Finding Common Ground

The difference in my twin boys' personalities is quite striking at times.  They are certainly individuals.  Both of them get put in "time out" for different reasons:  Owen is usually on a rampage, throwing remote controls, smacking his brother, or head-butting me because I told him that he could not, in fact, have chocolate for breakfast.  Connor, on the other hand, is put in "time out" because he just dismantled his father's device that connects the TV to the internet and external hard drives thus making it possible to watch YouTube...or his vast collection of Christmas movies. 

Once in "time out" (which is basically their crib...the only unit still capable of containing them...or, well, Connor...for the couple of minutes needed to teach them a lesson,) they both cry.  If Owen stops crying, I know it is because he has either cried himself to sleep...or he has escaped "time out."  If Connor stops crying, I know it is because he managed to get ahold of the baby monitor, and is busy changing frequencies...and most likely trying to send out coded messages in hopes of contacting extra-terrestrial life.  If the boy had a screwdriver and a wire hanger, I'm sure he could do it. 

One thing that the boys both agree on, however, is that it is fun to repeat naughty words.  Especially when their father is angry.  The other night we decided to make them some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  I was spreading the peanut butter, as my husband was trying, in vain, to open a new jar of jelly.

"Son of a BITCH!"

The boys look at each other, smile, and repeat.

"Son a BEETCH!"

Bruce, not capable of controlling himself, continues...

"SHIT!"

The boys, in unison: "SHIT!"

Bruce, now getting the look from me, tries to catch himself mid-swear.

"GO...ah.....ARGHHHHHHH!!!!"  He is now denting the lid of the can as he beats it against the counter.

The boys giggle.

"Gahhhhhh....ARRRRRRGHHHHHHH!"  I was impressed that Owen actually repeated it, and did not resort to the actual phrase, as I'm sure he knows it by now.

The lid finally let loose, and all was well in the Sawdon household again. 

However, now Owen gets put in "time out" because when he doesn't get his way, he smacks his brother and yells, "SON A BEETCH!"

The Power of the Video Game

I would like to send out a heartfelt "thank you" to my in-laws, who got the boys a V.Smile game system for Christmas.  You see, previously, they were running around, throwing plastic food, jumping on the couch, licking DVD's, and yanking the gate away from the stairs.  Owen stuffed the cat into a Christmas bag, and they were dragging him around by the handles.  Then, Connor got into the box with the game system and handed me a remote.  I hooked up the system, and I am now sitting here, drinking coffee, and updating my blog while the boys both sit (yes, sit!) on the floor, playing a "Cars" video game.  Ah, sweet silence. 

I might be able to actually sit down myself for more than 30-seconds.  I never thought I would encourage my children to play video games...but with these two...I might make an exception...

Runaway Strollers and Clip-On Earrings

While I like my new house, and my husband seems to like his new job...moving has come with a new set of challenges.  Not the typical ones I was prepared for...the kids all seem to be adjusting to their new schools; even the preschooler loves her new school.  No, the biggest challenge is not having friends or family nearby to help.  I am learning how to truly be alone and handle the daily struggles of life with five kids. 

One big one is that Irelynn now goes to school four days a week instead of three.  There is no bus for the preschoolers...so that means, four mornings a week, I dress all three younger ones down to hats and mittens, scrape off the van, drive to the school, unload the double umbrella stroller, strap them in, and herd them into the school.  I then repeat the procedure again three hours later. 

Connor will not keep gloves on.  He repeatedly takes them off...and throws them.  I need to either buy a roll of duct tape...or buy a coat a size too big and sew the ends of the arms shut.  If it wasn't 12-degrees out with a windchill of so cold Richard Simmons was seen wearing full length pants, I would just give up and forget the mittens.  But when we have to walk through a parking lot and cross two streets to get to the school...I need to do something.

I think I look like a bit of a freak as I come to the school everyday...pushing two toddlers in a stroller with my preschooler hanging on.  I'm certain of it when I pull the stroller out, and then as I unbuckle Owen, a gust of wind sends it rolling into the parking lot, and I am forced to chase it down.  Then, when trying to strap Owen into the stroller, I realize he had one of Irelynn's big, bright clip-on earrings...and he was trying to attach it to my hair.  So, he begins laughing hysterically and yanking, while I'm trying to get it out.  I finally break the earring, and get it out, but my hair is now standing on end.  I finally grab Connor and stuff him in the stroller...retrieve the mitten he just threw...and run with the stroller across the parking lot, the two streets, and into the school...where I find my daughter waiting.

