Have yourself an elfie little Christmas

'Tis the season, friends. All is merry. All is bright. All is calm. Unless you forgot to move the damn elf.

I've looked into it, and here's the thing of it. I'm pretty sure when Santa Claus decided to send forth his minion army of Elves on Shelves, it wasn't done with an innate desire to torture all parents.

"Oooooh boy," he thought, as he rested his laptop on his ample middle, typing up the final details of the plot-to-end-all-Christmas-joy-for-parents. "This'll get 'em!" Not so much, though, right? I'm pretty sure it was just created to bring along a smile or two to the children. And a bajillion dollars to its actual creator, but that's a whole other story.

I actually have a secret about the whole elf thing; it may or may not make you want to punch me.

I love our elf. 

Let me be clear on this. I have most certainly directed a middle finger (or two) at Sprinkles at roughly 11:47 pm upon the realization that he still needed to fly for the night. I have thrown my pajama-clad children out of the way at 6:03 am to race down the stairs, only to move the elf seconds before they start looking. There's no greater panic at this stage in our parenting lives. (And for this I am thankful.) But to keep the magic alive? You bet your bowl full of jelly that I haul my Christmas ass out of bed and move that thing.

And this is the reason:

Here the boys shall sit. All day, all night. Lost in the magic.

At this stage of the game, this is what actual true love looks like.

Sprinkles even inspired a serious kindergarten portrait.
They perch together, life imitating art.

Because Sprinkles is a member of our family. True story.

The boys love him with every fiber of their being. They talk about him all year long, predicting exactly when he might return from the North Pole. They tell him secrets. ("Sprinkles, we really want a dog!") (To which I whisper at a later hour, "No elfing way, Sprinks.") They screech with delight when they find him upon his initial return, and then again each and every morning until his departure on Christmas Eve. And they cry - real, actual tears of sadness - each year when he has gone back to be with his elf family. They miss him so fiercely, which some may see as freakishly unhealthy, but I figure this: their emotion is real. Their love is real. And for them to feel so much love for one more thing in life, even if he is small and red and creepy-as-hell? Why not? With each day, their hearts beat stronger and with more love and more joy and more emotion. I'm happy to raise boys who can love something - anything - with so much passion. Hopefully one day their love will be transferred to a few daughters-in-law worthy of their passion, their own house full of chubby, angelic faces, and one stealthy, red elf perched above it all.

One more night, friends. We can do this.

And then, I allow you to shove that little punk back from whence he came.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May the joy of the season be yours.

In the end, I did not sell the children

Saturday, September 20, 2014 {Day 1}

Hurrah! Am capable mother of three! Husband is gone, but can do this. Will do this! Will celebrate life and beautiful September day while cheering on various soccer games and entertaining mini spectator who is not quite two. Will embrace beauty in world and be thankful for variety of blessings.

Will maintain control. Stand by decision of McDonald's departure based on sibling bickering. Will drive quietly and calmly. Will not yell.

Am unsure of husband's trip duration. Twelve days? More? Would probably be helpful to have husband's flight info. Or hotels. Or at very least, return date. Although will be positive and uplifted in spirits as we approach possible return date. Will check when husband is off plane roughly 96 hours from now.

Children are fed and clean. Am in control of everything.

Boys are sleeping. I am eating cookies. All is right with world.

Sunday, September 21, 2014 {Day 2}

Is beautiful and sunny day! Must send boys outside! Am capable mother who promotes physical fitness and imagination!

Alone in quiet house, but cannot hear self think over spin cycle of overworked washing machine in process of dying. Will investigate selling next child who pees in bed.

Mason upset, missing Daddy. Look at wall map. Locate Vietnam. Is much farther south than previously imagined. Manage to play it cool and relay invaluable knowledge of South China Sea. Now clear that "South" in title of sea was clue as to southern location.

Children are fed. One child is clean. Evening still success in spite of dirty feet. Will cover with socks tomorrow.

Dinner consists of one 32 lb burrito. Is being consumed far too close to bedtime. Cutting into cookie eating time. Also, must buy more cookies.

Monday, September 22, 2014 {Day 3}

Have spent all available energy enforcing homework and broccoli eating. Baby's bath was equivalent of wrestling wet seal, as he did not want to leave tub and used slippery skin as ally. Considering allowing baby to sleep in tub. Wondering if this would be acceptable. Will begin search for tub-sized pillow.

Will serve Lucky Charms for dinner tomorrow. Do not have energy for round 2 of broccoli fight. Will assume some level of nutritional value while enjoying stress-reducing benefits of combat-free home environment. Am genius!

Have to work tomorrow night. New sitter coming. Sent long, detailed text to sitter. Next time will send text to correct sitter. May consider earlier bedtime so as to resume functional thought.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014 {Day 4}

Vacuumed for sitter so children will not become lost in piles of crumbs. Oliver not comfortable in clean surroundings. Addressed discomfort with spontaneous projectile crackers.

Practicing Oprah's breathing technique. Would like for Oprah to send breathing coach. Would also like Oprah to send cleaning woman.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014 {Day 5}

Tired. Oh so tired. Me. Not children. (Why not children??)

Please send help. And wine. Please send help and wine.

Thursday, September 25, 2014 {Day 6}

Searched for library book for more time than was spent actually reading library book. Will consider organizational improvements. Or will ban further intellectual pursuits for children, as proving too stressful for maternal figure. Ban easier to enforce than organizational conformity.

Freezer is void of ice cream. Have entered crisis stage of existence.

Friday, September 26, 2014 {Day 7}

Day 2 of ice cream crisis. Considered entering grocery store with three children. Decided to churn own ice cream instead. Should be easier.

Baby turns two today (!!) - has been blowing out fake candles for majority of day. Party not for one more week. Should be professional whistler by time husband returns.

Baby spent portion of afternoon rolling in rock driveway during tantrum fit. Seemed comfortable.

Saturday, September 27, 2014 {Day 8}

Consumed mayonnaise expired in 2012. Should now verify boys' comprehension of 911. Hoping they will take break from Sponge Bob to notice body. Also hoping boys will survive on dry cereal until husband returns to find Lord Of The Flies conditions and wife expired due to mayo incident. Will try to scribble last wishes on memo board.

Baby found wandering in living room singing "oooooooh shit, oooooooh shit, oooooooh shit."

Possible that parenting not my calling. Must investigate other avenues.

Have given up. Am eating frosting out of can.

Sunday, September 28, 2014 {Day 9}

Is beautiful morning! Have renewed parenting inspiration and can see light at end of tunnel!

