Happiness is....

The Great Wolf Lodge. Can't believe I'm saying this, but after two days in Portland, in and out of the car, in and out of the rain, in and out of restaurants... Being somewhere where the kids can run free... In bathing suits. Well, this is the happiest I've been all week.

You Can Check Out Any Time You Like But You Can Never Leave...

Because it's not enough for me to be at home during winter break, we decided to take the show on the road. We survived the car trip, although in usual fashion, the kids spent the last fifteen minutes in complete meltdown.

Within minutes of being in the hotel room in Portland, the kids has trashed the room, were watching both televisions, and we had unplugged all the phones to prevent Fiona from making any more prank calls.

We're back in the car now. Two days in Portland ... The low point was in a sushi restaurant ... A restaurant at which we can never again show our faces. At the end of the meal, I let out such a scream that I scared the diners half to death. (I did that with one hand clamped over fiona's mouth in a futile attempt to quiet her.) I would not be surprised if a picture of the Geller Seven is now circulating all restaurants in the Portland area.

Of course we have had moments of sibling bliss... A few minutes of quiet, sitting in the hotel room late at night, listening to all five kids in a symphonic snore. And as usual, these moments block out all the hairy awfulness of traveling with kids. And these are the moments we remember when plan our next trip. Which we're doing already.

Resolute

Come the new year, you can always find me making resolutions. I love them. Love the chance to wipe the slate clean, to make a clean break from bad habits. In the past few years, the resolutions have shifted from one type of self improvement (run faster, read more in French, juice more vegetables..) to another: parental self improvement. I'm working on my list right now -- not having to celebrate Christmas, and with a long stretch this year between Hanukkah and New Year's Eve, I've had plenty of time to get my list together. I plan on asking the kids if they have any resolutions, and possibly planting a few in of my own in their little minds (I resolve to flush the toilet, stop hiding apple cores all over the house, stop leaving gum stuck to the kitchen counter, and stop stashing half my uneaten breakfast under the tabletop.)

Some of mine, at least for now:

1. I resolve to yell less. I know, I know.. But I couldn't resist the clean slate. I resolve to banish the Voldemort voice, or at the very least, only use it clear emergencies. I hate the sound of my screaming voice, far more than the children do.. and this year (yet again), I resolve to use it less.

2. I resolve to block out the whining. There are few things that send me into a rage faster than incessant whining. The boys can (and do) pull some of the most repulsive stunts (peeing into their sister's underwear draw, and just about anywhere else), and I manage to stay calmer than I do after 5 minutes of a girly whine. (I know some boys whine, and some girls don't, but in this house, so far, whining falls straight down gender lines.) This year, I resolve to hum right through the whine, to hear it less, or not at all, and therefore, avoid breaking my first resolution five minutes into the new year.

3. I resolve to let you sort out your own problems. I'm actually quite good at this, but I could always use a bit more help. I know how to make you settle your own disputes, but sometimes, out of sheer impatience, I'll take over when you're aren't doing something well. One of you in particular (you know who you are): I resolve to let you pour your own cereal, even if it means having to step on errant Cheerios for the rest of the day. I resolve to let you button your own shirt, even if it means knowing you'll be going out into the world slightly askew. I resolve, in general, to let you look like the mad scientist you'll probably become.

4. I resolve to care less: That's right. Wear your pajamas to school Frances, and while you're at it, skip breakfast for the rest of your life. Hey Bennett, you never have to wear a sweatshirt to school, even in the winter, and if you want to spend the rest of your life eating your own boogers, I'm game. And Efram, you hair - it never has to be brushed. Ever. And you can pee wherever the hell you like, as long as it's not my bed. Fiona, if you want to start using a pacifier at two, only because your new baby sister has one, GO FOR IT. And don't think I haven't noticed you snacking on snot as well. I have. And I don't care.

