And the Award Goes To...

Because I could use a little cheering up right now (and because you might need the same), I'm going to share a story that I've been holding in my pocket for a while now, waiting until I really wanted to post it.

Before I begin, I will preemptively state that I know the words I'm about to write could easily land me a runner-up spot for the Worst Mother of the Year Award. I KNOW. But it's already happened, and I have to share this.

It all actually began several years ago one nice afternoon when the boys and I were itching to get out and enjoy the weather. About a mile from the house was a playground at a brand new elementary school. I'd seen it from the road and thought it was a grand idea to try it out that day.

A word about me and playgrounds that I've learned with time: I don't know what it is, but we tend to not get along. I use poor judgment about the boys' abilities, I often get even myself hurt, and other parents rub me the wrong way. Bad things happen there. But that didn't stop me that day, because the boys weren't really all that old yet and I was just getting started in the world of playgrounds.

After the excitement and anticipation of going to a special new playground, we arrived and I quickly deflated, realizing that upon closer examination, this playground was way beyond what the boys' gross motor skills were capable of. Perhaps it was because it was designed for elementary school age children and not two-year-olds.

But in typical stubborness, I was determined to make the best of it. We were going to play, by golly. I helped and assisted and demonstrated the best I could, but the look on the boys' faces clearly told the story: This sucks, Mommy.

At the end of the playground stood what might have been the redeemer of the afternoon-- a huge (that should have been clue #1, Sherlock), slicky-slide complex. After a long climb up some steep steps (clue #2), you had the option of taking three different slides: one that twisted to the left, one that twisted to the right, and one that went straight down the middle.

As I gestured and enthusiastically guided them to the slide, the boys just kind of looked at me. As if I was a total nutcase. But bless their hearts, they were good sports and I know they trusted my judgment... which was their first mistake. Up the stairs we all went. It wasn't until I watched (from the top) Ben get about 1/4 of the way headed down the middle slide that I realized this was a Horrible Idea.

Perhaps it was because he had no core strength in his little body.... perhaps it was because he weighed less than 25 pounds... or maybe it was because the slide was much steeper than I realized.... but as he headed down the slide, he started to lose control of his body and pick up more speed. As he flew off the end of the slide, he seemed to hang in mid-air, his whole body twisting superfast so that in one motion, he was facing downward, deposited facedown in the mulch.

Thank God for mulch. It was in his mouth, in his shoes, and down his shirt, but it saved us a trip to the ER, I'm convinced. Picking up and comforting the now completely mortified Ben, I first glanced around to see if anyone else had seen this and was dialing CPS. Coast was clear. I then turned my attention to Jake, standing at the top of the slides. Firmly (and wisely) resisting my pleas to slide down the slide and let me catch him, Jake insisted I come up and rescue him, which I did. Tail tucked, we packed up and went home.

Showing the true resilience of children, Ben never really let that experience bother him, and as he got older and stronger, he enjoyed slides of all types. So when we discovered that the great playground at the elementary school right over the hill from our new house had an identical triple slide, I never even thought twice about suggesting he try it out. He was nearly 3 1/2 now, and probably weighed a good, what, four pounds more now? (I wish that was just a joke, but it's probably accurate).

"Come on, Ben! Come down the slide!" I cheered from the bottom. I even had my camera ready to take a picture in the perfect evening sunlight of autumn.

He looked me square in the eye, scooted his little bottom to the top of the slide and pushed off.

I am sad to say that the same exact event occurred. Little Ben was doing fantastic until he got to the end of that slide and did a perfect re-enactment of his past slicky-slide mishap. I tell the truth-- I had no idea he'd bite the dust like that again. I would have gone down the slide with him. Or been there to catch him. Or not suggested it at all. But instead I stood there with my camera ready, like the ignorant, terrible parent that I sometimes am. I was even able to quickly snap a pic of him pre-flight (see Exhibit A below).

There were tears this time around, again, but most of all, he was just mad. And indignant. And clearly in disbelief that he'd been suckered into that one again. But once the mulch had been brushed off, the tears wiped away, and the boo-boos kissed, he got back up and marched to the slide again.

This time with Mommy's help.

Prove Your Point

Through the miracle of technology, a considerable donation is headed toward little Michael Angelo and his family in the Phillipines, gathered from family and friends who otherwise would have spent the resources on probably unnecessary Christmas gifts... What probably would have bought relatively luxury items such as sweaters, jewelry, and electronics has instead been wired across the planet to literally feed and clothe a family that has nothing at all.

But more on that in a minute.

Last week on Thanksgiving Day, I was going on a much-needed run and was approached by a stray dog that I immediately recognized as being some sort of Pitbull mix. Our neighborhood is a virtual landmine of dogs for a jogger, and as I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, I tightened my grip on my pepper spray. The dog seemed playful, but when he tried to jump on my back, I let loose with screaming and nearly used the spray. He ran off briefly, but by the time I'd finished my run, he was hanging around the house. He continued to stay around the house, making me uncomfortable and angry with his presence. I used to be a dog lover, but I wanted him gone.

A few days later on another run, he caught up with me again. He seemed a little aggressive, but on that day, I noticed he was looking pretty ribby and was scavenging trash cans. This dog was hungry and lost. Still annoyed with him, I continued to yell and try to shoo him away from me. Once back inside, I called animal control but only got a voicemail saying they'd open in a few days.

I kind of forgot about him, but today when I opened the garage door, there he was, right in front of the boys. I screamed loudly, waved him away and called animal control, who said they'd come pick him up. When we arrived home from preschool later in the day, I passed the animal control truck leaving the neighborhood and assumed they'd found the dog. But as I fixed the boys lunch I saw him saunter around the front lawn. Throwing the boy their lunch, I grabbed a fistful of dog treats and my cell and ran to the door. I was going to keep him on the porch until animal control came back.

As I reconfirmed my address over the phone, I really noticed for the first time how thin this dog had become. Every rib and point of his spine stuck out prominently. His stomach was completely caved in. His eyes were sunken in and dull. When he ate those first few treats, his tail wagged and he looked at me with hope. I considered what these last few days had probably been like for him and the uncertainty he was headed into within a matter of minutes.

I ran back and grabbed about ten more treats. And then back for a hotdog. And another hotdog. And then bowl after bowl after bowl of dogfood.

I have never seen a dog eat so fast in my life. It was frightening and heartbreaking. And probably also a little misleading to him about where this was all headed, as well as likely to give him a stomachache. But it was all I could think to do. I would have emptied out my fridge to feed that dog. And this is pretty much my MO when it comes to helping those in need, and possibly my tendancy toward co-dependancy. I just want to take the creature in, nourish them, fill them up, make them better. What do you need? I'll get it.

When I first saw Michael Angelo, my first instinct was to hop a plane and find a way to get him home where I could make sure nothing bad ever happened to him again. But then I looked at his picture again and saw two other brothers behind him, and I knew there were many more. What about them? What about their neighbors? Their neighbor's neighbors... it would never end. Finding a way to adopt him wasn't practical, and it wasn't the answer. So I've worked to find a way to help them in other ways. I don't know where our help will lead them or what Michael Angelo's future is, but I know that for a certain period of time, they will eat decently, drink clean water, and have items like new clothes and beds that they could only dream of before. And for now, that will have to do.

