I think 2007 was the best and worst year of my life. There is a Chinese proverb (some say curse) that applies well - may you live in interesting times. We had an interesting year. The problem and beauty of life is that there is no going back. Here is our year in review.
January 2007. We are stricken with a pukey stomach bug that grinds all family operations to a pathetic and self-pitying halt. At eight weeks pregnant, I am particularly bitter about the extra nausea. We also manage to infect Grandma and Grandpa when they visit. A week later, I have an appendectomy. On the lighter side, HSSH coins the new family word poopsicle. Ess has a volcanic poop explosion in her booster chair. Unable to deal in my unhealthy state, I throw the chair out the back door before I carry Ess to the bath. The forgotten chair freezes solid in our frigid climate. HSSH returns from work and comments calmly, "What's with the poopsicle on the back porch." It actually has to be brought into our basement to thaw before it can be cleaned.
February 2007. Lost in a blur of first trimester nausea and surgery recovery. There are exactly two pictures of our children in February, which proves that preserving memories is an entirely female obsession, at least in this family.
March 2007. Ess and Gee like to hold hands and play ring around the rosy. It is possibly the cutest thing I've ever seen. The weather is abysmal, the nausea is abysmal and our oldest son's attachment disorder related behavior deteriorates at a rapid pace.
April 2007. Same.
May 2007. The sun! The sun! We might survive. I feel better, the city thaws, things are looking up. Running is the favorite activity of the month - they probably can't remember the last time they got out of the house.
June 2007. Gee, Ess and I fly across country to visit Grandma and Grandpa in D.C. At six months pregnant with two 20 month olds, I imagine that I was the laughing stock of several major airports. Our five year old son leaves our family and transitions to his new adoptive parents. It is the heartbreaking part of our year, but we know that they can better meet his needs.
July 2007. Our second son (Q) is born, through shear force of will on my part, on the last day that we have a nanny before she goes out of town. We think he is beautiful, of course, but we admit that he has a copious amount of hair that sticks straight up on the top of his head.
August 2007. Ess turns two and a love affair with Happy Birthday is born.
September 2007. In a fit of madness, we all travel to Indiana for my in-laws family reunion. We unintentionally take our second pukey bug of the year across country with us, spreading twelve hours of misery not only to HSSH's entire family, but also most likely to all 1400 or so people that rode on four extremely large airplanes with us and their families and friends. The reunion was incredibly fun, travelling with three babies was not.
October 2007. Gee turns two with much singing, blowing and cake eating enthusiasm. Ess adores her lady bug costume. Gee hates his shark costume so much that another new word is added to our family vocabulary. Shark, n., any article of clothing that comes up over one's head. syn. hood. Darling little Cue is a punk rocker because his hair cannot be tamed by any product made by man.
November 2007. We celebrate Thanksgiving with two other families, one with two year old twin boys and the other one two year old boy. That is five two year olds, putting us in the running for both the messiest and the loudest TG dinner in the history of the world. During a five-minute period of time right after we hand them all chocolate cupcakes, the sudden and deafening silence made every adult in the room wish that we could feed them cupcakes continuously until they turn eighteen.
December 2007. While the toddlers are not big fans of Santa Claus because he wears a shark, they do decide to sit in his lap after he offers them candy canes. Forntunately for Santa, we have basically outgrown poopsicles. Hanukkah/Happy Birthday is definitely at a disadvantage holiday-wise to Christmas, due mainly to the presents.
That's my look back. Moving forward into 2008, I have some resolutions that I hope to keep. After all, this is the only year my babies will be 2, 2, and under one!!
1) I resolve to accept each new gauge in my hardwood floors as a reminder that my kids are living life to the fullest. (And to record my husband telling me that I can replace the floors when they move out).
2) I resolve to accept that I cannot force them to nap and drugging them is illegal.
3) I resolve to let them hug me, even when their hands are really sticky. (But, possibly not when their noses are really snotty. I resolve to work on this one.)
4) I resolve to worry less about what they eat, how much TV they watch, whether they learn six languages and go to Harvard, and more about whether I listen to them enough.
5) I resolve never again to respond in a nasty, sarcastic voice "nope, I just enjoy pushing a 50 pound triple stoller."
6) When I throw a coin in a fountain, see the first star of the night, run a yellow light, or notice the time is 11:11, I resolve to stop wishing that my kids will not get the pukey flu, and if they do get the pukey flu, that I could get it worse than my husband so that he has to take care of them and clean up after them. There has to be something more fun I could wish for.
7) I resolve to stop feeling guilty about my daily Starbucks habit. There are, after all, far more expensive and damaging options to make a person feel happy than a grande, non-fat, extra-hot, no-water chai tea latte.
8) I resolve to go to bed no later than 9:oo p.m. at least three times a week because my kids get up at six and no amount of ignoring them makes them go away at that hour.
9) I resolve not to change my wish (see resolution seven) to 'I wish my kids would sleep until 8 a.m., all three of them, simultaneously, just once or twice a week.' (Although, if HP is listening right now, I'd settle for once or twice a month.)