I care whether or not you're good to each other, respectful to yourselves, your peers, and your elders. I care whether you brush your teeth, and take your vitamins, sometimes, at least. But if you want to go out looking like you grew up in a trailer with an absentee mother, -- it's just fine with me. Really, it is.

Happy New Year. If I make it to January 7th with these resolutions still in tact, somebody award me a medal. Please.

Sick?

Bennett came home from swim practice with a limp. The next morning, he claimed the pain kept him up all night, so I mercifully let him stay home on Friday. The limp wasn't too bad for a trip to Starbucks, but was bad enough to retrieve anything I needed in the house. The limp disappeared over the weekend, and returned Monday morning. After breakfast. On the way out the door.

There's a fine line between hard-ass and pushover and I seem to be sliding all over it.

Seattle Lights (Hannukah 2010)

M and I had the rare pleasure of sleeping until 8.30 this morning. Bennett had gotten Fi and Francie out of their beds.. dressed them, and started to give them breakfast. On weekend mornings we are often treated to what he likes to call a "Breakfast Buffet" -- which we like b/c he gets food for himself and his sibs; which we dislike b/c it always involves a carved fruit display and a decent amount of mess and wastage. That's right -- carved fruit. This morning he had carved apples with the logos from the Detroit Lions and the Green Bay Packers. I'm not entirely sure why. I think they might be playing, or have just plays. Who knows.

Anyway, while I lay in bed I contemplated the week that was here in the Geller house.. more specifically, Hannukah. I've noticed that a few of my friends do gift-free holidays.. and while it's certainly laudable (and cheaper), we've already gone way beyond the option of a present-less Hannukah. There'd be a bloody mutiny if we tried. Plus, I kind of like presents - giving and getting. Here's what the kids liked best:

Bennett: his faves were a Peyton Manning jersey/ Colt hat combo and an argyle vest. Kid you not. He's an odd bird.

Efram: A robot that he'd been coveting, that he plans to program to do his homework. We'll see how that turns out. He also got an argyle vest.. which he looked at in sheer amazement.

Francie: A polly pockets "Glamper Van" which cost $15, was probably made in China of pure lead, and has led to hours of amusement chez nous -- for everyone. That's right. Efram immediately installed some of his action figures in the Glamper Van... unable to resist the drop-down tv screen and other nifty features.

Fiona: Still young and (somewhat) innocent, she liked the lights, and the idea of presents more than the presents themselves -- which is why I seriously thought about hiding some of her toys a few months ago, waiting for her to forget them, and then giving them to her as gifts. I'm making a mental note to do that with Sidney.

Countdown

I can't wait to go to sleep. Because when I wake up it will be Monday. Monday! Monday!

Thanksgiving: Female Satisfaction

I'm lousy at public displays of appreciation. I cringe through Thanksgiving meals at which I'm forced to be sincere in front of more than.. one person. But I know I have parental responsibilities, so I asked the kids what they were thankful for, wondering what they'd come up with -- and because of my own predisposition to private displays, I asked them one at a time... sans audience.

The always profound Bennett: I'm thankful that Archie Manning was able to make babies. (For those of you who don't know - he sired the famed football player Peyton Manning, and his brother Eli. I can't believe I know this.)

Pensive Efram: I'm thankful for my friends, my family, my health and that I know stuff.

Sweet Frances: I'm thankful for you and Daddy.

Pissed off Fiona: What? I have no idea what you're asking me. Please send that stupid baby back.

Sidney: burp.

And me? I'm thankful for M, and for five kids who make me laugh. And I've saved the biggest laugh of the week for now. (Even funnier then Bennett, examining a pacifier and asking me if that's what real boobs feel like.) Here it is:

M took Bennett to run some errands.. including a trip to the drug store. They walked passed the section with birth control, etc., and Bennett saw a huge sign with, among other things, the words 'FEMALE SATISFACTION' written on it. Under the sign was a coupon dispenser for KY lubricant. Bennett ripped off a coupon and declared, "I think Mummy could use some female satisfaction, don't you?"

