Ignorance is Paradise

THUD!

I sat, Indian style, on the dryer in the laundry room. The warmth of the room; the pleasant smell of Bounce fabric softener; and the gentle vibration of the dryer was ALMOST enough to convince me that I was on a small island far, FAR away.

BANG!

I groped for my mug of coffee- GROPED, because the light was off. The only illumination was a small stream peeking out from under the door, but this was enough to allow me to see my mug sitting between a box (dryer sheets) and a jug (detergent, most likely). I grabbed the cup and took a sip.

CRASH!

Whatever was going on out there, I chose ignorance and bliss over information and stress. In a house full of boys, moments like these- even stolen ones that occur in a darkened laundry room- are hard to come by. Sure, at some point I would have to come out and face the destruction. Chances are, if it was anything like every other day, there would be a fort encompassing the living room; blocks on the kitchen floor with race cars throughout; papers, pens, pencils, and crayons strewn all over the dining room table; and all of it being neglected while one or both of the older boys stands on the couch ready to do a pile-driver to their brother.

Given the fact that I already had a rough idea of what was awaiting me, I sat there and sipped my coffee in peace. I couldn't help but feel thankful that my husband bought me a coffee mug that was insulated and would keep my coffee hot for 2 hours or more. If I drank slowly, I could draw out this quiet time until...

“MOM!”

Oh well. There goes the island.

It happens...

This morning I work up to giggling. Normally this would have been cute, but the sounds were accompanied by a smell that -if I was to describe it- would be what they were referring to in 'Labyrinth' when they spoke of the Bog of Eternal Stench. It hit me why Nicholas was giggling- he knew what I was up against.

Upon undressing him, I saw what looked like a sewage treatment plant that had exploded. If I hadn't been afraid of the backlash (him peeing all over my bed), I would have just left him there and turned tail and headed for the hills. So, I continued on, praying he had been completely finished when I had taken off his diaper. He wasn't. Time to wash the sheets. Again. Nothing new- we had the cleanest sheets of anyone I know when Nicholas was first born- every day he pooped on them. Every day I had to wash them. Apparently, sheets were not enough for Nicholas to “mark”- he decided to let loose on me, too.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time I've been scarred by my kids. When my oldest was born, he initiated me into motherhood by peeing a stream straight over his head, hitting the hospital wall behind him- talk about aim. He also initiated his gramma into the Grammahood by peeing all over her. Of course, in his defense, she made the conscious choice to hold him while he was diaper free. No diaper+cool breezes+boys= a change of clothes for you. At least his accidents were all of the pee variety, though.

If I REALLY wanted to bring up “crappy” memories, Jacob would be the one to take home the gold. Some parents call their kids “monkeys” as a term of endearment- me? I'm just stating the facts. Monkeys swing from trees- my sweet boy swings from furniture. Monkeys love bananas- Jacob loves bananas. Monkeys throw poop- Jacob pitched a few handfuls, as well. I'll never forget the morning I peeked in on my sweet boy to find out that -sweet, though he may be- sweet smelling, he was not. Somehow, he had figured out how to unbutton his onesie, pull off his diaper, and proceeded to make wall art with the contents. A few days later, when we had gotten over the shock, we forgot to put pants on over his onesie AGAIN, and he did a “Take 2”. Get it? As in Number 2?

I spend FAR too much time around my boys.

My FAVORITE memory, though, was right before Nicholas was born. Jacob came running out of the bathroom and went up to my husband, “Dad! I really had to go to the bathroom, but nothing came out so I went *GRRRRARGH* and it came out!”

Corey, looking at Jacob, “Well... that's great Jacob!”

You'd think that's the end, but no.

“It was HUGE, dad- come look!”

Not only did he inform Corey of his accomplishment, but he saved it to show it off.

What's worse? Since I didn't experience this first hand, Corey saw fit to repeat this entire incident -complete with sound effects- to ME later on. Thankfully, he didn't have Jacob save his *ahem* accomplishment.

Needless to say, not long after this, I started praying the baby I was carrying was a girl. God either thought I could handle a lifetime of poop stories or he was laughing so hard, watching me deal with 2 boys already, that his finger slipped and the 'XX' became another 'XY'.

