You Know You Beat The Average 2.06 Kids Born/Woman (CIA estimate for U.S) When

You're waiting with one of your bairn for her checkup and you overhear the pediatrician ask the nurse "So, how many Lairds do we have today?  Just one?  Oh, okay."

So sorry to disappoint, Dr. Dave. Next time I'll bring all five and we'll really have some fun.

I Imagined This Would Happen. I Had Simply Hoped It Wouldn't.

The kids are in bunk beds.  Occasionally their conversations steer towards the "what happens when the person on the top bunk throws up all over the place?".

Tonight it happened and it happened big.  If you've ever wondered how far and wide vomit can go from a five-foot perch, you're welcome to stop by.  It was stunning how much carpet the arc of yak covered.  Gross, and stunning.

The best (?) part is, it's only 10:30 pm and only 1 child has come down with the case of the honks. 

Four more kidlets to go.  I probably need to cover the interior of the house with tarps.

Just A Little Obsessed

Even though the show is so scripted, I love to watch House Hunters.  I hate to make John suffer through it with me, so I don't watch it very often, but I did catch an episode a couple weeks ago that sent me to my thinking seat.  The short of it: the couple ended up buying an old fire station (!) and I now believe such a building would be nearly perfect for the Laird 7.  What sold me?  Two things:

1. The bay.  One stinkin', enormous, high-ceiling'd room.  It takes the "great room" and "open concept" ideas to a new level. 

2. The lovely, oh-so-lovely, dorm-like bathroom.  5 sinks (yay!), three stalls, three showers, and a urinal.  Now, some people think a urinal is either gross or not that neat.  I don't deny the potential for gross, but I would still love to have one for my boy. 

So now I daydream about how fun it would be to convert a firehouse. 

Silly, I know. But cool.

Did Lizzy Lose Her Eye?

It was 34 minutes past bedtime last night when Gracie tippy-toed downstairs to ask the question above.  Seeing as how a two-eyed Lizzy had just tippy-toed herself down the stairs 29 minutes past bedtime, John and I were confused.  Lizzy has a bit of a cold, so had she sneezed so hard she said her eye popped out? That is 100% something she would say to be funny.  Had she really sneezed so hard with her eyes open and popped her eye out? I hadn't heard any crying, so I think we can eliminate the second idea.  That left us with no choice but to start a conversation:

"Gracie, what are you talking about with Lizzy losing her eye?  Did she say that?"

Gracie: "Yes. She said her eye was missing and I was wondering what happened to it."

"I don't get it.  What are you talking about? What do you mean she lost her eye?  Really? She said she lost her eye?"

Gracie: "YES!  She said she lost her eye!  Is she going to lose both eyes?"  At this point, it should be noted that Gracie has not demonstrated much concern about her sister losing an eye.  It was a question born purely out of curiosity.  I mean, maybe she was a little worried.  She did come downstairs to inquire, which is loads better than just ignoring what Lizzy said (which is what most kids would do if they heard an oddball statement like that).

[what in the world...]

Blank staring from all parties.

And then...Light bulb!

"Gracie. I think she means the 'i' is missing from her step stool.  You know, the letter 'i'?"

Gracie: BWAAHAHAHAHAHHAA!  That's so funny!!! I thought she meant she lost her eyeball!!  You know, her eyeball! That's so hilarious! Oh man! Hee hee!"

"Go to bed, Gracie."

Thankfully, thankfully, I had noticed earlier in the evening that the "i" was missing from her step stool. We would have had to wait till morning to figure it out, because a full inquisition is rarely done around here after lights-out.

Our Mudroom Smells Like Stinky Feet

Just so you know, yes we are fully cognizant of the odor that assaults your senses when you walk in our back door.  Or our front door. A summer of Crocs, flip flops, and sweaty tennis shoes = that stale locker room stench I had to endure every day for my job way back in my days of teaching PE and coaching.

Yuck.

Sorry.

So Everyone Is Aware

I was working on a post last week and John asked if I was writing about how awesome he is.  "Yes. Of course I am." was my reply, which was not true.  Yes, he is awesome. No, I was not actively making a public declaration.

I am making one now.  John Laird is awesome.

If it's possible (and I'm not sure it is), he would be even MORE awesome if he would wear this shirt I saw on the playground today:

 

 He said he would not.

We'll see.

Don't Quit The Day Job, Lady.

