You Are So Annoying

We decided to venture out to dinner last Monday, kids and all, to help Gregory's best buddy celebrate her birthday.  It was a real honest to goodness adult restaurant; the majority of patrons could properly use their utensils and there was a noticeable absence of pb&j and hot dogs on the menu.  How daring!

Most times we enter a restaurant with a certain amount of dread.  But Brian and I were actually looking forward to a glass of wine, some good food and a few laughs with our friends. The boys were behaving, there was a nice open space next to the restaurant where they could run around.  All of the forces of nature were aligning for us to have a great experience.    

My girlfriend and I got to actually sit down to order appetizers and have a cocktail, while the Dads remained outside with all the kids.  My mouth was anticipating the tuna tartare followed by  Kansas City style ribs.  Mmm.

We were inside no more than 5 minutes when the manager comes over to whisper in my friend's ear.  Next thing she's telling me that I am needed outside, everything is fine, but Gregory has fallen.  Damn it, my drink is on it's way.  I should have known this would end badly.  Brian and I were feeling way too good, maybe even a tad over confident.

Against every fiber of my being, my first question to the manager was not if I could get the tuna to go.  I inquired if my child was conscious; which he was.  He had fallen and hit his head on a large rock in the courtyard.  As I approached, it occurred to me that Gregory could easily be a victim in a slasher movie.  There was an endless supply of hysterical screaming as blood poured from his head down into his face. Goodbye ribs, hello ER.

25 minutes, 5 linen napkins, and 2 macaroni 'n cheeses with truffle oil (to go) later, Gregory and I are signed in at the nurses station of the ER.  Charlie and Brian went off in search of food.  Thankfully Gregory's wound did not require stitches, but his laceration needed to be glued shut.  We were "fast tracked" to the non-severe section of the ER, far away from the contagious looking man wrapped in a dirty blanket, drenched in a feverish sweat, who of course decided to lay across all available seating next to the dirty waiting room toys that Gregory insisted on playing with.  

This new waiting room was small, clean and empty.  Charlie was able to eat and stay out of trouble, while we tended to Gregory; which entailed us physically restraining him.  I held his legs, Brian pinned his arms, and the nurse had his head, while the doctor cleaned the wound to prep it for tape then glue.  That boy cried like they were gutting him from head to toe.  It was absolutely the worst sound I've heard as his poor face turned about as red as the blood that was smeared all over it.

The crying escalated to flat out shrieking, Charlie came running in with his dinner.   He yelled, "Gregory!  You're being so annoying, I can't even eat my pasta."  He turns and looks at the doctor, "Don't you think he's being annoying?"  So much for brotherly concern.  

Now that the whole experience is behind us, I wonder, had our little bloody mishap not occurred, would we have had to leave the restaurant early (and bitter), with our dinners half eaten because Charlie decided to fling his pasta on the wall or Gregory spit his water at the next table?  Perhaps the ER visit was the lesser of 2 evils - no food wasted, no embarrassing scenes that forced us to slip undetected out the emergency exit, leaving a wad of cash for our thankful waitress.  

Was this the work of a higher power punishing us, trying to send the message that children - more specifically my children - do not belong in adult restaurants?  Or could this have been a message of mercy, saving us from a fate far worse than a bloody forehead and an ER visit?  I guess we'll never know, but from now on we're going to stay home and order pizza.  

Big Big Duck

Most kids no matter what the age want to be understood.  They are never so blatant about this desire as when they first start talking.  They repeat words and phrases over and over until someone acknowledges what they're saying.  Gregory is no exception, though the more he has to repeat, the louder and madder he gets.

We'll be in the car and he'll say, "Duck ess bokin.  Duck ess bokin."  I take a stab at what I think it could be.  'Yeah buddy, the duck is honking.'  

It sounds close, but God help me, I left my Gregory-speak to English dictionary at home.

"Duck ess bokin.  Duck ESS bokin."

"The truck is honking?"  He's really getting worked up and spitting as he yells.

"DUCK ESS BOKIN!  DUCK ESS BOKIN!"

I'm driving.  I have no visual clues on what he could be talking about.  He is getting louder and repeating duck ess bokin incessantly.  Finally, I switch lanes and notice in my blind spot a tow truck pulling a pick up behind it.  Ah ha!

I yell out, 'TRUCK IS BROKEN!!!!  TRUCK IS BROKEN', like I just solved the bonus prize puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

This scenario happens every day on our drive to Charlie's school.  Although as his language development progresses, some mornings we're lucky and figure out what Gregory's saying on the first try.  Other times, we have to listen to him endlessly yell the same thing for 15 minutes, all of us frustrated at our ineptness to translate.  

This morning Gregory started in immediately saying, "Big, big dog" over and over.  It wasn't that I couldn't understand him, I had in fact seen the big, big dog as we drove out of our neighborhood.  I was just incredibly tired and didn't feel like talking, so I ignored him.  

Charlie is in the back, equally annoyed because his brother's yelling is making it impossible for him to listen to 'his' Dave Matthews cd.  After 2 non stop minutes of, 'BIG, BIG DOG!', I'm tempted to pull the car over and toss Gregory into the drive thru window at the coffee place.  Turns out Charlie comes to my aid to end all of our suffering quickly and painlessly.  He says, "Geez Louise, Gregory, we heard you.  We all saw the big, big dog, just BE QUIET." 

"Awight, Charlie.  Mommy, have snack?"  I get that one.

Animal Planet

I absolutely understand how child abuse happens.  Better people than me, brought to their wits end by misbehaving children.

Today started out with my eldest running out of the grocery store, high tailing it toward the parking lot with his little brother close behind.  I am paralyzed as I stood at the counter, my club card flapping in the wind.   My thoughts as I sprinted into action were, scared out of my mind, cars cars cars, death and dismemberment,  and I'm gonna kill them.  

I re-entered the store to complete the transaction, one child under my arm, the other dragged behind by his collar.   The checker girl stared at me like I was the worst mother she's encountered in her life.  She nodded to the groceries and asked, "You gonna need help with those, too?"  I'm embarrassed, and if I'm honest, kind of pissed that I was being judged by someone whose biggest work challenge is remembering whether to ask 'paper or plastic?'.

I composed myself and exited the store with the intent of giving Charlie a good piece of my mind.  I got down to eye level and asked, "That was not a smart choice, Charlie.  You could have gotten hurt."  What does the insolent little beast do, he laughed in my face.  Embarrassment forgotten, I enter into full primal rage mode.  I wanted to hurt him, like really hurt him.  It was simply a question of whether to shake, pinch, grab, smack, or all of the above.

Fortunately, because A) I have a great husband who helps to ease the load, B) he and I are currently getting along, C) the mortgage is paid, D) my family is healthy (at least for the moment), I was able to calm myself.   My sense of reason kicked in.  Physical harm, especially in a public setting, was not the answer.  I settled on making the little bugger cry.  

I took away Charlie's TV for the night.  Nothing, no remorse.  Dessert gone, then his bike.  He continued to laugh like it was all a big joke.  State of calm abandoned, all I saw was red.

Finally I realized material possessions were meaningless to this boy.  I told him that if he couldn't listen and follow the rules of the store, he must be a baby and so I would have to treat him like one.  He would have to sit in the carriage instead of Gregory.  I would have to carry him or hold his hand at all times.  And worst of all, he'd have to start drinking from a bottle again.

Jackpot!  Tears and a resounding, "No, Mommy.  I'll listen, I promise.  I'm not a baby."    

Was I proud of my behavior?  No.  Was it effective?  Kind of.  Charlie listened for about 15 minutes, long enough for me to get the groceries and boys in the car.  He then focused on teaching his brother to roll down the window and scream 'Move it, lady' to the pedestrians in the crosswalk.  

As a parent,  it feels like you have to be on top of your game 100% of the time if you want to maximize those 'teaching moments' when they occur.  This of course is completely unachievable.  Life is never perfect and rarely are we ever at the top of our game, maybe on occasion prior to having children.  If only one other aspect of my world had been out of whack today, I could have easily snapped and gone to the dark side.   The outcome for Charlie could have been physical harm, and for me a nice ride in a police cruiser.  

My hat goes off to all parents struggling to do their best out there.  Celebrate the small victories where you took the high road and made your kid cry.  There was always something worse you could have done.

Utopia

"Do you ever wish we lived on another street?"  This is the question my husband guiltily asks as we stand in the kitchen, hiding from our kids.  Charlie has just tackled Gregory in an effort to remove the Tinker Toy hammer from his grip.  Gregory is about to use the toy train in his other hand to inflict blunt force trauma to his brother's head.  Screaming is everywhere.  We can barely hear ourselves think let alone talk.

