Proposal For Improving The Blonde Family's Timeliness

If marriage is a partnership, does that make family a "business"? 

If I were to be reviewed by an independent party (not by my partner because he knows better) in my "business" right now, I think they'd recommend that I be fired. There are many many reasons I could be fired, but let's just take timeliness under consideration today.

We are late everywhere. We are becoming that LATE family.  I know I'm not alone, but I am not willing to continue in this direction.  It makes our family look inconsiderate and it makes me look bad.  And I'm not bad, I'm just temporarily (for about the next 15 years) discombobulated.

Prior to children, I was one of those people who was always on time, and by on time I mean I was a freaky perfectionista with OCD and arrived five minutes (ok, twenty minutes) early to any appointment whether it was business or personal.

Slowly over the years, with the addition of children to our family, the five minutes early has progressed to five minutes late and (gasp), on occasion, twenty minutes late.  This is embarrassing and a source of great angst for me!  

Being chronically late is disrespectful.  It shows you are unorganized and incapable of getting your poo-poo together.  (I really want to say "shit" but swearing is so un-classy) Who wants to deal with someone who doesn't have their poo-poo together?

It bothers me when people are late to meet me, and the fact that we can't get anywhere on time is really pissing me off.

So, what to do?

I'm not really sure.  Leaving 15 minutes before I would normally leave without children doesn't seem to work, even when I give a five minute warning.

Here is what I propose....

If we are to be somewhere at X:00 we will all line up at the door one hour before the required drive time begins for a head count.  All wining, complaining, and wardrobe changing will take place and be completed within 15 minutes.  We will then pile into the car and any teasing, hitting, punching, crying, etc shall be taken care of within the alloted 5 minutes time.  I will pull out of the driveway one half hour before I should have to.  If we arrive one half hour early to said destination, which is highly unlikely, we will read stories quietly, do homework, or sing together like the Von Trapp family.  

Problem solved.

I would love to know what you do in order to keep your family on time.  What are some things you have tried?  Have any of them worked?

A Discussion About Bowel Movements

I've been blogging for about three and a half months now and I really haven't talked about poop yet, other than the poopy toilet water that was flooding my laundry room a few months back. I was thinking earlier today that, as a pseudo "mommyblogger", I should probably get my feet wet soon, so to speak. I really want to talk about boobs but my hubby isn't there yet. I figure if I can embarrass him in a hundred other ways he'll be numb to the pain and I'll be talking boobs by my six month bloggoversary, and perhaps be able to mention the "V" word by the time I'm nine months in.

First things first.  In our house we call the excretion of feces "poop".  When I was growing up my parents introduced it as "doo-doo".  I had friends that called it a BM, as if it was more polite to say it that way.  In fact, I had to ask what it stood for, and now I know.  

So, we have a little poop process in our house. A certain young child who is three and a half, and perfectly potty trained, does a bizarre little dance when she starts to feel the "urge".  She is a SHE... what happened to the whole "girls potty train easier/faster?"

They lied. 

You LIED to me, either that or I have been blessed with a defective pooper. Here is a little how it goes...

A very strained look of contortion comes over DD's face.

Me: Do you need to go potty?

DD: I'm not pooping.

Me: Uh, ok.

DD: I'M NOT POOPING! (shrill angry scream)

Me: OK

DD: HURRY THE POOP IS COMING! (running to the bathroom)

Me: OK

DD walks in to the bathroom, looks around and comes back out.

DD: I change my mind

Me: OK

A few moments later.....

DD: aaaaaaah Mommy Help ME! I have to POOPY!!!  Run Run POOPY!

Me: Ok, let's go. (See, I know now not to get too excited until the third call of impending poop.)

So, there you have it.  With this Poopy blog entry, I have officially pledged myself into the ranks of Mommybloggerhood!

A Letter To Our Prospective Neighbors

I live in an older neighborhood where they are scraping many of the homes in order to build newer ones. My block is in transition and we have yet to have a family with children move in. The house next door to us has just been completed and my children are desperately seeking neighbors of the kidlette kind. Each time someone comes to look at the house they look out the window trying to determine whether the buyers have children. Truth be told, I also look out the window and size them up. Do they have kids? Preferably between the ages of 3 and 10 or better yet of the babysitting age?

