Spirit Isn't Just for the Holidays

We've got spirit yes we do

We've got spirit how 'bout you?

  

I have spirited children.  Three of them. 

 

All three went straight from crawling to running.  Jumping on the couch, and off of it.  Mistaking the back of it for a balance beam, Dempsey included.  They flip off of anything they can get their feet on.  Beds, changing tables, and window ledges .  Racing in the house and in the yard.  Playing at the playground all year long.  Riding bikes, climbing trees, scaling fences, and digging dirt. 

 

Spirit rides without his training wheels.

 

And all along I thought couches were for sitting.

 

They dive into the bath tub.  And jump back out.  Then do it all over again.  Sneaking in fully clothed.  With blankees.  Before I get a chance to drain the water.   They run up and down the stairs at bedtime.  A lot.  Until finally crashing.

 

Spirit is loud.  And in your face.  At least a cute face, in your face. 

 

What a doll face.  When you're drinking spirits of course.

 

 

Brushing teeth and hair in the morning requires the four of us to squeeze into the bathroom, with the door shut.  So no one can escape.  Getting shoes on Dempsey means buckling him into the car seat first.  Or sitting on him. 

 

They don't eat much, sleep much, or sit much.   But they sure do love much. 

 

Dempsey hiding from nap time.  Spirit doesn't sleep.

 

When they do eat, they cheers their food and drink with one another.  They eat pie, right from the pie dish.  When they do finally fall asleep, I swear they are still running.  Just with their eyes closed.  When they sit, it's only to poop. 

 

Pie.  It keeps the spirit up.

 

After a night of running in his sleep.

 

Story time at the library was a disaster.  For every single child.  Every.single.time.  I tried.  Sure they love books.  As long as you are chasing them while you read it.  Do not try this at home. 

 

They celebrate Halloween.  All.year.long.  Just in case that costume may earn them an extra piece of candy spirit.  They were dragons for Christmas.  Roar.

 

Merry Halloween.

 

 

At nighttime, when they are supposed to be watching a show in our bed, they open every button on the duvet cover and climb inside. 

 

I couldn't figure out why our house seemed so cold and the front light was out.  I had just changed the light bulb.  This went on for days.  I didn't have time to think about it.  A spirit had clambered up onto the train table, and turned off the bottom five switches of the electrical box.   Train tables aren't just for trains anymore. 

 

Celebratory ice pops once the heat was cranking again.

 

 

We recently waited for a prescription to be filled at the grocery store pharmacy.  It had been called in, but still wasn't ready when we arrived.  The line was long. The wait was long.  The spirited ones talked to each other on the display cell phones and used the floor as a slip and slide.  They ran in circles.  They giggled.  They weren't hurting themselves or anyone else.  I let them do it.  With reminders when it got out of hand.  Onlookers may have called it inappropriate.  I call it spirit.  And damn entertaining.  I giggled too.

 

Even their clothes have spirit.  For Grady, it's a shirt, tie, and blazer.  For Lillian, it's princess garb one day, and her brother's sweatshirt the next.   Sometimes, something is missing.  And it's not the spirit.

 

I put the van in reverse, looked back, and saw this.

 

Spiritwear.

Grady at his preschool Christmas show.  This was taken immediately after he untucked his shirt and looked down his pants for a solid 30 seconds.  All while on stage.  I think there was some spirit in there.
 

 

    

At the mall.  See... I almost have a whole handful...already more than mom!
 

So here's to 2013.  Cheers!  Shirts off,  pops up, and don't forget to check your pants for spirit.  It's gonna be a great year.

 

We've got spirit yes we do

We've got spirit how 'bout you?







 





 



My Greatest Fear

My greatest fear is losing one of my children.  It's hard to write those words.

Lillian, Grady, and Dempsey are my morning, noon, and night.  My greatest accomplishment.  My heart.  My soul.  My world.  They make me laugh.  They make me cry.  They bring out the best in me.  And at times, the worst.   

I worried about my children long before they entered the world.

The first time I became pregnant, I was oblivious to the heartache that is a part of bearing and raising children of your own.  I was 27.  I miscarried.  The thought that this could happen had never crossed my mind.  I worried I wouldn't be able to have children. 

The second time I became pregnant, I worried.  I feared another miscarriage.   My water broke one day before my 37th week.  Lillian was born the next day, exactly three weeks early.  I worried it might be too soon.

When Lillian arrived, I anguished over SIDS.  I also doubted the driving abilities of others.  I didn't want her to ride in a car without me.  I was consoled by the thought that if there was an accident, at least we would go together. 

The third time I became pregnant, I miscarried again.  I knew what was happening before it actually happened.  So I worried.  About everything.