The Trips filled out one of those super-cute questionnaires about me at school a while back, in what was supposed to be a "Kids say the darnedest things" exercise.  I ended up nearly devastated.  Not because they all listed me as being in my 80's (really, who cares).  No, it's that none of them thought I was funny.  I know I'm not hilarious, not even close.  That title belongs to my sister and a couple other people I've met along the way in my years of existence.

So apparently I am some sort of ogre.  Not funny and certainly not cute, at least in the eyes of three of my children.  Okay, okay, I look nice when I go to weddings and birthday parties, which was three times last year. 

John tried to be The Hero and pulled each kid aside and told them to LIE and tell me I was funny.  Here's how it went down:

I overhear John whispering to Johnny "Go tell Mommy she's funny".

Johnny: "Hey Mommy."

Me: "Yes, Johnny?"

Johnny: "She's funny."

Me: "Who's funny?"

Johnny:  {Shoulder shrug}  "I don't know."  Walks away.

Cue Gracie, who does the Gracie swagger to the kitchen.

Gracie:  "Hey Mommy. You're funny."  Then, over her shoulder as she walks away: "But you're really not."

Me: "Thanks, Gracie."

NEXT!

Lizzy: "Hey  Mommy.  Daddy told me to tell you you're funny."  Walks away.

Me: "Thanks, Lizzy."

It's fairly obvious I have some work to do on my stand-up.

An example of the offensive opinions from the peanut gallery.

By the way, they are RARELY told to eat all their dinner.

Indoctrination

I took the kids to the high school track awhile ago to run the crazy out of them.  They're always asking question after question after question about the place anyway, and since we had absolutely nothing {free}to do, it seemed like a reasonable idea to pile everyone into the car and pop over to check it out.  I hadn't seen the new field anyway, so I figured it would be a winner.  It was.

Of course they HAD to run the track (they didn't know it was the only option), which led to "Running On The Track 101".  It was one of the few times they have ever been slightly fascinated with what was coming out of my mouth.  Annie didn't care to stay in her lane.  Everyone else was thrilled to have something that was all theirs.

Yes, I know it isn't the true 100m start.  It was hot, they had already passed it, and I was already flirting with irritating them.  So we compromised to try our first "Runners to your mark" stance.  They thought they were they were so speedy-quick.  Kidlets, Momma won't make you run, but maybe you could humor me for a season or two? Please?

Can't go to a stadium without jumping and rolling and cartwheeling in the end zone.  It's so super-cool. They thought, and still believe, they are super-cool. 

Got to get 'em hooked while they're young. :)

Two Steps Forward, One Giant Step Back

One of the kids was clearly not using her sweet little head tonight and "asked" me to be quiet.  To give her a wee bit of credit she did ask in a polite voice and she did say "please".  However, this is obviously a question that is not to be tolerated.  A question a child should never, unless in an emergency situation, ask an adult, at least in this house. 

This incident falls into the "giant step forward" category because everyone else but Annie had an "Oh, Snap!" moment, stopped what they were doing, whipped their heads around, eyes and ears wide open to see how badly Mommy was going to lose it.  It's nice to know that somewhere, tucked away in their internal files, they know that some comments are disrespectful to adults. So...hooray?

But then, within 5 minutes of a little victory, I stumbled across this:

Apparently, it is excruciatingly difficult to toss dirty clothes in a basket I positioned in the un-classiest yet most-convenient location. They almost had to put more effort in order to miss.

We'll get there.

I Know This Happens To Almost Everyone, But...

There are 930 pics on my phone and over 150 of them are of this little chucklehead.

Another 80 are of a kitchen cabinet. And then another 100 of the sofa:

The movies are fabulous as well, but I'll spare everyone a sampling of the 3 second mini-clips of rude noises that are scattered about my camera roll.

Two Thoughts

1. Class lists came for Ainsley and The Trips today.  Looking at their sweet names on the lists, in different classrooms, made me a little weepy.  This is for real, folks, and I'm not liking the thought that this chapter of our life is closing in just a few weeks.  They make me completely insane sometimes and I love watching them grow up, but...you know.

2. Along with the class lists was the "supply list" and we may have to take out a loan to cover this mess.  Plus, they all need new backpacks this year.  And probably lunch boxes. And shoes. And underwear.

Good grief.

Quote Of The Day

Setting:  In the car, on the way home from the zoo.

Johnny: "MOMMMEEEE!  Lizzy won't talk to me!"

Me: "What are you talking to her about?"

Johnny: "I'm trying to ask her a question!"

