Get the door, it's Bombino's

There is approximately one day a week that sloth leads me to ordering takeout of some type. This week, that day was yesterday. The girls were busy jumping on my bed when I asked them what they wanted for dinner.

"Pizza!" bounce "Pizza!" bounce "Pizza!" bounce "Pizza!" bounce

We have this amazing pizza place that we usually order pizza from. They have real New York style pizza and garlic knots, and we love it. Unfortunately, they don't deliver. Remember when I mentioned sloth? No garlic knots tonight, kids.


Me: Mmmm, girls, you want Domino's?

Abby: Bombino's! I want Bombino's!

Molly: *eye roll* Abby, it's not Bombino's, it's Domino's. If it were Bombino's, there would be BOMBS on the pizza, and if you ate bombs you would blow up.

Abby: Bombs? On the pizza? Mommy, will I blow up if I eat bombs?

Me: You won't explode from eating bombs, but if you burp after you're done, your head will blow off.

Abby: Ok, get Bombino's, and I will not burp, I promise.



Fast forward to dinner. After inhaling a couple of slices of Bombino's, Abby gasped and looked at me with a panic stricken face.


Me: What's wrong?

Abby: (in a whisper) Mommy, I just burped. Is my head going to explode?

Me: It would have exploded instantly. It must already be far enough in your stomach that it won't blow up your head. Just, whatever you do, do not fart.

Abby: Oh, no. Oh, Mommy. Mommy, I need to fart right now. Ohhhh noooo. I need to go to the bathroom, too. Oh, Mommy. I love you. Goodbye forever!


She ran down the hall to the toilet, holding her tush and yelling the entire way like she was on a bathroom kamikaze mission. She made it out alive, but I'm not sure she'll want to eat pizza again anytime soon. At least not from Bombino's.

This is not what it looks like.

This really isn't what it looks like. Well, I guess that's only true if this looks like anything other than a pig's tongue to you. Icky, right? We went to a BBQ at a freind's house a couple of weeks ago, and they roasted an entire pig. When it was done, they hacked it up into a lot of pieces, some of which looked edible, and some of which did not. I would classify a pig's tongue somewhere in the middle. It's one of those things that you could eat, but why in the name of all things holy would you?


We've eaten with these friends before. They're amused by the odd things my girls will eat. They've watched both of my little angels suck down raw oysters like candy and gnaw on hunks of meat of unknown origin. In spite of that, I really don't think they expected a positive reaction when they offered them the pig's tongue.



The girls got excited about eating a tongue. They bounced around and made up a song.

We're gonna eat the tongue
We're gonna eat the tongue
We're gonna eat the tonnnnngueeee

Songwriters, they are not. I thought they'd both wimp out when they actually had the nasty little piece of meat in their hands. Abby did.



Molly did not wimp out. She tore into that thing like a hyena on a dead zebra. Honestly, I'd rather watch a hyena rip the guts out of a zebra than watch my little girl with a pig tongue in her mouth. I gagged a little that day.

She took a few bites off the cut end, then held it between her teeth and ran around the yard sticking it out at people, laughing in hysterics at the horrified gasps from all the ladies in attendance. I probably should have made her stop, but I was too busy laughing. She's a plucky little thing. Thank goodness nobody offered her the brain.

Even God likes weenies

I was sitting on the couch with Abigail this morning, enjoying a little snuggle time, when she asked me a question.

"Mommy, how many weenies would fit in a jar?"

I just looked at her for a minute, trying to decide what she was really asking me. Did she say 'weenie?' I've never heard her use that word, so I had to question her. "Weenies? What do you mean, 'weenies?'"

She rolled her eyes dramatically and sighed. I know she thinks I'm an idiot. "WEENIES. Like the food."

"Well, I don't know. I guess it would depend on the size of the jar."

"What if the jar was really, really big and long, all the way up to heaven?" This was accompanied by violent hand motions toward the ceiling, chubby little fingers pointing as high as they could reach.

"That would be a big jar. How many weenies do you think it would take to fill it?"

She looked thoughful. "Prob'ly like sixteen. Sixteen is a lot of weenies."

I have to wonder what kind of weenies she's thinking of. Even the quarter pound footlong weenies aren't that big. I asked her, "Do you think, since the jar goes all the way to heaven, that God would eat one of the weenies?"

"Of course he would."

She said it with so matter of factly that it surprised me a little, so I asked her, "You really think God likes weenies?"

The eye roll was almost audible. "Moooommmmmm, everyone likes weenies, because they're hot dogs."

You heard it here first, folks. God likes weenies, with extra mustard.

Mommy Stay-Puff

Kids say the darnedest things.

