Fighting the good fight

Little Dog does not like school.  Preschool at least.  I'm not really sure why, but he hates it.  Sometimes it is better than others, the drop offs are quick and happy.  Other times I am not so lucky.  He stalls.  He clings.  He cries.  And when I get to the car, I cry too.  No mother wants to leave her child someplace he clearly doesn't want to be.  He went through some of this last year and we managed to turn it around with the help of a child psychologist and his supportive and loving teachers.  Things were going better.  Over the summer they moved him to a new class with kids closer to his own age and despite a few challenges, he seemed to like it a lot better.  Unfortunately that has faded.

In September the older kids in the summer class moved on to the next room and Little Dog stayed.  They decide classroom assignments by birth month.  He missed the cutoff by two months.  When the bigger kids left he was joined by many of the kids from his previous classroom.  Then the problems started.  For a while things got better, or at least they did according to the teacher that Little Dog really liked.  His other teacher seems to have a more selective memory.  Unfortunately the teacher he liked so well has moved to another classroom and the unhappiness has returned.  Much like his mother, he does not like change all that much.  We've been working with his teachers trying to find that magic formula that makes him happy to be at school, or at least less resistant to the drop off, but it hasn't developed.  I think there is a different chemistry in the classroom.  And as we've worked with his teachers, I realize that I do not see eye to eye with his lead teacher.  I think he has some odd ideas about what makes kids go.  I think he believes kids should more or less all follow the same path and fit in the same molds. I get the feeling that kids who fall outside of those mold are considered problems.  Little Dog falls outside of those molds.  Little Dog takes things too much to heart and before he has fully adapted to the first teacher leaving, his other favorite teacher has moved on to a new job.  We've called in the psychologist again, and he's giving us some new techniques, helping propose methods to get the lead teacher good behaviors instead of just focusing in on every little problem.

As we get to the end of the school year, as we prepare for him to spend his summer in fun summer camps to get ready for the big move to kindergarten I'm wondering if I didn't make a huge mistake not moving him to a new school instead of trying to make this one work.  As a mom I am a master of self doubt and second guessing.  At least the psychologist assures me that he'll forget all about preschool once he moves on.  I try to remember that when he fights his drop off.  I also try to remember that by the time I pick him up in the evening he is back to being a happy kid.

When things got really bad a while back, we tried having Mr. Dog do the drop off in the morning.  For whatever reason the drop off went more smoothly.  It ended up setting the tone for his whole day.  Fewer frustrations, less drama, overall happier days. We did it for a while then I resumed drop offs with a much better result.  They started going downhill when his first teacher left.  And then after spending spring break with his grandparents living the good life, going back to school was even harder.   I had one drop off that brought me to tears and then called in reinforcements.  Mr. Dog was back on drop off duty.  Little Dog didn't like the idea at first, but we explained that his hard morning drop offs make his days harder and that he seemed to have better days when papa took him to school.  It worked like magic.  Even Little Dog notices the difference.  "I only have a good day when papa drops me off," he confided in me last night at bedtime.  So we're trying this for a while.  Maybe it will last long enough to get us through to summer.  Maybe it will help him just enough to get out of the rut of bad days.  All I know is that I'm holding my breath and counting the days.

The big clean up

I'd let it go too long.  The water was significantly lower than it should be and the algae had coated the inside of the tank.  Problem was it was a big job and I just couldn't bring myself to find the time to do it.
Finally, when I was overwhelmed by guilt, I did.  I took the goldfish out of the tank and set to work.
I used the gravel vacuum.  I scrubbed the glass.  I washed the tank ornaments and even replaced the plants.  I also took care not to completely change the water.  I tried to leave enough to keep the tank in balance, but as I took the water out, the crap in the gravel got stirred up and there was much more of it than I'd expected.  I guess that's what happens when you have goldfish, the poopingest fish in the universe, and little boys who sometimes overfeed them when you aren't looking.  And when you put off cleaning the tank far too long.  Far. Too. Long.
After the clean up, I let the filter work for a bit and made sure the water cleared before I put Goldy and Spotty back in the tank.  And they seemed happy for a bit.  For about two days really.  Then they didn't seem so happy.  Unfortunately I'd caused too much disturbance in their tank and even after I removed them to a "hospital tank" they were unable to recover.  Both of them died.
I hid the bodies since they died at night, had to decide what to tell the boys.  If anything.  I considered the great stealth fish swap, but honestly, the idea of it was too much for me.  The tears and emotion involved in losing a pet, even as minor as a goldfish, are hard for me to take and Little Dog seemed to be very attached to his Spotty.  And I thought maybe it was time to move to a more sustainable type of fish.  Something that isn't off the charts in poop production.  Something that doesn't need a bigger tank in the near future.  I spent the next day trying to decide what to do, and feeling pretty guilty about killing the fish, even if I was trying to do a good thing. 
I did a little research and decided that the best thing to do was tell the truth.  Then we'd replace the fish with something else.  Guppies and aquatic frogs.  Smaller. Cleaner.  Easier to care for.  I also decided I'd upgrade some of the tank equipment to make the maintenance a bit easier since in my research I discovered that I'd probably been getting less out of my filter than I'd expected.
I set up the tank and made sure the water was properly established.  We got the tiny aquatic frogs and the guppies- which are surprisingly beautiful and active.  So far so good.  Though I am obsessively checking the water quality, which is probably good for them but is definitely turning into a compulsive behavior for me.  And if they weren't so hard to photograph, I'd post a photo.  But they are, so I'm going to leave this up to your imagination.