"You're late, Mom." 

"I'm not that late...only a couple of minutes..."

She glares at me.

"I'm sorry, Irelynn."

I have since started giving myself 20 extra minutes...to account for glove wrestling, toddler wrangling, ice scraping, stroller operating, and those last minute diaper changes because Owen is on a pretty strict pooping schedule.  This still puts me there just in time. 

I'm sure I'll laugh about this period of time in a couple of years...when all of my children are in school...via bus.  I will laugh because while I have a few hours to myself, some other poor sucker will have to deal with my children for part of the day...

Stress is formidable foe.  I thought I had it under control.  I established a routine.  I layed out clothes the previous night.  I started making lists again.  I even started working out...dusting off the Jillian Michaels DVDs and pulling out the weights.  I was feeling good...able to handle anything.  Then it happened...Owen discovered that he could climb out of the crib. 

Every child does this at some point.  It was bound to happen.  How could one little toddler throw off my entire sense of self-purpose?  I keep telling myself that it is not the toddler...it is stress.  Stress is a funny thing...it multiplies.  It turns a rational person into a raving lunatic, scouring the cabinets for chocolate and telling her children that if Mommy doesn't get some quiet-time, she will send a personal message to Santa regarding coal.  And it all starts with a toddler climbing out of his crib.

No naps equal cranky toddlers.  Cranky toddlers turn into impish creatures that wreak havoc on the household.  They pull out plugs.  They wake other sleeping toddlers.  They think the litter box is their own personal sandbox.  They rip their sister's Kids Bop CD case.  They push toys through the mail slot.  They pull ornaments off of the tree and throw them at the cat.  And they make their mother have to decide who to run after first:  the child that is trying to scale the living room shelf, or the child who is surfing on the end table. 

By the time the older kids come home, I am talking through gritted teeth and counting how many bottles of beer we have left for after bedtime.  I am glancing at the clock, counting down how many more hours are left until bedtime.  I don't quite remember getting through the evening...I vaguely remember the preschooler not making it to the potty in time, leaving puddles on the kitchen floor.  I remember the teenagers arguing...and one nearly breaking a drawer in the fridge.  I remember a cranky preschooler wailing about a hurt hand that she is positive her older brother broke. 

I end the night with a couple of glasses of wine, and baked Tostitos (so as not to ruin my healthy efforts.)  Take that, stress!  Of course, in the end, stress wins.  I wake up to realize that I have gained a pound overnight.  The kitchen is still a mess from the night before...and today Connor realized that he, too, can climb out of the crib. 

Curse you, stress.  I shall retreat to my coffee and usual rant peppered with words like "punk-ass kids" and "for the love of Pete WILL YOU STOP!!" 

But just wait until I order those crib tents online...

Creative Discipline

Sometimes I amuse myself.  It doesn't happen often, but there are times when a child does something so ridiculous, you have no choice but to come up with something equally ridiculous to teach them a lesson. 

My oldest son is a good kid.  He is usually a very intelligent young man...sometimes to the point where you have to question yourself.  However, there are times when he makes the four-year-old appear wise.  Tonight was one of those times.

I am in the kitchen.  Bruce is bathing the twins.  Jay is entertaining Irelynn.  Literally.  I hear him getting loud.  I roll my eyes...and follow it up with the usual, "Jay...settle down."  He continues to get loud.  I am imagining him chasing Irelynn around the living room.

"JAY.  Settle down out there!"

I then hear him talking to Irelynn.

"Go get MOM!"

I sigh, and walk out to the living room.  No Jay...or Irelynn.  I hear the sound of a struggle come from the little kids' room. 

"Irelynn...GO GET MOM!"

I walk in to find Jay...trapped under Connor's crib.  The side rail had slipped down to the floor...and was stuck.  Jaylond was trapped underneath the crib.  Irelynn was smirking across the room.

"What happened?!"

"I crawled under here to hide...and the rail fell down."

After a bit of a struggle, I got the side rail up, and he slid out...slightly embarrassed, but otherwise unharmed.

"Jay...settle down...and act your age."

Irelynn chimes in, "he was acting like a baby's age."

Jaylond scowls at her.  "You stay out of this."

I reply, "you know...bad decisions make you blog fodder."