The fourth time I became pregnant, Grady arrived, many worrisome months later.  We should have just named him Worry.

With Grady, I doubted we would all make to his third birthday.  I feared broken bones, head injuries, and lacerations.  They all happened.  We made it.  To three.  Now I worry about four.

The fifth time I became pregnant, people started asking if we knew how this whole getting pregnant thing worked.  I assured them we had a pretty good idea.   I worried that we already had two healthy children, would we be as lucky the third time around?  Dempsey was born.  Healthy.

By the time Dempsey blessed our family, I wasn't worrying quite so much.  Maybe I just didn't have the time to think.  About anything.  I worried that I wasn't worrying enough.

It's a wonderful thing, being so busy.  My mind is often preoccupied.  I don't have a lot of time to worry.  But there are still plenty of things that I worry about.   I worry one of them will get hit by a car.  While playing, waiting at the bus stop, or walking through the grocery store parking lot.  I worry about car accidents, a fall from a window, and drownings.  I worry about brain tumors and childhood cancers.  I anguish about anything that is irreparable.  It's a mother's right and duty to worry. It's what we do.  All day.  Every day.

Never before have I worried that one of my children could be gunned down in an elementary school classroom.  That's irreparable.  There are twenty moms, just like me, whose babies aren't coming home.  They worried about the same things I do.  But never that.  I'm sure of it.

Twenty children are gone.   I am holding on to my three for dear life.  Twenty mothers had their right to worry torn away.  I am worrying like I've never worried before.  And thankful that I still have children to worry about.   God bless the children.  Their mothers.  Their fathers.  Their sisters.  Their brothers.  Their families.  We should all be worried.

Thank you.

A Mother's Request

My mother called to tell me that she is embarrassed by my poop stories.  Which is ironic.  Because every time I talk to her, I have the urge to poop.  This stems from my college days.  When I called her every day after lunch.  Lunch in the dining hall.  So I struggled and I struggled tonight.  I will not write about poop.  I will not write about poop.  I will not write about poop. 

I had a two hour, morning break, from two children.  A week and a half ago.  What would I do with this Single Threat time?  Poop. Get my oil changed.  There is nothing like fresh poop fluids.  I went to Sears Auto Center.  It's at the mall, instant Dempsey entertainment.  Sears said no.  They were too busy pooping.  Mr. Sears said afternoons were best. 

This past Wednesday, I show up with my full brood at 2pm.  After noon.  Mr. Sears says the oil change will take 3 hours.  I ask when is the best time to come?  He looks right at me and says Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons.  Except during the holiday season.  Mr. Sears Poop Number Two, interrupts from the other counter.  He corrects Mr. Sears.  It will take two hours today.  I instantly like Number Two.  I give Mr. Sears my cell phone number.  He asks for my home phone number to look up my account.  I concede, but tell him that we no longer use our home phone.  He reminds me that lots of people don't use their home phone anymore.  However, he still needs it in case they need to leave me a message.  Which works out perfectly...since I don't use it anymore.  I request the regular oil.  Mr. Sears reminds me that he already knows this.  That's why he looked up my account.  With the home phone number.  The one I no longer use.   The same one where Sucks Sears will leave me a message.  I ask if I should leave my cell phone number.   In case the technician needs to call and tell me that my van is about to explode and I'll need new brakes, air filter, and/or some sort of random plug.  While I'm pooping at the mall.  Mr. Sears says they won't have time to speak with me. They're too busy pooping.   They only leave messages.  On your home phone. 

Two hours later, the Triple Treat is full of jelly beans and lollipops and poop.  Two times waiting in line for Santa.  Never actually making it to the front of the line.   Six times taking shoes off.  And putting them back on.  Three times visiting the bathroom.  To poop.  One time trading my coupon for a free pair of underwear at Victoria's Secret.  While the children fondled Victoria's secrets with their poopy sticky hands.

Driving home from Sucks Sears, I notice the heat isn't working.  Poop Cool air is blowing from the vents.  By the time we reach home, the air feels warm.  I forget about it.

Thursday morning I start up the van, preparing for double school drop offs.  Thirty minutes later we all fumble in.  It's freezing.  Thirty degree outside and inside.  No heat.  Poop.

Within the hour, the van has been dropped off for repair, not at Sucks Sears, and Enterprise is picking us up.  Love.

Dempsey and I arrive at preschool, in our rental, to reclaim Grady.  Grady's teacher calls us into the classroom.  Grady hadn't made it back from the playground in time.  He peed in his pants.  Dempsey, Grady, and I filter into the bathroom.  I set Grady on the toilet to finish peeing and pull his change of clothes from his backpack.  Dempsey chucks something into the toilet.  The one filled with Grady's pee remnants.  It's the rental van keys.  Two of them.  Since those Enterprise people were kind enough to give me a spare.  The automatic ones.  With buttons only.  No metal key for this mom.  The kind with a computer chip.  That costs hundreds of dollars to replace.  Times two. 

