Experts, Schmexperts.

There are many studies out claiming that it is beneficial for families to sit down together for meals.  I'm not exactly sure how this is beneficial...and I don't have the time or energy to look up said studies.  I wonder what they base these studies on...certainly not my family.

We have always sat down together as a family for dinner.  Let me give you a brief synopsis of how virtually every evening goes:

We serve the twins first to keep them happy while we dish up the rest of the family's dinner.  They take a few bites, throw the rest on the floor (or at each other) and then begin to rock back and forth violently, making their booster chairs bang against the chairs they sit on.  We, after several attempts, coax the 3-year-old to the table, only to be informed by said 3-year-old that she does not like what we are eating...can she have chocolate milk....and she has to go potty.

We give the boys something else to eat (and eventually throw,) as we sit down.  The teenagers commence a conversation that starts out mildly inappropriate, and quickly turns into an argument.  The preteen girl then spills milk.  Next, as the twins grow anxious and begin yelling, the toddler (who has returned from the bathroom) now leads them in a rousing chorus of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," to be followed by "Jingle Bells."  This involves, for some reason, their hands up in the air, swaying back and forth, and singing so loud it echoes in the room.  Not to be outdone, the teenagers raise their voices, so their insults can be heard over the concert.  I begin glancing at the clock, and rubbing my throbbing forehead. 

Many attempts to get the toddler to eat later, which include the "bite count," and threats of time out...we decide to get the boys into a bath as they have now put whatever remaining food there is on their heads...an end-of-the-meal ritual accompanied by the loud "dah-dun!" 

We begin bathing them as the teenagers continue to argue, and the toddler continues to avoid eating her dinner by turning her attention to the teenagers and provoking them. 

I'm not exactly sure what the benefits are to this kind of interaction.  I suppose at least I always know where my children are in the evenings.  I should probably enjoy that now, because I'm sure that will change once the oldest can drive.  Although...it might be kind of nice to have some of them eat at a friend's house once in awhile...I can see benefits to that, too...

Oatmeal Antics

Sometimes I think I should pop some popcorn, and just sit and watch my children.  They never fail to amuse me.  I buy oatmeal in bulk at Sam's Club, as it is one thing that the whole family can agree on for breakfast.  Another reason, newly discovered, is that it provides ample entertainment for the twins if I set the box on the floor in the living room, having dumped the packets out, and get them to toss the packets back into the box.  For some reason...this is the coolest thing EVER.  It keeps them busy for quite some time.

The other morning I made Irelynn some oatmeal, and after removing Connor from the top of the table as Irelynn screamed and held her bowl protectively to her chest, I pulled out the box, and set the twins up with some packets.  They giggled as they tossed them into the box.  Then Irelynn called me to the kitchen.

"How many bites do I have to take?"  She gazed up at me with her Backyardigans bicycle helmet on, swinging her legs back and forth.  This is how we go into every meal...with a bite count.  She cannot eat anything without knowing exactly how many bites she must take to be "done." 

As I tried to calculate how many bites it would take to eat about half of what she had left, I hear a scream...and a giggle...from the living room.

I run out there to find Owen sitting in the oatmeal box...with Connor sitting on his lap.  I remove the grinning boy off of his brother, and try to pull Owen out of the box.  His butt was firmly planted in it.  He started to whine.  Connor started to giggle, pointing at his brother.  I finally yanked the box off of his bottom and set him down. 

Perhaps I should eat oatmeal instead of popcorn while I watch them...the packets are already out on the floor, anyway.  If only I could adjust the volume, I'd be all set.

Deer, quit scaring the kids...

I have found some strange things in my yard before.  Particularly with having children...you never know what might get left out there.  I have even found dead animals before...mice, birds...even an occasional rabbit.  Nothing could have prepared me, however, for our latest discovery...the head of a deer.  Not mounted...just cut off, and laying in our backyard. 

It was the first really nice, warm day of the season.  I took all three younger kids out into the yard (a risk, I know...we don't have a fence, so I knew I'd be chasing children.)  At first, Connor was unsure of the ground.  It was then that I realized the poor child had very rarely been outside.  As he awkwardly stepped onto the lawn, he looked up at me and started this slow, sad whine. He stood on one foot, afraid to put the other one back down on the uneven ground.  Owen, on the other hand, was in all his glory.  His eyes glistened with his newfound freedom.  He took off running...and, predictably, within about 10-seconds, fell flat on his face.  He laughed it off, though, and took off again.  I had to carry the whiny child over to the swingset. 

It did not take Connor too long to decide it was acceptable, and off he went, running across the yard, with me and Irelynn hot on his heels.  It was then that we met our new friend.

"MOMMY!!  WHAT is that???"

I grabbed Connor's arm and held my other arm out to stop Irelynn.  I redirected them, and took a closer look.  Sure enough, it was the face of a deer, staring up at me.  There was an orange DNR tag still stuck to one of it's short, nubby antlers.  Now...I have grown up in a family of hunters, so I am not a stranger to dead deer, or deer parts, for that matter.  However, there is still something about seeing a deer head sitting in your yard that is super creepy. 

