Things I’ve learned this week
1. A one year old can fit four Dora the Explorer dominoes in his mouth before he gags and hurls all over the place.
2. Whoever made up the phrase, “No use crying over spilled milk,” probably didn’t spill a half gallon under the microwave and all over the stove while they were making grilled cheese for six hungry kids.
3. If a three year old comes to you and says, “I almost about pooped my pants!” there is no use in hurrying to the bathroom because he/she probably already did.
4. Do not feed Fiber One poptarts to little kids if they are going to be staying at your house for the rest of the day. Just don’t do it.
5. And the last, best thing that I learned this week was this: the laundry can probably be done faster without the help of my two sons BUT it is more fun to let them help me in a dark laundry room, using their flashlights.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
time for a little cold turkey
I’m embarrassed to admit that Wesley, who just turned three, still has a pacifier. We try to only let him have it at night time and at nap time but he would prefer to have it all day long. I know, I know, we should have taken it away a long time ago. I tried, believe me. For a while we were doing really well. I think we also tried to convince ourselves that eventually he would just give it up on his own. Which was about as realistic as expecting a car to change its own oil.
It’s been really bothering me lately. I hate the daily fights when I try to take it away from him repeatedly. I don’t like waking up in the night because someone lost their pacifier and needs help finding it in the dark. And I probably spend, on average, 20 minutes a day looking for someone’s paci (pronounced passy) – 20 minutes that I want to reclaim and spend doing something more useful – like watching Dr. Phil. I know that the easy solution is to just take it away and go “cold turkey” for him and for Wyatt. If we don’t do something soon, Bryan will have to teach Wesley to shave with a pacifier in his mouth. It is going to be painful for all of us but I think in the end, will be so much easier.
So last night I was trying to think of some psychological trick to use and make Wesley want to give up his pacifiers. I want it to be his idea. I just don’t think the “pacifier fairy” is going to work at our house. I was watching him be nice to his baby brother and it hit me.
“Wesley, maybe it’s time to gather up all your pacifiers and Wyatt’s pacifiers and take them to the hospital. That way the nurses can give them to the brand new babies since you and Wyatt are getting to be such big boys,” I said, sure that I could convince him that tiny newborn babies in need were worthy of his pacifiers. And for a second, I can see that he is thinking about this.
Then, from the kitchen I hear Bryan shout, “Are you kidding? There is no way the nurses are going to give their old pacifiers to new babies.”
Sometimes Bryan and I are so in sync that it feels like we share a brain. And sometimes not. Perhaps we’d better discuss our stance on Santa Clause before Christmas comes along.
It’s been really bothering me lately. I hate the daily fights when I try to take it away from him repeatedly. I don’t like waking up in the night because someone lost their pacifier and needs help finding it in the dark. And I probably spend, on average, 20 minutes a day looking for someone’s paci (pronounced passy) – 20 minutes that I want to reclaim and spend doing something more useful – like watching Dr. Phil. I know that the easy solution is to just take it away and go “cold turkey” for him and for Wyatt. If we don’t do something soon, Bryan will have to teach Wesley to shave with a pacifier in his mouth. It is going to be painful for all of us but I think in the end, will be so much easier.
So last night I was trying to think of some psychological trick to use and make Wesley want to give up his pacifiers. I want it to be his idea. I just don’t think the “pacifier fairy” is going to work at our house. I was watching him be nice to his baby brother and it hit me.
“Wesley, maybe it’s time to gather up all your pacifiers and Wyatt’s pacifiers and take them to the hospital. That way the nurses can give them to the brand new babies since you and Wyatt are getting to be such big boys,” I said, sure that I could convince him that tiny newborn babies in need were worthy of his pacifiers. And for a second, I can see that he is thinking about this.
Then, from the kitchen I hear Bryan shout, “Are you kidding? There is no way the nurses are going to give their old pacifiers to new babies.”
Sometimes Bryan and I are so in sync that it feels like we share a brain. And sometimes not. Perhaps we’d better discuss our stance on Santa Clause before Christmas comes along.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
vroom vroom, glug, glug
Of all the issues that come up on a daily basis, plumbing issues have to be the most fun. And thankfully, the six kids in my house every day insure that I will have plumbing issues from time to time. Like last week.
