The Sickly Children

          Last night, I tucked in, smooched, and hugged two healthy children.  At midnight, I was woken up by Caleb.  I had fallen asleep on the couch, and he had his little face right on my ear, whispering, “Mommy!  Mommy!  Are you in there?”

I saw he was covered in child barf.  For some reason, before I was totally awake, I thought he had spilt oatmeal on himself.  Within seconds, I realized it wasn’t breakfast; it was the middle of the night, and my child had puked.  I changed him, cleaned the mess, put him to bed, and told him to come get me if he started feeling sick again.  At three in the morning, I heard him shriek from the bathroom, “Mommy!”

I stumbled out of bed and went to the bathroom, and saw he had pooped water…everywhere.  In his attempts of cleaning himself, he had managed to get his child poo on the wall, the floor, the back of the toilet, and all over himself.  Eww. 

I brought him to bed with me after that.  This morning, I woke Makayla up for school, and the first thing she said was, “I think..I think I’m…”  She gave me “the look,” the look that means, “I’m about to throw up.”  I am familiar with said look and said, “OK, it’s OK, run to the bathroom.”

She ran to the bathroom.

“Over the toilet, over the toilet,” I urged.

She put her head over the toilet.  And then barfed on my feet and the floor.  It never ceases to amaze me how a child can have a perfectly good toilet right under them and miss it completely when throwing up.

I took her temperature, saw she had a fever, and called in to her school.  I learned there was a bug going around.  Caleb woke up and both children looked at me with glassy, feverish eyes.

“I’m sorry you guys are sick,” I said, “You may watch TV and relax today.”

Caleb went to the window, looked outside at the rain and said, “It’s raining.  The moon is pulling all of this water down.”

Yesterday, he asked if the moon makes us cold since the sun makes us hot, and Makayla explained that the moon makes the waves in the ocean.

Makayla was too tired to argue with him, which is astonishing, since she is very big on correcting her brother.  I don’t see the point in correcting every single incorrect thing a four year old says. 

“Did the moon eat up the sun or sumpthin’?” Caleb asked me.

“No Bubba,” I said, “It’s just cloudy and the clouds are covering up the sun.”

“The sun must have got cold then,” Caleb said.

“What?” I asked.

“He needs the blankets, probly,” Caleb responded.

Oh.  Duh mom.

Caleb's Discovery

        Written yesterday afternoon:

  Monday through Friday has become such a routine.  The alarm goes off, I snooze it, it goes off again, and I lurk into the kids’ room to wake up Makayla, vowing to go to bed earlier from now on.  Kayla gets ready, and we wake up Bubba, who always whines for five to seven seconds about how he’s not waking up, before he leaps out of bed, demanding oatmeal and Mario Brothers.  Today was no different.  Even though Makayla’s school is a five minute walk, we always have to leave a good fifteen to twenty minutes early since you would think my children have never seen leaves, bugs, puddles, or flowers before.  Every day we see the same thing; every day, the children marvel over the same stuff.  And every day, it makes me smile.  On the walk to school, Caleb pointed to the moon and squealed, as if he was pointing out a box full of gold and screeched, “Sister!  Mommy!  Look!  It’s the moon.” 

“Yes Bubba,” Makayla said in her helpful, big sister voice, “It is the moon.  Earth only has one moon.  Some planets have a lot of moons.”

“Uh huh,” Caleb said.

We walked a little more, me gripping Caleb’s hand, Makayla stomping on bugs and picking up leaves.

“Mommy,” Caleb said.

“Yes son?” I asked.

“If the sun makes us warm then does the moon make us cold?”

“No Bubba,” I said, “The moon does not make us cold.”

“Then what does it make?” he asked.

Before I could say anything, Makayla said, “Bubba, the moon makes the waves in the ocean because it pulls on the earth a little bit and pulls the water.  That is how the moon makes waves.”

“Will the moon suck us all up?” Caleb asked.

Makayla looked at me with wide eyes.

“The moon will not suck us up,” I reassured them.

We dropped Makayla off at school, chatted with the crossing guard, who every morning mutters about “these drivers,” and started on our way back home.  Halfway home, Caleb found a pecan that was still green and stopped to pick it up.  I am very used to having to stop multiple times anytime we walk anywhere, while Caleb picks up random things or inspects bugs.

“Mommy…look,” he said, showing me his green pecan, “Are there caterpillars in it?”

“No Bubba, that is not a cocoon.  That is a seed.”

“I want to keep it forever,” he said, “I want to see what’s in it.”

When we got home, he tried to stomp it open and failed.

“Would you like for me to break it open for you?” I offered.

“No,” he said, “I would like to just play with it.”

“Do NOT put that in your mouth,” I told him, “It is not food and you could choke.  You can play with it if you promise not to put it in your mouth or throw it at the kitty.”

“I promise,” he said.

“Do you want to run in the front yard before we go in?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, “I don’t want to get an injury.”

Haha.  Two days before, while running, he had tripped and scraped his knee.

We went in and I got on with my daily stuff.

“Can I watch TV?” he asked.

“You cannot,” I told him, “Remember, you are grounded from TV today for getting into the coffee mix.”

“That’s right,” he said, “I am grounded today.  I will never get into that stuff again.”

I went on with laundry and dishes and cleaning, and since I hadn’t heard from Caleb in a while, went to check on him.  He was sitting under the kitchen table with a sharp pair of scissors, cutting into his green pecan.

“Stop!” I shouted, horrified at how close he was to cutting himself, “Bubba, put the scissors down!”

He dropped them and looked at me with a confused expression and said, “Why Mommy?  I’m seeing what’s inside of here.”

I crawled under the table, grabbed the scissors, put them up, and came back to him.

“Do not get into the scissors son.  You could have cut yourself and it would hurt.  If you want to see inside your seed, come get me and I will help you.”

“OK, Mommy,” he said, “But LOOK.”

He showed me his green pecan.  I saw he had successfully cut it in half. 

“That is neat, huh?” I said, “It’s fun to see what’s inside of seeds.  But we do not EVER put stuff like that in our mouths.  You could choke or it could make you sick.”

“I know it’s not food,” he said, “I just wanted to see what was in here.  It’s cool in this seed.”

I marveled his pecan and said, “That is very neat.  Let’s break it apart more to see the rest of it.”

