giving things up for lint

"Did you ask your friend what he might like for his birthday?" I ask Twin A. as he munches a bagel after soccer practice.

"Yes. I think he'd really like some new football cards." He says.

"Doesn't he have a pretty big collection already?"

"Well, yeah. But he said he had to give them up for lint."

and that would surprise me because...?

I'm the mother of three boys. So I don't know why I was surprised to find this sitting on my kitchen counter recently...













Hmmm. Tupperware. And inside?



















Rocks. Of course. Who doesn't need a few tupperware containers full of rocks sitting on the counter?

man versus...park?

You know your kids watch too much "Man versus Wild" when you lock yourself out of your car and they immediately start looking for crickets and firewood.

I locked my keys in the van at the park, and you would have thought we were stranded in the middle of nowhere.

"So, we have one granola bar and no keys," B. said. Quickly adding, "I call it!"

He's got a sense of humor, that boy.

The noisy boys got right to work searching for crickets to make the cricket stew. When Llama Papa showed up to rescue us, the preschooler ran into his arms and said, "YOU SAVED US!"

From the doom of a suburban park.

And cricket stew.


"

You know you're a mom when...

You wake up, thrilled to have a slow day with the kids. No school or activity schedules to worry about and not much going on.

You just need to clean up a little bit, do two or three loads of laundry, make a quick trip to the grocery store, wrap half a dozen gifts, do a little baking, host friends for play and lunch, return a few phone calls and bring a meal to a neighbor.

Not much.

Thanksgiving humor

At the dinner table last night…
Llama Papa: “Boys, our house is really clean right now. We need to work together to keep it clean for Thanksgiving in two days.”
Twin A.: “We need to keep it clean for TWO WHOLE DAYS?”
Twin B.: “I think we should just leave.”

Recurring conversation with the preschooler…
The Preschooler: “Are we going to eat turkey on Thanksgiving?”
Me: “Yes.”
The Preschooler: “Is it already dead?”
Me: “Yes.”
The Preschooler: “So we’re going to eat a dead turkey?”
Me: “Well, we’ll cook it. But, yeah.”
The Preschooler: “Who killed him?”
Me: “Um. The turkey farmer I think. They call it butchering.”
The Preschooler: “Did it hurt his feelings?”

Yes, I fully expect that he’ll eat nothing but green beans and mashed potatoes tomorrow.

And my personal favorite, yesterday before naptime…
The Preschooler: “I made a card.”
Me: “Nice! What does it say?”
The Preschooler: “Dear God, thank you for making me.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! I’m beyond thankful for my house full of noisy boys. (Well, most of the time anyway!)

Where are my chickens?

Every day is an adventure with a preschooler in the house. Honestly, I’d forgotten how cute a three-year old can be. He loves going to school like his brothers (two mornings a week), and helping me with jobs around the house. Amazingly, his favorite “job” right now is cleaning the toilets. And everywhere we go, he checks the bathroom and often announces, “That potty looks dirty. They should clean it.”

Hilarious.

But by far my favorite part of this age is watching his imagination explode. Some days, he’s a cat, crawling around and meowing and telling me “the kitty likes to be petted.” Other days, he’s a “good guy,” keeping all the bad guys away with his assortment of pretend guns. (Don’t lecture me. I lost the battle against non-violent toys long ago.)

Even as I type, the preschooler is managing a small farm of chickens in a laundry basket. Invisible chickens, of course, which makes it tricky to play along. He just yelled out, “Mom! My chicken got away!” I tried to grab the invisible chicken, but when I gave it to him, alas, that was not it. He was looking for the OTHER chicken.

So he grabbed two plastic sandwich bags and put them over his hands for “glubs” and is off to recapture the escaped chicken.

All this fun and it’s only 6:08 in the morning.

The farmer has just invited me into the chicken fort and assured me that he’ll keep me safe. Because, according to the farmer, "the chickens really like you."

Which is why I love having a preschooler.

The difference between men and women

We were at Lowes on Saturday for their kid’s building clinic, and as we walked through the front doors, Llama Papa said, “Oooh, oooh, oooh DeWalt!” In that super guy grunty, drooly way, kind of similar to the way I talk about dessert. Kind of. Anyway, I assumed he was interested in looking at the drill section after helping the noisy boys build their treasure chests.

