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.

Shoe Shopping

We are about to venture out...again...today.  The last time we went out to purchase new shoes for the kids ended with only two pairs having been found:  Marissa's school shoes and Jay's soccer cleats.  Jay still needs regular shoes.  My picky child, he couldn't seem to find anything he liked...in any store in the mall.  However, after spending a few hours scouring the mall, with a preschooler asleep in my arms, two cranky toddlers fighting in the double stroller, and realizing that Jaylond somehow lost my keys somewhere in the mall and we were locked out of the van...we decided we were done for the day.  We did manage to find the keys, after walking the mall again and visiting each store we had been to (with children complaining that they were "starving," and three sleepy little ones reminding me why they still need naps.)  I had enlisted the help of my mother...and I'm not sure how we would have done it otherwise.  Despite the size of our family, we are usually fairly self-sufficient...but there are times when I have to break down and realize that I do need help. 

Today is a new day, though.  We have to find shoes for Jay.  School starts in less than a week now.  We are going to try Kohl's this time.  One reason is because it is a place he hasn't looked at yet for shoes.  Another is that it leaves only one store to try and find items like keys that might get dropped or lost.  I think that if he doesn't find something he likes there he can wear his damn soccer cleats to school.

Potty Training, Twin-Style

After three kids, I have taken a relaxed approach to potty-training.  The one thing I have learned, after timers, sticker charts, and candy incentives is that it will happen when it happens.  I have also learned that as frustrating as it may seem at times...none of my children have entered elementary school still wearing Pampers. 

Despite my easy-going approach, nothing induces stress more than the combination of a boy who is aware of his elimination process combined with the skills to undress himself...and the lack of interest when it comes to going in the potty.  Except perhaps TWO boys who fit this description.  I should clarify:  both have an interest in the potty:  sitting on it...slamming the lid down...splashing in their sister's pee...letting rubber duckies float in the potty...but neither one has actually put anything in there that belongs in there. 

They have different approaches to letting me know when it's time for a change.  Connor will look startled, grab his bottom, and say, "butt butt!"  He will then promptly begin to remove his pants and Pull-Up, which, if not caught in time, will leave streaks of poo on his leg...and the carpet. 

Owen is sneaky.  He will tell me, several times a day, that he has to go potty.

"Mom...potty." 

"Owen, do you have to go potty?"

"Um...potty."

"What do you need to do in the potty?"
"Um...poo poo.  Um...pee pee....potty." 

((sigh))

I take him to the potty, he strips, sits for two seconds, grins, and tells me, "teeth?"  He then scampers on top of the big potty and grabs his toothbrush.  Everyday it is a ploy to try and get into the bathroom and suck toothpaste off of his toothbrush.  Later, he will inevitably poop in his Pull-Up, and simply say, "uh oh...poo poo."

Yesterday I put the boys down for their nap.  Within two minutes I hear Owen calling out to me, "POTTY!  POTTY!"

I ignore it.  I know he just wants to play...I am exhausted...I want them to sleep.

"MOM MOM MOM....PAH-TEEEEEEE!!!!"

I sigh, and go in to check on him.  I walk in to find Owen standing in his bed...naked.  His Pull-Up had been removed, and thrown onto the floor....and there is a pile...then a line of poop...streaking down his sheet.  I conjured up an image of my toddler scooting on his butt, like a dog, across his bed. 

"Mom.  Poo-poo."

Thanks for telling me, Buddy.

I suppose it could be worse.  He could have used it to decorate the walls.

I'm thinking that's what might be coming next.

Monsters

We have had an infestation.  And I'm not really sure how to get rid of the little buggers.  They mysteriously arrived when a friend spent the night, and introduced them to our daughter.  We had been monster-free until that moment.

Every night now bedtime becomes a daunting ritual of searching the room for possible monsters.  They might be under the bed.  They might come through her window. 

"What if they come in and eat the babies??"

"Would you like me to turn on your music?  Would that make you feel better?"

"But they might hear it...and want to come in and have a dance party!!"

We are at a loss about what to do about these monsters.  The "they do not exist" route is not working.  The "guard kitty" (her huge stuffed tiger) route is not working.  I thought about "monster spray"...but I wanted to stay firm with the "they do not exist" theory...but I might have to give up and give it a try.  I do believe it worked with a younger Jaylond. 

I did tell her that I was right in the other room...that I would never let anything happen to her...but she informed me that there would be no way I could outrun a monster.  "Mommies can't run."

I attempted to cut Connor's hair the other day, to save some money....it did not go well.  Perhaps I should tell her that, see, the monsters are actually nice...they tried to give her brother a haircut...

I'm thinking we need to lay off of some of the Scooby-Doo...and movies like Monsters, Inc.  And that Dora chick...she looks kind of monster-ish with her huge oblong head. 

Oh, and no more feeding the boys after midnight...

Garage Sales and Tap Shoes

I come from a long line of pack rats.  I come by it honestly.  My father was discreet about his pack rat tendencies.  We did not even realize he was one until we went through his things after he passed away:  letters I wrote when I was a kid, faded Disneyland tickets, an invitation he made for his own birthday party (which I heard was quite the party...people showed up who did not receive said invitation...sans clothing.) 

My mother is open with her hoarding tendencies.  There is evidence of past lives...her's, her children's...and other people's (acquired through garage sales,) all throughout her home.  Yesterday she relinquished some of my past to me...and Irelynn.  I received a folder containing immunization records...past report cards...my 8th grade school handbook...and a picture I drew when I was around 10-years-old.  Irelynn was given a faded old box containing a pair of ballet slippers, and a shiny pair of tap shoes I wore when I was a few years older than her.  Irelynn's eyes lit up.  Mommy used to wear dance shoes.  Marissa looked at me funny.

"You used to do ballet??  AND tap dance?" 

You can't have any secrets when you have a pack rat mother. 

"Yes...when I was really little."  I skipped the part about gymnastics, too, as I think she would have doubled over in laughter.

This all happened at my mother's house, directly after walking home from a garage sale...in the rain.  Irelynn's clothes were in the dryer, the boys were stripped down to their diapers....they had fun entertaining all the people there by jumping in puddles...sitting in puddles, and dipping their heads in the puddles.  I drew the line at Owen trying to lap up puddle water with his tongue.

We brought our treasures home (from the garage sale, and my mother,) and found out just how patient Irelynn really is...Connor discovered the tap shoes.

Connor loves shoes.  He is very particular about his shoes.  We have tried putting him in other shoes, as his current favorites are getting so tight they leave red lines on his feet.  He refuses to wear anything but those shoes.  Until now.  He carefully put on my old tap shoes, which are several sizes too big for him.  He wore them the rest of the night, even while he sat in his chair, watching "Dora."  Irelynn let him...but informed me he could not wear them to bed. 

This morning he is wearing them again. 

Bruce is not particularly happy with his new shoe choice.  I'm just happy he's agreed to wear different shoes.  I do hope he doesn't want to wear them...everywhere...

At least he has some time before he grows out of them.