Just what I always wanted

This year, Brendan and I took each kid individually to Target to pick out presents for each other and for us.  The deal was that we stay out of the equation (other than to pay for the gifts).  No direction, no influence.

Ultimately, their choices were surprisingly thoughtful -- especially for each other.  Here, however, is what I received.

With love, from Isla:

With love, from Tyson:

Con besos y abrazos, Hayes: 

Yes, that's a pinata.

Continued Elf adventures (a/k/a Mommy comes unhinged, gathers herself, and then loses it again)

Too tired for a commentary, but I think the letters speak for themselves...

Elf Madness -- or fifty shades of crazy...

Not that you didn't expect this from me, but I am one of those "Elf on the Shelf" freaks.  I use our elf, "Oodles," to intimidate, threaten, and bribe my kids.  If you want lessons on parenting, look elsewhere. If you want to make yourself feel better about your own parenting skills, or simply have a laugh at my pathetic attempts to coerce good behavior from my children -- namely, Tyson, who recently exclaimed, "Bree, get me my fucking cereal!" (hey, at least he used it properly) -- read on...

Oodles returned on Sunday morning, along with this letter:

If you notice, it was a struggle to find something bad that Hayes does.  Seriously.  Golden child.

Anyway, Day 1 was moderately successful, so I continued to lay it on thick for Day 2:

They did better, but one problem we deal with A LOT is that they are always asking for things ("What did you bring me?" "Can I get a toy?" etc.) ... So we dealt with that on Day 3:

This one hit home, and they had a great day... so Oodles rewarded them with hot chocolate for breakfast on Day 4:

 

Things went downhill quickly that day -- for Tyson, that is.  And this morning, Oodles delivered this message:

I wasn't home this morning to see how it was received, but Brendan said that Tyson took heed.  In anticipation of a better day -- and because I want Oodles to deliver their Hanukkah present before we leave for The Greenbrier -- I wrote this letter for tomorrow:

So, what I lack in creativity with respect to elf positioning (man, some of you facebook/pinterest people are even crazier than I am), I make up for in dedication.  

PS: This really works.  Case in point: Even while Tyson was rolling on the floor during Isla's ballet class, screaming, "It's too loud!  It's too loud!," he did not utter a single bad word.  In fact, he hasn't so much as used even a "bathroom word" since Day 2.   Baby steps, friends.  Baby steps.

Garlic

Last night, after I polished off a large plate of hummus and pita at a local Greek restaurant, I leaned in to Tyson to ask him a question.  He looked at me very seriously and said, "Mom, I have some bad news."  I replied, "Oh really?  What is it?"  And with a crooked smile he sweetly said, "Your breath smells really terrible."

Daddy's boy

As most nights, Tyson ended up sleeping in our bed last night - coming in around 3am with a fever.  Brendan is out of town, so he snuggled up next to me and fell asleep.  Around 5am, he started whimpering.  I asked him what was wrong, and he buried his face into the pillow, cried for a minute, and fell back to sleep.  In the morning, we had the following conversation:

Tyson: Do you know why I was crying?

Me: I figured you had a bad dream...is that why?

Tyson [tears welling up]: Yeah.  I had a goodbye dream.

Me: A goodbye dream?

Tyson: Daddy was saying goodbye to me.  [Lip quivering, tears now rolling...barely able to get the words out] Daddy was sad and he had to leave.

Me [hugging him tight]: It's ok, buddy.  He just went to Texas for work.  He'll be back tomorrow.

He recovered quickly and went off to play with Isla and Hayes.  A couple of hours went by, and Aunt Lizzie arrived.  I figured he was over it, and it was safe to relay the story.  I asked Tyson if he wanted to tell Aunt Lizzie about his dream.  As I was doing so, I looked over at him -- his eyes were again filled with tears, and his lower lip curled downwards as he tried to get the words out.  I scooped him up, wiped his eyes, and decided that I needed to file this story away.  Someday, we will tell it again.  Perhaps when he is a teenager, this story will remind him of how much he loves his Dad.

