Overnight, I turned into the Wicked Witch of the West Coast. Babygirl’s typical whines grated on my sensitive nerves. YoungestBoy’s desire to built a fort from his comforter before school provoked an eye roll from me. The twins’ typical non-stop, nondescript noise caused me to clench my jaw. And I skipped my walk because I’d been awakened at 2:30 a.m. by a sad Babygirl standing in her crib, where she has ready access to the light switch which explains why the light shone in my squinted eyes at that grim hour. I only rocked her for five minutes, but when I returned to my bed, I couldn’t sleep and so decided at 3:30 a.m. that I would not, could not get up to walk at 5:20 a.m.

Next time, I will override that decision. No decision made at 3:30 a.m. is a wise decision.

So, I was crabby today. The day progressed fairly well, though, until this afternoon when TwinBoyA sassed me one too many times. He’d been yelling at his brothers and friends to fix the tent-city in the dining room and I finally rebuked him. He told me to “BE QUIET!” I did not take kindly to this back-sass (as my boys used to call it) and gave a finger-waving, glaring lecture which included the threat of an early bedtime and no trip to Hollywood Video (source of rented GameCube games) for a “very, very long time!”

He kept interrupting me. Somehow, he’s never noticed that when he interrupts, I just rewind the lecture and start back at the beginning. This enrages him and enrages me and soon we are locked in an epic struggle for power. Just like when he was two, only now he has a bigger vocabulary. When I left the room, he threw the pillows from the couch and attempted to dig himself deep into the furniture. His cries were loud and dramatic.

I left the room to tend to CuteBaby and a while later, when I rounded a corner, we nearly collided. He said to me, “Mom, I hope you end up in hell.”

I said, “You hope I end up in hell? Really?” I could not have been more surprised. Where does he get these things? Not from anyone in this household, nor from any media as we are selective. I think he actually thought of the worst possible thing he could say to me and then said it, thinking it was an original thought. His ingenuity impressed one tiny part of me and floored the rest of me. He said, “Yes, and I HATE YOU!” So there.

I said, “Oh. So, you hope I END UP IN HELL and you hate me? Well, very nice.” I did the Bill Clinton pursed-lips thing and said, “Okay, then. You hope I end . . . up . . . in . . . hell . . . and you hate me. Thanks. Great.”

Not long after that, he approached me and said, “Mom, I’m sorry,” and I said, “Well, great, but I don’t think I will ever forget this day when you told me to go to hell.” And he crawled under the tent and bawled.

As you can imagine, I was perturbed and not quite ready to let this go. A better mom might have embraced him and forgiven him immediately and sometimes I do wonder why God didn’t give this child to A Better Mom, wherever she is, but I sighed and walked away again.

Then later, much later, he hand-delivered this note:

 

We had a rational talk about the disrespect of his words. I accepted his apology and formally forgave him.

I wonder what I did to deserve a mouthy, snotty, sassy child like TwinBoyA. He’s been this way since before he could talk or walk. He’s a fit-thrower, an impulsive child who has a short fuse and an Elvis sneer. I might blame myself for his behavior and attitude, yet I have three other children who are vastly different. I might blame genetics, since he has no genetic link to me or his dad, but what point is there in blame? TwinBoyA is who he is and it’s my job to mold his resisting, harder-then-stiff-clay self into a decent human being. On bad days, I figure he’ll be an inmate somewhere, someday. On good days, I know that he’ll be just fine, even though raising him might just kill me.

There is really nothing like having kids to bring you face to face with your own flawed self. I’m not really enjoying that close-up view today.

What crime must I commit to be sentenced to house arrest? At Martha’s house, I mean.

If they really want to punish her, they should have sentenced her to house arrest at my house.

Blossoms cover the trees. Daffodils bloom. Hyacinths scent the air. The neighbor’s forsythia is bright yellow. The lilac buds are ready to open and the robins hop around looking for worms. Clumps of crocuses dot nearly every yard in my neighborhood.

