't like what I'm smelling..."

I raced to the kitchen, trailing kids, to find that my nearly-four-year-old had put an ankle weight in the microwave and turned it on. For two minutes. It was black, smoking and bubbling as I wrenched the door open, to be greeted by a cloud of foulness.

I don't know what I said, exactly, but it had a lot of primal screaming for punctuation. My kids stood in a semi-circle around my quaking frame, upper torsos leaning backwards like shrubs in high winds. (I just typed quacking. I might have been doing some of that, too.)

My husband appeared, and we rapidly fanned out, opening doors and windows. The indoor-only cat took the opportunity and ran out the door, to the howls and hysterical tears of my oldest. The smoke detector never went off. I don't know if that is a good thing, or not.

Yes, at seven o'clock this morning, you could have found me in the backyard, shaking a bowl of cat kibble and calling "kitty kitty kitty kitty." At seven-o-five, you could have found me on the deck, separating my two oldest children, with one of my palms on one forehead, one of the other forehead. Every time the cat made an appearance, my daughter would grab at her, and my son would simultaneously charge, freaking the cat out and sending her scrambling under the deck.

"It is seven o'clock in the morning. The neighborhood is still asleep. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

I finally captured the cat, and locked her in the bathroom. Then I made a huge mug of coffee and turned on some Bob Marley. I've been walking around fanning the air in my house with a giant plastic lid to a giant plastic container, swaying my hips to the beat.

The kids are spending the night at Grandma's tonight. Every little thing is gonna be all right.

Our contest is live! Use that search function and get your answers in before Sunday night! Click here (or up on the "Fun") to play!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:58 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Today was back-to-school day after Spring Break. I should have been clicking my heels together and pirouetting down the street in joy. Instead, I rose an hour before waking the kids, made pancakes, selected outfits. Finally, I entered my bedroom and stood beside my king-sized bed, looking down at the flushed, sleeping faces of my three babies.

More often than not, shortly before dawn, the kids will migrate into our room for a few snuggles before the start of the day. It can be crowded, but there is something very secure and peaceful about hearing their breathing, and seeing them heaped into the middle of the bed like a tangle of puppies, bracketed by my husband on one side, me on the other. At seven, five and three, they are surely old enough to sleep all night in their own beds. That last hour before dawn, well...it is a nice way to wake up, being kissed and cuddled by your kids.

Feeling like Suzie Homemaker, I kissed and singsonged them awake. "Get Up! La la la! It's a lovely day! Tra la la!" I shooed them toward the table, where they sat, grumpy, in front of plates stacked with little towers of pancakes, a perfectly square pat of butter melting on top. (Tra la la la laaaaaa!)

"Eat up, my dears!" I made a sweeping, spokesmodel gesture at the table as I put the syrup down with a flourish. "I made these pancakes for you!"

"Grumble mumble bumble."
"I'm not really hungry, Mommy."

"Ooh, my goodness! How about just one, and some juice... orange juice! Mmmmmm!" I toyed with the idea of claiming that it was freshly squeezed orange juice, but come on. That's pushing it.

My eyes landed on my youngest, who was slapping her syrup-coated plate with open palms.

"Oh! No! Oh! Um..." I grabbed a wet paper towel and pushed the plate away as I wiped her hands.

CRASH! I whipped around to see a glass of orange juice tipped over, puddling on the table, running town the leg and pooling on the floor! "Oh! Um! Oh! No!" I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels and did a quick mop up while the kids offered encouragement.

"You missed some, Mommy!"
"My shirt is wet, Mommy!"
"Wookit Meeeee!"

This last interjection from my youngest announced her successful reaquisition of her syrup covered plate, and her application of silver-dollar pancakes to her cheeks. Syrup ran down her neck and she beamed at me as my eyes rolled up in my head and my hair turned gray.

After a hasty clean-up and re-wardrobing, we headed out the door to walk to school. I was fuming. Here I got up early, made a hot breakfast, had a good head start, and the little monsters were unappreciative. Striding through the cool, foggy mist, I pushed the stroller ahead of me like a battering ram. My eyes focused sharply on my older two as they whizzed along on scooters.

"Watch out for the driveway! Stop at the corner! Hey, wait up!" The entire way to school, I was in a low-grade panic. Finally, I kissed them, tucked the scooters away in the stroller, and turned back towards home. My daughter was chanting some little song about syrup and worms, and I let myself breathe as I walked back into the mist.

After the first few blocks, I mellowed out. The manic pancake episode was suddenly funny. The fact that my daughter can't just ride her scooter, no, she has to do arabesques and other tricks, that was funny too. Watching my son expend three times the effort to scoot than he does to walk was adorable. I found myself enjoying them, and enjoying myself in the process. I decided that I'm a much better mother when the children are asleep. Nevertheless, even on the days when my best intentions get trampled, I still find myself laughing. Not in victory at my successes, but rather, at my failures, and the surprising outcomes that living with three unpredictable gnomes bring to any activity.