Lunchtable convo, courtesy of Aunt Lizzie

Isla: It's really called "Texas Pete."

Tyson: It's really called "Tonky Pete."

Hayes: It's really called "Eat Your Food!"

Couldn't have said it better myself, little man.  Thanks for inserting a little "Mommyism" into lunch when I'm at work.

Wednesday morning funny

Hayes:  Our old teacher came to visit us at school yesterday.  She had TWO crotches!

Me: Crotches?

Hayes: Yeah, to help her walk.

Me: Oh, CRUTCHES!

What the what?

Hayes, reading a catalog: Hey mom!  I think they have some poop-cons!

Me: What the what?

Isla, translating: He means coupons.

Unrelated...but relatable.

Today we are leaving for a quick visit to New York.  I woke up early this morning... went for a run, made breakfast for everyone, showered, packed for myself and the kids, got all of the snacks and drinks ready to go.  Somehow, I am sitting here writing a blog post while I wait for Brendan to be ready.  Unreal.

Hayes for Mayor.

As Brendan and I were getting ready to leave for a long weekend in Scottsdale, the kids had the following to say about it:

Tyson: Don't go!

Isla: What are you going to bring us?

Hayes: I hope you have fun.

Oh Hayes...you're making it hard for us not to play favorites.

Sh*t my kids say, part 2

Tyson [upon seeing a picture of him, Hayes, and their friend Henry pushing some tackle dummies]: Oh yeah, those are the things we punched the crap out of.

Hayes [upon learning that he would see his friend Maddie today]: I was thinking about Maddie last night.  Also I was thinking about tornadoes.

Sh*t my kids say...

While eating my breakfast, eavesdropping on the kids playing in the family room, I overheard the following:

Tyson [while throwing a Thor hammer]: This is my hammer.  It is going to punch you in the face.  It will really hurt.  Oh yeah!  You ready?

Hayes [singing]: Jumping Jack Flash is a gas gas mask.

Tyson [to Isla]: Do you remember the time my poop had green things in it?
Isla: Oh yeah - don't worry, that's just flavor.

send in the clowns

Isla loves pop music ... and she has the knack for memorizing song lyrics.  But sometimes she gets them wrong.

David Guetta/ Sia - "Titanium" - actual lyric: 

Isla - a few weeks ago, in Denver.

Stone heart
Machine gun
Firing at the ones who run
Stone heart
Loves bulletproof glass

Isla's version:

Strong heart

Masheena

Firing at the ones who run

Strong heart

Loves bulletproof clowns

Oddly enough, my little sister, Sam, was the same way.

My brother, Jon, with my sisters, Lizzie and Sam.

Bush - "Come Down" - actual lyric:

I don't want to come back down from this cloud 

Sam (age 5) version:

I don't want to be a clown like this guy

It's all you will hear now.  You're welcome.

high/low

Today's high -- courtesy of Tyson:

Sometimes I get songs stuck in my hair.


And today's low -- courtesy of Hayes:

Mommy, you have old-looking boobs.

too much time with grandma.

In the bath last night, the kids were playing with their (Target dollar section) water guns.  Hayes and Tyson squirted each other in the face repeatedly, as they do.  Isla was pointing hers down, squirting the same small section of her washcloth over and over.  She noticed me watching her, and she looked up, smiled, and said, "I'm spraying the stain before it sets."

Whose kid is this?

When they grow up...

Today's response to "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Isla: Artist-Doctor-Singer-Firegirl

Hayes: Astronaut-Animal Doctor

Tyson: Ummm.
My mom: How about a lawyer?
Tyson: Lawyers are girls. I want to be an alien.

Games they play

I was sitting outside on our deck this afternoon, watching the kids playing on our swingset, and I thought, "If a stranger happened upon our backyard and listened to my kids' conversation, he would think that they are royally fucked up."