Have completed early morning virtual grocery trip for afternoon delivery. Vegetables are coming! Have thrown vile frosting in trash can. Shall remain healthy and happy mother of three.

Grocery delivery brought new level of happiness.

Apples! Tomatoes! Bananas!

And ice cream. Sweet, sweet ice cream.

Baby noticed Daddy missing. Demanding Daddy come in from car in driveway. Is unable to comprehend empty car. Has thrown sippy cup in protest. Four times.

Special Lego project with Mason. Day full of Lego stress negates happy grocery aura.

Monday, September 29, 2014 {Day 10}

Will wear anything to work not needing iron. Bar is set to basic survival. House clean in sporadic moments.

Is late, am watching television. House is quiet. Must enjoy quiet, not waste quiet on sleep.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014 {Day 11}

Why? Why did I watch TV? So very tired! Must see bright side. Bright side has coffee. Much coffee.

Sent each boy to school with wrong lunchbox. Now suffering ridiculous lunchbox guilt while boys fight over seats on couch. Is too dramatic to throw couch out window? Was on fence about baby #4. Am currently off fence. Will possibly never see fence again.

Somebody please find source of mystery mooing in living room.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014 {Day 12}

Husband comes home today! Hurrah!

He will find: Clean(ish) children who have eaten food, nutritious or otherwise, playing in clean(ish), couchless living room echoing with mystery mooing sound.

He will not find: wife, as she will be getting pedicure. In France.

Au revoir, mon amour. Don't forget to check the mayo before you eat it.

One last one

To my sweet little buddy on this, your last night of being one.

Just one. One year old. How did that happen so fast?  First, you were one hour, and we marveled at the tiniest little creature in our arms, so new to this world. We rested our eyes for just a minute, and you were one day. And we knew you just a bit more. We brought you home to this chaos of brothers, and life took over. You were suddenly one week. One month. One year. We marked every milestone. Every occasion. Every miraculous time you turned one once more.

But tomorrow you are two. And that is the end of the one era that happens once in your life.

It is just one day of difference. But as time marches on, one day at a time, there's one thing we know so well, and that is this: there is no going back. Not even for one minute.

Because you are one, you won't remember today.

But if you could, I would want you to remember standing in your crib on the eve of your birthday, lifting up your perfect little chin, asking me for one more kiss - just one. Like you. Just for one instant more.

The place where time stands still

As August rolls to a lazy end and the carefree days are starting to blend ever-so-slightly with reality, I find myself thinking about summer and its traditions wrought with their magical ability to freeze time. Traditions that you look forward to, where you arrive almost as if you have never left, and without taking notice of the previous 364 days, you feel like you have been put right back into place, every last bit of it unchanged.

For us, it is a lake tucked away in Maine. To give you a general idea of the crowd - my husband's entire family - you need to know that a) he is one of four children, and b) each of them has three or four kids. The whole congregation of 24 crazies packs up what is necessary (97 pails, 46 bathing suits, 36 cases of soda, 172 cases of beer and 2 boats...just the actual bare minimum of what is needed...) and heads up to the lake that awaits us year after year. This is the thing that our boys wait for; this is their "summer thing."

"Mom, which boat will we go on to get ice cream?" (Whichever one you want.) "Who will still be wearing pajamas in the morning when we play?" (No idea, but my money's on you fools.) "Will we all play our games together?" (Without question.) "Will we make s'mores?" (By the dozens.)

We field these questions year-round (Andrew was just planning next year's pajamas this past week. These sorts of plans will continue sporadically throughout the next eleven months.) The closer we get, the more rapidly the questions are fired at us. Will we get fudge? Pops? Can we jump off the dock? Can we swim right away? Who will get there first? Will we be last? Will Grammies make breakfast in her "cavin?" How many chocolate chip pancakes can we have? Are we there yet? How about now? Now?"

When we finally (finally!) pull onto the drive and hear the crunch of the gravel under our tires, the questions stop and the amazement sets in. We step out of the car, look around, and all I can think is Man, this place does not change. The field, the beach, the dock, the cabins. It's all sitting there, frozen in time, just waiting to be brought to life by dirty little feet running wild. And in the second it takes me to process this thought, they've taken off at full speed, off on a new adventure.

It's one week a year, and the week flies by. We sit, we drink, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we drink. And just like that, it's over. And each year as we leave for home, I think A whole year will go by before I see this place again, but just as quickly, we are packing again and coming back to this place. It is so full of memories of cousins running and laughing (and fighting, sometimes, but not even as much as you'd expect.) Scary stories at the fire (why seven and eight year olds talk so much about decapitation is scary indeed) and s'mores. Little ones jumping off the dock into calf-deep water and being as excited as if it were an actual Olympic dive.

And at some point, you can't help but notice that among these tallest pine trees in the middle of the woods that have not changed even a branch in fifty years, and we grown-ups who may have aged slightly (but certainly not to the naked eye, thank you very much), the kids? Who are these tall strangers running around before us? My five year old who once allowed his older cousins to paint his nails pink? Not a trace of him in his now almost-eight-year-old self. And I dare you to try to paint his nails now. My two year old who was terrified of his uncle's boat to the point of hysteria? Now five, running full force, desperate to get his life jacket on fast enough to make it aboard before they leave. And the baby? The one who was a "mere" gigantic basketball in my stomach two years ago? The one who ventured on his very first inch of crawling last year among those cabins? He now runs faster than I do on most occasions, and never (ever!) in a safe direction. He spent this year's week plotting, along with his one-year-old cousin, how to best enter the lake unobserved by us fun-ruining, good-for-nothing adults. I have no doubt that next year, they will actually steal one of the boats.

So as we adults relax around the fire pit under the stars, day after day over the course of the week, year after year with our families, amused to tell our same stories for the sixtieth time and laugh and laugh and laugh, as if it were the first time any of us have heard them, we are surrounded by the next generation who are running and laughing (and fighting, sometimes, but not even as much as you'd expect...) and just for a moment, I can actually see their stories materializing in the crisp Maine air, something you can almost grab on to and send ahead to another campfire twenty years from now.

And who knows? Maybe among those trees and that lake and those cabins, we will sit with them as they tell their same stories and laugh and laugh and laugh, all the while marveling at how much they have grown and how much has changed in this place where nothing changes at all, in this place where time stands still.

Sign THIS, lady.

