Last night at dinner the Entertainer clutches his chest, "oh! My shoulder hurts! A chip went down the wrong pipe!" I thought maybe it was trying to get to his hollow leg, but he was even more bewildered by what that ment. Hard to believe he is almost five. How do the days fly by so quickly?

Dream House

Three months ago we moved into a 1,000 square foot, 3 bed, 2 bath house we are renting. It is tiny. The yard is huge, and is currently owned by our new dog. It sits on a busy street corner, were if the Frisbee goes over the fence, it will either get run over or cause a car accident when it flys past someones wind shield. I clean up old beer bottles along the side of our fence every week. Last week someone left their shirt behind as well. It is the smallest house we've lived in since our 900 sq foot condo, were we only had one child and a cute balcony.

I lay in bed, the golden light is pressing through the curtains. It is early, maybe 6:30, and it is the one morning this week that my husband isn't already gone for work. Most of his days start at 2 a.m. Most of mine end at 11pm. I relish feeling him next to me.

Princess Lilly and the Captain have already woken up to come snuggle us. My eye lids will not open more than a crack to acknowledge the golden, pre-rain light that is struggling to press through the clouds and into the dawn. My mind is thick with exhaustion, and it to will not open more than a crack, letting in a thought that is doused in even more gold than the light pressing through my windows: This is my dream house.

I have owned larger homes than this, lived in much more modern homes, closer to parks, further from busy streets.

But I have never in all my life had to work so hard for something. Never have we had to struggle so hard to make something our own. And though I am very tired most days, I am happy in our tiny house with our huge back yard. I am happy eating on our screened porch, where the white curtains billow in the breeze, where the washing machine hums and the dryer whirls as as we eat, adding to the heat of the summer. Our tiny kitchen and living room are to small to house a modest table and six chairs. Really, the living room is to small to host a proper sized couch, but the walls are filled with shelves of books, and a soft black rug that I vacuum 10 times a day is just right for stretching out on while we read or play a game.

There are not a lot of minutes for resting. Not now. Not at this busy juncture of life. Some days I have to force myself to put down the business that comes with running a home and keeping up with a busy job. I have to force myself to remember that all the busyness is for the four little faces who depend on my husband and I for more than just food and clothes. I'll admit I don't do it often enough- putting down the business. When you've fought off loosing everything for so long it is hard to let up the business, even for a moment.

But here, now, next to my husband and my sleepy-eyed children who are longer and taller every morning, here as the golden light presses in, here where I realize that this is my dream house, because my family fills it, I am grateful for the moment of rest. I am grateful for the moment of realization, pressing in all around me.

Raising Social Retards

One of our favorite places to go in the summer time is the YMCA. I can work out, the kids can go to their classes, and then we can all go swimming. We all go home happy and tired and tan.

It's a genius idea; Mom can run off her stress, or sit quietly in the lounge and read a book (I wont lie, I've done it before!), and she gets the much needed stress relief and quiet that can make all the difference in a day.

Enough background. Here's the main part of my story:

Last week we went the the Y. I took my kids to their classes, full of fun activities and active things for them to do. (FYI, I did the elliptical the whole time we were there. I did not sit in the lobby and read that particular day...) I passed two boys, obviously brothers, sitting in the lounge, playing their DS's.

Here's what struck me:

1. They were completely unengaged with anyone or anything around them; they looked like zombies.
2. They were fat.

My rational thought, "well, it's normal for electronic games to engross kids, and I can see that these two kids must play a lot of games, because active 9 and 10 year-olds are not usually fat..."

BUT WE WERE AT THE GYM... where OBVIOUSLY one of their parents cared about their own fitness and health, otherwise why were they there? (Insert expletive of choice here.) What the heck?!?!?! I realize we all have different body types, I realize kids all have different interests. But REALLY? Shouldn't that count as borderline abuse, and at the very least, serious neglect?

Fit mom + fat kids is just sick and wrong.

45 minutes later, I picked up my boys from there class, where they were chasing each other on those cool floor scooter things; and the other two brothers were still there, dead to the world around them.

What kind of a generation are we raising? It's going to be one hell of a wake up call when so many kids in this generation graduate high school and mom and dad say, "OK, go get a job!" and they walk into the work world without any communication skills and any since of real responsibility.