I'd like to believe that if I were more consistant with the early rising, and the tra la la ing, that my youngest wouldn't create body art with every meal, and that my children would wake with a song in their hearts and a hearty appetite. I'd like to believe that orange juice won't be spilled if I serve it with panache. No matter how I prepare, it seems that life around here is never going to be a well-scripted drama. Alas, we are all improvisational, experiemental theatre, all the time. Truth be told, I like it that way.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Friday was my son's Arbor Day presentation on local hero, Luther Burbank. I suspect that Luther Burbank is not a household name in other parts of the country, but around here, it's all Burbank, all the time.

When I arrived at the classroom door, I discovered that the class was still rehearsing under the direction of a substitute teacher. Not just any sub, either... today, they had a gruff older gentleman who was having trouble keeping the kids focused. The kids had been working on the presentation for a solid week. They all wore hats that looked like Shasta Daisies, and sat in a semi-circle, standing when it was their turn to recite a line. Or, that's how it was supposed to go.

The parents streamed into the classroom when the doors were opened, and perched gingerly on the pint-sized chairs.

"Alright, Ben. You stand up and say your line now."

"mumble, mumble, mumble"

"Try it again, Ben. Louder."

"mumble, mumble BURBANK POTATO! mumble."

"Okay, Suzy, your turn.

"Woofah Boobank devewuped wots of stuffs."

The substitute rolled his eyes and stage whispered: "Suzy, that's not your line. Your line is..."

Suzy's eyes flew open and she shouted "Oh! Woofah Boobank devewuped a stwahbewy twee! Whew!"

All the parents sighed and tittered, appreciating Suzy's cuteness. The substitute scowled at the assembled parents, and the show plodded on. After a few more lines, Billy lost it. He just started giggling and giggling. He recognized that he shouldn't, but with that mirth that just won't stop bubbling to the surface, he spluttered and wiggled in place.

The sub turned to him and announced "Billy, if you can't get yourself under control, you'll have to leave the circle." Billy pinched his nose and turned as red as a tomato trying to stop laughing. The parents were all trying to keep the smiles to a minimum, so as not to encourage any hilarity.

"Alright, Billy. It's your line."

Billy shot to his feet, and stood swaying, body quaking with silent laughter. He opened his mouth to say his line, and a giggle escaped. He closed his eyes and closed his mouth. His nostrils flared with the effort to get himself under control. With a shaking voice, he began.

"The strawberries tasted...tasted...tasted..." he collapsed in a snorting heap of helpless guffaws on the floor. "Horrible!" he shouted from the floor.

The sub began to move towards Billy. Before he got two steps, all the kids started chanting "Billy! Billy! Billy! Billy!" and the adults just lost it. We were all laughing so hard tears were streaming down our faces, while the sub stood in the center of the room just fuming.

"I'm a propeller-head!" yelled one of the kids, spinning his Shasta Daisy petals on his headband. "The strawberries tasted like poop!" shouted another kid. "Billy! Billy! Billy! Billy!"

The teacher's aide finally restored order by banging on the chimes and ordering everyone to open ears and close mouths. It was hard to say who looked more chastened, the rosy faced kids, or their beaming parents. The last few lines were read. My son did a fantastic job with his little line. Afterwards, we were served a paper plate of Burbank-themed foods, consisting of soggy french fries "Burbank Potatoes!" and nopales "Spineless Cactus!" with a runny squirt of catsup.

I don't know if Woofah Boobank had anything to do with the catsup. I was too busy laughing at the propeller heads to find out.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 3:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written by Julie of Mothergoosemouse.

Why are there toys all over my house?

The simple answer is that I have children, and children have toys. Therefore, I have toys.

But why are they EVERYWHERE?

There is an easel in the kitchen. Ten bottles of washable Tempera paint on top of the refrigerator. A Ziploc bag of crayons and a Barbie coloring book on the table. A Megasaucer, a Magnadoodle, and forty-eleven Peek a Blocks in the family room.

Two child-sized bicycles and a large box of sidewalk chalk in the garage. A lone sand shovel abandoned on the deck.

A complete kitchen ensemble in the basement, along with a dollhouse, doll stroller, and doll shopping cart. A felt board, a Leap Pad, three bags of Mega Bloks, and a pair of red-sequinned high heels for dress-up.

Upstairs, we have bookshelves full of books, dressers full of clothes, and enough bath toys to fill the tub, leaving no room for a child to bathe.

But here’s the really sad part: In the dining room, there is a ball pit. No table, no chairs. Just a ball pit.

And here’s the really scary part: Most of this stuff used to fit into a two-bedroom condo. Which is also the reason we have no dining room furniture. Yet.

I’ll admit it; Kyle and I are enablers. We allowed this migration to occur. While the girls are both little, it’s just EASIER to have ready access to their toys, especially on the main floor where we all spend most of our time. Having spent more than three years in a tiny condo, Tacy was really quite intimidated by the size of the house for the first several months we lived here. She no longer requires an escort to go down to the basement or up to her room, but she’s still not entirely convinced that the place is safe. Meanwhile, CJ is just learning to handle the stairs, and since she shows great affection for all things potentially hazardous to her health, it’s best to keep her in sight at all times.