I laugh, "Are you serious?"  He is.

"You mean another street like Heather Avenue?"  He does.

I tell him that at least once a day I wish I lived on Heather Avenue again or anywhere other than here.

When we got engaged, we bought a beautiful condo in a very desirable area of San Francisco, on Heather Avenue.  Restaurants abound.  Our gym was 2 blocks away.  I walked to the grocery store everyday to buy the freshest produce and meat for our dinners.  Each morning, Brian and I headed to the local Cuban cafe for delicious coffee before he hopped on the bus to go to work and I headed back to my home office.

Heather Avenue represents a childless utopia for us.  A place where our time, money, and sleep patterns were our own.  Where my biggest worry was our Direct TV reception being knocked out by high winds.  

But was it a real or imagined utopia?  Honestly, a little of both.  Life as DINKS (dual income no kids) in San Francisco was amazing, for the exact reasons mentioned above.  We loved our home and everything it represented - pride, security, success.  But our upstairs neighbor was ex Semper Phi who thought he was still in boot camp the way he stomped around on those floors.  And a few times a year, just for good measure, he liked to knock his fiance around.  Every decision made in our 4 unit building, like changing the color of our mailbox, had to be voted on by our homeowners association.  And quite possibly worst of all, no karaoke machine past 10 pm.  WTF!     

It's funny how the mind sugar coats our life experiences, and child rearing is no exception.  Right now I bitch and moan about my kids as they drive me to the brink of sanity each and every day.  I'm sure in 10 years I'll look back at this time longing for my boys to beckon, 'Mommy, come play with me.'  But the reality is they were probably pulling at my pant leg half whining, half screaming, 'Mommy, stop typing your blog and come play."  

Charlie Goldstein, Esq.

The boys and I were driving on our way to the park yesterday. We are finally at the point where I can play just about any music in the car and no one complains. I'm subjecting them to the entire Abba Gold album, when Charlie says, "Excuse me, Mommy. Mommy, excuse me."
I'm trying to ignore him. Maybe he'll work things out himself.
"Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!"

I'm annoyed because the music has really transported me back to the day. I'm in the middle of a day dream that involves me in rainbow leg warmers and a matching rainbow shirt. My hair has achieved a perfect bi-level with flippy bangs. I'm looking fresh and am dancing with Brandon O'Brien (my junior high school crush). Dancing Queen is playing in the background and I'm kind of curious how this day dream is going to play out. The real life version was rather disappointing, and about as achievable as a peaceful car ride.

"Mommy, I'm talking to you."
WHAT?, I ask snappishly.
I can almost predict the litany of questions about to commence. "Who is the Dancing Queen? Can I see her tambourine? Why isn't she playing a guitar? Wait, where's my guitar? Gregory, did you take my guitar?..."

I'm surprised when I hear, "Mommy, we're not on the Earth."
What?
"We're not on the Earth right now."
Of course we're on the Earth.
"No, we're not."
Sure we are.
"No, we are not."
Then where are we? Mars, Jupiter, Saturn?
Using his best 'must I draw a picture for you' tone, he says, "NO! WE are not touching the Earth. Our CAR is touching the Earth, and WE are in the car."

I have no rebuttal, just diversionary tactics. I'm really bad at losing arguments.
Look at that cement mixer!
"That's not a cement mixer."
Sure it is, right over there (will I never learn?).
"No, it's not."
Then what is it, Charlie? Please tell me. I'm dying to know.
"It's a concrete mixer. Water and gravel are mixed with CEMENT dust which all get spinned in the mixer. Then that makes it concrete."
Oh.
"So it's a concrete mixer, not a cement mixer."
Got it. Sorry.


Lessons learned:
1. Do not debate 4 year olds.
2. All future inquiries should be met with June Cleaver-esque responses - That's nice dear. Really, dear. Why don't you ask your father, dear.
3. Immediately start saving for law school.

Get to Know Your Neighbors

Brian is at a software conference all week which means I'm on 24x7 duty with the boys. And no, I don't count the 4 measly hours Charlie is at school as a break.

Tagging it as a 'work event' is just a formality. Each night my husband is out dining at San Francisco's finest restaurants, drinking cocktails with his work buddies while they chat up clients, and then there's all of the marketing hoopla. Aerosmith is headlining the main concert. Coming from this industry, I will concede that after 2 nights of schmoozing, I would be ready to curl up in bed and not utter a word to anyone unless it's Rachel Zoe (love to hate her). But I'd take his week of work over mine.

Night 1 is officially over. The kids are both asleep and none too soon.

Charlie almost drowned his brother in the bath tub tonight. He thought the best way to wash Gregory's hair was to pull his leg out from under him then dump a bucket of water over his head. After the flying macaroni festival at dinner, I lost my cool and yelled. I managed to pull out some real gems. "What is wrong with you that you're trying to kill your brother?...Gregory doesn't want to play in the bath anymore, he's scared of you... Since you don't listen, you should just go right to bed because you're not even going to know that I'm reading you stories..." I'm sure I got my point across and he was listening the whole time - blah blah blah blah.

As I waxed on endlessly, I heard voices at the front door - a man's voice. Someone called the police? Not likely, there was a young boy's voice too. Phew. The mail slot popped open and in dropped a card. It was a thank you note for a birthday present from Charlie's buddy down the street.

I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually shushed my kids and hid. How much of my tirade had Dad and son heard? Common sense told me if it was even a smidgen, they definitely would not have delivered the card or been within a grenade's throw of our house. Plus Mom would have canceled our possible play date for this week. But I couldn't be certain.

The thought of witnesses presented some challenges. A) I really like my neighbors, B) our backyard is mostly cement making it VERY difficult to bury bodies, and C) I'm not ready to be known as 'Charlie's crazy mom who yells a lot and is to be avoided at all social functions.' My kids haven't even entered the public school system yet; so much damage in so little time.

Double Trouble

Gregory is beginning to assert his independence. He uses the word 'no' a lot, throws tantrums if his demands are not met, gets into everything he's not supposed to - open cereal boxes, toilets, dishwasher, makeup drawers - the usual toddler type stuff. Brian and I have taken to calling him The Menace. The idea of him still being my 'easy baby' left with the notion that yellow toilet water should be enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from drinking it (yes I'm saying my kids play with pee water - gross).

Gregory has also taken a few pages out of Charlie's rule book on treatment of siblings. Though Charlie is much more cautious and predictable; knowing that when he pushes Gregory down, steals his matchbox car, then pokes him in the eye with it, he should run. Gregory is just outright brazen. I've seen him kick his brother in the ankle, bite him in the back of the neck, and give a quick hair pull for good measure, then stick around. Kind of like those police dramas where they are at the murder scene, the camera slowly pans to the crowd, and the killer is standing there, surveying the scene, emotionless yet quietly pleased with himself and the attention.

Now that I have 2 trouble makers on my hands, upon hearing cries in the distance, I can no longer come running under the assumption that my eldest is the evil doer. This is a very difficult habit to break after almost 2 years of Charlie being the sole committer of transgressions in our household.

The worst part is that Gregory knows he can get away with anything simply by using his arsenal of cuteness. I am a complete sucker no matter what his weapon of choice - batting of eye lashes, coy smile, spontaneous hugs, etc. It's really quite an embarrassment to authority figures everywhere. But he is the perfect combination of looks, charm, humor and cunning; destined for a future of criminal activity.

The other morning, I heard the highest pitched shriek my 2 ears have ever experienced. I refrained from yelling, 'Charlie, what the hell did you do now?'  As I entered the living room to survey the damage, there stood Gregory, wielding a Tinker Toy weapon, banging his brother in the head with all of his might. Charlie was curled in the fetal position, shrieking like a trapped animal. Gregory simply smiled then hit, smiled then hit, over and over.

I said, Gregory, no! No hit. We do not hit our brother! He actually laughed, then smiled at me like I was giving him a compliment and said, "Uh hammer."
'I'm very happy you made a hammer out of Tinker Toys, but we do not hit people with it.'
Still smiling he responds, "Dawry hit."
'No, we don't hit Charlie' (aka Dawry).
Looking up at me with huge blue eyes, he bats his lashes and says in a whisper, "I sowy, Mommy."

His sweetness increases exponentially with the amount of trouble he's in. All it takes is an "I sowy" and he is forgiven. He could be stabbing the neighbors cat to death with his Elmo toothbrush that he fashioned into a shiv and I'm like, 'Okay, but just don't do it again.'
"Aw wight, Mommy."

