Convenient Argument by the Almost-Birthday Girl

My kids are finishing their bath.

My daughter turns 5 tomorrow. She says to me:

"Mommy? I was telling Jack that whoever's almost birthday it is, or whoever's birthday is the closest or whoever's birthday is tomorrow gets to pick out the book. Am I right?"

Convenient, child. Convenient.

Read more things my kids say. Follow my blog with Bloglovin

How His Brain Works is Beyond Me

I have to thank my son's teachers for providing material while he's at school. There are a number of Jackisms we wouldn't otherwise be privy to!

Thank you, Sam, for this one.

Jack: "Ms, Sam do you have a baby at your house?"

Sam: "Nope, bud, just baby turtles."

Jack: "Well, why not?"

Sam: "I just didn't have a baby yet. One day I will."

Jack: "Oh okay, you left your baby at the dentist?"

Truly baffling.

Throw Away Your Own Fruit Snacks Wrapper

I know children are self-centered at their core and it is our role as parents to teach them to understand empathy.

I grasp this with my logical mind.

But, despite considering myself a rational adult, there are many moments day-to-day that leave me questioning my own sanity because these miniature human beings are so focused on what they want.

It really is good thing they’re cute.

1. “Can you hold this?”

Photo credit: crappypictures.com

It never ceases to amaze me that my children can look at me holding two backpacks, two lunch boxes, a car seat, my purse, a blanket, three french hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree, and still attempt to hand me an empty fruit snacks wrapper.

Child: “Mommy, can you hold this?”

Me (in disbelief): “What do you think?”

Child (smirking): “… yeah?”

It is in this moment that I look over at my sauntering, empty-handed preschooler and offer a death glare that ultimately misses its mark because she is already throwing said-fruit snacks wrapper on the ground.

Now we must address the issue of littering.

2. “It’s too much work.”

I doubt I’m alone in the fact that I have two school-aged children who are fantastic at following rules for their teachers and awful at following those exact same rules in my home. Cleaning up their toys is a prime example.

It really is a simple rule, right? The child gets something out to play with, so the same child should put that something away when he or she is finished. It is so simple in theory.

Instead of compliant children, however, I am met with (a pathetic, whiny version of), “It’s too much work.”

It is at this point I have to throw out a threat to either tell his or her teacher about this violation of rules (yes, that actually works) or make an empty threat of taking away all toys he or she doesn’t put away.

Let me clarify that the threat of taking away all toys is not an empty threat because I refuse to do it, it’s an empty threat because there are so many damn toys in the house, my kids don’t even miss the ones I take away.

I tested this theory once with my son. Instead of remembering why he had his toys taken away, he shrugged and moved on to something else. Parenting win.

3. “Do you want to hurt me?”

Asking rhetorical questions to a preschooler is never a good idea. They don’t get it. They try to actually answer the question, and the answer is typically one you do not want to hear.

My son is a typical boy who uses his body as a weapon of love. You know what I mean … instead of giving a nice, sweet hug, he chooses to bull rush unsuspecting parties with his head at crotch length. It’s a real treat.

On a number of occasions, he has “loved” me in this way and I have asked him, “Do you want to hurt me?”

He often stops, looking like a deer in headlights, and says, “… yes …”

I know the answer is that he doesn’t, in fact, want to hurt me, but the rhetoric is lost on him and I end up more frustrated than when I started.

Moving on.

4. “No, that’s mine!”

Having young children will magically regress you to a place of having tantrums. Now, you may be someone who has tantrums anyway. If that is the case, I’m not here to judge. Tantrum away.

What I’m talking about, though, is the day you find yourself arguing with your small child over the ownership of an iPad that undoubtedly belongs to you. Why? Because your small child believes everything in the universe belongs to him or her, of course.

Child: “Where’s my iPad?”

Me (in the tone of a pre-pubescent teen): “Um, that’s my iPad.”

Child: “No, it’s my iPad!”

Me: “Did you buy it?”

Child: “Yes.”

See, this is where they get you. You think you have your child cornered with this black-and-white question, but your child really believes they own said iPad.

Unfortunately, there are only three ways to get out of this, and none of them are great. You can grumble something inaudible and hand your child the iPad, attempt to get into a conversation about hard work and ownership of property and watch your child’s eyes glaze over, or say no out of spite and watch a small earthquake erupt in your living room.

Please choose one of these and report back your results. Of course, you’ll have to wait until you get your iPad back first.

Why Mufasa "Got Dead" and Subsequent Lion King Conversations with My Kids

Mufasa. Doomed.

I arrived at my parents' house to pick up my kids this evening and found them watching "The Lion King."

My first thought took me back to 1994 when I saw the movie in the theater and clung to every word spoken by a pre-pubescent Jonathan Taylor Thomas as Simba (and, yes, I cursed Matthew Broderick for taking over when Simba grew up, but I digress).

My second thought was that my kids were going to freak out over the death of Mufasa, something I, personally, have freaked out about plenty of times in my life.

When you really think about it, children's movies have softened over the years. Today I watched cartoon Simba nuzzle himself under the arm of his dead father ... nuzzle under the arm of his dead father!


Nowadays, we see a tortured ship at sea and then a mourning Anna and Elsa in a Frozen castle, left to wonder what the heck happened. The entire thing completely sails over the heads of kids (see what I did there?) because they only had one scene to recognize Anna and Elsa had parents in the first place.

Back to the present and preparing my kids for the death of Mufasa. My mom wanted them to see "Hakuna Matata," and I wanted to give the kids the opportunity to see the tragic scene if they wanted to. I told Abby the dad dies and she confirmed she wanted to see the scene. Jack -- eyes fixed on the television -- nodded yes as well.