Don’t get me wrong; if you come to visit, you won’t be knee-deep in toys. We insist that Tacy clean up what she’s gotten out, and as soon as CJ can understand the concept, she’ll be expected to help too. If Tacy drags stuff downstairs that belongs upstairs, she’s expected to return it to its rightful place before bedtime. The house isn’t a wreck, I promise.

Just don’t expect me to move that ball pit, unless you are delivering dining room furniture.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 9:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

What clears out a swimming pool faster than screaming “SHARK!�? Anyone who has seen the movie “caddyshack� can tell you. A floating baby ruth clears out a pool in approximately a nanosecond. In fact, it doesn’t just clear out a pool. A baby ruth in the pool catalyzes a screaming, disgusted mass exodus.

On one hand, I can say that we have our daughter potty-trained at 18 months. Hooray! It’s a miracle! We have a genius on our hands. Clearly such an accomplishment means we are master parents. We are practically professionals. On the other hand, instead of going in a potty chair or “the big pot�, our daughter considers our bathtub to be her personal toilette. Like clockwork. Put the child in a warm tub for more than seven and a half minutes, and dollars to doughnuts, a floater will eventually gently bob to the surface. This is my cue to shout “all-done!�, grab her under the arms and unceremoniously heave her out of the funky water in short order.

I am not sure what it is about the warm water, but it works like a charm every time. Madge + warm water + seven and a half minutes = floating terdlets. Every single time.

This could be considered a good thing. I mean our failsafe recipe for poop is certainly a reliable homeopathic cure for constipation. Speaking from experience, it hurts to watch your child struggle in pain to evict their own feculence. As a caring parent I am more than willing to don rubber gloves, fish around for floating terdlets, and soak her tubby toys in Lysol, as long as the end result is a happy child with a lighter load.

In fact, if this warm water laxative phenomenon last into the teenage years, we can use it as an extra-credit exercise when she reads Dante’s Inferno. We can drop Barbie and Ken into Malebolge, the ditch of excrement, and watch them suffer for their sins of flattery. If she is a real academic go-getter, she can videotape and edit her own reenactment of the eighth circle of Hell. Perhaps we can hook up some kind of tubing so that offal spews forth from their mouths when they speak.

A pessimist might be saddened, disgusted and disappointed by their child’s penchant for pooping in the bathtub. Not me. I see it as an opportunity to show off some good parenting, a homeopathic cure for constipation, and a potential multi-media extra credit exercise to help her gain a fuller understanding of a timeless literary classic. Chalk one up for our family! Way to go Madge! Keep up the good work!

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

My daughter whines because I am a sucker. Plain and simple. She is bright, and I am not, and when she whines I give her what she wants. Because she is intelligent, she has learned that is whining a really neat and effective way to go from wanting something to getting something. And I have to say, it’s really working for her.

I give in, to stop the insufferable banshee wailing. I can’t help it. I can’t tolerate her lamentations. They turn my brain to liverwurst and whatever thought I had, at the particular moment in time when the whining starts, is killed dead in its tracks by the shrieking. The whine floats from her mouth into the air and then into my eardrums where it permeates my skull and stops my neurons from firing. It’s like “raid� for brain waves. It kills them dead.

The only problem solving I am then capable of during a whining episode is “What does child want? Does child want water? No. Does child want food? No. Does child want to be held? No. Does child want to look at the fish in the tank? No. Does Child want to look at the snow globe? No. Does child want to sit on a pile of shoes in the closet and stick her face in an Aveda candle and say “NAM!� over and over again? YES! YES! Hallelujah! I found what child the wants! I have stopped the whining! Now where was I... And I do hope that candle is non-toxic..."

I realize that I feed the beast by responding to the awful racket she makes. When she was a baby, I followed the rule “you can’t spoil them in the first year�. I did whatever I could to keep the baby happy. But now she is almost 17 months old, and I’m afraid I am creating a monster. I also realize that it’s possible that I harbor a little working mother’s guilt. That guilt may be perpetuating the problem. When I get home, I want to play. I want to have fun. I want to laugh and giggle and read stories. I don’t want to be a hard-ass. So I may be a little lax on the discipline some days. I admit it. I also understand that being a toddler can be very frustrating. She has desires but no means to express them beyond a few uttered syllables, some gestures, and a whole lot of screaming and foot stomping.

I have also noticed that she is getting good at the “show�. For example, the other day when I refused to let her watch Sesame Street for the third time in a day, she ran into the kitchen like a diminutive, frenzied, whirling dervish. Her fists were clenched, her feet stomped, and her face looked to be on the verge of exploding. She even did that thing with her down-turned mouth and her “signature look�: An accusing grimace of sheer and utter despair. It says "How could you?? How could you do this to me? My world is falling apart! And you STAND THERE and say no! To Sesame Street! My world has collapsed into a miserable pile of ashes! No Sesame Street? I am dying inside. I am in pain. How could you DO THIS???"

