I WILL Cancel Christmas

I don't know what it is, but every year at this time, my children are horrible.  EGREGIOUS.  BLOODY AWFUL.

Worse than normal atrocious.

It always begins with Terrorist #1.  His birthday is on the 17th.  I think he gets overwhelmed with the thought of so many presents in such a short time frame, and he just freaks out.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  YEAR.

One year, it was so bad that we cancelled his birthday party.

He is obnoxious.  He is bratty.  He is rude.  He tortures his siblings.  He is everything dreadful.

He hasn't lost his party yet (scheduled for January), but there's still time.

This year, the other terrorists seem to have amplified their own appalling behavior more than usual in order to keep up with Terrorist #1.

#2 hates life.  According to #2: everything is unfair, we hate her, and she never gets to do anything she wants to do.  She is a teenager stuck in a tiny 8-year-old's body.  God help me.

#3 is weepy.  I don't know if he's just going through a growth spurt and needs some naps, but he screams and cries at every single little thing.  I feel bad for him, I do, just not when he's screaming and crying.  He's got my clumsiness and the basement is a mess.  This means that he steps on a toy or stubs a toe about once an hour.  When he got the black eye a couple weeks ago, I didn't even get out of my seat.  I assumed that he had dirt on his face and he was crying about something little that #1 did to him, AGAIN.  My husband actually got up to see what was wrong and saw that he really had a problem.

Oops.

I can't help it.  He's The Boy Who Cried... that's it.  Just The Boy Who Cried.

#4 is evil right now.  Downright evil.  Possessed.  She speaks in tongues.  She is demanding.  She is violent.  She'll hit me because I'm not giving her something she wants, and then hug me 10 seconds later.  She is 22 months old and the Terrible Twos are in full effect - tantrums and all.  Shoot me now, because I may not survive another year or two of this.

I see daycare in her future.

Mix all four terrorists together and you get one big police state.  There's no other options.  Everyone is on high alert, and punishments have increased from just time-outs to week-(or month-)long tablet suspensions.  As I write this, #3 is trying to clean the ENTIRE basement to win back a week of tablet loss.  After walking by and hitting either Terrorist #1 or #3 THREE TIMES yesterday, he lost games for a week.

Why was he hitting them?  I have no idea.  I'm pretty sure he has no idea why, either.

I also threatened to cancel Christmas yesterday.  I was threatening to return a present or two before that, but now I'm onto the whole shebang.  I could do it; I have the receipts.  We haven't even decorated our tree yet because so much has been going on between puking, the hospital, and general holiday running-around.  It wouldn't be that hard to just toss the tree out the front door and be done with it.

I've already visualized it.   Their little terrorist faces on Christmas day... with the tree laying in the front yard and no presents or stockings to be seen...  I'd act like it's just a normal day.  Maybe I'd wake them up early like they had to go to school.

Ehh... yeah, I've thought too much about this.

The sad thing is that I really love Christmas.

I'm all talk.  I don't think I could really cancel Christmas.  I would feel guilty about it forever.

Sigh.

But, I WILL continue to threaten to do it (and maybe fantasize about it).

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Pluck You, Stray Eyebrow. Pluck. You.

This is one of those blog posts that my mom is going to cringe at.  She's going to tell me that I shouldn't be sharing such things with strangers.  The thing is, I think everyone should share things like this.  It makes us all more human - more relatable.

In an age where Facebook can literally make us depressed, I think it's more important then ever to share our imperfections just as much as that trip to the Dominican or Disney World.

So, with all this in mind...

O Stray Eyebrow, Stray Eyebrow, wherefore art thou Stray Eyebrow?  Deny thy eyebrow and refuse thy place; or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my wrath and I'll no longer be a nice plucker.  Shall I see more, or shall I speak at this?  'Tis but thy location that is my enemy; thou art thyself, though not a...

...chin hair.

I shall translate:

Be a nice eyebrow and go back home.  Leave my chin and you will no longer be my nemesis.

Yes...my chin.

It's definitely an eyebrow hair.  Dark and wiry.  Think what you will, but I refuse to think of it as anything else.

In fact, it just appeared one day in my early 30s.  POOF!  I was putting on makeup in my magnifying mirror, and I saw something about half an inch long hanging off my chin.

