A Birthday Reflection

I’m thirty-two this week. Thirty-freakin-two. Old enough to drive — twice. Old enough to drink. Old enough to know who Dick van Dyke is, but still just shy of being able to receive social security benefits. Apparently, I’m old enough to have two kids, but still young enough to melt down like a two year-old every now and then — just ask our microwave about that one. Or my cell phone — may it rest in peace. As a kid, imagining myself at thirty-freakin-two, I’ll admit that I foresaw two very contrasting futures. In the first, I’m giving birth to Child #6 — have I mentioned that Cheaper By the Dozen used to be my favorite book? Yeah, I thought so. Well, I was ten. 

Anyway, in this imagined/fabricated life, I’m packing lunches and slathering peanut butter on bread, high-fiving my kids from the driver’s seat of my Honda Odyssey as I drop them off for soccer practice, and joyfully wiping up the spilled milk with a Brawny paper towel — all while well-rested and smiling. Yes, my life was going to be a mom commercial. Later that evening, my imaginary husband — who looks nothing like the real one, by the way — and I sip tea and smile knowingly at each other as our children doze at our feet. In other words, I’m wildly successful.

In the other, I’m Leslie Knope-like, the first female president of the United States. In between meeting with heads of state and visiting my hometown to oversee proper construction of the many statues of me, I’d find time to party like a rock star with my secret service agents — sounds like they know what’s up. I’m humble and astute. Charismatic and thoughtful. Judicious and pretty. Open-minded and fast. I’ll leave the rest of that daydream alone for fear of getting too partisan and alienating half my readership, though I’ve probably already done that with my CPS “jokes.” Just know, though, that in this life, I’m also wildly successful.

So how about my real life? Let’s put things in perspective here according to age. 

At the age of twenty-eight, Niels Bohr, published his theory of the atom, Alexander Graham Bell was about to invent the phone, Friedrich Nietzsche published his first book, and Michelangelo — the Renaissance artist, not the Ninja Turtle, believe it or not — had completed David and the Pieta, and was about to begin painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Huh. Good for him. Also, at twenty-eight, Elizabeth Taylor was the highest paid actress in history. Congrats, Liz. By the age of thirty, Alexander the Great was dubbed the King of Kings and had conquered half the world. Ok… Eli Whitney had patented the cotton gin. So? Donald Trump was able to borrow $80 million for the purchase of the Commodore Hotel. And Bill Gates? Yeah, he was already a billionaire at thirty. So that’s nice. And, looking ahead a bit, at the age of thirty-three, Amelia Earhart became the first woman to fly across the Atlantic alone. BFD. Also, at thirty-three, Jesus of Nazareth was…well, Jesus. Ok, hard to top that one — I won’t even try. 

And then there’s me. Since most of the above people are dead, with the exception of Bill Gates, Donald Trump, and Jesus — on Easter Sunday anyway — I don’t fear making them feel badly by comparing my accomplishments to theirs. My accomplishments on a day to day basis are just as admirable. 

They include: successfully distracting Nate while Sam finishes his lunch, thereby saving Sam’s life; saving Sam’s life yet again by keeping him from running into the street; preventing Sam from swan-diving out of his high chair at every single meal; correctly addressing Nate as the super-hero du jour — lately it’s been Raphael — the Ninja Turtle, not the Renaissance artist; mopping up all our tears and spills of the day with only one ShamWow!; and staying alive and awake until both Nate and Sam are asleep in bed for the night. All in a day’s work! Now that’s a BFD. Take that, Amelia Earhart! The Atlantic Ocean isn’t even the big one. Try the Pacific next time — oh, that’s right, you did. I guess we all feel the need to disappear sometimes. 

So, according to the standards set by Bohr, Bell, Michelangelo, Elizabeth Taylor and the rest, I’m right on pace. But what about the next thirty-freakin-two years? How will I end this life? How can I stay on top? And when you’re on top, everyone is gunning for you. I have a bullseye on my back, so I gotta up my game — especially since Nate and Sam are now armed as they patrol the house. As long as I stay vigilant and don’t get complacent, this is how I foresee the rest of my life playing out. 

First, I need a knee brace. My left knee in particular is starting to get sore and, much like my septuagenarian lawyer friend, I don’t want to deal with the recovery of knee replacement surgery. A knee brace will suffice. Second, I need to develop a daily regimen of hamstring stretches. I gotta stay flexible so I can compete with my pint-sized foes. And they have the advantage of growing bigger by the day. Note to self: stop trying to feed them a healthy diet of protein and fruits and vegetables. This is self-defeating in so many ways.

Ok, that covers my physique. I figure Legos and jigsaw puzzles with Nate will be enough to maintain a first-rate, high-caliber brain. I’m no spring chicken anymore. I’m thirty-freakin-two. My future accomplishments won’t come without a lot of hard work, and a twenty-four piece floor puzzle of a farm is just the kind of hard work I’m cut out for.

Here’s the rest of my plan. Once Nate and Sam turn four, they’ll have grown out of naps and be ready for boarding school. Yes, there are such schools with highly-esteemed pre-k programs. And fortunately, most are in former Soviet republics, many time zones away. Ceausescu really had a lot of great pro-natalist ideas, even if many education experts in the West would dub these programs “orphanages.”  

Anyway, with a superior mind, limber hamstrings, and more free time, I’ll be able to broker a peaceful compromise in the Middle East. You’re welcome, world — I know that issue’s been a real thorn in your side for a few centuries now. Next, I’ll be able to solve world hunger. I’m actually already working on this one, and I’m pretty close to a solution. I need to re-work some calculations, but I’m pretty sure the answer has something to do with the “flat” kind of frosted mini-wheats as opposed to the “crunchy” kind. This distinction was a crucial finding in guaranteeing a successful breakfast at our house, and I’m confident we can extrapolate it to the rest of the developing world. My resumé as a mom is no joke.

Now, don’t think I’m a totally callous mom just because I’m so career-driven and success oriented. I understand that children need “engaged time” with their parents, and their mother specifically, so I’ll be making regular trips to Romania to visit Nate and Sam. I’ll check in with them on their schooling, making sure that their history tutelage is accurately pro-American, that their hamstrings are properly stretched, and they’ve moved on to more challenging puzzles, perhaps a three-dimensional cityscape of Baltimore.   

And eventually, when Nate and Sam have matured into rational, self-reliant, less messy adults, they are more than welcome to come live in our time zone again. Note that I said “time zone,” not “house.” We will have dinners together and discuss things other than ninja training, poo-poo pee paw, and ketchup. Perhaps we’ll even venture to a restaurant besides McDonald’s or José Peppers — you know, one without a play place or “free balloon” policy or that doesn’t serve Teddy Grahams with each kid’s meal. We will take family vacations and not fear Sam crawling under the seats to the front of the plane or head-banging the innocent people in front of us.

Both boys might even give us grandchildren, whom I will visit regularly, messing up their houses in the process, as revenge for what they’ve done to me, to our kitchen floor, to our coffee table, to our area rugs. My mom always threatened this, too, but she’s never actually followed through on it — unless you count cooking meals from scratch, dusting our ceilings and baseboards, and scrubbing the tiles in the shower as “messing up your house someday.”

I’ll laugh as Grown-Up Nate and Sam get poked with foam swords, comb peanut butter from their hair, and do over thirteen hundred loads of laundry in a single week. Then, I’ll hug them both, as I slip an envelope of cash in their hands. Yes, cash money from my Nobel prizes and Pulitzer awards — money that I’ve been saving for them so that they can enroll their own children in a highly prestigious boarding school. At that moment, it will have all been worth it. But the money I earn from beating Ken Jennnings’ streak on Jeopardy!? I’m keeping that for myself — and my real husband, I guess. 

Ten Truths of the Universe that Nate Will Someday Learn

1. Giraffes, even French synthetic ones that squeak, do not lay eggs. 

Nate: Look at Sophie, sitting on her eggs!

Me: What? Giraffes don’t lay eggs!

Nate: Well, sometimes they do.

Me: I’ve never met a giraffe [could have stopped there] that lays eggs.

Nate: Well, sometimes they do-ooo!

2. Girls are not repulsive. 

Nate, disgusted: Mom, what happened to your boobs?

Me: What do you mean?

Nate, apparently sickened: They’re puffing out of you.

3. "Poo-poo pee paw" is not a thing. This cannot be your reply to every question I ask you. You have a very extensive vocabulary with many multi-syllabic words. Use them. 

Me: Do you have to pee before we leave? Nate: Poo-poo pee paw. 

Me: What do you want for lunch? Nate: Poo-poo pee paw. 

Me: Who did you play with at school today? Nate: Poo-poo pee paw.

Me, slightly panicked, at the grocery store: Where’s Sam??! Nate: Poo-poo pee paw.

Me, more panicked, at the grocery store: Who took my wallet?!! Nate: Poo-poo pee paw.

4. It is not customary in Western cultures to disrobe before every single meal. Most fine dining establishments — and even many sub-par establishments — will have you removed for standing on a chair in your underwear as you scoop up gobs of peanut butter with a spoon.

5. There is at least one Seinfeld episode that can provide a solution to every real-life problem. Just because you have a t-shirt that says “Best Big Brother Ever” does not mean that you’re really the best big brother, particularly when you just whacked your toddling brother with a sword — though maybe you were just teaching him to avoid people with swords. Also, clowns are terrifying. And it is acceptable to eat just the top of your cupcake or muffin. In fact, it might be a million dollar idea.

6. Stop whining. “The squeaky wheel gets the oil” is a lie. Like the Tooth Fairy.

7. The mail carrier does not need to hear your life story every single day. At this point, she is well aware of your name, your brother’s name, your parent’s names, your dog’s name, what you had for breakfast, what your favorite shows are, and what your teacher’s names are — because you remind her every. single. day. She doesn’t care. Nor does the nice lady walking her dog by our house. Nor the cashier at the grocery store. Nor the pedestrian waiting to  cross the street while we sat at the red light this morning — put your window up by the way.

8. Yes, just as you claim, you are growing into a big boy and will one day, “grow into a dad.” But — contrary to what you may believe — we, your parents, are not simultaneously growing into your son and daughter. Life does not culminate in parents and children switching places — though some middle aged people who care for their geriatric parents would disagree, especially those who care for parents who are incontinent or require spoon feedings.

9. It is not acceptable to carry weapons in public. We could get political on this one and debate the second amendment, but we don’t have time. We need to get to Target before your brother needs his nap, and I’m not letting you bring your Raphael sais and your ninja sword.

10. Knock-knock jokes are inherently not very funny. And they’re especially not very funny when you’re screaming them at me from your spot on the toilet while you poop. If your audience is confused by the joke, it probably needs some revising. And the punchline to every joke is not “poo-poo pee paw.”

Bionic Mom: My Wish and Every Mom's Dream

Well, that’s it: Nate and Sam have officially turned against me. I’m the bad guy and they’re both super heroes. Depending on which t-shirts are clean and what weaponry he can get his hands on, Nate’s either Batman, Spiderman, Superman, or Raphael— the ninja turtle, not the renaissance artist. And naturally, Sam is his sidekick. Nate’s been arming him with golf clubs, baseball bats, and wooden spoons and addressing him as Robin or Michelangelo. And although it seems Sam would prefer to be Tommy Lee, the drummer from Motley Crüe, he’s also quick to yell “hi-ya!” and poke me with a drumstick. They’re a ferocious duo. I go to bed every night thinking: “I lost the battle today. I’m losing the war.” I have no weapons left, and aside from my husband, no reserve troops. The dog seems to be neutral in all this, allying himself with whoever has the best lunch. It’s getting old. Not to mention painful.

What you are about to read this week is a fantasy. Easy, my septuagenarian lawyer friend with bad knees. Not that kind of fantasy. This is what life would resemble if the almighty God was willing to share some of His/Her omnipotence with me. Or if Superman, a.k.a. Clark Kent, would share his speed and ability to fly. Or if Batman/Bruce Wayne would allow me to borrow Alfred’s technology and wealth and experimental weaponry. Or if Michelangelo, Donatello, Leonardo, and Raphael would go halvsies with their mutant ooze, or at least teach me some ninja skills. Teach me, Master Splinter! Make me bigger, faster, stronger than Nate/Sam! Or at least make me really cool so that they respect me. I’d even settle for having pizzas delivered to the storm drain in front of our house. Nate and Sam love pizza.

The Ability to Fly: If I could fly, I’d mostly take quick and frequent vacations — just for an hour or two during nap time, maybe when Nate’s at school. I could come back refreshed and tan and with a bit of a buzz going. Thank you, piña coladas. Like Lucille Bluth, my role model in all things maternal, I am a much better mother when I’ve had a few drinks. 

Invisibility: I could hide from them whenever I want! I would love to be able to eat my cereal in peace, without having stickers systematically adhered to my face. Or having to watch drumming tutorials on You Tube. It depresses me that I’m no longer surprised to find a plastic shovel digging around in my raisin bran — while I’m still eating. Sam’s reach is becoming more than a mild annoyance. I try to ward off his advances like he’s a hungry lion: by throwing raw meat at the floor in front of him, but it seems that nothing will satiate him!

X-ray Vision: I’m cheerfully imagining a world where I could peer into rooms before entering so I’d know what to expect. Are my kids in there? Do they look as needy as usual? If so, I’ll sneak upstairs and hide. 