I started to panic. Then I paused. Instead of frantically seeking out some kind of kiddie contraband to hand over as salve for her injured soul, I just paused and looked at her. I called her bluff. She met my gaze for a moment, and her expression gradually transformed from righteous indignation to resignation. She can’t talk yet, but her body language said “Eh. I had to at least give it a shot. I guess you can’t win them all� and she turned on her heel and trotted into her room to play with books. CONTENTEDLY.

Sticking to my guns is challenging. Especially when I only get to spend about two and a half hours with her each night before she goes to bed. When I try to cook dinner and she gets between me and the stove and pushes me back from it because she wants me to pick her up, it is hard to say no and make her wait until I am done. Her desperation for my attention breaks my heart a little, frankly. My immediate instinct is to get down to her level and pick her up in my arms. I hate to make her wait until I'm done.

I realize that in the long run, it's best to start implementing some kind of anti-whining plan. And it could be painful in the begninning. I hate making her wait for my attention, and it seems cruel to flat out IGNORE her. But like I said, I am afraid I am creating a monster. I have a sneaking suspicion that discipline only gets more challenging as these resourceful, intelligent little people grow older.

When I start feeling inscure about my own child's behavior, I like to watch "supernanny". Then I can smugly say to my husband "WHOAH. Those kids are God-awful! Their parents have no clue!" Because the kids on that show are usually a hundred times worse than any child I know of. I think that is the key to the sucess of the show. Allowing parents to see that someone else's children are children WAY worse that theirs, and their parents tremendously more inept. Justifying mediocre parenting everywhere! Hooray! At least we're not THAT bad! And if there comes a day when I see my own child in the behavior of the small delinquents on the television, I can always pick up the phone and call Jo, aka the supernanny, and beg her to get me in line on national television. Sanity is more important than pride after all. At least that is what I like to tell myself. I'll jot down the number and keep in handy, just in case.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 6:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

The alarm clock sprang to life at 6:15 this morning, heralding the return of our regular schedule. I burrowed under the covers, only emerging after the fourth slap of the snooze bar. The rest of my family was already up, eating breakfast and watching television. It was a very educational program, nothing like Spongebob. I've held true to my pre-child ideals of no commercial influences. Yes, my children are low-brow comedy prodigies, discovering wedgies and slapstick violence through my readings of Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, as well as The Little Princess and other classics for children that contain the word "little" in the title.

Coffee in hand, I scrubbed my fingers through my hair and frowned at the calendar. January 2nd. On the date, I had carefully applied a "back to school!" sticker at the beginning of the school year. I checked the handout from the school. Winter Break ends on December 31st. Barely surpressing an upwelling of glee, I marched to the closet and started selecting outfits for my little monsters, who, by this point, were doing some sort of chicken dance alternating with patting their butts and screeching while karate chopping the couch. That Laura Ingalls Wilder. She was a wild'un.

As I pulled socks from the drawer, I got a little carried away.

"You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!"

They got into their outfits. I packed lunches, and after grooming them until they sparkled, I kissed them both and shoved them out the door after my husband. They skulked down the walk, and I stood in the door, waving and blowing kisses and offering up little nuggets of love. "Bye-bye! Love you! Have a great day! Cover your cough!"

Can't you see the bluebirds circling my head, and my freshly starched apron, pearls shining around my neck?

Actually, I cracked my knuckles and plopped down in front of the computer, coffee cooling in my favorite mug. My three year old was curled up on the couch with her abacus and other educational toys, totally not watching Dora the Explorer. I contemplated the screen for a moment, and typed a few sentences. Then I erased them. And then I retyped them. Yes! I was on a roll!

With a bang, the front door swung open, sending a cold gust of air rushing through the kitchen. With excited voices, my children announced that I was mistaken. Oh-ho! Today was a school holiday! The husband, also off from work! Things? Totally not back to normal!

Well, great.

After showing my disbelieving husband that the school handout DID NOT mention the holiday status of today, he insisted that I should have jumped onto the district's website to find out from the primary source. He sat down in front of google and typed in the name of the district. And then he tried the name of the school. And then he tried a few other combinations. Ten minutes of trying, he finally finds the calendar, which indicates that yes, today is a holiday.

Just, nuh-uh. I am not going to verify all school handouts to the district's website.

I was rousted from my warm bed, filled with hope of a little peace, a little accomplishment. Instead, I get another day of 'vacation' with my children and husband. Perhaps we will fill the day with educational worksheets and a knitting lesson. Perhaps we'll read more about Half-Pint and the gang.

Or maybe, I'll let them watch Spongebob and rot their little brains. It is vacation, after all.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

If there is anyone reading this who does not feel a tiny bit strange stomping their feet, singing happy birthday and shouting “hooray!� along with a poor soul in a mouse costume, a handful of three-year-olds, and a group of men and women you have seen put more beer away than you can count, please raise your hand. Because I was recently right there, and it struck me as just about the oddest thing I have ever experienced.

