Don't Be a Sucker!!!

I am a sucker.

That has to be it. That has to be the reason that I continue to be coerced into bringing one or more children with me to do errands that are often far from kid-friendly. 

Daddy is clearly NOT a sucker. When he needs to run to the store for milk, he just walks out the front door, all by his lonesome, and goes to the store for milk. Does he care that he left at least two heartbroken little boys behind crying big crocodile tears because all they wanted in the whole, wide world was to push the mini carts at Brookshire? I’m not sure he even noticed. When Daddy needs to use the restroom, he goes into the bathroom, closes the door, and takes care of business with no audience. Is he daunted by the banging on the door and the begging to come in and the weeping and wailing right outside? No, not even a little bit. 

It is completely and totally, 100% UNFAIR.

For one, it is completely unfair that men, in general, act on logic without being swayed by irrational emotions (namely GUILT) the way that women tend to be. Secondly, it is unfair that men are aware of women’s irrational, emotional, guilt-induced tendencies and then use those tendencies as a weapon against us.

So here is how 99% of Mama’s errand-running and appointment-meeting and business-doing are destined to go:

1.      Mama will prepare to leave, either the premises or just the room.

2.      One, two, or all children will begin to tear up, pooch their little lip(s), and ask pitifully if they can go, too.

3.      Mama will gently yet firmly explain that she really needs to go alone.

4.      Tears will fall. Begging will begin. Someone might lie on the ground and convulse.

5.      Daddy will look at Mama and say in a logical voice, “They’re going to cry the whole time you’re gone…”

6.      Mama will start to feel a twinge of guilt. The convulsions increase.

7.      Daddy will say in a hopeful voice, “It would really be helpful if you could take AT LEAST one of them…”

8.      Mama’s resolve begins to crumble. She likes to be helpful. And the room is starting to flood from all the tears.

9.      Daddy will say in a persuasive voice, “I could get a lot of work done around here if you took someone with you…”

10.   Mama caves. 

And THAT is how Mama ends up sitting on the toilet with one child on her lap and two more examining the ins and outs of the bathroom while Daddy watches TV alone in the other room.

But the worst—the ABSOLUTE WORST—place to be suckered into taking a child/children with you, is to the OB-GYN.

I’ve been sucked into taking the kids with me for my last two OB appointments. Neither were at all pleasant. Here’s a glimpse at how they went…

Appointment #1: 1-year-old only in attendance

Activity: Initial (internal) ultrasound

Result: Cheerios brought for entertainment strewn EVERYWHERE in the examination room. Pacifier dropped repeatedly, so half-naked mama repeatedly forced to hop off the examination table and run like mad to retrieve said pacifier before doctor walks in to a full moon. Entertainment Cheerios supply depleted, so baby resorts to ripping chunks off of Mama’s paper gown and lap cover. Obese Mama’s lap cover and gown, which were already insufficient, are 33.3% destroyed by the time doctor arrives. With Mama flat on her back and slightly busy during the examination, baby’s feelings are hurt and shows his displeasure by wailing throughout the remainder of the appointment.

Upon arrival back at the house, I swore to my husband that I would NEVER again be suckered into taking the baby with me to an OB appointment under the false assertion by my husband that, “He’ll be easy! He’ll be contained in his stroller! He won’t be any problem at all!”

LIES.

But I never swore anything about the other two kids, so…

Appointment #2: 4-year-old and 2-year-old in attendance

Activity: Urine sample

Result: Mama, I need to tee tee first! (Mama dances while waiting…) Mama, what is that? (It’s a cup…) Mama, what are you doing? (I have to tee tee into this cup…) Why? (They have to test my tee tee to make sure the baby is okay…) How do they test your tee tee? (I don’t know, baby. They just run some tests…) Can I have a cup? (No.) What is this? (It’s the marker so I can write my name on my cup…) Can I write something? (No.) I want to tee tee in a cup! (No, you can’t tee tee in a cup. Only mamas get to do that…) Mama, you know girls don’t really tee tee, right? They only pooh pooh. (No, baby. Girls tee tee…) How do they tee tee? (They just tee tee…) But why don’t they tee tee like THIS? (Because girls aren’t made like boys…) Why not? (They just aren’t, baby…) Well, I bet you could do it if you tried! (Well, maybe, but I think I’ll just sit down…) Why? (Because that’s how I feel comfortable using the potty…) But why? (Please let’s be done with this conversation!)