So as I watched that dog fill his belly as fast as he could, wagging his tail furiously and nearly gasping between bites, all I could think was Eat, poor creature, eat. Eat as fast as you can, take whatever you can fit in your belly. I can't fix the problem that got you into this mess in the first place, I can't take care of you once that truck shows up, and I can't promise you your life is going to get better with this. But for right now, I can feed you, so eat. For goodness' sake, eat.

I cannot fix the world's problems. I cannot take all of the hungry, hurt children into my home. And I've learned over time that I cannot bring all of the pain in this world into my heart, or it will shut down and break forever. But I can focus on this one boy, this one family. And I'll do it, for a multitude of reasons, beginning with His command to love one another, and not this world, for it it not our true home. But I'll also do it as my way of proving a point (however small) to the world that I will not be changed by it and its darkness.

If you also want to make your statement to the world in the Philippines, PCF (The Philippine Community Fund) could not have made it any easier, practical, or effective. Go to http://www.p-c-f.org/ and check out what they do. Online donations can be taken through the site, and if you want your contribution to go directly to a certain cause (such as Michael Angelo's family, or another family they choose for you), simply e-mail Ange ange@p-c-f.org to let her know.

I promise you'll make a difference.

How Do I Love Thee, Doritos?

Confession Time.

I'm addicted to Baked Doritos. Completely, unequivocally, obsessively addicted. I want them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I try to resist them all evening and then I just can't help myself. Even if I'm not really hungry, it's an itch that has to be scratched. When I notice we're getting low, I'll make a special trip to Wal-Mart to buy some more (they have the best price on them there, belive me I've checked) under the guise of needing something else to buy. I even have a special way of eating them: I crunch them up into tiny pieces so it lasts longer. Strange? I don't think so.

But I think my family's on to me and intervention is imminent.

Last night as I settled down with the computer I tried to discreetly munch away, but it wasn't long before Hilton noticed in the next room. Busted.

"Do I smell Doritos?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I smell Doritos."

"At least they're baked! It's not like they're the real thing!"

Even the boys know Mommy Has a Problem. When Jake saw me getting stuff together to make dinner the other night, he had it all figured out.

"Mommy, you making Doritos for dinner tonight?"

Step #1: Admitting you have a problem. Check.

Poof!

When the boys were still drinking out of sippy cups for meals, we'd let them carry around their cups and drink even after they got down from the table, something I learned was a big no-no in parenting magazines but let them do it anyway because honestly, it wasn't worth the battle to me. However, they had a maddening habit with those cups.

They hid them.

They hid those stupid cups in a different place nearly every time, causing you to crawl around the room cursing for ten minutes until, like the Holy Grail, it was uncovered and there was much rejoicing (along with some incoherent rambling about "those %$&* cups). I never really figured out if they were intentionally trying to make us crazy, but I have a sneaking suspicion they were watching with amusement out of the corner of their eyes.

And that suspicion has been confirmed even more so with a new and much more deliberate game.

The object to hide these days is a doorknob cover, a childproofing item that was previously considered, well, childproof. Until Jake figured out he could squeeze the heck out of them until "the eggs hatches!" Well, isn't that great. But wait, there's more.... He "hatches" the doorknob covers while I'm not looking, and then in what I'm certain is part of their ultimate plan to send Mommy to the Crazy Place, they leave one half of the cover out as a tease for me, and then hide the other somewhere I'm sure not to find it.

The first few times they did this, I gave up after about 15 seconds of looking and simply put a brand new cover on. But I started to wonder where these covers were all going, so the other day I went on a hunt. I asked the boys to help me and politely obliged. At least, I thought they were helping me. What they were really doing, however, was simply playing along.

They knew where they were. This was a game.

"Boys, where did the doorknob covers go?"

"We hid them!" The truth was out. Finally, some honesty.

"Where did you hide them?"

"I can't tell you," replied Ben. "It's a secret hiding place."

"Poof!" interjected Jake with glee. "We made it disappear!"

"Poof!" agreed Ben.

I gave up at that point. My life motto anymore is pretty much "Whatever." They won.

But the next day, I decided that two (or three) could play this game. Tired of having them play with their bedtime "loveys" (little blankets) all over the house, I decided I would put them in a place where they wouldn't be accessed until bedtime. Somewhere they'd never look. Like my underwear drawer.

"Where you put our loveys?" Ben asked.

"Hmm... let me see... oh yes. A secret hiding place. Can't tell you," I replied. Maybe a little too smugly.

And the hide-the-hatched-egg game hasn't been played since.

What I'm Thankful For

Every Thanksgiving, I'm inevitably asked the old "What are you thankful for this year?" question. I usually answer with the true but cliche "My family" answer, but it's clear this year that has altered my perspective drastically.

This Thanksgiving season, I'd like to say I'm thankful for multiple potties on the first floor of our house.

It sounds shallow and flip and ingenuine, but I promise you, dear reader, it's not.

For what else could be so practical, convenient, and crucial in the life that I lead? The life in which, immediately at dinner's end, both boys run screaming in opposite directions clutching their bottoms for dear life as they make a run for it, one making it to his potty in plenty of time, the other... not so much.... causing much drama over the diarrhea scattered here there and everywhere in one bathroom... while the other screams down the hall for me completely without mercy or understanding for the situation taking place in the other bathroom despite my equally loud screams of explanation back to him that I have to help his brother ... leaving the Abandoned One to his own devices for cleaning his bottom... which involves rolling out the entire Double Roll of toilet paper onto the floor before finding the right piece with which to wipe his bottom.

Yes, thank you God for multiple potties in our house.

I Dare You Not to Laugh

In the special language of horses, there is a phenomenon where a foal tries to show another (usually larger) horse that he is merely a baby horse and to be easy with him. He literally makes a silly expression, mouthing and licking the air as if to say "how can you be mad at this face?"

Jake is a master manipulator in disguise, and he has figured this trick out as well. Ben is so mean in his ways that his intent is always obvious. Jake (like someone else, ahem), uses his clown skills to make you laugh and forget that he's getting away with murder. He's a Funny Man, and his schtik usually works, resulting in Hilton and I having to actually turn our heads to the side and bite our cheeks so that he can't tell we're about to break down in laughter. But Jake's way too perceptive to not catch even the slightest of a sideways smile, and he takes it and runs with it....

Here it is.

Crazy Level: Red

So, dear blog-stalkers (I know you're out there), I've been neglecting you. The already-scarce breathing room in my life and brain that was reserved for the occcasional blog has been rudely taken hostage by The Madness That Is My Life.

In my head I often think about the state of my life in terms of the terrorism threat level (you know, green, yellow, orange, red). We started to take the craziness to Level Red a few weeks ago when we started a major home renovation project that needed to be completed before a certain holiday family dinner was held at our home for the Very First Time. In what is just one of the many complexities of this home improvement project, the area being renovated is in the basement, where little boys can hear loud noises right below them when they're trying to sleep.... which means they either go to bed way late, or they have to stay elsewhere for the day or night.

