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.