So many parents in my generation are raising children who I fear will become socially retarded. Not because they are not bright children, but because their world has shrunk into an isolated virtual reality. These children are not prepared to lead business meetings, they are not prepared to navigate a complex work place with an intricate social structure that is entirely dependant upon the ability to communicate well. Much less trying to maintain any sort of meaningful personal relationships.

And so I drive from errand to errand, from school and to work, from baseball to Judo, not unaware of the fact that if my 4 children each had their own personal gaming system, there would be fewer disputes. They would each be quietly zoned out in their own alternate reality, and they would be quiet. But they wouldn't be telling stories. And they wouldn't be asking questions. And they wouldn't be playing games and taking in the world outside their windows. They wouldn't find a good book to read. They wouldn't be fighting and arguing. They wouldn't be working out the complexities of communication, of listening, of obeying, of consequences.

I would be trading their growth into meaningful humanity for a couple minutes of quiet.

Soon enough they will be grown and busy with their own lives, and then my home and my car will be quiet indeed. And I will be proud of the men and woman they will have become.

The Princess and The Puppy

Princess Lilly is almost three. And she has had a bit of a hard time getting used to not being the only girl, since Cheyanne joined our family... that is until the day they had a talk.

Cheyanne was out playing in the yard, so Princess Lilly put on one of her new princess dresses (there are about 10 of them, she cycles through them all every day), and went to the back porch.

She addressed Cheyanne through the safety of the screaned porch window.

"Cheyanne, there is a princess in our family. Her name is Lilly. And it's ME!"

Cheyanne smiled and nodded, fist pumped Princess Lilly, and then bowed to her royal majesty.

Not really, she just jumped up and licked the screan. Wich was apparantly good enough for Princess Lilly, because they've been good sisters since that day.

New Family!

Last week the Captain turned 9 and a new member joined our family. Her name is Cheyenne, she is 5 months old. She is part husky, part something that is really really big.

The Captain has wanted a dog since he found out what dogs were. So for his ninth birthday, I went to the animal rescue with the Entertainer and Princess Lilly, and picked out the only dog that 1. wasn't a pit bull (which I've heard actually make great pets, but Brandon and I hadn't discussed the bread...) 2. wasn't a "senior" (here buddy, this is Fido, the greatest dog ever! He is going to die before you turn 10...) or 3. wasn't barking like a maniac.

So we got Cheyenne, the sweet little "husky" sad and scared and not barking, who turned into wonder dog the big jumper when they brought her out and scooted her home with us.

I waited by the fence until the Captain and the Adventurer and Brandon came home, with another dad and his two daughters. My son, who has begged me for a dog every day for the last 7.5 years, saw me holding her, and he froze. The girls ran up and petted her. The Adventurer petted her, and the Captain just stood there.

"Happy Birthday! This is Cheyenne! She's your birthday present! You can pick a new name if you want... do you want to pet her?"

"Ya, sure mom. Let me just go put my stuff down." And he saunters away. And I am baffled.

He tells me later, "mom, when I saw her, I was so excited! If those girls hadn't been there, I would have screamed like a little girl and ran up and hugged her. I just didn't want to embarrass myself."

And I breath a sigh of relief.

A lesson in Civics

Last week we went to the library. Now I know for some moms this is no biggy.

Not for me though.

I'd rather go to....

wait for it...

the post office with all 4 kids, than the library.

Something about trying to keep kids, (1,3,5,7) quiet and close to me, while simultaneously trying to keep an eye out for all those sex-offenders posted in the front hall, while trying to pick out books, while also putting back all the books my kids are pulling off the shelves. Just in case you are tired like me and you haven't had time to do the math, 4 kids= 8 arms, and let me tell you, an octopus would do less touching in a library than my curious-Georges do. And did I mention the whole quiet part?

Anyways, we needed to return some almost-due library books, and after the $40 late charge I got slapped with last time, I wasn't taking any chances.

So, we picked our books, checked them out, and made it out of that place in record time.

On our way out, a man was just setting up a table. He asked me, "ma'am, would you like to sign my petition?"

Now, I should have known that anyone who asks a woman with a wiggly one-year-old in one arm, and 10 Junnie B. Jones books in the other, who is trying to use one foot to corral a 3-year old from walking into the road, and the other to stay upright, to sign a petition... well, I should have realized that he just might not be "all there."

Normally I walk past and shake my head. But I thought, "this will be a good lesson in civics."

So I asked, "What is it for?"

