Scrolling Saturday: Little Helpers

Originally posted in November 2006......

Am I the only mom in the world who groans inwardly when she hears the words, "Mom, can I help?" We spent the last 3 days replacing windows, painting walls and laying new carpet. Actually, Dave did most of the work and I ran around fixing what the "helpers" had so lovingly screwed up.

I actually like home improvement. Dave calls me Bob (as in Villa) when we are doing projects. When we only had one baby, we would put him to bed and work on whatever for hours. Now, we're too exhausted after they go to bed, so we do most of our work during the day. The problem is, they are awake.

Now don't get me wrong, I want to encourage our kids to be hard workers. I love that they are so enthusiastic about helping. And I never let them see my frustrations (well, perhaps not never). But, really, have you ever tried to paint with a 5 yr old, 3 yr old and 21 month old?

Yesterday, we were repainting Asker's room. The carpet was being replaced anyway, so I said "Sure, you guys can help." Little did I realize, this help would amount to quarter sized paint spots on the baby's head, Toots making paint footprints on the old carpet, Asker practicing his karate moves with the paint brush on the wall (resulting in major drips), and a return trip to Lowe's to buy another pint of paint to replace the pint on elbows, fingers, toes and bellies. OK, we really didn't have to buy more paint, but you get my point.

I know some of you are thinking, why is she buying new stuff if Dr. Destructo and the Break-It Gang are around? Glad you asked. We are creating the allusion of a well-maintained house in order to sell it and buy a new one, whereby we can fill the new house with new stuff for Dr. Destructo to destroy.

Now Asker is actually the right age to help with home improvement. He can get tools for daddy and is learning a lot in the process. He usually lasts for 30 minute spurts, but he's helpful when he's attentive. Toots, God bless her, is just not there yet.

Typical interaction:

Daddy: Toots, go upstairs and get Daddy's hammer for banging nails.

Toots: Is it yellow?

Daddy: No, Toots, it's black. It's on Mommy's dresser. Go get it and bring it to Daddy.

Toots: OK, daddy.

waiting, waiting

Toots: I'm coming daddy, I'm so bigger!

Daddy: Oh, thank you Toots. This is a nice bra. I'll be right back.

I do like the kids to help me in the kitchen. We practice counting while we are scooping ingredients. We talk about food groups and what is good for our body. The 2 eldest are actually pretty good at breaking eggs. Even little Clam can stir pretty well. But there are those days when I just don't want the help. Like when I'm trying to make a nice dinner and all 3 are hovering within 8 inches of me. One has dirty hands, one is picking her nose and the last is coughing all over. I just don't want the help at those times. That's what DVD players are for, right?

We are trying to incorporate chores into our children's lives. The way I figure it, I give to them for five or six years and if I train them right, I'll have some little slaves for the next ten!

I read an article by a woman who had 14 kids. She was writing about how she only cooked one meal a day, and never changed diapers, did laundry or dishes. She had the older kids do it all. That sounded great. Never do laundry or dishes? Only cook once a day? Of course, the article went on to state that the one meal a day she cooked was on the hot plate in her state asylum room.

I guess I'll just stick with my 3 and keep encouraging their servant's attitudes. Right now, though, I need to paint over Toot's "decorations" she so lovingly added to her new walls.


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Scrolling Saturday: I Forget

My Scrolling Saturday for today comes from December, 2006. For more blasts from the past, visit Scrolling Saturday's Mr. Linky.

Sam Levenson once said "Insanity is hereditary. You get it from your children." Although I admit I am definitely battier than I was five years ago; more than anything, I am more forgetful.

There was a time when I prided myself on my ability to remember anything. I never took notes in school, needed a scratch pad as a waitress or forgot a cute boy's name. Now, I have to take notes in church, need a scratch pad in the grocery store and forget two cute boy's names quite often. And I'm the one who named them.

Now even though I can clearly see the linkage between birthing children and losing braincells, I must admit I come by forgetfulness honestly. My mother, God bless her, is the most absent-minded woman on the face of the earth. (The exaggeration comes from my father). This is a woman who, when we were younger, would constantly be on a search for her glasses only to have one of us say, "Mom, they are on your nose." A few weeks ago, I found myself looking for Baby Clam only to look down and realize I was holding him.