I fish the expensive keys computers from the pee water.  With my bare hands.  I'm too afraid to rinse them.  I dry off the pee with a paper towel.  It worked.

The repair shop calls.  When Sucks Sears checked my fluids, they neglected to replace the radiator cap.  Coolant leaked out.  The heat didn't work.  I shouldn't be surprised.  A couple of years ago I purchased a new tire after the original was punctured by a nail.  Sucks Sears actually replaced the wrong tire.  I don't learn the first time around.  That's why I have three children.  And darn it if every single one of them doesn't poop pee.

In the end, I just couldn't listen to my mother.  The Triple Threat don't listen to me.  I learned it from watching them.  Poop.  Poop.  Poop.  I think I'll tell her to call my home phone next time. 

Just kidding mom.  I love you.  Now I have to poop.  Call me.  xxxxoooo

Lillian's Nativity scene set up.  Jesus has returned.  Uninjured.  I'm sure he nearly pooped himself during the recent Baby Jesus sibling bashing incident.

Utterly Disgusting and Inappropriate Things. What Would Jesus Do?

I find myself doing utterly disgusting and inappropriate things on a daily basis.  Like today.  I found one of Grady's used and discarded socks, on the floor, turned inside out.  I wiped Dempsey's nose with it, turned it right side in, put in on Dempsey's foot, and then put his shoe on.

I don't always wash my hands after changing dirty diapers.  And after I pee or poop.  My skin is dry.  And well, I just forget.  And then someone is breaking something.  There.  I said it.  Don't peace me at Mass anymore.  I'm sure your germs are way worse than mine anyway.  And while you're at it, stop with the lame, dead fish handshake.  Jesus wouldn't approve.  What would Jesus do?  He would shake like he's never shaken before.  Regardless of the poop stains.  He's a strong guy after all.  He had nails driven through his hands.  Suck it up.  You'll survive.

Lillian peed in her shorts at basketball practice tonight.  I did notice the clenched legged, potty dance under the basketball hoop.  But I never thought it would happen to my girl.  The one that put on underpants one day and never looked back.   Over two years ago. 

The coach called for a water break.  I followed my player.  Her water break had already happened.  Jesus.  Stop laughing.  It's not funny.

I took her to the bathroom.  Her shorts and underwear were soaked.  I did what any disturbed mother would do.  I told her to finish peeing and put the shorts back on.  No one would notice. 
Everyone has colds these days.  They won't smell it either.  I'm pretty sure that's what Jesus would have done.  Lillian didn't agree.  So I did something inappropriate.  I attempted to trade her pee shorts with Grady's fresh ones.  I scooped him up and pulled his shorts down.  His penis popped out.  Someone forgot his underwear.  He screamed.  He hollered.  I yanked.  It wasn't working.  He was holding on for dear life.  "These are boy shorts!" he exclaimed.  Then Dempsey dipped his hands in some unflushed poop water and  threw our consignment shop basketball against the stall door.   I huddled the ball in one hand and wrangled Demspey with the other.  Then I slipped and fell.  Probably on pee.  I was handless, sprawled onto a floor that was dirtier than a peace hand.  I had two pantless kids and another one elbow deep in poop.   My jig was up.  This would not have happened to Jesus.

Like any fabulous mom, I initially had two plans of action. An A plan.  And a B plan.  Plan A.  Switch shorts and have Grady wear pee soaked bottoms for Lillian's last fifteen minutes of practice.  Hide him on the sidelines and pray to Jesus.  Plan B.  Give Lillian Grady's dry shorts.  Carry Grady out to van in underwear and re clothe him in one of the multiple outfits that Jesus had left in our van for these moments of despair.  Thank you Jesus.   But you forgot the underwear this morning.  I'm going to discuss this with your father.

I ended up with Plan C.  Lillian's plan.  It makes too much sense and isn't the least bit entertaining, so I won't even tell you about it.

Dear God,

Please help me.  Did Jesus ever pee his pants?  And what did you do?  Text me back. 

Sincerely,

Mom of the Triple Threat
xxxxoooo

Oh no I didn't.

Um, yea, I did.

We all wear the same clothes.  Interchangable when we pee our pants.  Rock on Conor.

