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'.

Things I've learned from my 4 year old

1.  The '5 Second Rule' is less of a RULE and more of a GUIDELINE- it just depends on how much you spent on the item, or in his case, how much you really wanted to eat it.
2.  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you... the first time.  If they continue to piss you off, throw your juice cup at them.
3.  Clothes are ALWAYS optional.  Save yourself money and time- wear your birthday suit.
4.  Sharing is nice- unless its candy or a toy you really love.  If that's the case, give them your runner up and make it seem special.
5.  Man CAN live on chocolate milk and bananas alone.
6.  Toilets are optional- God gave us the 'great outdoors' for a reason.
7.  Be your own person.  Don't do something just because that's the norm.  Just because most individuals put their socks on and THEN their shoes, it doesn't mean YOU have to.
8.  If you jump off the couch and fail to actually fly, try, try, try again.
9.  Sometimes you don't need to "just try it" to know you won't like it.
10. You can TOO have multiple best friends, and its even better if they're imaginary because then you don't have to share them with anyone else.
11. Everyone has days where they wish they were someone else, and on those days, its perfectly acceptable to be Mario, Luigi, Bowser, or -in my case- Princess Peach.
12. Think outside the box- if your big brother won't leave you alone, lick him.  He's sure to stay away, then.
13. Nothing starts a conversation quite like a good poop joke.
14. When in doubt, throw it in the laundry- after all, YOU know the type of days you've been having.  That's probably the safer choice, anyways.

15.  Sometimes nothing can make it all better except being held by someone you love.

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?

What did you say...?

I didn't think French would help me, so I chose to learn Spanish in High School instead.

I ended up messing around in Spanish- making up phrases like “The camel jumped through the window” and “My pants are on fire and my legs burn” -and, really, those phrases can only be used in isolated instances- so my Spanish is confined to “Adios”, “Vamanos” and “quesodilla”... or anything else that Dora the Explorer can teach me.

When Jacob was born, I was determined to have a child who could speak another language.  I had heard that sign language was a great way to increase his verbal capabilities, so I bought the most expensive Baby Sign kit I could find- after all, the fact that it cost millions of dollars must mean it works. The bonus was that I knew I would end up learning a little something along the way since I would need to teach him. I learned a few things, he learned that he liked the cartoon it came with, and neither of us became bilingual at the end of it all.

Little did I know, though, that with each child that was born, I was becoming more and more adept at a new language- Baby-ease. The problem is, none of the sounds translate well and the most it does is make your baby laugh and make you sound like you're speaking some sort of weird tribal tongue. It was brought to my attention the other day by my sons' uncle that whenever we talk to Nicholas, we find ourselves making clicks, clucks, whistles, and other random noises. This would be great if we were attempting to speak Zulu or wanted to impersonate an African bushman, but it doesn't do much else.

Hey- can I count myself as bilingual if I don't know what I'm saying? Because I'm sure that I was saying SOMEthing to Nicholas all those times- I just didn't know it.

I have friends who have sworn up and down that they hate baby talk and would never do it, but, first of all, clicks and clucks don't count as baby talk in my opinion. Also, though, much like the cartoons I swore I'd never let my kids watch, if it works, why worry?

After all, baby talk can't possibly be more detrimental to a child's health than, oh, say... duct tape.

Sing... sing a song...

Today I was running around town like a mad woman, attempting to get everything done on my insanely long list: registration for the two older boys, doctor's appts. for their physicals, a "quick" trip to the grocery store (which, if you've got 3 kids- boys- and you ever try to describe something as "quick", you're fooling yourself), and a few other things that seemed to last forever.  Somewhere between the dairy aisle and the baked goods, though, I started to hum a little hum.  It wasn't until I got to the canned vegetable aisle that I realized what it was and I wanted to scream.

"Neeeeew friends put a smile on my face- I'm so very happy that you're visiting MY place..."

It happened.  I was humming the words to a Yo Gabba Gabba song with the same passion that I used to save for, well, songs that ARE NOT from a kids show.

I remember the days before I had kids and I used to make fun of shows like Barney and Sesame Street.  Songs describing the demise of the purple dinosaur creature were sung all around the school, and I sang as loudly as the rest.  Its funny to watch Cameron sing the same songs now, thinking that he's discovered something new.

Yeah, son.  No.  I was a Barney hater LONG before you were born.  Now, though, I've learned a couple of things:

~Barney might be annoying, but he's making a WHOLE lot more money than I am- and no one knows who he is in real life.  THAT is pure genius.

~Barney is only an annoying purple dinosaur creature until that moment your 2 year old lets go of your leg to sing "I love you, you love me".  Then?  Barney is amazing- a God-like creature that monuments should be built for.

And its not just Barney.  I remember the first time I sat down and watched an entire 'Yo Gabba Gabba' episode.  It was about sharing, and while Jacob was rockin' out, I couldn't help muttering,"Oh good golly- they're brain washing children.  Sure, they're full of good moral ideas, but lets call a spade a spade, shall we?  When you repeat 'Sharing is good.  Sharing is fun' 50 times in one song, its a rhythmic scrub brush for the brain."

And, me being me, I couldn't help wondering if I could write a song encompassing all I want my kids to hold near and dear to their hearts:

"Your bladder's full- oh can't you see?  Get out of bed and now go pee!  You know that you are beat, beat, beat, but mom doesn't want to wash your sheets- Go pee!"

"Please don't argue with your mom- don't argue with your dad.  They both know what's best for you and arguing is bad."

"Eating candy night and day leads to lots of tooth decay.  Before you munch on all those sweets, just know the tooth fairy will yank out your teeth."