10) I resolve to write in this blog at least once a week for the entire year. Even if not a soul besides me is reading it, at the end of the year it is going to be a fabulous record of all the little things the year held in store for us. Here's to a happy, fun, funny 2008!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Partied Out
Wow. I like getting together to celebrate the spirit of the season and all, but I think that we have hit party overload this week. It started on Monday with a holiday party at Kindermusik. Not my best hour (felt like year, but only an hour) as a mommy of three. I felt a bit jealous of all the moms in our music class with only one adorable two year old. There are times when, with three little ones, one redhead, one with beautiful dark brown skin, and a baby, I feel very visible and judged and this was one of them.
Not to be a grinch (although I'm leaning that way today), but I don't understand the need for a party at Kindermusik. My kids love the music, which is supposed to be the point, so why (why? why?) is it necessary to skip the music for candy and cookies. I can give them candy and cookies. My musical skills fall a little below par. I had decided not to go. Unstructured free time with sweets never goes well for me when I have all three kids by myself. Then, I changed my mind in the afternoon. I'm not sure what happened. My toddlers definitely didn't need any more sugar. Desperation to leave the house maybe? Inability to build one more block tower for knocking down without going insane? I think I became blinded by my need for Starbucks on the way there (okay, not exactly on the way there, but close enough that I don't feel terrible about the gas).
I made one poor decision after another until we all collapsed in a little melt-down heap on the carpet at Kindermusik. My first mistake was to go at all. Moving on. My second error, in my rush to leave with time for coffee, was to let the baby sleep, instead of feeding him right before we left. My brain could not have been operating properly because I NEVER EVER leave the house without feeding the baby. It's not as if I can sit down and nurse him somewhere and Ess and Gee will just sit angelically at my feet. The only place to nurse him out and about is the car (where the toddlers can be effectively restrained) and getting every one back to the car once we have left it is a 20 minute affair. After that sad lapse in judgment, the snowball became an avalanche of missteps too numerous to relate. We arrived a little late, but to be fair to myself it took us close to ten minutes to negotiate the icy parking lot, so I don't think it was the coffee stop. We straggled inside, got our shoes off and sat in the circle. Cue generally sits in the back in his car seat and either sleeps or coos delightedly, but I could tell from the way that he was trying to get milk out of his lip and the side of his seat that the decision to skip the pre-outing feeding was going to catch up with me.
In the first fifteen minutes, my daughter's behavior went from mildly annoying to aggressively hyperactive and the baby went from cranky to unhappy. I took deep breaths and told myself to make it through one cookie and then beat a hasty retreat. In hindsight, I should have just dragged them all screaming to the car, (because leaving before the 'goodbye song' could only be accomplished with lots of screaming) but I can't tell you how much I wanted to avoid such a public scene. Learned my lesson.
My angry baby quieted only when I held him, which left me exactly zero hands for cookie time. Ess did sit nicely and eat a cupcake. Gee inhaled his cupcake and then, seeing that I was virtually immobile, sharked around the room eating anything that any other child set down. As soon as teacher Theresa sang the good bye song, I shoved the (now howling) baby in his car seat and started to put coats on my toddlers. But, you see, the good bye song was done perfunctorily and without the usual ceremony and so when I tried to put on Ess's coat she threw herself backwards and commenced sobbing for the good bye song. The drama. At this point, my main goal was not to reason our way to happiness, but to get them out of that room as quickly as possible. I continued to dress Ess with my nerves jangling to the baby's yells and Gee still scarfing crumbs off the floor along with every germ in the universe.
Not to be a grinch (although I'm leaning that way today), but I don't understand the need for a party at Kindermusik. My kids love the music, which is supposed to be the point, so why (why? why?) is it necessary to skip the music for candy and cookies. I can give them candy and cookies. My musical skills fall a little below par. I had decided not to go. Unstructured free time with sweets never goes well for me when I have all three kids by myself. Then, I changed my mind in the afternoon. I'm not sure what happened. My toddlers definitely didn't need any more sugar. Desperation to leave the house maybe? Inability to build one more block tower for knocking down without going insane? I think I became blinded by my need for Starbucks on the way there (okay, not exactly on the way there, but close enough that I don't feel terrible about the gas).
I made one poor decision after another until we all collapsed in a little melt-down heap on the carpet at Kindermusik. My first mistake was to go at all. Moving on. My second error, in my rush to leave with time for coffee, was to let the baby sleep, instead of feeding him right before we left. My brain could not have been operating properly because I NEVER EVER leave the house without feeding the baby. It's not as if I can sit down and nurse him somewhere and Ess and Gee will just sit angelically at my feet. The only place to nurse him out and about is the car (where the toddlers can be effectively restrained) and getting every one back to the car once we have left it is a 20 minute affair. After that sad lapse in judgment, the snowball became an avalanche of missteps too numerous to relate. We arrived a little late, but to be fair to myself it took us close to ten minutes to negotiate the icy parking lot, so I don't think it was the coffee stop. We straggled inside, got our shoes off and sat in the circle. Cue generally sits in the back in his car seat and either sleeps or coos delightedly, but I could tell from the way that he was trying to get milk out of his lip and the side of his seat that the decision to skip the pre-outing feeding was going to catch up with me.