We had been having a hard time with the kids’ bathroom toilet not flushing. It would flush most of the time, but only parts of whatever was being flushed would go down. I’m gonna give you a minute to think about that….This particular toilet has been full of surprises since we bough the house. In fact, Bryan and I spent our third anniversary bailing water out of that bathroom after a little flood.
So last week it actually stopped flushing. When someone pushed the flusher thing (that’s a technical term) the water would try to go down and then overflow onto the floor, the rugs, your feet, anything. I was finally forced to call for help.
Bryan’s dad has some friends who have some plumbing experience. They were kind enough to come to our house and work on our toilet for an hour before deciding that this required professional help. Which made me want to throw up in my mouth because professional help means big money. Thinking about it, I realized that being a plumber would be great, even in a poor economy – because when your toilet is backing up and overflowing onto the floor, you are going to call a plumber no matter how little money is in the bank account.
The plumbers came and worked in the bathroom for about an hour. I was getting breakfast for the kids and couldn’t be too attentive to the men who were tracking muddy water (at least I hope that was mud…) through my house. They did catch my attention, however, when they carried the toilet past the living room and out onto the front lawn. That was when I started to sweat a little.
The kids and I all gathered at the front window and watched, open mouthed, as the two men played a sort of wrestling game with our toilet. One had his legs wrapped around the toilet and the other was using some auger thing to jam into the toilet and yank it back out. It was frightening. I began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been cheaper to just buy a new toilet.
About thirty minutes later, out of the toilet appeared a toy motorcycle. I was shocked. I mean, how would a toy motorcycle have gotten into the toilet? No, I wasn’t shocked. I find toys in the toilet all the time. I usually just grab them out when I see them (and wash them in bleach and quarantine my hand for awhile) but I will admit that any toy that goes past where I can see into the toilet might get away. I am not sticking my hand into the caverns of the toilet. Even I have my limits.
I know who put the motorcycle there – Wyatt. He is obsessed with all things toilet-related and I have to pull him out of the bathroom several times a day. I thought about keeping the little motorcycle and saving it until Wyatt is all grown up and buys his first home – and then putting it in his toilet just for fun. But in the end, I let the plumbers take the motorcycle.
But Wyatt better be careful. Because next time, I just might let them take the offender, too.
We had been having a hard time with the kids’ bathroom toilet not flushing. It would flush most of the time, but only parts of whatever was being flushed would go down. I’m gonna give you a minute to think about that….This particular toilet has been full of surprises since we bough the house. In fact, Bryan and I spent our third anniversary bailing water out of that bathroom after a little flood.
So last week it actually stopped flushing. When someone pushed the flusher thing (that’s a technical term) the water would try to go down and then overflow onto the floor, the rugs, your feet, anything. I was finally forced to call for help.
Bryan’s dad has some friends who have some plumbing experience. They were kind enough to come to our house and work on our toilet for an hour before deciding that this required professional help. Which made me want to throw up in my mouth because professional help means big money. Thinking about it, I realized that being a plumber would be great, even in a poor economy – because when your toilet is backing up and overflowing onto the floor, you are going to call a plumber no matter how little money is in the bank account.
The plumbers came and worked in the bathroom for about an hour. I was getting breakfast for the kids and couldn’t be too attentive to the men who were tracking muddy water (at least I hope that was mud…) through my house. They did catch my attention, however, when they carried the toilet past the living room and out onto the front lawn. That was when I started to sweat a little.
The kids and I all gathered at the front window and watched, open mouthed, as the two men played a sort of wrestling game with our toilet. One had his legs wrapped around the toilet and the other was using some auger thing to jam into the toilet and yank it back out. It was frightening. I began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been cheaper to just buy a new toilet.
About thirty minutes later, out of the toilet appeared a toy motorcycle. I was shocked. I mean, how would a toy motorcycle have gotten into the toilet? No, I wasn’t shocked. I find toys in the toilet all the time. I usually just grab them out when I see them (and wash them in bleach and quarantine my hand for awhile) but I will admit that any toy that goes past where I can see into the toilet might get away. I am not sticking my hand into the caverns of the toilet. Even I have my limits.
