American Boys

For many many MANY years now, the American Girl company has sent me their catalog, at least once a year, without fail. 

The very first catalog arrived at my parents' house when I was 12 years old. I think I turned 13 just a few weeks later. Too old for a doll, especially such an expensive doll, but I remember my mom and I snuggling up in bed one morning to ooh and ahh over the dolls (AND THE ACCESSORIES. DEAR SWEET GIRLY PINK JESUS THE ACCESSORIES) and I thought that maybe...just maybe...my parents would spring for a Samantha doll, for one final nostalgic hurrah of childhood.  

They did not. Woe and alas, but also: I WAS 13 YEARS OLD. PUT DOWN THE BARBIES, CHILD.

Yet the catalogs kept coming. And coming. They followed me to my first apartment in college, and then to my first apartment with Jason. To his immense credit, he never judged me for the hour or two I'd spend on the couch with that catalog, staring at the dollsssss and the clothesssss and the teeny tiny historically accurate tea party foodsssss and gaaahhhhhhhh. 

He did notice, though, and a couple years later he surprised me out of the blue with...a Samantha doll. 

Right? I know. I KNOW. I can't even with that man. He's that good, and none of us deserve him in the slightest. 

Obviously, that purchase only made the American Girl company double-down on the mailings, as it probably triggered some internal marketing radar. DOLL-BUYING GIRLCHILD IN THE HOUSE. DOLL-BUYING GIRLCHILD IN THE HOUSE. MAKE SURE SHE KNOWS ABOUT THE ACCESSORIESSSSSSSSS.

(Also not helping: The purchase I immediately made of a base set of outfit accessories for Samantha, including her hat, locket, purse, hanky and a reproduction of an authentic Victorian-era coin. Because she simply would not be COMPLETE without her hat, locket, purse, hanky and a reproduction of an authentic Victorian-era coin. Duh.)

(They don't even make Samantha anymore. Even though she was so obviously the best.)

My boys have never seen my Samantha doll. They have other dolls and I've seen how they treat those other dolls, so Samantha remains safely packed away in her original box. I take her out every once in awhile to make sure she's not being eaten by mice/snakes/stinkbugs/squirrels/ohmygod, then re-wrap her in tissue paper and put her back on the shelf.

It's probably the only time I allow myself to feel...well, not sad, but a bit wistful about my lack of a little daughter to give her to. Someome who might actually want to join me on the couch and ooh and ahh over the catalog, instead of looking at it like it came from outer space:

Da helllllll? I love me some tiny toy food but this shit? This shit cray.

Woe and alas again, I suppose. Not meant to be. Despite the fact that my boys will occasionally play with dolls and dollhouses and tea sets (to the exxxtreme, with a destructive vengeance, often involving zombies), the American Girl offerings are apparently a gendered bridge too far. I certainly could have had girls who had no interest in any of this stuff either, but in the end I have boys and they are boys.  

One of them better give me a freaking granddaughter, though. No pressure. I just have something for her, someday.

*This post was NOT sponsored by the American Girl company. If anyone knows anybody who works there please ask them to stop sending me their catalog. Send me free tiny adorable doll accessoriesssssssssss instead. I will hoard them in my basement like a crazy person, thank you.

Not Coming Soon to a Bookstore Near You: The 'Don't Be a Selfish Asshole' Guide to Parenting

The Good News: Thanks to you guys (who are awesome) I now have (at least) 100 different topic suggestions. Thank you. Y'all gave me both the poke-her-brain-with-stick-ing that I knew I needed AND the nicey-nice pep talk that I didn't. (Know. That I needed. But I guess I did. Oy, this post is already not going well.) 

The Bad News: WHERE TO START WHERE TO START THIS ONE THAT ONE OMG MY BRAIN IS BUBBLING OVER WITH UNBRIDLED OPINIONS AND WORDS AND IT'S LIKE MY INTERNAL DIALOGUE IS STAMPEDING ITSELF.

I should probably export the comments into some kind of spreadsheet and treat them like Actual Real Writing Assignments or a task list that I can smugly check off once I've written something. (Smugly only because I am never NOT kind of smug when I check something off a to-do list. Take that, list, I am super awesome and productive. For this brief shining moment, anyway.)