In the first fifteen minutes, my daughter's behavior went from mildly annoying to aggressively hyperactive and the baby went from cranky to unhappy. I took deep breaths and told myself to make it through one cookie and then beat a hasty retreat. In hindsight, I should have just dragged them all screaming to the car, (because leaving before the 'goodbye song' could only be accomplished with lots of screaming) but I can't tell you how much I wanted to avoid such a public scene. Learned my lesson.
My angry baby quieted only when I held him, which left me exactly zero hands for cookie time. Ess did sit nicely and eat a cupcake. Gee inhaled his cupcake and then, seeing that I was virtually immobile, sharked around the room eating anything that any other child set down. As soon as teacher Theresa sang the good bye song, I shoved the (now howling) baby in his car seat and started to put coats on my toddlers. But, you see, the good bye song was done perfunctorily and without the usual ceremony and so when I tried to put on Ess's coat she threw herself backwards and commenced sobbing for the good bye song. The drama. At this point, my main goal was not to reason our way to happiness, but to get them out of that room as quickly as possible. I continued to dress Ess with my nerves jangling to the baby's yells and Gee still scarfing crumbs off the floor along with every germ in the universe.
As I finished with Ess and left her screaming and kicking on the floor so that I could lasso Gee, a very sweet mom with one darling little blond toddler started handing out candy canes. Not just candy canes, decorated candy canes with pipe antlers and pom pom red noses. I must confess that I felt a flash of hatred. I realize how mean that sounds and I am well aware that I have no one to blame but myself for my gaggle of small ones (nor would I trade them for anything). It was jealous hatred because her sweet little pony-tailed daughter offering each child in the room a sickeningly cute candy cane reindeer from a beribboned red bucket was a little much to take while two of my children acted as the poster kids for one-child families. There was also an honest twinge of real hatred because, COME ON, she gave two year olds candy wrapped in plastic at 4:30 in the afternoon. It clearly had to be taken away again by tired, less perfect parents like me. I suppose I could have just let Gee eat the plastic, since by that time, he'd already consumed his own weight in carpet fuzz stuck to slimy half-eaten cookies.
I corralled my small human vacuum and put him in his coat, while trying to interest Saige in pulling the nose off of the reindeer. Just as I established some semblence of order with my toddlers, a father sitting beside us turned to his wife with their perfect little two year old in her lap and asked if 'she' (that would be me) was going to pick 'that baby' (that would be Cue, who had just achieved thermo-nuclear mad) up. I didn't know whether to rip into him or burst into tears. How is that helpful exactly? Who was he to judge anyway with his two to one adult to toddler ratio? I am outnumbered THREE to one. My odds of even a draw in any given situation are poor. Whatever. I picked up the car seat containing my pet howler monkey and headed for the door.
Teacher Theresa chose this moment to announce that everyone should come and see her at the door for a present on their way out. She said this while holding an enormous basket of rubber ducks. The ensuing bottleneck could have stopped a Sherman tank. A very frazzled mother holding a fourteen pound ball of fury didn't stand a chance. My escape route was blocked. And there were my toddlers at the very front, both sticky hands plunged elbow deep in rubber duckies. Happily, though, their peppermint choking hazards lay forgotten on the floor. I actually threw them in the trash on my way out the door with everyone (it felt like) watching me. I admit that it wasn't a nice move, but I had so many things in my hands. I somehow plowed to the front and physically pried my children out of the ducky basket with one hand while keeping the baby's car seat high enough above the crowd to avoid knocking someone's precious toddler unconscious. Holding both of their hands in one of mine, we almost made it out, but Gee stopped at the last second to snatch Ess's duck away and give both ducks back to Teacher Theresa. I just kept walking. The last thing I heard was teacher Theresa's always sweet and patient voice saying 'oh wait, they forgot their ducks.' We had already ventured out onto the skating rink parking lot and we weren't retracing our steps for any amount of money - and certainly not for rubber ducks.
We straggled towards the car, Ess screaming for ducks, Cue screaming for milk, and Gee repeating helpfully over and over that 'mommy no have bag, mommy no have bag.' No. bag. mommy. No bag. I buckled them all in without killing any one. I took a moment to stand outside of the van in the dark, briefly alone in the silence. I drove home. We achieved full recovery from Ess in the car, Cue held out for milk. I got them all inside, attached baby to boob, gave Ess 10 minutes in her room for refusing to hold my hand around cars (which I am quite certain meant nothing to her, but gave me a lot of satisfaction) and finally turned my attention to Gee. He shook his head sadly at me and said, for the umpteenth millionth time. No bag mommy. And then it dawned on me. My two year old son was right. No bag - as in diaper bag, containing not only diapers, wipes and crackers, but also my cell phone, my wallet and my favorite scarf. Left at Kindermusik. The saddest part of the whole afternoon, then, was that I had to return on Tuesday and retrieve my sh#t. I stopped at Starbucks on the way there.
