Noted.

#15.) Gave flowers to my mom.  (She deserves more, but all in good time.  She's fabulous. And beautiful.  You should meet her.)

March 29th, 2012

1.) Leo got his first fat lip (hit in the face with a flying swing, per Aunt Leeney's report.)  Sad that he got hurt, yes, but oh-so-smitten with how super-tough he looks.

2.)  Patrick swears, on video, that he will stop sucking his thumb.  Again.

3.)  Hatch...well, Hatch is just his smiley, happy self in his new octopus jammies (which I can't bear to take him out of because a.) I am too tired and still in jammies myself, and b.) he's adorable.)

4.) Adam started day #2 of his new job (same company, new job.)  He will be traveling a lot, meaning I'll be single-parenting it at least two nights a week, but I kind of have this down now.  And the company car isn't a bad touch.  And the extra income will come in handy when we have three kids to put through private schooling.  Good work, honeybee.

It's an ordinary day.  Just a regular, quiet, giggly, lots-of-diapers, laid-back, no television, peaceful, dinner-on-the-table-by-5pm kind of day.  Proof that not every day is mad chaos around here.  Some days are just simple.  And lovely. 

13.) Apologized for something that haunts me.

14.) Told someone how he changed my life.

Happy Birthday Project

I am so far behind in all of my blogging efforts, but not for lack of preparation.  It's for lack of patience when it comes to this horribly slow laptop.  (Our main one putzed out, so I'm down to the backup.  Or the tablet, which I would rather lick clean that type out an entire post on it's touch-screen keypad.)

In short, work is fabulous, exhausting and rewarding.  The kids are insane, and I feel sorry for anyone who has to see us out.  We are our own little circus.  One might think it drives me nuts...it doesn't.  I like the chaos, and though I must say, "IF I HAVE TO TELL YOU ONE MORE TIME..."  at the top of my lungs 17 times a day, I try to tell myself that this, too, shall pass and one day, these days will be the easy ones.  At least nobody can call me lazy.  Crazy, yes.  Lazy, no. 

The most interesting thing that I have going on at the moment is my birthday project.  A week ago today, I turned 32.  As it goes, 32 feels just like 31, which felt like 28, which felt like 25...you get the picture.  I'd like to think that I am still younger than I am, but I am not.  Not that I try to hide my age (obviously), I just don't feel like I am aging.  (Well, unless I try to drink more than 2-3 glasses of wine at a time.  Then, I feel every day of 32.  Every single day...and then some.)  Back to my birthday, though.  My sister planned a lovely little outing at a cool little bar for me.  It was absolutely fabulous to see so many of our friends out...and late, too, for a school night.  (75% of the attendees were RN's.  Thank goodness for alternative schedules.)  Adam got my a lovely hydrangea plant (which I have already killed.  My thumb is black), and took me out for a sushi FEAST.  It was gluttonous...and fabulous.  He planned a date night for us in the near future...plans to be disclosed later.  It was all that I wanted for my birthday.  It was perfect.

As birthdays go, I started to reflect on the past year, on how enormously blessed I am, on how hard we have been working, on how much things have changed in the last year, on how grateful I am for everything.  Every. Thing.  So, how does one give back to spread some of the goodness bestowed on her?  She performs one acts of kindness (random or otherwise) for each year of her birth.  Thirty-two acts of kindness...which takes much longer than one day to complete.  So, right now, we are still somewhere at the beginning.  To date, my acts of kindness include:

1.) Delivered cookies to a firehouse and thank the fireman for all that they do.  (This was ultimately disappointing, which I hate to admit.  I took the boys with me because I thought it would be cool for them to see.  It wasn't.  It was a quick drop-off, a quick thank-you, a quick once-over of the sparkly trucks, and a couple of souvenir helmets.  Well, that doesn't sound like it would be disappointing, but I got the feeling we were an annoyance more than anything.  Eh.  You can't win them all.)

2.) Left a hand-written note for a deserving neighbor.

3.) Sent a card to a friend in need.

4.) Stopped in the rain to help a woman who had dropped her belongings and had a child in each arm and one in a stroller. 

5.) Returned the shopping carts in a parking lot to the cart corral.

6.) Left an anonymous note of thanks for someone great.

7.) Donated coloring books, play-doh, crayons, books, and puzzles to the children's hospital.

8.) Told someone I just met how they had inspired me.

9.) Told the kids how proud I was to be their mother.

10.) Put coins in a meter that had run out.

11.) Left a large tip for a deserving server.

12.) Complimented management on a job well done.

13.) Did not throw my shoe at the crazy neighbor who shouted, "Oh, Catie!  I am so sorry to hear you had another boy!" over the back fence yesterday.  (Fine, that doesn't count.  But it should.  By not giving her an obscene gesture, at the very least, I did her a favor.)

Eesh.  I feel like I was further than this!  I guess I need to work on it.  Shoot.  This is going to take me weeks, but it's a work in progress.  And I'll update that progress as I go.  Assuming, that is, that I somehow find the patience to deal with this laptop long enough to keep up with my blog postings. Does practicing patience count as an act of kindness?  It should.  That would at least bring me one step closer to that elusive 32...