Before rounding the corner, I could do some simple reconnaissance and determine whether I’m about to get whacked in the knee cap with a baseball bat. Or skewered with a foam sword. Sometimes my life reads like a best-selling thriller. And where are they hiding those pesky WMDs? Perhaps I could do some moonlighting for the Department of Defense, circa 2003.

And I’d be able to figure out the true nature of a scream or yelp without actually having to walk into the room. Is someone bleeding out? Is Sam drinking Lysol? Is there really a monster upstairs? Or are they just wrestling with steak knives again? X-ray vision would do lots to help ease my anxiety.

Fast: This super power would save lives, especially now that the weather is nice and we’ve been sitting out on the front porch after lunch or taking the dog for a walk. I generally don’t regulate them during this time. ”Go, be free, leave me alone!” And they do — or at least, Sam does. Nate, on the other hand, is a little more cautious, like Arnold from “The Magic School Bus.” He knows what bad things can happen out in the great big world: being kidnapped, stung by a rogue bumble bee, or shrunk down to travel on a bus through the human digestive system. Where does Ms. Frizzle come up with these schemes? Sam, though, is naive. Or stupid. He doesn’t realize that a car would crush his little body, that some people in the world are evil, and that the general public cannot be bought off by his signature smile and wink combination. In fact, I’m not even sure why that still works on me. Gosh, he’s cute. What an ass. 

Last week, as we strolled down the driveway, Nate and Wally and I turned right; Sam turned left, toward the very busy parkway only three houses away. Uh, Sam — hello? Do you have a death wish? Weekend plans? A girlfriend you’re meeting? A colleague? Cab fare? I’ve had to sprint after him dozens of times, and my hamstrings are not what they once were. Fortunately, neither is his sense of equilibrium, and I’m usually able to catch him. For now.  

I’d also save so much time in the grocery store. Already, I have to venture down every aisle at least twice in pursuit of Sam, though I probably burn a ton of calories that way. Perhaps I should start loading my cart with merchandise heavier than fruit snacks to really maximize my weight loss results. Yesterday, I found Sam lounging between the cases of bottled water and munching on cereal after abruptly abandoning another family that he had temporarily joined.  

And at the library, he’s discovered a mom-dodging shortcut: with one sweeping motion of his arm, he can clear the bottom shelf of books, thus creating more than enough space to crawl through to the next aisle. As I’m distracted, apologizing to the librarians and trying to hastily re-shelve the books according to my best understanding of the Dewey Decimal System, he’s already managed to scoot over about four aisles. A small part of me is proud — both of his craftiness and his agility— the rest of me is frustrated. And slightly embarrassed. I used to be fast! I used to be somebody, dammit! If only I had the speed of The Flash…

Super-Human Strength: Ok, I’ll admit that I’m already freakishly strong. But at the rate that Sam’s eating, I can no longer carry both Nate and Sam for more than about twelve steps. And even then, my arms usually give out and I have to let them tumble back to the ground. Fortunately, their giggling or crying — depending on what type of surface they’re dumped on to — usually drowns out the sound of my wheezing and gasping, so they’re not fully aware of how out of shape I actually am. My fiercest adversaries cannot know my weaknesses!

I often tell Nate: “I went to the gym this morning!” and then proceed to do no more than five perfect push-ups in full view. I do this every few hours throughout the day, but in reality it’s merely a bluff — like how Putin rides horses sans shirt. Fear me, Nate and Sam! Fear me! Just as Ukraine fears Russia! "You not say Ukraine weak!"

Invincibility: Oh, man — this would really be a game changer. Right now my only means of an invincibility shield is my cup of coffee in the morning. And that usually wears off before lunchtime. If I had a dime, instead of a bruise or welt, for every time I’ve been injured doing this “parenting” thing, I would be beyond wealthy. I could afford boarding school tuitions for at least three more kids and we could buy our very own RV for our empty-nest road trips instead of renting one. Or better, we could fly in our private jet! [Author’s Note: Assuming I’d also have the ability to fly, I still might opt for the private jet — especially with the guarantee of complementary drink service and a large TV for movies and Netflix.]

But back to the point: somehow as Nate and Sam are both playing with the swinging door that separates the dining room from the kitchen, my finger gets caught and bruised. Or last weekend, when Sam was “running” down the front sidewalk with scissors, and I’m the one to get injured, stubbing my toe as I chased him? Shouldn’t he be the one to pierce his little tummy or something, thus forever learning the lesson not to run with sharp objects? Or is that more of a kindergarten lesson? 

Just a few minutes ago, while brushing my teeth, I found that my nose was bleeding — is that from when Sam whacked me in the face with “Goodnight Moon” or from when Nate was practicing his ninja moves on me? I’m pretty sure the best sensei would cringe watching his kicks and thrusts. And have I mentioned that Sam went through a head butting phase? I can’t remember… 

And this uncertainty is unnerving. Do I have early onset Alzheimer’s? Have I already sustained too many blows to the head? Will I suffer the same fate as lifelong football players? If so, I wish I had also enjoyed the adrenaline rush of some of those tackles and sacks — instead I just feel a mother’s “love” — totally not worth it. Maybe I’m just senile now. Nate and Sam have really taken a toll on my cognitive ability and higher-order thinking. I try and read the New York Times every morning, and it’s getting to the point that I can’t even comprehend the words in the headlines anymore. If the word has more than two syllables, I’m lost. I have to sit with my laptop open to dictionary.com when we watch “Game of Thrones,” and it turns out most of those words are made up. There’s no such thing as a “white walker!” Or at least that’s what I tell my husband when he wakes from a nightmare. "There, there, white walkers aren't real. But Nate and Sam are!"

So, life is a battle and I’m losing — though I did manage a small victory this morning when I got the clothes into the washer before Sam climbed in. And added the detergent! And pressed “start!” But then he stumbled in about ten minutes later and pressed “pause,” and I didn’t even notice for at least a solid hour, at which point all sense of accomplishment and efficiency was destroyed. Two steps forward, one giant step back…

And I know lots of people who go from man-to-man defense to zone, reproducing beyond two children. At some point, you just have to shed yourself of all sentiment and emotion and run your house like a small army — a la Captain von Trapp or Frank Gilbreth. And that Miss Hannigan had some pretty innovative ideas. I’ve also always wanted to write something that linked to “Annie” — it’s just a good movie. Anyway, I’m going to require a consultation with WVU basketball coach Bob Huggins on how to effectively employ a full-court press before we move on to three kids. I must train! I must get bigger, faster, stronger — or I’m at least going to require many, many more piña coladas.  

The Anti-Mom's Handbook: Tips for Ruining Your Kid's Lives or At Least Preserving Your Own

As parents, we are constantly inundated with advice and research and studies about what is best for our kids and for ourselves. And a lot of it contradicts what our parents did or what grandparents did or the research that came out last Tuesday or the research that will surely come out next Tuesday. I do my very best to read as much of it as humanly possible! My brain is so over-saturated with this nonsense, that it’s genuinely overflowing. I can literally feel many of the essential pieces of information in my brain — like memories, life lessons, my husband’s first name, the first nineteen digits of pi — leaking out of my cortex and gushing out the front door, into the street and down into the sewer. So long, names of my elementary school classmates! I can’t even envision your faces anymore. I live in “the middle” now, so I’ll probably never see any of you again anyway. 

Ok, so maybe the first and last name of the kid I sat next to in second grade is no longer critical to my existence — but it was for a little while because until I met a new boyfriend in fifth grade, I was convinced my second grade lover and I would one day be united in marriage. I do want to keep other important and relevant information in my brain, however, such as how to put on pants — one leg at a time or two? I can’t remember!! — the location of my wallet, or whether my parents are still living. Not to mention, what if other newer facts and intelligence needs to be added and incorporated into my head? What if I find a really cool sushi place and have to recall how to get there in a jiffy? Or what if my parents, who are alive and well by the way, finally make the move to Florida? I’ll have to remember which airport to fly into when I go to visit them. And what about when I acquire a new boyfriend? I’ll have to be able to recall his name and his face and my alibi. 

So, I needed to condense much of this parenting advice and instruction into something accessible that requires less cerebral space. In fact, I threw a lot of it out — thanks, tequila. I replaced it, however, with practical advice that I’ve acquired myself, through my own parenting experience, and a little bit that I’ve gleaned through watching other parents I know. 

What you’re about to read may shock you. It may frighten you. It may cause you to call Child Protective Services on me. Not worried about them, though — we’ve worked out an “arrangement.” Below is my advice. Some is very concrete and some is more abstract that you may have to adapt to fit your own family. Take it, don’t take it, I don’t care. It works for me.

In defense of fruit snacks: We’ve covered this before, I know. Yes, they’re glorified candy, but they’re not messy. Servings are individually wrapped, they’re easy to transport anywhere, and kids love them. These little guys are like actual ammunition against temper tantrums. Many strangers in the grocery store or at the public library have unknowingly escaped Nate’s screams because of the sugar-induced trance and false sense of endorphins fruit snacks cause in his little body. At the first sign of whining, I’ve been known to whip them out of my pocket, and he’s practically shaking as he shoves them into his mouth. You’re welcome, Strangers. Cavities and diabetes, be damned!

The case for TV: World’s. best. babysitter. End of blog, end of history. Drop. mic. Plus — wait, I thought I said “drop mic” — can anyone disagree with the fact that Sesame Street is one of the funniest shows on television today? I mean, seriously, try to name one funnier! I enjoy watching this show, I truly do. I want to see what kind of dastardly deed Cookie Monster will try to pull off in his pursuit of more cookies! And then, I want to see how Maria will somehow, some way, persuade him to eat something healthy like a fun banana! Or some broccoli! And then, what clever quip will Oscar have for Big Bird? His grouchiness is contagious and admirable. Or will this morning finally be the morning that Bert and Ernie stop lying and get it on? And have you caught the latest escapades of Super Grover?? “He shows up!” Nate and Sam, if you guys can find a good SS marathon on PBS, we are officially setting up camp on the living room couch for the day! Fruit snacks for everyone!

Let your kids fight it out! Be it hand to hand combat, sword fights, pillow fights, food throwing contests, chest-bumping matches, or just loud, passionate verbal confrontations, ignoring these battles will save you so much work, energy, and angst! The kids will solve their own problems — it’s an important life skill. Time-saving tip: do NOT let it get to the point that an emergency room visit becomes necessary. This will only cause more angst, more money, and probably some raised eyebrows from CPS. Not worth it. (Side note: if you can run a successful gambling book around your kids’ clashes, this can easily offset the cost of the ER visits and might even net you a nice little profit. Perhaps even enough to fund your empty nest road trips!)

The case for sharing your morning coffee with your little ones: I’m not saying you brew another whole pot for the kids — unless you have somewhere else to take them, like school, daycare, Grandma’s, etc. — but what’s the harm in letting them have a few sips or cups? Sure, the energy high they’ll inevitably experience will be tough to compete with, but caffeine is a mood enhancer! Just imagine…no more battles over what to wear: “It’s all good, Mom! Whatever you pick out will surely be delightful,” your child calls back to you as he lifts the couch with one arm, vacuuming underneath it with the other. Maybe they’ll clean out the garage for you, organize your shoe closet — no, your other shoe closet!, or finally fix that broken microwave! Do you see the benefits yet? The point is, you never really appreciate what your child is capable of until you caffeinate him/her and passive-aggressively mention some tasks around the house that you’ve been meaning to get done. Doggonit, maybe he’ll even do something really original like pick up his Legos that he stumbles on every time he runs to the kitchen to ask you something critical, like “Mom, have you seen the Dora sticker I got at the dentist [four and a half months ago]?”

Not doing laundry: My mom tried this. She called it: teaching us “life skills” or “chores” or some BS like that. I think it was because she was working full-time, juggling four different lacrosse and basketball schedules, and we were all in middle school or high school, thus fully competent. Anyway, it worked for her. She used to slyly mix her laundry into our loads. I can recall pulling what I had assumed was my youngest brother’s clothes out of the dryer and musing, “Huh. Phrank’s squeezing into a size 4 nowadays. Good for him.” My dad, on the other hand, was shit out of luck. No one did his laundry.

Let them roam free: Now that the weather’s nice, Sam has a habit of trying to escape from our house. I’m all for this! Maybe as he stumbles out the front door (Thanks for unlocking it for him, Nate. Again. Everything about this is safe.) and trips down the front step, he’ll find an affordable apartment. And a job. And a girlfriend.  Why Sam doesn’t already have one is beyond me. Perhaps it’s his table manners. But he is so freakin cute. I’d date him myself if it wasn’t so weird — I already have enough boyfriends, holidays are getting tricky. 

Anyway, this notion of letting your kids roam free really comes in handy at the grocery store. And shopping with kids is less than ideal. Typically, I like to go early in the morning on my way home from the gym or something, but it can also be extremely rewarding to go mid-morning, when the store is less than crowded, populated mostly with elderly people and the fire-fighters, who are the Michael Phelps of emergency service personnel. They eat and they eat well and they eat a lot. They’re at the store every day, buying slabs of ribs, whole legs of lamb, fresh fruits and vegetables and all other kinds of things that make my mouth water. I guess they’ve earned those calories, saving lives, rescuing cats from trees, and not unlocking car doors of stay at home moms who’ve accidentally locked their kids in their cars upon arriving home from Trader Joe’s. Oops. 