Post script: I got back in the saddle today and took them all to a mom's club Christmas party. I let them watch an hour of TV while I fed the baby until he collapsed into a milk-induced coma before we left. It was beautiful. Cue slept. The toddlers ate lunch and shrieked adorably for Santa when he arrived. Okay, Ess shrieked in abject terror, but both of my hands were free to hold her so it was cute. We ate copious amounts of sugar, played games and came home for NAP TIME. Three different people commented on how content the baby was and how cute Ess and Gee were. I'm not always that bright...but I can be taught.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Spirit of Giving, Continued
My life would be considerably easier if I were more organized. I try so hard to organize in advance and keep it together, but there always seems to be a fatal flaw. Yesterday morning was a case on point. Our co-op toddler school adopted a family for Christmas and I signed up to purchase, wrap and deliver to school before this Friday a gift for a pre-teen girl. I then promptly forgot all about it until Tuesday morning when the facilitator reminded me. Wednesday night, I went out after bedtime (the only time I can ever shop by myself, which means the only time I can shop because frankly even if the cupboards were bare and there were no chicken nuggets (gasp!), I would let my kids eat chocolate for dinner before I would try to go shopping with all three in tow).
I purchased and wrapped and laid awake for a good 45 minutes pondering delivery. There is a school session on Thursday afternoons, but we don't attend because it is during NAP TIME. NAP TIME is inviolate in my home. Nuclear holocaust, alien invasion, hundred dollar bills falling from the sky, you name it, if it happened between noon and two, we would miss it. I get annoyed when my husband calls me during NAP TIME. It is other wise know as MY TIME and I sit on the couch and watch a soap opera and eat junk. And yes, I am aware that my organization could be immeasurably improved by a more constructive use of NAP TIME, but my mental health would suffer.
So, about 9:30 a.m., I hauled out the triple, bundled up the troops, initiated the loading process and around 10:00 we set off in the direction of the church where the co-op school rents space. I felt together. I had the wrapped presents, all three children dressed appropriately for the weather, my wallet, my cell phone AND the phone numbers of the teacher and a friend who attends the younger class on Thursday mornings. My plan was to walk there, call up and have someone come down and grab the packages, and walk home. Simple. Did I mention that the triple is h-e-a-v-y?? Particularly when you are slogging over frozen snow in the middle of the street. Why walk in the middle of the street? To avoid the curb problem mentioned in a previous post. Why are there still four inches of snow on the street four days after our last snowfall? Unclear, since we live in the frozen North and this city is neither unaware of nor unprepared for the amount of snowfall we get each year. I guess at heart I am still a Virginian and hold dear the notion that snow in any amount should shut down all society functions until it either melts (hopefully quickly) or is pushed out of the way by the government. Not here in the arctic where, outrageously, they consider the elements a mere inconvenience and a chance to brag about one's snow tires.
The slogging took considerably more time than I anticipated and we arrived at the church winded and sweaty (me), whiny (toddlers) and sleeping (baby). My delightful children immediately kicked the whining and crying into high gear with demands to see teacher Brenda, an event that I had been extravagantly promising for 30 minutes. I pulled out my cell phone with a flourish. Enter fatal flaw. Uncharged cell phone refused to operate. Thwarted by the cell phone, I pondered and sweated. Options were slim. Sit and wait 30 minutes for dismissal of class in freezing cold with whiny toddlers. No. Unload everyone and make our way upstairs to the classroom to drop off the presents, unleashing tantrums of epic proportions when we must leave again without bouncing, painting, or singing the parachute songs. NO. Leave without delivering the presents. NO! NO! NO! Options exhausted. Okay, one other option, but it pains me to admit that I took it. Run (like the wind) up the stairs with the presents while leaving my three infant children parked in a gigantic stroller outside a church door by themselves. Like foundlings for someone to take (although, not speedily, given all the unloading required, nor stealthily, given the size of their ride) or like an idiot for someone to call social services on.
These were my thoughts as I snatched the presents and dashed away, mentally berating myself for my supremely poor decision-making skills. And, this was how, rather than standing, cute and together at the door, handing off my perfectly wrapped presents to the teacher with my adorable toddlers chirping about their walk, I ended up sprinting, sweaty and red-faced into the class room where I thrust the presents at my shocked friend and high-tailed it back down the stairs to find my children exactly where I left them (praise a HP), except beside themselves with fury at my failure to produce teacher Glinda as promised. I had a depressing reverse slog home trying to ignore the repetitive sobbing of 'teacher Glinda, want see teacher Glinda.' Sigh.
When we reached our street, I decided to let them walk in front of the stroller because it makes them happy in a way that only two year olds can be happy. They skipped, dashed and shrieked while their forgotten tears froze to their painfully chapped little cheeks. They kicked snow, spun in circles and giggled at each other. I had a mommy moment while I herded them forward with the front of the stroller because it is so much fun to share their delight in just walking and they are so darn cute in their snow coats and their huge mittens that look like lobster claws stuck on the end of their arms with their hoods bouncing on their backs and their hats pulled down over their ears. I took a second to notice that Ess's pink sweat shirt hood hung over her blue coat and the bottom of it stuck out below the coat and exactly matched her pink snow boots. She looked like a little GapBaby add. For fifteen minutes, all the way to our gate, I remembered that it doesn't matter to them how organized I am.
Then, I had to get them up the steps and out of their snow clothes. Good feeling gone. (But it always comes back.)
I purchased and wrapped and laid awake for a good 45 minutes pondering delivery. There is a school session on Thursday afternoons, but we don't attend because it is during NAP TIME. NAP TIME is inviolate in my home. Nuclear holocaust, alien invasion, hundred dollar bills falling from the sky, you name it, if it happened between noon and two, we would miss it. I get annoyed when my husband calls me during NAP TIME. It is other wise know as MY TIME and I sit on the couch and watch a soap opera and eat junk. And yes, I am aware that my organization could be immeasurably improved by a more constructive use of NAP TIME, but my mental health would suffer.
