…Can Wait ’till Tomorrow.

Monday is housecleaning day. In my feeble attempt to establish order and tame the Whimsey-beast, I have declared Monday the day in which I will attempt to to all the chores I despise and in doing so, I can then enjoy the rest of the week without digging through baskets of perma-press wrinkled laundry that never got folded, let alone put away.


I do have some laundry going, but I just keep finding myself distracted by other things that are much more fun than laundry and spotless floors. Things like playing building-block roads with my sparkling boys, and a divine game of “I’m-gonna-getcha!” with the effervescent miss Babs.

So much for taming the whimsey beast. Who needs whiter-than white laundry and impecible floors anyway? I’m off to read “Bread and Jam for Francis” to the Monkeys…


Well, we made it almost five years without having to go to the ER for stitches. Not too bad for a house with little boys…

Eric is my child who is going to give me heart palpitations- he is fearless, lithe, squirrely, strong and very active; I have cracked jokes about him being the one to keep me up at night worrying, and the one who will send us, many nights, to the ER. I hope I’m wrong. Well, last night was his inaugural trip.

We had a great day, a barbecue on the new grill, friends with boys over to share really good food, baseball for the dads, and social time. All in all, a marvelous Saturday.

For some odd, Bermuda Triangle reason, every time we hang out with these friends, someone ends up bleeding. Twice my monkeys have given their kids either a bloody nose or lip. Yesterday, their youngest crashed in our downstairs bath and got a fat lip.  I thought our “blood” quota for this visit had been met…

After dinner, the four boys were in the bedroom playing, when there was a “thunk” and Jeffrey called me anxiously that Eric had a “really bad scratch on his forehead!” Scratch? Uh, yeah, how bout a bone-deep, inch long gash that was bleeding all over his face??! I had a moment or two of panic; this was my first substantial wound on any of my children, I had to fight the feeling of fainting while I carried screaming Eric to the bathroom and tried to wipe off some of the blood to see how bad it was. Pretty ugly. Of course, being two and screaming, he was very cooperative with my efforts to clean him up.

Our friends offered to stay at watch Abby and Jeffrey while we ran to the hospital to get Eric stitched up, and DH and I took off to the ER. Mercifully, it wasn’t too busy for a Saturday night, and we only had to wait about an hour. Instead of stitches, which the doctor said would have been really traumatizing and left a worse scar, they surgically glued the gash back together. Poor baby.

He is still sleeping this morning, and I didn’t get much sleep last night- I kept waking up and checking to make sure it hadn’t busted open again. Sometime in the middle of the night he pulled the bandage off, but I left him alone since he was sleeping soundly.

My little Monkey has his first battle scar. But he was very brave, and his jammies are covered in stickers from the ER nurses. Next time, and I know there will be a next time, I’ll be better prepared: head wounds bleed like crazy, and maybe I won’t feel the need to faint. Another notch on the Mama belt…

Target, Part 2

Target. Oh, Target, my love, are we destined to hurt one another forevermore?

After my last trip to Target, I hadn’t had the personal fortitude to try again, until yesterday, when they had barbecue’s on clearance, and we both needed one, and didn’t have wads of cash to shell out for one. So I took a deep breath, packed all three Monkeys in the ‘Burb, and headed off to meet my pain head on. It couldn’t be any worse. Could it?

We stopped off at DH’s office on the way, and he looked at me like I had just suggested eating caterpillars for dinner when I told him where we were headed. Some things men just don’t get, and a woman’s love for Target is one of them.

This time I was prepared though. I had the $2.17 required for two popcorn’s and two soda-pop’s, yes, two, so as to alleviate the possibility of any fighting from the get-go. I also was able to nab the special, giganto-cart with the extender on it where you can strap your Monkeys in, and still have a place for the baby and Target junk you can’t live without. Score!

Everyone is strapped in, buckled, tied down, can’t move, has their popcorn and Jones Green Apple Soda, never-mind my cart is 16 feet long; they cannot escape me this time! And off we go. I give a mighty push. Nothing. The cart won’t move. I jerk it back and forth. Nothing. What the….? Jiggle, shove, kick. The left back wheel is perpendicular to the rest of the cart. $#*&. There is NO way I am unpacking these kids and trying to do this while they walk beside the cart. Hahahahahahahahaha! No. Not gonna happen. So, I kick the wheel as strait as I can get it, and begin to drag the cart through Target. (cue the toiling slave music…)

Yes, I actually drug the cart, through Target, with 120 or so pounds of my kids in it, and a gimpy wheel. And of course the barbecue clearance section is in the very south-40 back corner of the store. Of course. OK, how can I make the best of this? I start talking to the cart, calling it silly names, and the kids think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. They are jerking and bouncing around as I pull the lame cart all the way to the back of the store, spilling popcorn and soda as we go. But, they are laughing. No matter how much things may suck, if your kids are laughing, everything is easier.

