No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no more raisins!

The most exciting part about Abbie’s newfound talking skills is I know exactly what’s on her mind. I still have to decipher her mumbling, but once I do, I know exactly what’s on her mind. No longer do I have to guess what she’s thinking during breakfast. “There’s Ian and Tory?” “Hey, a Fruit Ring?” “Pass the op-ed section, I think I see a Leonard Pitts column?” Nope, I now know exactly what she’s thinking.

“No more raisins!”

Abbie gets a mix of cereal in the mornings. She gets Fruit Rings. She gets Crispy Hexagons. She gets Bran Flakes, which I swear she likes. She also gets a handful of raisins.

Recently, Abbie has been picking through her breakfast bowl, pulling out the raisins while leaving the Bran Flakes, which I still swear she likes. After a few minutes, she runs out of raisins, and exclaims her new catchphrase.

“No more raisins!”

She always says it with such surprise, too. It’s like she never expected her breakfast bowl to have a bottom, that it would always have another raisin hiding behind yet another Bran Flake.

Now that I know she’s out of raisins, I can take action. I can give her another handful of raisins. Or, I can ignore her since her exclamation is more of an observation than a demand. She’ll quickly move onto eating the cereal pieces in her bowl, even the Bran Flakes.

It’s encouraging from a language development standpoint to see that she’s applying her catchphrase to other situations. Whenever she runs out of something, she can exclaim “no more (blank)” with the same inflective surprise. The other day I heard her yell “no more fishies” after running out of Goldfish. Those I had to refill, because there’s no way she’s eating something disgusting like spaghetti without a Goldfish chaser.

Swing Swing Swing

I’m a homeowner now. Buying a house brings many responsibilities. I have to mow the lawn, paint the walls, and complain about my property taxes being too high. I’m also a father, which brings a separate set of responsibilities. I have to feed my children, clothe my children, and complaining about the money spent on food and clothing.

As a home owning father, I have a new set of responsibilities. I know I have to provide a safe environment for my children to enjoy on my property. I think I’m also supposed to start complaining about the schools failing to educate my children, but I’ll wait until my children start using them before doing that.

We used yesterday to create this fun environment for the kids. The safety is questionable, but it should at least be fun.

Last fall, we knew we’d move into a house in the spring. We didn’t know where we would move, but we assumed that our new house wouldn’t have a swing set for the kids to enjoy. Chances are we’d buy a house form an empty nester with a backyard that hadn’t seen a swing set in a decade, or at least a backyard with a swing set that hadn’t been maintained in a decade. With this in mind, we swooped into the area big box stores, and picked out a swing set that the store was desperate to unload. We bought it for a third of its original price, and stored it behind our apartment until we had a garage to fill.

I knew I needed something easy to assemble. I’m not a handy guy, and have only slightly more experience with tools than any of my children.* I saw those kits in the home improvement stores that include a few pieces of plastic, some fasteners, and no lumber. They still come in a giant cardboard box, presumably to make room for the instructions. Those were too complicated for me, but I still wanted something wooden, something that would look nice for any passersby who might look over our six-foot privacy fence into our backyard.

The set I picked out included everything we needed to assemble it. It had all the plastic, all the hardware,** and all the lumber. Most importantly, the lumber was precut, presealed, and (mostly) predrilled. I just had to unpack it and erect it in probably an afternoon.

When I saw the directions said the build time would take two adults “six to twelve hours,” I called my dad. He’s been through this before, he should know what he’s doing, so maybe we could set this up closer to the six hour mark. We arranged for my parents to visit this weekend.

When my parents arrived, my mom took the kids, and I took my dad to work. It took a couple hours to erect something that resembled a play set, and even when we did, we had a problem.


That top beam is supposed to be level. My dad is posing with it while I scour the instructions for hints.



After a couple hard shoves to the frame, we got it close enough.



A couple more hours later, we had a swing set. The frame wasn’t bolted together yet thanks to a missing washer, and we hadn’t bolted the slide down yet, but that didn’t stop the kids from climbing on it. Abbie knew what it was as soon as she woke from her nap, and tried swinging, hence why the swings are flipped on top of the frame in this picture. She then went for the slide, which we quickly bolted into place.



There’s the finished product, complete with slide, climbing wall, swings, and apparently a dog. It’s even on a sandlot to cushion the kids when they fall, because the properly mowed lawn that I’m sure to keep won’t be soft enough to keep them safe when somebody gets pushed off the slide.

* Or slightly less experience with tools than my children if you count the time they spend with their Learning Tool Bench.
** Except for one washer apparently. Jerks.

We're a Little Hoarse Now

Top Ten Exclamations from This Weekend

10. Stay away from the pool!
9. Get off the ladder!
8. What are you eating?!
7. No climbing chairs!
6. The drill is not a toy!
5. Stop pushing your brother!
4. Deer!
3. Don’t tear books!
2. That’s not level! (more on this tomorrow)
1. Go to your room!

Too Busy to Blog

The title says it all.

Everything's Coming up ... Noses?

Special guests frequently pop up on Sesame Street for some reason that has nothing to do with the kids. I doubt too many kids get excited watching Kelsey Grammer or Julianne Moore appear with their favorite Muppets, but celebrities keep parading through the show. My theory is they appear more for the parents’ sake, to keep them interested and remind them of a time not too long ago when they still followed popular culture.

I was watching Sesame Street with Abbie a couple days ago, and the special guest was Harvey Fierstein. A little shiver went up my back, and not just because he was singing show tunes. I don’t want my kids exposed to that. They could pick up some dangerous ideas from his lifestyle. I certainly don’t want my boys growing up to be just like him, you know, performing in musical theater. They’ll never make any money. And if they think they can sing professionally without a better voice than Harvey’s, they’re going to be disappointed.

SpeakingUpdate, April Edition

It’s been a difficult journey complete with plenty of crying from all parties involved, but I consider Abbie to be talking now. While some kids were stringing together sentences like “I want milk” and “I hate you,” Abbie was still signing. She preferred to just grab the milk herself, but she’d sign when forced.

Now she can say “I want milk.” She’ll only say it after I deny her access to the refrigerator, and then she runs to her room to throw a tantrum after I tell her she can’t have any more milk until supper, but at least she’s talking. After hearing rudimentary sounds at best for the first two-plus years of her life, I consider this a success. I can barely understand her clearest speech, but I’m confident the articulation will come with practice as she babbles endlessly, requesting every food item in the house until she finds an approved snack.

Now I get to worry about the boys’ speech. While some kids are stringing together words into simple sentences worthy of sending into one of those magazine sections about kids saying the darndest things, my 17-month-old boys are still doing what could generously be called “babbling.” They have no words, and their vocabulary is limited to a few sounds. They “ba.” They “da.” They “sha.” They also make noises with no value in the English language, such as a guttural “kkkkkk” sounds, along with a “bababa” sound where they use their fingers to manipulate their lips like Bugs Bunny does to indicate crazy.