In other non-news, we're waiting for words over here from the 20 month old. We've got a few. "Done," as he hands over an empty cup. "Hiiiiii baba," to say hi to either brother. "Habitat, habitat," which were lyrics that our seven year old practiced over and over (and over) for his first grade show. Other than a few extra random tidbits, there's not much communicating going on with actual words. Throwing? Yes. Yelling? Certainly. Words? Not so much.

So I think to myself, hmmmm. What could improve this situation? Think, think, think. Sign language! That's it!  I never used baby sign language with the older two. With my oldest, it didn't occur to me. And, bonus, he really could have used it. (Sorry, kid.) The middle one just didn't need it and has been demanding that his needs be met since 2010 without so much as a five minute break. We have friends who have done it with great success, their babies telling them "eat" and "all done" as everyone cheers the little star on. So why not? Let's get on this horse, eh?

I chose one word, the sign for "more," so as to avoid the pointing/grunting/fussing trifecta, when in his head he's saying, "For the love of God, woman, I just need more crackers! MORE CRACKERS! Why can't you get on that?"

This is what he's supposed to be doing:

{picture happy, chubby baby calmly expressing his wants and needs with a simple hand movement}

And this is what he took away from the lesson:

(Oliver gets in touch with his inner Ross Geller)

So, have I taught him a life skill? Yes. Most assuredly to come in handy once he enters the real world. Or once his brothers hit the teen years. But for now, I have to content myself with a baby smiling at his loving mama, proudly bumping his fists together, telling me in not so many words to "f" off and get him some more damn crackers.

It would seem that the only thing left to do is teach him the sign for please.

The face of the third child

There are many things that could be written about a third child and what this baby does to a family. The beauty of what they add. The chaos of what they add. The fact that this third miracle takes the current arrangement of a 1:1 parent-child ratio and throws it right out the car window, probably along with his shoes. And the parents are too busy to notice or even to care. Barefoot he shall stay, which is a good thing, because it's one less thing to lug back inside the house. 

Once you have adjusted and accepted that you will forevermore be outnumbered by these short creatures, you soon realize that there is a reason for stereotypical birth order traits. Our third child is exactly what he is: the third child. It is simultaneously all about him and never about him. He is dragged around town whether it suits him or not. He is woken up from the deepest of sleeps because someone needs to go somewhere for the ninth time that very day. He is loved to the point of being strangled and played with to the point of being trampled. He rolls with it because he has no choice. He's chill. He's crazy. He's stealth and ninja-like. It's survival of the fittest, and he's doing just fine.

The third child is...

The third child is taken to the park during nap time. He is then photographed first, comforted second.

The third child plays near the cool playground but not actually on it because it's just slightly out of acceptable T-ball spectating range...

...so he makes do and plays with a garbage can.

The third child forages for food when he is hungry.

The third child does things his own way.

The third child is often gated like a zoo animal...

...and carried around like a koala.

The third child must use his foot to jockey for space, because the older brothers think nothing of hitching a ride on his stroller. (Toes - mini yet mighty - may be located just to the left of the Count's creepy facial hair.)

And in the end, the third child naps when he can, tucked in happily and peacefully. With his favorite shaving cream cap.

Oh, little Oliver. Mama loves you. Thank you for being so patient with us as we go about our crazy life that you have no choice but to be a part of.

Always stay so sweet. And only punch your brothers if they deserve it. We both know they probably do.

The month my brain stopped working

Someone asked my husband how work was going the other day. "Crazy," he said. "I mean, I was gone for five out of seven weeks."

So. Yup. That's pretty much the gist of it. As I look back now and contemplate why I haven't written a word, why my house looks like someone broke in just to throw crap around, why my kids have worn shorts to school yet still have their winter coats in their cubbies, this is what happens when he goes. I feel like I am drowning in a sea of mess and chaos and can barely keep the boys fed and dressed...so anything beyond basic survival? Ain't gonna happen, my friends. I need to set the bar lower so as to maintain achievable living standards during these weeks. For example: did I forget to pick up a child from school? No? Good. Have all of the children had a bath at least once in the previous six(ish) days? Possibly? Awesome. I am rocking this.

The tactical side of his travel is stressful. But the emotional fallout on the kids is harder. We have three boys who adore their daddy. He's the rough and tumble. He's the silly. "Mom, you know he's the funniest one in the house," says Andrew. (He is.) He's the last piece of the puzzle that wears these guys out before it's time for bed. And because I'm used to being part of a (mostly efficient) team, it's jarring to have half of that missing for weeks on end.

And when he's gone, he's gone. Like, other-side-of-the-world-can't-find-coordinating-time-zones-to-video-chat gone. The boys miss him like crazy. We have constant conversations involving what we think he's doing at that moment, if he is or isn't currently on a plane, how many days until he comes home. Double digits make for hard conversations. Back-to-back weekends are the worst. This past global spree had it all.

The end of the day is where this whole arrangement really bites me in the ass. A normal bedtime routine involves one of us restoring partial order to our first floor and cooking our grown-up dinner and one of us herding/chasing/brushing/reading/kissing the two older boys. It works well enough, and it's what we're used to. Which is why, when he's gone, I herd/chase/brush/read/kiss and then make my way back down to find the clock reading 8:15, the house a mess, and guacamole and beer a viable dinner option if I haven't already eaten with the boys.

The worry on my part is draining. He has stayed at the Marriott in Indonesia that was bombed out a few years ago. He's been instructed not to hang out in certain hotel lobbies so as not to draw attention to himself. He has flown out of the Malaysian airport where the airplane went missing last month. And while I fully understand that there is a .036% chance of anything happening to him, I still worry. And then I eat cookies. Ya know, to cope. And because something needs to accompany the guacamole, as it were.

He's been home for a few weeks now, and the fog is just starting to lift. Leaving a nice, clear view of the devastation that is "too many toys and not enough storage." The boys are thrilled to bits that they have their "funny one" back, and I'm happy to have my co-parent extraordinaire hanging around again.

Don't get me wrong. There's still a ridiculous amount of crap on the living room floor, but as long as The Hubby's here to help me kick it out of the way at the end of the day, I'll take it.

Happiness is...bunnies and boogers...?

"These are the days," I say to myself on some nights, as I try to uncross my eyes and unclench my fists, while I do any (or all) of the following things. (Note: the following items will generally be accompanied by some level of swearing.)

-wipe pasta off the floor and crumbs off the table and juice off the counter.
-wipe boogers off of faces.
-wipe boogers off of pants (mine, unfortunately).
-wipe tears (mine or theirs, depending on the day).
-wipe toilets. And floors near toilets. And floors not-even-quite-near toilets. (Why? And dear Lord, how?)
-wipe bums - I am forever wiping bums, it would seem.