But one side note on the geriatrics — because that’s what gets me up in the morning: the prospect of someday being as cool as these cats. If strolling through the grocery store during geriatric hour doesn’t make you pee your pants with glee, then you have no soul. No place to go, just thrilled to still be breathing. Or, as is sometimes the case, unapologetically bitter and angry and bitchy. Whatever, good for them, they’ve earned that right. Gotta respect it. And the happier ones are happy to see you and your babies, no matter how ugly or how misshapen or disheveled or dirty, your kids are cute to them and they’re happy to tell you about it.

Just the other day, Sam and I were at the grocery store and since he gets so itchy to get out and roam, I let him. I was focused — surely I can pick out something for dinner while not losing a toddler. And right on cue, an elderly woman pushing her little shopping cart with all her might passed by me and said sweetly, “Aw, so adorable!” Assuming she was addressing me, I smiled bashfully and said ‘thank you,’ thus losing sight of my dual missions. Poop on a stick, where the heck did Sam get to?   

Behind the meat counter — how did that happen? As the butcher wrapped him up in white paper, slapped a price sticker on him, and handed him back over the counter, two sultry pork chops caught my eye. Dinner! We were saved! Thanks, Sam.  

Encouraging them to follow their dreams: This one isn’t so counterintuitive. In fact, it’s so common, it actually sounds really cliche and cheesy. Sorry about that. Your parents probably even did this one. Unless they grew up in the Depression and just wanted you to get a nice, stable job in the factory or at the post office. Otherwise, they were probably spouting lots of nonsensical jargon, like “Shoot for the stars!” “Dream big!” “You can do anything if you set your mind to it!” This is important, and you really need to get started on this one early. Nate’s three already. Even he senses his body and mind declining. Everything in his world is labeled as “before I was three” and “after I was three.” I guess this is his version of a mid-life crisis, and as everyone knows, with a mid-life crisis comes a bucket list. Currently, he has aspirations to cover his entire Lightning McQueen placemat in Batman stickers, learn to speak “minion,” and finally fulfill that lifelong dream of visiting Gru. He made a lot of headway on the first goal this morning while his bowl of frosted mini-wheats. It’s now or never, Nate! Clock’s ticking!

Sam, on the other hand, is only fourteen months. We have time. His dream, apparently, is to become the greatest drummer in the world! The world! Tighe and I have no musical talent at all, and from what I’m hearing, Sam doesn’t either, but we’re starting early and he has very strong work ethic, so I think he’ll be very successful. He has no less than two sets of drum sticks around the house, not to mention a variety of sticks from outside, pens swiped from the bank, and spindles that he’s pried out of the kitchen island. He carries these everywhere, even up to his crib at bedtime. Like George Michael Bluth, he is the human metronome, toddling around the house, tapping his drumsticks together. It’s actually rather ominous and, depending on the look on his face, kind of threatening — like a primitive call to battle. Of course, I can easily open my ears and know where he is at all times. He’s not sneaking up on any body! That’s an added bonus around here because if I don’t close the refrigerator fast enough, the next thing I know he’s climbed inside to dig around for yogurts and flood the kitchen floor with milk. Same concept with the dishwasher: unless I can hear him sidling in (another Seinfeld reference), beating his drumsticks, he’ll quickly perch himself on top of the door, re-arranging all the plates and pulling out the knives to lay in wait for Nate. Crafty little guy.   

Check your cell phone while hanging with your kids/husband. Obsessively: Some people are against this, I know. They rail against so-called “distracted” parenting, claiming that you can’t be “mindful” or “fully present” to your child when your phone is in front of your face all the time. But I’m going to have to go ahead and disagree there. Phones are crucial to surviving  You never know when you’ll get a text inviting you to do something better. And you need to stay apprised of sports news and scores, so that you can call your bookie prepared to make well-informed, profit-earning decisions. After all, somebody has to pay these kids’ tuitions. And let’s not forget about the all important camera function with which every phone — even my grandparents’ — is now equipped. What if your kid does something incredible, like decline dessert, ride a two-wheeler or perform a twenty-five minute drum solo, and you don’t have a phone to document it? Will your spouse and friends and local news crew believe you? I highly doubt it, especially if it was something by The Who. And Amber alerts??! Severe weather alerts??! As I mentioned, I live in “the middle” now — I need to know when a twister is coming. I’ll want to film it. Better keep that phone handy.

So, that’s my advice. That’s all I know. If you have questions about specific scenarios regarding your own children, I’m happy to meddle in your lives for a small fee — just trying to finance my kids’ educations here. Drum lessons are pricey -- though I’d also take payment in the form of fruit snacks.  

Free Range Parenting

Perhaps it’s because they’re cute and perhaps it’s because I fear the long-reaching arm of the government, but lately I find myself wanting to preserve the lives of Nate and Sam. Occasionally, I even augment their little existences with some learning. Nate can recognize and identify all his colors and shapes — even pentagons and octagons! He knows all his letters and numbers through 20, some basic traffic laws, where the free cheese samples are located in the grocery store, how to calculate standard deviations, and some simple, practical sight words, like Mom, Dad, Sam, and Machiavellianism. 

Meanwhile Sam knows how to duck when he hears Nate shriek…and…uh…oh yeah, the contents of every low cabinet in our kitchen. You need a cutting board? Cookie sheet? Sam can show you! Need the pump for our physio ball? Sam’s your guy. I also think he’s seen a book before, so there’s hope that he might someday be learned. 

So, they’re both pretty smart young bucks, thanks to me, and most importantly, they’re alive. Still! Nate just celebrated his three year anniversary and Sam, almost fourteen months. I feel like we all deserve some sobriety chips from AA. 

Which brings me to free-range parenting, a hands-off approach to parenting, the antithesis to helicopter parenting. The idea is that by encouraging a child’s independence, the child will then develop an increased sense of self-confidence, growing to trust in his/her own instincts and experiences and judgment. Thus, a child becomes more and more self-sufficient and consequently, happier. Plus, self-sufficient. Did I mention self-sufficient? I won’t bore you with persuasive arguments with their provocative facts and research — this isn’t climate change, just how to best raise the next generation.

Personally, I love it. When I was pregnant with Nate, everyone insisted that expectant mothers have a “birth plan.” This was mine! Hands-off! I gave you nine months, now you’re on your own, baby!

In fact, I still have plans to stuff their little backpacks with graham crackers, juice boxes, and clean socks and drop them off a few towns over and tell them to call me when they’re eighteen, or better, when they’ve finished the renovations on their in-law suites. But I just remembered that juice boxes are empty calories that lack the nutritional value and even the fiber content of actual fruit. So, bad idea, Erin. Plus, thanks to a fruit snack addiction when he was two, Nate has terrible credit. There’s no way he could get a lease on an apartment or a car. You know what they say: takes money to make money! 

And there might be a criminal record there, too, not sure. Nate was a pretty desperate little guy when it came to those gelatinous little gummies shaped like dinosaurs and sharks and minions and superheroes and other really cool things that kids can’t turn away from. He would do anything for those morsels, especially the red ones. He’s three, who cares about the consequences? I mean, can you blame him? They’re delicious. 

Ok, let’s think. I need to keep them alive…they have sketchy backgrounds and amateurish resumes…juice boxes have questionable nutritional value...the government is scary, patriarchal, and quick to arrest and charge moms and dads with “unsubstantiated child neglect”… Hmm…re-evaluating life decisions here...

Alright, I might have to institute my back-up plan. Poop! We were almost empty-nesters, Tighe! It’s been our dream for so long now. We were going to do an RV tour of the SEC football programs! I had already fast-forwarded my life to spying on young co-eds and bloated alumni boosters, separated by campus police and tailgating tents, stuffing our faces with pulled pork, po’ boy sandwiches and other Southern delicacies while sporting our seersucker suits with matching bow ties. Also, I want to meet Lee Corso before he kicks the bucket! I’m afraid my days to hold up my Home Depot sponsored College Game Day sign are numbered. No so fast, my friends!

Ok, we’ll compromise. We’ll use some common sense (“What’s that, Mom?” “You’ll find out later, Nate, I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”) and find a balance between being really, really ridiculously (good-looking?) hands-off and way too hands-on. I will give them both freedom and responsibility and be ever-readying them for it. I’m preparing Nate and Sam for the world, not the world for Nate and Sam! 

I have a feeling the latter is impossible anyway. 

And so, while I’ll continue to let both boys live in our house, I’ll not be doing their homework for them. Though maybe I’ll photocopy some pages from their textbooks when they’re in bed just to make sure I still got it. I want to factor polynomials! I want to write a five paragraph essay about why Sam Adams was so adamant that the tea not be unloaded into the Boston Harbor!  

While I’ll continue to provide food and climate-appropriate apparel for him, I’ll not be working on his science fair projects. If I decide that I want to investigate how a hovercraft works, whether or not we can teach Wally to use a yo-yo — I suspect we can! — or how many radishes Sam can eat before he throws up, I’ll have to do it on my own time, with my own radishes, and submit it to my own 6th grade science teacher. Last I heard, she was still at my old middle school, still flirting with the unsightly male science teachers and finding excuses to show Kevin Costner movies to her students. 

And while I’ll sign them up for drum lessons and sports and other endeavors when they want to, I won’t intervene in those activities. If one of them gets cut from a team or isn’t getting the playing time he wants, I’ll be happy to have the “it’s because you suck” conversation with him, rather than heading to the school administration and threatening to pull my child from enrollment and demanding that they refund our tuition check. 

I’ll probably refrain from having them hitchhike back east to visit their grandparents just yet — at least until they hit double digits, or Sam’s able to walk more than fifteen feet without toppling over — but I will strongly encourage them to get a job and spend their own damn money at the store.  

I’ll not be cleaning out my sons’ school lockers. Ever. And if, by some unfortunate chance, I see the inside of his locker or backpack at that age and it resembles an overflowing cornucopia of papers, dirty gym socks, and fruit snack wrappers, that’ll be reason to send him to boarding school or a military academy! 

But I’m thinking this won’t be a problem with Nate. He’s pretty specific when it comes to the organization of his belongings: toys and food. He lines up his favorite toys-du-jour — usually some Batmans, minions, monkeys, very carefully chosen matchbox cars, and his latest Lego productions — on his window sill at night as he goes to bed and brings them all down in the morning to line them up so they can watch him eat breakfast. When he has to take a bathroom break while he’s playing, he brings them into the powder room with him and lines them up along the sink so they can watch him. Creepy, I know. And we’ve almost had some soiled underwear on multiple occasions because he struggles to gather them all in time. He does his pee dance, his thighs pinched together, one hand adjusting his pants, while his other hand is reaching down on the floor to grab as many figures from his inner circle as he can. It’s really excruciating to watch.

And for about a minute this morning, I thought Sam had a little clean-freak in him, too. He was furiously wiping the Little Tikes chair in the dining room, like a little white OJ Simpson scrubbing the blood out of his Ford Bronco. Then I looked closer and realized that he actually had a long train of snot coming down from his little pink nostril. He was patiently waiting for it to land on the chair, and then taking some time to really smear it into the plastic. I don’t know that I’d describe that behavior as “conscientious” or “meticulous,” though. He might need a little more intervention. I see a long future of being double-booked for parent-teacher conferences with Sam. You know, the special time slots that teachers reserve for parents with whom they need to discuss some sensitive topics. Usually, they’re scheduled for mid-morning, after the caffeine has kicked in for both parties, when problem-solving skills are turned on, and we’re all our most amiable selves — but well before we risk running into the cherished lunch hour.

So, we’ll take our time with the free-range thing, ever pushing them toward self-sufficiency, but within reason. Our goal: self-confident, independent children, all in one piece until the age of eighteen. Maybe we’ll have to scrap our SEC road trip plans — football will probably be extinct by then — but at least I can factor polynomials and eat my fruit snacks in peace!

March Madness, Part Deux

       So as it turns out, Sam can play basketball. He spent solid minutes playing basketball in the basement the other day — not hours, of course, because he also had so squeeze in a long nap, several meals and snacks, and tag along with Nate and me to the grocery store. This was the very same basement that played host to my ill-fated game with Nate just a few weeks before. And maybe it’s just because his actions took place on St. Patrick’s Day, a day when Sam was wearing his solid green Nike tracksuit, and therefore resembled Larry Bird, but I couldn’t help concluding that this kid is good. This is our athlete. 

Sam’s focus and persistence that day surpassed that of many adults I know. Watching him play, or attempt to play, basketball, I was inspired. Like a young Rudy Ruetigger, he fell, stumbled, tripped, bumbled, wobbled, shuffled, toppled…running out of synonyms here… but you get the picture. And each time, he struggled to get back up, or find the basketball — which was actually a Minnie Mouse playground ball — or lift the basketball, or thrust the ball up into the bottom of the net, he showed just as much character as Sean Astin did in that wonderfully awesome football movie.

At several points towards the beginning of the learning process, he tried to lift the ball up off the ground, but his leg strength or coordination just wasn’t there yet, so he found himself stuck in a down-dog position over top of the ball. He looks like a narcoleptic yogi in the pictures I managed to take on my phone. [Yes, I documented most of this process, but I will not be posting any of those pictures here because I don’t want pictures of Nate and Sam on the internet — and not for the reasons you might think; I just don’t want to incriminate them at such an early age. If the government needs pictures of these two, they can do their own legwork to obtain them.] 

