1. In the latest addition of nesting guilt and doing my best to make this a fun summer despite my size and general bad attitude, we went to a museum. Accidentally arriving 45 minutes before closing, the reluctant workers let us in even though all 27 of Jim’s attempts to remember his membership name failed. To the Dinosaur bones we went. First, Rita made a great impression by banging on the window of a “Do not enter,” and demanding that the nice dinosaur maker “open door!” Next, I unknowingly and with confidence proved my prehistoric? paleolithic? stone age? idiocy to each of my children repeatedly. Not to brag or anything, but I did get the term herbivore right. As well as “TRex.” Jim’s history channel memory made up for and fun of the rest.

And my proudest moment…

“Did he get that big because he ate all his vegetables?!”

“Yes!!!!!!”

We then accidentally knocked over the “how to make your own rain water exhibit,” when our over zealous one year old got hold of a plastic shovel. We also dropped a lot of the library’s flashlights. Next Rita ran away giggling until she ran into a fossilized mammoth and realized that mom’s thigh is really the best place after all. Upon hearing the words, “the exit is this way” a few too many times, we reluctantly took the hint and the kids went home with a full understanding that the only way to be as big as a dinosaur is to finish their green beans.

A great family day, indeed.

2. In other news: Never leave dumped out pancake mix unattended, even if a really exciting sporting event is on tv. It is the closest children get to summer snow angels. Snow, however, is much easier to clean, even if inside a house.

3. I convinced a kind young usher to give me free VIP seats at Alabama Shakes by simply saying, “I’m pregnant.” While my husband’s attempts to request help for my hurting feet from a unsympathetic female were received with an eye roll, the gentleman’s single and lightening speed look at my belly prompted immediate fear, stuttering, and “sit before you say placenta.” A phenomenal concert, with a phenomenal view, and zero ankle swelling. Thank you, young man!

4. Erica let me write this guest post. And VerilyMag so very generously featured this article.

5. Confessing, with permission, on behalf of my sister, mother of six and next door neighbor:

The building up of water in her gutters prompted a quick call to the roofer. As the skilled worker examined the roof’s perimeter, five of the six children ran underneath and around the latter, throwing out questions and balls, riding bikes, and shooting pucks. As my courageous sister requested her children’s presence in the interior of the home, they mostly abided. The rest came to my house and tried to teach me how to swing a baseball bat. Soon, the cause of the water’s build up was found in disgusting piles of young human fecal matter.

Diapers.

Dirty Diapers.

The Dirtiest, dirty diapers.

Thrown up onto the roof as the result of competitive contests secretly taking place behind her back for the past several months, maybe even years, there laid several soiled diapers more foul than ever. Maybe it is their advanced athleticism that caused them to grow tired of throwing regular balls on the roof. Maybe the thrill of throwing something so foul smelling and full of pink eye bacteria was too difficult to resist for six little boys that will never tire of poop being hilarious. The chant “throw the poop on the roof!” may have caught on quickly. For anyone who has ever been the victim of “chug!” we know its difficult to pass on a chant. Or maybe they were doing their best to get rid of all of their smallest brother’s crap before it stunk up the driveway’s baseball field. Whatever the reason, it was gross.

The experienced roofer stood in disbelief. “Never in my 44 years… You poor mother,” he said with wide eyes to a woman barely able to contain her laughter because what else is there to do?

So the next time its raining, remember, there could be poop in your gutters. And your kids could have put there on purpose.

