This Post Has Definitely Not Been Backdated Upon Returning Home Because I Forgot to Write Something Before I Left

I’ll be out of town this weekend, so no new posts until Monday. Oh, and I’d bet a house on Ohio State and Florida playing for the college basketball national championship on Monday.

Future Bracketologist

Abbie has developed a taste for magazines. She loves flipping through any type of magazine, which finally gives us a use for all those catalogs companies keep sending us. The other day, she grabbed one of my college basketball preview magazines on her way to the breakfast booster chair:


I just hope I don’t have to worry about her running off with a basketball player in 20 years.


Her basketball handicapping capabilities will be far beyond any of her preschool classmates.


By this time next year, she’ll be running her preschool’s tournament pool.

I Need a Lock Lock

Do they make childproof locks that fit over other childproof locks? Maybe something like a padlock?

Abbie figured out how to open the lock on the refrigerator. The last defense against my inattentive parenting is disabled. Our cabinet locks still thwart Abbie. Those are sturdier locks that require the coordination skills of a 4-year-old to disengage, which is sometimes too much for me to handle in my more sleep-deprived days.

The refrigerator lock is simpler, requiring a push of a button and slide of the latch to open. I have to use the lock several times each day, because the refrigerator holds the things my children love the most. I’ve used it so many times I can open in with one finger, keeping the other hand free to ward off the pillaging children who charge when I crack the door.

Abbie must have watched me too closely during the hundreds of times I’ve opened the lock over the past several months. I should’ve known she was too interested in the lock when she started closing it for me. She would saunter up to the door when I forgot to lock it, and engaged it for me. I thought it was cute that she was imitating me, even helpful that she’d found a chore. It turns out she researching the inner workings of our child deterrents, intent on usurping my power.

I had to start locking the door when Abbie could open it, accessing the edible treasures inside. The fact that she was eating things without my permission or knowledge wasn’t my main concern, although it was disturbing to discover that she’d eaten half a tub of whipped topping. The fact she made a mess while trying to eat was my main motivation in denying her access. Yogurt was dumped, whipped topping was smeared, almost full gallons of milk were spilled, and tears were cried despite their inherent futility.

The refrigerator lock worked wonders for a few months. I could turn my back on the kitchen and be confident that Abbie wasn’t sneaking food, or if she was, she was sneaking dried foods from the shelves that were easily swept with a broom. That was just a reprieve, though, as the children grew quicker, stronger, and wiser. Not only is Abbie now better at finding her favorite foods, such as that fruit she won’t touch if I hand it to her in a bowl, but the boys are now able to access foods. As messy as Abbie can be, she’s dainty compared to the boys. In the past couple of days, they’ve ruined three apples, two tubs of whipped topping, an egg, and a carton of yogurt. Thankfully, they haven’t figured out how to open the cap on the ketchup bottle, or we’d have red highlights throughout the kitchen walls.

I need to closely supervise Abbie from now on.* I still use the lock since it at least slows her down. The ten seconds it takes her to open the door can mean the difference between a milk jug being upright and capped in the fridge, and being horizontal and uncapped on the floor. Even on those too frequent occasions when my supervision lapses, I’m learning to recognize the warning sounds of an open refrigerator door. A milk cap makes a distinctive sound when it hits linoleum. So does an eggshell.

* As opposed to before when I’d apparently take frequent naps on the couch while my children roam the floor with metal utensils in hand, searching for open electric sockets.

Go Back, Diego, Go

Our late morning routine involves the boys napping, Abbie watching TV, and me downgrading to passive childcare. If an emergency pops up, I’ll deal with it, otherwise, I’m busy catching up on my reading. The Internet isn’t going to read itself.

As soon as Abbie and I lay the boys down, we walk into the kitchen, grab a snack, and prepare the television. I record “Dora the Explorer,” her favorite show, every morning; that way we can avoid the evil commercials while watching television when it’s most convenient, i.e. brothers’ naptime. I need to rewind the tape before we start, and that way she can watch Dora every morning.

Except that she hasn’t gotten to watch Dora this week. Nickelodeon, purveyors of quality preschool programming and questionable tween programming, moved Dora’s timeslot back a half hour this week. In its place is “Go, Diego, Go!” which is basically a slightly older, slightly male-oriented version of Dora. It’s similar, but not an acceptable substitute according to Abbie.

It takes me a couple days to figure this out and adjust the VCR’s timer. Until then, all I can do is offer to let her watch Diego or a Sesame DVD, and cover my ears when she screams “Dee-yah”* back at me, followed by a tantrum.

We went through this last week as Nickelodeon used the same altered schedule then, too. By Wednesday, I had the VCR set and recording Dora for her. By Saturday, I assumed they’d go back to their normal schedule for this week, and switched the timer accordingly. Silly me; I failed to account for the callousness of a cable network.

How could they do this to toddlers and their parents across the country? Don’t they realize how routine-oriented we are? It’s not such a big deal for parents like me who are ambitious enough to set the VCR, but the children who watch television shows as they’re broadcast are out of luck. For 40-some weeks a year, these toddlers get used to watching a certain show at a certain time. These toddlers will then saunter up to the TV after breakfast one day, turn it on expecting to see their normal show, and, without warning, find “LazyTown” on instead. That show creeps me out, I can only imagine what it would do to a toddler expecting to see something animated.

I suspect the schedule change is related to spring break. School-age kids are suddenly home all day home all day in need of age-appropriate television shows. So they change the schedule a bit to air the grade-school friendly shows during the day. For some reason, this necessitates sliding Dora back a half-hour.

My more cynical side says Nickelodeon randomly shuffles their schedule to expose children to new shows. After the kids overcome the trauma of missing their regularly-schedule show, they watch it, decide they like it, and demand to start watching that show everyday, too. Eventually, the child starts watching every show in the line-up. While I can see some benefits to keeping a child occupied with the television all day, I insist on limiting Abbie to one show a day. Instead of rotting her brain watching television, she’ll use her body and mind running around the living room, trying to find new ways to climb on the furniture.

For the past couple of days, her one show has been Diego. It took some time, but she eventually realized that watching it was more enjoyable than throwing a tantrum. She might even be starting to like the show. Good thing I finally remembered to change the VCR timer.

* That’s “Dora” in Abbie-ese.

Adventures in Diaper Changing

Ellie and I split up to buy Vital Supplies yesterday. We had four stores to visit, which would take me about 30 minutes to knock out if I were by myself. With three kids, that turns into an all-afternoon ordeal. The 24 car seat loadings and unloadings alone would take a half-hour.

Realizing this, we decided to drive separately and meet at our final destination. This might sound wasteful, but we needed to take two vehicles anyway. We needed to haul a picnic table, which required the pick-up, and we needed to haul three kids, which required the Subaru.

Ellie has a booster seat in her truck for Abbie, so the girls went together to complete the most intense shopping stop. I took the boys to the two “get in, get out” shopping stops. I also took advantage of the separation to drive-thru the Mexican fast food restaurant Ellie never wants to visit. Afterwards, we met to pick up the picnic table.

I pulled into the final stop, and parked near Ellie’s truck. I knew she’d be busy readying the table for travel, so I finished my drink and listened to the radio long enough to discover that Oregon and Florida were at halftime.

When I emerged to unload the boys, I saw Ellie frantically moving toward me as fast as Abbie’s little legs would move. With no time to explain, she threw open the back of the Subaru and demanded a diaper. As Ellie prepared Abbie for a diaper change, she told me that her diaper was leaking moisture, and she needed a clean one now.

The problem with an oversaturated Abbie diaper is two-fold. One, I had the diaper bag with me. Had we planned better, I would have given Ellie an emergency diaper. Better yet, I would’ve recognized that we’d been sneaking her soda pop earlier, thus increasing the demands on the diaper, and changed her before we left home.

The second problem with a leaky diaper is it wets her pants. We can deal with the embarrassment of walking around with a toddler whose pants have a wet stain on them; considering I forget to comb my hair most mornings, that’s nothing. Unfortunately, Abbie knows when her pants are wet,* and demands removal of her wet pants. Now. And she’ll do it in the middle of the store if necessary. Hence, Ellie, who’d spent the past few minutes fighting Abbie to keep her pants on, was a little frantic when a clean diaper arrived.