These are the days? Are they really? Because they are exhausting. And they are endless. And they are long.

But you know what else? They are magical. And they are priceless. And they are now. Because the Easter Bunny is coming tonight, and in spite of having to wipe all of the aforementioned, exceptionally gross things tonight, I also got to:

-wipe the table near the TV, so as to have a perfect spot to leave the Easter Bunny's carrot.
-wipe away my smile, so as to appear appropriately serious when having the "The Easter Bunny has already hopped into Tokyo" conversation. This is very serious business, after all.
-wipe the sheets flat, so that two crazy excited boys could lay just so in their bunk beds, ready to sleep for once in their busy little lives.
-wipe their warm foreheads with the palm of my hand, just to feel the warmth of their peaceful sleeping faces.

These are the days? Yes. Yes, they are. Equal parts boogers and magic and love. Because in this house, you can't have one without the others. And you can be damn sure that all will make an appearance tomorrow morning.

Happy Easter, my friends. May your Sunday be full of magic, love and just enough boogers to keep it real.

A letter from the cat

My love for the people is unconditional(ish). 

To the lovely tall people in the house,

I have been with you for a few years now. I like it here. I do. But I have a few issues that need to be addressed, and I would appreciate your consideration. You seem like a reasonable bunch. I'll even overlook the moments when you seem completely unreasonable, because I'm that nice. You will need to know that most of my issues are regarding the short people in the house. I know you like them and all, so my apologies in advance. But a number of items are in need of resolution.

Let me first say that there were only two short people in the house when you brought me home. I was OK with two. Now there are three, and you know what? This house is not big enough for myself AND three short people. I'll let you decide which of them will go. This must happen soon.

I also need to state, for the record, that your short people are the loudest sons of bitches who have ever lived. Ever. So why is it not OK when I cry at the top of my lungs? They certainly do it louder and more often. I've been monitoring and documenting. I demand justice. The current state of affairs is in direct violation of my rights.

Regarding my physical fitness, I would like to get exercise when I decide I want exercise. At four a.m., if this is what I desire. What I would not like is a cardio session in the form of the shortest one chasing me. It does not suit my mood. Thank you for relaying that message to him. Also, he might be a good candidate for the move. Please consider this.

Furthermore, those short people? They poop. A lot. I poop too, in case you haven't noticed. You clean their poop every single day. I see you do it with my cat eyes that are always watching. You know what you do not clean every single day? My poop. And it stinks. Literally and figuratively. And yes, I know what that means. You don't give my intellect enough credit. It's best if you remember that.

I implore you to teach your creatures that personal space is of the utmost importance. My tail is not a pull toy. My belly is not a backboard. And I do require that my ears remain attached to my head. I do not feel that this is unreasonable on my part.

The final item in need of discussion is my meal plan. You feed the short people your chicken and your fish, and they don't even want it. Trust me. I can hear them voice their discontent from a variety of hideouts scattered about. You're wasting the good stuff on them, lady. They hate it. I want it. Give it to me. Don't make me beg. And that crappy dry food in the basement? Are you even for real?

I thank you for your consideration and for attending to these matters with the utmost urgency. If you do not implement changes in a timely manner, I shall be forced to react in a most negative fashion at the hour of my choosing. You have been warned.

All my love. But only when I want to give it.

Kind regards,
Sally

p.s. Don't think I didn't hear the whole "Let's get a dog" discussion. I will literally stab you in your sleep. xoxo

Please feed the animals

And by the animals, I mean my kids. And by feed, I mean get them to eat anything more than what I can get them to eat. Which is pretty much just Cheez-Its.

For example, we had an event worth celebrating the other night. Andrew ate a hot dog. In a bun. The whole thing. This should not even be a milestone. They're not even healthy. I can hear you thinking, "So, you're celebrating your kid's willingness to ingest nasty processed meat in a tube?" Yes. Yes, we are. Because life from May to October, also known as High Cookout Season, just got infinitely easier.

The parade date and time in honor of this momentous hot dog consumption will be announced shortly.

This is the exact grapefruit I dared force upon our children the other night. Three tiny wedges each. They choked it down, tears streaming down their angelic cheeks from the sheer injustice of it all. Sweet, sweet victory was mine.

To be quite honest, not one of our boys is a great eater. If I had to award the Least Frustrating to Feed trophy, it would go to Mason, our four-year-old food pioneer. But even he is unpredictable.

He will eat salad. He craves carrots. I can give him most "normal" things: spaghetti and meatballs, hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken...He does not have a sweet tooth per se. And as a serious devotee to the cupcake and all things chocolate, this honestly confuses me. He refused the cookie I offered him the other day. He requested a piece of bread. Plain bread. Which he happily stuffed into his mouth while (quite literally) humming a happy tune.

Lest you think he's an easy kid to feed, I give to you The Great Zucchini Incident of '13. The major deal breaker for him is, as the title would indicate, zucchini. He makes a food judgement call based on sight, not on taste. On the fateful day of the G.Z.I., he decided that zucchini looked disgusting. Being an evil mother intent on ruining their lives, I forced him to try it anyway. He swallowed that zucchini, gagged in supreme fashion, and then proceeded to deposit it all over my kitchen floor. Now, maybe I hadn't slept well the night before. Maybe I had just washed the floor. I don't exactly know the reason behind what happened next. But in the quickest of flashes, my disgust at the puke fused with my anger at the idiocy of it all, resulting in an angry mommy super storm. The boys reference this day as the benchmark of how bad another situation might be. So far, the only event to rate worse was the incident known as The Day Daddy Discovered the Cracked TV. I think Mason would willingly eat an entire patch of zucchini to erase that fiasco.

Next in line for the trophy would be little Oliver, who recently hit that typical food rejection stage of an 18 month old. But that's not even the part that gets me. Sir Oliver, it would seem, is a food thrower. He is not yet talking all that much, so this is how he expresses his opinion. If his food is desirable, he eats it. If his food is undesirable, he throws it. It is not awesome. If this phase does not pass, he has to go.

And then we get to the big winner. The kid who would make any nutritionist shudder and who stymies the pediatrician by being quite healthy and robust in spite of his refusal to consume most everything. But grow he does, so worry we do not.

Andrew eats from his self-designed four food groups: peanut butter, cereal, bananas and pasta. (A mandatory pasta guideline to follow: orzo or pastina require butter and American cheese; any additional pasta types require a liberal slathering of ketchup. There are no exceptions.) Beyond this, he would prefer to live firmly within his four other food groups: dessert, Cheez-Its, pizza and Fritos. I am at a loss in terms of what to send in for his school lunches.