In the spirit of informative neighboring I thought I'd compose a letter to prospective home buyers so that they might better understand what they would be getting into by purchasing a home next door to us.

Dear Prospective Home Buyers,
Welcome to our fantastic family neighborhood. If you have children this is the perfect place for you and you will undoubtedly be forever thankful to have us as neighbors. If you don't have children I'm not sure this is the place for you. We will love you, but you may not love us.

We have three children and, while they are adorable they do make a little bit of noise. You may notice that your bedroom window overlooks our backyard where our detached garage is located just off the alley. (This is the city after all). On the weekdays you may hear me screaming "get in the car", "we are late", "get off the swing", "get in the car", "GET IN THE FREAKIN' CAR", about fifty times, but school starts at 8 and so this process rarely takes more than 5 minutes.

Every Saturday and Sunday at 7am you can expect the repetitive sounds of our sons practicing basketball (again the detached garage is turned sideways so we have a driveway/sport court thing that your kids will love.) I apologize in advance if a ball ends up on your roof or a frisbee through your open window. Don't mind the screaming three year old, she just likes to get her brothers' attention and will pitch a fit until she gets her way. Both boys do tend to beat on each other but unless there is blood or broken bones involved, please do not call 911.

As for my darling husband and I, we are fun loving people. If you are a mom you will adore the Happy Hour Playdates that I often host with moms from other blocks. These gatherings can often get a bit loud but we have a fence and as long as they are all contained us moms are happy to let them enjoy one another. When the dads get home from work our Happy Hour often leads into Dinner Hour. This is so much fun .... if you have kids, that is.

You will LOVE being my neighbor. I will always run out of eggs or sugar, etc. and you'll be able to get to know me really well when I ask to borrow some! I grow tomatoes in the summer and will be dropping them on your front porch by the bucketful. I promise not to let my dog poop in your yard and I'll pick up your mail when you go on vacation. How fun will all this be?!! ... if you have kids, that is.

Summer is coming and we have a really cool backyard, if you have kids you will definitely want to be moved in by then. I hope that this letter will prove to be helpful in your decision to buy this house.. if you have kids, that is.

Sincerely,
Bantering Blonde

Be sure to visit Sarah's  Real Life Blog ~ "Your Life, Your Blog" series!

Guest Blogger Jack ~ Becoming A Grandparent Part IV

Welcome back, Jack!  I feel a little sad to be posting the conclusion, Part IV, to Jack's essay on Becoming a Grandparent.  Never fear though, because I'm getting vibes of another masterpiece in the works.  Who knows what Jack will come to us with next?!!  If you haven't read the previous parts of this essay you can find them here:  

Part I - The Surprising Baby

Part II - The Astonishing Baby

Part III - The Unbelievable Baby

PART IV: Babies on Parade, the Conclusion
(Preface: Our oldest son and his lovely wife had their first child, our first grandchild, on Christmas Eve. As I anticipated a new career as a grandfather, my past experiences with The Babies of Others came to mind.)

A few years after that stupid baby peed on me (please see Part III, here, for details), I saw a baby in a mall. This baby was bald, which is another thing that babies can be and it raises no red flags. However, think about the various ways a human can be bald. This baby was not baby bald, it was bald in a balding-middle-aged-man way. A band of light brown hair was clamped on its head in a ring from ear to ear. The top of its head was dome smooth. Draw a little mustache on that kid and you’d have a tiny 45-year old businessman. Or woman. There was no determining the gender of this specimen without peeking in its diaper, which I declined to do seeing as the infant and I had not been formally introduced. The baby had a serious look on its face, too, as if it was mulling over an upcoming meeting or considering an adjustment to its investment portfolio.

Another time I saw a fat baby. Not cherubic. Fat. A vast little thing. Globe shaped, approaching the diameter of one of those exercise balls it should be working with as soon as possible. The mother was also of colossal proportions and I postulated that the father was probably equally mountainous. But, come on, genes only gave the kid a kick start to obesity. How could it pack away the chow at such a prodigious rate to balloon up that quickly? And what was its potential growth estimate if it managed to add that much tonnage at such an early age? There’s baby fat, sure. I knew what baby fat was. This baby possessed babies’ fats.

