Poll. Response requested.

. . . .What is the average length (in months) that a brand new pack of toddler underwear gets totally filthy during and after potty training? (and on a side note, are they really potty trained if they keep having 'accidents' every week or so?)

Why do I ask?  Well, it just seems like I bought these ones last month.

Cheating can be so easy sometimes

Amid my frustration last night at my twins' disregard of their homework, I caught my first whiff of the inclination to cheat.  I also figured out why teachers want to split up twins.

The assignment.  Cut out about 25 words in the spelling word family of the week (oi and oy) then sort the words under their appropriate category card.  The assingment is really quite easy--except for the cutting part. The twins got this brilliant plan to circumvent the hard part.

"Here Davis, you cut up this side of words. and I'll cut up the other one."

"Hey, I was thinking the exact same thing.  That was my idea too!"

I interrupt the little cheaters, "Guys, you can't do that!  That's cheating.  You both have to cut up the words yourself."

"Why?"

"Because if someone else does your homework, you don't learn things for yourself.  If you guys weren't in the same class you'd both be getting different assignments anyway that you'd have to do separately."

"But, we're in the same class."

"But, you won't always be."

"But we are now."  Hmmm, abstract thinking.  At what age does that kick in?

"Just do your own work."

Honestly, I left the room, so I don't know if they listened.  I am glad, however, that I didn't get in the conversation about how scissor skills are necessary for their progression into college.  Cause I'm pretty sure I would have lost that argument.

Tonight

Tonight.

I get a call from my husband, "I'm coming home!"

5 minutes later, another call. "Two trauma's just rolled in."  He won't be home before bed.

As I'm walking from room to room, I am overcome.  Messes everywhere.  I pick up cars under the piano.  Go to the kitchen to tackle some dishes.  Then, I turn the corner, and there's my three-year-old.  With cars.  Scattered under the piano.

Questions are weighing on my mind.

Then, "Have you done your homework?"

"No."

"What have you been doing for the last half-hour?"

"Do kid's in first grade really have to do homework?"

"Yes.  If you don't do your homework, they will make you repeat that grade.  Do you really want to be in first grade again next year?"

"No," he mutters.

"So, go do your homework."

Time passes.  I cut the boys' hair.  They hate it.  And by it, I mean me.  Now hair is everywhere. But at least they don't look scraggly anymore.  The baby is crawling around in the just-cut hair.

Tub time. Jammies on. Put the baby to bed. Tackle the hair mess. And hit the boys room to bag up clothes that are too small.

Now, "I'm bored."

"Did you do your homework?"

"No."

"Eliza, did you do your homework."

"No."

"You two go do your homework!!!" It's already 8:30.  Bedtime.

I am going to scream.  But by some miracle I decide to go to my room.  I utter a little prayer, "Heavenly Father, please help me not to yell at my kids."  I stand up and make a concious decision to calm down and take a big breath.

I help Roger brush his teeth.  I gently tug the kids down the stairs.  We say prayers.  I tuck the kids in.  . . . Then, "Roger, did you use the potty yet?"

"No."

I help him out of bed, pull up his pants and tuck him in again.  I kiss the kids, pull out Eliza's laundry bin to start a load, then Roger asks for a drink.  And by ask I really mean he whines, "Mom, I need a drink!"  I go upstairs to retrieve the small paper cups I bought to remain in bathroom for such drink requests.  I fill his cup.  Give him the cup.

Then, "I hate this cup!  Too small.  I want a a big cup!"

Then, I loose it, "NO ROGER! You will use this cup or else I am walking out of the house and not coming back,"

Davis howls, "No, mom!"

I close the door and take another deep breath.  I come back in and take away the small cup.  I put it in the bathroom.  I turn off Eliza's lights.  Now Roger says, "I want that small cup!"  I take in the small cup and he takes a gulp.  Then he spills on himself.  "AHHHHH!  I'm wet!"  I turn on the light and change his shirt.  Inside I am cursing. A lot. I feel like slamming the door, but I don't.

I turn off the light and sit on the stairs in the hallway outside the kids' rooms.  I sternly lecture them about how I do everything in the house for them and all they do is just order me to do more.  I say it just like that.  Then, I'm quiet.