And I've determined that the Greek derivative for "home renovation" is actually tied to the same derivatives for the word "divorce." Let's just say it was the hand of God that led us to decide the remodel the kitchen before we moved in.

But don't feel too sorry for me. Feel sorry for my poor kids, who don't know whether they're coming or going. On top of all of this, I've had an unusually few busy weeks of deadlines with work. It's one thing to be slammed at work when you go to an office and do your thing and go home. It's a whole other deal when you work from home and there are no boundaries.... meaning sometimes you're putting a casserole together, screaming at a child to use the potty, and sending an email on your Blackberry all at the same time. I've always tried to only work when they're sleeping or being taken care of by someone else, but lately I've just had to fit it all together.

Suffice to say, I don't feel like we've been stellar parents lately. We're on survival mode here, and apparently, it shows.

One morning the boys were playing while I sat and returned some emails. Ben briefly came over to show me something, but Jake knew I was trying to work.

"Come on Ben, you're bothering Mommy." No, no, it's okay, I insisted. They glanced at me for a second and then went right back to playing, as if to say Whatever, Mommy.

And then the other day, after giving Hilton a hug down in the basement during a quick break from the renovations, Ben knew the drill.

"Now get back to work, Daddy." Yes sir.

And then Jake, trying to get my attention somehow, anyhow, to remind me that he needed me, took to following me around the house.

"Mommy, I like you," he said over and over, in a sad, dramatic little voice.

Enough was enough. Bring out the crafts, bring out the trikes, it was playtime with the boys.

This one's for you, my little boys. Hang in there. It'll be Thanksgiving soon and things will be much.... calmer?

WWYD (What Will You Do)?

Last week I had my world rocked by a 3-year-old little boy whose name is not Ben or Jake.

He doesn't have any toys. He only has one shirt. He has nowhere to sleep at night but the floor. He is bruised and bleeding from falling 12 feet through the floor of the structure that is his home. His family has virtually no possessions. And although he is back with his family now, his mother recently sold him for $60 USD to a man who unbeknownst to her was a pimp in the sex trade industry.

This is Michael Angelo, and he is from the Philippines. I learned about this child through the blog of a teammate of my best friend Allison Johnston, who is on her second round of The World Race, a mission organization that sends young people to the poorest nations all over the world for a year. You can see the original blog here: http://marisabanas.theworldrace.org/?filename=michael-angelo. Along with hundreds of others, Michael Angelo's family lives in a dwelling on top of a cemetery in one of the most poverty-stricken areas of the Philippines, Navatos.

By nature I am a compassionate person, and I've always been very much burdened by human suffering. But never in my life have I been literally brought to my knees by such a story. A friend put it best when she said she was haunted by it. Since I first saw his face, this child has never truly left my mind and heart. My first instinct was to fight to adopt him, but above all I just wanted to do something-- anything -- to make this child's life head in a different direction.

A few days of research and prayer led me to Jane Walker, CEO of the Philippine Christian Foundation/Philippine Community Fund (PCF), which runs the two schools Marisa mentions. The amount of time, energy, and money this agency has poured into the area families is beyond belief. The services -- life-sustaining and long-term-- they offer to improve the quality of life there are too numerous to list here. Jane is originally from the UK and felt she was called to serve here.

My family and I are stepping in to specifically assist Michael Angelo's family, but there are hundreds of other families right behind them that face the same realities. I have felt deep guilt in singling out MA's family, but Jane has assured me their organization believes in making a difference by helping one family at a time.

In addition, in light of economic hard times and the foundation's efforts to build an additional school, PCF is in dire need of financial support, nearly being forced to end its feeding program, among other things. Jane would love to come to the US to speak at churches to fundraise but she cannot afford a plane ticket. She has asked if I would help her book church speakings if she makes it here next year, and I have agreed.

The fact that Michael Angelo-- anyone, for that matter-- lives this kind of life is a tragedy. But the fact that thousands of miles away I was able to know his story and do something about it is a miracle.

I have MA's photo saved as my desktop background, and Jacob saw it yesterday. We've been trying to teach the boys empathy and being grateful and responsible for the blessings (like food, clothes, toys) we have, so this was a real life lesson for him. In the best terms I could, I told him about MA. I again mentioned him during our bedtime prayers, and Jacob had several questions.

"Michael Angelo going to bed right now, too?" Sort of...

"Michael Angelo have a bed?" Not really...

"He sleep outside?" I'm not sure...

"He sleep on the floor? He have a blanket?"

If you're wondering the answers to these questions, too, don't ignore them. If you can't get his picture of out of your head, don't let it go away. If you hear God whispering in your ear, don't tune it out.

Times are hard, yes. Our checkbook reflects that just like yours does. There are starving children everywhere, it's true. The needs of others out there are truly staggering. But look at his face one more time and ask yourself "Why not start here?"
I have never been to this place, but I have heard and read enough to know that there is enough of a reason to start here. I look at my safe, comfortable little life and ask myself "What did I do to deserve these blessings?" .... The question I need to be asking is "What am I going to do with them?"

I don't think my finding out about Micheal Angelo was a coincidence, and I don't think your reading this story is a coincidence either.

PCF's website is http://www.p-c-f.org/ or you can contact Jane's sister Ange directly at ange@p-c-f.org regarding donations or family sponsorship opportunities. This is a very well-established, organized and practical ministry. If you want to make a difference, if you want to put the emotions you're feeling into action, if you just want to do something, start here. This is the real deal.

Fancy

While in college, I met a girl who I can best describe as a kindred spirit. We were alike in so many ways that we decided our lives were almost parallel in some areas. But in others, we were so very different, and those difference were what cracked us up, often enough to make our stomachs hurt and the tears start. Stef and I were both journalism majors and worked in the university PR office together. College would not have been the same experience without her.

One of our very favorite stories revolved around a beloved professor who has now passed on. He was polite and precise and perfect, in a persnickety type of way-- almost kind of fussy. Once Stef and her group (all girls) had to turn in a big project, which she had put together in a special folder. Upon handing it to the professor, he appeared surprised at their packaging efforts.

"Oooh, fancy," the professor remarked with glee (and maybe a smirk?).

Undecided as to how to respond to this, Stef stammered out the first thing she could think of.

"Well, we're fancy girls," she managed to say somehow without completely losing it.

If you're not laughing, then you just had to be there. We thought it was hysterical, and we still do. And the story has lived on since then, as "Fancy" became a term of endearment, an adjective, and a prefix that could interchangeably be used in almost any context. Even retelling the actual original conversation is enough to reduce us to tears of laughter. It's eight years later and we communicate mainly by email or phone, but we still call ourselves Fancy. And now we have little Fancies of our own.

So when Ben tonight said that his Halloween costume made him a Fancy Little Boy, I couldn't resist grabbing the camera and coaxing him into getting it on video.


So, this one's for you, Fancy. Love you and I'll call you soon!