I know who put the motorcycle there – Wyatt. He is obsessed with all things toilet-related and I have to pull him out of the bathroom several times a day. I thought about keeping the little motorcycle and saving it until Wyatt is all grown up and buys his first home – and then putting it in his toilet just for fun. But in the end, I let the plumbers take the motorcycle.
But Wyatt better be careful. Because next time, I just might let them take the offender, too.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I need a minivan
As most of you already know, I drink Diet Dr. Pepper. I need it every day. I try to limit myself to two or three cans a day which I know is terrible but it is what allows me to be human in the morning. It helps me “play well with others.” Unfortunately, I occasionally run out of my precious Diet Dr. Pepper. Or, sometimes my husband drinks the last one without telling me or replacing it. He is always very sorry afterwards, on many levels.
Earlier this summer, I had run out of my nectar from heaven and I was getting desperate. This wouldn’t be a problem for most people, right? You would get into the car, drive to any gas station, fast food restaurant, grocery store, whatever, and buy yourself a cold one. But for me it is a problem in that I had five kids with me that day. And I own a car that does not accommodate five car seats. In my desperation, I came up with an idea. There is a gas station that is probably half a mile from our house. I can almost see it from home. So, I put the two babies into my double stroller and put the two next youngest kids into the wagon. The last kid was my own so he had to suck it up and walk. I attempted to push the stroller, which is approximately ten feet long and 300 lbs while I pulled the wagon. It was not easy. We walked and walked and I was sweating profusely and my hand was getting a cramp from steering the stroller one-handed. Two kids had started to cry and there were buzzards circling overhead. Then I looked back and to my dismay saw that we hadn’t even gone a block yet. Defeated, I turned our little parade around and went home to think of another way to get through the day.
But that isn’t the point of this story. The point of this story is that I was telling a friend about this day. And he told me, “Next time you get that desperate, please call me.”
I thought it was so nice that he would offer to take time out of his day to bring me a drink. I wouldn’t have thought of asking someone to bring me a drink – it seems so silly. But now that he had offered…
“Oh, I don’t know – I would feel bad asking someone to get me a Diet Dr. Pepper and bring it to me,” I told him.
And he replied, “No, I don’t want to bring you a drink. I want to take a picture of you trying to get to the gas station with all those kids.”
What a turd bucket.
Earlier this summer, I had run out of my nectar from heaven and I was getting desperate. This wouldn’t be a problem for most people, right? You would get into the car, drive to any gas station, fast food restaurant, grocery store, whatever, and buy yourself a cold one. But for me it is a problem in that I had five kids with me that day. And I own a car that does not accommodate five car seats. In my desperation, I came up with an idea. There is a gas station that is probably half a mile from our house. I can almost see it from home. So, I put the two babies into my double stroller and put the two next youngest kids into the wagon. The last kid was my own so he had to suck it up and walk. I attempted to push the stroller, which is approximately ten feet long and 300 lbs while I pulled the wagon. It was not easy. We walked and walked and I was sweating profusely and my hand was getting a cramp from steering the stroller one-handed. Two kids had started to cry and there were buzzards circling overhead. Then I looked back and to my dismay saw that we hadn’t even gone a block yet. Defeated, I turned our little parade around and went home to think of another way to get through the day.
But that isn’t the point of this story. The point of this story is that I was telling a friend about this day. And he told me, “Next time you get that desperate, please call me.”
I thought it was so nice that he would offer to take time out of his day to bring me a drink. I wouldn’t have thought of asking someone to bring me a drink – it seems so silly. But now that he had offered…
“Oh, I don’t know – I would feel bad asking someone to get me a Diet Dr. Pepper and bring it to me,” I told him.
And he replied, “No, I don’t want to bring you a drink. I want to take a picture of you trying to get to the gas station with all those kids.”
What a turd bucket.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I don't even like corndogs
As a daycare provider, I have the option to be in something called the Food Program. Basically, I fill out tons of paperwork and promise not to feed the kids anything that tastes good, and they reimburse me each month for some of my food. It’s worth it because six little kids can eat a truckload of Ritz crackers each day. And since I don’t have a fountain of free juice flowing in my backyard, I will take all the reimbursements I can get. I normally make like $3.00 an hour but with my Food Program money, I make almost $4.00!!! And lots of hugs. Sticky little hugs.