I wonder how old he needs to be before I can mortify him with the story.

anatomy of a snow day: Part two (Cookies?)

Still here. Despite the fact that it's not snowing, b/c the roads are icy, and b/c Seattle comes to a grinding icy halt when it snows even a few inches, we're all at home. And b/c tomorrow is Thanksgiving... we're home for the week. Whoopee.

The funny thing is that last week, M and I were brainstorming ways to survive the long TG weekend, and here we are... with a whole week on our hands.

Once again, I am pitted against all the mothers who are thrilled to have their kids home - no lunches, no carpool. But alas, no school either. (These, consequently, are the same mothers who celebrated the end of the school year and were sad to see their kids go back to school at the end of the summer. I'm clearly just made of different, meaner stuff.) At least this time I can assuage my guilt -- I do, after all, have a newborn at home. A newborn who's going through a colicky patch at the moment. A newborn who had us both up for much of the night last night. A newborn who puked all over both of us, and then herself before falling back to sleep. A cute, but messy and disruptive newborn.

We've played in the snow, done a boatload of arts and crafts projects, all the things you're supposed to do on a snow day. The kids have certainly got their money's worth -- so can't they go back to school now. Please?

Someone suggested I bake cookies with the kids. That sounded about fine when I remembered that I hate baking. OK, maybe hate is strong.. but I don't like doing it all that much alone. Why would I enjoy it with Fiona sticking her entire head into a bowl a batter when I'm not looking (banana bread), or Bennett stealing everyone's dough to make a giant cookie in the shape of an Indianapolis Colts horseshoe that will be too big to ever bake (chocolate chip cookies), or Efram crying because Bennett stole his dough and picking up the bowl and hurling it across the kitchen spraying the remaining dough everywhere (same batch)??

But I may have no choice. For someone who doesn't like to bake, doesn't eat wheat, and especially dislikes making cookies that require cutters, I have an insane cookie cutter collection. Somewhere. Looks like I'll be pulling it out today. Wish me luck.

anatomy of a snow day.

Woke up this morning to snow. Light snow, but too much for Bennett to take his daily 6am bike ride/jog with M. Which means one thing: He's going to be bouncing off the walls all morning. True enough, after Fi wakes me up by sitting on my bedside table and knocking off my lamp and the leaning tower of unread books and magazines, I come downstairs to find that he, Efram, and Francie had made snow-cones using a gallon of grape juice. And tracked snow everywhere. And left all the doors to the house open. Happy Monday to me.

Still, school had not been canceled, so they could have done just about anything and I'd still have managed... by staying focused on their imminent departure. At 7.45 I sent them on their merry way with M - who drives them to school.

I spoke to a friend who kept her kids home today b/c (unlike mine) her kids don't ride the bus home, and she had heard that the "snowstorm" we're expecting at midday will make it impossible for her to pick up her kids. (School is in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, which is notoriously icy.) Feel mildly guilty for forcing mine out of the house w/o even a though to their safety. But it quickly passes.

Then the email comes. School closing at noon. Kids headed home on bus and will be here around 12.30. Am not-s0-secretly wishing the bus doesn't make it and they are stranded at school for a while. Given that I almost killed them this morning, I think that they are safer there.

Ok, 3 hours of relative quiet to enjoy. And it really is quite a delight to stare out of the windows and watch snow fall on Lake Washington. When it's snowing this old house is even more charming. And when it's quiet, well.. all the more so.

UPDATE:
On the way home from school the bus broke down. Mind you, this was completely unrelated to the snow -- or so I think. The bus has broken down three times this past week.. so, something is slightly amiss at the bus company. Anyway, I found out and went to meet the bus, which was stuck in the middle of the road about a mile or so away. It's not snowing, but it's cold and this is a Jewish school which means.. Jewish mothers. So everyone is frantically trying to get their kids off the bus, squeeze other kids into their cars, and to contact other parents to let them know what is going on. It's quite a scene.