Hayes was up in the treehouse part of the swingset, pretending he was "at heaven." Isla was on the ground, pretending to cry because she missed him.  Tyson was taking stuffed animals one-by-one up the ladder to heaven, while Isla mourned each one's passing.

Clearly we have had to introduce our kids to the concept of death ...

With my dad's passing in 2010, followed shortly thereafter by our dog, Nellie, and earlier this year, our dog, Zeus, we have frequented the death talk.  In the interest of being honest with our kids, we have talked about illness - especially cancer (which took both my dad and Nellie) - and heaven ad nauseam.  Cancer is an "easier" topic -- we can explain what it is, how it is treated, and what it can do to your body in fairly simple terms.  Heaven not so much.  In a nutshell, we have told them that it may exist, that we believe and hope that it does, but that no one can tell you what it is really like because, if it exists, you don't go there until you die and when you die, you don't come back.  Um, yeah.

So now one of their favorite games is "Who do we know in heaven?"

And again, if someone happened upon us...

she's smarter than I

Yesterday, as we were getting out of the car to head into Target, Isla asked, "Can I take my stuffed person, or should I leave her here?"  A little taken aback and half expecting to look back and see a small mounted corpse in Isla's carseat (I have a dark imagination), I said, "Excuse me?"  Isla held up her doll and replied, "Well, she's not an animal."

on the subject of dance

So we are a big SYTYCD household (that's "So You Think You Can Dance," in case you don't watch -- and if you don't, I am sad for you).  And by "household," I mean everyone but Brendan, who thinks that Cat Deeley is a fake Brit, and contemporary dance is a lot of rolling around and posing (ok, that might be a bit true).  And since I have tortured my husband enough by making him watch "The Voice" and "American Idol" in one season, the kids and I have been retreating to the master bedroom to enjoy the dramatic audition weeks of our beloved SYTYCD.

In doing so, I have noticed a few things.  First, and least surprising, is that Isla is totally into the drama of it all.  And she is REALLY paying attention.  At one point, a female dancer was in tears, and Hayes asked, "Why is she sad?"  My response was simply, "She got into an argument with her mom."  Isla's response was, "Well, she came home one day and her mom had packed up her bedroom and told her that she couldn't live there anymore and she didn't want her so now she lives with her friend and her friend's mom and they are her new family and they love her."

Second, and probably also not surprising, Tyson's confidence has no limits.  During most auditions, Tyson says, "Those are some nice dance moves."  Followed quickly by, "But I can do that."

Third, while Hayes sort of tunes out the backstories, he is really paying attention when it comes to the audition itself.  And when he likes a dancer, the judges follow suit.

Finally, what has struck me the most in these last couple of weeks, as the four of us lay cuddled up in my bed, is that all of this is fleeting.  And I am really trying to soak it in.  Last night, after we watched about an hour of the show, I turned off the television and let the kids fall asleep with me.  Isla took her position all the way under the covers, nestling into the small of my back.  I snuggled Tyson close, breathing in his ever-so-slightly still baby scent, and slipped my hand under the pillow to meet Hayes's hand, which he squeezed in return.  I listened to their breathing for a while -- something I haven't really done since they were newborns -- and I found myself wondering how many more moments like this are left.  A handful, maybe?  Sigh.

I want to dance!

If you are my friend on Facebook or have spent an evening at our home, you already know that we are a big "dance party" family.  We dance after dinner to burn off that last bit of energy before bed, on rainy days when there is not much else to do, and pretty much any time one of our "jam songs" comes on our Sonos.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=3618044686576

To be honest, this isn't something that we do just because we have kids.  Brendan and I have long been known to dance spontaneously - with or without music - much to the horror of our friends and family.