He got excited. "It's for gerrymandering and unfair voting practices! Here you go, sign it!"

"Well," I said, "What is gerrymandering?"

"It's unfair voting practices, here, sign it." He briskly tries to pass the pen to me- unsuccessfully looking for my third arm. A group of high school girls pass; he is flustered that I am costing him more signatures.

"Why are they unfair?" I ask. I know my boys are going to have 1,000 questions in the car.

"Because of the land owners- and the district splits, they let the people with the power keep the power, and we need the power for the people, and it's gerrymandering!"

"Hmmm, but what is gerrymandering?"

"It's unfair voting practices!" He is flabbergasted that he's had to tell me three times now.

"I guess I'm just not understanding why they are unfair. What specifically are you hoping to gain through this petition?"

"We need to get rid of gerrymandering! Here," he says wildly waving the pen in my face, "sign it."

"I'm sorry, I just can't sign something that I don't understand," I say.

By now he is VERY exasperated. "Why not? I signed it! It's not like it's a big deal. No one even-" he stops short of finishing the rest of his sentence. I'm guessing it was "even cares about these petitions." Instead his mouth clamps shut as we walk away.

It ended up being a different sort of lesson in civics, I guess. But it did make me want to start asking a lot more questions...

Issue #4,763

Some of our dear friends in New Mexico decided that when it came to the discussion of "boy parts" with their little boys, they would use the anatomically correct terminology.

Well, their boys translated the official terminology into the term "peanuts," and the phrase stuck.

So when my very impressionable, highly linguistic 18 moth old son heard the term, he decided that it was his phrase of choice for the all-important boy-part discussions that somehow seem to come up every single day in our house.

So you can imagine the confusion that ensued when someone gave us a "Curious George Visits the Zoo" last year. In this book, The Man with the Yellow Hat buys George a bag of peanuts. George then goes on to feed the peanuts to the lions, and the giraffes, and the seals, until the zoo keeper freaks out and tells George to stop giving his peanuts to the animals. Poor George is sitting on the bench feeling very badly, until the missing zoo-bird swoops down and snatches the peanut George was holding, right out of his hands. In the end, George and his peanuts save the day.

The Entertainer has always had a funny look on his face when we read that book. But here's the worst part: I didn't even make the connection until TODAY.

We were sitting at lunch eating our peanut butter sandwiches, when the Entertainer asks, "Mommy, will I eat peanuts when I go to the zoo?"

"Sure buddy," I mindlessly respond.

"Really?" He asks. I glance up to see that his face is lost in bewilderment.

And that is when I realize that for the last year and a half, I have been giving my youngest son "issues".
I can just immagine the conversation with his therapist in 20 years. "Well my mother always read me this book about Curious George and his peanuts, only I thought she was saying penis..."

Good golly, what will happen when his first grade class takes a field-trip to the zoo for the first time? (Mental note, I better make sure to chaperon on that one... )

Oh the issues are going to run deep! My poor scarred boy, I am giving this post a number, so that you can easily pull it up when you start therapy, to work through you "peanut" issues.

Oy. It's a miracle they survive at all.

Ahh! I just had a horrible thought!!!
What does he think peanut butter sandwiches are made out of?!?!

War

Last weekend, Brandon rented "Bride Wars" for me. He is so sweet- but I do think that it is funny that when he picks up a chick flick for me, it is usually the MOST estrogen-laden/crazy woman logic movie available. And then he rolls his eyes all the way through it.

But this movie deserved it. If you haven't seen Bride Wars, don't bother. Save your money. Save your time. Save your marriage. It was so bad, that I dreamed I was fighting with my husband while I slept that night.

It was so bad that even Lifetime won't be airing it- they passed it off to the The Victims Network (AKA Oxygen.)

Anyways, the Adventurer asks the next day, "Mommy, how was your movie?"

"Ugg. It was AWFUL!" I reply.

He pauses to think. "Mommy, is Bride Wars like Star Wars, only with girls?"

I start laughing uncontrollably. "Ya, pretty much, but worse. In fact, I'd rather watch Star Wars 100 times instead of watching Bride Wars once. And I don't even like Star Wars!" (At all. I REALLY don't like Star Wars. I wont say "hate" because I HATE Bride Wars. And my distaste for Star Wars isn't remotely in the same category...)

He replies, "Ohhhhh. I see. That's why it was so bad!"

Insightful for a 5-year old. Maybe he'll be a judge yet.