Update:  Manged to snap a picture of at least one of the guppies and another of one of the frogs. 
 

Giuseppi the guppy

Dwarf frog- hard to know which one.

Now with less yelling

This has been a stressful week.  And let's be honest, I'm not handling the stress well at all.  In fact, my stress has turned me into one of those moms who seems unable to communicate with her children at a normal volume.  If my requests are not met, I start yelling.  And I hate yelling.  Problem is, right now it feels really good.  I am beginning to understand that screaming therapy, letting the anger and frustration pour out of you in a burst of angry and very very loud words can be fantastic.  Unless you're yelling at your kids.  Then it really really sucks.  And that's been me the past couple of days.
I hate it.  I feel out of control.  I feel like the kind of mom I don't want to be.  I feel like a failure.
I decided yesterday that instead of feeling the frustration washing over me and carrying me away on a tide of stress and anxiety, I need to take charge.  I've put a no yelling policy in place.  I'm not giving in to that kind of mommy tantrum.  Instead, I'm using the extra creepy, ultra calm voice when I get stressed.  You know the one.  It is the one that sounds all soothing and rational, but there's something off about it.  It's a little too calm, too controlled and then you look in my eyes and you see the crazy welling up back there.  So far it's been very effective.  In fact, it freaks the kids out in a way all of the yelling has never achieved.  And I feel more in control.  I feel like a better parent.  I feel like I'm channeling the emotion instead of just giving in.  I'm one day in, and I think it might work.  If I can make it through this week, I might be able to use this voice when I feel like yelling long term. That would rock.  But I could probably use some more ideas.
What's your strategy for keeping your cool when you're otherwise losing your mind?

The choice to vaccinate

Today was not supposed to be that stressful. I decided to work from home so I could more easily sort out my passport application and then later take the boys to their annual pediatrician appointment. The first part of that went smoothly. The rest? Well, I'll just say it shortened my lifespan. By ten years. And that's a conservative estimate.

I managed to muddle through my day, attend my meetings and even get Big Dog and Little Dog to the doctors office on time. This is no mean feat when you have to pick up children in two opposing directions from our house and bring them to a third location about equidistant between the other two pick up points. But I did it. And while I probably should get some kind of "Awesome Time Management and Trip Scheduling" award for it, I know I won't. It's just part of that whole "mom as unsung hero" thing we deal with every day. Even the bulk of the check up went well. The boys listened and followed instructions well. Ok, apart from the eye exam that Little Dog more or less told the nurse was taking too long and refused to participate any longer. I'm not sure how accurate the final assessment was given his attitude about the whole thing, but they didn't refer us to an optometrist, so I think I'll just call it good enough. When we got to the room and the doctor, a resident who was working in the practice that day, came in without our regular doctor, the boys were completely charming and cooperative. I know, it sounds completely unreal, but it happened. I promise.
Then midway through the appointment, Big Dog reminds me that he doesn't like shots and didn't want any. I told him to ask the doctor if there were any vaccinations required today. So he asked, and the doctor told him that he'd need to check, but we began a discussion of why we do vaccinations. The doctor and I both explained that vaccinations help prevent diseases that are way worse than the little stab and that even though no one enjoys vaccinations, they are an essential part of staying healthy. And they bought it. Especially Big Dog who found out a few minutes later that there were no shots due, so he was off the hook until he was 9 or 10. Score! Little Dog was not so lucky. He needed three boosters, but the propaganda campaign paid off. He was willing to get the shots and just wanted to get them done.

We finished the check up, talked to our regular doctor and then the nurse came in. Right before she arrived, Little Dog recanted. He no longer wanted shots. He just wanted to go. I reminded him of the importance of vaccinations and he agreed again, but with much less vigor. So when the nurse came in he climbed into my lap, we rolled up his sleeve and he got a jab. And then the screaming started. He no longer wanted the other shots. He was mad. He was begging with me, "NO, mama, NO!" and I had to hold my baby still while the clumsy nurse stabbed him twice more. It was so bad that Big Dog started crying out of sympathy and as the nurse prepped the third shot he yelled at me, "Mama! Little Dog doesn't want any more. Can't you hear him say it?"

I felt like hell when it was all done, and Little Dog was pissed. He was crying and shouting and telling me he didn't love me anymore. He even hit me then threatened to hit me again "Hard-so you'll cry too!" He was mad. I hadn't listened to him and I even held him firmly in place while the wicked nurse gave him the shots. In his mind, I was the problem. Even knowing that the shots were for his health and well-being didn't help me from feeling like the worst mother in the history of shitty moms. So I did what I do best, I caved and resorted to bribes. We got to the car and between the tears and reprimands from the boys, we agreed to head to Target.

