Party Planning

On our last grocery store trip a couple days ago, we purchased all the ingredients we'd need for a Super Bowl party. Mommy wanted to make Chex Mix for the party, and asked how much cereal we'd need to purchase. I told her not to worry, that we already had unopened boxes of every crispy cereal that she'd need.

That next day, the boys decided they wanted to snack on one of the key ingredients: Crispy Hexagons. I dutifully opened our only box, and gave them a handful. When they continued swarming me, I gave them another handful. When Abbie joined the swarm, I gave her a big dish of hexagons and told her to share with her brothers. With everyone distracted, I set the box on the countertop to preserve the rest of its contents for mommy's baking.

Unfortunately, I wound up being distracted a few minutes later. I don't remember what pulled me from the room, but it was, probably potty related. I had left cereal box on the countertop, which is beyond the boys' reach unless they pull a chair up to the counter.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found a chair at the counter. The boys were huddled on the floor, triumphantly stuffing their faces with the contents of the cereal box they had just dumped on the floor.

We may need to make another trip to the grocery store before Sunday.

Missing You

Abbie spent this morning at a doctor’s appointment, and missed preschool entirely. I wrote a note to her teachers that she would miss school today. The teacher wrote back, “I’ll miss her.”

Also on that note was a report on her day. It included this: “Abbie went to time out for non-compliance (hitting teacher).”

I’m sure that they missed her, but maybe not that much.

Otherwise, They Were Perfect Angels

What the Kids Did to Get in Trouble Today:

- The usual hitting, biting, and scratching.
- Ian dumped his bowl of cereal on the floor.
- Someone broke Abbie’s beloved Dora soap dispenser.
- Tory dumped a box of cereal on the floor.
- Someone sucked dry a new tube of toddler toothpaste.
- Ian threw a soap bottle in the toilet
- The boys climbed a chair to grab a biscuit off a tray fresh from the oven
- Undeterred, the boys pulled another chair up to the stove to get a biscuit.
- Abbie threw a cup full of Kool-Aid.
- The boys dismantled the humidifier.
- Ian threw his cow blanket in the toilet.
- Tory unrolled a roll of toilet paper.
- Abbie ate no prepared meals, preferring to roam the house with large bowls of snacks instead.
- Ian removed his diaper and peed on the area rug.
- Abbie insisted on “one more thing” several times before bed.

PottyUpdate

Abbie peed on the potty several times today.

Tory pooped on the potty tonight.

Ian pooped on the potty tonight, got up, sat on the other potty, and pooped again.

I’m not ready to potty train three kids at once.

Riding the Tornado

One of the banes of Abbie’s existence is the spiral tube slide. These things are commonly seen on playgrounds with their completely enclosed appearance rotating down to the ground, opening usually into a pit of well-worn sand.

These spiral tube slides seem to terrify Abbie. Part of her problem is she doesn’t like enclosed spaces; if we take her into any dark, tight space, she’ll scream. Another part of her problem is probably the spinning motion of the slide sends her careening downward with no idea of what’s going to happen until the lands ungracefully into that pit of well-worn sand at the problem. I suppose her biggest problem is that we once forced her to go down a spiral tube slide.

I think we were visiting the Kansas City Zoo and a large indoor children’s exhibit. They had a two-story spiral tube slide as part of a tree display. I thought she would have fun going down the slide, and since we needed to go downstairs anyway, I encouraged her to try it. When she resisted, I physically encouraged her to try it. I don’t know what happened on the way down, but it involved a lot of bumping and she slid out facing a different direction than she went in. I need to remember this story in case she needs to work her way through the memory with her therapist in a few years.

For whatever reason, Abbie isn’t fond of spiral tube slides. When we visited the fast food restaurant playground this afternoon, Abbie encountered her enemy at the top. The playground had plenty of other equipment to entertain her, but Abbie spent much of her time sitting at the top of the spiral tube slide, staring into the abyss. She alternated between looking like she wanted to try it, and looking around for something else to do.

A girl who was pushing the upper limit of the playground’s age restrictions saw her conundrum, and gave her a hand. She sat Abbie in her lap, and slid down the spiral tube slide. Abbie looked terrified when she popped out, but as soon as she realized she was still intact, she rushed back to the top. The older girl followed her, and helped her down again. And again. And again…

When the older girl had to leave, Abbie returned to the top of the spiral tube slide by herself, but she wouldn’t go down. I sat at the bottom slurping my fourth drink refill and encouraged her to try sliding down. About the time I was ready to fetch my fifth refill, she gave it a try.

When she hit bottom, we cheered for her. She hopped up with a giggle, and hopped her way back to the top of the slide. She slid down again, and we cheered again. And again. And again. And again…

I’m glad we eased her fears. Maybe it’ll save us on therapy bills a few years from now.

Do Not Throw Things

The kids enjoy throwing things. They like to pick up a toy, such as a block, and chuck it downward. Usually it bounces benignly off the floor. Sometimes it hits a sibling, and they get in trouble. Sometimes it hits a parent, and they get in a lot of trouble. Sometimes it hits the dog, and, so far, the dog just scrambles out of the way when it happens.

I trust the dog not to hurt my children, but I’d rather they not test that trust by chucking things at the dog. I always correct them when they throw things, and add the appropriate vocal command, such as “do not throw things at the dog.”

Today Ian threw a block at the dog. “Do not throw things at the dog,” he said while the block was in midair. At least I know my corrections are sinking into his head.