(P.S., he clarified that he thought Obama is the Judge of the United States. When I told him no, that he was the president, he replied, "Oh. I want to be the Judge of the United States. The Entertainer can be president still." And then the Captain piped up and said that he still wants to be a police man, but that he won't give me any tickets for driving to fast in school zones. Sweet kids, I tell ya!)

Sanity Wears Off

Last weekend, I got a call from Kristi, informing me that Girl's Night was coming up. Unfortunately, it was the same night that I was working until 11 pm.

But the idea of having some girl-time sounded like fun, so I threw back an energy drink, and spent about an hour and a half with some good friends.

I got home at about 1 am. I was just falling asleep when Lilly woke up to eat. An hour later, she was back in bed, and I was just falling asleep when the Adventurer woke up with a horrible cough. Some medicine, a drink of water, the humidifier, and a hot-water bottle later, I checked the clock and discovered that it was now 3 am.

I fell into bed, goaning about how tired I would be in 3 and a half hours.

But the next morning, the most horifing thing happened.

I didn't feel any different from any other day.

I think that is when I realized: I have been perpetually exhausted for the last 6 years.

No wonder I started throwing back Rock Star energy drinks when the Adventurer was about one. (It was really hard to get off the juice when we decided to try for the Entertainer. It's Liquid Speed, I tell ya, and I LOVE it!) But alas, the exhaustion has been a part of my life for so long, I am dismayed to realize that I have begun to think it is normal... Turns out you don't get less tiered with more kids, you just get crazier.

Disclaimer #1: I've never actually taken speed. But, as the side effects include weight loss and a lot of energy, I do wonder why it is illegal...

Disclaimer #2: I think that originally this blog post had a point, but given that I have now realized the extent of my perpetual exhaustion, I forgot where I was going with it, and I'm just giving into the crushing haze that is telling me I should probably go to bed.

I will return when the energy drink high kicks back in... (insert crazy-woman laugh! Mmmmwaahahaha!)

LaLaLa

What my two- year-old sings while in the bathroom.

(No kidding, especially when it is #2 time.)

Changing Minds

Oh the difference two years makes!

Today I asked my boys (7, 5, and almost 3) what they wanted to be when they grew up and why. Here are their answers, verbatim:

The Captain: "I want to be a police man." (His current aspiration is to be a hall monitor next year. He'd be great at it. He loves telling everyone the rules.) "Because I could catch bad guys and drive around in a car all day. I'd leave at 7 in the morning and come back at 7 in the night, because that is when my kids will go to bed."

"Wont you want to play with you kids before they go to bed?" I ask.

"Ya, maybe for a little while, but then they would HAVE to go to bed at 8."

The Adventurer: "I want to be a judge when I grow up."

"Really?" I ask. (He'd be a great judge, but I didn't know that he even knew what a judge was.) "Why?"

"Because I have a really good mind and I'm good at remembering stuff. And I really like my name, and people could say it a lot."

The Entertainer: "I want to be a policeman and a judge too!" (Of course he does. His original blog name was the Parrot. I think I changed it prematurely.)

"No," says the Adventurer. "Maybe you could be the President. Do you want to be the President?"

"Yes. I want to be the President of Florida Mommy."

There is a lull in the conversation as we eat our sandwiches.

And then the Entertainer pipes up again. "Actually, I want to be a dog from outer space and wear a helmet on my head. Can I be that Mommy?"

"Sure buddy. You would be a good outer space dog when you grow up."

He smiles, confident with the good choice he's made.

Lilly just smiles, and slams some more applesauce. Based on how much fun she has chewing on my shoes, she is either aspiring to be a footwear designer or a dog, like the Entertainer...

Jail Ponderings

Not to long ago, I heard a news report that a higher and higher percentage of women in jail are mothers. At first, I was shocked. How could a mother do something so awful that it landed her in jail?!? And then I started to think about it...

In jail, you don't have to do any laundry.

In jail, you never have to cook for picky eaters. In fact, your food is prepared for you, and you get to eat it while it is still hot!

In jail you get to sleep through the night. There are no babies, bad dreams, or random vomiting incidents to wake you up.

In jail you can watch an entire television episode uninterrupted.

In jail you can read a book. Not an 8 page kids book, no there is time to read a REAL book.

In jail you can take a shower every day.

In jail you can close the half door when you go to the bathroom.

