When Acorns Become Ninja Turtles: One Mom's True Story

It started with Lego’s. It seemed innocent enough. In fact, Nate started it. Two green square Duplo blocks stacked and topped with a red square. Three more similar stacks, each topped with an orange, a purple, and a blue Duplo. 

Ta-da! Four Lego Ninja Turtles! Let the fun begin!

Sam constructed the same four mini-towers and it kept them both busy for hours! Or at least twenty minutes. Sam even slept with his Lego’s for a few nights. And brought them to the dinner table with him. And toted them to the car with him when we ran errands.

Slowly an obsession was forming. And when the excitement of the Lego’s began to wear off, new objects replaced them. Soon everything was sorted into groups of four. Bouncy balls, puzzle pieces, matchbox cars, leaves falling from the trees, even pieces of clean laundry tumbling out of the dryer as I rushed to fold them….EVERYTHING. And Sam considered it an extra-special bonus if the four items happened to be colored red, orange, purple, and blue—the colors that represent Raphael, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Leonardo, respectively.

And if you didn’t already know that fact, then you obviously don’t live with Sam.

Last week, while he was sitting on the toilet refusing to poop, I offered him a bribe. How about some Skittles after you poop?”

“Skittles?” he repeated.

“Yeah, why not? It’s almost 9:45AM.”

“I have four? Red Skittle? And orange and purple and blue?”

“Yes, you can have four Skittles. But there’s no blue.”

“No blue? No Leo?”

“No, no Leo. You can have a yellow or a green instead. Or maybe two reds?”

“Two reds?” he was incredulous, like I was the crazy one. “No.”

And he never did poop that morning.

“Sam! Are you finished your lunch?” I called to him one afternoon, as I heard him slide off his chair and bounce into the other room to play.

As I went to clear his place, the symmetry of his plate made me pause with concern. He had eaten everything, except for some very intentionally arranged leftovers: four almonds, four chips, and four baby carrots.

I snapped a picture to document the insanity, rolled my eyes, and tossed his lunch remnants into the trash.

But a few minutes later I heard the anguish, “NO! Mikey, Donnie, Raph, Leo! You no throw them away!”

 I might as well have killed his actual friends. It reminded me of the suicide scene from Dead Poet’s Society.

At dinner, while Nate is busy requesting extra butter and ketchup to spoon into his mouth, Sam is requesting an extra apple slice—so that he has four.  When I slide it onto his plate, he immediately positions them so that they’re facing the same direction and lightly touches each one, announcing, “Leo, Raph, Mikey, Donnie!”

It’s starting to be a bit much—even for Nate. “They’re just apples, Sam! They’re not Ninja Turtles!” he screams across the table, standing on his chair, fists clenched. It’s like having Thanksgiving dinner with a Hillary voter and a Trump voter—both your relatives, both crazy, and both fired up.

As we walk the block and a half to school each morning, Sam often pauses to squat down and arrange four rocks or four acorns in a line, baptizing each one a Ninja Turtle. The walk—which takes me four minutes when I’m by myself—can take fifteen minutes.

Earlier this week, I let him have some peanut M&M’s from his trick-or-treat bag. He immediately dumped them onto the table and began to list them, “Blue is Leo, red is Raph, orange is Mikey…”

He trailed off realizing there was no purple. Thanks a lot, Mars Candy. But he quickly problem-solved and regrouped.

“Green is Donnie. Hmm…”

There were more than four. What will he do?

“Brown is Splinter! Yellow is April!” Good thing he’s quick on his feet.

Yesterday, I had Sam with me at Home Goods. First, he arranged the scented candles into groups of four. Some thoughtful employee had already organized them by color, so Sam had to do some light lifting and transporting. He carried an orange candle from the orange section—mostly pumpkin spice and fall harvest—down to the red section—cinnamon, apple cider, holiday fair. He added a blue from the other end of the aisle and surprisingly, was able to dig out a purple candle from the back of the shelf.

As we perused Christmas decorations, he was drawn to an Advent calendar, opening and closing the small, numbered doors in groups of four, mumbling the Turtle’s names to himself.

I watched and tried to drown out my worried inner monologue with the One Direction that played over the store’s speakers. Is he high-functioning autistic? No, maybe he’s just a math genius. He just likes order. I gotta talk to the pediatrician.

As we left the store, he hopped over to the threshold where he knelt down, still clutching my hand. Four blue floor tiles made a larger square amidst the off-white ones.

“Leo, Raph, Donnie, Mikey!” He pointed emphatically to each one.

“Let’s go Sam.” We were blocking the foot traffic in and out of the store.

One recent evening, I sat on the sofa as Tighe came down from reading Nate and Sam bedtime stories.

“That took longer than usual,” I observed.

“Yeah,” he replied. He was speechless—a rarity for Tighe.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

I waited while he searched for words.

“They just—Sam…he labeled the dialogue bubbles as Ninja Turtles. On every page!”

“He’s a strange guy.”

Fearful, he rested his head on my shoulder, fighting back tears.

“It’ll be okay,” I said, patting his hair. “It’s just a phase. We’ll get through this. Let’s watch something funny.”

Sam McPoops

Sam is reluctant to poop. Every other day or so, he announces loudly and urgently that he needs to poop, usually in a desperate fast-paced shuffle towards the bathroom, while he’s reaching behind, clutching his butt. It’s such a frenzied scene that I’m always unsure whether to assist him in the bathroom or call 911.

Then, he sits on the toilet and declares, “No, there’s no poop in me.” He hops down and returns to playing, causing him to repeat that behavior thirty to sixty minutes later. For most of the day. And no, bribes don’t work. When Tighe’s home, he physically restrains Sam on the toilet seat and sometimes that works. Sometimes.  And then we have to endure high-pitched screeching from the bathroom until he releases the first morsel of a bowel movement. Then he’s perfectly happy again, singing and talking to himself from the porcelain throne.

But a toddler—or an adult for that matter—can only avoid pooping for so long. And so, he’s pooped in many inconvenient places at inopportune times. Like the public library. Or at swim lessons. Or in the car on the way home from the pool. Even in the middle of the night, screaming and doing his butt-clutching shuffle the entire way to our bedroom.

Sam had been exhibiting his poop-averse performance all day last Friday, but I wasn’t worried because I felt like he was gradually getting better, more regular and confident, about the whole defecation procedure.

Tighe was away for the weekend, so like any good health-conscious parent, I told Nate and Sam I’d take them to McDonald’s for dinner. They really don’t eat anything there except the smoothies and since those claim to have fruit-related products in the ingredients, I’m happy to oblige. And they love the Playplace, even though this particular McDonald’s is one the dirtiest fast-food establishments I’ve ever been in. And I’ve been inside the one on York Road in Baltimore’s Govans neighborhood.  For those of you unfamiliar with that one, ‘Baltimore’ should be clue enough.

I unpacked their smoothies and Happy Meals—so they’d have cheap plastic toys to shoot at me later—and parked myself at a table, prepared to check emails and Facebook and basically zone out for a while. Nate and Sam darted back and forth between the colorful slides and the table, taking small bites and sips.

It was still early in the dinner hour, and the place was almost empty—just a half dozen or so elderly people catching the early bird special, a 5 year-old girl scampering through the Playplace with Nate and Sam, and her mom seated a safe distance away.

Suddenly, I heard Sam’s “I’ve been wronged” screech. It’s piercing. Heads turned to identify the source of the sound as my eyes scanned the mesh netting looking for Sam.

“I need poop! I need poop!”

Oh, crap. Why didn’t I make him poop before we left the house? What was I thinking?

“Sam, come here right now!” I ordered. “Let’s go find the bathroom!”

I picked him up, though he was still shoeless and screeching about needing to poop, and carried him across the restaurant.

A Spanish-speaking family had just entered the restaurant, the mom corralling the six kids into the Playplace as she collected their dinner orders. They all paused to stare as I passed with my stinky son.

Once in the stall, I pulled down his pants to find a…hmm, a shitload? a ton? a lot? Let’s go with a LOT of poop in his underwear and caked in his butt cheeks. And it stunk, probably because it’d been decaying in his lower intestine for most of the day.

I dumped the remnants into the toilet and tried my best to scrub the skid marks off his cheeks and hamstrings with the soggy, disintegrating toilet paper I had amassed in my fists. The underwear was, in my opinion, unsalvageable—or at least not worth keeping in my purse while Nate and Sam finished their dinners—so I tossed them in a plastic bag and into the trashcan. I pulled his sweatpants back up, sprayed a little body spray in his crotch region and sent him back to play. Then I scrubbed my hands like I was Danny Tanner.

By the time I returned to the play area, at least three more kids had joined the growing gang, and Nate was running happily among them.  And Sam, feeling lighter with emptied bowels, didn’t hesitate to rejoin the group. I made a mental note to give them a bath when we got home and returned to the company of my phone.

When suddenly…

“I need poop! I need poop! I need poop!”

It came from the very top of the play structure.

He has got to be kidding me!

I saw him standing on the highest landing, grabbing his crotch with one hand and gripping his butt with the other. His face was red, covered in tears and snot.

Parents were peering upwards trying to determine which child was hurt. A group of children had surrounded Sam, some being nosy and others wanting to help this poor toddler.

Nate slid out the bottom of the slide as I marched past it, on my way to retrieve Sam.

“Come on, Nate, we have to leave!”

“What? Why?”

“Because Sam pooped his pants and this is technically a restaurant.”

I could hear the juvenile inquiries above me:

“What’s wrong?”

“Where’s your mom?”

“Qué pasó?”

And Sam screamed in reply to all of them: “NO! I want Erin! Erin, come up here!”

“What? Absolutely not. I’m not climbing all the way up there! Slide down the slide and I’ll catch you!”

“No, no, no, no, nooooooo!”

The 5 year-old girl who had befriended us earlier, scooted past me, heading up. “I’ll help him,” she reassured me.

“Okay, thanks,” I said dubiously.

I know enough Spanish to confirm that the Spanish-speaking family sitting behind me was talking about us. How could they not? Every single kid in the place had either climbed up to investigate Sam’s situation or was peering upwards while chomping down greasy fries. Except Nate. He had returned to his seat and was dunking a nugget in ketchup, his back to the giant playground.

“Sam, please come down here right now.”

“Noooooooo!”

Defeated, I began my climb, pushing my giant belly to the side as I pulled my legs and feet up to each subsequent level of the play structure. Why did they have to make it so high? The one at Chick-Fil-A is so accessible!

“Whoa! How’d you get up here?” one of the kids said, surprised to see an adult so high in the sky.

I grabbed Sam, clamping the waistband of his pants in case any poop might slip out during our descent.

“Nate, we’re leaving!” Still holding Sam over my shoulder, I threw their shoes into my bag, pitched trash and scraps of food into the trashcan, and convinced Nate to carry not only his own smoothie but Sam’s too.

Sam’s stench was already suffocating me, but I persevered and made it to the car. He was still screaming and could barely hear me telling him how mad I was that he hadn’t pooped in the toilet earlier in the day when I told him to.

We made it home where I deposited them into the tub and scrubbed them clean, which I would have done after any trip to a McDonald’s Playplace. I threw away his sweatpants and lit some scented pumpkin candles to remove the poop memories from my olfactory glands.

I put on a movie for them and sat down with my laptop as they took turns shooting me with their Happy Meal toys. I counted the seconds until bedtime, praying that I wouldn’t be awakened in the middle of the night with another urgent need to poop.

Sam and Wally Forever

Well, as Nate’s pre-K class starts to peel off into romantic pairs—seriously, it’s not even spring yet!—Sam, too, has decided to take a paramour. And it’s Wally, our dog. And it’s very much unrequited.

Though really, Sam’s always had a bit of a crush on Wally. Nate, on the other hand, came home from the hospital as a newborn and seemed to view Wally as part of the landscape of our house, glancing over him as he did the ugly floral print chair next to the fireplace. Meanwhile, Wally resented the attention-hogging infant, so they never established much of a bond.

And then Sam came along.

As an infant, he was not the best sleeper, and we would often bring him downstairs after bedtime to rock him back to sleep on a giant physio ball while we watched House of Cards. Sam’s a stubborn and manipulative guy, just like Frank Underwood.

One night, exasperated with his insomnia, I placed Sam on a blanket on the floor—probably so I could finish a bowl of ice cream. He wasn’t even able to crawl yet, but somehow he managed to worm his way over to Wally’s bed and wiggle onto his neck to entangle himself in Wally’s fur. They lounged there for the better part of an hour, Sam massaging Wally with a combination of curiosity and affection, and Wally unsure whether to be grateful for the attention or fearful of his prodding little fingers.

It was certainly more soothing for Sam than for Wally and we were soon able to put Sam to sleep with ease. That night anyway.

But that was the start of the unrequited romance.

Sam’s never used a pacifier, he’s used Wally instead. When he’s distressed or agitated, which is almost always, he wraps his arms around Wally and buries his face in his neck. After a few moments of cuddling and some inquisitive finger jabbing of Wally’s face, Sam is always calmer, more serene—for about five minutes.

When we come home from an outing, Sam seeks out Wally to tell him where we went and what we did. “We went Trader Joe’s, Wa. Got lollipops.” Wally is his equal, his brother—a brother whom we always seem to mistakenly leave at home when we run errands.