Hakuna Matata.

I essentially did a play-by-play of the scene to keep them from getting too sucked in and, let's face it, to keep myself from crying. He nuzzled under the arm of his dead father, for Pete's sake!

Once the scene was over and I had wiped my eyes, the recapping began. There were far too many conversations to reference, but I will provide a fun overview.

Conversation 1: Who Died?

Abby: "Jack! Did you see what happened? All the animals were running and bumped into the king and then he got dead."

Jack: "Yeah!"

Abby: "And then the king killed him."

Me: "No, the king died."

Abby: "Yeah, Mufasa killed him."

Me: "No, Scar killed him."

Abby: "Yeah. Why?"

Me: "Because he was mean and he wanted to be king."

Jack: "Yeah ... and then the animals were running and there were rocks and then he was the king."

Me: "..."

Conversation 2: Cactus Butt

Abby: "And then the black ... and white ..."

Me: "The hyenas."

Abby: "The hyenas ... said ... 'I don't want to look like you, Cactus Butt!'"

Jack: "Yeah ... and then he ran away and they said, 'I'll kill you!'"

Me: "They said if he came back they'd kill him."

Abby: "Yeah! Because the king died ... because the animals were running and bumped into the king and then he got dead."

Refer to Conversation 1.

Conversation 3: Enough Baby Talk!

Abby (referring to the scene in which Simba grows up): "And then they move like this (swinging her head back and forth) and he gets a little hair and then he gets a lot of hair and he's growed up!"

Jack: "Why did he get hair?"

Me: "Because lions get hair when they get older."

Abby: "Why?"

Me: "Because it happens. Just like babies. Like Evie who doesn't have any hair."

Abby: "Evie has hair!"

Me: "Yes, but not a lot. And some babies are born bald."

Abby: "Yeah! Like ... I have some baby dolls that I don't play with anymore that just have one little curl of hair and nothing else."

Jack: "We're not talking about babies! We're talking about lions!"

Me: "Okay, okay. Yes, boy lions get manes when they get older."

Abby: "Just like babies --"

Jack: "No more babies! We're talking about lions!"

Conversation 4: Who's Your Daddy?

Abby: "Do you have a mommy?"

Me: "Yes."

Abby: "Who?"

Me (still in disbelief she does not retain this information): "Grandma is my mommy."

Abby: "Oh."

Me: "Do you know who my daddy is?"

Abby: "No."

Me: "Guess."

Abby: "Papa?"

Me: "Yes. Do you know who daddy's mommy is?"

Abby: "You?"

Honestly, how does she not retain this?

Getting Dead

I'm glad we got through our first movie in which a character "gets dead" in front of the audience. I have to say, though, the minds of children fascinate me. I had to explain to Abby that Mufasa wasn't a real being ... even though he's a cartoon. How can she not tell a cartoon isn't an actual animal? I'm not sure, but apparently she can't. I had to tell her that Mufasa was an illustration and that someone spoke for him. So now I've probably helped her through her first character death and managed to ruin the Easter Bunny in the process somehow.

Nature vs. Nurture: My Perspective Post-Kids

I have always been interested in psychology. I fell just two classes short of a psych minor in college because I took so many classes out of a pure desire to learn. So it isn't a surprise that, prior to having kids of my own, I assumed the majority of a child's personality is formed from parental and cultural influence.

Now that I have an almost-five-year-old daughter, three-year-old son and seven-month-old daughter, however, I have changed my tune.

Allow me to explain.

Being Beautiful

Abby's future plans include butterfly mascara.

Any young girl knows the societal pressures of being beautiful. The last thing I want for either of my daughters is to be consumed with physical appearances to the point of ignoring the awesome young ladies they become. I am cognizant that I am not only telling Abby she is beautiful inside and out, but that she is smart and funny, too. That didn't stop her from discovering the beauty gene, however.

I wasn't sure Abby would be a "girlie girl" considering she wore Toy Story t-shirts for her entire third year of life, but she is evolving. Now she's taken it to another level. 

1. She started wearing her play high heels around the house and wanted to wear them to school, so I bought her Mary Jane's.
2. She threw an epic tantrum because we wanted her to wear bicycle shorts under her dress for a park visit. She insisted that her dress "wouldn't be beautiful" if she wore shorts under it. It was at this point that Tom and I realized something had shifted in the Abby matrix.
3. Most recently, we were sitting in the living room watching TV as a family and a make-up commercial came on. We were half paying attention to it, but Abby chimes in once it's over and -- with total seriousness -- asks, "Dad? When I grow up, can I get butterfly mascara?"

A Love for the Ladies

Jack has taught me that attraction is ingrained at birth. He has also taught me that he is a boob guy.

Beginning at the tender age of two, Jack has shown his love for this particular feature. He has also shown that he is 100-percent willing to cross any social barriers and make himself welcome on a woman's lap.

1. Over the holidays, Jack -- who stopped taking naps awhile back -- perched himself on a family friend's lap and rested his head on her chest. He then proceeded to fall asleep in the midst of a crowded party. I guess he was in his happy place.
2. At a Rodan+Fields party I hosted in April, I hosted a handful of women who were "blessed" in this area. Jack welcomed each lady as she entered the party, immediately offered a hug and then followed each to her seat where he sat on her lap. He moved on to welcome each new woman as she arrived, not discriminating.
3. At a Tigers game in early July, Jack spotted my cousin's daughter two rows up. He was already smitten with her after a graduation party a couple weeks prior, and quickly moved to her lap. What blew me away was when the crowd volume rose to a deafening roar and he just sat there, gazing at Marisa. Jack is so sensitive to sound that I purchased hunting earphones for him to block out noise at the dinosaur exhibit at the zoo. Well. Apparently the right woman can neutralize his senses.