Games People Play

I recognize that summer has come and gone and my updates have been sparse, if non existent.
I'm happy to report that the boys are still crazy as ever. Though we've begun to reap the benefits of Charlie being 4; he occasionally plays with Gregory in a nonviolent or sadistic manner.

Of course, constant supervision is a must - there's always a hitch, right? You cannot be asleep at the wheel for 1 second without pure chaos erupting. So discovered my father in law this past weekend. He decided to innocently use the bathroom while the boys were in the midst of arts and crafts. Mere moments later upon his return, he discovered the windows, door frames, and grandsons completely covered with stickers and green marker - washable thank goodness.

You don't have time to take a piss in this household, let alone luxuriate in the glow of your computer screen. Many apologies for my slack-assed-ness this summer. I promise never to stay away so long.

Next to torturing his brother, one of Charlie's favorite activities is making up games. It's really cool to witness his creativity (or insanity) and his desire to include Gregory in these games. Everyday there seems to be a new one invented.

One of Charlie's oldest games on record is 'Fita'. It involves him and Gregory running around our living room, yelling 'Fita!', while listening to Justin Timberlake. Not sure why JT, or why it's called Fita for that matter? I just know the 2 of them can play it for 30 minutes without tiring or fighting.

Then there is 'Model Train', same idea as Fita, just a different location and no music is played. You run around the dining room table, yelling, you guessed it, 'Model Train!'. This game gets tricky when Charlie announces that the train is backing up to turn around. Many collisions happen during the playing of Model Train as Gregory is not too adept at on the fly directional change. I personally prefer Fita, could be the low injury stats, or Justin.

The newest game added to the repertoire is 'Tabor'. Like most of the games, it is not at all complicated. Charlie sits or fully stands on the arm of the couch and then either falls forward onto his Pottery Barn Kids chair or backwards onto the couch. And of course there is the obligatory yelling of 'Tabor' by the players. I did have to shut down a game of Tabor this morning when Charlie decided to change the rules while it was Gregory's turn and pushed him off the back of the couch.





Finally there is 'Tod-o-nai'. Not sure on the spelling, but it definitely has a Hebrew derivation; which makes sense since Charlie attends preschool at the JCC. You can hear Gregory in the background of this video trying to get involved by yelling 'Tod-o-nai', but he can't make it up onto the bed to actually get a turn. Too bad for him as this game was a one hit wonder. Since capturing it on video, it has never been seen again.

Charlie is the sole master mind behind each game, Gregory is simply along for the ride. You could say Gregory is Tatoo to Charlie's Mr. Rourke; his participation definitely adds humor, but he will never be the leading man in the show. Capturing the videos of Tabor and Tod-o-nai gives you a ringside seat to the crazy and how contagious it is, or genetic.

I Feel Pretty

Charlie has always been a cute kid. From the moment he was born, he looked perfect and well formed, never awkward or squishy and red. Are we biased? Definitely. But pictures don't lie, in his entire 4 years of life, there has not been one bad photo.

Gregory entered the world as blessed as his brother; color me biased again. Though his cuteness seems to be evolving into downright prettiness. At least once a week, people mistake him for a girl. Even dressed in camouflage pants, skull and crossbones t-shirt, baseball hat and black high top Chucks - an outfit that screams testosterone - someone will remark, "What a beautiful little girl. How old is she?" Maybe it's the eyelashes that touch his forehead, or those huge blue eyes, but I honestly don't get it.

Clearly there must be something there. The past week or so, Charlie has begun calling Gregory, 'Mrs. Bentney'. As with all things Charlie, we have no idea where this came from. But I'll be damned if Gregory doesn't come running like a servant when Charlie beckons, "Mrs. Bentney. Mrs. Bentney? MRS. BENTNEY! Come here this instant."

When asked why he calls Gregory Mrs. Bentney, his response, "I only call him that when I need help opening the door." I thought this would blow over, that Mrs. Bentney's novelty, and ineptness (the boy can't even turn a door knob), would wear off and he/she could go back to being just Gregory. But it seems Mrs. Bentney's responsibilities have only been added to. Last night when I was making dinner, Charlie came running in, breathless, holding a bunch of buckets, "Hey Mommy, do you need a bucket?"
No thanks, Charlie. I'm all set.
"Well, if you do, Mrs. Bentney's selling them out back and can get you one."

This morning I was even more confused when Charlie referred to Gregory as Stephanie. I thought the early hour had effected my hearing, until, "Stephanie, I need you to come and help me fill up this dump truck."
Though I hadn't an ounce of caffeine in me, I ventured down that road, So who's Stephanie?
"Gregory is Stephanie."
Where is Mrs. Bentney?
"No, Stephanie is Mrs. Bentney."
Then Gregory is Mrs. Stephanie Bentney?
"No, he's Mrs. Bentney Stephanie."
When do you call him Stephanie versus Mrs. Bentney?
"When I want to." His response was so matter of fact, like I had just asked Little Lord Fauntleroy when he would like his tea. He turns on his heel, heading into the the kitchen, casually calling over his shoulder, "Stephanie, it's time for breakfast. NOW!"

I do take comfort in that the relationship seems to have taken on a less formal tone. And at least he's feeding the help.

I Hate You, I Hate You, I Just Don't Like You

You know those mornings where you wake up and you hate your job? No matter how many trips to Starbuck's you take, personal calls you make, or want ads you search, you just can't move past it. In my former life in sales, I would have called it a day at lunch and gone to the gym or shopping; start fresh tomorrow. But I'm at a loss on how to handle this situation in my current role.

When my kids keep me up till the wee hours of the night, then rise before the sun, I wake up hating them and my job, which are one and the same. I spend most of my day locked and loaded, ready to aim my passive aggressive rage at anyone who gets in my way - like my kids or the condescending librarian who glares at me as both of the boys run screaming down the aisles of the adult non-fiction section yelling, 'poopie, poopie, poop.' What's a Mom to do when she's trapped at 'the office', having bad day, and her old bag of tricks just isn't cutting it in this new position?

In the past, commiserating with co-workers made me feel better. But in our office of 3, complaining to Charlie and Gregory about how they've ruined my day by only allowing me 4 non-consecutive hours of sleep doesn't quite have the same therapeutic effect. Charlie's response, 'Mommy, if you want, you can take a nap and I will watch Gregory because I'm the adult.' As he tries to assure me he can handle the situation, his hands begin to form a noose like grip around his brother's neck while slowly dragging him toward the bathroom.

Other times I could rely on my sense of humor to get me through the day and just laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. But there is nothing amusing about being stuck in the house with my kids when all I want to do is sleep and all they want to do is find new ways to remind me that escape on this rat wheel is futile.
"Mommy, can I have something to eat?"
Charlie, I don't care what you do.
"But can you get me something?"
What do you want?
"I want you to get me something, but make it a surprise."
No, I'm not playing that game. Just tell me what you want.
"I want a surprise."
Charlie, I am tired, you know what we have to eat. When you figure it out, tell me.
"But I want a surprise. How about from the fridge?"
Ugh. Yogurt, cheese, apple, or grapes?
"Surprise."
Just choose.
"No, you."
I yell as I throw yogurt down in front of him. Charlie, I've lost my patience. Take the stupid yogurt and do not say another word to me.
"Mmm, stupid yogurt. I love stupid yogurt. It's just what I wanted, stupid yogurt."
Then Gregory chimes in, "Tupit, tupit, tupit."

I do not even have the energy to go there as I storm out of the kitchen. I know if I attempt to make a run to Starbuck's they will follow me. If I try to use my computer to search for employment opportunities outside of the home, my efforts will be high jacked in order to watch singing cats, flying penguins, and rocket launches on You Tube.

By 10 am, I have screamed to the point of being hoarse, bribed the boys with everything from cookies to playing in the toilet. Finally, I admit defeat. For Charlie, I put on a video. Gregory gets 20 Matchbox cars thrown into a huge soup pot with the lid on. My hope is that he'll make enough racket to drown out Charlie's movie and any potential crying that ensues from the 2 of them being left unattended.

I lock myself in the laundry room to eat chocolate chips sprinkled in a jar of peanut butter. Ahh, silence - at least with door closed and the din of crunching chocolate chips in my mouth. This works. I'll have to add this to my new bag of tricks.

Family Trip

On the eve of our summer family trip, I am feeling exhausted, apprehensive, and uninspired.
Trying to pack for a 2 1/2 week trip is next to impossible while refereeing a constant wrestling match between 2 young boys. It requires a tremendous amount of patience, energy, and an anal retentive husband. As we take every single item we use on a daily basis and attempt to pack it into one suitcase, I am bitter knowing it will cost me an additional $25 on top of my ticket price. And if all of our stuff doesn't weigh under 70 lbs, add another $50 on top of that. My toiletry bag weighs 70 lbs.