Last night I was holding the girls in my lap, reading The Runaway Bunny. They were snuggled under a blanket, captivated by the story... or so I thought. Something in the book made Molly think of food. It might have been the big bunny cloud, blowing the bunny sailboat home. Whatever it was, she decided she was hungry, and it wasn't for hasenpfeffer.

"Mommy, I wish you were made of marshmallow so I could take a bite of you."

Say what? While I was still trying to figure out where in the world she got that idea from, she bit me. She chomped my arm like a dog tearing into a t-bone.

"OWWWW!"

She smacked her lips a little, made a face, then said, "You don't taste like marshmallow."

No kidding, genius. I never claimed to be sweet. Something good did come of this. I got a stellar idea for a Halloween costume this year.

Moments like these make the world go round

There are some moments in life that stay with you forever. When you have children, those treasured snippets of life are many, but they stay tucked away deep inside your heart and mind so that one day you can look back and remember how precious childhood is.

On Saturday, I went to a BBQ with my family. We've been to this friend's house a few times before, and we always have a good time. I love the laid back feeling of an outdoor gathering in the summertime. Good friends and good food make good memories for all of us.

The day could have been ruined by the dark clouds that threatened the sky. When the storm began, a handful of people packed up and headed for home. The rest of us kicked back under the canopies set up in the yard and watched the rain fall softly on the grass around us. There's something soothing about sitting outside and watching the rain. It's as if the drip-drops of water just wash away all the stress of life. Everything slows down a little and gets washed clean by fat, sweet drops of water.

The kids were too tempted by the cool shower, and kept slipping toward the edges of the canopy. I watched my daughters inch forward until the streams running off the slanted roof were pouring directly onto their small heads. They would giggle and jump back, then start inching forward again. They whispered to each other, heads bent together, causing a hush over the crowd as we all strained to hear what they were saying. Holding hands and grinning mischievously, they ran giggling right out into the middle of the yard, faces turned up toward the sky. They ran in circles for a minute and came back to the cover of the canopy. Crystalline drops of water dripped down their noses and off the ends of their hair, and pure joy shone from their tiny faces.

My husband and I were quietly watching them play, holding hands and smiling at our own memories of playing in the rain as children. I felt a twinge of longing for my own days of carefree abandon, but it was quickly overpowered by the joy of watching my daughters laugh and dance in an afternoon shower. They stopped and bent over next to a tree stump, poking and giggling at something in the grass. When they came running back this time, it was with a bullfrog in tow.

Abby held it gently in both hands, running her funny, wobbly run until they reached the canopy. They were so excited to show us their prize that they forgot to hold on to the frog. He plopped into the wet grass at their feet, and they chased him in circles until Molly got close enough to scoop him up. They took turns passing him back and forth, talking to him and patting him on the head. Abby held him up, right in front of her face, and did something that will be forever imprinted in my memory. Like a tiny princess, she smiled a sweet little smile and kissed the frog right on the nose.

They both giggled, then Molly took the frog and set him carefully on the grass. She leaned over and whispered to him that he should go home to his Mommy and Daddy, then said goodbye. The two of them stood holding hands, watching their new friend hop to freedom. They waved goodbye, then turned to run back into the rain.

Even now, my eyes fill with tears at the beauty of those moments. It takes my breath away to look at my children and see real, unblemished happiness living inside of them. I know that days will come soon enough when they will find disappointment in a rainy day. I know that will certainly not be the last frog that Abby will kiss in her search for her Prince Charming, and I know that it will not always be so easy for Molly to say goodbye. I wish they could know that they should treasure these days, and I pray that one day they will be able to see their own children laughing and catching raindrops on their tongues.

The Energizer Bunny meets Tony Montana

Being a parent is not conducive to restful sleep. It starts during pregnancy, when heartburn, backaches and leg cramps wake you throughout the night. When I was pregnant with my son, I had heartburn that went beyond discomfort. It was like a bomb went off somewhere in my digestive system every single evening. I'd wake up from a dead sleep, sure that someone had poured acid straight down my esophagus. I ate Tums like candy. It was awful.

With Molly, it was backaches. All night long, some invisible demon played street hockey with my back muscles. It was also the only time when she was awake. Many nights, I laid in my bed wondering if she would always be such a night owl. That was awful, too.

When I was pregnant with Abigail, I threw up. Morning sickness? HA! I asked my doctor to test me for the Ebola virus, because I was sure some awful illness had taken over my body. I'd wake up at 3am to race to the bathroom and vomit. Awful.

When they're born, it's a whole new ballgame. They wake up and cry because they're hungry. They wake up and cry because their diapers don't have enough of that gel crap (pardon the pun) in them and they're swimming in a puddle of urine. They wake up and cry because they like the sound of their own voices. Babies wake up at night. They do it a lot.