I truly wonder if this fearlessness will carry over into adolescence and adulthood. If it does, this child -- incredibly charming -- will have no shortage of female suiters. Tom and I also predict that his sisters will avoid bringing friends to the house.

Social Butterfly

It's difficult to tell much about the baby at this point, but I will say that she is our most social child. At just seven months, she has made it clear that she is a people person. If she has the attention of others, she's happy. If she doesn't, she's mad. Not sad, but mad. 

I predict she will be the most extroverted of the three. Lord help us.

This whole nature vs. nurture thing is fascinating. There are traits my kids were born with, but they are also sponges. There are things I know I never told them, but they manage to pick them up. Butterfly mascara, Abby? Really? I don't wear make-up (aside from Rodan+Fields peptides, of course), so why does she care about make-up so much?

I (clearly) sell Rodan+Fields and talk to Abby about it, but not Jack. So imagine my surprise (and delight) when he said to one of his teachers last week as she was putting on his sunscreen, "This isn't my sunscreen, it's my 'fine line potion.'" 

Moral of the story: don't discredit advertising. It clearly works.

Did I mention I sell Rodan+Fields?

Must You Interrupt My Major Life Lesson?

I was reading an article online today about parents teaching their children to respect differences. We should not only teach our kids to see beyond physical differences, it said, but we should make sure they ask questions behind closed doors out of respect. I logged this bit of information and went about my day.

Fast forward to bedtime and I was reading Abby a book entitled, "What Mommies/Daddies Do Best." It's a book that has identical text for both mommies and daddies. "Mommies can teach you how to ride a bicycle; have a picnic with you, etc." Then, "Daddies can teach you how to ride a bicycle; have a picnic with you, etc." Each mommy, daddy, and child is depicted by an animal. There are hippos riding bikes, porcupines going through a bedtime routine, blah blah.

Anyway, we have read this book a few times over the past week and, each time, Abby points to the (very large) hippo mommy on a bicycle on the first page and says, "That doesn't look like a mommy." Earlier in the week, I just brushed this off and didn't respond. Tonight, however, I was armed with having read that blog earlier in the day.

It was time to teach a life lesson.

When Abby pointed to the hippo and stated, "That doesn't look like a mommy," I replied, "Sure it does. Mommies all look different right?"

I was so proud of myself. I mean, I'm passing along major life lessons here. I'm being the mom I'm supposed to be. The next time we see someone in public who looks different, I think, Abby will know that it's okay to look different.

My inflated mommy ego was short-lived, however, when she looked at Evie and started stroking her Pebbles-esque ponytail and said, "Evie's hair is soft!"

Maybe she didn't hear me. There was a lot going on in the room at the time. I wanted to make absolute sure she heard me, though, because this was a big-time life lesson. I needed her to understand that she shouldn't believe mommies to look all one way -- they all look different.

So I reiterated, "Mommies come in all different shapes and sizes, right? Not all mommies look the same."

What does she do next? Points to that same hippo on that same bike and says, "That doesn't look like a mommy."

I sigh heavily and say -- knowing she would have no idea what I was talking about -- "way to buy into the stereotype."

Moving along to the daddy side of the book, she pointed out yet another animal and declared that it "didn't look like a daddy." At this point, I'm completely beyond attempting to teach anything. Clearly she is not in the right state of mind to learn how the world works. I blow off her comment.

We got to the end of the book and there was another picture of the same daddy/child pair, but in a different position. She says, "Now it looks like a daddy." I asked why. "Look at his shirt!"

I quit. Consider me destined to be embarrassed in public when my kid points out that someone doesn't look right.

Name that Parent: Who Do Our Kids Take After?

First comes love, then comes marriage, then come the babies and the two of you spend the rest of your lives debating who they take after.

Husbands and wives love to say, "she gets that from me," or, "he's your son." I'm never sure if we do that out of pride -- good or bad traits -- or fear.

So, let's take a look at my kids and their awesome traits and see who Tom and I think they take after. Tom is actually in the room, so I'm going to poll him LIVE.

Hold on to your butts (name the movie).

The Tyrant

Pretty much.

Abby is a tad ... bossy. And I know I'm not supposed to use the word bossy because feminism and equal opportunity workplace yada yada. But. She is.

We went to my best friend's house for Memorial Day. She has a three-year-old daughter who is also, shall I say, headstrong. The two of them could not play together. They were offending each other left and right. It was like one of those chess matches where the two players are so good no one makes a move because they are anticipating each others moves.

Where does she get that quality?

I say: Me. Yes, it's true. This is the reason I am not someone everyone loves. I want to be in control and that offends more people than I probably realize. I'm going to try and help Abby not offend as many people as I do on a daily basis.

Tom: You. Because you're a thick-headed numbskull.

The Sensy

NO SOUNDS.

Jack has been described as "all boy," which essentially means he is more than happy injuring himself and others. I'm not sure what it means beyond that.

On the flip side, he is also incredibly sensitive to sound (hates horns), touch (hates pants), and Abby (does whatever she wants).

Where does he get that quality?

I say: Neither. I think Jack is a unique bird. His sensitivity comes from Tom. Although, his willingness to do what Abby wants in order to keep her from going nuts may also come from Tom. And I respect that.