Luckily, my brother came and "saved the day," by removing the head from the yard.  Irelynn watched carefully...she was positive that the deer was going to come and get her.  I let her watch Chris take it away (from the kitchen window,) only so she knew that it was gone.  It had really freaked her out.

I am hoping that some large dog had dragged it over from someplace...and that it was not intentionally left there by someone.  We did call the DNR and filed a complaint...they can trace who it "belonged" to from the tag. 

I can never say my life is boring.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

I love that the Imagination Movers are dressed in kilts and singing Irish songs today.  It reminds me, one, that it is St. Patrick's Day, and two, some men should not wear a skirt.  I miss being a child on this day.  My mother would sing every Irish song she knew, and...if we were lucky...do a little jig.  We were reminded that we were, in fact, royalty, as those with the spelling -mack in McCormack were supposedly decendents of a king.  I look now at my 3-year-old, dressed in a white frilly dress and plastic crown, and smile.  Perhaps she truly is an Irish princess.  I'm thinking I should refrain from telling her, though, as she already has it in her head that she is a princess.

I am ashamed to admit that I have nothing planned for today.  No green cookies.  No green drinks.  Not even a single shamrock displayed anywhere.  The older kids wore green shirts out of fear of being pinched at school, and hinted at wondering what I may have planned for when they return home from school.  I don't know what happened this year.  I always wanted to make this day as fun for my children as it was for me growing up.  I wanted them to be proud of their Irish heritage.  Last year Irelynn walked in the St. Patrick's Day parade.  This year we didn't even go to it. 

I need to put aside my recent bouts of bad luck and get into the spirit, though.  I shall pop in my old Irish CD (although I might have to start with a little Flogging Molly to get it out of my system...we'll work up to the cheery stuff)...and break out some sugar cookie ingredients...and green sprinkles. 

I think I might just have to invite Grandma over, too...because it would not be St. Patrick's Day without some traditional singing and dancing from the Queen of this Irish family herself. 

I wonder if I have some green food coloring and beer...that might help, too....

Housework

There are many things I have learned on my journey through motherhood.  I have learned that "selective hearing" really does exist.  Just when you think that you need to take your child in for a hearing test (after he repeatedly cannot hear you tell him important information, or your husband yelling at him to take out the garbage,) you discover that when you lean over to whisper to your husband a suggestion of going to Ci-Ci's Pizza while driving in the van, he has heard you perfectly clearly...even over the screaming babies, his iPod blaring some Greenday song, and the toddler loudly arguing the finer points of the difference between "hitting" and "patting" someone.  I have also learned that toddlers, much like Spock or Data from the Star Trek series, do not understand the figurative or connotative meanings used in human language.  It is best, when explaining things to them, to stick to literal meanings, lest you wind up with a child trying to stuff your cat into a bag, because he heard someone had let him out.  My most important lessons, however, revolve around housework.

One thing I have learned the hard way is that you cannot organize clutter.  You can buy bins, folders, baskets and plastic drawers...but the clutter will not really go away or take up any less room.  You can blame the kids, the husband, and the house...but it won't help.  The clutter will still mock you from the corners, the counters and the pantry.  The only thing you can do is roll up your sleeves and dig in.  And you cannot be sentimental...because in the end, are you really going to be glad you kept every single drawing your child did from pre-school through the 5th grade?  Are they going to care or want to keep them when they grow up?  Nope.  But a few special ones will put a smile on your face every time.

Another thing I have learned is that yes, they really can...and will...live like that.  Letting things go because eventually SOMEONE will pitch in and clean something just means that your house will look like a pig sty.  Because the children honestly do not care.  They do not see the dirty clothes, the spilled milk or the pee that missed the toilet.  Those things will stay there until you clean them...or get angry enough to yell at someone else to clean it.  Subtly hinting that perhaps people should pitch in...or whining that you do all the work will not make the house clean, nor will it change the people living in said house.  It will only make you more miserable.

The most important lesson that I have learned, though, I did not learn on my own...it took actually reading a book (late at night, in small increments because it was the only time I had) written by someone called the "Fly Lady," to help me understand.  I am a perfectionist...not lazy.  The reason things would get so messy at times was because I would get so overwhelmed, and realize I did not have time to clean it "correctly."  And by correctly, I mean not only sweep, but mop the entire floor, scrub the floor boards and wipe down the walls.  So, instead, the floor looked even worse that day, because I avoided it and stressed out even more.  There is a quote from this book that really hit home with me...and I feel bears repeating:  "Housework done incorrectly still blesses your family."  It does not have to be perfect.  And with five children, I will tell you it will never be perfect....and I have learned to live with that.  I have established routines that keep it functional, and relatively clean...to the point where I will not be embarrassed if someone stops by and needs to use the bathroom.  I don't freak out when one of the boys lifts the toilet lid and sticks their hands inside.  However, on any given day you will find laundry ready to be folded on the couch, Legos on the floor, and blankets strewn around the living room from children snuggling up under them while they watch "Scooby-Doo."  You will also find piles of computer parts on my husband's side of the bedroom...but we won't go there. 