Upon arrival back at the house, I swore to my husband that I would NEVER again be suckered into taking the older boys with me to an OB appointment under the false assertion that, “It’ll be easy! They can just sit with you and watch TV while you chat with the doctor! It’s not like you have to do anything crazy like that ultrasound last time!”

Uh-huh.

I have another 5 months-worth of appointments. We’ll see how my resolve holds up…

Don't Mess With the Mama!

Tonight at bedtime, my oldest was being a toot. Toot-ness isn’t at all unusual at the bedtime hour—it’s his all-time favorite way of stalling the inevitable. Tonight’s version: refusing to hug me good-night. Being the gracious and forgiving mother that I am, I decided to bless him with a bedtime story anyhow.

And this is how it went…

Once upon a time, there was a sweet mother who worked at a donut shop. And every day, when that sweet mama got off of work, she would bring home special treats for her wonderful little boys to eat, like donuts with sprinkles and chocolate frosting.

But that mama knew that her sons’ FAVORITE treat in the whole wide world was KOLACHES. So one Saturday morning, when Mama got off work, she wrapped up kolaches for her sweet boys to eat for breakfast on Sunday morning.

But that night, while she was tucking her boys into bed, one of the boys told that sweet, sweet mama, “I’m not gonna hug you tonight!”

Ooh, that mama was so sad! So after she finished saying good-night and giving kisses to those boys, she went into the kitchen. And THROUGH HER TEARS, she ate up one of the kolaches.

So the next morning, when the family got ready to eat breakfast, there were kolaches for Mama, and Daddy, and the baby, and the brother… BUT THERE WAS NO KOLACHE FOR THE BOY WHO WOULDN’T HUG HIS MAMA, because she was an emotional eater that had used his kolache as a salve to heal her sadness the night before.

And that little boy was so sad! And right then, he vowed to ALWAYS hug his mama before going to bed.

THE END

I got TWO hugs after that, AND a kiss.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.

Let's Hope We Don't Have an Emergency

Recently, I started thinking that it would be a good idea to start preparing my kids for emergency situations: teach them our phone number, and how to call 9-1-1, and what to do in case a tornado siren or fire alarm goes off. 

It took me all of 5 minutes to figure out these three truths:

1.      If the children are ever in a situation where they would need to know their phone number, they will likely end up speaking to a random stranger in Bangledesh.

2.      If the children are ever in a situation where they need to be returned home by the authorities, those poor police officers are going to find themselves going door to door.

3.      If we ever in a situation where our survival depends on the children’s ability to contact emergency personnel, WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

TEACHING THE CHILDREN OUR PHONE NUMBER:

When I was growing up, our phone number had seven digits. Seven. Not ten. Seven. That’s because every person in our entire county all had the same area code. But now, we live in the big city, where the neighbors across the street have a different area code AND zip code than we do. And those three, tiny extra numbers rocky my kids’ world. Add to that, we have no land line, only cell phones for both the hubs and me, and we kept our phone numbers from back home. So even if the kiddos remembered everything except that darn area code, it wouldn’t matter. No one is EVER going to think to try an area code for a city 6 hours away.

TEACHING THE CHILDREN OUR ADDRESS:

Our son cannot consistently remember our house number to save his life. And he can only remember the main part of the street name, never the fact that there’s an EAST in there too. He does know his city, though. So I imagine the scene will play out with the police on the other side of town on the non-East version of our street, knocking on doors looking for us, while the kids beg the officers to take them to Sonic for Happy Hour. 

TEACHING THE CHILDREN TO DIAL 9-1-1: 

I remember my mother teaching me how to call 911 if there was ever an emergency. The steps were simple.

