That'll do, dog. That'll do.

We have a dog.  He is a small terrier thingy that someone gave us when the brunette was a baby, and while I don't despise him, he's not really my favorite creature.  He's cute and smallish, but he barks, jumps, scoots, and does this weird grabby thing to everyone's feet that is both unsettling and annoying (how can he wrap his paws around an ankle like that?), and he won't eat crumbs off of the kitchen floor.  Really, what kind of dog doesn't eat kitchen crumbs?  What else do you get a dog for?  Nevertheless, as annoying as he may be, he has more than secured his spot in the family by simply putting up with the girls.  He patiently sits through makeovers, costume adjustments, and bless him, he even wore a baby doll diaper the other day without so much as a nibble to get it off.  They carry him around, put him in boxes, under laundry baskets, into strollers, wrap him in blankets, and although it is done with loving intentions, I wonder how often the dog daydreams about keeping the kids hostage under a laundry basket.  My personal relationship with the dog is one of duty.  I feed him, I walk him, I bathe him, I pet him when he isn't busy being tied to the Barbie car, and I do it because it's the responsible pet owner thing to do to.  I think he feels similarly towards me - he knows I will provide nourishment and outside time, and occasionally respite from the smothering arms of the girls, but he doesn't really crawl into my lap and lick my face or anything.  We tolerate each other, and I don't expect much from him, but today may have changed my feelings for him.  I was sitting quietly, darning socks, as I usually do on Mondays (ok, I was Facebooking), and the dog came at my feet yipping and doing the weird grabby thing.  He does not often yip, he usually just goes for a solid bark, but this was, in fact, a yip.  He hopped toward me, kind of spazzy, and then jerked back and ran to the kitchen.  "Dumb dog" I think to myself, and go back to my work.  But here he comes again, yipping and jumping at my feet, then running back to the kitchen, and then back again to paw me.  Obviously, he is either starving, or is trying to tell me something.  Did I feed him this morning? Did Timmy fall in the well?  Either way, empty food bowl or neighbor boy in well (darn neighbors), I decide it is probably worth investigating and follow the dog (well, not really follow, there is a lot of weird foot grabbing here, so I mostly try not to step on him or trip on my way to the kitchen) and find out what the fuss was about.  There at the dog dish is the baby, with her head bent into the water bowl, scrubbing away at her hair.  She looks up at me, water and kibble crumbs rolling down her face and says, "me just wash hair".  The dog does a spectacular leap into the air and high fives me, landing with a keen nose pointed right at the mess that has become his water dish.  He is tattling!  And is happy to be doing so!  Well done, fine dog friend, you have a found a use beyond merely keeping the kids entertained.  I feel a bit of admiration towards this hairy little fella, and am quite pleased with him.  I clean up, refill the water dish, and give him a good scratch.  Maybe later I'll let him sit on my lap.