When we got there we headed directly for the toys. On the way, Little Dog passed a rack of swim trunks featuring super heroes and demanded we head back. I, being fully steeped in guilt, did as he asked. We decided against the swim trunks and opted for new Batman t-shirts. When we headed off to the toy aisles, Little Dog clung to the side of the cart, holding on with one hand, his feet on the lower bar, the other hand whacking at the clothing racks. Yes, I know this is unsafe. Trust me, I know. After asking him to stop, he looked at me, glared, then wound up to give the rack one more monumental whack! And when he did, he had wound up so much, his other hand lost its grip and he fell, right off the cart and bashed his head on the corner of a clothing shelf foot. It was immediately clear he was injured. I swooped in and checked his scalp for a cut, I kissed and soothed him and I thought we were clear and counted us very very lucky. This was apparently a bit premature, a few minutes later he complained that something was hurting his ear and when I looked, his perfect little ear was bloody, purple and bloated.

I told the boys we needed to get Little Dog to the doctor to have his ear looked at. The screaming was almost instantaneous. Little Dog began howling, LOUDLY, that he did not like the doctor and he did not want another shot. When I told them we'd get the presents later, all hell broke loose so I ended up just rushing through the nearest check out lane to quickly buy the toys and get back to the car. Naturally this had to happen at rush hour, so the trip across town that usually takes 15 minutes took more than 30, and as I drove, Little Dog began to nod off in the car. Now I know precious little about head injuries, but I do know that you are supposed to watch out for kids falling asleep after a blow to their head. I kept telling him to stay awake and he kept telling me "I was just tired!" or "I was just being quiet. I like to be quiet!"
Finally we arrived at the ER at Children's Hospital and got checked in, and in the way of all injured children, he immediately began acting perfectly well and not at all like the cranky, sleepy, seriously injured kid I had rushed across town.

3 hours, 5 doctors and at least one Disney movie on the in room TV later, we were headed home. Mr. Dog joined us and we had waited out the observation period together. In the end, yes, he's fine. His ear, while swollen and purple, did not need stitches and the bruise did not need to be drained. In fact, he is complaining more about his arms being sore from the shots than he is about his ear. But while he may be perfectly fine, requiring only a check in with his primary doctor in a week to ensure things are healing up ok, I am now completely emotionally drained. I believe I require extensive wine therapy to recover. In fact, I'm working on that right now.

On a side note, a huge shout out to Children's Hospital. If your kid is hurt, sick or needs care, this is the place to go. Not only do they have top notch doctors for your child, they are damn nice to a mom who feels frazzled and guilty and weepy watching her boy suffer an improbable injury.

Well that showed me

When I pick the boys up from school, they are starving. Apparently not eating your lunch then running around like a crazy person all afternoon works up quite an appetite. With two famished children in the car even the short drive home can feel like being trapped for an eternity with wild animals screaming and howling for food. So sometimes I keep snacks in the car. The other day it was a couple handfuls of cashews. I figured it would at least keep them from resorting to cannibalism until we got home. Unfortunately, Big Dog was hungrier than Little Dog. Well, maybe not hungrier, just less of a good sharer. The cashews were quickly eaten up, and Little Dog was shorted on his fair share. Boy did I ever hear about it.
"Mama! Big Dog ate all the nuts!" he howled.
"Well, we'll be home soon and you'll have something there," I tried to reason.
"But I want the cashews!"
"I don't know if I have any more cashews, but I have pistachios. They're yummy too!"
"No! The cashews! I want him to give me them. He should give them back!" this went on and on and after a while I was no longer rational.
"Ok, I guess I poke Big Dog in the tummy until he throws up, then you can eat the nuts," I offered sarcastically.
"Yes! Make him throw up. I want him to throw up."
"Ok, so I'll make him throw up and you'll have to eat his puke. Is that what you want?"
He stopped, was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice perfectly mimicking a scolding teacher tone, "Mama, don't be da-gusting."
I don't think my giggling helped either.

Santa is kind of an asshole

Not every Santa. Mostly this one. See, I'm sitting here, the weekend before Christmas and I've done next to none of my Christmas shopping. For anyone. Ok, last week I managed to get the photobooks done and they arrived today. And that's about it. Part of the problem is that I was so busy at work, I haven't had time to shop. The other part of the problem is that, well, I'm kind of an asshole. Not intentionally. But really, as soon as the kids got Christmas on their brains they started asking for everything. Everything. Any commercial, any toy they saw when we were shopping, anything at all. I want that! they'd say. And after a while I had to tune it all out for my own sanity. Turns out I'm really good at tuning this stuff out. I managed to tune it out completely. I'm sitting here trying to figure out what the hell they wanted. And they told me a million times. Probably more than a million times!
So I take the direct approach and ask them. "What did you want Santa to bring you this year?"
Big Dog starts listing things. "I want the car with the big wheels that goes over everything."
Not ringing a bell, "Which one? I don't remember that one."
And he hits me with it. "Santa knows. You told me that you told him."
See, as I tuned them out my standard response became, "I'll tell Santa." Yep, it came right back to bite me in the ass.
"Well, he forgot."
And then I got a long but still fairly vague description of the cars and toys Big Dog wants. Can't say I know what any of them are, but I'm hoping they'll ring a bell when I hit the stores tomorrow.
Little Dog was no help either. I asked him what he wanted and he gave me one item. And it was made up. Gee, thanks.