Back to the Peeing Baby. During my urine shower I made one comment I thought was clever and timely, but it wasn’t well received by the other adults in the room. I said that I could pee my own pants at that moment and no one would be the wiser. A couple of half smiles, but not a chuckle. It wasn’t like I was offending the baby, for crying out loud. I thought of saying to the Peeing Baby, “Do that again two years from now and there will be consequences.” But, based on the audience’s response to my earlier remark, I decided to leave it at giving the Peeing Baby my fiercest stink eye.

I have seen many instances of people treating their babies like pets or miniature adults and treating their pets like children or miniature adults. Neither case seems well-advised. Tiny babies, months and months from learning to walk, wearing wing tips or running shoes (probably with specially molded orthotics). A poodle wearing a prep school blazer and khaki slacks. A week old infant sporting a bikini and sunglasses. (The bikini bottoms were hilarious, having to be large enough to house a diaper.) A kitten in an argyle turtleneck sweater. (The kitten was clearly not pleased to be wearing the sweater – either the turtleneck was too confining or the design was too loud.) A toddler on a leash. A toddler human, mind you. In general, I don’t get it and I don’t like it and I don’t want my grandchild or the cats in his home to be dealt with in like fashion.

In my grad school days I was sitting in my advisor’s house with a few of my colleagues, enjoying snacks and beverages and casual conversation. Somehow the discussion swayed to stories about ugly babies. One person said she didn’t know what to say to the parents of an ugly baby. Our advisor, a wonderful person and an excellent professor, offered sage advice, “Simply say, ‘Now that’s a baby!’”

We practice saying, “Now that’s a baby!”, in her living room. Our advisor encouraged us to be more enthusiastic, placing emphasis on “that’s” and “baby”. We tried again. It felt good. It felt right. Passersby must have been mystified at the doings inside my advisor’s house, several voices hollering repeatedly, “Now that”s a baby!”

And when, a few years later I faced my very first ugly baby (please see Part I, here), I completely forgot this safe and useful line from my grad school advisor and went with a floppy comment about the massive pile of blankets in the crib.

A pair of frightfully ugly (some would have said beastly) twins scared the bejesus out of me one time in a KMart. I was shopping for essential consumer goods and my travels through the aisles eventually led me to the Photo Center. A positively glowing new mother and father were poised behind one of those monstrous double strollers built for dealing with twins – or one gargantuan baby like the one I mentioned earlier. I was looking at the coffee makers when the family was invited into the Photo Center for their portrait session. The father hoisted Twin #1 out of the super stroller and I got a glimpse of a grotesque, malformed, wild-eyed creature with a few tufts of scraggly hair on its misshapen head that looked like the remains of a rampaging bout of mange. The infant’s eyes and ears were out of alignment, like a poorly done Escher/Dali/Picasso painting. Moments after erasing the image from my mind, the mother picked up Twin #2. As far as I could see, which was a great deal more than I desired, this wriggling object was in every way identical to Twin #1. Incredibly, the parents were perfectly presentable. They were solid, average humans that no one would term ugly or homely or even plain. Perhaps the photographer could position the lighting, I hypothesized, to show off any feature that would help these two ugly babies in some small way.

In retrospect, I could have described my encounters with babies a shade more succinctly, something like this: “Babies are ugly, wailing, urinating, obese, and bald. I know because I’ve seen ‘em.” I guess you’d call that the poet’s approach – use a few carefully chosen words to pack a big punch. Whereas my approach seems to be the Dickensian paid-by-the-word method of using a multitude of words to pack a glancing blow. But, you know, what the heck. It’s a blog. Scroll down, fast as you like.

And how did our first grandchild, a boy, turn out? Well, he’s the cutest and most adorable little human imaginable. Babies are not called Bundles of Joy for nothing.
cheers,
Jack

Terrible Threes

Yesterday was awesomely bad. Wicked bad as they say on the east coast. Yesterday was one of those bloggable, "oh my god, I'm so blogging this" days. Sadly, today hasn't been much better.