Sometimes Sam got off a clean “shot” on the basket, though as he lunged forward with the ball, he’d usually collapse; other times he never even got to that point, and the ball would slip from his little fingers before he could shoot. Or he’d lose his balance as soon as he picked up the ball, toppling to the carpet as the ball slowly rolled away from him and he’d have to start all over.

And you may be asking yourself, “what’s the meaning of this blog?” Or, “what’s the weather supposed to be for tomorrow?” Or, “what’s the meaning of life?” Or, “is there a God?” And, “does He love me?” Well, I can’t answer those questions for you, but I can tell you what Nate was doing during Sam’s basketball game, which is what I was hoping you were going to inquire about. While Sam worked on his skills, strengthened his quads and hamstrings, wiped the sweat off his toiled brow, and ignored the aches and pains as he strove for greatness, Nate played with his zoo animals. His two giraffes mated and allegedly their relations yielded a baby zebra. 

Be forewarned, I’ve seen nothing to back up this claim. When I asked him to describe his reproductive procedures and document any type of DNA proof, he was unable to do so. Actually, the terms “hereditary material” and “double helix” rendered him speechless, which is a real rarity in his little life. I proceeded to show him a Punnett square — as much as I could recall from my 6th grade science class, which isn’t much because my teacher had an infatuation with the late Kevin Costner (wait, he's alive?), so we watched a lot of “Dances With Wolves” and “Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" to learn…um…about the importance of personal hygiene (I think?) — thus demonstrating that zebra offspring is highly unlikely in this situation. Anyway, then Batman came and released all of the animals from their cages until they were mostly eaten by the three lions. So I guess all evidence supporting the existence of a zebra spawned from two giraffes has been destroyed. What a shame. And now I’ll move all of my parental eggs from Nate’s acclaimed scientific discovery basket to Sam’s athletic prowess basket. Go Sam, go!

It doesn’t actually matter to me that Sam failed to put the ball in the basket. And that he failed again. And that he failed yet again. In fact, I don’t think he made a single basket the entire day, even after I lowered the net as low as it could possibly go, at about the level of his forehead. The successes are in the fact that he kept going. He was genuinely mad when I stopped him to feed him lunch. This kid is independent. This kid has a work ethic. He’s industrious. He doesn’t take “no” for an answer. When the laws of physics and anatomy deny him his goals, he works even harder to reach them. He overcomes adversity and shoots for the stars. He also just crapped in his pants.

Nate, meanwhile, in the same window of time, moved from zoo animals to Batman to matchbox cars to soccer to a puzzle to hockey… and the list goes on. He was like a Tazmanian devil in a toy store. Or Cosmo Kramer in one of my favorite Seinfeld openings ever, in which Jerry leaves him alone in his apartment for the afternoon, and through a montage, the audience sees Kramer host a party, re-arrange all the furniture, ride a bicycle, seemingly start a fire in the bedroom, and make other various messes and mayhem. When Jerry returns, Kramer is sleeping serenely on the couch with the apartment perfectly restored to its prior harmonious order, calm and intact, yet Jerry is incensed that he didn’t put his glass on a coaster. My point is that Nate hasn’t quite yet developed the same focus that Sam has. And apparently, neither have I based on the arc of this paragraph. Forgive me, but Seinfeld is just a great show and needs to be referenced whenever appropriate. And even when not appropriate.

I don’t want to compare Nate and Sam — that wouldn’t be fair at all — so I’ll let the numbers do it. Below are some advanced metrics that highlight some of the daily tasks, endeavors, schemes, and accomplishments between the two young boys. Most statistics below are per day. Some are estimates, and others, such as “Crumbs Dropped” and “Miles Travelled” are averages that have been calculated over a month-long period. Enjoy!

Nate

Sam

Age

3 years, 1 month

1 year, 1 month, 17 days

Weight

31 lbs

23 lbs

Height

37.5 inches

30 inches 

Breakfast of Champions

3 or 4 Quaker Oatmeal Squares (they’re bite-size) 

2 bites of Kellogg’s Nutrigrain bar (strawberry only)

1 waffle with slap of butter and 1/2 cup of maple syrup

1/2 banana

1 clementine

1 cinnamon raisin bagel

1 Kellogg’s Nutrigrain bar (flavor does not matter)

1/2 box Honey Nut Cheerios

The rest of Nate’s breakfast

Time Spent Brushing Teeth

9 seconds

9 minutes

Crumbs Dropped to Wally

1,236,845

9-10 (Not so much crumbs as large chunks of food, as in half of a sandwich)

Kisses to Wally

Zero (0)

2-3 full on make out sessions

Changes of Clothes per Day

1 (but the shirt, shoes, socks, and sometimes pants are usually removed at lunch time because he likes to avoid getting peanut butter on them)

At least 4 (Greek yogurt, peanut butter and maple syrup stick to everything)

Miles Travelled in a Day 

5-6 (this number is higher on days when he “runs” errands or burns off a sugar high by sprinting from room to room on the first floor, yelling “hi, Mom!” each time he passes me) 

16,567 (crawled/stumbled; lately he walks like a gunfighter at High Noon)

Minutes Spent in Time Out

Immeasurable (generally, 3 minutes per infraction or each time Sam gets a new bruise) 

N/A (too cute)

Number of Toys Played With

75,678

4 (drumsticks, my phone, Wally, anything that Nate covets)

Number of Valuables Tossed into Kitchen Trash Can 

1 or 2 (usually in the spirit of revenge: Mom puts me in time out, I trash her laptop) 

4-6 (usually in the spirit of curiosity, exploration, understanding cause/effect: cell phone in trashcan makes Mom mad)

Number of Books Read

5-6

1 (tough for him to sit still, hence he’s still illiterate)

Number of Books Ripped

0

5-6 (library books only, of course)

Number of “Guys”

At the moment, 13: Monkey, Little Monkey; Dave, Tim/Kevin (2 names?), Stuart, Jerry (all Minions), Batman, Lego Batman, Joker, Lego Joker, Lego Nate, Lego Sam, Lego Wally — These “guys” are carted up and down the stairs each morning, when he goes up for his “rest” hour and at night for bedtime. Because he can’t carry all of his guys, he has a backpack and bucket to assist him.)

4 (the stuffed animals in his crib that he makes out with as he’s placed in his bed for nap/bedtime)

Kitchen Cabinets Emptied

1 (But he empties it at least 3 times a day, usually when I’m in the kitchen trying to make a meal, thus causing me to trip and slip, which is actually kind of nice because I’d hate to get complacent in life — overcoming challenges makes me better.)

1 (The same cabinet that Nate empties, but he politely waits until Nate is finished with the cabinet and I’ve put everything back. When they join forces and empty it together, it’s almost heartwarming. Ah, brothers.)

March Madness

Happy March, sports fans! — and hello, everyone else. As always, March brings us the NCAA basketball tournament, the start of baseball season, some college lacrosse, and leads us into the Masters. Isn’t it nice to have a little routine and normalcy as the rest of the world seems to be in shambles? 

Gosh, how old am I? When did I turn into my grandfather? 

Anyway, in celebration of spring sports (and warm weather!), I would like to treat you to the “play-by-play” — and that’s being generous — of a basketball game I recently played with Nate. Keep in mind we have a small basement and an even smaller attention span. Also, keep in mind that I am a far better athlete than Nate is. Just thought I should remind people.  

So, read this with the same enthusiasm that Bill Raftery and Gus Johnson would. After all, potential NBA careers and a national title are on the line! Or at least my sanity is. Enjoy!

Gus Johnson: Here we are down in the basement with Nate and Erin as they attempt to play basketball together. A lot of excitement in the air! This should be a great game! 

Bill Raftery: That’s right, Bill! Sam’s asleep, so Nate has at least two solid hours of his mom’s undivided attention — definitely more than enough time for a mother-son basketball game with a three year-old. No time-outs! No time-outs here!

GJ: This should be absolutely painful for Erin! 

BR: Putting the madness back in March, Bill!

GJ: Yep, you’re right. First big challenge of the game: Nate has to find the ball!

BR: Not sure why he doesn’t see it. Erin’s giving pretty detailed directions.

Erin: Right there, Nate….on the floor…next to the green bucket.

Nate: Where, Mom?

Erin: Right there, Nate….on the floor…next to the green bucket.

Nate: Where?

Erin: Right there. On the floor. Next to the green bucket.

BR: Bill, that ball is the size of a jack-o-latern! That boy might need to get his eyes checked. 

GJ: Look at him, circling around, searching up in the sky! How could he possibly think a basketball could be suspended in the air like that? The officials may have to call this one a forfeit. 

BR: The win would go to Mom!

GJ: Oh, no. I don’t think she ever wins.

BR: Well, she’s certainly not winning this battle.

Erin: See the green bucket? Look next to it….on the floor. The floor is  down. Look down.

BR: Bill, I can actually see her sanity slipping away. 

GJ: She’s not getting any smarter, that’s for sure. I hear she used to be literate, though. 

Nate: I found it! Here it is, Mom!

Erin: I know. 

BR: Well, that took him over two minutes to locate that ball, Bill.

GJ: Don’t I know it, Gus. Painful for the fans to watch, really. 

BR: You know, I bet Mom could have unloaded the dishwasher in that time. Or maybe even started to fold that load of laundry that sits in the dryer.

GJ: [chuckling] Oh, I’m sure that thought crossed her mind. Several times. But you know what they say.

BR: What’s that, Bill?

GJ: Good moms have dirty laundry, sticky floors, and happy kids.

BR: Well, then these kids must be partying like it’s 1999 on a pretty regular basis — did you see the size of that blue stain on the carpet? What was that? And the dog hair all over the sofa? Repulsive.

GJ: I was just wondering why there were smoothie stains on the steps up to the second floor.

BJ: Well, at least she has their dinners planned out for the next nine days.

GJ: Gus, if we’re being honest, that actually makes me a bit sad.

BR: Priorities, Bill, priorities! Kids gotta eat.

GJ: And here we are with the tip! The game is finally under way!

BR: Not sure why he had to sort those matchbox cars just now. I mean, what’s the point of putting all those red ones into that shoe box?

GJ: Ah, pre-game rituals, Gus. Must be superstitious. First possession of the game goes to Nate! Whoops! — and he immediately loses it as he places the ball on the floor next to his wooden train puzzle. 

Nate: Look, Mom!  A cricket! What’s he saying to me?

Erin: It’s a cricket. He’s not saying anything. 

Nate: Yeah, but what’s he saying to me?

Erin: Ok, fine. He’s saying, “Oh my gosh, Nate! Please don’t kill me!” 

Nate: [excessively dramatic and sympathetic] Awww. He’s so little. I love  him. And I love my monkey. And I love Sam. And Tighe. And Wally.  And you, Mom! You’re so pretty.

GJ: And they’re hugging! You don’t often see opposing players embracing during a game, Gus.

BR: Nope, you don’t, Bill! In fact, the officials seem to be debating whether to call a foul there.

GJ: Can we get a rule check? This is a lot of contact!

Nate: Mom! Let’s be minions!

BR: Are minions eligible to play according to NCAA regulations, Bill?

Nate: Mom, where’s my water? I need a snack now.

BR: A snack! That’s tremendous — this kid is incredible! It’s half time! Let’s talk about what each team needs to do to win in the second half.

GJ: Well, Nate should actually maintain possession of the ball. Maybe take a few shots. He’s shooting zero for zero at the moment, Bill. And Erin certainly has the height advantage, even on her knees.

BR: Yes, she’s just been reaching up and dunking with relative ease — nothing but nylon! And rebounding has been no problem for her — there’s really no defense at all, Gus.

GJ: Alright, let’s get back to it! Here comes Nate, the little guy! Like he’s been here before!

BR: He’s gonna need to foul here to try and take the lead! For all the marbles!

GJ: Nope, he’s trying on football helmets in the corner, Bill!

BR: Oh, football helmets! This is one tough kid!

GJ: Do you hear what I hear, Bill? A baby crying!

BR: Whoa! Uh-oh, oh no! Sam’s awake!

GJ: And that can only mean one thing — lunchtime! Tremendous!

BR: Whoa! Lunch time! Yes! Onions! Double order!

GJ: Actually, I think they’re having peanut butter, Bill. And baby carrots! And my scouting report says Sam loves strawberries. 

BR: Yes! Strawberries! The little guy! Knocking ‘em down big time!

GJ: Nate’s downing the apple slices now like he really wants it! What a shot! He’s gonna do it himself!

BR: Look out these crackers! All on his own! Look at the contesting! 

GJ: Rise and fires off the top of the plate, NO!

BR: Oh, baby!

GJ: Erin, in the corner, folding that basket of clean clothes!

BR: Get the lingerie off the deck! Whew — explosive!

GJ: Eleven to go…oh, no! Will she bring out some shamrock cookies? Oh, baby, that’ll do it!

BR: Whoa! Wow! What a lunch!

GJ: She screens, she moves, I’ve never seen anything like it!

BR: Unbelievable! Send it in, Jerome!