I feel bad.  They're just kids, for goodness sake.  I sing a primary song.  Then two.  Then a third and fourth.  I feel better.  I think they feel better.  I apologize and wish them goodnight. As I'm shutting the door, Davis says, "Mom, thank you for everything you do for us.  I love you."  Roger copies him.  Then Eliza pipes in with similar sentiments.

What a night.  Can I go to bed now?

No.  I still haven't finished the dishes.

It's all how you look at it, I guess

Last night I was minding my own business (aka my eyes were glued to the T.V.) when D brought the child brigade downstairs with cups full of ice cream.  This wasn't just your ordinary vanilla, it was the brightly colored 'playdough' ice cream left over from the twins' birthday party.  I raised my eyebrows at this, but figured if my husband was taking care of the kids, I should shut my mouth about breaking the food rules, and just be grateful.

Unfortunately, just minutes later, Roger spilled this bright blue ice cream.  D jumped up and got a towel, but the damage was done.  There was a blue stain that could not be coaxed out of the carpet.

D's reaction, "Well, I guess this is why it was a good idea to get dark carpet so it hides stains better."

My reply, "Or I guess it is a good rule to keep the food upstairs in the kitchen."

OR

I could have just rolled my eyes and said, "Men."

If only it smelled as good as it looks

I did the zealous spring gardening trip yesterday.  There is just something about having your lawn green up and the bulbs pop their heads out of the ground that makes you ridiculously excited to go spend money on your yard.  The problem is that usually I do this big trip and a bundle of plants sit in my yard just begging to be planted- for weeks.

After spending so much money on the yard last year, I am really motivated to clean up my back patio and garden so it looks specatcular.  I pulled out the leaf blower and blew away the last remnants of the leaves (again. . . .why does the wind keep blowing those blankity-blank things into the areas I've already cleaned up).  Unfortunately, blowing away the leaves also seems to take a layer of mulch with it.  Anyway, while at the store, I bought 4 bags of topsoil.  As I opened the first bag, an overwhelming farm-stench waifed its way on out of the bag.  I was concerned, but thought it probably wouldn't be too bad once it was out in the flowerbeds.

I was wrong.  Now I have beautifully soiled and groomed flower beds surrounding my back patio, which incidentally is adjacent to my back door-the entrance most people use.   But the smell is not good.  My neighbor told me the smell should dissapate after a week or two.

In the meantime, if you're walking past my house, you'll need some noseplugs.

Throw me a lifeline!!

It has been a doozy of a week.  I can usually handle a lot of stress, but whoa, things got so bad this afternoon when D got home, I just lost it! He hasn't had a day off in 2 weeks- coming home after 7:00 almost every night and call-nights at the hospital (not coming home at all) scattered in there as well.  I started losing my temper with the kids.  I realized that I haven't been out by myself--for myself-- in at least a month.  D sent me out the door and told me I wasn't allowed home for at least 2 hours. What a sweetheart, especially considering he's been working every single hour I have- and hanging out with four kids is not really a respite from work-stress.

While I was out-- digging in bins at the local craft store that is closing (waaa!)-- I pondered the week.  I've had the normal mom-requirements: playdates, carpools, dinner, Saturday soccer games, dishes, and laundry (oh, the laundry never ends), but this week has also brought 2 doctor's appointments, a speech-pathologist evaluation for Roger, finishing an art project for the school arts fundraiser (Nikki did most of the work, I was just the moral support), and attending the 'Arts Night' by myself with all four of my kids and Davis's friend (and incidentally Eliza was not feeling well either)-just picture the elementary school full of parents, kids, toddlers, teens (i.e. a zoo) and my kids running around and getting lost every 5 minutes.   Yikes! 

Glad this week is over.   Thankfully, Roger's evaluation basically told me what already knew: he is on the low end of average in his ability to form words.  I also learned something I didn't know: he tries to form complex sentences about on the level of a five-year old.  Combine these two things together and that is a recipe for a three-year-old whose speech is hard to understand.  The pathologist felt he would 'grow out' of his slurred syllables and grow into his more mature sentences. . . . so no therapy required, whew!  Isn't it crazy how you can worry yourself into a tizzy because you don't know what is going to happen?

