Dirty Little Secret

Dear Lovebug,

You have become such a little boy in the last few months. I think back to the first time something you said surprised me (you weren’t two yet and we were playing a “guess the animal” game with Ironflower and suddenly you popped up with the correct answer, even though you were hardly talking yet) and I realize how much you’ve grown up. Every day you say something that surprises me!

I love that you are so independent, that you enjoying playing by yourself and doing things for yourself and yet you still need lots of hugs. The other day I watched you playing rough and tumble games with your friends, constantly expecting you to get upset. But you didn’t. You were having fun, just like a big kid.

You are brave, Lovebug. I know a lot things worry you and new situations cause you anxiety. And I’m so glad that you’re opening up and telling us about it, which is brave. But not only do you do that, you’re starting to do things anyway, even if they do make you nervous. That’s makes me so proud.

Your interest in trains has grown to include cars, trucks and airplanes. You build complicated track systems and roads so well. What has really developed this year is your passion for Legos. I can’t wait to see what you’ll build every day. Even if it is during breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.

You are such an amazing brother. You look out for your baby brother and share with him more than anyone could expect. And you stood up to the boys from Ironflower’s class who chased her and her friends, even though they were bigger than you are. You miss Ironflower a lot when she has her long day at school.

You, Lovebug, are a really cool kid. And I am so lucky to be your mom.

I love you,

Mommy

Yesterday the kids’ preschool had a free movie day at a local movie theater. We are on winter vacation this week (around here there are 2 post-Christmas vacations, 1 in February and 1 in April; it’s great if you can afford to go to the Caribbean, not so great if you are trapped in 2 feet of snow with 3 small children) and as I am recovering from the flu from hell (why yes, that is the medical term for it) I thought it would be suitably mellow.

Boy, am I dumb.

The first problem was that Hot Guy was not going to be able to hang with ChunkMonkey as I had hoped. But I figured that if he fussed, I would just take him to the hallway because surely the older two would be settled with their friends.

Ha.

Lovebug started crying as soon as we entered the theater. He hated the curtains. He hated the seats (he has amazing recall. Once a theater chair sort of folded with him in it and he’s never forgotten it. I don’t know why he hates curtains.) He hated the dark – which hadn’t even happened yet. He wanted to sit on my lap before I’d even gotten ChunkyMonkey settled and the stroller out of the way.

Oh, how Lovebug cried. I wanted to just leave, but that set Ironflower off. It was like Sophie’s Choice, but with really low stakes.

Moms around me gave me sympathetic glances, but there wasn’t much they could do. Eventually I moved us farther away from the curtains to a spot behind Lovebug’s best friends.

Still there was wailing.

I believe I asked my son the horrible questions that I swore I would never utter: “Why can’t you be normal and have fun like the other kids?”

This, you can imagine, did not immediately calm the boy. So I hugged him. I let him stand in front of me. And I prayed that Toy Story would do its magic.

God Bless Pixar.

The movie entranced Lovebug. . .hell, it entranced ChunkyMonkey.

Which is when I started coughing. Not throat-clearing little spasms, either. Great big hacking-oh-my-god-is-she-going-to-die coughs. I drank the baby’s juice. I tried to take deep breaths. But I just couldn’t stop until I basically coughed up the human equivalent of a fur ball. Luckily I had tissues. Not-so-luckily, my aim sucks and I had to use some of those tissues to clean off my poor sons’ shirts.

Ironflower glanced at me in concern, but averted her gaze when she saw the crisis.

Again I was tempted to leave, but they were all so into the movie.

A little mucus never hurt anybody, right?

I always thought I’d be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I’d just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I’d always be happy to read a story. I thought I’d be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn’t know myself very well. While it’s true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I’ve ever been quiet while angry is right before I’ve exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children’s literature, but that’s not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What’s really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn’t realize that he’d have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn’t increase my older children’s independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that’s how I know I’m done having kids (aside from the realities that we don’t have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won’t be buying baby stuff anymore and that I’ll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.