To get to the family trip destination, it requires a lengthy car ride, an even longer plane ride, or sometimes both. Oddly enough, it's not my almost 4 year old who is causing me to lose sleep about this journey. These days my 18 month old sits in one place about as long as a puppy on crystal meth. Have you ever sat next to someone in a shoe box size seat for 6 hours, who is tweaking the entire time, and doesn't have any discernable words beyond 'mama', 'stop it', and 'play-doh'?

So here I am, unispired, wondering what I have left to give as we are t-minus 12 hours from the start of the family trip. Please note my use of the term 'family trip' and the very deliberate ommission of the word 'vacation'. Merriam-Webster's On-line Dictionary defines 'vacation' as, a scheduled period during which activity is suspended; a period of exemption from work granted to an employee. Hmm, vacation, doesn't really feel right as I ready myself and my kids for 10 humidity filled days in Florida visting my in laws, followed by 6 days in Minneapolis with my brother and his family.

I think I'm going to write to the lexicographers at Merriam-Webster. If words as serious as 'dirty bomb' and 'subprime', and as silly as 'wingnut' and 'fanboy', can be added to their dictionary in 2008, then I do believe 2009 is the year for 'family trip'. Simply placed next to the word vacation, it will say, 'see family trip'.

family trip noun (2009): a vacation taken with children, not really a vacation at all; a trip where you do everything exactly as you do at home, but in a different place.

Luxury Redefined

A fellow mom from Charlie's preschool takes the same 6 am workout class that I do. Post sweat, as we headed towards the locker room, she asked if I was going straight home or showering there. I said I was hurrying home because Brian had to take off early for work.

She was staying to shower and commented, "It's just so luxurious to shower here." To avoid any confusion, my gym is nice, but it's not nice enough where someone would ever mistake it for being luxurious. I thought it was an interesting adjective to use, but understood. My friend was simply stating that the ability to shower alone, without having someone banging on the shower door, or crying through the wall, is a true treat that she bestowed upon herself.

We both agreed, if the roles were reversed, neither of our husbands would think twice about the extra 15 minutes it takes to shower at the gym. They would just do it. But as Mom's, we feel guilty being away from our kids for more than 5 minutes. And G_d forbid if those 5 minutes are for something as frivolous as a shower. Our IGC's would probably switch to tase mode and shock us into submission from within our own bodies. (IGC is an intrauterine guilt chip and one of my many conspiracy theories - see IGC post from 1/7/09 for full definition) .

During our life time, the idea of luxury changes drastically. Growing up in a family of 5, living on one teacher's salary, I don't really think the word ever entered my mind. In hindsight, ordering dessert with my Happy Meal instead of eating Oreos at home or shopping something other than the clearance rack at Marshall's would count. In my 20's, it was free beer at my favorite bar and a burger after last call. And my 30's, a spa day followed by a nice dinner (and dessert) and good wine. I guess one could argue my sense of luxury has been evolving.

But since having kids, what I consider to be luxurious today is downright offensive to all of my former selves. I came up with a list of things I would like to experience in the near future; my expectations are so low I didn't even put a time line to them.
Quite possibly the saddest 'luxury' list ever compiled.

1). Going to the bathroom alone.
a). Going to the bathroom without having the toilet flushed several times prior to me getting off of it.

2). Finishing an entire meal without popping up every time someone utters 'Mommy, I want/need...'
a). Eating alone.

3). Drinking out of a water bottle that has not been back-washed with Cheerio or Goldfish remnants.

4). Wearing an outfit that is free of dried snots, diaper cream or mystery milk stains.

5). Leaving the house knowing that yesterday's mascara has been properly removed from under my eyes.

6). Needing to set an alarm (nope, don't need one for that 6 am work out class).

This could have easily gone all the way up to 100. The damn IGC must have been tripped, weakening all muscles, forcing me to stop typing my selfish list and get back to caring for my husband and kids. I know, I know, poor me and my sad list. I recognize that this is the rant of the privileged and that there are people living in a 3rd world countries where clean water and indoor plumbing would be in a fight for number 1. To those of you who judge, first, I bet in those 3rd world countries, the kids don't follow the mom into the poop shack nor do they pre-flush on them. Second, my blog, my bitch - I'm not out to save the world, just my sanity.

Stepping Up

Where things with Charlie are starting to calm down a bit, Gregory is picking up the slack, attempting to find his place in the family hierarchy. We're not sure if his role will be one of more comic relief, or following in his brother's footsteps of devil's spawn.

Charlie was sitting on the couch watching TV and all Gregory wanted was his big brother's attention. Most days a goofy face and his sumo wrestler dance works, Charlie looks at him, smiles, and says, "Silly Gregory, are you riding on the crazy train again?"

But his usual tactics weren't working. Gregory tried piling all of his trucks onto the couch leaving Charlie barely an inch of room to move. Then he took the trucks, one at a time, and hit Charlie with each to gauge it's effectiveness as a weapon. Charlie was really good and just kept saying, "Ow, Gregory, stop it." Then would go back into his Caillou induced trance.

Being further ignored by his brother only forced Gregory to step up his game. We have only one doll in our entire house. We bought it for Charlie when we found out I was pregnant. It's a nameless, genderless baby that is basically ignored unless we have a little girl visiting, then my boys fight over it like it poops M&M's and is the last damn toy on earth.

Gregory took the baby in his mouth similar to a mother cat with her kitten, then shook it back and forth like it was his prey. Brian and I were in hysterics, but no reaction from Charlie. Gregory grabbed the doll by it's foot and started whacking it onto the keys of his toy piano, the noise was so loud you could no longer hear the TV. Still, not even a side glance from Charlie. Next unisex baby had it's head slammed into the window, after each hit, Gregory would throw the doll over his shoulder, caveman style, and walk over to the couch to see if Charlie was looking yet. No reaction equaled more banging. If it had not been a toy, there would have been baby brains splattered everywhere.

Things were getting out of control as Gregory looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much. I finally had to rescue the poor doll from the hands of it's torturer. Gregory sat there, panting from the all of the energy he exerted, smiling, like Jack Nicholson in the Shining - 'Heeeeere's Johnny.'

We're not sure if his actions were simply to get his brother's attention or if he was trying to send us a message - Have a 3rd kid and I'll make Jekyll and Hyde on the couch over there look like the Dalai Lama. He certainly got our attention.

What Happens in Vegas...

Charlie's sphere of influence is limited to home, school, the park or play dates. With the exception of school, he's always with me or Brian. At 3 1/2, his world is already starting to expand, he's having new experiences and meeting new friends. I need to come to grips with the fact that the older he gets, the less control I'll have over him and these experiences and friends.

Last weekend Charlie had his first unsupervised play date at the next door neighbor's house. The son is 5 and Charlie looks up to him like a big brother. He actually listens when he says, "Charlie, please don't hit me in the face with your dump truck." Charlie must have hung on every syllable this boy uttered, because we've had some new phrases pop up in our household. 'I'm going to kill you, Gregory', 'You're dead, Mommy', or my personal favorite, 'Your eyes are going to pop out, then your brain will fall to the floor and you'll be dead, Daddy.'

My neighbor does the eye roll-shoulder shrug apology. You know the one that communicates wordlessly, 'I feel bad. But what can I do? I only have so much energy in a day to fight this monster.' It's the very same apology I used last week during arts and crafts hour at the library. Charlie started chanting 'PENIS BUTT!' at the top of his lungs and about half of the children at the table joined in, much to the chagrin of the librarian and other parents.

So I tried not make a big deal about the 'kill' and 'die' language, every age has their thing. Besides, if I had a 5 year old, with my track record he'd be aiming his toy Glock 19 with laser scope at the neighbor's head while playing David Koresh and the Branch Davidians.

Things could always be worse. But I was left wondering, what kind of 'chanting' did Charlie do while next door and out of my care? How much worse than 'penis butt' could it get? And did I really want to know?

When they venture out from under our wing, we can only hope that our children take the good lessons we have tried to instill. Unfortunately, I learned they take a lot more than good values on this journey, they bring your dirty laundry with them as well. I never discovered any specifics about what my son shared with our neighbors, but I have a pretty good idea.

The other week as I was leaving school, I heard Charlie announce to his teacher, 'Claire, did you know my Daddy has the stinkiest poops ever? They're really super stinky.' Claire is a consummate professional, she smiled and said, "Oh, really Charlie?" I chuckled and did the eye roll-shoulder shrug thing, remembering a similar comment I had made that morning. Brian was mortified as there was an event at school the following day which would mark his first introduction to Claire. "No, really Mr. Goldstein, we don't need to shake hands. 'Nice to meet you' is sufficient."

