We Bought a Drum

And lo, an angel of the Lord said "you are a bunch of damn fools."

For the record, it was Jason's idea.

He maintains it is still a very good idea, and claims he will "never get tired" of listening to the various levels and styles of racket our various children make, because he is all kinds of nurturing and just that good of a dad, and was basically put here on earth to make the rest of us look bad. 

Ezra has almost mastered the overhead 1! 2! 1 2 3 4! stick count (before launching into Animal-from-The-Muppets-style drum solos).

Noah prefers to play actual rhythms and to play along with actual music. In this photo he is either jamming to Seven Nation Army, his new ParaNorman DVD, or maybe just some Yule Log channel carols. We had kind of a weird, long morning. 

Then there's this one, who can't yet reach the bass drum pedal but isn't going to let that stop him from being adorable in the noisiest way possible.

We just purposely quadrupled the noise level in our house and I now probably have to promise our neighbors that yes, we'll move soon, don't worry, I'm sorry, would you like some fudge stuffed with money in the meantime?

But I don't know. I'm kind of digging the drums. 

I'm such a sucker for these boys, it's ridiculous.

PS. NOT KIDDING ABOUT THE FUDGE. IT'S TRIPLE DECKER CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER PRETZEL FUDGE.

AND ALSO SOLID-YET-PLIABLE ENOUGH TO DOUBLE AS EARPLUGS. 

Amalah + Exercise = ErrorDoesNotCompute

(Greetings! This post is sponsored by pvBody.)

I am not much of a work-outer. I've had my moments of fitness dedication, but that's all they usually end up being: Moments.

Fleeting moments of Going! To! The Gym!...immediately followed by months and months of listlessly watching the membership fees auto-deduct from my bank account before working up the energy to cancel. (Usually by claiming that I was moving. Sometimes I would wait until I actually WAS moving, just to spare my squishy, out-of-shape self the trouble of coming up with a convincing lie.)

One time I got obsessed with Couch to 5K and stuck with it for...I don't know. Maybe until the 3K mark. The weather got hot, then the weather got cold, then I got bored with my running mix music choices and then there was a lot of good TV on, or something.

Yoga, pilates, kickboxing...all things I tried once or twice before losing interest. (Or, in the case of yoga, once or twice before managing to sprain an ass-cheek so hard I could barely walk for days, so like SCREW THAT, HIPPIES.)

But it's obvious now that this pattern cannot continue. I've had three children. I'm turning 35 in a few days. My job is so desk-bound that it doesn't even require the occasional walk down the hall to the printer or copier anymore — I just sliiiiide my chair two feet over to the left. I love to eat ALL THE THINGS, but since having Ike my metabolism has basically decided to go retire in Boca or something. 

(All those pounds I tried so desperately to gain during the pregnancy? The pregnancy weight that I never actually put on thanks to all the months and months of vomiting? Yeah. I weigh more now than I did when I was carring a full-term baby inside my body.)

(As for the weight I lost during that insane juice fast thing, I managed to keep about half of the pounds off. For awhile. And then I went to Vegas and basically ate and drank the entire city under the table. Whoops.)

ANYWAY. All of this windup is basically me procrastinating on telling you my real secret shame:

Yep. Me and Billy Blanks. Kicking it 1990s style. Though I'm sad to report he no longer sports the blue spandex unitard. 

I did Tae Bo back in the day when it was uber-popular — on VHS, yo — and you know, it really worked for me. Granted, I was in my very early 20s and 1) had zero children, 2) had my old metabolism, and 3) was too broke to buy enough food to overeat ANYWAY. 

But still, I distinctly remember getting in really good shape from all the invisible speed-bagging and imaginary round-housing. And I also stuck with it for quite awhile, since I found it to be a pretty good stress releaser. I think I continued with it semi-regularly until our VCR broke and we bought ourselves a DVD player, or maybe until we moved to our third-floor condo and I realized that Tae Bo and hardwood floors and cranky downstairs neighbors didn't mix HEY I KNOW I'LL JUST JOIN A GYM INSTEAD.

