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.