1. Managing to make it out of the door, into the car, without forgetting a single essential item or suitcase and thereby finding no reason to turn around the overstuffed vehicle should have provided my anxiety more comfort. Yet, the suspicion only welled, leaving me to wonder when, where, and how the difficulty of traveling in a crowded airport with three kids, a nervous mom, and a super calm dad would occur. With barely a hiccup at the check in counter, and strangely obedient children agreeing to hold my hand and carry their own things, I began to prepare myself for what had to be the worst security line experience of my life. Yet, we were “family of small children profiled” and put into the line that no longer demands the removal of shoes, laptops, breast milk, or requires a rather intimate feel up. Even if I was unwillingly participating in a TSA research experiment, only one of my kids ran around the metal detector and it caused more laughter than tasing, so again, seamless.  Personal experience then led me to discover that a fearless toddler, overly cautious and rather clumsy 4 year old, and a jumpily anxious mom in the middle is perhaps the worst combination for a ride on an escalator. We still had several minutes before boarding and enjoyed a happy and considerably quiet family airport meal during which the kids ate the cheese and chewed the turkey before they managed to spit it back out almost undetected. Then, the difficulty came. The evening flight, scheduled perfectly for a bedtime arrival, delayed by twenty minute increments for a total of two hours. The first delay was spent setting up and refereeing relay races in empty gates leading me to finally experience a bright side of my city’s airport losing major airline hubs. Next, we ruined an entire restaurants meal at TGIFridays and ordered the most dissipointing $7 ice cream dessert I have ever seen. With chocolate on my pants and ice cream in my hair, I begged the good Lord to get us on a plane, as the kids jumped along empty gate seats chasing planes taking off saying, “WE MISSED OUR CHANCE AGAIN!” indicating zero understanding of the process of airline travel or plane destination. At two hours past beditme we boarded and were asked to seek refuge in the last two rows of the airplane, also known as the baby ghettos, where all children under three who could potentially throw a tantrum or freak out when they can’t figure out how to pop their ears are forced to sit and repeatedly smell the altitudes effects on bathroom users. The bright side of landing 5 hours past bedtime? No matter how poorly behaved and bitey a baby is, several passengers will comment “she did so well!” And when we finally rent a car and make it to our destination slightly past 1:00 am, the kids sleeping in the back will be so knocked out that they wake up the next morning positive that it was magic that put them in their Florida beds.

Helpful.

Rita tampering with a stranger’s luggage.

And in hour 2, the parents just take pictures when their baby grabs a knife on the table of an airport restaurant.

2. No matter how exhausting a travel experience is, even when a trip is only three days long, after 7-12 minutes spent in the sun, playing in sand, together as a family, while Rita and the birds run away from the waves with almost the exact same scamper, every delay, cold weather day, and recent annoying experience, will be forgotten and feelings of rejuvination will overwhelm. Even if the kids begin purposefully throwing sand in each other’s eyes at minute 13.

3. The Brightest Side: Without a doubt my favorite memory is the flawlessly planned night away given to me as a birthday present by my husband, and favorite dinner partner. As I nervously explained needless details to the kid’s babysitter, their big cousin, he whisked me away and gave me so much quality time my love tank almost exploded. First, a stop at a coffee shop where even the ice is made from coffee making every sip better than the last. Then, all my dreams came true as he pulled over at Nordstrom Rack and gave me free reign. One pair of Kate Spade heels coming in at pennies later, we arrived at our hotel and stuffed our faces with delicious food, more food, and more food, because, apparently, what parents do with a night away is eat like there will never be a tomorrow. There was a tomorrow, and we ate again. It was our first night away from the children in a few years and it was truly wonderful. I thought for sure I would be welcomed home with an open armed hugged from the baby I’ve never spent a night from. But, instead, she gave me an open palmed push to the face and ran to Daddy with excitement and cheering.

4. With a promise of a boat ride and conditions much too windy and wavy for a sane dad to take toddlers on a boat, we went anyway. The pontoon boat, made for smooth seas and low speed, met knew limits and high pitched screams. As the children begged, “daddy why are you doing this to us??!! Please daddy save us all!! Go back, daddy, go back!!,” and the raging rapids of the ocean drenched us all over and over again, I do not believe either parent has laughed harder in months. It wasn’t so much that we found the paralyzing fear of our children to be that funny, but more the fact that we realized how dumb we are and were so soaking wet with a continuous flooding of sea water on a boat designed for turtle speed.  We turned around and survived with a few family member beach onlookers wondering why God ever decided to entrust us with children.