Pssssssssshhhhtttt

Being a parent makes me forgetful. Whether it’s forgetfulness caused the sleep-deprivation, or the sheer amount of minutia I have to remember about the kids’ lives, I’m constantly forgetting things. I forget where Abbie left her shoes. I forget to set the DVR to record Dora. I forget to empty the diaper pail, although that honestly might have more to do with procrastination.

Maybe most distressingly, I forget that I left food on the countertop. Fortunately, the kids are always quick to remind me that food is within their reach, but I don’t always intercept them in time to prevent disgusting and/or wasteful behavior. If I leave the peanut butter out, Abbie grabs a spoon and digs into the jar. If I leave a cereal box out, one of the boys will dump its contents onto the floor for ease in picking out the marshmallow pieces. If I leave a bag of chocolate chips out, the kids will simultaneously reach their hands into the bag, tearing it open and sending a chocolate chip hailstorm flying across the room.

That’s all very messy, but Abbie hit a new high in the messiness quotient tonight when she found an unopened can of root beer. We usually keep soda pop in the house since, as mentioned above, we’re sleep-deprived and need the caffeine. Most of our soda pop is diet since I pick up enough extra calories cleaning the kids’ dinner plates. This can of root beer was full of fructose, and part of a dozen cans likely left over from the last time we entertained people.*. We were saving it until the next time we entertained,** but the boys found it’s hiding place.

We hide all soda pop in the laundry room. The laundry room is right off the kitchen, providing easy access when I need to load a 12-pack into the refrigerator after a rough day. The laundry room also has a door with a child-resistant knob, meaning the kids can’t enter the room unless someone foolishly leaves the door open. About a week ago, I foolishly left the laundry room door open, and I’ve been finding cans of root beer hidden throughout the house ever since.

Abbie found this can at the top of the steps. I probably saw that can hundreds of times too, but it never registered as something I should bother moving. The can was still sealed, and at any given moment I usually have a fight to break up or a container of food to move from someone’s reach.

Abbie quickly realized this can was still closed. Frustrated that the syrupy goodness was sealed behind a mysterious pull-tab, she threw the can down the stairs. When it hit the landing halfway down the steps, the can ruptured and the soda pop, aided by the agitated carbonation, spewed forth. Before I could reach the can, the root beer geyser shot several feet away, covering the floor, the walls, and the many toys that had collected on the landing and I had seen thousands of times but they’d never registered as something I should bother moving.

I’m fond of waiting to clean messes until I have more time, such as after the children all leave for college, but I immediately worked on cleaning this one so the sugar wouldn’t have time to set. While I toiled, Abbie stayed at a distance, possibly because she knew she was in trouble, or maybe she just wanted to admire her handiwork from afar. I needed a tub of dishwater to scrub the floors and walls, and a roll of paper towels for the carpet on the landing that was somehow simultaneously stiff enough to puncture aluminum and absorbent enough to soak up several fluid ounces. I spent a half-hour wiping every nearby surface and discovering new messes that I could swear the can would’ve need to violate the laws of physics to soak. After I had finished, I longed for the days when the worst Abbie could do was dump a box of cereal on the floor; that I only need a vacuum to clean.

* Which was probably the boys’ birthday.
** Which will probably be Abbie’s birthday.

Rectangle!

We spent this afternoon playing at our friend Patty’s house. She has two small children, and a house that stays remarkably clean considering that she has two small children.

Visiting Patty’s family gave our children the opportunity to meet new friends, to practice social skills, and to play with toys they haven’t yet had a chance to break. Naturally the boys ignored all of these activities and spent much of their time digging through Patty’s foreign cabinets.

At one point, Ian walked up to me holding a large candle that he’d pulled from Patty’s cabinet filled with good dishes. I winced, but before I snatched it from his hands I smartly remembered the axiom of good parenting that says, “turn every situation into a learning opportunity.”

“What shape is that?” I asked Ian.

“Rectangle!” he correctly answered.

Content with my outstanding parenting skills, I complimented him on his knowledge and returned the candle to its storage space. Minutes later, Ian returned to me, candle in hand, eager to show me that he knows it’s a rectangle. “Rectangle!” he kept repeating.

I forgot the other axiom of good parenting that says, “never give your child a reason to play in a forbidden cabinet.”

Sad

I was reading to the boys this afternoon. The book at the top of the pile was Sandra Boynton’s “But Not the Hippopotamus.” This charming little book tells the story of animals engaged in various fun, rhyming activities such as going to the fair, or trying on hats. The hippopotamus is left out of these activities with the dejected line “but not the hippopotamus.” At the end, the animals invite the hippopotamus into their pack, and the hippopotamus gladly joins them with the line “but yes the hippopotamus.” The book ends happily for the hippopotamus, but an armadillo is left out at the end with the line “but not the armadillo.”

“He’s sad,” Ian explained to me while pointing to the armadillo.

I was happy to see Ian recognizing emotions. Abbie still has trouble identifying them, so it’s good to see him progressing.

Next, I asked if the hippopotamus was happy or sad.

“Hippopotamus!” Tory screamed. He doesn’t seem to grasp the emotions yet, but I’m sure it’ll come. Ian just looked at me, suggesting that he doesn’t understand happy either.

Telephone Skills

The phone rang this evening during our daily pre-supper rush. This is the time of the day when I’m scrambling to put supper on the table and prepare the children to eat. One to three children usually scream at me during this time because they’re hungry, and screaming apparently makes me work faster.

I try to answer the phone when it rings, but when I’m busy and/or I don’t recognize the caller ID I’ll ignore it. Tonight I discovered that Ian had pooped sometime between my attempts to washing grapes and to wash everyone’s hands. My hands were busy with some dirty business when I heard the phone ring, so I planned to ignore it.

