Chicken Run

So, back to my chickens.  My oldest, who tends our flock, is a funny little bug.  He antagonizes the roosters then runs screaming when they defend themselves.  Yesterday, the chickens were running around the yard and he was in the pen gathering eggs and whatnot.  Well, one of the feisty roos kept leaping at him, quite agitated.  My boy was yelping and screaming "hi-ya" like some kind of kung fu master.  He had a garbage can lid as a shield, like some kind of gladiator.  It was so ridiculous that I couldn't stop laughing at him.  That's when I saw them.

Now, let me give you some background.  I don't talk to my neighbors much, don't know who most of them are and I'm not that interested to find out.  We live where people keep their fences closed and can't be bothered.  Works well for the most part.  Anyway, I look up and see this crowd of people.  My neighbors, many of them, from across the street on the other side of the pen were just watching the show. They were standing there all King-of-the-Hill-style with beer in hand.  A line of men watching my boy dodging chickens like it was some kind of training, like in Rocky.

Finally, after feeling so badly, they sent their son (my boy's friend) to see if he needed help.  Of course, he was fine and just being him.  I tend to think that they only sent help because they noticed me watching them, actually I was hysterically laughing at my boy genius, but still.

So I Took a Whole Day Off

If I write down all the little things I do during the day, it may seem like a lot.  So then why doesn't it ever seem like I get anything done?  Besides the laundry and dishes and floors and garden and chickens and let's not forget four kids and a husband, I (like all parents) try to squeeze in some "quality time" with the boys.  Sometimes just making one on one time to help with homework uninterrupted has to suffice.  Yet, other times, I'm helping them sound out words and playing whack-a-mole like a crazy person.  They laugh hysterically at my antics.  Ah, if they only knew the wonderful stress relief it provides.  There never seems to be enough hours in the day.  In my defense, I do have some burgeoning physical issues that I'm working through, but I am still mobile so I do what I can. 

After days of pushing myself to the limit, and being forced by pain to watch all the work I did be undone due to a temporary lack of mobility (I have joint issues that flare up if I over do it), I decided that I wasn't going to do a gosh-darned thing today.  Well, I dried the towels that I started this morning, before I came to this decision.  Other than that, I did my basic taking care of kids thing and that is it.  I played the wii with the boys.  That was interesting.  When they got a bit too rowdy, they grabbed a shopping bag and went through the house picking up any little bits of trash they could find.  Yay me, I didn't have to bend or look at the confetti-lined floor that seems to come along with children, and they got a new and very constructive so-called time out.

It was nice not worrying about things.  I ignored my piles that need to be boxed up.  I never went into the kids' room after I heard the dumping of the toy bin.  Why get myself all worked up.  The mess will still be there tomorrow and we'll deal with it then, when I am prepared to do so calmly.  I didn't do a single dish.  I didn't unload the dishwasher.  I had a very lazy day off, sorta.  The mess grew a bit, but I so seldom get a chance to watch they boys interact.  I'm to busy chasing after them telling them not to do things, which I still did to a much lesser extent.

The only trouble is, it's scary how easy it is not to pay attention to the work that needs doing.  It would be no trouble getting used to.  I'm the only one around here who seems bothered by it.  Perhaps this is because I claim the mess as my own, though we all contribute to it.  Well, I'm willing to share the blame and responsibility.  I'll get this place ship-shape, but then things they're-a-gonna-be-changin'.  I'll never be organized enough to have bins with individual names on them.  You know, the one those really anal (God love 'em) people have in which they deposit things that they've picked up throughout the house.  If I find the oldest's DS it goes in his bin, Hubby's screwdriver would go in his.  It is such a wonderful fantasy of an idea.  I am just so not that person.  I'm more the type of person that would gather up the things the kids left strewn about the house and dump it in a pile in front of their doors and tell them, "whatever is left here by the time I count to ten is garbage". Then I'd watch them come running.  Once it's gone, there are no reminder bins to look at.  But that's just me.