After the class, I had a question for customer service, so Llama Papa grabbed our three boys and said, “I’m going to check out the DeWalt display.”

“Sure honey!” I waved. A few minutes later, I asked my question and started looking for the rest of my family. They were nowhere to be found.

I circled the store several times. Nope. Nowhere.

Now, I have to say I wasn’t too upset. After all, he had the kids. But I was curious. Where are they? In the bathroom? Plus, the store was entirely too quiet. Usually our toddler acts as a portable homing device everywhere we go. Just follow the screeching, laughing sounds.

Finally, I called his cell phone.

They were outside. At the DeWalt display out in the parking lot. And we laughed because, I swear I am not making this up, I didn’t even notice the semi truck full of power tools that we walked right by on our way into the store.



And that, my friends, is the difference between men and women.

(Or at least between the Llama Momma and the Llama Papa!)

baked ice cream

Are you a “YES” Mom? Jill Savage issued a challenge for the month of July over on her blog that’s right up my alley. Saying “yes” to our children instead of “no.” (She’s not talking about the absence of boundaries or never saying “no,” but rather, saying “yes” whenever you can.)






When Twin B. saw this book on clearance at Border’s, he went nuts. “Can I buy it, Mom?”



“Sure,” I told him.

“It’s only $1.99. That’s a good price!” He exclaimed.

“It is. And a good value.”

And so we began our summer of science experiments. There was the raw egg that turned into a bouncy ball when submerged in vinegar…for a week.

Twin B. has spent hours pouring over this book, gathering random supplies, and excitedly conducting experiments.

But the one he really wanted to try, more than anything else, was the baked ice cream. At first, I put him off. “I need to make a trip to the store first,” I told him. “We need more vanilla ice cream.” But he persisted. Every few days he’d ask, “Can we try it tonight?” And I would say “Not today.” It just looked like a big mess.

But if you know me at all, you know that I love to foster my children’s imaginations. If it’s not dangerous or unkind, I’m usually fine with it. (I mean, come on, I let a raw egg sit on my kitchen counter for a week, people!)

So, one night, I said “yes.” We worked together to make the meringue. We put the ice cream on top of cookies. (Cheap, Aldi cookies in case the experiment didn’t work. You wouldn’t want to waste a good cookie on a science experiment.) Then we carefully covered the whole thing with meringue and put it in the oven. For an hour. Now, according to the book, the cream of tartar in the meringue acts as a sort of insulation for the ice cream. But an hour? I started to wonder if that’s why the book was on sale. None of the experiments actually work.

We watched through the oven window while the ice cream slowly melted, and cut bait after forty-five minutes.

We laughed and laughed at the craziness of putting ice cream in the oven for an hour…and then enjoyed “real” ice cream sundaes for dessert.

How about you? Are you a "Yes" mom?

not my final answer

What a day.

I babysat for a friend this morning, so I had the toddler and an eleven-month old. The toddler was so excited when she came over, exclaiming, “Can we keep her?” By lunch he changed his tune. “I don’t like her.” Nice. And I don’t like you, buddy. (I’m kidding. Sort of. Don’t send me hate mail.)

Holy cow, I’m tired.

A few days ago, my friend, Em, asked a question on facebook. When do you clean? Or something like that. We all chimed in with our schedules and routines, but this woman has an almost three-year old and a six month old. Honestly. I wonder now, was she really asking us, how the hell do you ever do anything?

Because that’s how I felt today. Like I couldn’t even pee, let alone sweep the floor.

Things got really interesting when I tried to put the baby down for her morning nap. I was rocking her and just as she dozed off, the Toddler ran up the stairs and yelled, “Can I get myself a drink?”

“Sure.”

The baby’s eyes popped open.

A few minutes later, the same thing happened.

“Can I have a snack?”

“Yes. You can have a snack.”

The baby was wide awake. I finally gave up on the whole nap thing and we came back downstairs. And found this.



That would be a leftover baked potato. What a great snack, don’t you think? I mean, why go for the apples on the counter or the actual snack box in the pantry when you can have a cold, leftover baked potato?

And the drink? Don’t take the sippy cup of milk in the side door of the fridge. Go ahead and pour blue kool-aid all over the floor.


Perfect.

