Don't Panic!

A long time ago in an alternate reality where I actually got to sit and listen attentively to speakers instead of repeatedly scouting the potty or drinking fountains, I was at a business conference where the keynote speaker encouraged his audience to find a written declaration of their resolve and to post visual reminders of that goal for them and their guests.

When my hubby and I bought our house we sought such a mission statement. We settled on a phrase from Shakespeare (to reflect our shared love of the written word) and a small saying posted invitingly above our entryway which reads,

“Home is where best friends live.”

Although the sentiment is charming, I have concluded that it may be overreaching and slightly saccharin. This month, my children have been about as friendly as a badger wearing sandpaper underpants. We should have settled for “Home is where we pull our punches,” (most of the time) or even more attainable “Home is where my key fits in the lock.”

So, these are the candidates for my new mission statements. I think these more accurately reflect the issues and resolutions of our household of bristling minions and defeated parents.

“People will accept your ideas much more readily if you tell them Benjamin Franklin said it first.” David H. Comins

I know that I am not the only person whose children have selective and sudden attacks of explosive hearing loss. I think that adding the words “Benjamin Franklin says,” to the beginning of any request, might lend a air of expertise that may prompt action. (My eldest minion would move with superhuman stealth if I borrowed the credibility of Nikola Tesla instead.) “Benjamin Franklin says, 'Always lift the toilet seat.'” Perhaps I should be more clever, “Benjamin Franklin says, 'A washed dish gathers no flies.'” Although we are Christians, we will stray from the prescribed WWJD adage and adopt WWBFS (What Would Benjamin Franklin Say?) **Since composing this post, my children have adopted the habit of attributing everything of any import to them to Benjamin Franklin. My four-year-old even said, "Mom, Benjamin Franklin says, you need to let us play video games."**

Perhaps I should just get all cinematic and quote from Cameron's Titanic (suggested by a reader),

“And all the while I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one even looks up.” This quote, though written in a dramatic scene, garners a giggle when put in a parental context. Sometimes I wonder if I am suffering from a Patrick Swayze/Ghost moment and somehow unknowlingly slipped this mortal realm. Perhaps it is more philosophical than Hollywood and my minions have ignored me long enough, therefore I cease to exist.

 

“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.” Dr Seuss 

I am sure that my interpretation was not the one he intended, but anybody who has had to answer the nagging pleas of a child has a complete understanding of this principle.

 

Complicated question from Minion #5: (Please read with a breathless rapidity due to the fist fight that had ensued previously and a sing songing lilt of a tattling child.)“Mom, mom, mom, mom MAWWWW-OM! Minion #4 says that photon torpedoes are more deadly than a plasma cannon, is he wrong?” (Actual question posed by my preschooler in regards to a declaration by my six-year-old.)

My simple answer: “Dunno. Go ask your father.”

"When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies." Shakespeare

Again, I am sure that the inspiration behind The Bard's words is much more romantic and lyric that my parental interpretation, but parents everywhere are nodding their heads in agreement. I especially love playing detective with toddlers and preschoolers. Every parent knows the puzzling mixture of anger welling up in the heart while stifling a giggle in the throat when the lie is so incredibly evident, but the denial emphatic.
Me: Asking the question as a mere technicality. “Minion #5, do you know what happened to the envelopes of hot chocolate mix I brought home from the store this afternoon?”
Minion #5: (The important aspect of this conversation is the appearance of Minion #5 much more than what he actually utters.) With two magnificent blue eyes, twinkling with a combination of hope of escape and fear of discovery. He is also donning a smile ringed in a powdery, sweet, brown halo. His lips part, unsheathing chocolate stained teeth, and he shrugs revealing dimpled fingers creased in sticky brown rivers of sugar. “No, Mom. Maybe the cats ate them.”
My older minions invent lies of more import, but equal in their lack of creativity.

“You are a perfect example of the inverse ratio between the size of the mouth and the size of the brain." Doctor Who (the fourth Doctor)  

 

I include this not only for the exquisite quote, but for the geek-cred with my hubby and eldest minions. I am the harried mother of a pre-teen boy and for this reason, this quote is intensely applicable. Yesterday, in the throws of trying to derail a pre-teen tantrum (complete with foot stomping and flying limbs that allude to the grace and presence of an angry gorilla), I growled, “Not one more word or I am going to have to **insert applicable punishment for his one hour of ranting maniacally here**” With a sour pucker on his face and blind determination for victory in his heart, he looked me in the eye and contemptuously said, “Hi!” REALLY!?! I know that I am raising intellectually brilliant children, but in this situation, the televised Time Lord is right. The portion of the brain that regulates self-preservation is obviously miniscule in proportion to the mouth that muttered that ill-conceived one-word salutation! I know with surety that there were so many moments where my mother fought the urge to lace her fingers around my wildly ranting throat because my brain temporarily shrunk to the size of a peanut, but my mouth continued spewing venom like a faucet. (So sorry, Mom.)

“All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others,” George Orwell

I know academically that this is a symbolic literary evaluation of communism, but for every parent who worries about buying an equal number of presents at each birthday or refereeing fist fights and games of keep away over a millimeter more of cheese in a slice, this quote takes on an entirely new meaning. This weekend, my singular daughter minion had a sleepover with a dear friend's daughter. This sweet child is friends with ALL of my children regardless of age or gender, so the benefit was fairly mutual, but ONE of the boy minions skulked around the house mumbling about the injustice of it all. This same minion complains about being bored when he has chosen seasonal sports and rejects offers because they are, “not his thing.” I would love for my minions to have a gentle visual reminder that I could treat them all equally, but a preteen boy with painted fingernails, tights and a makeover might not be the equality that he anticipated.

