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.

A Huge Waste Of My Time

If this pic is unclear, let the words "Fat-Free Half & Half" scream at you from the carton.  My coffee accepts only full-fat half & half, or heavy cream or anything else normal like that.  Anything else is just a waste of calories and time and money.  And don't let that picture on the front fool you; an entire cup of this stuff can be dumped in a perfectly lovely cuppa joe and the flavor and consistency are barely changed. I exaggerate, but not by much.

How I ended up with Fat Free nastiness instead of what is used to make things right in the mornings at Chez Laird is beyond me.  But I'm frugal and can't throw anything away, so now I'm Miss Grumpy McGrumbly in the a.m. because I'm forced to ruin my wakey-wake-happy juice.

Next time I'm at the grocery I'll have to pick up a pint of heavy cream to make it right.

Am I Smarter Than A Second Grader? Not By Much.

When Ainsley told me after school that her homework was to: read for 20 minutes and "some worksheet in my homework folder", I assumed she would only need 5 minutes of my time for the worksheet (she does the reading by herself).

I was wrong.  Very, very wrong.  Because not only did she end up needing 25+ minutes of my time, she needed 25+ minutes of my atrophied brain.  And for what? What second grade level worksheet could make my life miserable at 8:10 at night?  A worksheet about physics.  I was not aware that Physics 101 was now taught to 8-year-olds and would have appreciated a heads-up so I could at least have time to get all jacked-up on caffeine and therefore think a bit more clearly.

Motion? Force? Work? Friction? Simple Machines?  And "write a sentence about them" and "draw a picture to illustrate"?

And, looking forward, I can't possibly imagine how wonderful this is going to be when we suffer through second-grade homework with The Big Three.

Good grief.

*Ainsley was great during this, by the way. No complaining, etc. I was the one with the issues. As usual.

And This Is Lizzy

Every once-in-awhile the kids sniff that Mama's Losin' It and they take a gamble and make requests they know in their sweet-little-hearts I generally don't grant.   This time they asked to take pictures with my phone and since I was on my fourth attempt at starting dinner and needed 8 minutes of no one to trip over in my kitchen, I said Yes.

Cue: lots and lots of giggling, whispers, guffaws, and running around the house.  Was it worth the 8 minutes of uninterrupted food prep? Absolutely. 

A couple days later I was flipping through my phone pics, looking for what I now don't remember, and discovered a series of shots that Lizzy claimed were hers (verified by her siblings).  They are as follows:

Nice, eh?

Because, when one is four years old, taking pictures while getting closer and closer to the toilet is hilarious.

And if I'm honest, I think it's hilarious too.

We did have a conversation about phones and water and how they don't work well together.

Multiple Questions

All of us were at PetSmart a couple days ago when someone asked me the usual "are they all yours?" question (as my children were racing around like banshees).

Me: "Yes."  then:

Me: "Lizzy and Gracie!  Do NOT climb on the cat playhouses! Yes, I think it would be cool to have one our size as well."

Other Person: "Well, how many ages are they?"

Silent Me: What in the world??? Ohhh...I think I get it.

Me: "Well, the oldest is 7.   Johnny. We do NOT climb in dog crates. These three are 4, and the littlest is 1 1/2."

Other Person: "Are the 4 year olds triplets?"

Silent Me: Be kind. Be kind. Be kind.

Me: "Yeah, ummm...yes.  Yes they are."

Other Person: "But one of them is a boy!  How did that happen?" 

Me: "Well [deep breath], isn't that funny!?  God just decided to make one a boy. I suppose that happens sometimes. Sort of strange, isn't it?"

Awkward staring at each other

Me: "Hmm...okay then!  Annie?? Hey guys!!  Where is your sister?!?!"

Honestly. I get this sort of stuff all the stinkin' time.

An Example Of The Little Things Which Make Me Happy

John and I were sitting on the comfy couch a couple nights ago (shocker), watching the Olympics (another shocker), specifically Track and Field (oh, I so heart the track rats).   I was a little stressed because it was the men's 4x100 and the USA boys are not known for getting the stick around the place without catastrophe.  My brain was already jacked up on caffeine, so I was all out of Logic and Perspective to keep my blood pressure stable.

And then something caught my eye that made me smile.  One of the Jamaican wonders had his back to the camera and his race number was all wonky.  It's hard to pin those babies on and that bitty thing, that lopsided race number, humanized one of the fastest men on the planet.

