I WAS Going to Title This Post "Home, Sweet, Home", but That Would be Dumb and Tacky

After I cried about how nice the home looked, I asked people what they thought would be an appropriate thanks. Some suggested an open house.

The open house is this coming Sunday.

We finally have our furniture, so Keith and I are no longer standing or leaning on the counter to eat dinner. I am sitting on our couch right now.

We have renters for the next two years. They are good renters. They are nice. They are renting, because they recently started a business and want to save money. She is an admitted near obsessive-compulsive. Her friend says she never stops cleaning.

Ever.

Usually, I would empathize with a person with issues, but when the person is renting our house, I feel like saying things like, "Sure, I totally understand your urge to clean the dirt you CAN see, but even more....think of all the nasty things you CAN'T see...the bed bugs, the germs, the ticks and lice and the possible puke particles that were wiped off of your hands and onto the counter top when you came home from shopping. Yup, I totally understand your need to clean. Think of all the dirt that can accumulate in just mere seconds!"

So, now that our house is safely rented, we have moved our furniture here, and I can finally share some Before and Afters. I took seven Before Pics in all, and then my computer crashed, and I lost all but three. If anyone has any Before Pics in an email that I sent to them, will you send them back? Thanks so much.

And again, I say, "Way to go, Guys-That-Worked-On-Our-House! You are awesome!"

Poop Issues

What is the deal?

B pooped his pants today. Not so terrible, right?
Well, maybe not...unless you imagine this situation.
Imagine B, leaning over his top bunk rail, waiting for the perfect moment to catapult his poop-filled undies at his unsuspecting brother, who is supposed to be napping on the bottom bunk. Imagine two kids laughing uncontrollably and parents wondering what all the excitement is about. And imagine K entering the room just in time to see his son in mid-poop-fling.

Nice.

Now imagine a kid that will NOT poop. A kid that REFUSES to poop. Ever. This kid will gladly cross her legs and squeeze her butt cheeks together from sun up until sun down. She will joyfully lay dead-still on the couch for hours at a time.....Still enough to avoid having the tiniest, bittiest urge to poop...She would rather do either of those things than take two seconds (minutes, maybe) to sit her frickin' butt down on the potty and poop.

This can be an embarrassing situation.

For instance, we went to a dinner with some local officials of the city the other day. We had to introduce our grunting, teary-eyed girl whose legs were so crossed together they were shaking. Of course, the obvious first question (after "Who is this little girl?!) is "What is wrong? Why is this poor girl crying?! (and why are her parents ignoring her obvious distress?)", and we have to tell them, "Oh, she just has to poop."
"Do you need to know where the bathroom is?!" (shock upon their faces....at these parents who are neglecting the obvious needs of their child).
"No. She doesn't want to go. She WON'T go. Thank you though."
And then confusion, and a difficult time trying to think of another topic.

Poop throwers or poop holders, which would you prefer?

Country Life

So, today we picked a certain kind of leaf from the garden, and let the kids taste it. "This is what Basil tastes like", I informed. Z looked B up and down with suspicion, thinking (I'm sure), "It seems like he would taste much meatier than this."
B then asked, "Where are the S and Z plants?"

In the past, the kids have run five feet west and have been greeted by our neighbor, Max, the German Shepherd, whose owner is "not sure how he does with kids." They could skip two feet south, and they would be clipped by a speeding car, or they could meander a couple of feet north, and they would drown in our stream or crack their heads open on their fall into the water. Here, we live on 5 acres of land, and the kids have enough room to practice throwing Frisbees ....or balls....or each other (without landing them in dog teeth, water, a window, or the road).

Thanks

I read to the kids after meals sometimes. My idealistic self would say I read every day after dinner. My real self reads about once per week.
The topic was "What are you thankful for?"
Here are their answers:
S: For putting skin back on my knee.
B: For the black string on balloons.
Z: For Goliath. Goliath likes candy. And I do too.


We were at McDonalds, and I asked the kids if they wanted me to get them some food.
Z thought it over for a second, and said, "Yup, if it is ok with your parents."

I told him I thought it probably was ok with my parents.
Thanks for the permission, Z.

Our House - Thanks

I am not a gift giver. Once, I gave K socks for his birthday. And before that, I gave him a book that I wanted to read.

Once, I promised to make homemade baked goods for friends, for a year....

I held true to my contract for about three months.

And when I was in grade school, I picked out a ceramic pig for my friend's birthday. It said, in big black letters, "You are worth your weight in gold!"
She kept it, but she didn't like it. She still brings it up to this day. She was sure I was trying to tell her that she was fat.

I am an Acts of Service kind of girl.

