That’s ONE Mistake, Mom! One!

Tonight while I was making sure the twins were actually in bed (at almost 9 p.m.), I found a soggy pile of socks and pants in the middle of the floor. I didn’t mean to, but I went into a little rant that went something like this: “Why can’t you put your clothes in the laundry room? I’m so sick of picking up wet clothes from the floor. I’ll bet Nick never leaves his wet clothes on the floor.”

Nick is the kid we know who is a year older than my twins. He is every parent’s dream–smart, kind and dependable. He’s well-liked by his classmates and easy-going.

Now, of course I know better than to compare my kids out loud to other kids. I try hard not to even compare them to each other out loud. But sometimes, I fail.

So, after I threw the yucky clothes into the laundry room, TwinboyA looks up from his book and says, “Mom, that’s one ! One mistake!”

“What?” I said.

“Mom, that’s one mistake! Comparing us to other kids is one mistake! And just one of many!”

I laughed. Then I went over and peered into his blue eyes and tried to figure out what to do about those two blackheads on his nose and said, “Look, son, all I’m saying is that I want you guys not to leave your wet clothes on the floor.”

“Mom, we don’t have time in the morning. . . .”

“Son, those clothes were from this afternoon when your brother changed after school.”

“Oh.” He looked a little sheepish then.

This boy is keeping a mental tally, though. He is watching me, grading me, cataloging my failures. He’s kind of like me and I’m kind of like him–and somedays I do not appreciate the mirror.

Misunderstanding

I adore my youngest boy.

Today, he was sad when he came home from school. He’d taken a Yu-gi-oh card to school to show a friend and I’d put it in his backpack for him. He watched me do it. But he couldn’t locate it at school. He was so upset that he hadn’t been able to show it to his friend, David.

“That’s okay,” I said, “You can try again tomorrow.”

“No, I can’t!” he said.

“Why not?” I said. “You have school tomorrow.”

“Mom! I don’t. Look in my folder.”

Then he got out his red folder that the teacher sends home every day with the day’s homework and other papers. I opened it and saw the new homework for the day. The completed homework from yesterday. Nothing else. He pointed and said, “See?!”

I said, “Honey, I don’t see anything.”

“Mom, right there! It says Stay Home.”

Sure enough, it did say “Stay Home” on one pocket of the folder. On the other pocket of the folder, it says, “Bring Back.” This is so we know which papers should stay home and which ones he needs to bring back. I laughed.

“Sweetie, that just means those papers are supposed to stay home!”

He looked so relieved and wiped his eyes. Tragedy averted. (The perils of learning to read!)

Stinky Potion

My sons are big fans of the self-created potion. That explains why we go through an enormous amount of shampoo and bar soap. They spent long bathtimes in the tub, mixing and stirring and gouging out lumps of soap. Voila! A potion! And tub potions inevitably equal clean kids, so I never complain. Well, hardly ever.

Today, twin boys came over to play with my twin boys and YoungestBoy. These twins are 8 years old, YoungestBoy is almost 6 and my twins are 10. Per their usual routine, they all went outside in the backyard to play. Our snow has melted in our new 45 degree weather. The kids went coatless.

They played wild games, running past the patio door, kicking balls, swinging sticks, yelling. I’d peer outside and see them all red-cheeked with soggy pant legs and muddy shoes. Babygirl stood at the patio door and begged to go outside, but I vetoed her plans. She’d just get run over by a big boy. I took her for a walk in her stroller instead, but it was too chilly to go far. She resumed her post at the sliding glass door, whining.

Eventually, the afternoon light faded and it was time for the twins to go home. Everyone was wet and muddy, so my husband ran bathwater and called YoungestBoy inside for the first bath. When YoungestBoy was immersed in the tub, my husband came downstairs and said, “Kids are so funny. YoungestBoy just said to me, ‘We were making a stinky potion outside. (Pause.) Would you care if we peed into a bucket?'”

We just laughed because really, what can you do?

When TwinboyA and TwinboyB came inside a short time later, I caught them off-guard and said, “So, who peed in the bucket?” TwinboyA said, “We all did.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because we wanted to make a really stinky potion.”

Well, that explains that. They claim that it was their friends’ idea. Yeah, sure it was. Nothing cures the winter blues like peeing in a backyard bucket to make a smelly potion. Funny, though. I’ve never seen this idea in Family Fun.