There comes a point where they don't wake up so much anymore, but by then, your nights of sleeping soundly are over. I can wake from a dead sleep if one of them coughs. I believe it's a natural instinct., and I should be thankful for it, I suppose. If there were a fire, or one of my kids were choking on their tongue, I would know it and could come to the rescue immediately. Woo hoo for me, the midnight rescuer.

Abby's well past her second birthday now, so they mostly sleep through the night. Unfortunately, Molly is one of those rare kids who only needs about forty five minutes of sleep to function. I don't dare give her naps anymore, because she'll be up all night long. She likes to talk, and it's what she does when she wakes up, from the moment her eyes open. If there is nobody willing to give her their undivided attention, she'll talk to herself. She's like the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny were on crack.

Last night, right around midnight, I woke up because I heard my bedroom door open. It scared me, because it was opening very slowly and making this ominous creaking sound. I looked up, fully prepared to see a man with a machete and a hockey mask standing in my doorway. Instead, I saw a teeny little girl with a fuzzy pink blanket and flowered pajamas.

"Molly, what are you doing up?"

"Hi mom! What are you guys doing in here?"

"Playing tiddlywinks. What does it look like we're doing? We're sleeping. Go back to bed."

"I want to play tillydawinks. What's tillydawinks?"

I elbowed my husband, hoping he'd get up and shoo her off to bed. He snorted, rolled over, and started snoring again almost instantly. Molly crawled up in the bed and wedged herself between us.

"Sooooo, what are you guys doing? Sleeping?"

He woke up. He snarled at Molly and mumbled something incoherent. It may have been a curse word. I gave Molly a hug and instructions to go back to bed. She crawled down from the bed and left the room. I heard the refrigerator door. That's not good. I elbowed my husband again and told him to go deal with her. This time, I'm sure it was a curse word.

Molly came back, this time bearing gifts. "I brought you cheese, mom."

Yum. Everyone wants plastic-wrapped cheese in the middle of the night. "Molly, what are you doing? Go back to bed."

"I'm hungry."

Well, there's a shocker. The kid is a bottomless pit. She's hungry before I get the dinner table cleared. I told her to eat her cheese then go back to bed. She crawled back in between us to finish her snack.

"Daddy, why are you naked?"

That woke him up. He sat straight up in the bed and looked at her. I could see the confusion in his eyes. He was probably wondering what he missed and when we got company. He looked at the clock, looked at her, looked back at the clock and hissed, "Back. To. Bed. NOW."

"Daddy, you should wear pants to bed. I wear pants to bed 'cause if I don't I might pee in my bed and then my bed would be wet and I would have to be cold and wet and you'd have to give me new blankets and what if I peed on my pillow and I like my pajamas 'cause they have flowers on them and I have cheese 'cause I'm hungry and why are you naked oh 'cause your pants were wet, right?"

Energizer Bunny. Crack. I'm so not kidding.

I finally got her back in bed, then I listened to her talking to a stuffed bunny. I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dresser drawer. I snuck down the hall to peek around the door to her room. She was putting panties on the bunny, telling it that it had to wear pants to bed.

"Little bunny, if you take these pants off and pee in my bed, you're gonna be in big trouble. I'll make you go sleep with Daddy. He's naked and he has a lot of hair on his tummy."

She's right. It's scary stuff.

She eventually fell back asleep. I went back to bed and woke my husband with a pair of pajama pants in my hand. He put them on backwards and fell back asleep before he had them pulled up all the way, so his entire butt was sticking out. I resisted the urge to smack it. I hate that he can sleep through these kind of things. I made myself feel better by kicking his shins a few times under the guise of 'getting comfy.' He didn't even wake up for that. Bastard.

I'm going to work on finding the formula for whatever it is that gives my daughter this kind of energy with a minimum of sleep. If I figure it out, I'll market it. I'll sell it cheap, probably on a street corner somewhere in the shady part of town. I'll hook you up. Yo. Fo shizzle.

I need sleep.

Reason 467 that kids are soooo much fun

We went out for dinner after a school function last night. We decided to take the family to Outback. Not neccesarily a high-end restaurant, but with a family of 5 and my mom to boot, we expected to blow at least a hundred buckeroonies.

Let me just tell you, eating out with preschoolers is not always fun.

I'll give it to my kids, we were walking in the door at Outback around the same time they normally go to bed. Any parent of a preschooler knows that once they hit the point where they should have been in bed, one of two things will happen: they will get cranky, or they will get hyper. My kids tend to get hyper. While the hostess was finding a table big enough to hold my crew, the spawns of satan that I gave birth to started tearing apart the waiting area. I was in the bathroom "freshening up" while we were waiting, and when I came back, Abby was running laps on the bench in the waiting area, and Molly had emptied an entire bookshelf of kids books and had started on a tub of blocks. By the time I got that cleaned up and finished shooting some daggers at my husband (love you, honey), our table was ready.