One topic I saw mentioned sevvvvveral times was the whole "giving each member of your brood the individual attention they deserve." I especially liked how Kerry phrased it, when she said "it seems like you find a nice balance between precious individual snowflakes and teeming horde."

I'm not sure if it's balance, necessarily, as in something I consciously set out to achieve each morning (or write down a task list just to cross it the fuck off, fuck yeah). Most days I can usually carve out some one-on-one time with each child by simply following the guiding principle of Don't Be A Selfish Asshole.

Let's say Ezra approaches me and asks if we can have a play picnic, but I'm really enjoying some Internet-ish diversion or game on my phone or I just came up with something funny to say on Twitter. If I were to say, "Not right now, Mommy's busy," I think that would make me a Selfish Asshole. And kind of a liar. All of those things will be there for me to read/play/be-stupid-on later. That moment with Ezra, when Ezra was four years, four months and four days old, will be gone forever if I pass on it. Sure, we might have a play picnic the next day too, but I'd really rather Ezra remember at least one of the 3,203,056 play picnics I sat through over the one time I said "Not right now, Mommy's busy." 

And that's depressingly likely with little kids, you know? The other day I DID have to tell Ezra not right now, busy, because I was stuck on a work task that wasn't really negotiable. His entire body registered his disappointment. He dropped his picnic basket on the floor, put his chin to his chest and shuffled off to pout on the stairs. All that the moment was missing was the Vince Guaraldi Trio playing in the background. 

Family outings are good. Crazy, somewhat akin to herding cats at times, but good. Museums, zoos, community centers— kids love that shit, and it gives a family our size a nice way to keep EVERYBODY entertained while we ration out our specific attention to specific children.

Our children's favorite place in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD right now is the Port Discovery Children's Museum in Baltimore. It's hike for us, but always worth it, even just for a few hours. Noah disappears into the three-story climbing/crawling/whatever area in the center and Jason and I each get really nice time with Ezra and Ike, and then we switch. Then, if we can ever get the two younger boys interested in the same room/activity, one of use sucks up our self-consciousness and awkwardly climbs around with Noah (mom-butt ahoy!) or leads him through one of the rooms aimed at older kids. 

Then we leave and get the kids some pizza, and us some beer(s). We probably go at least once a month, because IT WORKS. We have a family membership and know exactly what we need to pack for the day (and what we don't), and I also know that Noah will probably draw at least one picture or write one short story about it at school, which makes it pretty much a Total Win, all around. 

Jason once read some parenting guru's advice that said we should aim to have 30 uninterrupted minutes of "in" time with each child. You don't necessarily have to redirect them to something new or do anything specific with that time — you just join them at whatever they are doing and give them your undivided attention for 30 minutes. Most of the time your child will notice and include you in the activity or game and by the end of the half hour you'll likely have engaged in at least one valuable conversation or connection with them.

Other parenting books I've read (okay, skimmed) (okay, read the back cover at the bookstore) say the "30 solid minutes" is less important than the bigger idea of giving your child your undivided attention several times a day in a more organic fashion, even if it's just a minute or two here and there.

That is probably closer to what we get around here, though I agree that making the conscious, deliberate decision to Not Be A Selfish Asshole, put down the phone/magazine/Twitter-fight and pay real attention to your child will always make the time you do get with each of them much more valuable.

Ezra gets the most attention from me in the block of time between Ike going down for a nap and Noah coming home from school. We try to minimize full-family errands (see: FERAL TARGET BITING), but grocery shopping solo with Ezra is an unexpected delight: He's helpful and excited and will basically eat any vegetable that he picks out "himself." (KALE. THE KID EATS KALE.) Running errands has become a special Ezra/Daddy time, and something they both really look forward to. And of course, anything involving cooking or baking is the perfect opportunity to pull Ezra in. 

Noah thrives on routine, so our one-on-one time is usually after dinner, while he does homework. It's also usually the best time for him (sensory/behaviorial speaking) to sit next to one of us and calmly talk about his day. He's a world championship cuddler, too, who loves being under the covers with one of us, so he and I have nice lazy chats on Sunday mornings. After karate, one of us takes him to a nearby coffee shop for a cookie. (This may have had something to do with Ezra's enthusiasm for karate, yes. Better parenting through bribery, woot.) If he asks us for help building Legos we try to oblige, because we know that "asking for help with Legos" is Lego Master code for "I'm feeling a bit lonely and woud like some attention."

