Best Friends, Worst Enemies

Right now my children are playing beautifully. I'm not sure if they are building together, reading together, doing art together or doing some less savory, more delinquent activity together. Whatever it is they are quiet and peaceful, I dare not check. I only enjoy the moment. For if I check I will have jinxed whatever is going on and disaster will ensue. Asking "How is it going?" or "What are you guys doing?" will somehow be misinterpreted to mean "What problem can you both come up with?". Or peeking in and risking eye contact will only invite them to glance up, spot me and then quickly come up with the conflict of the moment, a complaint du jour or worse a plea for me to join in the activity.

Now don't get me wrong, I love doing many things with my children. Spending the maximum amount of time with them is the driving force behind me forsaking all validating adult interaction and choosing to stay at home and surround myself with these monkeys day in and day out. But I am not insane. If they are happily playing, whether it is alone or together, free of any needs from me, I do not interfere. These times are precious and I am not one to martyr myself and push my own presence into every and all moments of their lives. I can see the forest for the trees. These are wonderful opportunities for me to get chores done (okay, stare at the wall), read a few pages in a book (okay, magazine), or catch up on my email correspondence (okay, check in with my twitter feeds). I can also take a moment to pat myself on the back for raising such close children who can enjoy each other's company and spend beautiful, quality time together.

And then the three minutes are up.

We have a reached a new phase in our lives. My daughter has reached the talk in only a tone of disgust and exasperation to her little brother phase. As if he is no more than a piece of gum on the bottom of her favorite pair of shoes and being snotty and horrible will cause it to dry up and shrivel away. And my son has reached the wonderful stage of knowing how to act like a total little shit. I mean make my jaw drop, my nasal passages clear and all ability to speak coherently fly out the window little shit. I can't even think of any examples of such behavior at the moment because as soon as they are behind us and my stellar conflict resolution tactics have been demonstrated (i.e. "Now how do you think that makes your sister feel?" on a good day and "What the hell are doing?" on a bad day) I proceed to block them out. Full on post traumatic stress block out.

I wonder if this too shall pass, and they will once again become the best friends they once were most of the time. I have been told that fighting now results in a closeness later on in life. And a long lasting, functional sibling relationship is the long term goal of my husband and I. I just hope we have not been admitted to an insane asylum due to having to jump in and solve one too many ridiculous and petty arguments.

Happiness is Not a Tidy House

"Happiness is not a tidy house. Happiness is not a tidy house. Happiness is not a tidy house". While I think I am only saying this over and over in my head I am only slightly aware that I might be actually muttering it in a very soft whisper to no one in particular. I may also be rocking slightly back and forth. Not sure, being as there is no one home to verify but still I have a sneaking suspicion this may not be just a cool and calm inner chant.

"Happiness is not a tidy house" is my new mantra! Or at least it is slowly becoming so. And as I am quickly realizing it is more than just a few words said over and over again when the house has reached peak disaster levels but is actually a lifestyle choice. One that is not an easy choice to make, stick to and not lose my marbles over.

You see, as a stay at home mom I cannot help but hold myself to a very high standard. After all, I stay at home. Is not the main job, besides the actual hands on child rearing I am lucky enough to do, to keep the house in a clean and orderly fashion? Should not all things have an organized place to be returned to, all corners be clean and disinfected, all socks and underwear laundered and returned to their drawers before the panicked cries of, "I have nothing clean" are shouted? Should I not have some fabulous routine that has been fine tuned, perfected and put in place for keeping our house in a tidy fashion at any and all given times? A standard operating procedure, as one might say? Alas, I do not. I have nothing even close.