Tom: Has no answer because he is engrossed in watching The Bachelor. And apparently me bossing him around to get an answer is not effective.

The Thoughtful One

On to the attractive qualities. Abby is incredibly thoughtful. As much as she can be a huge pain (and I say that with love), she truly loves to see others happy. If we need something, she will help us. Though, there are times we will ask, "Can you do me a favor?" and she'll say, "No. I don't want to."

Where does she get her thoughtful quality?

I say: She gets it from both sides. The fact that she likes to mother her siblings comes from me without a doubt. Thinking of others in terms of special gifts comes from Tom. In other words, we're both incredible.

Tom: Both of us. Because we both offer different qualities that we learn from.

And just like that ... WE WOULD WIN THE NEWLYWED GAME.

The Entertainer

Jack is hysterical. He's strange, I will admit. But he's beyond funny. If you would like some examples, visit the things my kids say page.

Where does that sense of humor come from?

I say: Me. Because I'm hilarious. Duh.

Tom: I don't know. He's his own. I think we allow him to establish who he is.

And now I'm petty. Oh, well.

I will admit, he is a brand all his own. And I love how he rocks it. Both of our "big kids" are pretty kick ass.

Not actually my kid.

That brings me to ... the baby.

Who does she remind us of to date?

I say: Me. Because she conveys her opinion with her eyebrows.

Tom: I don't know. I can't wait to find out. I think she's going to be her own soul. The fact that she just smiles at everything from the jump.

And once again. I'm petty. Do we see why Tom married me? Clearly I'm quite a catch.

Where is the Easter Bunny From?

Getting ready to walk out the kids' room tonight and I reminded them that tomorrow is Easter. I know that the primary thing is the Easter Bunny ... because ... I have no idea.

So I made sure I said, "Do you know what Easter is for? Jesus rose from the dead."

Kids:

And, yes, I picked Jon Stewart on purpose.

I went on to explain, "Yes, Easter has the bunny ... not sure where that came from, but Easter is when Jesus rose from the dead."

That's when Abby injected a profound statement.

"Maybe the Easter Bunny is from Africa."

Hmm. Sure. Perhaps. I'll ask Ziggy Ansah if he's heard of this theory.

Insanity is Contagious ... and I Have It

My husband and I are moving into the keep-your-sanity-at-all-costs parenting phase. Long gone are the days of merely providing physiological needs for our children. Instead we are combating insanity which, I am finding, is both contagious and transferable.

Unfortunately for me, I currently have a bad case of insanity. This is evidenced by a number of symptoms.

I Am Making Up Rules

I was feeding Evie (13 weeks) and Abby (4 1/2) came into the room, looking to irritate me. My husband thinks I'm being harsh when I think this way, but it's SO OBVIOUS.

She picks up one of the hoses from my breast pump and starts flipping it around like a jump rope.

Me: "Stop that."

Abby: "Why?"

Me: "Um, because I said! When I tell you something, you don't ask why, you just do it!"

Holy s*%$.  I am my parents.

I Am Turning into an Adolescent Child

Dig into this story you're sure to love.

I was home alone with all three kids, putting them through their bedtime routine. I threw a pile of clean laundry on the floor in their room. I asked Abby to start sorting it. She refused.

"No, I don't want to."

"I don't care if you want to. I told you to do it, so you need to do it."

Right. She began mocking me in her mind. Or at least that's what I envisioned. Instead of sorting the clothes, she started jumping into them as though they made up a pile of leaves. My blood started to boil as she continued to disregard my instruction.

Finally, I decided to put into practice a tactic I have been using to force my kids to acknowledge the instructions I give. I told Abby, "repeat what I told you to do."

Her reply?

"Repeat what I told you to do."

Me: "Excuse me?"

Abby: "Excuse me?"

Okay. At this point, just consider me a 10-year old. I'm pissed. This four-year old is NOT going to get the better of me. I take her Lego set that she got that day and I put it on the bookshelf out of her reach. She starts going crazy. That's it. I showed her.

I go back to getting the kids ready for bed. Jack is completely nude after a bath. I told him to put on his Pull-Up, but I don't know why I even gave the instruction. I know he won't do this on his own. I then turn around and see that Abby has pulled up a stool to retrieve her Legos from the shelf.

Um. NO.

I lose it. Like ... lose it. I put the Legos on the tippity top shelf and start to say things to Abby that there is no way she's going to comprehend.

"This is about respect! You need to listen to me when I tell you something!"

She is giggling. I'm so far gone. No hope for me now.

It Only Gets Worse

These things just compile on top of one another to the point that the dumbest, smallest thing turns me into a raving lunatic. Fast forward to bath time and the kids were putting their teacups on the ledge of the tub so that overflowing water was spilling onto the floor. I swear, one drop hit the tile and I turned into the Hulk. I may have actually turned green.

Tom laughs at me and wonders how I can let these things get to me. I, personally, think he just underestimates the emotional intelligence of our kids. Either way, the bottom line is that I will win.

I will win.

I will.

The Story of Thy Scatterbrained Self

I feel like I should have more to contribute. I'm sitting here in my dining room, watching the baby stir (she's probably waking from an amazing fantasy that involves eating) and knowing my time is short. I need to write a blog. What should I write about?

How about the chaos that is married life with three kids under five, two businesses, and a freelance writing career? I will take them one-by-one.

Married Life with Three Kids Under Five

Photo via Flickr by anotherlunch.com.
No, I don't put together impressive spreads such as this.