Lizzy: "I'm ignoring him."

This is exactly what I've been trying to tell them to do when a sibling is bugging the tar out of them (which is what was happening).  At least someone is listening.

Dear Laird Kidlets

I am tired.  You are funny and insightful and silly and I love you.  You are also children and behave like children (as you are supposed to do) and it can be exhausting to be your Mommy.  It's a good exhaustion and I'm thankful to have the opportunity to experience it, but there isn't a whole lot of physical or emotional energy left in my tank and this is why the house looks the way it does and grilled cheese and pasta and rice are the Big Three in the meal rotation.  It is also why you all know what "crazypants" and "Mommy's going koo-koo" means and when those words come out I'm about 8 more seconds of you all fighting/whining/crying away from losing it.

So I crash at night instead of cleaning or writing or sorting through clothes you've outgrown in the last two weeks.

And then I think of something funny one of you said today, like how Gracie still says "mind" instead of "mine", even though she has been told 457 times that isn't how it's supposed to be said, only to reply "I KNOW!  That's how I like to say it!" and stomp off indignantly. And I laugh and shake my head and fall asleep on the couch.

I love you all very much.  I really do. I'm just tired.

When Our Best Attempts Turn To Crap And Back Again

I fanatically love, love, love my little part of the universe, but the January-March/April weather is horrible.  It makes me want to homeschool my kids for those three months and take them on some random RV tour around the country, just to get out of here. But then I remember the "school" part of homeschool and laugh like a maniac because I am not a go-getter and those three months would simply be a first Summer break.

So when we woke up and the forecast was Potential For Lovely, I said we were going to a playground.  The field trip was necessary since the level of teasing, arguing, and general ugliness between the sibs was escalating and someone would have found themselves flying to the stratosphere if we had not left the house.

By the way, when planning a playground visit with four kids, ages 5 and under, just any random park won't do.  In order to keep it as easy as possible, the bathroom must be close, a drinking fountain that works (but not so much that they can have a spontaneous water fight - this does happen), and there is ideally only one play area, etc, etc.  So the one I chose fit a couple requirements and we were off.

It did not go well.

Within 3 minutes (golly, I wish I was exaggerating), someone had to go potty.  No real surprise here because someone always has to go to the bathroom, but I was caught off guard when the bathrooms were locked.  As in the "not yet opened for spring" locked. Totally and completely uncool and there was NO WAY I had time to load everyone up and haul them 1 mile down the road to a grocery store to unload them, take them in, herd them around the restroom, load them back up, drive the the park, and then unload them so someone else could tell me 4 minutes later that they needed to go potty even though they had vehemently insisted to the point of tears that they didn't have to while we were crammed in one stall at the grocery.  No way.

So, dag-nabbit, we hiked to the furthest point at the park where only a couple neighbors and playground families could tell what we were up to (it's hard to be discreet with four kids running like crazypants for the trees shouting "Is she going to tee-tee in the trees, Mommy??  IS SHE GOING TO TEE-TEE IN THE TREES?!!?!?  HAHAHAHA!!  YAY!!! REALLY??  FOR REAL??".  They had turned almost maniacal with how thrilled they were. It is most definitely a walk of shame.  But I held my head up and readied my "Well, what do you expect me to do" face if some random dared question my decision to allow public urination. 

So we're there and I was pretty confident I had perfected the art of girls urinating in the outdoors a couple years ago, but I had never managed this while one was wearing a skirt.  Because of that, it did not occur to me that the skirt would hang down and therefore be covered with tee-tee to the point of saturation.  And then the girl (and the mom and the girl's sibs) freak for different reasons.  And then the family re-emerges from the trees with one child wearing different clothing (thankfully it was one of those times she was wearing pants underneath), but sobbing because she really loves skirts and wanted to wear that particular one that day, and other children whining because they wanted to pee in the trees as well and why won't you let me, Mommy?  And I'm trying to look nonchalant as I hold the dry corner of a drippy skirt.

Part II

The kids didn't want to play on the fun, new playground, opting instead for the old-school, wood chip and pea gravel, metal variety artfully decorated with bird poop.  Fine, and I actually don't mind this and I sort of understand.  The rubberized playground is boorrriinng because there is nothing to pick up and throw at siblings or shove in one's nose or ear.  Or get stuck in a shoe so that "Mom, I had to take my shoes off to get the wood chips out and then I haven't had the chance to put them back on". And the plastic slides and stuff don't hurt our melons as badly as the metal bars.

