Yelling

I have never thought of myself as a yeller. Loud? Sure. Boisterous? It has been said. But a yeller? No.

Then I had 4 children.

A few years ago, my friend Mary was telling me how she felt like all she did was yell at her kids. I just nodded, silently, thinking "well, yelling doesn't work, everyone knows that. I don't yell at my kids. And I won't. " And that was the adorable little thinking of a mother of 3, 2 of whom were still learning how to talk.

Now, I think I have her beat. Big time.

For one thing, this house is VERY VERY LOUD. Shouting is the norm simply to be heard. And the 4th little rug rat? He's the loudest of the bunch. Why wouldn't he be? He has grown up thinking decibel levels comparable to a small jet engine are the norm.

But volume alone isn't the source of the trouble. Anger and frustration has found it's way to my internal volume control. I was found yelling at Calvin last night in a room with just the two of us because he had pushed my buttons so completely and thoroughly. See, he has decided that he will simply do things his way. This will be achieved either by ignoring my instructions or outright arguing with me. I mean, come on. Why would he get ready for bed when asked? That is completely unreasonable.

Or another highlight from yesterday: I find Cal riding a friend's scooter in the middle of the road. I tell him he can't do this.
"But MOM!!!! Alexi SAID I could!!"
"Calvin, you can't play in the street."
"BUT MOM!! Alexi SAID I COULD!"
"Calvin, I heard what you said. But I am telling you that you can't. You could get hit by a car." "BUT MOMMMMMM!!"
"CALVIN! I DON'T CARE WHAT ALEXI SAID! GET OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD!!"
(Cue the crazy Howard Dean scream)

How did I get here? I AM NOT A YELLER. Everyone knows there is no theory of parenting based on screaming. "Yelling: How to Raise Caring, Responsible Children by Acting like a Howler Monkey." Not a bestseller...

So, I think it's time to take up meditation. Or install acoustic panels over our new remodeled home. Or study the work of Yoda. I don't know....

This one has it figured out

I have gone through many a battle as a mother for the last 9 years. I have done the terrible two's 4 times now, and there are endless variations of how one ends up on time out. I have heard many a scheme and deflected many a child-tactic to get their way.

I have been climbed like a mountain so many times I feel like Everest's got nothin' on me. I have had 4 boys simultaneously clawing at me, each vying for 100% of my attention. Each day brings a new way of dealing with it (some days are much more Parent Magazine approved than others...).

And just as I have strategies to deal with 4 boys, so do they for dealing with having just one mom. Max is earnest. Cal plays aloof but then wants one-on-one time. Spence just keeps climbing me... persistence has to pay off at some point, right? But it's #4 who played the trump card last night.

As has been universally true with each son, my lap is the preferred place to sit during dinner. It is also forbidden. I DON'T DO UPPIES WHEN I AM EATING. Period. No exceptions.

Leo, non-plussed with dinner last night, announces is is done about 3.4 minutes into the meal, and then he starts the dinner table satellite circles, gravitating towards my lap with each pass. As always, I quoted the above rule.

So he looks at me with bassett hound eyes and says "But I love you."

That was a new one. Dagger straight to the heart. How do you not suck that little kid up in an octopus style hug and just kiss him from head to toe??? I mean, come on!

I still made him wait till I was done eating, but MAN did he pull out a trick none of the others have figured out!

I am in trouble.

Best pic ever

No more terrible two's

My sweet baby boy turned three on Friday.

THREE

I know that still sounds like an itty bitty kid in the big scheme of life, but 3 is no baby either. I don't have any babies. I have all big boys now. It kinda brings a tear to my eye (or is that a tear of rage at telling these boys to stop yelling for the berjillionth time today....?).


I don't know that I will ever stop feeling like he is my baby. Leo, my man, you are an extremely happy, joyful and funny little boy. You find humor in the most basic of things, which brings laughs to the rest of us. You are kind to your brothers and your friends. You already have empathy, which is a lovely, loverly characteristic. Our family would never have been complete without you.

I love you so much little man. Welcome to Three!

Ahhhhh....

... and with that, school begins.

The relief in my voice is as if I don't have my kids in summer camp every day. I know that there are other mothers with much more reason to be ecstatic that I, but I do love the start of school.

There is a structure and rhythm to it that is calming. It means fall is here, and I truly love fall. Once I get over the fact that summer is over, I fully embrace the fleece weather and sound of crunching leaves. Football is starting tonight, and soon a fire in the fireplace will be quite lovely.

So, here's to the start of yet another school year and all that comes with it.

Waiting for the bus at the Boz's

My baby

These days, when I refer to "my baby," Leo is the one that everyone thinks of. Hell, even LEO thinks of Leo, frequently referring to himself as "you baby." He even gets it confused sometimes and says "Mama, you MY baby."

But the original baby, of course, is Max. He was the original Small Guy Small Fry. He is the one that got this whole hormone festival of mommahood thrust into the hyperdrive, resulting in a family of 6. But he is no baby anymore. My original baby started football last week. This is what my baby is looking like these days.

I always swore I wouldn't let my boys play football. Too dangerous, right? But, due to a stroke of luck/reality for them, I became an ER doctor. And ya know what? I have taken care of ONE football related injury. One. I have been doing this now for 10 years (in contrast, I would now NEVER let my boys play hockey), so it appear my nightmares of maimed and bloodied children are a little overblown.

But the true horror of football? The gear. Now, I have never done this before, but am I supposed to remove the pads of the pants before washing? 'Cause I might just lose my mind (as if I wasn't at the brink already) if that is the routine. There are 7 pads in a pair of pants. Each a specific side and shape and curvature. All of which need to be placed while the pants are inside out. After today's laundry test of doom, I felt like I would rather take the MCAT again.

And the cup? I firmly believe I should have nothing to do with that. Not centrally, not peripherally, not in any way at all. However, given that my husband didn't do contact sports himself, this is a land of mystery to him as well. So, he actually turned to me last week and asked "What kind of underwear should I buy for Max to wear with his cup?" REALLY?!? You are asking ME? Dude, I'm not a dude! I don't have the gear that requires buying the gear! You MUST be kidding!

But Max made it to (and through) the first practice, all appropriate gear present and accounted for. And he continues to like it even after being tackled. I just make one request... Please don't crush my Small Guy.

Must we?

Ah, developmental stages. They are grand, aren't they? Like the fact that at the beginning of 1st grade, it's APPROPRIATE for the little 6 year olds in my life to think about nothing but themselves and not others. It's natural for them to want the biggest treat without offering it to others.

I can deal with that and try to roll with it.

But why must we go through to "I am refusing to get dressed" stage with the 2 1/2 year old? Why, oh why is that necessary. Is there some magical brain synapse that will only form if this daily battle is fought? Must there be screams of protest when daddy attempts to assist instead of mommy? This is one little step in the pediatric yellow brick road that I would rather skip.

But, I am not above bribery. Today, we had great happiness in the land because a jelly bean was promised if Leo could get 'er done without assistance. And since no good dead goes unpunished, I was rewarded for this stroke of genius with 3 older boys looking at me with outstretched hands as well. "We got dressed all by ourselves too mom...."

Sure! Jelly beans for all. Can we keep it a secret, however, that this was after a breakfast comprised of the donuts Mary brought over...?