Bestest Halloween Ever

It's 8:45pm, and it's been one long day of Halloween for this mama. I should be washing my face and going to bed, but instead I'm crunching away on one of the boy's tootsie roll pops and already reminiscing about the first trick-or-treat year that actually meant something to the boys. Sure they had fun last year dressed as cops and all (predetermined costumes that were literally bought for them when they were about a month old), carrying around their cheap plastic pumpkins and visiting a few special friends here and there. But for the most part, they sat on the porch with us and helped us hand out candy to all the "big kids." They probably ate an eighth of their body weight in skittles and 3 Musketeers, but they went to bed pretty much at the usual time and everything was.... normal.

Not so this year.

This year, they'd been carefully plotting what they wanted to be for months. In fact, there was much controversy in the family when Ben switched from wanting to be a football player to a racecar driver a few weeks out. I was not about to be swayed by a 3-year-old's whims, but Nana would hear nothing of it, and racecar driver he was. Jake, however, was steadfast in his decision to be a -- what else -- bowling player. Even Ben's nifty little racecar get-up didn't tempt him to change to perhaps a more obvious costume.

This year, there was the pumpkin festival to attend and blow $75 on things like $6 corndogs and a $1 per child rip-off straw bale maze. There was pumpkin buying (small, medium, and large-- two each, please). And the much-anticipated Preschool Party, complete with costumes, pumpkin-decorating, snacks, and of course, lots and lots of candy. Upon hearing that today was the much-heralded actual trick-or-treat day, Ben exclaimed with glee, "I love it so much!"

But the biggest change this year was the actual trick or treating event. I don't know how many year's I've been the one with the bowl of candy at the door, watching the little ones timidly walk up the sidewalk, encouraged (none too subtley) by the parents to walk on, say "trick or treat!" and use their manners. It was completely surreal to be on the other side of it, watching them intently and guiding them from the street as to what to do. A corny milestone, but a milestone regardless.

And the evening was not without the comments we've come to expect from the boys. Poor Jake wearing rental bowling shoes started gimping around pretty early in the evening, but he gamely carried on and insisted that "The shoes are fine. I'm okay." About two minutes from the house he finally agreed that yes, his feet did hurt and he'd like the tennis shoes we'd been carrying around for him for the past hour and a half.

At the first house where they had to actually climb stairs and go knock on a door, Mom and I made a move to go with them to help, but Ben would have nothing to do with that.

"We can do it ourselves. We don't need any help."

And really, they didn't. Ben, however, decided that there were too many big kids dressed in scary costumes at one point, crowding up his path to a house and cramping his style.

" I don't like the big kids," he let us know.

But for me, Jake took the prize when he responded to a man who jokingly asked if Jake wanted candy or just the cash.

"Just the cash," Jake replied without missing a beat. In this economy, really who can blame him?

All in all, Halloween was a hit with the boys this year. They even affirmed that Halloween was quite possibly better than Christmas when asked which was their favorite.

But the holiday season is young, friends. Stay tuned.

Tis the Season

Before I had kids, I never fully realized or appreciated just how often and easily children got sick. It was something I'd heard and read about, but I just didn't give it any thought.

Until the boys got their first cold when they were three weeks old. Two weeks before they were even due to be born.

Perhaps it was just a coincidence, a freaky super-contagious bug they'd somehow caught.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps, as I have discovered with time, kids are virtual walking, talking petri dishes, with disgusting habits and tendancies that give them practically no chance at escaping germless as they go about their way. The flip side? No one is safe in the wake of their illness. Their slobbery little hands, their snotty noses, their insistence on touching everything. You get within a 5-foot radius from them, you're a goner. Even the furniture and walls aren't safe-- Jake likes to smear his boogers on the wall above his headboard (I've actually been waiting to be able to mention this in a blog).

Last cold and flu season (ha. like that's the only time they get sick), the boys had a particularly impressive go of it. With the exception of two blissful weeks, they (and by "they," I mean "we") were sick from October until April. I am not exaggerating. Along with a handful of random upper respiratory viruses that would last anywhere from one to three weeks, we also enjoyed the following: two separate stomach bugs (puke, puke, pukity puke), throat infections, sinus infections, acute mono (that's right, my two-year-olds had mono), and for the grand finale, influenza for the entire family, complete with 105F degree fevers and convulsive chills.

Obviously, we've entered into this brand new season with much trepidation, especially considering the boys are now in preschool with a multitude of other petri dishes twice a week. And those concerns, most unfortunately, have been legitmate.

By the end of their first week of preschool last month, the boys had acquired their first cold. Two weeks ago, they got their second, which by the next week had morphed into a third bug (our doctor informed us last year that you can get virus on top of virus on top of virus. Fascinating.) I used to try to keep myself protected against their germs, but there's no point; I get it regardless. Same thing with them sharing spoons, toys, food. In fact, I know some people will disagree with this, but early in the illness I encourage the sick one to share with the other just to go ahead and get it all over with.

So here we are mid-October, still all sick, and apparently our sickness has spread to others outside of the immediate family (at least last year it was all contained to Lexington). I'm working on a nice case of laryngitis, Hilton can hardly breathe at night, and the boys are still sporting snotty-green noses every day.

Ladies and gentleman, start your engines. The horses are in the gate, the coin has been tossed, the starting gun has fired.

Let the games begin.

The ER Cafe

So..... I should have posted this blog a few weeks ago, but it's been a couple of rotten weeks of sick children, sick mommies, and out-of-town daddies. Suffice to say, I've not been in the mood to be witty.

But there's a story that begs to be told, and while I'm STILL sick, if I don't write this down soon, all of the snot stuck in my sinuses is going to take over my brain as well, and the memory will be lost for good.

Those of you who read my blog on my MySpace page might remember an entry titled "The Allergy Spa," in which I described how much I enjoyed the experience of getting tested for allergies, for the simple reason that I was given several child-free hours of just sitting still in a nice recliner. Never mind those pesky needles and the 64 holes in my right arm.

This is a similar blog.

A few weeks ago when the boys and I were camped out at my parents' house (again), I was settling down to work on my latop while the boys napped. I had just woken up from a delicious nap of my own and it was time to get serious. The phone rang, and it was Mom. She was with my sister, Allison, who had (acccidentally, I need to add) stabbed herself in her hand with a knife in an unfortunate incident with what will now go down in family history as the Very Last Piece of a Frozen Weight Watcher Cake that Wouldn't Budge. I hate it when that happens. Alli needed to go to the ER, and someone either needed to watch Eliza, her 14-month-old daughter, or take Alli to the ER.

I weighed my options quickly but carefully. Sick, cranky child who had napped poorly that day (plus my two boys).... or the Cabell ER, commonly known around here as the Seventh Ring of Hell. This was a hard one, truly. Then, in the back of my mind, I seemed to remember the ER had recently undergone an extensive renovation and was actually quite nice. I think I even heard they had... could it be.... Wi-Fi??? I love Eliza to pieces, I must make this clear. But....

"Ummm.... I'll take Alli to the ER."