Ok, so the last one needs work.  You've got to admit its got potential, though.

The question is, though, would I someday be walking down the snack aisle and hear someone humming one of MY songs?  One can only hope.

Until then, I'll leave the brain washing of the masses to the professionals.  I mean, after all, if they've got me singing about how "its not fun to get lost" while hunting down animal crackers, I'm pretty sure they know what they're doing.

Date Night

My husband and I had our “Date Night” last night. We call it “Date Night”, but ever since having had children, “Date Night” has morphed into something completely unrecognizable; so far removed from the idea of the Saturday Night Date Night's of old, that I think we refer to it as such just to make it seem as though we haven't lost that one part of ourselves since becoming parents.

I remember when Date Night used to actually MEAN something- I'd get dressed up fancy (fancy for me is something other than jeans and a t-shirt, of course), fix my hair up nice, do my make up, and then we'd head out to a nice restaurant- you know the ones. They don't have a drive thru option or paper place mats. After dinner, we might have even gone to a movie- one NOT G-rated, thank you very much.

It never ceases to amaze me how kids can change your life.

After Cameron was born, Date Night morphed a little:

~No longer did I get dressed up. Now, I just got dressed. Nothing fancy. Jeans and a t-shirt. But hey- there are some really nice jeans out there. Just because I didn't OWN any of them, that doesn't mean anything. If a super model could walk down a run way with a pair of jeans on, I could pull off my $15 pair I bought off the clearance rack. And who says that you can't wear your maternity shirts after you've given birth?

~I'd fix my hair- usually curl it, but occasionally I'd straighten it. The point was to do something OTHER than the pony tail.

~Minimal make up. Mascara. Lip gloss. Blush. Possibly eye liner. Okay, so it wasn't totally minimal. I didn't want to look DEAD, though- I'm pasty as it is.

~When choosing where to eat, we knew it would have to be somewhere where babies cries would go unnoticed. And going to the movies was laughable; watching TV at home was hard enough- why would we pay money for THAT?

After Jacob was born, Date Night morphed even further:

~Date Night now meant finding something to wear that wasn't stained- for all of us. Clothes without holes was preferable. If it was clean, it was optimal. Clothes that matched, however, was an option.

~I embraced the pony tail. After all, ponies like them, right? What's so bad about that?

~Make up consisted of cover up, and that was it. With the amount of sleep I was getting, cover up helped with the black circles. And the crows feet. And, in all honesty, if I didn't at least put on cover up, I might have missed the post pregnancy acne, and there fore, would have gone around looking like a Clearasil drop out.

~As for where we headed to after we were all finally ready, it was usually a place that wouldn't immediately kick us out once Cameron started acting up, Jacob started crying, the fighting began, or all of the above. More often than not, all of the above.

~And Movie? As I said before, what movie?

Now that Nicholas is here, Date night has officially gone from scant to non-existent:

~Outfit- Pjs. The way I figure it, if it makes him think of the bedroom, that's a good thing. On the other hand, if it doesn't, then I'm just being prepared. Like a Girl Scout. Guys like uniforms, right? Or is that just the Catholic school girl thing?

~Make up- None. I've got 3 kids now- 10, 4 and 2 months. Make up takes up valuable life saving minutes. Like when one of them is hurling a piece of furniture at the other, getting all dolled up is using up minutes it takes to keep that furniture from causing a concussion. I'm saving lives here, people. I'm a hero.

~Hair- I'm lucky if I can wash it now. Styling is a foreign word. Besides, if I'm lucky, all the stress of raising boys will undoubtedly cause me to pull all my hair out, saving me hours of primping and loads of money on hair products. *fingers crossed*

~Restaurant- Che' Home. Home is where the heart is. The way to a man's heart is through the stomach. The kitchen is the heart of the home. These are not coincidences. And, as is the case for many families, our boys have successfully drained us as well as our bank account. We aren't completely unromantic, though- the boys are in bed... most of the time. Dinner is only occasionally punctuated by Nicholas crying to be held... or Jacob getting out of bed for no reason... or, as was the case last night, an unforeseen diaper catastrophe followed by what will forever be known as “The Cheesecake Incident”.

~And Netflix was created for a just a couple such as us.

Look- we finally got our dinner and a movie back. A little unconventional, but I never said we were normal.

Fine print

I love babies.

They're sweet and cuddly and they smell good. I love their smiles and coos and the way they can make your heart melt with just one little half-cocked grin.

Really. I love babies.

That is, until they're mine.

That's when I can no longer give them back when they discontinue their sweetness, start squirming to get out of my arms, and constantly smell as if something is either proceeding to die or already rotting in their diapers. Its when they only smile and coo when they are trying to get their way. It when the moment I refuse to give in or am unable to decode their incessant babbling that they give up that half-cocked grin right before they give out a blood-curdling scream or spit up all over me-

-and less had gone in than came out-

THAT'S the time when I start wondering if its really all THAT illegal to sell your kids on eBay. I mean, a guy sold his entire LIFE- how wrong IS it to just want to sell one TINY little part... a part that's only 23 inches long.

So, yeah- babies are cute until they're mine.

Always discuss the refund policy, people. And read the fine print- they'll ALWAYS get you with the fine print. That's where those sneaky hospital personnel put in the “extras”. Things like, “You MUST leave the hospital with your child” or “Your maximum stay time is 2 days- after that, we'll be throwing you out, regardless of whether or not you're ready” or, my personal favorite “We will NOT be sending you home with a nanny”. You might think they don't mean it or that you will be looked upon as a special case, but trust me- they DO mean it.

At least, that's what the nice security guard told me.

Always read the fine print.