That’s what my son said today, after I prompted him to say good-bye to a boy from Ironflower’s class. The kids like to run around a bit after being picked up from preschool, because apparently freezing temperatures, a biting wind and snow on the ground are not half as important as playing with their classmates for an extra few minutes. Today I’d seen Lovebug argue with the boy, a nice kid from Ironflower’s class. As it didn’t get physical and no one came to me about it, I figured all was well.

Until, as we walked to our car with the boy and his mom, my son said, “Good-bye, you bitch.” The look of shock on her face combined with the shock I felt made me giggle. I covered my mouth. I made him apologize. I repeated, “We don’t call people that” like a mantra.

But of course, we do call people that. Not me, actually – my favorite word, as I’ve mentioned, is “shit.” But my husband and possibly my brother-in-law prefer the term “bitch”.  We just spent 10 days at my in-laws, a number of them snowed in. Add in the 3 days driving there and the 3 days driving home and well, we’ve had a lot of togetherness lately. (Yes, you read that correctly. Three days in the car back to the farm outside of Kansas City, 9 days in a house with no internet, and three days home.  And we’re all more or less intact.)

None of which excuses the fact that we’ve been swearing in front of the children again. Well, in front of Lovebug. Ironflower doesn’t seem to notice most of what we say (even when it’s directed at her), but Lovebug is like a little sponge. A sponge that called a bigger boy a bitch in front of his mother.

I personally don’t care much about swearing, which is good since that would make me a total hypocrite. But name-calling really disturbs me. Maybe it’s because I can still remember being called names – that still echo in my head – as a child, but don’t even notice most swear words anymore. The only reason I haven’t hijacked all of Lovebug’s Thomas trains is that I don’t think he knew that he was name-calling.

But he’d better remember next time.

I don’t think my family is good at fun.

Last night was the “Family Fun” night at the kids’ preschool. Hot Guy had to work, so I decided that ChunkyMonkey should stay at home with my mom, 2 kids being enough for one tired woman to keep track of at a gathering filled with sugar and small children.

Of course Ironflower was drawn to the painting activity like moth to flame. . .which meant that I spent a lot of the evening cleaning blue paint off of her costume.

And Lovebug hated the noise. He ran into classmates, but they were all shy with each other (as opposed to how they’d been at the hay ride the day before) and overwhelmed by the crowd. So he pretty much wanted to leave from the moment we got there.

I spent most of my night dragging Lovebug around in search of Ironflower. Until the reptile show. Which my kids had enjoyed at a small play date last year, but this year it freaked Lovebug out. And Ironflower claimed not to like it, but I think what she didn’t like was the large number of kids between her and the animals. Meanwhile I stood with some other preschool moms, having nothing to say while I fretted over my children’s unhappiness.

Somehow I’m reminded of some of  last events I attended in school gyms – junior high dances. Before every dance, I’d have this image in my head of how it would go – the boy I liked would ask me to dance, I’d look impossibly cool while dancing, my friends would all tell me how great I looked – and it NEVER went that way.

These family events seem to go the same way for me. Before we go, I have this image in my head of the fun we’re going to have – the kids will laugh and smile, I will chat amiably with acquaintances, the kids will behave – and it never works that way. Lovebug hates something about the event and clings, they both grab food and drink like mannerless heathens, I have brief conversations that I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to and at the end,  Ironflower says it wasn’t good enough anyway.

I guess I’m just not destined to live up to the images in my head. Maybe I should stop trying.

There’s just not enough chocolate in the world for this shit. I think I need some Percocet or something.

I’m sick. The big kids are sick. Aunt Flo has dropped in and she seems to have brought extra luggage. Hot Guy and my parents, aka the only other people who watch my children, are out of town. I’m so behind in writing assignments that I don’t think I’ll ever catch up. I’m getting three hours of sleep a night. I’ve developed a Lexulous addiction (that’s Facebook Scrabble for those of you smart people who avoid Facebook). I have six loads of laundry to fold. The baby is teething. All of which I might be able to handle if….