Sam apportions part of every meal to Wally and takes pride in the fact that he’s nourishing his dog and using his sharing skills. “Wally doesn’t like grapes!” or “Wally likes Cheez-its!”

But, like any pair of lovers, Wally and Sam have their ups and downs. Wally purposely positions himself in between Sam and his breakfast plate every morning. In fairness, Sam usually takes one bite of his waffle or bagel and wanders away to gather Lego’s or something, so in Wally’s canine sense of justice, the plate is up for grabs.

When Sam returns, though, he emits his squealiest squeal—that he reserves for these moments of injustice—and shouts out, “Move, Wa!” while kicking him in the butt or the throat or the ribs, whatever Wally’s left vulnerable.

“You move Wally, Dad?” Sam asks after Wally refuses to budge despite the pain from the bruised ribs he must be feeling.

“Huh?” Tighe looks up from his precious DVR-ed American Ninja Warrior, just long enough to say, “Move, Wally.”

Wally un-wedges himself from his post next to the coffee table and drags himself to higher, safer ground on the other side of the sofa. Sam takes another bite and then scoots away again to his Lego’s, which he refers to as “Ninja Turtles.” Wally slithers back, next to Sam’s plate, and the cycle repeats.

During the day, Wally’s favorite place to sleep is in the office, next to a ground level, arch-shaped window from where he can watch squirrels, chipmunks, birds, and the occasional cat, slowly and bravely meandering through our yard.

This also happens to be Sam’s favorite place to dump out all his Lego’s and a basket of books, and every wooden Melissa and Doug puzzle we own. As any parent, caregiver, or former child knows, applying one’s bodyweight to the surface of Lego’s causes pain, and it seems this is true for dogs as well.

Wally avoids the room when Nate and Sam are in there playing—one never knows what toys will suddenly become weapons or projectiles, and Wally can’t always escape fast enough to avoid being caught in the crossfire. But when they’ve retreated back to the TV or to the mess hall for a feeding, Wally will return, worming his way through the toys to create just enough space to catch a nap before the ceasefire ends and he finds himself in a battleground again.

But if Sam returns and finds his dog, his best friend, sprawled out peacefully, with perhaps a leg or a tail resting on the corner of a puzzle or sought-after Lego, he lets out another squealiest squeal, demanding that Wally move. 

But Wally’s stubborn. Or just really tired from a long day of guarding the house, so oftentimes, he’ll stay there. Until Sam’s squealiest squeals turn to screeches, at a volume and pitch that no ear can withstand. Then he lumbers away, still drowsy from his incomplete nap. Sometimes he stands by the back door, seeking out some quiet time in the backyard. If the weather is nice, he sits on the patio for hours, like a lion overlooking the savannah, and when he returns to continue resting in the house, Sam stretches out on top of him, massaging and caressing.

“Wally’s penis is dirty, Mom.”

“Yes, Sam. Don’t touch it.”

We’ve been over that a lot. Because boundaries are important and even Wally needs some privacy.

The Guest List

If you don’t already know about the Guest List, then I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you’re probably not on it. And don’t get me wrong—you’re probably better off NOT being on it. Who wants to hang with a bunch of sugar-high 5-year-olds at Nate’s birthday party anyway?

Because yes, the Guest List is Nate’s concoction.

You see, Nate runs hot and cold when it comes to emotions and relationships. People are either his best friends and rewarded with an invite to his birthday party—the one that he’s planning five months from now—or, he hates them and they can never, ever come to his birthday party. Ever.

He even ranks us, his parents. This morning, he told me he hated me for making him put his socks on. Fifteen minutes later on the way to school, when I confirmed that I had indeed packed chocolate chip cookies in his lunch, I received a huge hug and told that I was the “best mom ever.” Jealous?

Nate told me once, early this summer, that I wasn’t invited to his birthday party. Who knows what I did to deserve that, probably made him pick up his dirty clothes or turn off his Kindle or told him to stop stealing the red Starbursts from my once-secret candy stash. Anyway, I laid out the fallacies of the statement: that I’d probably be the one paying for and organizing this party, thus I should probably be invited, and he’s never threatened that again.

In retrospect, that would have been an easy out for me. Imagine if I could get an afternoon to myself while Tighe supervised a dozen or so kids at Chuck-E-Cheese! Or the bowling alley…or “open gym”…or the zoo…or the children’s museum…the actual plan for Nate’s party is as malleable as his Guest List.

In fact, had I actually been taking note of who was and was not invited to his birthday party, I’d be on my third legal pad by now. It’d be covered in white-out and eraser marks and scratch-outs and barely legible. I’ve heard him denounce kids for taking a book he wanted at school, or not sharing a sip of juice box, or being a girl—just the punishment these kids deserve for minding their own business!

Meanwhile, he awards these same friends Guest List Honors because they invited him to their parties, or because they like Ninja Turtles (almost) as much as he does, or because they just had a great afternoon on the playground together.

And he proclaims these rewards and punishments loudly and emphatically. “Fine, you’re not invited to my birthday party!” I’ve heard him shout that—loud and with vigor, but without much consequence, similar to the way the U.S. condemns Bashar Assad—dozens of times. Or, “[Insert name here], you’re invited to my birthday party because you’re my best friend ever!”

The best part—my favorite part anyway—is that the other kids usually don’t care. His birthday is in February (because Tighe and I only conceive in May, but that’s another blog for a different audience), and he’s been menacing his friends with the Guest List for about four months already. Most kids don’t even understand what’s happening four hours, or even four minutes, from the present moment. He might as well be promising them a spot in his bunker when the moon shatters into tiny pieces that blast through the Earth. It could happen, look it up.

Fear not, I’m not reading too much into his moodiness—he’s not the next Pablo Escobar or OJ Simpson, suddenly “offing” loved ones who offend him [note to self: CTE is dangerous, Nate and Sam will not play football, must start wearing helmets to soccer/karate/playgrounds].  However, he might be laying the groundwork for some Boss Tweed political favors later in life. Assuming the U.S. is still a democracy then. Assuming it’s still a democracy now. But I digress.

Anyway, “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” is a mantra that works in politics, business, entertainment, etc. I’m not claiming that Nate has the brains or ambition to be leading our country some day, but he does have charisma. And he knows how to manipulate. So, when you go to the polls in November, I don’t care who you vote for—well, I do, but it’s not my business—maybe take a moment that day to do something nice for Nate. Send him mail, bake him some cookies, play Ninja Turtles with him. Because believe me, he’ll remember those things. He always does. Just stay in his good graces. Anything to get on the Guest List. And off of his Hit List.

An Open Letter to Sam

Re: Potty Training

Dear Sam,

It’s been two weeks since we started potty training and we are so proud of you! Sure, those first twenty-four to thirty hours were rough, urine-soaked, and putrid, and I had to convince your dad not to give you up for adoption at least twice. But since then, you got control of the situation. Now, you understand what it feels like just before you pee, you alert someone—even Nate has assisted you—and you can hold it in for a reasonable amount of time until you make it to a toilet or urinal. You’ve even peed in public restrooms—something your self-accoladed brother didn’t do for several months!

But, as with all milestones, this is also a time for reflection and further self-improvement. I wouldn’t be doing my job as a mother if I sent you into the world—to a job, to college, to a gap year in southeast Asia, to seek out a spouse—with your toilet skills as they are now. Let’s set the bar a bit higher and tweak some of your habits and quirks.

And so, here’s my short little list of advice to you:

1.     You will not get a jellybean every time you pee for the rest of your life. It’s not practical.

2.     When some of your urine stream drifts outside of the toilet, to the floor or wastebasket, I cannot put it back into your penis so you can try again. I would if I could, but I truly can’t, so stop crying about it.

3.     It’s not sanitary to fall asleep on the floor of the bathroom.

4.     Pooping on the toilet should be a regular occurrence, like every day, not a once-every-ten-day phenomena.

5.     Don’t forget to pull down your underwear and shorts when you pee outside. Just because you’re standing in the bushes or next to a tree doesn’t automatically make it a successful pee.

6.     Quit playing with yourself—we’re here for a reason: to pee in the toilet. This is not an exploratory mission, and your penis is not a toy.

7.     While hygiene is important, it should not take you forty minutes to wash your hands.

Sam, I’m most proud of your growth mindset throughout this process. You have recognized your successes and taken pride in them. And when you’ve had an accident, you’ve been frustrated with yourself, but not discouraged. You’re enjoying the challenge—almost as much as you’re enjoying playing with yourself.

So, stay hydrated and keep peeing in that toilet! You’re doing a great job!

Thanks,

The Management

Potty Training, Day 1

My instincts told me he wasn’t ready. But the calendar on the wall told me that he was to start preschool in three weeks and they have a potty-training requirement. So, like we did with Nate two summers before, we could power-through and despite a few accidents, he’d emerge potty-trained and Tighe and I would emerge diaper-free. Though our house would probably smell of urine.

My plan was to put him in underwear and not leave the house for three days—pretty standard—a nice long weekend. Easy in theory, but in actuality, it’s terrible.

Our weekends before he was scheduled to start school were getting fewer and fewer, so one Friday morning I woke up, feeling crappy with morning sickness yet determined.

“I’m putting him in underwear!” I called to Tighe as he escaped out the door on his way to work.

“Ugh.” His Friday morning saunter suddenly slowed to a lumber, his legs now heavy with gloom.

Sam, at first, was excited. He and I had purchased some inspiring toddler underwear the week before—Paw Patrol, Mickey Mouse, Lightning McQueen—and he wanted those characters on his butt. He’d also been requesting diaper changes lately and I interpreted that as a sign of readiness.

Nate was also excited. He immediately began pontificating on the virtues of peeing and pooping in a toilet, what a big milestone it was in the making of a man, and how successful his potty-training experience had been. As I negotiated with Sam to sit on the toilet, Nate was listing all their mutual acquaintances who have (presumably) made the jump from diapers to toilet.

“…Rogan, Gussie, Simon, Francis—no, not Francis, he’s a baby—Pops, all our aunts and uncles, Dad, Coach Daniel, Mac, Jimmy…”

“Sam, let’s just try for a minute,” I reasoned. “Then you can go back to playing.”

So he sat. For a minute. Then, “I not pee, Mom.”

I helped him pull his underwear back up, patted him on the butt, and reminded him, “When you feel like you need to pee or poop, you need to tell me, and I’ll help you sit on the toilet.”

So he played. And I hovered, watching for any change in posture or expression that indicated a urine stream was about to start. I still wasn’t convinced he knew what that pre-pee sensation felt like.

Finally, at 10:06, as Nate distracted me demanding praise for the Lego cars he had been constructing for his Ninja Turtles, Sam squatted on the carpet—less than a yard away—and peed.

“Oh, Sam! You peed!”

He grinned at me, perhaps proud of my observational skills, but probably pleased that he had succeeded in annoying me.

“Now your new underwear’s all wet! Ok. Let’s see if you have any more pee.”

I scooped him up and landed him on the Elmo potty chair that I had been carting from room to room as I stalked him around that morning..

“Well, Sam,” Nate began, “you peed on your Marshall underwear. You were supposed to pee on your Elmo chair.” I think Sam is quickly learning, as Tighe and I have, that it’s just best to drown out Nate’s lectures with our own internal humming.

I corralled them outside with some sidewalk chalk and soccer balls in the interest of saving our carpet from urine spray. I dragged their little blue plastic table out to the sidewalk and brought out a can of shaving cream—some tactile learning. At this point, I forfeited that either kid would get dressed that day, and they chased each other around the front yard in underwear, smearing shaving cream on one another’s heads. I like to think that someday the neighbors and passing drivers will throw cash tips my way in gratitude for my efforts at entertaining them.

Meanwhile, I sat on the front step and ruminated on my strategy. I opened a juice box for each of them. He couldn’t pee if he was dehydrated.

“Ok, how about this, Sam?” Here came my Plan B. “When you pee or poop on the toilet, you’ll get a jellybean!”

“Yeah, I want jellybeans!” Sam jumped and clapped.

“Well, I want a jellybean. Do we have red ones?”

“Fine, Nate. When you poop or pee on the toilet, you can have a jellybean, too. But just today!”

“Great, I have to pee right now!” He ran over to the oak tree at the edge of our property, dropped his underwear and “watered” the tree.

“Alright,” I sighed, handing him a jellybean, “I guess that counts”

“I want to pee, too!” Sam never missed out on sugar. He ran to the tree and I helped him lower his underwear. We waited. And waited.

“No, I not pee,” he laughed, as though his preschool enrollment wasn’t at stake here.

“Ok, but when you feel like you’re ready to pee, tell me!” I checked the time, resolving that I would make him try again in ten minutes. 

“Yeah, Sam, when you feel like the pee’s about to come out of your penis, you just tell Mom, and she’ll help you!” Nate was using his most condescending voice in between sips of apple juice as he knelt down to minimize the two-inch height difference between them. How patronizing.

Suddenly, Sam squatted on the brick sidewalk.

“Sam, what are you doing?” I moved in his direction. But not fast enough. Urine seeped through his second pair of Paw Patrol underwear and trickled down his bare leg.