My mom is a fabulous woman. Incredibly gracious and encouraging, very kind and generous, and completely dotty. She has an amazing vocabulary (loves to read dictionaries- no joke) and uses it in these enormously long streams of speech which jump from topic to topic and somehow gradually fade to a point where she will stop and ask "What was I talking about again?" and look puzzled for a few moments whilst trying to figure out how she started a sentence talking about her mother's immense vocabulary and ended it like this.

Apparently, she and I are now competing for the loopiest-woman-in-the-family award. I will tell you two of our best stories. You decide.

Hers:

When I was in college, she missed my birthday one year. It was not a big surprise. Obviously, remembering is not her forte. But when she called me a few days later, I gave her a mild guilt trip. She sounded puzzled and said, "Jenn, didn't you get my message?" I said, "What message Mom?" She replied, "I called and sang Happy Birthday to you on your answering machine." After checking with my significant-other-at-the-time to make sure he hadn't accidentally erased it, I asked her again if she was sure she called me. "Yes," she replied, "I remember because it was SOATT's voice on the machine." "Mom," said I, beginning to realize that this was a classic mom moment, "MY voice is on our machine." She had called some random stranger and left a Happy Birthday song on his machine.

Mine:

I hadn't seen a friend of mine, from my work days, in several years. I had two kids and she was about to have her first. She was having a baby shower, and I really wanted to go, even though she lives about three hours away, in a different state. I diligently wrote the date on my calendar, scheduled a sitter for the oldest and did some shopping. That Saturday, I loaded the truck with goodies and the baby, and set out on the long, long drive to see my friend. I got to her house and didn't see any other cars. I thought maybe I had the wrong house, so I tentatively went to the door and knocked. I heard a "Who is it?", and recognized her voice. I said, "It is I, Jenni!" (Because of course, my grammar, in retrospect, is perfect) When she opened the door in her pajama pants, I burst out laughing. I just started shaking my head until she confirmed, "Um, the shower's tomorrow." I had written down the correct date, but somehow missed it anyway.

I have had to make some adjustments during my marble reduction. I carry a datebook now. I make lists for everything . I ask the kids to help me remember things. That works to some degree. Asker, however, is starting to catch on. I will ask him what I needed to get at the grocery store. He will reply, "Bread, eggs and M&Ms. Oh, and ice cream and popsicles, too, Mom." I use the camera on my phone to take pics of people and label them with their names. That is really handy. Now when one of my nephews asks me a question, I can just whip out the phone, scroll through and answer him by name.

Actually, speaking of that, I do have a funny name-forgetting story. We have a very fertile family. On my side, my three siblings and I have 13 8/9 children between us. One Christmas Eve, we were all gathered around the tree opening gifts. We are the sadistic kind of family that makes the children open gifts one at a time. My mom was handing out the gifts, when she called one of my nephews, Micah. My sister's husband from across the room said, "Micah? We have a Micah in the family?" He was dead serious. Thankfully, he wasn't Micah's dad.

Anyway, I have come to accept that I will probably continue on this steady decline. As we have more children, I may start getting their name's tattooed on their butts like Cabbage Patch Kids. Of course, they may not like dropping their drawers when they are fourteen so that I can remember to whom I am speaking. I actually bought some Gingko Biloba a few weeks ago and am going to start taking it. Um......as soon as I can find it.

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Scrolling Saturdays: Everyone Says He Is Just Like His Daddy (Read: Not Like Me)

This was originally published in February of 2007. For more Scrolling Saturdays, go here.

There are times I post stories that need no introduction. They stand alone in their reflections of children's innocence and humor.

And then there are the stories like today's. The kind that require a preface and double disclaimer.

Disclaimer 1: This is the reason I do not use our last name or my children's first names. Because I am horrified to claim this child as my own. Although I am sure each parent reading has an equally disgusting story.

Disclaimer 2: There is a distinct possibility that this child may not be mine at all. He was the only one not born at home, and we all know how sneaky those hospital staff are. Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure he was switched at birth.



When we returned from an exhausting day of sledding last night, I was sure the kids would throw themselves into bed and peacefully sleep away the night. Didn't happen. Overly tired and limbs aching from being dragged up the hill by their pregnant mommy, they were all wailing. I yanked off clothes, pulled on jammies and did some really quick teeth brushing. At some point I climbed into bed with baby Clam and that's when I became convinced I am rearing someone else's child.