Love, Laughter, and the Map

Grampa went to heaven this morning.  Sunday was our last goodbye.  We snuck the triple threat in.  Scooting past security on the main floor only to get busted.  In true triple threat style.  Our naughty family traipsed to the visitors desk for our adults only pass.  We had to promise the pass granting volunteer  that the children would remain in the waiting room.  We lied.  We'd come all the way to Buffalo, from Maryland, and there was no way in hell the kids weren't breaking into that hospital room.  They had drawings to deliver after all.  It was worth it.  It made Grampa happy.  He was pissed at the same time .  He knew exactly what he wanted to tell us.  But it wouldn't come out.  He balled up his fist and shook it.  The damn stroke.  The unrelenting, one-sided, paralyzation.  The not being able to do what you could do, just days before.  I was pissed too.  It seemed so unfair.  But we knew what he was trying to say.  I love you.  We got the message.


Life isn't always fair.  It's not fair that those we love can't be here forever.  It's not fair that kids have to experience death.  It's not fair that parents have to explain it.  Lil has had many questions about death recently.  She wanted to know who kisses you at bedtime if your mom is in heaven.  Together, she and Grady decided that kisses can be sent from heaven.  She said Mom, you can't die yet, you're not even 16.  I didn't correct her.  Because while I may have unfortunately experienced 16, no, I can't die yet.  I have to be alive to see my dear grandchildren drive her absolutely crazy.  Almost to the point of being committed.  But not quite.  Because they'll be super cute.  Bringing her back from the brink.  Paybacks.  Years ago, my own mother cursed me.  She said one day, I would have triplets that acted exactly like me.  She was pretty damn close.  It's only fair that Lillian gets her turn too.  And that I get to witness it.


It's not fair that I can't remember anything.  Like how old I told Lillian I was, the last time that she asked.  Or where I hid the paci's, candy, van keys, beer, duct tape, and other important child/parent paraphernalia.  My mom says she's surprised that I remember where I live.  Given my triple threat circumstances. 

I think about death too.   Like, what will become of Dempsey after licking the floor at the athletic club?   And what exactly does it mean when your children have snot coming out of their eye balls?  It can't be good.  Will I die an untimely death due to poop asphyxiation?   Will my children only notice I'm gone when they can't find the paci's, candy, van keys, beer, and duct tape?  When I am gone, I hope they remember love and laughter.   And I hope they can find the map.  The one that tells them where the paci's, candy, van keys, beer, and duct tape are.

Grampa, please keep the kisses coming.  And the patience.  And the sanity.  And don't forget the beer.  I hope I made you laugh a little Grampa.  Until we meet again.  Then we'll laugh alot.

Grampa, help us keep them in line!

Mother of the future quadruple threat.  It's only fair.

Father of monkeys who jump off of high things multiple times a day.  It's only fair.

Father of five.  Ha!  Grampa, he needs all the help that he can get!

Grampa

Sean's grampa  had a massive stroke this morning.  He is a wonderful man.  And I don't have to say that.  But I'll say it again.  He is a wonderful man.  He loves his family dearly and you just can't help but love him back.  He is the family center.  Our universe.  A Navy veteran, retired fire fighter, husband, father, grandfather, and great grandfather.   He has the most incredible sense of humor.   You have to listen carefully and pay attention though.  His statements come out quick.  If you're not fast enough, you may just miss it.  Your loss. 

He's always accepted me.  And my family.  He asks how I'm doing.  And wants to know what kind of trouble my family is getting into.  He really likes trouble.  Then he listens.  Really listens.   You never know what you're going to get when your mom you choose a spouse.  You can't pick your in laws.  And neither can your mom.  If I could choose, I would pick mine.  Sean's family lives in Buffalo.  We don't see them enough.  Sometimes we wish we could pick up our house and move it to Buffalo.  Even if just for a little bit.  When we're lucky enough to see our Buffalo family, it's always a great time.  And everyone wants to be around G-Grampa (the triple threat's version of Great Grampa).  He is irresistible. 

When we're apart, G-Gram and G-Grampa always send us special letters.  G-Gram never forgets.  And always remembers to sign G-Grampa's name.  While he's off getting into trouble, no doubt. These letters are my treasures.

Hi,

Wish I could be there with you on Lil's special day.  bet you will have a lot of people to celebrate with you.  Tons of fun for our girl!

I will look forward to some pictures-not like being there tho.

You two are terrific parents!!

_____________________________________

Dear Sean & Lisa,
 
I feel so bad not being with you on Lillian's 1st birthday.  I would love to see first hand all the things I can brag about.  I know she is adorable, and bright and no doubt very active.  Hugable too.  It's hard to be so far away.

Hope you are well and enjoying life as you should.  Maybe we'll get to see you during the summer.  I sure hope so.  Give Lillian a kiss and a hug for us.