A father's gift

I often tell my husband that what takes him two seconds to teach the girls typically takes me two weeks to un-teach them.  Inappropriate jokes, quotes from inappropriate movies, punching at inappropriate times and for inappropriate reasons...I think you get the idea.  Don't get me wrong, my husband is a loving and responsible father, it's just that he can't resist stirring them up, and I think he enjoys the rise he can get out of me when I hear one of our precious children hollering "say hello to my little friend!".  While some of the "wisdom" he imparts upon our offspring is purely for his own enjoyment (see Scarface reference), some of it is actually valuable, like how to throw a proper punch.  The problem is that once the skill has been taught, he and the kids get to practicing and skip over the part of the lesson in which one would usually outline when and where would be an acceptable time to put this skill to use - i.e., not at the kitchen table while we are eating dinner.  One particular skill that he has demonstrated for the girls has seemed to gained favor with them, as they see any time as a good time to use it - spitting.  I'll take a moment here to say that I do not hate that he showed the girls the right way to spit.  I was (and still am) one of those dorky kids who ended up fishing watermelon seeds out of my shirt in the summertime while trying to hide the long dribble of spit hanging off of my chin because of my inability to spit for anything.  Honestly, I still miss the sink when I brush my teeth.  It's a tragedy, and downright embarrassing.  However, as useful as it is to spit, there's something...hillbilly...about just doing it to do it.  A few weeks ago I picked up the blonde from school and as we were walking back to the car, she turned her head to the side, cleared her throat and hocked a loogie right there on the sidewalk.  I was stunned.  Here was this blonde little pigtailed girl in a rainbow skirt and fashion boots (her words, not mine) slinging loogies like it's nothing.  She didn't even think anything of it, just kept walking to the car as I stood there staring at sizable, bubbly spit right there at my feet.  Gross, and yet, astonishing.  I could never spit that coolly - it would be a big production for me to work up a good spit in the first place, and then to spit it all out at once, without any of it dripping down my front or getting in my hair on the way would be a miracle, and besides that, she was walking at the same time.  Remarkable.  Once I got over my amazement at the fruit of my husband's teaching, I realized I should probably address the spitting at school, particularly since I wasn't the only mom who saw it, and I was the only one who was impressed.  I told the blonde she shouldn't spit on sidewalks where people walk, and should try not to do it at school, unless she really must spit, then she should excuse herself to the bathroom and spit in the sink.  MISTAKE.  I should never have even said anything, because as soon as I drew attention to it, she took it as a sign that I had acknowledged her role as a "spitter", and now she must honor this designation by going into the bathroom regularly to spit into the sink, and eventually to spit into the toilet.  Naturally, the brunette takes notice and decides that she, too, must spit - only, bless her heart, with a bit less finesse than the blonde.  And a bit less concern for where she spits.  She spit on this very keyboard.  No joke, just came right up to the computer, and let it go right here on the semi-colon.  Wiped her chin and left it at that.  Now I am faced with the terrible dilemma of frequent spitter children, and the constant worry of putting my hand in a loogie.  We've long since passed the two week deadline to un-do my husband's handiwork, but I have to say, I might just deal with it for a while longer.  I hear county fair prizes are pretty sweet for long distance spitting.

Ha ha ha

Anyone who spends even a small amount of time with a small child can easily discover that children often go to extremes in expressing their emotions.  It is understandable that as a new member to society and it's emotional waves, a child may have a difficult time translating what he or she is feeling in an appropriate way.  After all, it can be devastating to wrap a little mind around the tragedy of a case brimming full of donuts at the super market and not one of them getting to be eaten by you.  A tantrum is an easy example of this dilema.  In a mere moment, a docile creature becomes a raging beast to be reckoned with, and just as quickly as the beast appeared, it dissolves into a whimpering puppy-child, large teary cartoon eyes and everyting.  Heartbreaking.  And also kind of inconvenient, because aside from not knowing how to properly show emotion, kids are also oblivious to the notion that Target is not really the place to do it.  There is one emotion, however, that I really think benefits from their exaggerated range of expression - amusement.  Have you ever heard a kid laugh?  It is awesome.  Not only will a kid laugh at just about anything - a dog with it's tongue hanging out, farting and burping, the word "tortilla" - but when they do laugh, they really put a solid effort into it.  There's no demure giggling or lighthearted chuckling, it's a real, forced, highly entertaining laugh.  Whenever the blonde laughs at something lately, she really goes for it - throwing her head back, falling on the floor, clutching her stomach - and she sounds like a weird combination of Ricky Ricardo and a sea lion.  It is both odd and also entirely appropriate, because her sister trying to put chapstick on is just that funny.  The best part is that when the blonde has finally caught her breath, she stands up, rolls her eyes and lets out a good long sigh.  A satisfactory laugh.  The brunette, as usual, does absolutely nothing even remotely similar to the blonde, so when she finds herself tickled by something, she generally breaks into hysterical giggles followed by a piercing scream.  Not my favorite, but she has a pretty cute bubbly giggle, and I generally expect the scream, so I just make the necessary prepations for it.  The baby is especially funny, and I think part of it is because she has always kind of laughed weird, and now it's hard to tell if this is just natural, or if she is tapping into everyone being amused by her and milking it.  She starts out with a regular chuckle, and then it takes a turn for borderline worrisome as she sticks her tongue out just a tiny bit, leans her head forward, and lets out a motor-coughing sound, followed by a brief moment of just holding her breath (this is where I always begin to question "Is she laughing? Is she choking?  Oh, no she's fine") and a long gasp.  So, um, weird, but her sisters all think it's a riot, so as long as she doesn't ever pass out or anything, I think we'll just let this be what it is - hilarious.  As animated and over the top as they are, one thing is for certain - whether they are throwing a tantrum or rolling around laughing, there is nothing more amusing than a crazy child.