Why?  Because we can go to any road race in the country, from the New York Marathon to the local Seize the Day 5K my sister and I just did, and you'll see race numbers all askew, on everyone from the most amateur of amateurs to the men and women who clock in 100 miles/week on their legs.  My favorites are the little kids who, in their minds and wearing their crooked bib number, will be the next ones crowned the fastest on the planet.  Of course they probably won't, but while these guys are running,

They probably have a picture of these guys in their minds:

Even down to the wonky race numbers.

Oh no. Oh No! OH NO, NO, NO!!!!!

FUUDDGGE!!! 

Only I didn't say fudge.  I said the Big Word.  The Queen Mother of all cuss words.

Not out loud, mind you. There are children about. But I did say it in my my mind and please pray for me about my language. Please.

And why did this happen?? It's Saturday morning and the coffee maker has broken.  And John isn't here so I can't go buy a new one RIGHT NOW.  I just put Annie down for a nap and I'm considering hauling her out of bed and throwing everyone in the car, jammies and all, to run to Walgreens, Target, the Grocery, anywhere because I'm panicking.  Surely my blood pressure is rising exponentially. 

Biggish Family Logistics - Not Funny At All

Tornado sirens exploded in the middle-of-the-night a while back, launching John and I out of bed.  Surely a false alarm, right? Right?  Late Spring.  That's when sirens are supposed to go off.  It is not Late Spring.  It is Winter = no tornadoes.

John ran downstairs to check the radar while I paused to assess the "feel" of things.  Lots of wind, some rain, what the heck?  The warnings just kept going and when I heard an actual forecaster talking at us on television - which meant SOMETHING was going on - I launched into tornado mode. This means grab the kids and head for the basement.  Easy, right? No. Not easy because there are five kids.  Five LITTLE kids who may not be able to get themselves downstairs briskly enough for my liking, because tornadoes don't wait until everyone is in the safest spot possible before they continue on their course.

So there I was, my arms full with Annie and a maglite, directing Ainsley to head downstairs, when I headed over to the Trips' room where Lizzy (thankfully) was already out of bed.  I sent her on her way, and then I paused.  Gracie and Johnny were lights-out.  Who to grab? I can't do both because of Annie.  Would one listen and immediately follow orders so I can haul the other?

And that is what I freak about when I can't sleep at night and my brain is tormented by worst-case-scenarios. Fortunately, insomnia is rare for me.

And this is why I talk to the kids about emergency plans.

And I realize this is a bummer of a post, but everything turned out just fine.  There weren't any tornadoes in our area and John was 1/2-way up the stairs to tell me as I was part-way through my thought process.

So we went back to bed.

Oh, For Crying Out Loud

So I have this not-speedy-quick "race" in one week and, in spite of my maddening injury, I'm getting pretty fired up about it.  My 7-miler yesterday didn't produce any serious pain and I figure tacking on another 6 miles next Sunday will be a breeze.  Right? Don't worry, I'm not delusional about this. I know for a fact that my body will not be pleased with me after this gig and will yap at me about it for some weeks after.  But it's worth it.

But then tragedy struck this evening.  Real, honest-to-goodness tragedy that would have brought me to out-loud cursing if the wee ones weren't around.  I was negotiating Annie and trying to scarf down my dinner of pasta when an errant, sauce-laden noodle fell off my fork, tumbled down my shirt, my jeans, and landed with a wet plop on my running shoes.  I took a deep breath before I glanced down at the crime scene, steadied myself, stole a peek, and...flipped out.

Keep in mind I am not materialistic (at least not very).  Example: only one of my pair of jeans has intact knees and, as much as I've tried, I can not seem to bring the ill-fitting, ripped jeans statement back to it's glamor of the 80's. Therefore, I just look like a hobo, walking around my not-so-shabby neighborhood with my torn pants. My other pair of regular, non-jeans pants has the seam coming apart in the rear-area, but I also don those babies on anyway.  Heck, I even wore them to church last Sunday.

But my running shoes!!!  Now those are an entirely different animal and I am borderline neurotic about my shoes. I normally would not be wearing them around the house so they only have running miles on them, but this ridiculous plantar fasciitis necessitates constant arch support (golly I sound old!).  And I have this freaking race coming up and can not handle taking one million strides in my kicks, seeing the horribleness of a stain every time my right foot plants.  Because, even if I scrub the daylights out of them (they are soaking in Oxi Clean as I write), we all know it's nearly impossible to get red sauce completely out. 

Slow, deep breaths. They're only shoes.  They're only shoes. They're only shoes. Millions upon millions of people don't even own shoes and I should not freak about mine.  I should not.  I will not.  And I'm going to have to repeat this over and over in my head for the next several days until I don't get a case of the shakes every time I see them.