 

“Roses are red, violets are blue I'm schizophrenic and so am I.” Bill Murray

I know that my children are not true sufferers, but being the mother of an eight-year-old girl sometimes makes me wonder how many little girls are living in that one little body. Her moods swing like a pendulum, only more erratic. At least you can predict the path of a pendulum. One minute she is giggling and spinning around the house and the next she is writhing on the floor like a worm on a hot sidewalk and screaming as if she should be vomiting split pea soup alla Linda Blair. Then, in a flash, she is weeping as though I had just murdered a unicorn. An inkling of predictability would be a worthy goal, even though I understand from firsthand accounts that it may be more fruitless the closer she gets to her teen years. **My daughter wants it noted that this paragraph is not funny**

"Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer." Mark Twain

 I have explained to all of my neighbors and friends that they should not approach my house during school hours. I add now that they should not grace my doorstep during the hours of getting ready for the morning, fixing breakfast, trying to leave for an outing, bathing for bed, cleaning the house, trying to get into bed. In other words, as much as I value your friendship, unless you want an education in colorful expletives loudly shrieked, my house is pretty much out of bounds. I will come to you and your blissful ignorance of my foul language can continue. I have faith and confidence in the power of prayer, but when I am facing a child who is dragging their feet about doing algebra, the artful use of profanity has been shown much more satisfying than an uttered prayer. (Ducking and searching the skies for signs of targeted lightning.)

“Don't Panic!” Douglas Adams

This is a fairly universal rule to those entering the chaos and mayhem that comprise my life. The overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety that wash over you when you step through my door...dance over three or four school books...politely ignore several crumpled homework assignments...stagger through the wading pool of laundry guarding the top of my stairs... or fluff the blankets that overshadow the surfaces of my couch...These feelings of anxiousness are completely normal. I have it every time I enter a room. Adams offers a great and simple piece of advice that should be posted as a visual reminder on every surface of my home. Actually, in thinking about it, his suggestion of the constant companionship of a towel wouldn't be ill-advised in my chaos either.

Sleeping Standoff

Today I am pondering the results of reverse psychology. I have decided that this is a complete misnomer because the usage of it, at least on my herd of wild beasts, rarely reverses anything. In fact, I have only once seen it effectively work, and he was very young and very tired. As I write this, my husband claims that he has had repeated success with our 4-year-old minion, to which I repeat with emphasis, “He was very young and very tired.”

 

Tonight I am in hour two of our nightly bedtime standoff. Everybody is so willing to lend advice about how to best achieve a peaceful trip to dreamland for kiddos, but I can truthfully say that the results are transitive at best. Nanny reality television programs have lent us several suggestions, but I believe that it requires an overweight British women with the rectangular frame of a hockey player, teeth like a jigsaw puzzle and a wart named with its own name and zip code to actually achieve success. Being a slight American woman with straight teeth and very mild dermatological problems, these schemes have fizzled.

Routine! It is a nauseating chant that parenting books have been feeding us for years. I can truthfully say, that with very little deviation, my children have had routine since they emerge from their caves in the morning to when they are tucked in at night. It has often yielded an ease at bedtime, but I have also found that it makes for immoveable children. Being a mother requires a degree of flexibility and having airtight routine has horrifying results where an emergency trip to the grocery store may end in a complete structural collapse of the retail establishment. A trip to the local market literally becomes the addition of my family to the list of homeland security risks. Vacations, road trips, these are completely out of the question, because the resulting behavior makes me ponder the need for exorcism.

Nightlights! My darling daughter has had an abject fear of the dark for more years that I can remember. Heeding more well-intended parental advise, I went to our local Swedish import store, which actually isn't so local, but it seemed like a good idea and the gas money and the price of the light were undoubtedly less than the therapy bills or sedatives available as alternatives. I returned home triumphant with two castle-like torches that dimly flickered to provide comfort for our princess in her princess-themed room. The result was many neighbors who knocked on my door at obscene hours to inform me that there was a candle still alight in my daughter's bedroom and I must extinguish it quickly before they called the fire department. This is not an exaggeration— four neighbors! I have decided that the only people who suggest nightlights are people who own stock in lightbulb companies. Of course these dimly flickering monstrosities only use rare-gold-plated-bulbs with filaments made from extinct dinosaur nasal hair or something, because I have spent as much on replacement bulbs, which can only be purchased at my not-so-local Swedish import store, than I have on milk this year (which is an amazing declaration when I am the mother of six minions). 

Guard duty! This is the suggestion from the notorious nanny program, which my mom insists emphatically that I watch. The idea is that a parent campout in front of the bedroom door as a sort of sentry to discourage the children. I heeded this advise and grabbed the closest reading book to keep myself entertained while at my post. I woke the next morning with a horrible neck cramp, a plastic building block stuck to my right cheek, my book splayed abstractly across the hallway floor, and to find that all the children had daintily tiptoed over my sleeping corpse to watch midnight cartoons anyway.

Bedtime bath lotions and potions! Slather your sweet son or daughter in these magical concoctions and they will instantly feel drowsy, or at least that is the claim. Now I am a firm believer in herbal remedies and find that chamomile and lavender ship me off to dream land, but that may be because by dinner time, I am bordering on a narcolepsy diagnosis. What actually happens, besides spending outrageous amounts of money, is when you finally breakdown and “snuggle” (like something out of the WWE) with your clean and greased child, you are lulled to sleep by the soothing scents and the child is able to slip from your headlock and wreak havoc in your house unimpeded.