Lovebug has lost his mind. He’s keeping himself awake at night (after a week where all my other schedule and sleep tweaks had him sleeping well) and demanding that I come in to his room during the night – ignoring him results in tantrums, which wake the baby and result in me going in there anyway. He’s crying and screaming every time he doesn’t get his way or is told how to behave. Consequences make him even more crazy, but half the time he calms down immediately when I tell him the tantrum will get him in even more trouble. And no matter how immediately the consequences happen or how many times I explain WHY he got in trouble, he seems to make no link between his behavior and consequences. I know he’s only three, but he understands other kinds of cause and effect and quite well. I just don’t know what to do with him. He has so many moments of sweetness and kindness that I’m reasonably sure he isn’t a lost cause, though he may well be if I keep yelling at him.

Any ideas? Or good drugs?

When I picked Ironflower up from preschool this morning, another mother noted that she had her shoes on the wrong feet.

I can only hope her teachers didn’t notice either.

I’d be more embarrassed, but let me discuss last night first:

7:23pm – Discover that Ironflower has used bath paints all over the bath – not while she was actually bathing. Hot Guy discovers that bath paints are definitely meant to be used while the bath is on. We now have some pink grout.

10:45pm – Go up to bed and realize that I have dumped laundry all over the bed so that I will fold it before bed. Should have come up earlier, especially since I only got five hours of sleep the night before.

11:32pm – Ah, sleep.

11:53pm – Massive coughing fit.

12:48am – ChunkyMonkey crying. Go feed him in room he shares with Lovebug.

12:58am – Lovebug whines when I leave.

1:03 am – Snore.

1:20am – Lovebug whining loudly.

1:33am – Lovebug wakes ChunkyMonkey.

1:34am – Go to boys’ room. Ascertain that Lovebug wants to go to the bathroom. Wonder why he had to wake me up for this. Comfort baby.

1:36am – Try to tuck Lovebug back in. He tells me no and kicks the covers off. I leave.

1:37am – Lovebug begins whining.

1:41am – Ah, sleep.

1:47am – Lovebug crying hysterically. Baby crying.

1:48am – Lovebug upset that he hadn’t been tucked in. Baby upset about loud Lovebug.

1:50am – Go in to comfort baby. Lovebug throws bigger fit.

1:53am – Fall asleep while holding baby, despite Lovebug’s tantrum.

1:54am – Tell Lovebug to be quiet, for the of God and all that is holy including the opportunity to watch TV tomorrow.

1:58am – Back to my room. Can’t sleep. When did Ironflower get so sneaky? What’s up with Lovebug STILL having all these temper tantrums?

2:34am – Why am I STILL AWAKE??????????????

2:49am – Ahhh, sleep.

3:37am – Why am I – COUGH. COUGH. COUGH. COUGH. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat until . . .

4:18am – Ah, sleep.

5:50am – ChunkyMonkey crying. Lovebug awake. Feed baby. Convince Lovebug to sleep more.

7:01am – Alarm. But everyone else is quiet. Hit snooze.

7:09am – Wow, everyone is still asleep and it’s a school day. Dammit.

So I’m pretty thrilled with the fact that I got her to school in the first place. Besides, she puts on her own shoes. If she was unhappy, she could have fixed them – right?

Dear Lovebug,

I can’t believe you are three. You are growing up so fast. I’m so proud that you have learned to put your own sneakers and coat on. And you are so polite with people, asking their names and introducing yourself. And to think I was so worried about your speech!

Watching you become a big brother has been amazing. You are so gentle and sweet with your baby brother, even using “mother-ese” to talk to him. For a kiddo who still loves the word “no”, you are always willing to help with your brother. I love watching you give him a kiss every morning.

Sometimes your passion wears me out – sometimes I’m not sure why you are SO upset for no apparent reason. But as I listen to you play – I love how you act out stories with all of your Thomas trains – I realize that there’s a lot more going on in your head than you’re telling me. I can’t wait until you’re ready to tell me everything.

And Thomas. I’m not sure what you’d do without trains. You play with them so well – for so long. But you’re also interested in them, beyond just the Thomas stories. You pick out non-fiction books to learn about trains and cheerfully watch specials on the Discovery Channel about them. That’s pretty cool for a three year old.