Last night my husband and I attended the birthday party of our friends three year old daughter. The party took place at a local pizza parlor, marketed to children. An establishment not only marketed to children, but also to the parents of children who see the clear and obvious value of throwing a birthday party for 8 kids at someone else’s place. Where the cake, food, and paper party-ware are included, and someone else cleans up. It was the kind of place where the kids are given fistfuls of tokens and are sent off to busy themselves with video games and seizure-inducing flashing lights. What in the world is not to like about that? I, for one, can certainly see the appeal.

In attendance were several men and women I have known since long before they were married and had children. Men and women I have traveled with, played with and partied with for years. And there we all were, laden with baby bjorns, donning diaper bags, wearing silly expressions and dancing with giant cartoon characters.

So, when did this happen to us? I wonder if, a decade ago, I would have ever thought I would be sitting at a table with a toddler in my lap, looking at my good friend dancing enthusiastically with her daughter and an enormous mouse. This is the very same friend whose grandmother once dragged her out of a keg party in front of our entire high school. My good friend who one day after school, snuck her grandma’s car silently down the alley in neutral, and drove me home from her house a solid 2 years before she was old enough to get her drivers license. She was fearless, and she was either always in trouble, or avoiding trouble by sheer luck and the skin of her teeth. And there she was, beaming and dancing away with her pre-school daughter who was also beaming and dancing. And it was a beautiful sight to behold.

As I looked around the room at my friends, I wanted to laugh. Not because of the sillyness of it all (and it is really kind of silly), but because of how funny it is the way life changes when you have children. My friends and I might have looked at a group of people like us years ago, looked at each other, and mouthed the word “LOSERS!� My GOD would that have looked lame to us back then. We would have mocked us mercilessly.

But the fact of the matter is that when you have children, you do things that feel silly simply because it makes them happy. Seeing them smile is worth making a fool of yourself. You do it because you love them. And you really don’t care if the barely twenty-somethings are pointing and laughing at you. Because you know how much they have to learn about life, and you remember the days when you were the one doing the pointing and laughing.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, a client of mine, who is the father of twins, told me that life does not end when you become a parent. You just have what he eloquently called “a different kind of fun�. So the keg stands have morphed into jitterbugging with a giant mouse named Chuck. The beer is often times replaced with fruit punch, and we no longer have to sneak our parent’s cars out of the driveway. The thrill is not so much in getting away with things we might get into trouble for. The thrill lies in things that are yet to be. The firsts for our children, and the proud smiles that beam from their faces like white light become the thrilling moments. First steps, first words, first day of school, first ride on the bike without training wheels, first day of college, and maybe someday, our children’s first moments as parents.

So there we all were, having a “different kind of fun� with our children and, presumably, a teenager making minimum wage in a large mouse costume. And I was happy because the three-year-old birthday girl was happy, and my daughter Maggie was happy. Besides, we can still get our grooves on, as veterans, in our own right. We just have to make sure we have sitters lined up.

But we don’t ever point and laugh, because we know an infinitely greater amount of humility now than we did then. Children have a way of teaching you that.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

What’s that? What’s happening, you ask? Oh. The red and khaki clad Target employees running towards the toy aisle with mops and pails! No, no one’s precious progeny piddled on the floor. What happened to my head, you ask? Why are you speaking to a bloody stump of a neck where my head used to be? OH! That. Don’t mind me. Christmas shopping for my toddler just caused my head to explode. Oh, and where are my manners? Here, let me get you a tissue. Pardon me AND my skull fragments for two weeks.

Elmo and Big Bird. Baby Einstein DVD’s. Developmental toys. Fingerpaints and Flashcards. Things to push and things to pull. Do I buy her Crayons? Play-doh? What about a goldfish?

Will my child even remember any of this?

Good heavens I have to buy her SOMETHING! Something to put under the tree! Something to develop her Brain! Something to develop her talents! I start sweeping toys off the shelf and into my cart with wild abandon. If I don’t buy her these things, what kind of parent am I?

I am the kind of parent who feels like a total sucker. I buy into this stuff hook, line and sinker. I am sure I will spend at least $200 on the child before all is said and done. Meanwhile, her favorite toy is a duct-taped dilapidated shoe box we pull her around in on the carpet of her bedroom. That, and a tennis ball. She is not even old enough to produce a Christmas list, yet I am out scouring the toy section to buy the perfect toy. The perfect toy that will likely sit deserted in a pile of a hundred other perfect toys while she intently examines a tube of my concealer for 45 minutes.

The truth is, I could slap on her cowboy boots, hand her a bowl of strawberries and plop her in her favorite shoebox for a few pulls across the floor, and she’d be as happy as a dingety-danged pig in slop.

So why do companies market to children? Children have no money! They are lucky to have a regular supply of food and shelter! Mine has not earned a single red cent in her 15 months outside the womb. She has never even taken out the garbage, yet we toil away day in and day out, and the kid gets a free ride. Sheesh.

