Necessity, the Mother of... Sanity

After months of negotiating with a toddler over all pantry items below the four foot mark, I decided to accept the reality that the pantry is no longer my jurisdiction

So, we are trying something new...

Welcome to Elliott's bistro!

The chef is in.

And the customers are lining up.

Posted with Blogsy

Kids, Poop, Love

I love my children.  I love watching them unfold into their unique and interesting selves.

My first-born, Kinsey, has completely amazed me with her self-motivation.  I never have to remind her to study, she just does.  She has decided she wants to be a 4.0 student so she can get a scholarship and choose her collage.  I have loved witnessing this drive in her.  Hanging her towel up?  We're still working on that.



My boys haven't tapped into their scholastic genius just yet, but they have their own spectacular qualities.

Noah is happy.  He loves everyone and expects that they should love him too.  Noah makes friends with total unabashed ballsiness.  It takes him a millisecond to make a new friend in any public forum.  Meet them, invite himself into their home, borrow their toys...

Bailey is loaded with cleverness and wit.  He's fast on his intellectual feet.  His humor is often beyond his years, as is his reflection.  He's my chess-player when it comes to life.  He understands how one move will effect the next ten.  EXCEPT when he has an impulse.  Then it's all out the window (including himself, unfortunately).  

They are beautiful, miracles, undeserved gifts.  They are good... except when they're not.

When a baby (Elliott in this example) is born, he is an unmarred, innocent little creature.  Totally helpless, dependent on my mercies and foresight.  I knew that, along with his undeniable baby cuteness, he would also cry, drool, wake at unpleasant hours, and poop.  That's what babies do.  They poop.  We prepare ourselves for it.  We set up elaborate changing tables, buy diaper genies, wipe warmers, and monkey butt ointments... It grosses us out, but, something about them being 'ours', makes their poop tolerable.  And, we know that, eventually, they will potty-train, and these poopy days will just be one of our parental badges of honor.

What we may not have prepared ourselves for is the kid-poops (both literal and figurative).  There's the unflushed toilets, missed all-together toilets, t.p. mishaps, clogged toilets, and, of course, the frantic, "mom! my lego man fell in the toilet!!".  And that's all the pre-puberty crap.  (eh he.. see what I did there?)

But, I think it may be the figurative poops which catch us the most off-guard.  Wet towels on the floor, crayons in the laundry, the half-eaten yogurt stashed behind the lava lamp, poorly planned bug collections, open-mouthed chewing, complete disregard of privacy needs, ungratefulness, selective hearing impairment, door slamming, the crumbs scattered in my bed, the lack of "my" anything...  Please feel free to add to this list (it would be good to hear that it's not just my kids).

And, for some reason, other baby's poops seem to stink even more.  Here-in lies a primary obstacle for blended families... particularly of the Cherklee genre.  Klee described it well once.  He said it's like waking up with amnesia and being told, "here, this is your family, now love it."  Poop and all...

But I guess that's a core characteristic of love; knowing we all poop, it all stinks; loving anyway.  Being loved anyway...

Hooked; Midnight Musings

I have a tiny bathroom.  In my bathroom, I have one functional wall for hanging towels.  The owners of this home decided to equip this wall with some very respectable towel rods;  enough to hang two towels if you actually want them to dry.  

Rods are fine and they are also the accepted norm.  I have issue with them, however.  I believe, in most realistic circumstances, they fail their purpose.  They require people to neatly fold and then slide their towels between the wall and rod, being careful to avoid bunching.  


I hypothesize that most people do not do this.  My experience has been that, in general, the majority of the household performs some version of the above towel hanging procedure (on a good day), but only one member of the household actually follows through completely.  This renders said member very frustrated with the picking up of the mildewing, casualties of a failed system, and the delinquent members weary of the inevitable lectures which follow.


Now, I do not claim to have the perfect solution to this epidemic, but I have found a slightly better way.  Hooks.  I know you were hoping for something a little more ingenious, but it's midnight and hooks are all I've got.


Hooks are easy to use, allow for adequate ventilation of the towel, and, because of the elimination of the folding, tend to look nice.  The ease of use is HUGE.  It produces a much higher probability that the towels will be hung.  Everyone's life is easier.

But, I digress.