“No!” he screamed, which made me jump, “I don’t want to hurt it.  It’s my friend.”

He cradled the two pieces of broken pecan, took his shoes and socks off, put one piece in one sock, the other piece in the other sock, stuffed the socks in his shoes, and said, “It’s time for them to take a nap.”

Ok then.

The "Best Day" of Caleb's Life...

So, this morning, I took the children to a birthday party at Maxey Park.  You would have thought they were going to Disney World, as excited as they were about the party.  Once we got there and I made pleasantries with all the other mommies, the kids ran off to play and I got to work with the fellow moms with some hard core gossip.  Donivan’s (the birthday boy) party was super hero themed and when his mom told me they had hired some Tech acting students to dress up like Superman and some other hero whose name I don’t remember, I nearly lost my mind with excitement because I’ll tell you what:  My little boy ADORES superheroes.  After about an hour of playing, a lady arrived and told us it was time to gather the children around a little yellow table so the superheroes could enter.  I helped herd all of the children around the table and once everyone was settled, and fellow mommies and myself were plopped on the grass around all of our offspring, the lady began an introduction.

“Who likes superheroes?” she asked the kids.  Caleb roared louder than anyone, which was his way of vocalizing that he does in fact, like superheroes.  She gave all of the kids a chance to go around and say who their favorite superhero was.  Makayla said “Super Girl,” whoever that is.  Caleb roared and bellowed, “Ironman!” while demonstrating muscles.  The lady then asked the adults and naturally, I was the first one she asked.

“Who is your favorite superhero, Mom?” she asked.

“Batman and if ninjas are also superheroes, then also Donatello.”

The next mom responded, “My husband is my favorite superhero.”

The other moms said something similar, saying their kids, their dads, their husbands, whatever.  In the end, I was the only mother who didn’t pretend that various loved ones are cooler than actual, real bonafide superheroes and I wasn’t sorry at all.  Poser mothers.

Then the lady asked the kids if they would like to meet some real life super heroes.  She told all of the kids to cheer and the superheroes would come if they cheered loud enough and I caught Caleb with his head tilted back, looking up in the sky.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to him.

“When are they gonna fly down?” he asked.

The lady pressed a button on some advanced music contraption and glorious music erupted from it, which startled me, because the entire time, I had figured the thing was some sort of recording device. 

And then Superman and some dude dressed in blue superhero garb started walking towards the group.  Superman’s cape was billowing in wind as he and the unknown hero walked superhero style up to the children.  And my son LOST HIS MIND. 

“I didn’t know superheroes were REAL!” he cried, “Mommy, LOOK!  It’s SUPERMAN!”

Superman and the unknown hero approached the group, gave some enthusiastic greetings, and started telling everyone what a fun day we would all be having.  Caleb’s eyes were huge and his mouth was wide open and said, “Mommy?  Can he FLY?”

“I’m sure he can son,” I told him.

Superman explained his alien situation and how he’s allergic to kryptonite and then fell to his knees, gasping for breath, and his friend said, “Oh no!  There is kryptonite over there!  We must pick it up and put it in a bucket and get it away from Superman!”

“I’m so…weak,” Superman gasped, and Caleb let out a cry of horror.

“Oh my GOD!” he screamed, “Superman!  Are you OK Superman?  Mommy is he dead?”

I was trying to comfort and shush him while moms and the other super hero lined the kids up, gave the children special tongs, and instructed them to pick up green jewel like things off the grass (the kryptonite) and put it in a bucket with the tongs.

“Once the kryptonite is in the bucket, Superman will be strong again!” the unknown hero said.

Caleb was having a fit.

“Save him, Mommy!  We have to save him!”

“Bubba, do you see how the kids are picking up that green stuff and putting it in the bucket?  Once all that green stuff is away from Superman, he will be all better.”

Before I could do anything, Caleb bolted from his place in line, ran to the green jewels, and started hurling them as far as his little arms could throw. 

“I’ll save you Superman!” he shrieked.  Makayla, who thought the green jewels were actual poison, became hysterical.

“Don’t touch it with your hands Bubba!” I heard her scream, as I went to retrieve Caleb, “Bubba it will KILL you!  It’s poison!”

We had to put the game on hold while the other moms laughed too hysterically to take pictures and the other superhero and I retrieved the stones Caleb had hurled away.

“It’s just a game, Bubba,” I said, “It’s just for fun.  Wait your turn in line and then see how fast you can pick up the green jewels and put them in the bucket.” 

I looked back at Superman and saw him shaking with laughter and Donivan’s mom was wiping tears from her eyes from laughing so hard.  At least when my kids ruin a birthday party game and make a scene, it’s somewhat humorous.

After Superman’s strength was back, Caleb walked up to him and said, “Did you die?  Did you see my Uncle Shoni?”

Superman played it off well and said, “No sir, young man.  You and your friends saved me.”

“Well then can you pick me up and let’s go fly, Superman?” Caleb asked as he extended his arms.

“I cannot fly today because it is Donivan’s birthday and I promised him I would stay here,” Superman said.

“Then will you pick me up anyway?” Caleb asked.

Superman obliged and tossed Caleb in the air a few times to make him, “fly.”

Not wanting the birthday boy to have his Superman hogged by my son, I said, “Let’s let Donivan play with Superman for now, Bubba.  Come on and let’s go play the other games.”

“Hey Superman,” Caleb said as Superman put him down, “I don’t want to play those games, Superman.  I want to play with you.  Want to go see my house, Superman?”

“I promise, I will play with you after the games are done,” Superman said, “I will play with all of the kids after cake, on the playground.”  Then Superman bent down, and said to Caleb softly, “I promise I will play with you but it is Donivan’s birthday and since it is his special day, we have to see what Donivan wants to do.  But I promise, I will play with you too.”

I was impressed by this and confused as to why, even after I basically pulled Caleb off Superman, Donivan wanted nothing to do with the Superheroes but was terrified of them.  I felt less guilty about Caleb being so adamant about being best friends with Superman.  The entire party, through games, cake, and presents, Caleb followed Superman around.  He asked to wear his cape.  He asked if he could come live with us.  He wanted to know where he got his “cool underwear.”  I kept trying to pry him off of Superman but Donivan’s mom eventually said, “You might as well let him, Jess.  Donivan is terrified of him and after what I paid, I want at least someone to get some enjoyment out of this.”

