Hey, The Jerk Store Called...

Before my children can nap, they must experience the naptime routine. This involves changing diapers, reading, and singing in a sequence so tightly choreographed that the kids will remind me if I miss a step. It can be stressful, especially when my overtired children start whining instead of asking for things, but it helps them fall asleep.

Before I can start the naptime routine, I must go through the pre-naptime routine. This involves finding their blankets that they drug all over the house, fetching clean diapers, and rounding up three children who usually move in three different ways simultaneously, sometimes more.

Depending on how well the kids hid their blankets and how resilient they are at ignoring my threats to go to the bedroom, the pre-naptime routine can take longer than the naptime routine. That was the case this afternoon when I spent several minutes searching the house for a missing cow blanket. When I finally found it crammed behind a chair, I set about finding the kids. Tory and Abbie were playing nicely in her room. Ian chose a much more cunning place to hide: In his bedroom, asleep on his bed.

I didn’t want to wake Ian since he might not fall back asleep, but he needed a fresh diaper. Off went his pants, off went the old diaper, on went the new diaper, and on went his pants. Not once did his eyes move.

With Ian still asleep, I gathered Tory and rushed him through the naptime routine. After a diaper change and a quick book, I sang while carrying him to the boys’ room. Despite the altered naptime routine, he greeted naptime the same as always: Screaming and flailing. In between threats to Abbie if she so much as breathed on Ian, I sang a little longer and played with Tory a little longer. I couldn’t completely calm him, but I at least brought him down to quiet protests.

I wished him good nap and shut the door on the two of them. Abbie still needed her naptime routine before she’d go down quietly. Early in her reading phase I heard screeching from the boys’ room. A little later in the reading phase I heard two distinct voices from the boys’ room.

I opened the door to their room to discover that, of course, Tory had woken Ian. I didn’t expect the total jerk method he went about waking him, though. Tory had stolen the cow blanket that Ian fell asleep clutching. In dragging it away from him, he had also pulled Ian’s shirt half off while pulling Ian off the bed. When I found them, Tory was happily sitting on the floor with a cow blanket in each hand while Ian sat crumpled beside his bed, confused as to why he was out of bed and cow blanket-less.

I scolded Tory, sent him to bed, redistributed the cow blankets, and wished them good nap. I didn’t hear a peep from their room as I finished Abbie’s book. As I wished her good nap and shut her door, I heard two distinct sets of squawking from the boys’ room.

I heard intermittent squawking from their room for two hours. Most of the noises were curious or bored, occasionally annoyed, but never upset that they were shut in their room. I assume Ian never went back to sleep. I also assume Tory fell asleep briefly before Ian woke him. I can only hope he was a jerk about waking him.

P's and Q's

I try to teach my kids to say the right things. “Please” when they want something. “Thank you” when they get it. “Whoops” when they spill things. If they’re going to spend their days whining about this and that, the least they can do is sound grateful when they finally get it, and alert me when they spill it.

Abbie has mastered the “whoops” concept. If she trips and drops her milk, she says “whoops.” That’s proper “whoops” usage, but Abbie expands its meaning to include intentional acts. If she throws her milk because she’s done with it, she wants to see what happens when it hit the ground, or maybe she’s just trying to beat her personal best in milk tossing, she says “whoops.” I remind her that that’s not a “whoops” moment, that’s a big trouble moment. She keeps saying “whoops” though, and I try to stay thankful that I get an immediate notice that there’s milk spilled on the floor.

“Please” isn’t coming as well. I try to remind them to use “please” when they want something, but it tends to slip my mind. A lot of things tend to slip my mind when all three of them are screaming in dissonant unison for Kool-Aid at the dinner table. Abbie says “please” occasionally, especially if I refuse her initial request, but I need to keep reinforcing it.

“Thank you” has room for improvement, but it may be sinking in better than I thought. Tonight we were at a crafts table. The craft involved coloring with markers, but the boys were happiest pulling lids off the markers. I stayed on lid patrol, refastening the lids as soon as the boys dropped the marker so the lids would stay organized and the markers would stay moist. Tory picked up a marker with a stubborn lid that he couldn’t remove.