Still no word on whether there is school tomorrow.

UPDATE:
School tomorrow highly unlikely.

Panic

Light snow today. Seattle powers down entirely when it snows. Two years ago, weeks after Fi was born, we had 2 weeks of snow days.. back to back with winter break. It was hateful. I'm afraid to go to sleep for fear that it will snow during the night and the schools will be closed tomorrow.

I barely made it through the weekend. Can I survive a snow day?

http://www.king5.com/weather

Monday Mornings

Yes, it's raining. Yes, I slept in two hour increments last night. But it's Monday. And 4 of the 5 kids are in school. And the house is quiet. Messy, but quiet. And I have forced myself not to take on any new work until 2011... so for now, I can only think of Peter and the Wolf: "All is quiet, all is quiet."

In other words, weekends are kicking my ass.

Dain Bramage...

I know that women claim to block out the experience of childbirth but I don't. No, I block out the first months of life... or, more specifically, the first months of nights. With each child I am reminded, as if anew, of the staccato sleep patterns of a newborn. My own little ones are always on the small side, so my nights are truly dotted with feedings every 2 hours. While I'm quite good at making it through the night without actually getting out of bed, night after night of interrupted sleep and (here's the rub) having to get out of bed the next morning with the rest of my miniature housemates -- has left my brain addled, foggy, and frankly, malfunctioning.

I suppose calling your children by the wrong name is the right of any parents, especially those with 5 kids... but calling your kids by the names of other people's children (did that), or not being able to access any name at all, and just screaming, "Child!" (that too)... well, that's just embarrassing.

Last week I gave directions from the airport to our house to visiting relatives and sent them on a wild goose chase all over South Seattle before I realized I had confused ALL my lefts and right.

I am perpetually misplacing objects, and will soon be misplacing kids as I did when Fiona was a newborn and I left her in the car for 15 minutes at the park ... before I remembered she was there.

And I stupidly tried wrapping up some loose ends at work when the baby was about a week old. All I can say is thank goodness I'm not a surgeon. (When Fi was a small baby I accidentally mailed a convict a chipotle salmon recipe instead of a legal document.)

I'd be curious to hear any other stories about the often embarrassing results of sleep deprivation...

Yawn.

Our au pair?

Another parent recently told me that she punishes her kids not by taking things away (tv, computer), but by adding something in: Chores. This may work for her, and many other parents.. but not in this house. Mr. Bennett bounds out of bed at 6 each morning, dresses, spends a good 30 minutes banging around in his bathroom doing his hair (wetting it in the sink, and combing in whatever product he can get his hands on ) and then plods loudly down the stairs to get the girls out of their beds, dress them, and give them breakfast. He often spends the early morning weekend hours preparing "treats" for us in the kitchen, or noisily (detect a theme?) laying out what he likes to call the Breakfast Buffet. (This always involves cut-up fruit and an inordinate amount of toothpicks.)

So, more chores would hardly seem like punishment, I said to the parent. Wow, she said, It must be like having an au pair.

I replied that Bennett only really does the chores he deems worthy, and if he can't be bothered, he tells us to bugger off. So, it is like having an au pair -- a French one.

Still, now that there are five little ones in the house, I'll take all the help I can get.

[Consequently, a lot of people have been asking me whether 5 is any different than 4. I'm not really sure how to answer it. While it's more of the same, it's different. And this time I have an especially ornery toddler in tow -- for some reason Fi seems to have gotten a head start on being an impossible two year old, something which didn't strike the other kids until they were closer to three. She constantly tells me to put the baby down and carry her, and insists of being fed like a baby, carried like a baby, you get the drift. So, I am getting something of an ass-kicking here. Still, somewhere underneath all the chaos, I'm managing to have fun. It could be the sleep deprivation kicking in, and making me think I'm having fun when I'm really now.. but I'll never know.]