So, about 9:30 a.m., I hauled out the triple, bundled up the troops, initiated the loading process and around 10:00 we set off in the direction of the church where the co-op school rents space. I felt together. I had the wrapped presents, all three children dressed appropriately for the weather, my wallet, my cell phone AND the phone numbers of the teacher and a friend who attends the younger class on Thursday mornings. My plan was to walk there, call up and have someone come down and grab the packages, and walk home. Simple. Did I mention that the triple is h-e-a-v-y?? Particularly when you are slogging over frozen snow in the middle of the street. Why walk in the middle of the street? To avoid the curb problem mentioned in a previous post. Why are there still four inches of snow on the street four days after our last snowfall? Unclear, since we live in the frozen North and this city is neither unaware of nor unprepared for the amount of snowfall we get each year. I guess at heart I am still a Virginian and hold dear the notion that snow in any amount should shut down all society functions until it either melts (hopefully quickly) or is pushed out of the way by the government. Not here in the arctic where, outrageously, they consider the elements a mere inconvenience and a chance to brag about one's snow tires.
The slogging took considerably more time than I anticipated and we arrived at the church winded and sweaty (me), whiny (toddlers) and sleeping (baby). My delightful children immediately kicked the whining and crying into high gear with demands to see teacher Brenda, an event that I had been extravagantly promising for 30 minutes. I pulled out my cell phone with a flourish. Enter fatal flaw. Uncharged cell phone refused to operate. Thwarted by the cell phone, I pondered and sweated. Options were slim. Sit and wait 30 minutes for dismissal of class in freezing cold with whiny toddlers. No. Unload everyone and make our way upstairs to the classroom to drop off the presents, unleashing tantrums of epic proportions when we must leave again without bouncing, painting, or singing the parachute songs. NO. Leave without delivering the presents. NO! NO! NO! Options exhausted. Okay, one other option, but it pains me to admit that I took it. Run (like the wind) up the stairs with the presents while leaving my three infant children parked in a gigantic stroller outside a church door by themselves. Like foundlings for someone to take (although, not speedily, given all the unloading required, nor stealthily, given the size of their ride) or like an idiot for someone to call social services on.
These were my thoughts as I snatched the presents and dashed away, mentally berating myself for my supremely poor decision-making skills. And, this was how, rather than standing, cute and together at the door, handing off my perfectly wrapped presents to the teacher with my adorable toddlers chirping about their walk, I ended up sprinting, sweaty and red-faced into the class room where I thrust the presents at my shocked friend and high-tailed it back down the stairs to find my children exactly where I left them (praise a HP), except beside themselves with fury at my failure to produce teacher Glinda as promised. I had a depressing reverse slog home trying to ignore the repetitive sobbing of 'teacher Glinda, want see teacher Glinda.' Sigh.
When we reached our street, I decided to let them walk in front of the stroller because it makes them happy in a way that only two year olds can be happy. They skipped, dashed and shrieked while their forgotten tears froze to their painfully chapped little cheeks. They kicked snow, spun in circles and giggled at each other. I had a mommy moment while I herded them forward with the front of the stroller because it is so much fun to share their delight in just walking and they are so darn cute in their snow coats and their huge mittens that look like lobster claws stuck on the end of their arms with their hoods bouncing on their backs and their hats pulled down over their ears. I took a second to notice that Ess's pink sweat shirt hood hung over her blue coat and the bottom of it stuck out below the coat and exactly matched her pink snow boots. She looked like a little GapBaby add. For fifteen minutes, all the way to our gate, I remembered that it doesn't matter to them how organized I am.
Then, I had to get them up the steps and out of their snow clothes. Good feeling gone. (But it always comes back.)
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Triple Trouble
I need to start these posts with a Bridgette Jonesish tally. Time outs: 5 (4 Christmas tree-related), toddler tantrums: 0 (so far), mother tantrums: 1 (pre-coffee, re: christmas tree harassment), cups of coffee: 2.
We put up our Christmas tree Sunday - it has a star in the correct location, not a leprechaun - and while it was not quite the joyous family event portrayed in soft light on TV, it was fun. As fun as can be expected when handing breakable objects to two creatures with the finesse of charging bulls and the instruction retention of small beetles. Two days, six million renditions of twinkle little star and approximately a kajillion time-outs later, I think they believe me about the "no touching" the tree rule. It's worth it for me just to hear them say 'twi-n-kle yights.'
My holiday present to myself is a triple jogger. It's an impressive piece of machinery. I love to take walks in our neighborhood. It's the perfect combination of getting out of the house and total containment of children. I waffled forever about buying one because I coveted the mountain buggy urban triple jogger, which costs enough to support several families in a third world country for a year. I couldn't justify the purchase of a car without a motor. Then, my husband (who actually researches this kind of purchase, instead of just drooling over what he can't have) found a triple jogger on ebay. It was so much more reasonably priced then the Mountain Buggy that I felt like I came into a windfall somehow. So far, it also appears to operate as intended. I can walk with all three kids, the baby can lie down while the toddlers sit up, it's sturdy and feels safe.