One table over from us was a family who lives in our neighborhood. They have two sons, who are around 5 and 7. As soon as the boys saw us, they started yelling Molly's name. Molly is a sociable kind of girl. She's also a flirt. The next ten minutes were spent watching the two boys competing for the attention of my three year old which made my husband pull out his Papa Bear card and remind our little girl that boys are icky. He's hoping she'll wind up more interested in watching softball than baseball, if you know what I mean. We diverted Molly's attention with two words guaranteed to get the attention of any child: chocolate milk.

I asked the kids what they wanted to eat. Bryan, being a sulky almost-fourteen year old, declared that there was nothing on the menu worth eating. Seriously, kid? STEAK. Helllooooo?!? The girls knew what they wanted, and after 2.4 seconds, so did the rest of the people in the building.

"Chickens, chickens, I wants chickens, Mommy, chickens!"

"Macardoni and cheese! Mommy, mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mom, hey ma, hey ma, can I have macardoni and cheese?"

It had been a long day. I'd have fed them chocolate bon-bons for dinner if they'd be quiet, seriously. We ordered. They colored for a minute, then decided to make the crayons naked. Yeah, that's what they call it when they strip the paper off the crayons. Honestly, I'd rather see them undress the crayons than eat the crayons, so whatever. I was not, however, pleased when Abby started singing her naked crayon song.

"Nekkie, nekkie, crayons are nekkie, nekkie, NAKED!"

We got our food in record time (can't imagine why), and the kids decided at that instant that they were no longer hungry. Of course they did. If they ate at dinner, what would they use as an excuse not to go to bed when we got home? I gave them some more crayons to undress and dug into my steak.

Let me take a break in my horror story to tell you about my steak. Outback has a filet mignon that they put this horseradish crust on top of. It is slap-yo-mamma good. I'm serious. Try it.

I ate about four bites of my steak when the real fun began. Abby stood up in her highchair. I hissed "Sit down now," in my most serious mom voice.

"I can't. My booty hurts."

Abby is going through this weird phase where everything she says comes out in an outside kind of voice. She's loud. She's also cute, so people pay attention to her when she yells things. Heads turned toward our table. I asked what was wrong with her booty.

"I have to POOP!"

Oh, dear God, please let that have gone unnoticed. A quick glance around the room told me that it was definitely noticed. In addition to being loud, Abby also repeats herself a lot.

"I have to poop! I have to poop! Mommy, I have to poooooopy!"

I'm trying hard to potty train her, which is not so much fun. She has no interest in using the potty at home, but she feels the need to sit on every public toilet we get within a one mile radius of. Of course, I took her. Of course, Molly had to go, too.

Forty minutes later (I swear, I timed it), we returned to the table. There was an elderly man getting up to leave at the table next to ours. He leaned over to Abby and said, "Well, little lady, did you do your potty duty?" It might have been creepy, but he was like 110 and adorable, and he said it with a smile, so it wasn't icky at all. Abby smiled her brightest smile and answered him with a yell.

"No, I no pooped in the potty. I poop in mine pants!"

If you don't have kids and decide one day to take that turn toward masochism, remember this piece of advice. Do not EVER take them out to eat. Ever. Trust me on this one.

Queen does Little League

I'm going to cheat a little with this today. I typed out a long story on a message board this morning, and I'm going to cut and paste it here. Forgive me if you're reading it a second time.



A couple of years ago, my son played little league, and ended up on this team of all the "leftover" kids. They didn't even have a coach, just a bunch of kids most of who had never even played baseball. One of the parents stepped up and offered to coach, and they started practices.
It seemed hopeless that they'd ever be organized enough to even play a game, much less win one. Those kids were determined, though. One of the kids started bringing a CD player to practices with him and playing Queen. They'd get all pumped up and try their butts off to be the best they could be.

I'm ashamed to say that most of us parents had prepared ourselves for the "you don't have to win to be a winner" speech, when lo and behold, they won their first game. We figured it was a fluke until they won the next game, and the one after that. Word started spreading between the other coaches. They tried to prove our misfit kids were cheating. There was no cheating, just a bunch of kids who believed in themselves.

The team had only lost one game that season. It was to a team that was tough, with tough kids and tough coaches. They intimidated all of us, including the kids. It was the last game of the season, and we were up against that team again. They had also lost only one game. This last and final game was for the championship. The kids were nervous for a week. They wanted so badly to win, but knew that this team could beat them, because they already had once.