Girth.

In addition to recently asking me why, if the baby only weighs about 7 lbs, am I so bloody enormous, Bennett came up with this gem today: "Mum, when you get in the car, did you know that the whole thing shakes? I mean, you're THAT big that you make the car shake!!"

It is at moments like these that I remind myself he'll never know the beauty of pregnancy and childbirth (although at the moment, I'm not experiencing much beauty in any form..), and that while it's my job to foster his humanity (can you tell I've been living on the West Coast for 12 years, or what?), he's still a male. Francie has at least more tact when she asks: "How long after the baby comes will you be fat for?" Or perhaps, I'm reading empathy into her question because I know (and hope) that one day she too will be blessed enough to curse extra pounds of baby weight. (Although the thought of my scrawny little chicken with any extra pounds is hard to get my head around.)

There's always dialogue about children and body image, and lately I have been wondering what it must be like for them to see me pregnant -- to watch me morph into a science project for what seems like an eternity -- to them and me. Francie doesn't even remember what I look like un-pregnant.. or as she said recently: "What do you look like when you're not fat?"

Other than waiting around for the baby, squeezing in appointments, wrapping up work, and fielding delightful questions from the kids, I'm enjoying autumn in Seattle. We don't always get this season.. we can often go from "summer" to rain.. but we've had lovely crisp, sunny days.. and I'm finally wise enough not to take them for granted.

Atoning.

Bennett just got caught indoor bowling with a coconut he found in the kitchen. Not a big deal, but on the eve of Yom Kippur I'm wondering: Do kids have to atone for sins of stupidity?

I have been discussing forgiveness with kids and we'll be asking each other for forgiveness .. it's a good exercise in humanity, not to mention humility, if nothing else. But stupidity -- is it a sin, or just a normal part of growing up? At what point do we expect them not to do things, like wipe up a mess of paint with a pretty handtowel, but to use a rag instead? When is it alright to expect them not to fill their water cups to the brim and then act shocked when they spill and drip on the kitchen floor? Will they ever know that at this point wiping up the water is a good idea because in a matter of seconds a sibling is about to slip in it?

Some things to think about... when I take a break from atoning for my own many missteps of the year.

Good moods.

I obviously shudder when I hear Bennett call from another room, "Hey Mummy -- are you in a good mood?" Tonight this was followed by, "Will you still be in a good mood if I tell you that I got in the bath wearing dirty socks.. on purpose...?"

At some point Fi got in the bath and everyone tried to convince her to poo while she was in there. She certainly gave it a try.

And the end of all the evening's bath and shower shenanigans (and there were many more.. at some point an apple got involved, and when Fiona went missing we found she'd climbed, once again, into the shower with Efram), Bennett commented on my zen state and said, "Wow you ARE in a good mood. You must have had a lot of coffee today."

I'm zen because I got through today. Fiona started "school" today -- and although she was teary when I picked her up, it went relatively well. So, when I had to fish a half-eaten apple out of a tub of filthy bath water, I was zen. For me, anyway.

The new four?

I'm about 7 weeks away from, all being well, adding a fifth to the brood. I told the kids that number five will be of the She variety, and within seconds the boys figured out that they'd soon be outnumbered. They conferred for a few moments, and then Efram said, "That's fine. The next one will be a boy." I told him that this will most likely be our last baby, to which he replied, "What do you mean? In two more years we get another one, right?"

I soon set him straight. No Efram, I said. I think this is it for us. Five seems like a lot -- an actual handful, in fact.

Bennett thought he had a plan: How about a boy dog, he said. That way things would be even again. He looked rather proud with himself for having figured out a way to work the dog in to yet another one of his proposals.

At this point Francie, who'd been quiet up until now, jumped in. She informed the boys that, "Daddy told me we can either have a dog or a dad. And I think we should keep the Dad, because I don't think dogs can fix things around the house."

