Story time by Savannah

Story time is supposed to reassure, calm the receptient. Right? 

Suckers. Don't you know tales fall at the pleasure of the teller?Well, Número Uno figured that out today. 

Yesterday was the girls birthday party with little people and they received (insert drum roll) among the hordes of other gifts, a little cloth play house/puppet show house. After haranguing me from my bed this morning, Abby and Savannah (in all her croupy enthusiasm) "helped" me put it together. A series of productions promptly began. 

From downstairs, I could hear the following:

Savannah: Once upon a time, there was a prince and a princess

Abby: Just like you, Daddy!

Savannah: And they were going to the ball but met a dragon who ate them up. 

N.O.: What?

Savannah: So then they went to heaven and were happy until they got eaten by the dragon again. 

N.O.: WHAT?!

Savannah: They were eaten up, Daddy!

N.O.: That's it. I'm out. 

He came down the stairs looking slightly more scarred than usual and I'll be listening to see if his dreams are punctuated by medivial reptilian references. 

Two Years?! Mamma Fail....

Since I went back into the classroom, I found it harder and harder to carve out that creative time, that personal time, that time which provides documentation of the evolution of our family. This year, I vowed, "No more." No more failing to take care of myself while taking care of my family. No more ignoring my creative bursts because the floor really needs mopping even though our new moose will ensure it is once again dirty thirty minutes later. No more. Plus, by ignoring me, I ignore the chance to record our family (outside of my journal, anyway and let me be the first to assure you - you aren't reading that).

A new semester for our family means more chaos but a chance to FINALLY get those morning routines down. This is, of course, only after half the school year has passed. The kids are more willing to get going earlier (Well, Drew is, at any rate) and I make it to school only four minutes late instead of fifteen. This also means that sleeping in on Saturday has gone the way of the dodo and I have to behave like a real-live grown-up and go to bed at a reasonable hour so as not to scar the children when they rouse me at 5:42 on a Saturday, demanding pancakes.

Interestingly, the girls are not such fans of the early morning (I knew my genetics would kick in at some point) and Savannah and Abby are only coaxed out from beneath her blankets with an obscene amount marshmallows in promised hot chocolate and a previously approved outfit. Woe be it unto me should I not have prior approval on the apparel I attempt to put on either girl as her sleepiness instantly morphs into four-year old outrage complete with Limp Limb Syndrome, leading to either my capitulation or theirs. Recent obstinacy on my part has left the scoreboard, Mommy - 12, girls - 7. This calculated score is from Monday. Just Monday. It was a long Monday.

Drew has bonded with our new moose. See:

He's only the size of the all of the children put together and with a couple of the neighbor kids thrown in for balance. As a result of our new pet, I have someone new to give me guilt-inducing stares for something as little as moving the bacon to a higher location. He has discovered I am the food provider (I feel like that should come with a musical score) and will regularly lay across the floor in the kitchen, causing me to develop the new dance style that combines jumping, swiveling, and manipulating hot pans and food over a semi-stationary lump the size of Numero Uno.

Drew's desperate needs to be on the computer every second of every day of the rest of eternity have led to more than a little conflict since I want him to move around, be physically active, interact with the real people around him and he feels like speaker phone with his bestie, Henry, is just enough interaction for him and the only reason he talks to me is cause I control the food. (I knew it would come in handy at some point.)

As for myself, my special/countrified eighth period has been scattered across my other classes. This, of course, means that I have a taste or two of the redneck/academically challenged in each and every Comp/Lit 10 class I teach and have now learned that a boy, armed only with a pocket knife and dedication, can disassemble a pencil sharpener in less than two minutes, leaving the metal pieces upon my desk as a memento of our class that day. Also, the brilliance of skipping a class and then coming in to see a buddy during another class period is clearly illustrated by the genuine panic across a boy’s face upon his realizing that the teacher did see him and does know that he “missed” class earlier. The crème de la crème of the week was, of course, the insistence that I should go hunting with some of my special students in a couple of years as their graduation present. My mistake was revealing the lack of hunting experience I had. I was, in fact, saved by the final bell but I am pretty sure they will remember the opportunity to get Mrs. L on a mountain with loaded firearms and I will need some way to deter them in their enthusiasm.