1.      Pick up the phone.

2.      Dial 9-1-1.

3.      Tell the nice person who picked up the phone what the problem was.

Did I mention that we don’t have a land line? So here are the steps for my son to learn:

1.      Find a cell phone. (Good luck with that.)

2.      Push the power button to turn the phone on.

3.      If it won’t turn on, hold the power button down and count to 10.

4.      Swipe the screen to unlock it.

5.      Get back to the home screen, since we know that the phone probably got left on Facebook.

6.      Find the telephone icon, and touch it.

7.      Find the icon for the dial pad, and touch it.

8.      Dial 9-1-1.

9.      If you accidentally hit a wrong button, find the backspace icon, and touch it until the wrong numbers are erased.

10.   Make sure the screen reads 9-1-1.

11.   Find the send icon, and touch it.

12.   Hold the phone up to your face, but make sure that your cheek doesn’t hit the screen.

13.   If your face hits the screen and disconnects your call, start back over with step 5.

14.   Tell the nice person who finally answers the phone what the problem is.

15.   Tell the nice person your address, too, since it won’t automatically show up since you’re calling from a cell phone. Try to remember the word EAST when you tell her our street name.

Happy Birthday, Andy!

Dear Andy,

Four years ago, your dad and I welcomed you into the world. At 9 pounds 5 ounces, you took the prize for biggest baby in the hospital nursery, but to us, you still seemed so tiny! From that day until now, you have brought so much joy to us. So for your 4^th birthday, I thought I would list the Top 4 Reasons why you are my absolute, most favorite kid in the whole, wide world (shhh! Don’t tell your brothers!).

Reason #1: You have a GENEROUS HEART.

I have lost count of how many leaves, rocks, and stickers you have given me, but I have loved every single one. It makes me feel so special that you are always on the lookout for something beautiful you can give to me. 

Reason #2: You are an AMAZING BIG BROTHER.

I love hearing you tell your brothers that you love them and then watching you show it by sharing your toys, teaching them the rules (and sometimes how to break the rules…), and always being ready to snuggle up with them for a good show or a book. They both adore you, and that makes my heart smile. 

Reason #3: You can STAY IN CHARACTER for an indefinite amount of time.

I have so much fun hanging out with a real, live superhero (not the pretend one from TV!). All the day-to-day stuff we have to do takes on new life with you doing things like “zooming” through Kroger, freezing customers in the checkout line at Ross, and telling the hair salon to put you in the computer as “Batman”. I truly believe that sort of persistence is going to serve you well when you are older.

Reason #4: You CHALLENGE ME.

You are already asking me hard questions, and testing boundaries, and refusing to give in to my way. Sometimes, that drives me a little nuts. But most of the time, I am so thankful that you make me work at being a mom instead of just coasting through this time with you. You aren’t allowed to watch A League of Their Own yet, but one day we’ll sit down and watch it together, and I’ll point out the Tom Hanks speech where he says, “If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. It’s the hard that makes it great.” That’s how I feel about being your mom—it’s a hard job sometimes, but it’s the hard stuff that makes it so worthwhile.

Happy birthday, Batman. I love you 1,000 M&M’s. (We’ll watch that movie one day too!)

Love, Mama

The Crazy Middle

There is a lot of research concerning birth order. And if you’d asked me a few years ago what I thought about all that research, I would have said that it’s a bunch of psychobabble junk. But now that I have children, I’ve come to realize—there is a special kind of CRAZY that is the middle child. In fact, my hubs and I have discussed at great length the need for a fourth kid, just to remove the “middle child” stigma, thus dialing down the crazy of kid #2. 

That crazy was on full display a couple of nights ago when my husband suggested going out to dinner. Destination—Olive Garden. Probably not the best choice for three kids ages 3 and under, but we had a gift card. And the free pasta and unlimited bread sticks called to us. Against our better judgment, we decided to answer the call, so into the freezing wind and rain we went.

The drive went something like this…

OLDEST CHILD: Looked out the window and sang sweet songs about Jesus.

YOUNGEST CHILD: Slept quietly.