[Really wish I had some video to share here]

Yet despite our obvious affinity for shaking our groove thangs (yeah, I said it), when it came time for dance class sign-up last Fall, I fell prey to the same gender stereotypes that I have tried so hard to avoid in raising my kids (in particular my boy/girl twins).  Without thinking twice, I signed Isla up, and promptly took her out to buy a pink leotard, pink ballet slippers, and shiny white tap shoes. To my credit, the dance schools in our area are almost exclusively for girls ("Tutus and Tiaras," "Bella Ballerina," etc.), so it just didn't occur to me to ask Hayes or Tyson if either one was interested.

So, on a Saturday morning in September, Isla started her ballet/tap/ jazz lessons while Hayes played soccer.  When the soccer season ended, we continued to split up on Saturday mornings -- Brendan would take the boys to Rebounderz, and I would head off to dance class with Isla. She absolutely loved it, and the boys relished their "guy time."

In March, after expressing her disappointment over missing out on soccer with her brother, we switched Isla to a weekday dance class so that she could play t-ball with Hayes on Saturday mornings.  On Wednesday evenings, the boys (often in pajamas) and I would watch Isla's class.

During the second class of the spring session, after the girls had finished up the ballet portion, familiar pop music came on and Hayes looked at me and said, "Can I dance?"  I asked Miss Ashley (dance teacher extraordinaire) if this was ok, and she invited Hayes and Tyson to join in.  I WISH I had taken video of those first moments.  Grinning ear-to-ear, and occasionally pausing to bear hug his siblings, Hayes was the most exuberant had seen him in a while (maybe ever).  And he was GOOD.  He continued through to the tap portion of class, and he had no trouble picking up moves that the rest of the students had been working on for months.  Even Tyson was following along (pretty remarkable for a 2 year old in a 4-6 year old's class), although, if I'm being totally honest, he was really in it for the costumes.

Anyway, when class ended, Hayes asked if he could do it again the next week.  The following week, I signed him up, ordered him a pair of tap shoes, and the rest is history...

Hayes is now one of the only boys enrolled at Bella Ballerina (Tyson is not officially enrolled, but when the tap portion starts, just TRY to keep him from putting on Isla's outgrown white patent leather tap shoes and joining the fun), and Isla is the only girl in the Blast Ball League for Dulles South.  I am so incredibly proud of them and the people they are becoming.  And I am grateful to them for all they have taught me... and I am not just talking about the sweet dance moves.

Monday morning funny

Tyson just came out of the bathroom, a bit frantic, yelling, "Who put corn in my butt?!"

Kid-isms

Some of the things my kids say are too funny to correct (for now).

Hayes:
Take a haircut

Tyson:
I have a clipper, can you nail it? (when he has a hangnail & wants me to clip it)
Corn squirrels (a generic breakfast cereal also known as "Corn Squares")

Isla:
Our chuthers (as in, "We like to play with our chuthers." Or each other.)

Dreams, part 3

This one is mine. I had a dream last night that I was out shopping in the evening with my mom and Isla, and I realized I had left Hayes in the minivan.  When I got back to the car, he was all smiles and totally forgiving, but I was a hysterical mess. I woke up panicked, and I was unable to sleep for the rest of the night.  I am still feeling guilty about it...

Sorry about this post - it lacks a punch line.  Just had to share in the hopes that it would help me shake it off.

Update: I am currently stuck on a bus with no air-conditioning. Not a dream. Actually on a bus. With no a/c. Pretty sure I'm psychic. Also pretty sure I'm going to pass out.

What happens when your siblings won't play with you...

"Mommy! I'm the princess AND the bad guy!"

Brothers

overheard this morning...

Hayes: (to Tyson) I don't want to bite you, because then Mom is going to say "Who's crying," and it's going to be you, and that will be bad.

It's the thought that counts.

This is an old story, but, really, do poop stories ever get old?