Yes, it sounds daunting, but it's not so much because of the children themselves. If you asked me what it was that makes three kids under five so difficult, I would tell you it's the fact that they eat. If I never had to actually feed my children, parenting would be so much easier. Hear me out.

First off, my two older kids are beyond picky when it comes to food, and they are picky in opposite directions.

While my daughter will eat vegetables, I don't think my son has ever eaten anything that has ever grown out of the ground. At least on purpose. My son isn't a crazy snacker and he doesn't care much for sweets. My daughter is asking for something every 2.5 seconds and lives for dessert.

As someone who needs silence to feel centered, being asked for food 5,214 times a day and being met with, "NOOOO!" whenever I serve something is enough to drive me to drink. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I digress.

Then there is the baby, who obviously needs to eat regularly and, when she does, needs to be fed by me. This results in contorting and balancing as I try to get other things done while feeding the baby. Ironically, the ability to nurse my baby makes things more convenient in many ways, but having to feed a baby in general throws a wrench into things.

The bottom line is that kids do, in fact, have to eat. So this reality won't be changing anytime soon.

Not One -- But Two -- Businesses

Evie's future. Image via Flickr by GYLo

Now that pregnancy is over, having my own business has an entirely different set of challenges, though I obviously prefer the baby over pregnancy.

Especially since Tara and I were somewhat of a waddling sideshow when we would meet with clients. It's one thing to have one pregnant PR person, but two? Our prize is that we now have two teeny-tiny mascots.

What this baby has forced me to do is learn how to manage my time. I have to squeeze every bit of productivity out of every minute I have, which isn't really a strength of mine.

I am someone who wants to get everything done all the time. Getting anything done is impossible when you're thinking about all the things you aren't getting done while trying to get something done. Right? I'm sure you followed that.

The teaching element is a good one for me, though. I have to learn how to do one thing at a time and take breaks when I need to. I usually get tunnel vision and lash out at anything breaking my concentration. As a woman with three kids, this method isn't going to work.

I'm also selling Rodan+Fields, which I initially didn't think of as my own business. Now that I've been in it a month, have gone to an awesome seminar, and have seen some of the impressive women who have made a lot of money for themselves, I recognize it as my second business. The great thing is that it is exactly what I do well: marketing. What it's doing, though, is drawing my attention away from everything else because I'm so excited about it I want to do it all the time.

Freelance Writing

In addition to my family and my two businesses, I've taken a freelance job with CopyPress. The entertaining part about this job is that it throws extremely random assignments at me with a two- or three-day turnaround. Looking at my planner, one would find, "Finish story on Lobster" next to "Write press release for Wicked Awesome Wishes." I'm learning about a lot of random topics, I'll admit.

This is my scattered self right now, with humorous kid lines mixed in, of course.

I Spy with Preschool-Aged Kids

Yes, a rousing game of "I Spy" can really get me going in the morning (that's what she said), especially when it includes my four-year old and almost-three-year old, who don't quite understand the concept of the game.

Aside from giving "hints" that include the actual answer, the banter back and forth between the two of them is outstanding.

This morning, in the midst of driving in a sea of white thanks to the awesome Michigan weather, we got a game going.

To set the scene, Jack is in the second row of the van holding his Tyrannosaurus Rex that he got at the store last weekend. He is currently obsessed with dinosaurs. Abby is in the very back with her Rainbow Dash Equestria Girl.

Begin scene:

Jack: "I spy with my little eye something that is ... green ... and like the trees."
Me: "The trees?"
Jack: "NO the BUSH. It's LIKE the trees."
Me: "Oh. So. The bush?"
Jack: "(As though I'm brilliant) Yeah!"

As you can see, it doesn't take much to feel like a rock star while playing I Spy with these two.

Abby: "I spy with my little eye something that is ... blue ... with rainbow hair ... and a cutie mark on her cheek ... with boots."
Jack: "Umm ... (thinking hard) Rainbow Dash?"
Abby: "Yeah!"

Jack: "I spy with my little eye something that is ... like sharp teeth and pointy."
Me: "Your dinosaur's sharp teeth?"
Jack: "Yeah!"

Abby: "Okay, my turn! I spy with my little eye something that is ... red on her lips with hair that is blue and orange and yellow and skin that is blue."
Jack: "Rainbow Dash?"
Abby: "Well ... YES, but, Jack, it is actually the red on her lips so you have to say, 'Rainbow Dash lips.'"
Jack: "Rainbow Dash lips?"
Abby: "Yeah!"

So, if you're in the market for feeling good about yourself, come on over for a rousing game of I Spy -- you won't be disappointed.

Target Tantrum: A First for Me

I will make a confession. Until last week, I had never experienced a public tantrum in my 4-plus years as a parent. My oldest seems to be of the misbehaving-behind-closed-doors variety. She will give it to us in the privacy of our own home and then act an angel in public. This is all well and good, but it also frames me as a total jerk when I roll my eyes and tell a story of her craziness. The receiver of my story will give me a look as if to say, "We could never see that angel acting a fool! You must be an awful mother!"

I suppose that kind of behavior is better than public insanity, but it's all relative. I, personally, do not allow myself to feel any sort of shame or embarrassment when it comes to my kids going nuts in public. I equate my mentality to that of Billy Chapel in the movie, For Love of the Game. When he's on the mound, he hones in on the catcher's mitt and thinks, "Clear the mechanism." Then all the noise and outside distraction goes away.

This is what happens with me. I am focused on one thing: survival. Get the child. Get child into the car safely. Do not lose wallet in the heat of the battle. Anyway, on to my story.