The boys agreed. One of them said, "Yeah, and Mummy can't even use a screwdriver to change batteries, so we'd be in real trouble without him."

(The last point, is no longer true. I've conquered my fear of tools and can now use a screwdriver. Not well, but I'm working on it.)

Summer.

I wonder if it's something in the air (or water) up here in the Pacific NW but in addition to having to live without spring and having to endure a 4 week summer, I also have to hear many of my friends tell me how ready they are for summer vacation, or, more specifically, how eager they are for their children to be out of school. While I like to think I've acclimated quite well to the life up here (my hair is several shades darker and I look pallid quite effortlessly), I can't help but stare in blank bewilderment when I hear this.

True, I too am happy about a later start in the morning and avoiding the commute to school (camp is in the neighborhood and starts at nine), and I won't miss the hour I spend at night chaperoning homework, but I am at a total loss when they say things like, "Oh, I'm just looking forward to loooong, lazy summer days," or "I don't even know if I'm putting my kids IN camp this year; I may just let them hang around."

Lazy days? Hang around? Just thinking about weeks of unstructured bedlam in my house makes me panic. I can count on my hands the number of days we'll have this summer when we wake up in the morning wondering what to do with the entire day. Frankly, I can count it on one hand.

Is it my children? Quite possibly. The boys especially seem to have more energy than some of their friends, and most sports turn into tackle versions of the game (e.g., tackle basketball, tackle soccer..), so lazy days are never just that and quite often end up with me applying hefty amounts of ice packs and band aids. And we usually do spend the long, late afternoons of summer doing our fair share of hanging around. But given that the summer amusements of choice in this house include: constructing latrines in the front yard, building small fires on the side of the house, filling the baby pool with mud, sticks and water once the girls are already in it, and suspending large outdoor toys (slides, etc) from the deck using twine and dental floss, I would rather be shot than have to do a whole summer of it.

I'll slow my work schedule down a bit (and I only work when they're not around), I'll keep lemonade on tap, and assuming the sun comes out for more than 5 minutes, they'll be trips to the lake and beach towels hanging over the railings of the deck for weeks on end. But let the inmates run the asylum? Never.

Vacation for whom?

You know you're in trouble when you know you're going to need a vacation from your vacation even before your vacation begins. Frankly, I'm kidding myself and everyone around me when I use the word "vacation" in connection with this weekend. What M and I had once, briefly, fleetingly envisioned as a weekend away alone.. has turned (in terms of planning and coordination) into the Yalta Summit of weekend trips. (I can remember exactly where we were when we fantasized about getting away alone. In the car. Date night. On the way to the movies, most likely. But given that I haven't peed alone in 8 years, a few nights away was really too much to ask.)

So, we're all flying out of Seattle. "Dropping off" the boys in Denver with the in-laws and taking the two girls to Boston for a wedding weekend... and picking them up on the way home. I'm sure it will all be loads of fun, but right now I'm packing.. for two destinations... and feeling like it might have been easier just to all go together, even if it does mean sharing a bed with several small beings. (Consequently, the big winners in all of this are the boys who get a weekend with grandparents and zero parental supervision.)

So, here I am... contemplating the vacation I'm going to need next week to recover from this one. I'm not trying to be whiny. I've done all sorts of travel with the kids. But traveling anywhere (even the supermarket) with an 18 month old requires more patience that I was born with, and I still can't get that fantasy of several restful child-free nights out of my mind. Luckily, spring in Seattle is complete crap, and the thought of 70 degree weather is more than appealing. M reminds me that I always get cold travel feet on the night before a trip, and this is just that. I'm sure of it. Right?

Mum's the Word.

I knew I was in a spot of trouble when I woke up on Mother's Day morning crammed into a Portland, OR hotel room with all four kids. Breakfast in bed turned out to be the free, rather lousy breakfast in the lobby of the hotel. I contemplated grabbing some food and stealing away, but the thought of ambling down the long corridor with a boiled egg, a paper bowl full of Cheerios and a cup of hotel coffee didn't really appeal. And while I'm a fan (in theory) of local presses, breakfast in bed with the Sunday edition of The Oregonian didn't do it for me either.

