My husband, a zip tie hero

My kids broke my Christmas tree. It wasn't intentional... there was a cord wrapped around the base leg (it's a fake tree), and the cord got caught in their play shopping cart. They kept pushing it, which tightened the cord, which broke the plastic. My tree fell over.

I cried. I picked up broken glass balls. I cried some more. I got out the boxes to take it all down.

"But wait," my husband said. "Let me see if I can fix it."

"It's hooooopelessss. I'm taking it downnnnn."

"Give me one minute. I'll see if I can rescue it."

I had to leave the room. I couldn't stand the thought of Christmas without a tree (so I was being overdramatic, I'm a girl and I'm allowed), and I couldn't watch him fail at his mission. Approximately one minute later, he followed me into the bedroom.

"It's fixed."

Huh? By means known only to those with rocketing testosterone levels, my husband fixed the Christmas tree........ with a zip tie. He saved Christmas with a zip tie. My hero.

I received a letter from my son's school yesterday. When I saw that telltale envelope addressed "To the Parents of," my heart skipped a beat. I ran through a thousand scenarios in my mind - I was sure he had done something unforgivable. Then I remembered (from past experience) that the truly horrible offenses warrant a call from the principal.



Apparently, the yearbook staff this year has decided to offer parents the opportunity to purchase an ad in the yearbook with out 8th grader's baby picture in it. Hooray for us. I tossed the letter to the side for a while, then I started thinking about how fun it would be to surprise him with it at the end of the year. I pulled out his scrapbook.



As I pored over the pages of memories, I missed my little boy. He was so cute covered in cake on his first birthday, and when he first learned to ride his trike. How adorable he was pulling all the toilet paper off the roll! So many pictures, and just one ad. I narrowed the choices down to three.



My absolute favorite picture of him is a candid shot of him in a kiddie pool when he was about 10 months old, leaning over the side to retreive a runaway sailboat - dappled sunlight on the golden skin of his naked little tush. "This is the one!" I thought, pleased with my choice. This beautiful picture of my baby boy, guaranteed to evoke sighs of delight from all who view it. This was the one.

I was filling out the form when he busted me. I swear, the kid is like a panther when I'm doing something I don't want him to catch me at. He walked right up behind me and looked over my shoulder. "What's that?"

I frantically tried to cover it up, but he saw the pictures on the table.

"Mom," he said in a deadly calm voice, "WHAT are you doing with these pictures?"

I was a bit stunned by the threatening tone of his voice, and he recognized that opportunity to snatch the paper from my weakened grasp. His brow furrowed. His eyes widened. His skin paled.

"Oh. My. God. Tell me you haven't already done this, mom. Please, please tell me you haven't already done this."

He sat down with a thud.

"What is it? Is it the picture you don't like? We can pick a different picture, okay?"

I guess he hadn't really looked at the pictures, because when his eyes made contact with the priceless memory of his little naked butt, I thought he was going to faint.

Needless to say, I won't be using that picture for his yearbook dedication. In fact, there won't be a dedication at all. Apparently, he would be a complete laughingstock if his mother recognized her endless love for him for the whole middle school to see.

Okay, maybe I see his point.

My screws are loose, and it's all my husband's fault.

My husband is one of those people that was blessed with an inclination for mechanical things. He can pop the hood of a car, poke around for a minute, and tell you what's been making that chunka-chunka-grind noise every time you swerve to avoid a squirrel. He's good like that.

It seems that Molly was also born with this natural desire to know how things work. Since she was very small, she's had a tendency to take things apart. She learned to pull herself up from the floor by gripping the front of daddy's toolbox. She's one of those kids that you can't leave alone in a room, not even for a moment. She'll disassemble the vacuum cleaner in the time it takes you to race to the bathroom and pee.

We keep a baby gate at the top of our staircase because of a few incidents that I like to refer to as "roly-poly baby tumblings." A few nights ago, Molly found a screwdriver in the kitchen and took the gate apart. I flipped out - that gate is crucial for preventing ER visits! In the midst of my panic, her father celebrated. His little baby girl had advanced to a whole new level of destruction.