5. 3 days of sun later, it was time to return to the frozen tundra of Pittsburgh on the 28th anniversary of my birth. With several birthday treats already had, Josie was the first to greet me in the morning with “mommy, its my birthday, where is the cake?” and soon after James said,”did you get me toys today for the birthday?” A card signed by each with the ever special message of “thank you for feeding me lunch and wiping my bum when I poop,” made a mom feel extra noticed. While driving late to the airport amidst a baby/toddler/little boy brawl of the century carried on nice and loud, my patience was lost and out I blurted, “ALL I WANT FOR MY BIRTHDAY IS FOR YOU TO STOP FIGHTING!!!” Silence ensued and as soon as my guilt cued the internal soundtrack of, “Its my party and I’ll cry if I want to,” James broke it up with “Sorry mom, but we were already planning on getting you a flower so….I think we can keep fighting.” And when the return flight is delayed just as much as the departure in a much too crowded airport followed a much too turbulent flight for a crazy person like me to handle, the mile high diaper bomb was generously disarmed by my husband. 13 decades of the rosary later we safely landed and I began to breath again. Then some lady named Sophia Loren accidentally stole our luggage mistaking it for her own. Maybe a diaper fell out along the way to indicate it was not hers but just as we were finished filing a missing luggage form, she brought it back. Also upon her arrival, the continuous cries of James regarding his “favorite football underpants being gone forever and stolen by a mean person,” were quieted. It was the GREATEST birthday and the BEST trip. Back to snow.

6. On Wednesday, sweet Josephine celebrated her “beast day,” also known as the Feast of St. Joseph. To mark the occasion we froze them with ice cream and played for two hours outside at a park. Her excitement for simplicity and fashion sense flare will forever make a mom smile. To Josie: May you always find a reason to dump out an entire bag of tortilla chips to “celebrate the morning.” May your humor keep your worries light, and may your big brown eyes always continue to look to God with the very same wonder and delight. Thank you for teaching me how to have fun and open things.

7. This week I learned to never let a baby near freshly squeezed orange juice, a container of strawberries and that no marriage has truly been tested until the sink breaks. A very special thanks to my husband Jim for his dedication to solving the problem with the Walmart special bathroom faucet. While the kitchen has never looked better, I hope the only plumbing issue we attempt to ever again fix together is playing Super Mario Brothers.

Happy Snowy Spring. 

…Mondays are for making up lost time on this blog…

After 8 straight days of someone expelling stomach acids, one day off, and two days back to all family illness hell, it seems like finally, maybe, just maybe, the highly contagious sickness has moved from this house to the one next door, so say a few prayers for my sister.

After two bouts each person, we woke up yesterday feeling strangely better, and extremely grateful for an opportunity to spend time with my family that did not involve sickness, crying, or sleeping. Following Church, we got crazy and seized the heck out of the Spring ahead.  With 15 minutes before showtime the attempt to make it across town to catch Disney On Ice without tickets was in full “pile them into carseats!” as fast as we could buckle.

Questions on the way included, “where are we going?” and “why are we going so fast?” I dodged the first with “its a surprise!” after learning the very important parent lesson of never revealing the fun location unless absolutely positive it will work out. With no tickets, 12 minutes to spare and poorer than poor planning, I was less than convinced. I suffered the consequences of then being asked if every house/building/tractor/large truck that we past was the “surpwise??” but I’m positive it was better than the time we promised riding roller coasters only to find the amusement park was too crowded and I blamed it on the police.

As we pulled up and illegally parked, James shrieked in excitement about seeing the “Penguins!” and the “guy that looks like Daddy.” I let him down by building up the parts with Buzz Light Year. Still confused, he decided to hold my hand anyway. Hands down, we looked like the worst parents in the building when only one child had a coat and the others loudly cried about being freezing. In we walked to a bombardment of $30-45 pieces of plastic worth a maximum of pennies and thousands of children dressed like princesses. In an effort to evade a future money pit vacation, I hinted at “being in Disney world,” and somehow managed to escape the well placed marketing of spinning-light up pieces of junk with, “I’m so sorry, but someone would probably lose an eye at our house. Let’s admire the dresses!”