And it’s nap time. Athletes? Not so much. Not yet, anyway. But we’re all extraordinary eaters. I’d like to thank the selection committee for noticing. Happy March!

True Confessional: Legos

...Or Evidence that I Need More Cognitive Stimulation

Shh! Lean in close. I have a secret to tell you. I’m actually kind of embarrassed about this, so either stop reading now if you’re prone to making fun of me or swear yourself to secrecy — come on, make it a pinky swear! And under no circumstances, should you suggest to anyone that he/she read this Peanut Butter Urinal nonsense this week!

Ok, ready? I love Legos. Love ‘em! We have a shitload of Legos and seem to accumulate more every birthday or gift-giving holiday — Isn’t Arbor Day coming up soon? Hint, hint, hint to all Nate and Sam’s childless aunts and uncles with nothing else to spend their hard earned money on: buy Legos!

Sometimes, I even find some in a catalogue and pretend that Nate really wants them. “Oh yeah, Ruthie, he’s been talking about these Dusty Legos for months now. Wish somebody loved him enough to buy them for him…Think what these Legos would do for his self-esteem. And his fine motor skills. And his spatial awareness. And his active working memory. And his mom — I mean…Sam…would like them, too.”

Anyway, we’ve got a pretty sick stash of Legos and it’s getting harder and harder to share them with Nate. Sometimes I’m building a pretty dope tower, with alternating shades of blue and one of those new semi-circles on the top and the bottom, so it looks kinda like an elongated oval — and I like to add in some of the lime green pieces because they’re awesome. And then, Nate’s all like, “Hey Mom, can I please use that purple Lego?”

And I think to myself: What?! Are you serious? Can you NOT see that that purple piece will be the crowning jewel of this tower?

Or one time, when I was using every single lego we own — or at least the ones not hidden way underneath the sofa or under Nate’s pillow (hoarder!) — to make one giant Lego car, and Nate suddenly comes out of nowhere and demands that I give him some of the pieces. 

“Mom, can you please share some of those with me? I want to try and make a car.”

“Uh..no. It’s nap time.”

“But my minion watch says eight-one-one-one degrees.”

“Yep, that’s nap time.”

Because during nap time, I can do whatever. I. want. I can build all kinds of epic towers in a rainbow color pattern. I can make a breath-taking mansion for the little Lego people: two guys — not that there’s anything wrong with that — whom Nate has dubbed Big Nate and Little Nate. I can finally test whether or not it’s possible to construct a bridge between the sofas, as I’ve long suspected it is, with the capacity to support Sam’s body weight. 

These are my nap time goals. And yet, somehow, I never get around to these tasks. I remember that I have to clean the kitchen floor, fold some laundry, write this babbling blog, or watch something on The Food Network. In reality, I just lose my steam. In other words, the coffee wears off.

Sometimes we work together. You know, because we’re trying to teach teamwork and sharing and other B.S. social skills. This is often painful. For both of us.

“Should we fix the roof, Nate? It looks kinda hodge-podgy. Like Will Smith’s parachute pants.”

“No, Mom, it’s perfect.” And because I know the dangers of raising a child to be a perfectionist and because it was far from perfect, I knock it all down and make him start again.

Or other times I work more discreetly. As any Lego enthusiast knows, roofs are a tricky business. You have to use two hands and you have to have very well-developed fine motor skills, not to mention some knowledge of the basic laws of physics, such as gravity. It’s a biggie, but not always obvious to your average three year-old. So I often find myself covertly fixing his blunders.

I have to distract him by demolishing over one of his smaller towers behind him. “Oh no, Nate! You’ll have to fix that!” Meanwhile, I’m scrambling to reassemble the roof as quickly as possible, before he sees, in a fashion that’s more aesthetically pleasing. It needs to be able to bear the weight of the chimney and have a symmetrical roofline. 

My Lego fetish doesn’t even let up once I leave the house. About once a week, Nate and Sam and I trek over to the public library to pick up some new books. They have a great children’s section with little computers, tablets loaded with games designed for literacy, puppets, wooden puzzles, and LEGOS! Pretty sweet ones, too. Dinosaur Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine Legos, and unique shapes and designs that I’ve never seen elsewhere. In other words, they’re Legos that I need.

As Nate searches for books or diligently works on a puzzle and Sam clambers up on top of the card catalogue computers alternately holding down the space bar and “F” key, I dig through the Lego bins. With every new piece I pick up, I imagine how I could incorporate it into my mental Lego-scape. The one I’m planning on engineering during nap time this afternoon.

If I can just slip some into my bag while the librarian’s not looking — poop, why is she always looking at me?! Maybe she’s wondering whose kids those are wrestling around under that table. Oh, they’re mine. Perfect! They’re helping to distract her! Way to go, Nate and Sam! Uh-oh, that’s a really tight headlock — I should go.

Oh, well I can dream…bigger house…new puppy…third child…boarding schools…world peace…new Legos!

We — er, Nate —  also loves jigsaw puzzles. And crosswords. And Ken-kens. And clothes from Athleta and Lululemon. And a new microwave. In other nerd-related news, my birthday is April 21st. 

"Take Me to Church"

…said no kid ever. Especially not Nate and Sam. Ok, except earlier today when Nate started singing the Hozier song, “Take Me to Church." This is actually a good sign, too, because I’ve been worrying about his limited vocabulary and/or his hearing. His lyrics to “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” are something about a female protagonist going down the hill and fighting bad guys. I know sometimes different pre-schools, daycares, story times, or whatever have varying versions of the same song, but I can’t imagine one where a good ol’ country girl drawn by six white horses is suddenly fighting ninjas and Joker from the Batman movies.

But anyway, back to the idea of church. I’ve been parenting now for three years (and counting!), so I’m obviously an expert on…lemme think…everything. I’ve talked to lots of other moms, dads, and grandparents, and I’ve never heard anyone say that they enjoy taking their kids to church. And if they do say that, they’re delusional, lying, or high. And delusional and lying are the most likely choices there because it’s difficult to rush around on a Sunday getting yourself and your kids fed and dressed in time to go worship God, let alone squeezing in time to do some recreational drugs. I mean, I’m just trying to grab a cup of coffee, and that’s hard enough. Actually, that action is becoming increasingly tricky because Sam’s suddenly a bit of a java fiend. We’re literally fighting back and forth over the mug as I try not to let it spill, thus simultaneously scalding the baby and wasting my liquid gold. 

But I’m digressing on my digressions.

Or am I? 

Perhaps this is a re-creation of the Old Testament story in 1 Kings, chapter 3, verses 24 through 26, in which two women are fighting over custody of a baby: “The king said, ‘Get me a sword.’ So they brought a sword before the king. The king said, ‘Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one and half to the other.’ Then the woman whose child was the living one spoke to the king, for she was deeply stirred over her son and said, ‘Oh, my lord, give her the living child, and by no means kill him.’ But the other said, ‘He shall be neither mine nor yours; divide him!’”

Maybe the coffee is like the child. The true owner of the coffee, the one who should consume it, is the one who is willing to preserve its life and give it up.

Eh, maybe not. Maybe I should just drink it. Sorry, Sam.

Ok, finally, back to sitting in church with little kids — because, you know, that’s what people really want to read about. That’s why there are so many best-selling novels about such a concept. Here’s some advice Dan Brown, throw some misbehaving toddlers into your medieval chapels — guaranteed page turner every time. Can’t wait for the major motion picture.

Well, we’ve tried to make going to church each week a priority. Why, you ask? Good question. Good question… hmm… why is that?

Oh yeah, because that’s how we were raised. And it’s important or something. 

What was once a peaceful, meditative hour for us as a couple, is now stressful, embarrassing and sometimes even divorce-inducing. It doesn’t help that we frequent a church that consistently goes into overtime. 

Anyway, the point is that we go. And it is painful. And clearly, God’s punishing us for something. And what He’s punishing us for, I think I have a little bit of an idea. I was a good kid. I can’t fully speak for Tighe, but I’ve heard some stories — good and bad. I always assumed having to live with me for a lifetime was God’s way of punishing Tighe; yet it doesn’t seem fair to also punish me for Tighe’s misdeeds. Although, maybe that’s what parenting is all about: punishing two parents for the sins of both. Kind of a double whammy. 

And so because Tighe once cut off a little girl’s braid in first grade (true story), I have to endure Nate banging on the radiator with his matchbox cars in the back of the sanctuary. Heads turn every time. We’re good at making friends. 

And because Tighe once kicked down a bathroom stall door in seventh grade, causing (allegedly) $700 worth of damage, I’m forced to pick smashed raisins and Cheerios up of the tile floor after each service. 

And because Tighe once hid a keg in someone else’s basement for three months, I will continue to defend Sam’s meaty little thigh from Nate’s teethmarks. And if I miss, the rest of the congregation will be treated to a melodious symphony of Sam’s shrieks, sometimes to the tune of the alleluia chorus.

And I’m not totally innocent either. One time, I broke the shower curtain while trying to do pull-ups in the bathroom I shared with my brothers, and callously blamed Tim for years. Sorry, Tim. But for this sin, Tighe was forced to chase Nate up to the altar toward the end of one particularly long service — you know one of those ones that’s starting to inch uncomfortably close to NFL kickoff time (and don’t get me started on professional football right now — God’s punishing us ALL for something there). Anyway, Tighe had to drag Nate, who was fast enough to actually make it onto the altar, up the aisle to our seats in the back of the church, his face as red as the epiphany stoles decorating the priest’s shoulders, enduring stares and a bit of applause from the congregation, probably grateful for a break in the monotony. Nate, meanwhile, was thrilled by the attention.

We’ve even tried alternatives. Churches that are friendlier towards families. Churches with a better space for small children. Churches where we don’t know anyone. So-called “crying rooms" — and this is a totally different type of punishment because, uh, what the hell?! I don’t want to listen to other people’s crying kids! 

We even tried to live-stream our old church in Baltimore during breakfast on a recent Sunday morning. We figured that option would be nice and easy — the kid’s mouths would be stuffed with Pop-Tarts and French toast, so they’d be happy; Sam would love the music; we wouldn’t have to get them dressed and out the door; they could migrate to their Legos on the floor if they start to get bored (and so could I!); all the while, Tighe and I, still in our pajamas, would be peacefully filled with the Holy Spirit as we munched on cereal and slurped down smoothies. 

We were wrong. I don’t think Tighe heard a single word of the sermon. He was busy trying to muffle Nate and Sam’s shrieks so that I could hear — which I couldn’t because he only has two hands and it takes at least seven. Nate was replying to every rhetorical question from the priest as though he were Batman, and Batman and God were preparing for battle. 

The first reading was from chapter eight in the book of Romans: “If God is with us, who will be against us?”

Nate’s reply: “Batman will!”

Hmm…not exactly what I remember learning in Sunday School.

Eventually, once they quieted down some, I got too distracted trying to prevent sticky little fingers from getting stuck in the carpet and in Wally’s fur (he’s finally at the groomer as I type this!). Side note: syrup is like glue. It doesn’t just wipe off. Instead, it draws everything to it, like a magnet. And once it hardens, hours later, you can pick it — and its trappings — off the child’s skin. It will hurt him, he will cry, and his skin will turn pink, but sometimes this is just easier.

Sam Speaks!

Because Nate is so verbal, his voice is very present in this blog. At thirteen months, Sam is also present — just ask my right arm and hip — but he is not as verbal. He is basically “uh-oh” and “ball” and “hi” and “bye” and “hot.” Thus, our conversations are limited. So, I have taken the liberty to read his mind and interpret his thoughts for the day. Call it artistic license, call it omniscient parenting, call it whatever you want — it’s ripe for parody. Here is Sam’s voice. 

Wake up!

Ooh, I’m awake! Let’s see, what kind of day shall I make it? Is it a screaming-bloody-murder morning or is it a talk-to-myself-playfully-in-my-crib morning? Yuck, what is that horrid stench? I pooped again, didn’t I? My God, there is too much fiber in my diet. I keep trying to send her that message. No, Mom, no more carrots, apples, peanut butter, but she just doesn’t get it. It’s like talking to a wall. Oooh, look, my bear. I’ll tell him. Listen Bear, I pooped again. A lot. Tell her she’s giving me too much fiber. I mean, how has she not picked up on that? I’m averaging way too many poops per day. I guess she doesn’t care. Diapers must be pretty inexpensive…

Breakfast

Mmm, this is delicious. Let me spit it all out onto my lap. More please! Keep it coming, woman. Hmm, why the delay? She’s ignoring me again. Eh. Eh! Feed me! Eeeehhhhhhhh! Feed me now!

Thank you. Mmm — so good! Spit up some more into my lap… Hey, Mom! Cheers! This is the best…Cheers! Cheers! Cheers! Cheers! Hahaha…how do these people think of this stuff? Knocking our cups together? That’s great. Way to go, Mom! Cheers!

Here, Wally, have some waffle. Gotta get my quota.

After breakfast

Ugh, get me out of this highchair! I need to go into the study an de-shelve all those books. They should be spread out across the carpet, some wide open and with pages torn out, not neatly ordered on the shelf. I have to do everything around here. 

Taking off my PJs! Thanks, Mom! A chance to be naked, free. No shirt, no pants, no socks! No shirt, no pants, no socks! Woo-hoo!