Tomorrow, is a family day, one of those rare moments where a few extra dollars and Hubby's day off actually coincide.  I'm hoping it will be great.  After tomorrow, Spring Break is officially over and I can concentrate on what is left to do around here.  However, that still leaves the rest of tomorrow, after we return, to do nothing but bask in the glory of my laziness.  Yeah, I could live with that.

Mommies Are Allowed

Piles of crap seem to be boxing me in.  My world is slowly shrinking along with my floor space.  I think I have become a pack-rat in my old age.  Never did I used to shed tears for donating things that we no longer use or need.  However, the birth of my last child has turned me into this hording machine.  I intended to keep only the items that have been through all of my boys and some select ones from the baby that I especially enjoyed with him.  Yet, it seems that I am unable to part with anything.  I have diaper boxes full of clothes all washed and folded and separated by size.  I just can't seem to actually donate them.  Knowing that it is ridiculous is not helping me purge my house of this uselessness.

Hubby, in his infinite wisdom and kindness, brought home a bunch of giant boxes.  He isn't making me throw things out, just pack it up into stackable things to move to the shed.  At least he knows better than to press the issue.  I think the act of packing things up for good will probably turn me into an emotional pile of mush, through no fault of my own.  I guess things really are different with your last baby.  He is almost 8 months old, so I have a lot of stuff to pack up, but he's still a baby, my baby.  I have been fighting the urge to wean him, despite the fact that he bites like a rabid dog. 

My oldest is on the cusp of puberty and we have conversations like regular people, not kiddie conversations.  My middle two are all about "I can do it by myself".  Then, there's the baby.  He's the one that can't get enough of me.  He's still at the stage where I'm his favorite thing in the world.  He's the only one that is happy in my arms for long periods of time.  If I could, I'd probably hold them all day long.  As it is, I can only hold the baby until I need to be doing something else. I do get intermittent spontaneous hugs and kisses from the others.  Well, sparsely from the oldest.  Actually, threats of public displays of affection have persuaded him to do my bidding on many occasions. 

Don't get me wrong, I get all excited when the baby does something new or when his personality comes through.  He is a very joyous baby with the best laugh in the world.  He is on his way to being very mobile and I am thrilled for him.  At the same time, my heart is breaking.  I am well aware of the ridiculousness of this whole thing, but too soon it will be him running to be with his brothers and away from me.  I will soak this all in.  I will enjoy the feel of him in my arms and the look in his eyes when he rubs my cheeks and finds my nose.  It is too soon for him not to be the newborn he was just yesterday.  I look at him now and he's 4x the size he was.  He is his own little person. Yet, I still see the sweet little lump that he was.

I can see that he is going to be hard to let go.  There are 6 years between my first and second child.  It was bittersweet to see him reach all his milestones.  It is still bittersweet to see him grow into this little man.  He is my first baby.  He made me a Mom.  The next two were on top of each other.  They are a handful and I love them dearly.  It was different with them.  There was always something going on and things to do.  I was younger and rushed through it all.  With this one, I'm a bit more settled.  He is four years younger than his closest brother.  He is everyone's baby.  The boys embraced him from the beginning and each have a bond with him that is different than the others.  They are the ones that spoil him, if you can really spoil a baby?

I already miss the infant he was as we head down the road toward toddlerhood.  Oh, but there is so much joy to come.  With each new skill, with each smile of beaming pride, there is joy and love.  With this one, the last one, everyone is enjoying him.  We all have fallen in love with this mild-mannered, sweetheart of a baby.  He is the most laid back of them all.  He is making it easy for us to go GaGa over him.