Bed-lam

Among many other things happening in recent weeks (potty training, a trip to Colorado, frequent nervous breakdowns over the impending end of our lease) we have decided to finally get new beds for the girls.  I know I have mentioned it here in the past, and I am proud to say that after much deliberation and teary sad mama reflection (I was sure that if I kept them in small beds, they'd stay small forever, but alas, they continue to grow), the blonde and brunette each have their very own twin bed, complete with box spring and metal frame of death.  The blonde informed me that while she was pleased with the new furniture, it was really unnecessary, as she does not sleep.  No, she just lays awake in her bed all night while her sisters sleep - she just waits for it to be morning and occasionally rests her eyes, which is not to be mistaken with falling asleep.  Yes.  This is not the first time she has mentioned this little tid bit of information, and I have even heard her tell other people, which of course leads to a judgemental "you let your child stay awake all night?" raised eye brow face of disdain.  No, she does not really stay awake all night, and if she did, it would not be because I am "letting" her.  It would be because she is too sneaky about it for me to find out.  Either way, sleeping or not, as long as there is quiet, I won't complain.  Now, if they are getting out of their beds, that is another story, and it is proving to be quite a problem for the baby.  Since her sisters got new beds, it is only fair that she would also get an upgrade, so the crib came down and she moved into one of the toddler beds.  At first I was very excited for this, because typically in the mornings, all of the girls would wake up and leave the baby in the room alone, crying in her crib until my husband or I came in to free her from crib prison, since she, or her sisters, for that matter, never ventured to attempt climbing out of the crib on their own.  In a toddler bed, she could easily get out of bed in the morning with her sisters, and maybe I could get an extra minute or two in my own bed while they play quietly before breakfast.  Apparently I had failed to connect that getting out of bed in the morning goes hand in hand with getting out of bed at nap time, bed time, in the middle of the night, and any other time the baby gets an urge to be up exploring.  And by exploring, I mean cleaning out the dressers.  In the first day alone, every time she came out of her room when she should have been sleeping, she had a different combination of clothing on, none of it her own, and flittle of it on the right body part.  After light scolding and reminding her that even though she can get out of bed, she must stay in it to sleep, she eventually got tired enough to give up, albeit only half in the bed.  The next day, I was a bit more prepared and started nap time with a firm reminder that she must not get out of bed.  Success!  She didn't come out one time, and the room was so quiet, there was no way she could be up to trouble.  Fast forward a couple of hours, and I decide I can't contain it, I have to see for myself that my tiny baby is sleeping in her big bed, so I gently open the door and look to the bed, but there is no baby.  Instead, there is a fountain of clothing streaming from the dresser drawers down to a pile on the floor, in the midst of which lies the baby, sleeping, with her sister's shirt on, an exposed little behind, and one leg in some pajama pants.  Naturally, I tell my husband to come see, and we stand in the room quietly cracking up, and trying to find the video camera to document the shenanigans for future blackmail purposes.  We leave her on the floor, not willing to risk moving her to the bed, and close the door so she can finish her nap.  As is expected at this point, the spends the remainder of the week falling asleep on the floor mid-mischief, and her sisters ignore her as they enjoy the novelty of their own new beds, sleeping, or not sleeping, growing all the while.

