Farts and Cheese Soup at the Magic Kingdom

So we decided to hit up the Magic Kingdom on Wednesday. Before my 13 year old, Bryan, got out of school I took the girls to WalMart to pick up a few things. This is where my humiliation began.

My 3 year old, Molly, has a baby doll that she loves. Baby Rose goes everywhere with us, including WalMart. Because I was in a hurry, I threw Molly and Abby in the back part of the cart and told them to sit tight while I grabbed the things I needed. Molly was worried that Baby Rose would fall out of the cart, so she put her in the seat in the front part and buckled her in. I'm walking through the store getting some strange looks about the baby doll in my cart (not to mention feeling more than a little FlowersChild-ish), but that was okay - I'm used to buckling the doll in when I go to the store. Things went well until I was standing in line waiting to pay.
Molly started to scold the baby. "Baby, don't say that. Baby Rose, you stop crying. If you scream again I'm going to make you stand in the corner. YOU BETTER BE QUIET!"
Baby Rose is a bad, bad dolly. I guess she was still bugging Molly, because the next thing I know, out of nowhere, *SMACK* right in the baby's head. "I told you to be quiet!"
The old lady in the next line didn't even try to hide her gasp. I assume her vision must have been compromised, and perhaps she thought it was a real baby, because she immediately turned to the other woman with her and started to do that old-lady whisper that can be heard across the room, insisting that I was the worst mother ever and shouldn't even have children.
I asked Molly, "Why did you do that?"

"She was being bad."

"But why did you hit her?"

"She wouldn't stop crying, so I smacked her upside her head."

"But Molly, WHY did you feel like you needed to HIT her?"

At this point she looked at me like I was a complete moron, rolled her eyes, and said, "Do you see a corner anywhere?"

She is so much like me that it frightens me sometimes. Well, except for the whole "beat the infant in the head" thing.

Finally There


We picked up Bryan from school and headed straight to WDW. I pull up to a stoplight on the highway, and Bryan unbuckles his seatbelt. "What are you doing? Buckle your seatbelt!"

"I'm changing clothes, hang on."

Changing clothes? Yes, changing clothes. My son is unbuckling his pants and yanking them down in the middle of a swarm of traffic. Thank the good Lord that he was wearing shorts underneath. I look over to the car to our right and see the lady in the passenger seat frantically beating her husband on the arm and pointing at our car. At that exact moment, Bryan pulls his sweatshirt off and takes his t-shirt with it. I can see the lady's mouth open, and it's obvious she's saying "Oh my GOD." It's okay, lady... I was thinking the same thing.

After we arrive at the park, we park and get on the tram. Somewhere between the school and the parking lot, the perfect ponytails that I put in my daughters' hair has been replaced by a twin set of rats nests. I thanked my son for insisting on riding with his window down in the car, and pointed out their hair to him. The woman in the seat in front of us was turned sideways taking in the entire scene, and said, "Oh, daddies and little girls' hair just don't mix, do they?"

It took me a minute to realize what she meant. My 13 year old son is almost 5'11", and can easily pass for 16 or 17, but my husband? I think not. Before I could comment, Bryan did. He looked at me and said, "Honey, I'm so sorry. Are you going to make me sleep on the couch again tonight? It's really starting to make my back hurt."

Smartass.

So we get on the monorail, and head to the MK. The monorail is FULL of high school kids wearing "Senior Trip" t-shirts. It's clear by their conversation that most of them have never been to Disney. A few hundred feet from the unloading area, the monorail comes to a dead stop. The kids in the blue t-shirts start flipping out. "Ohmigodwhatifitsonfireandwhatifitfallsoffthetracksohnowhatarewegoingtodo!?!"

I calmly look at Bryan and say, "Okay, remember the drill? When the doors open, I will throw myself to the ground first. You toss the girls out one at a time right on top of me, then you throw yourself onto my broken body, and I will break your fall. We have to move fast before the monorail explodes. Don't worry about crushing me, just take care of your sisters and get them as far from the fire as possible."

Panic ensued. I was proud of myself, but Bryan was quite embarrassed. He would pay me back throughout the day.

Moving Along

We made our way safely off the monorail (without any broken bones! YAY!) and went to the ticket gate. I handed over our pass and waited to be waved through. He scanned it, it beeped, and I sent Molly through the turnstile first. BIG mistake, because he couldn't seem to get it to scan again. *BEEP* [Enter ID]. Hmmmmm. *BEEP* [Enter ID]. Okkaayyyyy. I patiently waited while he tried over and over to scan my driver's license (when it was his own ID that needed to be entered), keeping a close eye on Molly, who was standing quietly on the other side of the turnstile. All of a sudden, I hear Bryan suck in his breath. "OH NO! You let Molly through first? She's ALONE over there? Molly, don't run away!!!!!"

It was like slow motion, seeing the look on her face when she heard him and realized she was alone, and watching her turn to run. "NOOOOOO MOOOOLLLLYYYYYYYYY!" Oh, she ran. She ran fast and hard, in a big giant circle. My daughter runs in circles, and she has a special song that she sings while she does it. "Running in circles, running in circles, Molly likes to be running in circles."

Yes, she sang. I got a few sympathetic looks from the other people waiting, until my sweetheart of a son says, "What a freakin' brat." We battle daily over his use of the word freakin', so he has stopped using it at home and now only uses it in the company of elderly people, small children and my in-laws. Thank goodness the ticket taker guy figured out the pass and let us through. Who knows, maybe he faked it just to get us out of his line.