I am so proud of my boys.  I just knew that there would be jealousy and the like.  I was wrong, so wrong.  They all help without being asked.  They all get joy when they make him smile and they all go nuts when they get him to laugh like only little ones can.  My boys, though rowdy and energetic, are gentle and kind.  I love them all.  Having them the way I did has allowed me to simultaneously bask in the different stages of growing up.  When the middle ones test their boundaries, I see how the oldest one is growing into this peaceful and brilliant young man.  It lets me relax knowing that it will calm down soon enough.  When the oldest is on a hormonal bender (he is at that age), I see the middle two with their cars and trains and tickle fights and remember how sweet he was when he was little.  Then I look at the last one and I remember them all and how different they were and still are.  I can see very clearly how they have always been who they are.  The stubborn one was born that way, as were the sensitive and the lazy.  I look at that little chunky one and try to see who he will be in a year or five.  Then I look again and he is still just a baby.

So, it will probably take me a whole lot longer than necessary to pack up these mountains of baby stuff.  I know that I will be loving it when it's out of my house and not reminding me of how tiny he was.  For now, it will be hard and I will be emotional.  I'm a Mommy darn it, I'm allowed.

A Hero in Gublerland

A little while ago, during a bout of insomnia, I found my way to Gublerland.  "What is that?",  you ask.  Well, it is the brainchild/ alter-ego/true soul of Matthew Gray Gubler.  I found it by accident and have been drawn back to it during subsequent bouts of insomnia, though it does warp dreams once sleep finally takes hold.  This site is full of interesting bits.  It's like a treasure hunt of little things to find and open.

On his way back from the bathroom, my oldest peeked over my shoulder.  I heard a sleepy, "what is that?" from behind me.  Scared me half to death actually.  Anyway, he pulled up a chair and I explained who the man is.  "He's that guy on criminal minds.  You know, the nerdy one.  Oh, he was the voice of Simon the chipmunk".  My son looked at picture of him and just couldn't see him as Simon, but thought it was neat anyway.  I'm putting this on here not because I'm his biggest fan, though I might be now, but because of what he did for my son.  Okay, he himself didn't do a darned thing, but his website sure did.

My son is very shy.  He is wonderfully creative and musically inclined.  Yet, he has a confidence issue.  Okay, maybe that isn't entirely correct.  He just thinks that nothing he does is perfect enough to be good, and if it isn't "good" to him how could anyone else stand it.  In reality, this kid is amazing, (perhaps I'm a bit biased).  Despite our diligent encouragement and the fact that we point out things that he enjoys regardless of their lack of perfection, he still is very hard on himself.  Enter Gublerland.

As he pulled up a chair beside me, I was scrolling through some artwork on the  Gublerland site.  My boy, was not impressed so much by the pictures themselves, as by the form or style.  You see, Gubler's art isn't perfection, by any stretch.  It is warped and twisted and glorious for what it is.  My son was enthralled.  He kept asking questions and was wide-eyed and finally understood what we have been trying to teach him.  He never has to be perfect.  When it comes to his creativity especially, he can just feel his way.  He learned, or is in the process of learning, that a drawing of a dog doesn't have to be a perfect replica to get the point across.  He learned that warped and twisted is perfectly acceptable, and not to be suppressed but celebrated as a different piece of who he is, (not that he's all dark and twisted, but we all have our moments).  He learned that a lopsided smile can be beautiful.  He learned that ordinary and extraordinary are just two steps apart.  He learned that if so many people can like the paintings and sketches that he was looking at, then maybe, he's a lot better than he thought he was.  Oh yeah, he also couldn't get enough of clicking on little oddities to see what weirdness would ensue.

Since that night, my son seems much lighter.  It's like he has been released from the doubt that bound him.  He doesn't believe that he is amazing, but he does acknowledge that he has some talent.  He is beginning to take the time to enjoy his endeavors more.  He isn't lost within himself while doing something that he loves. He is allowing himself the first steps of freedom.  This is something that, try as I might, I just could not teach him.  It is one of those lessons that he needed to learn in his own time, his own way.

So again, I say Woo Hoo, and a huge thanks to Matthew Gray Gubler.  Long Live Gublerland!