So, here is my dilemma. Lots of people from the church have sacrificed most of their lives for the last three months for our family. They have eaten luke-warm sandwiches for lunch and packaged cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Their cafeteria is the basement of the parsonage. Their early mornings (before the sun) and late nights have been spent working on the house that will soon be our family's home. Fingers have probably been hammered once or twice. Muscles are sore. A few wives are sick of their husbands being away. And we basically, through their sacrifice, have been given a new home. New walls. New ceilings. New floors. New counters. New reason to cry...

Instead of crying because the place is butt-ugly and really disgusting, I have been crying because I feel like a spoiled brat.

And I feel like I want to give back. And I thought about using my natural gifts, which would be Acts of Service, by offering to clean their houses. But all of their houses are HUGE! I don't have time for that! Ahahahha! How's that for really wanting to "give"?! I do want to give something though. To the guys who worked their butts off, and for their wives who were stuck home alone for the last many weeks.

I am at a loss.

What can you give to a large group of people when you have not-so-much money and pretty limited time? Creative givers, email me. Or call me. Or something.

A dumb ol' Hallmark just doesn't seem to accomplish what I feel like they deserve.

George

B likes order in his world. He likes to know what to expect. When he asks a question, he likes short, prompt answers. Sometimes he tricks me by asking a question that requires a specific answer. Usually, an answer that only B holds. For instance, the other day he said, "Mama, what did you go in?" I tried to answer. Honestly, I gave it my best shot.
"A car?"
"NO!"
"A boat?"
"No...what did you GO in? (He must have thought I didn't hear him correctly. Why would I give such frickin' stupid answers otherwise?)
"Um, sometimes I go in to school."
"No, WHAT did you go in?"
"I really don't know the answer, B."
Seriously crying now, (real tears), "An Ambulance! You goed in an ambulance!"
"Oh. Yup, FIFTEEN YEARS ago, I went in an ambulance, when I had a seizure."

(S adds her two-cents here: "And I went in an ambulance because I wasn't breathing." Well, kind of S, except for you forgot a few KEY WORDS: You weren't breathing AS EASILY AS USUAL. You were breathing SOME.)

One question often asked in the car is, "Mama, who is in that yellow (or blue or red or brown) car?"
I never know, but if I admit that, tears follow, along with more questions, "No, WHO is in that car? WHO? Who is in the YELLOW CAR? Who, mama? What is his name?" It is sometimes (often) easier to just say, "George is in that car, B. Wave 'hi' to George!"
Last Thursday, our good friend, Diana, had her parents staying with her.
Her dad's name is George.
B, introducing himself (ok, his introductions are more of a question...again), said, "What is YOUR name?"
"My name is George", replied George.
And OH! the light went on in B's eyes, as he could finally put a face to the millions of George's that ride by every day in different cars and in different parts of the city. Oh, the joy. Oh, the clarity in B's now peaceful life.

(And the lies I will have to admit to later, maybe in his teen years....maybe along with Santa and the Easter Bunny.)

Super Girl

We went to a community playground yesterday. The kids did not stop until they reached the swings. Like always, I swung my kids carefully, making sure their little butts were on just right...reminding them to hold on tight...slowing them down when they got too high.
We were just fine. We were having fun.
Then another mom with a younger kid, probably about a year younger than our kids, joined us. She placed her kid on the swing, and off he went. He was fast. Our kids were left in the dust. Let's face it. They looked like giant wimps.
"Undoo Hawg!" yelled the kid.
And Under Dog he got, sailing with his toes pointed to the sky, laughing joyfully.

I watched for awhile, trying not to let my competitive side kick in. My kids aren't going to be shown up like that. I'll show her.
"Hold on, S. Mama will give YOU an Under Dog!" (Watch this, little boy and not-any-cooler-than-me mom!)
Now, I didn't give S a COMPLETE Under Dog...more like a 3/4 Under Dog. But still, when I looked up after letting go of the swing, S was not on it anymore. She was sailing high, away from me and the swing and the I-guess-you-ARE-cooler-than-me mom. She was soaring, legs flailing, eyes popping, and then....
She was plummeting towards the ground, face first, into the wood chips.
She cried, hard. And to add to my embarrassment, another kid came running over to see if she was hurt. (S told me later she was not hurt, just "REALLY SCARED!")

She refused to go on the swing the rest of our time there, no matter how much I tried to convince her that she had to "get back on the horse". She didn't care about the horse. She cared about not plummeting to disaster again.