Surprisingly, the phone only rang once. Our friends and family usually wait until the machine answers before they hang up. I finished covering Ian and whisked him into the bathroom to wash hands. There I found Abbie, who had apparently entered the bathroom to wash her hands as well. When the phone rang, she picked up the handset kept next to the sink.

“Hello?” she answered. “Hi,” she continued with the conversation. I snatched the handset from her fingers, breaking her hello/hi cycle of conversation.

Mommy was on the other end. She had just left work and wanted to know if she needed to pick up anything on her way home. When a child answered the phone, she thought she had dialed a wrong number.

I told her she had the right number, but she was on the wrong end of Abbie’s first attempt to answer the phone. Her conversation skills need improvement. Answering the phone on the first ring is very impressive for her first try, though.

It's Hard to Type with Gloves on Your Hands

Our furnace isn't heating properly right now. It's still producing heat, enough to keep the pipes from freezing, but not enough heat to keep our rears from freezing. If you watched any of the football playoff games this weekend, then you know that the weather is a little chilly in the northern parts of the US right now. While I waited for the end of both the weekend and off-hour service rates, I tried every trick I could think of to keep our indoor temperature on the right side of 60. I tried:

- Lighting candles
- Opening shades when applicable
- Turning on every light in the house
- Unnecessary cooking
- Long, hot baths and showers with no drag out fan

Sure, most of those tricks run up our electric bill, but we're saving by not having to run the refrigerator as much.

We've kept the temperature high enough, but it's still dropping as the weekend ends. I'm keeping my body warm by bundling up. I'm keeping the kids warm by encouraging them to wear warm clothes. They don't listen, but I'm encouraging them. I put socks on the boys' feet, and they immediately removed them. I put an undershirt under Abbie's sweatshirt, and she threw a fit, insisting that she was already wearing one shirt and didn't need another one. Before I sent them to sleep tonight, I talked to them about the importance of using a blanket. I doubt they'll sleep under the blankets, but at least I tried. I'll check on them first thing in the morning to make sure they're warm enough. Actually, checking on them will be the second thing I do; calling for a furnace repair will be the first thing.

The Look

We were walking through a store tonight. I was holding the boys' hands when Ian tripped and fell flat on his overstuffed winter coat. I stopped and used both hands to pick Ian back up to his feet. Tory did not stop and continued moving ahead at a fast clip, eventually working his way into the middle of three high school kids. As I helped Ian stand, the high schoolers had to continually watch their step to keep from knocking my beloved offspring flat on his overstuffed winter coat.

The boy in the group glared at me, as if to say, "Are you going to do something about this?"

All I could do was stare back, as if to say, "Yeah, you'll be in my position in a few years."

Mommy thought I also should've added a reminder to him to use birth control, but I wasn't sure how to convey that in a look.

Kitchen Experiment

Abbie loves macaroni and cheese. It’s a staple of her diet. It might as well be one of her food groups.

The problem with macaroni and cheese is it’s not the healthiest meal. It’s high in fat, salt, and other things that make it taste good. The only way to make it less healthy would be to deep-fry it, a preparation method Abbie would probably enjoy.

I’m trying to make macaroni and cheese healthier. I’ve cut the butter used in half, and that lowers the fat content significantly while lowering the taste content imperceptibly. I’m trying to go lower, though.

Tonight I tried a recipe using processed cheese instead of the powder stuff that comes in a box. The processed cheese isn’t a nutritional improvement, but the homemade recipe allows me to use my pasta of choice, specifically a whole-wheat macaroni. That adds a little fiber to her diet, a nutrient that’s missing from her other staple of Goldfish crackers.

I whipped up the recipe using reduced fat processed cheese, and plopped it on Abbie’s plate. Abbie poked it, noticed the strange consistency in the cheese, and asked for a cookie. Then she demanded a cookie.

Experiment failed. Next I’ll try mixing squash into the powder cheese mix.

What I Learned in School Today

Wednesday morning is my errand morning. While Abbie is in preschool, I take the boys to story time at the library, and pick up a few groceries, and return home seconds before the bus returns with Abbie. I have about a 45-minute window between the end of story time, and the bus’s return. Since the grocery store is about 15 minutes from home, I’ve had some close calls.

I’ve always returned home before Abbie does. I always get our three butts in gear in the grocery store to return home in plenty of time. I usually even have enough spare time to unhook both boys from their car seats before the bus pulls up to our driveway.

When I left the grocery store today 15 minutes before Abbie’s scheduled return, I was a little worried. When I saw the sprinkling of snow falling from the sky, I was a little more worried. When I saw how the other drivers reacted to this strange white substance that hadn’t fallen in at least a week, I grew much more worried.

I drove aggressively, within the speed limit,* while keeping my weaving between lanes to a minimum. I didn’t know what the bus would do if it stopped at our house and no one was home to pick up Abbie, and I didn’t want to find out.

I pulled off the main road onto our smaller neighborhood roads 5 minutes after the bus’s scheduled stop. The bus comes at different times every day, so I hoped it was a little late today. Plus, if the snow slowed me down, it probably slowed the bus down.

I turned a corner a couple blocks from our house, and saw a bus coming down the street. I slowed, stared at the driver, and recognized her face. She recognized mine, and waved. Oh. Dear. God.

I threw on my hazard lights and hopped out of my car. I apologized to the bus driver for being late, and blamed it on the snow instead of my extra trip down an aisle to compare shampoo prices. The driver told me not to worry about it, that everything was okay. Abbie didn’t like it when the driver left our house without letting her off, but otherwise everything was okay.

