Sleeping through the Midday

Coaxing Abbie to sleep can be trying. She could be worse, like some of her peers I’ve heard about who demand to climb into mommy and daddy’s bed and/or want a slice of freshly baked chocolate cake before they’ll fall asleep quietly.

She presents some challenges, though, such as her desire to read one more book, say goodnight to one more pet, or grab one more burp cloth. One torn page, two frightened animals, and five burp cloths later, I realize it’s a half-hour past her bedtime. That’s when I shut the door, and then listen to her bang around the room for another half-hour before she finally loses consciousness.

Yesterday afternoon, she put herself down for her nap while I worked in the kitchen. This is a rare but not unprecedented occurrence; whenever she’s out of eyesight in the afternoon and I realize it’s been at least ten minutes since I last heard her scream, I know she’s probably asleep.

Her previous attempts at self-napping have been catastrophic. Since she shares a room with her brothers, we have to disturb her when they nap. No matter how quietly I tiptoe into the room, how gently I change diapers, how gingerly I set the boys in their beds, something always happens. One of the boys will always squawk, grumble, or even mrrph, and Abbie will inevitably stir from slumber a half-hour into her nap, rising and ready to break into the refrigerator just as I’m ready to take my nap.

Life is different now that we’re in our new house, our beautiful new house that’s big enough for Abbie to have a separate room. When I realized Abbie was asleep, I carefully shut her door and hoped for the best while enjoying the rare Abbie-free time with the boys.

Abbie was still asleep when I put the boys down. They mrrphed for a while before drifting off to sleep, but Abbie’s closed bedroom door muffled the noises. As the boys fell asleep, I took my nap. Then I made a snack and dove into the Internet while enjoying the silence from their room.

About 90 minutes after she fell asleep, which happens to be how long her nap is supposed to be, I heard rustling from her room. I opened her door, and out came a pleasant little girl, not the dervish screaming for supper I usually experience after her nap. I gave her a snack, turned on Dora, and enjoyed the rare boy-free time with Abbie.

Now that she’s three-years-old, this attitude might be sinking into her. At the end of tonight’s nighttime routine, I set the boys into bed while Abbie left their room, shutting the door behind her. I walked out, expecting to find her in the house’s furthest recesses, recesses that also happen to contain animal crackers. Instead, I heard rustling behind the closed door to her room across the hall. I opened the door to find Abbie in the dark. She was playing with a toy instead of sleep, but she at least went to bed on her own. I could get used to this.

Three!

Today was officially Abbie’s birthday. Three years ago this afternoon, she entered the world cold, naked, wet, and screaming, an atmosphere recreated at bath time tonight. Abbie’s real birthday party is Saturday, so we had a low-key affair tonight. It was simple, with a little cake, a little singing, and a couple presents to ease her into the toy glut she’s sure to receive Saturday.


This is the turtle cake mommy made for her. She didn’t want me to post this picture on the blog for some reason. I think it looks great. I like it so much, I made it my mobile phone wallpaper so I can share it with complete strangers.


Abbie is opening a present she received from her great aunt. It’s good to see that at three years of age, she’s finally gotten the hang of tearing wrapping paper off presents.


Abbie is ready to open the mailing box. That dazed look is because the camera caught her by surprise, or it may have something to do with the frosting she managed to get into her mouth instead of spread across her face.


It’s a Dora game! Abbie wanted to play with it all night, which probably explains why she screamed all through her bath and refused to go to bed. The second piece of cake she snuck might have contributed.

A Net Gain

Things I did today in our new home:

1. Emptied three boxes of stuff.
2. Put away my first load of clean laundry.
3. Moved a fish tank (just the tank and stand, not anything that actually goes in the tank).
4. Moved our frozen foods.
5. Cleaned the cat litter for the first time.
6. Carried the trash and recycling to the curb.

Things I need to do tomorrow in our new home:

1. Empty three more boxes of stuff.
2. Wash another load of laundry.
3. Move the fish.
4. Cook something from our frozen foods.
5. Make sure the cats are still using the litter box.
6. Carry the empty trash containers back to the house.
7. Find out what the kids are doing all day.

Moving Violations

After a hard weekend of work, I can now say that everything we need to survive is in our new house. Many of our essentials are even in the correct room, except for the laundry detergent in the hallway and the clean clothes scattered throughout the house. If you need a more specific location than that, I can’t help you right now.

Moving is like the world’s biggest excursion for Vital Supplies, like we just pulled into the garage fresh from the Big Box Store with an animal trailer* chock full of things. We have boxes and bags of allegedly useful stuff strewn everywhere waiting for someone to put it in its place. Now I just need to figure out where everything’s place is. I need to determine the optimal shelf for peanut butter, the best drawer for diapers, and the least offensive place to stash the cat litter.

We’re getting there, but we’re not done moving yet. Despite a weekend of hard work that mostly didn’t involve childcare, our old home is still full of things we want to move, and things we need to trash. Fortunately, we still have a couple weeks before we have to leave the old home, so there’s still time. Unfortunately, we still have a couple weeks of fumbling through the old home with no sense of urgency, instead of being forced to make the hard decisions about what to keep** and what to trash.*** All of the essentials are in our new home, though if I forget the cat’s litter box scoop one more day they’re going to begin expressing their displeasure all over our bed.

We made the move without any major mishaps. Except for the hole Adam put in the wall while moving a dresser. And the key Adam left in the truck’s ignition that wound up draining the battery. And the drainage hose on the washing machine that started leaking coincidentally after Adam helped move it.**** All of that is fixed now, except for the hole in the wall, but that’s not important. We only need to fix the superficial things like that before we move again, and that’s not going to happen for a long time, at least until the kids are old enough to help lift.