(Cue the wah wah wah waaaaahhhh sound.)

So whatever. I'm done with the trendy workout fads that everybody else is doing and swearing by. You will never see me at CrossFit or running a marathon, because I'm at home, ungracefully punching the air and sweating and grunting and trying not to kick my toddler's head.  

It may not be cool, but at least 1) I'm actually DOING SOMETHING, and 2) hey, it's not Sweatin' To The Oldies, though I'd never knock that one either, because my mom and I used to do that together when I was in junior high and I always thought it was pretty fun and oh my God you can get the complete collection for like, 30 bucks gotta go BRB.

...

This post is sponsored by pvBody, who offer awesome monthly boxes of designer fitness apparel customized to your style and favorite kind of workout. While Tae Bo wasn't an option on their style quiz, I absolutely LOVE the leggings and workout top they chose for me. Eat your heart out, Billy, I may be panting and wishing for death by minute 45 but I LOOK SUPER CUTE. 

USE THIS LINK and get a $15 Lululemon gift card AND 25% off your first box when you sign up for a membership. New Year's resolutions, here we all come, with a little help of getting shiny new clothes every month to remind you to stick with your workout goals this time, AMY. 

 

Downs & Ups

UP:

He's a brown belt now. Which (if you aren't up with the karate-belt-color progression, and don't worry, I only know because there's a cheat sheet on like, every wall of the dojo) is the highest belt for his current age group. He's determined to make it all the way to black belt.

(Please note the Ezra Legbomb in the above picture. Sibling belt tests are exhaustifying, y'all.)

DOWN:

He had a panic attack when Jason emptied a new box of Cheerios into a space-saving plastic container. He screamed and cried and hurled his body around. It wasn't right, normal, regular. A tiny deviation from the constantly running script in his head and the world crashed down around him. 

I wrapped him up in blankets and talked about the time Baby Ike got into the Cheerios and dumped the entire container upside down the floor, which was just so silly, remember? Then I changed the subject completely. It's not like Noah could explain what was wrong anyway, and the last time I pressed him for answers in a situation like that he started talking about hating his "wrong brain" and my heart near ripped in two.

The next day, he had a mini-meltdown at school over a social studies lesson. Everyone was taught how to say hello in another language, and given a badge identifying what country and language they "were." Then they were supposed to mill around the room and practice saying hello to each other.

Noah was Eygpt. No, Noah was NOT Eygpt. The sea of everyone pretending to be from somewhere else, saying different words, the idea that "hello" is not always "hello" was all too much and the rigidity amped up and gaaaaaaahh that was the end of that. 

I picked him up from school and drove him to his weekly therapy appointment. They moved marbles from their Regular Bowl to a Different Bowl. Then they put them into a box of tissues, which was just so silly, Mommy. Later, he got a bag of Doritos as a reward for saying the word "merci."

UP:

When school started this year, Noah insisted that he did not know how to read and would refuse to even try. Every unfamiliar word was an unbelievable source of stress for him, for he refused to sound anything out because he might get it wrong. This perfectionism crossed over into writing and...well, lots of things. 

He's reading above his expected grade level now. He loves to write and tell stories and is no longer concerned if his spelling is perfect. Math is a strong suit, and his behavior at school (the occasional rigidity tussle aside) has been impeccable. On Monday nights, after dinner, he sits down with that week's homework packet (due on Fridays, go at your own pace)...and does the entire thing, cover to cover. 

On other nights we have to invent homework for him. Illustrated book reports are a popular choice, or math problems, or seeing who can list the most adjectives or nouns.

He reads bedtime stories to his brothers; he does fractions over breakfast with his pancake. I still have to remind myself to pick my jaw off the floor, sometimes. And to let go of my own worst fears and anxieties. Like he has, and continues to do. 

ADHD and dyslexia are now off the table, diagnostically. He is not on the Spectrum. All signs are pointing to a very smart, very quirky, visual-spatial learner who is slowly outgrowing a myriad of sensory issues and developing at his own zig-zaggy pace. 