On top of this all--the thing that has made me loose sleep-- was on Tuesday night at 11:30 P.M. I got an email from Davis's gym that they were letting his coaches go.  For no good reason.  With no notice.  I will spare you all the gritty details, but just know this business decision was handled very poorly.  Davis was so sad not to get a chance to say good-bye to Luba and Jurijs (they're Russian), and then he was thrown into class with new coaches and lots of new boys who followed these coaches from another gym.  I've just been sick with worry about his old coaches- trying to put myself in their shoes, angry with the gym owner, and pondering what I should do with Davis.  On moral grounds, my gut reaction was to say, "No way will my son go to a gym that treats their coaches with such disrespect," but truthfully, I have no other options.  Davis loves this sport.  I love that he isn't fighting me about video games every afternoon.  I love the friendships and teamwork he feels with peers. I love that he's found something he's good at!

As I'm putting my thoughts on paper, I can recognize these matters are not life and death by a long-shot, but despite this, change hurts. It stresses me out. A lot.  Like I have butterflies in my stomach. Needless to say, I've been eating way too much chocolate to cope. . .yeah, I know, I'm a stress eater.  Bad, Camilla. Bad. Bad. Bad.

Realizing that I have no outlet to relieve my stress and realizing I really do need to take a little time for myself, prompted me to talk to some friends about walking together in the morning. Thankfully, they are willing to get up early and humor me.  I know I handle stress of life so much better when I get some exercise, so yeah!  Maybe something good is coming out of this crazy week after all. . . . . .

Does it hurt?

This morning Davis asked, "Mom, does it hurt when you bend over?"

I replied, "No.  Does it hurt when you bend over?"

His answer, "No."

"Then why are you asking me if it hurts to bend over."

"Because you are an old lady."

I took issue with this, "I am only 31.  I'm not an old lady!"

His answer, "But 31 is a really big number, you know."

You know you are a mother of four when,

• In a last ditch effort to look 'presentable,' you use your hair flattener to iron out the wrinkles in your button-up shirt.
• You take one picture at your twin's birthday party-- after the guests have left.
• Your baby wakes up in the morning with a bits of last night's dinner still on his face.
• Your next-door-neighbor (whose kitchen window faces your driveway) calls once or twice a week to let you know the van door is still open.

Seen on the same shelf at the library

While browsing through books at the library today, I found two books:

• American Fascists: The Christian Right and the War on America

AND

• Liberal Fascism: The Secret History of the American Left from Musoolini to the Politics of Meaning

So, I hate to be confused, but seriously???  In all fairness, I checked out both books to find out who are the real fascists: the Christian right-wingers or the Liberal-left.   My knowledge of fascism is limited at best, non-existent at worst, so I guess I am open to all interpretations.  I'll let you'all know which book makes the better argument.  Sounds like a bunch of name-calling to me.

The 1:00 A.M. visit

Last night we had a little visitor.  Eliza came upstairs in a fret to tell us that her nightlight wouldn't turn on.  D stumbled down the stairs very reluctantly to check it out.  The verdict was the power was out. "Strange," he thought after he checked the street lights outside and noticed it wasn't just our house.  Then he and Eliza made a phone call to the power company--yes, in the middle of the night (those sorts of things don't ever even occur to me).  D was told that a power line had fallen and 1,000 homes in the area were out of power.  So, if you were wondering why your alarm clock was blinking and didn't go off this morning, now you have your answer.

Eliza reluctantly went back to bed with a flashlight propped up in the corner of the room. . . .

Please remember

Camilla,

In 15 years when you tell Reed he can not take the car out, and his reply is, "I hate you," please do not take it personally.  And remember the big, wet, sloppy kisses he gave you this morning.  And the gigantic smile he had for you when you got him out of his crib.

Sincerely,
Me

A Daughter of God

My Eliza is a work in progress.  Responsible. Smart. Talented.  Sensitive to other's feelings. A GREAT big sister. And Whiny. Very, Very Whiny.  If she gets a paper cut, she cries.  If she's tired, she cries.  If she doesn't get her way, she whines.  If I take her to the store to buy new shoes and she can't find any that fit her, she cries like her favorite dog just died (and no, we don't have a dog, and yes, she did just that 2 weeks ago).  I can not figure out how such a smart girl somehow loses her ability to communicate and reverts to whimpering when her emotions overflow, but it happens daily.  As soon as she gets upset, the waterworks start.  All reason departs.  I hate to point this out because based on the lists I just gave you, her 'great' qualities really do outweigh the 'bad' ones, but sometimes it doesn't feel like it.