In good company

On Facebook today, one of my friends announced that she has officially been declared "The Meanest Mommy in the Whole Wide World."
I suggested we book a world tour because I am the reigning "Worst Mommy Ever." I imagined public appearances to sold out crowds of moms happy not to be us. We could stun them with our badass ways and give lectures to aspiring crappy moms.
Turns out we are in a league of mommies not to be messed with. In that very Facebook thread, I was introduced to "The Mommy Who is Ruining Christmas for Everyone," and "The Meanest Mommy in the Universe."
Amazing that four women with such powerful titles were all online today and all connected by my buddy Stephanie. It sounds like the honor of holding titles should bond us in some kind of sisterhood of shitty mothers that rule the world. I'm going to make team jackets or something.
Do you hold such a title? Yeah? What is it?

Questions from the back seat

Our daily commute has been pretty gracefully added to my already hectic routine. After a few rough starts, we're getting pretty good at making it out of the house on time, fed, clothed and ready to go. Well, maybe not ready to go, but going none the less. I have only once forgotten my laptop, not yet forgotten lunches and have managed to gracefully forget show and tell more than once, just not letting on until they were dropped off. Phew.

In this short daily drive to and fro the boys and I have some interesting talks. Just this week, Big Dog, out of the blue asked about Mao.

"Mama, what happened to our other dog?"

"What other dog," I asked, momentarily confused.

"Mao. Did he die?"

"Yes, he did," I answered, feeling his loss well up in me again.

"Should we leave stuff for him?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Did people bury him in the ground?" he asked again.

"No, sweetie. We didn't bury him. If we want to remember him, we just need to think about him. We just know he was with us."

He thought about this for a minute then asked, "Did he get shot?"

'Oh no, Big Dog. He died peacefully. He died at home while I held him. Nothing terrible like that." And we drove in silence the rest of the route to school.

On the way home they both started in on the other side of things.

"Did you make us?" asked Little Dog.

"Yep." I answered, not knowing where this was coming from.

"How?" asked Big Dog.

I thought is over. I've discussed the basics of this topic with Big Dog, who looked at me with a look of disbelief then shook his head and told me "You're kidding." I knew the two minutes remaining in our evening commute was not enough time to go over the subject in adequate detail described in simple terms for their young minds. Given the constraints, I thought over the options and did what every savvy mother before me has done. I went back to the basics.

"Ask your papa. He's a scientist." Yeah, I'm a total failure at this mother gig.

I'm sorry I called you an asshole

Today we lost a friend. Well, if a fish can be a friend. Goldy the fish decided that Independence Day was a nice day to die. Unlike the movie, she did not die fighting off alien life forms. She just made one last trip the the bottom of the tank. Mr. Dog found her. He gave me the knowing parent nod that means, "guess you're going to PetCo" and kept the boys occupied so I could make the fish run.

Unfortunately they caught me sneaking off to the car and asked what I was doing. I used the tried and true "I have an errand to run" excuse, but they weren't satisfied with that simple answer. They wanted details. In a moment of panic, I came up with a pathetic lie. "I have to get the dogs a surprise! It's an old tradition on 4th of July, dogs get surprises!" Lame, right? Sadly that's the best I could come up with. But the boys bought it and I was able to make the swap.

The new Goldy is about the right size and seems healthy and active. I'll give her a few days before I am completely convinced she'll survive. As they always say, the first days are the hardest. At some point I'm going to have to start leveling with Big Dog about fish mortality, but not right now. I'm on vacation. And with his current death obsession it would be more than I could handle. That's right, I'm being selfish, I'm not ready to cope, so I'm clamming up. If you have to take my Awesome Mommy gold star away, so be it. Wait, I never had one of those to start with. Probably due to shit like this. Whatever.

Five inventions mommies really really need

There are a lot of products out there directed at moms. Some of them are great and some of them are just flat out moronic. (Hooter hider? Seriously?) Why can't someone create things that we really need? Things that would help us get day to day stuff done while keeping our sanity in tact. I have a few suggestions for a pioneering individual who wants to create the next invention to save all moms.

1. The Cone of Silence: Essentially a clear but sound-proof dome that a mom can sit in when the boys are playing loud games or testing out their screeching voices. Sure it would have to have some kind of speaker so the mom within could communicate with her offspring, but we're the country that has put a man on the moon, we should be able to do this!

2. The Cone of Stop Touching Me: Similar to the cone of silence, but really more protection from being used as a climber, chair, poking victim, or pillow. The goal here is to provide a mom a minimum amount of personal space where she can just sit and not be, well, touched.

3. The Slick Suit #1: No, not for protecting you from #1, this suit would be a slick fabric that didn't look shiny. Something that snot, spit up, mashed bananas, mud and all other child carried contaminants would wipe off with a damp sponge. For me, this would help me get out of the house in the morning without needing multiple clothing changes. It should be stylish and flattering, and especially efficient at concealing the muffin top.