The boys have bunk beds, so I was lying directly under Asker. After a few minutes, he must have forgotten that I was below him. All was quiet, when I heard him whispering.

"Dear Jesus, please help me not to die. I don't want to die. Please help me not to die from the poop germs."

Of course, being the ever-loving mom that I am, my first reaction was to start laughing. But I did so silently, being even more concerned with eavesdropping. I sneaked out of Clam's bed and peeked over the rail for a closer look and listen.

"Jesus, protect me from those poop germs. Help me not to die."

At this point, sympathetic sweet mom kicked in and I made my presence known (plus I knew a really good blog post was happening and I needed details).

"What's wrong, buddy? Why are you praying?"

"I can't tell you, mom. I'm going to get in trouble."

"It's OK, Asker, you can tell me. I want to make sure you're OK. I'm not going to discipline you."

"I'm not OK. I'm going to die!"

At this, my heart started breaking because he obviously believed his demise was imminent. So I climbed the ladder and snuggled up to him.

"Tell me what happened, honey"

"Well, I.....I....I was going to eat my boogie. I mean, I did eat my boogie, and my finger smelled like poop and now I'm going to die from the collie."

OK, can we just stop right there. There are so many disgusting, embarrassing, I-cannot-believe-my-child-just-said-that moments in that confession that I am still reeling. But, in that enigma of life, it is in weakness and vulnerability that we are most prone to tenderness. So, even though I was visibly trying not to laugh, I was overwhelmed with love for this stinky little boy.

"You mean, e-coli?"

"Yes, the poop germs."

"No, honey you're not going to die. Um, why does your finger smell like poop?"

You would have asked, too.

"Well, I was trying to wipe when I had all my snow clothes on, and I couldn't get it all."

"So, you didn't wash your hands and had a little poop smell on your finger from during the day? Well, don't worry, the e-coli are probably all dead from being out in the cold."

Completely pulled out of my butt, that explanation was.

"No, mom, I didn't get it all before, and my hiney was itching, so I just tried to wipe it on my blanket."

"ON YOUR BLANKET? Why didn't you go to the bathroom?"

"I was too tired... I'm going to die!!"

I spent the next few minutes comforting him with various explanations as to why he wasn't going to die. Finally, we prayed together that God would destroy the poop germs (Asker adding "with lasers") and he was able to go to sleep.

I looked at him with the absolute, pure love that comes when they are sleeping and realized what a special thing it is to have a child that is willing to share his most embarrassing moments with his mom. I don't think I would have told my mom had I done the same thing, even at that young age. I'm sure in a few years, his social skills will have developed and he will not even consider cluing me in. I looked at him for another moment, said a quick prayer of thanks, and rushed downstairs to tell Dave so we could laugh hysterically.

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Scrolling Saturday- Modest New Mom, Oxymoron?

This week, my Scrolling Saturday is from November 2006.

Childbirth changes us. Now, I know, you're thinking- whoa, big insight there. But childbirth changes us in one way we don't usually anticipate. We know our bodies will change. We know our motherly instincts will kick in. We know our capacity to love (and fear) will increase. But most pregnant women don't think to themselves, "hmm.. in just 9 short months my every modicum of modesty will be gone." But it's true, childbirth changes our modesty.
I've known women who, pre-childbirth, were incredibly modest. They would blush whenever "Aunt Flo" was the topic of conversation, they would never, ever discuss sex with their girlfriends. They probably did the turn-off-the-lights, mad-dash, flying-leap-into-bed before even starting the baby-making process. A few hours of labor and childbirth, however, and they're ready to talk.

"Well, my mucus plug broke on Tuesday morning, and I had some bloody show the following 2 days......"

Whoa, Mike - too much information! Now the woman who wouldn't change her shirt in front of her best friend, is breastfeeding in front of said best friend's husband.

Now, I'll admit, I'm the worst at sharing war stories. But, I was never modest to begin with, so I don't think my friends are much surprised when I whip out my boob to feed the baby in public. But when you have a chick who calls farts "rosebuds," it just seems a little weird to be discussing how she had a bowel movement while pushing.