The person who coined the term "terrible two's" obviously never had a three year old and definitely didn't have one like K. With my boys I definitely felt three was more of a challenge, but with the girl? Terrible has gained more meaning from the day she turned three.

I'm saying this with love, with total adoration for my beautiful baby. She is smart and really is quite sweet at times. She has always been a bit more hard headed than my boys ever were, but lately the screaming has gotten out of hand. I am not joking when I say that my hearing may actually be damaged by the shrill screams.

She loves to hate me. Trust me, she tells me in between the "you're my best momma" declarations, that she hates me and that I'm a meanie stupid head - although lately I haven't even gotten the meanie stupid head starter because she has just launched right into rotten-ness and then I'm in the middle of the grocery store hearing "waffles, not two packs, one." "one waffle" "one waffle" "one waffle"

"ONE WAFFLE" "You aren't listening, onewaffleonewaffleonewafflewafflewaffle"

OMG I just need eggs, bread, milk, cereal, fruit, eveyrthing that we don't have because I've been afraid to come to the store with you for a week and a half now. I want to leave the store so badly but we will all starve if I do!

I feel like I could cry. She is the youngest of three and yet I feel like I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. She doesn't ever accept that she isn't going to get her way until she has pulled out all the stops. I am almost certain that my neighbors think there is something awful going on at our house. It has been in the 70's and the windows are wide open. The shrill screaming and incoherent yelling that comes out of this child's mouth is embarrassing.

I'm not a horrible mom. I don't over or under indulge and I spend plenty of time with her. (Although, I did have to lock myself in the bathroom this morning to complete my Boden order without slamming my head through the screen.) That said, there MUST be something I am doing wrong, or something I'm not doing right.

Help me, please give me advice on things I can try. I'm totally open to your input!!!

The Cost of a Girl's Day Out

This is me and my Sista (as in sorority sister - Gamma Phi Beta - Vanderbilt) Leslie.  Leslie lives not too far from me, but we don't get to hang all that often so we ditched the families this weekend and headed to Beaver Creek for a day of kid-free skiing.

We had such a great time.  Talking about everything you could imagine.  I love how time between two good friends seems to stand still.  It was jut like hanging out at Vandy a decade ago (errr.... ok, more than a decade).

My hubby watched the kiddos for the day.  He is really great with the kids, loves spending time with them and never begrudges me time with friends.  I love him for this.  In fact, next weekend I'm going away for three whole days to ski with some girlfriends.  He rules!

In this economy, one must consider the cost of such outings.  In looking over my expenses from this weekend I am trying to determine if it was worth the cost.  I have broken down the costs incurred on Saturday's trip:

Cost of Trip with Leslie:

Gas - $30

Lift Ticket - $0 (I have a season pass)

Equipment - $0 (own it)

Clothing - $0 (already justified by cuteness factor months ago)

Lunch - $0 (met up with old friend and parents treated us to lunch)

Free Babysitter - (Uh..... Take a look at the aftermath and let me know what you think I should charge Sweet Love of My Life for his services.) 

I'm thinking $30 sounds good.  So....

Free Babysitter (-$30)

 

TOTAL COST:  $0

Is it worth the cost?

You betcha!

My Sweet Valentine Baby

Today, February 14th, is Valentine's Day.  It also happens to be a very special day for my middle child, Henry.  It is very appropriate that he was born on this day that we all celebrate love and affection.  Of all my children, he is the most outwardly affectionate.  On this day I have prepared a photo essay in honor of my  sweet Valentine Baby.


Happy 6th Birthday Lego boy!

Six years ago today we welcomed you into our family.  Your big brother was so proud.

William wanted to hold and cuddle you all of the time.

Such a happy baby, smiling all the time!

You loved to play on the floor with your toys.

You laughed as much then as you do now!

Always a good eater!

Your first day of preschool... such a big boy!


Your turn to be the big brother! Welcome to baby K!


We spent lots of time at the playground.