I'll never forget what happened in the minutes before the game that day. The coach had them all in the dugout, giving them their pep talk. The kid with the CD player turned on "We Will Rock You" at a low volume while the coach was talking. Slowly and quietly throughout his speech, the kids started doing the stomp-stomp-clap. The coach, bless his heart, didn't discourage them. He turned the volume up louder and stomped right along with them. I've never seen a group of 10 year olds so excited in my life.

That game went into overtime, and we won it in the last few seconds. Every single one of us was jumping and screaming and cheering, so proud of the group of kids that everyone laughed at when the season started. Before they left the dugout to run across the field to give the other team their high-fives, someone turned on that CD player again. Every single one of us sang "We Are the Champions" at the top of our lungs, even the parents from the other team. It was one of those days that will be forever imprinted in my mind, and forever associated with both of those songs.

I learned two lessons from this experience. Never underestimate the power of music, and never ever underestimate the power of children.

True Colors

I was sitting at my kitchen table last night sorting mail while dinner cooked. The girls were playing in the living room with Daddy when Molly wandered into the room and sat down next to me. "Mommy, I'd like a new color on my hair."

Pretending to take her very seriously, I put down my stack of birdcage liners and said, "What color would you like to change it to?"


"I'd like.... ummm.... some maybe darker.... ummmm.... maybe some like black.... ummmm.... what color should I put on my hair?"

I explained to her that her hair was a very pretty color, and that she should leave it just like it is. She instantly came back with, "But you put on color sometimes."

Ahh, youth. My sweet three year old believes that I "put on color" because it's fun. There was a time when it was fun to change up my hair once in a while. Now I do it to avoid looking too much like my mother. I told her what any reasonable (graying) adult would have - that I have icky hair and have no choice.


I thought she accepted that answer, because she dissapeared back toward the living room. Of course, she came back. "Mommy, I have icky hair too, now can I put color on it?"

I'm not sure where she got the yogurt from, but it had a new home in her soft blonde locks. I took a moment to curse myself for buying banana yogurt. If only it had been blueberry, or even strawberry, then her goal of changing her hair color would have been accomplished, easily repaired at bathtime. I wiped gobs of banana goo from her head and sent her back to play.


Yes, she came back, this time holding something behind her back. "Mommy, I'd like THIS color."

Clairol Nice'nEasy #111, Natural Medium Auburn. I don't know why I bought that dye. I don't like that brand, and that hasn't been my color in two years. I contemplated letting her do it, then realized what a bad idea that was. I could picture my husband's face if he came in from work one day to find his older daughter a fiery redhead. It would be ugly. That actually made me pause to reconsider, but I shook it off and took the box. "No hair color."


"Awwwwww MOM." She says this now with a dramatic sigh and an eye roll, much like a teenager. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's where she learned it. I've been jaded to the whiny ways of children, and it does not affect me. This was a battle won for me and I was pleased, even if I was more than a little disturbed to be having the hair color battle with a three year old. A battle won is a battle won.


The thing about triumphing in a conversation with a child is that they find a way to win in their own nonsensical way. Were Molly a teenager, I'm pretty sure she'd have gone ahead and dyed her hair against my wishes. It's what I would have done.


Being a kid, she found a new way to even the playfield. She gave Abigail a marker. When I went to call my family for dinner, I found Abby sitting on the couch in nothing but a diaper, decorated in blue marker.


I stood silently, glaring at my daughters and husband (who was completely oblivious to what was happening, merrily reading a 4WD magazine). Molly spoke first.


"Abby wanted a new color on her skin. I helped."

Thank you, Crayola, for washable markers.


The score is 1-1.

Swearing with toddlers

I took the girls shopping with me yesterday afternoon. I generally try to avoid doing that, for several reasons. Not only do they annoy me in the store, but they want everything they see. We've developed a system where they each get to choose one thing in the store that's not on the list. It works for us all - they get a treat, I get to do my shopping without 45 meltdowns.

Yesterday, they decided in the parking lot that they wanted marshmallows and gummi bears. I love it when they do that, because I don't have to wander around and let them decide what to choose when we're inside. It's in the door, get the food, get the goodies and out.

I hate grocery shopping.

So we got the food, got the goodies and headed for the register. On the way to pay, we passed the bakery. I don't stop in the bakery. I'd like to think it's because of my awesome sense of willpower that helps me resist the pastries and breads. The truth is, I don't want to have yet another conversation about why we aren't buying a birthday cake. It usually starts with, "Mommmmmyyy I want that cake!" That statement is followed by frantic pointing and squealing, which is followed by a discussion of when each and every family members' birthdays are. It's just easier to avoid going anywhere near the evil cake section.