If I don't manage to get out of it, it was nice knowing all of you and Amberly, I'll need you to wipe my journal lest I scandalize the children forever.  

Neuroticism is genetic!

In case no one has actually proved that neurotic people will most likely give birth to neurotic children, there is tonight to cement the issue. I would send this post to some lofty scientific magazine, but lacking a bunch of letters after my name, I'm pretty sure they would use it for virtual toilet paper.

We made the evolutionary leap to toddler beds a couple of months ago and barring the occasional nighttime stalking where I most definitely did not wet my pants being woken up by a little face three inches from mine at 2am, it's gone fairly well. HOWEVER, in the last few weeks, we have morphed from peaceful bedtimes to bedtimes of the apocalypse. There is weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth, and that's just from me, the the lesser character in these scenes. The sweetly brief bedtime routines morphed into lengthy battles concluding in either a tears to sleep process or my complete capitulation with a toddler snoozing happily in my bed, hoarding my favorite pillow beneath her stomach.

It all started with...airplanes.

Out of nowhere, the girls, Abby, in particular, have developed an intense fear of airplanes. Savannah, my fearless princess is less afraid than announcer of these dread horrors of the sky, inducing Abby to immediately seek some sort of shelter, be it under my car, inside my baby bag, or simply beneath her blanket so those devious metal flying monsters won't be able to find her. I admit, I was entirely unprepared for this situation and I had a really hard time not laughing as she dashed into the house from the backyard, clutching her blanket tightly, shrieking, "Airpanes goin' to get me! Airpanes goin' to get me!!!" Savannah followed hot of her heels, yelling, "It's airplanes! IT'S AIRPLANES!!!" with the kind of dramatic tones that suggest monster (or zombies) are actually airdropping from said planes straight into our backyard. (I looked just to make sure. No zombies.)

Interestingly, the girls had just had a plane ride to Texas not two months ago when N.U.'s father passed away and I didn't have to bribe them to go into the belly of the beast there so that really indicates exactly how new this fear is.

Now, we don't live right by the airport and planes passing overhead are not an hourly occurrence but there is a time, that every day, a plane passes over our house, winging its way somewhere. Is it early in the morning, waking my children with their new, scream-inducing fear? You'd think, but, no. Is it mid afternoon, interrupting play time and Mommy's secret chocolate snack time? Sometimes. But every single night at bedtime, the winged demons of sky fly overhead and the twinsome bolt from their beds, yelling their dismay for all to hear. Originally, they parlayed this fear into six more songs, two more stories, and three more tuck-ins into the nightly bedtime process but even those extreme measures proved not enough. Abby had the perfect solution, irregardless of size constraints.

"Mommy! Lay down wit me!" Abby would scoot over to the far edge of her toddler bed and pat a miniscule space in which I was expected to contort my body.

"Abby. Mommy is too big for your bed," I patiently explained. "I can sit right here, by your bed and hold your hand, okay?"

"NO. Mommy not too big (noting to self to have her vision checked). Mommy is just RIGHT!"

"Honey, Mommy is just"

"Lay down wit me!"

And that is how I find myself, irreversibly crammed into half of a toddler bed, listening for the sounds of the nightly plane of terror and wondering if my chiropractor has any open appointments for tomorrow. Luckily, he does.

Good night. 

The meaning of spring

Recently, the temperature rose so the afternoons were deliciously balmy and the trees sprouted tender green buds. This all led to the joy of spring, the sweet moment peaking at a final freak snow storm to make us truly appreciate the conclusion of winter. That's not really what I meant. I'm still bitter about the temperature plunge. It was like expecting a kiss, a sweet baby kiss, and getting a nail lined slap. I walked around the house those couple of days muttering profanities in connection with Mother Nature's name. In spite of my overall lack of maturity, spring really means one thing, at least to Drew, the chance to run around and display all the hidden crazy in his pursuit of SOCCER!!!