GASP!

What the heck?  How did I not see this before it was long enough to braid???

That's the tricky thing about this hair.  He disappears for while, and you forget all about him.  Then, one day, you're in the car on the way to an important event, and you get an itch on your chin.  AND.  YOU.  FEEL.  HIM.

Panic.

No tweezers.

Just a dark hair growing out of your chin like you should be part of the sequel to Hocus Pocus.

I cannot describe my loathing of this eyebrow enough.  He is cunning.  He is ugly.  He ages me.

Against my better judgment, I will dig for him when I get the slightest inkling that he's about to rear his ugly head.  Thus, I almost always have a red spot on my chin that I have to cover with concealer.

And when I do get hold of the little bass-terd, if he's too short he just snaps in half.  Thus requiring either more digging or patience...

PATIENCE!

Oh yes, I'm just gonna let him grow to be half an inch long again so that I can pluck him properly.

Umm, NO.

It is literally my worst nightmare that someone will see him one day.  I'm having coffee with someone, and they catch a flash of light coming from right under my chin.  They look for the culprit, and find him... shiny and dark and long.

He haunts me at night.

And yes, he's a he.  No lady would do such a thing to another woman.  It's evil.  He's evil.

So pluck you, buddy.  PLUCK.  YOU.

He says:

"Thy tweezers are quick.  Thus with a pluck I die."

But it's only temporary because I know he's coming back...

And he's bringing friends.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Adventures in Babysitting: Babysitter Amnesia

Finding a babysitter for four children is hard.  You have to find a sitter with the right mix of enough common sense to keep your kids alive, but not so much that they realize that watching four kids is a bad idea.

I have been lucky enough to find a couple sitters out here in Winchester.  They both fit into the category above.  There's just one problem:

They.  Do.  Not.  Act.  Like.  Tyrannical.  Dictators.

You see, this is the only method of government that works in our home.  A democracy doesn't work.  The children are terrorists, remember; they cannot be trusted to govern themselves.

For some reason, the babysitters just don't get this.  They want the terrorists to like them.  Bleh.

Due to this infernal need to be liked, the terrorists do the EXACT SAME THING every time we have a babysitter over.

They.  Act.  Like.  They.  Have.  No.  Idea.  How.  We.  Live.  In.  Our.  House.

None.  No idea of how bedtime works, dinner, showers/baths, dessert, and on and on.  Zilch.  Nothing.

I'm guessing that the babysitters think we have no rules here.  It's just Lord of the Flies all the time and the kids fend for themselves (well, that may be right, but only part of the time).

We get a babysitter on a weeknight 99.99999% of the time.  Why?  Because it's worth paying $12/hour for someone else to put the terrorists to bed.  This is almost always the most frustrating part of the day (depending on homework or if we are crazy enough to attempt eating IN a restaurant).  When we are home, Terrorist #1 and Terrorist #3 have to alternate: one brushes his teeth while the other gets changed.  They cannot coexist in the same space.  It leads to fighting and/or uncontrollable giggling, which eventually leads to us yelling.  Terrorist #2 just goes at her own pace... taking, oh, 15 minutes to pick out earrings to wear for the next day.  Everyone else will be completely done and she'll have only changed her earrings.

The whole debacle requires military-level scrutiny and supervision.

Dinnertime is no different.  #1 and #3 cannot sit next to each other (are you seeing a pattern here?).  They must all eat within a certain timeframe if they want dessert (aka, leftover Halloween candy), and if they don't eat within the allotted time, then they are given a little bit longer before threats of going straight to bed begin.

We ONLY eat at the dining table.  No food or drinks are allowed in the basement, where we have our TV.

Then a babysitter comes over.

On Monday, we had a sitter from about 6 to 10 PM.  I tried something different, I actually warned the children:

"ACT LIKE YOU LIVE HERE AND YOU KNOW HOW EVERYTHING WORKS."

And yet... the amnesia set in.  It's like mob mentality takes over and they forget everything.  When we walk in the door, it's like we've entered a war zone.

