Outnumbered Two to One

Anyone who’s cared for more than one child at a time can attest to the fact that their noise increases exponentially with their numbers.

Two children can sound like four. Three like nine. Four like sixteen.

You get my drift.

For the past day and a half, we’ve had the equivalent of 25 children bringing down the house with their racket. Granted most of those children were mine, but even one extra can make a significant difference.

My 12 year old sister (yes I said sister) spent the night and most of today at our house while my mother was at work. The kids were all off from school because it was a teacher planning day and since I’m the stay-at-home mom du jour, our house got volunteered for sleepover duty.

Mostly I don’t mind. Mostly.

Except I sort of do. See it’s not my sister that’s the problem in and of herself. On her own she’s perfectly acceptable. Just like each of my kids, one on one, are more than manageable. Now, throw them all together in to a 1200 sq. ft. home with two dogs and only one available television and they are bound to grate on each other’s nerves. They also tend to talk over each other, each one increasing in volume until they reach a painful crescendo that actually makes my eyeballs vibrate.

Not to mention the extra child changes the family dynamics drastically. There are more pointless skirmishes, quicker tempers, more hyperactivity related scrapes and bumps. It’s like that one extra kid makes everyone else lose their mind.

Lose. It.

The teen retreats even further in to her bat cave. My ten year old gets sassier, my five year old gets whinier. Even the baby gets pushier, louder, and dare I say wilder than any almost-two-year old should get.

It probably doesn’t help that my hormones are once again in upheaval. I can’t even count how many times I snapped and shouted and hissed through gritted teeth to no avail. Nobody even flinched.

Then for some odd reason I was compelled to take them all on a brief grocery run. I returned with all five of them…and my sanity just barely intact.

I was practically shoving them out the door this evening when my mom came to pick her up. “So nice having you, come back soon, bye-bye.”

Give me my routine. Give me predictability. Give me children that can scurry when mom goes bananas. Give me the relative peace of 16 screaming children vs. 25, any day.

Certainly we all have our moments. We’re human. Occasionally in our catalog of stellar parenting accomplishments there are some less than shining moments shamefully tucked away, never to see the light of day.

Fess up, ladies. We can’t all be June Cleaver, or Carol Brady, or Claire Huxtable.

So taking a hint from Kia over at Good Enough Mama, I’m summoning the courage to share some of the reasons why I could possibly be the world’s worst mother.

1. Several years ago while I was carrying my son on my hip and cooking something on the stove, I accidentally bumped him up against a blazing hot frying pan. He still has the “C” shaped scar on his elbow from where he lost the skin.

2. Every one of my four children at one time or another has rolled off my bed, luckily suffering little or no injury.

3. I only attempted to breastfeed two of my four babies. Both times I quit after less than a week.

4. I’ve always let my kids fall asleep while sucking down a bottle full of milk. Thankfully they’ve all been blessed with incredibly strong teeth and have not developed any cavities as of yet.

5. All my kids sucked pacifiers well into their third years. The only reason my youngest does not rely on one is because he always refused to use them.

6. From the time he learned to roll over at three months, my youngest baby has always slept on his stomach.

7. Yes, I let my almost two year old watch TV. Sometimes for hours at a time, contrary to AAP recommendations.

8. This is totally reflexive, but at times when my children go into lengthy narrations about Godzilla battles or middle school politics or dream sequences involving dinosaurs and dragons, I have been known to switch into auto-pilot mode and proceed to nod and uh-huh while not actually listening to a word they’ve said…sometimes it happens with my husband too, but that’s a whole other post.

9. I have been known to give my children junk food substitutes for actual meals. Cookies to replace that meatloaf they didn’t like, chocolate because the mac and cheese did not please their palate.

10. I rarely force my kids to do chores, I know it helps teach them responsibility and would aid me tremendously, but it doesn’t seem worth the argument and half the time I feel like I can probably get it done faster myself.