_______________________________________

Hi Lillian,

We really like the pretty Valentine you sent to us.  It is stuck on the fridge with a magnet so we can look at it.

_______________________________________

"Happy Easter"

Hope things are going well for you and that you sell your house for a ton of $ soon!

Have fun with Lillian on Easter.  I hope she likes this little book-it has always been a favorite of mine.

_______________________________________

Dear Sean & Lisa,

I know you will be having a really special & fun Christmas with Lillian & Grady.

Since I didn't know what to get for them, I'm hoping you will get them something they they need or want. Or use the check for the home.

I bought this DVD because the title reminded me of Lil.

Wishing you every joy!!

________________________________________

Hi Sean & Lisa,

Just want to say thanks for the pictures you sent!  They are precious to me.

We had some harried times but we're through it now.  Pretty much back to normal. 

I picture you all being busier than ever!!

________________________________________

Hi to all my lively Barnums!!

Sorry I missed Valentine's Day.  Without our usual deep snow I didn't notice what the date was, I guess.

Grady- how did you break your foot?  Hope it didn't hurt too much.  Hope it heals real quick!  Hope everyone is in 1 piece. 

Think about you - Love you always

________________________________________

Hey Lil, Grady, & Dempsey,

Have fun Trick-or-Treating!!  Did you guys make a Jack-o-Lantern yet?  Do you have scary, funny costumes?  Wish I could be there to see you all.

________________________________________

Hi to All:

Hope things are well with you all!! 

Lisa - Love your blogs.  Keeps me in touch.

Things have been hectic here - but better now.  Love you all so much.

________________________________________


Gram.  We love you.  You rock.  How do you put up with him? 

Grampa.  We love you.  You're a wonderful man. 

xxxxoooo

Who wouldn't want to kiss Grampa?

Grampa knew how to win Grady's heart, a really big pop.

He most definitely just said something absolutely hilarious.

Politics. Gasp. Here's My Take On It.

I don't like to talk about politics.  To anyone.  Except Finn.  It's very personal for me.  My thoughts have changed many times since I've been grown up enough to take it seriously.  Not because of another person's perspective, but because I have changed.  I've gone to college and gotten married.  Held jobs.  Paid taxes.  Set up savings and retirement accounts.  Given birth.  Three times.  Everything changes when you have children.  Sean and I have purchased a home and a minivan.  Selected health, car, and mortgage insurance.  We've voted.

The president has the worst.job.ever.  I would not want to trade places.  Any presidential candidate has got to have balls.  The president is often hated and takes the blame for others' decisions.  They are the soccer goalie.  By the time the ball is whizzing past, the rest of their team has failed.  Each candidate had great qualities.  As well as a few that I'd like to pretend didn't exist.  Just like me and you.  Because they are like me and you.  They just happen to be running for president.  And have really big balls.  Congrats Ann and Michelle.  When the day is done, at least you have that.

Each strive for a better country.  In their own way.  I respect them both.  I don't believe that any one president can destroy or save our world.  I think that's up to us.  As humans.  As the non-presidents.  The people.  Members of the United States of America.  A team where no one should be the goalie.  And take all the blame.

My voting experience this week was memorable. I brought the triple threat.  The waiting time, from my original place in line, was over an hour.  After a few voters got run over by an errant stroller and Grady and Dempsey battled out their political views in toddler speak, a poll volunteer offered to move us to the front of the line.  It was a special request from our priest and parish secretary, who were standing behind us.  I think Father Jeff was pissed that the baptisms didn't work.  He's the goalie.  Obviously someone forgot to bless the holy water.  Three times.  After fifteen minutes, we were escorted to the check in table.  Not one person complained.  At least not out loud.  When we finally made it to the booth, I was proud.  For the privilege to vote, and for the kindness of others who recognized my precarious situation.  However, I may have voted for Skittles.

My husband Sean is a teacher and a member of the United States Air Force.  He educates our youth and protects our country.  I can't think of any two more admirable positions.  He's also a bartender.  Sean gets people liquored up.  Another admirable position.  I've heard of people detesting teachers and loathing the military, but really, who has anything bad to say about a bartender?   Sean and I lead our family team.  We don't always make the right decisions.  And when we don't, we blame it on the triple threat.  We are the goalies after all.  Someone must have fumbled by the time it gets back to us.   I think it was Lillian.  Or Grady.  Or Dempsey.  They are honing thier team skills. There's always Finn to blame.  She has two too many legs.  But in the end, we always fight for what is best for our family and the world that our children will one day live in without us.  I can only trust that the president, whomever he or she may be, does the same.  Just like you and me.  God bless America.

Educating America's youth.  Mars and Venus in the Bedroom. 