* Literally, we used a 20-foot animal trailer to haul things. Thanks, dad-in-law.
** My stuff.
*** Her stuff.
**** Special thanks to Adam for driving down to help us move. He was worth what we paid him, which was a sandwich and some pizza.

We're Movin' on up

We’re making a big move this weekend into our new house. I should probably stop playing on the computer and start packing the computer. Before I do, I’ll throw up some picture from our latest and possibly last trip to the park. No more updates until we’re living in a new house.


Abbie’s favorite part of the playground is the swings. That’s a scream of joy she’s giving. The boys are less enamored.


Here’s proof that she loves the swings.


With all the exciting equipment to play with, the boys’ favorite part is a tunnel full of rainwater.


When forced to leave the swings, Abbie will slide.


Here’s behavior #116,813,252 that I wish the boys wouldn’t do.

PS: Congrats to Patty (and Rob) on the new addition.

Toddlers, Feed Thyselves

The boys are 18-months-old. It’s time for them to step up in this household and accept a little responsibility. They’ve already taken strides toward independence with their mastery of holding sippy cups and peeing only when covered by a diaper. It’s time for them to add another job to their repertoire. Specifically, we’re making them feed themselves. I can’t always be around to help them, and even if could, I doubt they’d want me embarrassing them in front of their college roommates like that.

I responded to several cues in making this decision. First, I realized that I could save some time by running around the kitchen while they feed themselves instead of sitting down to spoon-feed them and running around the kitchen afterwards. That gets me out of the kitchen sooner after mealtime so they can more efficiently scream at me while I’m sitting on the couch instead of standing at the sink. More importantly, they seem ready. They’ve mastered the pincer grasp, they’re trying to use utensils, and they know they can dispose of any food they don’t like by giving it to the dog. Plus, they don’t like oatmeal anymore, and oatmeal was one of the last messy foods I’ve been feeding them.

A couple weeks ago, I left the long-handled spoons in the drawer, brought out the short spoons, and let them do what had been my work. Breakfast has been the easiest meal. I’ve left the oatmeal in the cupboard and poured a mound of cereal on their tray instead. They self-feed themselves the kibble, wash it down with milk, and I escape mostly mess free, although I have been finding frosted flakes embedded in my socks recently. Just because no meal can be totally mess free, I’ve been giving them banana for breakfast as well, but fortunately they haven’t discovered the joys of smooshing it yet.

Lunch is usually the messiest meal because I insist on giving them yogurt. I make it easier to eat by adding torn bread chunks to it to thicken it and give the pincers something to grasp, but they make a giant mess. Giving a child a vat of yogurt and checking the spread radius would be a great way to check the child’s flexibility. I’ve learned to accept the mess by relaxing my mealtime standards and removing their shirts before they sit. I insisted that Abbie remain fully clothed when she started eating. When I discovered that every shirt in her wardrobe was eternally tainted with at least two flavors of yogurt, I realized it wasn’t worth it, and I could teach manners later. Ever since, my kids have been topless for messy meals at home until they’ve proven they can stay clean.

Abbie can usually stay clean now for an estimated 60% of meals, and her messes aren’t usually too bad, so she stays fully clothed for meals. She still hasn’t mastered spaghetti, though, but she compensates for this deficiency by refusing to eat it. The boys have no such qualms and usually dive into it, as they’ve done for the past couple of nights. They eschew the spoon and shove handfuls of it into their mouths. When their fingers are too coated with sauce, they wipe their hands on whatever surface is handy, such as their trays, their hair, or their dog’s tongue.

Other suppers are less messy. They stay cleaner for macaroni and cheese, though that may only appear that way since the cheese sauce is more translucent. Taco meat coated with cheese makes a good toddler meal. Chicken nuggets work well, although they insist on shoving the whole thing in their mouths at once. They need to stop that since I can’t always be around to administer the Heimlich maneuver.

Breakfast for Two

The kids are sick. Barely. It’s nothing too stressful, just a little extra snot running from the nose, and a lot more screaming running from the mouth. I hardly notice the extra noise.

The cold led to a rough night for Tory, though. He woke up twice overnight, complaining furiously each time and unable to put himself back to sleep no matter how hard I ignored him. Each time he awoke, I eventually staggered into his room, picked him up, and watched his siblings toss themselves back to sleep after the screaming quieted. Each time I gave him ibuprofen to dull his pain and cold medicine to help him sleep.

The second dose did the trick, because he slept right through his wake time. While Ian and Abbie bounced around the room unfazed by the late night screaming, Tory stayed fast asleep. I pulled the awake children out of the room, and let Tory catch up on some of the sleep I wished I could get.

Soon after everyone sat down for breakfast, Abbie noticed something was different. She pointed to Tory’s highchair, disturbed by its emptiness. I explained to her that Tory was sleeping, and pointed to the closed bedroom door.

“Tory!” she yelled. “Come out Tory!”

I again explained that he was sleeping, but couldn’t help but smile at the cuteness of her concern. Her concern became progressively less cute as it degenerated into screaming, and then a full-bore tantrum. How dare I disturb the morning routine.

I consoled her with hugs, but the screaming continued. I tried reassuring her by explaining the situation again with no luck. About the time I seriously considered waking up Tory to stop the screaming, I heard him awake in his room anyway. I brought him out to the kitchen, and breakfast continued normally.

I’m in trouble if we ever send the boys away to summer camp.

Dear Abbie & Ian & Tory

I’m dipping into the comments for today’s post. This comment comes from frequent reader, occasional user of proper punctuation Adam:

More preliminary moving? How long is it going to take?