The tantrum was performed by one, Jack, in the toy aisle of Target. It was a classic Jack moment. I was open to getting them each one thing. He zeroed in on Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon. Then he didn't want that, he wanted Spiderman. Then he wanted something from Planes. Whatever. As long as the cost was low, I didn't care. Problem was, the mere asking him what he wanted threw him into a tailspin. This is typical of him. Ask, "Which one do you want?" Then his response is something horror movies are made of.

I don't get it. I really don't. He ended up lying on the floor of the Target aisle (gross) in a glass case of emotion. At that point, my only concern was that he not pee his pants. Frankly, I didn't want to deal with the mess. I had all three children in tow (I had already declared myself Mother of the Year for that one ... perhaps that was my first problem), so toting a pee-soaked almost-three-year-old out of Target was not on my list of fun things to do for the day.

So, I cleared the mechanism and managed to strap him back into the cart. In his efforts to make things difficult, he straightened his body stiff as a board, which looked particularly uncomfortable. Whatever. His choice.

Now, I know the suggested disciplinary action in response to this kind of behavior is to drop all things and leave the store immediately. I, for one, do not agree with this. I'll be damned if I'm going to waste my hard effort of fetching groceries while carting around three children under five. I was going to finish my shopping trip. I collected the couple items I needed and headed for the checkout. Jack was still screaming. Abby had her hands over her ears. Evie was sleeping soundly. We're training her to be a bang-up third child.

In the heat of getting myself and my kids out of the store, I successfully ignored anyone staring at me, but I did not have the luxury of avoiding Target employees. The guy ringing up my groceries seemed like a nice enough person, but I'll go ahead and wager he didn't have children. Why do you ask? Well, the first thing he asked upon me pulling up to the register with a screaming child is, "Ma'am, would your children like a sticker?"

I'm not sure if he thought a sticker would pop Jack right out of his rage, but I suppose it was a sweet gesture anyway. Abby gladly took the sticker. When he handed her the sticker, he said, "You're pretty! You're going to be a really pretty lady when you grow up!" Really, dude? I didn't even have the ability to glare at him because I had to handle my crazy child.

I (impressively) managed to pay for everything and get to the front of the store. Now came the challenging part. Getting all three out the door, with groceries, alive. I had been navigating the store using one of those giant cart contraptions that allowed for two kids to sit facing the cart. I had Evie in the car seat in the back because I didn't have a sling to tote her around in.

I also had my stroller wedged between the kids' seats and the cart because, apparently, I couldn't leave it at the guest service counter because they didn't want to be responsible for someone stealing it. I think when the girl told me this, I stared at her blankly in disbelief. Really, lady? You think anyone is going to go behind the guest service counter to steal my crappy travel system stroller I've had since 2010? Thanks. Thanks for nothing.

My idea was to transfer all of my bags and Jack into a regular cart, put the baby in the travel system stroller (or have Abby push it) and walk out. I thought this was a reasonable goal. First step: put baby in the stroller. Check. Second step: transfer groceries. Check. Third step: put Jack's coat on. No dice. When I attempted to put his jacket on, he did that dead-weight thing where he just dropped to the ground (ew). At this point, my annoyances peaked and I just dropped him and turned to putting Abby's coat on.

I ended up putting Jack into the cart sans coat (your loss, dude) and heading out of the store. I pushed the Target cart while pulling the baby stroller and made sure Abby was walking between me and the row of parked cars so she wouldn't get hit by traffic (solid parenting right there). When I was about halfway to the car, a woman behind me asked if I'd like some help. Not one to turn down help when I really need it, I told her she could push the baby. I was just revering this woman as a wonderful do-gooder in my mind when she felt the need to comment, "He's really worked up, there!"

Thank you, Captain Obvious. I really appreciate you pointing that out to me. I hadn't noticed.

With the help of the captain, I got all three, my groceries and myself into the car. Abby was smug over being the angelic, behaved child ("Mommy, I didn't cry!") and poor Jack was still sniffling. Evie still asleep. Again. Great third child.

So, I am officially part of the Moms Surviving Public Tantrums Club. Do I get a sticker?

No, I Will Not Eat Raw Garlic

Probably the worst part about being pregnant for me was the restriction to medication. Getting a cold during pregnancy is horrible because you're already congested. Then you add the virus and not being able to take anything and it is just ... not fun.

The really annoying part is that it doesn't get easier once the baby is born. Nursing brings with it an entirely new set of restrictions for an entirely new set of reasons.

I currently have an excruciating sore throat. It's keeping me up at night. I can take Motrin for the pain, but beyond that, there isn't much I can do for my cough and cold without running the risk of affecting my milk supply.

To see if there were any natural methods I wasn't thinking of, I went to kellymom.com, a website for nursing moms. The list is interesting to say the least, and none sound particularly promising.

The top item is an oxymoron, in my opinion.

Rest. Drink lots of water and take hot baths. Run a humidifier.

I realize they are probably required to list this because it makes the most sense to a regular person, but this site is geared toward nursing moms. Many nursing moms struggle to bathe in general, let alone engage in long, hot baths. I'm not even going to go there with "rest".

The next item mentions Vitamin C. I give myself a pat on the back (not really, but I think it) because I have that one covered. Next, Echinacea is generally recognized to be safe for nursing moms. I have no idea what that is, so I'll move on.

"Garlic eaten raw ..."

I stop there. I'm trying to feel better, not lose friends. I also believe I would develop a sudden stomach bug if I were to attempt to eat raw garlic.