So Superman pushed Caleb on the swings, caught him when he went down slides, and ran around the playground with him.  Once Donivan and the other kids saw Superman and Caleb having such a blast, they started warming up and Superman organized a game of hide and seek.  The mothers and I sat on the bench and marveled at his muscles.  At the end of the party, as we walked to the car, Caleb looked up at me and said, “This was the bestet day of my whole entire life, Mommy.”

I could understand that statement because even though I am twenty four and not four, if Batman or Donatello was pushing me on swings and playing chase and hide and seek with me, I would feel the EXACT same way.

Matt's Birthday Cake Disaster

So I was minding my own business, going on about my life, when Matt’s birthday snuck up on me.  I was proud of myself that I even remembered the sacred day in the first place because honestly, things like that slip my mind.  Last year, I forgot it was my own birthday until I lurked onto Facebook and saw people congratulating me on surviving another year in life.  So I remembered it was his birthday and contemplated plans as to how to make it spectacular.  Buy him a stripper?  Go far outside of my comfort zone when it comes to fornication?  Offer to shovel the poo his dogs litter all over the back yard?  Allow him to hang Nascar flags in the living room for a day?  Use my own credit card instead of his?  Invent a cake for him?  Bingo.  I decided to invent a cake for my beloved.  I also did extensive research and enlightened him on all of the things that had happened around the world the day he was born, while resisting the urge to bring up the fact that he came out of his mother’s bajingo.  I really wanted to but it IS his birthday, and when he irritates me on days that do not celebrate his birth, I torture him enough by reminding him that his parents literally have genitals and after five kids, apparently love to ravish each other.  I have told my grandfather repeatedly that the elderly and parents have no business having genitals.  He uses that statement to make some sort of horrid remark about his “sex life,” and I can’t tell if he’s joking because he literally never has verified his sinful claims.  I have no idea why Jesus did not say it was a sin for grandparent’s to “do it.”  Not only should that have been one of the ten commandments, “Though shalt not fornicate once though has grandchildren,” it should be its very own commandment, above all the others and highly feared.  Anyway, I made Matt a list of all the things that happened on the day he was born and then Makayla and I tackled the invention of making a cake from scratch.  When I called Makayla in to help me and told her I was going to bake a cake, she dramatically slapped her hand to her forehead, rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh dear Lord; please help us all.”

“That is not a nice thing to say,” I told her, “It isn’t nice to be sarcastic when you’re talking about God.  Next time, say, “Oh dear fiddlesticks; please help us all.”

“This is going to be a disaster,” Makayla said, “but I’ll help you.  Let me go get my apron.”

Brat.

“I am a real woman,” I told Matt, when he suggested I just go buy mix from the store, “Not only will I create a cake from scratch, along with the icing, I will craft this entire cake into the letter “M.”

Matt claimed I was being too ambitious. 

The first hurdle Makayla and I faced was not having powdered sugar to make icing.  So I googled away and found a recipe.  While I was trying to figure out whether or not an 8 by 8 pan would work just as well as the 9 by 9 pan the recipe called for, I saw that nearly all recipes called for tartar or something.

“What is tartar!!!” I hollered to Matt, who apparently didn’t hear me because he didn’t give me an answer.

“I think that’s probably Spanish, Mommy,” Makayla said, “Like, it’s Spanish for tarter sauce or something.”

I grinned at her and we found a recipe that didn’t require tartar, whatever the crap that is, and I started making the icing.   Now, the recipe specifically said to create the ingredients for the icing, which Makayla and I did perfectly, and let it sit on the stove, on medium heat, stirring occasionally, until it boiled, then to turn the heat down to low, and stir vigorously.  Since I was lied to, and told I only had to stir the icing occasionally until it boiled, I started preparing to make the actual cake.

“What on earth does oil and flour a pan mean?” I asked Makayla, “You’d think one would work just as well as the other.  And all the sugar this recipe is calling for seems like a hint that diabetes would be a great birthday present.”

Makayla stood there, looking at me, shaking her head, and then with an annoyed little jerk of the head, motioned towards the pot that was overflowing with icing that I thought I had total control over.

“Oh my gosh, what a nightmare,” I said, as I turned down the heat and vigorously stirred the icing since it was lumping up like play dough.

“Yeah Mommy, except you aren’t even dreaming.  I bet you wish you were dreaming though,” Makayla offered.

“Well, if I was dreaming, I would have made a better dream than to let the icing boil over, that’s for sure.  You stir this and try to get rid of the lumps while I get the cake ready.  Don’t touch the hot part of the pot.”

We removed the pot from the stove onto an oven mitt and she assuredly stirred my mess.

“It’s like we’re chefs on that show, except I bet you’d be the one who gets yelled at,” she told me.

“I admit I struggle with baking and cooking,” I agreed.

“But you’re good at everything else, Mommy!” she said, “Everyone is different!”

Halfway through inventing my cake, I realized we didn’t have baking powder, only baking soda.  I recalled a conversation with my grandma when I called her and asked if there really was a difference and she just laughed at me before telling me there was a huge difference.  So I googled “alternatives for baking powder.”  I found that by combining sour cream and baking soda, I could create my own version of baking powder.  I made my creation and flicked it into my bowel of nearly made cake batter and said, “Bam!  Eureka!”

Makayla was still stirring the icing and looked at me with a very serious look.

“You aren’t good at baking because you always mess up right in the middle,” she said, “why didn’t you make sure you had the real baking powder before you started?”

It is humiliating when a six year old out smarts you and I just said, “I should have.  I should have made sure I had everything I needed before I started.  But maybe it will be OK.”

We set the icing aside to cool and finished the invention of the cake batter and I scraped it into the pan, admiring how it literally looked like cake batter. 

“Taste test,” I told Makayla, and instructed her to lick the goop off the spoon.

She tasted and two seconds later, while I had the camera ready to prove that I wasn’t a liar if my baking turned out to be edible, she gagged and made the most horrible face I have ever seen. 

“Oh my gosh!” I yelped, and made her a glass of water, asking her if she was OK.

“That looked like it hurt!” I shrieked, horrified that an eggshell had scraped her throat, “Are you alright?”

