What starts out frozen, but is better hot?

I called my husband at work the other day to get his opinion. I was out of ideas for supper and I was behind on my menu-planning. I had also had a rough day, and I was exhausted. Cooking was beyond my abilities at that point, so I called to see if he had any bright ideas or food cravings. He didn't.

My middle son was standing by my elbow as I asked my husband, "So, how about frozen pizza, then?" Before my husband could respond, my 4-year-old piped up, "NO, MOM! I want hot pizza! I don't like frozen pizza."

I never did get an answer out of my husband. He was too busy laughing on the other end of the line.

Shopping with toddlers the fastest cure for any shop-o-holic

I was reminded today again of why I never, ever, try to go shopping with my kids.

Summer is right around the corner and I'm working on changing out my three sons' wardrobes. It's an easy job for my two youngest: pull out the plastic tote marked with the right size of clothes inside, pull the summer clothes out, put the winter clothes in, store the tote again. 

It's a much longer and more difficult task for my oldest. He doesn't have any hand-me-downs sitting in a tote in a closet. I can do one or more of the following options when trying to clothe my ever-growing oldest son: cross my fingers and hope he gets showered with seasonal clothes for his birthday every spring (the same holds true for Christmas), spend my spring and summer hunting down garage sales or hitting up second-hand stores and sorting through piles of clothes only to come away with a few good pieces in the right size, or go shopping and buy brand-new. Whatever he starts out with, it needs to be in new condition so it makes it through him, my second son and hopefully my youngest. 

Since he didn't get any clothes for his birthday this year, and I don't have endless time to hunt for garage sales or through the racks at second-hand stores for the like-new items, that left me with the "shopping and buying brand-new" option.

My mistake: trying to do it with my two youngest along. 

I spent three hours "shopping" this morning. "Shopping" is a figure of speech. I spent two and a half hours trying to keep two squirming boys in a cart or stroller, dolling out snacks so they would sit still, helping both take drinks from their water bottles every five minutes (at which time I repeatedly kicked myself for forgetting their kid-friendly cups), trying to make each of them keep their hands to themselves and making two sprints to the restrooms (yeah - all those drinks had to go somewhere). The missing half-hour? Twenty-five minutes of it was spent at the kiddie play-land in the mall, letting them run off their pent-up energy. The last 5 minutes was how much time it took me to grab three pairs of pajamas, five pairs of shorts, five shirts and two bags of socks off the shelves in one store and make a dash for the cash register.

I hope it all fits him and doesn't clash too badly.  

As the wind blows, so do my children grow

Last night, my youngest son was having a difficult time settling down for bed. The wind outside was fierce, whipping the tree limbs so they knocked against each other and rattling the window panes. To help him calm down, I sat on the bed and rocked him. He curled up in my lap and asked me to sing him a lullaby. Every time I came to the end of the song, he asked me to repeat it, over and over and over again.

After about 30 minutes, my poor voice was going hoarse and my back ached from rocking a 2-year-old without any support from an actual chair. I really didn't want to put him down though. He's growing up so fast and so rarely wants to be rocked and sung to anymore. His soft little face was pressed into my neck and his still-chubby arms were locked around my shoulders.

But it was bed time and my arms were giving out and my back was starting to seriously protest. As I gave him his final hugs and kisses and rocked him one last time, he had one more request for me, "Mommy, you turn the wind off?" 

Oh, if only I had the power to make the wind quiet when it was time for my children to sleep, and to keep my children from growing up so fast every day they are awake. 

The signs of aging from a child's perspective

My husband's parents came for a visit this weekend. At the dinner table with them, my 4-year-old son piped up, "Grandpa, are you going to die soon?" While Grandpa sat in stunned silence, I answered the question for him, "No, of course not! Why do you think that?" Connor's answer: "Because he has white hair."

A blue smurf and seven dwarfs

It's a Monday morning, and I'm recovering from one of the busiest weekends I've had in recent memory. In the last three days, I've thrown a birthday party for my oldest son involving seven other rambunctious boys, helped with a very successful garage sale two hours south and attended a birthday party 20 minutes north. 

It all started last Friday. It was my oldest son's 7th birthday, and he wanted to have a "friend" party this year, instead of our traditional family dinner. Since he had been inviting his friends since before Christmas, I thought we would try to oblige him.

My husband came home from work at noon on Friday to help prepare for the party. Due to rain, we had to turn our basement into a mini-carnival before 5 p.m. We put our two younger sons down for naps and got started. Two hours later our youngest son started crying. I sent my husband up to check on him.


The next thing I heard was, "Eli! You are in SO much trouble!!!" I called up asking if there was a problem. My husband's reply, "Oh, there's a problem all right. Come see what YOUR son did!"