I'd registered him a month or so previously and after paying an exorbitant fee (seriously, I expected the new uniform to come lined with gold thread) and some confusion about who was coaching, we were ready. I'd taken him to a game and some practices before Numero Uno was able to go to any due to the unpleasantness which is his night schedule right now. Luckily, a game had had to be rescheduled and it was played on a practice night so NU was able to go. We packed up the munchkins, scurried over to the park, and planted ourselves in the grass on the edge of the field. Obviously, NU was not content with this whole sitting on the ground bit and let me know in no uncertain terms that men of his caliber do NOT sit on the ground. Interesting, how men of his caliber lost my fold up chairs on a boys' trip a couple of years ago but I digress.

Warm ups began. The boys were lining up to practice kicks into the goal, facing off with one of their own. Feet pounded and wove, balls tumbled toward the goal and one by one, the line moved forward. Drew, in all of his unmedicated ADHD glory, danced around, waving to me, the girls, talking to the kid behind him, and the line moved. He was up. He ran forward, ball moving, bouncing off his feet, and the goalie moved in, snatching it up after one particularly hard kick. Drew stopped and cocked his head, watching the ball sail back. Now, I missed whatever the goalie said to Drew but I saw him grin, that mischievous, troublesome grin, and he darted forward, unencumbered by a lack of a ball, and lightly kicked the goalie square on the shin guard before running back to the end of the line.

N.U. and I shouted a reprimand at Drew before rolling in the grass to hide our laughter from him but we both noted the undeclared rule: No goal? Kick the goalie.

And on that note, I'm thinking this season will be very interesting and I might need to buy the girls shin guards. Just in case.

A New Authority

I have become aware of a new legal authority whose vast knowledge trumps all that I and número Uno might have. Now, I'm aware how limited my own understanding is so the people who could be considered a higher authority are more numerous rather than less. But you forget Número Uno's expansive and frequently untapped knowledge! Between the two of us, we should have this parenting thing down! At least, semi-down. Okay, hanging on by our fingernails!

Now, who could this great authority figure be? A legislative official? A religious leader? A teacher other than myself? I say nay. Nay to all of these. According to my dear son, my declarations are often in conflict with that authority who knows all - that kid from class. Based on Drew's responses, this kid from class is the unrecognized authority on all. Bedtime announcement? That kid from class says that we should all go to bed an hour later. Dinner on the table? That kid from class reveals the subtle poisoning that creamed spinach causes to growing bodies. (It's edible for grownups only.) Soccer practice time? That kid from class said practice was cancelled even though he doesn't play soccer. New video game release date? That kid from class listed five other kids who already have that game even though it won't be released for another week and a half. (Showed Drew the official game website with release announcement twice!)

In my realization of my complete lack of knowledge, I will be forwarding all questions about life, major decisions, and menu selection to the one and only: that kid from the class.

Dental Duty

Recently, I took all of the kiddos to the dentist. By. Myself. Now, instead of skipping ahead to the part where I shoved a whole chocolate covered marshmallow heart into my mouth on the drive home, I shall start at the beginning.

We went early. Again, my version of early is not an early birds version because our appointment was at 9:30. Amazingly, we are ON TIME and this was not because I strapped them into their seats thirty minutes early so I could finally put on some pants. Well, maybe a little. Número UNO keeps telling me that they frown on pantlessness in this town and since I'm past the age that anyone would want a full on panty show, pants I must wear.

Into the car I plunged and was instantly surrounded by complaints, demands, and disgruntlement which predominately stemmed from my desire to keep their little choppers clean until the dentist could see them.