4. The Slick Suit #2: Again, nothing to do with that #2, this suit would be coated with a extra slick surface. The goal is to prevent children from clinging or climbing on a mom when she is just trying to relax, or get errands and simple chores done. Think banana peel, but more wearable.

5. The Tantrum Tamer: I'm not quite sure what this would be, but it might involve a child sized straight jacket, ear plugs and a couple of Valium. Obviously I'm still working through the kinks on this one.

Any other genius ideas?

My child as a stereotype

So I'm sitting next to Big Dog in the living room. I'm watching TV, he's being a bit too quiet. Finally he turns to me and says "My hair grew shorter!" And lo and behold it had. Or rather he'd cut giant chunks of hair out of his bangs and over his ears. Safe they may be, but safety scissors can still cut hair apparently.

Luckily I have recently become the family barber. I got my gear and gave him a very short haircut to try to blend the tiny bangs and missing chunks in. Sure it broke my heart a bit because I had been trying to grow his hair into a hip surfer/skater kind of shag, but what's done is done.

I guess when he starts telling me his hair is too long I need to act fast or he'll take matters into his own hands. I was just a little surprised to have this childhood rite of passage take place when I was no more than 12 inches from his side. I'm going to blame my lung rot for distracting me. Or at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Oh boy.

Something is going on. I'm not sure what, but something is up. Big Dog is having problems at school. He's not listening, he's pushing, he's generally being a bully. Have I mentioned that next to him turning into a completely anti-social outcast, this is my biggest fear? I don't want him to be a problem child. I don't want him to be the one the other kids are afraid of, and yet, here we are, hearing from his teachers that he was making other kids cry.

I'm not really sure what to do from here. I have talked to him again, and we'll see if it makes a difference. I've told him that I don't want him to lose his friends or be the kid the other boys won't play with. He seems to get it, but to be honest, we've had this talk before.

So here I am nearly in tears over the latest developments. Really he isn't the one I expected to have this problem. He's a really sweet and loving kid. His biggest problems usually arise when he hasn't had enough snuggles. Sure, he has a bit of the big brother "obey me" syndrome with his little brother, but that's pretty normal from what I hear.

Anyhow, I'm wiped out. I'm not sure what to do, how to get him to understand it isn't ok to make people cry. I'm exhausted and stressed and ultimately feel like I'm letting this kid down. I try really hard to be a great mom, but here we are dealing with the bully issue. I'm stumped, no idea what my next move is. I don't want to screw this kid up, because in all honesty, he kind of rocks. Well, at least when he's not pushing people around at school.

Feasting on bat.

I'm sure there is something seriously wrong with a parent who allows their child to believe they are eating bat.  Yes, bat.  And yes, I am that parent.  I didn't mean to mess with them.  Ok, I did, but I didn't think they'd believe me.  See we have this game, they ask what's for dinner and I come up with something they'd never eat.  Usually I say  "grass clippings and kitty litter."  Not that I serve them this, they ask and I make something up.  Then they say "Ugh. " and I say something else like "newspaper and toe nails" or "dog food."  Tonight it was bat.

So Big Dog immediately says the requisite "Ugh" and I ask what he wants for dinner.  "Mac and cheese," he says, requesting his favorite food.  But Little Dog, my child with the perverse sense of humor says "I want bat!"  

My real dinner plan was fish, and I told them this, but Little Dog kept insisting on bat, and before long Big Dog was demanding bat too.  It didn't help that Mr. Dog had to pipe in with Peace Corps stories about people eating fruit bats in Fiji.  Now Little Dog tells me, "I like Fiji."

I make my way to the kitchen and am in the middle of pan frying the tilapia when the boys show up.  "Where's the bat?" they ask.  And I hesitate for just a moment before I point to the two pieces of fish sizzling in the pan.  "Can I bite it?" asks Little Dog.  Then Big Dog is asking for a bite of bat, and they like it.  They start telling me about all kind of bats they've seen. Turns out while I was downstairs cooking, Mr. Dog was fueling their interest in bats and Fiji by showing them photos on the internet. (Of bats and Fiji, not those other photos you can find on the internet.  The boys are way too young for that.)

So we had our bat dinner.  I know it was probably wrong to let them believe it was bat, but they asked for it.  (Yeah, I do know I'm the adult here.  Sad, isn't it?)

And then there are days like today.

I love being a mom. Really I do. These two little men who rule my life have added so much depth and dimension to everything I do. Their discoveries as they grow and learn are constantly amazing me. My capacity for loving them astonishes me. They truly seem to shine with some kind of internal light I had never witnessed before becoming a mom.

And then there are days like today.

Let's just say that "today" started late last night. Big Dog suffering from the flu, had spent most of the day sleeping. When a reasonable bedtime rolled around, he was feeling better, bolstered by pedialite and tylenol and lo and behold he was no longer sleepy. Little Dog, worn out by his own precociousness, fell asleep at an unheard of 6:30 pm. Mr. Dog opted to put him in bed and he slept soundly. Soundly until 11:30 pm, at which point he was up and raring to go. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Dog was also suffering from the flu, so he was in bed. And though I was feeling some, um, digestive upset to put in gently, I was well enough to watch the boys. So I did. I watched them until 3 am when exhaustion won out and I exerted my maternal authority and forced them to bed. We struggled and argued, but finally managed to all fall asleep.

