Gettin' Jiggy

A couple of Sunday mornings ago, Kristen and I were sitting at the dining room table with the laptop and morning paper and we asked Bryce to go upstairs and get dressed. He soon appeared at the bottom of the stairs in his underwear and socks, Noir in hand, and announced he was going outside to dance. Quinn quickly realized the opportunity at hand, stripped out of his pajamas, and followed Bryce outside.

From the dining room we saw them walk by the front window and I grabbed my camera. The following will provide a small sliver of proof of what we deal with every. single. day.

Click the picture to begin the slideshow.

Perfect Timing

You know what we've been needing? Some more reasons to make appointments and accept phone calls and assess our financial situation. John is always trying to go above and beyond accommodating our needs, and so he went out and broad-sided an old lady's car today. Ho hum, he thought, driving along, with our four-year-old no doubt shouting demands for "lack-a-loni cheese" in the back seat, I think I'll ram my small vehicle into the side of this Buick since the 65-year-old driver conveniently decided to pull out in front of 40-mph traffic and provide the PERFECT solution to our boredom and thumb-twiddling of late. Presto Change-O! Now, instead of just sitting around (while magical servant elves pack our belongings and answer the dozens of suddenly urgent phone calls from mortgage brokers and title companies and builder reps who looked at the calendar three days ago and realized, yes, this deal is actually going through next week and we should probably, ya know, process it), we'll have something productive to do! Insurance adjusters to schedule appointments with (APPOINTMENTS! YES! We hardly have ANY appointments coming up in the next 10 days, because the magical elves are going to tend to whatever pesky scheduling needs this whole house-buying thing requires - something about "closing dates" three days apart with a moving van and furniture delivery in between... who cares? I mean, the elves are dealing with it!); rental cars to arrange; claims to submit; body shops to pick; forms to fill out (FORMS! YES! The elves have been hogging all the forms lately - apparently there are a lot during home buying and selling!).

After John slammed on his brakes and heard the deafening crunch of metal on impact, he looked in the rear view mirror at Quinn and asked if he was okay. Quinn wasn't crying and hadn't spoken or screamed during the ordeal, and when John spoke, he said only, "That scared me." John got him out of the carseat and made sure he wasn't hurt, then spoke to the Buick lady, who was fine, but according to John, had ice in her veins. Strangers were running up to John after seeing the carseat in the back seat and watching Quinn's small blonde pre-school sized head climbing out of the back seat while they waited for the police to arrive: "Is he okay? Is your son alright? Should we call an ambulance?" He was fine, but the Buick lady never bothered to ask. John's impact into her car actually pushed it into another, and that driver came over to check on Quinn, too. But not Buick lady. She barely spoke at all. Once the police arrived, she got a ticket. No one else did. Waaa.

Tonight at bedtime in a last-ditch effort to eliminate the chaos, we decided to let the kids fall asleep separately. As we waited for Quinn to exhaust himself and his attempts to lure me back to his room hundreds of times, I noticed myself feeling less annoyed than usual every time I'd hit the doorway and hear "I need to tell you something, though!" Once after several "last" urgent comments, I tried to ignore him and walk out without answering, but then he started to cry. I came back into his room and he asked when Bryce was coming to bed. I explained it calmly for the fifth time, because I realized that sitting on my four-year-old's bed at home and wishing he would go to sleep already was an acceptable alternative to sitting on my four-year-old's bed at the hospital and wishing for the opposite while plotting my revenge against the Buick lady.

Luckily the new house has lots of extra shelves for all the wine.

Something is wrong with our kids. No, seriously. We follow all the damned parenting rules, we constantly communicate, establish boundaries, take deep breaths, pick our battles, seek out "learning moments," watch SuperNanny, blah dee FREAKIN' blah. It doesn't matter, though. Not really. Because the little puppet masters thrive on the nervous breakdowns they cause every night at bedtime. The screaming, the crying, the laughing, the kicking, the demands, the pleas, the stomping, the guilt trips, the claims of severe dehydration and severed limbs - it's never the same combination, the same order, or the same intensity, and so it effectively keeps us scrambling and sandwiching grumbled "your turn"s between teeth-clenched profanities as we walk by each other in the dark, usually tripping over a god-forsaken piece of plastic crap along the way.