“Mommy, that was AWFUL!” she wailed.

I tasted it myself and yelled, “What?  Why?  It’s terrible!”  Makayla laughed hysterically, which I snapped a picture of because I felt at that moment, she was being mean and I wanted proof to show her she was a rude child when she turns sixteen and starts begging me for an open mind and gas money. 

“Maybe it will get better if the yuck gets baked out,” I said hopefully.

I hollered for Matt to come taste the batter before I popped the cake in the oven and he made a face and said, “I think you’re sweet that you’re even trying to make a cake from scratch, baby.”

I wanted to slap him with my egg beater but am not a fan of domestic violence.

“It’s my JOB,” I told him, getting butt hurt that he thought my attempts at being domestic was only adorable, “I LOVE you.  But do you think the cake will be OK?”

“Sweetie, it will probably not rise because of the stuff you put in it.  It might burn though.”

“Like the cookies that looked like ear wax, huh?” I asked him, referring to my last attempt at baking for him, “Maybe it will totally explode in the oven.  If my cake is going to be a disaster, I’d prefer it to be an entertaining one.”

He grabbed my face and kissed me and hugged me and told me love things and invented lies about, “Maybe it will be really good, baby.  Maybe you invented something awesome.”

I am not a fan of being humored but I had rock hard man muscles around me and giant brown eyes that screamed, “I love you,” so I just grinned at him for a while.

Halfway through the cake being done, I discovered the icing was an utter disaster.  Blast.

When the cake was done, we all hovered around it, staring into it as if it held all the secrets to the universe.

“What to y’all think?” I whispered to Makayla and Matt, glad Bubba was still napping so he wouldn’t try to devour the entire thing at once.

“It looks good,” Matt said.

I realized I was whispering and stood up a littler straighter to look more in control of the cake situation and said, “Makayla will be the taste tester.”

Makayla gagged after her initial taste test and declared it was the worst thing she had ever eaten but then said, “But at least you tried Mommy.  If at first you do not succeed, all you do is try again.”

I popped a piece of cake into Matt’s mouth and he let me know it was crunchy and awful.

I tried a piece and it is a miracle I didn’t die of suffocation from dry heaving into Matt’s dying kitchen plants. 

Shortly after the cake ordeal, Matt left for school and I sent him a text message that said, “Don’t forget the candles for your meatloaf cake.  And get 24 individual ones, not the two and four.  Taking the easy way out is offensive.”

So what if my attempts at making a real cake didn’t work and I am now going to put 24 candles into a cake shaped meatloaf?  I’d like to do something fancy, like craft the loaf into the numbers two and four, or even better, the Eiffel Tower, but I think at some point, a girl has got to know her limits.

Hold Still, Sister

So I was minding my own business, removing Matt’s man whiskers from his sink, when I heard a child-like shriek.  It wasn’t the type of shriek that is angry with a sibling or is mad at the cat.  It was the type of shriek that lets your mother instincts know that a human who is biologically related to you through conception is in trouble.  I ran into the living room and found Makayla on her back, her legs in the air, and blood dripping from various places on both feet.

“What happened?” I shrieked, horrified at the sight of my little girl bleeding

“The nails!” she wailed, “I ran over the nails when I was being a car!”

The nails that are uprooted since Matt is remodeling the dining room and pulled the carpet up.  Those hundreds of tiny little nails that hold the carpet down had impaled my child. 

I sat down in front of her and examined her feet.  There was so much blood that it was hard to see what the damage was and I saw it was dripping on the carpet, so I hollered for Caleb to bring a towel.  He brought the towel and I instructed my newly four year old to hold his sisters ankles over the towel and not touch her feet.  He did so, his huge brown eyes even huger with worry and as I went to fetch supplies I heard him saying, “OK.  It’s OK, Sister.  Don’t move.  Hold still, sister.  I will take care of you.  I will help you, Sister.”

I rushed back with sanitizing equipment, bandages, and socks and Caleb looked up at me with giant, horrified eyes.

“Is she going to die, Mommy?” he asked, “Will her heart get all beat up?”

“No, Bubba,” I said as I sat down and took Makayla’s feet from him, “Sister is going to be OK.”

I sanitized Makayla’s wounds and she withered around and screamed in agony which made me believe she was being dramatic.  Once I got everything clean, I saw that not only had she ripped pieces of the skin down her foot, she had various nail holes in her feet.  I felt bad for believing she was being dramatic and Caleb held her hand while telling her, “Hold still.  Just hold still, Sister.”

I pulled out the scissors to cut the gauze I was going to wrap around Makayla’s foot and Caleb screamed, “No Mommy!  Don’t cut her feet off!  Don’t cut her feet off, Mommy!”

Makayla forgot her excruciating pain at that moment and laughed and said, “Bubba, Mommy is just going to cut that stuff to wrap it on my foot.  She would have to have a saw or something to cut my foot off anyway.”

Caleb eyeballed the scissors with a furrowed little brow as I cut the gauze and wrapped Makayla’s foot.  I put band-aids over the smaller wounds and Caleb announced he needed band-aids too.  I obliged and after the band-aids were administered, I put socks on Makayla’s feet to help prevent any yucky stuff from getting into her wounds.  I got up to go fix lunch and as I waited for the pizza to cook, looked into the living room and saw my son tenderly kissing the soles of his big sister’s feet.

“Does that make it better, Sister?” he asked.

“Yes, Bubba, thank you,” she said  pitifully.

“I’ll always take care of your feet, sister,” he said, "Jesus wants to kiss your feet too, huh, sister?  And me and Jesus don't even care about the germs on there, Sister."

I believe I might have literally gotten a little teary eyed.

Makayla's Toothpaste Message

So I was minding my own business picking up all the scattered hair ties that Makayla throws around when I entered her bathroom and saw a message written to me on the mirror.  I got closer to the mirror to see what this message was written with and saw it was…toothpaste.  Eww.  It took a few seconds to figure out what the message was supposed to mean because, well, it was written by a six year old, crafted from toothpaste, and applied to a mirror.  I was able to see that she had written, “Mommy, plees take us to the park.”

I frowned at this and called her into the bathroom.

“Do you need me, Mommy?” she asked. 