My Impressive Feat

Our downstairs toilet has been malfunctioning for a long time. Maybe a year. My husband is not handy, but he likes to be helpful, so he bought a $7 item last year that he thought would help. It was a small box containing the “guts” of the inside of the toilet. Only problem: said parts were not the problem.

I knew what the problem was because I drained the tank and stuck my hand into the murky depths and felt around. The flapper had deteriorated badly and so the water ran all the time. I couldn’t tell why the handle didn’t work, but the flapper was definitely a problem. It was not sealing at all.

However, I have a bit of a time issue. I have so very little time to myself outside of this house that I am loathe to spend it at Home Depot. If I get out of the house, I grocery shop alone so I can think straight. Is this package a better deal than this package? What else do we need? Is that man coming into the store wearing a skirt? That sort of thing.

Or I go to the YMCA. Or a movie. I don’t want to spend precious time trolling the aisles of Home Depot.

So, our toilet has made noise sometimes, leaking water. If it doesn’t stop after a bunch of flushing, then I’d turn off the water at the source. It’s the least-used bathroom in the house, so I just ignored it. Sometimes, the boys used it and I didn’t know it and it smelled like an outhouse. Blech.

But my Helpful Husband decided today was the day. He wanted to fix it. I drained the tank, removed the faulty flapper, removed the handle and put it all in a zip-loc bag for him. I told him to tell the guys at the store that this was what we needed. Sure enough, five bucks later, we had the parts.

So, I installed the handle. Installed the flapper. The handle still didn’t work. I peered into the other toilet that worked and figured out that the reason the handle didn’t work was because the chain was too long. So, I shortened the chain. Twice. And voila! I have fixed the toilet! Half the time, I was holding Babygirl in one arm and she supervised.

Now, if the repairman-handyman guy we have used before had done that, it would have cost $50–at least. It cost us $5.

What is really pathetic is how good I felt after I fixed this toilet. My life has become a little tiny snippet in which a repaired toilet is cause for celebration and good vibes for the remainder of the day. I felt like I didn’t have to accomplish another thing all day because I had reached my quota.

But I cooked dinner anyway.

The Idiots on the “Maury” Show

I know. Can you believe that I–a bright, middle-aged mother of four children–actually watch daytime television? How can that be? Well, the middle of the day used to be the time when I put my baby down for a long nap. I would watch half of “People’s Court” and then she’d be sound asleep. Those days are gone.

Now, she snoozes for a short time or no time at all (like today) and then she’s ready for play! I nurse her and then if she falls asleep in my arms, I hold her and continue to watch whatever’s on. (If I lay her down, she wakes up. I’ve tried that, believe me.) Lately, “People’s Court” has been reruns, so I’ve been watching Maury, which has been horrifying. Almost every single day there is a mother who is trying to figure out which man is the father of her baby (or babies). Yesterday, a mother failed to locate her “baby daddy” after eight attempts. Eight attempts. This woman slept with over 8 men in a two week period? What is this world coming to?

Even the women who aren’t sure which of only two men are their baby’s father . . . uh, excuse me? When did it become acceptable to have sex with more than one partner? This is a perfect example of why it’s just wrong and foolish and plainly stupid to have sex outside of marriage. These women are making so many mistakes that they clearly need a good shaking. Of course, they were probably raised in similar homes, so can you really blame them?

All the same, it’s disturbing to see such a concentration of stupid people in one place and to see men represented solely by losers who are ruled by their reproductive organs. Idiots. (And I say that in the nicest way possible.) I feel like I need to wash my hands after watching a show like that.

And that, my friends, is my judgmental rant for the day.

Cabin Fever

I still have a cold. So does my baby. The snow hasn’t melted. Rain is falling on the slushy snow. I hear that the main roads are clear, but the mother of my daycare baby got stuck in my driveway when she picked up the baby at 4 p.m. I couldn’t walk to the mailbox for fear of falling.

School was canceled again today–that’s two days in a row. And tomorrow it will start two hours late. I feel like I haven’t been out of the house for months. I did go grocery shopping Sunday night, though, so what am I complaining about?