We managed to salvage breakfast and spent a lovely day (as we did the weekend) with M's family. And then, because we apparently can't get enough together time, we capped the day off by driving back to Seattle. And getting stuck in traffic. Lots of it. There's nothing like a 4 plus hour car drive to scream, "Happy Mother's Day." Sucker.

So, when a friend told me that in a recent poll, what most mothers want most for M Day is to be left the hell alone for a few hours, I wasn't at all surprised. Granted, I'd feel somewhat guilty, and maybe even (dare I say it?) lonely if I spent all day alone, I would be just fine with a few hours, or even half the day off. I got so little time alone that I took to hiding in bathrooms, ignoring the pleas, knocks and bangings of little hands.

One of the kids asked, "When do we get Kids' Day?" And then I explained that the reason we have Mother's Day is b/c every bloody day is Kids' Day and this was his big chance to thank me. And I suspect they get it. Cute, homemade gifts came my way. And I could see them actually trying to be good. The boys scratched each other without breaking skin, I could swear that somebody asked me to open the car window before he farted, and a certain three year old gave me the invaluable gift of a long car journey without a single puke break. All very considerate.

As for the several hours spent in my own company, I'll know better for next year.

Pour some sugar on this...

My pediatrician swears that sugar does not create hyperactivity in children, and while the caffeine in chocolate can act as a stimulant, regular candy - the chocolate-free kind - will not stimulate. Next time Mr. B pours a packet of Mike and Ikes into his waiting mouth and then, within seconds, turns from a crazy 8 year old into a bloody lunatic 8 year old, I must remember to whip out my Flip and take notes. Next time.

On Sunday we were at a candy-filled event. We've been before and while I no longer hover over the kids and monitor how much crap they're shoveling into their little faces, I can't relax until the event is over and we're home, miles away from the green drool of Laffy Taffy Land. This year the boys went nuts again. Every time I looked over at them they were shoveling more in, and while it seemed to me that other kids were taking breaks, breathers if you will, in between feedings, for my boys, it was one long binge. (I do admit that my objectivity may have been blurred by several trips to the fondue station.)

So, I asked myself: If I let my kids eat candy all day every day, and had it pouring out of the faucets of the house, would they behave differently? A year ago, I might have thought so. But when I had the same experience, at the same event, this time last year, I decided to ease up and allow the sweet stuff in now and then. One year later, and I'm not sure I made the right decision. Bennett was still standing on top of a climbing structure pouring liquid candy (I kid you not) into his face while Efram might have set the world record for feet of Laffy Taffy squeezed into the mouth of a 6 year old.

So, I suppose all this begs the question - how on earth do I get my kids to self regulate? I suppose when I can limit my own trips to the fondue station to the single digits, I may have an answer.

Toothpaste

Last week I went to tuck Efram into bed and noticed he smelled sort of minty-strawberry. I asked him if he and Bennett had been (yet again) raiding my bathroom, mixing up my creams, and slathering up. "No," he said. "It's Tom's."

Of Maine. The toothpaste. And it started at his feet and went up to his neck.

I don't know what got me more riled up -- that I had drag him into the shower to rinse off the toothpaste he'd coated his little body with, or that he'd used up 1/2 a tube of that pricey paste doing so.

Of course, the reason we even have Tom's of Maine toothpaste in the house is because I spared no cost with my firstborn and refused to let Bennett's precious little teeth go near anything sugary... I considered it a badge of honor that I couldn't find Tom's in the regular drugstore and secretly scorned the parents I saw buying Kids Crest. Of course, now Bennett eats his own boogers, so I'm a lot less picky about what goes in his mouth. But for some reason, Efram only uses Toms. Same for Frances.