My original point was that my tiny bathroom came with rods but I prefer hooks.  Since I'm renting, I don't want to remove the rods to install hooks, so I designed a solution...

I used fabric scraps and utility hooks to transform a rod into a useful fixture!

Now, on the days that my kids actually manage to get their towels to the bathroom, the towels might actually be hung as opposed to wadded in heaps, or flung over the shower door.

** You can check out more of my nest (and insanity) by clicking the page link 'Belmont Cottage' at the top of the blog**

True Love and A Glow Pen

If you only knew how much I love you too...

Forever.

Just Me and My Boys

Kinsey was gone visiting family this week so it was just me and the boys.  They get bored without their sister, but we managed to keep busy anyway.


They washed everything on the patio with Palm Olive and the garden hose... everything;






Built domino/matchbox car towers (complete with lego man topper);











Mastered puzzles;










I took them out for scooter rides (well, I waddled, they rode).  






My attempt to alleviate my guilt from all of the tasty baked goods which Biscuit has been demanding.  


The boys jump, spin, race, yell accusations of cheating, seek out every possible puddle in which to splash muddy water all over themselves.   

And how I love the trees... 

We took advantage of the cool evenings with a fire and some marshmallow roasting.  






Still having issues with billowing smoke but the gooey goodness was worth it.

It was a good week.

Penises, Jelly Fish and Smidgen of Denial

My chicks are gathered, fed and bathed.  All the doors and windows are locked.  All bandaids have been applied.  The clock is ticking the sweet rhythm of bed time.  Ahhhh....


If you have kids, you know the sacredness of this holy hour.  Especially if you have boys.


I've mentioned my boys' energy level before.  They have three modes: breaking things, cheating death and sonic boom.


I love them so much it hurts, but there is nothing like that moment, at the end of the day, when I know they are safely contained... Exhale.



When I initially learned of biscuit's impending arrival, I have to admit, I threw myself prostrate before the gods and begged slightly favored the idea of a girl.











You know, to balance the snails and jelly fish with some sugar and... you get the idea.

Anyway, what do you think, ANY chance this could be a girl???

XX Crossing my fingers XX  

(she hums in denial.)

Tid Bits; To Do's; Notes to Self; Epiphanies Along This Week's Road to Awesome

When it comes to driving:

• ALWAYS put the cap on after filling the car with oil.
• There is such a thing as TOO much oil.  ))shrug(( Who knew?
• NEVER use the wipers to clean oil spatter off of the windshield.
• Police officers DO give tickets to pregnant ladies in beater cars.
• Country roads with windows down; very entertaining...

Other notes on general living:

• Three kids, three dogs, a guinea pig, and a pregnant lady absolutely CAN live well in a two-bedroom/one-bathroom house (as long as everyone showers and takes appropriate potty breaks).

• To Do: Learn how to build fire sans billowing smoke.
• Kids love roasting marshmallows.
• Spare marshmallows must be hidden.

• Never feed a dog marshmallows.
• To D0: Install doggie door.

• I love Trader Joe's.  
• Trader Joe's mayonnaise is not OK. 

• Next time kid's shoe goes missing, check the storm drain...

And what did YOU learn this week?

George Bernard Shaw and My Biscuit

My mother has always said that I wear my heart on my sleeve; along with every mistake, poor decision, or basic humiliation I might encounter.  I guess there's never a big enough rug around when I need to do a little sweeping.

So, I've also spent a lot of my life adjusting to my own foolishness (or that of others) and learning to find the beauty in the breakdown.

One of the more public arenas in which I've been... success-challenged... is that of family planning.  Over the years I have, unfortunately, witnessed the heartache of too many of my girlfriends as they've struggled with various degrees of infertility.  I always experience a bit of survivor's guilt in these situations as fertility seems to be one of my... gifts (?).

My first "gift" was the unexpected, and unlikely, arrival of my 8 pound, 10 oz, beginning-of-life-as-I-know-it, baby girl.  She is now approaching 14 and has made her sacred womanly passage into Bitchdom.  I'm very proud.

Three years later, life was good.  Stable.  Perfect time to bless Kinsey with a sibling.  D and I had only been married for three months but we didn't want to put a large gap between Kinsey and the next child so we decided to just stop 'not trying'.  Bam!  We were pregnant in minutes.  Of course, when I tried to get pregnant with one baby, I was "gifted" with TWO high-energy, rock-my-world, forces-to-be-reckoned-with.