11. I do not bathe my children every day. I wipe them down if they need it, but they don’t get lathered up on an off day unless it’s a dire emergency - I’m talking body fluids here.

12. I often let my kids watch PG-13 rated stuff. My five year old has been a fan of the Jurassic Park movies since he was three. He doesn’t even flinch when a dinosaur chomps down on a hapless victim. He understands it’s the magic of Hollywood and occasionally a little blood needs to be spilled.

Alright. Shake your collective heads in disgust. I understand. Thankfully, my children are surprisingly well behaved and well adjusted. Not that they have me to thank obviously, but I love the little critters with every ounce of my being and maybe sometimes that and good intentions are enough to get them through their formative years.

At least I’ve never lost one.

1. Migraines.  Because I just don’t get enough agonizing headaches the rest of the month.

2. Cramps. Personally, I love being doubled over in pain, it gives me an opportunity to appreciate my feet.

3. Irritability. I think my children and my husband can benefit from a little unpredictable anger, it keeps them on their toes and helps them better appreciate the reasonable ME.

4. Bloating. My fat jeans wouldn’t get worn without it. I hate to just see them hanging in my closet looking forlorn.

5. Fatigue. It’s a nice reminder that sometimes I need to take a break too. When I get said break, I might be laid out on the tile floor with a toddler using my gut as a trampoline, but beggars can’t be choosers.

6. Breast Tenderness. Just so you don’t forget the girls are there. No, they’re not as integral to your daily functioning as say an arm or leg, but occasionally they get tired of being neglected.

7. Difficulty Concentrating. Focusing is overrated, sometimes you need to stop and smell the roses or hey, look at that butterfly settling on the fence, wow, I think that needs to be painted, when was the last time I got a manicure…sorry, what was I saying?

8. Food Cravings. Yeah. Nuff said. Pass the chocolate.

9. Depression. Happiness? Come on, anyone can be happy, it takes character to sink in to the bowels of sadness every month and emerge relatively unscathed.

10. Feeling Overwhelmed. On a daily basis, actually. Wait…why is that specific to PMS?

11. Sudden Mood Changes. It’s the spice of life.

12. Marked Anxiety. Walking around with that feeling of impending doom can be cool, kind of like having a superpower that nobody else knows about and occasionally makes you vomit.

13. Sleeping Too Much. Yeah, as if. I can NEVER sleep too much. Not enough, definitely. But too much. It’s not possible.

Heck yes, I get that kind of crazy. And then some.

What?

You want a piece of that!?

Join the Thursday Thirteen madness.

Join in the WW fun HERE and HERE.

It’s exhausting being Switzerland, truly. My girls are always going at each other. Teeth bared, hands gesturing, voices at their very highest screeching register.

I can’t take it.

Maybe my younger daughter did initiate the aggression with her very birth, but you’d think after a decade my oldest (the dreaded teen) would have forgiven her.

No. Such. Luck.

This evening we were watching a DVRed episode of last week’s Top Model. The teen and me, squeezing in some mutual veg time before bed time. Halfway through the episode my tween, aka little sister, walks in, looks at the television and says “Are these new people?”

A simple question. She wanted to know if this was a new season of our guiltiest reality TV pleasure. A “yes” or “no” answer would have sufficed.

Not good enough for my scene teen drama queen. She proceeded to roll her eyes as far back as they go, hands waving and head bobbing, as she spit out in her most sarcastic tone, “I don’t know, sis, have you EVER seen them before. You’re looking right at them. Do you think maybe it’s a new season, huh?”

Ugh. Really?

And the tween, sensitive little darling that she is, proceeds to shriek/wail about how her sister ALWAYS treats her bad and how mean she ALWAYS is and how UNFAIR life is and how she’s JUST asking a question.