We slept until I was awaken by the sound of the nanny banging on the door. Seems that I slept past a normal waking hour and ended up running very late to work. Mr. Dog was still dragging from his night of vomiting so I made breakfast, washed dishes (remember my bastard dishwasher is still refusing to be modern or convenient) and rolled in to work very very late. Luckily the first day back after a two week shut down, this kind of thing goes largely unnoticed.

When I got home this evening, things seemed quiet. Mr. Dog was home, still feeling slightly sick, but watching football while the boys played on the SuperWhy website. I praised Little Dog on his potty training efforts of the day, which he disputed (Me: "Hey, I hear you went pee pee on the potty!" Him: "No I didn't" Me: "Really, NE says you did. That's great!" Him: "Nooo!") at which point he proceeds to pee on the floor. So within minutes of getting home I'm sopping urine off the playroom floor.

I cleaned up the mess, got him settled in clean underpants, reminded him that we pee in the potty then headed off to make dinner. I bring dinner to the family, Mr. Dog refuses because he's still queasy, the boys take the food but neither of them eat it. As I go to start my meal, the dogs get antsy. "They might want to go out," says Mr. Dog, with no explanation of why he hadn't let them out earlier, but since he's sick I decide to let it slide. So I head back downstairs to let the dogs out, wait a reasonable interval then call for them to come in. Dashiell comes right back, but Nikita, our stubborn little girl decides to hold out. Upstairs my dinner is getting cold as I call and call to no avail. I slip on some flip flops on the porch and go out to force her inside and step right into a big pile of steaming dog shit. In flip flops.

When I get back inside, I clean up, eat my dinner and try to read my book. Since there is a break in the football, Mr. Dog decides now is the time that I need to talk to him. Instead of initiating a conversation like a normal person, he starts making absurd statements to see if I'm listening. And I'm not, because I'm reading. So he keeps it up. Finally I look up thinking he is telling me something important. "What?" I ask. "I have a giant clown inside my head!" he says. WTF? "I was just testing to see if you were listening, but you were ignoring me." Um, yeah. I'm reading. And if football was on, and I tried to ask him anything he'd have been ignoring me too.

Anyhow, with Little Dog in underpants, it's time for him to go potty again. I suggest it. He jumps up and runs toward the bathroom, then decides to turn it into a chase. I'm not up for it. "Little Dog, I'm not going to chase you. You need to go sit on the potty," and he responds by jumping on the guest bed chanting "You gotta make me!" So instead of arguing, which never gets me anywhere, I decide I'll go do the dinner dishes and head to the kitchen. A few minutes later the boys come down with Mr. Dog. Little Dog had gone pee pee on the potty and wanted to tell me. Fantastic! "Want some raisins?" I ask as a method of positive reinforcement (yeah, he still thinks raisins are a treat) and he gets positively giddy. I give him a small bowl of raisins and one for Big Dog as well. Which Big Dog promptly spills all over the kitchen floor.

"It was an accident," he explains. I say that's fine and he seems to take that to mean "No, by all means leave the mess. Mommy just LOVES picking up after you," and goes back upstairs. Great. But then Little Dog decided to start picking them up. Cool! That's really helpful. Well it is until he starts putting them in the dog bowl, or eating them and spitting rejected raisins into the tupperware drawer.

At this point I make pudding. I need something chocolately to cope. Mr. Dog comes down to retrieve the errant child and I finish making our little dessert. When I get upstairs, both boys have eaten dinner, and are playing together so I sit down to enjoy my pudding solo. And in walks Big Dog, he has his Leapster and is swinging it around by the stylus. I ask him to stop because he is getting dangerously close to hitting Nikita with it. Does he stop? No. And in two more swings he whacks her right in the head. I scream. (Yeah, not cool, but I'm losing it.) He cries, I lecture, he apologises to the dog, I relent, we make up...all very emotional and exhausting. In the midst of this, Little Dog asks for pudding. I tell him if he pees in the potty, he can have some. He runs off and pees in the potty! Score. So he gets pudding and Big Dog and I celebrate our reconciliation with pudding too. And as I sit and enjoy my much needed chocolate rush, Little Dog say "Sorry! I spilled some on my pants." But he isn't wearing pants. When I look over his legs are smeared with chocolate pudding.

They are both in the bath now. And I'm blogging about this shit. It's almost funny when I read it. Almost.

Now with even more annoying ads!

Advertising works. I can tell you from my own experience, those people who create those "As Seen On TV" products may make insipid ads that annoy at great great distances, but they work. Well, they work if you're 5 and living in my house. What I'm trying to say is that Big Dog can be sold almost anything. Really. Do you know what he wants right now? Guess. Nope, not a toy. A Snuggie. Yep. Today he came to me all excited and says "Mommy, can I get a Snuggie?" "We don't need a Snuggie," I said, confused why he would even want one.
His face fell, you'd think I'd told him he couldn't have a new hot wheels track or a pet frog or Leggos or something that a 5 year old kid should want. So I bit.
"Why do you want a Snuggie?"
"Because regular blankets slip and slide," he immediately replies repeating a line from the commercial with all sincerity. And I burst into laughter. He gave up.