Oh, Sam, look at that gut. That’s it — diet starts tomorrow! I’m getting older now, can’t eat like an eight month-old. Bathing suit season — whatever that is — is right around the corner…

Oh, man, not the “Dancing Machine” shirt again! That is so cheesy and lame. If I hear one more person say, “oh, that is so cute,” I’m going to hurl this Pez dispenser at them.

Yay, tooth brushing! My favorite! I wonder what will happen if I use my toothbrush to stir the toilet. Swirly, swirly, swirly, swirly…this is fun! Hey, what the — why are you taking my toothbrush, Mom? I was using that. Hey, come on! Don’t throw it in the trash! It had Winnie the Pooh on it! I wanted it. Now I’m sad.

Hey, look, there’s my Dad! He’s putting his coat on…getting his bag together. Uh-oh…He’s leaving! My dad is leaving again! THIS IS THE WORST THING EVER! Why? Why, Dad? Come on, it’s unsafe out there! It’s a big world! With strangers! And loud trucks! And dogs we don’t know! And doctors that give shots! And Nate says there are lots of monsters! And dinosaurs! And ghosts! And bad guys! What if you can’t make it back? Take me with you! I’ll protect you. Ok, bye, Dad! Bye! Bye! Bye! Look, he’s still waving. I better keep waving so I don’t hurt his feelings. Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!

Into the laundry room I go, into the laundry room I go…crawling, crawling, crawling, crawling…knee, hand, knee, hand, knee, hand… I hear spinning! Ooh, the clothes are spinning! Around and around and around…and around and around and around…and around and around and around…

Lunch

STARVING! I am so hungry! All I ate for breakfast was a waffle, a granola bar, a banana, a clementine, eight or nine fistfuls of Cheerios, half of Nate’s Pop Tart, the rest of Nate’s cereal, and about a third of my dad’s banana. Why don’t they feed me more? Meanwhile, look at Nate. That peanut butter sandwich on his plate sits untouched, he never finishes his yogurt, and only eats half of each apple slice. Does he not know there are starving children in Africa? There’s also a starving child sitting in the high chair across from him — me!

Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!

What did she say? Anyone want another cookie? Uh, hello. Obviously. Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Heck yes, I want another cookie. Wait, what the —? Where’s she going? I said I wanted another one. That’s it, I’m slamming the rest of this grilled cheese into the floor!

Mmm, that was a good lunch. Gotta go fill Wally’s bowl with Legos now. 

Geeze, is that kid in Time Out again? Either he’s an idiot or she’s PMS-ing pretty bad this week. Oh, poor guy. He doesn’t have his mittens. I better bring him some.

Nap

Wait — did she just say “nap time?” Is she kidding me? I love this song! After this song — let’s go up after this song! Where are my drumsticks? Oh, yeah, there they are. “…king of the castle and you’re a dirty rascal…” Mom. Stop. Do not ruin this song with your singing. 

Nope, not gonna sleep! And I’m mad about this! Very angry. Very, very angry. You haven't heard the last of me! Sam will be back! Sam will be back with a — oh, look, my lovie…so soft…so — ZZZZZZ….

Snack

Snack time! Sooooo hungry! Come on woman — bring me something good! Crackers? Banana? Fine. That’s tolerable.

Legally Binding Contract Proposed by Dog to Nate/Sam

Legal Agreement proposed by Wally to Nate/Sam

I, J.W. Wilhelmson, power of attorney and representative in all legal matters of Walter Curtis Lowe (“Dog”), hereby propose the following arrangement with Nate and Sam and all other subsequent offspring of Erin and Tighe (“Progeny”).

1. Progeny will drop at least seven (7) clumps of food at each meal and/or snack time.

a.  A “clump” shall be defined as a morsel of food measuring at one (1) tablespoon or five (5) metric grams. 

b. Fruit and vegetables do not count as food unless they have been drenched in gravy or some sort of meat sauce and are therefore delicious. It is considered cruel to drop fruit and vegetables, thus temporarily raising hopes of Dog. 

c. Let it be noted that chocolate will not in fact bring death to Dog. This is a myth disseminated by some greedy chocoholic, probably Erin.

2. Dog shall be guaranteed at least fourteen (14) hours of uninterrupted sleep during the day.

a. When Dog is laying on his pillow next to the red sofa, he is not to be touched or summoned except in the case that it is snack/meal time and food is about to be dropped.

b. When Dog is sunning himself in the office, the office shall be off-limits to all Progeny, including the Vacuum Cleaner. Dog does not trust that apparatus.

3. All visitors to the house — this includes both strangers and well-established friends and family — shall be greeted first by Dog. All Progeny shall clear an adequate path so that Dog can rush to aforementioned Visitor(s) first and accost them with his affections. Once the Visitors are sufficiently annoyed with Dog’s advances and tire of petting him, Progeny may approach. Let it be known that Visitors will obviously prefer Dog’s attentions to anyone else’s, so Progeny shall not linger.

4. Progeny shall be nice to Erin. Progeny must not do anything that may turn her into a raging bitch. This includes, but is not limited to:

a. Preventing her from sleeping at night.

b. Spilling your beverages, especially sticky ones (chocolate milk, juice, etc.)

c. Embarrassing her in public. (Nate: please practice tact. Stop telling a certain Gymboree instructor that you don’t like her.)

d. Injuring yourselves or otherwise drawing attention to yourselves while she is trying to eat.

e. Consuming sugar.

f.  Shortening nap time.

g.  Skipping nap time.

h. Growing out of nap time — before the age of 18, at which point you shall promptly move out of the house. 

i. Screeching.

j. Stealing her Lego’s. 

5. Do not touch Dog. Ever.

6. Sam: Stay out of Dog’s food bowl. And his water bowl. You shall immediately cease crawling under Dog’s legs while he is eating his meals; he does not need his food to be stirred.

7. Once Progeny reach a certain, sufficient height, he/she must use that height and reach at least once a day to procure a Milk Bone for Dog.

8. All Progeny shall use their vocal chords and verbal ability to encourage Erin and/or Tighe to take a walk to the park with Dog and with or without Progeny. This shall happen regardless of the weather, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

9. In exchange for Progeny’s cooperation, Dog shall provide the following services.

a. Protect the house. This shall entail raising his head from its semi-permanent place on the floor when he hears a noise outside. If Dog deems that aforementioned noise is indeed a threat to Progeny or to his food, he will bark.

b. This is a finite list. Dog can do nothing further without appropriate compensation to be outlined in a future additional contractual agreement.

10. To be effective immediately upon notarization. 

Hashtagging the Day Away

Dedicated to all the people who overuse #hashtags. #myfriendkevin

7:15 Wake up! It’s Monday #caseofthemondays, so I’ve already been to the gym #torture #needtorehydrate and stopped at the grocery store on my way home #weneverstopeating #earlyAMshopping #nocrowds #hemorrhagingmoney 

Tighe, Nate, and Sam meet me in the kitchen. “Dad, Erin’s back!” #firstnamebasis #laidbackparenting 

I greet them all with hello, just to be reprimanded by Nate for not addressing him as Batman and Sam as Robin. #meaculpa #imaginativeplay #superheroes 

I frantically put away groceries and we simultaneously get breakfast together. #multitasking #sohungry #leggomyeggo #mostimportantmealoftheday #oatmealsquares #oranges #notthatyoucare

All throughout breakfast, Tighe and I continue to make the mistake of referring to Nate and Sam by their names, not as Batman and Robin. #catastrophe #beggingforgiveness #notenoughcaffeineintheworld

8:30 I get Sam dressed #ravenstshirt #2012worldchampions and gently suggest to Nate that he get dressed. #longshot 

He tells me he wants to wear his “ripslinger pants.” #doesntownany #notevensurewhatthatmeans

8:36 As I putter in the kitchen, Nate wanders in, “Mom, now are you ready to play?”

“No, I have to pee first.” #toomuchcoffee “Oh. I’m gonna watch.” “What? No. Why?” “Because I love watching you pee. Because I love you.” #notenoughcoffee #inappropriate #dignitylost

8:45 I tell Nate we have some errands to run today. #traderjoes #target #postoffice #incrediblyoptimistic 

Nate interprets “running errands” as running back and forth pretending to be me (Erin). #homonyms #3yroldconfusion #preschoolersareliteral

9:00 Tighe leaves for work. Sam #dramaqueen wails as though his dad is leaving to fight in an ill-fated war. #vietnam #iraq/afghanistan #longsigh #pleasedontleave #pleasecomeback #i’llmakeagooddinner! #maritalbribes #please #toomanyshashtags

I ask Nate what time it is. His minion watch says 7:44. He replies “four-thirty pounds.” #wrong #failingmissourischools

9:01 Wrestling match ensues on the floor. Result: draw? unknown winner. Other results: bump on Sam’s head. #concussionawareness Much of Sam’s breakfast is spit up on his shirt. #cereal #sourmilkstench #morelaundry

9:03 Every single Lego we own somehow makes it out of it’s storage space and onto the floor. #toomanytoys #lotsofcleanup

9:07 Check the mail. Empty. I remember that it’s usually a little later on a Monday. #somethingtolookforwardto #junkmail #coupons #equusmagazine

9:15 Nap time for Sam. #alonetimewithNate #longersigh 

9:27 “Mom, I’m gonna chug some water.” #futurefratboy #kegstands

9:30 I quickly chat on a toy cell phone with Disney characters as a ploy to convince Nate to get dressed #success #moredignitylost #thankyoumickey

9:50 Sam’s making very loud noises in his crib #shutupgotosleep while Nate and I debate whether or not he’ll go back to sleep #illogicalarguments

10:00 We finally agree that Sam’s just awake. #timetorunerrands

10:20 Trader Joe’s! #freecoffeesamples #freelollipops #overlyexcitedemployees #everybodywins Someone asks me if Nate can have some coffee. #hellno #somethingsjustaren’tfunny

11:00 Target #vacuumcleanerbags #boring #keepingthevacuumhappy 

Nate stands near the checkout lines, sucking his lollipop and staring down people who pass by. #kidsareawkward #tactless

We never make it to the post office. #samneedstosleep #erinneedstoeat #yourewelcomepostalemployees #foreverstamps #newman #putofftiltomorrow

12:00 Sam is asleep in his crib #thankGod while Nate and I play in the basement until lunch. #matchboxcars #zooanimalsbattle #lightningmcqueen

12:45 Lunch is ready for both boys. #frozenpizza #appleslices #babycarrots #pumpkinmuffins #yogurt #incrediblymessy #peanutbutterfree #woo-hoo

1:30 My caffeine high is starting to wear off. #mustbenaptime #pleasebenaptime

1:34 Nate and Sam are not tired. #poop #pleasebetired #i’mtired

1:37 They’re still playing. #lotsofenergy! #where’smyenergy? 

2:00 Ok, it’s time. #goupstairs #Icanfinishmylunchnow!

2:20 Sam’s crying. #pleasesleep #Ijustwanttocheckmyemail

2:30 Fine. I have to go get Sam. #screamingbloodymurder #dramaqueen

2:33 I bring Sam downstairs. Nope, he’s fine. Nothing seems to be wrong. He alternates between sipping his milk and unsuccessfully lunging for my laptop, which he refers to as “no.” #handsoffSam #getyourownlaptop #cyberbullying

3:00 Finally he decides to play on his drums #thanksforthebirthdaygiftMary #yourdoggetsrefriedbeansnexttimewevisit for a half hour until he can’t fake that he’s not tired anymore. #kidsaremanipulative

3:30ish-3:57 ERIN TIME! #mostglorioustimeofday #shouldbecleaning #meditation #read #stareblankly #davidpuddy

3:57 Nate comes down stairs #likeclockwork, just as something I actually want to watch comes on TV. #hastopee #needsasnack #chocchipgranolabar

We both fake that we’re happy to see one another. #must.get.second.wind 

4:08 The Legos come out. Again. #musthireananny #marypoppins #sherrybobbins 

4:27 Time check. Ninety-three minutes til Tighe gets home. #serenitynow #seinfeldquotes Nate and I look at pictures of puppies #pipedreams online for 20 minutes while Wally, who hasn’t been pet in three days, sits inches away and sulks. #woeisme

5:02 Sam wakes up! #bloodymurder #dramaqueen 

5:32 Tighe comes home early and he and Nate study The New Children’s Encyclopedia. It has a little bit on tons of topics, including the solar system. The following dialogue actually happened: 

Nate: Hey, what’s this?

Tighe: That’s Uranus.

Nate: Anus? My anus? #yes #afraidtohashtagthisone

6:00 Finally dinner time! #turkeymeatballs #roasted potatoes #spinachsalad 

Somehow, Nate face plants off his chair while trying to dance and eat cheese cubes at the same time. #howthehell…? As I try to lift him up, he slams his head on the table. #doubleoops #threestooges

We put on Journey’s Greatest Hits #lovingtouchingsqueezing #openarms and Tighe and I have some red wine #fullbottle #cabernetsauvignon #2.99attraderjoes, bringing us to call my brother Kyle. He undoubtedly regrets answering the phone. 

In the middle of the conversation, Tighe realizes that Nate has a huge hole in the front of his #Cars underwear and his #Wang is hanging out. Kyle hangs up shortly thereafter. 