Apparently it’s not a big deal if I miss Abbie’s bus. I just have to catch the bus as it’s pulling out of our neighborhood. I also have to listen to a snotty message from the transportation department when we return home wondering where I am and why I’m not coming out to get my child.

* The commonly accepted speed limit, not the legal one.

Clean up, Clean up, Everybody, Everywhere

I was extremely busy for a couple minutes this morning while the kids played in the other room.* At first, I heard happy sounds from the other room instead of the usual sounds of children stealing toys, hitting each other, and chasing each other. Those sounds can be a good sign, that the kids found something fun to share, or they could be a bad sign, that the kids found something fun and forbidden to share. Soon I heard Abbie singing The Clean Up Song through the door, and that is never a good sign.

I walked into the living room, and saw what was so much fun. They had found the paper shredder, and dumped its contents onto the floor. They were picking up the tiny paper scraps and throwing them into the air, and sliding on top of them across the floor. It was like a warm, dry snowstorm.

I yelled at them and told them to go to their room. I quickly thought better and yelled at them to stay in the living room and clean up their mess. They should have to help me clean up instead of getting to play in their rooms. Then I did any other chore I could think of, something that would keep me from crying over the thousands of tiny paper shards literally littering the living room.

The kids aren’t very good at cleaning, which is a shame because they provide so many opportunities to practice the skill. I have to give them credit for doing a good job picking up the paper this morning, though. Tory grabbed huge fists of paper and dumped it in the garbage just like I asked. Abbie picked up a few scraps of paper every time I reminded her to help clean up. Ian at least didn’t make a bigger mess.

I folded laundry while I watched them work, pleased that they were doing a little of my work for me. That’s only fair since it shouldn’t be “my” work in the first place. I watched Abbie clean. I watched Tory clean. I watched Tory grab the trashcan and dump its contents on the floor, thus creating another opportunity to practice his cleaning skills.

I sent everyone to their rooms at that point. I could do “my” work easier without their “help.” I finished folding laundry before tackling the floor; I still wanted to cry thinking about picking up every tiny scrap of paper, and those scraps would only be harder to clean after being wet with tears.

* I.e. I was in the bathroom.

Walk, Don't Run

Abbie handed me a toy car this afternoon. This toy car is one of the many toys we’ve hidden in the house still in its original packaging. When we find toys on clearance at a store, we stock up on good deals. Sometimes we give these stocked toys as presents. Sometimes we give these toys to our kids as a reward for being good. Sometimes we give these toys to charity after they stayed on a forgotten shelf and our kids outgrow them.

This toy car is a small Dora Christmas-themed car. We had intended to use it as a stocking stuffer for next year, but like most of our Christmas paraphernalia, we hadn’t put it away for the season yet. Abbie picked it off the shelf where we’d lazily “hidden” it, and gave it to me.

“I want to open it,” she said.

“I can’t open it,” I told her. I still wanted to save it for next year and didn’t want to open it. It was encased in plastic, so I couldn’t have opened it with my bare hands anyway.

“I need scissors,” Abbie said.

“Yes, I’d need scissors to open it,” I replied. The scissors were in the opposite end of the house, and as long as she understood that I couldn’t open the package without scissors, that should provide a handy excuse for why I couldn’t open it for her right now.

Abbie disappeared without protest, and I returned to my chores. A minute later, Abbie reappeared with scissors in hand. She had climbed onto the countertop where we “hide” the scissors in a location that theoretically outside the kids’ reach.

I thanked her for her diligence, and quickly returned the scissors to their “hiding” spot. I then distracted Abbie with another toy while I hid the toy car. This time I took the effort to put it in the storeroom where Abbie hasn’t found any hidden toys. Yet.

Evaluating the Loot

The kids received several books for Christmas. That’s a good thing as far as I’m concerned. As far as the kids are concerned, they’d probably rather have a few more of foreign made plastic noisemakers that are coated in paint that dissolves quickly in saliva, but I’m happy with them receiving books.

Books are educational, even the surprisingly high percentage of them with spelling, grammatical, or factual errors. We have a few books that remember the “i before e” rule, but forget the “except after c” part, thus producing gems like “recieve” and “wierd.” We have a few books with bizarrely constructed sentences, such as anything with Cookie Monster. And don’t even get me started on the physical impossibilities of Harold and his never-ending purple crayon.

Books fit nicely on a bookshelf, too. When books overtake the bedroom floor, I spend a couple minutes retuning them all to the shelf, and suddenly we can walk through their bedroom without stepping on anything besides the clothes littering the floor. I can’t say that about the playroom where plastic noisemakers are everywhere. After spending a couple minutes picking up the playroom, I have a pile of Little People paraphernalia, a pile of blocks, a pile of tiny, orphaned accessories, and an assortment of large items too bulky to fit on a shelf. Those toddler-sized plush licensed character armchairs don’t fit on a shelf as well as books.

I’m happy for the kids to receive books, but they still find a way to make a nuisance with them. They received a few lift-the-flap books, which the kids interpret as rip-off-the-flap. It’s annoying that the kids make a mess with deposed flaps, but it’s more annoying that they kill the suspense of who’s hiding behind the rocks by permanently removing the rocks. They do the same with pop-up books. There’s no reason to read “Where’s Max?” after the boys tore Max from his hinges the second time he popped out of the plants.

They also received a racecar book. This is a charming book with brightly colored racecars “racing” through the pages, and one disappears each time you turn the page. Only the winning car remains at the end, and a light sensor triggers a racecar sound when the final page is turned, thus ruining the book’s charm.