I just removed my first (of most certainly many) splinters.  If you ask Patrick, I removed a giant piece of wood from his hand.  If you want to know the truth, it was probably about 1mm by 2.5mm.  Tiny.  But to a tiny kid himself, it was monumental.

This rite of passage, and the official start to our "outdoor season," I'd like to believe, leads me directly to this.  It's as if Erin Jo lives in my walls.

Boys in my House

Author: Erin Jo Kilmer

There are boys in my house - and Spiderman shoes

And 200 papers in various blues.

There's Bob (he's a builder) and Thomas the Train,

There's a fireman coat to wear in the rain.

They have cars on their shirts and frogs on their hats

There's a glove and a ball and a red plastic bat.

There's dirt on a face and a smudge on a nose;

Grass stains on knees and sand between toes.

There's bathtime at night with bodies to scrub,

And when we're all done there is dirt in the tub!

There's bandaids and bruises and curious bumps,

There's smiles and laughter and sometimes there's grumps.

There are odors most icky; there's boogers so green

 There are more yucky things than I'll ever get clean.

There are piles of laundry; there's stories at night;

There's bedtime and bathtime and dinnertime fights.

There are cars and there are trains and there are books about trucks

There's Scoop, Lofty, Dizzy, and Travis, and Muck.

Sometimes there are bugs, and sometimes there are frogs;

Sometimes they are lions, or dinos, or dogs.

There are cute little vests and darling neckties

Dragged right through the mud - oh what a surprise!

There's running and climbing and jumping and falling

And laughing and crying and hugging and brawling

And rolling and losing and finding and creeping

 And whining and stealing and sometimes there's sleeping.

There's tantrums and time outs and extra loud noise -

There's love in my house, shaped like three little boys.

My friend, Alison, has the funniest take on parenting.  (Funny because it's true.  The best kind.)  As stolen from her FB page (assuming that is ok--thanks, Alison!):

Once upon a time, I saw this on PostSecret.  At the time, I was looking for a sign. This was it.  So I did it.  And he/she was right; it is amazing.  Maybe you need a sign, too? 

Oh, Leo...

My guess is that I have appoximately seven minutes to write this, as Leo is currently up-and-at-'em, which means a clean-up is likely due soon.  However, I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge Leo.  Our little Gorilla.  Sweet Leo.

He gets a bad rap.  By me.  Leo is not as bad as I make him seem (though should any one of our children ever be responsible for accidentally setting fire to a local bowling alley, it would be Leo.  It hasn't happened...yet, but it could.)  He is funny and clever, affectionate and no-nonsense.  He's solidly built and quite witty for a little guy of few words.

His talking has taken off recently, though he still talks much less than Patrick ever did.  His verbal skills remind me of Yoda, if he would have been Native American.  (That sounds completely racist, but this method works!  It does.)  He's good at putting together sentences, though he likes to use the minimum number of words to get his point across.  For example:

Just a few minutes ago, Leo (whose new fascination is pouring water in and on everything) poured a glass on his baby brother.  When I hollered out "Leo!" his explaination came like this.  "Water went 'whish.'  Baby say 'ooh.'"  Which, in his defense is exactly what happened.  Currently, he is repeating, "Outside to go.  Jump and jump" (which means I want to go outside and jump on the trampoline.)

This kid is incredible.  He keeps me moving.  A lot.  If it weren't for the fact that I really love food, I would look like a Sports Illustrated Swiumsuit model from all of my constant activity.  In the middle of a giant mess of dog food/water/toys he will shrug his shoulders with a big, beautiful grin and say, "Loooo-ooove."  He instantly stops a tantrum with an "I'm sawwy," if it means he will get a treat.  He jumps off any surface with a decent amount of grace for a 22-month-old and, as I found out today, is more adept than I am at cracking eggs. 

Thank God for Leo.  Should he ever set fire to a bowling alley, I'd love him all the same.  Maybe more.  It would just be so...Leo.

There Are 17 Things I Should Be Doing, But...

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

Mothers Raising Sons

If we've ever had a lengthy conversation, you probably know how proud I am of my boys, how fortunate I feel to be a M.o.B. (Mother of Boys...there is an entire community of us, hence the name), how special I think our family is (but, really, who doesn't?)  I was cut out to be a boy mom.  I know for certain that this is true.  That being said, there is one observation that one would be blind to miss: I am different than the rest of my family.  Not one other member thinks like me, feels the same emotions, enjoys the same food.  I don't always understand the nature of these boys, either, though I'm putting forth my best effort.  So, when I found this article, my heart sang.  Boys are boys, and it makes sense that we are wired completely differently.  (Note:  Just recently, the boys have started to wrestle.  Silently, they will spontaneously head-lock one another, roll around on the floor for a minute or two until someone is pinned, and then resume whatever activity in which they were previously partaking.  It's the most bizarre thing to see; yet, I understand that it is just who they are.  With multiple boys, their "boy" behavior is magnified, making me believe we have years and years of head-locks in our future.)  I hope that you enjoy this as much as I did.