And the vocabulary that comes along with pregnancy is something else. It's like this secret club complete with passwords. The first level is sweet and innocent; just enough to make you think, "aawww, I want a baby." Words like, "nursing", and "womb."

The next level is for paying members only, "amniocentisis", "placenta", "postpartum."

And then there are the words that make you sound like a gourmand. "Yes, I'll have the leukorrhea with colostrum sauce, no lanugo, and a glass of Perineal please." And once you're in the club, you're a lifetime member. Start talking about childbirth with any group of women, and every one has a story to tell, even if it's 45 years old and much embellished.

The relaxed modesty immediately following childbirth doesn't always stick. I know many women who've gone back to their discreet ways. In later years, our childbirth stories will leave out the mucus plug, vaginal tears, and inflamed milk duct details. But for that short window, we all share the same bawdiness....and the secret handshake!

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Scrolling Saturdays: Family Bed

It's time for another Golden Oldie! My Scrolling Saturday for today is the Family Bed. This was originally published in November 2006.

Scrolling Saturdays are brought to you by the great folks at Such Simple Pleasures and Manners and Moxie.

We ordered a new bed last week. We bought a king-sized memory foam bed. The sales lady and her brochures touted the magic of visco-elastic foam. "It's designed by NASA and recommended by 1 out of 4 chiropractors." But Dave wasn't interested in any of that. He remembered the commercial where the glass of wine was on one side, and the lady was jumping on the other side without the wine spilling(b/c we all know we have to be able to do that in bed). He wanted to know one thing. Would he really be able to sleep through the kids climbing in and out of our bed all night.

We didn't really set out to be a family bed family. I wasn't even familiar with the term until 2 years ago. I always nursed the babies in bed, but assumed as toddlers they would sleep in their own beds. Now, I must say, we do start them in their own beds every night. But somehow, about 4 nights a week, we end up with 1, 2 or even all 3 in bed with us. Neither of us really mind. It's kind of nice waking up to snuggly little warm bodies. But, it's been a tight squeeze the last few months, thus the upgrade to king sized.

It started with Toots, when she was little. She was never a good sleeper. She nursed until 17 1/2 months, at which time I was 8 months pregnant with Clam. I was too exhausted with pregnancy and the other 2 to really help her transition into her own bed full time. So, after I weaned her, I just let her come into bed with us whenever she cried. Since the new baby was a great sleeper, I thought I would just give her a few months and then set my foot down. After a few months, and Toots showing no signs of wanting to sleep on her own, Dave said it was time. This was mainly due to the fact that she would wake up screaming 3-4 times a night, kick and hit him, and basically demand that he leave "her bed." For some reason, she just didn't like to wake up next to daddy.

Now, I'm a pretty strong willed chick, and I can really dig my heels in when I want to. But Toots, she is made of steel. She was only just 2 at the time, and she absolutely went ballistic when we told her she had to stay in her own bed all night. She was in a full-blown headbanging stage and would bang her head over and over on her door. This was usually 2 am or so, and Dave had to get up around 5:30 at the time. So, for the first few days, I would lie down with her in her bed. But because I was still getting up nursing the baby 3 times or so a night, I was none to happy with this arrangement. And sleeping in a toddler bed? Not exactly comfortable. After several weeks of making no progress at all with Toots, and realizing that I just didn't have her willpower after all , we decided to let her keep sleeping with us, as long as she started in her own bed. This worked well for quite a few months.

Then, out of the blue, Asker started coming into bed with us too! He was 3 1/2 at the time, and had been sleeping on his own for years. It was so weird, but we rolled over and made room. Every few weeks we would tell the kids it was time for them to start sleeping alone. It would work for awhile, then Dave would go out of town, and they would be back with me.

Now, with the traumatic paci removal of last week, baby makes number 5 in our bed. I always seem to be the one with the least amount of space. I'm usually trying to contort my body on the very edge of the bed, so the little ones don't fall off. One night, I fell out after I was pushed by someone's little feet. The last few nights, I've been lining up the kids next to daddy, and sleeping on the other side of the bed. That works fine until I get a 5 yr old's foot in my crotch. Not fun.