Seeking help in this department, I took to the Internet. Where I found the "other moms." These mystical women were referencing homemade rollups using avocado instead of mayo so as to avoid undesirable fat, which was sent to school inside their preferred brand of bento box. As if there were any doubt, I can now officially say that I am not one of these "other moms," as I legitimately had to google what the hell a bento box is. Because as it turns out, peanut butter crackers fit just fine into a sandwich baggie. I am now in the process of composing an ad for craigslist, which will be cross-listed in every Facebook forum available. It will read:

ISO one mystical mom creature. Abilities must include making first grade boy eat balanced lunch from magic bento box. Must also be able to identify aforementioned bento box sans Google.

Until then, I shall continue to send in three (3) peanut butter crackers, one (1) Dannon yogurt smoothie, strawberry or kiwi only, one (1) juice box, apple juice only, and one (1) package of fruit snacks. Which may or may not contain actual fruit. (Let's be honest. There is a .07% chance that they do.) All of this will be stuffed into a frayed-yet-well-loved Boston Red Sox lunch box of the non-bento variety.

I know they will outgrow this nonsense. One of these days they will get married, and it will be time to pass these intriguing creatures on to someone else. And since forewarned is forearmed, as they say, allow me this minute to prepare their future brides for the dinner portion of their nuptial day.

Mason will need a groom's cake. It will need to be constructed entirely out of plain bread. Crustless, as it is his day after all.

Oliver will need to pay extra for an award-winning pastry chef. It is the only way to ensure that four tiers of deliciousness do not find their way airborne to the middle of the dance floor. Where his frat brothers will likely eat it anyway.

And Andrew? This is the one day he will have free license to eat as much damn cake as he pleases.

And if he doesn't want to eat it out of a bento box, then so be it.

Bon appétit, boys.

Sanity is but one chart away

We live in a veritable sea of charts. Reading charts. Math charts. Chore charts. Behavior charts. School charts. Home charts. We've got more stickers and check marks than any one household should have to endure. 
 

I swear we used to be fun people.

But in spite of it all, we're still lacking one key piece of the puzzle, which I refer to as the "Do What The Tall Lady Called Mom Is Asking" piece. Now, it's not like every day reaches crisis mode. But as anyone with children (or who has the misfortune of waiting behind them in line) knows, they get along. Then they don't. They listen. Then they don't. They behave. Wait, no. They don't.

Instead of complaining about it, I have decided to take a proactive stance and examine where, exactly, it all goes wrong. Based on my empirical evidence and, obviously, several charts, my final data has shown that once the communication from parent to child has broken down, things go quickly awry. [Please note that in this instance, "awry" means me screaming like an actual lunatic.]

To give you a clear understanding, our current communication cycle looks a bit like this:
1) Mom (or other adult) speaks very clearly, and most times, very loudly, asking the child(ren) to complete a very reasonable task.
2) Kids hear the request. (I know they do, we've had them checked.)
3) Kids employ creative license. (Is this even allowed?)
...which leads to:
4) Their final interpretation, which is a thing of absolute beauty. Quite often, this creative interpretation is slightly different from my original meaning. The result is that they might possibly do something in response to the adult's request, but generally not what is being asked of them. So as to avoid further confusion, I have created a final chart. The chart to end all charts, if you will. From this point forward, the boys can cross-reference what I say and then double-check its exact meaning. I expect that we as a family will now be living in harmony. Life will forevermore be without complications. I anticipate the entire experience to be glorious.

Please feel free to employ this in your own household. You have my explicit permission to adjust it as needed, or, on the off chance that your children actually do what you ask of them, then please give yourself a star for good parenting. (You can even earn another one if you pee in the potty. Well done, you!)

{The Chart That Will Change Life As We Know It}

What I say:

Make sure you clear your spot from the table when you're done eating.

What I mean:

I see that your cereal bowl is still half-full with milk, so please balance your dirty spoon in it as you run across the kitchen. I know you'll never make it without spilling, but I love to see you try. Every single morning.

What I say:

Time for school. Go out to the car, please.

What I mean:

We definitely have time for a quick game of Nerf basketball. Maybe even two? And boys, always remember, school comes second to sports. Actually, school comes third to sports AND video games. So feel no need to rush out to the car that is already running in the driveway. I do that just to make sure the Earth stays nice and healthy.

What I say:

Boys, I'm going to bring the baby up for his nap. Please keep it down.

What I mean:

Obviously, the baby is tired. But you know he's only happy when you wake him up with your loudness. So give it a few minutes, and then go crazy-ass crazy crazy crazzzzyyyyyy. Make absolutely sure to time it just right so that he'll wake out of an extra-deep sleep, though. It's silly to waste all that energy unless he's really asleep. Start working on your plan while I bring him up, and then in about thirty minutes, go wild.

What I say:

Stop picking your nose.

What I mean:

Pick it, man. Pick it with abandon. Knuckles up there. Go for it. And definitely make sure you eat it. It's super charming. And trust me, the ladies love it.

What I say:

Dinner's ready. Come sit down.

What I mean:

Please do not respond the first time I call you. Please do not respond the next time either. Bonus points if you can make me call you a full ten times. This will make me very happy, and it will result in an extra awesome fun-filled family evening. This is actually just a test to make sure you do not respond until you hear the secret code, which is "damn it." Don't make a move until you hear it.

What I say:

Time for your bath.

What I mean:

Time to drink your dirty bathwater. No, really, drink up. It's good for a growing boy. Also, you know what that bathwater seems to be lacking? Urine. Actually, nope...scratch that.

What I say:

Five more minutes until bedtime.

What I mean:

I would love to practice my own skills of negotiation while at the same time hone your early talents as a lawyer. Please, I am waiting patiently for your counter offer. And don't you even think of accepting any offer as it is first presented. These skills will serve you well in both your educational and professional endeavors. Because what this world really wants - needs, even - is one more person who cannot accomplish the most basic of responsibilities without first balking and then bartering. You, my fine gentlemen, seem to be naturally gifted in this area. You make Mommy and Daddy so proud. And you know what? You have earned an extra 45 minutes just by putting the effort into your argument. What show would you like to watch, my angels? (Might I suggest a nice, relaxing Caillou?)

~

And to my dear, dear (read: patient as ever) husband:

What I say:

I need a glass of wine.

What I mean:

No, seriously. A glass of wine. Which I'll raise to our little dictators. May they never have to work a day in their lives and always win irrational arguments. Cheers, boys. Momma loves you.