Ike still gets the solo bath and bed times, and no lie: Even diaper changes are a really nice one-on-one moment for us. I sing, we tickle, identify body parts (best is "where's your butt?" and he tosses his naked legs up and smacks his cheeks) and we end with a giant dive-bomb of a hug off the table. 

Anytime anyone asks for a hug, they get one. Anytime anyone asks to be picked up, they are. Anytime anyone asks for help, they get it. These are pretty much the unspoken non-negotiables, no matter what we may be doing at the time. Don't Be A Selfish Asshole, go help the kid who got his pajama shirt stuck on his head because he mistook a sleeve for the neckhole. (Again.)

Bedtime is 7:30 - 8 pm, at which point Jason and I get to be just us again, sipping wine and watching wildly inappropriate television like The Walking Dead and Archer. We stay up pretty late, even though our bodies might benefit from a little more sleep, because that's just how we can give each other the most undivided attention right now. We try to have a date night as many weekends as the budget allows, because some weeks are just harder than others. 

Some weeks are definitely more Team Teeming Horde than precious snowflake memories. Some weeks involve a lot more tantrums, fighting, random destruction and us yelling/nagging/scolding and GO TO YOUR ROOOOMing. Some weeks I feel like I'm a hopeless screw-up of a mother who loses her temper too often over "normal" kid behavior, while simultaneously raising a pack of barely civilized Pixy Stix.

And that's okay, I think. You're going to be screw-up sometimes. Just Don't Be A Selfish Asshole. 

(Also don't be afraid or ashamed to embrace the warm glowing warming glow of television every once in awhile. I mean, sometimes you really do just need some down time to dick around on your phone without the threat of neverending play picnics.)

Playtime at the Thunderdome

Quick! Describe the sibling relationship going on in your house right now in one word:

BEATINGS.

Now describe it in five words:

SERIOUSLYBEATINGS. ALL. THE. LIVELONG. DAY. 

No, I am not beating my children. I personally engage in zero beatings or beating-type behavior with them. They beat on each other. 

And poke.

And pinch.

And punch.

And leg-wrestle, which is boy-speak for "We're really just kicking each other, but it's okay because SPORTS."

Over the weekend Ezra bit Noah in the middle of Target — bit him so hard that Noah had teeth marks on his arm through his winter coat. 

As far as I can tell, he bit Noah simply because he'd been pretending to bite Noah for awhile and that game got boring. 

(Dear Noah: HE LEARNED IT FROM WATCHING YOOOOOUUUU.)

They antagonize each other constantly. They demand that the other "leave me alonnnne" and then are up in each other's grill 10 seconds later, playing full-contact tug-of-war over a toy, a throw pillow, a goddamned broom. 

Ike only wants to play with Ezra. Ezra only wants to play with Noah. Noah only wants to play with Ike.

There is no overlap or compromise to that flowchart; only the sound of one child shrieking because an unacceptable playmate is invading his personal space, trying to get his attention, breathing on his toys, etc. 

There is always some kind of confiscated weapon on our mantel or on top of the fridge.

I DON'T KNOW WHERE THIS STUFF EVEN COMES FROM. Not that it matters, because even in the complete absence of plastic swords or lightsabers, they'll just battle with the aforementioned throw pillows and broom handles. 

Everyone gets ready for bed in shifts now, since Noah and Ezra proved to be completely incapable of going upstairs together and putting on pajamas at the same time without somebody getting hurt. Or somebody pretending to get hurt because they know Mommy's rubber-band nerves have HAD IT by 8 pm and they can get their sibling's reading-light or come-back-downstairs-for-10-minutes privileges revoked, because it is a goddamn Machiavellian Man Cave up there. 

The other night a war broke out over two empty milk containers.

I repeat: TWO. EMPTY. MILK. CONTAINERS. 