Yesterday, as I was driving the kids to gym, Eliza did something she's never done before.  She was upset about something (I forget what it was now--yes, the brain cells are disappearing), and I was clenching my jaws, just waiting for the explosion.  Miraculously, she got 'the look'- I'm about to start crying, watch out- and then, somehow, calmed herself.  I was flabbergasted.  I mean, this girl pulls out a whine EVERY SINGLE DAY and here she was, calming herself.  We've had many discussions about controlling our emotions- and by that I mean many, many lectures after a tear-fest- and finally she actually was acting her age, instead of like her three-year-old brother.  I lavished her with praise and told her how proud I was of her grown-up reaction.

And later I thought, "Wow, she is really growing up,"  but before I thought that for too long, I came to watch her at gymnastics.  She was doing great, until, they started doing leg-ups. On her second set, her face started getting red.  It was clear she was tired.  Very, very tired.  Then the waterworks started.   Although I am aware she is probably among the fittest 1% of 7 year-olds and what was being asked of her was extremely difficult (at the end of a 2 1/2 hour workout, no less), I was still disappointed.  Why was she, yet again, turning to the waterworks instead of telling her coach that her muscles hurt??  Why wasn't she using her keen mind to express how she was feeling instead of letting emotions take over?? 

Then all the doubts you have as a mother come to play.  Am I pushing her too hard?  Do I expect too much from her?  Is my perception of 'her problem' really an outward manifestation of my pushy mothering?  I've been thinking and pondering about this. . . .

I'm not quite sure I know the answer yet.  I know as a parent, sometimes your children want to take the path of least resistance.  I know so many people who say, now, as adults they wished their parents had pushed them to continue piano lessons, or to try-out for that play, or  . . . . .whatever.  As a parent it is hard to know when your kid is just being a kid and you must to ignore their whines and help them continue.  Most kids have a day when they BEG not to go to school, but as a parent you tell them they HAVE to go. School is the easy one.  Everyone knows you just gotta do it.  But, this is different.  Am I helping her to learn to stick to things that are difficult, or am I damaging her trust in me and her own feelings?  Or is she just crying because at home I usually give-in to the whines?

I know people say kids do not come with an instruction manual.  Wouldn't life be easier if they did?  Part of my growing process is to learn about my children's desires and talents and help them cope with their sadness and shorcomings.  I wish I could just have a crystal ball and make sure my parenting decisions are helping my kids.

On the plus side, I am so grateful for my testimony and knowledge that I am a literal daughter of God.  I have felt a warm spirit envelope me with love which has told me that God is looking out for me. I have felt this love in times of prayer, and I have felt His love while listening to the words of his prophets. He loves me.  And if I know he cares about me, then I know he cares deeply about my children.  He wants me to succeed.  He wants us all to succeed.

So, although I might not know exactly if Eliza's actions are really signifying two steps forward or two steps backwards, I know that I have the resources and help, most notably the power of prayer, to help me as I try to raise a happy, contributing little member of society--namely my little girl. . . . .and her brothers, of course.

And I thought my delivery story was weird. . . .

This lady deserves a super-woman award!

Dear Face,

It has been many long years since I've seen your reflection in the mirror.  Although, I will always think your nose is too wide, you have served me well. I must, however, take issue with you.  In case you didn't get the memo, I turned 31 last month.  It has been over a decade since I could be considered a teenager.  Why, then, must you cling to the bad habit of getting blemishes???  Today, a gigantic zit appeared on your forehead.  Enough is enough!!  I have four children.  I do not have time to wash with Clean and Clear 10 times a day-- I am required to do 10 loads of laundry and dishes instead.  If I wore a green mud-mask, those children would scream and go running. . . .I must therefore petition you to grow up already.  Clean up already.  I don't have time to deal with these juvenile issues.