Out of desperation I tried a suggestion from a parenting book that my mother-in-law sent as a not-so-subtle Christmas gift. I have the most wonderful mother-in-law that a woman could ask for, but for several weeks following every visit, I receive unsolicited gifts of parenting books (don't get me wrong, I appreciate them because it gives me more things to try). It offered that we should make it uncomfortable for our children to not go to their beds. We attempted making them run laps around the backyard in their pajamas, to make them tired. We even experimented with holding cans. This was done by making our children hold cans of food in their straight and outstretched arms for a prescribed period of time. We started with tuna cans, within a week we had graduated to canned vegetables and the cans kept getting larger and larger until we abandoned the project as a loss. I assert that the only thing that this behavior will achieve is in raising mutant super-strong children who will eventually “snuggle” you in a headlock.

But, after hours of struggle, the house is finally quiet. I sneak in a few minutes of ME time, which usually consists of a token shower (my grandmother calls it a “lick and a promise”) and a quick brush of hair and teeth and off to bed. Within the hour the migration begins. The door to my bedroom opens to a fuzzy silhouette and a child scampering into my bed and snuggling sweetly into my right arm. This process is usually not sweet and involves many knees to the groin and elbows to soft spots in my abdomen and quick checks for internal bleeding. This occurs several more times and I am left lying in bed with a child in the crook of my right arm, my left arm, one child across my feet and one lying like a cherry on top of my head, and one firmly between my legs using my cushy midsection as a pillow. With great effort, I usually extract myself and end up watching television on the couch where the process slowly repeats again. It is like that old game “PONG” where I am bounced staggering back and forth slowly between my room and the living room. My husband, who sleeps so soundly I often watch for the rising and falling of his chest just to make sure I don't need the services of a mortician, awakes the next morning feeling insulted that his wife won't sleep with him. I did...off and on for about half the night.

People always ask how I get so much done, and I usually answer that it is because I suffer from insomnia. I would like to make a slight change. I get so much done because I suffer from child-induced insomnia which came on suddenly twelve years ago, although I should have seen it coming because it followed nine-months of uncomfortable tossing and turning.

Driving in the Car With Minions

When I was brainstorming this week, I said to hubby that I needed to write an entry about driving. He agreed, but believed that the trauma/drama of driving with children is worthy of at least two, if not more rants, so I will narrow my topic.(Side note: our van can contain 15 passengers, not because we anticipated ever transporting 13 people, but because then when we loaded our cantankerous minions in the car, they don't TOUCH each other in their assigned seating. Hubby notes that it was this vehicular option or handcuffs and belly chains like the state penitentiary.)

I live in a geographic region with a meteorological identity crisis. I guess I should preface that this region is not my native climate, I yield from a temperate city in the Northwestern part of the country. I grew up close enough to the ocean to walk to the beach; the weather has a permeating and comfortable dankness that imparts the slight musk of mildew and ensures a generalized follicle dampness that prevents curling (this was a bane for me as a child.) With that aside, I am agog at the fact that I have put down roots in a place where I swelter in the summer and shiver all winter. In fact, this area seems to completely forget the fact that there is a spring or fall altogether. My husband chides that I am comfortable for 15 minutes out of the ENTIRE year.

Nearly two months ago, Mother Nature had one of her common mood swings. It is not at all unheard of to use the furnace for a comfortable breakfast and have to switch to air conditioning by lunchtime. On my way back from my tri-weekly trek to ballet class, our van (often thought to be able to be seen from space) hit a patch of black ice and began pirouhetting across oncoming freeway traffic. My entire life flashed before my eyes, it was brief and gratefully so, because it was extremely dry viewing. Our guardian angels must have watched us that evening because there was enough delay in the onset of traffic that we were unscathed and the van finished her graceful rotations facing forward so we could continue along our way, creeping tearfully and shaking at 30 mph, but none the worse for wear.

Since that day, with the slightest sign of precipitation, I retreat to my little hole and hibernate until the storm front passes. So yesterday, when it began vomiting snow from the sky in obscene amounts, I proclaimed ballet a lost cause and began hunkering down till the undesirable weather passed. As I began preparing hot chocolate, I came to the shocking realization that my husband had rode his motorcycle to work that morning and I was going to have to put on my big girl panties and brave the weather-induced stupidity if I was going to avoid being a widow.

I quickly bundled the children and left with a half hour to spare for my seven-mile journey through this frozen hell that invaded my otherwise quiet suburban wonderland. Something about the added tension wafting in the air when a parent is confronted with inclimate weather and the looming threat of vehicular demise, brings out the insanity in young children. After my fourth tire-spinning, fish-tailing, swear-word inducing episode, my middle two sons (who are usually the best of pals, but occasionally the worst of enemies) decided that this moment was the time to air ALL dirty laundry of the past two weeks.

“You ate the last cookie on Monday!”

“Your breath stinks when he give me good night kisses!”

“Maaaww-om, Grouchy Minion says that my breath stinks. (In that sing-songing, lilting whine reserved for only the most trivial of tattling.) That is okay, Grouchy, because I wouldn't want to kiss a POOPHEAD anyway.”

“Maaaw-om, he called me a poophead!”

And then the wrestling match ensued. From my white-knuckled, ulcer-inducing, buttocks-clenching seat three rows up (I told you, it was a gigantic van), I see a pair of Lightning McQueen tennis shoes leap over the seat. It was like watching a throwback to Tom and Jerry cartoons of my youth. A non-specific sphere of limbs with an occasional head peeking out to breathe, and all this with a muffled soundtrack of blows landing and ending abruptly with the ear-piercing wail of defeat and injury. (In writing this post, I have found out that cartoon critics have coined the phrase “Ball of Violence” for this phenomenon. This moniker begs to be integrated into daily speech.) “Maaaaw-om, he hit me! Come back here and make him stop!” Huh? Why do children think that cars drive themselves?