Living with kids- its not for the weak

"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..."

These are the words that keep flowing through my head as I find myself going through the motions today.  Its just another one of those days that has decided to zap the last of whatever it is that keeps me going.  Let me take you on a mental tour of my home right now, shall I?

As you walk though the front door, you're greeted by something that's akin to Hurricane Katrina with just a hint of "God, what's THAT?!"  You check the address outside the door in the hopes that you've made a mistake- this cannot POSSIBLY be the right place.  But it is, so you attempt to trudge on.

Easier said than done.

You wade through the mounds of toys and -God help you- empty boxes that you realize were SUPPOSED to be turned into cars, trucks, playhouses, etc., but have now been broken down into unrecognizable forms.  You look around, wondering where FEMA has disappeared to, because this should most definitely qualify as a state of emergency... and then you realize that if they ARE there, you couldn't find them anyway.  Suddenly, it hits you that you've only made it through the front door, and the rest of the home is waiting for your inspection.  After trying -unsuccessfully- to brush off the shudders that are now coursing through your body, you put one foot in front of the other.

In the dining room, you look under the dinner table and you see crusty breakfast cereal that was never cleaned up and has now permanently attached itself to the carpet.  No need for a baby book, here!  Dynamite will not loosen it!  You'll be able to point out to the kids -once they're grown ups- the ACTUAL food they used to eat.  Astounding!

You walk- well, you shuffle, anyways- into the living room, scream, and search for another room -ANY other room- to run to.  You at once think about attaching yellow caution tape to section off the unnatural disaster, but in the end, all you REALLY want to do is find a safe zone.  Every man for himself- if someone else is crazy enough to enter, that's THEIR problem.  You hurry past the living room, trying desperately to rid your mind of the horrors you just witnessed, as well as trying to find your footing on a floor you cannot see.

You say a small prayer and work your way toward the kitchen- or, what, in an ideal setting, MIGHT be a kitchen.  You know that before this place was inhabited there was a sink.  You look to where you saw it last and gasp- a pile of dishes 50 feet high now engulfs the entire left side of the room.  No wonder you couldn't see the kitchen through the pass-thru- the pass-thru is now a wall consisting of dirty cereal bowls, pots, pans, and the rest of what must surely be all the dishes and utensils the home holds.

What's that smell?  Oh, GROSS- one of the kids must have found a moldy sippy cup and set it on the counter.  Better late than never; and at least it shows that they were cleaning out their room, right?  RIGHT?

To keep from gagging, you hurry on your way to check on the rest of the apartment.  First stop?  The guest bathroom- a.k.a. the Boys' Bathroom.

Upon entering, you pause at the toilet- can males NEVER learn how to aim properly?!?!  You feel a need -an uncontrollable URGE- to get clean, but that's not going to happen in THIS sink.  Somewhere along the line, the middle child felt the need to squeeze out an entire tube of toothpaste into the sink.  The bathroom is smelling minty fresh, though, so you thank God for the little things and back on out.

That's when you feel the need to run.  To run fast and hard and long to escape what -in some distorted definitions- might be described as a room, but OH NO!  Not THIS place!  Much like a 20 car pile up or a nuclear explosion, you want to look away, but can't.  As you gaze from the door -because that's as far as you can make it- you think you see the faintest of outlines of a set of bunk beds and possibly a small table and -HA!- and organizational device that must have been left for comedic purposes because its OBVIOUSLY not in use...

Did something MOVE in there?!?!?!?!?!

You slowly creep away -to avoid being attacked by whatever is currently occupying the space- and turn to head toward the master bedroom.  You want to wash your brain to get rid of the scenes you've just encountered, but you can't.  You realize with a resigned feeling that once you're out of here, you will need to undergo therapy for PTSD.

The master is the only room where you aren't scared.  The bathroom is clean!  The bed is made!  No toys to be found!  Serene music coming from the iPOD set up, and...

-what's that rocking back and forth in the corner over there?

THAT would be me, people.  And, let's be honest now- if you were living in the place I just described, wouldn't you be going a little crazy, too?