• Dirty, greasy plates and napkins are all over the table.  
• Candy trash is on the floor.
• Dirty clothes are either in the bathroom or the hallway (like they have forgotten they each have their own hamper).
• Dirty, wet towels are on the bathroom floor (instead of... oh, I don't know, being hung up?!  I'd even take them being thrown into the wrong hamper as progress.).
• Half of the kids are not wearing what they should be for school the next day.
• I guess I need to explain this.  We make the kids wear their clean school clothes to bed.  Yep.  We totally do and we will continue to do it until they can wake themselves up and get ready for school all by themselves.  We do not negotiate with the terrorists on this.  They are so grouchy and slow in the mornings that we don't have time to argue about clothes.  The boys tend to just wear a shirt and underwear to bed, but #2 tends to wear her whole outfit.

This past Monday, two of the terrorists convinced the poor babysitter that they weren't going to school the next day and wore pajamas to bed.  Not.  Going.  To.  School.  

Yes, THEY decided that THEY were sick and were going to stay home.

Do I need to say that THEY both went to school the following day?  Because, yes, THEY did.

...Back to the list:

• The cats are always starving.  No one feeds them, even though they are PAID allowance to feed them every morning and night.  The cats just circle around our feet like beggars as soon as we walk in the door, to the point we trip over them, cursing.
• Drinks are in the basement or in their bedrooms.
• Crumbs of either popcorn or candy are in the basement.

Who knows if they brush their teeth.  I don't even want to know.

All I know is that it drives me crazy.  It drives my husband crazy.  

Does Care.com have a search option for tyrannical dictators?  Maybe we need to try that.  Or, I could start a Care.com competitor: tyrannicaldictatorbabysitters.com.

All this for $12 an hour.  

Sigh.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

Dishwasher Loads are like Snowflakes

I know I've talked about my OCD when it comes to my kitchen before.  The older I get, the worse it seems to get in the weirdest areas.

1.  I don't like when plates are stacked in the sink.  This just hit me a month or so ago, and I finally told my poor husband about it a couple weeks ago.  Don't ask me why.  It has something to do with having to also rinse/scrape the bottom of the plate due to its contact with the other plate.  It just magnifies the grossness quotient for me.  I'd rather cover up all the counter space with dirty plates, and attack them that way.

2.  I try not to let silverware touch each other.  I'm sure I'm not alone on this one.  In fact, I know they have those little covers now that force you to put everything upside down so it doesn't touch.  Since we're in an older house right now, there's no covers.  But, I'm pretty sure we just took them off our last dishwasher anyway.  Forks pointing up toward me are scary.  My dishwasher shouldn't be menacing, but I do shudder at the idea of two spoons going through a cycle next to each other... SPOONING EACH OTHER!  Ewwwww.

3.  I wash my non-dishwasher-safe knives in the dishwasher.  I didn't always do this.  I used to believe that I'd ruin the expensive knives that we got as a wedding present... 11 years ago.  I guess that I just got to the point where I figured that losing them wouldn't be a big deal.  They have had a good life.  Also, doesn't the dishwasher clean better than me and my sponge?  When I'm cutting fat off of chicken, I want that sterilization factor.  (Note: they've been just fine in the dishwasher.)

4.  I like to hand-wash pots and pans, but the lids can go in the dishwasher.  I don't know why, but it pains me to put a pot in the dishwasher.  I do it, probably two or three times a week, but I guess it's all the precious space that I have to give up that annoys me.  But, for some reason, that lid can go in - no problem.  Even though the lid would take me literally a minute to wash, I'll just plop it in.

5.  I refuse to run the dishwasher until it's completely overflowing.  If there's a spot left for just one plate on the bottom, I'll wait until it can be filled.  This, of course, is a horrible idea.  There's never going to be just one plate in my house.  It's 5 or 6 or 10 at a time.  Usually, I'll fill the empty spot first thing in the morning and then have to run it right after the kids leave for school.  This leaves me with bowls and cups from breakfast sitting in the sink until lunchtime, which I hate.  So, I'm just making myself angry... which is stupid.  Run the dishwasher when it makes sense!  10mm of emptiness isn't going to hurt anyone.  Yes, I will keep telling myself that.

All this craziness being said, there's nothing better than finding out how to fit those extra 3 bowls and 2 plates in there, right?  You'll spend 10 minutes reconfiguring that bad boy just to get them to fit, even though hand-washing them would have taken half the time.