“Maaaaw-om, did you see what he did?” I want to reply with, “Oh darn, I missed it! I was mistakenly paying attention to the life-threatening driving conditions and the strenuous responsibility of keeping you little demons, miraculously born without the desire for self-preservation, ALIVE!” Instead I settle for the self-editing feature that miraculously appeared after having my second child. It usually starts with the first consonant sound of the curse word that is threatening to escape my lips and ends with something much more pre-meditated and constructive. “What the He...aave you made sure that your seat belts are fastened? Sh---ouldn't we all just remember to forgive and forget, you bunch of braaaa...angels.” (My eldest minion, in listening to my post for editing and suggestions, declares that he has rarely heard quotes like these. Apparently, usually I just say the curse word.)

I am always amazed at the timing of the aggressive scuffles in my car. I swear that my children wait until the road has less traction than a sheet of glass, or when the freeway is an unpredictable parking lot of irate and indecisive drivers, or when the car starts making those odd whining sounds again, or when the baby has continued his two-hour serenade of terror and my right eye feels like it is about to explode from the socket just to escape the unceasing and shrill screaming.

I was discussing mommy survival skills with another friend who has six little minions of her own. I was narrating the instance when my mother (admittedly an empty-nesting mother of two), and her tension while riding in my car. Mom questioned how I keep my sanity through repeated journeys to different classes and obligations when I have a constant soundtrack of bickering and the siren song of my youngest minion. The answer is a very finely tuned filtration system. This filtration system, through years of honed apathy, is able to decipher the screams of pain (which require attention) from the screeches of irritation (which require inaction.) Example: “Mom, he keeps touching my armrest!”= completely unheard by the trained and filtering mommy ear. “Mom, cool! I can watch my tendons move through this cut in my foot!” (an actual quote uttered by one of my minions while in the throws of seeking medical treatment)=alert, listening, doing triage and en route to the ER.

Parental Pain Scale

Today I continue the decontamination and decluttering from our Christmas “glut of greed.” I am completely aware that a fortnight has passed, but the surplus insanity combines with my penny-pinching refusal to pay the city for more than one garbage can. The paper shrouds from the merry mountain of madness therefore have to be shuffled off in measured increments.

Because my childrens' rooms are blanketed in a thick carpet of non-descript clutter, I have commanded that all new Christmas toys remain under guard in the living room until accommodations are made in the bedrooms, so currently my house resembles more of a minefield than a family living establishment.

In my enthusiasm to complete all my Christmas shopping in one pre-calculated and strategized attack (See Thanksgiving post on my acrid repulsion for shopping), I neglected several rules that have been in place since the establishment of our household. To warn other parents and guide future purchases, my husband and I have compiled our “pain scale”--developed after years of extensive research and colorful obscenities. This scale is an approximate measure (on a scale from 1-10) of the number of sailor-worthy curse words which escape a parent's lips when they are confronted with one of these toys at 3 a.m., in the soft arch of their foot.

1- Stuffed toys. Stuffed toys are mostly benign in their steppability (If Shakespeare can invent words, so can I, and any parent who has suffered from attack from an unsteppable toy will agree on the addition of the word to English vernacular). I really only include them because they generally are bedazzled with beady little eyes and noses which when marched on squarely are indeed painful, even if only slightly.

2- Balls. This is largely dependent on the size and density of the ball. Soccer balls and basketballs are generally a low pain factor due to their ability to be seen from great distances. Rubber “super” balls rise in their ability to produce colorful metaphors, and marbles (which are just balls in miniature) reach nearly a solid 3. The score on this scale immediately skyrockets to a six if ankle-rolling or bodily surrender to gravity is involved.

 

3- Fisher Price Little People. I refer to the newer design which is soft and squishy as opposed to the marble-headed Little People of my youth. As a parent, I am forever grateful for the forward thinking of toy designers at Fisher Price, who had doubtlessly stepped on several of the old kind, deemed to be nearly unsteppable, and felt compelled to rethink the materials. Stepping on the newer toys usually only prompts one to three ear-covering exclamations, which despite minimal pain, can often be edited to “Bible swears.” I can firmly declare that a marble-headed counterpart measures on a 4-5 on our scale, which may or may not be isolated to those found in Biblical verses.

With the introduction of #3, I bring up the crushability factor which is a dependent variable in this experiment in agony. If the material has some sort of flexibility, it dramatically decreases the amount of profanity that ensues. When I say crushability, I do not mean BREAKABILITY, being broken only means more pieces to become lodged in the fleshy soles of feet.

These next two can almost be interchangeable depending on the quantity and quality of the toys involved.
 

4- Lincoln Logs. These usually produce a higher level of colorful metaphors due to the fact that they are like a crude form of roller skates. Those that have awkwardly rolled/skidded/stumbled their way through their house on a couple of these little cylinders of joy, will completely agree with this assessment. The logs are also kindly designed with little corners to bite any fleshy arches unfortunate enough to cross their path. The level of maintenance on this toy also becomes a noteworthy variable, because splinters add a whole different level for justified profanity.

5- Wooden blocks. (See the above mentioned splinter factor for alterations) this also is dependent on whether the foot lands on a corner or one of the flat faces of the block. The average number of expletives also depends on the age of the blocks involved. New shiny blocks have lethally sharp corners, whereas blocks that have been abused through months and years of construction and deconstruction tend to have a more rounded aesthetic.