I have a few manageable issues. First, it's heavy, especially with three kids in it, so that wrist strap thing has become a vital safety device. Occasionally, on hills, headlines flash through my mind like "Run Away Mega-Stroller Crashes into Car, Babies Live, Car Totaled" or "Woman Dragged 500 Feet by Obnoxiously Large Stroller," but I usually feel like I'm in control. I've also had to revise all of my walks to avoid curbs. My double handled curbs beautifully, but the center of gravity was much lower and I could tilt it back with ease. With the kids up higher in this triple, I have to jump up and come down on the handle with all of my weight to tip it backwards. It doesn't always work and it looks ridiculous. The two-year-olds can reach the baby, but there is a window in the cover, so I can cut off the poking before he loses an eye. The hardest issue for me is the comments. I try not to let my nasty, anti-social, sarcastic side show in public, but at least three well-meaning (I'm sure) people per walk ask if there are really three children in there. Really? I mean, can you think of a reason to push a gigantic triple stroller out into the world that doesn't involve locomotion for three children? I'd love to hear it.
The joy of the triple jogger might seem silly if you haven't experienced the effort required to leave the house with two toddlers and a baby. The baby ties up all available hands and the other two would stand obliviously in the path of a mac-truck and willingly pick up dog poo with their hands. In fact, they'll stand in the path of a mac-truck while examining and perhaps sampling the dog poo that they just picked up with their hands. Unfortunately, it doesn't fit in my mini-van and so most outings still require a lot of verbal reminders not to let go of the baby's stroller and several large sedatives (for me, I swear).
This is why until today I have been monumentally annoyed with our local paper. Several charities in our city run a fabulous annual event called the Christmas Bureau that distributes toys and food vouchers to struggling families. They need to raise over 400K every year. To encourage giving, the local paper runs a front page story about the Bureau every day and prints the names of donors and how much they still need. I decided to start of tradition and take my kids down to the paper's office to donate because it's a neat cause and I want my children to understand the joy of giving and the importance of charity and to realize that they have a lot in the great scheme of the world. And, I thought it would be neat for them (and by them I do mean me) to see their names in the paper.
I bundled them up, loaded them all in the car last Thursday and we drove downtown and parked as close as possible to the office. We still had about three blocks and two large traffic corners to negotiate. I got the baby into the stroller, unbuckled the other two, put my son on the left side of the stroller and my daughter on the right, shouldered the backpack, and we set off at our glacially slow pace reciting our mantra: hold the stroller, there's cars, no letting go, hold the stroller.... . The 30 minute trip to the office went well. (Yes, that is 10 minutes a block and this was a good day.) They rarely let go of the stroller because they don't like my hysterical screeching. The office entrance had stairs and no wheel chair ramp. Horrifying, but we managed to get up. Some kind person held the door while we made our excruciatingly slow way into the building. We donated our money (which took all of 5 minutes out of a 90 minute outing) and reversed the process. Going down the stairs caused momentary panic because they like to go down "on mine bottom" and I have to release them from the stroller holding, always a little daunting in close proximity to the street, but they listened like the perfect, obedient, cooperative darlings that they usually are not.
We made it back to the car with only one minor wipeout in the middle of the street when I tried to hurry them before the 'don't walk' stopped flashing and our little stroller procession became a standing target. My mistake. With the kids reloaded and immobilized in car seats, I took a moment to breathe and then headed for the nearest drive-through Starbucks to congratulate myself. Three days later, when their names had still not appeared in the paper, I was irritated. My husband made fun of me each morning, pointing out, rightfully so, that the point is to give, not to get accolades. Yes, I KNOW, but it's still fun to see your name in print. Obviously, I'm not the only one who likes it because the paper prints all those names for a reason. Given the tortuous process of taking all three children any where by myself, doing a good deed with all of them in tow qualified us for a story all to ourselves as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, their names did finally appear in today's article and while it was a little anti-climatic after all my grousing, it IS fun to see their names in print! Ah, the spirit of giving.
We put up our Christmas tree Sunday - it has a star in the correct location, not a leprechaun - and while it was not quite the joyous family event portrayed in soft light on TV, it was fun. As fun as can be expected when handing breakable objects to two creatures with the finesse of charging bulls and the instruction retention of small beetles. Two days, six million renditions of twinkle little star and approximately a kajillion time-outs later, I think they believe me about the "no touching" the tree rule. It's worth it for me just to hear them say 'twi-n-kle yights.'
My holiday present to myself is a triple jogger. It's an impressive piece of machinery. I love to take walks in our neighborhood. It's the perfect combination of getting out of the house and total containment of children. I waffled forever about buying one because I coveted the mountain buggy urban triple jogger, which costs enough to support several families in a third world country for a year. I couldn't justify the purchase of a car without a motor. Then, my husband (who actually researches this kind of purchase, instead of just drooling over what he can't have) found a triple jogger on ebay. It was so much more reasonably priced then the Mountain Buggy that I felt like I came into a windfall somehow. So far, it also appears to operate as intended. I can walk with all three kids, the baby can lie down while the toddlers sit up, it's sturdy and feels safe.