Ellie changed Abbie while I loaded the boys into a cart. Fortunately, Abbie’s pants were more damp than wet, and didn’t show a stain as we walked around the store. Ellie had already loaded the picnic table on a cart, so we spent the next several minutes browsing for other Vital Supplies.

We stopped at an outdoor playhouse that was set up on the floor. This one was similar to the one in our backyard, but slightly different, and therefore better. I watched Abbie play with it with an enthusiasm she’s never shown for the one we own, and Ellie leisurely walked the aisles while she was entertained. This was the final stop, and we had plenty of time before the next nap, so there was no rush.

Then Abbie pooped her diaper. The diaper bag was still in the car. We had to leave. Now.

* I wish she knew when she was about to wet her pants, but that’s another post.

A Sure Sign That Spring Has Arrived

It’s the first mud stains of the season!

Cough Cough

The kids are sick. We’re entering the third week of this illness. I would’ve written about it earlier, but I was hoping it would go away if I ignored it.

It’s a standard cold with all the accompanying symptoms: Stuffed nose, coughing, and general grumpiness. Abbie was the first to fall ill a couple weeks ago with a snout full of snot.

When I first noticed the post-nasal drip, I took the necessary steps to protect the boys. Specifically, I quit sharing food and utensils between them. The boys could no longer enjoy Abbie’s leftover yogurt. Broccoli would have to come from separate plates. The boys sticking their fingers into Abbie’s Jell-O would be even more strongly discouraged.

This mindset lasted for about 30 hours, or maybe four meals. I rediscovered that there’s a reason for feeding everyone from the same utensil; I can only hold one utensil in one hand because I need the other hand free to fend off the interlopers from snitching from the plate and knocking it on the ground. The boys tend to immediately grab Abbie’s sippy cups when she sets them down, so a little germ swapping will happen anyway. Add that to the little tickle that was starting in my throat, and it seemed inevitable that the boys would get sick. I even reinstated bedtime kisses.

For a few days, the boys were healthy, strong, and no more grumpy than usual. My cold never progressed beyond the throat tickle stage, and Abbie never got very sick, so I hoped the boys would escape this minor bug unfazed. It was just a little annoyance floating through the air as the seasons changed from cold and snowy to cool and muddy.

Then the boys got sick. For a couple days, all three kids showed symptoms, with Abbie coughing and the boys snotting their germs around the house. Abbie’s symptoms faded away, while the boys’ symptoms grew angrier. Their noses vary between snotty stuffed up, and snotty running. Their mouths range from drooly to shirt soakingly moist. The constant is a cough that comes harshly every few minutes, sometime even while they’re trying to sleep. Ellie thinks they have a mild croup, as we can hear their airways percolate as they breathe. No worries as long as they appear to be breathing easily.

We’re trying a new prescription cold medicine. Earlier I’d sung the praises of Dytan, though that’s fallen out of favor with me since it doesn’t seem to work. Specifically, it doesn’t seem to help their nasal passages, though it doesn’t help them sleep either, and that can be more important. That isn’t surprising since I’ve heard most cold medicines do little good in young children, but this new stuff, called Clorphen, seems to help. They cough less and sleep more with it in their system, and that’s good. The drawback is it’s a liquid, and whenever the medicine dropper appears, Abbie thinks she should get a taste. This was okay while Abbie showed symptoms and I could give her some medicine in good conscience. Now I move quickly and hope Abbie focuses on chasing kitties while I give the boys some medicine.

They seem to be getting better. There’s less coughing, though just as much drooling and crud in their airways. Maybe now that I’ve written about it, it’ll go away.

Climbing to New Heights

Mark this one down in the baby book. March 23, 2007: The boys can climb on the couch. It’s a proud day. It’s the day when I officially stop worrying about their climbing skills, and start worrying about them falling off the furniture.

Not that I was ever worried about their climbing skills. While other children might shy away from climbing stairs until days before their second birthday, the boys never showed any fear of climbing stairs. Sometimes, when I’m desperate to work on the computer or at least look up some sports scores, I’ll take the boys with me into the basement. I’ll sit at the computer while they wander the concrete floor. At first, they just scour for things the cats haven’t eaten yet. But, within minutes, they’re on the stairs, scaling one at a time and working on their upper body strength. This has been going on for at least six months,* although they’re now getting quick enough to be halfway up the stairs before I notice.

Going down the stairs is a different matter. They’re only now figuring out how to climb down stairs backwards, reversing the motion used for climbing up. Abbie never figured out that trick. She would stand at the top of the stairs, staring into the abyss and waiting for someone to help her down. Before she learned how to step down, she learned to make us come faster by progressively leaning further over the edge. Thankfully, the boys adopted their safer technique of going down backwards; before this epiphany, their technique was holding one foot over the edge until someone picked them up.

There’s a big height difference between stairs and a couch. The boys needed an intermediate object, something bigger than a stair, but still small enough for their chubby legs to overcome. At about a foot off the ground, the shelf in our entertainment center filled this role.

This shelf used to be for storing media like CD’s and VHS tapes.** About the time Abbie started dumping media on the floor, we moved them to higher ground and put the stereo on the shelf. About the time Abbie started pushing buttons and hanging on the open CD tray, we moved the stereo to higher ground. Now this cubbyhole is the perfect size for little men to play in: It’s close enough to the ground to climb into, far enough off the ground to give the thrill of climbing, big enough to comfortably fit a mini man, small enough that a brother can’t fit too, and, most importantly, short enough to not cause serious harm when someone fall on the ground after fighting to get into it.

After honing their skills at the one-foot level, they advanced to the two-feet level with the couch. Not only can they climb on the couch cushion, but they can also climb on the couch back, giving them a good four-feet of appendage-breaking elevation.

It’s partially my fault for encouraging them. A few days ago, I discovered that they like being on the couch. When they’d get fussy and I’d get desperate, I’d set them on the couch with me, and they’d have fun march around the cushions and climbing on me to reach the couch back. They must have decided that the couch was too exciting to wait until they had my help to climb onto it. Therefore, they figured out how to do it by themselves.

This opens up a new world to them. They can now reach things I’d hidden from them at higher levels. They can reach the cats on the couch back, or a glass of water, or my VHS tape collection. Their baby books are also up there.

* By “this,” I mean the stair climbing. The irresponsible parenting has been going on for almost three years now.
** It’s an old entertainment center.

"The little things, little things they always hang around."

The little things drive me crazy. The big things drive me crazy too, but they should. When Abbie removes her poopy diaper and the boys play with its contents before I notice, I have every right to go crazy. That’s a big thing, and the temporary insanity helps black out the memories of smears everywhere.

When Abbie poops for the second time in a morning even though she rarely poops twice before noon, I should take off the dish gloves and change her without complaining about anything but the smell. Instead, I bemoan the time I lose for cleaning in my morning routine. I blame my untreated and undiagnosed OCD. That, and the sleep deprivation.

I’m learning to let the little things go. Abbie won’t eat her peaches? Give them to her brothers. The boys keep changing the channel during pivotal moments of March Madness? Watch the game in the other room where they can’t reach the television. Tory has been screaming for 20 minutes because I locked him out of the bathroom? Give him to momma. Some things still get to me, though. Apparently, lost sippy cups are one of those things.

I have a set routine* for who gets which sippy cups when. Each child has specific sippy cups assigned to him or her to eliminate confusion over whose germs are on which cup. If one of those sippy cups goes missing, it could throw the entire system out of whack, as Abbie might have to drink from an Ian cup, or Tory might have to drink from his bedtime cup during lunch. The world may then dissolve into nothingness after the ensuing tear in the fabric of space, or at least in the fabric of my psyche.

Losing sippy cups isn’t usually a problem. Our home is small enough to limit the number of spaces for them to hide. Plus, Abbie is usually the only one carrying a sippy cup around the house; the boys are still young enough that they’re always strapped into high chairs for milk. When one of their cups goes missing, it’s usually under a piece of kitchen furniture.

The exception to this strapped-in scenario is before bedtime. All three children still drink milk before bedtime because I haven’t altered their routine* since the newborn days. As long as they stop before college, it should be okay. I give each of them a sippy cup, and send them on their way while I finish chores. Sometimes a cup goes missing, but I can usually find it after a brief search.