Teenagers beware of the power of a parent with a blog.

And I thought MY day was bad...

There is mustard on my shirt.  My hair looks crazy from an attempt to distract the little ones by letting them style my hair with a brush, a cooking utensil, and what I later realized was NOT hair detangling spray. 

Connor has figured out the doors in the house...how to open them, how to close them, how to apply enough force to make them echo throughout the house, and how to lock his brother into the sunroom/bedroom/bathroom.  I realized that I need childproof locks on all the cabinets, and that those dishwasher detergent packs make great weapons when hurled at someone's face. 

The phone needs a new home.  It is currently set up where the internet and cable are hooked up in the house...right next to the television.  As I was on the phone with the school bus transportation department, writing down bus route numbers for the older kids, Connor unplugged the phone on me.  He did this repeatedly throughout the day.

The boys have learned that if they stand on a chair in the kitchen, they can reach the dimmer switch for the lamp hanging over the table.  I fully expect to walk in one of these days to find Connor swinging from the chandelier.

I have put up a gate across the laundry room, where the cat food is, because Connor likes to dump the food into the water dish...and then dump it on the cat. 

I discovered, while bringing stuff down to the basement that puddles were gathering on the floor...and a couple of boxes were wet.  I moved them, trying to figure out where the water was coming from, but had to abandon the search as I heard Irelynn scream from upstairs.  I ran up the stairs to find out that the reason for the blood curdling scream was that Owen had the audacity to take a drink from her cup.

Needless to say, by the time Bruce was getting out of work I was ready for a beer.  And silence. 

However, Bruce gets the award for "Worst Day Ever."  I found where the leak was coming from downstairs:  what looks like a drainage pipe had a cap that appeared to not be on all the way...and water was coming out.  Bruce went down to check it out.  The next thing I know, I hear a scream come from the basement.  I run down to find a horrible stench...and Bruce bent over...soaked.

His face was twisted in a look of horror...and he was spitting something out of his mouth.  I look across the floor to find water...and fecal matter...everywhere.  Apparently he twisted the cap, thinking he was going to tighten it...and instead it came off, spewing sewage water all over the floor, and Bruce.  He managed to get it back on, but not before getting covered in, well, shit. 

Today the landlord is sending someone over to take care of it...and then I guess I try to mop the floor down there with some strong cleaner to get rid of the stench that has been wafting up into the rest of the house. 

On a positive note, my day didn't seem quite so bad after seeing my poor husband standing in a pile of poop.  I shall henceforth learn to change my perspective on things...having a "shitty" day has a whole new meaning.

Life in the Fast Lane...and the Slow Lane Following a Moving Truck.

I remember moving quite often as a kid.  I was always the "new kid."  I remember the struggles...the packing...the cleaning...trying to find our cat at the last minute, only to find out that the movers had accidentally sealed him up in a mattress box and were already at the state border with the moving truck.  In all my preteen angst, however, I had never realized what the experience was like for my parents.  I just remember my mother, in her bubbly way, trying desparately to convince us that we were on an adventure...that our new town was going to be so cool...and we would love exploring it.  In reality, we didn't ever really go see the sights and attractions.  But before we moved, we viewed them all in a brochure...the Alamo!  The parks!  Canada! 

Oddly enough, I found myself doing the same thing with my kids.  Showing them the downtown, talking about East Lansing, telling them it will be an adventure (yes, those words really did come out of my mouth.)  I began having flashbacks on moving day as we searched the house for our cat, calling out to him.  Luckily, Samson was not sealed in a box, but hiding in the basement, and came out just as we we were about to take off.  I hugged my mom as I departed for my first moving adventure without her. 

The move itself is a blur...I remember screaming toddlers...children that had to go potty...yowling cats...and a Comcast guy that was four hours late.  I remember dodging toddlers while unloading the truck, my husband smashing his hand while trying to get the refrigerator into the basement, and a panicked preteen who could not find her favorite facewash. 

Thank you to all of the family and friends who helped us get here...you don't know how much you are loved, appreciated, and missed. 

We are finally somewhat settled...amongst the boxes.  The older kids are in school today, the cats are snoozing on the sunroom ledge, Irelynn is coloring at the table, and the boys are having a screaming match in their cribs instead of napping.  I think I just heard Owen say, "seeyosee?"  Naptime is going to be a challenge.  I'm not worried, though...I have five kids.  I can handle anything.