“No, not again!”

“Well, I have to pee again!” Nate yelled triumphantly, sprinting back to the oak tree and dropping his underwear to his ankles.

I handed him another jellybean—red, of course—as I removed Sam’s saturated underwear, leaving him naked in the front yard.

He shrieked with envy as Nate chomped on the jellybean in front of him. The melting sugar smacked around in his mouth as he continued his self-righteous sermon. I don’t think he intended to taunt Sam, but that’s what it looked like.

“Well, Sam, when I was potty-training and I needed to pee, I would just tell Erin or Tighe and they would help me pee on the toilet. And then I’d get a red jellybean. And now, I can pee on the toilet all the time. All by myself!”

I handed each kid a Gatorade and set my timer for fifteen minutes, praying that Sam would earn his first of many jellybeans that day.

As a very distinguished gentleman talking on his cellphone strolled by on the sidewalk fifteen minutes later, I dropped Sam’s underwear and sat him on his Elmo toilet.

“Say, ‘come on pee-pees, get out of me!’” I whispered to Sam. How dumb.

“’Mon, pee-pees, get out me,” Sam muttered obediently. He was frustrated but I could tell he was hopeful. Anything for a jellybean.

“Why ‘pee-pees?’ Are there lots of pee-pees?” Nate looked on, judging me and sipping Gatorade. He was understanding the positive correlation between the ounces of fluid he consumed and the number of jellybeans he was awarded.

Sam and I ignored him and held hands, in wishful anticipation.

Suddenly, I head the low thud of a strong urine stream hitting the plastic wall of the potty chair.

“Yes!” I shrieked. “You did it, Sam! You did it!”

“My did it,” he whispered slowly, almost disbelieving. Like if he was too loud he would interrupt what was happening.

“I’m so proud you, Sam! This is so exciting!” I helped him pull up his underwear as he demanded a jellybean.

“My want jellybean! My want red jellybean!” Take that, Nate.

Finally, it was lunchtime and Sam had already peed through three pairs of underwear. As I assembled their lunches, I didn’t even bother to put a fourth pair on him, convincing myself that I’d just be extra vigilant this time. The Elmo chair was within easy reach, and I was starting to pick up on his “tells”—his pre-pee motions and postures.

We sat at the dining room table—ok, I sat and Nate and Sam stood on their chairs, as always, Sam still bare-assed. I guess they just don’t want to crush their hip flexors. Or maybe it aids in their digestion, I don’t know. But the fact that Sam was standing is important. While Nate munched his grilled cheese and made jokes and silly faces for Sam’s entertainment, he made Sam laugh so hard that he lost control and without warning, peed.

Since he was standing, his penis had been hovering just above the table and urine puddled around the edges of his plate and dripped down onto the carpet and onto his chair. As Nate pointed and laughed a deep belly laugh, trying not to choke on his sandwich, Sam’s bare feet splashed around in the pee.

“Aaahh! Are you serious?” I shrieked, running to grab the paper towels. “Well, don’t play in it!”

Sam thought this was funny.

So by 12:30 PM, we had two successful pees in the toilet and five…elsewhere.

I put on a movie and urged him to sit on the toilet one last time before I squeezed a thick, folded towel under his bottom, correctly anticipating that the movie would lull him to sleep.

“No, no! I not want to poop or pee in toilet because poop is…is…is…” he paused as he searched his small vocabulary for the right adjective. Usually, he’d use “poopy” here, but I guess that seemed redundant to him and he was tired, so he never finished his sentence.

By the time, Tighe came home at 5:30, he had peed once more on the floor and once more on the toilet. Baby steps, I thought. This is only Day One.

A babysitter came at 6:30, and though I’d never met her before—don’t worry, she came highly recommended—I’d decided she was my new favorite person. Tighe put a diaper under Sam’s pajamas before we sprinted to the car.

“Good luck! Nice to meet you!” I was excited to leave the house and recharge. We sat at a bar and geared up for the rest of our weekend. We needed to be united and we needed a strategy. And probably some Lysol. 

The Day I Lost Nate

Sit back and let me tell you about the time I lost Nate.

Yes, lost him.

At the Jersey Shore. And if there’s a scarier place to lose a small child, I don’t know it.

Ok, maybe a Jewish ghetto in 1939 Poland. Or inside a tiger cage. Pedophiliac tigers. Or inside a labrynth with pedophiliac tigers and a genocidal maniac running around. Speaking German.

Anyway, the point is that it’s scary to lose a kid at the Jersey Shore. And it was Sunday afternoon, so it was especially crowded. Yes, crowded with families and college kids, but also with child traffickers armed with lollipops and ice cream. Not to mention jellyfish and stingrays and sand sharks and riptides and tsunamis and sunburn. Genocidal tigers suddenly seem so tame.

My one consolation is that if Nate or Sam were ever kidnapped, they’d surely talk or scream so much that a kidnapper would have no choice but to drop them off at the nearest police station. I know, because I’ve been close to doing that myself.

I mean most mornings in the car I can’t get a word in edgewise. Yes, please Nate, recount last night’s dream to me one more time. And keep planning your fifth birthday party that’s seven months away.

Anyway, back to losing Nate…

Most everyone else in our party had returned to the house for lunch, and it was just Nate, me, my brother-in-law, and two of his friends who were having very mature post-collegiate conversations about retirement plans, budding entrepreneurship, and what they look for most in a woman as they select a mate: sense of humor.

Nate, who is rapidly turning into the nosy neighbor kid from Home Alone, had run over to the family parked adjacent to us to converse with the dad. They had a little boy who looked to be slightly younger than Nate with lots of sand toys and a small plastic pool that was enticing to Nate. I casually strolled up and stationed myself a few, non-awkward yards away, between Nate and the water.

I smiled at the dad and turned to the water for a moment to ponder the grandiosity of the Atlantic Ocean and the smallness of my own being. I mean really, could I be more insignificant? Especially in New Jersey?

But really it was just a moment.

When I turned back, Nate was gone. Gone.

I scanned the landscape immediately surrounding us, looking for a blond four year-old in a light blue bathing suit with surfboards on it. He was also wearing his navy blue puddle jumper and carrying a red boogey board that was bigger than he is. Hard to miss. Or so I thought.

But I still didn’t see him.

I marched down the beach to my left about a dozen paces, my eyes still searching and weaving through the parties of people, through their blankets and tents and chairs.

Still no sign of Nate, and my heart was starting to beat faster.

Am I panicked? Or am I overreacting?

I sped back to our sand real estate hoping he’d just wandered circuitously back to our chairs and planted himself under the umbrella again. He’s terrified of melanoma.

But he wasn’t there.

“Uh, Patrick,” I hoped my worry wasn’t evident in my voice. “You don’t see Nate, do you? He was right there and now he’s gone.”

Patrick and his two friends jumped up like the Navy Seal Green Beret Superhero first responders they are and immediately started sifting through the masses of sandy people strewn up and down the beach.

“Tighe’s going to kill me,” I whispered to myself and immediately thought of how many times I’d uttered those words in front of Sam and Nate and then had to explain that their dad’s not actually going to end my life. Kids are so literal. I suddenly couldn’t wait to see Nate again and over-explain something to him. Anything! Maybe we’ll start with stranger danger.

I picked up my phone and dialed Tighe.

“Tighe?” my voice definitely cracked, “Can you come back to the beach? I lost Nate and I have no idea where he is. That’s what lost means.”

He definitely picked up on my panic. “Yeah, I’ll be right there!”

I started to imagine Nate and how scared he probably was at this point. That’s what killed me. I wasn’t worried that he’d drowned—he’s terrified of the water and avoids it at all costs, just ask his swim teacher. I wasn’t worried that he’d been kidnapped—what are the odds that kidnappers trudge through the hot sand to pick up a kid and drag a squirming, screaming body back across the sand to their car, which is probably parked a few solid blocks away? Doesn’t seem worth the trouble. Especially when you can probably just easily pluck a straggler off the boardwalk or from an ice cream shop, separated from his herd, thus avoiding the sand and beach patrol altogether. I like to think that kidnappers are practical people.

But Nate’s alarm was my greatest concern at this point. It had been at least fifteen minutes since he had last seen me. His panic is probably causing him to run even faster, darting from chair to chair looking for someone he recognizes. He already wakes up with night terrors several times a night, how long will this ordeal haunt him?

I just wanted to get on the loudspeaker for a minute, to silence the crashing waves, and tell every single person to please shut up and ask them if they see a frightened little boy. Wearing a puddle jumper and carrying a red boogey board. Again, hard to miss.

Suddenly, I saw Patrick waving his arms at me and pointing down the beach. “He’s here!” he yelled.

I took off in that direction and saw Patrick and his friend accompanying Nate, chatting away and still balancing his boogey board at his waist, down the beach. I can’t remember the last time I felt such a wave of relief. Like, one minute I’m caught in a nightmare that will destroy my life and suddenly everything’s back to normal and we’re just a happy family celebrating summertime on the beach.

Not only that, but Nate’s smiling.

“Hey Mom,” he said casually. “I asked that man and he said I can play in their pool.”

He was not the slightest bit alarmed that he had been missing for over a quarter of an hour. In fact, he had unknowingly been “found” two blocks down by a teacher. She had alerted the lifeguards and was calmly escorting him back in our direction, asking him appropriate questions and making him identify his uncle Patrick when he approached him. 

I am so grateful to her.

The Atlantic Ocean may be enormous, but we are not insignificant. At least to each other.

We returned to our chairs, as though nothing had happened, as though my world was never about to implode, and watched as Nate returned to pester the family next to us.

Suddenly, he pivoted to the left and sprinted down the beach along the water’s edge. How does he run so fast wearing that puddle jumper and carrying the boogey board? I wondered.

I turned to Patrick. “There he goes again. Excuse me.” I rose from my chair and sprinted off after him. My hamstrings were sore for a week.

The Scallion

The Greenhalgh's Most Trusted and Satirical News Source

Sam Goes Down the Blue Slide!

Graduating from the eighteen-inch high “frog slide” at the pool, Sam finally attempted the much larger blue slide, which is six feet high.

“When he first went down, it was pretty slow,” Erin said. “He used his feet as brakes and stopped himself at the bottom, then changed his mind, and when he realized it was too slippery to climb back up he just slid into the pool—and loved it!”

He went thirty more times that first day. Witnesses say that Nate, who was waiting safely at the edge of pool next to the ladder, said, “Good job, Sam! I’m so proud of you!” each time Sam went down. Each time. And each time, Sam replied, “Thank you, Nate.”

Later that week, Sam was jumping in the pool to Erin without his floaties.

Nate, meanwhile, has committed to wearing his floaties until age twelve. When asked why, he cited safety concerns.

Nate Kills His First Fly

Despite constant pleas to Nate and Sam to shut the garage door, Erin and Tighe’s home is plagued with houseflies. While it’s a minor annoyance for the couple, it terrifies Nate and Sam.

“They always call us in to kill them,” Tighe told reporters. “Finally I had them watch ‘The Karate Kid’ to show them that it’s possible for kids to kill flies.”

“That was my first fly!” Nate declared just before dinner Thursday night.

Tighe congratulated him and told him to wash his hands. After several minutes of waiting at the dinner table, Sam, Erin, and Tighe began to get impatient when Nate finally arrived at his seat.

“I washed my hands. And then I had to pee. And then I had to wash my hands again,” he explained when asked about the delay.

“Honestly, I think the fly must have been nearing comatose, it was so slow and lethargic,” a witness said, speaking on the condition of anonymity.

The fly’s corpse, mutilated beyond recognition, was removed from the house. It is the policy of this news source not to release the name of the deceased until the next of kin has been notified.

Bunk Beds Arrive at House!

The city of Cleveland went without a championship for fifty-two years. The Starks were kept out of Winterfell for six years. Nate and Sam were in their bunk beds for twenty-five minutes that first night.

After much labor and four trips to the hardware store on Saturday afternoon, Tighe completed assembly of the newly arrived bunk beds, all while Nate lectured on the hierarchy of big brothers on the top bunk and little brothers on the bottom.  According to Nate this system is stricter than social castes India, or at least stricter than cafeteria seating in American middle schools. Sam, just thrilled to be included, expressed mild concern that the bottom bunk is “scary.”

These fears were realized at bedtime when the bottom was darker than he’d imagined and he refused to stay there. Nate, claiming he was unable to sleep without Sam, also retreated to his old bed in his old bedroom. Reports suggest that although they have yet to sleep in the bunk beds, they are a great place to play.

Nate Tries Steak

Related article: Worried Erin googles “preschoolers heart attacks cholesterol”

Entering the summer grilling season, Erin and Tighe have committed to having steaks on Sunday evenings. As per their nightly dinner routine, they offered Nate a bite of their cuisine—much more adventurous than his dinosaur chicken nuggets.

To Erin’s surprise, Nate said yes. “I was shocked,” she said, “I kept thinking, ‘what’s he up to? What’s his angle here? Do I really want to share my steak with him?’”

“I liked it, I really liked it!” Nate lied. He even ate a second piece just to cement his deception.

When asked for comment, Erin contemplated adjusting the weekly grocery budget. “I mean, odds are he’ll never eat it again, so I think we’re ok.”