I gave them their milk as usual last night, which Abbie quickly finished and threw on the floor. The boys, convinced that Abbie has something tastier in her cup than they do, commandeered the empty cup and sucked the final milk molecules from the bottom. I finished cleaning the kitchen, and hounded the boys to finish their milk since we needed to keep the bedtime routine* moving.

I loaded their empty cups into the dishwasher so we’d have clean cups to continue the routine* the next day, and realized Abbie’s cup was missing. The last place I saw it was in the kitchen, which I tore apart looking for it. It’s not under a table or chairs. It’s not under a cabinet. It’s not staring at me from the middle of the floor.

I moved out of the kitchen. It’s not in the hallway. It’s not on their bedroom floor. It’s not under a crib or bed. It’s not in a crib or bed. It’s not in a dresser drawer.

It’s still not in the hallway. It’s not on the living room floor. It’s not in the toy box. It’s not in the other toy box. It’s not on, in, or behind the couch.

I returned to the kitchen, repeating the search cycle* in case I missed something. In each cycle, I checked more ridiculous hiding spots. It’s not in the garbage. It’s not in the diaper pail. It’s not wedged in that one-inch gap between the wall and the entertainment center. It’s not in the bathroom even though the door has been shut for the past hour.

Thirty minutes and several nervous tics later, I gave up. The clock said it was time to put the kids down to sleep, but I hadn’t even changed them into pajamas. I had to let the cup go, and keep their bedtime routine* moving. I could keep searching after I put them down to sleep.

I swear I gave up after a brief search when they went down to sleep. I also swear I didn’t dream of sippy cups last night. Maybe I just blacked out those dreams.

I found the cup this morning. I should’ve checked the silverware drawer.

* There’s that OCD again.

Fryburglar

We ate out for lunch yesterday as I squeezed one final Shamrock Shake out of the season.

Packing up everyone from at the restaurant is always a challenge. Between cleaning the sticky off the fingers, and picking up the food that I feel too guilty to leave on the floor, I can lose track of the kids. That’s especially true while eating at clown-themed restaurants with giant playgrounds near our table.

I cleaned while the kids roamed. Abbie climbed the equipment. Ian stood at the bottom dreaming of what might be someday. Tory stared at the clown statue sitting on a bench, hopefully not developing emotional scars that will manifest in uncontrolled crying when we go to the circus someday.

Finally, every one and thing was clean enough, everyone had their coats on, and I was ready to pack the boys into their stroller. Abbie wandered as I buckled in the boys, presumably to take one final climb.

As I finished buckling, I glanced up to find Abbie climbing not on the playground equipment, but into the chair of a nearby table. The child who had been seated there had left to play, leaving his food unguarded. Abbie climbed up and grabbed a fry like she belonged to the grandparents sitting next to her.

I was mortified. I hurriedly snatched Abbie as she chewed on her ill-gotten gain, apologizing the entire time.

On our way out the door, I passed their table again. I apologized again. The grandmother told me it was okay. The grandfather gave her another fry.

I Wish It Was a School Day, That Would Be My Funday, My I Don't Have to Runday

Monday is our cleaning day. Anybody who’s ever seen our home may be surprised to learn that’s what it looks like in spite of a weekly cleaning.

Every Monday, I pick everything off the carpet. Clothes go in drawers, toys go in boxes, trash goes in the trash, and the stuff I don’t know what to do with gets compacted against the wall. Then I vacuum the dirt, food crumbs, and pet hair off the floor. The carefully stacked clutter layers covering all horizontal surfaces go mostly untouched until I get a little more free time, likely when the boys head to kindergarten. The cleaning isn’t very deep, but it at least clears a path for moving between rooms.

I do this cleaning twice a week, but Monday is the heavy-duty day. That’s the day after the weekend, when guests spend two days tramping in dirt and disturbing my clutter layers. I do a similar cleaning on Thursday, but that’s less intense since my inability to leave the house mid-week keeps the outside world’s grime on the outside.

Since my parents visited last weekend, I had an extra dose of dirt covering the carpet as they tracked in foreign filth from a completely different corner of the state. Plus, they were too busy playing with the grandkids to notice that they’d* pulled every toy from their toy box, not to mention every toy-like object within reach from our clutter layers, and left them on the floor. Our home needed a good, thorough cleaning; the best job I could do in the 45 minutes between completing the morning dishes and starting the naptime routine. Too bad I couldn’t stay home.

As I finished the morning dishes, I took a phone call from the HVAC technician we called earlier. We recently bought a house, and are in the process of doing some minor renovations to correct the previous owner’s renovations before we move. One of those renovations involves getting the furnace in good working order, as opposed to its current adequacy.

The HVAC technician wanted to work on it yesterday morning, so I needed to meet him at the house, effectively trapping me at the house for the morning to dream about our beautiful new home instead of cleaning up our hideous old one. I decided to make a day of our outing, giving the boys their morning nap up there, and stopping at the mall for a couple necessities and a trip to their playground on the way home.

I packed a lunch, and met the HVAC technician at the house. He went to work while I entertained the kids, and left right before naptime. I thanked him, and enjoyed our freshly flowing warm air as I set the boys down to sleep. Abbie and I spent naptime in the living room dream of our future in our beautiful new home.

After about a half hour of listening to the boys scream as they refused to nap in their beautiful new room, I noticed our air wasn’t flowing warm anymore. Whatever the technician did to cajole our furnace into pumping out hot air had worn off. I sighed, grabbed the boys for lunch, and prepared for the mall.

I needed two things at the mall: A battery for my new garage door opener that was probably as old as the house, and a new pair of sunglasses to replace the ones I’d sat on. Our mall-based big box store should have both, leaving us with plenty of time for the playground.

They didn’t have the battery I needed. They did have acceptable sunglasses, which we took to the checkout lanes. As we stood in the express lane waiting for the woman ahead of us to pay with exact change, Abbie did her best to escape to another lane. I held her hand tightly, and when twisting and spinning couldn’t loose her, she tried scratching. When I grabbed both hands, she tried biting. When I picked her up to warn her that we’d leave without going to the playground if she didn’t behave, she bit me again.

Being a responsible parent who uses punishments that are fair, consistent, and effective, I kept my word and we walked to the car after paying for my sunglasses. Abbie giggled in the sun and fresh air, suggesting my punishment wasn’t as deeply affecting as I’d hoped.

I packed the kids into the car, and slipped on my sunglasses for the drive home. That’s when I first noticed that one of the lenses was cracked.

The furnace still didn’t work, my new sunglasses were broken, the garage door opener still needed a battery, we never made it to the playground, and our home was still a mess. The day would’ve been a total waste if not for the Shamrock Shake I picked up on the way home despite the late date.

Today has been a do over. I went out and accomplished everything I meant to do yesterday. Except for the battery; that’ll have to wait until I can go to another store. And the vacuuming; that I’ll do tomorrow.

* “They” here refers to the grandkids, though the grandparents helped access a few things.

Purple's a Fruit

I like fruit. It’s a good snack to give the kids, full of healthy stuff.

I wish Abbie agreed with me. Her idea of a good snack is some sort of animal in cracker form, be they Goldfish or generic animal crackers. They’re full of tasty stuff like sugar or something claiming to be “cheese.” They’re not horribly unhealthy unless of consumed in massive quantities, which of course she does.

Back in this blog’s early days, Abbie would eat anything, especially fruit. We could take her to a buffet, load a plate for her full of any kind of fruit, and let her graze through the entire meal on fruit while other, less responsible parents let their children eat things like chicken nuggets. Now all we can get her to eat at buffets are the chicken nuggets, and sometimes we’re lucky if she eats more than the breading.

Abbie still likes some fruits. Blueberries seem to be her favorites. Canned peaches and apricots usually go over well. Anything I’m eating, such as my lunch apple, is also popular. Most other fruits are hit and miss.

We went out for breakfast with my visiting parents yesterday. The “we” here refers only to the adults and not the kids. We left home about midway between the morning wake time and morning nap time, and the kids would’ve never made it until 10am without eating breakfast. I barely made it that long without eating. So I fed the kids breakfast at their normal time, and let them snack through our meal.