So of course, I go from veg to violent in no seconds flat. Scold the teen for baring her bitchiness badge and tell the tween she is welcomed to join us for the last half hour of mindless programming. My oldest is gritting her teeth, flaring her nostrils, feeling slighted that I took sides.

The tween then crawls in to bed between me and her older sister.

Bad idea.

It was the straw. The last one. The one that put the camel in traction, if you know what I mean?

The teen storms off squealing like a wounded animal, slams the door and abandons TV watching all together as a sign of protest. Way to show us.

Her response…she is going to get a job right now. Maybe in a sweat shop. So she can earn money to help us fund an addition. Don’t know what the going rate is for child labor. So she can finally have her own room. By the time she saves up little sis will be in college. Because she is sick of her sister and sick of all of us and she just wants to be left alone. ALONE. Can you hear the violin concerto?

Sigh.

Double sigh.

Is it just me, or is it that treacherous time of the month approaching again?

If I could bottle her melodrama and sell it…well, actually, I don’t think anyone would buy it.

Repeat after me.

I, (state your name), do solemnly swear to never ever divulge any of the lurid details of my adolescence or young adulthood to my children. In recounting tales of mischief, mayhem, carelessness, and possible illegal activities, I do hereby promise to omit any reference to the following:

running with scissors / lying to parents or other adults / riding in a car without a seat belt /hitching rides with strangers / riding on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet / wearing inappropriate or revealing clothing and or make up / failing a class due to lack of interest or effort / copious use of the “f”, “s” or “b” words or any combination thereof /disregarding or disrespecting authority /cutting, skipping, or ditching school /sneaking out of the house after dark / getting a tattoo and or body piercing / loitering /vandalism / cigarette smoking /underage drinking /binge drinking / premarital sex /mild or heavy drug use /shop lifting / arson / cow-tipping / drag strip racing /gambling / smuggling / money laundering /dog fighting /

and/or any other dangerous behavior as I see fit. Rather than relate these anecdotes as they occurred, I will instead interject various wholesome substitutes that will cast me in a better light and possibly deter them from making poor decisions.

Among acceptable alternates are:

raising money for a charity / sponsoring a bake sale / joining the chess club / hosting Friday night study sessions / making rice krispie treats / bouncing on a trampoline / volunteering at an orphanage / picking strawberries / helping reupholster an ottoman / reading poetry / napping / teaching myself to knit /writing haiku / watching The Sound of Music /

These strategic adjustments to my history are not to be viewed as dishonest, merely as a safety precaution. This is my parenting duty against the possibility of my child some day uttering the words, “But you did it, why shouldn’t I?”

This is my oath on this 22nd day of September 2008.

Disclaimer: This fictitious oath is in no way a reflection of me or my adolescence or any stupid decisions I may or may not have made. I am by no means poking fun of past members of chess clubs, bake sales, haiku writers, teen knitters, or fans of The Sound of Music. Really, I LOVE The Sound of Music. 

At some point after my oldest hit puberty, she stopped smiling for photographs.

Maybe it has something to do with the symptomatic insecurities that accompany hormonal fluctuations, maybe it has something to do with her irascible personality or her unwavering desire to irritate the socks off me. Regardless, she’s made it impossible lately to snap a decent picture of her.

I’ve got some with her sneering or snarling or some variation of teeth baring unrelated to happiness. I’ve some with a tongue out, or with a book held up, or with a twisted squinty eyed glare that most resembles agony. I’ve got weird profile pics she’s taken of herself, I imagine, to get a good look of what her head looks like from the side. But never, ever anything flattering.

Until now.

I guess she’d borrowed my camera to get a cute photo of herself to maybe email her friends. But now, I’ve got my hands on it. Which makes it blog fodder. Ha.

So here’s my surly girl for the world to see.

To think just a year and a half ago she was this:

And a once upon a time this:

Coming soon: the rest of the offspring.

It’s been a slow news day on the home front.

Saturdays are like that. Our intention was to get out of the house today, participate in some fun family centered activity that would leave all our children satisfied and grinning broadly.