I’m not concerned about their slow expressive language development. They’re doing exactly what Abbie did at this stage, and she turned out fine, where “fine” is defined as “capable of attending preschool at the proper age.” If anything, they might be ahead of Abbie at this age because they have such a fine role model to emulate.

Their receptive language skills are developing nicely. They understand simple commands such as “give it to me” and “get down from there.” Their memories are in good shape too, since when I yell “Ian” or “Tory” five seconds later, he remembers that he’s still not supposed to be climbing on that.

They’re picking up signs, which is impressive since I don’t have the time to show them any. They can sign “more,” which may be the first sign most children learn. No parent can resist giving more food to a child signing “more.” They’ve applied it to mean more of anything. More time outside. More books. Yet another clean diaper. They also use it when they see the milk emerge from the fridge, suggesting that I need to show them the sign for “some” since they need “some” before they can get “more.”

They can wave “bye bye.” They’ll wave when someone leaves, but they’ll also say bye to inanimate objects when they’re put away. Books get a fitting sendoff as they’re thrown in the book bin. Shirts also get a farewell when I throw them back in the dresser after they lovingly spread them across the floor.

They can do a few other signs. They clap on command, though Ian needs more encouragement than Tory. We’re working on “milk,” but so far it looks like “more.” Abbie never mastered the sign for “milk” either, so maybe the boys will develop just like her. Goodie.

They Screamed for It, But They Scream a Lot Anyway

Mama came home from work yesterday afternoon for a two-hour break. She had a gap between afternoon and evening shifts long enough to appease employment regulations, but not long enough to do anything much more meaningful than knocking off a couple backlogged shows from the DVR, and by “DVR” I still sadly mean “VCR.”

How did she spend those two hours? Did she watch television? No, there’s nothing good on in the afternoon and the VCR was filled with Dora and Sesame. Did she play with the kids in the park? No, we’ve had a lot of April showers recently, and they’ve left the ground swampy in some parts, and oceanic in others. Did she take a nap? No, she drove up and announced one of the greatest five-word phrases in the English language.

“Let’s get some ice cream,” she said.

The weather is warming up in Iowa, thus giving the local ice cream shops their opportunity to open. Ice cream is available year round in many Iowa restaurants, but most of these places sell ice cream as a side business, relying on sales from the grill to limp through the winter months. The local places with good ice cream, the places with character, the places that can dip cones into one of five different vats of hot waxy goo all close during the cold months. Finally, after a long hard winter of settling for Dairy Queen, we can visit the bushy-eyebrowed guy who runs the ice cream shop down the street.

We quickly loaded the kids in the car and drove to the shop. Even though it’s “just down the street,” it’s still three miles “down the street,” which is too far to walk with three children, two of which are unable to follow directions and the other one is unwilling.

I picked out a cone dipped in cherry wax; maybe next time I’ll get the peppermint wax. Ellie picked out a malt made with real strawberries. Abbie had a kid’s cone picked out for her. A kid’s cone is a wonderful creation offered by only the best ice cream shop. It’s small, making it easy to hold and limiting the potential for mess when the child inevitably dumps it on the floor anyway. The boys, unlike Abbie, are too young to realize they’re entitled to ice cream when we stop, so they got nothing until we returned home.

My cone was gone by the time we returned. Ellie had dented her malt. Abbie had thrown her cone on the floor. The boys had noticed something didn’t quite seem fair about the trip.

We pulled the kids inside, and mama finished her malt with the kids’ help. Abbie knew exactly what it was and sidled up to her open-mouthed, baby bird style. The boys were unfamiliar with it, and didn’t know what to do. Ellie offered them her straw, but they chewed on it. She spooned a little into Ian’s mouth, but he let it dribble onto his shoe, perhaps believing that its iciness meant daddy had forgotten to microwave supper again. Tory knew what to do with his first spoonful, though, and Ian quickly grasped the idea.

Soon, the malt disappeared, and our first trip of the season became a memory. We’ll move to our beautiful new home in about a month, so we might not make many more trips. We need to savor every waxy dip remnant that sticks in our teeth.

Blast from the Past

One of the most common pieces of advice I received when Abbie was a baby was to enjoy this time because it moves fast. I should enjoy every moment, because I’ll never get to experience them again. 20 years from now when I’m mature enough to be giving unsolicited advice to random new parents I meet, I’ll look longingly at these days.

I don’t remember hearing this advice so much when the twins were born. Maybe it’s because I didn’t go out in public, hence limiting my exposure to foreign germs and the unsolicited advice that goes with them. Maybe it’s because everyone could see I was up to my eyeballs in the glorious experiences of childcare, and I didn’t need someone pointing out that some day I might actually miss having three children simultaneously screaming at me. This ties into the other piece of advice I frequently received, which was not to worry because these days don’t last very long.*

Now that the kids are a little older and we’re fairly certain that we’re done having kids so long as that surgery holds, I can look back on some of the things I’ll never experience again. Most of those things I doubt I’ll miss, especially the things that happened between 8pm and 8am. No more preparing bottles. No more 3am feedings. No more diaper blowouts.

Funny thing about that last one. Turns out, we’re not done with diaper blowouts.

We took the kids out to eat last night. We’d spent the weekend working hard readying our new house for habitation, and wanted to shakeup our meal routine. Instead of grabbing takeout, we went to the food. Ellie’s father was visiting us, and with the kids in tow, that meant we went to the Chinese buffet, where kids eat free and the food can be at the table before the kids have a chance to spill their drinks.

Being away from his usual home all weekend must have thrown Ian’s system out of whack. He missed the usual pooping cues he sees throughout the day, such as daddy doing dishes or daddy sitting down to supper, and wound up with a backlog** of two days worth of takeout to process.

He processed it around dessert time. The diaper ordinarily distributes the load evenly until someone can catch wind. Unfortunately, he’d slipped down in the buffet-supplied high chair, giving the load nowhere to go but straight up his back. Ellie pointed this out to me by pointing to her shirt after holding him.

It took me a minute to remember what to do. The kids had settled into a usual pooping routine so long ago that I thought I’d never have to worry about blowouts again. I grabbed the diaper bag and hauled him to the restroom.

The restroom had no changing table, forcing me to use the floor. Do you know what the heat tables look like at a buffet? Now imagine what the restroom floor looks like. I placed a changing pad on the floor, which Ian avoided by scooting across the floor.

Luckily, I still had diapers that fit and wipes that were wet. Cleaning his skin was no problem. Cleaning his clothes was a different matter. We didn’t’ have a clean set, so I wiped them off as best I could and put them back on. Abbie had already finished her ice cream anyway, thus signaling that it was time to leave and he wouldn’t have to wear them much longer.

As we walked to the car, I prayed this was our last blowout. The kids are on regular schedules, so I should be able to catch poop before it spreads. We’ll start potty training soon, and we’ll never have to worry about blowouts again, just accidents. I hope the potty training days move very fast.