“Color!” he said to the table supervisor while holding up the marker. He whiffed on the “please” concept, but the woman behind the table understood and removed the lid for him.

“Thank you,” he said back with no prompt from me. What he actually said sounded closer to “Dah Toh,” but the important thing is it involved two syllables and the woman behind the table interpreted it as “thank you.”

“You’re welcome” she replied as I beamed with pride. A lesson had sunk in thanks to my constant use of “thank you” around the house.

The boys continued playing with markers, pulling off the lids, dropping them, and grabbing new ones. They never said “whoops” while dropping things, so maybe they also understand the concept of whoops only applying to accidental acts.

Bad to Worse

While the kids eat their supper, I usually finish cooking mine. When I say, “cooking,” I mean, “microwaving.” Sometimes that means reheating a leftover. Tonight that meant reheating the chili that had been sitting around for 20 minutes while the kids ate.

I popped my bowl in the microwave and hit start. But instead of the typical hum of the microwave microwaving, I heard nothing. The whole microwave went dark.

I suspected a tripped breaker, and went downstairs to check the box. Sure enough, a breaker was off. Unfortunately, the circuit hooked up to the microwave was still on. The circuit that was off was hooked up to the septic system pump.

Uh oh.

While mommy ran outside to check the septic system, I played with the breakers. I flipped the septic system pump breaker, watched it turn on, and watched it turn off several seconds later.

Mommy reentered the house, and informed me that the septic tank had indeed backed up onto the lawn. I checked the microwave again, opened the door, closed it, and smacked its side. Finally I gave it a disapproving glare, and that kicked it into action. The display lit back up, the interior light flipped on, and it heated my food.

I spent the rest of the night devising ways to not pour water down the drain in spite of bath night. I gave the kids a quick rinse in the tub. I washed dishes over a dry spot in the yard. I followed the principle of “if it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down.” At least I got the microwave back, even though I don’t know why it quit working or when it might go down again.

An Impressive Display of Speed and Stealth

Ian set a new family record today in the Mall Playground Dash. He slipped out the exit, and ran about 300 feet before we caught up with him.

I lost him in the sea of Sunday playground attendees, and didn’t see him run out the exit. Fortunately another shopper noticed I had a boy who looked a lot like Ian, and told me that he ran down the corridor a minute ago. He was almost to a nexus by the time we caught up with him, and could’ve run in any number of directions.

We returned him to the playground, and established position next to the exit for the rest of play time.

Moo

Abbie has gotten into some bad grazing habits. If she sees something she wants to eat at mealtime, great. If she doesn’t want to eat anything, she won’t, opting instead to grab a snack a little later.

I’m trying to break these grazing habits with a multi-prong approach. When she doesn’t want to eat her meal, I strongly encourage her to reconsider. When she asks for a snack a little later, I refuse and remind her that she needs to eat better at mealtime. When I catch her running out of the kitchen with a handful of raisins, I remind myself that I need to lock the snack cabinet if I’m going to crack down on snacking.

When Abbie wanted a Goldfish snack this morning, I refused. She didn’t eat much cereal that morning in her mistaken belief that she’s too good for Fruit Rings. With lunch only about a half-hour away, I didn’t want her having any excuse to not eat her yogurt. I calmly reminded her to eat better at breakfast, and told her she’d have to wait a little while until breakfast.

Abbie doesn’t accept calm reminders. Simple directives like “Be patient” will throw her into a tantrum, especially when food is involved.

Abbie screamed at me, and I coolly started work on lunch. She threw a bowl at me, and I sent her to her room before resuming work on lunch. She emerged from her room after several minutes of screaming with blood flowing down her chin after biting her lip hard enough to break skin, and I might’ve panicked a little.

That girl is not afraid to go for drastic measures to get what she wants. I suppose a Goldfish request denial is a drastic measure for a toddler, so she responded in kind. I ensured that her wound was superficial, gave her a burp cloth to contain the blood, and sent her back to her room so I could finish lunch.

Lunchtime went okay. She ate a little more yogurt than usual, and that’s an improvement. I even sprinkled a few Fruit Rings on top to remind her that they’re still good to eat.