This time, they had a display set up in the aisle with clear clamshell boxes full of cookies. These weren't your garden-variety chocolate chip cookies. They were beautifully molded butterfly cookies, sprinkled in pink and yellow sugars. Both girls stopped squabbling with each other mid-sentence to ooh and ahh over the cookies.

I was oohing and ahhing over the cookies. They sure were pretty.

Of course they asked. Of course I didn't say no. Who can pass up sugar coated butterflies?

We took our treasure with us to the register. I loaded up the belt and waited for the cashier to ring everything up. Damn, did it take her forever to ring up my stuff. I can always tell which cashiers have kids, because they do it in record time. They know that the shelf of stuff next to the register is way too tempting for a three year old. So anyway, this lady was slllloooooowwwww. Molly was standing quietly, pulling in and out the little table thing that folds into the side of the conveyor belt area.

"Mommy, what's this?"

"It's for people in wheelchairs to use when they need to write a check."

"Can I have a pen?"

Hell no, you can't have a pen. Are you kidding me? The last time I gave one of the girls a pen in the store to entertain them, I had to buy three boxes of Triscuits with pretty pictures on them because I turned my back to look at vanilla wafers. No pens allowed.

"No, Molly, that's only for handicapped people to use."

"Bryan said I'm handicapped." Oh, no. No she did not just say that. The lady behind me in line stifled a chuckle, and the cashier stopped what she was doing to study my daughter for a minute. No, please don't stop. Scan. SCAN!

Sometimes the best thing to do is ignore comments like that in public. I rolled my eyes and got out my wallet. Bryan will pay for that one. Thankfully, her attention refocused almost instantly on the cookies that were moving past her on the belt. "Ohohohmommycanwehavecookiesinthecar? Canwepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?" Yes, anything to shut you up. Anything.

Finally free from the stares of people clearly trying to gauge the level of my daughter's non-existent disability, we loaded up the car. I opened the cookies to give them each one, and realized I had made a mistake.

The backs of the cookies were dipped in chocolate. Uh-oh.

Being a mom of my word, I made a mental note to check for stain remover when I got home, and I handed over the cookies. Abigail is one of those kids that can get sticky-icky eating a cracker, so I mentally braced myself for what would happen with a chocolate dipped cookie. Heading for home, resigned to my fate, I got about a half a mile down the road before I heard a gasp from the backseat.

"Holy crabby patties, there's chocolate everywhere!"

I'm not sure if my reaction came from the shock of hearing my tiny daughter screaming a sort-of obscenity, or if it came from the fear of what "everywhere" meant, but I instantly pulled over and turned around to look.

Holy crabby patties, indeed. If you look up "everywhere" in the toddler dictionary, you'll find the following definition:

eve·ry·where (ev-wee-wawe) :
1. on or in every possible surface, nook, cranny or orifice within a one block radius of a toddler
2. spread so thoroughly that you'll be finding bits of it for the next decade
3. seriously, everywhere

All I could do was drive home. It was only another mile. I called my husband. "Honey, I'm on my way home. I'll be there in approximately two minutes. I need help, so please be waiting outside." He must have thought I was going to drive a flaming minivan up to the house, because he was outside and had my door open before I put the car in park.

"What's wrong? What can I do? What do you need help with?" I just pointed behind me. I think he'd rather deal with a flaming engine than two chocolate coated toddlers. I looked at him, expecting to see laughter in his eyes, because he always finds things like this a lot more humorous than I do. Instead, I saw terror.

"Is that.... omigod I'm scared to ask, but is that... POOP?"

I couldn't pass it up. I just couldn't. I nodded.

He groaned. He moaned. He unbuckled Abby's carseat. He gagged and nearly threw up when she tried to give him a bite of her now soggy and chocolate soaked cookie, which greatly resembled a turd at this point. I thought he was going to faint from relief when he realized it wasn't poop.

The good thing about this experience is that I learned a new swear word from my kid (holy crabby patties, Patrick!). The bad news is that they won't be getting any more of those cookies. Wait, maybe that's good news - at least for me.

The following blog will be a record of interruptions.

Today is Saturday, and my husband is home. I've been trying to get some things done on the computer, and it's not going well. I started another blog, but I can't get further than a few lines into it because my family is running wild around me. About every third sentence, somebody is screaming the dreaded "M" word. MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

There it is now.


Interruption #1

"Mommy, I pushed a toothpick inside the couch. We're gonna have to take it apart to find out where it is."

Super. This means the next time I try to take 5 minutes to relax on the couch, my butt will be impaled by a wooden toothpick.

Wow. That's all I got typed before the next round.


Interruption #2

"Bryan's being mean to me."