There are people who plan on having a family bed. They don't even start the kids in their own beds. Mommy, Daddy and kids all go to bed together and don't miss any precious bonding time. Personally, I am at a loss to see how they manage more than one child, but I'm guessing the couch has something to do with it.

So, now we're waiting on the delivery of our new gigantic bed. Of course, there won't be room for us to walk in our bedroom, but Dave says jumping over the bed to get to the closet will be good exercise. And there will be plenty of room for all of us to get comfortable. I'm just hoping the kids didn't see the promotional video and start balancing sippy cups on it.

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Scrolling Saturday: Mouth Plugs

Melissa and Coleen have an awesome idea to allow us to laze away our Saturdays while still posting. It's called Scrolling Saturdays and you re-post something from back in the day when you only had 2 readers. I originally posted this in November of 2006. Have a nice weekend.

Paci, binky, dummy, noo-noo, plug....whatever you call it, they suck!



When I was pregnant with my first son, I always said I would never use a paci. I worked for a pediatric dentist and just knew the need for orthodontia would be greatly increased by extended paci use. No siree, I was going to provide for my child's every need. What little boy wouldn't be content suckling on his mother's breast instead of a plastic replica? Well, after nursing for 20 out of the first 24 hours, he was plugged before we even left the hospital. Now, I must say, he was not really a paci baby (a distinction I have only come to realize after having a true "paci baby"). We dutifully took away the paci at 12 months, and he seemed not to notice. What a nice little mother's helper it was.

Number 2 was (and is) a finger sucker. She sucks those things like she is convinced they'll give milk if she keeps trying. I was so tickled when she was a baby, and I realized I wouldn't have to use the paci. Of course, at 3 1/2 and no intention of stopping the finger sucking, we've started a new money market account to cover her dental bills.

Then along came baby 3. He is the angel. He's quiet and passive and sweet. He was so quiet that when he was a newborn, if I turned up the radio, I couldn't even hear him wailing in the backseat of the car. They stop eventually, right? He, however, was the quintessential paci baby. He actually seemed to prefer the paci to me...hmmm. And not just any paci; he wanted the big green Soothie. I've been told they're the kind that the hospitals give to newborns now (the last 2 were birthed at home), but man are they ugly. These suckers (ha) are half the size of a newborns face, with a hole in the middle that makes their tiny little mouth form into an unatural O. He would look like he was trying to scream "get this thing OOOut", but of course when I did, he would just scream more.

Now I never intended to be the kind of mom who lets their 2 year old walk around with a paci; having to take it out to be understood. I always hated that in other kids. In my Sunday school class (nursery to 3s), I would be the teacher who always told the kids "you don't need that paci, let's put it away," convincing myself that I was really making a difference in the child's psyche (and future dental bills). Of course, I'm sure they popped it back in as soon as class was over. But with my youngest, now 21 months, I just couldn't take it away at 1 year. He loved his paci. He hoarded them. I would always try to keep a few extra on hand, and some days I would find him holding 3 or 4, switching them from mouth to hand as if to make sure each paci felt the love. Plus, he went from 2 teeth at his first birthday to 16 teeth by 15 months. Those were some miserable months, and the paci was a saviour. But last week, after realizing that our lives had been relegated to a never-ending search for the paci, we decided to get rid of them.

I rounded up as many of the suckers as I could find and had C help me put them in the trash. Right away, he started crying and trying to take them back out. Now, I must admit, I had them in a little plastic bag, and I did take them out after he went upstairs. Matter-of-fact, they are sitting on top of the fridge tempting me as I write. The first night was hell. He woke up every hour and I had no boob or paci to comfort him. The last few nights were better. I live in fear, however, of him finding the elusive paci hiding under the couch.

It's amazing, though, the changes in the last 4 days. He has learned about 10 new words (and thsi from a child who didn't even say "mom" until 20 months). Coincidence? He's also been watching big sis and has tried sucking his fingers a few times. He doesn't seem to have taken to it, however. It may be his fingers taste bad. Of course, it may be my coming at him full force with a cry of "NOOOO, WE CAN'T AFFORD MORE BRACES!!!!" that discourages him.

Regardless, we are now a paci free family. If we have more, will I plug him/her? Who can tell, but I'll never again look down upon the mom who pops the paci back into her baby's mouth after sucking it clean herself.

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