So Tempting

I gave up soda, but that's old news.

But this is what faces me every time I open the fridge:




20 oz of loveliness. A real Coke. I'm not sure I can take it. I open the refrigerator no less than 40 times/day and this baby is begging me to twist the top and have that coveted first sip every single time.

No one who has come over drinks real soda and I'm too frugal to throw it away (that whole dollar, you know).

Oh my.

And now I'm taking a closer look at the picture and I also see: 3 gallons of milk, a few beers, 1/2 and 1/2 for my coffee, formula for Annie, and some eggs.

Yup. Seems like we have our priorities straight.

Crazypants

I did two stupid things a couple days ago.

The First Questionable Act:

I gave up soda.

I've done this before and my longest streak was 2 years (?). Give or take a month or two. It ended when I was coaching track. All coaches get meal tickets at the meets and dreamy items like non-diet sodas that have been in huge ice baths for hours are there to tempt. And one day when the girls were making me a little nutso because they probably did something like not practice hand-offs before a relay AGAIN or barely warmed up for their race AGAIN or forgot all/part of their uniform AGAIN, I needed a Coke. A real one. Not that diet nastiness. I caved and it was sooooo gooood. I fell of the wagon in a state of bliss.

But now I have all these kids and I should, I really should practice what I preach about being healthy. So when I realized I was up to 3 cups of coffee and 2 sodas/day (ahhh...no wonder Annie doesn't nap well!), I figured the soda - which truly is horrible for you - needed to go. I'm two days into it and Oh My Land do I want to drive through somewhere and get a Coke.

The Second:

I signed up for a 1/2. If you run, you know that means a 1/2 marathon and this is another oh-my-word what was I thinking!??!? I don't have time (or the inclination) to clean my house, let alone put in some training. But a friend I care about sent out an email and asked if we'd help her celebrate a birthday with this race.

I debated. I hemmed. I hawed. And John said I should. So I am. And he is right.

He's right because I love my friend but I also love to run. I haven't trained for anything in years and, while speed work is no longer an option for me, it will be wonderful to make running a necessity instead of "well, what day/s can I run this week". When I'm out on a run, even though what the observer sees me doing is plodding at best, I feel free. I feel normal.

I feel crazypants.

An Every Day Thing

Like other young children, mine are interested/obsessed with body parts. THE body parts. To the point where we had to declare they are not to talk about other people's body parts. The conversations were starting to go:

Me: Hey guys! So-and-so is coming over to have dinner with us. Isn't that fun??

The Three: Is he a boy or a guwul? (They would already know the answer)

Me: He is a boy.

The Three: Does he have a p----?? (Again, they already know the answer)

Me: Yes, but we aren't going to talk about it with him. We don't do that.

The Three: Yes. We don't talk about other people's p------, but he does have a hiney! (Big Smiles)

Me: Yes, everyone has a hiney. But we don't talk to people about their hineys.

And on, and on.


So I've been trying to teach them for a few months that there are words we don't shout out, especially in public. But then baseball season arrived and their school had a fun Opening Day celebration where the kids dressed up in our team's colors and I'm not sure what all they did, but BOY! were they excited. We were talking about it all after school and I asked them if they sang "Take Me Out To The Ball Game". They said no (I'm sure they did). Horrified, I immediately felt called to stop the world from spinning and teach them something practical. Everything was going swimmingly until I reached the "buy me some peanuts and cracker jack" part and Lizzy flipped out. "Mommy! We don't say p----!". I had no idea what she was talking about. So I started singing it again. Same line, same reaction by Lizzy AND Johnny this time. They were freaking on me. What the...no_waaaay. "Guys! It's not p----! It's PEANUTS! PEANUTS!! Buy me some PEANUTS!!!!!" Even Ainsley was trying to help me out.

After a few more tries I gave up because even though Lizzy still knew in her sweet little heart I was saying something else and shouldn't, Johnny and Gracie had figured out I really was singing about peanuts and the conversation became obsessed with the fact he is allergic to peanuts and he would have to go to the hospital if he ate one.

And so it goes.

I Never Thought...

...I'd be worried if 7 gallons of milk would get our family through 4-ish days of being holed up in the house. Supposedly we're in for a significant storm, which means no popping over to the grocery store for anything. Heck, they (I'm unsure as to who "they" are) have announced the storm to be so severe that people and friends are hauling out the generators.

We don't have a generator.

We do, however, have 7 gallons of milk.