You want to know why companies market to kids? Take a look in the mirror at the sucker who hands over their hard-earned dough. That person is precisely why companies market to kids. Their marketing allows us to fulfill the fantasy. The question is, whose fantasy is it, really? Is it the child’s fantasy? Sometimes. Is it the parent’s fantasy of providing a blissful toy-filled childhood? Likely, often the case. But the fantasy truly belongs the guy making a 60% profit on the hunk of plastic manufactured in China he just unloaded on you. The hunk of crap you bought because you are convinced that it’s going to stimulate your child’s intellectual development, hand-eye coordination, artistic capability, whathaveyou. The hunk of crap you will unload at a garage sale in the near future for one tenth what you paid for it. THAT GUY is precisely who is fulfilling their fantasy here. One hundred percent. Fantasy. Fulfilled. Cha-ching.

Sometimes I am convinced that the great American pastime has become fighting in vain to prevent someone from separating you from your money. It’s a difficult game to win.

This is the time of year when the dogged pursuit of our dollars is truly relentless. I mean, the health of the American Economy is depending on our holiday spending, right? FOR PETE'S SAKE.

I admit, I am a skeptic when it comes to these things. On a certain level I am aware of the sickness of materialism. How it distracts us from what is truly important. We derive great satisfaction from filling our homes with vast collections of stuff while we avoid thoughts of human suffering and abject poverty.

I am aware of all of this, and it disgusts me. Yet, I still went out shopping last weekend and came home with a stuffed elephant toddler chair, finger paints that my daughter can’t use for a year and a half, an Elmo doll that sings “Shout�, neon pink Duplo blocks, a 100 piece plastic pretend food set, and a frigging pink leotard and tutu. I was drunk on Christmas spirit. Smack-addled by visions of my daughters beaming face on Christmas morning. I had lost all control. I failed miserably at fending off the spending. I hit rock bottom, baby. I didn't even know what hit me.

In other words, I am a sucker who knows she is a sucker. Is that better than being a sucker who doesn’t know she’s sucker? I would like to think so. I suppose it’s optimal to not be a sucker, and to know that you are not a sucker. Although that might be a bit boring, really.

Maybe someday I will get there. But I doubt it. For now I think I am allright with being a sucker who knows she's a sucker. I sold my soul for a moment of parental bliss in which I get to watch my beaming toddler grow rapidly and inevitably more materialistic while simultaneously modeling to her that stuff, and giving stuff to people that you love, is extremely fulfilling. Oh? You want to separate me from my hard earned money? By all means! Just give me a shopping cart-o-crap for it and everyone's happy! In the mean time, I will be sure to let you know when I plan to hold my next garage sale. Because odds are there will be a crap load of barely-used children’s toys for sale at one tenth what I paid for them.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Blame it on the wine. Or on the strawberries and whipped cream. The husband and I were feeling a little amorous last night. We snuggled while we sipped our wine. We played footsie and I got my backrub. Things were looking, uh, up. Canoodling was on the agenda.

"Mama!" called my oldest. "Sssh! Maybe she'll go back to sleep," said my husband, sotto voce. "MY PANTS ARE WET! WAAAAAH!" came the cry from behind our locked door. "Hold that thought," I said with a sultry glance over my shoulder. I grabbed a beach towel and a clean pair of pajamas, and got my daughter calmed down, dry and back in bed.

Whew! As I turned the lock on our bedroom door, I heard a plaintive wail building from the baby's room. Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"Sssh! Maybe SHE'LL go back to sleep," said my husband. Hope springs eternal in Husbandland.

"You're so good at getting her to settle, babe. You try," I whispered. He stood up and moments later reappeared with my howling
youngest, who had bubbling green snot and a full diaper. A new diaper, new pajamas, a face washing and a dose of decongestant later, she passed out on my husband's shoulder. He quickly returned her to the crib and jogged back to our room.

"So, where were we?" he winked. At this point, I had passed over the good wine buzz, and was feeling deflated. As my husband reached to foot of the bed, we heard the dog scratching on our bedroom door. "Go away, Donna!" we both ordered in a stage whisper. We sat side by side on the end of the mattress, straining our ears into the quiet of our house.

After a tense minute, my husband turned to give me a kiss. With our lips mere millimeters apart, we started to laugh. And we kept laughing, through my son's midnight quest for water, and my baby's second and third waking of the night.

I guess this is what they call Natural Family Planning.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on August 20, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on October 13, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

When the geek movement first arrived in my life, I did try to resist it. When my husband Clint had a BBS before we got married, I still vowed to love him in spite of the geek factor being blown off the scale.

I resisted becoming a geek.

Oh sure, I logged on, got a great user name and chatted with the other users, but I was NOT a geek. Honest. And yes, I did go with him to the sysop get togethers. (But man, those geeks can drink!)

Yet, I resisited becoming a geek.

After Zarek was born in 1995 I became a full fledged insomniac. Clint's answer? Show me the internet. Teach me how to navigate the World Wide Web. Our conversations went something like this:

Me: What do you mean I can find a website on anything I want?"

Clint: "Just type anything you want to know in that box and it will take you to that website."

Me: *typing* 'anything I want to know' *SMACK to the forehead* "Ohhh, you mean type the TOPIC of what I want to know?? Like if I type 'coffee' I can read all about the different brews?"