Wah. Let me get out my violin. In my daughters' eyes, Bryan walking into a room without squealing and jumping up and down constitutes his "being mean" to them. On the rare occasion that he actually is mean, they don't come to me - they run crying to their room.


Interruption #3

"Honey, I'm going for a bike ride."

Seriously? He complains on a daily basis about riding his motorcycle to work, but on the one day when he's supposed to be spending some quality time with the kids (translate: keeping them out of my hair) he wants to go for a joyride. I chose to not acknowledge that comment. He's standing over me, probably wondering what I'm thinking. Most likely he's thinking about hot dogs or Pac Man or something equally irrelevant to the topic at hand.

"Ummmm I'll wait until later."

Hmmm. Maybe he was reading over my shoulder.


Interruption #4

"I love you, Mom."

Some people would wonder how I can see that as an interruption. When a 13 year old approaches you with a stack of papers in his hand and throws out the "L" word, he wants something. I'm no fool. I know that was not a "You're a super mom" love you. It was a "I need $500 for football equipment" love you.

Ahhh, it was a request to go to 15 different stores and spend God knows how much money for the perfect pair of cleats. That sounds like a fun Saturday, right?


Interruption #5


"Mommmmmyyy I don't like Emily Yeung, I want Daniel Cook!"



Molly has a crush on this kid that does little 5 minute shows on the Disney Channel. He goes and does exciting things like visiting a karate studio and doing some Jackie Chan moves, playing with bugs at a science museum and so on. When Molly was about 2 1/2, she told me she wanted to marry him. Cute, right?


So Daniel Cook is getting older, and has moved on to soup commercials or something equally exciting, and has been replaced by Emily Yeung. Apparently, Molly has no desire to marry a cute Asian/American girl. She's devastated at the loss of Daniel.



Interruption #6

"Honey, do we have bread?"

Do you see bread in the kitchen? The bread is always in the same place. Our kitchen is Lilliputan sized, and there aren't that many places to look. There is no bread.

"Well, you went to the store."

Oh, no he didn't.


He better be glad for Interruption #7

"Mommy, Molly has mine makeup."

Abby, you don't have makeup. This one's for Daddy. I can hear the yelling from here.


Interruptions#8 & 9, simultaneously

"Honey, do we have any nail polish remover?"

"Owwwww there's a toothpick stuck in my BUTT!"




This is going to be a long day.

The death of Wormidoodle

We had a family outing this weekend. Fishing is fun for everyone, right? The kids actually love going fishing. The girls each have their own pole, and the boys have a collection. We never actually catch anything but bait, but it's a good family activity with a bonus - it's free! In Florida, there are lakes everywhere. You can't drive five miles without having to go around one, so places to fish are abundant here. We have a favorite spot, a pier close to a lakefront park. Granted, the fish seem to be more interested in the ice cream truck that is always parked close by than in our bait, but it's a nice place to hang out.

We packed up the cooler and picked up some bait, and headed to the lake. My son prefers to fish with minnows, and my husband is a big fan of the nightcrawler. Molly loves the worms. When I say that she loves them, I mean that she makes friends with them. She loves to poke them and hold the container they come in so she can have long conversations with the worms. She likes to put them on the ground and watch them inch their way along.

It's obvious to everyone but her that they are trying to escape when they are crawling desperately toward freedom. She thinks they are just trying to entertain her.

My kids are getting brave with their bait. Bryan can poke a hook right through the eye of a minnow without cringing now, and I even saw him hack a nightcrawler in half with a pocketknife recently. I suppose enough time wasted trying to fish with mashed up bread will help you conquer your fear of the minnow.

Molly will hold a worm now. She squeals and giggles, but it's with glee instead of fear now. She made friends with a worm this trip. His name is Wormidoodle. I swear. I would not make that up. She hauled poor Wormidoodle around for the better part of an hour, until the poor thing was hardly crawling anymore. I helped her put a little dirt and water in the lid to the container, and we found a shady spot next to the tackle box where Wormidoodle could rest.

I don't know what I was thinking, encouraging a friendship with a worm. It was just so cute. She kept a watchful eye over her new best friend, until she got distracted. It doesn't take much to distract her. If the wind changes direction she loses her train of thought. So, something distracted her and she turned away.

I bet you think I'm going to say the worm died or crawled away, don't you? It's worse than that. My husband hacked it right in half. I turned toward him when I heard the knife click open. I saw him, hook in hand, holding half a worm.

Oh no. Wormidoodle.

I raced toward the scene of the crime. "Distract her!" I hissed at my husband.

"Huh? What happened?"

"You killed Wormidoodle!"