As soon as my mom walked in with poor, red-faced, snot-nosed, miserable little Eliza, I knew I'd made the right decision. Door #2 was definitely the winner. I breezed out to the car, laptop and a good book in tow.

Upon arrival at the ER, I was not disappointed. The ER was in an entirely different location from the previous dungeon of filfth. The walls and decor were designed, it would seem, in direct imitation of my Very Favorite Place Ever, Panera. Warm colors, granite countertops, comfortable private seating, a flatscreen TV with Law & Order on, and yes, dear reader, Wi-Fi. Of course, there was still that inevitable icky hospital smell of antiseptic and cigarette smoke. But really, I was pretty excited. I camped out with all my stuff and settled in for what I hoped was a nice, long ER visit.

But what I didn't realize was that not only was this new ER pretty to look at. It was also much more functional, a novelty that normally would have thrilled me but this time left me somewhat dismayed. Alli was called to a triage center almost immediately, and in less than a few minutes, she was getting ready to head back to a treatment room for stitches and a tetanus shot. For a brief moment, she looked at me as it to say "Um, are you coming?"

But I simply could not make myself get out of that chair. I was so happy there in the waiting room. What if they didn't have Wi-Fi back there?

In an instant, she realized I wasn't going anywhere, and with what I am sure was disappointment, she turned and left to go back there all by herself. I'm sorry! I wanted to call out. Are you sure? I can come with you if you really want! I felt myself start to say. But I didn't. I just sat there selfishly with my little laptop, guilty but as happy as a clam.

So as poor Alli sat back there by herself getting shots and stitches, I got some actual work done and enjoyed myself. Thoroughly. My only real issue was that I was literally twitching for a chai tea latte or cappuchino or something of that nature. While working I would reach over to grab my drink and realize with sadness each time it was just a boring bottle of water. I resisted the temptation to go ask the ER receptionist where I could find something fun to drink.

All too soon, Alli was done and we were out the door, but not before I made sure she didn't have any other emergencies she needed taken care of before we left this nice place. She assured me that she didn't.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about returning there to get some work done during the week instead of going to Starbucks or Panera. I wonder how many days it would take before I'd get thrown out?

Baby Baby

Those who've been around me for longer than five minutes know that I. Really. Don't. Want. Anymore. Kids. Period. Fact. End. Finito..... you get the picture. I rant and rave about how the boys drive me nuts, how I can't wait until such-and-such stage is over with, and in general how I want to run away from home some days. The thought of having a newborn to deal with all night long and then the boys all day is enough to make me break into a cold sweat. Imagining once again being chained to the house for at least three naps a day and a super early bedtime makes me practically itchy with claustrophobia. Remembering the horrors of colicky babies and reflux and baby vomit everywhere makes me nearly gag.



So those who ask me "So, are you done having kids?" will get an affirmative, if not slightly rude, response, practically before the words have even left their mouths.



That is the factual, practical, realistic side of me talking. The part that uses my brain.



But friends, there is a phenomenon that I'm sure many of you are familiar with-- Baby Fever. Ah, yes, Baby Fever. An unfortunate affliction that is also known as This-Makes-No-Sense Disease, What-On-Earth-Are-You-Thinking Disorder, and Are-You-Crazy? Sickness.



Before having the boys, I was not exactly maternal material (read: I had never changed a diaper until we came home from the hospital). I think some might have been a bit worried if we'd all make it. But what no one ever knew was I had been afflicted with Baby Fever multiple times before, and I had been bitten good by that bug. I had hardly told a soul the real reason while I always hesitated to hold a newborn that was getting passed around the room.... yes, I didn't have that much experience holding babies and I was awkward, but the reality was I knew I'd react physically to holding that baby. Literally aching from my fingers to my toes, my heart feeling as if it'd burst, the warmth of that little one spreading to me like wildfire until I absolutely could not stand the pain of the child not being mine and I'd have to pass it on.



When I was pregnant with the boys, I lived with Baby Fever on a daily basis. Lying on my left side on bedrest, absolutely all I could think of was getting them here in this world so I could hold them. There's a Chris Rice song with the lyrics "I just want to be with you/Just want this waiting to be over." The song is originally intended to be sung to God, but during that time in my life, that song was my anthem to my boys, on constant replay in my head, over and over.



So really, it should come as no surprise that I am still capable of catching Baby Fever, but it recently snuck up on me and bit me so hard it smarted. In the last ten days or so, I have held no fewer than four babies, three of which were newborns. I'd forgotten the warm weight just lying on my chest, the indescribable baby smell, the helplessness, the teeny little features. It all came rushing back in a flood, and I found myself glassy-eyed and practically dizzy, thinking things that I had no business thinking... stupid, illogical, unpractical things that should have earned me a good beating with the baseball bat of reason.



This Baby Fever, I told my sister later, is downright intoxicating, dangerous even. When I left my friend's house after visiting with her new precious twin girls, I'd just spent nearly a solid hour holding those babies. I didn't know which way was up, I was so screwed up in the head. I would have failed a sobriety test had I been pulled over on the way home.



But home was where I went. Because that's where I'd find the antidote to this insidious ailment:



Two screaming, whiny, snot-nosed, crazy little three-year-old boys.



MY babies.

Got Prunes?

For those of you who've noticed there's lately been a lack of poop blogs here, there's a reason for that (and for those of you who've actually missed the frequent poop blogs... you're disgusting).

I don't want to celebrate it too early, but I think it's nearly official: Ben is pretty close to becoming a certified Potty Pooper (not to be confused with Party Pooper, although he is proficient in this area, as well).

I've said it before, but it's not an exaggeration, and it bears repeating again. This is a miracle, folks. This is God at work, and I am not trying to be flip. There is no other reason. The child poops on the potty.... and all God's people said "Amen."

So hopefully the poopyness of this blog will wear off and there will be other funny things to write about (the thought of poop being the only funny thing in my life makes me want to eat a bottle of antidepressants). But until then.... a short poop story.

Ben has major constipation issues-- at one point he was telling us his poop was stuck "way up in his head." We've discovered that Miralax is just a wee bit too effective, but prunes... prunes are just the right amount of power. I don't know if you've ever seen a dried prune, but they're dark, sticky, squishy, and look just like turds. And the boys think they're delicious.

Needless to say, we let Ben eat as many of those nasty things as he wants, but we ration out Jake's carefully because... well, Jake doesn't need any help in the pooping department. We've learned our lesson that one per day is just about all he needs.

"Mommy, I want a prune," Jake pleaded with me.

"No, Jake, you've already had enough for today. You can't eat too many."

"Yeah.... I might poop all over myself," he reluctantly agreed, walking off.

Perhaps one day he'll be old and gray and able to eat as many prunes as his little heart desires.

Jesus 101

While Hilton's been out of town, the boys and I have been staying with Mom and Dad for the past few days. And during our stay, Mom has learned this truth regarding the boys and future presents for them stashed away in the house: unless it is hidden in a deep, dark corner or under lock and key, nothing is safe from them. Nothing. They practically have a radar for these sorts of things, and all they have to catch is a slight glimpse of the brightly-colored packaging of a child's toy, and it's all over.