After finding the ellusive Target employee and asking for our new barbecue to be brought up front, I begin the arduous task of dragging my brick of a cart back to the front of the store. Near the shoe department, the wheel really jacked itself, and the boys lurched forward, bashing Eric’s head into Jeffrey’s mouth. Can I just get out of Target without any blood, just once?? But no, Jeff’s lip is split wide open, but he doesn’t yet realize he is bleeding. That is, until Eric chimes in with “Look at the blood!”, and the shrieking begins. Jeff is something of a drama queen, if I hadn’t mentioned that before.

Bloody lip taken care of with a Huggies wipe, tears cleaned up, face red and splotchy, (the kids and mine!) we drag ourselves into the check-out line. No, I do not want to save 10% by opening a Target card. I spend enough money here, thank you very much. No, really. I don’t want one. Thanks. No. NO.

We have a lovely new, stainless steel barbecue sitting in the back of my ‘Burb. And I made it through Target. I can do anything!

Potty Training at the M’s

Quite possibly I am the worst mother ever. My 2 3/4 year old is not potty-trained yet. That in and of itself is not a crime; plenty of kid not yet three are still in diapers. Or course my first was long trained by now, but alas, the reprioritation of life as more babies come along strikes again.

First, I was so pregnant and barfing that I was constitutionally and physically incapable of training a busy boy to use the toilet. Then, I knew the new baby would likely send him for a tailspin, which it did, and I stalled for that. The baby is three months old and what’s the problem now? Welllll……

In less than two weeks, we are going on vacation. Airplane rides, long car rides, a trip to Disneyland… and the idea of dealing with a boy who doesn’t yet have complete control of his pee-pee through all that makes me a little queasy. It’s going to be a bumpy enough ride with just me and three kids, without the potty issue, so I’m stalling again. My plan was to tackle it head-on once we get home from vacation. My poor kid.

But tonight, well, we got a little surprise. As I was fixing dinner, sweet little diaper-prisoner Eric comes in the kitchen and gazes up at me with his giant two-year old eyes and red hair, and informs me that he is, currently, peeing. He makes sure to remind me that he has a diaper on, but he wants me to know that he is relieving himself. Right next to my leg. OK, honey.

We sit down to dinner, but Eric is nowhere to be found. Eric? We look around the house, and DH calls from the bathroom, “Honey…? Can you come here…” in just that right tone of voice that told me he had found our boy, and I better hurry.

In the bathroom, sitting upon the large, grown up potty, was my tiny boy. Of course he is on the grown up potty- because I, diaper-hostage-bad-mom, have not yet gotten out the potty chair. He had removed all of his clothes, taken his diaper off, folded it up and put it carefully in the trash, gotten on the potty without falling in, and gone poop. All by himself.

My heart just about burst. He looked so small, and my guilt was like a gigantic booming kettle drum in my chest. What kind of mother doesn’t let her boy use a potty?? Ugh. I hang my head in shame.

Bless his little heart, he even tried to wipe himself. I’ll leave that to your imagination, but there was a whole roll of TP in the toilet. All I could do was congratulate his little self. What an awesome kid. And what a sucky mom.

So, if you have any potty training questions for me, bring ’em on! It’s a new method I developed. Don’t let your kid use the toilet, and when he gets sick of his lame mom, he will use his industry and creativity and show you how it’s done. With the right marketing strategy, I bet it would sell! Man, I suck.

(DP at MMW today)

Why? Why, Oh Why?

I knew I shouldn’t have bought it. I knew it. But the boys were being maniacs, I had all three kids with me for my errands today, and the last stop was the grocery store. (Abby, bless her pink polka dotted heart, slept the whole time we were out.)

But when I walked down the freezer aisle, and I saw that they were “Buy one get one Free!”, like a powerful magnet, they drew me in. I was powerless. Haagen…Daz…raspberry…chocolate…truffle… and a free pistachio for DH!

I put the kids to bed, DH went downstairs to workout, and I cracked that baby open. Ah, peace at last. All by myself.

I ate the whole thing.

Now, feeling sick and disgusting, I am going to drag my sorry butt to go ride the exercise bike for like, the next fourteen hours. Don’t anyone tell me how many calories are in a whole container of HD. Seriously. Lalalalalallala. I’m not listening!