6.- Galactic Heroes. My eldest minion LOVES these little action figures, which unlike their “big boy” counterparts have very few little parts to break and remove. The oldest of the minions, is well beyond the recommended age for these loveable cartooned alternative to action figures, but he grew tired of stretching his skilled imagination by pretending that Anakin Skywalker lived during the years of the French Revolution and amazingly is still animated despite facing the guillotine. Or that his clone troopers were equipped with bazookas fused directly through the ulna and thus hands were superfluous. Although reminiscent to Little People, these have no squishability, hence no steppability, and therefore induce more censor-worthy tyrades.

7- Mega blocks. Not the large kind, which fall somewhere between Little People and Lincoln Logs. These are the medium-sized ones that have smaller hollow protuberances to nip at unshoed feet. There is an indulgence in the number of swear words uttered when the Mega-blocks project is incomplete because it generally involves stepping on a large population of the blocks in a small radius.

8- Action Figures. The largest culprit of achieving an eight-word-string of four-letter-words is a space-related franchise which cannot be named due to intellectual property infringements to some guy on some ranch in California (although it might be Disney now). These marauders are equipped with, for sidestepping copyright lawsuits, what we will call “glow cutlasses.” These “glow cutlasses” are generously cast by toy manufacturers in unforgiving and uncrushable plastic. Being impaled by a “glow cutlass” in the middle of an otherwise peaceful night may skyrocket your language to an immediate R or NC-17 rating.

9- Green army men. Again my eldest minion LOVES to recreate historic battles using small soldiers. If soldiers are unavailable, he is very flexible and improvises using anything available. One dark night, I went to power up the DVD player and realized that the remote control had been raided of batteries. I investigated to find that ALL of the remote controls, radio-controlled cars, cameras, book lights, flashlights, even alarm clocks had been deprived of all power. I stumbled down the toy mine-field of my hallway and painfully staggered over the thick carpet of child-created debris that blankets the back bedroom. There they stood, copper top helmets obediently glinting in the scarce light of the hallway. The next day, I bought a cubic ton of new batteries and a bucket of green army men. Unfortunately, green army men have little pointy guns, that though deprived of combustible ammunition, pack a punch during drowsy 4 a.m. trips to the toilet.

10-Hot wheels cars. This rating is entirely awarded on the lack of crushability factor. These cars are famous for the collectable and heirloomable durability, but with this durability comes the completely unforgiving die cast metal. By employing superhuman methods of metal tempering, these toys can be used to draw blood! There is nearly nothing more excrutiating than a rearview mirror to the foot!

I am aware and not a complete mathematical idiot, but there is one more addition to our scale of pain. A toy that, though cleverly designed and coveted above gold or sanity, induces a steady stream of words that I am ashamed to even have listed in my vocabulary, let alone actually use. Again, I reiterate that I am the mother of FIVE boys, FIVE very creative boys, FIVE boys who are all aiming to attend MIT to design and build weapons and vehicles of the future, FIVE boys who all want to study engineering and therefore, I am subject to FIVE boys worth of LEGOS. FIVE boys with of miniature turntably Legos, stabbing spearlike Legos, space-franchised indescribable and uncrushable blob shaped Legos, Legos with little yellow faces that seemingly smile and mock the agony of an unsuspecting parent.

Yup, measuring firmly at a 26 (on our scale from 1-10) are LEGOS. I have actually had to dislodge a LEGO from my foot at heaven-forbidden hours of the morn using a pair of tweezers and numerous colorful expletives. I have actually had to ponder whether or not my Lego-created injury might require anesthetics and stitches (REALLY not joking). That is a pain that no number of “Oh My Hecks,” “FUDGES!” or “Froggins” is going to alleviate and usually justifies if not requires immediate linguistic escalation.

New Years Resolutions, MoM Style

I have sat staring at this accusingly blank page for at least a half hour now. I have filled it several times with intellectual and emotional vomit only to clear the self-indulgent mumblings and welcome the blank page again. Honestly, if I were to choose between the two, I would prefer the former.

I have juggled several ideas for today's musing, but my mood has vacillated wildly from minute to minute and this was intended to be a humorously empowering series of rantings rather than a melancholy collection of crap. So, I will honor the holiday with the public declarations of my parental resolutions for the new year.

At the end of July two years ago, I suffered a crippling loss in my life. Perhaps I should expound on the dynamic of my family. I was the mother of five beautiful children, but the concentration of gender-specific hormones is unevenly distributed. Our house oozes, drips, and as I am reminded every time I clean the boys' rooms, wreaks of testosterone. The one nugget of hope in this mass of manhood is an ultra-concentrated pocket of glittery-pink-jewel-crusted estrogen wedged squarely in the middle. So, when we decided to welcome another child to our hoard, I began the scientific research to ensure a slight evening of the teams. We schemed, charted, plotted, and conspired to tip the biological scales in our favor. Each month at my ultrasounds, I honed my eyes with superhuman focus in the hopes that I would not see “the stem on the apple.” I should have been more worried about something else.

At our anxiously-awaited “big” ultrasound appointment, our focus changed from what anatomy was present to the heartbeat that wasn't. My misguided quest for the holy grail of girlhood seemed pretty superfluous. We returned home to pack our hospital bags and prepare for the most miserable delivery possible, one that didn't end with hope and possibility, but with dark promise. To add a sprinkling of insult to our heaping helping of injury, the child was indeed our little girl. We named her Brynn.