* Whenever someone longingly told me that time moves fast, my standard retort was “I hope so.”
** Ha!

Cleaning off the Camera

It’s bath night. Abbie won’t stand still for a hairdryer, but she’s a statue front and center when the camera comes out.


A responsible parent might be concerned that his child is climbing an upright folded folding chair. I was concerned about proper framing and lighting for Ian’s picture.


A responsible parent also might not let his child dive mouth-first into a concrete step, hence Tory’s scab around his mouth. At least he seems to be demonstrating the proper football hold with his sippy cup. He’s using both hands close to the body, just like I taught him.

How Busy Was It?

Today was so busy, Abbie's dinner vegetable was french fries, and I didn't even care.

Playing Catch Up

I’ve determined that I get to sleep for about two hours less than Abbie every night. When she sleeps for ten hours, that’s good. When she wakes up 90 minutes early like she did this morning, that’s bad.

Abbie makes up the lost sleep time during her nap, and that’s good. Her brothers don’t nap any later, and that’s bad. My routine-addled brain won’t let me nap any later either, and that’s bad.

Make Love, Not Germs

Life goes on when I get sick. The kids still do everything that kids do. They eat, poop, play, cry, and nap, usually in that order. I take care of myself as best I can, and let the kids do what they do, intervening only when someone is about to fall from someplace really high, or pull something from the refrigerator that’s really messy.

Life stops when the kids get sick. They still do everything kids do, but with a lot more crying at the expense of most other activities. The pooping, sadly, continues unabated.

The more the children cry, the more time I spend tending to their needs and the less time I spend horizontal on the couch tending to my sinus’s needs. With this in mind, I take every precaution I can imagine to keep the germs from spreading and ensure my illness dies in my body. Maybe the pediatrician was right when he responded with laughter to a question about preventing colds from spreading, but it’s worth a try.

The biggest preventive measure I take is no longer sharing food with the kids. They cannot eat off my plate; I have to finish my bowl of ice cream by myself no matter how much it pains me. They cannot eat my broccoli either. Usually I heap a pile of delicious steamed broccoli on my plate, and use the same fork I eat with to drop spears into my children’s open mouths as they surround me. I use the same principle birds use to feed their young, except that most people would find regurgitated worms more appetizing than steamed broccoli. Fortunately, my children understand the value of broccoli in balancing a diet that otherwise consists of milk, Goldfish, and whatever whipped topping they can sneak from the fridge while I blow my nose.

Now I dump the kids’ broccoli on a clean plate, and dish it to them with a clean fork. Doing so creates extra dishes to wash, and it forces me to protect two plates of broccoli from three sets of prying hands, but if it keeps my germs from invading their bodies, it’s worth the extra effort.

I also wash my hands more frequently now. That’s significant since I already washed my hands after every diaper changing, an estimated 849,530 times daily. Add a hand washing after every nose blowing, and I spend most of my day in the bathroom washing, drying, and refilling the soap bottle again. If my hands are no longer moist from the last hand washing, it’s probably time to return to the sink. All that soap makes my hands look and feel like I just spent all day buckling kids into car seats in the dead of winter, but it’s worth it if the germs stay with me.

I’ve stopped the pre-sleep kisses, at least on the face. No more pecks on the cheek, they now go within the hairline. Ideally, they go to the back of the head, far from any germ-receptive orifices, but still similar enough to human contact to minimize the need to talk to a therapist 20 years from now about abandonment issues.

Of course, none of this is effective. I occasionally forget which fork feeds which mouth. I can’t wash my hands constantly. My clammy breath still permeates their airspace.

Abbie caught my cold and is currently snotting up the house. Somewhere, a pediatrician is laughing.

Sorry Seems to Be the Easiest Word

Yesterday’s post was titled “I’m sorry.” Go ahead and check if you missed it. I’ll wait.

After slamming Abbie’s finger in the door, I held her while uttering, “I’m sorry” in between prayers that the bone was still intact. In between wails, Abbie would occasionally utter back, “I’m sorry.” That gives the phrase a double meaning, a writing technique employed by successful blogs with daily readerships numbering in the thousands. I tried borrowing the technique, but ran out of time to explain the title’s double meaning in yesterday’s post. That may be why my daily readership numbers in the tens.

Hearing my toddler say “I’m sorry” as she chokes back tears after my actions hurt her was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life, right up there with Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS. I was the one who was sorry. I should’ve watched the door hinge door to make sure no body parts were in the way as I shut the door. She had nothing to be sorry about, except for maybe disobeying my direct order to stay inside by rushing the door as I tried to close it, but she was just pushing her limits. As a toddler, that’s her job; just as it’s my job to note the ways my children hurt themselves and ensure that it never happens again.

I’m happy that Abbie is finally talking. I waited her entire life to find out what she was thinking, and it turns out she’s thinking about the things I say around her. Obviously, I say I’m sorry around her a lot.

Living in our tiny home, I frequently cross paths with my children. As I move between rooms, they might be standing in a narrow hallway, or in a doorway, or in the only passable stretch of the living room with the toys piled on all sides. I’ll say “excuse me” or some other polite mannerism that I wish my children would mimic. Naturally, that fails to register, and the children continue their business, usually competing in a staring contest with the crayon doodles on the wall. I could gently move the child aside, but I rarely have the time for such pleasantries since I’m in a rush to do something, such as comfort a screaming child after falling off a piece of furniture. Plus, I frequently have a load of laundry or possibly dirty dishes* occupying my hands.

Therefore, I blast through the passageway while repeating, “excuse me.” Sometimes I emerge on the other side without adding another screaming child to the household, but too often I bonk the child on my way through. Sometimes it’s with my foot, other times with my knee, and still other times with the laundry basket. The result is a near-fatal blow that can only be cured by more parental attention than the child who fell off the kitchen table is getting.

Fortunately, that tap on the shoulder doesn’t affect the memory. Abbie remembers that I say, “I’m sorry” after I bump her. She’s therefore interpreted “I’m sorry” as the proper thing to say when she’s hurt. When she trips running through the house, she says “sorry.” When the dog knocks her over on the way to bark at our backyard’s menacing wildlife, she says “sorry.” When the door hinge catches her finger, she says “sorry.”

If only she would say “sorry” after shoving her brothers to the ground. That might help dry their tears, thus preventing me from barging through the house while lugging laundry upstairs.

* Or sometimes both.

I'm Sorry

The weather is warming. Finally, after a long winter of listening to the kids scream from the boredom of being trapped indoors, I can let them outside. There’s so much to do outside, so many new things to play with, so many foreign objects to chew on. Even on the rare occasions when the kids start screaming, we’re outdoors amongst the trees and the traffic, also known as nature’s muffler, which makes any wailing more tolerable.