Next thing I read is to limit cough drops containing menthol, because too much menthol can reduce milk supply. Fantastic. Excuse me for one moment while I throw away the only thing that has been offering me any relief today.

The remedy I went with is strong black tea. Yes, the black tea has to be emphasized to be clear that it should be strong. I am supposed to use two tea bags for each cup. I think my throat is in more pain now, but I may be able to run stairs after this due to the caffeine content.

Not sure what I'm going to try next. I do happen to have raw garlic ...

An Open Letter: Germs, I Hate You

Dear Germs,

I don't even feel right saying "dear" before that salutation because, frankly, I hate you.

After a relatively easy summer in which we avoided major illness, the dreaded school year brought you back in droves. In fact, I don't think I've had the pleasure of both my children attending a full week of school since early October.

Mary Ingalls. From the prairie.

First you hit us with scarlet fever. Seriously? In urgent care with Abby and I feel like I'm back on the Oregon Trail. My initial thought was that I was dealing with something life threatening because, really, didn't Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie lose her eyesight that way?

"... the doctor told Charles that scarlet fever had weakened the nerves in Mary's eyes and she didn't have much time left before she would go blind."

Turns out, it's essentially a strain of strep throat that has an accompanying rash. It was, however, fun to tell people she had scarlet fever because they would immediately gasp and say, "oh my God,"  clearly back on the Oregon Trail themselves.

Yes, I'm an ass. 

You couldn't just leave it there. Before the fun of scarlet fever could leave us altogether, it had to make the rounds to Jack and then back to Abby once again.

I hate you.

I believe croup was next. You give us a heavy dose of mucous (the gift that keeps on giving) and we think we're in the clear. Then our children end up sounding like seals. Most recently we hosted a round of pink eye that gave me the pleasure of chasing Abby around the house with drops before pinning her to the ground and prying her eyes open. A combination of the squirrel scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and that torture scene in Conspiracy Theory with Mel Gibson.

While those are the highlights, the real reason I loathe you is the snot. The ever-present, disgusting, color-changing, puke-inducing, sleep-affecting snot. We think it's gone before it magically reappears. It results in raw noses that Abby won't let me apply Vaseline to because she would rather reject an idea of mine than actually feel better.

Snot that has resulted in us purchasing more tissues than I'd care to remember. Snot that my husband is way too excited to suck out with the Graco battery-operated aspirator. Honestly, I'll hear him sucking snot and then, "Whoa, that's a good one." Fantastic.

In closing, I would simply like to reiterate the fact that I hate you. While it may seem ridiculous, it is a healthier behavior than blaming the droves of children that came back from summer break after my kids had an illness-free three months. Because that would be silly of me to do. To blame innocent kids. The little germ factories.

So, while I try to tell myself that this is strengthening the immune systems of my kids, I would like to inform you that I am beyond sick of the sick and the snot-sucking, Vicks rubbing and Motrin giving that comes along with it.

Go away already. You've outstayed your welcome.

Sincerely,

Chrissie

A cat on Prozac? No, I'm not surprised.

Almost a year ago to the day, I had an incident online that shied me away from posting my personal content online.

Thanks to encouragement from an online acquaintance (Scott Stratten), and a "professional reset" so to speak, I have decided to fire this blog back up. For the past year, I have attempted to publish quality content in other realms in which I have interest -- sports, business -- but the best stuff that I write comes from my day-to-day experience with my kids (and my pets). Oh, and my husband. He counts too.

This brings us to present day.

I am going to have to change the header of this blog because we have added another child: a four-week-old girl. Yep, we just threw her onto the pile and -- so far -- she's surviving amidst the chaos.

Today is a fair representation of my life as I know it. Abby probably has pink eye and both kids have had green snot erupting from their noses for over a week, so all four of us are home together and we will head to the doctor shortly.

I am attempting to write while "Mommy?" "Mommy?" "Mommy!" is being peppered in my direction.

My delivery of "what?" has evolved from patient and loving to carrying a WTF-do-you-want-now tone after they have requested/stated the following:

• Jack: "I love you."
• Abby: "Can I have more waffles?"
• Jack: "Can I have more waffles?"
• Abby: "I want the iPad!"
• Jack: "I love you."
• Jack: "Can I watch Planes?"
• Abby: "Will you play with me?"
• Jack: "Are we there yet?" (We're in the living room)
• Jack: "I love you."
• Abby: "Can you put the iPad in here?"
• Abby: "Can you get me a snack?"
• Jack: "I love you."

I am one who does not do well while being verbally badgered. It is this fact that would cause my husband to dissolve into fits of laughter if he heard me tell someone that I have a "zen mode" when it comes to parenting.

Luke in his immature bliss.

Anyway, to my cat.

This past year can be easily summed up by telling the story of Leia being prescribed Prozac.

Our household had been stressful to say the least and -- apparently -- Leia was having a rough time with that. She was so high strung that she was constantly attacking Luke following any sudden noise, sideways glance or jolting movement. Unfortunately for her, she also isn't the stealthiest kitty, so she would get her tail handed to her (pun intended). After multiple fights in which Luke would essentially own her, she began to resemble Joaquin Phoenix, and now sports a gash of a scar across her nose.

Leia's issue became our issue due to the fact that she was also peeing all over the place while engaging in these fights. Mornings feeding the cats became increasingly stressful for my husband. I would be upstairs in the bedroom and hear a utensil hit the kitchen floor. My husband would then scream, "NO!" and shrill cat noises would follow. I would then come downstairs to find him on his hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet with a foul look on his face. He would then ask if we could sell the cats.