Overheard

Z's LeapPad:
"Where is Sergeant Murphy's foot?"
Z: (pointing), "Right there!"
LeapPad: "You're right! What do you use to draw?"
Z: "Your hands." (Pushes hands on LeapPad)
LeapPad: "Good! What is your favorite body part?"
Z: (Smiling wildly), "My butt!"
Surprisingly, he couldn't find Sergeant Murphy's butt on the freakin' page.
Why ask a question that the poor kid can't answer with his little electronic pen? Whose going to tell him "Good job!" to that answer?

Our Darling Baby Boy

S's smiles are because Z FINALLY agreed to act like her tiny baby.

Warmer Weather

We stayed at a friend's cottage last weekend. It was gorgeous out, but probably not what I would consider swimming (or even wading) weather.

Away

Yesterday, S said she wanted to start wearing undies. I agreed. It was time. For the FIFTH time. It was definitely time.
She sat on the potty every hour (that makes 12 times in a day) all day. She peed in her pants 12 times, and she peed in the potty 0 times. When I tell her she needs to go in the potty and not in her pants, she says, "Ooooooh!" (like it is a new revelation every time.)

Last night, she stayed dry all night, so I put her on the potty, excited that she would surely have to go.

She would finally experience peeing in the potty!

She sat, from 830am-1015am, and sat, and sat on the potty. We read. She ate breakfast. We watched Elmo.

She did not go.

I finally told her she should try again later. She walked down the hall about ten feet, and peed on the floor.

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Z is back in diapers, because he pees on the floor or in his pants every time he goes to time-out.

He goes to time-out alot.

Actually, he finally just woke up from a nap that started as a time-out at noon today. Now it is 230pm.

They were eating lunch. He pretended to do a long throw with his fish stick. I reminded him that if he threw it, he would be finished with lunch.

He threw, not only the fishstick, but his whole plate of banana, a pile of ketchup, and three more fishsticks.

I put him in his bed, and asked if he knew why he was in his bed. "Because I don't like fishsticks." I shut off the light, and left.

He fell asleep.

I cried. And called my sister.

She just left with Z.

My other sister just picked up B and S.

They are staying over night there.

I feel like a crap mom.

People have to come and take my kids? I wondered if they were thinking I might beat them. Or put them in time-out for the rest of the day? Yell too loud? They say it is because they have had three-year-olds before, and they know what it is like.....'cept they didn't have three at once.

That was nice for them to do. Really it was. I am glad. They are nice. But no matter what their explanation is....I still feel like a crap mom.


Oh well. I guess I can go get some errands done in peace.

(Edited to say: the rest of the week was WAY better. You can't even imagine what one day away from bratty kids does for a person. Nice family.)

Need I Say More?

ok, I will.
My Dad bought kites at Dollar Tree. They would've been worth it if he had to buy them for $100. Our kids clung to those kites with all of their three-year-old might.











My dad cooked every meal. The entire week. For all 23 of us.























We searched for crabs in a cute, little bay area. (Michaela is showing S a fiddler crab in the picture to the left.)
They were ugly.




We crowded in a small section on the vast beach, and talked
and talked
and talked.

And read. (Can you see K?)








And dug.








And slept.
































And played.





















And played.

































And cuddled.














And finally, when it started getting dark....., we went "home" to our condo, and waited for the sun to rise on yet another day's excitement.

Stinky Old People

We stayed in a hotel on the way home. A nice hotel. There was no pubic hair on the bathroom floor and the comforters were probably bodily-fluid-free, because they were thin enough to easily throw in the washer.
Anyway...
My dad stayed in the room with our kids while we went to get Taco Bell. He shut the light out and rested on the empty bed. A conversation then started between our boys:
Z: B, where is Gramps?
B: I don't know. Maybe he is in the bathroom.
Z: Maybe he is poopin'.
B: Yup, he is poopin'!
Z: Gramps is funny.
B: Yup. And he was driving the car today. Wasn't he?!
Z: Yup. And he was eatin' our pretzels.
(My dad clapped his hands, loudly, hoping that the noise would scare the boys into being quiet.)
Z: What was that noise, B?!
B: I think Gramps farted.
Z: Grandpa stinks. (Grandpa is trying to stifle a laugh now...)
B: I don't stink.
Z: I don't stink either. GRANDPA stinks!
B: Yeah, grandpa stinks...
(Grandpa couldn't help but laugh now.)
Z: Grandpa, are you in here? Grandpa? What you doin'? You poopin'?

Random Thoughts from Random Kids

Z's Strange Preferences:
1. As we were driving past a cemetery, he exclaims, "Mama, I LOVE gravestones! They are bee-u-tee-full!"