I don’t have to worry about screaming outdoors. The instant I move the kids indoors is a different matter. I pick up the children without complaint. I carry them through the doorway without complaint. I set them down on the floor without complaint. I shut the door, thereby clarifying their new status as trapped indoors, and they scream. All that time spent happily playing outside gave them a chance to rest their screaming muscles, and they unleash that pent-up fury with a tantrum almost potent enough to shame the door into opening itself.

Such was the prospect I faced yesterday afternoon. We’d been outside for a half-hour, and naptime was fast approaching. Actually, the time to go had already approached and passed like raisins through the digestive tract. I was stalling. The kids were playing so nicely, and I knew the instant I shut the back screen door they’d revert to howling monsters. So what if they were a few minutes late going to sleep? My lingering head cold didn’t help my motivation either.

Ian motivated me to move by chewing on sidewalk chalk. Sidewalk chalk quickly dissolves into a potent, rapidly spreading dye when mixed with saliva and tooth enamel. I knocked the chalk from his hand and carried him into the house. Abbie was bouncing on the trampoline, and I told her it was time to go inside as I walked past. I returned for Tory, and again told her it was time to go inside. She continued bouncing. I returned for Abbie, and found her still bouncing on the trampoline, except now she was jumping on the end opposite from the stairs.

After braving the bouncy surface, I carried Abbie indoors with her brothers. I still wanted the dog inside, so I held the screen door open with one hand, held the children back with one leg while they fought to return outdoors, and called for the dog. After much calling, I finally coaxed her through the mass of children glomming the doorway.

My one leg couldn’t hold the kids back much longer, so I pulled the door shut while making sure they didn’t get any appendages caught. No feet under the door as it closed. No fingers in the doorway as it closed. We’re good.

Everyone immediately screamed. Ian stood back and screamed. Tory screamed while flinging himself at the door, probably giving himself something else to scream about when he hit the door face first. Abbie just stood and screamed like she was in pain. I double-checked the door joints. No fingers in the doorway. No feet under the door.

Uh oh, her finger’s in the hinge.

I opened the door, and she yanked her hand back. I the brief flash before she pulled her hand to chest, I saw her left pinky looked suspiciously crooked. She was screaming, but not a pained scream. She screamed a staccato scream, as if to say, “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

I comforted her for several minutes until she calmed to the point I could examine it. It didn’t look broken, but it was badly bruised. I gave her ibuprofen, but couldn’t get her to stop screaming, though. The pain must have been intense, but other factors were at work to make her cranky. Naptime had officially arrived. My head cold was invading her sinuses. Her brothers had been screaming next to her the entire time.

We went through the naptime routine while she continued whimpering. By the time I put her brothers down to sleep, it was a half-hour past the incident, yet she was still crying. I debated taking her to the hospital, but decided to try coaxing her to sleep. After much gentle singing and encouragement, she fell asleep with little more complaining.

I told mama about the incident when she came home. Before I could say “slammed shut,” Abbie woke screaming from an hour nap. Mama looked at her finger, and immediately took her to the hospital. It didn’t look any worse, but the door had broken the skin over the bone, and that’s very dangerous if there’s a break.

They returned with ice cream, soda pop, and good news. There were no broken bones, just a cranky toddler who could only be calmed with sweets. Now we just have to watch for an infection.

Adding Insult to Illness

Why does DayQuil/NyQuil instruct you to take it every 4 hours, but not more than 4 doses in a 24 hour period? What am I supposed to do for the other 8 hours of the day?

Go With Me on This

Driving through a flooded street can be fatal to your car’s engine. When driving through deep water, your engine’s air intake, usually intended only for taking in air, can suck up water. If this water works its way to the pistons, the engine is likely a goner. Pistons are used to squeezing air with a little fuel mixed in, a concoction that compresses nicely. If a piston tries to compress water, something that generally doesn’t compress, bad things happen, like the bending of metal pieces that had been calibrated down to the hundredth of an inch. If this happens, the car stops. The engine can’t be repaired, only replaced.

My head feels like I just drove it through an eyeball deep river of snot. The sinus pressure is killing me. If only I could replace my head.

Happy Birthday

Today is grandpa’s birthday. That means it’s time for one of us parents to run around selecting gifts and cards to show grandpa he’s loved and mailing them in time to arrive for the big day, while the other parent continues with life, not knowing that father-in-law’s birthday is approaching and only dimly aware that the other parent seems more frantic than usual. My dad is having the birthday, so it’s my responsibility to run around.

Finding a gift is the easy part. Situations like this are why Al Gore invented the Internet. I simply waited until the children’s screaming quieted to an ignorable level, logged onto the computer, checked a couple sports websites, and shopped for an appropriate gift that says “I love you” without saying “I spent too much on you.” That’s much easier than ignoring my screaming children in the mall. After a few more clicks and a quick check for any late-breaking sports news, grandpa’s present was on its way to his house. I didn’t have to do any wrapping or shipping myself. I did, however, have to explain that when the website says his present will arrive in 4-6 days, he might not receive it until a few days after his birthday.

Finding a card is the difficult part. Under ideal circumstances, it’s tough looking through potentially hundreds of cards to send just the right message: A subtle jab at his age without referencing awkward concepts like beer or babes (or studs). With three children tagging along, finding the right card is nearly impossible.

Being the jaw-droppingly cheap man that I am, I shop at the discount greeting card store. They have cards for as little as $.49. After a few more postage rate increases, the stamp to mail it will cost more than the card. They’re so cheap, I send several cards, hoping that high quantity makes up for the poor quality sentiments conveyed by the cards, which are probably the reason they wound up in the discount greeting card store.

I bought three cards, one from Ellie and I, one from Abbie, and one from the boys. I know I should send a card from each boy to help foster individual identities, but, meh, I’ll worry about that when they’re old enough to choose a card.

Abbie is old enough to choose a card, but she hates the greeting card section. She prefers running around the store, poking at the party supplies they also sell, and looking for candy stocked within her grasp. After much prodding, holding, and screaming, she finally grabbed a semi-appropriate card. It has an anthropomorphized fish on the front to grab her attention, and on the inside read, “Don’t make a fool of yourself this year. Happy birthday.” I think this was in the “humorous birthday” section, though it may have come from the adjacent “surreal birthday” section.

I threw it in the stroller, and checked for a more adult and possibly humorous card. I found one that almost made me smile, added it to the stroller, and wheeled the boys to the “grandpa birthday” section. By this time, Abbie was eyeing bags of $.99 candy covetously, so I grabbed the first boyish, schmaltzy card I found, and rushed to the register before she could tear into something.

I wish I could give my dad something from the kids, but they’re still too young to add much. I try to send a drawing from the kids, but the best I can get is a few doodles from Abbie, and maybe some drool stains from the boys. I had her scribble in her card for a little personalization. Then I added the message “Abbie liked the fish on the cover” to explain why he got it.