You wanna know somethin' about politics?  I'll tell ya somethin' about politics!

Finn's done with all of them.

Parking Space Wars

Handicapped people are definitely losing the parking space wars.  First, they got the nudge with the pregnant women parking.  Next, it was customers with small children.  Now, it's people hauling baby carriers.  At the athletic club where Lil and Grady take swim lessons, there are four spots for parents carrying baby carriers.  These four spaces are much closer than the handicapped spots.  Each time we drive by them, Grady shouts for me to park there.   This past week I reminded him that those spots are only for people with baby carriers.  He squealed with delight, "Mom, you're a baby carrier!"  Just what I always wanted to be.

Lil decided last night that she wants to be a hairdresser.  I've always been anal when it comes to the kids and scissors.  I never let them use scissors until Lillian got marked down on her preschool report card for her lack of cutting skills.  The teacher sent me home with a packet of shapes for her to cut out and suggested I have her clip coupons.  I don't even cut coupons.  If I happen to trip over the coupon circular, I rip a couple out with my bare hands, put them in my bag, then use them to wipe noses.  I offered for Lillian to go to her teacher's home for remedial cutting practice.  Mrs. Cutsalot decided Lil's skills weren't so bad after all.  So...like any wannabe good mom, I bought some scissors.  I doled them out as if they were chef's knives.  Afraid that at any moment, someone might get stabbed.  Or cut their hair off.  Then it happened.  I was talking to my mom on the phone.  I knew I was on too long.  I knew the kids were too quiet.  I knew that the bedroom door was closed.  I should have known someone was either being stabbed or cutting their hair off.  Because that's what moms do.  They know everything.  Well...at least no one got stabbed.  But Lil's hair took quite a hacking.  She said she was practicing.  She lopped off her hair at the nape of her neck and cut herself some bangs.   They are the widest bangs you have ever seen.  They start behind her ears.  Do not let Lillian cut your hair.  No matter what she tells you she's going to be when she grows up.

The crime scene.  I'm not sure if Lil looked in the mirror or took direction from Grady.

She claims she was trying to be neat by collecting some hair in the Build-a-Bear box.  I knew I hated that damn place for a reason  It's a conspiracy. Build a bear... then cut your hair.

After the late night fix.  Cuteness.

I am thankful we had our family pictures taken last weekend.  Pre-hacking.  We picked up an extra family member that day.  Brooky.  A horny caterpillar.  Named after Lil's friend at church school.  The one with long hair.  You should probably warn her.   I've never seen anything like this caterpillar.  It was hairless and had one sharp spike on its' butt.  I'm not quite sure if it was hairless prior to Lil discovering it.  She kept Brooky in her pocket the entire time.  Until she realized Brooky was smooched.  And had squirted horny caterpillar poop throughout her pocket.  Because it's just not a good day unless poop is involved.  Poop finds me.  Everywhere.  We wiped out the poop with a couple of coupons tissues and that was the end of Brooky. 

I am full of crap.  I will fit right in with your family.  Please include me in your photo shoot.  Love, Brooky.
Image Source

Dear Athletic Club,

I should have my own personal parking space.  I am very important.  I have three young children that enjoy scissors, horny caterpillars, and poop.  If you agree, please check yes.

__ Yes.  You are a very important person.   We will create a personal parking space for your lazy ass.  Screw the handicapped people.  They suck.

__ No.  You suck.  It's called the G-Y-M for a reason.  Get Your Massive ass moving. 


Sincerely,

Mom of the triple threat
xxxooo

Mitt Supports Wearing Your Pajamas

It's happened again.  I hid something from the children only to find I've actually hidden it from myself.  This time it's something I desperately need in two days.  Everyone else on the East Coast will need one too.   Which is why the stores are hiding them too.  At least this is what I believe.  I think Target employees have a great sense of humor.  I think they've removed all of the water, flashlights, lanterns, and batteries from the store shelves and replaced them with...wait for it... hidden cameras.  Then the employees hide in the back room and giggle at the panic stricken faces as crazed customers realize that everything.is.gone.  Including their own sense of decency as they swat at babies and old ladies diving for the last package of C batteries.  A's are better anyway. 


I tried to hide behind Grady at the bus stop this morning.  It didn't work.  He's very small.  And he moves around too much.  It was pajama day at Lil's school.  All the kids at the bus stop had on their pajamas.  Grady told the other parents that his mommy and daddy don't wear pajamas.  Not that this was news to anyone.  How the hell else would you produce three babies in three and a half years?  I told you A's work better.  Someone buy these people some freakin' pajamas!  Apparently there's a new tax break coming for those who promise to wear pajamas to bed.  I can't believe we never thought of it ourselves.  Control your births.  Wear pajamas.