Meatballs, Bowling Balls, a Pink Beaver, and Uranus

Boy has life in my house changed.  I remember when there was only one child.  He was so easy to teach manners to.  He was polite and kind.  The more they learn, the more I'm torn between tears and laughter.  I have four boys now.  Gone are the days of "excuse me" and niceties (when Dad's home anyway).  Now, the little ones just learned "anus" from the oldest, who by the way, is in middle school and can't stop laughing at the word "balls".  This is a recent development, and though it's kind of cute how he blushes every time he laughs at it.  He still can't help himself.  I know it only gets worse from here.  The younger ones are obsessed with planets and can you guess which one is Dad's favorite, and therefore the kids favorite?  Yup, Uranus.  I am such a lucky gal!

Hubby doesn't help, as he is so amused with this that he says balls any chance he gets just because the oldest can't help but laugh.  This is what my days have turned into.  We took the four year old bowling while the others where at school, the same day we had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner (my bad). Hubby spent all of dinner getting the little one to excitedly talk about the biggest, heaviest balls ever that he needed to roll. But it's okay because he is big and strong. Strong enough to roll big giant balls. "Oh, by the way son how are your meat-balls?", thanks my Dearest Husband.  I really needed that.


I swear that I used to be a lady.  Really I did, at least to a certain degree.  Being surrounded by all these little men has really changed me.  I fight against noxious gases and wrestling, talk of turds and long discussions about whose poo can stop up the toilet.  Try as I may to maintain a certain level of decorum in my home, I am severely out-numbered.

Now, I'm waiting for puberty and for the oldest to giggle at everything from tacos, to our roosters (cocks).  I refuse to ever call them that.  It is bad enough that there is a cartoon out there called Pororo.  It has a bunch of different animals.  There is a green alligator,  a white polar bear, a brown fox, and get this...a PINK beaver, an actual pink beaver.  I swear a man had to make that thing up.  The fox is more orange than brown, so you would think that they would make the beaver brown like a real beaver.  Nope, it's a pink beaver.  Hubby searches for it on the weekends he's home just so he can sit there and laugh at the fact that it's a pink beaver.  It's just so wrong.  What's worse is that I'm the one who had to point it out to him.  It stuck out like a sore thumb.  Yup, the oldest has asked why the beaver is pink.  The poor boy wasn't about to get an answer out of me, and hubby was laughing so hard that the poor kid just walked away.  After all, it's not like he was actually watching that kiddie cartoon, he just caught a glimpse on the way to grab a snack from the kitchen. 

If this keeps up, the poor boy will be giggling at everything and the younger ones will laugh right along with him because he's the cool older brother.

This is such a man house.

What In The World?

My husband saw my recent influx of baby patterns purchased on ebay.  I thought I would get the usual lecture, "More stuff you'll never use?...You sure do like wasting money don't you?", and the like.  He said nothing.  Next thing you know, I get an interesting pattern in the mail.  It is a Halloween costume, of sorts.  I find myself staring at an adult costume for Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, a sexy version.  For those who do not know me, let me give you a little background.  I am about 5'7.5" tall and a bit chunky.  I had my last child 7months ago and I have exercise issues.  This is who I am, so I know I did not mistakenly purchase such an item.  I never even knew such an item existed.

Instead of the grand lecture I was expecting, I got that pattern and in the right size too.  So I put it on my hubby's pillow and forgot about it.  Last night he asked me, "So what'd you think?"  I asked him about what and he held up the pattern.  I said I hadn't really thought about it.  Here it comes.  Wait for it.  "I figured since you plan on sewing until next Christmas that I might as well put in a request".  Yup, there it was.  I wouldn't get a lecture, not a word, so long as I made this costume.