The Downs still happen. For anyone who reads this blog because they see their own child echoed in the archives, yes. The Downs can still be scary, and frustrating, and make me feel like I'm doing something wrong, or at least not right enough. Noah is not a light switch, who will one day just flip completely to "easy" or "typical." His wiring is so much more complex than that, like a electrician's lighting board at a giant stadium concert.  

But the Ups happen more often now, and are higher and better than ever before, and the stadium is full of cheers and applause from every seat in the house.

Because we all know what's coming next is going to be awesome. 

The Blessed Holy Tradition of Mall Santa

Heh. Heh heh.

Look at that pack of disheveled little cheesebars. WHERE IS THEIR MOTHER AND WHY DOESN'T SHE DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

So I really thought this year would be the year that ended our streak of having all the kids smiling while sitting on Santa's lap.

(Well, more like two kids smiling, while the other one stares confusedly off into the horizon, like maaaan, I have no idea what's going on right now.) 

I actually predicted that Ike would probably cry. While the general amount of Photo Ham around our house is reaching Def Con 5, Deep-Fried Pork Belly With A Side Of CHEEEEEESE levels, Ike tends to get a little shy and reserved around strangers. Combined with some really bad timing on our part, it looked like we'd be depositing him on the giant fluffy red stranger's lap about a good hour past naptime.

Now, SOME PARENTS (read: the non-asshole kind) might decide to just skip the santa photo this year, instead of deliberately setting their toddler up for tears. Or at least decide to try again a different day. Or at least make some attempt at coordinated holiday fashion beyond: Uh. Everybody Put On A Sweater, We're Going To Sears!

(Been there, done that, totally over it. But just look at that photo and tell me: Does anybody have their pants on backwards?)

(I'm asking because I can't tell. Ezra actually might. I know for a fact his underwear was and sometimes those things tend to get mixed up together.)

But Ike surprised me by being completely chill about the whole befuddling experience, probably thanks to his older brothers being there and appropriately excited. Noah asked for (surprise) Hobbit Legos, and Ezra asked for (ohgodhelpusall) a drum set.

Oh yeah. There's child-sized drum set in a box in my office RIGHT NOW, people. We are so in for it, we don't even know how in for it we are. 

Ike asked for the box of hand-me-down toddler toys I just stumbled upon in the basement three weeks ago (including the FUCK YEAH BALL POPPER), so...you know. He'll be super happy about that. 

Anyway, I should report that four out of five toddlers ahead of us in line screamed inconsolably during their entire visit with Santa. That either means we win, or else our toddler has already given up on trying to understand any of the fool stupid shit we make him do. 

After

So.

Hi.

How is everybody? Do you need a hug? 

For the record, since I just now, five minutes ago, read the comments on Friday morning's post: That was posted (and titled) hours before I heard the awful, awful news from Connecticut. I mean, my God, OBVIOUSLY. 

I personally had no idea what had happened until 2:30 pm, when I finally got a break from work and settled down with lunch and the Internet and Twitter and...oh. Oh. OH NONONONONO.

To be honest, my blog post (and its title) immediately became the very last thing on my mind. I seriously did not even think about it, or anything I had done that morning, in the Before Connecticut hours. In the Before Connecticut state of being, I guess. 

For anyone who was hurt or offended or made uneasy by the post title (or subject matter), however, I really sincerely apologize. It should have dawned on me to change it.

I hope you can possibly understand why it didn't, though: I wanted my first grader home, I wanted the news to stop, to be wrong, to stop being WORSE every time I hit refresh on Google News. I closed the laptop on Friday afternoon and kept it closed all weekend. Time for Ezra's swim lesson, Noah's belt test, a visit with friends, a visit to see Santa, everyday happy shiny things, fighting to break through the haze of Awful, Just So Fucking Awful. 

Ugh. I, I, I. Me, me, me. Stupid blog and blogging. Completely useless at times like this. 

I put Noah on the bus this morning. He has no idea what happened, no idea that I wanted so badly to climb onboard with him, armed with...I don't know. Invincible mama bear body armor. There's a police officer stationed outside his school today, which he'll might ask about so I should try to read something about talking to young children about Connecticut, in between all the other articles arguing about what we should really be talking about. Guns, mental illness, metal detectors, the shooter, the victims, too soon, too late, etc. 