Enter Biscuit...

Biscuit is our most recent "gift".  He is a healthy, wiggly, 23 week old fetus, taking residence in very close proximity to my heart.  

Just FYI; that quippy little phrase "the best way to get over a man is to get under one..."  NOT SO MUCH!

Obviously, this was unplanned and very poorly timed.  Nothing has been easy about this proverbial stubbing of my toe.  For any well-meaning advisors feeling the urge to school me,  I've had 20 odd weeks to process this reality, so I'm well aware of it's flaws.  No need to enlighten me.  

That said, Biscuit IS a gift.  Just as my other sweet three are.  I mean, who doesn't like a surprise party. Right??  And Biscuit's daddy is a beautiful soul.  One I am blessed to know.

I don't know that everything happens for a reason, but I do know that beauty can be found in the mess of it all.  I've seen it before.  I remind myself of it often.

My dear friend, and fellow blogger, Farmhouse Wife, posted this quote recently:

"A life spent in making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing." ~ George Bernard Shaw.

I've lived a VERY honorable life so far.

Sleep Tight

The kids are in their loft beds finishing off one last TV show (as agreed to per our bedtime negotiations).  I've been sitting in my bed in the room next door listening to the drone of the hallway fan while keeping watch for any suspicious activity.  All's well so far, outside of a few potty/"I'm thirsty" endeavors.


It's nothing like it was in the old days when the boys were young (like, last year...).


The boys are twins and I've always had a theory that they built up super human strength while confined to my uterus due to the resistance training they got from fighting each other for space.  There has never been a time that they were not mobile.  People think I exaggerate when I say this, but it is the life-force draining, age-accelerating, god-honest truth.  They never had floppy heads.  They always felt like solid little Italian bouncers.  I became aware that they could role over when, at 3 weeks old, they each rolled off of my sofa while I was sitting right next to them.  NOT one of my prouder mommy moments and, sadly, not my worst either.  By nine months both boys were running and I haven't stopped my heroic efforts to keep them alive since.


Along with their motion came copious amounts of energy and, again, a super human ability to NEVER sleep.  In the early years, I read every 'Get Your Baby To Sleep' book or article available.  I didn't have to look far for outsider's well-meaning counsel on the topic either.  It took an eternity of chasing my crib climbing, night adventurers and hauling them back to bed for me to accept that my boys were just wired differently.  I was going to have to go about the night hours in my own way.


When they were babies we were able to contain them with crib tents - fantastic inventions which attached to the top of the cribs and zipped closed in order to keep cats out.  Those were life savers until the boys figured out how to unzip, and just flat out break, the tents in order to escape.  By two years old they were beyond any restraints known to man.  They broke free from every crib enclosure, car seat, stroller or highchair designed.  A true wonder-twin force to be reckoned with.


That is when the night-watch duty began.  Every night bedtime consisted of all the usuals: bath, jammies, story time...  But then came the guard duty.  Both boys would be put to bed and one of us would have to stand post at their door until they miraculously gave in and fell asleep.  This usually took one to two hours of, "Bailey, lay down," "Noah, close your eyes," "Bailey! GO TO SLEEP!" and, you get the idea.


At last, and almost unbelievably, they would be down.


This is when the panic of, I HAVE to enjoy every second left before I go to sleep because it all starts again tomorrow! set in.  Of course, being a walking zombie got in the way of great productivity so I would inevitably give in to the siren of sleep...  Only to be awakened two or three times throughout the night by wandering toddler feet.  I eventually got wise and laid out make-shift beds beside mine for them to climb into in the wee morning hours.  I believe that action alone saved me from certain death by sleep deprivation.


I could, and possibly will, tell you a book full of twin adventure stories from these first 10 years of their lives.  Like the time my doorbell rang at four in the morning.  In a stupor, I opened the door to find four year old Noah standing there with a strange man.  Apparently, Noah had decided to walk across the street to mail his father's mag light in the community mailboxes (????) when an early morning jogger saw him and kindly guided him back home.  We installed a security system the next day.


I could tell you more, but the angels are sleeping now and so must I.  It does all start again tomorrow...


Thank God.