Ike "rescued" these precious items from our recycling bin and they immediately became like, THE hot toy item of the century. Forget Cabbage Patch dolls and Tickle Me Elmo: Kids today are all the unrinsed, slightly dented recyclables. Please stampede accordingly.

This is what was originally going on elsewhere. It was working out as well as you might imagine, which is to say, omg, children, there is an entire house to play in and yet you are insisting on Thunderdoming it out for the same three feet of Blanket Fort. It's like you WANT to get kicked in the face or something. 

But then: A challenger appears. EMPTY MILK CONTAINERS. HOLY SHIT.

(Forgive the random extra car seat sitting in our living room. It's now stored safely away in the basement because MY CHILDREN WOULDN'T STOP FIGHTING OVER WHO GOT TO SIT IN IT.)

Anyway, yeah. There were tears. ACTUAL TEARS.

And while I know it's probably all kinds of cruel to sit there snapping pictures while your four year old sobs hysterically, allow me to remind you that my four year old was sobbing hysterically over EMPTY MILK CONTAINERS, and one day I will need these photos to settle arguments with his teenaged self, like when he's telling me that he's mature enough to take his hovercar out to Mars for the Intergalactic Planking Championships or something.

No. You once lost your shit over stuff your brother pulled out of the trash. YOUR ARGUMENT IS INVALID. 

(Ike was all, nice try. I am also unmoved by your misery.)

Cont'd.

And etc. 

So that's what life is like approximately...all the time. We do get occasional moments of brotherly love — Ike might deign to hug Noah before running away, or at least manage to run away before Noah insists on grabbing him around the neck because I WILL MAKE YOU LOVE ME. I WILL CUDDLE YOU SO HARD AGAINST YOUR WILL. I'll hear Ezra shout "Don't you hurt my brother!" to an over-aggressive playmate, or give part of his dessert to someone who didn't get any, just because.

And sometimes Noah and Ezra will bond after getting sent to their room for fighting and I'll find them cuddled up together, reading a story and talking about how mean and awful I am. So that's nice too. 

 

Ezra the Collector

This post is sponsored by Citrus Lane.

First of all, I would like to establish OUT LOUD that this is a safe space, and more specifically, this is a safe space where we can open up and admit that yeah, our kids are weirdos.

Even more specifically, Ezra is a weirdo. Like kind of a weird-y weird level weirdo.

I don’t know how to describe this one particular behavior he exhibits (and has exhibited for YEARS) without referring to the name of a popular yet distastefully horrifying reality show on A&E, so maybe this picture will give you an idea of what I’m dancing around:

Hey, Ezra! What have you got in your pocketses today? 

20 minutes later, I think the pile ended up being 27 tiny Lego bricks, studs, berries, croissants, mugs, chalices, various non-Lego thingamajobs and two lint-backed pumpkin stickers that he got around Halloween.

And every single item is a treasure. His preciousesss. And every single item must be checked and accounted for several times a day, until he forgets about the entire collection completely. Which usually happens right around the time he tosses his five-pocket cargo pants into the laundry hamper. Because by that point, he’s moved on to a collection of slightly larger plastic sundries inside a coin purse, empty tissue box, or Ike’s talking plastic picnic basket that no longer contains any of the plastic picnic items, because Ezra has filled it to the brim with even more tiny Legos, three rubber scoops of play ice cream, a spatula, seven toy cars and a handful of broken crayons that he deliberately fished out of the trash when I wasn’t looking and is now guarding with his very life.

Jason just up and flat-out calls him a hoarder. (Affectionately! I swear. It’s not like we’re finding cat carcasses in his bed. Just all the baby books from Ike’s room, a bunch of Smurf figurines and maybe a Happy Meal box.)

I just think the kid likes…containers. Containers full of things. He’s like a pirate with a very DIY aesthetic and original take on the boring-and-done treasure chest. Gold coins? Whatever. Check out these extra stomp rockets and this roll of packing tape! WE’RE GOING TO BE RICH.

(Ezra, pictured here in Oversized Container Full of Tiny Things & Also Ezra Heaven.)