6:42 Tighe takes Nate and Sam up to get ready for bed #footypajamas while I clean up dinner. #iwin #no,seriously

When I finish, I go up for prayers #pleasefortheloveofGod and bedtime stories.

7:02 Bed time stories for Nate. #curiousgeorge #superherobooks Nate asks a million questions, interrupting me 100,003 times #butmom making a seven page book last for 22 minutes. 

7:33 I’m back down in the kitchen making sleepy time tea #we’reold and we share some Girl Scout cookies #likecrackcocaine #bestsalespeopleever while we watch #ParksandRec #amypoehler #ronswanson or #It’sAlwaysSunnyinPhiladelphia or #LastWeekTonight or [insert #othershow here] #allourdaysareexactlythesame. Sometimes we even try and read. #iusedtobeliterate

#Goodnight!

Nate's Best Seller

So, my husband [I know — you’re already thinking: Oh, this is gonna be a good one!], the idealistic and knowledgeable early childhood expert that he is, believes that it’s really important for us to facilitate a storytelling ability in our kids. I’m not against this at all. There are many Mel Levine neurodevelopmental constructs that flash through my brain as I consider this process: active working memory, temporal-sequential ordering, expressive language, higher order cognition…and other nonsense. [Cue: faculty meeting flashbacks…meaning: are there snacks?]

Even more importantly, this pursuit results in lots of comedy for us. [What’s he talking about? Where did he learn that word? Is anyone even listening to him anymore?] And it’s a cognitive puzzle as we try to follow the plot and character arcs to determine whether there’s an overarching theme or at least a nice, wholesome moral to each story.

And when it comes down to it, there is an overarching theme. And that theme is violence. Sometimes it’s an actual fight between two characters, other times it’s a race or a competition between two cars or planes or trains or trucks. Perhaps the late John Candy…? And there are always monsters. And spiders. And occasionally, ghosts. 

[Total aside here…sometimes the things Nate tells me about monsters or bugs or ghosts are actually really creepy. I’m not big on horror films at all, but some of his descriptions just evoke the most terrifying images. Here’s a recent example. We were in the dining room a few weeks ago eating lunch. Nate, furiously digging his plastic peanut butter spoon — not to be confused with his metal yogurt spoon — into his peanut butter sandwich, glances up and points, “Look, Mom, a girl!” I whipped my head around, “There’s a girl in here? A girl?” “Yeah, right there.” I thought to myself: He sees a girl sitting in that chair in the corner?? Oh, my God. I noticed Wally slowly slinking out of the room, thus forfeiting himself any dropped crumbs.

Sam gave me a knowing look from his high chair. It was clear we were both thinking the same thing: Nate sees dead people. 

I immediately imagined Nate chilling on the couch with Bruce Willis talking about dead people things, like Cybil Shepherd and Carl Winslow, what he really thinks about Ashton Kutcher, and what it’s like to be a Republican in Hollywood. Suddenly, I wanted to see dead people too. Nate has playdates with Bruce Willis. Die Hard style. What a badass. 

But then I started to recall other scenes from the movie that is becoming Nate’s life. The gory corpses and accident scenes and those weakened and emaciated bodies from long battles with terminal illnesses. Suddenly I realized: Nate needs to be in counseling. But what therapist will believe him? And what do I tell the insurance company? Is this a pre-existing condition?

Perhaps he would be better off with a priest or an exorcist. Maybe an odyssey to the far East — to seek some relief and wisdom in Buddhism. Or Hinduism. Or Taoism. Or Shintoism. Or something. If nothing else, he’d return with some really cool vernacular expressions and newly piqued culinary interests. A few weeks with a shaman in a teepee in New Mexico might do the trick. Cheaper airfare anyway. Peyote anyone?

After a few more minutes of my gentle, probing questions about this girl in the corner, it became apparent that he’s actually referring to a squirrel, not a girl. There’d been a squirrel on a tree just outside the dining room window this whole time. 

Oh, phew. Well, then. Feeling like Gilda Radner on Weekend Update… Never mind. Resume normal childhood.]

And back to his best seller… Here is an excerpt of a recent story he told me. I will add in my own commentary in brackets. Some of the plot doesn’t exactly…”carry” without it. Or with it for that matter. 

Nate: Lemme tell ya a story, Mom. Once there was a girl named Nate.

Me: A girl named Nate? [No judgment, that’s cool. However you wanna live.]

Nate: No! A girl named Erin! And then…..[Really long pause. He has trouble getting inside the head of his female characters.]

Me: What did she do?

Nate: She had a son named Nate! [Narcissist, everything is about him.] One day there was just Nate and he heard a noise and it was a MONSTER! And then Nate was trying to fight the monster and then Dusty came!

Me: The airplane? [From the Disney movie “Planes.” Disney characters play prominent roles in most of his stories. I attribute his inability to create new characters to a lack of empathy. Also, to the fact that he’s three.]

Nate: Mmm-hmm. And then Ripslinger [Another “Planes” character] came to fight the monster and Dusty and Nate and Ripslinger were trying to fight the monster and then they won! [Run-on sentence, but I won’t judge him for that. Yet.] Mom, I’m gonna sit here and eat my breakfast. [I wonder what Harper Lee eats for breakfast. Probably something Southern and filling. With lots of protein and butter. We’ve all seen Paula Deen.]

Me (after a long pause): Ok, is that the end of the story?

Nate: Um, no. And then Bulldog came to fight the monster, too. And all their friends came to fight the monster, too! Me too.

Me: That poor monster, huh?

Nate: Yeah, [Sipping OJ and laughing maniacally] and then the monster started to fight and it was so funny [Still laughing…getting creepy] and then they started to laugh and again and again. [Pause…cereal break] And again.

Me: Why was it so funny?

Nate: Because…and then Wally [our dog] came.

Me: And what did Wally do?

Nate: Uh…Wally did…[Must look into possible ADD diagnosis tomorrow!] And my friends kept fighting again and again and again [Slightly alarming — the violence, I mean, not the repetitiveness. That might be age appropriate.]

Me: Is that the end of the story?

Nate: Huh? Mom, there’s a giant here. I should grab my sword and fight him. [Yes, he actually has a sword, made of foam, but still. Thanks to my brother, Tim. I have several pacifist friends who are cringing right now. Believe me, I get it — I’m the one who’s usually getting impaled.] Hee-ya [Swinging sword.]

Me: I wish you wouldn’t fight as much.

Nate: I did fight as much. I did. Because I love to fight much. [Increasingly alarming.] And I have to scare the monsters and the giants. [Lots of emphasis on the word ‘giants.’]

Me: Are we finished telling the story?

Nate: Not yet. And then I just burped. ‘Scuse me. And then I just burped. The end. [How poetic.]

Happy Valentine's Day

The following is told from the perspective of my Santoku knife, perhaps my favorite utensil and my best friend in the kitchen. I’d like to dedicate it to the memory of our Microwave. [moment of silence] Take nothing for granted. Not your spouse, nor your dog, nor your kids, nor toilet paper, nor kitchen utensils and appliances. You never know when you’re going to slam the microwave door just a wee bit too hard in frustration while trying to make dinner with a crying baby hanging on your leg and a hungry two year-old angrily and systematically taking all the pillows and cushions off of the couch yet again — and suddenly (!) that microwave is no more. Life is short. Show some appreciation for your loved ones. And especially for your kitchen appliances. Make them feel loved this Valentine’s Day. But maybe don’t hug your knife — or anything sharp.

The Mental Agony of a Santoku Knife

Ah, here she goes again. I can smell something. Beef? No, spicier. Sausage. Pork, I think. She’ll need me soon. I wonder what my assignment will be. Let’s see…it’s Tuesday. What did she have planned for Tuesday? I thought it was salmon. She shouldn’t need me for salmon. Maybe I can get a break tonight, then. But why the pork smell?

It’s so dark in here. I wish I could see better. What IS she making?

“Hey, Serrated Bread Knife, can you see from up there? What’s she making? Is she at the stove?”

“Man, I can’t see shit. Smells good, though.”

“Ugh, I just need a break!” I sigh to no one in particular. My blades are dull, getting sore.

“Fuck up, then.” Kitchen Shears, always full of advice. He’s our problem solver. So much experience and advice. He’s so wise. And knowledgeable. He’s really seen it all: chicken bones — he’s done it! Clipping coupons — no big deal. Snipping scratchy tags from kids’ clothing — handles it like a pro. He’s even done frozen pizza!

“What?” I ask.

“I said, FUCK. UP. You’re the best there is, kid. You have to know that. If you want to stop being sent on assignments, you need to mess up. Throw it. I’m telling you, you screw up once, maybe twice, and she’ll leave you in here with the rest of us next time. You don’t think Paring  Knife can’t handle a few measly onions? Because believe me, she can.”

“I can! I can! Is it my turn? Am I up? I’m sharp, I’m ready!”  

I ignore her. Out loud: “That’s a great idea. Maybe I’ll nick her finger or something…Or squash the avocado,” I start to ponder this. Hmm, should I really be vengeful? Or just clumsy and careless? I could make sure the cheese slices are uneven. That would really bother the Missus. Of course, then she might take it out on those poor little boys. They’re both so cute, especially the little one with those big blue eyes. Sam. Good guy. The older one’s not bad either — when he’s asleep.

“But you’ll be throwing away talent. You’ll be wasting your commission.” Kitchen Shears interrupts my brainstorm.

“What do you mean?” I groan. I’m too tired for this! The idea of a night off excites me.

“Christ, in all my years, I’ve never seen such stupidity. Such ignorance. Why the hell do you think she uses you all the time? Huh — why? Because you’re the best! You’re the best there is, kid. You have to know that.”

“Kitchen Shears, please. I’m exhausted. I just want to sleep. It’s so dark and warm in here.”

“Kid, you’re too damn good to rest. Any one of these losers would fight to be in your shoes. Fight, I tell you! Have some pride! You’re the sharpest! The most versatile! The strongest! You were made for this!”

I know he’s right. Crap, he’s right. Maybe Paring Knife could handle a few onions. But can she do potatoes? She’s too small for that. She couldn’t even make that first horizontal slice. I don’t think she’s ever even tried something that large. And Nate and Sam need to eat! Those little guys are the reason I get out of that storage block in the morning.

He goes on, “Not only that, but you swore an oath, kid. An oath! Do you understand me?”

I did swear an oath. Back when I was cast and welded. God, it seems so long ago. I was so young. So naive. So eager. I thought I was ready, I really did. Am I really so jaded now? Am I?

Kitchen Shears is still talking. “…dammit, you were forged from the strongest, finest stainless steel Japan has to offer! You better start thinkin' like the knife you were designed to be!”

Hmph. That’s true, I am higher quality than the rest of them.

“…you slice, you dice, you mince better than anyone in here! Better than anyone out there, too! Are you hearing me, boy?! Get it together!”

He’s right, I am the best mincer. Serrated misses too much, he can’t handle those finer chops.. He should really just stick to bread. Kitchen Shears sounds angry now.

“…think of those kids! They need to eat! They’re relying on you! What if it’s a roast? You really think Butcher Knife can slice that without shredding the fibers??! He hasn’t been sharpened in years!”

“Hey now, wait just a minute!” Butcher Knife must have woken up from his haughty dormancy. He does not handle criticism well. 

I do like those kids. A lot. It’s not easy to cut that grilled cheese into triangles. Well, triangles for the older one. Little bite-sized squares for Sam. And Nate likes it with just enough cheese oozing out of the middle — but not so much that it all runs out. Then it’s just toast. Literally. 

“Those kids will starve! Their little teeth can’t handle that tough meat. None of us has scallops! None of us is rust-proof! This is your realm!”

Paring Knife chimes in: “He’s right. This is you, Santoku! We can’t do what you can.”

It IS my realm. I can handle anything. I’ve never had any problems before. I was made for this.

I think back to my oath: I have a duty to serve and perform. I provide sustenance to the masses, nourishment for those babies! They need me. I’m strong. Strong enough to handle the firmest sweet potato. I’m sharp. Sharp enough for the softest tomato. I’m precise. Precise enough for the feistiest of apples.  

Man, I hope Cutting Board is ready. We’re going in!

Official Cease and Desist Order from The Household

Offending Citizen: Sam G, 1 y.o. male.

Order: To cease and desist all consumption of dark chocolate. Immediately.

Preceding Incident: Allegedly consumed homemade dark chocolate cupcakes for first birthday.

Precursory Complaints

Complainant: Erin/Tighe

Grievance: “First, he was a mess. He resembled Blackbeard the Pirate or a black face cinema actor of the 1920’s. We feared that his clothing would be forever stained (it is not). Second, we underestimated the effect caffeine and sugar would have on his little body. Frankly, it was disturbing. He seemed to be having hallucinations: staring at something moving above him with great concentration and swatting at it. We could see nothing. He alternated this behavior with violent head-banging. To no music. Although, actually, we don’t believe that the screeching accompaniment was dark-chocolate induced. That seems to be a daily occurrence in the evenings. Every dinner — screeching.”

Complainant: Wally, 6 1/2 y.o. Golden Doodle male. 

Grievance: “Just let me die in peace. There’s dark chocolate in my fur. I’d eat it myself, but it pains me to reach that far.”