Do I still feel upset when I see someone make a mess without cleaning it up?  Sure.  Do I still feel like it's unfair that I do almost all of the housework?  You betcha.  However, I have found that as long as I keep up on my routines, and just do what needs to be done, I have much less stress.  The children get off to school without too much drama, the kitchen stays relatively clean, and nothing strange grows in the bathtub.  And I'm ok with that.  I will have plenty of years to make my house sparkle and impress company...but for now, hopefully they will be impressed with my youngest children's technical prowess, my oldest son's guitar playing skills, and my older daughter's beautiful artwork on the fridge.  I know I am.

Damage Control

It is a good thing babies are resilient.  Within just a short period of time, Owen has landed in the ER with an injury due to a faulty seat latch in the van, and Connor has landed, after a long, noisy fall, at the bottom of the basement stairs.  Somehow he did not end up with a mark on him...although how he managed it I will never know.  We heard him hit every step on the way down.  Both incidents made my heart stop, and I think I cried more than the babies.  I know it took me much longer than them to get over it...both were running and causing mischief within an hour after each incident.  I think I was still shaking.

I always joked about these boys giving me a heart attack before age 35...I think they took it seriously.  On top of the actual traumatic events, there are the daily near-traumatic events that leave me needing "quiet time" and a glass of wine in the evening.  My husband has begun to recognize the signs that I am ready for bedtime:  the constant glances at the clock, sometimes with narrowed eyes (thinking that if I stare hard enough, I can use the power of the Force to speed up time,) the drumming of the fingers on the table, my speech patterns becoming quicker, higher pitched, and, at times, quite shaky, and the ever present heavy sigh.  After a long day of pulling babies off of tables, stools, entertainment centers and chairs...after rescuing the cat, the television, Irelynn's beloved Froggy, and my new cell phone from immediate peril...and cleaning up milk, (insert food served at each mealtime,) cat fur from a frazzled cat, my tupperware and legos....I am mentally and physically exhausted.  My husband thinks I am insane for instantly cleaning up after every little thing anymore...but I know that if I don't...it will build up throughout the day into a massive monster that I will have to battle before bed.  And I'd much rather drink my wine than battle the monster...I'd end up putting him off until the morning, and then he'd ruin my day.  So, I follow the children around with a broom and a washcloth, like the uncle I used to make fun of for obsessively cleaning. 

Some day, they will all be older and in school.  As I have already discovered with my teens, that doesn't mean life gets easier...BUT....I will have those precious few hours while they are at school to rest.  I'm sure I'll still want a glass of wine in the evening...but by then I can pretend that it's because I'm sophisticated, not stressed.  Just like I can pretend that the gray hair makes me look distiguished...

Morning Madness

Today is not going well. 

No amount of coffee can cure a morning of pure madness.   I know, because I have already downed half a pot.  So far, Connor alone has hurdled himself over the side of the bathtub...leaving himself a nice red bump on the head, pulled the cat across the kitchen...by the tail, smacked his brother with his older sister's Tinkerbell shoe, and thrown his toothbrush into the trash. 

My toddler, missing a shoe, is dressed as Tinkerbell...dress, wings, and a fuzzy green headband that I do not remember Tinkerbell ever wearing, but apparently is the most important part of the costume.  She is sitting at the table, legs swinging, as she eats her oatmeal with blueberries.  In one of my better moments, I tell her she should probably remove the costume while she eats, just in case. 

You see...in this house...there is never really "just in case."  It is, almost always, a given that there will be a case. 

She takes the dress off, and sits back down in her underwear to resume eating.  I begin to smell something....and realize Owen desperately needs a diaper change.  Now, while I had the foresight to remove the Tinkerbell costume...I did not think to bring Connor out to the living room with me, and close the gate so that he did not have access to his sister while I changed his brother.

"Mommy....Connor's doing bad things..."

((sigh))

"Ok...just a minute....I'm almost done...." I have a boy half naked with stuff on his bum that could not go ignored at the moment.

"MOMMY!!!!!" 

A blood curdling scream. 

I run out to the kitchen to find Connor sitting on top of the dining room table, with a huge grin, and my toddler, eyes as big as saucers....covered in oatmeal and blueberries.  The bowl was spinning on the floor. 

This was all before noon. 

My husband had once mentioned, due to the fact that Google says I am no longer allowed to make money off of my blog (apparently the measely change I had made was "too much,") that we should add an option for those who enjoyed the blog to donate to his PayPal account.  I told him this was absolutely absurd. 

I would much rather have people donate beer.  To our doorstep. 

Anyone who is interested may send beer, in care of  Maureen Sawdon, Desperate Mommy, to our address. 

Thank You.


Disclaimer:  The author of this blog is not actually soliciting donations of alcohol; she is merely making lame attempts at using sarcasm.  However, any actual donations will not be denied, and would be greatly appreciated.