He stood there scratching his head looking a little like a caveman for a minute. I shoved him in the direction of our blissfully unaware daughter and sprung into action. After drawing a careful chalk outline and stringing crime scene tape around the area, I stopped to think.

This is one of those times when you have to make a choice in parenting. Do I tell the truth and try to explain the circle of life to a three year old, suffering myself, but content in the fact that I have been honest, or do I lie?

Sorry, Dr. Phil - I'm going with the lie.

I replaced Wormidoodle with another worm of similar size and color. Well, I think I did. They all look alike to me. I swept the area for evidence, and cleared it for release. (I have got to stop watching so much CSI.)

The new worm, freshly dug from his happy home of black worm-poo dirt, was wiggling and... well, alive. I called Molly over to see how happy "Wormidoodle" was after his "nap." She squealed, which she does a lot, and jumped up and down, which she also does a lot. Then she picked up her best friend Wormidoodle, gave him a kiss, and threw him into the lake.

Figures. All that work, and now the decoy worm is dead in the bottom of the lake.

Time to get out the crime scene tape again.

Wax paper - it's not just for fingerpainting

We have a miniature trampoline. I can't remember where it came from, but I can clearly remember every place I've tried to store it where it wouldn't be in the way. The girls saw it tucked in my closet yesterday, and begged to play on it. "We wanna jump! We wanna jump!"

I pulled it out and set it in the living room for them, and they jumped. They jumped until the tops of their brains must have been bruised from bouncing against the inside of their skulls. Of course, my creative children made up a new game. One of them would crawl underneath the ankle-breaker, then the other would jump off the couch onto it, essentially crushing the one underneath.

They cry when the wind blows too hard, but there was nary a tear shed during this game. How does that make sense?

I left them under the watchful eye of my husband to go put away laundry. From the next room, I heard Molly's singsong voice. "Daddy, look, I made a slide." I peeked around the door to see the trampoline precariously balanced against the side of the couch, and the kids crawling up the arm of the couch and sliding down the deeply angled trampoline. I gave a warning (to my husband), and went back to what I was doing.

I'm a fairly intelligent person. I've developed a lot of life experience over the years, especially where kids and injuries are concerned. When I say something bad is going to happen, well... it usually does. Still, no one listens.

Fully expecting to find the kids quietly watching TV, I walked back in the room. Not only were they not watching TV, they were now using pieces of wax paper to slide down the incline at a greater rate of speed. I stopped in my tracks, stunned. My husband shrank back a little and pretended not to see me, while encouraging them to go down together.

The trampoline wobbled as they climbed on, carefully arranging their speed paper under their little tushes. I was frozen in place, screaming in my head, "Nooooooooooo!!!" It was like slow motion, watching them start their descent. The trampoline wobbled, then tipped up. As they reached the bottom, it stood straight on end, hovering there precariously for just a second before it flipped over right on top of them.

They giggled while I checked for injuries. As soon as I was done, they squealed to do it again.

I give up.

When did my children stop smelling like baby lotion and start smelling like cherry Kool-Aid?

I was in the shower this morning and realized (belatedly) that I am out of shampoo. The fact that I am out of shampoo because my husband used it all as bodywash is another story entirely, and one that I'll probably keep to myself. Anyway, I grabbed the girls' shampoo, a bright red bottle with a cartoon fish or something on the front. Massaging it gently into my hair (Rinse. Repeat.), I was treated to the extra yummy smell of cherry Kool-Aid. I love their shampoo. It makes me want to bury my face in their hair and breathe in the sweetness. It used to make my kids want to eat the shampoo, but a few nights of burping bubbles put a stop to that bad habit.

I love the way children smell. I love the smell of sunshine on their skin after they've played outside. I love the way their cheeks smell like banana after breakfast. I love the smell of soap and lotion. I love the smell of fruit salad after they've tattooed themselves all over with scented markers.

I miss the days of infancy. Lining up the little plastic bathtub, the hooded towel, washrag, ear sucker, nose sucker, baby bath, baby shampoo, baby lotion, rubber duckie thermometer for the bath water, a clean diaper, a clean sleeper.... well, I don't miss all of that so much, I suppose. It's just the feeling of holding a sweet, soft, sleeping infant and burying my face in that tiny neck to breathe in baby smell. There is nothing better.

I suppose I could use the baby lotions on my toddlers, but it's not the same. They squirm and wiggle and squeal "Moooom, that tickles!" when I try to hold them close and inhale. The cherry seems more fitting for the children that they are now, but it doesn't stop the craving deep inside me for Eau de baby.

Maybe I'll replace the bodywash in my shower with something from Baby Magic so I can sniff my husband after he showers. He's not picky about soap. He won't mind. Well, he won't mind until one of his friends catches a whiff. That won't be pretty.

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.