The witching hour

Without fail, four o'clock in the afternoon comes around and my children transform.  Whatever kind of day we had been having up until this point, whether is was a magical day full of glorious motherhood moments, a lazy stay at home and play nicely day, or a day spent out around town in the party van, four o'clock turns a switch in the girls' programming and they unleash their inner animals.  Their behavior during this time is not necessarily bad, it is just wild and uncontrollable, and of course, it coincides perfectly with the unavoidable slump in my energy that follows a day of good old fashioned child rearing.  Usually, this is the time of day that any attempt at living media free falls apart.  Sure, I begin the morning telling myself that we will spend the whole day without watching television, because there are so many marvelous ways to be creative and make our own fun, and sometimes I manage to stick with it...until four.  The natives over take me and I submit to their chanting and clawing, and those little friends with the awesome dance moves regain their rightful place in our family home.  Even with the sweet drone of irritatingly catchy fresh tunes, the shenanigans are not entirely avoided.  Mere moments ago, the blonde and the brunette were working affectionately together to build a pillow house to share, but the clock chimed four and suddenly the blonde's work must not have been up to code, because the brunette smashed and destroyed the whole thing (see last post for more detail on her destructive nature).  Unsurprisingly, a fight broke out, much to the amusement of the baby, who both cheered and reprimanded from the safety of the top of the kitchen table, shouting out "one meenut, one meenut!".  They scratched, they kicked, they shouted, and what did I do?  Well I already turned on cartoons, what else do you want from me?  A joke, people - obviously I hollered for them to stop.  They ignored me, I got the baby off the table, she got in a few swings, and it fizzled out on it's own.  After this, DVD shelf wreckage is likely to ensue, follow by couch jumping, crying, yelling, throwing, and the like.  But I have a theory on the purpose of what is known around here as the witching hour - while it does no favors for me, it does wonders for my husband.  As soon as he walks in the door, the chaos halts and the girls run happily into his arms, relieved to have a parent home who is not at their wits' end - he is fresh meat for their play schemes and tea party rotation.  I, of course, push the kids out of the way to run into his arms (not really push, just side step and nudge), relieved to have an adult home to talk to me about something outside of the realm of princess fantasy land.  I begin to wonder, is this his own elaborate scheme to stay at the top of our favorites list?  Does he have some sort of mind control powers that set us girls in a state of frenzy at the stroke of four, stirring up a mad house for him to sweep in and turn around upon his awaited arrival home?  As suspicious as it seems, I have little evidence to go on that would suggest trickery on my husbands part.  Whatever it is that sets the witching hour in motion, it is in full swing.  He should be home in twenty six minutes...

The destroyer

My middle daughter, the brunette, is three now, and whoever decided to call it the terrible twos, obviously hadn't seen three yet.  Three is challenging.  When the blonde was three, she was defiant, resistant to both the toilet and time out, a master of temper tantrums, and a although a novice, a regular back-talker.  There were days I just wanted to leave her on the front porch until her father came home (but of course, I'm a responsible parent and never did - besides, sitting out there from lunch time until my husband came home is an awfully long time).  The brunette, while sharing some of these frustrating talents, has found her own special way to leave her mark on the third year.  She is a destroyer.  Of all things, both nature and man made.  A lovely flower in bloom?  Not for long - petals are not merely plucked, but shredded, and a twisted and lifeless stem is left shriveling on the sidewalk.  Junk mail left on the counter?  Make that microscopic pieces of paper strewn wildly throughout the house.  An awesome new toy?  Scrap plastic.  It is amazing, and not merely because she is demolishing everything in her reach, but because she does so without the slightest change in temperament.  Normally, a person would think tearing things apart and smashing stuff would be a sign of frustration or anger, but the brunette is a stoic angel - who is pulling a pillow inside out.  And it is not just dinging things up, it is breaking, dismembering, picking apart, utterly destroying things.  If she could, I'm sure she'd find a way to set it all ablaze at the end.  Yikes, right?  My only comfort is that I'm pretty sure she is not doing it with malicious intent.  After all, more often than not, the things she is choosing to destroy are her own things.  She doesn't take her sisters' toys captive, and so far, all of our electronics are safe.  I suppose she cold just have an interest in mechanics - how does the play mixer work?  Let's smash it to smithereens and find out!  Or maybe there's an underlying interest in anatomy - it might explain all of the Barbie heads and miscellaneous limbs from other toys at the bottom of the bucket (Dr. Frankenstein?)  Maybe, she has super human strength and isn't really meaning to break everything but just hasn't yet learned how to harness her awesome powers and use them for good.  Maybe.  Until she either gets called to join the X Men or grows out of it, I'll just try to look on the bright side of this destructive phase - the sooner she destoys all of those kids meal toys, the sooner I'll get to throw them out.