The boys, being boys, like racecars along with most machines, and want me to read this book. Abbie, however, throws a convulsing tantrum if I try to read it. She likes cars, at least as much as any girl with a preference for horsies and kitties can like cars, so her tantrums are a mystery. She’s fine if the boys look at it, so I know the pictures don’t upset her. She’s fine when the racecar sound plays, so I know this cheap effect doesn’t upset her. She’s fine when I read other books the boys choose, so I know she’s not being a control freak (in this one very specific instance). When I start to read the simple rhymes on each page, though, she throws a fit. It’s like she thinks rhyming couplets are too delicate to be used with cars, and should only be used to describe animals and their cute actions.

I deal with her by steering the boys to a different book, preferably something animal-based. I feel bad about giving into Abbie’s tantrums, but the boys don’t care when I switch books on them. As long they soak in the colorful pictures, and listen to the language dance across their ears, they’re fine. If I choose a rip-off-the-flap book, that just provides extra entertainment. And if I select a book with a built in plastic noisemaker, that’s a bonus.

Yes or No

Abbie doesn’t tell me “no” very often. I guess that’s the advantage of having a child with delayed expressive language skills. The tradeoff is she kicks and screams when “no” would suffice.

When I ask her a yes-no question, she usually repeats the key word back to me. For example:

“Do you need to use the potty?”
“Potty.”

Her answer isn’t a yes or no, it’s simply an acknowledgment that she heard the question. If I take her to the potty, she usually just plays with toilet paper.

Sometimes I do get a no out of her, though. It has to be a very obvious question with a very obvious answer. Her no is staccato, like she wants to spend as little time as possible addressing the question in hopes I’ll drop it. For example:

“Do you want to go to bed?”
“No.”
“Is it bedtime?”
“No.”

Yellow's a Fruit

I love feeding fruit to my kids. Fruits are generally healthy, or at least healthier than the cheesy or sugary cracker-based snacks they usually eat. They’re easy to prepare. They’re fairly clean, although we can run into problems with canned fruit, especially if they step on a thrown chunk. They’re usually cheap as long as no one gets a craving for Bing cherries in February. Fruit would be the perfect food to feed my kids if only they’d eat it.

My kids usually do pretty well eating fruit, much better than every other food group in the pyramid except for that tantalizing “fats, oils, and sweets” group. They eat raisins for breakfast, some canned fruit for lunch, and a little fresh fruit for supper. I have to keep the fruits varied, though. Abbie ate canned peaches for lunch every day for months. It was my fault for not offering her more variety, but it’s hard to change fruits right after I open that 6-pound can of peaches I bought at the club store. One day she decided she didn’t like peaches, and ever since I’ve been unloading peaches on her brothers. Now she demands apricots every day while I try to switch fruits on the boys occasionally to keep their palates diverse. For example, I just opened a 6-pound can of pears.

Sometimes I switch fruits and forget about the old ones. The boys used to love bananas. I kept bunches in the house at all times to cut on top of their breakfast cereal or serve beside their lunch yogurt. Sometimes I’d do both in the same day depending on the peels’ numbers of brown spots. Possibly taking a cue from Boots, they ate their bananas greedily for months, and I was satisfied that they were eating a healthy and cheap side dish.

One day a few months ago, the boys stopped eating bananas. This probably happened right after I bought a multi-pound bag of bananas that bragged “$.10 off when you purchase this bag!” I probably kept serving them bananas everyday, hoping they’d accept them again before the peels changed from having brown spots to being giant brown spots. I probably wound up throwing away several bananas when they softened too much to serve. Mushy bananas would be perfect for banana bread, but as a full-time father of three children 3 & under, I rarely have time to cook anything that doesn’t come directly from a box.

A couple weeks ago, mommy brought home bananas from the grocery store. She bought them for herself, probably after she developed a hankering for bananas since they were absent from our home for months. I figured the boys would turn their noses up at the bananas like before, but at some time in the past few months the boys forgot that they hate bananas.

As soon as mommy peeled a banana, the boys swarmed her. I told her they probably wouldn’t eat it if she offered it to them since they didn’t want any a few months ago. She held out a banana chunk anyway, and almost lost a finger in the frenzy.

Starting the next day, I gave them bananas for meals. It was a wonderful couple of weeks as they wolfed down bananas, but in the past few days they started picking at the banana pieces, and finally leaving most of the banana. I knew what I had to do at that point: Make sure I had enough free time to bake banana bread with our rapidly browning bananas.

We now have a loaf of banana bread in the refrigerator. The boys like bread, so they can take in some fruit in bread form. Abbie still hates bananas, and never liked bread, so she’ll have to keep eating apricots for her fruit. I’m hoping she’ll soon forget that she hates peaches so everyone can eat from the same can at lunch.

Happy Together

Reasons the Boys Threw a Fit Today:

Abbie boarded the bus.
Tory stole a train from Ian.
I stole the Nutter Butters from Tory before he could steal one.
I turned off the television after only one episode of Dora.
I gave Ian half a cookie instead of a whole one.
I turned off the television after only two episodes of Dora.
I made Tory wear a shirt.
I made Ian wear pants.

The Best of Bread

Of all the pieces of baby equipment we own, the one we still use the most is the stroller. I think that and the changing table are the only pieces of baby equipment we still use, and the changing table fell out of favor once I discovered that changing wet diapers was much easier on the floor. Poopy diapers, however, are still changed on the changing table to lessen the odds of spreading their joy on the carpet.