MIDDLE CHILD: Screamed “MAMA, I WANT YOU!!!!” at the top of his lungs for a full 25 minutes.

I could tell already, this outing was not going to be our best. Those bread sticks had better be absolutely incredible.

Finally, we arrived at the restaurant. Oh, sweet moment to be able to open the doors and let out some of the noise! Of course, it was still raining, and we had three kids we needed to get inside. But with two parents, how bad could it be...

OLDEST CHILD: Held my hand and walked quickly to the awning to get out of the rain.

YOUNGEST CHILD: Silently allowed Dad to carry him within the carrier to dry land.

MIDDLE CHILD: Yanked me over to every puddle so he could splash while “running” to get under the awning. (Running=trotting in place.) Refused to hold Oldest’s hand, screaming “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” whenever he had the audacity to reach for it.

I began to dread the stares of disapproval we were doomed to receive inside the nice, quiet restaurant.

Thankfully, the hostess ushered us to the very back room. I always feel a little better when we are seated in the back or in a corner. It helps us be a little more inconspicuous with our noise and mess. That hostess must have had a premonition, or she was simply a genius, because so it began…

OLDEST CHILD: Sat down and begin to color his child’s menu.

YOUNGEST CHILD: Stared sweetly around the room whilst making precious cooing sounds.

MIDDLE CHILD: Threw a temper tantrum over the booster seat provided for him, insisting on sitting on the bench like Oldest. Turned around to meet the folks behind us, all the while brandishing his fork like a weapon. Shoved his coloring sheet into Oldest’s repeatedly, finding great delight in his frustration. Threw his crayons on the ground. Begged to sit with Mama, then lunged headfirst into the diaper bag, sitting on the booth bench, much like a football player would tackle his opponent. 

I had the naïve thought that maybe he was just hungry and would settle down when the food arrived. But then the appetizers came, and I quickly realized that wasn’t the case...

OLDEST CHILD: Asked politely for a piece of bread with cheese and salad.

YOUNGEST CHILD: Entertained himself quietly with a cloth napkin.

MIDDLE CHILD: Refused to sit down, so ate while standing precariously on the very edge of the booth bench, still waving his fork around, by the way. Greeted the new customers behind us by clonking one of the girls on the head with the fork-sword. Banged on the wall with the fork. Dropped accursed fork on the ground- hallelujah!- but… then stole Oldest’s. Sucked the dressing off his salad then spit the lettuce back out. Asked for more at the top of his lungs, then pouted that we wouldn’t let him have it. Inhaled 5 pieces of cheesy bread instead, which I had to blow on over, and over, and over, even when it wasn’t hot.

At this point, I gave up all hope of a nice family meal and started mentally counting down to the end of the torture. Meanwhile, our meal arrived…

OLDEST CHILD: Commented on how good everything looked, waited patiently for his plate to be fixed, then ate in a mannerly fashion.

YOUNGEST CHILD: Continued to chew the cloth napkin.

MIDDLE CHILD: Dropped his new fork. Practically ripped my shirt off to get my attention, even though I was looking at him and saying, “What do you need?” Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.  Tried to climb the diaper bag, knocking multiple items onto the floor. Climbed under the table to retrieve fork(s). Had so much fun that he started dropping things on purpose so that he could pick them back up. Banged his head on the table and needed a kiss in order to recover. By the end of the meal, despite multiple recovery trips down below, there were three forks, one spoon, two jackets, and a blanket under our table.

At last, our meal was completed. All we had left to do was pay our bill…

OLDEST CHILD: Pretended his straw was a gun. (Hey, he had been a PERFECT ANGEL this whole time! Cut him some slack!)

YOUNGEST CHILD: Fussed to be held. (Again, perfect angel up til now!)

MIDDLE CHILD: Pretended his straw was a gun. But louder. And he upped the game a little by “shooting” other customers.

Back at the van…

OLDEST CHILD: “Thank you Dadddy for taking us to The Garden!”

YOUNGEST CHILD: Sweet silence.

MIDDLE CHILD: Shot Mom and Dad with his straw gun.