A Playroom By Any Other Name....

would actually be the room where children played. But dare to call it a playroom and you are doomed. Our playroom is a lovely little place painted bright shades of red and blue to stimulate the imaginations of our little ones. It has little plastic drawer sets for the storage of toys. A train table, toy box and bookshelves. Little rugs with roads and trains tracks on them and a nice big window to let the sun in. Perfect, right?

Only one problem. The kids don't actually play in it. It is more like a room for toy storage. Or toy chaos. Trains, traintracks, blocks, hundreds of books, dolls, action figures, etc. Usually NOT stacked neatly on shelves or in their respective homes, but scattered on the floor and migrating into other parts of the house. They are in other rooms as illegal aliens and they will be deported. We don't issue passports to toys for visits to areas where adults spend most of their time. Before we had children we thought it was Nazi-like to insist the kids' things stay in the kids' area. And we aren't completely hardline about it. But we do try to keep 90% of the toys in the kids "wing" of the house. Their rooms and the playroom. Why?

Because, while a lego is an amazing little piece of plastic full of creative possibility during the day, at night, it is a torture device designed to inflict maximum pain to the unsuspecting tender sole of one's bare foot. And no matter how meticulous we have been in the picking up of toys, there's always one. One small rectangle destined to be stepped on at the first call for juice or water or bathroom visit. So back you go toys. Back to your room. And away from my foot!

Baby Soap

I am amazed at the way the smell of baby soap captures everything sweet about children. The softness of their skin, the silky curls in their hair, their cuddlyness. Snuggling with a freshly washed child is a balm for tired Mommy. It almost, almost makes me forget that not five minutes ago I resembled Linda Blair in the excorcist as I begged, pleaded and demanded that the over-exuberant splashing come to a halt. Then threatened. And was ignored. Then raised my voice. And was ignored. Then started turning red. And was ignored. Then came close to having my head spin about my shoulders. And was given the: "What? I'm not splashing. I'm making waves" line. My kids have all the loopholes figured out. I'm not jumping, I'm hopping.

Abby likes to hang from the safety bar in the shower while yelling at the top of her lungs: "Help! Help! There are Caimans in the water! You've got to SAVE ME! Whew. Thanks Mom!" And then repeat. (Thanks Diego and Dora). J.T. would just soak forever. No amount of soaking time prevents this phrase from popping out of his mouth: "But Mom, I'm not ready to bathe! Just five more minutes?"

But then they are all warm and snuggly and sleepy and I just love them. Dressed in their little PJs and ready for a cuddle.

Me: When they're like this, it makes you want a million, doesn't it?
Rob: No.
Me: But they're so sweet and innocent. (as I bury my face in their freshly washed hair)
Rob: Must be the soap.

Frequently Uttered Phrases

Sussanah posted recently about the phrases we frequently say to our children. And has a brilliant idea about recording them so they can automatically played back.... saves time and sanity. I think we should also record the phrases our children say most often. Around our house these words are:

1. Mom/Mooooooooooommmmmmmmm/Moooooooommmmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyy!
2. But Mom/Mooommmm/Moooooooommmmmyyyyyy!
3. Please, Can I _____________?
4. But He/She started it!
5. I had that first!!
6. Just five more minutes?
7. Have you seen my ______________________?
8. That's not fair!
9. Come see what Abby is doing to/on/with eggs/crayons/markers/Vick's Vapor Rub/yogurt/peanut butter/cream/dishwasher detergent/water/toilet paper OR some combination of these items.
10. Where's Dad? (because he's the softie)

The repetition, frequency and combination of these phrases has consequences for Mommy. Should I take two Advil or three? One glass of wine or two? One bottle of wine or two? Do we have any spirits? Are there any narcotics in the medicine cabinet? How many would be too many? Mixing pills and alcohols is bad, right? Really bad.

Some Things NEVER Change

Kids and Mud Puddles. The wonderful benefit of a two hour thunderstorm is lots and lots of mud. I started to threaten evil things upon them when they first discovered the puddle.... until I remembered what absolute fun it is to slather yourself in mud and feel it squish between your fingers and toes! (and throw it at your sibling).

It entertained them for over an hour... and the clean-up was surprisingly easy. A few minutes with the garden hose got the worst of it off. I did have to spend 15 minutes pre-treating their clothes before laundering, but it was worth it. Someone remind me why we spend so much on Christmas and Birthday gifts? It seems like the best toys are free.

Silly Picture Fun

We had a horrible thunderstorm last night that lasted almost two hours. In order to distract ourselves from the very scary (but beautiful) display of lightning flashes and thunder crashes, the kids and I played a game of taking silly pictures. We even let Abby have a turn! Note J.T. has a half-eaten peanut butter cracker sandwich in one hand while he flexes and that Abby's wild face is actually not too far from her normal expression! Abby took the off-center picture of J.T. and I and he took the pic of Mommy and Abby. It really was fun. We have been having a solid week of 100F/38.8C (how kind am I to convert for my Aussie friends!) Tomorrow's forecast calls for 102.... so outdoor play is very limited.