Arthaus

Ask anyone, and they will tell you how incredibly creative and artistic I am.  It's my "thing".  I was terrible at both sports and social interaction as a child, and so, whether by default or actual skill and interest, I took to creating craft projects alone in my room.  It was heaven.  I was a whiz with the glue gun, and could turn any shoe box and scrap of fabric into a four poster Edwardian Barbie bed.  Magic.  Obviously, Barbies are only cool until you're fourteen (right?....), so I eventually evolved my crafting into actual art projects, using actual art supplies.  My parents lovingly accepted and encouraged my interest in art and resulting rejection of socialization, and didn't question my home-made, sometimes fashionably questionable additions to my hair, backpack, shoes, whatever.  If I could get my hands on it, I Modge Podged the living daylights out of it.  My then-boyfriend and now-husband (yes,we're high school sweethearts, how cute, it happens in real life) found it endearing (I think) that I'd show up with hand crafted tokens of teenage love for him, and would trail behind me at art museums while we we dating.  I even made it through three semesters towards an art degree before morning sickness and the prospect of diaper changing trumped my indie hippie art maker tendencies and turned me into the respectable conservative I am today (ha ha ha ha ha, irony at it's finest).  Of course, babies need crafted tokens of love, too, so I left one medium for another, and turned to knitting crazy things and painting super cool murals on my kid's walls.  I dabbled in arts and crafts when I found the time and energy, trying to stay fresh and have a good outlet for the mama crazies (you know what I'm talking about).  As the girls got bigger, I got excited thinking about all the awesome art projects and crafting skills I'd impart on them.  Starting small and easy, I got crayons, stickers, colored paper, stuff like that, and then when it was all set up and I had finished my model, I let the girls join.  Right away, something was not right.  Instead of being the free spirited fun loving who cares if there's a mess we are making art magic mom I had thought I'd be, I found myself hovering and anxious about crayon getting on the table, stickers over lapping and improper use of materials (i.e. as food items).  What is happening?  They are not making art, they are making a mess!  I'd panic and cut it short, and of course, the girls would be disappointed.  Every time the girls would ask to "make projects", I would have a terrible nastiness welling up inside of me, thinking about all of the stuff I'd have to get out, all of the stuff I'd have to clean up, and all of the stuff I'd have to put away.  It didn't help, either, that their skill levels were completely different, so while the blonde could handle a glitter pen fairly well, the brunette could not, but would want to because her sister did, and I would have to intervene to stave off glitter clumps.  The baby just ate stuff and stood on the table.  It made for a stressful endeavor.  I knew this was awful, this was not the kind of mom I wanted to be, but I just couldn't shake my aversion to making crafts with the girls.  In an attempt to change it, I got the blonde a craft supply bucket for Christmas last year thinking that the new materials would make it more fun for both of us, but it turns out I dreaded puffy balls and popsicle sticks more that I hated watercolors.  On the other side, this craft bucket opened the blonde's eyes to a whole world of crafting possibilities, and her natural interest in art projects grew.  Every day, she would ask to do a project, and most times, regrettably, I'd either sneakily put it off until it was too late to get out the craft bucket, or I'd get it out and hover irritably over every drop of glue.  Not fun.  Not for me, anyways.  The blonde was well aware of my hovering, and did not like it.  She had her own vision, and I was ruining it, and one day, she simply reminded me "I can do it myself".  Bam.  Right in the heart.  She can do it herself.  She can do it well, even, for a four year old.  Alright then, here's some paper, some paint, some glue, feathers, puffy balls, have at it.  And how nice it was.  She thoroughly enjoyed crafting on her own, and I enjoyed just watching.  We chatted about whatever she was making, and although the brunette still required some assistance, I began to remind myself that she, too, can do it herself.  Mostly.  Kind of.  She was only sort of interested anyways.  Slowly, I am finding myself relaxing a bit over the prospect of crafting, and the blonde has made out this Christmas with a new plethora of art supplies and craft projects, so I will have plenty of opportunity to remind myself that hovering is not required, and kids art supplies are washable.  I know it will get easier as they get older, but who am I to deny the joy of being creative now.  I can say one thing, I am grateful that my parents were supportive of my interests as a child, and I hope to do the same for my own children, but I can't help but wonder if the fact that I crafted alone in my room made it easier for my mom to be encouraging - she never saw the hot glue on the carpet or the bottle of sequins spilled down the vent.  Well, maybe as soon as we get over the scissors hump, my girls can craft in secret, too.