Later this evening, the ad came on again. (Yes, we are watching a lot of TV today. Go ahead, cross me off your ballot for mother of the year. Little Dog is sick and puking, we're camping out in the living room.) Big Dog got all excited. "See mommy, we can get two right now!" I held my ground. Then the bonus gift, two book lights, came on screen. "And the lights! Don't you want the lights?" Really. The kid wants an oversized backwards bathrobe and a booklight. I don't know what to make of that.

At least he's off the ShamWow kick. He saw that ad and asked me if I wanted a ShamWow for Christmas. I told him we'd already missed Christmas and now all I can do is hope to get one for my birthday. "I'm sure you'll get one mommy. I promise!" he says sincerely.
Freakin' great, the kid has not only mistaken me for someone who cleans, he has also also failed to read my signature sarcasm. Does this child know me at all?

Just like mommy. (Yes I'm raising a coffee addicted grouch)

Little Dog is not a morning person. If he wakes up before he is good and ready, we are treated to his "grouchiest child alive" persona for at least an hour. Unfortunately, on Friday morning, Little Dog was about to fall off his bed, and when Mr. Dog went to rescue him, he awoke. It wasn't pretty.

As always, he started off protesting that it was too bright. Like his mother, his little eyes are very sensitive to light, but unlike his mother, getting up in the morning involves the demands that all light sources be turned off. Frequently this involves demands that the sun itself be turned off. When we can't switch off the center of our solar system, the grouchy shouting starts. "Too bright! Turn the light off! It too bright!"

By the time Mr. Dog brought Little Dog upstairs to the living room, he was in full grump mode. As soon as he saw me on the couch, he had to be on my lap. When Big Dog tried to join in the snuggle, Little Dog attempted to exert his ownership of my whole being, not just the side he was snuggling "Nooooo! Big Dog can't have my mama! You can't sit there!"

His next move was to try to claim my property. He edged over to my coffee and began to eye my mug. "No, that's mama's coffee." I said, knowing that he will, if permitted, chug an entire cup of coffee while no one is looking. He turned to me with a stern look on his face. "No, that's my water."
"No, that's my coffee," I said and moved the mug out of his reach.
That was the wrong move, he started shouting, "Noooo! You took my coffee! Mama took my coffee! My coffee!"
"Little Dog, coffee isn't for little boys."
"Yes, that's for boys. Not for mama."
When I continued to withhold coffee, he got grouchier.
"I don't like you, mama." and this went on for some time.
Finally Mr. Dog stepped in. "Little Dog, if you don't like mama, maybe you need to go back downstairs for a little while. Do we need to go back downstairs?"
His brows furrowed as he mulled over his options. Eventually, in a softer voice filled with resignation, "Hmmm," he says, "maybe I do like mama."
Not entirely convincing, but good enough to crack up the grown ups.

Talking (and shopping) my way out of a Yule Pickle.

So I thought I was being all sly ordering gifts online since I couldn't (or wouldn't) drive to go Christmas shopping, but the Snowpocalypse taught me. Sure the gifts were ordered, but the same crappy weather that kept me housebound has similarly hog-tied the postal service and UPS. And while I'm at least a tiny bit understanding of the UPS hold up (somewhat, but not much) I have no sympathy for the United States Postal Service. Doesn't their creed specifically say "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." Ok, in googling that quote, I find that it is not their official creed, they don't' really have one. According to Wikipedia it is an inscription in the James Farley Post Office in New York so it probably only applies to that area, which makes me wonder why that area merits such dedicated mail carriers. Unfortunately the mail slackers in our area can't maintain those rigorous standards.

Anyhow, we got here last night, and none of the packages have arrived, I checked tracking information and none of them look likely to arrive today, which means the kids had exactly one gift each for Christmas opening. And that sucks. I'd scaled back this year, I shopped and picked a few very well thought out gifts for the kids, and now we were essentially giftless. Sure I may be a consumer driven holiday celebrant, but I like opening packages at Christmas. I'm strange that way. So I vented. After listening to me rail against the sissies at the US Postal Service and malign the UPS "Brown" crew, Mr. Dog volunteered to take me to Target to pick up a few things so the kids would have gifts to open. I'd intended to buy just a couple of replacements, but Mr. Dog was with me, and we were having fun, and he was awed by the array of toys and we ended up with a few more than planned. Anyhow, now we're set for Christmas, but I'm going to have to explain why Santa brought some gifts on time, and others were late as they dribble in at the whim of UPS and USPS. Here's the little story I've devised.

Kids,
Santa has run into a few labor issues this year. While the toys were mostly manufactured on time, there were some issues with his fulfillment and delivery systems. Unfortunately, Dasher bit one of the elves and it looks like there may be some kind of reindeer borne illness outbreak in the North Pole. The first string reindeer are quarantined until we know if the elf develops symptoms of this Reindeer Fever, but since it's so close to Christmas, we're likely to see some fallout.