See, here is the kicker. I hate to clean and I am not very tidy by nature. My mother used to call me "the slug" growing up due to the fact that everywhere I went I left a trail of crap behind. My bedroom was always a disaster, a secret source of rebellious pride. My car was always cluttered. My laundry never done. The closet looked like a scene from Hoarders. And my dirty dishes never returned to the kitchen. My father even adopted a technique to combat my stubborn pride about tidying up my little bit of space. When it had gotten to a Haz-Mat situation he would wait for me to leave the house and then pull everything out of previously mentioned closet and put it all on my bed. More than once I came home to a beautifully empty closet and a bed that was no longer distinguishable from the floor, except for the elevated level. Genius, I realize now. Dreadful to come home to at the time.

The thing is I did not choose to stay at home to keep a clean and tidy house. I stayed at home to hang out with my kids, have a plethora of time to do random adventures with them, volunteer at my daughter's school and generally have my focus be on the family and not miss a minute of this precious and finite time with them. And while I love organization, to the point of almost sexual satisfaction, as the only member of a household of four who feels this way, I have come to discover that keeping the organizational plans I put into place going is nothing more than an effort in futility. Plus, I in no way anticipated, in fact did not even consider that I might remotely care about such things when I was making the decision to stay home after the birth of our second child. Talk about being blind sided. Never in a million years did I think I would care about my house being tidy nor how it would be perceived by others. And more importantly, my beloved family does not care if our house looks like a commercial for a cleaning product or a set from a television show about "real families". They would much rather live in utter chaos with a relaxed and happy mother/wife than always know where every item is at any given time and have me constantly stressed from trying to achieve an unobtainable and unnecessary goal. I have finally come to realize this. The old adage now applies, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Here I go.....

So besides the one day a week I insist we all band together to get the house in less than disaster-alert-red shape I will just breath my way through the moments when all surfaces look like a page from an "I Spy" book, chant my way through my children riding the wave of dirty laundry that is escaping out of the bathroom door and drink my way through the end of the week catastrophe that our house devolves into.

After all, Happiness is Not a Tidy House!

Philosophy of Potty Training

I have always had a firm philosophy when it comes to potty training. Children will do it when they are ready and no sooner. It is one of the few things that they can absolutely control in their adult dominated and dictated worlds and they know it. They may choose to do it for candy, for a new toy, for a special sticker or just because they have finally realized that sitting in your own waste is really not that cool. For whatever the reason, when it is finally done it is because they have chosen to do so. No more, no less. The parent who potty trains at 1 1/2 is no more a hero then the parent who potty trains at 4 because really it has nothing to do with them. When it comes right down to it relieving yourself in the toilet as opposed to a diaper is a personal choice that only an individual can make, big or small. (Unless of course alcohol, stalking or illness is a contributing factor.)

The "they will do it when they are ready" school of thought is not an easy one to promote in this day and age of over rewarding, goal oriented living and musical potty seats. It especially took a hit when my son at age 3 1/2 was showing little to no interest in taking the leap and because he is so tall for his age, looked like a 5 year old who could just not get his act together. It also came under scrutiny when visiting my grandmother with my first born and I confessed my way of thinking. This stern, Catholic, they don't make them like that anymore mother of seven informed me that I had to make it happen. She promptly removed my 2 year old's diaper, told her there would be no more messes and instructed her to only use the potty because that is what ladies do. My incredibly brave first born waited till my grandmother left the room, then proceeded to pee buckets on her brand new white carpet. I could hardly contain my smile. Only the fear of being damned to hell by a woman who I am sure talks directly to Jesus kept me from doing a victory dance.
Yet, through all the silent doubt and sometimes verbal criticism from the general public and even close friends and family, I stuck by my beliefs. And let me tell you I was right! Both of my children were long potty trained by 4, neither needed a huge reward system (after all who gets a reward for using the toilet) and it was above all else a power struggle free, more than smooth process with little to no set backs. And that includes night time. Both came out with self esteem intact, a fantastic feeling of accomplishment and I got to hold onto my sanity. To date, it is one of my proudest accomplishments (though not really so much mine, as much theirs) and I have a feeling it will be rivaled only by them receiving an acceptance letter by their first choice for college.