Over Christmas break, he stumbled across a backpack that I’d bought for him to take on long car trips. I guess he thought I’d thrown it out or something (LIKE I DO WITH BROKEN CRAYONS AND PROBABLY EVERYTHING ELSE HE LOVES), and was so, so happy to see it again that he insisted on wearing it nonstop for three days straight. At the dinner table. While playing outside. To restaurants. To bed.

So I wasn’t too surprised when school started back up, he insisted on carrying the backpack. Now, Ezra does not NEED a backpack at his preschool — in fact, backpacks are explicitly listed as something the children are to leave at home. But Ezra really, REALLY wanted to take that backpack to school, like his big brother.

So I let him take the backpack to school. Because I have better things to do in the morning than get locked in a battle of wills over a backpack with a four year old. Like, say, NOT getting locked in a battle of wills over a backback with a four year old. 

Over time, the backpack went from being empty to…well, becoming yet another one of Ezra’s containers of weird. He added a notebook and some pencils...and then some finger puppets, a sandwich cookie cutter and the instruction booklet from our microwave. 

So I realized we maybe needed to curb the backpack habit, especially since I learned he was refusing to take it off once he got to school. And while his teacher was completely understanding and accommodating of the backpack, he was a little less excited about the daily show-and-tell of broken pencils, Legos, empty DVD cases and talking Elmo phones.

It was right around this time that I agreed to do a sponsored blog post for Citrus Lane, which sends out age-appropriate, monthly curated boxes of eco-friendly baby and kid gear, toys, bath products, you name it. They sent me a couple sample boxes. One for Ezra and one for Ike, IN THEORY. In reality, once I opened the boxes, they were both Ezra's. All his. Because they were...containers. Full of…things. Bath toys! Books! Fruit snacks! Monkey dishware! Lotions and bath soaps and AHHHHHH!!!!

As I watched him paw through the assortment of surprises, I suddenly realized that I should have boxed and wrapped all his Christmas presents into a similar single box o' wonder. 

Among the bonanza of items in our boxes was…a Skip Hop elephant lunch bag. Ezra just about passed out. A small…Ezra-sized…container…with a handle…for carrying…for which to put things inside…lunch-y things…omg…

Now, again: Ezra does not need a lunch bag. He eats a school-provided snack mid-morning, then comes home at noon and eats lunch here.  

But some kids in his class stay all day. And these kids do indeed bring lunch bags/boxes, which they deposit into a classroom fridge each morning as they arrive. And it turns out that more than anything — even more than a backpack full of Monopoly pieces, miniature rubber tires and plastic teacups — Ezra wanted to join them. To be like them. 

He didn't actually care about the actually eating lunch at school part, but just the morning ritual of putting lunchboxes inside the refrigerator. This is what makes you "cool," apparently, in today's modern trend-setting with-it-happening Montessori classroom. He even tried to put his backpack in the fridge on several occasions, and then tried to talk his teacher into letting him at least put some random pieces of toy fruit in there instead.

In other words, this lunch bag from Citrus Lane was the greatest gift that never would have occurred to me to buy for him, but there it is. 

(So long, Play-Doh carrying case! We are moving. On. Up.)

Ezra still doesn’t stay at school for lunch, but every morning he packs up his lunch bag. He gets real sippy cup and fills it with water and shovels some Cheerios into a baggie. Then he adds two ice packs and a few extra essentials.

(Essentials like: Toy milk, wooden donut w/back-up icing slab, Lego construction worker, plastic pepperoni slices, felt tomato, some kind of stuffed lettuce pillow thing, sandwich roll and an entire Thanksgiving turkey.)

He takes it to school and puts it in the refrigerator, where it sits untouched (and non-distracting-like) all day. I arrive at noon to collect him and his lunch bag (which before I took these photos had just emerged from a vigorous cleaning after being sent down the playground slide into a mud puddle, because it and Ezra are best pals). Then we go home, where he dutifully unpacks everything and puts it all back in its proper place. 

 

He’s never been happier, the goof. 

***

Want your own box of random inspiration and handy essentials for your own little weirdo? Leave a comment between now and next Wednesday and I will select a random winner for a FREE box of awesome from Citrus Lane. 

"BUT I NEVER WIN." Dude, I know! Me neither! But for us, here's a coupon for 50% off your first box — that's only $12.50! TWELVE FIFTY. After that, monthly boxes of baby-, kid- and mom-approved products and toys start at just $21. Head over to citruslane.com and use coupon code AMALAH50 from now until March 6th.