“Look at how you spelled the word ‘please’ here,” I said, pointing her spelling version of the word, “You spelled ‘please’ P L E E S.  ‘Please’ is spelled P L E A S E.  I wanted to let you know.”

“Do you want me to write it down a few times so I’ll remember?” Makayla asked

“P L E A S E do,” I grinned at her.

She found this hilarious and brought me a piece of paper and a pencil so I could write the word at the top of the paper.  After she was gone from the bathroom, I realized, “Wait!  She drew on the mirror with toothpaste!  Twenty seven dollar toothpaste!”  Makayla has horrible teeth and has to have all sorts of expensive teeth care products that her dentist called “imperative.” 

I called her back to the bathroom.

“Go get the windex and some paper towels and clean the mirror, please.  We do not use toothpaste to write on the mirror.  We use a pen or pencil to write on paper.  Do not do that again.”

I can’t believe I didn’t think enough to make her clean it and was more focused on proper spelling at first.  I thought that was hilarious. 

Quotes From Caleb

It seems like just yesterday I was blogging about the world’s cuddliest, clingiest, boob sucking baby on the planet.  After giving birth to Caleb, which felt more like giving birth to a planet, I was shocked to find my newborn was a polar opposite of his sister.  In my naivety, even though I’ve heard “all babies are different,” I still wasn’t prepared for the boy child I had created.  Makayla had slept through the night at four weeks, rarely cried, took to boob feeding immediately, could be left in a play pen without freaking out, slept in her own crib since she was born, and was incredibly agreeable and cheerful.  Her birth was also pain free and simple.  Caleb’s birth was the most horrifying and traumatic experience I have ever endured and he pretty much screamed non-stop until he was eighteen months old.  He was colicky, had an anal fisher, constantly constipated, had trouble breastfeeding at first, and HATED to be put down for even a moment.  He started growing teeth at two months old and nothing could console him.  For that first year, I was up with him various times throughout the night, rocking him, trying to un-plug his poo, rubbing stuff on his gums, offering him boobs, anything to get him to calm down.  I look back on it now and am actually proud of my twenty and twenty-one year old self for the patience I had.  While it drove me crazy, I loved Caleb with all my heart and was more worried that he was uncomfortable or in pain to really get frustrated.  We were in the Doctor’s office constantly, him putting me on weird diets in case his chronic constipation was caused by something I was eating, and giving Caleb new medicine’s to try for his anal fisher and hard time pooping.  When Caleb would poop, Makayla reacted as if he had just presented us with jewels and hoards of cash, not a blow out.  We would get so excited and tell him what a genius he was as he blasted waste everywhere.  He refused to sleep alone until he was about three.  When he was about fifteen months old, my sister Amber and I vowed, no matter how much he cried, (a hard task for me since I don’t do the cry-it-out method) to make him stay in his crib the entire night.  He cried for a good hour and I had to go sit outside because it upset me so badly.  Amber came and got me and said, “Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news.”

“He’s OK, isn’t he?” I asked in a slight panic.

“Calm down,” she said, “The good news is that he’s not crying.  The bad news is that he’s just sitting up in bed.”

“He’ll get tired and go to sleep,” I told her.

For the next few hours, we’d peek in on Caleb, and see him sitting in his crib.  His head would bob forward as he nodded of and then he’d yank it back up, wail for a few minutes, and start it all over again.

“Should I go lay him down?” she asked.

“He’ll freak out,” I told her.

She tried anyway.  We knew if I lied him down it would be ten times worse so she went in, lied him down, and cooed at him that we lie down to go to sleep, not sit up.  He did in fact, freak out, reached his arms out for her, and shriek.  For another hour.  Then he went back to bobbing his head and snapping himself awake.  He did this until three in the morning.  By then, Amber had gone to bed and I felt horrible and thought maybe if I slept on the floor by his crib it would help.  Yeah right.  He freaked out at the very sight of me and when I lied by his crib, he reached his little arms through the bars and the look on his face got me.  So I took him to bed with me and figured, “It’s not like he’ll still be sleeping with me when he’s in high school.”

He screamed if I put him down to vacuum or do dishes.  He screamed if I put him down to fold laundry or put it up.  He even screamed if I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom so I learned to just take him with me.  Rookie mistakes.  I should have just let him cry because my behavior was only making it worse but I wasn’t used to it and it crushed me any time he cried.  My family and friends made it very clear that I was spoiling him and that it wouldn’t kill him to cry.  They told me he didn’t act like that at all when I wasn’t around.  When Caleb was about sixteen months old, he was staying with my grandparents for a night and was crying and Grandpa had him in bed trying to calm him down.  After a while of crying, my Grandma went into the room, looked at Caleb and said in a firm voice, “That is ENOUGH.”  Caleb looked at her and shut up immediately.

I gaze at my now three year old (well, he’ll be four in a few days) and marvel at how different he is now.  Caleb was a late walker and an extremely late talker.  He didn’t actually talk until he was nearly three.  It’s hard for me to forget the baby Caleb since his baby hood was such a huge part of all of our lives.  I marvel at him and have been documenting all of the adorable things he says:

On our way to the pond…

Caleb: “I HATE those black birds.”

Me:  “Bubba, say you do not LIKE those black birds.  I do not like the word hate.”

Caleb:  “You do not want to let me say that word, Mommy?”

Me:  “No, you are not allowed to say you hate something; say you don’t like it.”

Caleb:  “Well, I would be happy if you would let me say it.”

Me:  “Well, it makes me sad when you say it.”

Caleb:  “Then I guess I won’t say it then.”

“Well, I guess we have to go to bed since the wind blowed the sun to his own bed.”

“I wish I had a lot of friends.  But I don’t have a lot of friends.  All I have is you.”

I explained to Caleb that Uncle Shoni had died because his heart stopped beating and we need our heart to beat to live and Caleb said, “Well, who beat up his heart then?”

Seeing a picture of Grandpa on my nightstand: “That is my Paw Paw.  And Maw Maw is his daughter.  And Paw Paw sounds like an earthquake or sumpthin’ when he says stuff to me.”

“Look at all those ELEPHANTS!”  pointing to a herd of cows.

“Mommy, we are not friends because I am your son.  That means you are my sister like my sister.”

“Well, I’m not eating these yucky STUFFS because I am a little boss.”  Talking about his veggies.