My mother ordered a bowl of fruit for the children. I didn’t know if they’d eat it, but I figured that between that, the eggs, the meats, and the various syrup-coated confections, we could keep them chewing throughout the meal.

The fruit bowl had pineapple, cantaloupe, and grapes. Abbie hasn’t touched pineapple or cantaloupe since her early buffet days. Grapes were one of her favorites, though, up until, oh, about two weeks ago. She’s dumped them on the floor at every snack time since.

I offered her the cantaloupe and pineapple on a fork, and she predictably knocked them to the side after confirming they were not fried chicken. Then I dropped a handful of grapes on a plate in front of her, and waited for her reaction. She didn’t dump them on the floor, but only because we were sitting next to her to stop her.

At this point, Abbie was searching the booth for an exit while the boys happily munched on everything she cast aside. I wanted to eat my omelet, so I gave her a plate full of syrup-drenched waffle, and let her entertain herself.

Abbie wouldn’t touch it. Even after I cajoled her into putting one little piece of syrupy goodness in her mouth, she spit it back out and stared at it like I’d tried force feeding her tripe or cantaloupe.

I shrugged, concentrated on my omelet, and let her keep searching for an exit. After a minute, she saw we were packed in too tight for her to make an escape. She looked for something to play with, but we’d already slid the drinks and syrup beyond her grasp.

With nothing better to do, Abbie did the unthinkable: She ate one of the grapes I left near her. Sometimes I forget the importance of letting the child eat when she wants to eat. That, and a kid will eat anything when she gets hungry enough. I gave her a few more grapes up to a total of ten, and let her count backwards as she ate them one by one. That’s the other rule of toddler meals: Make it fun. It has to be fun if fruit is going to compete with nugget breading.

The Empty Bed

Abbie has a long list of objects with her when she sleeps. She needs her stuffed cat, stuffed dog, several burp clothes, a bath towel or two, and her lambie blanket. Finally, if there’s room, we add a sheet, quilt, and pillow. Occasionally, Abbie fits in as well.

I’ve memorized this menagerie because I have to restock it often. Her bed is always empty come bedtime. I’m not just referring to her absence come bedtime after chasing kitties instead of climbing into bed to relax.

Abbie loves her bedmates so much that she insists on dragging them with her throughout the house. Occasionally this is comes as part of her game to fetch items she recognizes in books and on television. When we read about a cat, she fetches her cat. If she sees a pillow, she grabs her pillow. When a cow appears, she raids a cow blanket from a brother’s crib.

Sometimes she carries a stuffed animal when interacting with an actual animal. If she wants to pet an uncooperative cat, she might bring her stuffed cat to the frightened cat. Maybe she hopes the real cat will see her lugging the stuffed version around by the ankle, and will realize that she means no harm. Or, maybe she hopes the stuffed one will talk the real one into holding still for a minute. This happens more often after a real one hurts her, such as when the dog knocks her over trying to escape her fur-pulling fingers. Abbie will run to her room, bring back the stuffed dog, and throw it at her in tears. Surprisingly, this does not seem to impress the dog.

Most of all, Abbie just seems to enjoy carrying her bedding around the house. When waking in the morning, she might dump her blanket outside her door, as if showing that she never wants to sleep again. Or she might drag her pillow and blanket onto the couch, and set up a makeshift bed on the sofa. No one except the most desperate of houseguests sleeps on the sofa, so I can’t figure out where she got the idea for this one. Once a day, though, she trots out her bedding, drops it on the couch, and crawls under it. Not that she’s trying to sleep. I’d let her nap on the couch if I thought she’d do it without running around the room for a half-hour like she usually does. She’s just pretend sleeping. She pops right back out from under the covers, maybe plays a quick game of peek-a-boo, and leaves everything on the couch for me to drag back into her room before bedtime. At least I know where to look first when I can’t find a burp cloth at bedtime.

The boys are pulling things off her bed too. The lambie blanket is a favorite target, probably because it’s almost identical to their cow blankets. They’ll also run around the house with burp clothes, or knock things off the bed as they shimmy their way on top of the mattress. I know the boys are learning to do things earlier than Abbie did by copying her, but I wish they’d wait until Abbie is old enough to help me find lost bedding. Thankfully, they don’t seem to need anything more than their cow blankets to fall asleep, though that may be because they’re not old enough to drag things into bed yet.

Park Place

I know I need to expose the children to more of their peers, at least until I can unload them on preschools and start essentially paying children to hang out with them. Without seeing other children at play, they could grow up without role models and turn into weird, humorless kids who think turning on the television is a bad idea, and unloading the dishwasher is one of the most important jobs of the day.

Taking the kids to the library helps expose them to other children, but that’s only once a week for 20 minutes a day. I need to get them out of the house more often than that, so I’m trying to regularly take them to the playground.

If we were in a warmer climate, such as the kind that doesn’t get a couple inches of heavy snow overnight in mid-March, I’d just send the kids to our conveniently located park right outside our front door. That’s what I do during summer when I only have to worry about mud and sunburns. For now, I have to worry about snow and frostbite, so I’m trying to take the kids to the mall playground where the biggest problem is clouds overhead that limit light through the windows, making it a little dark. Oh, and rugburns.

Afternoons are the perfect time to take the kids to the mall. The morning chores are complete, and various speech therapists have come and gone. Unfortunately, afternoons are also the perfect time to work on irregular chores, such as cleaning off the kitchen table, or wiping out some of the more advanced bacteria colonies based in our bathroom.

So, I only get to the mall once a week at best, generally on Fridays. Plus, until the kids start making their lunch, or at least developmentally advance to the milestone of eating sandwiches in the car, it takes too long to get out of the house after lunch. By the time we eat, clean, change diapers, and pack into the car, we have about 20 minutes to spend at the mall playground before we have to pack back into the car to make it home for naptime. As much as I want to expose my children to their peers, nothing interferes with naptime.

Yesterday being Friday, I packed the kids into the car long after lunch, and drove to the mall. I knew we’d have limited time, but I didn’t mind since it was for the children’s sake, plus I could stop for a Shamrock Shake on the way home.

The most rewarding part about the trip for me, besides the shake, was seeing how far the kids have developed. Abbie has now mastered the slide, going up the right way and sliding down with ease. Even though she still isn’t talking well, she’s showing some social interaction by laughing at other children when they act goofy.

The boys can’t interact with other children much yet, but they’re showing physical development. Ian has developed into a slide fiend. He spent most of his time going up the stairs and waiting for my help going down the slide, and generally holding up the line of children who are old enough to correctly use it.

Tory has developed a sense of knowing where the exit is, and when to use it. Specifically, he seems to know that if he runs out while I’m helping Ian down the slide, he’ll be able to make it halfway to Build-A-Bear before I can catch him. In a year, he might be picking out a shell before I notice he’s gone.

Me, I’m developing a sense of time passing, a sense that my children are growing, a sense that my children are learning about the outside world, a sense that Shamrock Shakes are almost gone for another 11 months.

"Ow. Quit it. Ow. Quit it. Ow. Quit it."

Abbie is currently obsessed with “owies.” She loves finding wounds, pointing to them, and announcing “owie.”

I’m glad that Abbie is finally talking, but I had envisioned her first communications as more useful. I dreamed she might say “milk” when she wanted something to drink, or “poopy” to give me a warning before she ripped her diaper off in front of company. Instead she points to the same scabs a dozen times a day, and labels them “owie” each time to give me an update on their status.

She has plenty of owie examples to point to. Abbie has no fear, and is always picking up new wounds from falling off the wrong object or taunting the wrong animal. Her current favorite owie is a couple of cat scratch marks on her leg from a recent petting session gone awry.

Abbie likes petting kitties with her feet. She’s learned that it’s safer to keep her distance and pet with the feet than it is to pet with the hands and lean her vital organs closer to the claws.* Of course, foot pettings really spook the cats, but since they don’t exactly sit still for her hand pettings either she might as well use her feet.