Fine print: Coupon applies to monthly subscriptions only. Offer valid for new customers only. Subscriptions automatically renew to full retail price.

Ezra the Ezra-iest

It was a very Ezra weekend around here, and yes, I AM using his name as an adjective in and of itself. That's so Ezra. What an Ezra shirt you're wearing. This soup tastes Ezra-y. EZRA!

First, on Friday, Ezra randomly decided that NOW, THAT MINUTE, he was ready to do karate like Noah. We've done this song-and-dance before, and it's always ended with us showing up to the class, only to have Ezra suffer from an Attack of the Shys and refuse to set foot on the mat or participate at all. (Followed by a spectacular meltdown later in the car, when he would ask where his karate uniform was and learn the bitter truth that we didn't sign him up because he refused to set foot on the mat or participate at all we are terrible monsters of the cruelest order.)

TA-DA! He did great and he loved it. So congratulations! You now officially get to spend even more of all of your money on goddamned karate classes. Blark. 

On the other hand:

TINY KARATE PANTS. Size triple-zero. For your household's most fearsome peanut.

On Saturday, we had some friends and their children over for dinner, so it was time for a minor costume change.

Complete with the revolutionary accessories of the day:

Several hours later, Jason and I struck upon what seemed like a great game for motivating the end-of-the-night playroom cleanup: The Zombies Are Coming To Eat All The Toys On The Floor. I did a pretty convincing zombie shuffle and moaning bit when I went downstairs to check on their progress, as most of the kids shrieked and laughed and frantically hurled toys back into baskets as I approached. 

MOST of them, that is, except for poor Ezra, who I found hiding under the wooden train table, wailing in abject terror. Win, you guys. Am such an ass.

I think I made it up to him on Sunday, he and I attended a classmate's birthday party at Build-a-Bear, which I did not know was a thing you could even do, like oh my God, why not just have your party right in Disneyworld, or in a candy store on the moon? 

(I am turning 36 this year. Please RSVP if you would like to attend my birthday party. It will be at Build-a-Bear.)

The whole way over to the party, Ezra was adamant that he didn't WANT to build a bear, he wanted to build a rabbit. Being mostly unfamiliar with the Build-a-Bear party parameters, I tried to prepare him for the possibility that a rabbit would not be one of the choices, and also: DUDE. YOU SCORED AN INVITE TO A PARTY AT BUILD-A-BEAR. DIAL BACK THE DEMANDS, OKAY?

When we arrived, it turned out a rabbit was an option. 

So naturally he chose a bear. 

The kids were also allowed to choose an outfit, because WHY NOT, LATER WE'LL MAKE IT RAIN BUBBLEGUM FOR Y'ALL TOO. The party host held up a karate uniform with a variety of belt colors, which made me irrationally excited because it was so tiny and cute and guadruple-zero and gaaaaahhhhh wantwant. Wantwantwant. 

So naturally he chose the football uniform, despite never 1) playing football or 2) watching football or 3) being at all aware of football's existence prior to that moment. 

Whatever, everybody knows the best part of Build-a-Bear (besides EVERYTHING) is the box you get to take your toy home in. 

In conclusion, here is Ezra doing his best Maru impression:

Which is just about the most Ezra thing he's ever Ezra'd. 

P.S. After hitting "publish" and checking out this entry live on the site, I realize that there are Build-a-Bear ads showing up in the sidebar. Those are just network ads tied to any keywords that get detected (or possibly browser history and/or dark magic, I don't fully understand how it all works). But I now feel the need to clarify that this post was NOT sponsored, AT ALL, and that I received no money or free tiny karate pants from the Build-a-Bear people. SWEARSIES, carry on, etc. 

AND ANOTHER THING

Enough with the socks, can we now discuss the approximate eleventy metric tons of food my children now consume during any given week?