So I've had to explain to them that yes, those are their toys, but we have to wait until Christmas to open them.

Christmas. Ah, yes, Christmas. Somehow I'd forgotten they are now at the age where they can comprehend things just enough to get myself stuck in conversations where there is no logical or good way out of it. Ben is the master of such conversations. Here's an example:

"What's what?"

"It's the sky, Ben."

"What you do with sky?"

I know it's mean, but I used to think he had the dumbest questions. Questions that made no sense whatsoever. But now I realize, he's just methodically following his ultimate plan to drive me insane.

But anyway, the Christmas presents..... to the boys, presents equal birthdays, and for the first time, they wanted to know just exactly whose birthday was on Christmas.

"Christmas is Jesus's birthday," I blurted out, never fathoming the consquences that would immediately be unleashed upon me with this innocent statement. We say our prayers to Jesus, read books about Jesus, sing songs about Jesus, go to church.... but as far as making any connections about him having a birthday that equaled presents for everybody.... we hadn't gotten that far yet (and to be honest, it's not really how I planned their first real idea of Jesus).

The following are just snippets of the verbal onslaught that ensued (all kids' dialogue should be read while imagining very loud and excited toddler voices).

After a brief, stunned silence, the first question came, not surprisingly, from Ben.

"Where did Jesus go?"

Well, that's a good one, I thought to myself. Here I am, all alone, and I have to answer this question of all questions.

"Well.... he's in heaven now," I stammered. "He's watching over you. But once he was a little baby, born in a barn. Remember the story we read? That was Jesus's birthday." There. I was shaken but glad that was over with.

"Jesus is a little baby," Ben proclaimed.

"No, Jesus used to be a little baby. Then he grew up to be a man, and now he's in heaven watching over you and Jake." The whole crucifixtion and resurrection concept was probably a little bit over their heads, I decided.

"No, he's a cute little baby," Ben retorted.

"Mommy, Jesus keep Ben and Jake safe from the sharks?" inquired Jake.


More Jesus drama followed upstairs after bathtime.

"Is Jesus downstairs?" asked Guess Who.

"No, Ben, he's in heaven, watching over you.

"Jesus in his house?"

My mind thought fast. Too fast.

"Well, Jesus's house is the church. All the churches are Jesus's houses."

That rocked his world for about two seconds. Then it was on again.

"Jesus has toys at his house? We play with them?"

And for the grand finale, this from Ben up in the loft, watching me downstairs getting their bedtime snack ready:

"Mommy, you go with Jesus!"

"Excuse me?"

"You go with Jesus! You go to my new house. You need some gloves to hop over the hills!" he ordered, hopping up and down for emphasis and gazing out the window into the woods.


At least he didn't tell me the other place to go.

Hang a right at the potties

Part of the joy of renovating an older home is building a collection of old items that accumulate in a dark corner of the basement. Things that are too nasty for anyone else to want and too unwieldly to simply throw in the trashcan.

Like old ceiling fans.

And sinks.

And.... toilets.

Back in Lexington, we never could have gotten away with sitting a potty out by the curb for the trashman to take away. First of all, we would have been cited by the homeowner's association within three hours. Second, the job of a trashman in Lexington has become so sophisticated and technologically savvy that they rarely exit the vehicle. They press a button and a huge arm reaches over, dump, and off it goes.

As you've probably guessed, pretty much anything goes here in good ole EK. So we were surprised when our set of old potties set by the road was rejected by our trashpeople today. Perhaps they were more civilized here than we thought. A call to the local sanitation department cleared that up. They'll certainly pick it up; however, the pick-up must be specifically scheduled.

But until then, a photo opportunity existed that I simply could not resist.

For your information, Jake was terrified of this proposition of sitting on a nasty old toilet in the front yard. I think the sentiment was more along the lines of I am embarrassed to call you my parents. That is, until a ride on the four-wheeler after bathtime was promised.

I can't make this stuff up.

Church music

Driving the boys to preschool today, I was just a teensy bit tired of listening to the childrens' music CDs that make me want to drive off the road. So I popped in a CD I'd made in my past life of some of my faves and started bopping along to the B-52s "Love Shack."

In my rearview mirror I caught Jakey nodding his head in tune to the music, waving his scrawny arms around a little.

"Mommy, I like this song," he said.

"You do?"

"Yeah, we sing this song at church." Head nodding and arm waving continues.


To cut poor Jake some slack, we've been trying out several different churches since moving to Eastern Kentucky... and honestly, he might be telling the truth.

Victory

This is going to be short and to the point.

Today, a miracle occurred at our house. A true miracle.

(make sure you're sitting down)



Ben pooped in the potty.

And there was much rejoicing.

All hail the poop.


(Just be glad I didn't take a photo and post it here, because I was thisclose.... and then as I went to get the camera, I said to myself, who am I that I am going to take a photo of poop and post it on the internet?).

You be the Judge

When I went to pick Ben and Jake up from preschool yesterday, the first thing one of the teachers did was ask me if we owned four dogs. Excuse me? Apparently they had been talking about dogs in class, and the boys informed everyone fairly convincingly that we owned four dogs. I set the teacher straight on exactly how many dogs we owned (one), and she just laughed hysterically and walked off.

Later that afternoon I tried to figure out exactly what the dialogue had been in preschool.

"Jake, Ben, how many dogs did you tell your preschool teacher we have?"

"Four dogs," Ben answered promptly.

Instant pandemonium ensued as both clamored for my attention, each trying to say the most outrageous thing. The following are the only sentences I actually understood.

"I have 69 dogs!" exclaimed Jake, a look of Beat that! on his face.

"I have LOTS OF MONEY!" countered Ben.

Now that was even more of a lie than the one about the dogs.

"Well, Ben, what are you going to do with all that money?" I asked.

"I go to the pet store, and I buy lots of puppy dogs and kitty cats and TURTLES!"

Don't we all wish life was that simple again? When what we said was what we truly believed? When what we dreamed of felt so close that in our hearts, it was already real?

Or maybe they're just a couple of pathological liars in the making.

Who knows?

All in an Evening's Work

I promise to you that I am not posting this blog to get your pity. I swear.

Over a week has passed since I survived what was a particularly dicey evening, even by my standards. I now feel like I can laugh about it, but at the time-- not so much.

It started with dinner plans that fell through soon after arriving home with groceries from Walmart, closely followed by my poor husband getting a rare migraine. Off to bed he went, and it was pretty much game on from that point onward. (By the way, I always remark that I never realize how loud the boys are until I take them out in public. As it turns out, the very same phenomenon happens to occur when someone in the house is suffering from a migraine).