So, Em? I’m officially changing my answer to your question in light of the day I had today. When I had two very small children in my house, as I did today, I didn’t get much cleaning done. I just did the best I could every day, and that was that.

When the baby’s mom came to pick her up this afternoon, I breathed a sigh of relief. She’s still alive and in one piece and on her way home. And then I remembered my own motto, or shall we say goal, when the twins were small:

Everyone alive at the end of the day.

Sometimes that’s good enough.

elbow envy

This story is just too good not to blog about, but in an effort to thwart any attention from naughty google searches, let’s just rename that special part that only boys have—yes, that one—and call it, oh, an elbow. Hang with me here.

A couple of weeks ago, the toddler was sitting on the potty, and Twin B. was cheering him on. “Look at you! You’re such a big boy, going pee-pee on the potty!”

“Elbow!” The toddler said, pointing at his, um, elbow.

“Yeah, that’s your elbow,” Twin B. said.

“MY elbow.”

“Yes, that’s YOUR elbow. I have an elbow too. And Twin A. has an elbow, and Daddy has an elbow…” his voice trailed off and he whispered, “Mommy doesn’t have an elbow, but we don’t talk about that. It might hurt her feelings.”

let the good times roll!

We know how to party here at the llama household. Or at least the toddler does...



(Those would be sprinkles. All. Over. The. Floor. If you need me, I'll be sweeping. Until sometime next week...)

humbling

I enjoy cooking. Multigrain waffles from scratch, homemade granola, Alton Brown buttermilk pancakes… the noisy boys know good food when they taste it.

Last week they went grocery shopping with me, and begged me to buy these. (It was Aldi, so hey, at least they were cheap.)



(Note -- ours didn't have the chocolate chips, though I'm sure that would have made a lovely addition to an already oh so nutritious breakfast!)

Last Monday I made them for the first time. Just unwrap, heat in the microwave for a minute, and voila. Breakfast on a stick.

Twin B. exclaimed, “This is the best breakfast you’ve EVER made!”

Twin A. agreed. "Yeah, this is a HIT, Mom. Put this on the 'family favorites' list."

And the toddler? He was too busy scarfing his down to say much of anything.

Alrighty then. It's good to know where I stand!

skills

The other night Llama Papa and I were both crashed on the living room floor watching our three boys run around, when the toddler decided to give Daddy belly kisses. He lifted his shirt up and gave it his best slobbery try, and laughed hysterically, though the sound effects weren't exactly what he had hoped for.

Twin B. was observing this, and immediately stepped in to provide big brother guidance. "Here, B. Let me show you," he said, "You do it like this," and proceeded to give Llama Papa a loud and long raspberry kiss, much to the delight of the toddler. Twin B. sat up and said proudly, "Don't worry, I can teach you how to do it. I've got skills."

It's good to have skills. And a sense of humor.

scissors

I’ll never forget sitting across from the noisy boys’ preschool teacher for my first ever “parent-teacher conference.” I was nervous and concerned. How were my three-year olds really doing? I wondered.

I got tears in my eyes as their teacher went on and on about how wonderful my boys were, how much she enjoyed having them in her class, and—this was the one that made me cry—how well adjusted they were.

(I secretly feared that I had somehow irreparably screwed them up, in only three short years. Little did I know there would be plenty of time for that later.)

The only thing we needed to work on? Their cutting skills. I remember staring blankly at her across the miniature table thinking, you mean I’m supposed to give these little people scissors? Really? I thought I was doing a good job keeping the scissors away from them.

Fast forward a few years and here we are with another toddler. Another chance to “get it right this time around.” So, you guessed it, I give this one safety scissors to practice his cutting skills.

It’s been interesting, to say the least.

Using scissors is probably his favorite activity right now, besides scooting his chair up to the kitchen counter and stacking up piles of bread in the toaster oven, preferably with butter.

The funniest thing is when he disappears for awhile, then comes back with scissors—usually when we’ve said something truly unreasonable, like “no we’re not having macaroni and cheese for breakfast today.” He goes and finds his scissors, and goes to work on that box. Like if he could just get those noodles out, there might be a chance.

Never a dull moment...

gloves are of the devil

This morning was a yelling morning.