Surprise, surprise, Mr. Bennett won't go near it now, and only wants to Crest/Colgate crap I avoided for years. But now that I've been awoken out of my organic toothpaste stupor, and I'm more than happy to buy it.

Flash forward to yesterday. Bennett took an especially long bath, was cleaner than he'd been in weeks, and went to brush his teeth. Five minutes pass, I stick my head in the bathroom, and see that he's got Kids Crest all over his forehead, Toms of Maine on his eyelids, undereye, and cheeks, and (yes, a third) Strawberry Colgate on his mouth and chin.

(Ok, the only reason I even have the Colgate is because I am a compulsive toiletry tourist, and don't feel I've ever seen a country until I've bought enough product to warrant an extra suitcase. I picked up this stuff in Canada (ignoring M's claims that just because it had a French label, didn't mean it was really French).. and thought it might actually bridge the Tom's-Crest divide, and I'd finally get everyone using only one toothpaste. Wrong. Bennett won't touch it.)

So, Bennett heads into the shower to rinse off the paste, and of course gets a healthy serving in the eye, and wouldn't you know it, blames me for his woes.

And there you have it. Four kids. Three different kinds of toothpaste. Endless fun.

Every night before he goes to bed, and each morning before he leaves for school, Bennett asks me to style his hair like Elvis. I'm not sure if he's aware that I can barely pull my own hair into a ponytail w/o looking like I did it with my feet, but he seems to place enormous of trust in me. Besides, if I don't intervene, he breaks into my bathroom and uses buckets of my product on his head. So, intervene I do. He sleeps almost sitting up, so as not to mess his hair. And he sits like a statue in the car in the morning -- same reason. Whenever we're out and about, he points out hairstyles that he likes... it's really something of an obsession.

This morning in the NYT Sunday Styles section there was an article about tween boys using all sorts of body and hair products.. I showed it to Bennett because there was a picture of two boys doing their hair w/the story. M didn't approve -- thinks I'm encouraging vanity. But, as I argued, for these tween boys, the styling is all about girls.. and maybe a bit of vanity. For Bennett, at this point, he's just expressing himself. (Sort of like when he insisted on wearing a blue blazer to school all last year.) Girls have nothing to do with it, and neither does vanity. He just wants to look like Elvis, and who doesn't. Besides, if I told him that by doing his hair he'd get the girls' attention, he'd stop in a heartbeat. Girls. Blech.

Elvis is in the building..

I'm hardly one to go on and on about living in the moment. In fact, I can usually be found rolling my eyes when someone else does. But given that has been a particularly harrowing week, the kids often remind me that sometimes I just need to be a bit more... ugh, I'm about to say it.. present.

Short story: death in the family. Couldn't fly overseas to the funeral for obvious reasons and have been trying to grieve long-distance. Because life goes on, there's still work, carpool, lunches, that all require immediate attention. In other words -- little time for some necessary wallowing. I've talked about it with the kids, and they've each said some rather cute things.. but it has been the small things they do that have made me smile.

Bennett discovered Elvis a few weeks ago. Actually, I made the introduction, and it was love at first listen. And then sight. He's watched videos online, and memorized what he thinks are the lyrics to some of his songs. This morning he asked me to give him "Elvis hair" and handed me a comb and a bottle of hair gel. So, with minutes to go before it was time to leave the house, I styled a little pompadour on this head (luckily for him, he has perfect King hair) and off he went.

Usually when the boys get in the car, they spend the first 5 minutes or so beating the crap out of each other. They, they quickly calm down. It's really something of a routine. But today vanity won out and he sat straight as a pin, so as not to upset the 'do. A perfectly civilized car ride. Perhaps a first for us.

When he came home he made me fix his hair again. And the whole episode, including watching him grin as he examined the finished product and reach for his guitar, put a much needed smile on my face.

Thanks Elvis. Wherever you are.