Sister Bear

Abbie’s earliest favorite books were simple. Ideally, they had bright colors, sturdy pages, and a low words-per-page ratio. “Red” or “two” were perfect concepts to express on one page, but her attention started to drift at “two red birds.” Throw a verb (“flying”) or an extra adjective (“noisy”) on the page, and I might as well recite passages from Ulysses because she didn’t hear anything beyond word #3.

Now Abbie is older, and her books are more complicated. Their colors are more muted, their pages are more susceptible to tearing, and sentence length is comparable to those spoken on most reality television shows. She’s no longer captivated by simple counting books that build tension through a seemingly random yet oddly familiar sequence of numbers. Her favorite books express ideas and comment on society, such as what would our world look like if it were populated by anthropomorphized bears?

Her current favorite books are the Berenstain Bears series. These books that I remember reading as a child feature a family of bears, creatively named Mama, Papa, Brother, and Sister Bear. The bear family teaches kids important lessons about welcoming a new baby, meeting strangers, and staying away from strangers if they happen to be adults.

Not that Abbie understands any of these lessons. She understands the general concepts, but not the lesson she’s supposed to learn. For example, “Too Much Junk Food” teaches children the importance of proper diet and exercise. Abbie enjoys reading it because of the frequent mention of candy. “Mmm, jelly beans,” is one of her frequent comments.

In “Too Much Vacation,” the Bear family endures their worst vacation ever, yet learns to look back at the annoyances and laugh. Abbie learned from the book to associate umbrellas with vacations because the cover shows the family standing in the rain while holding an umbrella. During the many opportunities we’ve enjoyed this spring to practice holding an umbrella, Abbie always says, “I’m going on vacation!”

Abbie doesn’t quite follow these books. She usually turns the page before I finish reading it, forcing me to give an abridged version. After a few reads through the book, I usually learn where I can cut the last half of a page without losing plot, and where I can skip over details in the middle of a page without compromising the exposition’s integrity.

The biggest lesson she’s learned from these books is at least one of the Bear family members appears on each page. Rather than listen to me as we flip through the pages, she’ll exclaim, “There’s Papa Bear!” or “There’s another Papa Bear!” It’s cute, especially when she starts calling her real family by the Bear names. “Papa Bear,” she’ll say pointing at me, “Mama Bear” as she points to mommy, “Sister Bear” as she points to herself, “Brother Bear, and another Brother Bear!” she says with supreme pride. She’s learning lessons from these books, even if she stops paying attention around word #5.

Right Up There With the First Robin

I swatted my first mosquito of the season tonight while swinging the kids. Summer is marching forward in all its blood-sucking glory.

Hork Again

Ian has been sick for the past few days. Everyone has been sick for the past few days, but Ian is the only one who's been throwing up sick. Everyone else is just snotty sick.

I thought Ian was doing better this morning. He seemed perkier when I opened his door. He climbed right up to the table for breakfast. He ate his cereal happily. And then he toddled back to his room for his special, only while he's sick, post-breakfast nap.

When I checked on him a little later, I discovered that the breakfast he happily ate was now spewn all over his bed. Ian was standing next to his bed, puzzled by what had just happened. The last time he threw up he was so upset he was crying, so he's improving.

Effective Parenting

Abbie spent part of tonight chasing Tory with a small toy shovel. Mommy caught her, and immediately put a stop to her behavior.

"No, Abbie, find something else to beat your brother with," she said. She quickly followed with, "I did not just say that." A minute later she added, "No, Abbie, put down that chair."

Hork

Ian was gassy this morning. He burped a lot, and had a lot of rumbling in his gut. So when he burped repeatedly at the breakfast table, I didn’t pay much attention. He’s a clumsy eater, so when I saw spilled milk all over his seat, I didn’t pay much attention.

When I actually did pay attention, I realized that Ian didn’t spill his milk, he threw it up. He threw it up all over his place mat, his chair, and his clothes.

I changed his clothes and sent him back to his room to lie down. While I cleaned up, I let Ian rest. When I heard rustling from his room a minute later, I knew I should check promptly, but didn’t want to.