When I go shopping with the boys, I need a way to keep them under control, something to keep them contained while I make important consumer decisions such as whether to buy the soup with less sodium, or the soup with less saturated fat. If I become too engrossed in comparing products, I could lose track of the boys. God forbid I lose one of them in a store, or, almost as bad, they damage a product while I’m not paying attention.

I throw them in the stroller to keep them contained. Many times I can throw them in a shopping cart to keep them entertained, putting one in the front seat while the other one rummages through things I deposit in the basket. Not all stores offer shopping carts, though, and sometimes it’s just easier to use the stroller with ample storage space underneath the seats and out of range of prying fingers.

The bread store has no shopping carts. Well, they do have carts, but they’re comically undersized, the kind most stores use with a giant flag attached that reads “shopper in training.” Their carts barely hold a few loaves of bread, never mind a pair of toddlers plus a few loaves of bread.

I stopped at the bread store this morning with the boys in the back of the car and Abbie at preschool. I opted to use the stroller, and pulled it out of the back. I took Tory out of the car, moved him to the stroller, and held on tight as he threw a fit. He threw one of those kicking, screaming fits that make half of those nearby think “my kid would never do that,” and the other half think “ that kid shouldn’t be out in public.”

I knew he didn’t want in the stroller. For most of his life, he’s been happy to spend short stretches strapped into the stroller. Recently he’s been resisting, though. He doesn’t resist every time, just when I really need him to sit quietly and calmly for a couple minutes.

I decided to take the ultimate risk. I returned the stroller to the car, pulled Ian out of the car, and walked into the bread store with the boys running loose. Once in the store, I could only hold onto one boy at a time since my other hand would be holding a basket of bread. I didn’t think anything bad could happen, though. The store is small, with a shopping area maybe 40x50 and four aisles wide. Even if they ran off, I couldn’t lose them since they’d be right around the corner. What’s the worst that could happen?

They ran off in the store. I didn’t pay much attention to them until I heard the rustling of plastic bread wrappers. The boys love bread, and they kept pulling loaves off the shelves, leaving deep toddler handprints in their wake. I kept whisking loaves from their hands before any damage was done. At least, I told myself no damage was done as I hastily returned the loaves to the shelves.

As we waited to checkout, I held the shopping basket in one hand, and the hoods from both of the boys’ coats in my other hand. They stood with their hoods taut, trying to move as close as they could to those tantalizing loaves. I never let go, and they never grabbed another loaf. The bread store experiment worked well enough, but next time I’ll contain them in the stroller no matter how big a fit Tory throws.

Dora the Dreamer

We bought Abbie a new set of flannel Dora bed sheets. This purchase was made possible by the stores’ post-holiday sales that signal the end of the winter buying season right about the time that winter actually rolls around. I put them on her bed this morning while she was at preschool, and left them as a surprise for her when she returned.

Abbie saw her new sheets at naptime, climbed into bed, and slipped between the sheets. She stayed there and went to sleep without our elaborate counting games.

She threw a fit tonight when I tried putting her down to sleep. Still, one easy naptime makes those sheets one of the best purchases ever.

Avenue Q

Every Monday, Abbie is to bring an item to preschool that begins with the letter of the week. This week, that letter is Q.

So far, we’ve had an easy time finding objects around the house for the Letter of the Week project. Usually I just dig out a stuffed animal and cram it into her backpack. Bear for B. Cat for C. I’m still hoping to find a gnu in time for G week.

This week was a challenge, though. As with all of Abbie’s homework assignments, I’m the one doing most of the learning, and I learned that there are almost no tangible objects that begin with Q. The only limitation on the item she brings is that it must fit into her backpack. I assume that it should also be appropriate for a 3-year-old to possess, so a winning quinella ticket is probably out. The item can even be a picture, which would’ve come in handy if I had a postcard from Quito around the house.

The first item that came to my mind was a stuffed quail. Abbie has several stuffed birds, but no quails. None of her generic birds resemble a quail, and sending her with a penguin and calling it a quail would probably just confuse her.

I considered sending a quilt. The kids have many blankets from their baby days. Many of them are very soft with frilly edges, which made them unsuitable to use with a baby, so they still looked like new. Quilts tend to be large, though, and Abbie’s preschool-sized backpack doesn’t have much storage space. Plus, I wasn’t sure which blankets technically qualified as “quilts,” and heaven help us if I send her with an Afghan and call it a quilt. I put the quilt on the backburner in case I couldn’t find anything else.

I figured I could send her with a book with a title that begins with Q. I went through all 1,968,853 books on her shelf, and didn’t find one with a Q anywhere in its title.

I started running down every word I could think of that began with Q. We don’t have any queens since Abbie doesn’t like dolls. Quick and quiet aren’t nouns. Quorum and quota are nouns, but I didn’t know how to represent them. We don’t own a copy of the Qur’an, or All’s Quiet on the Western Front either. I didn’t know how to make a quiche, much less how to send it to preschool with her. We didn’t have any oversized novelty Q’s or quotation marks. A qwerty keyboard wouldn’t fit in her backpack, and there’s no reason to inflict her with that bit of typing nonsense already.

Finally I gave up and grabbed a Q-Tip. I didn’t want to use a proper name, especially one that violates the laws of English spelling, but I wanted to cram a quilt into her backpack even less. I tore off part of the Q-Tip packaging, taped the Q-Tip to the back, and sent her to school.

When she returned, she had a slip of paper with suggestions of activites we can do that week to reinforce the letter of the week. Usually they give us a dozen suggestions, but this time all it said was to build a quilt from pieces of paper. Obviously they couldn’t think of anything better either.

X, Y, and Z weeks should be interesting.