That’s a fair question. We bought our house in November, and have been moving ever since. We could move faster, but our lease on our current home lasts until June, so we might as well take advantage of the place while we have it. That way, any damage caused by our cherubs in the ensuing time will be to the old home we don’t care about, and not to our beautiful new house.

With a lease that runs until June, the smart thing would seem to wait to buy a house until, oh, June. That way we’re not paying for a house we’re not living in, although the thought of a vacation home is admittedly romantic. House hunting has nothing to do with intelligence, though. We found a house, fell in love with it, and bought it before it disappeared from the market, forcing us to find a completely different house to fall in love with.

Therefore, part of the reason we’re taking so long to move is because we can. With June approaching, we’re now tackling the task with a sense of urgency, a sense of “dear lord, how are we going to move all of this junk?”

Last time I checked, Adam is single with no kids. He has no concept of how much junk a child collects during the early, formative, new-wardrobe-every-three-months years. They have clothes, dishes, garments, toys, attire, books, and outfits, all of which we have to move because there’s no way I’m throwing them away after all the money we poured into buying them. Multiply that collection by three kids, add in two packrat parents, and it’s a miracle that we can still see the floors in our current home.

It’s bad enough that we have a backbreaking amount of stuff to move, but we also have three kids to deal with while we move. Those kids aren’t helping us pack boxes, either. They’re doing normal, preschool-aged things, which for our kids means climbing to dangerous heights and screaming when they touch the floor either because they fell face-first or an adult lovingly returned them to safety. Between coping with toddler meals, toddler naps, and toddler tantrums, we have limited time left over for moving.

We spend much of that "free" time on home maintenance. Our house isn’t sitting in pristine condition while empty. Some things are growing, some things are accumulating dirt, and other things are breaking after the previous owner haphazardly fixed them in an attempt to convince us the house was pristine. When I’m at the house and not on childcare duty, I can’t worry about unpacking boxes. I have floors to sweep, grass to mow, and green swimming pool water to quizzically furrow my brow at.

We’re making progress, though. We’re moving a few boxes here and there and starting to see shelves empty for the first time in years. Our goal is to live out of our new house by Memorial Day. Hopefully we’ll have everything out of the old home by then, but if not, no big deal since we don’t have to be out until late June.

It's 11:30pm. Do you know where your child is?

If there’s one thing I can count on my kids to do, it’s sleep through the night. That, and opening any cupboards I’m foolish enough to leave unlocked. The kids have a 9:30pm bedtime, and when I set them down for the night at about 10pm, they stay asleep until 8am. Or, at least they have the decency to refrain from banging on the door until 8am when they wake up early.

Not tonight, though. I set them down for the night, listened to them fall asleep, and listened to Tory wake up screaming an hour later. He woke everyone up with him, much to Ian’s dismay and Abbie’s delight. Ian thrashed around in his crib for a few minutes before drifting back to sleep. Abbie thrashed around the room for a few minutes, and then the rest of the house after she discovered I foolishly left the door unlocked.

I don’t know why Tory awoke. He might be getting sick, or he might’ve had a baby nightmare. Whatever the reason, I gave him some medicine and laid him back down to finally rest for the night.

After listening to him scream for a few more minutes, I picked him back up. We rocked and sang for a few minutes while Abbie ran roughshod around us, grateful for the stimuli. I set him down again, returned Abbie to bed, and wished everyone a good night as I snuck out the door.

Tory whined for a few minutes after I set him back down, but eventually returned to sleep. Abbie sang for a few more minutes, but eventually returned to sleep. I blogged for several more minutes, but eventually stumbled to sleep.

When experienced parents say these days fly by, it must be because they’ve repressed large chunks of time.

Abbie Trots

Abbie has started independently singing our “Trot to Boston” song. We sang this song extensively with her during her first year because it was one of the half-dozen activities we could do with her that wouldn’t make her scream.* We’d sit her on our knee, and trot her along while singing, thus providing her a healthy early dose of that roughhousing she enjoys today. We haven’t sung it with her for several months, so it’s an odd choice for her to randomly start singing. We don’t sing it much with the boys, mainly because their approved activities list is twice as long as Abbie’s was, but she might have overheard us.

Since she’s working independently, she has to provide her own bouncing. She hops along while singing, which is pretty cute. Then she gets to the part about the horse pacing. We move the child back and forth on our knee during this part instead of bouncing. Abbie recreates this back and forth movement with a whole body twist, complete with rump shake. That is very cute.

I’m tired and short on time after more preliminary moving today, so I’ll pad this post with the lyrics:

Trot trot trot to Boston
To buy a loaf of bread
Trot trot trot home again
Old trot’s tired**
Walk, walk, walk, walk (slow bounce)
Pacey, pacey, pacey, pacey (rump shaking)
Trot, trot, trot, trot (fast bounce)
Gallopsy, gallopsy, gallopsy, gallopsy! (as fast as the child can bounce without puking)

* Most of the other activities involved reading or eating.
** I believe the line is supposed to be “Old trot’s dead,” but conjuring the image of working a horse to death in a children’s rhyme seems like a bad idea to me.

Moving

We spent today working at our new house. We moved some things, planted a few things in the garden, and scooped a few other things out of the pool. Abbie spent most of the day screaming, ignoring our requests, and refusing to drink any milk. Shortly after we returned to the old home for the night, she started playing nicely, listened to commands, and packed away 15-ounces of milk.

Uh oh. She’ll get used to the new house eventually, right?

Things They Didn't Cover During the Walkthrough

Now that I’m a homeowner, I have to figure out the nuances of the house. I expected some of these challenges. For example, I have to find all the electrical outlets and figure out what all the light switches control (I’m still working on this).