Here's a timeline of the evening:

5:45pm Drag kids to the dinner table to eat. Attempt to scarf down food and simultaneously plead with them to eat theirs.
5:50pm Escort Jake to the potty to poop and clean up the mess that was his bottom.
5:55pm Sit back down and realize I'm not so hungry anymore.
5:56 Realize Jake is missing
5:57pm See Jake reappear in room and realize his underwear is full of diarrhea. Apparently he had unfinished business from his initial trip the potty. Undergo a lengthy cleaning and disinfecting process.
6:10pm Throw my dinner in the trash. Soon after give up the boys eating as well.
6:15pm Enter family room where boys are and catch a whiff of poo. Check both boys and determine Jake needs to be cleaned again.
6:23pm Hear husband (can't imagine what might have woken him) demand where the unholy stench is coming from. Search for poo ensues. Jake is once again dragged off for a thorough cleaning.
6:30pm Realize the culprit is Ben, who has been sitting on the couch on his flattened wad of poo. Drag him off for cleaning.
6:45pm Declare bathtime is beginning. As preparing bath vaguely hear Jake muttering about peeing on himself a little bit.
7:30pm Tell boys goodnight.
7:32pm Hear Jake requesting another trip to the bathroom. Again. Off to the potty, where Jake proceeds to have massive diarrhea.
7:40pm Tell boys goodnight. Again.
7:42pm Clean up the kitchen, playroom, and family room. Go to the laundry room to dump off dirty dishtowels and walk into a huge puddle. That would be the "little bit of pee" Jake was referring to earlier. Get on hands and knees to clean and disinfect floor.
7:50pm Sit down in family room with computer.
7:51pm Receive phone call from poor husband down the hall. Do we have any 7up and saltines? Of course we don't, but I'll run down the gas station right now and get some.


The above is a true story.

Recipe For Cheap Summer Fun

Take one unbearably hot afternoon

Add two whining bored children

Fill one large bucket with water

Dump in a ridiculous amount of dishsoap

Provide two pair of husband's old underwear

Grab a camera, stand back at a safe distance, and be prepared for the neighbors' reactions

Enjoy

I told you we were getting redneck living here.

Even Jakey gets it

Big surprise, Ben pooped in his underwear again today.

However, this time Jake was on hand to serve as the papparazzi. He had his little toy phone that also has a "camera" in it. He presses the right button and it makes the picture-taking sound and everything. As I was cleaning Ben's bottom, Jake rushed in with his camera phone.

"Mommy, watch out. I take a picture."

"What are you taking a picture of, Jakey?"

"Ben's poop," he replied, twisting and getting just the right angle to capture the moment on his phone.

After a few shots, he must have realized how gross the concept of taking poo pictures really was.

"Ben, you make me sick," Jakey told him.

Just to confirm what he really said, I asked Jake exactly what made him sick.

"Ben's poop," he replied, with a duh implied. "It makes me sick."

Ben gazed up and smiled at him, completely pleased with himself and not comprehending any of it. Then again, maybe that's not really the case.

Even Jake's ready for this stage to be over.

Sing me a song

I have a confession.

I've tried to keep it secret from most of you for months. My cheeks have burned in embarrassment. My head hung low in shame.

But there's no point keeping it from you any longer. It'd just be a matter of time before you found out anyway.

I sing ridiculous songs to the boys at every single naptime and bedtime.

Not because I choose them. Not because I want to. Because if I don't, the little terrors will throw a hissy fit and refuse to go to sleep. Two ridiculous songs for Ben, two ridiculous songs for Jake, and off I go, tail tucked between my legs. It's the price I pay for them drifting to sleep soon after (that's the plan, anyway).

What's so bad about this, you say? Sarah, don't be so dramatic, you're thinking. Singing bedtime stories to your children is a beautiful thing. A peaceful, loving time they'll remember for the rest of their lives.

Except that at our house, that's not the way it works.

First of all, the song choices. Here are their current top four favorites:

1. The Poo-Poo song (a song I regrettably made up in total desperation to get the boys to poop on the potty. It's lyrics revolve around "Poo-poo, poo-poo come out of my bottom")
2. Take Me Out to the Ballgame (I REALLY don't care if I ever come back)
3. A song about a rabbit needing to come inside someone's house before the hunters "shoot him dead"
4. The Horsey Song, aka Camptown Races (doo-da, doo-da)

Now, admittedly, someone had to teach them these songs, and that someone was me. I don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps, that they wouldn't choose them for bedtime songs. And truth be told, they do request some other more traditional, soothing songs. But these are their top hits, for sure.

But I'm still not painting you a clear enough picture of what the bedtime singing is like. With few exceptions, during my singing (which is made even more pathetic by the fact that I cannot carry a tune), the boys are flopping around on their beds, snickering, talking loudly, hanging off their beds, and slinging their loveys around. Hello, rude? I try to keep order, but shouting out "Jacob, STOP THAT!" and "Ben, I will spank your bottom if you do that one more time" mid-verse during Jesus Love Me kind of ruins the moment.

Here's another favorite humbling strategy of theirs: refusing to pick a song or picking out songs that don't exist, such as "The Pillow Song" or "The Ceiling Song" or whatever madness strikes their fancy. Ben one time pointed to one of the railing pieces on his headboard and requested to sing "that one." As if the piece of wood was a song. Now here, dear reader, is where a real pushover could get into quite a mess. Take for instance.... my dad (sorry, Dad). Some time back, the boys convinced my dad to sing a song about candy canes (this was quite possibly the same ill-fated night they were able to coerce him to change their PJ outfits three times). Except there is no such song. But that didn't really matter, because poor Boppaw caved and made up a song. About candy canes. And at the next bedtime, I had not a clue what the "Cane Song" was. (Dad, if you're reading, perhaps you could post those snappy lyrics here?)

And then there's the most infuriating tactic they have in their bag of tricks, which involves me being forced to pick out a song for them, starting into the song and then being interrupted by screams of "No! I want to pick the song out!" and then the child picking out the very song I was just singing and having to start the song over again. When this happens, I literally have to hold onto the bed to keep my hands from strangling them.

Why do I put up with this? Why not just shut the door and say goodnight? I ask myself the same things nearly every time. And although part of it is just me trying to keep the peace because I simply don't have the energy to wean them off the routine, part of it is also me knowing that in a short time, they won't want me in their room at all. I won't be cool enough to sing any songs. And I'll be begging them to let me tuck them in. So I deal with the nonsense, keep the singing as part of our routine, and watch them sigh with satisfaction once they've had their two songs each. And then I close the door and run down the hallway with my head ducked to avoid having to face my husband, who has heard every bit of it next door in his office.

Freeze

This afternoon I was desperate to help the boys burn off some energy (which I swear, if I put them on an electricity-generating treadmill, could power up our small town). I decided to teach them the game where you dance to music until the music stops, and then you freeze into a statue until the music starts again. They thought this was hilarious.

After an actually pleasant dinner for two three-year-old boys, I rewarded them each with a bowl of Jello (incidentally, it was brought to my attention recently that the boys have been deprived of Jello their whole lives, and they are now very much in love with it).

Anyway, we were all quietly sitting at the kitchen table eating our Jello and listening to the cable music channel, Soundscapes, that I am addicted it. It's the most soothing, meditative, it's-all-going-to-be-okay music, and I have it on all the time. Ben was just really engrossed in his Jello eating, and he happened to look over at me. The look he had in his eyes -- joy, innocence, youth-- just caught me completely off guard and I had to quickly look away so he didn't catch on to the tears in my own eyes.