Yep, Still Sick

My plan to nip whatever illness I have in the bud didn’t work. I think I’ve got what Ian had last week. I have few definite symptoms, just a sore throat and general grumpiness. I should get some rest, so I’ll throw out a quick post:

The Best Thing That Happened Today: We visited the mall playground. Abbie made perhaps her first ever friend. A girl about six months older than Abbie grabbed her wrist when we arrived, and spent the first five minutes running with her around the playground. It was adorable, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that Abbie was just using her for the Nerf ball in her hand.

The Worst Thing That (Almost) Happened Today: On the way to the mall, I was making a left turn. There were two left-turn lanes, and I was in the inside lane stopped at a red light. When the light changed, I started my turn. About halfway through the intersection, I noticed the car turning from the outside lane turning too sharply and drifting into my lane. The drifting driver slammed on her brakes and blasted me with her horn, apparently for getting in her way. I stopped too, looked to my right, and saw a 70ish-year-old lady, looking angry, and, of course, giving me the finger.

Sick Again

I've been feeling pretty good for almost a week. That means it's time for me to get sick again. I'm going to bed at a relatively decent time in hopes of nipping this sore throat in the bud.

"Look, Pop, I'm planning some expert home repairs and I need a pair of bolt cutters, or wire cutters, or something to get the lock off my toolbox."

We went out as a family last night. In an ordinary week, this would only be blogworthy if I’m scraping the bottom of the idea barrel.* Due to work obligations, last night’s excursion was our first chance to leave the house as a family for several days. Work obligations will also keep us from leaving the house as a family for the next several days.

When faced with our only excursion opportunity in a week, we have to take advantage of it. What did we do in such exciting circumstances?

Did we eat out? Yes, but nothing exciting happened at the restaurant. Ian did however stuff about two chicken nuggets worth of shredded meat in his mouth at once, apparently terrified that a sibling would steal his stockpile. He’s a fast learner.

Did we shop for clearanced Easter merchandise? Yes, but that was dull. All the good candy was gone, leaving us to search for goodies among the pastel-colored crunchies, and the chocolate eggs that could only wish they were made by Cadbury. It did give Abbie a chance to practice her counting as she snuck ten bags of chocolate eggs into the cart, holding up another finger after each successful drop.

Our exciting stop was at the hardware store. This was one of those giant warehouse style hardware stores filled with lumber, pipes, fixtures, and other things to remind me that I have no carpentry, plumbing, or electrical skills. I like to stick to the light bulb section in these stores since they’re the only things in the store that I know how to use and install, although some of those new halogen bulbs look complicated.

Ellie wanted to buy new light fixtures for our new home. The home already has light fixtures, but they need replaced because they’re hideously ugly. At least that’s what Ellie tells me; I have no taste and would be happy with a bulb dangling from the ceiling by its exposed wires as long as it turned on and off with the light switch and kept the sparks to a minimum.

Since I have no decorating or installation skills, my help wasn’t needed. I took the kids off on a magical trip through the store to dream about the wonderful home improvements that could be if only we had the time. And the money. And the knowledge.

Unfortunately for a child, the hardware store is possibly the World’s Most Boring Place.** Aisles of things that I couldn’t touch, and I had no idea what they were for. At least, that’s how I remember it as a child, which maybe explains my current ignorance.

We found a couple ways to pass the time. We stopped at the doors, and I let Abbie play with them for a few minutes. I loved this section as a child. There are so many doors to open: Screen doors, pocket doors, sliding doors, French doors. Sometimes I could open a door, step inside, open another door, and walk out into the next aisle. It’s like an amusement park’s fun house with super bright lighting.

This entertained Abbie until she heard beeping in the next aisle. She ran over there, and I ran with her to keep her from being run over. A forklift was moving some pallets off a high shelf. The children were instantly mesmerized: The beeping, the whirring, the strength of a machine far beyond anything daddy could do. It was so powerful nobody ever told it when to go to bed. We stood back and I humored the kids while they sat slack-jawed, rivers of drool forming on their coats. When Abbie started trying to hop the fence that kept shoppers out of the aisle, I knew it was time to leave.

I found mama,*** and fortunately she was finishing. She’d chosen a pendulum fixture that will look fantastic in the living room. Or maybe it’ll go in the kitchen. The important thing is she tells me it’ll look fantastic after somebody with electrical skills installs it.

* Although to be honest, I do scrape the bottom of the idea barrel in an ordinary week.
** Mom and dad’s closet is the World’s Most Exciting Place.
*** By the way, Abbie loves to say “mama.” That should’ve been #1 on the list from a couple days ago.

"Hello out there. Anyone. Can someone call an ambulance, I'm in quite a lot of pain."

Bedtime is a struggle in our house. That’s not surprising since we have three kids who like to do their own thing, and none of those things involve sleeping. When it’s time to get ready for bed, I can count on the kids to scatter throughout the house like stars in the solar system, determined to maximize the light years between them and anybody who might drag them to bed. I have a hard enough time laying my body in bed; I don’t know why it would be different laying my offspring in bed.

Such was the case Saturday night. I pulled all three children into their bedroom. I pulled out the book bin to entertain them. The television was off. The refrigerator was locked. The cats were still huddled downstairs in terror. They had no reason to leave the room.

I lifted Ian onto the changing table to dress him for bed, and the other two promptly left the room. Tory wandered into the living room to play with the toys he’d ignored for most of the day. Abbie strolled into the kitchen, searching for food left within her reach.

Dressing a child for bed is a multi-minute process, much of that time spent without a diaper. I’ve found it’s best to finish dressing a child before answering another one’s cries. I need to cover those orifices with a diaper before they leak, and then I need to cover the diaper with pajamas before someone, probably Abbie, pulls it off. By the time I zip up the pajamas, the complaining child usually quiets anyway after moving onto a different toy or discovering a long-forgotten Fruit Ring.

When Abbie started crying as I removed Ian’s diaper, I didn’t pay much attention even though I heard something fall. She probably just knocked something on the floor, and was frustrated that a cream filling hadn’t spilled out.

When Abbie’s crying hit the “I’m in pain” level as I strapped on Ian’s new diaper, I didn’t pay much attention. She’d probably wedged herself behind the table trying to reach a fallen raisin’s final resting place.

When Abbie’s crying hit the “I’m very badly injured” level as I zipped up Ian’s pajamas, I started to get concerned. I set Ian on the ground and hurried into the kitchen. Sure enough, she was on the ground under the table, but she wasn’t pinned. She was just screaming in pain.

I quickly figured out that she’d fallen off the counter trying to reach some food. Most likely, she lost her balance while standing on the back of a chair. My initial fear was that she’d landed wrong on an extremity, but from the way she held her hands over her lips, she’d obviously hurt her mouth. Plus, the blood pouring from her mouth was a pretty good clue of the injury’s location.