And oh, those little faces. Those beautiful little faces. I still can't even believe. I still can't even imagine. 

 

 

Anyway, again, I'm really sorry about that stupid post title. It was Before. I'm not doing such a great job with the After. 

When Childcare Goes

It's Friday, which means: Yikes. Did I ever half-ass things around these blog parts this week.

In my defense, I have an excuse. But oh, my lands, it's the first-worldiest of first-world problems. Get ready to roll the fuck out of your eyeballs: 

Our nanny quit. 

It's a personal emergency crap-fest of a situation. No one is happy about it, there were many, many tears and hugs from both of us, and while I completely understand that shit happens and why she needs to leave us to go deal with said shit, GAH HOLY ASS FUCKBARS THIS SUCKS. 

I know you hear the word "nanny" and probably have an immediate reaction of ooooohhhh laaaa deeee daaaaa, it must be so niiiiiiiice to be rolllllllling in money and household staff*, like it's all Downton Abbey up in this bitch.

*Random! One time, back in 2001, I was laid off from my job and went on a job interview that my former boss had kindly arranged. It was at this HUMUNGONORMOUS mansion and mostly involved a go-nowhere vanity project cooked up by the owner's (adult) child. I used the bathroom soon after I arrived and deposited a single tissue in the trash can. About 20 minutes later I had to pee again, but when I went back the offending, disgusting tissue had already been whisked away by the housekeeper. 

Our nanny wasn't full-time, she didn't live with us (duh, where would we PUT her? in a coat closet?), and with multiple kids it's actually cheaper to hire a nanny than pay multiple daycare/summer camp tuitions — especially given the fluid, ebb-and-flow of my freelance work. She came in the mornings and stayed until naptime while I wrote and edited and dicked around on the internet like a privileged mofo. 

She was also like a member of the family, someone I absolutely loved and adored and depended on and trusted completely. She's known Noah since he was four, Ezra since he was 15 months, and Ike...well. She came to the hospital to meet him mere hours after his birth. To say "the boys love her" is almost a shockingly offensive example of the limits of language. 

(Shit. I'm going to cry again. QUICK SOMEBODY MAKE FART NOISES OR FALL OFF YOUR CHAIR.)

And all this schmoopiness about her wonderful irreplaceable self aside, there's also the unpleasant reality: I have a job that demands at least 30 solid hours a week of my undivided attention and positively zero hours of childcare with essentially no notice.

(No! Not "essentially" no notice! NO NOTICE. Stop with the extraneous abuse of adverbs, self!)

(You guys remember I have the other seekrit corporate job life, right? Just checking. Lest anyone think I spend 30 hours a week not updating this blog as often as I should.)

Luckily we live in an area where nannies are pretty much the standard option**, so I've been throwing myself (and mah babiez) on the mercy of our neighbors to pleeeeease let Ike and Ezra tag along for a couple hours, and several of the part-time nannies have volunteered their days off to come help while we try to figure the long-term shit out.

(I mean, "volunteered" to come and get paid, OBVIOUSLY, but allow me the illusion that it's happening mostly because all the neighborhood babysitters know my children from the playground and think they are wonderful rays of glorious, well-behaved light and fun.)

(ONE OF THEM SAID THAT, OKAY? Or something along the lines that "your kids seem easy!" Whatever. Just let me have this one. I've had a very emotional week.)

**I now understand even MORE why nannies are the norm after a couple HILARIOUS calls I made to local childcare centers and in-home daycares, inquiring about the possibility of enrolling Ike part-time for a couple weeks. 

"When would you like to enroll?"

"Like, um, Monday?"

"Uh. We could possibly take him in June. Ish."

"NM." 

ANYWAY. That's what's happening. I don't recommend it. Opposite of fine holiday fun, and all that, especially since it's so damn near impossible to explain the situation without sounding like a bourgie asshole.