The same week, on one of our not so good days, Charlie pushed Gregory backwards off the couch, hitting his head squarely on the coffee table. It was so bad that I thought he had a concussion. I 100% panicked. Recognizing the appearance of out of control Mommy, Charlie ran into his room. When I got there, he acted like he was reading and not a brother beater on the lam. I grabbed the book and threw it against the wall. He smiled at me. My flip flop came off next. I threw that against the wall, too. He just kept smiling and told me that Gregory fell all by himself. I screamed some threats, a few mild profanities, then slammed the door as I left the room.

The next day at Barnes & Noble, while buying some baby gifts, Charlie said to the saleswoman, 'You know what? Yesterday my Mom got so mad that she threw a book at the wall, but it wasn't a book like this, it was WAY bigger. Then you know what? She threw her flip flop, too. She was really mad because I hurt my brother.' The eye roll-shoulder shrug didn't seem as appropriate as the heads down-don't look anyone in the eye dash to the door. I have yet to return to the children's section.

Parents are the same, deep down we feel that our children's actions (especially the bad stuff) are a direct reflection of our parenting. Thus we try to control everything - eliminate the bad or at least try to hide it, over emphasize the good, and show everyone we are raising the smartest, most talented, and well mannered child the world has ever seen.

We fear the judgment of others - most specifically other mothers - especially when our kids are young and act really bad and we don't have any outside influences to blame. 'What kind of child are they raising? How else would he learn those kinds of words except at home? They must let him watch PG movies and eat red dye #40.' The fact that the child has a mind of his own does not enter anyone's thoughts during these moments of insecurity. We've all been there. We place the blame as quickly as we take it, and think 'there has got to be some way to change or fix that child's behavior'. But sometimes there is not a damn thing you can do but just grin and bear it (or roll and shrug) and wait for the next phase.

Brian and I have made a conscious effort to watch what we say in front of Charlie and to calm ourselves. The boy is like a video recorder that plays back an endless reel of our 'worst of' footage. If he's going out into the world- unaccompanied- representing our family, we need to control our part of the equation. We'll do the best we can, try not to judge ourselves or others too harshly, and the rest is up to Charlie. What a frightening thought.

My Mother's Day Gift

Mother's Day started out like the special celebration it should be - Mommy sleeps in, is served a wonderful breakfast, everyone is on their best behavior, nice cards and some gifts are given. Brian dressed the boys to go to the farmer's market, and made sure that everything matched. Even when Charlie decided to ruin my nap by playing monster truck jam (which entails taking every metal truck he owns and bouncing it off the coffee table), Brian took heed and exited quickly to run some 'father-son errands', leaving me with Gregory, who was napping. Heavenly alone time.

It was by all accounts a perfect day. But by 4 pm, the specialness seemed to have worn off and it was back to the same old, same old - kids fighting, husband working, and me, doing a lot of yelling.

Gregory was standing in the living room, screaming, pinned up against the fireplace. Charlie was laying on the floor and had him in some kind of scissor kick wrestling move. Gregory's shoulders were being held between Charlie's knees, leaving his feet free to kick his brother in the face. After me shouting threats (and being ignored) for the 500th time, I stormed into the kitchen and put a bottle of white wine in the freezer. Happy hour was starting a little early tonight.

Brian looked up from his computer long enough to give me the, 'What the heck is going on in there? Do you have any control over your kids? Can't you see I'm trying to work?' look. I responded with the 'Verbalize any of those thoughts and your children will be mourning the loss of their father on Mother's Day' glare.

I returned to the living room to find that nothing had changed. I pulled up a chair, might as well be comfortable while I referee and wait for the wine to chill. I was about to throw a red card and take away Charlie's dessert when Gregory stopped crying and broke free of the scissor hold. He threw himself on top of his brother and started smacking him in the face. Charlie screamed, 'Gregory, stop it. No hitting. Stoooooopppp it you stupid.'

I sat there and took it all in, smiling. A Mother's Day gift for the ages, Gregory finally started rebelling against his brother's tyranny of violence. I don't need jewelry or fancy spa gifts on this day (though in the future they would be appreciated). My wants are simple, just a little peace or at least a fair fight.

Now that the playing field is evened out a bit, we can set up that cage in the backyard for the Ultimate Fighting Championship and offer fans a decent match for their money. Hey, stop judging, we have to pay for college somehow.

And People Wonder Why I'm Losing My Mind

This is a conversation I had with Charlie on the way to school yesterday morning. A car had been pulled over on the highway by a patrolman with flashing lights and everything. Naturally, our curiosity was peaked.

'Mommy, why did the po po pull over that car?'
I'm not sure Charlie, maybe they were going too fast.
'Why were they going too fast?'
I don't know why they were going too fast.
'Why don't you know?'
Charlie, I'm not sure if that's why they even got pulled over.
'How come?'
Because I'm not in the car with them.
'How come?'
Because I'm in the car with you.
'Why?'
Who would drive if I wasn't driving? (I thought answering a question with a question would throw him off. No such luck.)
'So why did that driver get pulled over?'
I don't know why.
'Mommy, tell me every reason why they would be pulled over by the po po.'
(Sigh.) Charlie, I don't know.
'How come you don't know?'
Charlie, most people get pulled over by the po po because they are speeding.
'Do they get a ticket?'
Yes, then they get a ticket for speeding.
'How come?'
Because speeding is against the law.
'What's against the law?'
There are rules that we have to follow and if you don't listen, the po po will pull you over and give you a ticket.
'Why would they give you a ticket?'
Charlie, can we please just be quiet and listen to the music.
'Why?'
Because Mommy is about to go crazy.
'How come?'
Seriously, you have to stop asking questions.
'But why?'
CHARLIE, STOP TALKING. PLEASE.
'Okay, Mama.'
(Guilty feelings ensue followed by emotional eating.)

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

One of the things that amazes me about kids is their honesty.  While it can be a difficult pill to swallow, the commentary is usually spot on and pretty amusing.  Like when Charlie admonishes me for driving too fast and warns that the 'po po' are going to pull me over and give me a ticket.  Or when he tells Brian he smells like 'super stinky penis butt' after a run.

This past week we've noticed a departure from the blunt force honesty.  It started with a few minor incidents.  I heard the baby crying from the kitchen so in I ran, foolishly asking Charlie what happened.  Last week he would have openly confessed, 'I pushed Gregory off the stool.  Sorry, Mommy.'  The fact that he was not sorry at all is immaterial, the point is, he was honest about what happened.  This week, with his shit eating grin and hand still on the back of Gregory's neck, my little boy looked at me with innocent brown eyes and said, 'I don't know what happened, Mama?  I think he fell.'  Right, and I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.

As the week progressed, Charlie upped the ante.  My mother in law is in town for spring break.  She was buckling Charlie into the car seat, I was on the other side helping Gregory into his.  Charlie said, 'Mommy, I have to tell you something.'  

What honey?  

'It's something that Nani (my mother in law) did that I didn't like.'  

My mother in law and I are both baffled and have no idea what he's going to say.  

'Nani spit at me and Gregory.  She spit at us and I didn't like it at all.'

My mother in law is aghast.  I say, Charlie Goldstein, are you sure you're telling the truth?

'Yes, I am.  Nani spit.'

My mother in law's face is literally next to his with a look that could maim or possibly even kill her first born grandchild.  But she calmly states, 'Charlie, I do not spit.  It is not nice.  Perhaps you're thinking of yesterday when you spit at me.'  

Oh, snap.  He did spit at her the day before because she tried to help him to his room to get dressed for school.  

With no response from her accuser, Nani asked, 'Charlie, is that what you're telling Mommy about, when you spit at me?'

Charlie can't even look her in the eye, he stares straight ahead and says, 'Nani, I'm done.  This discussion is over.'

We duck behind the car to hide our laughter.  But as we pull out of the driveway, the reality of the situation hits and I become somber.  The age of innocence is over.  My son has graduated from fibber to bold faced liar in exactly 3 days.  At this rate, by the time Charlie is 5, he's going to be telling me he doesn't know how that dent got on the bumper of my car or why the inside reeks of beer.  My husband often likes to say, go big or go home.  Or in Charlie's case, lie big and admit to nothing.

Pretty Pink Packages

Many of us, for better or for worse, have alter egos. They come out when we're drunk, stressed, overtired, in Vegas, etc. I've talked about Charlie's Jekyll and Hyde routine, mostly of Hyde and his constant torturing of Charlie's younger brother. But this past weekend we actually got to meet his version of Jekyll - you know, the good one.