“I have to hold onto your hand or I will get runned over by a car and be dead.  Sister told me that and when you’re dead you get to go to Heaven and play football.  Is Heaven where Ironman lives?”

“I like Fruit Salad Yummy Yummy but if I get to make Fruit Salad Yummy Yummy I would just eat blocks.”

Me:  “Smell that flower for me, Bubba.”

Caleb smells.

Me:  “What do flowers smell like?”

Caleb:  “Plants.”

Me:  “So if you feel the hot in your nose is that the same thing as smelling the sun?”

Caleb:  “What did you just say?  The sun is up there.  You can’t smell him, Mommy.”

“I don’t have a brain and you keep telling me my brain makes me smart and I can’t see my brain.  So if it’s in my head how do I find it?”

“I like dinner.  I like dinner but I like my sister more than dinner cuz she brings me cheese when you’re in your room.”

Caleb:  “Can I wear a dress like sister?”

Me:  “Why do you want to?”

Makayla:  “Boys can’t wear dresses!”

Me:  “If girls can be Ironman, boys can wear dresses if they want to.  Caleb, why do you want to wear a dress?”

Caleb:  “To be pretty.  Can I wear some pretty shoes too?”

Caleb:  “You let sister play in your make-up and I want to wear it too.”

Me:  “OK.  But let me do it for you.”

Caleb:  “Sister gets to do it by herself.”

Me:  “You are a lot littler than Sister and you might make a mess.”

Makayla:  “Mommy, you are confusing him.”

Me:  “Why?”

Makayla:  “Because when I was three, you let me do it my own self so it’s not fair that you don’t let him.”

“You can put me in the corner but don’t tell my Daddy I was being mean to you.”

Caleb:  “Did you give me ice cream when I was a baby?”

Me:  “No.  You drank milk.”

Caleb:  “Did I have a bottle or a cup?”

Makayla (before I could intervene): “You ate out of Mommy’s boobs.”

Caleb:  “I did not do that!  And I wasn’t even a baby anyway!”

Makayla:  “Bubba, did you know that I actually remember when you were in Mommy’s tummy?  You made her tummy really big and I could feel you moving in there.”

Caleb:  “Mommy ATE me?”

“When I grow up I want to work at McDonald’s because I like onions.”

“Girls can be Ironman too because I’m not allowed to be sexy.”  Caleb told Makayla only boys could be Ironman and I told him not to be sexist because girls can be Ironman too.

Makayla:  “When I grow up, I am going to marry someone like Matt because he is just really sweet.  Who will you marry, Bubba?”

Caleb:  “Ironman.  He’s really handsome.  Or maybe Spiderman.  I would kiss them.”

Makayla:  “Is he gay, Mommy?”

Me:  “I have no idea.  You can’t really tell if someone is gay until they’re older.  If he is, so what?”

Makayla:  “Well, what if he kisses a boy?”

Me:  “Ironman and Spiderman are the things he likes on TV.  When you were his age you said you were going to marry me.  He doesn’t understand what it means to be married.  And if he wants to kiss boys, it’s not like he can help it.  Being gay isn’t a choice, you know.”

Caleb:  “I kiss boys when I want to!”

Makayla:  “You don’t want to kiss girls?”

Caleb:  “Only you and Mommy.”

Makayla:  “Mommy, I think he might be gay.”

Me:  “We’ll talk about this later.”

“I am not going to my birthday party if you don’t make me some meatloaf.”

Me:  “Bubba, why do you like the Barbie’s more than you like your cars?”

Caleb:  “Because cars don’t have hair.”

“I had to make this tattoo on me so I’ll stop being a kitty.”

“Your hand makes my hand all yucky and why does it do that Mommy?  I want to know.”

“I am going to tell God to make you get me a watermelon.”

“If I drived a car up into the air it wouldn’t even be a car right Mommy?  Because I would be driving in a airplane.”

“If Sister gets to pick the book tonight then I’m going to live in the garage and I’m bringing the mailbox in there with me!”

“If I flied off the trees I wouldn’t even fly like a bird because I don’t eat those yucky BUGS.”

“Mommy if anyone is ever mean to you I will beat them up and throw them in the beach.  Would you spank my butt for that?”

Caleb:  “Mommy loves me more than you because I am her son and you aren’t Mommy’s son because you’re Sister.”

Makayla:  “Bubba, you are Mommy’s son and I am her daughter and Mommy loves us both the same.”

Caleb: “Well, at least I get to be the sun then.  What are you anyway if I’m the sun, like a cloud or sumpthin’?”

Me:  “Caleb, calm down.”

Caleb:  “How much down do you want me to go?” as he squatted as low as he could go.

The Day the Children Learned How to Make a Bomb

About a week ago, I went to go see what my children were doing and found them in their room.  I was irritated that they had made a pretty significant mess so I told them to clean it up.  I went and piddle farted around with Matt and a little later, went to check on them.  The room was nearly back in order and I said, “You guys are doing great.  Keep it up.  Come let me know when you’re done.”  Half an hour later, I grew suspicious that they were committing various crimes since they should have had the room done long ago and let me know they were finished.  I went to their room and saw the door was shut.  In my experience, when two children shut their bedroom door, they are doing something that is going to be annoying to a parent.  I opened the door and gasped in horror.  The children had learned how to make a nuclear bomb and blew it up in their room.  How they managed to survive I have no idea, but nothing other than severe warfare could have caused what I walked into.  Every puzzle they have ever owned had the pieces scattered everywhere.  Every board game had all dice, cards, pieces, everything, scattered everywhere.  All of Makayla’s beads for jewelry making were all over the place.  Moon dough was everywhere.  Clothes had been yanked out of the closet and drawers and scattered everywhere.  Eight million legos and blocks were littering the carpet and bed.  Books, markers, crayons, Barbie clothes, and hot wheels were everywhere.  The hundreds of pennies, nickels, and dimes that Makayla stored in her piggy bank were strewn about.  Easy bake oven stuff had been taken out of the box and thrown everywhere; zhu zhu pet and zhu zhu pet accessories were all over the place.  I just looked around the room, too horrified to really say anything.  I finally was able to say, “You guys?  What on earth did you do?”