This is you at Great Grandma's house on her 95th birthday. You are riding on the same toy your Dad played on when he was your age!!


Adorable at all times...


You and Daddy at your 5th birthday party last year.


Best dressed kid on the beach.


Those eyes! That smile!


Pre-K Graduation Day


You've loved the water all of your life.


Family of Fish!


You begged me to teach you violin starting when you were 3 years old. Now you are a super star!


You have hiked many, many mountains in your lifetime. This is the summit at Loveland Pass, CO.


Your first day of Kindergarten. Bye Bye Baby, Hello Big Boy!


Dear, sweet, lovable smiley boy!  Happy Birthday to you.  Henry, full of life and joy, share your smile, share your happy heart.  You will always be my "H".  

The Lovely Barf Cycle.....

I can't believe I'm blogging about barf again. I'm so tired of barf. Cleaning barf. Hearing barf. Smelling barf. Enough with the barf yet? Be glad I didn't find any suitable barf pictures to post.

With three children, the barfy bug incubation period is perfectly timed so that it plows through the family and, just when you think everyone is back in school and healthy, the primary infector is reinfected. I think our violin teacher must think I'm crazy because for about three weeks now at least one of my children has been sickly. I promise I'm not lying!  This one is truly a doozy!

I feel horrible for my poor babies. Their pale faces are drained and they have barely enough energy to plop down on the couch and moan for "sickie pop". A sickie pop is a Pedialyte freezer pop.  My kids prefer them over drinking the liquid. This frozen pop goes down nice and slow, so if it isn't going to stay down at least the volume of substance isn't too overwhelming.... ugh. 

Speaking of Pedialyte - this is the second time in a week I've mentioned Pedialyte in my blog.  I should be holding a big giveaway!  I'm new to the blog world and working on building my traffic, but I'm such a huge fan of the stuff that I'd be surprised if I don't get a few more plugs in sometime in the next few weeks - hopefully not this week, though.  How does one host a giveaway?  Ah, so much to learn!!

In any case, let's hope the Bryan family can escape the next round in the barf cycle because I'm out of "sickie pops", and ready for a day out of the house!!!

SuperGirl or POW?

This is my SuperGirl, otherwise known as Katherine.  With two older brothers and a doting Daddy she can, at times, be a "POW".  No, not a "Prisoner of War".  In the Bryan household POW stands for "Piece of Work".  Yes, POW has had quite the week.  Beating up a best friend, using "poopie head" in almost every sentence, and destroying the plantation shutters in her bedroom, has kept her busy.  

Now, we don't actually tell her she is a POW.  She also isn't always a POW.  In fact, most days she is as sweet as can be.  Well, many days, anyway.

I mention this because yesterday was a wee bit of a challenge for me, if you hadn't guessed from my blog post.  I allowed myself a nice glass of wine at the end of the day, because let's face it, I deserved it after the day I had had!  Looking back, it may have been more like two glasses of wine.... or so.

In any case, I woke up a little groggy this morning and heard the pitter patter of little feet.

"Momma, I barfed."

I know that every mother out there has an instant flash of what the day will be like when they wake up to a declaration of barf.  This is exactly where I was at 8am this morning.

Why is it that preschool children always have to barf on the days they would normally be going to school?  

Why is it always on the day when the last drop of milk has been drunk and there are two slices of bread left?  

I won't pretend I didn't enjoy staying in my jammies with her.  This sweet child curled up in my lap and told me I was her "best Momma ever".  I love the "best Momma" moments.  The fact that I am her only Momma is lost on me.  The images of yesterday wash away.  All of the things I had to do today can wait.  This child, my SuperGirl, is telling me a love story.  The kind of story I want to last forever.  This is totally worth being a barf Zamboni operator for.    

I want everyone to know that I am no longer Queen of the "meanie stupid heads".  I am "best Momma ever". 

For today anyway.

A Bit of Advice....