A few days ago, Abbie had the cat cornered, determined to remind him how much she loved him. She stuck out her foot to pet him. He gently used his teeth to leave a couple of three-inch reminders that he doesn’t like her. I was concerned when I first saw the marks he left,** but little did I know they’d be a source of wonder for her each time she hikes up her pant leg.

As her language grows, she’s not just content to say “owie” to me until I stop eating breakfast and acknowledge her; she has to classify her owies as well. Usually this means she has “kitty owies.” She always has a few cat scratches scattered across her extremities, reminders from the cats to stay away that she misappropriates as opportunities to work on her language.

When she runs out of owies to point to on her body, she searches other people’s bodies for owies. Ellie took offense the first time Abbie pointed out a “momma owie,” thinking she was blaming her for that time she fell off the couch. Then she realized she was pointing to a scratch on momma’s hand, hence a “momma owie.”

My hands always have scratches for Abbie to find. As a parent of three young children, I have better things to worry about than my hand’s trajectory as I thrust it in the direction of whatever I need, such as into a silverware drawer that I didn’t take the time to fully open so I can grab a spoon for the boys before they suffer total meltdown while awaiting yogurt. The result is I often scrape my hands on the edges of things, leaving a mark for Abbie to point to.

This morning while I ate breakfast, Abbie found such a mark. She pointed to it and said “kitty owie.” I had a mouthful of cereal, so I shook my head “no.” She repeated “kitty owie,” and again I shook my head. As I swallowed my cereal, she repeated “kitty owie.”

“Yes, that’s a kitty owie,” I acquiesced. I suppose I wouldn’t get any more peace and quiet if she were asking for milk.

* She still likes to give the kitties kisses, though, so she has a few things left to learn about keeping her distance.
** He left them through her pajamas, no less.

Bottle Bumblings

If you live in a state besides ME, VT, MA, NY, HI, IA, OR, CT, or one of the Elysian states of CA or MI, you may not be familiar with what’s known as the “bottle bill.” In Iowa, it works like this: I buy an eligible beverage, such as a can of soda pop. I leave a nickel deposit at the cash register for each container I buy. I consume the beverage, but save the container instead of throwing it away. When the number of empty containers in our home reaches a critical mass of filling every available horizontal surface, I return them to the store to retrieve my accumulated nickels.

I loved the bottle bill as a child. Back then, I had enough free time to collect cans from around the house and around the neighborhood. Instead of trying to grasp the concept of getting back the nickel I’d already paid, I wanted the $2 I’d get for returning three dozen empty cans. That would buy my day’s worth of baseball cards.

Now that I’m older with more responsibilities than sorting a few thousand baseball cards, the bottle bill has lost some luster. The empty containers take up too much room. They’re messy. It’s a hassle to make a special trip to the store to get my nickel back. I always have at least one oddball container in my stash that came from an unknown store, and don’t even think about taking it back to a store that doesn’t sell that brand because they’ll spit that dried-corn syrup coated container right back at you to carry back home, assuming of course that you don’t throw it in the trash on the way out.

Don’t get me wrong; the bottle bill aids in recycling and keeping the environment clean, two causes that I support. But I could recycle and keep the environment clean just as well by dropping my empty containers in the green bin. Doing so might even do more to save the environment since I wouldn’t have to burn hydrocarbon fuels making a special trip to the store.

We collect containers slowly, maybe one or two a day. The kids are too young to drink soda pop that doesn’t come from grandma, so they don’t add empty containers. I usually drink a can a day for the caffeine to sustain me through the post-nap, pre-bedtime lull. Occasionally Ellie brings home a container from work. At that rate, we only have to visit the store once every few months.

Yesterday was our special trip to the store day as I finally tired of kicking empty containers around the house. Ellie kept the boys at home while I took Abbie to experience the wonders of container return. The process involves feeding the containers one at a time into the appropriate machine: plastics in the plastic machine, glass in the glass machine, cans in the can machine. After feeding all your cans, you push a button, get a ticket, and redeem it at a register to receive your deposit.

Unfortunately, the stores don’t make money on bottle deposits, so they do everything in their power to discourage you from reclaiming the nickel they’re legally required to give you. At least one machine is always full and beeping loudly to inform everyone but the employees of its status. The redemption room is always sticky with an odor that could cover up the fullest diaper. Logically, there’s always a line.

None of this phased Abbie. The machines enthralled her with their “whir, kachunk” noise as they accepted can after can, punctuated by the sporadic “whir, kachunk, spitoo” noise when I tried inserting an oddball container. We counted together as I redeemed cans. When she lost interest, I gave her a couple bottles and let her feed them into the machine. When that wore off, we counted again because there was little else to do until I finished feeding dozens of containers.

The final tally was about 170 containers. That doesn’t count the half-dozen oddballs I left sitting on the shelf. We took the tickets to the register, collected our nickels, and drove home. We stopped for frozen custard on the way home, though, because I had to do something with my sudden windfall.

Filling out the Brackets

March, 2004: I’ve spent the past five months watching college basketball almost every night.
March, 2007: I’ve spent the past 34 months reading children’s books every night before collapsing into bed.

March, 2004: I spent most of my Internet time looking at Bracketology.
March, 2007: I spent most of my Internet time looking at Infantology. Okay, I looked up a little Bracketology too.

March, 2004: I entered an office pool with my coworkers.
March, 2007: I entered an office pool with Ellie’s coworkers. I’m sure I could outpick my current coworkers.

March, 2004: I fretted over the 6-11 match-ups.
March, 2007: I fretted over the 6:11 waketime.

March, 2004: I didn’t have a team to root for.
March, 2007: There’s a plucky 16-seed in the women’s tournament that’s caught my attention.

March, 2004: I weeped when a bubble burst.
March, 2007: I weeped when a diaper burst.

March, 2004: If Kansas can overcome their consistency issues, I think they can go all the way.
March, 2007: If Kansas can overcome their consistency issues, I think they can go all the way.

March, 2004: I watched Cinderella advance through the tournament.
March, 2007: I still control the TV. Thankfully, we’re too young for those #$%@ Disney princesses.

March, 2004: I started strong during the first weekend, but faded to the middle of the pack.
March, 2007: Probably about the same.

The Great Outdoors

Temperatures in Des Moines soared into the 60’s yesterday. The winter glaciers receded and I could finally navigate the curbside path to my car without needing the expeditionary skills of Amundson. More importantly, I could finally take the kids outside to play.

When Abbie was my only child, we went out to play at least occasionally even during the winter months. That didn’t happen this year. The kids have been stuck inside all winter long, save those treks along the packed-in tundra to and from the car.

I don’t remember the last time I took the kids outside to play, though I’m sure there’s a blog post about it if I want a refresher. Part of the reason for that is we suffered through a brutally cold February. When it finally warmed to tolerably cold, snow and ice fell from the sky, adding “messy” to the list of reason I didn’t want to go out.

I can hover over one young child, as I did when Abbie was my only responsibility, saving her from the world’s perils such as falling off the stairs or staining those new pants mama bought for her. But as the boys remind me on an almost hourly basis, I can only stand by and watch when charged with two children and hope nobody ingests anything instantly lethal. Never mind that I still have a toddler to watch and make sure she doesn’t climb above bone-bruising heights in case she falls.

With that in mind, I looked outside, pondering how best to let them enjoy the fresh air. Our backyard was a mixture of standing water, mud pits, and stubborn glaciers. I didn’t want to deal with wet clothes, and decided against taking them out back. I wanted to deal with screaming children even less, but that’s exactly what Tory was doing as he banged on the screen door, furious that the only thing standing between him and escape was a cheap layer of aluminum.

I looked out the front, and found that more acceptable. We have a large concrete parking lot in front of our home. The snow had disappeared from the lot days ago, leaving it clean and dry except for the streams of snowmelt draining along the sides.

I decided to take the kids into the parking lot. Sure, we might have to dodge a few cars, but at least there’s no mud. The lot is closed off with one entrance anyway, so I could see any approaching cars long before they posed a threat and shoo my beloved children off to the sides.

I slapped shoes and socks on everyone, gave Abbie a ball to roll, and sent them out the door. The first thing they did was scatter across the lot like particles from a recently smashed atom, except that quarks and leptons would’ve been easier to catch. Abbie had thrown her ball and was chasing it in one direction. Ian ran for a snow bank on the opposite end of the lot. Tory ran for the gate connecting to the street.