Family Prepares for Long Drive East

Tighe refuses to spring for DVD player repair; Erin anxious

“We’ll just download a bunch of new movies onto their Kindles. And I’ll get a new XM radio subscription for us. Plus, I just bought the audio version of The Girls on Audible,” Tighe is reported to have told Erin.

“But the sum of all that is probably more than the cost of the repairs,” Erin countered through her lawyer.

A neutral third-party is still researching the total expenses for all options. Meanwhile, Erin will frequent area dollar stores to stock up on snacks and new books and toys.

Sam’s Potty-training Set for Late Summer

After months of research and planning, Erin has scheduled Sam’s potty-training for the second half of July. “I mean, I just have to bite the proverbial bullet and do it. At least I hope it’s just a proverbial bullet. That would be such a metallic taste.”

Sam has to be potty-trained to start school in August, so a firm deadline exists. Sitting around in a poopy diaper doesn’t seem to faze him, witnesses report. And each time someone makes a reference to him pooping and peeing in a toilet, Sam simply laughs. “And it’s an evil laugh,” Erin said. “I’m just going to have to do the three day thing: pump him full of fluids, sit him on the pot every twenty minutes, and hope for the best.”

She remains unsure of whether a sticker chart tactic or jellybean bribe will work for Sam. “He’s just so stubborn. But I did read a case about a little boy who found success by bringing his dog into the bathroom to show him his ‘presents.’ That might work for Sam.”

When pressed, Wally refused to comment and directed questions to his lawyers.

Toe-kissing and Clean-up on a Summer Morning

“Sam, I have kissed so many of your fucking toes!”

And yes, I really did say “fucking.” But I was in the bathroom and Nate and Sam were in the dining room, so I don’t think they heard me.

I was just so sick of kissing his toes. But it didn’t matter—he wandered in red-faced and crying, “You kiss my toes, please, Mom?”

I groaned and leaned down, my face to his feet. The image is very biblical.

“This toe?”

“No, this one!” It didn’t matter which toe I had selected, he would have indicated that a different one hurt and needed a healing kiss. I’d already kissed at least three of them.

I kissed the toe he was pointing to without emotion. I was no longer impressed with my magical curing powers. “There. All better!”

“No, this one!” Now he was pointing to his opposite foot. He’s got to be kidding me.

“Mom, can you please put tape on the floor so we can bowl?”

Nate. He emphasized the word “please” because he’d made this request several times already this morning.

I kissed all five of the toes in one drawn out, sweeping motion.

“There, all better, Sam. Let’s go help Nate.”

I grabbed the tape from one of our many junk drawers and knelt down with them in the middle of the hardwood floor in the foyer.

“Look, it goes four, three, two, one.” I placed a small square of tape on the floor indicating where each dollar-store bowling pin should go. But really, we’ve been over this so many times. How hard can it be? The rows go four, three, two, one. Count backwards. Make a triangle.

I was fed up. It was late in the morning and it was hot. We had errands to run and I wanted to go to the pool. I didn’t even care what we did as long as we were either productive or got to cool down and be social. Nate and Sam, on the other hand, were still in their pajamas, and there were toys covering every inch of floor space on the first floor. And now they were adding bowling pins to the mix. Wally was having trouble finding a good place to lie down. 

My goal this summer is to get them to clean up. And maybe not to even take out all the toys to begin with. We’d already purged a trash bag full of toys the day before. And we set aside Nate’s sacred toys—mostly Ninja Turtles—in a small yellow trundle case.  My hope was that instead of “needing” to find a specific toy and dumping out all our toy bins and baskets, like a junkie urgently seeking a fix, he could go straight to the caboodle kit and find the precious toy.

I was wrong. He still dumps out everything. Everything: Lego’s, wooden train tracks, Duplo’s, puzzle pieces, Even some of Wally’s old chew toys somehow find their way into Nate’s disarray.

So, because I’m goal-oriented and stubborn, I was determined not to leave the house until they had cleaned up their mess that morning.

And yes, I’ve tried games and tricks, anything just shy of an actual bribe. I’ve even tried—and I’m semi-embarrassed to admit this—putting the cleaning-the-nursery scene from Mary Poppins while we cleaned up. It resulted in a down-the-rabbit-hole stream of Disney YouTube videos. By the end, all three of us were laying on the couch shoveling handfuls of popcorn into our mouths.

Anyway Sam usually falls for those coercive maneuvers I read about in parenting magazines, but Nate is the Master of Manipulation himself —an actual certification—so there is no chance of me winning that one.

With Nate, I just need to be a slave driver.

“All you do is put this stuff in there! And that stuff in there!” I pointed to the many baskets and buckets where they store their toys. “It should take three minutes!”

“Why three minutes?” Nate inquired.

“I don’t know,” I began questioning myself. As I usually do in a conversation with Nate. Why did I pick three? Usually, I favor even numbers. I could have said four or two. Or even ten, they don’t even know how long a minute is. Well Sam might. Because it’s how long he usually spends in time-out. When I can get him to stay put. He never stays put! Time-out is not effective if they don’t stay put!

Ugh—another rabbit hole of insecure inner-dialoging! Must. Stop.

“And tomorrow night, you’re having a babysitter!” I declared. Kind of a random statement, but it helped me feel in control. Triumphant.

“Which one?” Nate said coldly.

“Kat. She’s never babysat you before, but you’ll like her.”

“Like an actual cat? You mean Garfield?”

Garfield is one of his heroes at the moment. So much so that I recently served lasagna for dinner on a 95+ degree day because Nate convinced me he’d love it.

He didn’t. Obviously.

Anyway—back to the clean-up.

“Whoever puts the most toys in the baskets…”

I was getting desperate, my mind was racing as fast as it could. Which is about the speed of…um…hmm…I don’t know. As fast as something really fast.

“…gets a…treat in his lunch!”

Great, a bribe. I’m so pathetic.

“Mom, what treat are you going to put in our lunches?”

Crap. I was hoping he hadn’t heard me. I don’t even think I have any treats. Nate and I have had so many debates about what constitutes a “treat.” And it has to be something that won’t melt in the sun at the pool.

And then, of course, could I really only give it to one of them? How was I supposed to know which child put the most toys in the basket? I was holed up in the kitchen, my fortress of solitude.

I walked into the room to check progress and found Sam, sprawled on the couch with a bowl of blueberries watching the US Open. He looked like Al Bundy.  At least blueberries are brain food. Whatever that means.

“MOM! WHY ARE YOU NOT HELPING ME?”

Groan.

As usual, just when I start seriously considering putting them up for adoption, they get it together and redeem themselves. Clean-up happened and I even had an extra moment to Windex some syrup streaks off the TV. But why do they have to drive me to that point every day? We did make it to the pool that day. I packed their lunches and handed them each a treat—two gummy worms—as we headed out the door. Easier than lasagna.

Things Are Getting Weird Around Here

Things are getting weird around here.

And not just because Nate’s been wearing a snorkeling mask and snorkel around the house. Or because Sam’s been addressing strangers as “cookie.” Or that Sam just gave his first ever eye-roll during one of Nate’s lectures. It was a lecture about snorkeling.

But weirder still is Nate’s devotion to his “guys.” Nate and Sam both have a squad of stuffed animals. Sam’s is a rotating cast, depending on his mood and which ones are available.

I don’t know if that has any implications for his future relationships or not. I mean, I’m not looking ahead to his life partnership yet, but I am concerned for his preschool posse next year. The barriers between those cliques are tough to break down and bridges burned are almost impossible to rebuild when you’re two and three years old.

The bond between Nate’s squad, on the other hand, is thick. Like blood brothers. In fact, according to Nate, his three guys actually make up a family. Blanket and Big Monkey are married and apparently, they’ve spawned an offspring, Little Monkey.

I guess those primate genes are pretty strong.

Anyway, according to Nate, May 30th is Little Monkey’s birthday. So we celebrated. Ok, we tried to celebrate. I had some leftover birthday cake in the freezer, that I had coincidentally taken out to thaw that morning. I was sick of it taking up space in the freezer, hogging valuable real estate that could be reserved for Sam’s Eggo waffles. So, it sat in an aluminum tin inside a Ziploc bag on the counter all afternoon.

When Nate told me—proudly—that it was Little Monkey’s birthday, I said, “Great, we’ll have cake!”

And Nate said, “What present did you buy for him?”

“Listen,” I said, “He’s a stuffed animal. He’s lucky to get a cake.”

Nate was content with this, and he spent the rest of the day talking with Sam about cake and caressing Little Monkey, telling him how proud he is of him and that he can’t believe he’s two years old already.

Here’s an important plot point that I’ve skipped: the cake didn’t have icing on it. I considered making homemade icing for a quick minute, even Googling a simple recipe, but then thought better of it. “They consume plenty of sugar as it is,” I thought to myself.

After dinner, Nate and Sam practically fell over each other racing back into the kitchen to get some cake.

“What’s this?” Nate said, curling up his top lip with skepticism. “Is this the cake? Where’s the icing?”

“Oh, this kind of cake doesn’t have icing,” I explained.

“No icing!” Sam practically fainted in disbelief, like Lord Cornwallis realizing the rebels were about to win independence from the crown.

“But Little Monkey loves icing! This is the worse birthday he’s ever had!” Nate folded his arms, clasping each tricep, lowered his chin to his chest and pouted his bottom lip. His brown eyes pierced through to my soul from across the room.

I actually felt guilty for a moment. I ruined Little Monkey’s birthday! What kind of mother am I? He’ll be in therapy for years!

But that moment quickly passed when I remembered that he’s a stuffed animal. Not only that, but he’s barely the size of a tennis ball.

Regardless, I felt like I had knowingly misled Nate and Sam with promises of cake. They’re kids—their cake experiences all involve frosting and sprinkles and boxed cake mixes.

Anyway, I’ll fast forward through the rest of the guilt trip Nate laid on me. Even tucking him into bed later that night, he leaned over, gave Little Monkey a squeeze and said, “I love you so much, Little Monkey. I’m sorry my mom didn’t give you presents or a cake for your birthday.”

Obviously—partly because of guilt but also partly because I was curious to see what would happen—I made icing the following afternoon and Nate and Sam helped me frost the cake. At dinner, Nate plopped Little Monkey on an extra chair that he had dragged to the table and doted over him the entire meal, even engaging him in conversation. And yes, we had birthday candles, and sang Happy Birthday, and Little Monkey wore a button—bigger than his actual body—that said “Birthday boy.”

Tighe took videos on his phone and sent Snapchats to Little Monkey’s closest friends and family. It was the most pleasant meal we’ve ever had together and the closest we’ve ever felt as a family.

Then, shortly after dinner, Nate started to complain that his stomach hurt.

“Drink water!” I ordered, “Probably too much sugar…”

At bedtime, he repeated his complaint, and I asked him if he needed to poop.

“I do!” he declared.

Exhausted, I sat on the end of his bed, cradling a weary Sam in my lap, and listening to Nate orate as he sat on the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. He gets really chatty when he’s pooping. Also when he’s eating. And playing. And when he first wakes up. And when he’s about to fall asleep. And when he’s nervous. And pretty much always.

“…George. And Aiman. And if my wife has another one, Dave.” He was planning his future family. He’d clearly thought about this before.

“Aiman. That’s an interesting name. Where’d you hear that?”

“I read about it. Online.” He tilted his head to the side and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling, like he was sharing a little known piece of trivia. All this as explosive noises were echoing in the toilet

“Really? What exactly did you read?”

“That Aiman was a boy and now he’s a grown-up. And I said, ‘Lightbulb! I like that name!’” At the word ‘lightbulb,’ he flashed his hands wide open, like jazz hands, and hopped down from the toilet. “Mom? Wipe me, please?”

“Huh. You really read about it online?”

“Yep.” Cocking his head and shifting one eye up at me as he dried his hands, “That’s the truth!”

An hour and a half later, Tighe and I were safely on the couch finishing an episode of House of Cards. Some people hate spoilers, so I won’t tell you which episode, but we’re somewhere in Season 4. Anyway, just as my mind was creating a Venn diagram between House of Cards and HBO’s Veep, the credits flashed onto the screen.

And one of the first names that popped up: Aiman Humaideh. Assistant director.

Aiman? Yep, things are getting really weird around here.

The Job Interview

Many of you know that I’m working on my resume, looking for jobs, looking for income, looking for some self-worth. Sam will be enrolled in school this fall—pending summer potty-training, of course—so I’ll have a whopping six hours to myself every single week.

How empowering! I feel like I can finally identify with the magnitude of the women’s liberation movement! I’m giddy with anticipation. The possibilities are endless!

Joline Godfrey, CEO of Independent Means Inc, who counsels families on financial intelligence, is part of my inspiration. She admits that without a career, she’d “be a much grumpier parent because I wouldn’t be doing something that’s important to me. I’m a much more loving person because I have integrity and am true to myself.”

Amen, Joline.

It’s been almost three years since I was last employed. I’m a little rusty. My skills have been dulled by peanut butter and Desitin, but they’ve been replaced by new skills, better skills. Regardless, I’ll need to do some practicing before my first job interview.

I’m mentally rehearsing a lot.