I have a few manageable issues. First, it's heavy, especially with three kids in it, so that wrist strap thing has become a vital safety device. Occasionally, on hills, headlines flash through my mind like "Run Away Mega-Stroller Crashes into Car, Babies Live, Car Totaled" or "Woman Dragged 500 Feet by Obnoxiously Large Stroller," but I usually feel like I'm in control. I've also had to revise all of my walks to avoid curbs. My double handled curbs beautifully, but the center of gravity was much lower and I could tilt it back with ease. With the kids up higher in this triple, I have to jump up and come down on the handle with all of my weight to tip it backwards. It doesn't always work and it looks ridiculous. The two-year-olds can reach the baby, but there is a window in the cover, so I can cut off the poking before he loses an eye. The hardest issue for me is the comments. I try not to let my nasty, anti-social, sarcastic side show in public, but at least three well-meaning (I'm sure) people per walk ask if there are really three children in there. Really? I mean, can you think of a reason to push a gigantic triple stroller out into the world that doesn't involve locomotion for three children? I'd love to hear it.
The joy of the triple jogger might seem silly if you haven't experienced the effort required to leave the house with two toddlers and a baby. The baby ties up all available hands and the other two would stand obliviously in the path of a mac-truck and willingly pick up dog poo with their hands. In fact, they'll stand in the path of a mac-truck while examining and perhaps sampling the dog poo that they just picked up with their hands. Unfortunately, it doesn't fit in my mini-van and so most outings still require a lot of verbal reminders not to let go of the baby's stroller and several large sedatives (for me, I swear).
This is why until today I have been monumentally annoyed with our local paper. Several charities in our city run a fabulous annual event called the Christmas Bureau that distributes toys and food vouchers to struggling families. They need to raise over 400K every year. To encourage giving, the local paper runs a front page story about the Bureau every day and prints the names of donors and how much they still need. I decided to start of tradition and take my kids down to the paper's office to donate because it's a neat cause and I want my children to understand the joy of giving and the importance of charity and to realize that they have a lot in the great scheme of the world. And, I thought it would be neat for them (and by them I do mean me) to see their names in the paper.
I bundled them up, loaded them all in the car last Thursday and we drove downtown and parked as close as possible to the office. We still had about three blocks and two large traffic corners to negotiate. I got the baby into the stroller, unbuckled the other two, put my son on the left side of the stroller and my daughter on the right, shouldered the backpack, and we set off at our glacially slow pace reciting our mantra: hold the stroller, there's cars, no letting go, hold the stroller.... . The 30 minute trip to the office went well. (Yes, that is 10 minutes a block and this was a good day.) They rarely let go of the stroller because they don't like my hysterical screeching. The office entrance had stairs and no wheel chair ramp. Horrifying, but we managed to get up. Some kind person held the door while we made our excruciatingly slow way into the building. We donated our money (which took all of 5 minutes out of a 90 minute outing) and reversed the process. Going down the stairs caused momentary panic because they like to go down "on mine bottom" and I have to release them from the stroller holding, always a little daunting in close proximity to the street, but they listened like the perfect, obedient, cooperative darlings that they usually are not.
We made it back to the car with only one minor wipeout in the middle of the street when I tried to hurry them before the 'don't walk' stopped flashing and our little stroller procession became a standing target. My mistake. With the kids reloaded and immobilized in car seats, I took a moment to breathe and then headed for the nearest drive-through Starbucks to congratulate myself. Three days later, when their names had still not appeared in the paper, I was irritated. My husband made fun of me each morning, pointing out, rightfully so, that the point is to give, not to get accolades. Yes, I KNOW, but it's still fun to see your name in print. Obviously, I'm not the only one who likes it because the paper prints all those names for a reason. Given the tortuous process of taking all three children any where by myself, doing a good deed with all of them in tow qualified us for a story all to ourselves as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, their names did finally appear in today's article and while it was a little anti-climatic after all my grousing, it IS fun to see their names in print! Ah, the spirit of giving.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Fourth Night
This is my first blog post and I'm feeling the pressure. Who am I talking to exactly? The universe. I'm talking to the universe about my toddlers. Okay. Weird, but okay. It sort of makes sense then to start things off with a spiritual, cosmic-type issue. Last night was the fourth night of Hanukkah. For most of the Jewish world it was the fourth night of Hanukkah. In our house, it was the fourth night of something we call Hanukkah/HappyBirthday. It falls somewhere between actual Hanukkah and Festivus for the Restofus, I believe.
I am definitely not a devout Jew - in fact I wouldn't call myself a devout or even practicing any thing - but, having little people running around makes you a softy for traditions and rituals. (My father is a (very, very secular) Jew and I got annoyed this year that my kids were going to be pseudo-Christians by default. Hallmark and department stores are not my first choices for teaching my kids about the holiday season. Plus, I don't want to be an atheist-kids-get-presents-day kind of parent because I do believe in a g-o-d (although there's so much hype and dogma surrounding that word maybe for blog purposes I'll go with higher power (HP)).