This means that, within 8 minutes of playing on the preferred, older play area, three heads rung the monkey-bar-climby-thing, 5 shoes were tossed and I think Annie performed a taste test on the pea gravel, dirt, and wood chips.  Those which did not pass her exam were sprinkled on her head.

Part III

All's well that end's well.  Everyone eventually chilled out, had some fun, myself included, and I witnessed several other parents more crazed than I.  As we left, still holding what was now only a damp skirt, I did a mental pat-on-the-back.

Success.

 Three of them got their bell rung on this contraption. And one of them managed to do it by simply standing there. I have no idea how it happened.

"My heart is hurting"

One of the girls had a rough morning this Easter.  She is the one who wears the title-mentioned heart on her sleeve, the one who seems incapable of any degree of stoicism, and of maintaining some semblance of control over her emotions and behavior when feelings are running high. She is the one whose personality lives at the apex of the pendulum swing, rarely resting in equilibrium. As I say this it is important to note that we desperately love her in spite of that and we even more desperately love her because of that.

So when it's hard and there's more drama than usual, and on a day like today when we are in the middle of celebrating the joy of Easter, that the struggle becomes even more difficult when passions are escalating.  And after a challenging exchange of words when I'm trying in vain to find an angstrom of patience in my well, when she tells me her heart is hurting and broken, that my heart hurts and breaks too.  My heart breaks because I can't fix hers.  I try and try and as much as I desire, I will never be able to perfectly heal her. Don't misunderstand me, she is at the age where she needs me (and John) to make her feel unconditionally loved and to take away her hurt . It is one of the things we are commissioned to do, and it is a great blessing and privilege to make her feel loved.  Beauty results from the trying.

So I pray. I pray that one day she will discover that Mommy and Daddy do our best and have loved and still love with all we that we have. I pray that one day all the pieces will come together and she will know with absolute certainty that God is the only one who can heal her brokenness.  I pray that one day her healed heart will know Joy on Easter morning.

Here! You do it! Or, how I almost lost my Lego Builder Elite Status.

It started with an ultimate find: the kids were at Fooz's house and she discovered an UNOPENED Lego set, circa 1980-something, under some shelves.  The kids were besides themselves and couldn't wait to show me.

A pull-back race car, support vehicle with trailer, 500 pieces.  No sweat, right?  I mean, these are the kids who are flipping out because a Lego store is supposed to come here and pore over catalogs and the Lego website, trying to decide the sets they want, in order of importance.  Big decisions.

This should have been a walk in the park, blindfolded, and finished in 30 minutes.  It was not. Whatever cars or trucks we've put together have been predominantly brick-based with a couple axles.  Sure, lots of layers and eensy parts, but ultimately no sweat.  These bad boys were crazypants and took a few hours of actual concentration.  John and I helped Ainsley with the first car, John worked on the second, and Gracie and I (and Lizzy a bit) helped with the trailer.  And that's where my coolness factor stumbled a bit.  A lot.  Enough that John was hysterically laughing at me and I was trying not to curse out loud.  It was one of those "It's finished, let's try it out. Why isn't it working? What's the deal? Wha...some of it's upside-down". Frick and Frack!!!

That's when Ainsley walked in and I said "Here. You do it!" and, of course, she did.  Most of it at least, while John just thought the whole gig was hilarious. The can't-tell-if-he's-breathing laughing. Punk.

But I rallied and figured it all out and everyone is happy and The Mommy is still a little cool.  Or maybe it's more that I won't have to hear "Hey, give it to Daddy because you know Mommy can't do it".

I live for the little victories.

We Have Taught Her Well

I realize it's blurry, but that's Bananie, standing on a stool, dressed in nothing but a hairbow, diaper, and socks.  Bon Jovi (Living On A Prayer) was playing and she was waving her taggies and dancing like the polite young lady I am raising her to be.

My work, at least with this one, is finished.

Top Eight Signs I Can No Longer Deny My Decade

Occasionally a run starts and, within 20 yards or so, I can tell it's going to be horrific. By the time I hit the corner today I knew this one might not be worth my time and I was definitely not going to go as far as I had hoped.  The intent was 4+-5 miles, and I forced myself to stagger an even 4.  I ended up having loads of time to think and then park at the conclusion that I can no longer live in denial. 