Other challenges are coming as a surprise. One giant vat of surprise is in the swimming pool. I’ve never owned a swimming pool, so all aspects of pool maintenance are new to me. I have to figure out where each pipe goes, what each piece of equipment does, and how to find the perfect chemical balance that kills all the baddies without singing off hair.

I found a new problem in the pool tonight in the form of a squirrel floating facedown in the middle. I could ferret the thing out, but what was I supposed to do with the body? The neighbors get mad when a little water drains into their yard, so chucking it over the fence seemed like a bad idea. I could leave it in the street and hope no one performed an autopsy.

Of course, I did the responsible thing and threw the carcass in the trash. At least I think that’s the responsible thing. I’m still trying to figure out this homeowner thing.

This Week's Ice Cream Related Post

We had a rough evening last night. I mowed a lawn that was a few inches high, reaching a height known technically as “mosquito ambrosia.” Ellie worked hard cleaning some of the mess we created moving our mess from one home to another. The kids did what they always do, running, screaming, and pushing, but they did it with an extra zeal while their parents were busy mowing and cleaning.

We packed it in at 8pm (central), for that’s when American Idol started. Ellie is hooked on the show and must watch the entire hour of the results show, because even though they never reveal who’s going home until at least the last five minutes, they could drop some hints earlier in the show. Plus, she likes Maroon 5. I came inside from yard work more because of the waning daylight than because of the television. I’m ambivalent toward the show even though one of the finalists is the daughter of former NFL player Phillipi Sparks, and nothing with such a direct connection to football could be all bad.

After everyone worked hard at their jobs, it seemed the perfect time to go out for ice cream. We were tired, we’d burned off calories, and a massive amount of creamy sugar could be just the thing we need to calm our screaming children. However, Ellie’s show was on, and she was firmly planted in front of the television until 9pm (central). She had missed last week’s results show, possibly because we were getting ice cream, and she was not going to miss this show. Then I noticed our children running up and down the hall, and realized that it could be a bad idea to take them to an ice cream shop where they could have to wait in line for several minutes while other customers taunt them with the ice cream they already purchased.

My solution was to run to the shop by myself and return with ice cream, ideally before the announcement of the finalists or the meltdown of the children. The shop is less than two miles away, close enough for a non-breeder to walk, but I drove so I could return before the kids’ shrieks could drown out Ellie’s show. Plus, I feel it’s my duty as a new suburbanite to drive everywhere, including to our mailbox clear at the end of the driveway.

Before the second commercial break, I returned with two mostly-uneaten treats in hand: a sundae for me, and a Blitz* for Ellie. Notice I didn’t bring anything for the kids. That’s because they always make sure they find a way to get their fair share when ice cream is involved. Indeed, they barely noticed I was gone, but they certainly noticed when I returned, swarming my chair with mouths open before I could sit.

We doled out spoonfuls to the kids and ourselves at close to a 1:1:1:1:1 ratio. Tory mostly clung to my sundae, Ian stood next to Ellie’s Blitz, and Abbie bounced between us looking for variety. Tory is the greedy eater in our family, growing very angry if he realizes that his mouth had something tasty in it a second ago but is now empty. I eventually tired of him screaming and clawing at my leg every time I lifted the spoon to my mouth, and set down my sundae. After his tantrum passed, he noticed Ian was eating, and started competing for spoon time with him.

After finishing the ice cream, I gave the kids their bedtime milk. Much to Ellie’s surprise and doubtlessly the kids’ disappointment, I didn’t consider ice cream a suitable substitute for milk. We saw the final two contestants as they ate. The NFL player’s daughter made it through, so I have reason to take a passing interest in the show next week, too.

* A Blitz has candy pieces mixed into soft-serve in a way that’s completely different from a Blizzard just in case any copyright lawyers are trolling.

The More You Know

I noticed this warning on a box of Electrasol dishwasher detergent tabs:

KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN
CAUTION: HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED.
EYE IRRITANT.

That makes sense. Cleaning products can be nasty, poisonous stuff. The box also has this:

NOTICE: PRODUCT MAY POSE A CHOKING HAZARD TO CHILDREN UNDER 3 YEARS OF AGE.

To summarize: This is a dangerous product if swallowed, but if your child absolutely has to chew on one of these tabs, make sure he’s old enough to not choke.

Bonus Factoid: Comet is relatively non-toxic stuff, in spite of the fact that its name rhymes nicely with “vomit.” Don’t ask why we had to look at the label for its toxicity.

Another Day, Another Checkup

The boys are now 18-months-old, more or less. That can only mean one thing: It’s time for their 18-month checkup! That, and it’s time to start feeling guilty that I have no intention of potty training them any time soon.

We’ve been to so many x-month checkups now it’s not even interesting anymore. We show up, strip down (just the kids), and wait for the doctor. In the meantime, the nurse checks the kids’ vitals, and produces a checklist of developmental milestones that I already know about. With three kids, I’ve lost my competitive parenting edge; no longer do I strive to ensure my children achieve each milestone well before the average, non-Ivy League destined baby. I simply look at the list and marvel that some kids can kick a ball at this age. I can only imagine the banality faced by my neighbor with eight kids during these checkups. She probably just phones in their vitals and swings by the nurse’s station at her convenience to personally vaccinate her children.

Until I reach that level of parenting proficiency, I’m stuck trudging to the doctor’s office at progressively less frequent intervals. The boys go back in six months, and then they only have to visit the doctor once a year for checkups, though the visitations will likely increase once they start fighting and breaking bones.