Well, This Is Embarrassing

So for the last few days I've been meaning to tell John something was wrong with the steering in the super-hot minivan. Every time I turned the wheel I would hear some sort of rasping sound and I was bummed every time because I was not looking forward to the logistics of how to handle life without the ability to cart all the kids around for the several hours/days it would take to have the thing fixed.

I diagnosed the problem on my way to pick up the littlest ones from preschool and was mortified. The sound? My steering wheel scraping against my ginormous belly every time I made a turn.

Four more weeks. I can do this.

Late

I hate to be late. This may be shocking for those of you in my world because I am usually tardy for nearly everything, but my blood pressure starts racing for the roof every minute past an expected arrival.

But you see this?




It is a classic example of why I rarely make it somewhere on time. I know, I shouldn't have left my lipstick in an obvious place in the car. And part of me was impressed she kept it only to the lip area. But still. This sort of thing happens every_single_day in my house and always just as we're getting ready to leave.

So, apologies to everyone who has to deal with me and my family and our inability to be anywhere on time. I'm sure you understand.

Sigh...

See this little bundle of sweetness?


There's a rock in her nose.

Well, there was a rock in her nose at some point. A few at several different times, to be honest. But one got stuck. And by the time we got her home from the playground and I got the tweezers out to extract it, the dang thing had disappeared. So it's either still there and journeyed further up and out of flashlight range, or it has managed to...oh, I don't know. Let's just assume she sneezed it out.

Good grief.

All Aboard The Crazy Train!

Meet the 5th Laird. If all goes well, the newest and wee-est one will arrive sometime mid-December and we are thrilled.




More info to come when I have some energy.

Choo Choo!

Oh, How We Love The Zoo

It was just warm enough a couple weeks ago to make a last-second decision to ditch any plans and field trip the morning. Fooz was available to herd the bairn, which is critical. Critical because none of them would be caught dead riding in a stroller or the wagon these days if they can help it - except Lizzy. But then it's only for a couple minutes to gnosh and then she wants to walk. I'd be thankful for this (because I'm tired of kid-related accessories) if I could guarantee no one would want to be held by the end of the tour. So we have gear.

The turkeys did end up walking most of the way and danced at the monkeys (it is SOOOO exciting to see MONKEYS!!!), shrieked with joy at the cheetahs, and actually were quietly awestruck at the elephants.

There was one thing that struck me: I hadn't been out in a random public place for awhile, and I'm always reminded of something when we are. We are loud. Shockingly and probably annoyingly-to-some kind of loud. The kids squealed and screeched and yelled each others' names and mine and the names of the animals so everyone in Creation could hear them. I'm busy doing head-counts every 5 seconds and then calling if I only get "three". Or two. But heads turn, and it isn't because of our freak show - it's because one or all of my kids have startled them by their voice. There were all these nice families at our zoo for their Spring Break (I know this because I am horribly nosy and listen in on every one's conversations), and they were being sweet and having fun and then my four would parade through with our happy-yelling. It's as if we have no couth.

Good grief.



I tried to take some pics, really. This is the only one with all four kidlets. We were at the penguins and there was a little cave they would have played in all day. They liked it much more than the stinky penguins.

Thank you, Fooz!

Honestly, People.

Tonight, for the fourth time in as many months, I was asked a version of the question "When are you due?". This would be barely tolerable IF I WAS PREGNANT, but I'm not.

Listen. I don't care who asks the next time, or says (as in the case tonight) "Oh, so I see we're adding another one to your brood!". I will not laugh it off, or help make you feel better, or lightly toss out some silly remark that will make you laugh.

I will not be sweet. I will not help you out of the mess your mouth created. I will try to refrain from punting you as far as I can, but that is not a promise.

This is getting ridiculous.

A Rut

I'm in one. The weather here has been lousy. There's been loads of junk going on. The kids are so, so fabulous and so, so not fabulous for weeks.

I love this town and most everyone in it, but I could leave here in January and February and not miss an angstrom of this place. Okay, the people. I would miss most of the people.

But then it started snowing today. You know, the big bunches of flakes. The ones that, if you try to catch them with your tongue, would cover your face from nose-to-chin. My very favorite.

And I was reading books to Gracie and Johnny and they weren't fighting over my lap. And Ainsley and Lizzy were playing nicely in my room (destroying it, but they were having fun jumping on the bed). And there were giggles and wrestling and swinging and dancing and it was perfectly lovely because I never dreamed I would be allowed a family like this.

So I peeked out of my rut for 30 minutes today and it wasn't so bad. I ducked back in, but maybe tomorrow I'll give another looksie.