My name is Kitty/Mom/Mommy/Mama/Honey and I am middle-aged.  The raw numbers can be ignored, but the signs can not.  They are, in order of stream of consciousness:

1. I had my first "Wow, I hope when I'm your age..." a month ago. 

2. I'm not quite sure where to shop for clothes or what to buy when I get somewhere. WAY WAY too young for Coldwater Creek (no offense), REI makes me look tired, too old for J Crew and starting to phase out of Gap. 

3. John and I are watching SNL (right now) and are laughing while we're watching Akroyd and Martin guest the Festrunk Brothers.  

4.  Ibuprofen is critically necessary for me to run around with my kids.

5. All the new neighbors are REALLY REALLY young and cute and not-haggard looking.

6. We realized today we won't have a "fun" car for another 20 years and even then there's no guarantee after 5 college tuitions and 4 weddings. Thank you, Trey. Thank you very much.

7. I don't know why, but I lived in our 20+ year old college sweatshirts this winter.  You know, the grey Champion ones we only bought in size "L".

8. I snart and don't care. Or notice. Look it up.

Meet George

Ever since a friend's son demonstrated this clever clothing configuration, my kids think it's hilarious to be George of the Jungle. The trips jump on their beds and act like monkeys, but so far Bananie is content to just run around and believe herself to be darling.  Which she is.

Shutting It

My mouth, that is.  I have a wicked tongue and the "is it true, kind, or necessary" stuff is a struggle, especially the "necessary" part. Oh, and the "kind" section too.  Sometimes I have to physically remove myself from a situation to avoid saying something destructive. Not painting a pretty picture, am I? 

Case in point: I had an encounter with a teacher this morning (no, not one anyone knows so rest easy) and it ended up I discovered I was right.  Even if I had been in the wrong, the attitude I was handed was unpleasant and nothing gets me rankled so easily as attitude. But as it turns out, I was right and I really wouldn't care, but I was made to question myself and to feel like a flaky, disorganized and generally clueless parent (all things I am guilty of at times) and I clearly wasn't.  This time.

So I'm having difficulty letting this one go and even came up with a sweet way of making sure she knew I really wasn't being an idiot, but is it necessary to do say something? No, it is not. I have a wise husband who reinforced the idea that to address it would not help, and he is right.

It's so hard.  So very, very hard.

Big deep breath and sigh...

Champagne Problems*

A friend who I wish, wish, wish lived next door used this term during a recent conversation and I have fallen in love with it.  In a humbling sort of way.

These are almost exactly the kinds of problems I've been fortunate to have.  The ones where we have to decide which school district we should live in, which sort of car to purchase, which job to take or career path to follow, and on and on and on.

This doesn't mean I should feel guilty because I usually don't have serious decisions to make, but it does mean that my perspective is usually a little off and that is where the behavior modification needs to kick in. There needn't be any level of agonizing, or hand-wringing, or deep sighing, or the allowing of undergarments getting wadded somewhere. There needs to be more big-picture and contentment and less self-centeredness.  There needs to be more prayer and service and less grumbling.  And prayer. And maybe a beverage to keep it real. 


*Yes, I am very aware I may be the last person on the planet who has heard this phrase.  I know I am not cool or trendy.  I get it. It is unnecessary to remind me.

The Purple House

One of the girls is obsessed with this house.  She simply calls it "The Purple House" and requests a drive-by whenever we're close. I mean, what little girl wouldn't want to live in a purple or pink house? Perfectly normal, right?  Absolutely.

But for her it isn't simply being enamored with a home splendidly painted in her favorite color.  There is also a plan.  And the plan is that she is going to buy this house when she becomes a nurse and works in a children's hospital, and live in it with an assortment of animals whose names are already chosen, as well as some dear friends of ours (Fooz and Dord) so she can take care of them.  There will be a "food garden", and we (the family) will all be invited to come for dinner every night to eat on the balcony, which is not in the picture but, trust me, bears a striking resemblance to a deck. 

Word has it that she has described The Purple House to others as being "as beautiful as a rose petal".  And she means it. This child wears her heart on her sleeve, truly loves this house and has dreams for it. 


Oh to be five and live in a world where dreams and hopes of purple houses and taking care of people will, without question, come true. 

It's times like this when I realize how pragmatic I've become and I don't like it very much.  I used to be more of a dreamer, and while we all need a healthy dose of reality sometimes, maybe I've taken too much in the last few years and have come to depend on it. My children should not have to worry about whether or not the logistics of plans will work out.  There is too much time for that later.