D: Mom! Mom! Mom!
Me: Yes, Drew?
D: Can I play my DS? Huh? Can I? (Wiggling in his seat like he's just downed three espressos.)
Me: When (abruptly cut off)
Savannah: Where's my milk baba?!
Abby: I want my blankie!
Savannah: I want my baba!
Drew: MOM! Where's my DS???
Abby: (Sobs beginning to shake her little body) I want my blankie!!!!

Me: (mentally contemplating probability of car ride completion without caving to overwhelming desire to stick head out of the window for remainder of ride.) OKAY!

Deep breaths. Gulp some hot chocolate. Scald tongue. Mentally swear. Drink some more. Don't feel a lick of remorse since it is not my dentist appointment.

Me: (Handing blanket behind me.) Abby! Here is your blankie! Drew! Your DS is in your bag. Play away. Savannah! Here! (Twisting arm into impossible contortion to hand back sippy cups.)

Silence. Absolute silence.
Blessed quiet broken on by the quiet beeping of Drew's DS.

Thirty seconds later,
Savananah: I need some goldfish!
Me: No.
Savannah: Mommy! I. Need. Some. Goldfish!!!
Me: N.O. Not until after we see the dentist.

Savannah's mouth opens, a yet unheard scream of protestation, when relief of relief, we are there.

Me: Too late! Time to get out of the car.
Exiting the vehicle involves going to both sides, putting shoes back on little feet, shoving all requisite toys and blankies in to my enormous bag which is still NOT big enough, locating sippy cups hurled into the floorboard while still keeping them from running into the parking lot to be squished like bugs.

Me: Everyone to the sidewalk. Up to the door! Don't push! Here we go!

Into the building we go. The dentist's office is actually a little ways in and we have to traipse through a common area for a doctor's office to get to the giant cardboard toothbrush heralding our arrival. A brief wait and I'm not saying that they hurried to get us for fear we would dismantle every cutsey sign and display out there but that receptionist looked a little too happy to usher us into the back.

Now for a little back story. We've been to this dentist before. He came highly recommended from some other people with kids and since these people have not turned out to be Ted Bundy's in disguise, we were willing to give their recommendation a shot. When we went, Abby was not having ANY of this. She gripped me like I was the last life preserver on the Titanic and when I peeled her little arms from my neck to let the dental assistant take a gander at her teeth, clearly visible due to the screaming mouth, she shot me such a look of betrayal, I half expected her to spout, "Et tu, Mommy?" But that would have required ceasing the rage and there was none of that. Obviously, dentist, not her favorite person and she required much bribery before she would kiss me again. Okay. I had her with a handful of goldfish but those eyes! Narrowed with distrust and exhausted tear ducts. Massive mommy guilt for at least ten minutes. Chocolate mutes a lot of things.

Current day.

We are walking down the hallway towards the backroom which has three examination chairs and set ups all in the same room. The siblings who are uncomfortable together, are traumatized together. Same backroom as last time. I'm walking behind the monsters, all the better to keep them on the path to clean teeth. As we walk, I notice Abby starting to lag a little. Her head slowly swivels around and she stares at the walls and doorways of other exam rooms as we pass by. Feet slow even more. I can see her little eyes narrow as she attempts to make the connection of why this place feels so familiar. Roughly five feet from the backroom entrance, she stops completely, turns, and stares at me, mentally thrusting a pudgy finger into my face as the light-bulb clicked on over her head, and begins to cry.

Abby: NOOOOOOOOO! (She feints left and runs right in a attempt to flee but is weighed down by her trusty sidekick, Blankie which wraps around her legs long enough for me to swoop in and grab her.)
Me: (False cheer over the sobbing.) Okay, kiddos! Everyone in!

Savannah and Drew are quickly seduced into chairs by shining things that spray water and make awesome sucking noises. Abby's not falling for these shenanigans again and clutches me even closer, loudly weeping and demanding to leave. And if leaving isn't on the table, she'll have some goldfish - crack of toddlers. After we pry her mouth open for the dentist to count her teeth and estimate how many thousands of dollars we'll need in orthodontic work a decade down the road, she re-clutches herself to me, fingers white at the knuckles from clenching my shirt. Her relentless crying finally relents and the dental assistant in an attempt to plant seeds for positive rapport and to reduce the need for physical restraint, offers a toy from a Tupperware box. She shoves it away and turns to me, glaring once again and in that look, I could hear her little voice, "You'll be paying for my therapy, Mom! ALL OF IT!!"