I mostly pay attention nowadays to their measurements* and how this visit differed from the last visit. The first thing I noticed was Abbie playing with one of the toys in the waiting room. There’s a driving toy attached to the wall with several spinning features, highlighted by a spinning steering wheel. Turn the wheel, and the scenery out the window changes to reveal a rainbow, birds, and other motorists apparently angry that someone is doing cookies in the middle of an intersection. This toy has always been in the waiting room, but Abbie never paid much attention to it, preferring instead to run up and down the hallways. Yesterday I had to literally drag her away from it after she spent several minutes straight spinning every spinnable surface. This shows encouraging mental development on her part that she’s increasing her attention span, engaging more in pretend play, and realizing there are better ways to entertain herself than through physical activity.

Inside the office, the boys stood on the adult scale to measure weight instead of lying on the baby scale that could also be used to measure the gross weight of a box of Tasteeos for trade. No longer do they lay naked on the scale while we hope it settles on a weight before Old Faithful erupts. Now they stand on the scale wearing only a diaper while I hope the nurse settles on a weight before they’re distracted by a shiny light reflecting off the wall. Of course, this adds a little diaper weight, which may partially explain their latest weight gain.

While waiting for the doctor, the boys have found new ways to injure themselves, specifically playing with the electrical outlets. I used to only concern myself with them falling off high surfaces. Now I’m happy when they climb on chairs because it means they’re not trying to poke an electrical outlet. Hopefully the office staff outside the room realized that every time I yelled at a child, it was to stop him from endangering his life, and not just because I was frustrated that someone was jabbing a socket for the 485,287th time that morning.

The rest of the visit was familiar. The boys screamed the same after getting shots. I raised the same concerns about my children not talking. The doctor gave the same reassurances that it was nothing to worry about, that he/she would certainly be talking by the next visit at x+y-months. The suggestion that I sing to them was new, though. Maybe that was the problem with Abbie’s speech delay; I thought providing a loving home with frequent reading sessions was enough, but it turns out I should’ve sung to them more. That’s the kind of knowledge I need before I can start phoning in these checkups.

* Ian is 30.75 inches long, 22.5 pounds. Tory is 31.5 inches long, 24 pounds. Both continue approaching the average size for their peers. Yay.

Things I Never Learned in Driver's Ed

Driving Duties for the Solitary Driver
1. Control the vehicle’s speed and direction.
2. Operate the radio.

Additional Duties for Driving with Three Kids in the Backseat and No Adult Help
1. Distribute toys.
2. Run the DVD player.
3. Operate the radio, and not just the simple controls like “volume” and “tuning,” but the advanced controls that you have to push three buttons to access like “fade” and “balance” because one child wants the volume turned up while the other wants to concentrate on the DVD player.
4. Frequently adjust the air conditioning, including the vent direction.
5. Disperse snacks.
6. Referee fights.
7. Ensure everyone remains fully buckled in.
8. Coyly drink a soda pop so no one in the backseat realizes you have it.
9. Rearrange blankets for naptime.
10. Abruptly correct speed and direction when you realize you’re driving 20 miles over the speed limit or drifting halfway into the next lane.
11. Turn the radio up very loud and ignore all other noises when nothing else quiets the backseat screaming.

On the Road Again

We're out of town this weekend to attend a graduation, so no new posts until Monday.

Take My Place in Line ... Please!

You know it’s been a rough trip to the store when multiple people in the checkout line offer to let you cut in front of them. I’m still not sure if their intentions were purely altruistic, or if they just wanted my screaming children out of the store that much faster.

Wet Tory

Tory was wet when I pulled him from his crib yesterday morning. Normally when I say a child is wet, I mean his diaper is soaked almost to the point of leaking through the plastic shell.*

Here when I say he was wet, I mean he literally was wet. His legs were wet. His pajamas were wet. His bedspread was wet. His poor cow blanket was wet.

I’ve learned to minimize leaky overnight diapers with a few tricks. I use bigger size that theoretically holds more. I use the expensive diapers since holding back massive quantities of liquid is one occasion where price matters. I limit evening drinks because if it’s good enough to keep me from peeing several times overnight, it’s good enough for them. I change their diapers right before bedtime, even on bath nights when they already get a fresh diaper less than an hour before bedtime; all that bathwater they drink creates a massive output.

My tactics all but eliminate wet beds. Occasionally someone will wake with a wet spot, but it’s nothing cringe-worthy. Tory’s mess yesterday went beyond a leaky diaper. Everything was soaked.

At first, I was afraid that my months of sleep-deprivation had finally caught up to me, and I’d put him down for the night with no diaper. I quickly determined that he was wearing a diaper, but it had come unfastened at some point, probably about the time I buttoned up his pajamas. His diaper may have been the driest thing in the bed since it came undone so early. Finding his diaper reassured me that I could keep ratcheting down the minutes I spend asleep since I hadn’t suffered any adverse side effects yet.

With Abbie and Ian screaming at my feet for breakfast, I hurriedly prepared Tory. He got a clean shirt with no pants since it’s my kitchen and my rules. As everyone ate breakfast, I returned to the bedroom to begin cleaning. I had already considered washing laundry yesterday morning, but this sealed it with a very wet adhesive.

I collected the wet things, the damp things, the things touching damp things, and Ian’s bedding just for the heck of it. I rushed to the laundry room, started a load, and returned to the kitchen in time to hear the boys begin screaming at their now empty trays. I released everyone, cleaned a little, and felt Ian’s diaper. He was sufficiently wet.

*Normally when others tell me my child is wet, I’ll feel his diaper and realize that it can still hold several more ounces.

Picture Post

I need to take pictures of them fighting while it’s still cute. Ian managed to roll Tory in spite of his substantial weight advantage.