I bounded up the stairs and joined my husband in the doorway to our son's room, frozen in stupefied shock. Our 2-year-old son was blue, from his face, mouth and teeth to the very bottoms of his feet. He wasn't the only thing. His brown dresser had blue drawer fronts, his once white piggy bank had blue tattoos, and the bed rails and foot-board no longer matched the brown head-board. The light blue walls were sporting dark blue squiggles, the windows sparkled with blue "stained glass," the white window sill had a decidedly blue tint and the yellow curtains had blue stripes. His once blue and white bedding was now more blue than white, and his brown teddy bears had blue feet.

He had found a marker I didn't know was in his room. It was not a kid-friendly washable one. 


To complete his artistic installation, he covered the floor under his bed and dresser in colorful chocolate rocks that had been in his Easter bag on top of his dresser.


We didn't know whether to laugh, cry or shout at him. We started out shouting and ended up laughing about it, two days later: after we gave him a bath that turned the tub and water blue and I had scrubbed every hard surface in his room. The bedding was washed yesterday, but the curtains are still in place with their blue stripes. I'm not sure when I'll have time to tackle them. Until then, they serve as a reminder that no matter how busy my husband and I are, we should always remember to take the time to check up on our children, even during nap time.


After that afternoon adventure, the party eventually pulled itself together, and my husband and I barely survived an energetic group of 7-year-old boys tearing up our house. After an hour and a half of chaos, we sent all the boys out in the drizzle to run off their sugar-highs by playing soccer with my husband. They went home damp and a little muddy, but wearing tired smiles on their faces. 

Like I said, it's Monday morning, and I'm still recovering. And the bottoms of my son's feet are still blue.

When grace loses face

Sometimes I have a hard time dealing with frustration gracefully. Frustration has become a pretty constant factor in my life with three rambunctious boys who operate at a different speed than my own. I'm still learning how to get a better handle on handling disappointment. Today, for instance, was one of those days that my frustration cup overfloweth.

It's spring break. Winter's icy chill is finally thawing around here. The snow is gone, but the early hours are still cold enough to see your breath. My three sons wanted to take a walk this morning. It took 20 minutes to get socks, shoes and winter gear on. It took another five minutes to get my oldest into his protective bike armor and fish the push cart out of the depths of the garage for my 4-year-old. By the time I had my toddler in the stroller and the other two ready to shove off, everyone was tired of waiting on everyone else. Cabin fever had us all jittery. With high spirits and too much energy, we started off. 

One minute later and five steps past the neighbor's house two things happened simultaneously: The pedal on my son's bike broke, and my middle son ran his cart into the back of my foot. As his cart lurched to a halt, he went skidding across the pavement on his knees. All pandemonium broke loose. My oldest wanted me to fix the broken pedal while my 4-year-old woke the neighborhood up with his screams. 

At this point I could have told my biker child to wait while I comforted my middle son with hugs and kisses until the tears stopped. Then I could have gone back to the garage and spent 10 minutes hunting through the mess to find the right tool to fix the bike before attempting the walk again.

I didn't do that. Instead, I ordered everyone to turn around and go home, in a not-so-nice voice.

My oldest wheeled his bike back to the garage while I tried to turn the stroller around and gather up my screaming 4-year-old and the offending cart. On our 1-minute-and-five-step-walk back, I was wishing I could duplicate myself. Sometimes the parent-to-child ratio feels overwhelmingly unbalanced in our family. That's when my grace loses face, and I start muttering to myself. It's on those days that I wish parents got do-overs.

Third time's a potty-training charm

Just thinking about potty training makes me shudder. I just finished training my 4-year-old. Is he truly potty trained if he still has the occasional accident? Granted, the doctor says the accidents aren't his fault. His colon doesn't work properly. It's all about getting, and keeping, him regular in order to have properly functioning potty breaks. If his digestive system gets the least bit out of whack, we have come to expect a mess. It was a 2-year process just to get him this far.

The problems in training my middle son have delayed the onset of potty training my youngest, who is now 2. Today I finally decided we would begin the tedious process. He's all about becoming a "big boy" like his older brothers. Since he isn't quite big enough to use the grown-up toilet yet, we picked out a green frog potty together at the store. He sat on it for the first time tonight, right before his bath. Only a few minutes later he was chirping, "I go potty! Look!" He promptly stood up, bent at the waist and flashed his bare tush at me. With his clean bum a contradiction to his proclamation, I took a peek into the potty bowl. Lo and behold - there was pee in the potty! My smart little boy is getting off to a great start! I only hope it takes a lot less than 2 years to get my final child potty trained.