So last weekend I was trying to come up with some new menus for the kids. I have to have three weeks’ worth of menus planned and they just rotate over and over again. This seems like it wouldn’t be a hard task, but it turns out that it DOES take a rocket scientist to come up with 30 different meals that little kids will eat. It’s impossible. Because in addition to being something that they will eat, it has to meet the Food Program requirements. Here is an example:
I found out that little kids will eat corn dogs which made me really happy because they are frozen and all I have to do is heat them up – and add a milk portion, a fruit, and a vegetable, but whatever. The problem is that the food has to be labeled for the child nutrition program (which means it must be bought in bulk from a place like Sam’s). So I got a gigantic box of corn dogs with the appropriate label and started serving them up only to be told after I bought a box of 50 that they MUST be all beef. But alas, my corn dogs are beef and turkey.
It makes me wonder – who made up that rule? And why? We all know that hot dogs are made of knee caps and eyelids. So why does it matter if they are kneecaps from a cow or from a turkey? Are bovine eyelids more nutritious than turkey eyelids? I don’t know. Fortunately, I can ponder that question as I eat the remaining 45 corn dogs. Because I would never break the rules on such an important matter and feed them to the daycare kids. I guess now I have to scratch corn dogs off the menu – tuna casserole, here we come! Mmmm, tuna kneecaps…
So last weekend I was trying to come up with some new menus for the kids. I have to have three weeks’ worth of menus planned and they just rotate over and over again. This seems like it wouldn’t be a hard task, but it turns out that it DOES take a rocket scientist to come up with 30 different meals that little kids will eat. It’s impossible. Because in addition to being something that they will eat, it has to meet the Food Program requirements. Here is an example:
I found out that little kids will eat corn dogs which made me really happy because they are frozen and all I have to do is heat them up – and add a milk portion, a fruit, and a vegetable, but whatever. The problem is that the food has to be labeled for the child nutrition program (which means it must be bought in bulk from a place like Sam’s). So I got a gigantic box of corn dogs with the appropriate label and started serving them up only to be told after I bought a box of 50 that they MUST be all beef. But alas, my corn dogs are beef and turkey.
It makes me wonder – who made up that rule? And why? We all know that hot dogs are made of knee caps and eyelids. So why does it matter if they are kneecaps from a cow or from a turkey? Are bovine eyelids more nutritious than turkey eyelids? I don’t know. Fortunately, I can ponder that question as I eat the remaining 45 corn dogs. Because I would never break the rules on such an important matter and feed them to the daycare kids. I guess now I have to scratch corn dogs off the menu – tuna casserole, here we come! Mmmm, tuna kneecaps…
Monday, August 10, 2009
first day back
Today is the big day. Or at least one of the big days. It is the first day of school for teachers in the area which means I will have five or six of my closest friends with me again starting now. Last night I could hardly sleep because I was so,…er,…excited.
I was thinking about what makes home daycare a hard job. Contrary to popular belief, I do not sit on the couch eating bon-bons all day and watching soap operas. I prefer to eat my bon-bons in the kitchen, yo. Really, though, what makes it hard is that I do not enjoy chaos. And there are moments, mainly the moments around lunch and preparing to go outside, that feel like chaos. When everyone needs my help at the same time and I just don’t have enough arms and legs to handle the job. I’ve found that there are a few ways to control chaos but only two are legal. One is to make a pretty solid routine and stick to it each day. I try to do this. The other is to have fun and educational activities for the kids to do. This one is harder than having a routine because it requires me to do a lot of planning. Little kids have a short attention span. Like, three minutes. So on a typical day, I have to come up with roughly three hundred activities. And don’t even think about doing the same thing two days in a row!
If you happen to think of me today, know that we are having the time of our lives making pretzel necklaces and Lego towers. The time of our lives. Somebody get me a bon-bon.