Back to the point. I decided we would celebrate Hanukkah. 'We' being my two toddlers and my four-month-old and myself, since my husband only rolled his eyes appropriately heavenward. I looked up the blessings and learned how to light the candles on ehow (LOVE ehow, it makes me feel like there are other Jews out there as clueless as me - actually other people as clueless as me on lots of subjects). I made a Menorah. (Because I live in possibly the least diverse larger city in America and my hunt for an actual Menorah ended in frustration. Of course, it was the day before the first day of candle lighting so my procrastination my have played a role.) I borrowed candles from a more organized friend. After dinner on Tuesday night I was ready. With my eager toddlers wiped down and sitting pretty in their booster seats and the baby propped up on the table, I told a (very short) version of the Hanukkah story, lit the service candle, and said the blessings. As the candles burned prettily, I smiled down at my little cherubs who smiled back up at me and said - in stereo - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!
They had a birthday party back in September which was the highlight of their two short years so far. The singing and candle blowing in particular captured their little imaginations - far more than even the presents. I smiled patiently. No Happy Hanukkah. NO!! MOMMA!! HAPPY!! BIRTHDAY!!! Followed by singing. Followed quickly by demands to blow out the candles. I tried explaining that these candles had to burn themselves out because that was how we honored the miracle of Hanukkah. Demands turned to whining, whining went down hill to screaming and crying. I had a massive Hanukkah revolt on my hands before I knew what hit me. BLOW CANDLES! BLOW CANDLES! We let these burn for Hanukkah. Not working, not nicely, not sternly, not in an exasperated yell that included telling them that these burn because not just your mother but also GOD SAID SO!!
My sane pseudo-Christian husband intervened at this point to suggest that maybe it was time to bring out the Hanukkah cookie with the Hanukkah blowing candle inserted into the top. Ah yes. The Hanukkah cookie with the blowing candle. How could I forget that lovely part of the Festival of Lights. We told them to get ready to blow, wiped off their snotty, red faces and brought out two cookies with a candle stuck in each one. They blew, they smiled, they clapped, they sang happy birthday to every member of our family, to the Macabbees and finally to Hanukkah, they ate cookies. The blessing candles were saved. A new holiday was born.
All the parenting talking heads claim that parents should focus on creating family traditions during the holidays. Well, if that is the important thing, we are right on track. Our family has now celebrated Hanukkah/HappyBirthday for four nights and it is a smashing success. In two weeks, tune in for Christmas, featuring a stocking-filling bunny and a leprachaun tree topper. Kidding. Totally kidding.
I am definitely not a devout Jew - in fact I wouldn't call myself a devout or even practicing any thing - but, having little people running around makes you a softy for traditions and rituals. (My father is a (very, very secular) Jew and I got annoyed this year that my kids were going to be pseudo-Christians by default. Hallmark and department stores are not my first choices for teaching my kids about the holiday season. Plus, I don't want to be an atheist-kids-get-presents-day kind of parent because I do believe in a g-o-d (although there's so much hype and dogma surrounding that word maybe for blog purposes I'll go with higher power (HP)).
Back to the point. I decided we would celebrate Hanukkah. 'We' being my two toddlers and my four-month-old and myself, since my husband only rolled his eyes appropriately heavenward. I looked up the blessings and learned how to light the candles on ehow (LOVE ehow, it makes me feel like there are other Jews out there as clueless as me - actually other people as clueless as me on lots of subjects). I made a Menorah. (Because I live in possibly the least diverse larger city in America and my hunt for an actual Menorah ended in frustration. Of course, it was the day before the first day of candle lighting so my procrastination my have played a role.) I borrowed candles from a more organized friend. After dinner on Tuesday night I was ready. With my eager toddlers wiped down and sitting pretty in their booster seats and the baby propped up on the table, I told a (very short) version of the Hanukkah story, lit the service candle, and said the blessings. As the candles burned prettily, I smiled down at my little cherubs who smiled back up at me and said - in stereo - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!
They had a birthday party back in September which was the highlight of their two short years so far. The singing and candle blowing in particular captured their little imaginations - far more than even the presents. I smiled patiently. No Happy Hanukkah. NO!! MOMMA!! HAPPY!! BIRTHDAY!!! Followed by singing. Followed quickly by demands to blow out the candles. I tried explaining that these candles had to burn themselves out because that was how we honored the miracle of Hanukkah. Demands turned to whining, whining went down hill to screaming and crying. I had a massive Hanukkah revolt on my hands before I knew what hit me. BLOW CANDLES! BLOW CANDLES! We let these burn for Hanukkah. Not working, not nicely, not sternly, not in an exasperated yell that included telling them that these burn because not just your mother but also GOD SAID SO!!
My sane pseudo-Christian husband intervened at this point to suggest that maybe it was time to bring out the Hanukkah cookie with the Hanukkah blowing candle inserted into the top. Ah yes. The Hanukkah cookie with the blowing candle. How could I forget that lovely part of the Festival of Lights. We told them to get ready to blow, wiped off their snotty, red faces and brought out two cookies with a candle stuck in each one. They blew, they smiled, they clapped, they sang happy birthday to every member of our family, to the Macabbees and finally to Hanukkah, they ate cookies. The blessing candles were saved. A new holiday was born.
All the parenting talking heads claim that parents should focus on creating family traditions during the holidays. Well, if that is the important thing, we are right on track. Our family has now celebrated Hanukkah/HappyBirthday for four nights and it is a smashing success. In two weeks, tune in for Christmas, featuring a stocking-filling bunny and a leprachaun tree topper. Kidding. Totally kidding.
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