We went to visit friends for an early dinner on Sunday. They have a daughter who is about 2 months older than Gregory. As big and boyish as Gregory is, she is just as dainty and demure. She is their only child and definitely the princess of her castle.

I'm always a little tentative when we take the boys to someone's home. Their aggressive behavior usually has a shock and awe effect on both parent and child alike. 'Wouldn't they feel more comfortable coloring at the table instead of on the walls?' Hey, there's a reason the word 'washable' has been placed on those markers. Or, 'Perhaps they could roll the ball instead of throwing it directly at his face?' You want your kid to play like a girl, then have him play with girls.

I wasn't sure if the newly acquired play structure in our friend's backyard would alleviate or add to my feelings of apprehension. Granted it was for toddlers so it could keep the boys occupied while I downed a glass or 3 of chardonnay. But it was just high enough for an adorable little 18 month old girl to obtain her first round of stitches or broken bones, especially if helped along by a certain 3 1/2 year old boy.

Charlie ran Gregory over on his way out to the backyard like he was at Filene's Basement Running of the Brides bridal gown sale. He then tried to push him backwards off the ladder. When that didn't thwart Gregory's efforts, Charlie kicked him in the face as he went down the slide head first.

Fortunately the chardonnay and yummy appetizers were doing wonders for my blood pressure. But my dwindling tentativeness quickly spiked to pure panic as 'the princess' decided it was her turn to go down the slide. How was this going to go? Would our friends ask us to leave before or after they iced and bandaged their daughter's precious head? Would dinner wind up being a trip through the McDonald's drive thru on our way home?

Before I could say, "Charlie, let's remember our gentle hands." Pixie princess, dressed in her floral green and pink sweatsuit complete with matching shoes and hair tie, teetered up the ladder and was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting. Prior to this moment, she had never been allowed to go down the slide unassisted. Charlie was at the bottom saying, 'Come on, come on. I'll catch you.' The parents are hovering, trying to determine if they should entrust their daughter's wellbeing to a preschooler, let alone a preschooler with a well documented history of ill behavior towards toddlers. I'm hovering myself, wondering if Charlie is channeling Jekyll or Hyde and does one of them know CPR?

Everyone was on high alert as our friends only child comes down the slide and is caught in the arms of the most adorable, competent, chivalrous 3 1/2 year old on this good green Earth. The icing on the cake was the, 'Great job you little cutie.' I'm not sure if shock or relief registered first, but who cares, she was alive, in one piece, and with no visible injuries or blood stains on her outfit, the same could not be said of Charlie's brother.

We learned a lot from the experience. 1. Charlie is a kind, sweet boy with the ability to be amazingly gentle (we knew this, but were in desperate need of a reminder) 2. From this point forward, Gregory will be dressed from head to toe in pink. Our own little social experiment of sorts.

What Is Wrong With You?

We always worry about our kids no matter what. From the moment they are born, are they breathing, hungry, scared, healthy, happy, smart, liked? The list of everyday worries gets longer and longer the older they get - loss of eye from juice box straw, choking on non-organic, processed snack foods, fear of abduction by all men with mustaches wearing hoodie sweatshirts and dark sunglasses. While each of these is a horrible vision, they are not the worst of my fears. To me, the worst worries are the ones that cannot be controlled, no matter the amount of preparedness.

When you think your child has something physically, mentally, developmentally, or emotionally wrong with them, there is a whole new feeling that gets added to that worrying mix - guilt. Especially for mothers, you scrutinize every move you've made from conception through birth. Did I really need to ingest a jar of peanut butter a week for the entire 36 weeks of my pregnancy? Did drinking my merry way through the Christmas season, prior to knowing I was pregnant, leave my child deficient in healthy brain cells? Should I blame diet Coke for his hyperactivity? Would I sue NutraSweet or Coke? Yes, rationality tends to go out the door when questioning the well being of your child.

Brian and I have been worried about Charlie for some time now. While we joke about it, calling him Jekyll and Hyde or El Diablo, and I write about it, over the past months his aggressiveness, most specifically towards his brother, has strayed beyond the boundaries of our home. Spilling over into the outside world - school, parks, play dates - it seemed no stranger, friend, or foe under the age of 10 was safe. If someone were to take Charlie's sand toy, that child would be met with a swift poke in the eye with the end of a shovel or a bitch slap that would make Alexis Carrington proud.

And our smart, thoughtful, wonderful little boy, did not seem to care about any of the consequences for his actions. Leave the park, scream at the top of my lungs, ignore him, strap him to the roof of the car while driving 75 mph down the highway; no matter what my reaction, he continued along this same path. Aggressive, almost crazed behavior one minute, then sweetly sharing his snack with his brother the next. I chalked it up to his being 3 1/2, or the next coming of Sybil.

Brian of course, being the worried Jewish father type, has always said, "His behavior cannot be normal." This has been a source of much contention in our marriage. Me countering with, "He's fine. He's 3. I see a lot of kids we know doing the same things to their siblings." Though the more I observed, lost my temper, and lost hope that any of my attempts to alter his behavior would work, the more I came to believe that Charlie was on track to do his brother in by spring, giving March Madness a whole new meaning.

So I sought the advice of his teachers. After they witnessed him running Gregory over with the class art cart, they gave us the name of a counselor to help determine if Charlie (or his parents) had a problem. It's a big step, to admit to someone other than your spouse that something may be wrong with your child and that you're not doing a great job as a parent dealing with it. It's like if you say it out loud, it makes it real and very scary and of course, your fault. Can I fix this? What if it effects him for the rest of his life? Or worse, what if my son blames me, then goes and writes a book about it? Probably time to get rid of those wire hangers.

We went to see a counselor at Jewish Family Services. I can't say enough about what a fantastic resource this place is, for anyone in need. Her very first words to us, "From everything you've described, your child is developmentally appropriate and on course." Really? Attempting to 'help' one's brother down the slide by pushing him over the railing is normal? Drop kicking him from the top of the couch and landing on his back is developmentally appropriate?

She did give us some constructive ways to help deal with Charlie when he gets out of control, as well as good reminders about our own behavior. It's amazing when you calm yourself, how your child follows suit. Sounds simple but when I get worn down and frustrated, cool, calm and collected is not usually my first or favorite response - love those wire hangers.

She did suggest that we read some books on dysfunctional sensory integration. Without actually meeting Charlie and observing him, it was impossible for her to make a judgment. I think Brian and I felt a combination of relief and vomitousness. There really could be something wrong with our child and thank G_d we might have an explanation.

She suggested we read 'The Out of Sync Child' and 'The Sensory Sensitive Child' to decide if we wanted Charlie to be observed by someone. After researching tons of stuff on the web and reading the books, I was still not 100% that we were dealing with something other than normal 3 1/2 year old behavior. But there was enough doubt in my mind that I've asked someone from Easter Seals to come out for a home visit to see if further evaluation is necessary.

I'm writing this in hopes that people will talk about what's going on with their children with friends, family, teachers, etc. Or do like I did, start a blog to complain about them to a larger audience. While a lot of bad behavior is just kids being kids, if you feel something is not quite right or even the tiniest bit off, ask someone, read, research, get help. Mommy intuition does not come naturally to some of us; it took me the better part of 6 months to do something about my son's behavior. Even if he is fine, I still learned how I can be a better parent. I'll never stop worrying, but this is my attempt to gain some control over those feelings, especially the guilt. If Charlie does ever write that book, I'm hoping there will be a chapter entitled, "At Least The Bitch Tried."

Body Parts

One of my dearest friends is a successful financial analyst. She carries herself with all of the grace and sophistication of someone raised in southern Connecticut, with an Ivy league education, and a high falutin career. But when she ties one on, she has been known to expose herself to large crowds screaming, "What? What's the problem? They're just body parts. See!" Then proceeds to yank on one of her breasts.

You might think this will lead into a don't judge a book by it's cover story, but it's not. Since the time he could crawl, Charlie has always been interested in his own body parts - belly button, nose, ears, etc. Like most kids, he liked to repeatedly stick his finger, a blade of grass, a stick, or a rock, into the area of interest, rummage around for a bit, then move on. Fortunately, no ER visits to date have been necessary.

I think it was at about 18 months when he found his penis, affectionately called Mr. Snappy. I was expecting this stage to get rolling around the 'tween years'. I guess my kid is advanced. On the changing table, in the bathtub, while watching Elmo on the couch, everywhere you could imagine, Charlie was doing some in depth analysis of Mr. Snappy. Everything we read said this was totally normal and not to draw attention to it. So we let him explore away. Sure enough after about a month, he moved onto something else, like emptying the contents of my jewelry box into the toilet so he could give my necklaces a 'bath'.