Most noticeably Santa's going to have to bring gifts in shifts. Some will arrive via the traditional sleigh driven mode of distribution, while others, due to staffing shortages in qualified reindeer, will be delivered by elves. Keep in mind many of the elves are currently out on sick leave due to the previously mentioned epidemic, but don't worry, they have excellent health insurance and prescription coverage. They'll be fine. Meanwhile, this does mean a bit of a staffing shortage at a critical time.

Instead of hiring a full new staff of elves, Santa decided to contract out this work to the lowest bidder. So Santa temporarily hired these new elves, just for the busy season, but he did not properly assess their capabilities. Some of these elves made delivery promises they couldn't keep, some didn't have proper delivery equipment for all weather situations, and some of them were just plain bad. They promised gifts would arrive on time, but they were not able to hold up their end of that contract. Though the gifts are all still guaranteed to arrive, many of them will be delivered after Christmas.

At this point Santa has put his legal team on the matter, and they are looking into the contracts the elves signed to see if there is any legal recourse, but that is all still up in the air since he is still wholly focused on getting the gifts he committed to deliver out to the children on time.
At any rate, that's the big and the small of the issue. I just wanted to make sure you aware of the situation and explain why Christmas gifts will be rolling in over the next few days. In the process, I think we all can learn a valuable lesson about properly vetting contract workers and the importance of understanding your legal recourse in case of contract violations.

And by the time I reach the end of this little speech, I'm pretty sure they'll both have either dropped of to sleep, or wandered off to find more exciting things to do, but I'll have done my part as a mom to cover my bad- mother last-minute gift buying fiasco.

An apology to an old dear frend.

Dear coffee,
As I sit here enjoying my 5th cup of the morning I realized I left you off my thankful list. I'm so sorry. I hope you know that I could not exist without your subtle buzz. There is no finer, nor more delicious substitute for sleep that is both legal and delicious. I am sorry to have neglected to call out your significant contribution to my life an family.
I hope you will forgive this oversight, and continue to serve as my primary crutch. At least until the boys decided that sleeping is actually quite enjoyable.
Sincerely, your greatest devotee,
Laura

The Wisdom of Our Elders

I'm beginning to understand why the Victorians were so comfortable dosing their babies with laudanum to get some rest. I mean, I'd never do it, but I can understand the motivation. Don't be too quick to judge me. Really, I have two little boys who seem to only require sleep on an occasional basis, and seem to think that going to bed at night is about as fun as slipping into an acid bath. I need to be clear here. I am not looking for advice. I'm just using my blog as a space to complain. If you have helpful advice, feel free to...um, keep it to yourself.

So last night, Mr. Dog had to go back to the lab to finish up an experiment leaving me to put the boys to bed solo. Usually this isn't a big deal, but Little Dog decided to sleep in yesterday. He slept until 11am like some kind of high school student on summer vacation, then just didn't feel tired until far too late. (This will not be happening again. NE has been instructed to roust the little slacker out of bed every morning at a more sane hour.) Once I finally made the boys jammie up, and got them into their room, I thought I'd made the first moves toward slumber. Ha. Two hours of struggle later, I'd successfully ushered Big Dog off to sleepland, but Little Dog was still pulling out all of his best stalling tactics.

"Mama, I need milk!" "Mama, I need rocks" (they'd been playing rocks scissors paper, in case you were wondering.) "Mama, I need to go upstairs!"

I broke. I told him to get into his bed and go to bed. Since he obviously didn't need me, I was going to bed. Goodnight. And I walked out, leaving a very stunned 2.5 year old in my wake.

Mr. Dog came home about that time and managed to wrangle the little monster angel into bed. He finally got him to fall asleep sometime around midnight. Yeah, I did say midnight.

Maybe now you'll understand why I'm beginning to think the Victorians were onto something. Sigh.

Badge of Dishonor

Last night after searching the living room, guest room, play room and guest bathroom for the missing Tivo remote I collapsed into a comfortable chair to pout. Maybe I didn’t handle the loss of my most beloved tool well. I may have let loose with a bit of salty language. I may have had a bit of a woe is me tantrum while emptying the overfull trashcan in the playroom (why I did that while searching for the remote remains a mystery) And yes, I may have asked the children to pick up their toys. Fine, I may have made that last request in a slightly high pitched and whiney seriously-where-is-the-damn-remote-Project-Runway-is-just-waiting-to-be-
watched-and-I-can’t-really-be-expected-to-watch-commercials-can-I? voice. I mean sure, I was pushing the edge, but let you remind you the gravity of my situation…the Tivo remote was missing!

So when Big Dog comes over to stick a sticker on my chest, and says “That’s for being a bad mommy” I have to admit I was a little stunned.
“Bad mommy? What? I think I’m a pretty good mommy!”
He looked me over, went back to his sticker book and added a second sticker to my shirt.
“This means you can apply to be a good mommy.”
“Apply? I have to apply?” I ask, stunned by this news.
“You have to not say bad things and make breakfast every time when it is breakfast time”
“Great. Just great.”
When I look over Mr. Dog is trying, but not doing such a great job, to conceal his huge freakin’ grin and chuckles. When I glare, he pleads “But it is kind of funny.”
Fine, it is funny. But I still don’t have my damn remote.