2. While getting his dirty diaper changed, (Yes, he is back in diaps), "Let me SEE the poop, mom!" (I show him.) "Aw, cute, isn't it, mama?!"

S's Ponderings
1. While watching me get dressed, S points and asks, "Mama, is THAT and THAT your tummy?" ("Nope, and I really hope they aren't THAT hangy?")

I guess I shouldn't have expected better after using that sadistic breast pump for ten months!

2. While reciting her first verse, S states, "God made Evan (her cousin) and the earth!"

3. Looking adoringly at K, "Oh, Papa, you are my cute, little, girl!"

B's Musings
1. After whacking Z in the face, REALLY hard, B looked at me, and said, "But I didn't TRY to do that!" (Sure, B. Sure.)

2. To illustrate how things have to be just-so for our dear boy, consider this situation:
His Winnie the Pooh book says "A dog says Bow Wow!" B starts to cry. (Seriously.) He yells, "NO! A dog DOESN'T say Bow Wow! A dog says Woof-Woof!"
Tending to his toddler OCD, I soothe, "I think that little dogs say Bow Wow, and big dogs say Woof-Woof."
Now, EVERY.SINGLE.TIME that book is read, B needs to insert, "Little dogs say Bow Wow. Big dogs say Woof-Woof!" And he is satisfied and content with the predictable order in the world.

Under-Appliance Storage

Today, I gave B a treat, and he dropped it on the floor. It rolled under the stove, and I couldn't rescue it for him. Not even with a wire hanger. So I decided to take out the bottom drawer and find it. I was not to be defeated.

I did find it.

Along with:
A piece of a game from church. Little thieves!
2 crayons, 1 colored pencil
5ish M&Ms
2 duck-shaped candies
1 jelly bean
1 screw
1 Lego
1 Music Stick
1 small chihuahua (its weeks-ago disappearance caused lots of tears)
1 Mrs. Kettle (is that the Disney teapot's name?)
1 half of an Easter egg (plastic!)
2 stacking pegs
1 flashlight
1 notebook (potty sticker book)
1 comb
1 fly
1 elephant
1 tweezers
1 pretzel
1 lizard
1 boulder (for their train set)
1 empty candy container
6ish Kix cereal
8ish Fruit Loops

You might've noticed (if you are as obsessive about Eye Spy books as I am) that the Fruit Loops, the M&Ms, and the Kix are not in the photo. That is because I left the giant pile on the floor to get a broom. I returned to mouths full of "Bonuses, mama!" Yup, we taught them that random candies found in their carseats are "bonuses", but I'm not so sure the description still applies to finds that are months-old, dusty, dirty, and possibly chewed-on by other, unknown creatures.

Hacking and Puking

After four nights of continuous (I'm not kidding, I mean it, NON-stop) coughing, crusty, lime-green snot, and fevers, I was starting to think maybe my kids should visit the doctor. Last night was the decider, when S started gagging and puking on the basketball-sized snot balls she was coughing up.
And I was starting to get a headache from the barracuda screams that have been protruding from Z's mouth. (He does those screams, at fire engine volume, when he feels like crap.)

B told Dr S that he was not sick, "Z and S are sick. See them." and then he wrapped himself to my leg like Saran Wrap. After prying him off, I placed the two snotty kids on the exam table, and waited for her diagnosis.

"S has an infection, and her lungs sound horrible, and way to wait till it reached her lungs to come in." said the doc. Then she continued with "Z's left ear has a nasty infection too. Good job, buddy. Both of them need antibiotics."

B concluded with, "I am NOT sick. Z and S are sick. I need a sticker."


Now the kids are sleeping, and I am looking forward to better days in the near-future. 24 hours for an antibiotic to kick in, right?

Anger and Sex Ed

S has amazing anger control for a 3-year-old. She will ask for something 9000 times without raising her voice or kicking or crying at all. Today, it went like this: I was helping B pour his cereal and milk, and S wanted me to help her into her booster chair. "Mom, can you help me? Mom? Can you help me? Mom? Can you help me, can you help me, help me, please?" (repeat 10 times)
"Hold on, S. I am helping B."
"Help, please, mom. Help? Please? Mom?" (still calm, cool, and collected)
I finally help S get settled in her chair.
"Thanks, Mom. I was just mad a little bit."
(Stifling a laugh), "You were?"
"Yup, I was mad at you a little bit." (almost monotone)
Wow. She didn't learn anger management from me, I don't think.


-------------------

S has also been singing her own version of the alphabet. Lyrics of this version follow: "A-B-C-D-STD...."
Experts warn you about waiting too long before teaching the dangers of premarital sex. You'd think we worked it right into our kids' first songs.

Potty-Training Pics