And that's how I ended up raiding my emergency chocolate store that I keep in the car (No, Numero Uno, I will not disclose secret location to you!) and covertly shoving it into my mouth as we drove Drew to school.

Okay! I gave the girls some, too, after we dropped Drew off. He wasn't scarred for life and had spend most of the return trip gloating about how easy it was! I'm pretty sure Abby was getting ready to hurt him, but hadn't acquired all of the necessary implements when we finally got to school and that's the main reason our dentist trip didn't lead to the ER.

I'm thinking Numero Uno can take them next time. He's a PoPo. They're used to trauma and screaming and I'm sure I wouldn't have to go pick up the kids from the side of the road after he leaped from the car.

Well, pretty sure, anyway. 

The Tiny Twin Caper

Anyone can tell you men and women are different. The contrasts range from physical to psychological to emotional... The list goes on and on. HOWEVER, anyone with kids can tell you the differences between mothers and fathers are even more drastic. This is a tale of those differences.

It is a chilly day in the Arctic Circle, otherwise known as Grand Junction, and the snow and ice linger in the negative 23 degrees. The kiddos and I had traipsed over to the gym and come scurrying back to make Abby's therapy appointment. Appointment concluded, I bid Rachel, the therapist, goodbye, just as Número Uno made his appearance. Night shifts have forced a new routine where lunch is breakfast and dinner is lunch although in extreme cases, dinner is breakfast. Groggy but wearing pants, he stumbles towards coffee and consciousness. After both have been obtained, I, in my sweat covered glory, ask, "Could you watch the munchkins while I take a shower?"

He replies, "Sure." even though he is already completely entranced by the blaring stories of Fox News and I could have just asked him for the Amex and a kidney for all he knows.

The girls are playing in their room so I head to the shower for twenty minutes of soapy, glorious peace.

Here is where the differences begin -

I step out of the bathroom, clean (at least until dinner) and immediately notice something ominous - silence. I enter the dining room and notice a chair pushed up to the kitchen counter; a location where it did not exist previously.

I locate Número Uno (still in his office, in the same chair, still watching television although we have now progressed to Rocky V). I ask, "Where are the girls?"

He now looks around and notices the silence. "They're in their room. They closed the door. They wanted some privacy."

Mom alarm wailing full blast now.

Over the internal sirens, "They aren't supposed to have the door closed and don't you think they are being a little too quiet?"

Open the door. Both girls burst into laughter from their snug location UNDERNEATH the crib. I take a hard look at them, back at the now empty kitchen counter, and back to them.

"Dear," I say, "Are they eating marshmallows?"

"No." He takes another long look at the giggling twosome still carefully staying wedged beneath the crib. The lightbulb goes off "Wait! Where did they get those from?!"

I crawl under the crib and retrieve the now half-empty bag, removing the six extra marshmallows Abby had smashed into a play cup despite her wails of rage. Back into the kitchen I go, shoving the bag onto a high shelf, before filling Número Uno in.

"Well, one of your angels pushed the chair to the counter, climbed up, grabbed the bag, climbed down, and ran with her co-conspirator to the bedroom, making sure to close the door behind them in order to divide up the spoils in safety. They then crawled under the crib to better hide when we finally figured out their plan."

His mouth is literally hanging open until he realizes in abashed amusement that a set of toddlers have pulled a fast one on him. Abby runs up, a sticky white grin across her face.

He picks her up, nuzzling her neck and says, "You're not supposed to make Daddy look like a FOOL!!!"

Oh, daddies. I look forward to the day I ask him to do their hair. I'm installing a camera just for that.