I finally took Leia to the vet. The prognosis? She was so tightly wound, it would be in her -- and our -- best interest to put her on Prozac. To say this amused me is an understatement. I believe my first comment to the vet was, "Well, it runs in the family."

The kicker here was that I had to fill the prescription at a regular pharmacy. Yes, I had to walk into Walgreens with a prescription for an anti-depressant for my cat.

When I handed the pharmacist the slip of paper from my vet, I immediately digressed to make light of the situation.

"Yeah, I'm just here to fill a prescription for Prozac for my cat."

The girl wasn't really fazed. She began typing into the computer. I just sat there. Wondering how this was going to go down.

"Do you happen to know the cat's date of birth?"

Okay, really? Actually, I did.

Also contributing to Leia's stress levels: my refusal to give her snacks.

I was furiously texting this hilarity to my best friend when the girl turned to me and asked, "Does she have any known allergies?"

Okay, this was happening? I said no ... and resisted the urge to state that she was a known allergy, but that probably wouldn't have been as funny out loud as it was in my head.

I said I would wait in the store while the prescription was filled. I walked around for upwards of 20 minutes and my name still hadn't been called. I walked back up to the counter to inquire.

"Um, yeah, I'm waiting for a prescription?"

The gentleman at the counter got my name and then said, "Oh, for the cat?"

It apparently wasn't quite ready yet. So I waiting right by the counter. After a few minutes, he came back and said, "For Leia ... the ... cat?"

This was flat-out ridiculous. If it wasn't so funny, I may have been slightly embarrassed. Okay, not really.

I grabbed the prescription and paid. As I was walking back to the car, I did, in fact, burst into laughter when I saw the name on the slip: "Leia Wywrot Cat".

You'll be happy to know that the Prozac has done wonders for Leia. Thankfully, she has avoided a therapist for now and the medication has given her the ability to relax.

And, yes, it hasn't seemed to change the integrity of who she is as a cat -- she's still got that great personality we've all come to know and love.

So, at least one member of our family is calmed down and in more of a zen state.

As for the rest of us, that is still up in the air. My intention is to get back to writing regularly, so stay tuned to stay updated.

Examples of the amazing content I don't get around to posting (but should)

I look back on this blog and see that there are 37 posts from 2012.

There are only 14 from 2013.

Coincidence? Random happenstance?

Definitely not.

You see, my friends, there was a major event that happened midway through 2012. One Jack Robert Wywrot was born.

While that resulted in a steep increase in blog posts as I tried to find some semblance of sanity during my maternity leave with two under two, that has since become a strong decline in the area of writing for pleasure.

Two children with two working parents is tough. Throw in the fact that Tom and I don't have typical jobs and it's like having three children. Rarely are all four of us together at home at the end of the day.

There are plenty of times I wish I had the time (or energy) to write down awesome moments taking place in my day-to-day life with the kids, but ultimately (and unfortunately) I don't.

I'm going to try and recall some gems now. Lord knows the passing of time could have the same impact as trying to deliver a message through a game of telephone ("No, really, Abby was hanging from the light fixture!), but I'll give it a whirl nonetheless. Could make for even higher levels of entertainment.

THE NAPTIME EXCHANGE
I do have the benefit of G-chat archives, so I can pull up my moment-by-moment account of a "conversation" between Abby and Jack yesterday during naptime.

I had the lofty goal of both my kids sleeping in the same room at the same time. I know. Stupid.

At any rate, I had the pleasure of witnessing this exchange over the monitor.

Jack: ::gibberish::

Abby: "Jack did you throw up? You throw up EVERYWHERE! Do not throw up ANY. MORE. It will get the house all dirty." 

Abby (cont.): "I asked you FOUR TIMES already. FOUR."

Jack: "FOUR."

Abby: "Lay down so you don't throw up again."

Jack: ::gibberish::

The best (or worst) part of this was that Jack had, in fact, thrown up a little bit. I didn't think Abby was right because I didn't hear any throwing up and he wasn't upset. It was just a little bit of throw up. Really. Nothing major. Naturally, when I told Tom he had thrown up a little, he said, "So she was right."

Whatever. Yes. The three-year old was "right". If that's what you want to call it.

I APPARENTLY HAVE FOUR "ELBOWS"
There are those awkward moments when a small child asks about something beyond his or her years.

Abby frequently asks about feminine products and I have no idea what to say. It's not like I'm ashamed or anything, but I don't want to scare the kid. My responses end up being absolutely ridiculous and make zero sense.

Me (stupidly): "Those are ... for ... cleaning."

Abby: "Cleaning?"

Me: "Is that a bird?" (Okay, I didn't really say that)

Well, today, Abby came across a bra and asked if she could put it on. I told her no. I also took note that Abby holding up my bra is the only time it will ever appear incredibly large, but I digress.

After I told her no, she puffed out her stomach and said, "Why, Mommy? I have elbows."

I guess that is what she has decided a bra is for. To hold up "elbows". She then asked to touch mine, confirming (by her grabbing) that she was, in fact, referring to "elbows".

Ah, kids.

SAD, BUT TRUE
There are moments like these that happen almost daily that I don't sit down and write about. I really should. Maybe if I set some sort of alarm to remind me to write about the mundane, but hilarious, things that happen I'll actually do it.

If anything, it can help me feel better about neglecting those baby books I have lying around. Every time Jack smiles I feel guilty that I haven't noted the emergence of his most recent teeth.

I'll just guestimate, he won't know the difference, ultimately. It's really only the first four that matter anyway, right?

Well, we'll see if my post average gets off to a solid clip in 2014!