Questions for the Ages

Abbie has a long, proud tradition of delaying bedtime. Newborns can generally cry only to express simple concepts like hunger or pain. Newborn Abbie was much more sophisticated, screaming to express her contempt of the terrifying concept of being laid down to sleep. It was crude, but it communicated her “I’m not ready for bedtime” message well. It successfully delayed many naps as her caretaker* rushed in to offer comfort in hopes that she’d be ready to sleep after being held for another minute.**

Eventually she learned to stand, and could amuse herself well past bedtime by repeatedly pulling herself to standing on the crib railing. Then she learned to amuse herself by running around her crib, and then jumping around her crib, and then finally falling out of her crib. That last lesson wasn’t as amusing as she must’ve thought, hence why she moved to a toddler bed well before toddlerhood.

As her mind matured, she learned to expect me to give her objects before falling asleep. When she discovered that I’d give her a burp cloth before falling asleep, she’d demand another burp cloth. When she discovered that I’d give her her lambie blanket, she’d demand a stuffed animal. When she discovered that I’d sing to her, she’d demand another song.

Now she’s older; old enough to get a burp cloth, lambie blanket, or whatever else she wants herself. Of course, she’s also old enough to throw a never-ending tantrum if she’s not happy at naptime, so I still have to baby her to sleep a bit.

Recently she’s been asking me to count to her before bedtime. It started when I counted down “3-2-1-0!” before throwing her in bed. She’d giggle when she hit the pillow and demand that I do it again. I’d count down from three again, throw a blanket over her head, and say goodnight.

The next day, she’d demand that I’d count down again, but this time start at ten. I’d start at ten, pausing for her to repeat each number after me, throw a blanket over her head at zero, and say good night. Eventually I’d let her count and I repeated each number after her. It took longer, but it was educational, and if there’s one thing the toy industry knows about me, it’s that I like things that are educational for my children.

After a few days, she started counting down from 20. This was upper-level mathematics, the preschool equivalent of calculus. I encouraged her to count, hoping she’d learn to love numbers. She learned how to successfully delay bedtime, especially when she started asking, “what comes next?” after each number.

A couple weeks later, she started to count up to 20 before counting down. I didn’t tolerate this one since I knew she could count to 20, and kept pushing her to count faster. Abbie, sensing her plan was failing, took counting to a new level: She went up to 100, and back down. That’s like quantum physics for preschoolers. I encouraged her hyper-advanced counting skills, and she did a good job. Occasionally she’d skip ten numbers, going “… 72, 71, 60, 59 …” but otherwise did well, even if I had to occasionally ask her “What comes next?”

I started pushing her to count faster when I knew she knew her numbers, and Abbie found a new way to delay naptime: She asked what letter begins numbers. I explained that one begins with “o,” two begins with “t,” three, believe it or not, also begins with “t,” and so on. It took a while, but I was teaching her numbers and letters, so it had to be worthwhile.

About the time I noticed we were spending 20 minutes counting before bedtime, I started to really push her to move faster. That’s when she brought out another delaying tactic: “What letter does ‘T’ begin with?”

I knew she was just toying with me at that point, so I set a limit. We would do whatever she wanted; we could count, jump, or just review what various letters start with. I would only stay for five minutes, though, and when those five minutes were done, she had to go to bed. She resisted at first, threatening to throw one of those never-ending tantrums when I shut the door, so I had to re-enter her room a few times to give her a quick countdown to zero to calm her down.

Now she seems to have accepted it, though. I give her constant time updates, she plays at her own pace, and I throw her into bed when time is up. Sometimes I still have to count down to zero again before she’ll go to sleep.

“We had five minutes. And then four minutes. And then three minutes. And then two minutes. And then one minute. And now we have zero minutes.”

It’s not very educational, but at least it limits her bedtime delay to five minutes.

* I.e. “me.”
** She wouldn’t be.

If at First You Don't Succeed

Abbie: "I want a cookie."
Me: "No. You can't have a cookie."
Abbie: "I want a cookie for Cookie Monster."*
Matt: "No. We don't have any cookies. We have zero cookies in the house."**
Abbie: "... I want Goldfish."

*Abbie received a Cookie Monster doll for Christmas. By "Abbie" I mean "her brothers," but the boys don't have a sense of property yet, and Abbie has the sense that everything she sees is hers. Abbie likes "feeding" him cookies, and eating the leftovers.
**This may or may not be true. Yes, I've resorted to lying to my child because it's easier. I have no regrets.

Sing a Song

Abbie is starting to sing along with songs, and that’s exciting. She spent the first three years of her life mostly mute, it’s nice to hear her speaking. It’s especially exciting to hear her try to keep up with the lyrics for a fast-paced song like “Happy Tappin’ with Elmo.”

My parents gave us a musical Christmas card that plays “Jingle Bell Rock” when opened. Mommy sat down with Abbie and sang the song with her, covering the 15-second clip contained in the song repeatedly. After a few minutes, Abbie started carrying the card around the house, singing “Jingle Bell Rock,” oblivious to the fact that we’re well past Christmas. It was a cute sight, and we were anxious to share it with family and friends, especially my parents who gave us the card.

Then the boys found the card. Soon afterward the card was torn in half, rendering it silent. At least we can still keep trying to teach her “Happy Tappin’ with Elmo.”

Caucus!

Mommy and I hired a babysitter for tonight. We said goodbye to the kids, and drove off for three, glorious, childfree hours. Unfortunately, we spent at least two of those hours at a caucus.