I wound back to his room a minute later to check on some odd noises, and saw that he had thrown up the rest of his breakfast. At least he was thoughtful enough to wander into the hall before throwing up, sparing me the task of changing all his bedding.

Still Sleepy

Tory woke me up this morning bouncing around his room. I opened his door, and wrestled him to the floor. I changed him for the day while he fought me, kicking, squirming, determined to wear his pajamas and overnight diaper all day. All of this is part of his usual morning routine.

Ian usually has the same morning routine. This morning he lay on his stomach, clutching his cow blanket, watching me wrangle with his brother. I flipped him over to change him, and he stared at the ceiling the entire time. Such is the reaction of a drowsy child with sinuses packed full of snot in spite of a dose of overnight cold medicine.

Bad Signs

Noses are running. Naps are shorter. Attitudes are poopier. Bad things may be coming in the next couple days.

My Snack with Abbie

Some days I wonder how Abbie gets enough to eat. She doesn’t eat much cereal for breakfast. She doesn’t eat much of anything for lunch. Supper is hit and miss. Sometimes she eats well at night. Other nights I have to battle the boys for dibs on her untouched plate.

Tonight she wouldn’t eat her chicken, probably because it was in rotisserie form instead of nugget form. Last night she wouldn’t eat her pork chop. The night before that she wouldn’t eat her macaroni and cheese. I know that a child can’t go much more than three days without eating well, so I paid close attention tonight to all the ways she packed in extra calories.

She ate her dessert cookie without complaint.

She drank directly from the ketchup bottle. I enjoyed ketchup as a child and probably would’ve considered it a side dish, but only Abbie would consider ketchup an entrée.

She bummed Jell-O off me. I tricked her, though, by sneaking some fruit that she didn’t eat off her supper plate into every gelatin spoonful.

She requested cereal several times. When I denied her snack, citing her refusal to eat supper, she snuck into the cupboard every time I turned my back.

She grabbed a spoon and the jar of peanut butter while I was distracted dressing the boys after bath time.

She finished her night with a vitamin. Hopefully those are filling enough to tide her over until morning, when she’ll eat a decent amount of cereal for a change.

Parking Problems

Parking my vehicle, much like every other minutiae of daily life, was infinitely easier before children. I pulled into a spot, departed my car, and walked to my destination. It was so simple a DINK could do it.

Pulling into a parking spot is harder now because my car is so much bigger and less agile. I need a bigger car to haul my 20-cubic feet of children, and the 40-cubic feet of seats, toys, and spare clothes they require every time we leave the house. That’s a lot of extra vehicle space to cram into a tight spot.

Departing my car is harder now because I have to do everything in quadruplicate. I unbuckle my safety belt, step out of the car, and unbuckle and remove my three kids. Occasionally I have to take an unbuckling break to ensure that a recently-released child hasn’t wandered away while my attention was elsewhere.

Walking to my destination is flat-out impossible now. Because I’m so busy packing the children into the car, searching for a parking spot with enough room, and releasing three helpless children from their restraints, I’m always running late. If I’m going to make an appointment on time, or at least before the person I’m meeting gives up and goes home, I have to run, not walk, to the appointment. Fortunately the kids help me out on that one by scrambling in different directions as we move to the destination, so I’m always running anyway.

I had a hard time finding a suitable parking spot today when I drove Abbie to speech therapy. The office has six adjacent parking spots out front. The first spot was open, but I don’t like parking there for reasons involving a pole next to the spot and a lot of duct tape that now decorates my bumper. The second spot was taken. The third and fourth spots were also taken, but by one car that parked down the center of the dividing line. The fifth spot was taken by a car with its passenger tires almost straddling the fifth and sixth spot’s dividing line, possibly because it was intimidated by the double-space taker next to it. The sixth spot was open as long as I didn’t mind parking next to a vehicle that left me no room to squeeze out my door.

I could park in the pole spot. I could wedge my car next to the double-space taker. Or I could squeeze next to the line-straddler. I chose the line-straddler.