So many thoughts have haunted my sleepless nights after that horrible afternoon in late July and each doubting, loathing, questioning one has revisited me as my December due date passed, as I donated the few Christmas presents that I had collected in anticipation, and as we have celebrated/mourned each passing nonexistent birthday. But, being a spiritual person who believes in a heaven/hell-based judgement system, I have wondered if perhaps my home was unworthy and unready for our Brynn. I have begun to wish that I could channel a little more June Cleaver and a little less Sybil. With this goal buried firmly in my brain, I begin my list of aspirations.

First, I will always take deep, cleansing breaths before entering the bathroom. This is not to prepare for the toxic fumes that are often brewed in this particular room. I acknowledge that many of my moments of raging parental lunacy are spawned by some disaster in the bathroom. The sudsy soaps, lavish lotions, tantalizing minty toothpastes, flirtatious first aid supplies, adrenaline-inducing hygiene instruments all combined with the promise of unlimited water bubbling forth are an intoxicating siren song to any adolescent. Being the mother of five normal boys, I have had to develop the useful skill of hovering above the commode in order to use the facilities. So, for the sake of my sanity and household peace, I resolve to look past the toilet paper wads cemented to the ceiling, the mascara mural on the wall and the tight white underpants hanging from the shower head.

Second, I resolve to stop cooking. (I have not yet reconciled this in light of resolutions to follow, so don't point out the glaring discrepancies.) This falls closely in line with the bathroom resolution. If I never entered the kitchen to produce meals, I would never face my childrens' culinary catastrophes. One alarmingly early morning in a scorching hot desert summer, I awoke to the blissful giggles of my two oldest sons in the family kitchen. Not wanting to miss the moment of childhood joy, I snuck into my dining room to observe a winter wonderland. The ceramic tile, declared by many institutions to be a lethal weapon if properly lubricated, was covered in a shining coating of butter and then lightly dusted with dehydrated potato “snow.” Rather than embracing my inner June Cleaver, my evil alter-ego boisterously demanded an explanation. With childlike invention that brings a smile to my face, admittedly two years after the incident, the two boys had decided that they missed winter fun and had created a “butter skating” rink and were having snowball fights and preparing to construct a snowman. I look back and wish that rather than grumbling under my breath as I cleaned, I had broke out the gravy.

Third, I commit to scientifically test the consumption capacity of the human child. I question the assumption that children are picky eaters. I have yet to meet anything that holds still long enough that my children will not consume. We dine with friends and they will ask the common question, “What will your children eat?” The answer is EVERYTHING! I do not mean that in the conventional sense which limits their eating to actual food-related items. I mean, they eat EVERYTHING! I would be doing the scientific world a favor by actually feeding my children till they begged me to stop, though I am dubious that this will ever happen. But, I do not want to fill my precious children full of calorie-cholesterol-packed garbage. I resolve to find my inner-June and create healthy snacks in this scientific pursuit, but suppress my inner-Sybil's desire to stuff it in their plump little cheeks.

Fourth, I will buy a new house rake, shovel, and fire hose. Being a homeschool mom, I anticipate those few weeks of school breaks that most parents loathe and beg to end. During these weeks, I embrace my diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and bleach the world. This winter break, I bought a steam cleaner and began scalding my castle with bacteria-banning tools and attachments. My living room, which is the gathering place for our whole tribe, was among the last to be baptized by fire. I pulled out every couch, cleaned every shelf, wiped every movie and book and alphabetized and categorized our libraries. Then, like one of those overrated movie shots where the action is filmed in one-take, I walked to the kitchen to begin lunch preparation and then back to my newly-cleansed living room to ask for jelly preferences and.... an air raid had hit the living room floor. I think my inner-June would be satiated by raking the offensive objects into a neat pile, shoveling them in one graceful swing (still smiling) into a garbage bag, and my inner-Sybil would complete the process with a high-pressure wash.

Fifth, I will pet every matted, dirty, stinky ball of fur in our zoo of a home. We live at the end of a very long block and just before a seemingly eternal field of corn and wheat, therefore, we are the safe haven of all lost and misfit pets. We have a stock “Lost” poster ready to print at a moment's notice. But when advertising fails, we take them in and we love them, but all too often I am sourly cursing their infestation of my counters, the dog scavenging the garbage after our rib dinner, or the infernal cat hair on my carefully designed outfit. Recently, we lost one of our beloved misfits to a horrible accident. He was neurotic, he was odd, he was sweet and cuddly, he was always on my counters, and he was the perfect match for our neurotic, odd and cuddly family. This year, cat hair is the new neutral and I will wear it like a supermodel.

Lastly, I will savor every stage of development for the fleeting gift that it is. I will revel in the beauty of my little ones as much when they are awake as when they are innocently sleeping. (I know, not at all sarcastic or humorous, but apt.) There are too many days that my evil alter-ego has monopolized my day. Rather than catching those moments to teach, to laugh, and to learn, I have nearly sucked the souls from my children like some winged she-beast from Greek mythology. I too often sink with exhaustion onto my couch, usually with a child in each arm, and watch them sleep sweetly rather than the television program to which I am tuned. I will play board games, even if the red-nosed operation guy is minus a broken heart, it never stopped the tin man. I will whimperingly comb out more knots in my waist-length hair because my children want to practice their french braids. I will kiss the boo boos, whether my repeated advise would have prevented them or not. I will sleepover in sleeping bags to catch the closet monsters. I will disregard the bedtimes just a little to read that extra book. I will save my quarters for the joyful purchase of stale grocery store gumballs.