It took a minute to calm her down to the point I could examine her mouth. I spent the time singing and holding her while searching for something better to catch the blood than one of our shirts. I found a burp cloth as the screaming backed away from frantic, and checked her mouth. I was afraid that she’d knocked a tooth out or maybe badly cut her tongue. After a little medical training-free probing, I found the source of the bleeding on the inside of her cheek. I looked like she’d bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and opened up a sizable wound when she landed. Good, I didn’t have to worry about reattaching a tooth or part of her tongue. I just had to worry about possibly getting her stitches. At 9:30pm. On the night before Easter.

I held a couple different burp cloths on the wound to create pressure as best I could on a sub-three-year-old. Over the next 15 minutes, I watched the bleeding go from terrifying, to alarming, to disturbing, to abundant, to manageable, to pinkish, to almost nothing.

Convinced that she wouldn’t need stitches, we finished the bedtime routine. I gave her a dose of ibuprofen instead of toothpaste, but otherwise the bedtime routine was the same. There was no sense upsetting her night anymore than it already was.

She fell asleep relatively well that night, possibly worn out from the all the agitation. I did a few things in the aftermath to manage the situation. First, I threw her blood-soaked shirt in the wash immediately after shutting the door, and succeeded to washing away the considerable blood stains. Next, I gave her another dose of ibuprofen when she woke up six hours later. Then, I watched the wound over the next several days to make sure it didn’t become infected. It swelled up the next day like, well, like somebody had popped her in the mouth. The swelling went down as time passed, and it looks like we’re in the clear.

Finally, and this is the important one, I’ve upgraded “standing on the chair” from “bad idea” to “major no-no.” I don’t think my stern warnings have sunk in yet. Even more disturbingly, Tory has started climbing on the chair. At least he can’t climb onto the chair back yet.

First Words

Abbie’s Top Ten Favorite Words to Say:

10. Sesame (as in, “I don’t want to watch Sesame Street, I want…”)
9. Dora
8. Dog
7. Cat
6. Darth Maul
5. Basketball (I’m sure she’ll master “baseball” soon)
4. Sorry (not that she ever uses it at the appropriate time)
3. Owie
2. Outside (as in, “I don’t care how cold it is, I want outside”)
1. Fishie (as in, “I want Goldifsh”)

Happy Easter

Tory is collecting his eggs. Those soccer balls on the floor are eggs.


Having collected all of his eggs, Tory is off to Abbie’s room to collect her eggs.


Abbie plays with one of her Easter goodies, a light-up spinning toy, while Ian watches. The toy is already broken.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I have an alarm clock set for 6:45am at my bedside. I’ve always used an alarm clock to wake me, except for those thankfully brief weeks when I could rely on one or more infants to wake me.

My alarm clock is a little flakey in that some mornings it refuses to work. I don’t want to work some mornings either, but I drag my butt out of bed anyway. About once a week, I’ll shake off the sleep long enough to check the clock, and see that it’s already after 7am. That kills my morning and forces me to rush prepare for the day. Even though I never roll out of bed until after 7am anyway, I need that solid 20 minutes of lying in bed to convince myself that (1) it’s time to wake up, and (2) the kids aren’t going to choose today to sleep in for the first time ever.

I swear I check my alarm every night before falling asleep. The clock’s is set for pm. The alarm is set for am. The radio is tuned to a station. The volume is set to an appropriate level. The alarm is set. Yet, too often it doesn’t sound.

Sometimes the problem is clear. I know the alarm was set when I fell asleep, but it’s off when I wake up. Obviously, gnomes are sneaking into our bedroom at night and turning off my alarm while I doze an arm’s length away.

Other times, the kids are the problem. I usually keep the kids out of our bedroom, but sometimes I have to work in there, such as when folding laundry, or when watching a sporting event that’s too pivotal to watch on the living room TV with its buttons at optimal toddler-pushing height. I can’t leave them unsupervised in the house, so I bring them in the bedroom with me while I watch the game on a set elevated far off the floor. My alarm clock is one of their favorite things to play with, right up with my sock drawer and Ellie’s underwear drawer. Since I’m too engrossed in the importance of my work, I usually don’t notice what they do to my alarm clock. They can change the clock time, alarm time, volume, tuning, or do all of the above and unplug it. Usually I notice their changes right away, or at least before falling asleep. Then there are the times I wake up and see the clock still flashing 12:00 at me.

I’m sensitive to unusual morning stimuli because of the possibility that I missed my alarm. If I notice anything odd, I wake up. If it’s too bright out, I’m up. If I hear faint or odd music, I’m up. If I feel like I’ve slept for more than seven hours, I’m up.

Early this morning, my eyes popped open when I heard odd music. My initial fear was that I’d been listening to a faint station for several minutes after the kids retuned the radio yesterday, but I quickly realized it wasn’t time to wake. The sun had barely cracked the horizon, and I was ridiculously under-refreshed instead of my standard dangerously under-refreshed.

I gathered my bearings enough to realize the sound was coming through the baby monitor. After collecting a couple more bearings, I recognized the music as coming from a toy train. I must’ve left it in their room last night, and Abbie, who snuggles with everything when sleeping, apparently rolled over on it in her sleep.

It woke both of us up, and she was not pleased. She knew it wasn’t time to wake yet. I didn’t want to risk waking anyone even more, so I waited for the song to finish. It did, and she eventually grumbled back to sleep. I never thought to check the alarm in her room before going to bed.

Grocery Getters

Ian? Still sick. Abbie? Still two-and-a-half. Tory? Still self-centered. Time to take everyone grocery shopping!

Due to Ellie’s work schedule, last night was my last chance to buy groceries for a few days. Oh sure, I could’ve taken all three kids to the grocery store with no adult help. I wouldn’t make it past the produce before they kicked me out for bringing multiple screaming children into the store. That assumes I didn’t get arrested first on child endangerment for (a) leaving Abbie to run about the store alone while I loaded groceries into the cart, or (b) leaving the boys alone in the cart while I chased Abbie about the store. Ellie’s presence gives an extra set of hands to calm screaming children, plus an extra adult to divert the authorities while I finish loading the cart before anyone can get our names.

Ian has been doing worse at night, and I knew that. He whimpers in the morning, whines in the afternoon, and screams at night. I would’ve loved to leave him at home to scream, but everyone needed to go shopping. Ellie needed to pick out a few snacks to bring to work, plus I needed to replenish my lunch apples, and I can’t trust anyone else to pick out non-bruised fruit for me.

Ellie loaded the boys in the stroller and pushed them about the store to keep them entertained, while I took Abbie and the grocery cart. The boys were content while the stroller moved, keeping the array of sugar/fat/salt infused, candy-colored items at their eye level flying past. As soon as they stopped, though, someone started screaming, possibly because he realized the crinkly-wrapped snack food was just beyond arm’s reach. Ellie did many laps around the aisles to keep things quiet.

Abbie and I didn’t fare as well. She’s always been a handful in the grocery store. Up until about 4-months, I could trust her to sleep in her carrier while I shopped. After that, I needed to carry her while shopping with one free hand to keep her entertained. By a year-old, she was too heavy to carry throughout the store, so I strapped her in the cart seat and shoved toys in her face the entire trip to keep her entertained.