Today's blog is in the form of important advice for those of you who may already have children.  Those of you who do not yet have children may want to store this one for later.  This one is an absolute GEM, so pay attention:

When your day starts with a wet bed (your child's, not yours, if this happens please consult your doctor), a pair of new shoes that absolutely can't be worn because they might get dirty, two glasses of spilled milk, forgotten homework, a $97 bill from the Denver Public Library threatening to report you to the credit bureau if you do not return Arthur's Annoying Day at The Dentist (or something like that) and then you notice a nice reminder email that it was actually your week to make the playdough for the Kindergarten class, well, let's just say that this run on sentence should be the least of your concerns.

If you invite a sweet little girl over to play with your 3 year old daughter and she beats her up and tells her that she wishes she would leave, you may be feel exasperated.  Perhaps a bit overwhelmed or even mortified.  When the toilet overflows you might be a bit disgusted, until you realize that it is raining poopy toilet water in your laundry room, where all of the networking equipment for the entire house also happens to be stored.  At this point you might be feeling nauseous, and at the same time heroic, for saving your husbands geeky, nerdy, overly techy "stuff".   If, later in the afternoon your daughter hands you a permanent marker and asks you to come admire her artistry, you are shocked to see that her room is covered in black permanent ink, you might need to "take a moment".  Especially if you understand the economic impact of permanently destroyed plantation shutters (forget bailing out the banks people, this is serious stuff!).  When your older children come home from school you might be slightly taxed by having to convince the older one that life is actually worth living, that he may have to suck it up and endure the difficult 3 page homework assignment.  Jumping from the top bunk might seem like a good idea now, but the trip to the ER would seriously get in the way of watching the next TIVO'd episode of Clone Wars (translation my 8pm date with a bottle of wine).  If you are still reading, I'm begging you to just stop obsessing over how I should punctuate this blog entry.  My piece of advice is just around the corner.    Are you ready for it?  Here it is:  After a day like this, you may want to consider calling in for pizza, or just sending the kids over to the neighbor's house for dinner.  My advice is that you should definitely, absolutely, under no circumstances, for the love of GOD, DO NOT consider making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. 

Banter about the "Third Child Syndrome" and one saintly husband.

So, today is Friday.  I'm really tired and this has been a very long short week.  After a very enjoyable and lazy winter break, the boys started school on Tuesday and Katherine started preschool on Wednesday.  I can't seem to get through to my body that it actually has to get out of bed now that the kids are back in school.  My husband is a saint and has been getting Will and Henry up, fed and walked to school on his way to work.  Can you believe how big I scored with this man that asked me to marry him?  Not to mention that we have been married for almost 12 years and he is still absolutely, without a doubt, madly in love with me?  So much so that he is leaving me blissfully asleep in bed, making sure that the boys get to school on time???  PINCH ME PLEASE!!  Seriously, by the time he was stepping onto the lightrail to get downtown, I may have just been hopping out of bed to wake up three year old Katherine.  Let me just say, she doesn't wake up well.  After being told, "Go away Mommy, I'm sleepy", I run out of the room and hop back into my own bed for a few more minutes until she finally comes pattering into my room ready to start the day.  By this time it is about 8:15 and I really should leave the house at 8:40 to get her to preschool.  (WHY a city gal drives 20 minutes across town for a preschool is a story for another blog post).  We spend the next twenty five minutes discussing wardrobe choices, pouring a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios on the floor, spilling a glass of OJ or two, arguing over the fact that Crocs are not appropriate footwear in winter (or frankly any time of year, but this is Colorado so even the girly girls are embracing their crunchy side), comb through the mass of blonde curls (here is where I'd insert a photo if I was blog savvy enough, but alas, this is only my 3rd post and I'm definitely not blog savvy!) and finally getting strapped into our super safe Britax carseat.  By the time I have Katherine at school it is at least 9:15.  Can I tell you that two children ago my blood pressure could not have handled this?  The shame in being 15 minutes late for anything would have KILLED me.  I would have had to go to confession, and I'm not even Catholic!  I was always the "together" person.  For as long as I can remember I arrived to appointments 5 minutes early, together and ready for whatever the task at hand may have been.  Even with two children I managed it.  The third child changes things, though.  It changes things exponentially!  Suddenly, being 15 minutes late for preschool is OK?  I mean seriously, these are the years we are supposed to be preparing our children for the routines and schedules of actual real school.  She only has 2 years before Kindergarten (Aug. baby) where, by the way, being 15 minutes late doesn't happen even with the new relaxed me.  To be honest, I think I finally understand why I was destined to have three children.  To spend your whole life trying to be perfect is exhausting.  Not that my current state of discombobulation is less exhausting, but that I finally realize what is important and I'm not willing to waste energy on stressing over the extra sleep I stole this morning.  Being perfect is totally over rated and I'm so much happier being slightly imperfect.  My boys got to "real" school on time.  Now, a hair out of place, a missed homework assignment (Ok, I admit this one still stressed me out), being a few minutes late somewhere, all of these things just happen and I have to let them go because they just happen.  If I freaked over the stuff I freaked over before, I'd be institutionalized by now.  If these types of things happened every day I would definitely get a reputation for being flaky and late, and frankly, there isn't much to be done about flaky and consistently late people.  Although, if ever you want an excuse you could have a third kid because it seems to have worked ok for me a few times lately.  (PLEASE don't email me about that comment, I'm not serious.  I'm Bantering!)  I think that when a kind man can give you a few minutes of extra sleep you should take it, not feel guilty, and also, you should embrace the Third Child Syndrome when you need to.  You'll be better of for it and your kids won't become OCD, which doesn't sound like much fun. My husband gave me time this morning as a gift, and I graciously accepted it and now I thank him with all my heart.  He is my partner, my lover, my soul mate, the father of my children.  If there is any man out there reading this blog, take the hint.  Letting your spouse sleep in for even a few minutes will bring you much appreciation.  So, next week I shall approach Monday fresh.  I shall get up at 6:45 when my alarm goes off, without pressing snooze 5 times.  I shall get dressed and make my children a nutritious breakfast and send them off to school with all hairs in place.  We'll probably still be 15 minutes late for preschool but I'll get to yoga class on time and once there I shall dedicate my practice to my beautiful third child who changed my life exponentially in so many wonderful ways, and to my husband who gave me an extra half hour of sleep this morning.  I love you honey!  As my dear friend Gita said to me this morning, Om out my friends....   