Tell me about yourself. Well, I’m Erin. I used to be somebody and now I’m not, but I’d like to change that.

Where do you see yourself in five years? Kids in school full-time, coffee shop and gym every morning, Wally and I can take long walks—oh, God, will Wally still be alive in five years?

Why should we hire you? So I don’t kill my kids. Or develop a daytime drinking habit. Or worse, retail therapy.

Why did you leave your last job? Because we moved halfway across the country and that commute seemed a bit daunting.

What are your greatest strengths? I run really fast, faster than Sam. I always stay on top of laundry. I can grocery shop for four on a budget. I know every playground in the metro area, which ones have bathrooms and water fountains and where the nearest coffee shops are. I make a kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich. And I can send coherent emails with Sam hovering over my keyboard, incorrectly identifying letters.

What are your greatest weaknesses? I tend to work too hard. I’m too dedicated. I’m a perfectionist. I’m too diligent. I’m too much of a team player. I’m too coachable. I’m too humble. My interpersonal skills are too good. I’m too pretty, co-workers are often distracted. Gosh, I hope that’s not too many flaws.

Why do you want to work here? Because you don’t throw food at mealtimes. And I assume everyone here dresses themselves. I won’t have to break up fights, will I?

What do you know about us? You don’t have kids that work here, right? Child labor laws are still in effect? Ok, good.

How do people describe you? Nate says I’m his favorite mom ever, but I should wear my hair down more often. Sam says I’m poopy.

When can you start? Um, right now. But only on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9 to 12, while Sam’s at school. And then if they get sick, I’ll have to take off to stay home with them.

Describe a difficult situation and what you did to overcome it. Well, one time, I couldn’t find Sam’s lovies before naptime, and I had a lot stuff I needed to get done before Nate got home from school so I really needed him to get to bed on time. I looked and I looked and I looked and couldn’t find it, and my laptop kept dinging with new emails, which was really stressing me out, so I decided to hide in bed for a few minutes, and when I pulled back my comforter, there were his lovies! So he took his nap on time after all! Success!

What is your greatest accomplishment? I answered that in the previous question.

What kind of work environment do you prefer? An office building with a height requirement: employees must be over 48 inches tall to enter.

What’s your management style? I yell a lot, but I like to whisper the curse words under my breath.

What’s a time you exercised leadership? I was at Trader Joe’s, like, “Sam, do you want strawberries or watermelon today?” And he didn’t answer me, so I was like, “F*#% it!” and got both.

How do you deal with pressure or stressful situations? Like when I realize it’s 8:42 and Nate has to be at school in eighteen minutes but is still in his underwear and hasn’t touched his breakfast, nor have I packed his lunch yet? Usually I just run around yelling at Nate to eat and get dressed while I stuff his lunch box with apple slices and cheese while he asks me repeatedly why he can’t wear his red pants and favorite Ninja Turtles shirt again. Um, because they’re dirty? Meanwhile, trying to pry Sam away from Dora the Explorer so we can walk Nate to school is its own powder keg situation.

What would your first 30, 60 days here look like? On my first day, I’ll probably just sit at my desk and stare blankly for a while. In fact, that’ll be my whole first week, just to regain my mental thought processes without Sam yelling at me. After that, I plan on darting around to talk to as many people as possible, like a prairie dog popping into people’s cubicles. I just want friends. And if anyone needs me to make a coffee run for them, I’m definitely down for that.

What are your salary requirements? Wait—there’s a salary??! Sweet.

Church Superlatives

Yes, we still sit in the cry room at church on Sundays.

“Why do we always sit in here?” Nate asked me last week as we crept in a few minutes after mass began—per the norm.

“Because you insist on talking loudly every week.”

“Huh,” he replied, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling as if trying to disprove my accusation.

“Let’s practice whispering today,” I tell them every single week. “Can you show me how you whisper?”

“Yes, Mom, I can whisper,” Nate whispers in reply. How sweet.

“No, Mom. No whisper!” Why is Sam always so loud and angry? Oh, right—because he’s two.

There are definitely families at church—don’t tell me this isn’t true, Tighe!—who walk into the cry room, see Nate and Sam, and turn around and walk back out. I guess they don’t want our guys corrupting their sweet, little cherub angels. They’re probably resentful that we’re still hogging seats in there, that we haven’t graduated to the main sanctuary yet. Well, so am I.

Here are a few awards I doled out mentally after last week’s service.

Most Dirty Looks Received: Me. This might be skewed, though, because Tighe isn’t sensitive to people’s judgmental glares while I assume that everyone I make eye contact with and even people who just glance in our direction are giving us dirty looks. I realize this is paranoid and immature and narcissistic of me, but when you see the hand of kids I’ve been dealt and the ruckus they cause, you’d understand.

Best Behaved: Not Nate. Not Sam. Not the nearby three year-old grinding pretzels into the carpet with his heel. If we’re being honest, I don’t think I could safely nominate any of the kids in the room that morning. Maybe the aloof dad sitting a few seats over, completely zoning out? He was pretty quiet. I think he actually fell asleep at one point. Good for him.

Worst Dressed: Nate. He was wearing a green Ninja Turtles t-shirt with toothpaste splashes down the front of it, highlighter yellow gym shorts that were at least two sizes too large, and his red Pumas that encased four socks—two on each foot and each a different color.

Most Well-Fed: Sam. This is true even on Sundays when I don’t bring snacks with me. He usually finds some other kids to beg food from. If the kids are older, he’ll act cute and fun so that they want to share with him. If the kids are younger than he is, he’ll bully them into sharing or distract them by shoving them to the ground. How clever.

Loudest: Sam, without a doubt. He started a “poop” chant during the first scripture reading.

In fairness, Nate was a close runner-up. He lectured the little boy in front of us for about ten minutes on the Ninja Turtle Lego action figures he had brought with him. And when the boy turned to take the figures back to his seat with him, apparently not understanding the concept of “borrowing”—a grave injustice in Nate’s eyes—there was a louder, more urgent protest from Nate. Tighe and I intervened simultaneously before Nate took a swing at him.

Most Likely to Get Divorced: Tighe and Erin. What? You’re thinking, ‘But it’s Mother’s Day! No one files for divorce on Mother’s Day!’ Well, only because it’s Sunday and government buildings and law offices are closed. And it doesn’t matter that we enter the church as a united front and have reconciled by the time we pull into our driveway later that morning. Somehow, some way, Nate and Sam will divide and conquer us during that church service. Maybe I’ll take Nate to the bathroom during the gospel reading, not knowing that Tighe has been refusing the same request for the past twenty minutes, thus undermining his authority.

Or maybe Tighe will fish a snack out of my bag and give it to Sam when I had sworn to myself that they don’t need snacks to sit still.

Or maybe Tighe will snicker at something that Nate did. And the angry eye darts that I have laser-focused on Nate will suddenly swing around, complete with the Star Wars light saber sound effects, and burn holes through my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s forehead.

Who knows what will happen? The whispering rule really breaks down our line of communication.

Most persistent: Sam. From about five minutes into the start of mass until the very end: “Time to go now! Amen!” “Time to go now, Dad!” “It’s over now, amen!” “Time to go to playground now!” “Playground! Now!” Nor did he flinch when an older boy, perhaps five, finally told him that “poop” was a “potty word.” Dammit, if peer pressure doesn’t set him straight, I don’t know what will!

Best Hair: Sam. He looks like Gary Busey if he was a towheaded toddler who went to Lloyd Christmas’s barber.

Best Amendment to the Nicene Creed: Sam. He added: “My a bulldozer! My a bulldozer! My a bulldozer!” Again and again and again.

Most Excited About Communion: Tie. Either Tighe because it’s a signal that our power hour of torture is almost over. Or Sam because…well, actually we don’t really know why Sam loves to “go to ‘munnion.’” Nate, seeming annoyed, even reminded him this week that “there are no toys at communion, Sam.”

It’s a full hour of angst and elevated tension, and I’m counting down every minute, every reading, every prayer, every mouth open in the communion line. “Let’s hurry this up, people! God would want this to be efficient!”

And then, towards the end of mass, as my eyes fell upon Nate and Sam arranging their fingers into gun barrels, pointing at strangers, and spitting semi-automatic weapon fire noises, I knew I couldn’t stand one more second. I overheard another mom pleading with her little girl—who was wearing a lovely floral print sundress—to cross her legs and stop straddling the leg of a nearby chair. Smiling to myself and looking with love over my bloodthirsty savages, I said a prayer of thanksgiving for my two little boys.

Learning to Ride a Bike...Or Not

So I’ve been teaching Nate to ride his bike. And by teaching, I mean bribing. And if we’re being completely honest, it’s Saturday morning at the moment and I’m sitting by myself in a coffee shop listening to some new-age music and hoping that by the time I get home, Tighe will have taught him how to do it. I’m also hoping that Tighe will have cut the grass, cleaned the bathrooms, prepared some make-ahead dinners for the week, renovated our master bath, and finally put that addition on the back of the house above the garage. I feel like finding a vaccine for Zika wouldn’t be too much to ask either. I’m an eternal optimist.

But back to the bike. A few weeks back, we walked to a playground in Waldo to fly the kites Nate and Sam got for Easter. After a mass entanglement of kite string, legs of a stranger, the stroller, Wally the dog, and some monkey bars, we decided to break for some ice cream. Slightly miffed, the stranger did not join us, but the combination of lactose and sugar made Tighe and Nate drunk with ambition.

Next thing you know, we were across the street at a bike shop listening to Nate, still wearing his sticky chocolate ice cream beard, tell the saleswoman what a good athlete he is. A few minutes and a few hundred dollars later, and that same saleswoman was standing at the door, bidding us farewell as Nate—sporting a shiny new red helmet—pedaled away, proud and awkward, determined to bike the entire way home—about eight blocks. 

By the time we got home, Nate was spent. The sugar high had worn off and a hangover had set in. He was ready for some couch time and a movie.

That was a month ago. Since then he’s sat on that bike seat exactly once. And in fairness, my schedule’s been a little erratic lately—I ate trail mix for dinner three consecutive nights this week—and so we’ve booked very little instructional time. But still.

Like any good mom, I keep a stash of Starbursts and Tootsie Rolls and Skittles and other colorful gems that give our dentist nightmares. I have two bags of gummy worms, Nate’s favorite.

The day after the bike purchase, or as I like to refer to it: the day we blew the down payment on our new house—so much for moving! Anyway, after that infamous day, Nate refused to try the bike. He cited muscle soreness, and if I remember correctly—so long ago now—it was also raining. So we didn’t force it.

But the next morning—a Monday—as Sam wandered in with his lovies and shoved in next to us to watch videos of himself on my phone, I announced my fool proof plan to Tighe: “I shall bring them to a playground and bribe him with gummy worms to try the bike!”

I had been awake for hours mapping out my procedure, and by daybreak, I was confident in my strategy. I hopped out of bed and launched into my day.

After Tighe left for work and our standard drawn out morning routine—why does a four year-old take forty minutes to eat a piece of toast?—I put Nate’s new bike and a little Strider we have for Sam into the back of the car and drove to the playground.

The gummy worms, which I had yet to mention to Nate or Sam, were in the kangaroo pouch of my hooded sweatshirt.

This particular park is about three acres, complete with a large playground, a baseball diamond, a tennis court, a basketball court, and best of all, a very flat, gently curved walking trail that surrounds the whole thing. Perfect for teaching one’s progeny to tackle his fears and mount a two-wheeler! It has all the makings of a Daniel Tiger episode!

I unloaded the bikes from the car, “All right, let’s try this trail!”

Trembling, Nate refused. And yes, he was actually trembling. With fear.

It has training wheels, numb-nuts!

Conceding that maybe this very friendly walking trail might be a little intimidating, I tried again: “Why don’t we start on the tennis court? There’s a lot more room and you can practice pedaling without worrying about steering.”

This seemed like a good compromise to me. It’s a double tennis court, and there were no tennis players on it, so there was lots of “mistake space.”

Still, he was trembling. “I might fall.”

“You might. But it’s good to practice. At least try it.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I have Ninja Turtle Band-Aids! They can cure any skin abrasion.”

We negotiated for a few more minutes when, feeling desperate, I finally brought out my secret weapon.

“Nate, if you get on your bike, I’ll give you these gummy worms.” Yep, I’m not ashamed to admit that I bribed him. Kinda like I bribe Sam to climb into his car seat with a piece of gum. And now I have a two year-old gum junkie.

So, desperate for some mid-morning sugar, Nate cautiously climbed onto his bike while I held it still for him. He can pedal a tricycle, this shouldn’t have been such a struggle, but he still never flashed a smile—only an occasional resentful glare in my direction.

Within moments, he was caught in the net. I helped him back up and redirected the front wheel. A few moments later, he was butting into the fence that enclosed the court. Then back in the net again. And then caught in a small branch that must have fallen onto the court in the storms the day before.

As he pin-balled back and forth between obstacles in this seemingly empty space, I ran through my prenatal and postnatal mistakes in my head: “I guess I didn’t eat enough protein when I was pregnant with him. Or not enough iron? Perhaps I should have bought Mozart lullaby CD’s instead of Bach. I’ve never showed him enough love. I push him too hard. Oh God, where did I go wrong?”