Now, Abbie is too big to fit in the cart seat, and I’m still trying to figure out how to keep her entertained. I let her run outside the cart, but whenever I stopped, she tended to keep moving. By the time I figured out which peanut butter had the lowest sugar and found the corresponding 25-cent coupon, she was in the pasta aisle. I found her holding a box of elbow macaroni, about to tear into it in search of the cheese sauce that always accompanies macaroni.

I put her in the cart, hoping the ride would entertain her. Instead, she derived entertainment by crushing the strawberries, at first inadvertently by marching side-to-side, but eventually she discovered them and started poking the package in hopes of popping a couple in her mouth.

I returned her to the floor and ran with her. I didn’t stop to pick up anything, but instead knocked items into the cart as we sped past. This worked well until we reached dairy and I needed to pick out the correctly flavored yogurts from the line-up of regulars, lites, whippeds, lo-carbs, fruit-on-the-bottoms, and pro-biotics. By this time, Ian was screaming, probably because Tory kept kicking him from behind, and Abbie wouldn’t stand still. I locked Ian in my cart’s seat, and Ellie took Abbie and Tory out to the car while I finished shopping. This worked well because I could keep Ian entertained with toys, and our screaming children left the store before an employee could catch up to them to ask us to leave.

Raiding the Refrigerator

Our beautiful new house has many fine features for our children. It has a large yard to play in, separate bedrooms to provide privacy, and a carpeted staircase to cushion the landing when someone falls. Perhaps most critically, it has a refrigerator with side-by-side doors. We’ve already placed a “childproof” door lock at the top of the doors, about six-feet off the ground. Even though Abbie can undo the lock, she can’t reach it,* ensuring that the refrigerator stays shut.

We don’t live in that house, though, not for a few more weeks while we remodel. In the meantime, our current refrigerator remains protected by a “childproof” door lock positioned within her reach. Abbie is taking full advantage of this flaw in our security system.

Abbie’s current favorite snack is whipped topping. Yesterday I ran downstairs to switch a load of laundry. When I walked back up the stairs 63 seconds later, she had the tub of whipped topping in one hand, and spoon in the other hand, and the tub’s lid in her teeth after having just removed it. If I had taken 68 seconds downstairs, the lid would’ve been on the floor and she would’ve had at least two spoonfuls of non-dairy goodness in her mouth. As it was, her brothers were swarming the exposed topping, eager to dig the hands right in, or their entire faces if needed to ward off a sibling or two.

I can’t be too critical of their love of whipped topping. When I was a child who was old enough to know better, I sat on the floor in front of an open refrigerator on more than one occasion, and ate raw whipped topping with my fingers. Ellie has similar memories, although with her being a dainty girl, she used a spoon. Now, the kids are giving it back to us in the ultimate revenge: Children who are just like us. I imagine parents who smoke face similar problems in keeping their kids away from tobacco.

When she wants something to drink, she goes after milk. She usually doesn’t grab the gallon jugs, possibly because she’s learned better, but probably because I usually keep sippy cups of milk ready in the refrigerator. She knows which cups have her milk and which ones have her brothers’ milk, and grabs them accordingly.

I often hear her fumbling with the lock, followed quickly by her walking past with the appropriate sippy cup hanging off her lips. The other day, I heard her fumbling with the lock, followed by her repeatedly yelling “een.” When I found her, she was holding a boy’s sippy cup, offering to Ian (“een” in Abbie-ese), who was in my arms. She had thoughtfully given Tory his sippy cup already.

I also keep the refrigerator well stocked with fruit. Abbie has grown adept at looking behind this fruit to find the good stuff, like yogurt. From a health standpoint, there are worse things to eat than yogurt, such as whipped topping. From a cleanliness standpoint, there’s not much worse. The gallons of milk would be worse if they spilled, although that at least stays on the floor while the spilled yogurt habitually finds its way to the television screen.

Being a dainty little girl, Abbie generally has the decency to use a spoon after raiding the yogurt. Being a 2-year-old, though, she has the spoon proficiency of a marmoset on peyote. By the time I find her, yogurt is usually fused to her shirt, in her hair, on the furniture, and likely in a few other places that I’ll discover when we finally move. Hopefully I can keep the yogurt off the carpet in the new house.

* Unless she stands on a chair, but then the chair would block the doors from opening. Bwa ha ha ha!

Everything I Need to Know I Learned at the Pediatrician

We went to the doctor yesterday for Ian’s illness. This is the common parental reaction when a child is sick. Not that we went to the doctor at any point over the past month as nasty bugs swarmed their sinuses. Maybe I’m an abnormal parent. Ellie, the normal one, therefore became involved, and ordered us to the doctor. She saw that he has an ear infection, and that can lead to serious consequences if left untreated. It can also lead to 7-10 days worth of yummy bubble gum flavored amoxicillin.

I learned several things on yesterday’s visit. First, the soonest I can reach the doctor now is about 9:10am, so don’t make appointments for earlier than that. Like a 13-year-old girl headed to a Sanjaya Malakar autograph appearance, I was determined to leave the house early yesterday morning. I shoveled food into everyone. I wiped bottoms with super speed and alarmingly low accuracy. I attached shoes without taking the time to ensure everyone wore their own shoes. I still needed over an hour to leave the house.

Second, make more appointments for Tuesdays. For some reason, I usually wind up with Monday morning appointments, a time when the waiting room is full. Literally, tens of people pack the waiting room on Mondays after they or their whiny kids came down with something on Saturday. These people had to deal with it all weekend, and couldn’t wait to see the doctor. Since my whiny kid came down with his bug on Monday, I walked in on Tuesday to an almost empty waiting room, and therefore, almost no wait.

Third, we’ve reached that exciting point where Abbie starts saying embarrassing things. As we waited for the receptionist to check us in, Abbie kept pointing to crud stuck on her desk and exclaimed “dirty.” This discovery could’ve happened in a more embarrassing occasion, such as Abbie incorrectly labeling something/one a dog. Nevertheless, I doubt the receptionist appreciated Abbie pointing out the poor job that she or the janitor did in scraping off that gum last month. She probably appreciated me encouraging Abbie’s language skills even less.

Fourth, even when you’re certain it’s an ear infection, it might not be an ear infection. Ellie checked Ian’s ears and saw fluid. The pediatrician checked his ears and declared them normal. Irritated, but normal. He speculated that it was something viral. Ian has few symptoms now, just a fever and general grumpiness, but soon he’ll show more symptoms such as vomiting and diarrhea. Goodie.

Fifth, if you want to make a doctor laugh, ask him what you can do to prevent a disease from spreading between children. I did, and he almost doubled-over, straining to explain that once a kid is symptomatic, it’s too late. Just keep everyone comfortable and hope for the best. If things get worse, come back. Maybe then we can get some bubble gum-flavored amoxicillin.