(I'm still not entirely sure what we're doing. It took me freaking months to hire our first nanny, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be rushed into that decision, even it means running around like an ADHD chicken for awhile. Ezra's preschool has a full-day option for him, and the toddler program MIGHT POSSIBLY MAYBE be willing to take Ike in the mornings when he's 20 months old. [February.] But then...I dunno, I still like having him HERE and AROUND and MID-MORNING SNUGGLE ACCESSIBLE.) 

(PARENTHESES!)

(OUT!)

Family Homemade Chaos Night

NEWISH RECENT HOTNESS: Family Homemade Pizza Nights. 

Okay, I'm perhaps overstating the "homemade" part. We use pre-made frozen dough from Whole Foods. We dump canned tomatoes in the food processor with a handful of bagged pre-peeled garlic and some olive oil for the sauce. Top with cheese, pepperoni and oregano. Bake on a cookie sheet at the highest temperature your pathetic electric oven can crank up and CLEARLY you will be immediately transported to a rustic pizzeria in Italy. Or maybe just to that pizza joint at the airport. Close enough.

I am not, however, exaggerating the "family" part. We get pretty super into it. We may or may not have special outfits.

Complete with accessories.

Ezra is always nice enough to lend Ike one of his non-pizza-specific aprons. 

(What? Don't all four-year-olds own multiple aprons?)

Family Homemade Pizza Night is strictly pants-optional, however.

As for Noah...

Once upon a time, getting him to touch something like raw pizza dough or pepperoni would have been unheard of. So was getting him to help in the kitchen, willingly. Pressure! Instructions! Expectations and blenders and all kinds of squishy things!

It's all different now.

Super different now.

Not to mention we did have a very special guest of honor over recently, someone Noah wanted to impress with his pizza-making skills extra badly.

The Occupational Therapist Formerly Known As Ms. M___. 

Who is now known, around these parts, on Family Homemade Pizza Nights, in a much less formal capacity. 

For His Next Trick: BIKER GANG

First you spend nine neurotic months obsessing over your diet and kick counts and whether that weird twinge in your leg is a cramp or a symptom of Acute Doomed Pregnancitis. Then you give birth to your preshus snowflake treasur and realize that HO HO HO, your pregnancy fears were strictly bush league. Shit just got real, bitch, because the entire world is basically out to injure or murder your baby and you are completely powerless to do anything about it.

Welcome to parenthood. IT ONLY LASTS FOREVER.

But then, maybe, you start calming down a little, or at least pushing the most obsessive and irrational of your fears aside. Your hormones don't stay jacked up to 11, and you start to see that chilling the hell out is a necessary survival mechanism. You'd be miserable and anxious and completely insufferable otherwise. And then maybe you have another baby, and then another one, who are both also preshus irreplaceable snowflake treasurs too, but now you're simply too preoccupied with their whining about juice and boredom and who touched who to worry about much else.

So you start letting them play outside with their friends, sans helicoptering parental supervision, and stop closing all the baby gates since everybody has proven themselves fairly adept at getting up and down the stairs safely. Your toddler gets himself in and out of his chair by himself, and you deem this to actually be a helpful skill and allow it to happen on the regular. You decide it's not really that big of a deal if you find him sitting on the dining room table, and most of the time when he goes upstairs by himself he simply plops down by a bookshelf to read for awhile. And why get het up over the sight of him carrying a bottle of dishwasher detergent around? It's not like he can OPEN it or anything. He just thinks it's a fetching purse.

(Okay, so MAYBE the chewing on the underside of someone else's filthy shoe was worthy of some intervention, in retrospect. PERHAPS.)

Anyway, my point it: It is at this PRECISE MOMENT, after your children have collectively and methodically beaten down your guard and hyper-aware spidey-sense, that one of them will go on a goddamn Injury Rampage Parade to see just how many times he can injure his fool self in a single weekend. 

On Friday, Ike took a spectacular tumble on a playdate and bruised up his cheek and one of his legs. He fell on...a toy? Some furniture? YOU ASK LIKE I WAS WATCHING AT THE TIME.

But, you know, he really was just fine.