I was thinking about what makes home daycare a hard job. Contrary to popular belief, I do not sit on the couch eating bon-bons all day and watching soap operas. I prefer to eat my bon-bons in the kitchen, yo. Really, though, what makes it hard is that I do not enjoy chaos. And there are moments, mainly the moments around lunch and preparing to go outside, that feel like chaos. When everyone needs my help at the same time and I just don’t have enough arms and legs to handle the job. I’ve found that there are a few ways to control chaos but only two are legal. One is to make a pretty solid routine and stick to it each day. I try to do this. The other is to have fun and educational activities for the kids to do. This one is harder than having a routine because it requires me to do a lot of planning. Little kids have a short attention span. Like, three minutes. So on a typical day, I have to come up with roughly three hundred activities. And don’t even think about doing the same thing two days in a row!
If you happen to think of me today, know that we are having the time of our lives making pretzel necklaces and Lego towers. The time of our lives. Somebody get me a bon-bon.
Monday, August 3, 2009
for sale: one half of king sized bed - barely used
I have a mom-related complaint that I would like to file with anyone who will listen. Are you ready? (collective nod, please.)
I am tired of not getting sleep. After three years of someone waking me up almost every single night (there were possibly a dozen nights in the last three years where I was in such a heavy coma that the house could have collapsed and it wouldn’t have disturbed my slumber) I am tired. Tired. Tired. My boys are three and one and this business of needing something in the middle of the night is getting old.
Wyatt is still up at least once a night. I’ve tried to just let him cry it out but it’s hard to ignore his cry. He only has one cry – it’s the same whether he means “I am one half a degree too warm” or “A bear is mauling me and just ripped my arm off.” Same exact cry. Plus, we put him in the same room as Wesley so now when he cries he is waking up Wesley, too. And he seems to like this new leverage.
Wesley, on the other hand, wakes up in the middle of the night needing something probably every other night. Sometimes I am sleeping and I awaken to feel someone breathing on my arm. And when I peel my eyes open, he tells me, “My leg hurts. Can I have some Zyrtec?” which means he most likely doesn’t have a future in pharmacology. But sometimes he doesn’t come into my room, he lays in his bed and screams, “Mom-may!!!” until I wake up and stumble into his room. Then after I get in there and break my baby toe or my kneecap on the train table next to his bed, I see what the problem is – that he has fallen out of bed. And I use the word “fallen” loosely. Because his bed is a toddler bed which is very low to the ground. So he has basically rolled out of bed and descended a maximum of six inches in elevation. And instead of just getting himself back into bed he feels the need to make me come in and roll him back over. Never yells for Dad-day, always Mom-may. It’s a popularity contest I would like to lose every once in a while.
I’ve read that being a mom is a pursuit which requires selflessness and patience but I’m running all out of those two things. I’m thinking of going on strike. Anyone have any witty ideas for my picket signs?
I am tired of not getting sleep. After three years of someone waking me up almost every single night (there were possibly a dozen nights in the last three years where I was in such a heavy coma that the house could have collapsed and it wouldn’t have disturbed my slumber) I am tired. Tired. Tired. My boys are three and one and this business of needing something in the middle of the night is getting old.
Wyatt is still up at least once a night. I’ve tried to just let him cry it out but it’s hard to ignore his cry. He only has one cry – it’s the same whether he means “I am one half a degree too warm” or “A bear is mauling me and just ripped my arm off.” Same exact cry. Plus, we put him in the same room as Wesley so now when he cries he is waking up Wesley, too. And he seems to like this new leverage.
Wesley, on the other hand, wakes up in the middle of the night needing something probably every other night. Sometimes I am sleeping and I awaken to feel someone breathing on my arm. And when I peel my eyes open, he tells me, “My leg hurts. Can I have some Zyrtec?” which means he most likely doesn’t have a future in pharmacology. But sometimes he doesn’t come into my room, he lays in his bed and screams, “Mom-may!!!” until I wake up and stumble into his room. Then after I get in there and break my baby toe or my kneecap on the train table next to his bed, I see what the problem is – that he has fallen out of bed. And I use the word “fallen” loosely. Because his bed is a toddler bed which is very low to the ground. So he has basically rolled out of bed and descended a maximum of six inches in elevation. And instead of just getting himself back into bed he feels the need to make me come in and roll him back over. Never yells for Dad-day, always Mom-may. It’s a popularity contest I would like to lose every once in a while.
I’ve read that being a mom is a pursuit which requires selflessness and patience but I’m running all out of those two things. I’m thinking of going on strike. Anyone have any witty ideas for my picket signs?
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