"Have you...tried ignoring it?" our well-meaning family members ask. I know this is always the first thing that comes to mind for everyone - what are they not doing that I might helpfully suggest? I admit that when I hear other parents wailing and gnashing their teeth over the latest behavioral problem, I too make tactful suggestions. So let's just get this out of the way right now: YES, WE HAVE TRIED IT. Whatever the suggestion is, we've tried it. Ignoring, cajoling, negotiating, playing along, yelling, punishing, threatening punishment, pleading, being consistent, using the element of surprise, bribing, setting expectations early in the evening, small animal sacrifice, selling our souls to the devil, contacting the FBI, running away shrieking and waving our hands in the air - nothing has worked.

In a week, we'll be moving in to a house where the kids will be in separate rooms at night. On the one hand, they'll no longer be able to feed off of each other's frantic night time energy without getting out of bed, walking across a room, opening a door, and walking into another room. On the other hand, for the puppet masters, this is nothing. I'll tell you what we need: some nice person to come reverse the locks on their new bedroom doors. Heh. Heh heh heh. "Oh, what's wrong kids? Can't make eye contact with your evil puppet master partner? What ever will you do? Here's a thought: GO. TO. SLEEP."

This Week Happens, Sleep Eludes Me

Quinn Turns Four, Three is Banished
We have officially bid a final farewell to the threes, which is a nice way of saying we flipped Three the bird and gave a hearty, Don't let the door hit you on the way out! Three left behind some of its belongings (whining, writhing on the floor, public humiliation), but we're shipping those to Three some time in the next few days. I'm not too worried about it. Four is here now, and we're much more used to Four's quirks, since they've been around since Bryce first introduced us to his version of Two.

I Hold My Tongue, Victory is Mine
We celebrated Quinn's birthday with the infamous in-laws. Since we're in the process of packing to move, we told everyone to meet us at Quinn's favorite restaurant. Half an hour after the agreed-upon time, when our kids and their gang leader cousin (who had spent the day teaching Bryce all about how two older kids can have a great time destroying a younger kid's confidence, even (hell, especially) on his birthday - this family rocks!) were wailing about hunger pangs and throwing cutlery across the dining area, they finally showed up. My mother-in-law walked up to me in the middle of my attempt to convince Quinn that this restaurant really does have food and he really couldn't spend the next hour running circles around the table, grabbed my shoulder and said in a creepy, serious voice, "Are you going to keep me for your mother-in-law?" The tone of voice didn't match the sarcastic words, and I was distracted by the 35-pound child hanging from the right half of my body, not to mention the din of Chili's dinner hour as well as the screaming thought, YOU MEAN I HAVE A CHOICE? THEN HELL NO!, so I just looked at her while I tried to formulate an acceptable answer. She didn't like that, so she repeated her question, this time more seriously than before. Now I was getting confused, but mostly I felt like this was a prime example of how she puts people on the defensive every time she opens her mouth. What answer would possibly be okay? If we were great buddies who joked around with each other, I could answer any way I wanted to with no repercussions. In this case, if I said "no" to meet her sarcasm and make a joke of it, she'd be offended and awkward. If I said "yes" it would sound like I was taking her question too seriously, and she'd be offended and awkward! There is no correct answer - it's a constant power play with her. I went through this thought process while she stood there and waited for an answer to her stupid question, and I decided to say nothing. Finally her eyes darted away in frustration and she sputtered, "it's a joke! I'm late again." and went to her seat. "Oh!" I said. "I hadn't even noticed."

My Employer is Generous, I Lose Concept of Free Time
This is the time of year when everyone in my company gets a salary increase and an annual bonus. Because of a good year for the company and the fact that I think I was hired near the low end of the salary range for my position, I had two well-timed financial surprises this year, hence my general laid back attitude about buying the new house and taking on the expenses of moving. Not coincidentally, immediately after recovering from the shock of working for people who don't mind when I use my brain, who actually want to compensate me for such, I suddenly found myself buried in work. I'm no longer the "new" person in the group; I'm expected to train new people (which seems ludicrous to me since half the time I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing). This means if someone walks in with a question when I'm simultaneously participating in a conference call, typing up a report for a different project, and scheduling my next four consecutive days of meetings, I have to find a way to drop it all and hold a mini-training session. I'd much rather be buried in work than be bored at work, but I think this is the first time in my life that I've actually understood what that means. John used to call me just to say "hi," but now if he calls, he knows I'm expecting some specific information about something house-related - otherwise, he'll ask how I'm doing or somehow try casually to converse, and be greeted only with the sound of my rapidly firing keyboard. It's no real skin off his back, though. He has plenty to keep him busy these days: he is single-handedly packing our entire house while I spend my days and evenings rushing around like I'm someone important, when in reality I now know they pay people like me to do all the stuff they just don't want to do.