It's just too ho-ho-ho-ironical for words, after spending most of my 27 (non-consecutive) months of pregnancy worried about my diet and calorie-intake-to-vomiting ratio, and then even more months of worried about their diets and how much milk they were getting and how many ounces they were gaining, and then obsessively coaxing hundreds of tiny wee spoonfuls of baby food into their mouths and wondering if they were eating enough and peeing enough and pooping enough...that now I'm surrounded by a pack of giant strapping boy-children who NEVER STOP EATING.

Someone is ALWAYS hungry. (And conversely, someone else ALWAYS seems to be pooping. It's the circle of life groceries!) One granola bar is no longer an acceptable snack, unless it's immediately followed by ANOTHER granola bar and a side of Goldfish crackers and maybe a bowl of pistachios. Fifteen minutes after that, the bellies are back, skulking around the kitchen for graham crackers.

We go through two giant boxes of Cheerios a week, and close to four gallons of milk. Two loaves of bread, minimum. I am perpetually out of eggs (and I should point out that only Ezra and Ike actually eat the eggs, but together manage to do a great deal of damage, what with their two-scrambled-eggs-a-day habits). (EACH!) We're officially in the Family Size range for anything packaged or boxed and the answer to the question "Hey are we almost out of peanut butter and jelly?" is yes. ALWAYS, ALWAYS YES. The other day I heard Noah refer to bananas as a "beginning of the week" food, since they're usually gone by Wednesday or Thursday. 

This weekend, while we were putting away the groceries, Ezra happened to find a pint of raspberries in one of the bags. A pint of raspberries that I thought would last us a week, or at least a few days. He ate the entire damn thing in one sitting.

For breakfast, Ike eats a pancake or waffle, a handful of Cheerios, two eggs, a banana and/or some berries (NOT THIS WEEK, THOUGH, THANKS ZAH), two cups of milk and sometimes a container of yogurt.

Two hours later, he has second breakfast of a cheese stick, more Cheerios and more fruit. Maybe any leftover yogurt.

You know, something LIGHT, especially since he eats lunch only an hour after that. And don't even try to talk to him after his nap until I get him back in the high chair for his after-nap pre-dinner supper-snack. 

Seriously. I think I maybe gave birth to a hobbit. 

And Noah, who once lived for two full years on peanut-butter crackers and Cheerio dust, is now a giant solid body of BIG KID who will eat just about anything if he's hungry enough. And he's almost always hungry enough. He wants seconds and thirds. He gets a late-afternoon snack at school and still gets off the bus talking about what he wants to eat when he gets home. (Answer: ALL OF THE THINGS) He has been known to start whining about being hungry while STILL CHEWING. 

We tried keeping a designated Snack Drawer in the fridge for them — mostly because I just really, REALLY wanted to sit down every once in awhile without hearing "Mom, I'm hungry" 30 seconds later. I positively filled the bottom vegetable crisper with a ton of healthy, carefully portioned-out snack options: milk boxes, water bottles, cheese, containers of nuts and granola and fruits (fresh AND dried), carrot sticks, yogurt, etc. I told them that they were welcome to help themselves to anything in the snack drawer whenever they wanted. 

They managed to strip that drawer bare in less than 24 hours. The Snack Drawer concept was officially retired less than a week later, when I discovered that Ezra was apparently helping himself to midnight snacks of yogurt-in-a-tube, of which he would eat half and save the rest for later...under his pillow.

Don't get me wrong. It's all awesome. They're all healthy and fit and full of energy for swimming and karate and tree-climbing mayhem. It's not like they're binging on soda and candy here — Ezra's favorite snack in the world is a sliced-up avocado, for God's sake. (I buy half a dozen avocados a week, yet cannot remember the last time I had any on hand for guacamole.) They're just...growing boys, I know. 

It's still a bit bonkers to witness, though. And pay for. And to imagine what it's going to be like in a few more years, when I have a pack of teenagers. 

Forget the college savings plan, people, I think I'm going to set up a trust fund just to keep us in groceries through high school.

 

 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Oh Christmas Tree, You Are Drunk

Thrilling update on the stomach flu front: We were all fine, until we were not. Noah woke up complaining of nausea this morning...but still managed to seem a bit too chipper about the whole stay-home-on-the-couch-and-watch-TV aspect for me to be fully convinced that the plague and pestilence were once again upon us. 