While walking past the concessions to our cheapest seats, Jim and I began to experience the natural consequences of skipping lunch to make a show with only 15 minutes to spare, and only had ourselves to blame and a few almonds in my pocket. Peanuts are sort of healthy? And also highly choke-able. Nasty popcorn for the lunch hold-over.

We made it to the seats only 9 minutes late. The memory of the squeals as they witnessed the Beast skate onto the same ice as the Penguins are gold to me. And the skit included all of my favorite Beauty and the Beast banter, so it was a win all around. Since my children, for the most part, only have a general understanding of “princess,” and tend to think that all of them have guns like their favorite Leia, there were many questions as the several Disney princesses skated in the scantily clad ice outfits. And James, in his most polite voice, wondered, “these pritty girls are nice, but when do the race cars come out of that castle?” As well, “will anybody be using a hockey stick?” It then took a whole family effort to keep Rita from jumping out of her seat and onto the ice as dozens of “Its a Small World” singing skaters were released from the castle and brought onto the ice in sparkling ice vehicles. Our cue to exit was 30 minutes past nap time when Rita began pulling hair and stealing other people’s slushies. Not only did we beat traffic, but also, a parking ticket.

The rest of the day was spent outside in legitimate sunshine. They wore costumes and begged to go trick or treating. They played “Ring around the Josie, let’s all fall on Rita,” and she hardly minded at all. Jim gave them blueberry pie and they all cried because “there is jelly on my ice cream.” Darth Vador and Superman found unity in stealing M&Ms. Rita learned to say, “what’s that?” and “give me banana.”

Thank you Jesus, for the break from Lent, and for such a wonderful day.

“…how much more did the grace of God and the gracious gift of the one man, Jesus, overflow for the many.” 

The ticket seller was super nice when he said, “please sign this,” to which James began to write his name explaining “I thought that man would like to see my J’s,” and after the repeated screaming into the microphone because “I still don’t think he can hear me!”

Hopefully big sister can fill little sister in on the proper way to approach a selfie.

Instagram repeats.

This picture accurately depicts several reasons why I chose Jim as my husband. Abides he does.

Happy week’s beginning.

Parenting has had a funny way of revealing the external realities of my behavior and likes to continually deliver it to my awareness brutally, honestly, and, most likely, pronounced incorrectly. For instance, before my son turned 2, I had little to no awareness at the frequency or the intensity with which I reacted to a mistake, mishap or mess by use of the exclamation “Damn It!” While I might have to spend a good amount of time with Pavlov’s Dog in a cage of my own before I officially break my reactionary bad habit, at least I’m aware? I’m sorry to James, Josie, Rita, and their future and current teachers, friends, and parents of friends for their frequent use of a word they really should not know, and my inability to break my bad habit and theirs. On a number of occasions, under the maternal wisdom of my big sister, mother to 6 non-swearing boys, my attempts to curtail its usage and convince my kids that what I actually say is “Slam it!” a phrase that just rhymes with the nonsensical “damn it!” has also proved fruitless. Please note that it has been successful in turning “moron” into “linora” (magic, i guess?) and Sh*t into “I quit!” Most of the conversations involving a much more frequently used ‘damn it’ have ended much more dismally for me with a convinced and confident James explaining, “no mom, it is definitely ‘Damn it.’ YOU taught us it.”

During today’s late afternoon, pre dinner hour of desperation appropriately coined “The 4′ O’clock Meltdown,” for all family members, especially Mom, my children began to play house as the parents with their invisible children. I learned a few new things:

1) Though it often feels like my children do not give a “damn it!” as to whether or not they flee the table before they finish their “wreckfist, wunch, or dinner,” bringing to the forefront of my psyche a sense of inferior disciplinary skills and presence, they do in fact experience a very strict tone, inflection, and the sound seems to come mostly from the throat.

2) As the title of the post indicates, I often lose them. And most often, they are found in the bathtub.