It's just that sense of accomplishment...

Sometimes, you just take it where you can get it.

There's a certain beauty to every load.  It's a piece of art.  The fullness, the configuration that took tens of minutes of visualization and planning,... and, of course, that empty sink.  Nothing feels better than to walk away from the kitchen with a clean sink and the dishwasher purring.

It's like you're on a dish vacation for a couple hours.

And no one can take that away from you.  Not even the terrorists.  Because if they try, you can just avoid the kitchen and pretend there's nothing IN the sink.

Next time you reorganize a load and then start it, take a moment to enjoy it.  It's unique.  It's got your own OCD written all over it.

Like a little, perfect, symmetrical snowflake.

Mostly, because you moved around whatever your husband did in there.

I love you, honey!

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Come Monday, I'll Be... Making Crustables

My Monday morning routine, when I'm semi-awake, includes a good amount of manual labor.

From about 6:45 to 7:15 AM (mind you, I'm barely considered a functioning adult at this point), I make 15 sandwiches.  If you would like to think of it in loaves, that's a loaf and a half of bread.  The bread I get at Costco has 20 slices per loaf.  And just think, when I was like 22, I couldn't imagine how in the world people finished a loaf of bread before it went bad.

Oh... how times have changed.

10 of my sandwiches are good ol' PB & J.  Yep, I am THAT MOM who still sends her children to school with peanut butter and jelly (well, technically jam, because it's easier to spread).  I apologize in advance if you have a child with allergies.  That would be horrible.  I think God knows I can't handle an allergy like nuts or gluten, so he hasn't given it to any of our children.

Of course, there's always Terrorist #4... who knows what she will bring.

And no, I don't feel bad that my kids eat the same stuff basically every day.  Terrorist #1 would literally live on peanut butter and jelly if we let him.  #2 would never eat it, normally, but luckily for me, 3rd grade eats really, really late in day.  By the time lunch comes around, she's starving and will eat just about anything.

Though, I've gotta tell you, she's a sneaky little thing.  I give her a sandwich and 5 snacks every day, and every day it's all gone.  I swear she could easily be tossing the sandwich and fruit and just eating snacks every day.  I'll never know.

So it goes.

Terrorist #3 was unfortunately crapped-on by the gene pool and has all the breathing and seasonal allergy issues that my husband and I have.  Although he doesn't have a nut allergy, he hates the taste of peanut butter.  Period.  No Reese's.  Zilch.  But, he does like the peanuts at Five Guys.  Go figure.

So, back in the day, I used to give him sunbutter sandwiches, which I think tasted pretty decent.  Then, a kid in his daycare had an allergy and the class went nut-free.  They brought in a bunch of nut-free alternatives for the kids to try, and #3 decided that he would henceforth only eat Biscoff.  Yes, Biscoff.  If you've never heard of it, good for you.  For the price and the size of the jar, it's practically liquid gold.  Oh, and it's just a spread of ground cookies.  Yeah, very, very healthy.

Thus, the remaining 5 sandwiches per week are Biscoff.

I make all 15 on Monday when I can muster the energy.  Then, I put each one in a sandwich bag and shove them all into the freezer.  Instant Crustables!

Patent pending.

I'm telling you, it's awesome to just pull out a sandwich every day and plop it in a lunchbox without having to think.

I don't know about you, but those UNcrustables are expensive!  And, they are tiny.  AND, my kids can eat the darn crust, thank you very much.  I had to eat it, so they can eat it.

If you have some kids who will eat the same thing every day, try it out for yourself.  I'll charge you royalties later.  It's totally worth the effort every Monday, I promise.

I have more tips for getting the terrorists out the door every morning, but I'll save those for another day.

Oh, and I'm not a total meanie.  I switch up the jam all the time, just to keep 'em on their toes.

Ehhhh... now that I think about it, I believe I may still have a 4-year-old jar of sunbutter in my pantry.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Yes, My Kids are Terrorists

I'm not sure if the FBI, NSA, or CIA is taking the time to troll my blog.  Just in case, though, to ease my mother's worrying, I'm going to clarify my "wording".

Per Dictionary.com:

and...