On Saturday, he fell down the stairs. The non-carpeted stairs. All the way, top to bottom, ass over teakettle and back over again. I heard the initial thumps and thought: Please be books. Please be the box of hand-me-down shoes. Please be a collection of priceless Ming vases that I had no idea we owned, just PLEASE DON'T BE THE BABY. 

I dashed from my spot on the couch to the foyer (YEAH YEAH I KNOW OKAY) and got there just as he landed head-first and on his stomach. We stared at each other for a few surprised seconds before the screaming began. (From him. I mostly managed to stick with some top-volume soothing-type noises.)

But, you know, he really was just fine.

On SUNDAY, he randomly faceplanted and bit the sidewalk. Just: Bam. Flat. One second he was struttin' his diapered swag and the next he was bleeding from his nose while a goose egg formed on his forehead. Jason was RIGHT next to him and I was all of three steps behind and we still have no real idea what happened. Sucker punch. Bar fight. Him and that sidewalk had words. 

But, you know, he really was just fine.

 

Adventures in Cloth Diapering, Part Whatever: 18 (FREAKING) Months Later

COMPULSIVELY WORDY & SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC DISCLAIMER: A lot of people have asked for another cloth diapering post. And I really do mean "a lot." And hardly any of them were sockpuppets or the voices in my head. (Who, incidentally, sound just like Cookie Monster and Tom Hanks narrating a war documentary.) 

But I kept not writing another cloth diapering post because I ALSO know that a lot of you could not be more bored by the cloth diapering posts. Bored! Boring boredom streaming out of your eye sockets! 

LINDSAY FEELS YOU, BRO.

Anyway. Guess what! This is a post about cloth diapers. The bored portion of the class is hereby dismissed for the rest of the day. Go sneak smokes by the monkey bars or throw vodka bottles at each other for awhile. 

YOU KNOW, LIKE THE GLAMOUROUS PEOPLE.

The rest of you, well...let's talk hippie butt rags.

Quarantine Lifted

Ommahgod. Okay. I think...yes. I think I can finally stop leading off every. goddamned. blog post. with an update on Look Who's Puking Now. We're all better now. Jason, that magnificent bearded bastard, was our last holdout and it looks like he's going to make it through completely uninfected. 

Unless I just jinxed him. Right then. I'd delete that sentence but 1) the universe KNOWS I typed it so the damage is probably already done, and 2) I've been waiting my entire life to type the words "magnificent bearded bastard" in reference to my husband, so whatever. SORRY, HONEY.

In fact, I like calling him that so much I might — finally, after eight freaking years of this shitshow — give him an anonymous blog moniker and refer to him as MBB full-time now. Until he shaves, which he keeps threatening to do, until I pout. 

Anyway. I have lost my train of thought. It's okay, I didn't really have a point anyway.

And now I have a conference call for my other life, the one that doesn't involve talking about vomit and boobs. Hold on. This'll only take an hour or so, since that's my maximum limit on pretending to know what I'm talking about. 

SOCIAL MEDIA ENGAGEMENT CLICKS IN-BOUND MARKETING KEYWORD DENSITY STRATEGERY MOTHERFUCKERS

Aaaaand now I'm sleepy. 

So we finally have bid adieu to the Couch Bed and vaccuumed up the Recovery Cheerios that fell in between the cushions.

The only lasting effect seems to be Noah's insistence that it wasn't germs that made him sick, it was the candy he'd eaten Sunday night from the advent calendar.

Solution = never eat candy ever again. 

We'll see how long that lasts.

(Though to this day I still cannot eat angel food cake after a particularly vicious stomach flu incident from my childhood. Hours upon hours of angel-food-cake-flavored nausea. Disgusting. I can't even smell angel food cake without gagging.)

For now he's been giving his candy to Ike, whose own bout with the barf began a few hours after we took them all to see Wreck-It Ralph, during which I kept Ike quiet by feeding him an entire bag of Reese's Pieces. 

Let us never speak of that crib sheet again. 

But Ike's still totally down with Reese's Pieces. And the advent calendar. And couch Cheerios. And basically all foods in general.