Meanwhile, Sam—my back-up kid—loves his Strider! He’s perfectly comfortable waddling around on the little red bike, pushing and gliding and steering carefully to avoid big bumps and hurdles. He’s also happy to sit on Nate’s bike and let me push him around. He can’t reach the pedals, but he enjoys steering and taunting Nate. He also enjoys gummy worms, and by the time the morning was over Sam had probably eaten about a dozen and was constipated for two and a half days.

Nate earned one gummy worm that day. He spent the rest of that morning in the sandbox and on the swings and on the slide. As we drove home for lunch, I felt mildly successful. “Baby steps,” I told myself.

Unfortunately, that was our peak. Since then, even with the promise of gummy worms, he’s refused the bike. And really, I don’t force it. I offer up the gummy worms on the condition of attempting a bike ride and if he accepts, great. If he doesn’t, no big deal.

But on the inside, I’m dying. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to lift him onto the bike and manipulate his little legs into pushing the pedals around and around.

This past week, as I sat on the tailgate of the Suburban with Sam, chowing down gummy worms, I tumbled through mental anguish: “What childhood experiences you’re forfeiting, Nate! What life lessons you’re relinquishing! Riding a bike means freedom! How will you ever learn about failure? About perseverance? How will you ever get somewhere fast?”

I extrapolated this process to playing tee-ball. To learning calculus. To finding a job. To moving out on his own.

As I reflect on my own life, I decide that learning to cope with failure—to overcoming hardship and complications—can come later in life, like when you’re thirty-three and your son won’t do what you want and your other son is slowly becoming a cavity-ridden diabetic. This doesn’t mean that Nate’s not destined for greatness or independence, it just means that I’m not in control. Gosh, that was hard to admit.

Poppie's Lessons Remembered

Jack Cyphers, our Poppie, was a remarkable man: wise, practical, brave, athletic, charismatic. He taught us a lot—plenty of lectures, usually over an unnecessarily long phone call or while waiting for him to finish a meal on the porch at the lake. Here’s a lesson: your cereal won’t get so soggy if you don’t pause after every bite to orate about the furnaces at Bethlehem Steel.

But best were the lessons gleaned from hands-on activities and adventures. And I do mean adventures because with him, I always found myself risking my health and breaking rules posted on signs: no trespassing, dogs must be leashed, buckle up, etc.   

Committing to any activity with Poppie was sacrificing your whole day—not to mention a potential fine. You never knew what repair you’d suddenly have to help with, how many boring adults you’d have to listen to while he made his social rounds, or what death-defying feat he’d suddenly push you to undertake. Blow torches, tennis balls, box cutters, jumper cables, taxidermy skills… all would be needed—he was MacGyver meets Handy Manny, minus the Spanish fluency.

Today—and every day, really—I’m taking those same lessons and applying them to my parenting skills, proudly passing them down to the next generation.

Lesson #1: Brave the fear and be persistent.

Many of our lessons happened at the lake, where after morning exercises, a dog walk, a big breakfast, and a morning project, we’d head over to the beach. There were two shiny, metal sliding boards that flanked the stretch of sand, complete with buoys and nylon ropes to mark off the designated swimming area.

One slide was small, probably six feet high, intended for younger children. It dumped its riders into about eighteen inches of water, where everyone celebrated happily and safely.

The other slide, though, was…[gulp]…big. It was about as high as the forehead of an oversized brontosaurus—the Hakeem Olajuwon of brontosauruses. It dumped its riders into a deep abyss of green water that was over a mile deep! Each morning the lifeguards buttered and greased that metal surface so even the most abrasive of bathing suits would skate down at record speeds. Bull sharks and venomous water snakes and electric eels—and probably child molesters, too!—lurked just beneath the surface, waiting for their next meal.

Anyway, the second slide was the one Poppie wanted me to try.

“No, thanks! I’m good!” I’d call as my bony butt plopped onto the sandy bottom beneath the smaller slide. Smiling at the friendly ducks and sunfish who welcomed me into their haven of sunshine, I was happy. Safe.

But as was his character, Poppie persisted and convinced me to climb the rickety metal steps up to the top of the larger slide. He stood in the water at the bottom—giant legs, I guess—and splashed water onto the slide, making it even more slippery, faster.

“Come on, Erin!”

Perched at the top of the slide, my white knuckles, tightly and permanently strapped to the handles, I shook my head and refused to budge. Out of the corner of my eye, I took note of the line of kids—Saylorsburg’s bravest—growing behind me, impatiently waiting to brave the dangerous.

Poppie did not give up, though, and we’d go through the same ritual day after day, weekend after weekend: me stationed at the top of the slide and Poppie waiting at the bottom.

Until the day I finally gave in. I have no recollection of what finally convinced me to let go and slide down. Perhaps I counted one less shark fin in the water. Perhaps the lifeguard on duty seemed a bit more competent. Perhaps it finally dawned on me that Poppie wasn’t actually trying to kill me.

And I have to admit, as my body twisted upward toward the surface and water shot from my nose and throat, the adrenaline rush was kind of fun. Exhilarating almost. I mean, I still screamed and desperately reached for Poppie to lift me from the abyss and impending shark bites, but I emerged from the water with a sense of accomplishment. And Poppie was thrilled—proud of me and probably pleased with his dedication.

The slide is gone now—liability reasons, of course—and I don’t know which moral has been more impactful for me: to brave the fear or to be persistent, but both bubble to the surface as I drown each day in the parenting lake. I fear Sam’s tantrums, but out of love I muster my courage and deny him gum for breakfast anyway. And just because Nate shies away from attempting his two-wheeler or putting broccoli into his mouth one day doesn’t mean I’m not going to try again the next. And the next after that. So that they, too, can experience that same sense of pride and accomplishment.

Lesson #2:  Take risks and ignore the laws of physics.

Poppie really wanted to teach all of his grandchildren to sail at early ages. I remember one particularly traumatizing sailing lesson when I was about five. To be fair, I was already pretty fragile that day after a taking a nasty spill while running—as kids do—down a steep hill and slicing my knee on a rock. The cut was deep, though painless, and generated a long river of thick, dark red blood down my shin.

It also generated lots and lots of tears. Silent tears, though. Silent and discreet. I feared medical interventions of any kind, whether it be antiseptic and a Band-Aid, an amputation, or a blow-torch cauterization, so I hid my wound. Once I started to track bloody footprints around the linoleum kitchen floor of the kitchen, though, my grandmother caught me, slapped a Band-Aid on my skinny kneecap, and sent me down to the lake for sailing.

I sat in the hull of the Sunfish as Poppie tacked up and down the lake and coached me through keeping the sail taut and managing the rudder.

It was literally smooth sailing for an hour or so, despite the chafing on my neck from my bright orange life preserver. But the weather soon started to worsen and rain began to fall from the low hanging stratus clouds that had been protecting me from sunburn. The drops gradually got larger and more frequent as the wind picked up and worst of all, the clouds were rolling into each other and thunder was starting to send deep, vocal threats our way.

I blinked a smattering of raindrops from my eyes and glanced up at the mast. The metal mast. Then I remembered that kindergarten meteorology lesson that lightning usually accompanies thunder.

“Uh, Poppie? I think we should go back now. This is a thunderstorm.”

“What are you talking about? It’s just a little rain.”

“But there’s thunder and lightning. And water conducts electricity!” Ok, my thirty-two year old self added that last part, not sure if my five year-old self was aware of that physics law.

“We’re just starting to get good wind! Pull the boom in tighter!” he commanded.

I wiped away the tears that were now mixing with the raindrops and pulled in the rope. I knew it: we were going to die.

But ever the mathematics devotee, Poppie was calculating the odds. He knew a lightning strike was out of the question, much too rare to be worried about. I guess it’s the same reason he never played the lottery. Or worried about bull sharks in the lake.

And he was right, of course. The storm generated some exciting wind and we sped up and down the lake, although I was too frightened to enjoy myself. Poppie, though, had a great time, waving and calling to his friends onshore, and whether it was safety concerns or my nagging pleas, he eventually agreed to return us to the dock.

Lesson #3: Always be prepared for worst-case scenario. And bombs.

As the oldest grandchild, I was the first to learn to drive—a project that Poppie took very seriously. Cars were deadly weapons, he’d remind us. Which was fitting because he also taught us how to shoot guns.

His rules were strange: no talking, no radio, and my favorite: no seatbelts in the neighborhood! He wanted me to be prepared for any potentially catastrophic situation a car could bring about.

“What are you gonna do, what are you gonna do??!” he’d shout while leaning over the center console slamming his hand down on the accelerator, jolting the car forward, faster and faster. My brothers, screaming and wide-eyed with fear in the backseat of the hand-me-down Toyota Camry, were donned in bike helmets and not because they didn’t trust me.

Would he really kill us all in the interest of teaching a good lesson? Maybe.

“When would this ever happen in real life??!” I’d shriek, gripping the steering wheel, the scenery blurring past me outside the car.

“You never know! Cars will be driven by computers soon! You have to be prepared for their malfunctions!” He was right about that.

Sometimes he’d lean over and throw on the emergency brake. Once he tried to wrestle the steering wheel from my hands as we cruised through a parking lot.

“What are you doing?!”

“You have to be prepared!”

“For what? A crazed passenger?”

I faintly recall him guiding me through procedures in case I found explosives in my car. Like I was Keanu Reeves or Vin Diesel. Thank God that piece of tutelage was restricted to just a lecture, not a hands-on drill.

But his wisdom still percolates in me as I pack a bag each morning. Snacks, got ‘em.  Sweet and salty. Diapers and wipes, got ‘em. Water bottles, got ‘em. Extra bottle of ketchup, got it. Extra pack of gum in case Sam consumes the first, got it. Sure we’re just headed to the playground for thirty minutes before running a quick errand or two, but the preparedness helps me be brave. So does coffee. Poppie drank it black.

I’m not claiming that I can attribute all of my parenting prowess to Poppie because obviously there’s also been a lot of luck and grace and prayers. And let’s not forget Tighe’s interventions. But at least I can say that Poppie’s laid the groundwork. I’m brave. I’m persistent. I’m risky. I’m prepared. Bring it on, bull sharks.

In The Middle of The Night...

About once a month, I like to oil the hardwood floors in our house. Right before Nate gets home from school and Sam gets up from his nap. I always use too much oil and it makes the floor especially slippery. Am I fun or what?

Maybe just mean. They love it until one of them slides into the baker’s rack. Or wipes out at the bottom of the steps. If you remove your shoes and weave around in just socks, you can totally catch air if you get up to speed, as long as you cut at just the right angle.

“Did you clean the floor again?” Tighe asked as he skated into our bedroom closet the next morning.

Following day:

Tighe was traveling again, but I needed sleep, so I took an over-the-counter aid. Nothing serious— strong enough to overpower my bad guy/haunted house anxiety and make me feel a bit hung over in the morning, but at least well rested.

Bedtime for Nate and Sam went as smoothly as it ever does. I read stories to them while they wrestled and shoved each other, fighting for a good view of the pictures. The good news is that while they scuffle from the bed to the floor, I get to skip sentences, paragraphs, even full pages!  A big benefit, since, for some reason, Nate has to pick out the longest books ever. We might as well be reading the screenplay from The English Patient.

This isn’t the easiest statement to make, but Sam, my son Sam, young, blonde, blue-eyed, cutest-thing in-the-world Sam, yes him, is trying to kill me. 

After stories were read and prayers were recited and Nate and Sam were in their respective beds in their respective rooms, it was show time for Sam. It’s like he waited for nightfall before the true, anarchistic nature of his being was unleashed, like a demon. 

I shut his door and stood outside to listen for a few moments. After a moment or two, I heard it. Thud. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Finally, the click of a doorknob.

I busted open the door and grabbed his tiny wrist. The little monster was trying to break into Nate’s room through the Jack and Jill bathroom.

“Oh, no! Back in bed!” I returned him to his crib and went back to my sentry post, on guard outside his room.

We did this a few more times until finally, it’s quiet in there. And then I hear the singing.

“Aww, cute. He’s singing himself to sleep,” I thought, retreated downstairs to forget about my two trophies of adulthood who lay in bed upstairs—resting up, recharging for our duels the next day.

I was getting really into a Food Network episode—something about the largest deep-fried BLT donut ever made—I heard a door slam. I froze, hoping it’s a neighbor’s car outside.

No such luck. Sam. I heard his feet thud across the hardwood floor in Nate’s room.

I charged up the stairs, two at a time.

Sam, startled, began pleading with me. “My bed now! My bed!”

He’s wanted to graduate to the twin bed in Nate’s room for several months now. The problem is…he can’t seem to make it work. Here’s a hint, Sam: Lie down and close your eyes!

He does that—for a few seconds and then he gets up to play with Nate’s toys while Nate sleeps nearby. He rearranges Nate’s belongings, plays with the radio, flushes the toilet. Later, I find shoes and football jerseys in the trashcan. I’ve even found him hovering over Nate’s bed watching him sleep. Creepy.

In this case Nate was still awake.

“No, Mom!” he shouted. “Sam’s going to do bad things in my room!” Are they the Menendez brothers? Was it Lyle? Kyle? A Lyle and a Kyle? And they murdered their parents, right? For the rhyming names?  Have Nate and Sam been similarly conspiring?