3) 10 minutes into their role play, the children received a visit from their grandmother. She brought presents and James and Josie, the parents, had absolutely no control over their contents or whether or not they could have them. Even after a stern warning from Dad, “eat your dinner first, kids” the apparent disobeying left him rolling his eyes in powerlessness and “I guess this is what’s happening.” Kids: this is your mother speaking. Your awareness is duly noted even though I can do nothing about it.

4) I ask the question, “were you playing in my make up again,” much more than I realized.

5) I think, as indicated by what appeared to be lots of refused hugging kissing and back pats from the invisibles, that maybe they find me a bit too affectionate.

6) They want a dog.

7) I have successfully communicated a love and enthusiasm for grocery shopping and bringing them along with me despite my true feelings.

Additionally, when I interrupted their play with “how many children do you have?” both of the capable of semi-coherent verbalization said “7.”

No, Kids, there are 3 of you. 7 is just what it feels like. Looks like I taught them that too. 

Fashionably late to Jens

1) There have been many, including when I drove to Target solo only to realize I left my wallet and returned home to realize my wallet was actually in the car only to realize my babysitting time was over. There was also the time I got legitimately beat in a game of soccer by a four-year old, and when Josie figured out how to open a sippy cup before me. But I have to say that the most demoralizing moment of the week was when baby Rita threw a box of macaroni and cheese at my head and it knocked me over.

2) As we ate my lazy crock pot creation of mexican chicken, James, attempting to gain the favor as favorite child, and since the main ingredient is cheese, declared, “Mom, this is my favorite meal!” Thankful and relieved, I replied in all sincerity, “thank you, I made it with love.” “What is love?” he asked. Both parents tried their best to offer intelligent, age appropriate answers, involving an emphasis on God and an appreciation of others. With confidence and pride in our responses, we, once lovebirds, and now parents, fully capable of addressing the existential roots of our four-year olds life, received a follow-up. “Thank you, that’s good. My second question is: what is a coffee filter?” Back to reality we went.

Other questions James, our four-year old, asked included:

“Do you have a headache because you have a hangover again, Dad?”

“Is there a real bone in my bonehead?”

“When is Jesus actually going to come for dinner? And do we only get to eat bread? Or can we eat some steak?”

“Um mom, I just checked the time on your phone and it says ‘dinnertime.’ Where’s my food?”

3) The pungent stench indicated squashed stink bug indubitably. I looked around, opened her hands to investigate, but was halted by her baby death grip. Then, as she giggled her way past me, proud of her escape, the evidence was slobbered on the floor. The bug’s remains were chewed to the crisp and seemingly enjoyed. And to anyone who believes stink bug stench is bad, its much worse on a baby’s breath and somehow lasts for hours.

4) Last week our newly repaired car was returned to us due to an incident involving a side mirror, a garage, and me. Tomorrow it will return to the repair shop for the exact same reason.

5) If I could adopt any of my children’s qualities for my own, it would be the ability to see the world as an imaginary wonderland in which side-walk salt is delicious rock candy, drizzled romantically on the ground beneath my steps just waiting to be tasted and enjoyed, because why wouldn’t a magical candy fairy surprise me with sparkling treats after a trip to the library? Although I squeezed Josie’s cheeks to release the toxic solid antifreeze from her mouth in record time and tenacity, I did feel a bit guilty about bursting her perceived magical experience.

6) Parent tip: If a new babysitter is coming to the house to meet the family and consider working, it is best to know the location of the children. After 15 minutes we found them in my closet underneath a pile of just recently organized clothing, but boy, was that embarrassing.

7) Do yourself a giant favor and Meet Shyla. She’s hilarious and Christ centered, beautiful and simple, talented and efficient in the kitchen, and God’s most recent gift to the internet full of mom bloggers. She has coined the phrase Motha Blogga and I will forever be eternally grateful. Follow her, like her, send her a line, tell her how beautiful her new haircut is, and how funny it is that she thinks she looks like Mrs. Hughes. And Shyla, you are welcome for the 2-5 visitors.

Peace, peeps.