When I departed my car, I noticed the line-straddler still had a passenger sitting in it apparently waiting for someone’s appointment to end. I had to be extra careful while pulling the kids out of the car lest I door ding them while the passenger witnesses it. And I had to pull the kids out in a hurry because we were already late.

I pulled the kids out while holding the door in place with one foot. It was a windy day, and the wind constantly threatened to grab my door and ding the bejeebers out of the neighbors in front of a potential witness. With great balance and a lot of hustle, we made it to the appointment before the speech therapist left.

Poop Disaster

At birth, a poop disaster meant a diaper leaked. In my sleep-deprived state, it seemed like a tragedy, but in retrospect it’s no big deal. Clean him up, change an outfit, and maybe change some bedding, and he’s good to dispose of another meal.

Starting around 18 months, poop disasters became more catastrophic. That’s when the children started removing their diapers after pooping. Even though the diaper held its contents perfectly well, it hit the floor and the kids could wreck plenty of havoc from this position. Maybe they’d sit. Maybe they’d play with the poop like Play-Doh. Maybe they’d step in the poop and track it through the house. My kids did them all, so I know they’re each a pain to clean in their own way.

At age 29-months, Tory found a new way to make a poopy mess this morning. He pooped in his bedroom, removed his underwear, and pushed one of his trucks through the poop while rolling it out to the kitchen. This mess was similar to the “stepped in” mess, but instead of Tory leaving a poopy footprint every several inches, he left a poopy skid mark. This skid mark stretched for many feet from carpet to hardwood* floor. It required different techniques to clean each section, and made a long thin stain that’s a pain to clean with the circular head on my Spot Bot. I stayed busy cleaning it for half an hour this morning, all the while I watched Ian like a hawk.

I’m a little scared of what the next poop disaster will bring.

* Or at least laminate.

On the Road Again

We went out of town this weekend. After multiple days of short naps, late bedtimes, and early wake times, we're back home. The gap between the time we walked into the house and the time the kids went down for bed was ugly.

The Wet and Wild Outdoors

If April showers bring May flowers, we’ll be able to stage a revival of “Little Shop of Horrors” using our backyard flora by the end of the month. Rain has hit us hard in the past several days, leaving our backyard a muddy, mucky mess. Combine the rain with chilly temperatures, and I want nothing more right now than to stay indoors and curl up in bed.

Of course, I’m a parent; my wants have no influence in the household. The kids want to go outside, rain or no rain. Their internal thermometers tell them it’s warm enough to run around outside barefoot, where “warm enough” is defined to them as “above freezing, or at least sunny with no snow left on the ground.” While I want to huddle inside for warmth, I still have to open the back door to let the dog in and out. Every time I touch the door the kids rush it, determined to sprint outdoors and furious when they realize that the dog gets to run around outside but they can’t. Never mind that the dog hates the rain too and is usually ready to come back in before the back door latches shut.

I want to keep the kids indoors because it’s cold, wet, and disgusting out there. The kids want to rush outside because it’s exciting, wet, and disgusting out there. They’re willing to put up with a little cold as long as they can dig in our backyard sand lot. If I give them a crack to squeeze through in the backdoor, they’ll take it.

The kids don’t like wearing wet clothes, but that problem is easily solved by removing their clothing and running around the backyard naked. Judging by the number of times they remove their clothing in a day, running around naked is apparently the solution to many of their problems, especially the ever-present boredom dilemma.

Those backyard puddles that I hate sloshing through to chase the kids create entertainment for them. They provide all the excitement of a bath without the unpleasantries associated with soap. Show my kids a puddle, and they’ll hop, splash, and scoop it dry. Then they’ll remove their soaked clothing, find a mud source, and play in that until I drag them away screaming and shivering.

I hope they soon learn that running outside means getting in trouble and being cold. Either that, or hopefully the rain dries soon so I don’t have to worry about it for another year.

Infinite Fundraising Potential

Every day I stepped out to the curb to meet Abbie coming home from preschool. Today, the bus stopped at our driveway as usual. Abbie walked to the front of the bus as usual. Abbie stopped a few steps short of the door in a blatant attention-grabbing attempt to make us drag her the rest of the way out of the bus, also as usual.