I have nothing to report about the day’s events. I can’t remember anything I read in the newspaper. I didn’t have a grown-up conversation all day. Some days are just like that, I guess.

Less than five months until the pool opens!

Final Thoughts While Freezing Rain Falls

So, my husband decides to walk to work in the Winter Wonderland and I think, Geez, I wish I could be walking to work in nice, soft, quiet snow and then sit in a nice, quiet, neat office and do nice, quiet paperwork. But no! Here I am with this runny-nosed baby and my wild hooligan children. Woe is me.

Then, after dinner, my friend calls to report that she’s making gumbo and do I already have dinner plans? I say, “Yes,” while glancing over at my Chicken Helper “chicken and dumplings” and pan of corn. She tells me she’ll bring some over tomorrow night for my husband and me. Then she reports that she and her sons built three giant snowmen today.

I immediately think, I am such a loser. Not only did I not build a snowman–my baby hates snow, plus she has a cold and my husband went to work on a day when the entire world stayed home–I actually yelled at my kids when they tracked snow all the way from the patio door to the laundry room. When, oh when exactly will I become the mother I thought I’d be (before I had kids)? The one who sings through the days and cooks hearty meals and plays with her rosy-cheeked cherubs? I never even saw “The Sound of Music”, yet I thought I’d be that singing governess, twirling my skirts in the Swiss mountains!

Of course, I also thought my kids would eat casseroles with food mixed together (gasp!) and that they’d want to do craft projects at the kitchen table while listening to gentle music. Never did I dream that I’d rule over a household full of kids who don’t care if they stink and who would rather step on a pillow repeatedly than pick it up. Still.

Old dreams die hard, I guess. Now, hand me a tissue box and leave me alone!

The Big Storm And Small Colds

The snow came. My husband decided to walk the two miles to work, down-hill, towards the Puget Sound. He forgot that he has a cold, so after the hour-long walk, it took him an hour to recover from the effort. Luckily, a friend offered to take him to lunch and bring him home.

Meanwhile, I’m at home with the kids. We all have a cold and are in various stages. Some of them are coughing, Babygirl’s nose is crusty and I have a headache and other unpleasant symptoms. How did I ever live in Michigan with its six-month winters? I already have cabin-fever and we’ve only had snow here and there for a week!

And now, back to my regularly-scheduled life. I have to cook dinner, which will be another gourmet delight. Or Chicken Helper (like Hamburger Helper). You guess.

Multi-tasking and the Crocodile Hunter

We are waiting for snow. School has been canceled in anticipation of this big event. I live near Seattle, after all, where snow does not routinely fall. I had to laugh at the news–they were showing people at the grocery stores stocking up for the Big Storm. Uh, hello? Newsflash! The snow will be melting within twenty-four hours.

Anyway. Any excuse to prolong Christmas vacation, I guess. School started two hours late today and I still can’t figure out why. The icy streets were only about twenty degrees, but so? The kids lounged about, watching television and playing Nintendo before school, a very unusual event, indeed.

And now, a few words about Steve Irwin, the “Crocodile Hunter.” Here’s a link to the news story.

First of all, the man was merely multi-tasking. He was holding his baby in one arm while feeding a crocodile with the other. I’m guessing Katie Couric never had to multi-task when her babies were young or she wouldn’t have shaken her head with such disdain at the video clip of the Croc Hunter’s “bad judgment.”

I’d like to confess right now that I have endangered my babies lives.

While holding them, I have:

1) Ironed clothes with a steaming iron, “cotton” setting;
2) Peeled and sliced potatoes;
3) Stirred a boiling pot of food;
4) Fried bacon;
5) Put on eyeliner (good gosh, you could put out an eye!).

Could there be more? Does it matter? At any time, I could have slipped and dropped my baby into the hot steaming water or perhaps I could have sliced off a baby toe with my chef’s knife. In response to Matt Lauer’s suggestion that the Croc Hunter could have slipped and fallen, thus turning Baby Bob into crocodile dessert, the Croc Hunter pointed out that a meteor would have to hit Australia before he’d accidentally slip and endanger his baby. I agree.

I bet Michael Jackson’s Public Relations Team cheered when they heard about the Crocodile Hunter’s foolishness. They couldn’t have planned a better stunt to take the focus off the self-proclaimed “King of Pop” (the freak).