Last winter, the stomach virus from hell wreaked havoc on our household five times.  Seriously.  FIVE times.  I had taken some time off from working, so I was with the kids day in, day out -- which meant that we spent a lot of time at germ-infested indoor playgrounds and that I caught every disease the kids brought home on their grimy little bodies.  But my biggest gripe about last winter was not how awful I felt, but rather how much time I spent cleaning up poop.  Because while I, an adult with adequate sphincter control, could - even in the most dire circumstances - make it to the bathroom, the kids just could not.  I'm not sure I am doing this justice.  When the virus struck, they could not make it to the bathroom at all.  Ever.  They crapped their pants every. single. time.

It gets worse.

So it was May, and we were rounding up our last bout of the virus.  The kids were upstairs napping, and I was snoozing on the couch.  I hear a door open, footsteps, and then, softly, "Mommy?  I think I need some help."  I head up the stairs, and there is Hayes -- pantless, with poop-streaked legs, holding a wad of toilet paper.  After surveying the scene, I deduced the following:

Awoken from his slumber with a stomach-ache, Hayes jumped out of bed and tried to make it to his bathroom (about 10 feet from his bed).  He didn't quite get there in time, but he managed to hop up onto the toilet while the diarrhea was still coming out, leaving a trail of poop across the bathroom floor and down the side of the toilet.  When he was done, he made a valiant effort to clean up the mess.  Using an entire roll of toilet paper, he wiped his legs and the floor, leaving the soiled paper in a heap on top of his (also soiled) pajama pants.  When he realized that his efforts were not going to be enough, he decided to come and get me.  So he walked from the bathroom through his room and into the hallway, leaving a distinct trail of poop-prints in his wake, and called out, "Mommy?  I think I need some help."

I never imagined that I would feel worse for the maker of the poop than for the cleaner of the poop.  I think that sums up what it means to be a mom.  Put THAT on a Hallmark card...

Sugar and spice

Earlier this week, while watching the kids on the swingset, I overheard the
following exchange:

Tyson: Hayes, can you push me?

Isla: Tyson! You don't want ME to push you?

Tyson: No, I want Hayes.

Isla: You like Hayes better than me?

Tyson: I like you both. I just want him to push me.

Isla: But do you like Hayes the most?

Tyson: (dismissive) Yeah.

Isla: (incredulous) WHAT?!

Tyson: (backpedaling) I like Hayes the most AND I like you the most.

Isla: (snarky) That's what I thought.

The way they push each other's buttons is astounding - and does not bode well for my future sanity.  A few months ago, Isla came into the kitchen in tears.  I asked what was wrong, and, with a quivering lip she said, "Tyson told me I am out of the family."

He was TWO.














Oh well, at least - before bed last night - I got this...

Isla: Momma, I am going to love you forever.

Excuses, excuses

On Sunday, while on a Wegmans "date" with Hayes, I got a text from Brendan. He wanted me to know that Hayes must have tried to pee into the baby potty, because the potty and the floor were all wet. (Sidebar: I don't know why that thing is still in the bathroom...Tyson used it once on the day he was potty trained, and never again.)

Anyway, I asked Hayes if he had peed in the little potty, and, a bit insulted, he responded, "No, Mom. I'm a big boy. I use the big potty." So I then asked if he had peed on the floor of the powder room, to which he responded as follows:

"Well, I wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing and, well, my penis was a little up. Do you understand what I'm talking about?"

Yes, little man. Say no more. Please.

Future Frat Boy

Tyson's new favorite game is "Guess what I have in my hand"

I think we all know where this is going ...

Uterus is a funny word.

My husband and I try hard to be honest with our kids.  We don't shy away from conversations about religion, death, and the like.  We try to give them the facts in language that they - at ages 4 and 2.5 - can, to some extent, comprehend.  We have had some misfires for sure.  For example, when our beloved dog Nellie passed away, I spent fifteen minutes explaining that she had died and that we weren't going to see her again.  When I was done, my then 2.5 year old son looked at me and said, "Am I going to die in a pool?" After taking a few seconds to digest this inquiry, I realized that the whole time we were talking about Nellie, he had thought that I was saying "dived."  So, I started the whole conversation over using the word, "dead."  To this day, the twins are scared of the pool.