I know it’s early, but spring has sprung here in the Pacific Northwest.

I hear it’s winter some places. How’s the weather where you live?

This morning, when Babygirl finished eating her second syrupy waffle, I said, “Let me wash your sticky hands, okay?” She is an unusually compliant two-year old. But not today.

Today, Babygirl said, “No!”

She’s two. She says “no” a lot, and usually I can cajole her into changing her mind. I said, “Please? You don’t want to have sticky hands. Let mama wash them.”

She said, “NO!”

So, I quickly wiped her face and hands anyway.

She shrieked and with a look of defiant resolve, swished her hands into the remaining syrup on her plate. They were stickier, much stickier than before.

I think she was sorry she had such goopy hands, but she tipped her chin up in victory. I laughingly said, “Okay, well, have sticky hands then.” I put her on the floor and off she ran while I trailed behind saying, “Don’t touch anything!”

Then I tricked her by filling a bowl with warm water and soap bubbles. “Do you want to put your hands in my soapy water?”

She did, of course. She’s two and she can’t resist soapy water.

So, I win. Take that!

“Mel, how’s it going, watching all those kids while you’re schooling two pre-teens at home?”

I’m glad you asked.

First, let me say that Babygirl is me, only smaller. She is not a morning person. On Monday morning, she kept shrieking at DaycareKid, “STOP LOOKIN’ AT ME!” She is a crab-apple and she remains irritable until after her noon-time nap. Seeing my own worst-self reflected in her is unpleasant, at best.

And then, Monday morning found me sitting on the floor with a howling baby. I realized I needed baby-wipes, so I interrupted my pre-teen boys’ who were busily avoiding composition by making loud mouth noises. “Hey! Can you bring me the wipes? They’re in that diaper bag right there.”

Time passed. Slowly. CuteBaby still howled.

“Please! Hurry!”

“Mom, I can’t find them.”

Arg! I said, “Hey, can you hand me those wipes on the couch?” to DaycareKid. He ambled over to the couch, blinded to the bright-green wipe box in plain sight. I was trying to avoid standing up and getting the wipes myself, which was obviously a mistake. Slothfulness leads to trouble.

CuteBaby arched his back and screamed louder.

And then he peed. On my leg. Actually, on my ankle. I screamed and he stopped peeing and joined me in a scream-fest.

You haven’t lived until you’ve been peed on first thing on a Monday morning while being bombarded by the cacophony of a bunch of grouchy kids. Trust me on that.

So, to answer your question (“How’s it going?”), it’s going swell! Swimmingly, even. Just peachy-keen. Actually, Babygirl adores CuteBaby and today all three little ones took long naps and my husband took the twins to get haircuts and it was quiet in my house.

And that, my friends, is better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Oh, and best of all, today Babygirl saw her first-ever rainbow outside. It’s the small things that make me smile.

This is my second week of getting up at 5:15 a.m. to walk. My shins don’t hurt anymore. Besides that, I’ve realized there are hidden benefits to walking before the sun even rises.

1) It’s dark. No one can see exactly how scary I look. If you are embarrassed to be seen walking around town, I recommend walking in the dark.
2) By 7:00 a.m., you’re finished. No bargaining with yourself all day, saying to yourself, Tonight, I will exercise. When the day ends, you can collapse without guilt.
3) You feel virtuous and can casually mention your pre-dawn walks and people will be impressed.

Those are just the benefits of walking at 5:30 a.m.–these are in addition to the well-known health benefits of walking. And if I can do it, so can you. I am not a morning person, but having a walking buddy gives me a reason to get out of bed. She is waiting for me. I have to get up and get moving. Even in the rain. Even when it’s frosty out.

I just know for sure that I don’t want to grow up and be my mother, who at age 62 has a handicapped parking tag on her car because she can’t get around very well anymore. After all, my grandmother is turning 99 next week and I could very well have another fifty years to live.

So, in eight hours, I’ll be heading for the hills–quite literally.