I Fight Law of Nature, Law Wins
Between the ice in January, the cold and my birthday in February, and the recent house buying and selling activities, my trips to the gym have become less and less frequent. This week I decided I was just making excuses, and sleepless nights and harbinger-of-illness sore throat be damned, I was going to get back on a decent workout schedule so as to avoid the summer time crying sessions before work every morning when my clothes mock me and dare me to try them on so they can stretch in disgusting cruelty. I happened to arrive at the gym just as a Strength Training class was starting. "I can do this!" I thought to my stupid self. "I worked with a trainer who thought I was in boot camp for four months - if I can get through that, I can handle a measly little women's Strength class." This would have actually been true - two months ago, when I was still strong and energetic after three solid months of almost daily workouts. In the past two months, though, I've barely made it to the gym three times a week, and then all I've done is moderate cardio on the treadmill - most of my muscle is gone, or at least covered in a lot more flab. The class started with squats, and I was a little concerned because of my knee, but to my pleasant surprise, my knee was fine - it was my quads that were the problem, shaking and quivering after two sets. Luckily the instructor moved on to lunges. And then shoulder presses. And then bench presses. And then push ups. And then crunches. And then some insane request that we balance with our back on a squishy half-ball with our heads and feet perfectly straight out, off the ground. I got through the class and was concerned at how much strength I'd lost in the past several weeks, but glad that I'd at least been able to do everything without keeling over. I was a little concerned when, 20 minutes later, I lifted the hair dryer to dry my hair and noticed a strange sensation in my arms, but the real problem came the next morning, when I couldn't get out of bed. I forced myself up and pretended my legs weren't shooting flames of pain through my entire body, but all day everyone at work that passed me on a way to a meeting looked at me with a pained expression and said, "what's wrong?" It might have been the limping, or the way I had to spend six awkwardly positioned minutes every time I wanted to sit down in a chair.

Step Right Up

It appears that we're moving in three weeks, because apparently in some fit of insanity we bought a new house, stuck a sign in our yard, and agreed to sell this place all within the span of the past month. I keep thinking it's entirely possible that I'm lying in a coma in a hospital bed somewhere and all of this is just a series of misfiring synapses, because too many things are suspiciously, happily falling into place every time I turn around. The only way things could improve at this point is if I were to come home from work in two and a half weeks to find all of our belongings already packed and organized for the movers. In this fantasy, the kids would have "off" buttons and would be stored surfboard-like on the bike rack of the car.

In all seriousness, I'm not sure what we're going to do with the kids during the move. They're not "sit over there and wait" types of people. Earlier this week we took them into a furniture store for 30 minutes while we signed away what was left of our life after the new mortgage, and when we left the store, as the kids were screaming something akin to "Geronimo!" and flailing from one concrete decorative retaining wall structure to the next, John said, with no sarcasm whatsoever, "that went well." "Yeah," I said, "except for when Quinn used the scissors on the display desk to cut the display notepad to shreds. And except for when Bryce almost knocked over everything in the lamp showroom because he was pretending the recliner was a rocket ship. Mmm-hmm, it went really well."

Our standards have lowered to such a degree that mild humiliation during a public outing seems perfectly acceptable. Anything that doesn't end in our family being banned from the location feels like a huge accomplishment. Really, anything that ends with us having accomplished even half of what we set out to accomplish falls under the category of success. While I've been trying to type this, I've had Bryce in a chair next to me repeatedly singing at the top of his lungs the latest songs he's learned at school, and Quinn has been - literally -hanging from my neck demanding peanut butter on a spoon. They don't want to play with toys or watch TV or go outside like everybody led me to believe kids would do. They stay in whatever room I happen to be in, waiting for me to provide some form of entertainment like I'm David Blaine or Bozo. Washing dishes or checking e-mail doesn't count as entertainment, in case you were wondering.

Lately I've been thinking I never have time to write because I'm swamped at work, and we're so busy preparing for a big move and tending to the finances and logistics of buying a house. This morning I've finally realized it has less to do with all that and more to do with the fact that my kids have turned me into their personal circus.

I'm an enigma.

A few weeks ago, standing in my mom's kitchen, I listened to a long-time friend of hers tell a story about 8th grade Kristen:

--Ring ring.

--This is Patty.

--Mom! We're out of sandwich bags. SIGH. What am I supposed to do without sandwich bags?

--You're calling me at work for this?

--SANDWICH! BAGS! There are none! I'm making my lunch. And there are NO. SANDWICH. BAGS.

--Have you checked all the kitchen drawers?

--THEREARENOSANDWICHBAGS!