So the next time I walk by the fifty dollar, do everything but wash the dishes musical potty at Target I will pat myself on the back and silently wish for every parent to give their child the one thing every human being deserves. The right of power over their own bowels.

Candy in the Morning

My child is putting up a very convincing case for having candy in the morning.

1. He is very cute.

2. He has not had candy in a very long time

(since yesterday)

3. He has already eaten a banana

4. He loves me.

5. He is very cute.

We keep very little junk food in the house. There is one bowl of candy that clearly displays whatever the last candy bestowing holiday or event had occurred. At the moment it is filled with dirt laced Blo-Pops, gumballs and Tootsie Rolls from a pinata that was busted wide open at an annual extended family camping trip. The bowl is up high and for the most part is out of sight and therefore out of mind. But wait.......a rouge bag has appeared!

After a long overdue clean out of one of the 3 closets in our hobbit hole of a house, a pink mesh bag filled with the type of candy that is basically solidified, food colored sugar has been brought onto the scene. Word spread quickly through the house, candy has been discovered. Candy has been found! Where did it come from? (Leftovers from a baby shower favor). How can this be? (Who knows how things end up in closets. Who know if it is even a hygienic item?) Is it a mirage?...No it is very real! And the smell, my god the smell.

The children come out of the wood work. They come to gawk and they come to beg. My daughter remains the most level headed. She is older and has the experience to know that Mom rarely breaks down and starts throwing candy at the masses. Generally there is a period of thought, a review of the days diet, a negotiating period of one more healthy snack, a glass of water and the minimum amount of candy will then be allowed. In this case one tiny pacifier candy and one tiny baby feet candy. She with the most experience is grateful for what she has received and heads off pleased as punch for the unforeseen fortune that has just occurred.

My son on the other hand is an addict. A junky. He is holding the bag in his hands, rubbing it on his face and smelling it in a way that must be transferring some level mucus membranes from his nasal cavity through the flimsy mesh to the sweet little morsels. Perhaps this is his way of marking his territory. He receives his two bits and immediately starts making googly eyes at me for more. He is less versed in the resolve of his mother and candy. He makes a good effort but fails miserably and almost has a brush with the long arm of the law. That is a TIME OUT! But he pulls it together in the nick-of-time and manages to appreciate and enjoy what he was lucky enough to be given. Good Job Son!

Fast forward to 6:30 am the next morning. I am doing some very important research on whether Spencer and Heidi have had a child together when his tiny little pitter patter can be heard coming down the stairs. Good mornings, hugs, kisses and lots of love is exchanged closely followed by the need for sustenance. Off he goes to the fruit bowl. Does he return with fruit? Oh no! He returns with this tiny bag of candy. Like a bad penny it just keeps turning up. Crap! After showing it to me like he has just discovered a beautiful, new, rare breed of butterfly he puts on his most cutest expression and ever so sweetly asks for "just one teeny, tiny piece." My knee jerk reaction is to shout out, "Are you new!?" But I bite my tongue and calmly explain that it is far too early for candy. The sun is not awake and not an ounce of healthy food has been consumed. Does he want a tummy ache? (Yes) Does he want to feel all yucky? (It would be worth it) Is it healthy to eat a lot of candy? (He does not care) Feigning defeat off he goes. But wait, back he comes with a banana and a smile that could melt the icecaps if our SUVs were not already doing that. "Please may I have this banana, Mama? I looooooove you." I am suspicious. Banana consumed in four bites, further proof he is part monkey, he runs off to put the peel in the compost and returns with........THE CANDY. Bag in hand, one piece in the mouth he looks at me with the most pleased expression. As if to say, I have earned this and it is never too early for CANDY! Cheeky little man!

I fish the piece out of his cheek, firmly tell him that this is unacceptable conduct, walk away from his conscientious protesting, turn the corner and pop a piece into my mouth. There is nothing like candy in the morning!