You are my little Lovebug, filled with kisses and hugs and tackles. I love you so much and I’m so proud to be your Mommy.

Love,
Mommy

*Emphasis on the gross.

I should have known that things were going too well. We had a good morning. Increasingly rare these days, what with all the being cooped up in the house. I took Ironflower and Lovebug to a lovely birthday party. We got home well after nap/quiet time usually starts, so we resolved to just have them “rest” for half an hour or so.

Hot Guy went to the grocery store. I secured Chunkymonkey with my nanny (the cradle swing) and went up to free the children. Ironflower bounced out of her room as Lovebug threw open to the door to his.

“Mom, I went poop on the potty!” exclaimed my son.

We keep a potty in his room. It’s the only one he uses, and that’s only when no one is watching. And only pee.

Until today.

He had pooped ON the potty, but not quite in it. In fact, he’d pooped ALL OVER the potty, the carpet and a diaper. I tried not to freak out. . .but all I could see was SHIT EVERYWHERE. So I told the kids to go downstairs out of the contaminated zone. I began cleaning.

Hot Guy arrived a few minutes later. I yelled down and asked him to wash Lovebug’s hands. Just to be on the safe side. Because surely I would have noticed if he had especially messy hands.

Then Hot Guy said, “Oh MY GOD, look at your hands boy! Ironflower, what else has he touched?”
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Shit, I thought. In every way possible. I began prowling the room, checking for other things that I had missed. Because any idiot who forgot to check her son’s hands has got to have missed other stuff, right?

Like the fact there were poops lined up in one of his Matchbox car bins.

Which at least explained why his hands were dirty, if nothing else.

We are now down a Matchbox car bin.

Lovebug never took a pacifier. I can count on one hand the times he put up with a bottle. And after a few exploratory bites on his fingers, he decided that thumb sucking was awful too. To be honest, I was disappointed that he didn’t want to suck his thumb – I was convinced that Ironflower’s thumb sucking had made her an easy baby (And in the subsequent years, I can tell you that as she’s sucked her thumb less and less, she’s also become more and more challenging. Coincidence? I think not.). Lovebug was not an easy baby.

But life did get better when he embraced the sippy cup. I had assumed he would hate that too. The only thing he liked to drink from (besides my boobs) was a straw, but only if the straw was in my can of Diet Pepsi. I envisioned a life of pouring out Diet Pepsi can contents, replacing them with apple juice and pretending they were mine. But for whatever reason Lovebug embraced the sippy cup.

We moved to the “sports cup” style with the straw last spring, after the speech therapist told me how much regular sippy cups had ruined his tongue placement (though, oddly, they never affected Ironflower’s at all), but otherwise things remain the same: Lovebug loves him some sippy cup.

With juice.

In our defense I must say that the juice is always cut with water and it’s always a healthy juice and he never has it at nap time or bed time and he needs the calcium because he won’t drink milk. But still, the child drinks more than the recommended amount.

And I’ve kind of ignored it, because he does eat.

And because Lovebug is very, very, passionate. His motto is: “Why talk when a scream would do? Why cry when a full blown temper tantrum can get my point across? Why ask when I could whine repetitively?” So I didn’t want another battle, back when they were two and one and we were moving and I was just overwhelmed all the time. So Lovebug turned into a juicehead because we were more concerned about other issues.

Sometimes I feel like one of those parents who spends years bugging her kid about his grades only to find out that he’s a meth addict.

Anyway, Lovebug’s solution to the once cup of juice per meal – and only water in between – was to scream every time I offered the water bottle. He started asking whining for lunch at 10:30 am, mentioning the juice first. Then he tried drinking his sister’s juice, but since she uses a regular cup that didn’t work (he refuses to learn how to drink from a regular cup. I haven’t started that battle yet either). Then he just refused to drink all morning.

I swear to God I’m never even going to give Chunkymonkey juice.

But since it’s too late for that option with Lovebug, I guess I’ll just have to deal with the extra tantrums.

Oh well, at least they usually mean extra hugs, too.