I suppose I should be flattered.  After all, he want's me in his little fantasy world.  He even put in a request for velcro so we wouldn't have to deal with zippers or buttons.  The trouble is, I am no seamstress.  Sure I've made kid costumes and baby clothes and accessories, but I never had to wear those.  This pattern is like six pages long and is fully lined and has boning and under things and whatnot.  I have told him I'm clueless when it comes to something this intricate.  I also pointed out the boxes full of patterns that I own and the very few things that I have actually sewn.  It didn't work.  He chose this time to compliment me on all the things I've made for the house and the kids.  He told me how amazing I am and that he has the utmost confidence in me.  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I can't even read the material requirements correctly because the chart is so convoluted.

Now, he wants to come shopping with me to buy the material for this thing.  Never in a million years would I have thought that he would ever accompany me into a fabric store to actually decide on something to purchase.  I am dreading the whole thing.  But if it works and I get all the extras when I'm done, then Woo Hoo, and all that without a lecture.  I will so be making him watch the kids while I try to work on this thing.

So, when my kids ask me what I'm making and I tell them a costume, will they expect me to wear this on Halloween. Hahaha, Never I tell ya NEVER.  Only time will tell.

Like the Christmas That Never Was

It's funny to me how things work out sometimes.  My 4 and 5 year old boys share a room.  The older one used to beat the crap out of his brother to get what he wanted.  We're talking black eyes without warning.  He was frustrated that when he would talk nice to his little brother his brother never answered back.  Nevermind that the poor kid couldn't really speak yet.  Now, the older one is sharing wonderfully, but more often than not, the younger one smacks him with something as soon as he gets bothered.  With all my teachings of kindness, really, he did it to himself.  The older one taught him how to be. Now, it is my job to un-teach it and it is taking a good long time.

Their relationship has resulted in what is essentially the removing of Christmas.  Between items they have either lost, broken, or weaponized, their Christmas gifts have just about been eliminated.

Example: GatorGolf:  Innocent enough game, comes with two plastic golf clubs.  Which have been used to beat each other with.  They have been removed. (reserved for a later date when both have been behaving and for limited use while highly supervised.  Works great as a treat)

Leapster games:  Educational and allows me some peace, great for long drives.  They have either been lost, broken, or accidentally on purpose flushed down the toilet.

They are blowin' through them fast.  I have half a mind to make them cornhusk dolls and call that Christmas.

I'm about to pull one of my "cleaning" sessions in their room.  Now, I call it "cleaning", but what I really mean is that I will go through all their junkie little craps that they seem to collect en masse and make them choose what to throw away.  This is reserved as an end of my wits tactic that serves a dual role as keeping the mess under control, and teaching the consequences for bad behavior.  Okay, maybe it serves a third purpose.  See, they are more than capable of cleaning their room with minimal supervision.  I'm in charge of the clothes, though they help put the laundry up.  They are in charge of the toys and trash.  When they decide to pretend to clean their room on a regular basis, I will usually sit with them and play director while they do the work.  When, after weeks of trying, I've had enough of them lying about their room and hiding things in their closet or under their bed, and I'm tired of piling it up in the middle of their room so they can really put it away, that is when I go all psycho on them (with plenty of warning).  Then once, maybe twice a year at my convenience, I will dump all of their toys and stuff in the middle of the room.  We will organize everything completely, and they must decide what to throw out.  They get through it with a lot of "I'm sorry" and tears, which breaks my heart.  However, for the next few months all I have to say is, "Do you want me to go in there an clean it for you?" 

Now, I'm really not a tyrant.  Enough is enough.  I'm not one to clean and vacuum their room every single day.  It's just not who I am, and when I've tried in the past I've been miserable.  So now I just don't try.  I do expect them to keep their room tidy enough, and they love to vacuum.  I never would have thought that one day I would use the privilege of vacuuming as a reward.  It's insane to me. 

I think I must now buy gifts with a frame of mind that includes, "can they smack each other with this?"   Unfortunately, the answer will always be "yes" so now I have to rethink the question.

Is blowing through Christmas inside of three months a record?  It is for me.