Alas, ’twas not to be.

One child slept till 10:30 which coincidentally is around the time I put breakfast out on the table. Before we could leave, Biology homework needed to get done, and a certain teen needed a shower…as did I (occasionally I like to wash the smell of defeat from my skin). After that a certain toddler needed lunch and a nap and a diaper change. My husband, unnerved by the lack of hustle, invested his time in some yard work. The other children squabbled over Yu-Gi-Oh! regulations. Then the baby woke up, the teen was still getting her lather on an hour later! Husband digging holes, getting sweaty. Another diaper change. The children stalking each other barefoot like feral cats.

Eventually we left the house…at around 3:30-ish. To. Have. Lunch.

Actually, we stopped at the library first. To return some movies and borrow some movies and pick up some books we’d requested.

Then lunch at BK’s. Unfortunately, the kids got cheated out of their coveted kid’s meal Neopet toys by that capitalist whopper touting monarchy. Instead they gave us i-dog toys from almost a year ago.  Yet the King made it up to us by bringing back the Cherry Icee, hopefully consigning their *gag* simu-lemonade flavor to oven-cleaner where it belongs.

The highlight of my day thus far…

The county delivered our new and improved mega-sized recycling receptacle. I’d requested a larger size because our current one is consistently overfilled by pick up day.

A new recycling can.

That’s as exciting as our day got.

Woo-friggety-hoo.

It was sunset. The children were outside, playing and chasing each other on the freshly cut grass. The humidity had lifted and a fresh breeze ruffled the leaves on our avocado tree. The stars were starting to emerge against the clear night sky and I said to myself, “self, chill the heck out for a moment and take it all in.”

So I did.

I took off my shoes, walked across the freshly mowed yard, and laid down on the kids’ slide, my arms behind my head as I stared up at the sky.

Gone was the tension that had built during the day. Abandoned were my dishes and laundry and even the blogosphere. I stared up at the vast universe, contemplating how brief our journeys through it are, feeling philosophical as the last reluctant beams of sunlight faded, loving the moment and all around me…

Then a toddler decided sliding down on to mommy’s oh-so-peaceful-philosophizing head was the way to go.

Then a certain five year old decided sliding down right behind his baby brother and pinning said toddler between his crotch and mommy’s now screaming head was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

My hair was caught in two sets of little feet, being ripped a strand at a time from my scalp as my body slipped off the slide and my children pushed off from my head to get away from the shrieking.

The moral of the story?

When trying to sneak a moment’s peace, it helps if the children are in another state…and that you not recline in a visible high traffic area.

100. The big one-oh-oh. Ah.

It seems like it was only yesterday I was publishing my first tentative blog post - whispering out in to the vast blogosphere and wondering whether or not my voice would be heard…it wasn’t. At all. Actually.

But I persisted.

Eventually someone saw the smoke signals. A single visit from someone other than myself. They came, they read this, they commented. I was overjoyed.

Then one hapless day in September, the unthinkable happened. I broke 100 visits in a day with this. I was no longer talking to myself. Someone was listening…er, reading.

100 blog posts.

Strangely, I barely feel like I’ve written a post over 25.

I’ve been contemplating how to celebrate this milestone and have come up with zero. A list of 100 random facts about me seems a little excessive, I’m truly not that interesting. Though plenty of other bloggers pull it off seamlessly, I find myself hard-pressed to come up with a tenth of that more often than not.

Personally, I don’t have the attention span for it. A list of one-hundred anythings usually loses it’s novelty somewhere around 23.

So I’ll end this (less than) monumental post with a thank-you.

Thank-you for reading. Thank-you for commenting. Thank-you for reassuring me I’m not the only mom with imperfect parenting strategies, or poor housekeeping abilities, or grubby hosiery.

Thanks for the support. Thanks for the friendship.

Hey. Thanks for showing up.