--I'm at work, you know.

--AAAAAAAAAAA!!!

--Sigh. Is there any Saran Wrap, Kristen?

--What? Saran Wrap?! Why would I need Saran Wrap? I'm talking about SANDWICH BAGS here!

--Use Saran Wrap to wrap up your sandwich, then put it into your lunch bag.

--OHMYGOD!

--What now?

--THERE. IS! NO. SARAN WRAP EITHER!

--Good lord. What about wax paper?

--I don't even know what wax paper looks like, but I don't think there's any here. And besides, how would I get it to fasten around the sandwich?!

--Okay, here's what you're going to do: Fold the sandwich into a paper towel and write "sandwich bags" on a grocery list. I have to get to work. Goodbye.

--PAPER TOWELS ARE UNACCEPTABLE. THIS IS RIDICULOUS.

--Click.

At the end of her story, my mom's friend laughed and laughed, then said, "boy, you've really come a long way, Kristen!"

I thought about it, looked at her, and said, "actually, no I haven't. I'd pretty much freak out if we ran out of sandwich bags today, only John would be the one dealing with it."

That's when my mom choked on her hors d'oeuvres and slapped the kitchen counters in all her comedic glory: "That's EXACTLY what I just told her before you got here!"

Buying a new house out of the blue? Piece of cake. Being thrown into a new job as the youngest and least experienced in the group and having my every move scrutinized for a year? No problem. Risking financial hardship by betting on real estate luck? Ha. Carrying out the most difficult and often least rewarding parenting philosophies? I scoff in the face of life-altering decisions.

But by God, when I open the sandwich bag drawer and find them missing, there BETTER be someone around with a good solution for me or MY HEAD WILL EXPLODE.

Trust In Me: A Video Essay by Jonathan

My brother is at it again. (Despite Jonathan's affiliation with Safety Patrol, this is not a video I would watch with kids. Although most of the gruesome images pass by in less than a second, you'll definitely remember seeing them.) Regardless of your political stance, this is something to be appreciated at a bare minimum for its sheer ironic value.

A Balanced Account

One night last week, John and I both ended up in the living room with the kids in no particular hurry to feed or bathe them, with no ringing phones or unfolded laundry or other obligation to tend to. We found ourselves the two-person audience for a spontaneous talent show consisting mainly of a twist on charades wherein one audience member provides the charade subject to the perfomer, and the other audience member proceeds to guess what it is. With Bryce, this setup was no problem. John would whisper something in his ear and he would climb onto the coffee table stage and act out something physically obvious, like typing on a computer or slithering like a snake. I would take a guess, and he would squeal with shock and glee at my unmatched charade-interpretation abilities. When it was Quinn's turn, John would whisper in his ear, he would climb onto the table tentatively, place both hands straight in front of himself, start to lift his feet dramatically and say, oblivious to our sign language reminders to keep it to himself, "I'm going shopping with my cart!" Bryce would immediately keel over with contagious laughter, causing Quinn to think he'd accomplished his mission. Soon all of us would be gasping for breath and wiping away the tears of hilarity. After three or four of these instances, Bryce exclaimed with the most innocent and genuine tone I could ever imagine, "it makes me so happy when we're all together like this. My heart feels so big."

I tell this story because I need to remember it tonight. Although my day started with a phone call from Bryce while I drove to work, a phone call that ended with him saying, "I think now I can be happy," it ended with a bad combination of early spring colds, work exhaustion, five-year-old limit-pushing, and the unexplainable, indescribable intensity I've only ever witnessed in Bryce. The last words out of his mouth, which I heard through a fog of clogged ears, pounding feverish heart, and near loss of self-control after holding onto my sanity throughout his explosion were a sobbing, "I'm really soooorrryyy. I can't stop thinking about what I diiiiid!"

I don't know if all of this evens out for him eventually. Does his heart swell enough, memorably enough, to block out our mutual failures? His explosions never happen in a vaccuum; like SuperNanny, I look back on the emotional re-play of the worst moments and feel complete condescending frustration towards the mother in the "video," her stomps through the rooms, her sarcastic comments, her heavy sighs, her quick temper, her loss of control mirroring the child's. For me, it's almost an instant re-play, the condescension and disgust starting to work their way in while my heart still pounds in anger as I leave his room for the night, the air from my lungs being pushed out violently, having no way to fill up the cavity so swiftly taken over by anger, rage, fear, and almost immediately, self-loathing and regret.

But then I hear his own teary sigh from under the covers and his well-timed "I love you." He says it right before I'm out of ear-shot.