Raising Boys

A dad’s parenting advice for moms

Thomas Matlack  |  January 21, 2011

Let’s get one thing clear from the get go: moms are generally better parents than dads. And that goes double for me. I’ve had three kids across two marriages and I am undoubtedly the weak link. My 16-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son trust their step-mom more than they trust me, which proves that I married well but am still getting the hang of being a dad. Most of us are.

That said, there are a few subtle nuances that I have picked up along the way as a dad that might come in handy for moms raising boys.

Ladies, here are some things to think about with your boys:

• Think caveman. Adult women have thousands of emotional states, as do girls like my daughter. Boys, on the other hand, tend to feel one of three: mad, sad, happy. Don’t project your complex emotional life on your son. His issue of the moment might not be that complicated. He wants to eat, poop, or run. On a really bad day he wants his toy back after some other kid took it from him. He doesn’t want to stare out the window and have lengthy discussions about the meaning of life, as my eight-year-old daughter often did.
• Watch his body not his mouth. Again, like adult men, the clues to how your son is doing will show up first in his body language. Jumping up and down with six-inch vertical leaps is the natural state of being and is good. Slumped shoulders are bad. Yelling is good. Quiet needs attention.
• When in doubt, hug. Boys will often have a much harder time than girls verbalizing their problems. My 5-year-old son will sometimes burst out into tears after seemingly trivial events. I know there is something deeper going on, but I am not going to get it out of him, at least not at that moment (whereas my daughter would not only tell me what went wrong but in no uncertain terms why it was my fault, which was generally true enough). So the solution is physical not verbal. I spend a lot of time just hugging my boys. I usually have no idea why. But as a default cure-all, it seems to work wonders. A minute later they are all patched up and ready to rumble again. This even works pretty well with my 14-year-old, who is a 6-foot-tall linebacker at Boston College High School.
• Yes, it really is all about poop. Girls potty train 6 to 9 months before boys, but once boys make it onto the throne, there is no stopping them. Moving their bowels is pretty much the highlight of their day (true confession: it still is for me, too), and they are going to want to talk about it. Bathroom time is a participatory sport. My five-year-old likes to head to the bathroom just as the family is sitting down to dinner, sometimes during dinner. It’s the first time he has been still long enough to realize he has to go. And he wants me to come with him, not just to assist in the wipe but to have a leisurely conversation about the status of his poop. As much as I found this inconvenient at first, now I just go with it. Quality time is quality time.
• Batman lives forever. Boys, even at a young age, realize the importance of super powers. They want to be good and believe in the existence of ultimate good in the world. Boys sort out their identities in relation to the mythical characters they hear about. My son is obsessed with Batman. He wears a full costume, even through the airport and down Madison Avenue. What amazes me even more than his dedication to the superhero is how the guard at LaGuardia or the guy hanging off the back of a garbage truck sees him and shouts, “Batman!” My boy nods his head just slightly, acknowledging his public before moving onto the important work at hand, like going to kindergarten.
• Pointless physical activity is perfect. My brother and I once convinced his two sons and my older boy, when they were all around the age of 10, that they really needed to build a structure out of rocks. The rocks were on one side of a beach, but the perfect spot where the structure had to be built, according to our sage advice, was on the other side of the beach. Each stone weighed between ten and thirty pounds. The boys started moving the boulders one by one, working together to lift the heaviest ones. My brother and I set up our beach chairs midway from the rock pile to building site. We read the paper most of the morning while the boys tired themselves out moving rocks and then assembling a tremendous cathedral. By lunch they were tired and happy, and my brother and I had enjoyed a peaceful morning.
• Winning does matter, but less than you think. Boys — perhaps even more than girls — put themselves under extreme pressure to perform in school, in sports, and in social situations. They talk about it less, so the sting of failure can run even more deeply than with girls. With boys it’s important to emphasize the lessons to be gained from failure, instead of trying to win at all costs, and to emphasize the development of the whole boy. Too often in our culture, boys are pushed to become one-dimensional robots. Goodness isn’t about winning at youth soccer or having the most friends or being the smartest kid in class; it’s also about being kind. That’s something as a mom that you can particularly help your son understand.
• Clothes matter. I know there are way more options for dressing little girls than little boys, so the tendency might be to just throw jeans and a t-shirt on your son and forget about it. But you better make sure they are the right jeans and the right t-shirt. The only consistent battle I have had with my sons is over what they wear. It matters way more to them than I ever would have imagined. They want to look cool; they want to be comfortable (pants that are tight but not too tight, warm and yet breathable). I do draw the line with clothes that have already been worn two days in a row, but I don’t discount the importance of fashion to my kindergartener.
• Crowds, not so much. I have noticed that my daughter lights up when she enters a crowd, whether family or strangers. Mass humanity is something that gives her energy. With my boys, and, frankly, for me too, it’s the opposite. They get shy and tend to hide behind my legs. I try to protect them from these situations and not push them beyond their limitations.
• Bedtime is sacred. Because boys are so active, it’s hard to get them to sit still. The best time of day is the ten minutes before they go to sleep. Crawl into bed with them, read books, and hold them while they fall off to sleep. If you don’t believe in God, you will once you have lain next to your overactive son while his body goes limp next to you, and he ever so faintly begins to snore.