I get a stroller and strap the girls down, and head down Main Street. There are people everywhere waiting for the parade, so we book it to Adventureland. There was no wait for Jungle Cruise, so we get on. About the time we're oohing and aahing over the giant butterflies, a noxious odor attacks. I try to be discreet in checking Abby's pants, assuming the fumes are coming from her. Nope, diaper check is A-OK. I shrugged it off and took a picture of the "back side of water." In the middle of the dark tunnel, it hits again, this time with sound effects. There is giggling, then moaning. As we come out of tunnel, back into the shining light of daytime, Molly says, "Mommy, did you FART?"

Oh. My. God.

It did not come from me. I lean over to Bryan and ask, "What did you have for lunch?"

"Burritos."

Super. The day continued on with bursts of gas at the most innapropriate of times. Every time, Molly asked if it was me. The child doesn't understand "inside voices," and I'm not sure Bryan wasn't bribing her to say it with gummi worms.

Sitting in the front row of the boat on POTC? Check.

Waiting to board Winnie the Pooh? Check.

Standing smack in the middle of the playground area outside of Splash Mountain? Check. In fact, that one sent a dozen toddlers running for their mommies, who proceeded to do diaper checks on each and every one of them in an effort to find the source of the smell.
There was a point that we actually did have a code brown situation, and I blamed it on the fart-bag.

Note to self: Monitor the food choices of my children before my next public outing.

The end of a very long six hours

My husband came over to the park to meet up with us after he got off work. In most families that would seem like a good thing. In my family, not so much. The thing is... my daughters behave differently when daddy is around. I don't mean in a "wait until your father gets home" kind of way, I mean in more of a "farts are funny" kind of way. It's okay, though. At this point, it really takes a lot of get under my skin.

So we wander over toward Splash Mountain, where my husband is getting off the train. Molly wants to ride it for the first time, so I send her off with Daddy and Bryan while I hang out with Abby at the little playground. Molly loved it, but was more interested in playing, so I went to ride it with Bryan. Before I walked away, I said to my husband, "Watch my bag. I mean reallllly watch it. Some jackass was eyeballing it earlier."

"Sure thing, honey."

Right. So I get on the ride and realize Bryan keeps laughing. You know the laugh... that muffled little chuckle you hear when someone knows something you don't? Yeah, that kind of laugh. So we're toodling along through the ride, enjoying the breeze and the sound of rushing water, having a super time. We get to the part where you go around the front outside, in a loop around the drop. I love that part, the thrill of wondering whether the log coming down will hit at the wrong moment and splash you (which of course, it never does due to impeccable Disney timing). At this point in the ride, Bryan is flat out giggling. Just as I turned to him with the intent of pinching him until he told me what was so funny, I found out on my own. Apparently someone thought it would be a good idea to adjust the timing ever so slightly. I was drenched. When I say drenched, I mean that I didn't get that wet in the shower that morning. Funny, Bryan. Really funny.

I got off the ride and head over to find my husband and kids. I noticed while I was walking that my bag was not sitting where I left it. Through chattering teeth, I asked my husband where it was.

"I don't know."

Huh? I'm very wet, very cold and very angry. I remind him (in my outside voice) that someone was trying to steal it and the camera was in there and WHERE IS MY BAG? With this last part, I throw my arms up in the air and start waving toward my husband with "I'm going to kill you" motions. His eyes widened, and I thought I was actually scaring him. He darts over to the slide area and grabs my bag from behind the wall, and thrusts it at my chest. "There, there, take it. I was just playing around." I'm satisfied, until I see that he's still looking at my chest. I look down.

Oh, hell no. Light blue shirt + Splash Mountain = WDW wet t-shirt contest. Wooohoooo! I look at my husband. "Give me your shirt."

"Why?"

"You can see through mine. Give it to me."

"What am I supposed to wear?"

"I don't care. Give me your shirt."

By the time we got done arguing about how he would look in a baby blue scoopneck fitted t-shirt, it was nearly dry, so we decided to get some dinner. DH wanted to eat at Pecos Bills, so we headed over. We took a patio table and got our food. I fixed the girl's plates and started munching on my salad while DH and Bryan headed to the condiment bar to fix up their burgers. We ate quietly, enjoying the weather. The guys finished their burgers, picked up their little paper bowl things full of fries, and walked away. I assumed they were going for ketchup. When they came back and sat down, Bryan said to my husband, "Did you grab me a fork, too?"
A fork? For fries and ketchup? "What's in the bowls, guys?"

"Nothing."

"No, really?"

"Just fries."

Yeah, fries alright. Fries swimming in cheese sauce. I mean swimming. Oh. My. God.
I couldn't keep the hiss out of my voice when I said, "Do you know what the people on the DIS would say about this?"

I can't even describe the laughter that followed that statement. Hysterical almost covers it. They were pretty proud of themselves for "sticking it to the man."

I'm in the middle of lecturing them about proper condiment bar usage when I hear a soft voice to my left. "Mom. (pause) Mom. (pause) MOM." Molly is gently tugging on my arm, while I'm waving her away. I'm not done lecturing yet. "Mom, I have to poop. MOM. MOOOOOOOOMMMMMM."

I look over at her, wondering if the cheese soup is the last humiliating thing I'll have to endure that night. I suppose I didn't respond fast enough to suit Molly, because she felt the need to get my attention one last time. I could do nothing more than sit there stunned after my sweet, angelic little 3 year old yelled loud enough to wake Master Gracey, "MOM, I NEED TO GO PINCH A LOAF! NOW!"

It's time to go home.

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.