So many times in the last year, I have neglected to take my children somewhere and laughingly made excuses about the structural integrity of the places we visit or the formation of a coupe to overthrow the government, which is a real possibility, so beware. This year I am going to acknowledge the marvelous and brilliant children that I have. I am going to take them anywhere, make as many memories as I can with them. I make this resolution in hopes that my children will balance the national deficit and spur architects to greater heights of achievement.

Hide and Seek

Today we found our “Grateful Pumpkin.” You might ask, “what is a Grateful Pumpkin?” It was supposed to be a wonderful new Thanksgiving tradition to bring reflection and focus to our holiday. (These activities are usually doomed to failure from conception, so I shouldn't be surprised at the epic failure this yielded.)

In my passion as an amateur decorator, I subscribe to Better Homes and Gardens (I call it Better Homes Than Mine). Usually they have ideas that would require a second mortgage on the house or selling a bodily organ, so I read and drool covetously with no intention of recreating. Until October... the little ceramic turkey had a beautifully written tag with a declaration of gratitude. The idea of the the exercise was then to hide the turkey and the individual who finds it replaces the tag inscribed with something that THEY are grateful for and finder becomes the hider and the situation continues. This goes on until Thanksgiving. Knowing that a glass turkey would stand no chance in my house, I knit a little white pumpkin with a small ribbon to attach the tag. There were about three rounds of hiding before it was GONE (ominous and mysterious music inserted for dramatic effect). My daughter, the last hider, assured me that she hid it on Dad's desk, which though cluttered, is not capable of swallowing our Grateful Pumpkin. The days stretched into weeks and then into a month and the Grateful Pumpkin was forgotten....until today.

I would like to lie to everybody and claim that my house is immaculately clean at all times and ready to welcome any company, but I am actually scared of being sucked into the depths of Hell for telling a lie THAT big. The truth is that my house is barely identifiable as a living structure. Every time I answer the door, I am anticipating that a caring neighbor or friend has called one of the hoarding television programs and they are coming to dig me out. But honestly, I have a fairly strict underpinning of organization in attempting to tame the chaos.

Therefore, disorganization is not the culprit in everything that disappears in the depths of my house. Sadly, the perpetrators of the majority of the disappearances in our house are not the minions. The most dreaded words in our house are, “I put it somewhere safe.” For those that are parents, you completely understand this concept. The most chaotic and abysmal places in the house are above the six-foot mark. (I am using word in the sense that it resembles an abyss in its depth and expanse not in the sense that I use it on the minions, “This room is abysmal,” meaning severe or hopeless.) This happens because my hubby or myself recognizes the fragility or importance of an artifact and in order to preserve it, we exile it to a “safe “ place never to be seen again. (Again inserting ominous music for optimal reading effect...duh, duh, DUH.)

This particular irritation comes to mind because it is nearing Christmas, and I am trying to track down all the purchases that I have made throughout the year. I am the miserly mother of six little minions, so the idea of a massive shopping spree at the end of the year is completely economically inconceivable. As I spy those little morsels of gift-giving perfection, I pick them up and stash them somewhere “safe.”

My husband's tie requirements are very specific, and being a religious family, he must own a couple of ties. I was thrilled one afternoon two years ago, when I found a perfect pink tie and anticipated stuffing it in his stocking. When I began consolidating the gifts for wrapping that year, the pink tie was missing. I knew the “safe” place in which I had squirreled the tie, so I began excavating. I found many other forgotten treasures for stocking stuffing, but no tie. After many hours of reorganizing and colorful not-so-inner monologue, I gave it up as lost. This last May, while gathering hidden birthday presents, I found the pink tie in exactly the same “safe” place that I believed I had hid it.

This is not an isolated incident. When we bought our home and received the much-anticipated key, I rushed right out and made copies, then attached my prized piece of metal to my keys and six feet of dog chain. The keys and the chain swiftly vanished. I have reorganized, redecorated and renovated my home numerous times since that day and still no sign of my keys. We have begun to theorize that there is an inter-dimensional portal in our house or perhaps a Narnian-like entrance and there is some satyr running around wearing a fashionable pink tie, sucking on teething rings and locking and unlocking the doors in my house.

My eldest son is receiving a gift that was purchased for him for him last Christmas and stored somewhere “safe”. My youngest minion is thankfully slow in teething because he is receiving a “safe” teething ring that I purchased for his birthday in October. So tonight I will consolidate our Christmas loot, old and new, and begin the seemingly endless task of wrapping the booty. Well, as soon as I find the tape; I put it in a “safe” place.

NOTE: I was going to post a picture of the infamous Grateful Pumpkin for visual interest, but apparently my minions put it someplace “safe”.

Portrait Paradise Lost

My family serves an interesting purpose: we are an instant crowd. A flash mob in a phone call. Filling a phone booth, planning an impromptu birthday party, about to forfeit a football game, needing to invade a small European nation? Our phone number is the only one you need on speed dial.

A couple of months ago, I received a generous offer from an old high school friend. She has been studying photography and wanted to photograph my mob of monsters to instantly bulk up her portfolio and jump start her entrepreneurial pursuits. I was thrilled with the prospect because with Christmas quickly approaching, I had a no-brainer gift for my friends and family. In the few seconds before I responded to her request, a foggy and nagging traumatic memory tugged at my thoughts, trying to remind me why I have a nervous twitch and immediate nausea when walking by portrait studios.