In fact the more I thought about it, the more fun jail began to sound. So when I got pulled over by those crazy cops last week, there was a thought that flashed through my mind for a split second: if I just kept driving, and I led the police on a low-speed chase, I wonder if I could get sent to jail for a long weekend...?

My mom could pick up the kids, I could tell Brandon not to post bond until Monday, I could ask the judge to prolong my sentence a little.

And that is when I came up with a great idea: Voluntary Jail.

The add campaign could be that Gieco voice-over guy: "Feeling a little frazzled? Need some time off from being a mom? Come stay at jail for the weekend. Enjoy three days of hot meals, no laundry, peeing in semi-privacy... all at the state's expense."

I bet it would diminish mothers in jail for real crimes by 82%, because my secret suspicion is that they just need a break.

Dear Family:

I am filing an official document, recusing myself of ever having to deal with the question that starts, "Where are my...?" I know that you think I spend the day dancing around the house like a little elf, seeking out and hiding your personal items. But I promise, I don't.

I am also filing a subpoena for information regarding where my personal items are disappearing to. You will be legally required to answer my questions, as to the location of mommies things. And don't tell me it was the little elves...the only little elves I've swept out from behind the couch are cute little blond boys.

Love Mommy

Good Influences Gone Wrong

The Captain: "Hey Mom, if you eat really, really, REALLY healthy, is it ok if you smoke?"

Me (in shocked horror, who is teaching my son this?!?) "No! It's not! Smoking is really bad for your body!"

The Captain, "Then how comes Popeye does it? He's really strong, and he smokes a pipe."

When I think back, Popeye was dragging on that pipe of his more often than he was throwing back canned spinach... And suddenly a whole generation is explained.

Darn you Popeye! Teaching my kids they will be stronger if they smoke! And for ruining a perfectly tasty leafy-green for generations to come!

The marketing genius behind the mind that created a market for canned-greens: spinach and tobacco.

If I wasn't so sure that he has probably already croaked from lung cancer, I would bet he's still collecting royalty checks from the farming community.

No wonder TV doesn't air "classic" cartoons anymore. Eeesh.

The view from under the bus

We are on day 8 of daddy being out of town, and day 5 of mommy being sick. Yesterday I lost my voice, and am currently communicating with a squeak and a whisper.

Last night we went to my parents house, and just as we are finishing dinner, the Captain looks at me and says, "Mommy, maybe God let you loose your voice because you were yelling at us."

Bam! I don't even think the bus driver saw that one coming. He didn't even have time to slam on the breaks. It was a clean hit.

(In all fairness, I wasn't actually yelling, so much as I was speaking sternly with them about lieing about cleaning their room. As in they said they did, bu they really didn't - not the other way around. What kid does that?)

So here I am, under the bus, and I can't even yell for help.

Kissing Medicine

It seems like every time my husband goes out of town, we all get sick. This trip has been no exception. Sure enough, right around day three, the Spring Cold hit, and pretty much all I'm planning for the weekend is a lot of movies, a lot of juice, and a lot of snuggling.

Anyways, about an hour before bedtime, my two-year old started asking for "kissing medicine." (That's what he's decided cough medicine is called.) As I was telling him no for the third time, I happened to notice the children's benadryl, and well... I don' t think I have to spell out where my mind went.

It reminded me of a friend of ours who was one of 5 boys. The way he tells it, his mom used to make them a nice mug of warm liquor every Friday night after school; she woke them up for church on Sunday morning.

And that's when I realized that we should move to Europe, where family dinners include a little whine for everyone... just what the whole family needs at the end of a long week. I bet European Moms and Dads get to sleep in on Saturday mornings.

And maybe the Entertainer knows exactly what he's asking for- a glass of whine can be a nice start to a romantic evening...

April Fool

Well, it's official: I'm the biggest one of them all. Why, you ask? Well, because I introduced my kids to April Fool's Jokes. Three days later, the mayhem continues.

"Mommy, I broke my leg!"

"Really?"

"April Fools! That was a good one, I got you again!"

So, either my kids think I am the most gullable person on earth, or that thay are the best joke tellers. But one thing is for sure, I am the April Fool!

My two year-old has exactly seven shoes. Everyone of them is different. Normally he has seven pairs of shoes, but somehow, we are missing exactly half. To be more specific, we are missing 6 left-footed shoes, and one right-footed shoe, which means that when his little brown sandal disappears, we are out of luck...