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Weekend Summary: Kick the Habit

Last week we took the kids to the dentist and learned exactly what we'd be dreading, that Quinn's pacifier is the devil. I believe the dentist's speech included phrases like, "major dental work" and "definitely start saving for braces" and "let's cut our losses and hope for some regression before his adult teeth come in." I sat and listened in horror, and John reacted to the news by saying, "Pacifier? What pacifier? What makes you think Quinn uses a pacifier? Just because he has a distinctly pacifier-shaped overbite? Total coincidence." Friday night, we decided to take the plunge. Years ago, I remember my sister-in-law telling me that the night she took her kids' pacifiers away, her house resembled a de-tox clinic, with desperate junkies hallucinating and climbing the walls. I blew her off, assumed she was exaggerating, and even laughed at her obviously poor parenting skills: "well, what parent lets their THREE-YEAR-OLD keep using a pacifier, anyway!?" Friday night, my know-it-all haughtiness ate me alive, and spit me out onto a bed of raging hot coals. First, Quinn was defiant, No I want my paci. Then he was sad, But I miss my paci! Then he was confused, Can you help me find my paci? I've looked everywhere! Then he was psychotic, aaaaaaaaaaaa PACI aaaaaaaaaaaaaa PACI aaaaaaaaaa. By 11:30 p.m., we had put him back in his bed at least 10 times, and had stupidly thought he was asleep at least four times. At 2:30 a.m., there was a severe thunderstorm that started right over our house, judging by the deafening vibrations that brought Quinn out of his already fitful sleep to the top of the stairs, shrieking and expressing his hatred for us, the Takers Of The Paci and the Bringers Of The Thunder.

The next morning was Bryce's first soccer game. In our Paci-Lacking, sleep-deprived state, we failed to explain the situation to Quinn, who naturally assumed that he AND Bryce would be playing soccer. It only took a few seconds on the field for him to figure out he was getting screwed, but he wasn't going for it, sleep deprivation or not. He grabbed a free soccer ball and took off across the field, his non-standard issue, sans soccer ball shirt flapping in the breeze behind him, him cackling like a maniac in his rebellion. After several empty threats and jaw-clenching, fatigue-ridden growls and sighs, we convinced him to stay outside the white chalk lines, but he wasn't happy about it.

By the end of the game, we found out that we should have just let Quinn play with Bryce's team. They were more interested in running to the sidelines for water than actually kicking the ball. When there was kicking involved, it typically fell on one kid's shoulders while the rest of them ran in whatever direction felt the most interesting.

Soccer is fun! Have you seen all this WATER?

See ya, suckas!

More chaos. I think I'll run THIS way!

I don't need to create a witty caption here, because what the kid in the middle was truly saying was, "Okay, here's the plan. When they come our way, we're going to GET THE BALL." Brilliant.

On Sunday, while John was at a wedding, I attempted to write this post during "nap time." Instead, I spent two hours going in and out of Quinn's room and concentrating on my breathing to keep from going medieval on his little "Ha! I didn't stay in my bed AGAIN! I'll show YOU who's in control here" ass. I gave up and took the kids to Office Depot to buy happiness in the form of a more organized unpaid bill pile / kitchen junk drawer. I bribed the kids with new stickers, but I made the mistake of letting them have the new stickers before we were safely back within the confines of my car, which resulted in Quinn announcing at the top of his lungs "YOU'RE NOT NICE, LADY!" the first time we passed a stranger in the stationery aisle.

We stopped at the praying hands landmark near our house on the way home. The kids have only ever seen it from the car, even though we live close enough that we could take them there and let them run around the massive sculpture several times a week. While they were standing, staring awestruck at the huge bronze thumbs, a group of a dozen nuns came up to us, literally out of nowhere. They floated by right as I was admonishing Quinn for sliding head first down a plaque commemorating the donors of the praying hands. Quinn caught sight of their black and white robes, clutched his ziplock baggie full of Cheerio's closer to his body, and grabbed my hand in nervousness. Then, unpredictable as ever, he called out to one of them, "YOU LOOK SILLY! HAHA!"

John just walked in as I was typing this and said, "are you done with that?" and I said, "I was just talking about the nun part. Do you remember if I told you anything happened after that?" and he said, "Your head exploded?"

And that pretty much sums it up.

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