They both began pointing fingers and accusing one another of naughty behavior.  I walked a little further into the room and saw all of Makayla’s jewelry scattered everywhere.  Two days before, I had surprised her by untangling all of the necklaces, finding all the matches to earrings, organizing bracelets and rings, and making smaller boxes for small jewelry to put in her jewelry box.  I had made a special compartment for “special” jewelry like things family members give her.  It had taken me nearly an hour to get it all done and honestly, seeing it just thrown around hurt my feelings.

“Why did you do that to your jewelry box?” I asked Makayla.

“I dunno,” she said.

She didn’t look at me as she nonchalantly answered my question.  I just looked at her, as she played her leap frog while sitting in a plastic bucket, knowing that child abuse wasn’t an option because one, I would never have sufficient self esteem in prison orange, and two, I literally have no idea how to go about abusing children anyway. 

“You know,” I said to her, as I moved child paraphernalia out from under my feet in order to enter the room further, “I spent a lot of time making your jewelry box for you.  It really hurts my feelings that you just dumped everything out like that and messed it all up.”

“Then you shouldn’t have made it for me,” Makayla said, not taking her eyes off her leap frog.  I looked at this tiny version of a human for a while, refusing to say anything because I knew I would regret anything that came out of my mouth at that moment.  After I was able to have the mind set of a real life grown up instead of a severely irritated idiot, I said, “Put the leap frog down and get out of the bucket.  Now.”

She did so begrudgingly and I proceeded to discuss with her the reason as to why her statement to me was so disrespectful and rude.  She stared at me with huge, tear filled blue eyes and claimed to feel “horrible about saying that!”

“Good,” I told her, “When you do or say something hurtful, you should feel horrible.  BUT, I forgive you.  Once I forgive you, you can feel happy again because once someone forgives you, that means what you said doesn’t make them hurt anymore.  BUT, remember the way you are feeling right now so the next time you want to say something rude, you will remember how awful it feels to be rude to someone.  It isn’t a good feeling.”

We discussed the proper ways to express frustration and anger and all that yadda yadda since I’m assuming not only must I teach these things from example, but I must also have conversations that do not seem to penetrate through the mile wide skull that belongs to my six year old so I can tell myself I’m a good mother before I go to bed at night.

Since Hiroshima had just occurred in my children’s room near their bedtime, I determined that we would deal with it in the morning.  Disasters cannot be fixed overnight.  I smooched puckered up little lips and played the piano for them and smooched puckered up little lips again, while warning them that shenanigans would not be tolerated one I turned out the light. 

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of childlike shrieks of laughter and lurked into the bedroom to investigate what kind of crimes the children were committing since joy like that is only derived from horrifying behavior.  They were taking turns doing back flips off the bed and I nearly had a heart attack seeing my three year old son spiral dive head first to the ground upon entering the room.

“No, stop!” I screeched, springing towards Caleb to check for internal injuries, “We do not jump off the bed and we do not do flips off the bed.  Remember how Aunt Amber broke her arm when she was jumping on the bed when she was little?”

“I want a broken arm so I can have a cast,” Makayla told me.

“Me too,” Caleb said, “Mommy, can you break my arm for me?  How do you do that, Mommy?”

“Bubba, breaking an arm would really, really hurt.  We don’t want to break an arm.”  To Makayla I said, “If you had a broken arm you couldn’t go to swimming or gymnastics or soccer.  Plus, breaking a bone hurts really bad.”

Both children pretended to agree with me and sped off to go tell me that they wanted ice cream for breakfast.  I could tell what kind of day it was going to be.  I have learned that there are times when your offspring morph into beings that I like to refer to as “these people trying to pass as my children.”  Every now and then, kids just act like total assholes sometimes.  And then the mother gets to ponder where the hell she’s going wrong and Google's “Sibling rivalry” and “back talking” for hours that day while reading from various "experts" online that every behavior a child exhibits is a direct result of parenting or that your child clearly has ADHD and must be medicated. I have come to the conclusion that these "experts" all say something different, live far away from my children, my children act like freaks from time to time, and as as their mother, it's up to me to decide what to do with them.  Anyway, so after telling them they knew better than to ask for ice cream for breakfast, and dealing with arguing over their actual breakfast, I went into their room to estimate the actual damage.  I was able to determine that the mess they had made would be too overwhelming for them to realistically clean up.  And I came to the conclusion that the less crap they had, the less mess they would make.  Call me mean, but realistically, a six and three year old have two or three things they really play with.  Why have all sorts of crap everywhere for them to cause destruction with?  So I got plastic bins, banished the children to the living room, and got to work making various piles of crap, trying to organize everything.  The children ended up barging into the room, and when they asked what I was doing, I said, “I am packing all of this stuff up since you guys made such a huge mess.”

“You’re going to BURN it!” Makayla screamed.

Caleb copied, “You’ll BURN it Mommy?”

“What?  Why would I burn it?” I asked, “I’m packing it away and putting it in my closet and when you two can keep your room clean, I will start giving it back a little at a time.”

“My soul is DESTROYED!” Makayla screamed, and got to work trying to pick up various items that she’s never cared about before.

“Put it down Makayla,” I said, irritated with such dramatics, “You and Caleb go in the living room.”

In her attempt to make a dramatic exit, she knocked her brother into the door which resulted in a huge bump on his forehead on the doorknob.  He already has three bumps on his forehead, one from tripping over Matt’s man tools and managing to fall head first onto the concrete.  Thank goodness his skull is so thick or he probably wouldn’t survive such catastrophes.  After I consoled Caleb and sent him away, I got back to work.  I organized as many game board pieces as I could find, and when I discovered the boxes were all torn to shreds, I packed the pieces into plastic bags and put the boards into a large tote.  Ungrateful children.  The puzzle pieces were so scattered, I figured there was no way I would ever get them situated and knew it would only be mean to donate over ten 100 piece puzzles that were all jumbled together to Goodwill.  I threw them out.  I discovered that the 20 dollar bill Amber and Adrian had sent Makayla for a job well done in Kindergarten was torn in half.  I literally felt tears brim my eyeballs, seeing their kind gesture so horribly disrespected.  I confronted Makayla with it.

"I tore it so that I would have two.  They both say 20 so now I have 40 dollars and I can keep twenty and give twenty to Bubba," she said.