There are many days in my life that I just try to get through, one foot in front of the other. Those days are long and hard. But sometimes in the middle of those days a miracle like this will occur. A bright, shining moment of wonder and contentment. This was one of the best, but I'd be lying to you if I said the moment wasn't tinged with sadness and a sense of helplessness that this is all just happening way too fast. My babies aren't just little boys anymore... they may only be in the 5-10th percentile for weight and height, but they are becoming little men. It's incredible and it's incredibly frightening all at the same time. They're growing up, and there's not a single thing I can do about it. It's just happening. At night I go in to check on them in their beds, and as I watch them sleeping there, I silently plead, Please stop. Stop growing. Please don't get any bigger. Despite the huge responsibilities and inconveniences that come with taking care of them full-time, my heart literally aches with the reality that they won't stay like this.

There are so many times I just want to hit the fast forward button, but times like this today just make me want to live like this forever. I have to remind myself to hold these moments tight and keep making more of them, because this is life. It keeps on keeping on regardless of anything, and it's up to us to grab on and make the best of it.

As I looked away from Ben, I happened to glance at the TV and catch the info on the song we were listening to. The song title was "Beyond this Moment," from an album titled "So Flows the Current." And so it does. And so it does.

Does it ever end?

I regret to inform you that I have yet another poop story.

Not suprisingly, the story is focused on Ben. In my mind and heart, I really try not to compare the boys, especially when it comes to this. It just makes me resentful toward Ben, and I don't want to do that. He can't help it that Jake figured it out first that wearing your poop is..... disgusting.

Ben dislikes the whole idea of pooping so much now that he procrastinates about it. He goes about every two days or so. When we know that it's been awhile and a poop is imminent, we brace ourselves. We used to constantly ask him if he needed to go, but we just kind of gave up. He won't tell us anyway. I know we're breaking all sort of potty-training rules, but this has been a war of attrition, and so far, he's winning.

So it was no surprise to me when he marched up from the basement this evening for bathtime and proudly announced, "I pooped in my underwear."

"You what?"

"I pooped in my underwear," he repeated, nodding his head for emphasis and smiling his evil little smile in pleasure. I nearly laughed but caught myself. To keep myself from getting furious, I tell myself that the poor child copes with his failure by using humor. I expressed my disappointment with zero response from Mr. Ben. Off to the bathroom.

It was pretty obvious that this was not a recent poo, and as I sat in the floor cleaning him up, I asked him exactly when he was going start pooping in the potty. Remembering our conversation earlier in the day about preschool (where they MUST be potty-trained) starting in two weeks, he decidedly answered me.

"In two weeks."

"Well, why don't you go ahead and start pooping in the potty before then?"

"No. I poop in the potty in two weeks."

Dude, you better be right. Or it's going to be a looonnnnng year when you get kicked out of preschool.

Meanwhile, Jake slid by me to go pee in the potty. As he stood on his stool to pee, he looked over at Ben and became so intrigued by the unholy mess on Ben's bottom that he just gaped. Completely forgetting where he even was, Jake peed a Lake of Pee directly to the left of the toilet. It immediately began creeping over to where I was sitting with Ben.

Cleaning Ben up the best I could quickly, I sent them off to clean up the toys in their bedroom while I mopped up the floor. Finally ready to start their bath, I went to retrieve them from their room. And there they sat on Jake's clean sheets, two little not-so-clean bare bottoms.

I'm so tired of the poop.

Lost

Note: I was chastised not at all subtley by mom this evening that I have not been blogging all my funny stories to the world in a timely enough manner. I was miffed briefly, but I conceded she was right. I need to realize that even though I'm exhausted and emotionally spent 95% of my day, people want to know about my life. Like any other celebrity, I have chosen this life in the spotlight.

I also want to mention that after hearing that some of you have tried to leave comments and could not, I've turned off the security feature for leaving comments-- hopefully that will solve the problem. If not, you'll just have to tell me how wonderful I am in person.

Anyway. Let's get on with the funniness.

Last week I was in the haze of horrible sinus pain that made me feel like my skull was going to burst into a million pieces. I was practically claustrophobic trying to escape the pain (I haven't yet determined what's been going on with my sinuses, but I'm starting to think it's my brain trying to implode when dealing with the boys). In this state of mind, I did what I always do when I'm not thinking clearly: I decided to embark upon a stupid adventure with the boys that I had no business undertaking. My mission: Go to Hobby Lobby (mecca for crafty people) and take a "quicker" backroads way home. With eyes practically crossing in pain, I studied the Google map carefully and loaded up the kids.

The actual shopping venture in Hobby Lobby is really another blog. Let me just throw out some keywords and I'll leave the rest to your imagination: no stroller or shopping cart, lots of breakable items, a bazillion kids crafts to choose from, total sensory overload, meltdown. There you have it. We stopped briefly afterward at Petland (did you know they have potties there?) and were on our way home.

I don't know if it was the nasal decongestant meds kicking in or I was just happy to survive Hobby Lobby, but I was pretty pleased with myself as we cruised the backroads home. I was just zipping along on Rt. 5 when I passed an intersection that gave me pause. Hmmmm... As drove further and further, I got that slightly sick feeling I might have missed a crucial turn. But I continued to drive, not wanting to let on that I was lost to two highly sensitive three-year-olds. Finally, I pulled over and pulled up my GPS location on my Blackberry. It just so happened that the place I pulled up to was a red warehouse that closely resembled the inflatable playground place that is the boys' #2 favorite place in the world (behind the bowling alley, of course). Convinced we had arrived at "The Jumping Place," the boys were inconsolable when they realized we were, in fact, just lost.

The concept of being lost, apparently, was something the boys previously only knew of in terms of Dora the Explorer. But now they were learning it happened in real life, too, and I could tell they weren't sure what to make of that, despite the fact that they see Mommy screw up on a daily basis. I studied the map, and convinced that Rt. 5 would eventually take me to Rt. 60, I pulled back on the road and stayed the course. Fifteen minutes later, I realized that Rt. 5 takes you to Rt. 60 alright, but it's Rt. 6o out in the freaking middle of nowhere. I had never seen this Rt. 60 before. Now I was nauseated. Several more wrong turns and stops later, I headed back to Where We Done Came From and took the turn all the way back at that stupid initial intersection, all the while fielding questions from the backseat about being lost. Within 15 minutes of that turn, we were pulling into our driveway. Praise the Lord. Lunch and naptime for everyone.

"Mommy, you know where you are now"? asked Jakey.

"Yes, Jakey, I know where we are."

But it gets better.

A few days later, we were getting ready to merge onto the interstate to head east. In his work vehicle, Hilton happened to be getting ready to merge west on the interstate. Jakey noticed this discrepancy in the direction.

"Mommy, are you lost?"

"No, Jakey, Mommy's not lost today. I know where I'm going. The other day I was lost."

"Yeah, you not that good a driver."

Thanks, Jake.