BONUS RANT

When a network calls itself Nick Jr., why do you need a doctorate in space-time mechanics to figure out their schedule?

My DVR listings say “Dora the Explorer” is on at 8am central this week. My newspaper listings say “Dora the Explorer” is on at 8am central this week. Nick Jr. says “Dora the Explorer” is on at 8:30am this week.

A couple days ago, they displayed a message at the bottom of the screen during the credits for “SpongeBob SquarePants” at 7:59am saying that “Dora the Explorer” was next. They then showed “Go, Diego, Go!” a minute later. Not even people who work there can figure out their schedule.

I Almost Saved Enough to Buy a Music Track

It’s my first full day back in town. One-third of my children are sick. Dirty laundry is piled in still-unpacked suitcases. The microbial colonies in the bathroom gained strength in our absence.

With all of this work and more vying for my attention, I carved out a few minutes to run to the grocery store yesterday. I had a coupon for $.80 off a half-gallon of milk that expired at midnight. Like toothpaste hiding in the last recesses of the tube, those coupons are too valuable to waste, so we piled everyone into the car for a quick trip.

As the kids age,* I find it harder and harder to leave the house for errands. I used to be able to strap the boys into infant carriers and know exactly where they were while I chased Abbie to get her ready to leave. When they graduated to car seats, I could leave them on the floor in the kitchen while I scolded Abbie for pulling her shoes off again. Now I have to prepare everyone to leave, and slowly herd them to the door simultaneously, frequently breaking progress when one separates from the pack. It’s two steps forward, one step back, except that step back is more of a lunge to catch Abbie as she runs after a kitty. Considering that I can spend more time preparing the kids for the trip than I do on the actual trip, it’s tempting to stay home and enjoy the kids, or at least enjoy the newspaper while the kids play with objects that probably aren’t choking hazards. We’d run out of milk if I never left the house, though, plus car rides make a nice break in the day. When it comes to competent parenting while using minimal brain activity, nothing short of naptime can beat a car ride.

I’m working on a new trick to speed the process of leaving the house. I used to carry the kids out the front door and into the car individually, allowing one child outside at a time to minimize the risk of runaways. Now I just open the front door and let them go. Since everyone congregates by the door as soon as I put their coats on anyway, it’s easier than fighting to keep them inside the house. I then grab the front-runner and strap him in while the other two make their way from the door. Ideally, they’ll walk directly to the car as the boys now have the mental capacity to follow such directions. Even in the worst case when they bolt down the sidewalk, I save time by racing to strap in each child before a sibling wanders away.

Getting the children into the car is always eventful. Yesterday’s journey to the grocery store was not eventful. I only needed milk, along with anything else I could find a reason to buy so I wasn’t making a trip to the store solely for eight sippy cup’s worth of milk.

Do we need more graham crackers? No. Can I find space for another box? Yes.

The twins attracted attention as usual. One of the managers remarked at the “double trouble.” I smiled and continued trying to keep Abbie away from the balloons in the floral department. You’d think I’d have a good response to him since he says “double trouble” every time he sees us.

At checkout, the cashier saw the boys and told me one of their managers just had twin girlss. Silly comments I brush aside, but I’ll listen to genuine twin stories. Her twins were a week old and about 2.5 pounds. I did the math and realized those twins must have been about the same age as my boys. I told her the girls would be in the hospital for a couple more weeks, but would be home and healthy soon. She nodded and smiled, for if I could correctly guess that they were in the hospital, surely I was right about their health.

I grabbed two grocery sacks worth of excuses to leave the house, and returned to the car. I needed to return home since I now had groceries to put away on top of the laundry to sort and a bathroom to clean.

* Or possibly as I age; I haven’t figured out which.

Not Again

About a month ago, I made a passing reference to Abbie being sick. It was no big deal, just a little head cold. It was enough to give her a runny nose and cough, and maybe a little extra irritability, but I could deal with her; she was no more insufferable than an average toddler.

Since then, the cold bounced to the boys, me, the boys again, and back to me. Through it all, Ellie has remained healthy, and the only thing snotty about Abbie is her attitude around snack time. I was sick, tired, and irritable, but I dealt with it and never took it out on the kids unless they really deserved it.

Finally, the boys’ noses dried, and my sinuses quieted. My throat soothed. My headache eased. My box of tissues lasted for more than two days. By tomorrow, our house would be as virus free as a freshly reformatted hard drive.

And then Ian came down with an ear infection.

I should have known something was wrong while we were out of town. Ian woke up yesterday morning early and grumpy. I assumed he was off his routine after 48 hours of choosing between a Pack ‘N Play and his car seat for sleeping quarters. He never cheered up that morning, not for grandpa, not for grandma, not for grandma’s Jell-O Jigglers. He wasn’t screaming more than usual, but he was sullen and unhappy, like he’d go Goth if only we’d let him wear eyeliner.

We packed everyone in the truck after lunch, and I expected Ian to sleep most of the ride home. He slept for the first sixth of our three-hour drive. By the grace of God, a Sesame Street DVD, and a bunch of Fruit Rings, we returned home without too much screaming.

Ian fell back asleep just before we arrived home. Again, this was unusual for him to take two naps on a three-hour ride, and again I attributed it to fatigue. I left him to sleep in the truck as I unloaded. He awoke about the time I unloaded their booster seats. I brought him in the house with the seats to play alongside Tory as I prepared supper.

Tory played his usual game of “What’s in the cabinets?” while Ian opted for “How hard can I scream this time?” The object of this game is to scream as hard and as long as he can, and try to beat that time on his next breath. I would’ve loved to console him, but my two relatively calm children were losing their patience waiting for supper. I dumped him in his crib to let him scream in safety while I microwaved a meal. Of course, he was asleep by the time the microwave sounded its final beep.

Ian awoke about the time Tory and Abbie finished their supper. I strapped him in for his meal, and watched him refuse sustenance. He thrashed in his seat, and spit out anything I managed to land in his mouth. Tory was happy to eat his leftovers. I was concerned about his well being, but chalked it up to the missed routine.

Ian spent last night alternating between screaming and sleeping. I managed to coax a cup of milk into him just before bedtime, and set him down for the night eager to see what a good night’s sleep could do for him.

This morning, his attitude had improved, though he was still sullen. He ate well all day, but never looked happy doing it, not even for blueberry yogurt. He also didn’t nap well, which finally gave me the smack upside the head I needed to realize something might be wrong.

When he woke for supper tonight, he felt warm, and was unhappy. He ate, though he degenerated into an inconsolable mess immediately after finishing his milk. Mama took his vitals, and found a moderate fever and a swollen ear. Again, he spent most of the night alternating between screaming and sleep.

We’re visiting the doctor tomorrow unless he wakes with a giant grin that says “April Fools!” I don’t expect the doctor to give us anything to help, but at least we can document the ear infection. Maybe he can at least tell us how to finally kill this thing going through our family.