Gold is the new black

Like most everyone in the world, I've been sitting here in awe of the Olympics. In awe of the athletes. In awe of their talent. And, obviously, in awe of their fantastic hotel snafus. I've been sitting here, night after night, taking it all in and feeling like an untalented couch dweller. And then it struck. Inspiration. Enlightenment, even. Because this thought appeared out of nowhere, like four of the five Olympic rings. You? Me? We average folk? We are talented. We are ready. We've been training for years, and we didn't even know it. Fellow Sochi couch spectators, stand tall in your slippers and listen carefully. Four years from now? We. Are. In.

I can hear you thinking, "Come again?" and also, "Are you seriously such an ass?" Well, yes, I am. But really, bear with me, and you too will see the light. My training regimen is so simple, yet really, amazingly effective.

I am a mother of young children.

That's it. That is the whole training, which I will now share with you. In order to help you examine your own readiness level as well as formulate a plan tailored to your lifestyle, I've chosen eight events to illustrate how I plan to reign Grand Champion Extraordinaire. I do realize there are more events to be had, but let's not be greedy. Eight medals should suffice.

So get the DVR ready to record some serious NBC. The good news is that between now and 2018, you should have ample time to delete the 114 Disney Jr. shows taking up all the space. If you can manage this, the plan is already proving to be worthwhile.

{Before you continue, please note that I have broken the blueprint down, event by event, so as not to confuse or overwhelm you with too many fabulous details. I know, I know...You're quite welcome.}

Now, without further ado, The Plan.

From Couch Dweller to Olympic Bling: 
Making Greatness Happen

1. Curling. Because, for all intents and purposes, curling = sweeping. Boom. I've been training for this for damn near eight years. I will rock this.

2. Hockey. My oldest son is a sports fiend. We play hockey in the kitchen, all day, every day. In case you've never fallen in your socks, I will clue you in to this piece of reality: hardwood floors are slippery as hell. Dangerous? No, no. Say it with me. Rink preparedness. And as for the physicality of hockey, have you ever had to wrestle a toddler into a diaper when he's having none of it? I am all sorts of ready for hockey combat. Bring it.

3. This mysterious ski and shoot combination (which, I realize, has an actual name. But it brings me great joy to call it "ski and shoot," so ski and shoot it shall be.) I give to you: Nerf gun war à la suction cup darts. Accuracy honed, people. I also give to you: (occasional) elliptical trainer use. Now, I'm not saying it's exactly the same thing. But I'm not saying it's not. Give me a shot. I will make this happen.

4. Pairs figure skating. (Because if you're gonna go for it, at least have a gentleman in a deep V-neck sequined ensemble by your side.) So let's just say that a person has some previous experience in the air as a cheerleader, the result of which would be pretty decent balance. Let's also presume that this same person, to pass the time while waiting for pasta water to boil, may or may not twirl on the kitchen floor. (Please see hockey re: hardwood slickness factor.) Finally, the third piece that will make this a guaranteed success? Two words. Roller. Blading. (Which is actually only one word.) Gold medal material, friends. Gold medal material.

5. Bobsled. Seriously? I can run while pushing a double stroller with two heavy kids, their cups and their complaints all tucked safely inside. I can even do it on trash day in October, weaving on and off the leafy sidewalk with bursts of speed so as not to become roadkill. So the bobsled? I can push that beast from here to the center of town. Hop in. We'll go get a coffee.

6. Skeleton. I live in New England. I went to college in Syracuse. This girl knows sledding. And I mean, really. How different can it be?

7a. Downhill skiing. Nope. Even with my numerous aforementioned skills, this is not gonna happen. You may not have heard the story called That Time I Tried Skiing in the Alps...I would post an excerpt here, but it has too many swears to be considered decent. Which instead brings us to...

7b. Snowboarding. Sort of. Now this I may be equipped for, and I'll tell you why. Our seven year old got a Ripstik for Christmas, which we've all been testing out. It's board-like in nature, which will serve as my starting point. Plus, I've got four years to train, at which point I will have graduated from the hold-on-to-the-kitchen-counter-for-dear-life level of skill. I'm thinking that after four years, I'll be ready to throw that bad boy down an icy slope. Downhill Ripstikboarding. Patent pending.

8. Short track speed skating. Consider the following scenario: Ice-covered parking lot. Escapee toddler. (Fact: those little punks are fast!) Ice skates or dirty sneakers, it matters not. You navigate the surface of that ice with such speed and agility that you would actually be recruited for the sport. So give me those 80 inch blades, and let's get on with it. I would, however, ask that I be allowed to purchase the spandex outfit in black. I would assume it's slightly more forgiving.

So there you have it. If I have convinced even one person, I have done my job. You and I? We can be amazing. We will be amazing. Spandex or otherwise, the world has not yet seen the likes of us.

***

Finally, one last word for the realists out there. Yes, I do know this is far from legit. But can't you just let me have my dream? Because the other option is that I sit here, night after Olympic night, eating chocolate and contemplating my complete lack of both talent and medals. And that would be just plain sad. If you would allow me this moment of fancy, I promise you can have a ride in the bobsled. Or you can take my sequined partner for a spin. Truly. The choice is yours.

My (sippy) cup runneth over

My general take on life is that it's nothing without laughter. That every day should have at least one good chuckle in it. That being said, I can't help but be solemn for a minute, and the reason is this:  In this hyper-connected world we live in, we see an abundance of sadness. And to be quite honest, I sometimes have a hard time processing the sheer extent of it. There are moments where time stands still, and you can't help but feel your vulnerability. For me (for everyone?), Sandy Hook was decidedly one of those moments. Innocent faces that mirrored my own child of the same age, parents who looked and seemed a whole lot like me. I was changed. Forever. Since then, life has seemed more fragile.

Now, more recently, I find myself again surrounded by some of the saddest stories of loss. These stories also hitting so very close to home. Young mothers. Young fathers. Babies. Children. Siblings. Every day, it seems, there is another story in which I can see myself. It is near impossible to consider the rhyme and (lack of) reason of it; the randomness of it. And just the bare truth of it, which is the absolute, deepest, most profound sadness that some families must face. It makes my heart hurt to even consider.

Then, the piece of it that really takes my breath away. The families. The survivors. These same souls who are in so much pain and find themselves amidst suffering of the worst sort. Some of these mothers, these fathers, putting forth the most heartfelt messages, the most positive words of strength and survival, and they send these messages of love and hope out into the world. As if to help comfort the rest of us, those of us on the sidelines who should be comforting, not comforted. To remind those of us as of yet personally unaffected by such grief to slow down. To remember that this day, this hour that we're living right now? This is life. Grab each moment as it is, for these moments are nothing if not fleeting.