I understood her little girl logic and said, "Only two WHOLE 20 dollar bills make forty dollars.  A torn dollar makes it ruined.  I can tape it for you but don't EVER tear money again."

  After a good hour and a half of organizing and putting stuff into plastic bins, I was nearly done except for random art supplies, doll clothes, and other small child stuff, and decided to take a break.  I lurked through the house to look for something else to do.  I saw the trash needed taking out and told the children, “Do NOT go into that bedroom.  I shut the door and I will know if you’ve opened it.”  How would I know?  I put a handful of M&M’s on the desk in the event they intruded because I know for a fact my children could never resist devouring them.  They looked at me with sweet, giant eyes, one set greenish blue, the other set dark brown, and promised to not even get near their bedroom door.  I took the trash out and opened the back gate to get to the dumpster without managing to get electrocuted by the hot wire that Matt installed to keep  his dogs from jumping on the gate, and without the dogs getting out which would result in me chasing them all over Kingdom Come.  After I threw the trash out, I approached the gate and saw the wind had blown it shut.  Blast!  I know there is a way to open it from the outside because Matt has shown me and I fiddled with it for a while but kept electrocuting myself.  My options were to either endure a fifteen minute walk around the entire neighborhood to get to my front door (which was also locked and I’m pretty sure the kids could never figure out how to unlock it) or jump the gate.  I climbed up on the ledge of the seven foot tall gate, imagining Matt coming home to find me dead, with the spikes from the top of the gate through my guts and me just dangling there, impaled and whatnot.  There was nothing for me to use for leverage or to climb down on the other side and I would have to just leap and pray for a safe landing.  The dogs were at my feet, whining, and no matter how much I told them to shoo, they stayed, which meant I would have to not only leap the gate, but leap over them.  I looked around and saw my neighbor had a tree in her backyard that I could use to help me down if I hopped her gate.  Then I could knock on her back door and explain everything.  She’s pretty sweet; she wouldn’t mind.  So I went to her gate and the second I touched it, her giant dog started barking and growling, which sent Matt’s dogs into a barking and growling riot.  I had forgotten about her ferocious dog.  Frick.  So I went back to my gate and climbed back up, humiliated that I was making such a scene, and looked around to see if anyone was watching.  An old dude with white hair was on the roof of a house a few houses across the alley and was just looking at me.  I gave him a little wave and wondered if he would be calling the police.  I gave myself a quick pep talk, reminding myself that as a farm child, I had done far more dangerous stunts for FUN, put my foot on the top of one of the spikes, and jumped.  While airborne, I knew I was going to fall, so I purposely fell into a roll and survived the incident with only a bruise on my lower back and a scrape on my forearm which I discovered after nearly being drowned by dog slobber since the dogs saw my awkward position in the dirt as an opportunity to show me some love.  Feeling like a warrior, I went back into the house to get started on the children’s room again.  I could hear them shrieking with laughter upon entering the house and went to their room and saw everything I had done had been un-done and the children were sitting in the plastic bins I had packed all of their organized things in, pretending to be in rocket ships.  Everything was pretty much the way it had been before I even started.  For a second, I felt guilty to ruin their fun but the sight of the mess and their deliberate disobedience replaced guilt with pure irritation.

“WHAT are you guys doing!” I exclaimed, “I told you not to come in here!  You guys ruined all the cleaning I did!”

Makayla stopped her joyous shrieking and said, “Well Mommy, Bubba and I were playing hide and seek and I thought maybe he came in here and I opened the door only a tiny little bit and saw you had left candy in here for us.  So I shared it with Bubba and then we made time machines.”

“Yeah,” Caleb said, “But I wasn’t in here.  I was in the bathtub hiding from Sister.”

“Both of you get out of those tubs right now and go straight to time out,” I said.

They both started protesting and I said, “Get your butt’s to time out, NOW!”

“NOW” came out as a scream.  I have yelled at my kids before, but outright screaming I have never done and as soon as the word “NOW” left my mouth, my hands came to cover my mouth as if I was trying to hold the word in after I had already screamed it.  Both children looked at me with wide eyes and I looked back at them with my hands clasped over my mouth, and they both burst into tears and ran for their designated corners, scrambling, as if I was about to thrash them with a chain whip.  I stood there for a moment, feeling like the biggest piece of crap ever.  I grew up in a household full of screaming (not Grandma and Grandpa's house) and you can ask Matt, I am NOT OK with screaming.  It makes me so nervous when I hear others screaming I typically have to take something for anxiety.  Matt and I don’t scream at each other, ever, and never have.  There is a difference between yelling and screaming, not that yelling is OK either.  Yelling is like, “Get in here and quit making me call you!” or “ENOUGH!” to be heard over their bickering.  Screaming is a total lack of self control, a useless way to communicate frustration, and to a child, it is very scary.  After I calmed down, I reminded myself that I am in fact, a human being, and forgave myself.  After time out, I brought both children back into the room, and dictated to them toy by toy, piece by piece, what to pick up and where to put it.  It took a horribly long time and I would have done it much quicker, but they had to know that after what they did, Mommy Dearest was NOT picking up after them again.  They grumbled at first, until I threatened them with time out for having bad attitudes.

“You two will pick up this mess and you will do it cheerfully,” I said, “Put smiles on those faces.  Now.”

They began complaining of starvation, which was probably accurate since lunch had been hours ago.  I took them to the kitchen and gave them fruit, cantaloupe for Caleb and orange slices for Makayla.  I tried to not let my frustration over their mess irritate me still, since they were already paying the consequence, and engaged them in cheerful conversation while they ate.  I was tempted let them know I was still not pleased, but remaining angry wouldn’t do anyone any good.  After their snack, they went back to work, a little more optimistic than they had been before, and finished their room.  I put all the boxes and games in the hallway since I couldn’t figure out what to do with so many bulky items, and promised the children that they would get their things back a little at a time, when they could manage to keep what was left in their room clean.  I had left them legos, blocks, Barbies, a few art things, all their books since learning shouldn’t be taken away as punishment, leap frogs and games, hotwheels, piano, and other music equipment.  Every evening, I give them twenty minutes to clean their room and whatever is left out after the timer goes off gets taken away.  And wouldn’t you know, that I haven’t had to remove a single thing from those children’s room since?