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.