Today at 3 1/2, he's more into talking about penis's or any other controversial word he can think of. He told me in the car the other day, "Mommy, aren't you so glad I don't say the word FUCK. Fuck is a really bad word." When leaving a voice mail message for his uncle recently, all he said into the answering machine was, "Penis, penis, penis, penis." Then laughed like he was George Carlin reincarnated - they're just words after all, we're the ones who assign them meaning. Most of the literature I've read would agree. The experts counsel that during this phase you should ignore the language. Children like to test boundaries to try to get a reaction, and/or to feel powerful by using bad words. If you pay attention or respond, you're just fueling the fire.

We've always tried to be open with Charlie about our own bodies. We use all of the correct terms for everything (not sure how Mr. Snappy came to be) and never shy away from any question. It's a slippery slope, you want your child to be at ease with his body and not feel embarrassed by or uncomfortable talking about it. But how open do you want them to be? What are you supposed to do when your son asks the checker at Safeway if he's ever had a ladybug on his penis? Seriously, do you shush him and tell him that it's not nice to talk like that? Do you walk away and pretend like the whole thing never happened? Or do you bolt for the nearest exit before he can ask about grasshoppers in the man's ass?

When faced with these situations, it's typical to reflect back on one's own childhood and wonder what your parents would do. I know exactly what mine would have done. I remember like it was yesterday, my older brother at age 6, telling my uncle he was going 'punch him in the penis'. My mother smacked him with a wooden spoon, threatened to put hot pepper flakes on his tongue so he could never utter the word again, then sent up to his room for about an hour. I'm guessing you wouldn't see that approach on Super Nanny.

And since we weren't at home and I wasn't near the spice aisle, I chose to smile politely while removing myself from the check out line, then asked the man if he could point me in the direction of the gluten free crackers. He just stared at me, I think his weird-o meter must have been tripped. As a mother, I've become a master in redirection and deflection, though sometimes to my own detriment. Like when I told Charlie to help me make dinner instead of terrorizing his brother. 2 minutes later there was milk, egg and Cheerio soup being cooked on my floor. Neither of these was my smoothest move, though I always have the most honorable of intentions. I'm sure my picture is tacked to the bulletin board inside the break room at Safeway with a sign, 'Warning, do not approach. Mother and child may exhibit inappropriate behavior with insects.'

Hug It Out

It seems that every time I think Charlie has pushed me to the brink of sanity, usually within 24 hours of that moment, the kid does something to make me reconsider my 'Free to Good Home' posting on Craig's List. It's no surprise that our family, including his grandmothers, have taken to calling him Jekyll and Hyde, his attitude swings are that drastic.

Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"

Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.

As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.

Owie, Owie, Owie

It's hard not to compare your kids to one another. Charlie and Gregory walked at exactly the same age, 13 1/2 months. They both started sleeping through the night at roughly 5 1/2 months, which felt like 5 1/2 years. They both gave up the bottle at 12 months, though with Gregory, you would have thought I was stripping him of a vital organ. That boy loved his 'baba' and still stares longingly at little babies sucking away on theirs.

Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'

Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.

This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.

The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'

I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."

Forget You, Mariah

For once I am not going to write/complain about my kids. The subject today is me; me and my ongoing journey of self discovery.

At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?

Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.

Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.

In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.

Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.

It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.

Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.

At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.

It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?

Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.

As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?

'Hey, Big Boy' Bed

Charlie has been sleeping on the floor for the past month, really since we got home from Christmas at my Mom's. Yes, he has a bed. It's a toddler bed that still uses his old crib mattress, and it is not comfortable at all. It does not surprise me that the carpeting on the floor gives him more cushion.

We finally decided to splurge and bought him a big boy mattress. The toddler bed converts into a full bed, which is cool, but kind of weird. I was a twin mattress girl until after college and this whole thing feels odd, almost dirty, like I'm pushing my own son toward, well, sex. I know, I know, he's only 3 1/2, and it's just a mattress. But why else does one need a bed larger than a twin unless A) you're a large person, or B) you share, or hope to share, that bed with someone.

We were awaiting the delivery of the bed and Brian decided to take Charlie on a sheet purchasing expedition; mistake #1. He took him to Ross Dress for Less, which is kind of like a ghetto Marshall's or TJ Maxx; mistake #2. It's the place you go for candles, picture frames, maybe underwear (if they still have the tags), or socks, but sheets? And not just any sheets, Charlie wanted pink or purple sheets, his favorite colors.

Upon their return, Charlie proudly showed me his purple satin sheets, as well as his pink satin ones with Playboy bunnies on them. Brian smirked, 'Charlie wanted them, he picked them out all by himself.' Wow, cool. I tried to mask my distaste for Charlie's benefit but I just couldn't do it.

Honey, you couldn't have redirected him to the cozy flannel sheets, or told him that these were the wrong size? 'But they were on sale', was his response. My husband has never bought something because it was on sale in his life. I'm not sure why he chose Ross Dress for Less as the place to alter his shopping habits.

The purple sheets I could live with, but the pink bunnies were down right offensive. Brian thinks I'm crazy and this whole thing amuses him. Not only do I think it's a sexist double standard; these sheets never would have been purchased if Charlie were a girl. But it's impractical as well; I doubt it's going to be Brian running into the kid's room at 3 am when he slides out of his bed and cracks his head on the floor.

My hesitation about buying Charlie a larger bed may be a bit unfounded, but now we've gone and introduced sexy boudoir accessories into his repertoire. What kind of parents are we? We might as well move to Nevada and open up a brothel.

Okay, so I'm a touch dramatic. I really worried for no reason, the sheets are already off after 1 night. Turns out satin sheets do not properly cover little boys who wiggle (in a non sexual way) in their sleep. As I said to Brian, at least he and the kids guarantee me material to write about. That would be the silver, or satin, lining.

Et tu, Brute?

Gregory started to walk about 2 weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't really progressed past taking a few tentative steps toward me or the coffee table. Usually it's when he wants something, a toy or his sippy cup. He'll either take a few steps then fall to the ground to crawl the rest of the way, or he just stands there with his arms out stretched, whining, crying, and pointing at the object he desires.

I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.

Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.

My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?

The Enforcer

As much as Charlie likes to ignore the rules of our household, when he's out in public, he adheres to a surprisingly strict moral code. Like most people, he has a couple of things that really get his goat; 1) littering and 2) not wearing a bike helmet.

At the park he'll walk up and hand me a sticky wrapper, "Here, Mommy, someone littered. They are so bad. They are not respectful at all!" Brian's big on respect and respecting one's elders. He tries to drive that message home every time Charlie calls him a yucky poo poo head or laughs when he's trying to dole out a punishment. Seems it's working but in ways he never expected. Respect for the park, yes; respect for Daddy, no. I think we could be bearing witness to the rise of the next leader of the Earth Liberation Front.

He notices trash everywhere, which is a sad statement; the highway, the parking lot of the grocery store, on walks through our neighborhood. The problem is he wants to clean it all up. I don't want to discourage this kind of behavior, but I'm usually the go between for Charlie and the garbage can. I'm quite accommodating, though I draw the line at chewed gum and old socks.

I understand where he gets the cleanliness from. His dad is part OCD, I pick up trash on hikes, and tend to complain about litter. But the bike helmet thing is a mystery. He's like a Jewish mother traffic cop. When we drive in the car and he sees someone sans helmet, he literally roles down his window and screams at them. Usually something like, "Hey, lady, where's your helmet? Go home and get your helmet." or "Hey, man, you're going to fall and crack your head open and bleed." Of course this generally startles the person so much so that they almost do fall and crack their head open. Those window locks do come in handy.

It makes me laugh because I hear myself and Brian in each utterance. You become keenly aware of how your every action and word can effect your kid. Kind of scary really. I don't dwell too much on it. I just rest easy knowing that our parks are cleaner and the streets are a little safer when the Enforcer is around.

The Face of Evil

I believe the devil has left Georgia and is currently residing in my eldest son. His behavior on all levels, especially toward his brother, has escalated to astronomic proportions; hitting, biting, back talking, complete defiance, and general shit-headed-ness. He fails to show an ounce of remorse for his actions, or any sign of caring about the consequences. Wrap all this up into a 3 day weekend and you can imagine the mix of rage, terror and frustration Brian and I are experiencing. Not unlike an animal snared in a trap from which they can't escape. Though at this point, being locked up in cage sounds pretty good to us.