"Now I can't go to school today!" he wailed dramatically, yet he was unable to mask the quiet level of glee that was bubbling just below the surface. 

"Mmm-hmm," I replied, struggling to walk the fine line between Sympathetic Mommy Who Makes Sick Days All About Fluffy Couch Beds & Cartoons Because Poor Baby...and Suspicious Mommy Who Kind Of Thinks You're Faking. 

Compromise: I made him a Couch Bed but refused to turn the TV on. You get to stay home but you're gonna be bored out of your mind.

THAT'LL LEARN YA.

45 Minutes Later: The TV is on now. He really is sick, and I'm an asshole. 

It turns out, though, that seven-year-old children can get themselves to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet like civilized human beings. So that's nice. And a first. Practically a vacation day, comparatively speaking. 

Anyway, there WAS a time this weekend when everybody was feeling fine, so we went out in search of a Christmas tree. 

You know we've never actually done the whole tree farm cut-your-own thing before? Right? What's wrong with us? 

(Don't answer that.)

In the past we were hesitant to take Noah, since he can be a little...unpredictable.

(One year he was happy to go to a tree lot and select a tree, then lost his ever-loving mind over the idea that we had to put the tree on top of our car in order to get it home. We ended up leaving sans tree, only to have Jason go back out and seekritly transport it home after bedtime. The next morning, Noah was thrilled to see the fully decorated tree...as long as we steadfastly promised him that we'd managed to get it home some other way than on the roof of our car.)

(Christmas! It truly is the magical season of lies.)

Sure enough, Noah was initially very distressed to hear about our change of plans this year. No farm! Go to the regular place with the normal usual trees like always and before! I don't care if they cost twice as much and are half as fun, STOP TRYING TO MAKE MY CHILDHOOD ENRICHING AND ALL THAT STUFF.

He complained pretty much the entire drive there, straight on through a McDonald's Bribery Meal of Please Let It Go, LET IT GO, THE TREE FARM IS HAPPENING, OKAY? 

As usual, his anxiety melted away the second we got there and he realized that the tree farm actually is pretty fun, and involves absolutely zero children-eating trees or whatever it was he was scared would happen there. Math tests, maybe.

He declared the very first tree he saw to be the Most Perfect Tree Ever.

It turned out he was right, but we still spent a very fun hour hiking around the farm and judging tree after tree and giving them all complexes over their natural imperfections before circling back to this one.

ERGO PHOTOBOMB.

SURPRISE LUMBERJACK.

GLOVELESS CITY SLICKER MEETS COMMUNITY TREE SAW.

Watching the cutting process from a safe distance, like that thing was gonna be all, "TIMBERRRR!" in a matter of minutes.

This part might have taken a little longer than everybody was expecting.

Okay, maybe a lot longer.

Luckily, the farm had arranged some haybales for (I assume) festive family photo opps and such.

My kids were all, I DECLARE THEE FORT THUNDERDOME!

(Still managed to get a photo opp or two out of it, though.)

When we got the tree home we did learn the first lesson of tree-farm Christmas trees: They look at LOT smaller out in the wild, surrounded by bigger, taller, fuller trees, than they do once they're smack dab in the middle of your average suburban living room, surrounded by displaced furniture.

This tree is HUGE. Who lives here, the pope?

Ike napped through the decorating process and woke up to find a giant illuminated monstrosity of a tree hanging out in his house. 

He was pretty cool with it, though. It's a'ight. Nothing phases these third babies, you guys. 

Speaking of third babies, LOOK AT ME LEARNING LESSONS.

After countless close calls and one direct in-the-face hit, I finally replaced our stupid heavy pointy metal stocking holders with something lightweight and...less likely knock teeth out and cause concussions and ER visits. I know, I know. I obviously spoil my children too much and they shall grow up soft because of it. But Sterling Pear sent me these awesome child-safe stocking scroll holders and Ike's face and I thank them very much for that. 

After the kids went to bed, the pets came out to bask in the warm glowy festiveness.

And Jason and I did the same, with some help from all of y'all's helpful hot toddy recipe suggestions. This one is hot apple cider, brandy, cinnamon sticks and of course, swanky far-out vintage ski resort style, because I insist on being as ridiculous as possible at all times.