These stories, so full of grief, and these messages, so full of hope, they have led me to this. To take the advice given and to move through the world with open eyes and an open heart. So I make this promise to myself and my family, so blessed are we to have each other. I will take each moment as I can, the good, the bad, and the crazy, and I will choose to be thankful. I will choose to embrace it all. Life, it would seem, is too short to do it any other way.

So I will be thankful for the fighting in the living room, the wrestling that starts out playful but ends up dangerously not so. Because my children are together, and fighting or not, they love each other.

So I will be thankful for the ridiculousness that is our living room, where you must proceed carefully through the cars (by the hundreds) and the trucks (by the thousands) and the blocks and the balls and the legos and the movies (that they are not supposed to touch) and the cups (that most surely have leaked) and the hammers and the capes and the hockey sticks, just to make it to the couch. Because, tidy or not, it's life.

So I will be thankful for our kitchen table, so covered is it with crayons and papers that I have cleared and organized just moments ago, but somehow the piles always seem to return sevenfold. Because this is what creativity looks like.

So I will be thankful for the strong-willed seven year old's battles, during which he refuses to don any article of clothing that is not of or pertaining to a sport. Because it shows his passion.

So I will be thankful for the strong-willed four year old's battles, during which he refuses to don any article of clothing that is not of or pertaining to superheroes. Because it shows his innocence.

So I will be thankful for the hugs and the kisses and the smiles and the giggles and the crazy hair on our baby boy. I will even be thankful for his temper, which grows feistier by the day. Because as long as he is healthy, nothing else matters.

So I will be thankful for the mind-numbing haze that comes with raising young children, feeling like nothing I do is right. Every once in a while, I can see a glimmer of the truth that it's not so bad after all, and I can appreciate that it's a gift to spend my days wading through this messy business called life. Because this is what it's really all about.

So I will be thankful for it all. And I will think often of those who live the grief that we ponder and who still think to remind the rest of us that this thing, this decision to pause, to cherish and hold tight? This we must do.

So I will.

It goes without saying...

Except that if you're a parent, it doesn't ever go without saying, does it? In fact, you pretty much MUST say whatever it is, usually at least four times. Three if you're having an exceptional day.

Please put on your shoes. Please put on your shoes. Please put on your shoes. YOUR SHOES. PUT THEM ON.

You also find yourself saying the most ridiculous, most absurd, most idiotic things that make little to no sense. And as an outsider, you might wonder why in the holy hell someone would need to specify such lunacy. They're kids, you might think. Just make them listen. How hard can it really be to make your kid sit at the restaurant table like a normal human and not roll around on the dirty carpet underneath the booth? Mark and I used to be those outsiders. Which makes it all the more fitting that we now reside in this crazy dimension where we must say, out loud, in public, that it is NOT acceptable to lick the display window in the store. We now know the truth about parenting: Unless we, the adults, state an objection - clearly and concisely - the children will forge ahead with their bad ideas. And really, regardless of whether we have said no two or twelve times, they will most likely forge ahead anyway.

So I say this to myself of ten years ago, the outsider who would sit and judge the parents of the window-licking, restaurant-floor-rolling kids: Just wait. You just wait. Because this is what you're going to be saying in 2014:

1. Stop putting that baby carrot up your nose.

I blame this one on Frozen. I think Mason wants to be a snowman. Which means that we'll probably be number 14 in the line of kids at the ER who are all vying to be Olaf. All of us will be singing together, our sweet melody echoing off the hospital tile walls: 
Do you want to be a snowmaaaaan? And stick a carrot up your noooooooooose...

(that will only have made sense to you if you're familiar with the soundtrack...)

2. Do not ever (EVER) pick your brother up by the neck.

One of these days the baby will be big. And he will attempt to return the favor. I can't say that I blame him. But Mason, I'll cut you a deal. I'll only let him do it once. You'll still come out ahead by a fair margin.

3. {__________________}  toilet.

    a) Flush the

    b) Aim for the

    c) Close the

    d) Get your hands out of the

    e) Why is there a boot in the

All of the above.

Seriously.

4. Get off of the couch if you're not wearing underpants.

Ewwww. Just, ewwww.

5. Do not put your toys in your underpants.

Again, seriously? I find that there is a lot of undergarment commentary necessary throughout the day. This moment of awesomeness was from when our four year old tried to smuggle toys to preschool. I caught him at 11:57. School starts at noon.

6. Do not throw anything at me when I'm driving the car. (Or ever, but we're setting the bar very low here to start.)

I have little doubt that one day in the not-so-distant future, my car will be in a ditch off the side of the road due to the fact that I was beaned in the head by a Captain America shield or rogue footwear.

7. Could we please not sing about diarrhea at the dinner table?

I do have to accept the fact that poop is just plain funny to boys. But I am hoping that we can come to an agreement regarding acceptable poop joking hours. An attempt to formulate a ban on poop discussions during dining hours shall be made.

8. Do not spit into the water. Of the penguin exhibit. At the aquarium.

There are no words (that I can remember). There was, however, a mommy-has-lost-her-mind screaming session and a hasty exit through the nearest door.

So, this one is bad. Like, bad bad. And this is the point where I feel the need to specify something in very clear terms with a pinkie swear for added authenticity: We parent. We're on them. We try to keep a close eye, we try to control the goings-on, and most of all, we try to get ahead of the craziness. But here's the problem with this. Regardless of what you think you can prevent and control, they get ideas. Crazy, dumb, why-would-you-ever? ideas that they put into motion faster than you can even imagine. The other day, I was that parent. The one who looks like she has never attempted to control her child in her life. The one who looks like she has never created a rule for him to follow, not a guideline to be had. But I promise you, as I stood not two feet from my seven year old (the one who most certainly knows better!), he put this plan into motion, and I was powerless to stop it. He jumped, and he spit. Right into the water of the damn penguin exhibit. I am sure there were alarms that went off somewhere. I am sure that this caused a genetic mutation in the little feathered guys and that they now crave Fritos based on residual saliva. I am sure that all of this happened, but I can't say that I saw it firsthand. Because I grabbed those kids and got the hell out of there. As fast as a stroller, three kids and a screaming mother could move through the chaos that is the aquarium on a cold January Sunday. So, yes. That happened. Of the seven years, four months and 16 days that I have been a parent, this is the actual moment where it almost killed me.