Some more married dialogue fun:

After we had the horrible family portrait day.... Rob and I had the following exchange:

Rob drops a jar of mayonnaise on the floor and the tightly screwed-on lid pops right off (luckily the jar was plastic) and spews mayo all over the floor. He requests my aid in "what do you use to clean something greasy off the floor?"
He sighs while I get the dish detergent and a warm wet cloth and I offer:
"Gosh, hon. The whole Universe is against you today!"
He says: "Gee Thanks. I was going to say the world was against me. I really don't need the whole Universe against me. It's nice to know when I hit rock bottom, you're there with a jackhammer."

Yep, babe! I'm here for you. For better or for worst. Even when the whole Universe is against you!

The Artist and Mr. Reward

Our Abigail is quite the artist. Above you see her latest composition: "Circles and Lines. A study in geometry and the an exploration of the colors purple and orange on blue canvas. The Artist eschews the use of paper, preferring to create her masterpieces as murals. Crayon, Pencil and Marker are her favorite mediums... though in a pinch she will use peanut butter in very, very creative ways. She is determined in her drive to create new, exciting pieces.... dodging the efforts of the despots (Rob and Melinda) to deny her access to crayons, pencils, and markers by locking them away. She hordes her tools under couch cushions and behind beds.... awaiting the moment of inspiration... when she must obey the desire to create.

Her brother is not interested in her artistic efforts. He scoffs at her art and pursues more capitalistic endeavors. He has discovered the reward system. A perfect 21 out of 21 score on a spelling test should mean a tangible reward. The despots have told him that: "Your reward is the good feeling you have for trying hard, doing your best and scoring 100%." HA! He laughs in the face of this feel-good philosophy. He wants Transformers and he wants them now! Future academic success hinges on the application of the reward system. He has the despots where he wants them.

How will our story end? Will the despots triumph in their efforts to control the Artist and Mr. Reward? Or will the cunning minds of the gruesome twosome gain the upper hand? The scale is swinging in favor of the younger generation... the despots are currently huddled together discussing strategy after futile strategy. Stay tuned..... our saga continues.

The Therapy Jar

Really, the title of this post should be: Why I suck as a parent!

The Therapy Jar is an old Mason jar (that is what we, in the south, call those old jars our grandmothers used for canning fresh vegetables. Everything here goes by it's brand name.... Ritz crackers, Coke instead of Soda, etc.) into which we put all of our spare change. When the jar is full, we add it to the children's savings accounts.

Because I really suck at parenting, my children will be using this money to pay for the extensive therapy they are going to require when they reach adulthood. The Therapy Jar money will not go for a down payment on anything or to help out with college.... It will be used for counseling.

Abby was playing with my bedside lamp yesterday. When I was ready to read my shamelessly hokie romance book before bed, the lamp, of course, wouldn't work. Abby said: "It's broke." And responsible parent that I am, I said: "Yes. You broke it." She didn't bat an eye. "No. It's not brokedid, it just needs batteries."

I'm sure this will probably shock Rob, but I either pretend to be asleep or say: "Is that J.T.?" when they awaken in the middle of the night so he will go check on it for me. Unless someone is sick or vomiting, I will not be getting out of the bed.

I'm completely unafraid to shade the truth a little. No, the Barney video isn't working right now. And technically it isn't. Because it's not in the video player. You're out of chocolate milk. And while there is some in the refrigerator, it isn't in your cup, so you ARE out of chocolate milk.

My voice occassionally leaves the pleasant range when I discover Sharpie marker on the cabinets, pee pee on the bathroom floor, or a child jumping off the back of the sofa. I may be shading the truth on the pleasant range bit.... it is probably more like Jerry Springer-level shouting.

They eat too much candy and not enough vegetables and the television is indeed used as a babysitter. I will ban them from the room so I can watch my favorite show.

Last year, I forgot to lock our bedroom door. I felt something next to me while Rob and I were doing the horizontal mamba and discovered that J.T. was actually IN THE BED with us. I may have to be in therapy for that one myself.

So 20 years from now, my children will be using the Therapy Jar Money for just that: Therapy. And Rob, the sane, gift-buying-for-no-reason, "It's okay, Daddy's here." one will come out smelling like a rose, while I on the other hand, will be blamed for everything. And I have to admit I will probably have earned every criticism.

Because, to top it all off. I will steal money from the therapy jar so I can swing through the fast food place on the way to work and get a biscuit and a diet coke.