The next day he made her a toolbox of her very own, complete with a message of love to his new little mechanic buddy scrawled in Sharpie across the top. That was two very long days ago. In the time since she was gifted with her tools of destruction, she has taken apart the same baby gate again, removed some very important screws from a glider rocking chair, unhinged two cabinet doors and taken off an outlet cover. I also have a small pile of screws of unknown origin.

There is an important lesson to be learned here: Never give a three year old a screwdriver. More importantly, never allow your husband to give your children unapproved gifts. EVER. Oh, and don't slip with the screwdriver when you're replacing an outlet cover.

Commitment Issues (PLEASE commit me!)

My name is Robin, and I am certifiably insane.

There was a time in my life when I had big plans for my future. I was going to do something fantastic that would change the world. Somewhere along the way, I acquired four children - three that I gave birth to, and one that I married. Now my plans for my life rarely involve anything greater than making it through the day without finding myself in jail or a sanitarium. Either would be like a mini vacation for me.

To an outsider, my family might seem quite normal. There's me, a loving, thirtysomething stay at home mom with three gorgeous kids and a handsome husband. There's my husband, a hardworking man with the patience of a saint and a few hobbies that include cars and pinball machines. Let's not forget the kids: Bryan, a 13 year old who is not only polite and well behaved, but also very smart and funny; Molly, a precocious 3 year old with a lot of energy and a contagious laugh; and Abigail, a cuddly 1 year old with a smile who can light up a room.

Here's the reality.

I am a frazzled, overworked, and sometimes mental wreck who can't keep the house clean (and couldn't care less). About every other day I curse the day I made a decision to stay home, and on the other days I alternate between laughing and crying. I'm an emotional basket case. Motherhood is enough to convert any relatively normal woman into a lunatic.

My husband, while appearing to be a very patient man, is actually so laid back that he just doesn't care about anything. The girls can be painting museum quality artwork on the walls with their own bodily fluids (or solids) and it just doesn't phase him a bit. His hobbies are collecting broken things, and storing them everywhere he can find a spot. Cars on blocks? Had 'em. Pieces of boats? Yep, had them too. It's endless. His favorite phrases are "I don't know," and "You can't be mad at that." I sure do love him.

Bryan is actually a well behaved teenager - at least in public. For the last 9 years, every time I attended an open house at school or met with a teacher (or baseball coach or neighbor, etc.) I hear adults singing the praises of my young son. I've tried to give him away to these strangers who know a side of my son that I don't. I've tried many times. I always get a polite laugh and a slight look of confusion in return. These people do not know the temperamental, moody boy that I live with. I sure do love him.

Molly is indeed a charming young lady. She has the type of energy that I could only achieve with the help of a five gallon bucket of espresso and massive quantities of speed. Her favorite game is "running in circles." It involves running in circles. At high speed. Endlessly. She tends to be an overachiever - anything you think a child could not actually do, well, Molly will. Climb up onto the refrigerator? Yep. Fill her baby sisters crib with every toy, piece of clothing, and small piece of furniture in the bedroom (while Abigail is laying trapped underneath it all)? Yep. The list goes on and on. I sure do love her.

Abigail is actually the most manageable of my three children. I attribute that to the fact that she is only one year old. She just hasn't had enough time to develop her own special brand of torture for me. I thought she was on to something for a while when she decided to play Picasso with the contents of her diaper at nap time (over and over and over). When I finally got to a point where the vein in my forehead stopped bulging out every time I went in her room to find a brown Mona Lisa on the wall, she decided to switch it up a little and just eat the poo. I am really hoping that the fecal episodes will stop when she's potty trained. Hopefully at least by the time she starts school. I sure do love her.

My life is a daily adventure. Wish me luck on the "72 hour involuntary commitment" thing. I sure could use a break.