I grabbed Tory first since he was in the most danger unless Abbie developed a severe case of road rash falling after her ball. By the time I carried him to Ian, he was elbow deep in snow and sand. Meanwhile, Abbie kept running farther away as her ball rolled with the lot’s natural drainage slope.

I hauled the boys far down the lot to catch up with Abbie, eventually finding her in a drainage ditch. She was standing in ankle-deep runoff, partially to retrieve her ball, but mostly to experience the thrill of standing in ankle-deep runoff. By the time I pulled Abbie and the ball out of the stream, both boys were playing in the water, walking in it, splashing in it, and falling down in it.

I spent the next several minutes vainly trying to herd the children back to the house. My commands were no match for running water’s allure. Eventually I gave up, picked up both boys, and kicked the ball back to the house for Abbie to chase. When we made it back inside, the boys were soaked, my shirt was soaked from carrying them, and Abbie was tracking water across the floor.

That’s when I took everyone in the backyard. Everyone was already wet, plus I wouldn’t have to worry about cars. I didn’t want to deal with Tory banging on the door to go back out anyway.

Watch Your Mouth

The spring thaw* means one thing: Potholes.

Driving with the kids yesterday, I saw a couple huge ones in my lane. “Huge” here means “at least two-feet in diameter.” I couldn’t switch lanes, so I had two options: Hit it and probably blow a tire at best, or brake hard and drive around it as best I can. I chose the latter option, simultaneously decreasing my odds of blowing a tire and increasing my odds of being rear-ended.

As I hit the brakes and crawled through the crater, I marveled at the sheer immensity of the axle-eater. A “geez” escaped my lips while bumping along.

“Geez” came Abbie’s response from the back seat.

We spent the next ten minutes saying “geez” back and forth to each other. Meanwhile, I thanked my couth upbringing for making sure that nothing worse had left my mouth. It’s bad enough listening to her repeat “shoe” after me.

* Or at least late-winter thaw.

The Eternal Question

How can a child miss her nap in the afternoon, yet have enough energy to fight bedtime that night?

I Blame Daylight Savings Time

No post today. I have to make up that lost hour somehow.

Here Kitty

We have a new addition to the naptime routine. This one comes at the end, at the point when I’m as desperate to leave the room as she is to find a way to extend the routine. I carry Abbie into her room, dump her on the bed, wish her a good nap, and watch her walk out the door. She wants to see the kitties one last time before drifting quasi-quietly off to sleep.

Our cats hide most of the day. They hate the kids, possibly because, as the dog has discovered, they like to pull fur. They spend most of the day in the basement or behind closed doors avoiding their ever-evolving pincher grasps. They only emerge during naptime, so desperate for sunlight they’re willing to tolerate adult human contact.

Mostly, the cats want me to turn on the bathtub faucet so they can play in the trickle of water that flows forth and drink from a source that hasn’t been contaminated with dog. They want to play in the bathtub so badly that they’ll start camping out in front of the bathroom door about the time I start reading to the kids. The reading happens at least five minutes before I put the kids down for their nap, maybe ten minutes if they cooperate by throwing three books at me simultaneously.

While the cats wait for the kids to go down, I finish reading and deposit the boys in their cribs. Then, I move Abbie through the rest of her routine with the singing, the carrying, and the depositing. Just as the cats have figured out when the kids go to bed, though, Abbie has figured out when the cats come out of hiding. She always runs out of her room as soon as I break contact with her, and goes kitty hunting.

She usually doesn’t have to look far since the bathroom door is right outside the bedroom door. At least one cat is usually lying in front of the door with a facial expression reflecting hopefulness and utter terror. I’m not sure why the cats can’t figure out to wait until a count of 100 after I shut the bedroom door before emerging, but there they lie looking for water and a place to hide.

Abbie, who is just starting to get the hang of this talking thing, will exclaim the cat’s name with an exuberance that exclaims she never expected to see it there. “Shhhharlie!” she yells in her toddler tongue, never mind that only one of our kitties is named “Charlie.”

Abbie looks excited, the cat looks panicked, and I look for a way to get Abbie to bed. I’ll let her pin the cat against the door since the cat is so desperate for water that he’ll tolerate toddler contact as long as it gets him in the bathroom. Abbie will pet him a couple times, hopefully with her hand and not her foot like she’s been trying to do, and maybe kiss him. The cat will look alarmed, but not so much so that he’s willing to increase the distance between him and the bathtub.

After Abbie sufficiently traumatizes the cat, I’ll open the door, turn on the faucet, and return Abbie to bed. This time I make sure to tickle her a few times and maybe wrap a blanket around her to slow her down as I run to the door. I’m not letting her in the wet bathtub to say one last kitty goodbye.

I'm Late, I'm Late

I was running late yesterday morning. By “late” I mean “late compared to where I want to be,” not “late compared to where I usually am.” I’d like to have the kids up by 8am every morning. I wind up having the kids up no earlier than 8:15am every morning. It’s not ideal, but considering that I always put the kids down to sleep 15 minutes late at night, it all evens out.

After waking the kids up at their standard late time, we progressively fell further behind schedule, and I’m not sure how it happened. Maybe I had to turn the TV off after Abbie turned it on one too many times. Maybe the boys pulled one too many forks out of the dishwasher after I just loaded it back in the tray. Maybe those combined five poopy diapers took their toll. Or maybe the sleep deprivation is finally sending me into narcoleptic fits where I lose track of time.

Whatever it was, I finished my morning chores around 9:55am. This is significant because yesterday was Library Day, the day we travel to the library to hear stories. To comfortably arrive at the library for the 10:15 start, though, I generally need to start packing up the kids at 9:45am. Even though the library is only a three-mile drive from our home, I need a full half-hour to compensate for the shoes they’ll remove, the diapers they’ll poop, and the traffic lights that always turn yellow when I’m a half-block away.

I had a choice to make. I could rush the kids to the library and probably walk in late, or I could stay home and miss the kids’ only chance to cohabit with their peers for the week. I could take the kids to the library so they could run around the room not paying attention to the story while I tried to control them, or I could stay home and continue ignoring the kids while I did chores. I could heed all the advice I’d received over the past couple years to enjoy my children now because they’ll be grown soon and these years are far more precious than a clean home,* or I could lay in my death bed years from now wishing I’d built a built better relationships with my children when they were younger so I could have them by side as I drew my last breaths.

After ten minutes and a self-induced guilt trip, we were in the car. It was 10:05am, and I kept telling myself that I should be pulling into the parking lot right now to give me time to set up the stroller and lock the boys into it. I considered carrying the boys into the library, leaving the stroller and its time requirements in the car. Then I considered Abbie running around the parking lot and weaving between cars while my hands were too full of brothers to grab her.

As we sped along, coasting through green lights that I never hit, I reconsidered our time limitations. Maybe we would have enough time for the stroller. Maybe I wouldn’t have to hope that my voice would finally be enough to reign in our wanderer.

I pulled into a parking spot at, oh, about 10:13am. I immediately went to work, pulling out the stroller and locking the boys into it. I pulled Abbie out of her seat, and walked briskly to the door imploring her to hurry the entire way. She complied by weaving between a minimum number of cars in the lot.

As we approached the reading room, the door was shut, meaning the stories had begun. I opened the door while continuing to encourage Abbie to hurry, and heard them sing the opening song as we walked through the doorway. Abbie clapped along as we took off her coat, and I exhaled for the first time in about 30 minutes.

Since we were late, my usual spot in the middle of the room was filled. I hoisted the boys into a distant corner, expecting Abbie to follow. Instead, she remained at the back of the room paying close attention to the story. I kept staring at her, partly to keep an eye on her, and partly to call her to our location should she look at us.

Abbie stayed at the back of the room for the first half of story time. She wandered a little, but mostly she stared at the story leader, paying far more attention than she ever does next to me. About the time I started planning to abandon her at the back of the room ever week, she worked her way to my side so I could do the Beehive motions with her.

After the stories, the instructor made a point to compliment Abbie on how well she did. I don’t know if the praise registered with her, but I appreciated it. It’s good to know that rushing through most mornings and risking speeding tickets on a weekly basis is doing some good.