Thanks to tradition and not much else, Iowa has the first say in choosing our president. This gives Iowans tremendous influence in electing the nation’s leader. It also pumps millions of dollars into the state’s economy as campaigns and media buy food, lodging, and advertising. The economy even trickles down to babysitters as no sane person would dare bring their young children to a two-hour political discussion. Of course, many participants in the political process are not sane; we saw maybe a half-dozen children 5 and under at the caucus, but not once did I say, “gee, I wish we’d have done that.”

A caucus is not a traditional election. In a traditional election, you show up at some point during an approximately 12-hour window, register, vote, and return home in about 5-minutes. In a caucus, you show up precisely at 6:30, register, and then take a seat because you’re going to be there for a while. The caucus leader takes us through several formalities, many people give political speeches, and then the “alignment” begins. All candidates must have support from at least 12.5% of caucus-goers. Any candidate with less than that level is not “viable,” and supporters must either poach enough supporters from another candidate to become viable, or go join another group of supporters and make them viable. Counts and recounts are frequent occurrences. It’s a hectic process that’s best done in small groups of maybe about 20, and can become unwieldy in groups over 100. 489 people caucused at our site.

My candidate was not viable in the first alignment; my candidate wasn’t viable four years ago either, so I seem to be good at choosing those. I went to work and poached a supporter* from another candidate. My candidate’s precinct captain also went to work, except he worked much harder than I did, and dug up enough caucus-goers to make our candidate (barely) viable. And all that happened in only took two hours.

Such is the excitement of the Iowa Caucuses. It’s a fascinating process for adults, but dreadfully dull for children. The handful of tots drug to the proceedings reminded me of this as their mommies and daddies struggled to keep them entertained.

Our family has a tradition of eating out after we vote. We sit around our food, discussing the election, and wait for the results to roll in. The babysitter still had the upper hand over the children, so we took the time to visit a restaurant. We chose the finest place we could think of that had a drive-thru. We enjoyed ice cream and split an order of onion rings. At least we can say we hired a babysitter so we could visit a restaurant.

* I.e. “mommy.”

Dada to the Rescue

I woke up this morning determined to find my missing silverware. If you need a reminder, the boys lost most of our forks and spoons yesterday. In a rare moment of my parental negligence, I let the boys play in the silverware drawer while I tended to other things. When I walked into the kitchen to shoo them away, most of our forks and spoons were missing with no trace. I tried to find them yesterday with no luck.

While the kids ate breakfast, restrained in their high chair and locked far away from our remaining silverware, I went to work. Mommy suggested that the kids had hidden the utensils under the couch. I checked under there first, and found many toys, long forgotten food, and a disturbing amount of pet hair, but no utensils. I had my doubts that the boys could so efficiently tuck a couple dozen forks and spoons under a piece of furniture anyway.

Next I checked the stairway. I know the boys like throwing things down the stairs for some reason. I think they enjoy watching the physics involved in slowly pushing an object over the baby gate until the end dangling over the stairs reaches critical mass and tilts away from them, beginning its bouncing trek down the stairs. That, and they might enjoy watching me fetch things after they throw them beyond their reach. Whatever the reason, I didn’t hold out much hope that they’d be on the steps because we traverse the steps several times a day. If forks were resting prong side up on the stairs, my bare feet would’ve found them before morning. I checked anyway thinking maybe their arms are just incredibly accurate at throwing things into that box that we never seem to find the time to move off the landing. No luck there, either.

Next I went back to the kitchen and checked every drawer and cabinet, even the locked ones. Even though I could’ve sworn that I checked them yesterday, I suspected the utensils were still near the scene of the crime.

After opening every cabinet and checking around every, useless, long-forgotten kitchen gadget stored therein, I found our utensils. I should’ve known exactly where they when I couldn’t find them. They were strewn in the cabinet that’s missing the drawer above it. Soon after we moved into our home, the boys discovered they could easily pull the cabinet out and hang from it. Soon after that discovery, the drawer fell apart, leaving a hole in the front of the cabinet that leads directly into the storage area beneath it. The boys must’ve grabbed the utensils out of the silverware drawer, and deposited them in that hole in the cabinet. They may have enjoyed watching the physics involved in tilting an object over an edge and falling into an abyss. They may have also enjoyed watching me panic because I couldn’t find a spoon for supper last night.

Mommy said I should be happy that the boys are learning to put things away; they had chosen that cabinet as the perfect place to store our utensils. I decided I’d be happier if they’d learn to leave things alone when they’re already put away.

Dada the Explorer

I’m used to searching for things the kids lost. I have to find the boys’ cow blankets before every nap. We’re down a few forks since the kids have surprisingly strong and creative arms when they through their utensils at mealtime. Sippy cups are a constant struggle to find; I expected to uncover a few petrified cups when we moved, but no luck there.

The boys hit a new level today, though. We’re missing about half of our forks and spoons. The good metal ones too, not the cheap plastic ones that I give to the kids so they can’t gouge anyone too seriously.

Abbie and I were in the bathroom this afternoon. While she sat on the potty, I heard rustling from the kitchen’s silverware drawer. Despite the poking potential, I made the boys a secondary priority because Abbie could stand at any moment. A toddler in the early stages of potty training rising unattended from the potty can be a frighteningly messy proposition.

When Abbie was fully wiped and dressed, I walked out to the kitchen to find the silverware drawer pulled out. I checked inside, and found the slots for the forks and spoons empty.

I looked on the floor, and no silverware.

I looked in the open cabinets, and no silverware.

I checked the sink, and no silverware.

I checked the toy box, and no silverware.

Right now, the only forks and spoons I can find are the dirty ones that happened to be in the dishwasher. If I don’t find our good silverware soon, I’m going to have to share plastic utensils with the kids.