Lillian and Dempsey have the stinkiest feet in the family.  When Dempsey kicks off his shoes in the van, I smell it before I hear the shoes hit the floor and I hide when it's time for Lillian to get her socks and shoes on.  Which is why, earlier this week, Lil set off to the bus stop with Grady's socks that read, boys rule. We had a sock swap at the street corner.  She didn't get why I made her switch that day.  Or why today, I was so excited that she was wearing pajamas.  I will make sure she gets that tax break well into her 30's. 


Oh Sandy.  You wet, wild, make us tremble, kind of woman.  Stop letting those Target employees have so much fun at work.  They already have a J.O.B. don't let them have fun too.  And put on some PJ's please.  Mitt will thank you.  As for me?  I'm in hiding.

He's definitely hiding something.

Hide from swords.  Especially wooden ones.

Hide all pool noodles at summer's end.  One word.  Destruction.

Hide when the karate show begins.

My Faces of Filth and the Destruction of My American Girl Dream

While millions of little girls out there are creating their Christmas lists to include various American Girl dolls, and all the paraphernalia that comes with them, this big girl is wishing to be an American Girl.  If only for one day.  I would like to borrow her soft-as-snow outfit and snowy earmuffs.  I will bathe in her fresh & clean shower with two bubbly curtains and pink sponge.  Who doesn't love a pink sponge?  Then I will crawl into the elegant wooden bed with four turned posts and a lace canopy.  My bedspread is a wool blend, embroidered with delicate flowers.  The bed will have a tufted mattress and a soft pillow.  When I awake, I will jet off to the grocery store in my sky-blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle that plays five 70's songs, has rolling wheels, a hood and trunk that open, a working horn and headlights, seat belts, a permanently lowered canvas top, and an engine that runs at the push of a button.  It will also come with a "Save the Eagles" car wash sign.  Just in case I have time to run a car wash.  After I return with my supplies, I will make preserves on my cookstove.  My stove is equipped with four pretend cook areas (since I really only ever pretend to cook anyway), a faux-marbleized top for making meals, canning, and other chores.  Forgetting about the other chores, I will put on my butterfly garden PJ's, and slippers with wings, and climb back into my elegant wooden bed.  I will call myself Ivy, and rename my friends Julie, McKenna, and Kit.  All for only a mere $703.  If I have to buy my friends, that will cost an additional $315.  Take that Santa.

Oh, and I almost forgot, I would like to have all the flooring in our home replaced with that fluffy white carpet that all the toddlers play on in the Pottery Barn catalog.  Thank you.  That is all.

My family is filthy.  My American Girl image and fluffy white carpet will only last for one day. Then, the day after Christmas, everyone will stop calling me Ivy.  The dog, guinea pigs, or one of the various children will crap, pee, and/or vomit on my fluffy white carpet and I will take off with McKenna in my sky-blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle.  Sorry Julie and Kit.  McKenna's a cheaper date.  She's also a gymnast and I just really adore her leggings.  Save the eagles.

Credits
All italicized excerpts in the first paragraph are taken from the American Girl doll catalog.  I could never come up with those descriptions on my own.  The only descriptive words I have for my clothing, bed, shower, van, and stove are used, sleep able, soap scummed and hairy, not all door locks work, and black.  Thank you.  That is all.

My Faces of Filth
Disclaimer:  While all faces may not appear filthy, I assure you, filth was involved before and after each photo was taken.

 

 

 

Caged, A Tale of Guinea Pigs and Bacon

The triple threat are getting guinea pigs for Christmas.  I must admit I'm more excited than they are.  Only because they don't know about it yet of course.  We don't spend a lot of money on Christmas gifts.  We've discovered that our children prefer empty boxes.  For now.   I found a guinea pig rescue and showed my mom website photos of available pets. The plan is to adopt two females.  Today, mom mentioned that my step-dad, Butch, offered to give us their dog crate.  The cage that fits their lab.  For our guinea pigs.  Hmmm. Won't they escape? The holes will be too big.  Butch is hilarious and quite the prankster, my mom is well aware of this.  But she was very serious when she explained the offering.  She said the crate may be tall,  but the length and width would be the perfect size for the two darlings.  Um, but we'll need to put the cage on top of the kids' dresser so Finn won't eat them.  I'm not sure a large dog crate will fit on the dresser.  Won't people talk about us?  More than they already do?  This seems a bit excessive.  Not that a husband, three kids, a dog, and two guinea pigs isn't.  But still.  Butch has more questions.  What will you do when you travel?  Will the dog sitter feed them too?  All questions my mom and I were pondering...as we contemplated the dog cage.  For the guinea pigs.  And the need for a guinea pig chaperon.  At all times.   