Not only did I find coffee related sites, I found PARENTING sites! And JOURNALS! And CHAT sites! (I could suddenly chat with anyone, anytime!) I really did have something new to do with those middle of the night sleepless hours. I was going to like this new Internet thing. (Thanks so much, Al Gore. I heart the Internet!)

Yet, I resisted becoming a geek.

Years passed. I set up a few different websites of my own. I discovered IRC and went to real live get- togethers with these people that I met in *gasp* a chat room. I joined an awesome online Moms groups when Gabriella was a newborn. Even starting my very own blog in 2003 didn't bring me to the realm of full fledged geek. It didn't matter that I wrote on the internet. Or that I actually learned HTML. Even the fact that I knew what people were talking about when they spoke geek. I wasn't there yet.

That moment arrived a week or so ago. It was in that moment that I realized not only had I arrived in the World of Geek, I just may have to try to be their queen.

Clint was in the family room with his laptop doing something geeky online. I was in the bedroom getting ready to call it a night when I had a moment of inspiration. I grabbed my laptop and (giggling like I am being a bad girl) sent him a very suggestive instant message asking him to meet me in the bedroom.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Perhaps my IM was too suggestive and not blunt enough. Fine. I can do blunt. So, I decide to send him a steamy IM that was in no way shape or form questionable about what I was talking about. Dirty words and all.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Nothing.

My first thought is, 'Oh my god! What if I IM'ed that to a friend or worse my Dad?!' In a panic I double checked and was relived to see that I had not propositioned either.

Then I got pissed. What the hell is wrong with me that my own husband isn't responding to a very blatant invitation? It then dawned on me that maybe it wasn't his fault.

I grabbed a robe, stormed into the family room hand on my hips and demanded, "Do you or do you not have porn blocking on your instant messenger?"

Stammering, he replied that he did and then proceeded to try to figure out why he was in trouble for NOT having porn on his laptop.

"Nevermind," I sighed turning on my heal and leaving with a pout.

Back in the bedroom, I gave it one more shot. This time it worked.

Can I just share something with you about propositioning your spouse through IM, though? It really does lose something when all of the "dirty" words are spelled with an asterick smack in the mid*dle of them.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on January 29, 2005

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

There is an aspect to this motherhood thing that few people are willing to talk about. Sure, if I say it outloud many of you will probably nod your head in the solitude of your own home and agree. Some of you may even shout out an "Amen sistah!" And yet, a few out there may look at their computer in total confusion. (Those of you who do that, you may just want to go read a warm fuzzy parenting story. This isn't for you.)

Some days, I just don't like the job. I look around and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I thought that being a mom would be the greatest and easiest job in the world. For the most part, it is the greatest job in the world. (We won't even go into how naive I was to think any part of it would be easy. That is just sad!) But there are days this job just sucks.

There. I said it.

I have been in that place the last few days. For example, this morning, when I heard Little Diva waking up and calling for me, well, let's just say I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. In fact, I wanted to smash the monitor and go back to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't the children that I am disenchanted with right now. It is the job. The work. The nonstop being on duty. The neverending demands on my time, my energy, my funds and my sanity, not to mention my sleep. (We'll get to that one.) By the time the day is nearing an end and it is time to put the kids to bed for the night, there is very little desire for one on one time. The only person I want to be alone with after 16 hours on the job is myself. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have even yelled in the general direction of their bedrooms (more than once) that they "better not get up unless there is blood, vomit or fire".

But, the catch is, you can't just look at these little people and say, "Nope. I am not on duty right now. My shift ended 15 minutes ago. You're on your own, bud. If you don't like it, call the union." (Sure, the occassional, "Go ask your Dad" will escape my mouth, but that usually ends up with him asking me whatever it was that they were going to ask me in the first place.)

Some days, I just don't want to play Barbies.
Some days I don't want to put together the same puzzle 75 times.
Some days I don't want to help do the homework that I already had to do 20+ years ago.

I don't think it is fun to change a dirty diaper.
I don't find my zen in washing load after load of stinky boy-clothes.
I really could care less who Yugi is and why he is so Oh!
And since I am being so honest, I really don't get that excited about someone using the potty. I have been doing it for years and the excitement of it has pretty much worn off.

So, let's talk sleep. At least, I will try to talk about it. I vaguely remember how wonderful it was to sleep. We're talking about sleeping when you are tired. Sleeping all night long without anyone waking you up. Because trust me, when one of these little people wakes you up in the middle of the night, it is never for an enjoyable reason. I have yet to be awakened to hear, "Mom! Mom! We won the lottery!" or "Mom! Mom! You're going to be late for your all expenses paid, all- nclusive, trip to the spa...alone." No. It is usually "Mom! I threw up." Or "Mom! I had a bad dream and need you to get up right this minute Be sure to wake up fully so that you can take me to my room where I will immediately fall asleep. You, however, have adrenaline rushing through your system and will be wide awake for at least an hour." (Okay, so maybe those exact words were not used. But they were implied!)

The point? I am sure there was a point here somewhere. (Yeah, yeah, besides that somedays I just don't like my job.) I guess part of the point is that it really is okay to admit that.

It is okay to admit that.