The unusual part was Abbie’s backpack was unzipped. She always comes home with it zipped, tightly securing the notes, artwork, and spare clothes inside. Today a large envelope jutted out the open top. The bus handler explained that pictures were in the envelope, and they didn’t want to damage them by cramming them into the backpack.

I didn’t expect pictures. Abbie already had her school picture taken earlier in the year. It immortalized Abbie’s earliest school days, back when her hair covered her eyes, pull-ups covered her lower body, and a giant zit covered her nose. Not much has changed in the past couple months, so I expected these unexpected pictures to look similar, minus the zit.

When I opened the envelope, these pictures were breathtakingly different. The photographer somehow convinced her to sit still. The first picture looked like it had been snapped during the breath between howls of protest. This new picture actually featured a posed Abbie. She looked pensive and pleasant, and not at all like a girl who was about to hunt down and shove her brothers to the ground out of boredom.

I also found the bill inside the envelope. They wanted $40 or their pictures returned. I dimly remember authorizing her to be posed, but I certainly didn’t authorize the development of $40 worth of pictures. This was a clear play on my emotions, to showing me beautiful pictures of my daughter that would be destroyed if I didn’t pay the ransom. It’s like blackmail with part of the proceeds going to a good cause.

I set the photos to the side, ready to shove them back in her backpack in the morning. I didn’t appreciate being manipulated, and they could have their pictures back. We already have pictures from this preschool year anyway. Plus, her shirt was stained in the photo; you’d think they’d keep the kids away from the paints on picture day.

Mommy noticed the pictures on the table, and went from unaware to enamored with the pictures in about 3.9 seconds. She immediately overruled me and wrote a check. I could only shrug and admit that she looked cuter in this new set. I didn’t think it was worth $40 for the new set, but mommy did. No doubt ten years from now, Abbie at least will think it was worth $40 to have a zit-free set of preschool pictures.

Number Two

For the first time ever, Abbie pooped on the potty tonight. This momentous occasion was the result of hard work, constant encouragement, and, of course, a large bowl of chili for supper.

PottyUpdate

Abbie’s potty training is progressing well. She wears underwear most of the day, and does a great job staying dry. She recognizes when she needs to go, gets me when she needs help, and even uses the potty all by herself when I’m busy. I can’t even remember the last time she had an accident.*

The boys’ potty training is not progressing well. They wear underwear most of the day, but strip naked after their frequent accidents. They do not recognize when they need to go, although they’re great at recognizing when they’re wet. They do not get me when they need help. If I leave them in the bathroom by themselves, they’re more likely to play in the bathtub than it on the potty. I can’t even remember how many pairs of underwear they went through today, though a quick count in the laundry room reveals nine pairs of boys’ underwear from today. It’s a good thing Abbie doesn’t need my help to use the potty, because I spend a lot of time cleaning up after the boys.

* Disclaimer: “Accident” refers only to the liquid variety. She shows no hesitation about pooping in her underwear, and has never pooped in the potty, although she does enjoy dumping the poop from her underwear in the potty. She still wears pull-ups at night and during naps. I change her into underwear the first chance I get after she wakes, but sometimes my first chance doesn’t come until she’s been awake for an hour or so. She also wears pull-ups whenever she leaves the house. I’m not quite brave enough to risk my sanity by changing Abbie’s outfit in public with the boys running by my side.

The More You Know

Today we discovered that, if you ask nicely, the good people working behind the fast food counter will exchange your Happy Meal toy if your toy from this visit is a duplicate of a toy you received on a previous visit. We traded up to a new action figure, a skull, and a mirror through this exchange. That’s a relief, because we already had too many gloves and boats at home.

Today we also discovered that we’ve eaten out too many times in the past couple weeks.

My Better is Funnier Than Your Better

Ian thinks this commercial is hilarious. It, or an equally amusing shorter version, play frequently during the college basketball tournament. Ian almost snorted a grape out his nose when it appeared during supper tonight. After supper, he retired to the toy room to unwind from a strenuous day of potty training, but ran into the living room laughing as soon as he heard the distinctive bass line.