Here’s proof that Abbie has to be involved whenever there’s a camera around.

"You shouldn't pressure Bart like that." "Well, if you know a better way for me to live through your son, then I'd like to hear it."

When we bought our new house, I had a short list of things I wanted in the home: Good structural quality, multiple bathrooms, and a basketball hoop in the driveway. We found a house that seems to be in good structural quality in spite of the previous owner’s “improvements,” has 2.75 bathrooms that should ensure that at least the kids will always have an option, and, most importantly, a basketball hoop towering over the driveway. The only way it could be more perfect would be if it had a net behind the hoop to catch airballs before they sail into the neighbor’s yard.

As a high schooler, I spent many happy summer nights shooting hoops by myself in my parent’s driveway. It was a great way to exercise, plus it burned off some of that pent up energy that I wasn’t using for socializing. I like basketball, not that I’m any good at it. My sole experience playing organized basketball came in a fifth-grade YMCA league. I believe I made one basket all season, but I think I only shot four times, so that’s not a bad percentage for a fifth-grader whose teammates would (wisely) never pass him the ball. Despite my offensive deficiencies, I was always on the floor with the clock winding down, in crunch time, when the game was decided. That was probably because the league required everyone to play half the game, and our coach played his best players in the first and third quarters. Still, I was a difference maker in one when, after taking a four-point lead with seconds left, our coach told everyone to stand still, and I dutifully planted my feet and didn’t foul.

I want our new house’s basketball hoop so my children to relive my glory days. Plus, maybe I can get some exercise while burning some of that pent up energy that I don’t use for socializing. Our current home has a neighborhood basketball hoop in front of it, but I don’t use it. The hoop is in a parking lot, making it a less than ideal place to take the kids.

Last night, the kids were driving me crazy wanting to go outside. We’d just finished a weekend of heavy rains, though, and the ground was soaked. The backyard was a bog, and the swings were over a swamp. The only remotely dry area outside was in the parking lot, though I’d have to be desperate to take them out there with the potential for cars driving past.

Several minutes of unbroken screaming later, were we in the parking lot. Traffic was light on a Sunday night, and the lot has one entrance far from us. As long as I watched the entrance for incoming vehicles, and stayed alert for movement among the parked vehicles, we should remain relatively safe.

The kids immediately split apart when we stepped outside. Ian looked for hiding spots among the parked cars. Tory took off for a puddle. Abbie picked up an abandoned basketball and walked to the hoop. I followed her thinking she might want a lift to dunk the ball. Instead, she handed the ball to me, wanting to watch me shoot. I shot, missed, rebounded, shot again, and missed again. This time Abbie rebounded and brought the ball back to me. If only I had some to shag rebounds in practice for me in high school, my team might have won a game in gym class.

The boys quickly followed to the hoop to investigate all the ball movement. Soon, I had a triangle defense to penetrate. I kept trying to give the ball to Abbie. She kept pushing the ball back to me, so I kept shooting. I did lift Tory up so he could dunk once, so at least I could feel some bonding.

I never knew the pressure of taking a last second shot when I played, but knowing that a missed shot could likely bean an unobservant 18-month-old in the head added tremendous pressure. I moved in close when I needed to be sure I made it, or at least sure that I could rebound the ball before it bounced off anyone’s head. Sometimes the boys cleared out to search for puddles, and I’d step back for a try or two. I airballed most of those shots, so that net idea at our new house sounds tempting.

Best Illness Ever

Abbie is sick. Ordinarily, this would be cause for panic, or at least stress. Maybe we’d run to the doctor hoping for a magic elixir to eradicate the germs or at least lessen the symptoms. Maybe I’d treat her with a selection from our growing stockpile of pediatric medicines. Maybe I’d cuddle up with her on the couch and cry the night away with her since neither of us will sleep anyway.

Not this time. This time her illness is almost benign. No excess mucus. No vomiting. No general crankiness. The only symptoms she’s showing are a fever and general fatigue. I might want to wish to bottle up this germ and release it when I need an easy day if only such a thing were possible. Oh, and if that weren’t a horrible thing to wish for.

She’s been acting strange for a few days. She spent the past couple afternoons curling up in bed. Normally, the only thing she curls around during the afternoon is my leg in an attempt to drag me outside. Instead, I’ll find myself cleaning up after lunch with the boys playing under my feet, when I’ll realize that I haven’t had to investigate someone screaming for several minutes. That usually means she’s found a silent way to destroy something or otherwise misbehave. When I investigate, I’ll find her lying in bed, or possibly on the couch, looking like she’s trying hard to fall asleep.

I really knew something was wrong Friday afternoon when I found her almost asleep on the couch long before naptime. I sat next to her and kicked her off the couch to keep her awake and The Schedule intact. She immediately climbed into my lap and tried falling asleep on me.

I should’ve realized she was sick at that point since this very cute, very sweet behavior was totally uncharacteristic for her. I’m an oblivious person, though, even by guy standards, and I overlooked her fatigue. I chalked it up to not sleeping well last night, and continued with the day.

Friday night we went to the store for Vital Supplies with no adult assistance. I usually stress over this activity as I push the boys in the stroller and track which aisle Abbie just ran to while mentally calculating which toothpaste is the cheapest per ounce. Instead, she stayed by my side most of the time, responding to my commands the few times she wandered. Even when she ran off in the checkout lane, she had the decency to stare at a highly visible display a few feet in front of me.

The last cue I needed was Friday night when she climbed into bed immediately after brushing teeth. Normally she reads books before bedtime, but only after raiding the fridge, playing with toys, chasing pets, and otherwise running around the house to delay lights out. I checked her temperature, and found it hovering around 102.