“Let’s try it,” I reasoned, even though this would be the fortieth time we’ve tried the merging of domiciles. “Sam, you need to stay in bed and go to sleep. Like a big boy.”

Sam was agreeable. He stuffed his lovies by his side, threw his head back on the pillow. I tucked the comforter around him.

“Sam, if you get out of the bed, you can go back to your crib. I’ll give you one chance.”

Nate rolled his eyes as I said goodnight to them. I lurked on the steps for a minute or two to ensure it was quiet and then returned to the couch downstairs. I suddenly needed M&M’s, my favorite mind-warping drug.

I gave him three chances. Maybe four. Nate dutifully fell asleep, like any favorite child would, while Sam tiptoed around snooping and peeping.

Finally, I got fed up and returned him to his crib where he cried himself to sleep. Angry but exhausted. Downstairs, I resumed my research of boarding schools, wondering whether we could afford six-figure tuition if we moved to a tent in the woods somewhere. Maybe an uninhabited beach?

I went through my own bedtime routine, remembering to take my sleeping pill—who am I, Chelsea Handler?—and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

For about four hours.

Then suddenly—SLAM!

I glanced at the clock. 2:21. The neighbors sure keep odd hours. I closed my eyes and curled up in my comforter.

SLAM!

Ok, that was definitely inside the house. I hope it’s a burglar. Take my wallet! The checkbook is in the junk drawer in the kitchen! It’s yours. Just let me sleep!

Sam! I shot out of bed and then fell back. Whoa. That over-the-counter sleep aid is pretty strong.

I stumbled to the other side of the room and threw on my robe. I moved toward the bedroom door and slipped on the blasted hardwood. Parallel to the ground for a moment, I managed to regain footing and charged down the hall to Nate’s room.

Sam was sitting in his future bed arranging his lovies, pretending he was about to fall asleep.

“Fine. You… Sleep here.” Half asleep, I was in no state to argue or pretend to be strict or formulate words. My limbs were numb. So was my brain. “Go to sleep.”

I stumbled back to bed. Ten seconds into slumber I heard him again.

Oh, come on. Hopping out of bed and fighting to balance myself, I tried to run to the door. I slipped, nearly wiping out—again—and moved down the hall.

Back in Nate’s room, Sam was—actually, I don’t know what he was doing. I was basically unconscious.

But I do know that he was not in bed and he was not sleeping.

“Back in bed!”

He obeyed. But he was giggling. A maniacal giggle.

I returned to my bed, confused. Why is Sam awake? Why does he hate me? Maybe God hates me. Maybe there is no God.

Or maybe—just maybe—Sam will finally fall asleep in this bed! We’re finally making the transition! It’s not ideal, it’s 2:30 in the morning, but that’s ok! He’s growing up!

Smiling, proud of the little guy, I rolled over to sleep.

Jarred awake moments later, I tripped and slipped back to Nate’s room. Sam, causing mischief again like a young Menendez brother—ok, I’m not really comfortable with the whole Menendez comparison…maybe just like an archetypal younger brother…Kevin McCallister? Whatever Sam was doing was loud enough to stir Nate.

Nate can sleep through anything! Did Sam finally go too far?

We both froze, knowing that if Nate, the sleeping giant, woke, he’d be cranky and angry, wondering what we were doing in his room and whether the treasures—his golden eggs—he hoards were safe.

We watched as he groaned and rolled over, back to sleep. Yikes, that was close!

Sam feigned obedience again and climbed back in the twin bed. It felt like we were rehearsing a play. I returned to my mark, my bed, waiting for my cue.

And I heard it, moments later. Only louder this time. Heavier footsteps. Nate’s footsteps! Oh, no!

As practiced, I slipped on the floor as I ran to Nate’s room.

I stood still in the doorway, trying to determine how this horror movie would end. Sam was crouching in the corner, his eyes on Nate. Nate was zigzag walking to the bathroom. His eyes were shut.

Sam and I held our breaths while Nate fumbled with the doorknob, then struggled to stay upright, evacuating his bladder. I made a mental note to clean the toilet and floor—a mental note I forgot about until typing this sentence—and we watched as Nate sleepwalked back to his bed.

Exhaling, I raced to Sam, who was trying to escape my grasp. I scooped him and brought him back to his room. To his crib. This was too close for comfort. We can’t mess with Nate’s sleep. He’s a diva like that. All play and no sleep makes Nate very grumpy!

“No! No! My lovies!”

I fetched Sam’s blue, satin lovies from Nate’s room and delivered them to his crib. “Good night, Sam! Sleep!”

But he didn’t. Because nighttime is bewitching.

We fought the same war for another hour—him, trying to flee the oppression of his crib and me struggling to fight the fog of the sleeping pill and establish what was reality. At one point, I think I made a preemptive strike—busting into his room before he had broken from the crib. At another point, he tried to open-mouth kiss me.

By the end, around 4 AM, he was hoarse and sobbing and delirious. I, on the other hand, was hoarse and sobbing and delirious. We both fell asleep in our respective beds, each cursing the other’s stubbornness.

I was awoken at 6:45 in the morning to Nate’s pre-breakfast cheer. “Hey, Mom! Want to play Ninja Turtles? Hey, Mom, do you miss your husband? Hey, Mom, when’s Tighe coming home? Mom, want to play Ninja Turtles? Mom, I’m pretty hungry. Mom, I think I’m bleeding. Just a little bit, right there. See it? See it, Mom?”

Desperately trying to doze just a few more minutes, I handed him my phone so he could peruse pictures of parakeets befriending a giant golden retriever. While my son was lost in his imaginative universe of animal friendships, suddenly I remembered.

Eric! Eric Menendez! Lyle and Eric Menendez. Convicted of murdering both their parents in 1989. That lucky, lucky mom and dad—finally able to get some rest.

So What Do You Do?

“So, do you work Monday through Friday?” the new girl cutting my hair asked me.

“Oh, I don’t work actually.”

“Oh.”

And that was the end of that conversation.

She may have wondered whether I lived off a trust fund. Or a wealthy husband. Or my lottery jackpot.

I quickly changed the subject to hair and tinting and skin tones and other things I know nothing about, but which, it turns out, she is very passionate about. We never returned to the topic of “me,” but I started to wonder: What exactly do I do?

And I don’t want to get into the argument about whether stay-at-home moms work harder than working moms or vice versa because I don’t feel that that’s a fair debate.  It’s not the job that defines how hard someone works; it’s the character of the person. Every person’s situation is different, and I can’t judge that. Some days, I don’t think I work very hard at certain tasks. Unless you determine that trying not to lock Sam in a cage is hard work. Because I do that. Every day.

I also drink coffee every morning.

I also toast frozen waffles in the morning. And bagels with cream cheese. And toast with butter. And peel clementines and bananas, most of which go uneaten. About half the food I make in the morning gets sent back to the kitchen. Sometimes angrily. And I completely understand why restaurant chefs may spit on the food of picky customers.

I load the dishwasher. I do laundry.

I present thoughtful, rational arguments to impulsive, irrational little minds.

I justify buying fruit snacks. And Ninja Turtle yogurt.

I rationalize exceeding our weekly grocery budget. Just this once.

I drag my two-year old to story time and try to convince him to sit still. And that the art project that week is really cool.

I remind that same two-year old that markers and crayons and pens are for “paper only.” And so are scissors.

Then I convince him to stop stabbing me. And to “give me those damn scissors.”

I dispense gum.

I struggle to find the balance between performing tasks for them and encouraging self-sufficiency.

I clean up baby carrots that have been hammered—yes, hammered—into the Oriental rug in the dining room.

I order my groceries online so I don’t have to deny junk food requests in public.

I try to explain why there are no triangle-shaped pretzels in Chex Mix.

I persuade Nate that raspberry yogurt is basically the same as strawberry.

I sit on benches at playgrounds and check my email—and sometimes Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter—on my phone.

I encourage them to climb up the slide—as long as no one is at the top, waiting to climb down, of course. I’m not a psycho.

I tiptoe and whisper and curse the creaky floorboards during naptime.

From a safe distance, I coax sharp objects away from Sam and persuade him not to drink the cup of water he just scooped from the toilet.

I remind Nate that he needs to flush the toilet every time he poops.

I cringe as Sam tries to shovel yogurt into his mouth without any plopping onto the table or the floor.

I worry about whether they’re stimulated enough. Or over-scheduled. Or watching too much TV. Or eating too much sugar. And getting enough protein. And whether a headache is just dehydration or the sign of something more serious, like a tumor.

I envy a napping husband.

I tell Nate that butt and fart jokes aren’t funny even though they kind of are.

I eat leftover PB & J crusts and untouched apple slices for lunch.

I cry on the inside when my favorite babysitter is already booked with another family.

I get excited to point out school busses and trash trucks and cement mixers to Sam.

I play Ninja Turtles. Very, very reluctantly.

I build sofa cushion forts. And do puzzles. And color. And play Go Fish. And build Lego castles.

I sit on the bottom step—my designated bleacher seat—while Sam shows me how well he golfs. And kicks a soccer ball. And hits a wiffle ball on a tee.  And dunks a basketball. And swings a tennis racket.

I search for missing socks. And lost lovies and beloved Ninja Turtles and matchbox cars.

I wonder how Sam got the scrapes and bruises on his face and limbs. Should he be wearing a helmet? Knee pads?

I celebrate happy hour—with a piece of hard candy. Or a mug of tea.

I worry that Sam’s greatest role model is a Minion.

I get excited to find a TMNT book at the library. Only to hate myself for it later when I have to read it at bedtime.

I ponder how much cheese is too much.

I remind them to get their shoes and butts off the dining room table.

I explain abstract concepts like war and death and indecent exposure.

I throw kickass living room dance parties.

I am mindful that I constantly have eyes on me—I have to set a good example. And teach them how to treat girls.

I scramble for answers about nudity and sex and religion and police protocol and poverty and race.

And that’s just my Tuesday. Wednesday is pretty much exactly the same but also completely different.

Playing Ninja Turtles

There’s a question in our house that makes everyone shudder when it’s asked out loud. I mean, I feel an actual chill go down my spine, and for a brief moment, I contemplate whether life is worth living anymore.

Or I at least want to hide somewhere. But he always finds me.

Nate, that is.

And he always repeats himself. Because I pretend not to hear him the first few times he asks.

“Hey, Mom. Would you like to play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

There it is. Ugh. It was tough to even type those words.

And the answer is: No. I really, really don’t. This is why I had a second kid. Play with him.

There are so many things I’d rather do than play Turtles. Read a book. Tweeze my eyebrows. Scrub the urine stains from the toilet. Disinfect that coffee table one more time.

Even Wally slinks away when the question is asked, withdrawing to his sanctuary by the window.

And Tighe. Poor Tighe. My heart breaks for him a little bit every time Nate asks him the same question. I mean, my heart breaks and then I escape to another room.

Sam is hesitant, too: “Uh…yes?”

Because most of the time you’re playing Turtles with Nate, you’re actually being reprimanded by Nate.

“No! Mom, you’re holding him wrong! Hold him like this.” He demonstrates with his pudgy little fingers how to properly pinch their torsos, around their belts, not clumsily crushing their faces as I was erroneously doing. Now I know how Eli Manning must have felt when Peyton tried to teach him to throw a football.

And the other day, I got yelled at for eating an apple too close to the Turtles.

“You might spray apple juice on them!” he reasoned, using both arms to rescue them from my savage comportment and returning them to the safety of his red box. This coming from the kid who sprays crumbs from his toast like a wood chipper every morning and drips rings from his chocolate milk. By the end of a meal, his placemat resembles the Olympic flag.

And the other day, after several minutes of happy, peaceful play at the train table, the brotherly game ended abruptly. “Sam was playing too loud with my Turtles!”

What does that even mean? I stood wondering as Nate retreated to his fortress of solitude on the brown couch and Sam went outside to chase robins. He’s like a Golden Retriever.

I’m exaggerating my apathy, of course. Unless I’m busy making dinner or cleaning a sticky mess, I usually play Turtles with Nate. I know this imaginative play is good for him. Good for his verbal skills. Good for his social-cognition skills. Good for problem-solving. Good for mother-son bonding.

“Mom, you be Mikey and Donnie because those are your favorites!”

They are?

But it is also so arduous. And boring. And illogical.

Why would the Turtles just introduce themselves to each other? And state their respective characteristics? They’re brothers! Shouldn’t they already know these things about one another.

“Hey, Mikey! I’m Raph. I’m rude but cool.”

Yeah, we know. Everybody knows that. It states that in the theme song.

Once introductions have been made, they talk about pizza. And how much they dislike Shredder.

If it’s close to mealtime and I’m hungry, I’ll indulge the pizza line of conversation for a few minutes. “With cheese? And mushrooms and sausage and onions? Should we do thin crust or regular? What about an order of breadsticks, too? That Greek pizza they have is really good. With the feta and lamb, remember?”

“No, Mom! Turtles don’t like that! They want cheese! With sprinkles and maple syrup!”

Gross.