* “Clean” is a relative term in our home.

Screamer, No Screaming

Tory’s latest trick is screaming; terrible, anguished, therapy-requiring screaming complete with wild limb flailing. He’s throwing tantrums on at a level surpassing children twice his age. A variety of unpleasantries can spark these tantrums, such as closing the dishwasher as he’s about to remove a knife, closing the refrigerator as he’s about to chew on the ketchup bottle, and closing the bathroom door as he’s about to suck a soap bottle dry.

By far, the event that traumatizes him most is me setting him down. When I enter their room in the morning, I see two happy little men chatting away in their cribs, and usually a sleepy little girl wishing her brothers would knock it off. I walk to Ian’s crib first, hoist him in the air, and ease him onto the ground, giving his legs time to engage and support his weight. He quickly toddles into the kitchen and climbs into his high chair to hasten breakfast, or possibly just to search for Tasteeos lodged in the cushion from the last meal.

I then walk to Tory’s crib and hoist him in the air, watching the joy on his face as daddy rescues him. As soon as I begin to ease him onto the ground, though, his body tenses and a whine grows from deep inside his body. Like a car having transmission problems, I know something is wrong but I keep plowing ahead in hopes that the gears magically realign. Also like a car having transmission problems, things never work themselves out and we always quit moving right in the middle of a high-traffic area.

As soon as his feet touch the floor, his body goes limp and the whine becomes a fully accredited scream. If I let him go at this point, he will crumple to the floor in an abandoned pile of fury. I usually continue lowering him to the floor in hopes that he’ll be smart enough to catch himself before his nose meets the carpet, and he usually disappoints me. I might stand over him for a minute hoping this will be the time he realizes that he’ll be rewarded for following his brother into the kitchen, or I might give Abbie a break and pick him back up. Either way, I always wind up carrying him into the kitchen, only to repeat the screaming when I lower him into the high chair.

He’ll scream at other times when I set him down, this first in the morning scene is just burned in my head since it’s the day’s first exposure to him. Releasing him from his high chair is a big screaming occasion, as he has to simultaneously deal with being set down and being unable to eat anymore. Laying him on the changing table also tends to trigger a tantrum as he copes with the indignity of a diaper change. I used to think that Ian’s determination to roll over made diaper changes difficult, but that’s nothing compared to Tory’s furious flailings and rigid screamings. Setting him down in his crib also makes him scream, which has me searching for a way to set him down to sleep without breaking contact with him.

I deal with his screaming by trying to distract him. Maybe I’ll play with a toy or shove a couple Tasteeos in his mouth. The important thing is he learns to medicate his pain with material objects or food. Sometimes I ignore him until he calms down since I have two other children demanding my time, although they’re less furious about it. Occasionally I’ll pick him back up and do chores one handed for a while, though I try to avoid that since I have to trigger the tantrum by setting him back down eventually.

Abbie went through a similar stage when she was young. I believe hers lasted from birth until about 18-months, during which time I grew adept at doing chores with one hand. Her screaming lessened as her mobility increased, and she discovered that climbing on furniture was much more exciting than being confined in daddy’s arms. Maybe Tory will also calm down as soon as he can easily travel to more exciting activities, though hopefully those activities are safer than eating soap and playing with knives.

Snow Kids

We left the house on Sunday. This is significant because it was our first trip outside the house since Wednesday. Des Moines received a layer of snow and ice combined with high winds on Friday and Saturday. It was bad enough to close the interstates around Des Moines for days. This storm was preceded by apocalyptic blizzard predictions by the media on Thursday and Wednesday, so I along with most of the city was too terrified to leave home for fear that the mighty storm would encase our car in a sheet of ice and windblown snow.

By Sunday, the storm had passed, the winds were tolerable, and the sun was shining strongly enough that I didn’t have to clear my car windows. Most importantly, the kids were driving me nuts after days of weather that made the long walk to the mailbox too treacherous to embark upon. The sheer number of book pages they’d torn would drive anyone insane. So I threw shoes and coats on the kids, started the car to give it a chance to warm the engine juices that had been sitting for five days, and left for the mall.

Despite being homebound for five days, I didn’t need anything. Even in good weather, I never know when I’ll be able to restock our Vital Supplies. Having three young children makes any expedition requiring a shopping cart virtually impossible without adult help. If Ellie has a busy week, I might not have a chance to restock until the weekend. I’m used to keeping a healthy stash of Vital Supplies on hand. I’m limited only by the refrigerator’s space for milk and Ellie’s tolerance for my stacking cereal boxes in the basement.

Even though I didn’t need to do anything, I could easily make up a reason for leaving the house. As a routinely stuck-at-home dad, I’m good at making up reasons to leave home. It may be my only chance for live adult interaction during the day, even if that interaction is limited to curious stares and evil stares demanding that I get my kids under control.

My mall excuse was to return a few things to the store. In a stereotype-confirming dichotomy, Ellie is the shopper in our family, while I’m the saver.* These differences can tear some couples apart, but we’ve come to an agreement that lets us coexist: She gets to buy whatever she wants, and I get to return whatever I want. It’s a win-win situation that gives her the thrill of shopping, and me the thrill of getting a credit put back on the MasterCard.**

I returned the superfluous items, and enjoyed the ensuing credit-fueled endorphin rush. Obviously feeling too giddy for my own good, I then took the kids to the mall playground. This being the first decent day in a while, many other parents had the same idea I did.

The playground was packed with parents and toddlers,*** and I had to struggle to find a place to sit. Not that I had much chance to sit anyway. The kids made a game of moving as far apart as possible, and I had to keep moving to keep them all in my sight simultaneously. With so many children running heedlessly, and my children lacking any sense of self-preservation, I needed to keep an eye on them.

Eventually I discovered that standing next to the exit was best since Abbie and Tory were determined to escape. Abbie at least had the decency to run around for a minute before escaping again; Tory would immediately run back to the exit after I set him down like he was racing me out to the car. Ian was too overwhelmed by the commotion to escape, and spent much of the time crying when I wasn’t holding him because I needed to flip Tory around yet again.

After we all picked up a little exercise, we went back home. I think the kids enjoyed spending time outside the house, and I enjoyed containing them in an environment where they couldn’t break anything.

* Ellie might say “cheapskate.”
** It’s like I’m paying the credit card bill without spending any money!
*** It also had some post-toddler children, like that twerp middle-school girl who thwacked Ian going down the slide. Completely ignoring the fact that she was a half-dozen years too old to be on the playground in the first place, shouldn’t it be obvious by that age that you don’t go down a slide when a baby is standing at the bottom?

Signs

I woke up late this morning. As I stepped into the shower, I heard Abbie wailing. I ignored her since I needed a shower more than she needed out of her room.

When I opened the door to the kids’ room, Abbie was naked, having left a poopy diaper on the floor and a stain where she sat on the floor.

Some might take this to be a bad sign for the day when that’s the first thing you see. Our day wasn’t too bad, though. It was busy, but not too bad. The lowlight was the guy who almost t-boned me at a four-way stop when he blew past his stop sign, but “almost” doesn’t count.

Everybody Hurts

Every child bites. At least, I hope every child bites; all of my children bite, and I’d hate to know that my parenting has already gone horribly wrong.

I battled Abbie’s biting from about 10-months of age. I documented our battles in several riveting blog posts at the time that are currently only read by people searching the web for information on chinchillas or pee. She would usually bite out of boredom, because being carried by daddy isn’t thrilling enough without a little added danger that he might suddenly drop you. I used several highly recommended techniques for stopping the biting, including physical restraint, redirection, and time-outs. Of course none of that worked. The only thing that reduced her biting was the passage of time. I think around 18-months, her biting ceased as her mind matured to the point where she recognized that biting was an undesirable action. Either that or my mind matured to the point where I recognized and avoided situations where she’d bite.

Today, Abbie rarely bites, and it’s usually out of aggression. A typical situation is I’m holding her hand to lead her some place undesirable, such as into her room for a timeout or into her booster seat for a meal that isn’t macaroni and cheese. After vainly struggling to free her hand for a couple seconds, she uses my death grip against me and brings her hand to her mouth, rotating it to insert my most susceptible skin between her teeth. Telling her “no” doesn’t help at this point, so I have to let go of her hand and push her from behind toward that night’s leftover casserole. She also occasionally plays a game where she grabs my fingers and tries to put them in her mouth. I haven’t figured out the rules of that game, but I’m pretty sure that it ends with me being bit.