According to the dictionary, my children are terrorists.  They are scary.  They are frightening.  They can cause anxiety.  They use intimidation.   They try to coerce.  At times, they are especially annoying or unpleasant.  

They cause me and my husband to be frantic.

According to the dictionary, my children are also bombers.  They set bombs.  They create bombs.  They drop bombs.

The bombs come in the form of cups of milk.  They are also muddy shoes, homework, black eyes, hermit crabs, and anything else you could possibly use to drive (otherwise sane) people mad.  

Use your imagination. 

They do.

I understand why this language will not appeal to everyone.  I've gotta say, though, if we let one group or another define our words for us, then they've already beat us.  I'm not going to let anyone take over a word or two from the dictionary, as if they are the best at it.

My kids are really, really good terrorists.  They are really good bombers.  If you are offended by this, then my blog is not for you.  If you think it's funny, then strap yourself in and enjoy the ride.  You can probably relate because you have your own terrorist(s) at home.  

Maybe one of my kids should be pictured next to one of the definitions.

This is Jesse from last night, angry at his first black eye.  Why angry?  Terrorist #1 dropped a scooter.  On his face.  Yeah.  You heard right.

I just wish I could have seen his teacher's face when he told her that this morning.

Oh, and yes, the bruise is darker and puffier today.

For the record, my terrorists only terrorize me and my husband.  They like to keep it local.  To others, the are perfect little saints and well-behaved.  Although annoying, I guess it's better than acting like they do at home.  

So, no need to flag us, FBI, NSA, or CIA.

...unless you are worried about a little spilled milk.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

P.S. We don't negotiate with terrorists, either.

Missing Thanksgiving

Terrorist #4 is a highly skilled enemy operative.  Not only has she perfected the art of inflicting sleep deprivation, but she also has a talent that just can't be taught:

a sensitive gag reflex

As I sit here today, she still smells a little bit like puke.  If I were to name the scent, I would call it Sweet Curdled Milk.

I just gave her a bath this morning, mind you, but I can still smell it.  I don't know how; I am a very thorough bather.  Is it possible to puke into your ear?  I think that's part of the issue.

It's ironic that she puked last night in bed.  A week ago last night, she puked at home and we ended up taking her to the Emergency Room.

She just coughs and then gags... and then she pukes.  It's, let's say, not the most pleasant quality for a baby to have.

It wasn't the puke that sent us to the hospital for Turkey Day.  It was difficulty breathing.

Actually, we took two terrorists to the hospital.  #3 came, too.  He was diagnosed with bronchitis and discharged.  #4 was diagnosed with Bronchiolitis, and admitted.  We were there from Wednesday night to Friday morning.

As we sat in the hospital, I think I was able to really appreciate Thanksgiving for the first time.

Usually, I'm sorta neutral on it.  It tends to stress me out (but let's be honest, almost everything does).  There's food to make and we have two dinners to go to, making the day very long.  I know, I am complaining about having too much, right?

Stupid Americans celebrating their stupid abundance.  We all have friends that took the time to point that out to us last week, right?  And then they ate themselves silly, too.

I can't even say that I LOVE the food that much.  I mean, I like it all (and Lord knows that I eat too much of it), but I never think in November, "Oh man, I can't wait to eat some sweet potatoes".

On Thursday, my husband left me alone for a while with the baby so that he could drop off medicine for Terrorist #3, walk the dog, and then search for a Thanksgiving dinner other than hospital food.  I scrolled through Facebook as the baby watched Frozen, and saw all the pictures of table spreads.

I realized... I was jealous.

I missed the food.  I even missed our family. 

Oh my gosh, I was actually feeling thankful!

"...they say - that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day."

I was thankful that every year we get to sit down to a beautiful spread, TWICE.  

I was thankful that every year we get to see almost all of our family on Turkey Day.  

I was thankful that we lived close enough to family that they could help us out.  My niece was home from college and came over to our house when we took the little bombers to the ER.  Then she took Terrorist #3 and the two older ones to my sister's house to spend the night on Wednesday night.

My sister fed them breakfast on Thursday morning, then dropped them off at my parents' house.  My dad then took them to my sister-in-law's house for early dinner, and then my brother-in-law took them back to my parents' house, where they ate AGAIN and then spent the night.