Occasionally, Nate will have them encounter a different bad guy. Like Darth Vader. Or the Joker. Well, that doesn’t make any sense. New York City and Gotham City aren’t even in the same dimension. Or whatever.

One recent afternoon, when Nate was at school, Sam felt it safe to unlock Nate’s little red suitcase where he’s been storing his Turtles lately. We sat at the table after lunch as he mimicked the same conversational skills that he’s watched Nate employ.

“Let’s go, Mikey!” he called to me.

“Ok, Donnie!” I played along, weary from a full morning of toddler talk. “Where are we going?”

“Trader Joe’s,” he declared. “To get lollipops.”

Now there’s a Ninja Turtle after my own heart.

Sam's Guide to Flying on a Plane

Part of me wants to write about how American Airlines is the worst airlines ever—with their delays, their lack of customer service, and providing snacks “for purchase only”—but in fairness, none of this was their fault. The flight was on time, there was minimal turbulence, there were two beverage service opportunities, and one of the flight attendants even smiled at me once! I mean, it still doesn’t compare to Southwest who pushes more food on you than a Greek grandmother and whose flight crews are so friendly that I’m still pen pals with two of them. Another was even the maid of honor in my wedding! But I digress. As usual.

This is about Sam.

And for the record, he’s flown well before. He’s sat so quietly and contently that other passengers might not even realize the potential tantrum surely percolating near them—like a geyser beneath the Earth’s crust and ready to blow.

But this particular flight was during naptime. So that geyser blew.

The following is all by Sam. I mean, I typed it, but it seems to be his modus operandi. I have witnesses.

___________________________________________________________________________

First, let’s cover security. This can be a stressful process for your mom. She has to show her boarding pass and ID to the gentlemanly TSA agent. Not to mention take off her boots, her scarf, her coat, her hooded sweatshirt and lug all your luggage, which has been crammed into carry-on bags because American Airlines refuses to check bags for free, all while your dad returns the rental car. Insist on having her hold you while she does all of this. If you’re lucky, your older brother will also make things difficult by refusing to show the TSA agent his boarding pass. And yes, now is a good time to ask for gum.

Next, scream as your mom carries you through the terminal. Be loud. And high-pitched. She will offer you lots of things: candy, water, a smoothie, more gum, a soft pretzel. Refuse it all. As usual, hold out for the good stuff. Then refuse that too.

Your next step will be to wait at the gate. Look around—all these people will soon be trapped on a plane with you! Make them nervous. Whine. Crawl under the seats. Climb over the seats. Run everywhere! Bump into people! Knock over their carry-on bags! Leave a trail of crumbs everywhere you go! This is your time to shine!

Board the plane slowly. As you pass each row of seats, inch uncomfortably close to every passenger. Go ahead, lean in close and give their pants a sniff. If they smile at you, smile back and linger a few extra moments—until it starts to get weird and your mom runs out of cute comments about you. Then, charge up ahead in the aisle and bump your head into the butt of the person in front of you. If you can, try to weave in and out of their legs.

Once you’re seated, refuse your seatbelt. Demand to switch seats with your mom. Twice.

Ignore your mom’s cute little attempts to lecture to you about taking off and aeronautics and physics and other bits of nonsense she actually knows nothing about. She’s just putting on a show until you’re in a trance on your Kindle and she can zone out with her headphones.

And speaking of your Kindle, play on this for at least half the flight. I mean, it is fun, right? Don’t forget to make a big stink about not having Wi-Fi access, but after that, enjoy yourself. Watch twelve seconds of The Minion Movie, then promptly close out of that and work on a train puzzle for ten seconds. Then, eight seconds of the alphabet balloon-popping game, followed by six seconds of the Lego game with the train track construction. Four seconds of the PBS Kid’s app and two seconds of The Lego Movie. Repeat this sequence for an hour while your mom assumes all is well and starts to relax. This is your cue to act up.

This part is all about improvisation. Utilize the tools you are given, play to the personalities around you.

For example, if the man in front of you is sleeping, use this. Bump his seat repeatedly. Lean forward and try and engage in conversation. “Hi. Sam.” This should suffice.

If your dad and brother are seated behind you, climb over the seat to get to them because you miss them desperately. Sit still for no more than twenty seconds and then insist on climbing back to your mom. Repeat.

Next, you know your mom has candy. She’s saving it for those desperate moments when you seem inconsolable, so after a dozen or so pieces of gum, she’ll be ready to dole out something else. Go for the lollipops. Lick them to the point that they’re sticky, but haven’t lost their shape. If you can, try to get three at once. Start adhering them to various surfaces: the clean, hygienic tray table…the seat cushion (your flotation device)…the sleeping man’s head in front of you…your mom’s phone…your mom’s cheek…anything else belonging to your mom—magazine pages are always a favorite because she cherishes those.

Other favorite snack-time activities include: crushing Goldfish/crackers/cookies/other crumb-intensive treats and dispersing the crumbs across a wide radius—the wider the better; picking out the chocolate chips from granola bars—eat the chips, dispose of the granola in the aforementioned radius; sorting Skittles on your tray table—this is a good one because any bit of turbulence will send the fruity little candies flying and you can then justify a tantrum about the lost ones.

Next, I like to spend a good amount of time under the seats. Doesn’t matter which seats—in front of you, behind you, across the aisle, be creative. Wrap an arm or leg around something so that it’s difficult to be pulled out. If you can do this during landing or takeoff, even better because the flight attendants will start gently nagging your mom to fasten your seatbelt.

Important note: when your mom is agitated, you are winning. Never forget that.

At some point, your mom will order a drink. She will try to hide it from you because American Airlines is too cheap to offer cups with lids. This should enrage you. It is your cue to start dumping water on everything. Start with your own pants. Then you can demand an outfit change. This is a cumbersome task for your mom, even if she does have access to clean, dry clothes.

And if she doesn’t, this is more fuel to your fire. You can then begin dumping water on her. And her bag. Aim carefully for any electronics she has. And books. And her crotch—is there anything worse than having wet loins? Consider it payback for every time she’s been too lazy to change your diaper.

At some point, some kind soul—probably a cousin—will offer you Starbursts. Yes, these are the same candy that your mom has recently offered you and which you refused, but the ones Katie has offered you are just better. It’s about the source—you need Katie and Mike to like you and you want to encourage candy from them. With your mom, you just want to maintain control.

Another important note: don’t infuriate your mom too much. You still need her to love you. She’s the one able to reach your oxygen mask in case of a crash. This isn’t a suicide mission.

Fly safe! Be strong! As your dad likes to remind you: never give up!

Sam's Guide to Bearing Rings (by Sam)

So, they’ve asked you to be in their wedding. Of course they did, you stud, you. Who wouldn’t want you to serve as an integral part of their nuptials, one of the most sacred moments of their life? It’s a lot of responsibility and you’re just the guy for the job! As a ring-bearing veteran, I’ve learned a few lessons and have a few solid tips to offer.

Step One: Enjoy yourself. Don’t let the stress of the day get to you. If you’re dealing with a full-blown bridezilla, you’re in trouble. Seriously. I looked it up, and it turns out they can legally smack you around if you throw a tantrum or something. “Mitigating circumstances due to matrimony” is the defense. Better watch yourself.

Step Two: At the rehearsal, do everything you’re told to do. If you’re working with a flower girl, consider yourself lucky and soak it in. Hold her hand when necessary, but don’t let her get too comfortable. If she starts to get too clingy, run away and hide from her. Don’t show yourself until she offers up some candy. Hold out for the good stuff.

Step Three: When the priest is giving important instructions to the bride, groom, bridal party, and all other relevant persons at the rehearsal, don’t listen. It doesn’t seriously concern you. In fact, don’t let anyone else listen either. Instead, demand gum. Loudly. When your mom gives you a piece, discard it somewhere in the sanctuary and demand more.

Step Four: On the morning of the wedding, carbo-load. Bagels, donuts, mimosas: consume it all. You’re going to want to make sure you have enough energy for Steps Five through Fifteen.

Step Five: Don’t get dressed until the last minute. Keep that suit clean! Refuse pants—unless we’re talking subzero wind chills. Then you can eventually surrender to pants.

Step Six: In the bridal room before the ceremony, you’ll need to consume more carbs. You gotta keep that blood sugar way up high! Wedding diet be damned! Swedish Fish, gummy bears, peanut butter crackers, all of it. You’ll need some extra energy to ferociously rip apart your boutonniere just before you head down the aisle.

Step Seven: Do your job. Walk down that aisle. Like a boss. One foot in front of the other. You got this.

Step Eight: Don’t let your dad see the ceremony. It’s just his younger sister getting married. He probably doesn’t care to see her exchange sacred vows with the love of her life in front of God and all her loved ones. Instead, have him push you around in a wheelchair in the narthex. This is what he really wanted to do when he woke up this morning anyway.

Step Nine: Celebrate. You did it! Pass out some beers to the bridal party on the bus. Be generous. They can all afford to have a nice buzz now.

Step Ten: Pictures. A necessary evil. Insist on having your mom hold you for all of them. Even the ones you’re not supposed to be in. And DO NOT look at the camera. Look away. Show everyone the back of that macho Euro-trash haircut. They’ll want to savor those memories.

Step Eleven: Nap. For real this time. You’ll need to be well-rested for the reception. This wedding isn’t going to ruin itself.

Step Twelve: Take the microphone from the Maid Of Honor during her speech. You’ve been rehearsing for months. “Fight Song?” You’re ready. “Happy Morning, Happy Baby?” Belt it out like you’re Pavarotti. No one wants to listen to her birdbrained jokes anyway.

Step Thirteen: Party. Hard. Suck some liquor out of every abandoned mixed drink and champagne glass you can get your hands on! And dance like it’s your last night on Earth. Recommended move: sway slowly back and forth and convulse your fists up and down. Works for every song!

Step Fourteen: Don’t you dare leave that reception until you’re served cake. And snag some M&M’s on your way out the door. Make sure everyone knows you’re not happy about leaving.

Step Fifteen: Finally, if you have to travel for the wedding, see my related post on How To Fly on a Plane next week. 

Operation: Toddler Bed, Part 2

By four-thirty in the afternoon, I had given up. Fine. No nap. My quads and hamstrings were burning from my stair-sprints and I was demoralized. I sent Tighe a text that read “no nap,” but it had an underlying meaning: “Come home. Don’t be late or else I guarantee someone will lose a limb tonight. We’re all very much on edge here. I may or not be able to make dinner, and if not, we’ll snack on Skittles and stale pretzels after they fall asleep. You will not complain or you will lose more than a limb.”

Because without a nap, Sam is an absolute maniac. That night at dinner, he alternated between a zombie state and bursts of angry, malevolent excitement. His eyelids hung low and every time he made eye contact with you, you felt like he had taken a piece of your soul. Too tired to actually eat, he settled for licking ketchup from his plate, just enough sugar to sustain him until bedtime. It was very scary, but Tighe and I knew there was a light at the end of a very short tunnel— after a violent, rebellious tantrum, he’d be fast asleep by 7PM.

But he wasn’t.

Instead he crept down the steps to spy on us through the railing—like a little agent of Fidel Castro, spying on the American way of life. We weren’t doing anything he shouldn’t see—nothing he’d need therapy for. We sat in sleepy, exhausted states on the sofa, calming down after the whirlwind that is bedtime, ready for Netflix.

Tighe got up, slowly and reluctantly, carried him back to bed and returned to his butt groove on the couch. Upon his second attempt, I got up and returned him to bed. We took turns twice more, and on that last trip, he climbed out before I had even turned away from the bed. Immediately I said “no” and watched while he climbed back in. As soon as I turned my back, he was out again, making a break for the bathroom to get into Nate’s room.

“Nope! Back in bed!”

But this was a real mutiny! He refused! I put him back in his bed as he was kicking and thrusting his arms, arching his back in that classic sociopathic toddler motion of resistance. As soon as I’d land him on the mattress, he’d squirm out again. And this was a night of a “no nap” afternoon! He had to be exhausted! He should have been collapsing—surrendering—to sleep!

Finally, after about ten attempts, I sighed, falling to my knees on the floor.

“Sam? Do you want your crib back?”

“Yes! Crib!”

By the time Tighe wandered in a few minutes later, I was using a screwdriver to reaffix the full crib rail back onto his bed. Sam was dancing around me joyously, waving his plastic screwdriver in the air.

“Mom fix crib! Crib, Dad! Crib!”

“If you have an opinion about this, I really don’t want to hear it,” I said to Tighe without looking at him. “I don’t care. I give up. We can try again in a few months. Or years.”  My voice was flat, without emotion. I was weary. And I hate failure.

Sam was thrilled. I think the crib rail made him feel more secure. He was tired—too tired to even look up a synonym for “tired.”

We’re still struggling with naptime, but we seem to have achieved some sort of balance of power—a truce. He’s napping most of the time, but it’s not always in the fashion that I like. I had to sacrifice some of my sovereignty, give him some liberty, and we’re at peace with that at the moment. Not quite free elections—true democracy—but it’s a step.

I know that we’ll fight this battle again and again with Sam: potty training, going to school, underage drinking, driving a car. I know that he needs his freedoms. I’m excited for his freedoms, I just want him to take a nap before he attempts them.