I gave her a dose of ibuprofen and turned out her light at the earliest time in months. She slept well overnight, but woke up cranky a half-hour before wake time. I hurriedly prepared breakfast, and braced for a rough day.

Instead, I enjoyed my easiest day in months. Abbie spent a good portion of it lying down of her own volition. She laid herself down for a 45-minute nap in the morning, and slept for three solid hours in the afternoon. That’s almost twice as much napping as her brothers did despite them being half her age.

She was a little livelier last night after her marathon napping, but still fatigued and feverish. We repeated the ibuprofen, and again she slept well until waking up cranky a little before wake time. She seemed a little tired throughout today, but I think she’s almost over her illness now; she fought going to sleep tonight for an hour after lights out tonight.

"When you concentrate food, you unleash its awesome power, I'm told. That's why I'm compressing 5 pounds of spaghetti into one handy mouth-sized bar."

I imagine all toddlers have a list of about nine foods that they will eat. Any food not on the list goes onto the floor when offered. The parent must then pick up the food in many households, the toddler picks it up in more disciplinarian households, or the dog picks it up in our household. To be fair to our dog, she doesn’t so much “pick up thrown food” as she does “catch thrown food in midair.”

Abbie is no exception. There was a time when I could keep her busy at a restaurant table before the meal arrives by feeding her condiments, but now my only option is to hope that she’ll at least taste the pre-meal bread before flinging it to the ground in disgust. Where Abbie’s list differs from her peers’ is the food on the list. She shares some common foods, especially the universal toddler chow Goldfish. Her list has a couple unique items, though, like broccoli or bran flakes, in place of more common toddler foods, such as pizza or any kind of sandwich.

This is overall a good thing since I’d rather she eat broccoli than pizza. Broccoli is healthier than pizza, plus I can buy a one-pound frozen bag of it for $.79 compared to frozen pizzas that sell for at best $2 each and are often of a quality that makes even our dog hesitate before picking a thrown slice off the floor.

The problem lies in finding acceptable entrees. As great as broccoli is, it’s still a side dish. Abbie refuses to eat pizza or sandwiches, eliminating wide swaths from the canon of toddler main dishes. Too often, her suppers fall into some combination of macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, and ham. I try to introduce new foods, but they usually wind up on the floor and/or in the dog.

We have a few backup foods. Anything she can dip in ketchup usually works, though sometimes the ketchup is the only thing she technically ingests. Spaghetti is usually acceptable too as long as no meat gets in the way.*

Last night was spaghetti night. We had a few abandoned strands of spaghetti leftover from the last spaghetti night, so I broke up a few days of macaroni and cheese with ham by reheating the spaghetti with a fresh jar of sauce.

The boys ate their supper without complaint, or at least they limited their complaints to the standard issues: Being locked in high chairs, waiting too long after their nap to eat, and having to watch his brother get a forkful while he sits helplessly with an empty mouth. The food they liked.

Abbie was unimpressed with her meal. I sat her down with a plate of delicious spaghetti, and she screamed. I added a handful of Goldfish to calm her down, but she didn’t break her pace. I placed her milk on the tray, and she immediately threw it on the floor. I doubted that she’d calm down at this point, but I left her in place anyway just to see what happens. Maybe she’ll surprise me and start eating. Maybe she’ll live up to expectations. The worst she can do is throw her food, and that’s okay since I only gave her a little spaghetti.

Then she threw her food. The whole plate landed sauce first on the floor. I let her out of her booster seat, and she continued screaming. I believe this is what’s known in the parenting world as a “tantrum,” so I let her go. The worst thing to do with a tantrum is to give in, so I refused to give her anything else to eat.

Abbie screamed under my feet for several minutes, and I did my best to ignore it. Eventually she calmed down a bit and lied down on her bed. That was good since my nerves were running out, and I still had a lot of work to do. The leftovers needed put away. The boys needed out of their high chairs. The dishes needed washed. Thankfully, the dog already took care of the floor.

* Though I haven’t tried adding hot dogs to the spaghetti sauce. Hmm…

I Want My Lambie Blanket

Abbie still plays her fetch game while reading. That’s the one where she sees an object in the book, and has to fetch the corresponding object in real life. If she sees a dog, she has to grab her stuffed dog. If she sees a ball, she has to grab one of her many balls. If she sees a child cleaning her plate nicely at mealtime, she turns the page in search of something she recognizes.

She started the fetch game several months ago, I think picking it up during speech therapy. The therapists would try to make her say simple words such as “ball.” Being unable to make a “b” sound, she had two options: Focus all her energies on learning to contort her mouth into the proper shapes needed to speak the English language, or find a way to distract us. She still hasn’t figured out how to make a “b” sound, but she does know how to distract us by fetching a ball upon hearing the word.

Soon she was applying this principle to reading, fetching a ball when she sees a picture of a ball. This probably represents a milestone where she understood that pictures in books represent tangible objects, and aren’t just pretty pages for her to remove after repeatedly bending them in just the right direction.

She’s lost some interest in the fetch game recently. She’s found things to do with her books that are more exciting, such as reading them aloud. Not that she’s actually reading the words; it’s more like reciting the words that she remembers and making up sounds when needed, but it’s still a pretty cool trick for a girl who can’t say the word “baba.” She’ll still play it occasionally, though, especially when it involves stuffed animals.

Such was the case yesterday as we read one of our many books of first words. We turned the page to “animals,” and she started fetching. We point to the cat, and she fetches her stuffed cat. We point to the duck, and she fetches all three stuffed ducks that she’s commandeered even though two of them are supposed to belong to her brothers. We point to the lamb, and she rises to fetch her lambie blanket.