Then, then, then, then... all done by our family to make sure our kids had a good Turkey Day.

If not for all of them, what would we have done with 3 kids?  Spending Thanksgiving alone in a hospital with a 2-year old would not be fun.  

It wasn't that fun with the both of us. 

Our Thanksgiving Dinner

When we were discharged from the hospital on Friday, we got to eat leftovers at my parents' house, and then again at my sister-in-law's house.  They both took the time to re-create the day we missed.

Of course, the 3 older terrorists complained about eating the same stuff for 4 meals in 2 days.  

So it goes.

Who can really complain about family like that?

So, as we approach Christmas and other holiday parties, and most likely events that we dread every year... just think: what would it be like without this?

Maybe we need to stop stressing out so much (especially us perfectionists/people-pleasers) and focus on what the "reason for the season" is.

Maybe you'll find your "thankful", too.  Just sayin'.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

Cat Bulimia or Shiatsu?

I want to write about our Thanksgiving, but I really have to discuss something else first.

Animals.  Why do animals vomit so much?

I understand the dog; the dog eats pretty much whatever Terrorist #4 gives him.  But the cats bewilder me.  Now, Shawn, the killer cat, could vomit up a mouse and that would make sense.  I think the other two are bulimic.  For real.

Google it.  Lots of other people believe that their cats have a problem.  I don't think it's quite like the very horrible eating disorder humans can suffer from, but it's just a similar... methodology.  I'm sure my cats are not sitting around contemplating their appearance.  My appearance?  Yes.  I think they sit around judging me, wondering when the last time I plucked my "eyebrow" was, or wondering how many days in a row I'll wear the same hoodie.

Cats are so mean.

But caring about themselves?  Nope.

Must be awesome.

Keep in mind that I'm very allergic to cats.  According to my husband, it takes me 6 months to get used to a new cat.  I remember 1 month... but the Benedryl-induced coma could account for some memory loss.

I just love the grouchy little hairballs.

I do not love Franky right now.  He is our oldest cat, but only like 3-4 years old.

My Side of the Story:

I got up Sunday morning and immediately see a lone piece of cat food sitting on the pillow that is in-between me and my husband.  [Note: He just had shoulder surgery so we have a pillow for his bad shoulder to rest on at night - and to prevent him from rolling.]

Odd, I think.  The day before I noticed a piece on the tissue box by my side of the bed.  Our bedroom is on the main floor, and the cat food is all the way in the basement.

Weird.  Why would one of the cats be bringing food onto our bed?

I go downstairs to mess with laundry.  Franky is in the litter box.  He jumps out and tracks some sort of nastiness all over the floor for about 10 yards.  Disgusting.

My husband is sleeping in, so I wake him up around 10am.

He had about 20 pieces of cat "food" embedded into his back.  He had slept on it all night.

Somehow.

He shows me the deep dimples all over his back, so I go into the room.  There's "food" all over his side.  I pull up the comforter.  There's a couple wads of definite puke, and more "food", which I will now refer to as puke.

Puke confirmed.

Puke all over the comforter, under the sheets, everywhere!  Literally about 40-50 pieces.  I am disgusted.  I am angry.  Franky was sleeping on our bed recently.  He has to be the one to blame.

But how?  Since I'm allergic and don't enjoy being kneaded or walked-on at night, we trap the cats in the basement every night.  That means the puke was from at least Saturday.  I can only imagine that he puked all over the place sometime during the day and we didn't see it and moved the comforter around.  Then as my husband pulled up covers over the course of the night, puke just fell all around him (and under him).  Somehow since I start with covers every night, I managed to escape the barrage.

We slept IN cat puke.   Bad, bad kitty.

Franky's Side of the Story:

Human wore same hoodie again today.  Ate as much as I could.  Puked on her bed.  Bet she won't wear that hoodie again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My husband says his puke shiatsu wasn't really all that bad.  He just couldn't stomach breakfast that morning.

I have to say that I thought it was pretty funny.  I laughed and laughed until it hurt.

That is, until I realized I had to wash my entire bed... twice.

Today's Lesson: Make your bed.  It makes it easier to find the cat puke.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin