You can check out, but you can NEVER leave...

It's been a while since I've taken the time to blog.  I'm going to start doing it more often, though.  I'm back home after spending a week with my mother (without the hubby and 4 kids) and have fallen, once again, into the utter madness that is my life.  My brother made an astute observation when I told him he needed to have another child to really experience what it was like to be a parent.  He said he could always come visit me at my house, get his fill of the 4-kid chaos, and then make a hasty retreat back home.  It's like Hotel Crazy.  He said, you (meaning I) can check out, but you can never leave.  Ugh, don't I know.

So, first day home, I woke up to deal with the hungry goblins.  I guess Jame decided he deserved to sleep in.  Whatever.  Jillian was sitting half-way down the staircase singing to her kitten (quite loudly, I might add) and as I stepped out of my room, it hit me.  Yes.  You know what's coming.  I could hear the noise on the other side of the boys' door, but since a safety knob was installed on the inside while I was gone (to keep THE troll in his cave), I couldn't see what was happening.  I opened the door to find Ronan still sleeping, and Ripley standing by the bed with nothing on but a shirt and a smile.

Upon closer inspection, he did have something else on him.  It was brown.  It looked like he had been playing in chocolate - finger painting and rain dancing (since it covered his feet).  I didn't even have to guess what it was since the Easter bunny hasn't come yet and I don't normally leave stashes of chocolate lying around the boys' room.  Off to the shower with him.

Once back in their room, I got Ripley dressed, woke Ronan up, and proceeded to try to locate the soiled diaper that has so recently become the bane of my existence.  I found it.  On the floor.  Next to a large Dora book covered with a Ripley-sized butt print in shit.  It was like he was one of those avant garde painters they talk about on "The Smoking Gun's World's Dumbest..."  They've showcased a guy who paints with his penis, a woman who paints with her boobs, and now we've got Ripley painting with his butt.  Awesome.  Jame told me to just clean the book off and give it to the women's shelter.  Huh?

"They would love to have a book like that," he said.  Um, not if they knew it had toddler shit on it beforehand.  Needless to say, another Dora-themed toy (first the Dora van and now the large book with puzzle pieces and obnoxious sounds) found its way to the trash.  I don't know what Ripley has against Dora.

So, that was my first morning back.  Since then, I've been dealing with a nearly 4-year old who is terrified of the Phantom of Retroland (thank you Jimmy Neutron), Jillian desperately needing a judge for her Barbie spring fashion show, Isabelle needing an injection of some serious "act right" into her attitude, and Ripley basically cranking up the level of trolldom on a daily basis.

I've had to reassure Ronan mutliple times throughout the day (normally as I'm trying to walk about 20 feet away from him) that the Phantom of Retroland only haunts theme parks and that we don't LIVE in a theme park.  He only lives in Retroville.  Which is on tv.  On a cartoon.  It's perfectly safe for him to try to drop a deuce in the bathroom without any threat of a black-robed phantom with a white face and a salami leg coming to get him.  It's just not going to happen.

Jillian's fashion show went off without a hitch.  I chose the one she thought I'd choose - probably why she dressed and coifed the Barbie the way she did.  She was very excited that I went for the one with the "natural" look about her.  Of course.  Now the poor girl won't give me a break about making her a chore chart.  Really?  Okay.  She asked for it.

Ripley?  Well, business as usual.  Sunday night, Ripley dashed out of his room, Ronan tight on his heels. Ronan was screaming and crying, and with a huge grin on his face, Ripley ran to the banister and tossed Ronan's cherished Transformer's book over the railing.  Might also explain why I found the back cover torn in two last night - demon child.

Yesterday afternoon, Ripley and I walked into the boys' room where Ronan was hard at work building a robot out of his Fisher Price Trio building set.  Ripley ran over to him, snatched one of his smaller pieces, and the wrestling match began.  Honestly, the whole tussle lasted all of 3 or 4 seconds, but there was wailing and gnashing of teeth (by Ronan), mixed in with devilish laughter (by Ripley).  Ripley stood up from the brawl (and I honestly saw the thought process on his face - no joke), turned, HEADBUTTED Ronan, and thrust the toy in the air with a triumphant, "Ha! Ha!"

I was so shocked by the brutality, but amazed by the brilliance, that I had to turn around to stifle my laughter.  I'm such a horrible mother.  I made Ripley give the toy back and told him no more headbutting.  Like that's going to make any difference.

And yet, that was all through yesterday.  I haven't even gotten into today's antics yet.  Maybe later.  Each day is a further affirmation, that yes, Jason, you can check out, but you can NEVER leave.

Bath Time With Toddlers...

It seems like the days that I'm the most stressed are the ones the kids choose to pick on me, and I think... am I scared because I'm running away from the chasing bear or am I fleeing the chasing bear because I'm scared? Psychology 101 eludes me and all I can think is "bath time with toddlers is a bitch."

The boys LOVE bath time. No, really. They LOVE it. If I want to distract them from anything, I've just got to mention the word "bath" and we're set. Of course, I don't particularly enjoy trying to fend off the partially clothed nearly-2 year-old when the bath isn't exactly ready. Ronan tends to have a little more patience (as much as a nearly-4 year-old can) and chooses to wait until I've cooled the water to more of a Bugs Bunny stew temperature (picture him in the cauldron with the carrots and potatoes floating around going, "Ooh, ooh! Ahh").

So, there I was... trying to distract myself with my newest way to avoid housework, crocheting (thank you, Karen), and I hear the following dialogue from Ronan:

"Hey, butthead. Hey, don't call me that, I'm Spider Man. No, you're Peter Parker!"

Well, I wasn't as shocked by the "butthead" comment as I was by the fact that he knew that Peter Parker was Spider Man. Really? I looked over and Ronan is talking to the Spider Man bubble wand that Santa so graciously left for him. Ripley though, is trying furiously to fit his Disney Cars bubble wand onto his wenis. (Dear God, make me a bird...) I kept thinking about that old joke where you ask someone, "Can you poke your head through this hole?"

As I was beginning to recover from terrifying flash forwards to teenage boyhood and bathroom discoveries I have no desire to be party to (I want to be a zebra finch today - they're pretty), Daddy comes home and bath time is nearly forgotten. I have to wrestle Ripley back into the tub in order to actually get him cleaned up, since soaking in a tub of your own urine-infused water doesn't necessarily do the trick. Ronan doesn't mind though, because even when I remind him that Ripley has probably peed in the water, he (Ronan) continues to suck on his washcloth. Retch.

Sure, none of this seems so traumatic. And as bath times go, it wasn't really all that bad until Jame swung Jilli's buddy in the air, spinning her feet into Jilli's waiting 2 front teeth. Sure, they were already a little loose... And then there's screaming, crying, a bloody mouth and a bathroom with entirely too much acoustics. But that's a totally different story.

How do I define "normal" with days like these?

I don't even know where to start. I wish I could say that I'm at a loss for words, but that, dear friend, is not the case. Some days, I can get through a 16-hour waking period with nothing exceptionally spectacular happening. And of course, there are the days that one or two of my trolls try to remind me that I am not immortal and not immune to their torture. But WAIT - there's more. Then, there are days like today, where all four of them take a shot at me (multiple times in some cases) to see if they can actually chip away at the hard, chocolate outside and get to the soft, nougaty center of my sanity. And when this happens, I can't help but think, "How do I define normal with days like these?"

So again, important points highlighted in red. Feel free to skip over the filler if you're just looking for the gist of my rant. I'm going to go oldest to youngest this post. Seems like the younger they are, the stronger, more determined they are to wreck me.

Isabelle - Isabelle is like me. The girl loves to talk. To me. She won't shut up. Mind you, I'm not asking for a hiatus in the communication. Because at her age, there are a lot of strange, foreign things coming all at once and I want to make sure that she will come and talk to me if she needs help. Bearing that in mind, the girl is a motor mouth.

We were on our way to the vet today (all 4 kids and Teddy) and Isabelle decided to tell me about her day. I honestly cannot even remember the exact dialogue of the conversation because I was so focused on the fact that she uses the word "like" entirely too much, i.e. "and we, like, laughed" or "she, like, said this" or "if I don't, like, do this."

So, I chime in with, "You're, like, SUCH a valley girl!" to which she replied, "What's a valley girl?" She stabs me in the heart. I'm old. I know it.

Jillian - That girl almost got through the day without a noteworthy event. Almost. She can't be still to save her life. She can't keep her legs from dancing on solid ground, so why would anyone assume that it's possible while standing on a flight of stairs? She came half way down the stairs tonight to tell me something (the context of the conversation was totally erased by the following action), and as she was standing with her chin above the banister, each foot on a different step, her dancing legs got away from her and she slipped. She smacked her chin on the banister and fell down about 5 steps, smashing a plastic popcorn container (precariously placed on said staircase by her youngest brother) on the way.

So, after I get her to calm down enough to let me see her chin, we realize that it's just a nasty bruise and there's no blood. She says, "If it's too big tomorrow, will you cover it up?" Never underestimate the power of a good concealer. I said no. I did tell her that she should take some Motrin to minimize the swelling, and she conceded though she "hates the orange." I got her a piece of bread (she says that the medicine makes her tongue spicy, so the bread helps to make it go away - my solution) and a cup of water (chaser). She starts to sip the medicine like it's hot soup, so I said, "Don't sip it! Drink it up! Drink it! Drink it!" and I felt oddly like I was trying to force Goldschlager down her throat. So, she survived the fall, the administration of medication, and was happy to hear that she had a blog-worthy day. Super.

Ronan - Oh, my sweet Ronan. Such a charmer. So innocent. So totally corrupted by his mother's twisted sense of humor and lack of censorship. He came down the stairs today (yes, the ones Jillian would later fall down) while I was trying to work in the craft room. I could hear him before I saw him, and what I heard made me choke on the water I was drinking. As he was walking down the steps, he kept saying, "Don't be suckin' the sack, Burt," over and over. It was almost like he was rehearsing dialogue or working on his best pick-up line. And it occurred to me that this was a line from one of his favorite movies, "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen." The actual line is, LEO - "Don't be suckin' the sack, bro." SAM - "What sack?" ROOMMATE #1 - "The BALL sack." LEO - "The media sack..." How mortifying to see/hear that coming out of my 3 1/2 year-old's mouth. I guess it could be worse, though. Ronan could have been doing the whole hand-motion-thingie along with the dialogue, making it that much more a testicular reference. For further explanation, please refer to the above noted movie. Good times.

On another note, Ronan is potty training and FINALLY getting it. I bought him some cool, new Cars, Marvel Superhero, and boxer brief underwear. The first few days, he had a hard time remembering that the superhero went on the butt. I mean, come on. How can you see it if it's back there? I made the mistake the other night of asking him if he knew what the panel on the front of the underwear was for. I did my stuttering, back-peddling-of-an-answer and Jame kind of broke it down more man-like for him. My mistake. Tonight, before bed, I took him to the bathroom so that he could "go potty." He walks up onto the stool that he has obviously placed in front of the toilet for his convenience, and proceeds to try to work his junk out of the panel.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I yelled. Because he's not that tall, barely fits over the toilet bowl while standing on the stool, and now is trying to pee around a panel of cotton that has purely become just a matter of tradition or aesthetics, rather than actual function (in my opinion). He obliged me and instead of trying to work around a piece of fabric, pulled his pants down and leaned against the rim with his thighs. As he started peeing, the stool slipped.

My howling laughter brought Isabelle and Jillian from 2 different parts of the house. Of course, by the time they got to the bathroom, Ronan had already fallen into the toilet mid-stream, recovered himself, and resigned to finishing his business in a sitting position. Isabelle said that I sounded like "Nana cackling." I guess you had to be there.

And lastly for Ronan, as I was trying to get the boys in the bed, I made a comment on how the room was a wreck - shocking. I pointed to a new ding in the wall above their bed (the room is painted red, so a BB-sized piece of missing paint is a little obvious) and asked Ronan, "Did you throw a toy at your wall?"

He looked at it, looked at me, and with the most serious expression said, "No, mom. It's poop." Okay, so I'm going to let Ripley take the hit for this one and assume he was the one that heaved a toy at the wall. It very obviously was NOT poop. Fortunately.

Ripley - Angel-faced, little Stewie child. Ripley doesn't get blamed for toy-throwing for lack of evidence. He's got a wicked, good aim. This morning (again while I was trying to make some headway with the craft room), I caught Ripley at the top of the stairs preparing to launch a piece of plastic over the banister.

"Don't throw that toy, or I... will... spank... you," I said.

"Spank you?" he asks.

"Spank you," I replied and had visions of the morning-after scene with Jake and Long Duck Dong (Sixteen Candles)... "That you?" "Yeah, that me."

Ripley is a sponge. And he is a type of sponge that soaks up every bit of every event of the day, so that he can twist it at some future time into a source of pain and torture for me. He's way too observant, and I'm way too careless with my speech around him.

I stuck a Diet Dr. Pepper in the freezer this afternoon and promptly forgot about it. After we got home from the vet, the kids ate their McDonald's (delicious and nutritious - tastes like chicken) and dispersed. In a moment of panic, I remembered the drink and opened the freezer with such force that the Diet Dr. Pepper flew out and fell on the floor. It was bulging at BOTH ends and when it hit, I would have sworn (well, actually I did swear) that it was spraying. I reached down and said, "Oh, hell" as I picked it up. It slipped out of my hand and hit the floor a second time.

At this point, it started spraying out of the tab. As I grabbed the can and threw it into the sink (spraying side safely aimed into the disposal), I noticed Ripley still sitting at the table eating some fries. He watched the whole catastrophe and followed up my "Oh hell" with "Shit." Awesome. I rock.

So, kiddos are safely, quietly tucked into bed now. I'm going to get myself a bowl of Edy's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream and ponder how I'm going to deal with the latest revelation to floor me today. Dear God, help me... Ripley has learned how to open doors.

My day of EPIC FAILS

So as to make it easier for those of you who don't have time to read a novel, I'm highlighting the more interesting parts of this blog in red. Read on if you dare.
It all started early today. I awoke the boys at 9:30 (less they sleep till 10:30 or later), and as I walked over to the bed, I stepped on what? A diaper. Ugh. I pulled the sheet away from Ripley and discovered to my dismay that he was commando in a puddle of piss. So, the awakening became a rude one for both, as I had to strip the sheets and the memory foam. Good morning, sunshine! Epic Fail #1

I located the duct tape on the boys' shelf and made a mental note to use it today. Nap time sounds good.

So, later in the morning, I tried to rearrange some of my more precious items (a metal apache that Jason made for JT and a lovely statue of Cupid and Psyche in an embrace). The boys keep picking up the apache and putting it on the floor, spinning the rotors and stuff, and I'm afraid they're going to break it. So, as I grabbed Cupid and Psyche from off the top shelf, I heard a porcelain piece slip free and hit the marble mantle. Out of frustration, I said "Shit. Shit. Shit." To which Ripley replied, "Shit." How else do I respond to that but, "Thank You." Ripley says, "You're welcome." And again, Epic Fail #2. I should just duct tape my mouth shut.

This afternoon, I was trying to unload groceries so that I could begin my kitchen clean-up and then kitchen mess-up as I cook tonight's dinner. Ripley would have none of it. He followed me around the kitchen, arms raised, crying to be picked up. Not in the cards tonight, little dude. I had to send him to play with Ronan.

Moments later, I hear children running towards the kitchen (which is not unusual, mind you). Ripley screams in glee as he rounds the corner, Ronan quickly on his heels. But wait, there's something wrong with this picture. Ronan is wielding his Nationals' bat as he chases. "Uh Uh, no way, man," I say. "Okay, then I won't hit him," was Ronan's reply. No sir, not tonight. I snatched the bat out of his hands like a crazed ninja. Now it's Ronan's turn to cry, so I sent him to do it somewhere else other than in my presence.

Kitchen is almost clean enough to start cooking in, I'm listening to a little Amos Lee to kinda bring my anxiety down, and Ronan walks in. He says, "I want to show you something." I walk closer to him as he pulls down the front of his pull-up and shows me his junk. "I have hair down there," he says. I almost choked on my water and said, "No, I don't think so." And I notice that his junk is covered in something whitish, maybe powdery. The pull up he has on now is utterly dry, so it can't be gel. Then it occurs to me and I ask, "Ronan, did you have on another pull up that was FULL of pee in it? Did you change it?" The look on his face was answer enough. I asked where it was and he said he put it on his table.

So, I take Ronan to my bathroom and quickly give him a shower from the waist down. That gel does not come off so easily with wipes. Shower over, Ronan dried off, we make our way to his room to put on the big boy underwear when what did my exasperated eyes fall upon? Pull-up piss gel all over the floor from the hallway to the entire floor of the boys room. Ripley musta thought he found some play dough. Or fake snow. He's like a fricking puppy. He tears up every damn thing. So, I quietly clean and vacuum the mess, trying my hardest not to implode from the utter shakes of anxiety that are wracking my body. Mission accomplished - Epic Fail #3

I'm back in the kitchen after a thorough scrub of my hands and arms up to my armpits, ready to prepare food for my thankless demons when it hits me. I haven't taken Vitamin P (prozac) since the first week of December. I keep telling myself I don't need it. I'm not depressed, I'm just crazy. Prozac doesn't fix crazy does it? Well, I think it helps to quell the anxiety that I experience on a daily basis, which is much of my crazy. So for the sake of all in my household, I'm going to give it another shot. Vitamin P, give me peace. Please.

My final facebook status update today read like this: thank you Heavenly Father for not letting me be a drinking woman. For if I was, I'd be drunk every damn day. Save me from the demons I cannot escape. They keep chasing me, calling me "Mom."

Now it's time for some mint chocolate chip ice cream and a movie by myself. OOOooooh, by myself. We'll see how long that lasts.

WE HAVE DUCT TAPE!

It took a few days, but yes, the crazy caught up with me. I can only hide for so long. The day started with the usual smell emanating from the boys room upon wakeup - poo. And that's saying it nicely. The stench is always awful, but today I was faced with a new challenge. No, none on the floor or on the new set of toys. It was in the diaper, but I couldn't SEE it because the diaper was DUCT-TAPED to the child. Obviously, my husband took the suggestion to heart - thankfully. All too often lately, I've been just seconds from catching the diaper before it hit the floor. If I had only ignored the 3 year-old in order to check on the the 21 month-old, I could have avoided some newly-shat-upon toys. But not today, Zurg. We have Duct Tape.

The boys subjected me to the normal ration of crazy, and here we are at the end of the day. Isabelle and JT are at church, the children are fed, and I'm sitting on the toilet in the bathroom while the 3 youngest take a bath. No, I'm not producing anything into said toilet. I'm sitting on the lid. I honestly can't say the word "bath" around here until I'm ready to put the kids in it because they love it so. Really.

Then, of course, the jacuzzi tub is only so big and as Jillian tries her best to do the backstroke, I hear, "You're standing on my hair!!" Then sit up princess. Currently, she's again on her back doing her best water-spitting cherub routine. She does realize she's in the bath with 2 toddler boys, right? I'm tired of bringing up the whole "pee" thing. It won't really sink in with her until Ripley stands up and pees on her back (which he does on occasion). So, I let it go. Now when the Baby Ruths start floating, the tub will clear like lightning just hit. And I wait.

Seeing my youngest 3 in the tub reminds me of pictures of my brothers and me when we were kids. I don't recall any stories specifically, but I wonder if we tortured my mom as much as my children torture me. I don't remember any dunkings, but then tubs weren't as "spacious" as they are now. I just have to look over every once in a while and make sure all 3 kids are nose above water. Sometimes, that's all Jillian wants.

"No splashing please," I say quietly after taking a huge water droplet to the eye. How they got it all the way over here (all by itself) I don't know. My children are wonders of nature. Truly.

Uh oh. What's that sound? Ripley just made yellow water. Now let's see how many times they put it in their mouths before they remember. Jillian is wise tonight, so she's squatting like a little gargoyle on the side of the tub because she doesn't want to stay in the "pee pee water" anymore. Ronan is sitting there singing to himself, oblivious to the dilemma. And Ripley? Well, he likes the way pee pee water tastes.

Alright, tub time's over. Time to get the trolls off to bed. Aaah.

We used to be SO un-PC.

Isabelle came home from school today and told me how "a lot of people" think that when you say Asian, you're referring to a Chinese person. I then asked her if she had taken a poll, since "a lot" of people felt that way. Of course she hadn't. She talked further about her Asian (presumably) bus driver who called out a student's name, only to hear another bus rider respond with "Ching Chang Chung!"

"Because that's what people think of when they think of Chinese people," she said.

This is my child, right? I am raising her, right? Maybe not raising her "right," but I digress. Again with the poll question. A lot of people, huh? Not me. I'm one of the minority. I've never seen the guy, so I'm not one to even guess at his ethnicity.

The dear, sweet child and I had a discussion about how un-PC my age (and previous ages) used to be. In 9th grade, we used to do a cheer at the JV football games called "Boom Chicka Boom." So, you go through the whole cheer like this:
I said a Boom Chicka Boom (repeat)
I said a Boom Chicka Boom (repeat)
I said a Boom Chicka Rocka, Chicka Rocka, Chicka Boom (repeat)
All Right (repeat)
Okay (repeat)
One more time (repeat)
The [insert racially insensitive 80s label] way
In this case (and this particular life lesson for Isabelle), I told her how we used to say "The Chinese Way!" And then followed it up with the cheer done in a whole Charlie Chan-ish, Chinese-mocking way (hands in the Buddha-prayer formation and our best imitation of a Chinese accent). <--As if we knew.

How many people did we offend? I remember that one of the girls on the squad was of Asian descent. Um, sensitivity anyone? It just flabbergasts me now that we did that and got away with it. We even had the crowd doing it with us. How many of them were quietly, inwardly retching at the scene we put on?

And then, within the same 30 minutes, Isabelle declared to me that she "wished she had been born in Korea." Huh? I kept thinking of the "Eagle's Nest" where military wives had to go to deliver their babies in Korea. I'd heard it wasn't any fun, you had to go there 2 weeks before your due date (could have totally been an urban legend), and God forbid you go into labor BEFORE you got there and had to try to negotiate Seoul traffic while breathing through your contractions. So, yeah, I'm standing there thinking about how I was so glad that I DIDN'T get pregnant or deliver in Korea when she busts out with, "Did you live there before it split?"

Oh no, she didn't. DISCLAIMER: I don't sugar-coat anything for my children, much less the Joe on the street.

"How the HELL old do you think I am?" burst out of my mouth.

Sometimes I wish I had a filter - sometimes. You know, the kind (like a dreamcatcher, if you need a visual) that weeds out all the PG-13 language between the brain and mouth connection. I am lacking, sorely, as I think I may have been born without an internal dialogue filter. Oh well.

In case you were wondering, though. Korea was split at the 38th parallel in 1945. Did I live there before it split? Ridiculous.

Don't it make your browneye..., um, never mind.

What a way to start out the new year and a new blog? How about blogging about anal bleaching? Okay, first off, yuck. But secondly, really? Who knew? TMZ had a video clip of "Dr. 90210" Robert Rey, who says that as a result of the porn industry, there is, in fact, business in "anal bleaching."

I have to explain my thought train here. I was showering last night (oh no, here it comes) and yes, I dropped the sliver of soap onto the shower floor. As I leaned over to pick it up, the old "Don't bend over in the shower" line came to mind. And then I remembered. I ran through my normal online news sources at the beginning of the day (foxnews.com, weather.com, people.com, usmagazine.com, tmz.com) and came across the Dr. Rey clip. Honestly, I was floored by the revelation. It never occurred to me, that the, um, "browneye"needed to be anything but (ha, ha. I said butt. Really. I said it in my mind). Okay, so feel free to stop reading but the worst is "behind" us. No, honestly. I'm done.

I just thought I'd throw that little visual your way. Of course, it's not as if now that I've corrupted someone else's mind with it that I'll be free of it myself. If only. I can't tell you what I'd do to take back that particularly wretched, loathsome (Kyndall-created, mind you) image. Never again do I want to wonder, "Don't it make your browneye... less brown?"