Anyway, we are also careful to use the proper words for body parts - a penis is a penis, and a baby doesn't grow in a woman's stomach, but rather, her uterus.  The kids are cool with this.  The boys understand that they don't have a uterus, and Isla knows that she does.  Given this, I have been preparing for the inevitable procreation discussion.  While the question of how a baby gets IN to a woman's uterus has not yet arisen, the question of how it get OUT has.  I explained the two ways that a baby is delivered; the kids seemed to take it well.  Soon after, however, Isla decided that she does not want to have babies.  Assuming that this was the result of my explanation, I told her about adoption.  She seemed to like that a lot more -- although our conversation hit a low point when she asked if she could "return the baby to the baby store."

As I was putting the Hayes to bed the other night, he told me that he wants to have five babies.  He asked me how he could do this since he does not have a uterus.  I told him that when he gets married, his wife can have babies.  He grew very concerned and said, "But Mommy, Isla doesn't want to have babies!"  I replied, "That's ok, because Isla can't be your wife."  He was momentarily relieved, but then his face fell once again. "Mommy, I don't know if Kardynn wants babies!"  (Kardynn is his best friend/ girlfriend)  I explained that this is a conversation he will have with Kardynn at a later date.  MUCH much later.

Dreams, part 2.

Not to be outdone, Tyson's scary dream:

"I had a dream that a bad squirrel took me to the movies.  He bought me popcorn and fruit punch, and he left me there."

Dreams.

Early in the morning last week, Hayes came running into our room.  Jumping up into our bed, I could tell he was holding back tears.  I asked him if he'd had a bad dream, and he shook his head "yes."  I asked him if he wanted to tell me about it...

Hayes: I had a scary dream that a bunny rabbit was yelling at me.

Me: Yelling at you?  What was he yelling?

Hayes: He was yelling, "Give me carrots!  Give me carrots!"

Me: Wow, that is scary.

Hayes: Yeah.  And I was wearing a carrot costume.

A story for my son's wedding...

When we were potty-training our older son, Hayes, who was less than jazzed about giving up diapers, my husband decided to teach him to pee outdoors. Mostly on trees, but rocks, leaves, and stinkbugs were not left untainted. As much as I tried to steer him towards the toilet, Hayes developed an affinity for outdoor relief.

Fast-forward a couple of months to our Memorial Day BBQ. The adults are congregating on the deck, while the kids are running around the backyard and playing on the new swingset. All of a sudden, all eyes are on Hayes, who, with his back to the adults, has dropped trou and is peeing on a tree. Everyone starts to laugh, and my brain races. I'm thinking the poor kid is going to be traumatized; the potty-training thing was not easy on him, and this is going to send him over the edge. To my surprise, Hayes turns towards the adults (hands on hips, pants still down, stream still a-flowin'), cocks his head and says, "You like that guys?"

Why I'm here.

I suppose it would make sense to explain the name of my blog. It's a nod to my daughter, Isla, who at about 15 months of age grew attached to a small stuffed lion, and -- in what would turn out to be our first exposure to the random quirkiness of our three kids -- named it "puppy." To this day, the name befuddles my in-laws, who insist on calling it "Poppy." As if that makes more sense.

(Isla, Puppy, and me. Sidebar: Why is my arm a completely different color than my leg?)

At any rate, when I decided to start blogging, I asked myself, why now? Truth be told, there are many other things I could be doing (pause as I glance left to find a pile of unfolded laundry staring menacingly in my direction ...and pause again as I glance right to the pile of witness interviews that need summarizing). Yup. I'm a stay-at-home mom/ part-time criminal defense attorney/ full-time multitasker. But beyond that, I'm also pretty damn funny. And so are my kids. See Para. 1; see also the image below.

I am a pitiful photographer (as you will soon learn), but I have a vivid memory and hours worth of stories to tell. And so... I write.