Perhaps my portrait phobia started with Jr. high school when I hoped that a thick layer of spackled Wet n' Wild makeup would hide my pock-marked and greasy visage. I lived through an era of time where hairstyles were gravity-defying and the hairspray that achieved these effects the best was the cheapest one with the most musky smell, which traveled to the farthest reaches of the building. I have been blessed with a thick head of stick-straight, baby-fine, reflectively-shiny dark hair. I can safely say that my follicle superpower is the amazing ability to repel any styling products regardless of price and fragrance and my hair will remain straight, without even a hint of wave or curl. So, picture day was torturous. Other awkward classmates arrived with their hair defying gravity in “claws” and “waves” and my feeble attempt more closely resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Greasy and follicly leaning, my school pictures were always an embarrassment.

This phobia was revived again as a parent when my second child was only 18 days old. I believe that children who lack verbal skills must have an amazing telepathic ability with other small children around them, because the symphonic wailing during this event was impressive. I attempted to soothe my infant by thumping rhythmically on his back like a bongo drum, and just as I got him to coo happily, the toddler tagged in and took up the two-man tantrum. The portrait session was covered by a coupon advertising a Herculean-sized package of the first accepted pose. Historically the photographer gets four million more beautiful pictures after you have accepted the first mediocre one and then you remortgage your home to be able to have a bunch of cute pictures to keep in the top of your hall closet. In this portrait session there were TWO pictures. I don't mean that I purchased two pictures, I mean that there were only TWO pictures one of which was gifted by the photographer to us because it was so funny that both children were posed with their heads thrown back in the throws of full furniture-shaking screams!

With only a week to plan for my friend's charitable portrait session, I was only able to nurture a few ulcers into maturity over what to clothe my whole family in. While other people try to match handbags and shoes or while other kids are pestering mom for the newest craze in name brand clothing, my family is happy to settle for coverage. Spiderman jumpsuits, dance leotards, pajamas, even the occasional plastic grocery bag with strategic holes worn as overalls... in our house if it covers it's capital. But this is another topic for another pointless rant set to paper.

After hours of painstaking excavation of Mt. Washmore and rigorous expeditions into bedrooms to mine the contents of their dressers and closets, I had assembled the perfect combination of casual, yet dressy; coordinated, but not matching; unique, but not odd; and not a superhero in sight. I had it coordinated down to the socks, shoes and hair accessories.

The two-hour photo session proceeded with an eerie smoothness that soothed me into a false sense of security. The children were uncharacteristically obedient, congenial and obliging, following her direction with an obedience I had never witnessed. As is the case with five little boys and one 35-year old one, there was an occasional wrestling match in the dirt or pond-scum fight, but overall the behavior was acceptable and I felt confident. (I must note that my friend's vision and professionalism was wonderful and not what brought me surprise.)I was delighted with the notable lack of blood or screaming that are usually prevalent in our family outings. I drove home with a grin of satisfaction that I imagine people wear who have boringly normal children, the ones not secretly plotting world domination or designing plasma cannons (again another rant altogether). I was going to get my GAP ad-worthy family portrait to hang grandly in my living room like a Picasso.

I must also preface my portrait problem with the fact that I am an amateur interior decorator. I love to explore the balance and the hue and the shape of whatever graces my walls or covers my windows or knick-knacks around on my shelves collecting dust. Being the mother of six kids, the only evidence of this has to be six feet or more above ground-level to remain intact. Pictures are the essential element of kid-defying decorating. I have beautiful natural wreaths and paintings to lead the eye from the permanent marker, patched holes, grubby hand print chair rails, and bloodstains that otherwise add character to my home.

My mailbox is a tomb for the unwanted. I seem to receive nothing but printed advertisements to establishments that I never have nor intend to frequent, or bills which I intend to pay, but generally don't anticipate that I can afford. I know that it irritates my mail lady, who gives me snarls and glares every time she drives by and I am outside. I just don't see the purpose in harshing the buzz of my daily caffeinated beverage by reminding myself that I have actual adult responsibilities. In reality, I generally only fiscally behave as an adult two days a month, the day that I pay the mortgage and the day that I pay all the utilities, the rest of the month is blissful denial. I even went so far as to get one of those mail delivery movie services, this in hopes that the anticipation of the movies from my queue would motivate me to empty the mailbox. I do check the mail more frequently, I just grab the red envelope and leave the rest. So, the small box in my mailbox was welcome and not at all a disruption to my correspondence-delusions. I was so excited I might have actually emptied the mailbox before rushing into the front door and slamming the disc into my computer.

The loading time seemed eternal, but I coolly did a cursory clicking through of the thumbnails and all looked wonderful. My color-coordination had been perfect, the kids initially looked deceptively angelic and I was sure that I was going to get that prized and treasured Picasso that had eluded me time and again. The first group shot was acceptable, I only looked mildly plump as opposed to the grotesquely fat that I had anticipated. My husband was glowing with his toothy smile, my only daughter primly grinning and then the greasy-pimply Jr high horror rushed back. There in the middle center of the photograph was my stubborn four-year-old, his tongue lolling out the side of his stretched mouth, his head cocked mockingly to one side and his eyes crossed as the crowning glory. Panicked, I flipped through the other family portraits and to my horror, they were all the same although sometimes he changed it up a bit with his finger lodged to the second knuckle in one of his nostrils. My two middle boys had played switcheroo in the car and each now glaringly wore one white and one black sock both of which laughed at me from the computer screen. I finally settled on a pose and enlarged it to the desired proportion to perfectly accentuate my vaulted ceilings and calculated paint scheme.

And so...on my wall hangs a portrait of the eight of us, eyes crossed, picking our noses, acting like zombies, giving bunny ears and the sweet baby sitting in the middle looking resigned and confused. The way to conquer portrait-induced phobia: If you can't beat 'em, I guess you join 'em.