Now, back to the list. (Unless you have stopped reading by this point out of protest for the penguins? I fully support that decision.)

9. Get the cat toy out of your mouth.

OK, so I don't expect the boys to fully grasp adult-level common sense, but I do feel like even a four year old should understand this:

kid toys = for kids, cat toys = for cats

It has become clear that I am expecting too much.

10. Stop eating those French fries. They are still frozen.

Last night, I was given two replies to this:

Mason: But it's delicious! (Again, we're talking about still-frozen fries that he's consuming...)

-and-

Andrew: Remember, Mom. We each might like different things, and that's OK.

Um, OK. But you both refuse to eat more than a few normal things presented to you at the expected temperature. How are icy potatoes both accepted and defended? This I do not understand.

I will say that after having lived this, and now after having typed this, I. Am. Tired. And on most days (today being no exception), I question what on Earth it is I'm doing wrong that results in my kids refusing to wear pants or keep their bodily fluids to themselves. But l guess if Andrew can stick up for his little brother and, at the same time, remind a grown-up to tolerate diversity (even if it is only through food preference), Mark and I are at least doing something right.

I do, however, think the aquarium staff might beg to differ.

Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?

I'm sitting here, completely alone, in a quiet living room on a Saturday morning. It is precisely 7:12. As any parent of young children knows, this is an exceptionally late start to the day around here. For whatever reason, the two older boys are sound asleep. I don't know why or how, but I'm watching GMA at a borderline-audible volume level and sipping the greatest cup of coffee that ever was, listening to the baby play in his crib where I have shamelessly left him to chillax with Gloworm until I decide I am ready to start chasing him. (It is not quite yet.)

The clock is ticking. Because in what will most likely be less than 30 minutes, it shall begin.

When I say that "it" shall begin, I could specify with any number of things. The noise shall begin. The fighting shall begin. The leaky sippy cups shall begin. The chasing of the cat shall begin. But today, the "it" that I am sitting here awaiting is this: the questions. In t-minus (18? 26?) minutes, the questioning shall begin. It starts early, and on and on it will go until their heads meet their pillows again this evening. And even then, it sometimes continues. So if you are awake right now and not lucky enough to be the "spouse who gets to sleep in" (seriously, dude, tomorrow's my day), you may have already begun your journey into the Land of Inquisition.

The other day, because I thought it might make for interesting reading thirty years from now (when my boys have kids of their own who question, and question, and question), I decided to make notes of their inquiries from dawn to dusk. As it turns out, pre-dawn would be more precise. I share this with you now so that you may either a) commiserate, or b) make sure to use adequate birth control. Also, as you read this, you must remember the "Children's General Rule of Thumb," which is this: The less energy the adult has, the more serious (or pointless) the question will be.

So I give you this peek into what is a completely typical day chez Youngworth. For notation purposes, the seven year old addresses me as Mom; the four year old addresses me as Mommy; and the baby grunts with the best of them.

***

"Mom, it's 5:58 am. Why is it dark out?" (Because, dude, it is 5:58 in the morning. This is not a reasonable time to have a discussion.)

"Mommy, can I have hummus for breakfast?" (Gross, no.)

"Mom, can I have a milkshake for breakfast?" (Now that idea has merit. But again, no. Although I might indulge later while you're at school.)

"Mommy, do you remember when you were married to Daddy?" (Um, am I not anymore?) "Well, can I marry you?" (Absolutely.)

"Mommy, can I have peanut butter crackers for lunch?" (Yes, and if we do the math, ten crackers a day {multiplied by} five straight months of this very same inquiry {equals} I should probably have allowed you to eat hummus for breakfast so as to vary your dietary intake.)

"Uh, uh, uh, uh, uhhhhhhhh?" (with finger pointing at the object in question), which roughly translates to "What is that object? Why are the best parts moving around in a circle? Why is it so fabulous? Can I touch it? Can I touch it? Can I touch it?" (It's a clock, the hands move to tell time, your aunt picked it out so of course it's fabulous, and no, you may not destroy it.)

"Mommy, can I keep this icicle?" (No.) "But it's for my collection!" (So, where exactly have you put the others?)

"Ah ah ahhhhhh?" (which roughly translates to "I'm doing something I know I am not allowed to do, but is it OK if I do it anyway?" (No, you should not throw every third bite on the floor. Yes, I can assure you that your rejected bites taste exactly the same as the other bites that you devoured. No, I do not enjoy cleaning the floor. Yes, I do wish you would stop.)

"Mom, will the Tooth Fairy leave me what I wish for?" (Well, what are you wishing for?) "A thousand dollars?" (Um, no.)

"Mom, do you remember the game when the Bruins beat the Flames 9 to 0?" (Nope. Not even a little bit.)

"Mom, do I have to eat the carrot?" (Yes. It is the size of my pinkie finger. And if you do not eat it, I will scream like a crazy person because, honestly, it's one stinking little carrot. And I think you choose not to eat it just to see a visible rise in my blood pressure.)

"Mommy, can I have more carrots?" (Yes, but the fact that you are eating them to spite your brother is both admirable and abhorrent on equal levels.)

"Mom, did you know that Justin Bieber got arrested?" (Yes, but you're seven. Why on Earth do you know?)

"Mom, is Heaven higher than outer space? Or is outer space higher?" (This is a good question for Dad when he gets home.)

"Mom, when you die, can you come back?" (Some people think so.) "As many times as you want?" (I guess so.) "When I come back, I'm going to live in California." (Nicely planned, kid.)

"Mommy, can we snuggle?" (I thought you would never ask. And I live in a constant state of fear of the day when you won't ask me anymore.)

"Mom, mom, mom, MOM! What is that noise?" (Dumbass cat got locked in the closet again.)

"Mom, can I have some water?" (The tiniest bit.)

"Mommy, can I have some too?" (Without fail. Every single night.)

...and then, as I walked down the stairs after tucking them in, I wondered a question of my own. It invariably brings a smile to my face and (that which always mystifies Mark) a tear or two (or seventy, depending on the day and my mental state)...  

How is it that they are growing up so fast?

***

So on this peaceful Saturday morning, even when I hide with my coffee and take just a bit too long to get the baby from his crib, I have to remember that time never stands still. This is a gift on some days and a heart-wrenching realization on others. Regardless of the type of day we end up with, I will do my best to savor every moment with these three little men. To soak up the madness and the love in equal parts. And every once in a while, I may throw caution to the wind. Who knows? I might just whip up some hummus and a milkshake for breakfast.