Brian woke up with the boys Saturday and things were off to a rough start. Charlie decided everything that Gregory picked up was 'his' and would rip it out of his hands. Gregory of course wailed. Taking things away from Gregory was like Charlie's gateway drug, similar to pot. He quickly moved on to hitting his brother whenever he came near one of his toys; we'll call that his cocaine phase. And finally he advanced to the big leagues, crystal meth, or biting his brother. No matter what Brian took away or how loud he yelled, Charlie continued along his path of aggression, smiling the whole way.

I was trying to ignore the piercing screams (from both father and child) by pulling the covers over my head. When that didn't work, I jumped in the shower in an attempt to completely block out the noise. Unfortunately, Charlie's room shares a wall with our bathroom. It was like having a cell next to the torture room at Abu Ghraib.

I padded into the living room where Gregory was playing alone, Brian was sitting in a chair silent, either crying or sweating, and Charlie was half laughing, whimpering in his room. What happened?

Apparently, after breakfast, Brian felt nature's call. He decided things were calm enough that he could take 2 minutes (or 15) to visit the bathroom. As Brian was leaving the room, he quickly glanced back to see Charlie punch/shove his brother in the back, then quickly move around to the front as Gregory was falling, then push him in the chest, sending him backwards. Remember those blow up punching bags from when you were a kid, the ones with the sand in the bottom so they could never fall over, they just kind of smacked the ground then bounced back up. Brian said Gregory looked like that. Which is what lead to their little tete-a-tete in Charlie's bedroom and my early wake up call.

No one was happy and this was the beginning of a long weekend. It went down hill from there. We yelled over and over again, we ignored, we punished, we took away everything Charlie held near and dear to his heart - Caillou, blocks, books, dessert, etc. and yet he continued on his rampage of terror against his brother and us. I sat on my knees, staring into his big brown eyes searching for some softness, some semblance of the adoring little boy he was just last week. But this monster actually seemed to be enjoying the attention as he came back time and time again, doling out more pain.

I spoke to one of Charlie's teachers later on Saturday. She offered up the theory that he's still adjusting to life with a younger brother. Now that Gregory is mobile, wanting to do everything his big brother does, getting into all of his stuff, and demanding just as much attention, Charlie's life as our main focus has truly come to an end. Maybe he'll move out?

I guess he's mad and this pattern of aggression (and deafness) is his way of rebelling. So what can you do? You keep on moving. We're attempting to switch up our approach to things by removing ourselves and Gregory from the room when Charlie acts up (the boy hates to be ignored). No TV until night time, and only then if he's been a good listener and kind to his brother. We hope that tomorrow will be better, that Charlie will be better, and that we'll be better.

Of course as I post this entry, Charlie has been the embodiment of all things good and sweet today, like a little angel who listens, behaves, says please and thank you. Or like a sociopath plotting his next move, lulling his victims into a false sense of calm and ease. I think he has us exactly where he wants us.

Giving Up the Bottle

Week 2 of the New Year's resolution and giving up the bottle is not going so well. No, not me, talk about setting yourself up for failure. It is Gregory's Mommy-imposed resolution to be bottle-free in 2009. He is not happy, in fact, he's down right cranky as he gets used to life without a nipple. It's almost as bad as New Year's 2004 with my South Beach Diet resolution. I gave up my bottle (of red wine) for 2 weeks. Two words come to mind, ornery and bitch, and that is being kind. Just ask my husband. We all learned a valuable lesson about the necessity of having vices in one's life.

So what is my resolution for 2009, you ask? I pilfered it from another blogger. She decided rather than trying to add or subtract a vice, behavior, or food from her life to make her a better, healthier, thinner person, she would start the year off with a new perspective. Whenever she was set to complain about something or someone - kids, mother, health, job, etc - she would pretend like she was living 20 years in the future and try to view the issue from that lens.

For example, say her mother calls her up to tell her that in the recent pictures she posted of the kids, she did not think it appropriate that her eldest son was wielding a large stick. 'Do you always let him play with sticks? That's very dangerous. Someone could lose an eye.'
The 2008, 30 something self would reply with a sarcastic, 'Gee, thanks Mom. Glad you liked the pictures. Would you like me send you copies of the ones where I'm dangling both kids off the bridge by their ankles?
The 2009 reaction from her 50 plus lens, 'Gosh, Mom, I'm so glad you're still alive to talk to. I thought all of that nagging and judging would have surely killed you by now.'

Seriously, I'm finding the new perspective to be valuable. Both of my boys are in 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy mode' right now. Every sentence starts with a whiny 'Mommy' or 'Mama' and ends with both of them grabbing some part of my person and yanking, pulling, twisting, licking.

Charlie was hanging on me yesterday at the grocery store and actually pulled my sweat pants down below my ass. 'Attention Safeway shoppers, we currently have a special on extra marbled Mommy butt roast in the meat department.'

All the attention does warm my heart, though many days, especially after 5 straight hours of listening to 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy', I find it intrusive and annoying. But if I imagine myself in 20 years, A) I'll be lucky if my boys are even in the same state, let alone house, as me, and B) they probably won't be calling me Mommy anymore. I'm thinking it will either be 'Mother', said with a huff and rolled eyes, or if they've read this blog 'Thankless woman who complains about her children incessantly'.

While I can promise that Gregory will be sticking to his resolution - I threw all of his bottles in the trash January 1st. Mine will be a work in progress. Some days a fresh perspective is welcome and can help us to see things clearly. Other days, it's as inviting as a cold bottle of non-alcoholic beer at the end of a long day.

Round II

Growing up with 2 brothers, I feel they have equipped me well to raise 2 sons. To say my brothers were merciless to me is being kind. Worse than the fat jokes (I topped the scales at 152 lbs in the 6th grade), was their constant engagement in bodily function warfare. Their weapon of choice, farts.

With one of them pinning down my arms and legs, the other would sit upon my head. They usually aimed for the mouth, but the eyes, ears, or nose would suffice. Really anywhere they could fit their ass to unleash the fury that laid within. If there was only one of them, he physically couldn't bring me down (152 lbs had some benefits). So he would come running into the room, fart as loud as possible, then run away, laughing. They called that a 'sneak attack.' Or, if I was on the phone, they would pick up the other line and fart into it. Better known as 'sending an SOS'.

My brothers were like generals, treating fart warfare like it was a science. They studied and charted when they were the most gaseous and how they could use that to their advantage. Years of research proved that when they farted into my older brother's Planet of the Apes garbage can, the smell had more staying power. They even figured out which specific foods my mother cooked would result in the most noxious smell. Incidentally it was sausages and scalloped potatoes in the early years and today, wings and dark beer yield the same effect - no, I'm not kidding.

Every college break, I would return home in hopes that the phase would have passed. Nope. They spent the time honing their skills. There was no longer a need to pin me down as they had perfected their guerrilla warfare tactics. The 'drop and roll', fart standing up next to the victim, then drop down to the floor to avoid the smell; 'snoozer sneak attack', fart loud enough to wake the person up, then run quickly from their room to avoid the smell; or my favorite, the 'all out ambush', where both of them would come and sit on either side of me on the couch to watch TV then just let loose (usually after some scallop potatoes or sausage). I still laugh, and cringe, every time I think about it.

Charlie has entered into the potty talk phase where he's become very aware of his bodily functions. Like his uncles, he loves not only to fart (or tootie, as he calls them), but to talk about farts every chance he gets. He wants me to listen to his farts, 'Hey Mommy, that tootie was so loud, Nani and Papa heard it all the way in Florida.' To smell them, 'Whoa, Mommy, what is that smell?' I don't know, Charlie, what is it? 'Oh, it was just my tootie and boy does it stink.' He even sings about them,
'Old McDonald had a toot.
Tootie, tootie, toot.
And on that toot there was poop.
Poopy, poopy, poop.
With a toot tooot here and poop poop there,
Here a toot, there a poop, everywhere a toot poop.
Old McDonald was a yucky,
Toot, toot, toot, toot, toot, TOOOOOOT!'

This is usually followed by roaring laughter (both mine and his), for a good 2 minutes. I know this only encourages the behavior. You would think after 30 plus years of being oppressed by farts, I would have had my fill and would want to teach Charlie that they're gross and to be avoided. But it's so ingrained in me and was such a huge part of my upbringing. I feel farts/tooties contain a valuable life lesson, if you just look for it, or smell it (hee hee).

Farts are funny. They represent humor at it's most basic, human level. They are the great equalizer. No matter how rich, powerful, or important you become, regardless of race, ethnicity or religion, everyone farts. Barack Obama, Queen Elizabeth (though she only passes gas), Osama Bin Laden, even Gwyneth Paltrow, are no better than you or me, they all fart. Everyone does. Except for Joaquin Phoenix and Matt Damon, they smell of nothing but ivory soap and Old Spice.