Except, lambie blanket was gone. In my zeal for running the washing machine yesterday morning, I threw her lambie blanket and the boys’ cow blankets in the wash. Washing them is perilous since the boys need them to sleep. I have to throw them in the machine on the days when I’m motivated to wash a load right after they wake so they’ll have time to dry before naptime. Considering the boys drool on them in their sleep, I should wash them frequently, but I’m not sufficiently motivated often, so I have to wash them when the opportunity arises.

Abbie cared naught for this; she wanted her lambie blanket. She can sleep without it, possibly because she sleeps with so many other plush objects that she’d never realize it’s missing. Point to a picture of a lamb, though, and her life stops until she finds lambie blanket.

I tried moving to the next animal, but she had no time for reading while lambie blanket was missing. Then I explained that lambie blanket was taking a bath, and it would be return to her when it was clean. This seemed to register with her as she slowed long enough to consider the logistics of lambie blanket taking a bath, maybe lathering up its hair, possibly using a towel to dry its blanket body. And then she went back to searching for it. Her baths never take that long, so its bath shouldn’t take long either.

She gave up after a couple more minutes of searching. She may have realized that lambie blanket’s bath was going to take a while. Or, a brother trying to read a book may have distracted her. Dominating the books is another favorite game of hers.

Know What I Mean?

You know what it’s like when your kid wakes up an hour early and refuses to go back to sleep? The kids are awake, so you might as well get breakfast ready. As long as the kid’s eating, you might as well round up laundry. Then you notice you’re out of clean pants, so you might as well wash a load. And as long as you’re washing one load, you might as well wash three.

Then a kid starts screaming while you’re deep in dirty laundry, so you ignore him because you know he’s fine. Then another kid starts screaming, and it only seems fair to ignore him too as long as you’re already ignoring one.

Then 45 minutes and four poopy diapers later, you’re finally trying to eat breakfast while the kids continue screaming at your feet. And as long as they’re already ticked off, you decide to ignore them further and do some deep cleaning that morning.

Then later that afternoon after a full day of screaming and limit testing, you’re down to one unfrayed nerve at best. When the kids go down for a nap, you take a nap, but you wind up crashing hard and wake up right before the kids wake up early from their nap. The kids are awake, so you might as well get supper ready, except the kids don’t like their supper, so there goes every nerve that might have tied itself back up during your nap. And now you’ve got an entire evening ahead of yourself that was just like the morning except you’re folding laundry instead of washing it?

That was my day.

How Low Is That Bar Set?

Transcript of a Phone Call This Morning:

Me: Hello.
Caller: Hi, is Ellie there?
M: No, she’s not.
C: Is this Matt?
M: Yes.
C: This is the doctor’s office calling to schedule a checkup for Ian and Tory. Do you want to schedule it, or do you want me call back when your wife is available?

I don’t mind that people assume Ellie is the children’s primary caregiver. The mother caring for the kids is by far the most common scenario in our society. Even I assume the mom is the primary caregiver. But, is it too much to ask that people assume I’m competent? I mean, I raised three children from infancy, and only once did I drop one on his/her head. That’s a .667 batting average, which is pretty darn good.

Mamas and Babies

Most children and politicians see things in two categories: Black and white. Either it is or it isn’t. It’s a toy, or it’s in the way. It’s edible, or it’s not. It’s okay to play with, or I’ll get in trouble for touching it. Many children are then able to add the subcategories of “not worth getting in trouble for touching it,” and “stuff as much of it in my mouth before I’m caught.”

Abbie separates things into mamas and babies. Give her two similar objects to compare, and she’ll proudly declare one the mama, and one the baby.

I’m not sure where Abbie picked up this habit. My best guess is from the book “I Love You as Much…” Every page features a different set of mother/child animals with the words “said the mother (animal) to her child, I love you as much as…” It’s a relaxing read that teaches children about animals while reinforcing a loving environment. These days she shuns it in favor of books about counting and/or dinosaurs, though there was a time* when we’d repeatedly flip through the pages, pointing out animals as we went. Eventually she realized that the big animal was the mama, and the little animal was the baby, and she’s applied that concept to virtually every comparative situation.

This habit is heartwarming when she correctly identifies a mother/baby situation. For example, the “Spot” books are about a dog named Spot, and his mother frequently appears in a supporting role. She’ll correctly name the baby Spot, and the mama Spot. Never mind that only the baby is named Spot, and he’s more preschool aged than a baby; that’s cute.

This habit gets a little weird when she sees a group of babies and declares one the mama. She has a book about puppies, and when two of them appear on one page, the bigger one is the mama. That’s strange, but I can at least understand the logic. I’m baffled by a Boynton book called “Barnyard Dance” when she looks at a page of identical chicks, and designates one specific chick that’s standing by itself as the mama. I guess mamas aren’t always part of the group.

This habit gets downright bizarre when applied to inanimate objects. When looking at triangles in a book of shapes the big one is the mama, and the smaller ones are babies. Not that her habit is limited to books. During snack time, the whole Goldfish are mama fishies, and the broken ones are baby fishies. While looking at my hands, she might call a big scratch “mama owie,” and little scratches “baby owies.” This is ironic since she’s usually personally responsible for many of those scratches.

The big mystery in this is where are the daddies? I’ve heard her call a big object daddy instead of mama a few times, but she usually defaults to calling every bigger object mama. You might think that a child with a male primary caregiver would be more cognizant of the father’s role in life, but nope. She just keeps happily plugging along with her mama and baby categories. Perhaps she would recognize and object as the daddy if it yelled at the baby for being in the refrigerator.

* And a blog post.