What a terrible way to start the week. Winter is here, and I’m still getting our gear organized. (Which is to say, I finally put away our bathing suits and beach towels and replaced them with gloves and hats.)

The problem is with the gloves. I’ve decided that children’s winter wear is of the devil. Seriously. The gloves all get together at night and scatter—quick! We match! Run to the other side of the house!

We probably have eight matching pairs of gloves for the noisy boys, which we keep in the blue plastic basket in the entryway. (I know. I am SO CLASSY.) In the morning, it should be fairly simple to dig out a pair of gloves, a hat, and scarf and get geared up for the walk to school. Except it’s not. Not even close. Which is why I start yelling things like, "If you'd put your gloves away when you come in, you'd be able to find them," and "I don't care if they don't match, just put them on. We're going to be late."

So there you go. Not a good excuse to yell at everyone. I’m redoubling my efforts at organizing our winter gear and actually bought two more pairs of mittens today to add to the stash.

Bring it on, snow. Bring it on.

couch dresses

I went shopping last night. For a dress to wear to a wedding.

If you’ve been following this blog for awhile, you already know that I hate shopping. (Remember the tube top incident?)

(For the record, I learned my lesson with the tube top thing. If you have to pull and tug to get it ON, don’t go there. You’ll never get it off again.)

I tried to go in with a positive attitude. I just need a reasonably attractive dress appropriate for an evening wedding. That shouldn’t be too hard to find, right? After all, people go to weddings all the time. Clothed.

True. But what do they wear? And—more importantly—where did they buy it?

Because, let me tell you, there were not a lot of options. Unless you count all of the dresses made out of upholstery fabric. I am not making this up. There were hundreds of dresses on the racks that looked (and felt) like couches, or worse, carpeting.

Who wears these dresses?

(I did find one, by the way. Macys. They had their share of couch dresses too, but they also had relatively normal looking dresses. And they were having a sale. So there you go.)

ka-boom

This was a wedding present. One of my favorites, actually. It’s one of those casserole carrier things that can keep a hot dish hot (or cold) on the way to a potluck. I’ve used it more times than I can count.

Last week, I was rushing around, getting ready for our MOPS meeting, and I heard a pop.

More like an explosion.

It was the microwave insert for my casserole carrier. I was heating it up to keep my egg bake warm, and then, POOF.



The toddler was impressed. “LOUD!”

What does it mean when a gift you got for your wedding explodes? It has been almost twelve years, but still.

Thankfully, our marriage is in better shape than some of the gifts.

toddlers

I love the way toddlers think about things. I often look at my two-year old and wonder, what on earth are you thinking?

Take this picture for example. We were on vacation last August, staying in a waterpark hotel, and the toddler opened all the dresser drawers upon arrival, putting one grape in each.



Which just made me stop and think, what does he see when he sees this empty dresser? Is it just crying out for grapes or what?

And the TV. We kept taking the money out, but he just kept putting it right back in. Because obviously that TV really needed a little bit of money sticking out from the front of it. (If you look closely, you'll see several coins sticking out from the bottom left of the TV.)

The Serious Tower

The weekend before school started, we took the noisy boys into the City to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We had been reading Roald Dahl’s books all summer, and they were quite taken with the magic of live theater. (Especially how they rolled Augustus Gloop up in the brown sheets to symbolize getting sucked up into the chocolate tubes…)

On our way into Chicago, the boys were pointing out buildings and asking what they were. Twin A. was impressed with the Sears Tower, and couldn’t stop talking about the “Serious Tower.” (We tried to correct him. "Sears. It's the SEARS tower." But to no avail. I don't think the kid has ever even heard of Sears.)

A few weeks later, he and his brothers built this. He took a picture and suggested that it "would be great for my blog." And so it is.

Behold: The Serious Tower.

Somebody call Supernanny

It’s been one of those days. Baby b., who is no longer a baby, but very much TWO, gave me a run for my money today.

Sitting down for dinner tonight, he threw a full-on tantrum because he wanted candy instead of scalloped potatoes with ham. As I put him in our “time out” spot to serve his two minutes, Twin B. commented, “You should think about calling Supernanny to deal with him. She could come while we’re at school.”

“Yeah,” Twin A. agreed. “I think that would make a very interesting show.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys. I’ll keep that in mind if things get worse.