Complainant: High Chair

Grievance: “We high chairs see a lot of bad table manners and very poorly raised children — it’s all part of the profession — but I have NEVER, and I mean NEVER, seen anything close to the mayhem and the wreckage I saw that night. Those parents have no control. No discipline! They actually laughed — laughed, I said! — while pandemonium befell that dining room, that once sacred and revered space. I-I-I….I’m just speechless. Please. No more questions. I just want to move on with my life.”  

Complainant: Vacuum Cleaner

Grievance: “Man, I’ve never worked so hard in my life! I swear if I don’t get overtime pay or at least a day or two off, I’ll quit on these people! I’ll walk right out that door. I gotta get a hold of my union rep cuz I could really, really use some new bags, too. This one is filled with cupcake crumbs and dog hair!”

Complainant: Dining Room Carpet

Grievance: “I get no respect! First they embed crumbs and icing into me. Then, they run me over with Vacuum Cleaner! We lost a lot of good Paper Towels and Napkins that night! Those bastards never saw it coming, never knew what happened! Just — wham! And that Dish Towel…he hasn’t uttered two words since that night. Just — just a blank, vacant stare. It was rough. Really rough.”

Character Witness: Household Mice

Testimony: “These cupcakes are terrific! So is this kid. Incredibly generous with all his meals, particularly ground beef, pork tenderloin, and those little sausage muffins. If we’re being honest, winter is a tough time for us — typically we like to head South to a warmer climate, but this little guy made it tough to leave this year. He always makes sure we have a nice square meal three times a day. That dining room floor is a gold mine, AND he’s been leaving cheerios under his crib. Did I mention his bedroom is the warmest in the house? This has been the best winter of our lives!”

Judgment: Guilty. Immediate cessation of dark chocolate consumption with a ban on milk chocolate for at least one year. 

Provisional Warning: Baby must tart walking immediately so that no one has to carry his little ass around anymore. It’s getting old. So is his mom. 

Author’s Note: I know, we did this to ourselves. Rookie mistake. Don’t even get me started on Nate’s circumstances on that apocalyptic night. Slightly less messy, but equally high. Ok, I gotta go make amends with the Vacuum Cleaner — we really can’t afford to lose him. 

Scarred For Life

I have a scar. Actually, I have lots of scars, mostly resulting from an active and adventurous childhood. I’m re-discovering them now — on my chin, my nose, both of my knees, my fingers and hands, my upper abdomen. And sure, I can recall the injuries and the circumstances surrounding most of them, and they were certainly eventful at the time: an emergency surgery in infancy, a scooter accident when I was four or five, a leg-shaving experiment gone awry at age ten, a check to the face during a particularly heated lacrosse practice…

I remember the rock that split open the skin on my kneecap when I was a skinny, tow-headed five year-old running down the wooded hill at our lake house to deliver a package to a neighbor. Aside from the severe burning from the cavernous wound, I experienced immediate anxiety, thinking that showing a grown-up the blood streaming down my skinny little shin would send me to get stitches. So, I kept it a secret.  A secret until my grandmother wanted to know who was dripping blood on the brown and yellow linoleum floor. I had to fess up. I had hoped the dried blood would blend in and go unnoticed. 

I also recall the scar on my chin that I got, only four years ago, while on a road trip with a co-worker. We had stopped at Dunkin Donuts to grab coffee and bagels, and as I was getting out of the car, the corner of the door of her Honda Fit, scraped the lower half of my face, leaving a small bruise and a gash below my lower lip. The stickiness of the emanating blood caused the brown recycled napkins to adhere to my face. That was just embarrassing, not to mention the stinging that annoyed me for an hour or so. 

But these scars are nothing compared to the “big one.” It is in fact the biggest one, both in length and in significance. It’s special. Much more emotional. Much more traumatizing. And much more joyous. Both the joy and the trauma wake me up every morning. Every morning. Twice. Twice a morning. 

Some mornings, they’re both in good moods, eager to start the day. Eager to see me. And hug me. And offer big smiles as they begin to map out their plans for the day. Only one does so verbally. The other points and coos or gurgles. We don’t really get much out of him except “uh-oh.” Over and over again. Lots of uh-ohs. 

Other mornings, they’re both in bad moods. Nate, almost three and equally tow-headed with brown eyes, is hungry and he desperately has to pee. But he can’t quite figure out how to unzip the zipper on his Lightning McQueen pajamas, so he’s jumpy and irritable. Sam, eleven months old, also fiercely hungry, might be crying as he leans over his crib, bothered by the poop that oozes from his diaper, caking the inside of his pajamas, but also by the fact that no one responded immediately to his first “I’m-awake-look-at-me” squeal, and fat tears pour from his bright blue eyes. Most mornings, one is joyous while the other delivers me some trauma. Less than an hour later, those mood assignments are likely to flip flop at least twice. And by the end of the day — a very, very long day for me, by the way — we, all three of us, are likely to hit every single nuance of every single emotion… and mood… and sentiment on the full Spectrum of Emotions, Moods, and Sentiments. 

Two different Caesarian sections, two years apart. Actually, one year, eleven months and seventeen days apart. But who’s counting? They both yielded boys. Tiny, pink, and scrawny, each only six pounds and nine ounces. But despite their puny little statures — although growing bigger every day, thanks to peanut butter and Pop Tarts! — my life has been transformed.

The surgeries that caused the scars were shocking. I experienced fever, exhaustion, pain (thank you, Percocet and morphine!), and all sorts of intestinal issues. One doctor even refused to let me eat for four days. Talk about trauma! 

And then there were months of sleep deprivation. Also shocking and tortuous — not to get political here, but there are valid reasons this is used by the CIA as a means of forcing terror suspects into submission. It’s gruesomely unpleasant. And my pre-pregnancy body? Will I ever get that back? Not nearly as devastating of course, but still mildly distressing at times.

Yet I wake up every morning. Whether I’m ready or not, I have to wake up. There is no choice. Gone is the concept of sleeping in. Weekends no longer mean a mid-morning trip to the gym, raking leaves whenever we get around to it, an impromptu dinner with friends. Instead it’s a frantic and messy breakfast; a missed nap — probably because he has new teeth coming in and the culminating pain makes it too dreadful to lie still; cleaning up feces and vomit that are never my own; a bloodied knee and a violent combination of tears and snot; and husband and wife practically tripping over one another to make a trip to the grocery store (“I think we’re out of popsicles and we really, really, really need them [in January]. I’ll be right back!”), desperate for some mental quiet, or at least, confirmation that the real world continues to turn outside of our frenzied, middle class suburban home. Time is no longer my own.  

And the uncertainty. There’s always been uncertainty. Before the scars, it was whether to go to happy hour or to the gym on my way home from work. Or is my husband annoyed with me because I bought the wrong kind of Listerine? Dammit, I can never remember whether he likes the turquoise or the teal. Before Nate and Sam were born, this would have led to an evening of walking on eggshells, followed by an apology from me, feeling like a failure as a wife. Now, post-op, there’s no time for newlywed misunderstandings and squabbling over various shades of blue-green combinations; it’s 3 AM and I’m asking myself why the baby’s crying. Is he still hungry? Thirsty? Uncomfortable? Scared? Is it possible for babies to be scared of the dark? Is he mad at me? Is God mad at me? 

And what about Nate? Is he eating enough? Getting enough protein? Fiber? Why doesn’t he like blueberries anymore? Is it weird that he only gets to V when he recites the alphabet? Did he just say shit? Is he too materialistic? He doesn’t really need those Legos, does he? Does being a narcissist at age two make him an actual sociopath? Does he have friends? Why is he always yelling? Does he play outside enough? Do his teachers like him? Do we read enough? Is he too young for Harry Potter? What about Kafka? What is that rash? Is that carseat really that safe? Do fruit snacks cause cancer? Does he watch too much TV? Is he a bully? Why can’t he stand on one foot? Is that poop — or chocolate? How much do boarding schools cost anyway? Always: am I doing the right thing? I don’t even care whether I buy the right Listerine anymore. Fuck Listerine.

Regardless, I drag my weary legs to the floor to race matchbox cars just “once more” before nap time. Because one of them said “please.” Because they’re both so cute. Because it’s easier than resisting. Because I love them both. Unconditionally — even if for no other reason than because they came from my body. And because I’m responsible for theirs, cleaning up their bloodied knees, probably to be eventually dotted with scars.

An Open Letter to My Sons. Re: Household Chores

Dear sons, Sam and Nate, 

You are young, this is true. You are just one year old and two weeks shy of three, respectively. I will put this in terms that you can understand — you’re welcome. The theme of this letter, something accessible to you both, will be Minions. 

Our house is filled with minions. I should know, I tripped on one — I believe it was Dave — this morning in the kitchen. He uttered a “bedo!” cry as my toe nudged him, causing me to stumble a bit. I’m not sure if his cry was in protest or exuberance, but it annoyed me. We have stuffed minions, one of which/whom speaks, plastic toy minions, minion yogurt, minion crackers and fruit snacks (Weak moment purchases at the grocery store. Note to self: stop taking Nate with me. He’s no help at all), minion t-shirts, minion hats (very popular in public), minion socks, minion underwear, a minion watch, even a minion tent. But I have no REAL minions in my life. And I would like some. Why must I do everything in this house by myself?

Can’t someone else fold the laundry — even just match the socks without “accidentally” knocking over the basket of ALREADY folded clothes? I was so pleased with my efficiency on that particular load yesterday after lunch. Yep, all neatly stacked and sorted in less than ten minutes. Perhaps I can set a goal to better that time as I tackle folding this load a second time.

Nate, can you please go to the bathroom without leaving a trail of peanut butter throughout the house? And why did you have to go the most indirect route EVER to the bathroom? You had to stop at the refrigerator first? Ok… You didn’t even open it. You just stood there moving the magnets around while awkwardly alternating the foot you stood on and squeezing your inner thighs together. You know, because you had to PEE! Well, I guess that’s partially my own fault for carelessly leaving the refrigerator in the kitchen where it would disrupt your trek. Oh, well — please research whether running the refrigerator magnets through the dishwasher or washing machine to remove the crusty peanut butter will de-magnetize them. I’m not exactly sure how that whole polarization process really works. We’ll go ahead and label this an “educational chore.”

And once you eventually make it to the bathroom, please stop peeing on the rim and onto the floor. Hold your penis and aim for the water! Oh, good and now you have peanut butter on your wang. 

Well, then can you at least help pick up your toys? Big boys clean up their messes, you know. Oops, you got distracted by the Thomas train you forgot you had until just a moment ago. Yep, you haven’t touched that in literally months. Hmm, let’s see who can clean up the Legos the fastest! Ready, set, go! Oh, Sam — why am I finding Pop-Tart residue on these Legos?

It would be NICE if one of you minions could do the grocery shopping this week. I’ll even write the list for you. The car keys are hanging where they always are, on the small hooks by the back door. I’m sure, however, it will take you several minutes to find them — you know, because they’re right in front of you. “Where, Mom?” And please don’t forget the re-usable grocery bags. They’re actually already in the back of the car, but I’m sure somehow, you’ll forget them.

Sam, perhaps it’s time you start learning to feed the dog, particularly since you seem to enjoy snacking on Purina and Milk Bones anyway. Maybe you and Wally can just have all your meals together. On the kitchen floor. From the dog bowl. Lots of protein and fiber there, I’m sure. This will thankfully spare me the thrice daily — sometimes more — task of cleaning out the high chair. I found a green pepper in there this morning, though I can’t actually recall the last time we had green peppers. Fajitas perhaps? That was at least two weeks ago.

Take out trash — We can negotiate this one. Perhaps you can take turns. It seems entirely fair, though, for this to be your task each Wednesday night. If I just glance into the kitchen trash can, for example, I see your banana peels from breakfast, the eighteen tissues that you’ve gone through today, and some dirty diapers. Also: my library book. Not sure why that’s in there, but I’m pretty sure that’s not something I would dispose of. Intentionally, anyway. Maybe you can look into composting and growing some nice organic vegetables in the backyard. You both seem to have much more recreational time than I do. You did manage to find the time to color on the curtains and decorate the refrigerator with Disney stickers after all. 

Clear space after meals. This would include, but is not limited to: taking dishes to the sink and loading them into the dishwasher, putting all food scraps — which is usually most and sometimes even all of your meal — into the garbage disposal (again, perhaps it is time to begin composting), wiping down your placemat, and sweeping up the crumbs on the table, your chair, on the floor, on the dog, and on most of your clothing. 

Your dad feels that you should be “earning" money for all your help around the house. Apparently, we need to be teaching you to save! And appreciate the value of a dollar! I feel like this would be excessively generous of us. We are, after all, your parents. We’ve already given you life — is there a greater gift?? We’ve sacrificed evenings out and a social life; I’ve given up my job — which I thoroughly enjoyed, by the way — AND I had just been offered me a very nice new position; we’ve both sacrificed sleep and immeasurable sanity and dignity; I gave up my flat stomach and just this afternoon at lunch, I shared part of my apple with you. Shouldn’t that be enough? Maybe we’ll just say that you’re earning the right to live here. You’re welcome. I’m pretty sure Gru doesn’t pay his minions.

Ok, you both go upstairs and discuss this while I fold the laundry. Again. Stay up there for at least two hours. We’ll call it “nap time.” And please be quiet — I’d like to check my email and turn on CNN to confirm that the Earth still spins.

Love, your Mom