First Piggies

Because they have to be documented.  If she follows the tradition of her sisters, this may be the last time she tolerates having her hair overly messed with.

So stinkin' cute.

Notes On Valentines Day Eve

1. Four kids = 73 valentines for classmates. Stunning. 

2. Plus extras they wanted to do for teachers, friends, neighbors...they got a little fired up.  I don't have a total count.  Probably somewhere in the mid to upper 90's.

3. The fifth child of course had to keep up, so she was allowed to put stickers everywhere just to keep her busy while John and I coaxed the older ones to sign their cards.  To be honest, only two needed focus.  The other two were incredibly self-motivated.

4. The dining room table looked like a vomitous mass of Justice League, Littlest Pet Shop, Puppy, and Madagascar cards and stickers, pencils and markers, and then the dreaded permanent markers because the pencils and regular markers were smearing or not showing up on Superman, all mixed in with princess placemats, normal placemats, and wadded up napkins.

5. Pinterest was making me feel like a crappy mom for this holiday, since I'm not doing 90+ homemade valentines with glow-sticks, covering the kids' door with cut-out hearts on which I had written all the things I love about them, and having heart-shaped themed lunches.  So I'm avoiding the place for a month or two. 

6. I have nothing planned for dinner tomorrow. We may be having leftover chili.

7. Actually, we will be having leftover chili.

Breaking Up With Wal-Mart

I should have done it years ago and if they didn't have groceries (read: milk) I would never set foot in the place.  But the problem is that Wal-Mart does have the three basic necessities (diapers, milk, and saline solution) for reasonable coin and my life is not conducive to running to multiple stores when those items share the list.  There just isn't time.

Side note:  I did avoid the place for years because for some reason the colors/design/layout is maddening and senseless and made my head hurt (it still does), plus Target (lovely, lovely Target) is right next door and there really is no decision to make when those two are up against each other.  The problem is - and this is a huge problem - The Boy believes the milk from Target "tastes like cheese" and he's right.  I have no idea why it's gross, but there must be a milk-purchase option when I shop because we're holding steady at 9+ gallons/week around here and it is always on the list.  In fact, it is so on the list, all the time, that the word "milk" doesn't even make an appearance because it should always, always be assumed that we need the stuff.

But I've had it and what was the proverbial straw?  Those silly turn-table bag thingies at the check-out have robbed me of too many groceries I have purchased.   I really, really needed that onion this afternoon and had to change dinner plans on the fly because one of my bags was forgotten and left on the turn-table.  Very, very uncool.

When the triplets were two-ish, they (Lizzy especially) would throw down a fabulous, multi-super-tantrum if we turned right to go to Wal-Mart as opposed to left for Target.  I still wish I had video of it: three kids screaming their heads off and begging to not go to Wal-Mart. It would have made a perfect commercial.

I'm done.  Officially done.

My Cart Monkeys

It's stinkin' hard to push the buggy when my sweet babies are hanging all over it.

Love them.

I Think We Need A Bigger Mudroom

I'm thankful we even have one.  They don't exist in most houses in our area, and it was one of my favorite last-minute details we included when we put our addition on several years ago. Until then we didn't even have a closet on the first floor, so you can imagine how over-the-moon I was to have something as luxurious as a 4x8 place to toss shoes and hang coats.

But, you see, when the addition was in its design/pre-building phase, we were a family of three. We are no longer that family and our place-to-toss-our-shoes is barely adequate.

It snowed and this is the aftermath with 5 sets of snow boots, snow pants, accessories, rocks for treasured collections, back packs, grown-up stuff, sticks, shoe bins with covers to prevent the contents from being mistaken as chew toys, etc.  It would be one thing if winter was clearly defined around here because we could keep it simple. But winter in our neck of the woods means 61 degrees one day, stormy and mid-50's the next, followed by 8 days straight of temperatures so cold they'd make a polar bear shiver.  Because of that, we never really put away the spring or fall stuff until it simply becomes outgrown. 

I can't imagine what this will look like five years from now, when the shoes, jackets, and backpacks are even bigger.  And let's not forget about sports equipment. 

Yikes.

Triplet + 2 Public Service Announcement

It takes more than twenty minutes to get five children, ages 8 and under, out the door when hats, coats, mittens, boots, lunch boxes, and backpacks are involved.  And today, the last two items were for only three of them. 

I really don't know how this is going to work next year when we'll need to get 4 of them, with all accoutrements, to school by 8:35.  Without copious amounts of yelling.