I'm not sure what to make of his fascination. Maybe he's a fierce competitor, determined to laugh at the bold proclamations of those who would try to best him. Maybe he recognizes the pretension of the commercial, and that over the top aura tickles his sophisticated sense of humor. Or maybe his sense of humor is out of whack, and he just finds that distinct bass line hilarious.

I Didn't Do It

Our toilet is plugged. This comes a mere couple weeks after we paid a handsome sum to a plumber to pull a toothbrush out of the toilet.

History may be repeating. I walked into the bathroom tonight while the boys were supposedly brushing their teeth. Tory was standing over the toilet with a roll of toilet paper in one hand, a wad of toilet paper in the other hand, and a mass of toilet paper already in the bowl. He panicked when he saw me* and flushed before I could examine what else he’d thrown in the bowl. Whatever was in the bowl quickly clogged the pipe aided by a tree’s worth of toilet paper.

I sent the boys to bed and spent much of the night procrastinating on cleaning the plumbing. There’s reason we paid a plumber to clear the toilet last time this happened, and it’s not just because we lack the equipment to snake through the bends in the pipe.

While stalling on shoving my arm in the toilet bowl up to my elbow, I stumbled across the boys’ toothbrushes from tonight. They snuck them out of the bathroom while I wasn’t looking. So the good news is it’s not a toothbrush blocking the plumbing. The bad news is there’s still something in there, and all I’ve got to clear it is a plunger and my chubby fingers.

* For good reason, too.

"My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag...

Abbie’s latest obsession is sneaking around the house, periodically announcing her presence.

“Uh oh!” she’ll say. “Do you see Abbie? Say Abbie!”

I’m a little concerned that, of all the characters from Dora, Abbie apparently identifies most with Swiper.

Abbie also created her own theme song / musical motif. It’s a short ditty, sung in two beats, with an eighth-eighth-quarter note rhythm. In solfege, the pitches are do-do-sol. She sings the syllables “dih-dih-dah,” repeating the ditty as necessary to musically announce her presence as she sneaks about the house.

I may be raising a Bondian supervillain.

"Do you see Swiper?"

Our children used to share nicely.

Maybe “share” isn’t the right word. When the boys had something Abbie wanted, she’d steal it. The boys would stare at the object of interest, derive pleasure from watching her play with it, and eventually wander off to find something else interesting. When Abbie had something the boys wanted, they let her keep it. They might only be two years old, but they know enough not to steal something from big sister.

Maybe I should say my children used to tolerate swiping. It was a joyous time free of crying and fighting. The boys would find something, Abbie would take it, the boys would find something else for her to take, and the cycle would continue. Of course sometimes the boys would steal from each other. That resulted in vicious, roll on the floor battles that left one child happily possessing a toy while the other child cried while sporting a fresh bite wound. Those episodes were rare, though, and the commotion usually attracted Abbie who stole the disputed item making the fight for naught anyway.

The boys are bigger, stronger, and more coordinated now, and they don’t tolerate sister’s behavior anymore. When Abbie steals something, they fight back. They can’t actually inflict damage on her, especially since she’s strong and quick enough to evade their bite attacks, but they can seriously annoy her.

Abbie stole a toy from Ian this afternoon. Sometimes the boys run away when they see her approaching with clutching fingers outstretched, but she snuck up on him from behind. When Ian saw his toy in her hands, he fought back and hit her in the chest. He hit her with his palm, and like I said he’s not strong enough to actually inflict damage, but it bothered her.

Abbie screamed in frustration from being unable to enjoy her ill-gotten gains in peace. Mommy noticed the screams and the hitting and vocally intervened.

“Stop that and say you’re sorry!” she menaced.

“Sorry,” said Abbie. She assumed she was the one in trouble, probably because she usually is. Mommy was more disturbed by Ian’s hitting. While we frown on swiping, we don’t tolerate hitting.

“No, not you, Abbie,” said mommy. “Ian needs to say sorry to you.”

“Sorry to you,” Ian repeated.

That’s close enough to learning a lesson for me.