Shhhh.... Do You Hear That?

Shhhh!  Do you hear that?  Listen, what do you hear?  I hear the tick, tick of my kitchen clock, the hum of my fridge, and hmmm, what else?  NOTHING! HA, this is the glorious sound of NOTHING.  Winter break is over.  I've received several emails today saying "hope your break was great".  Break?  Are you kidding me?  My break is now.  I actually got to go to the bathroom all by myself a minute ago.  No banging on the door, no little 3 year old making observations about my bodily functions in the bathroom.  When I had finished my peaceful potty break, I walked out to.... nothing.  Everything was just as it had been when I went into the bathroom a moment earlier!

Ok, truth be told, I'm actually one of those Moms that loves school breaks.  I look forward to them.  I love sleeping in and having the kids crawl into bed with me in the morning.  Henry cuddles in close and tells me he's hungry but then falls asleep for another half hour.  I love that.  I also love the crazy junk food fests we have.  Eating double stuffed Oreo cookies, dipping them in milk and laughing so hard we squirt milk out of our noses.  The best part of the Oreo fest is the kids' faces. Stippled with black pirate Oreo beards, they are so happily high on sugar that they forget to tell me that I'm a big fat stupid meanie head for making them practice, do homework, etc.  We can watch TV, go to the movies, stay up late and follow absolutely no schedule at all.  Of course, after 16 days of this chaotic existence things start to fall apart.  There is fighting, crying, yelling, torturing; a general state of sugar, lack of sleep and any daily structure, induced fatigue.  This is the sign.  The sign that it is time, time to go back to school, to schedules, to eating actual food, and going to bed at a decent hour.  I love my breaks with the kids and, while they claimed to hate school and couldn't bear the thought of break ending, when they hopped into the car yesterday I knew all was well with the world.  Their cheeks rosy from walking through the never ending carpool line, they each had a smile on their face and couldn't wait to tell me about what a friend did over break, or that there was an actual real live New Kid in class.  Ahhhh... shhhhh...do you hear that?