Why can't we talk about it? Does it make us bad moms? No. Does it mean we love our children any less because we really want to sleep and be alone every now and then? Not at all. Does it mean we won't win "Mom of the Year"? Well, it probably does mean that, but so what? Do you really want it if it means you have to be fake about who you are and what you feel? I don't.

So, listen up, sisters. It is okay to not like this job everyday. It is okay to get frustrated and cry about it. It is okay to look at another Mom and say, "This sure can suck and the pay leaves a lot to be desired."

It is not okay to keep it all inside if you feel this.

Trust me, I stake everything I have on this one fact: You are not alone in thinking this way every now and then. I know that at least one other mom out there related to this. If one did and admits it, more did. That's all I'm saying.

Tomorrow, I hope to say, Hey, this is the greatest and easiest job ever. (Okay, I at least want to not say, "This sucks. When do I get off duty?")

Based on past experiences, I will. I hope you do, too.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

This post is about poop, but not just regular poop. Giant FLOATING poop. It's also about ice cream, cigarettes, coffee, and prune juice. Oh, and Scalding. This post is also about scalding.

Maggie and I met my family for ice cream yesterday. We shared a small scoop of blueberry yogurt and Maggie sampled the wares of everyone else at the table who couldn't resist her hopeful gaze and gaping little-bird mouth.

We followed up the ice cream with a visit to a small toy store that carries all sorts of fun things for kids. This should have been a happy experience, filled with wonder and giggles, but alas, it was not to be. Something was wrong. Maggie stood red faced, with tears straming down her cheeks. Her nose started to run. She screamed and screamed. She crouched and winced. She was trying to work out a poop that was just not working out. It was not working out and it was wreaking havoc on her little insides. It's very distressing to see your child in pain and not be able to help. This disruptive terd had taken on five adults and a child, and it was winning. We were helpless.

In desperation, we tossed some ideas around.

Feed her fruit? No. That would take too long. Coffee and a cigarette? No. Not until she is at LEAST 8 years old. Liquids! Prune juice! That's it! Prune juice!

We walked to to the local co-op to find some magical prune elixer for my little backed up baby.

I gave her the juice. Nothing happened. On the ride home in th car she seemed to calm down. I fed her a dinner of fruit, fruit and more fruit. More prune juice, more fruit. Then it started up again. The screaming in pain. It hurt just to look at her. In desperation, I started a warm bath.

She sat in the tub and instead of her usual larky splashing about, she stared at me as though to say "THIS is what you came up with? A BATH? Will you just help me already? This giant terd is about to kill me and you start a BATH???? THIS HURTS! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FIX IT. DON'T YOU GET IT?"

Perhaps that was more my own inner dialogue.

Maggie started wiggling and wailing in the tub. Helpless, I could see her pain was escalating. She stood up, screeching in agony. She gripped the side of the tub with both chubby hands, pressed her head to it, crouched over, and out it came. Emerging from sheer toddler willpower and the mouting pressure from within her tiny little colon.

This poop had absolutely no business coming out of the bum of a one year old. It was the meanest, hardest, biggest, ugliest poop ever created by a butt that small. So compacted, I thought the pressure must have formed a diamond inside. I was SHOCKED by the sheer size of this monster. Tommy two-tone. A marbled combination of three days worth of toddler meals. I nearly cried with relief for her. Having seen the sheer size of it, I wanted to buy her a toy or a sticker just for getting the damn thing OUT. My daughter, the bravest strongest, most determined pooper in the world. The diminutive queen of extreme danger-pooping.

I was feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out that a warm bath would help relax those muscles and move the poopy beast along. Jim donned rubber gloves and victoriously searched through the bubbles to fish the massive logs of excrement from the tub. We were quite pleased with ourselves. Giddy, in fact.

My pride turned to horror as I pulled Maggie from the tub and saw her red little legs. Overzealous in my efforts to work the fecal frankenstein out, the warm bath I had drawn was TOO WARM. I may have coaxed the culprit out, but seemed to have scalded my daughter's lower half in the process. "Is there no end to this madness Dear God?" I wailed, "WHY? WHY??"

Why? Do you know why? I think I do. It happened because, as a parent, you can't get too cocky. You think for one moment, you have it figured out. You and your co-parent are high-fiving eachother, oblivious in your pride and self-congratulations for emerging, victorious, from battle. And out of nowhere, you get knocked with a left uppercut you NEVER saw coming. This is to keep us on our toes. Ever vigilant of the next totally stupid moronic thing we, as parents, are about to do.

I carefully pulled Maggies Pajama bottoms over her chubby red legs. Mercifully, Her red legs slowly turned to pink and eventually back to their lovely normal flesh color. We let her play while we ate dinner. I picked her up for her bedtime bottle and story and she laid her head on me as if to say "Please. Just put me to bed already. This day. Let it be over. The poop. The burning hot water. enough already." She struggled to keep her eyes open through "Goodnight Moon" and I put her to bed, exhausted. She was out cold within seconds.

Another day of well-intentioned but grossly mediocre parental blundering behind us.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 1:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)