Tonight, I got this text from my mom

Mom:  Lol, lol, butch thought all along I said pigs!!!  he even told brian u were getting pigs 4 the kids.  tells me he wld never had suggested the dog cage 4 two guineas!  Ha ha ha

Pigs.  For Christmas.  My own family thinks I'm crazy.  If I ever buy a pig, or two, it will be for consumption purposes only.  Bacon rocks.  I did hear there will be a bacon shortage in 2013.  Everyone will want to be my friend.

When Finn was a mere three months old, we bought our first home.  Without a fence.  We had to wait two months for the fence to be installed.  I couldn't bear the idea of our precious pup being locked in a tiny crate all day.  I needed something bigger.   Something she could run in.  Sean was active duty military and traveling over seas.  No contact.  No one to run my idea by.  I suppose I could have asked Butch.  But he would have offered me a guinea pig cage.  He's like that.   So instead, I went to the pet store and bought this... 

Finn's crate

 

Photo Source

 

 

I couldn't wait for Finn to try it out. Now I just needed someone to set it up. My friend Joe reluctantly agreed. Not that he didn't want to help. I say reluctantly because I wanted him to set it up in our basement.  It reached the ceiling.  And touched the walls.  Blocking access to the  sliding glass door.  Finn couldn't get outside for doody time.  But I fixed that problem.  I laid linoleum.  And set up newspaper.  She had her own bathroom.  And bedroom.  And living room.  I don't think I'll ever live this one down.  My own personal dog fighting ring.  I think Joe was mostly reluctant because he thought he'd be arrested.  For aiding and abetting. 

 

Now that I'm so much wiser in my old age, I plan to buy a cage intended for guinea pigs...not a dog crate, or a boxing ring.  One that is made for inside, versus outside.  I will hide the little dears at my friend Lynda's house until Christmas Eve.  I haven't exactly run this by Lynda yet.  Lynda, are you reading this?  Will you host our pigs for a couple of nights?  Then on Christmas morning, Sean and I will unveil the gift.  The triple threat will be thrilled for one minute and thirteen seconds.  Then they will set those suckers free.  Finn will eat them.  The kids will play with the cage.   Squeak.  Oink.  Woof.  That's guineapigpigdog speak for what the hell was I thinking?   I'm pretty sure this was all Butch's idea.  Happy Birthday Jesus.  Now where's the bacon?

 

 

 

Toilet seat cover turned necklace.  Thank you Wawa.  Christmas shopping done.

 



We don't bother buying chairs either.

Discovery

I've discovered that I adore thirty four.  Years old.  I never want to go back.  To my younger years.  Sure, maybe I didn't have the gray hairs, or the pouch that forms underneath a c-section scar.  Or the sun spots on my face.  Or the loose skin on my under arms and knees.  But I was dumb then.  I thought I was smart.  I think I was in a way.  I knew a lot about statistics, and Spanish, and Social Work theories.  But I knew nothing about life.  And now I know something.  Not everything.  I never will.  But something.  More than I knew then.  Now that I'm thirty four.

I have a toddler.  And a preschooler.  And a school aged child.  A husband.  And a mortgage.  A smile on my face.  Every day.  If I should frown,  I think of Kiddie City.  And I turn that frown... upside down.  Because I can.  I remember Kiddie City.  Because I'm thirty four.   And I know that a smile a day, keeps the crazies away.  It's something I've discovered.

I've discovered what makes a real good friend, a real good time, and a real good meal.  I know what makes me laugh.  And what makes me laugh hysterically.  I know that I want to be around people who laugh a lot.  I tell Lillian to follow those people on the playground.  I've discovered the freedom of giving up control.  And embracing life.  It's out of my control.

I'm still a work in progress.  When I wake up to discover my bedside cup of water full of bloated Froot Loops and the plastic ice cube remains of a boo boo bear, I sometimes want to not be thirty four.  I do not adore you. 

I want to be twenty four
With the world of wonder at my door 
But then I remember, all the life lessons learned around age twenty four 
And I'm so thankful to not go through that anymore

Sometimes all the calls for mom drive me insane.  But then I feel so lucky, for there are some that will never hear that name.  I get to see that look of awe, as sugar laden cereal turns milk into a rainbow.  That look of adoration as boo boo bear miraculously heals an injury that only mom can see.  And then, it feels like I've discovered the world.  Exactly how it's supposed to be. 




Grady...convinced to discover the tunnel, and find the baseball... all Lil's influence. 

 

The baseball...discovered



Discovered... a mom's moment of peace.  As both boys discover sleep on the trail.

A new way to avoid discovery.  The dinosaur camouflage.