Otherwise, Abbie is a perfect angel as long as I’m only describing her restraint in biting and not her other characteristics, such as climbing on furniture. That’s good, because the boys are at 15-months and entering prime biting age.

The boys started biting later than Abbie partially because their 8-week prematurity gives them a late start on most milestones, but mostly because I don’t carry them nearly as much as I did with Abbie. Gone are the idyllic days when childcare could involve toting my one child on my shoulder as I completed chores. Now childcare involves rushing to finish my chores with two free hands while only one child is screaming at my feet.

Even though the boys enjoy fewer moments in my arms, they still find ways to creep close enough to chomp flesh. They tend to maul me when I sit on the floor, toddling up to my side, throwing their faces into my shoulder, and writhing in my lap. When close enough, they like to put their open mouth on my closest body part and see what happens. Usually I bounce that body part to make it difficult for them to latch on, but that also creates a challenging game for them. Sometimes I physically restrain or redirect, assuming that I have enough free mental power to devote to a non-screaming child.

I don’t sit on the floor often, though, usually only before naptime when I’m reading to them, or possibly when I’m procrastinating before starting a chore. If I’m unavailable, they’ll go after each other and Abbie. Abbie is talented and strong enough to shove them out of the way when they bite, so I’m not concerned about her welfare yet. Sometimes she will stick her fingers in their mouths, leading to her getting bit, so I am a little concerned about her mental state.

That leaves each other as the most vulnerable target. They like to tackle the other, position his open mouth over a body part, and chomp down. This seems to be out of boredom and experimentation more than aggression, so I’m not too concerned yet. I just separate them when I see someone move into the biting position. At least that’s what I do when I have enough free time to catch them. Otherwise, I comfort the crying one after the fact, and hope they mature past this soon.

Cat React

Few things are more special than the bond between a girl and her cats. The chasing. The laughter. The growling. The crying.

We have two cats, both of which entered our home before Abbie did. I’d hoped that would give them an opportunity to adjust to the children gradually, to experience and celebrate their growth as I do while admitting them into their lives. They might eventually curl up with the children at night, sleeping with them on their beds since we don’t allow pets on our bed at night due to the dog’s tendency to hog the bed and the cats’ tendency to fight all night.

Instead, they’re all aloof jerks that want the house back for themselves. They cats hide from the children most of day. That’s a shame because Abbie loves the cats so much that she hasn’t realized why they only come out when they think everyone is napping.

Charlie, our fat, anti-social cat, hides in the basement all day behind the safety of the baby gate. He emerges as soon as he hears the sleep time routine begin, and always looks startled when he sees that Abbie hasn’t been locked up yet. Abbie is always excited to see him, and chases after him yelling “ih-ee”* while furiously signing, “cat.”

Charlie waddles away to the basement gate before huddling in the doorway. He could hop the gate and return to the stairway’s safety, but he’s already hoisted his considerable girth over the gate once in the past few minutes, and isn’t about to exert that much energy again so soon. Instead, he gives her the kitty death stare, followed by growling and hissing. It might get worse than that, but I always intervene before she gets too close. I always know when she’s chasing the cat due to Abbie’s telltale sounds of stomping feet, “ih-ee,” and the occasional growling and guttural hissing. We could be in trouble when her future preschool teacher asks what sound a cat makes, and Abbie answers with “khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh.”

Cleo, our soft cat, prefers hiding upstairs. She may be more social, enjoying human interaction from a safe distance, or she may just want to stay upstairs where it’s warm. She likes to perch on the back of the couch, staring out the window and soaking up sun. This gives her a good vantage point to watch people when she’s bored enough, plus she can rest inside the kitty-groove she’s worn into the cushion.

The children can see Cleo much of the day, so she’s not as much of a novelty and they usually ignore her. The boys like her, but she’s far beyond their reach. Abbie can climb up to reach her after she tires of climbing on the entertainment center, but only after giving a few warning bounces on the cushions.

When approached, Cleo will also hiss, but she’ll bat at an outreach hand as well. She can’t hurt the kids with her paws, though, since she’s declawed.** After a couple harmless bats with those soft, marshmallow paws, she runs away, darting between the boys who may be on the floor, and the dog who’s been waiting for something to chase.

If our bedroom is open, Cleo will run onto our bed to curl up. I’ll oblige and shut the door to keep the kids out so I don’t have to worry about anyone stalking kitties. Otherwise, she runs downstairs. I assume she huddles with Charlie for warmth down there, moving only after Charlie disrupts their rest after hearing me implore Abbie to give her brothers good nap kisses.

* Translation: “Kitty.”
** We saved our children from potentially traumatic physical harm by putting our cats through definite physical harm, and we’re glad we did it.

Bedtime Escapes

The kids have a strict bedtime: 9:30. When the clock hits 9:30, I want to see them all in bed, with the lights off, as I walk out the door. That never happens, but that’s what I want to see. 9:45 seems to be closer to their bedtime, though they occasionally con me into keeping them awake until 10:00.

I’m in trouble if the kids are staying awake this late at this age. They’re still young enough that they should be easily browbeaten into bed. The clock hits 9:30, I shut the door, and the children fall asleep without a sound while in awe of my parenting authority. Instead, they find ways to sneak around later every night.

They usually kill time by wandering the house. I want everyone in the same room during tooth brushings, pajama dressings, and book readings. Instead, the children discovered that my sleep-deprived attention can’t possibly focus on all three during these critical moments, and they leave the room one at a time in search of pets to chase and unlocked cabinets to open.

Rounding up everyone for tooth brushings is least difficult since they like the baby toothpaste I use. Plus, the bathroom is usually a forbidden cornucopia of toys, many of which are small enough to fit in the mouth. I fight to keep them out of the bathroom most of the day, so an open door is often enough to entice them into the same room. I still occasionally have to round them up, especially Abbie since she’s learned that tasty tooth brushings and hurtful hair brushings happen simultaneously.

Next, I move into their bedroom for pajama dressings. The only one who comes with me is the one I carry. I set out their books for entertainment to keep them in the room while I focus on one child, but too often the one child I carried in the room escapes while I pull the books off the shelf. My usual routine now involves dressing one boy for bed, setting him on the ground, racing him out the door to find his brother, dressing him for bed, racing him out the door to find Abbie, and dressing her for bed.

The solution here is locking the children in their bedroom while I change them, saving me the trouble of finding them and the aggravation of finding what they got into. I can successfully accomplish that trick, but too often I can’t get all three of them in the bedroom until I start book readings. They’re too quick and uncooperative, and I’m too tired by this time. Plus Abbie is good at piling her books in front of the door so I can’t shut it without giving the boys a couple of focus-free minutes to pick up books ideal for toddling out the door.

Once I start reading, everyone tends to come together. Abbie will come running in case her brothers are receiving parental attention without her. The boys will come toddling because I’m sitting on the floor and in perfect position to bite. Occasionally I’ll have to interrupt reading to round up a boy or two, but at least Abbie stays by the books so I can use one hand on each boy if need be to keep them in the room long enough to shut the door.

By this time, it’s usually 9:30. I should pack up the books and put the kids to bed, but I haven’t read to them enough, and I don’t want to raise children with delayed language skills. We read for another few minutes as Abbie throws books in my lap and dictates which pages I will read. Meanwhile the boys roam the room in search of clean clothes to strew and electrical cords to chew.

Eventually, too often around 9:45, I get the books put away, the kids in the cribs, and myself out the door. Maybe it’ll get easier when I can just remind them that they need their teeth brushed, their pajamas adorned, their books read, and their lights off, and trust that they do it. Maybe they’ll just ignore me while continuing to watch television. At least then I’ll know they’re all in the same room.

Our New Toys

Here are the boys playing in the toybox. Ian is on the left. Tory is on the right.


The boys are standing up to look at the camera.


Ian is reminding us why it’s a good idea to always have a free hand ready to help them.