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. 

 

Say My Name

Noah called me 'Mama' until he started preschool. That child never once sat still for circle time or completed a craft project without protest — and I'm pretty sure his only interaction with most of his classmates involved throwing things at them — but he still managed to somehow absorb the message that 'Mama' was for babies. He was calling me 'Mommy' within a couple weeks. 

Ezra never called me 'Mama.' I was 'Mommy,' right from the start.

I figured Ike would be the same, especially since he's been taking his sweet time in calling me ANYTHING. By the time he chose to acknowledge that I have a name, that I am a PERSON with FEELINGS beyond LADY WHO WHAT BRINGS ME ALL THE FOOD AND CHANGES MAH PANTS, I assumed he'd be past the 'ma-ma' pronounciation and would call me what he hears his brothers say. Christ, he calls Jason 'Dad' most of the time: He might very well just go straight to 'Mom.'

Such a small, stupid distinction, but I admit: I was bummed at the thought of never being 'Mama' again. I always wished Noah had stuck with it, like I always wish we were more Southern than we are. Not geoghraphically, but...more genteel. With bigger hair. Nicer manners, better shade-throwing skilla and less nasal-y accents. Mama. Bless y'all's hearts. Mommy is fine, but Mama is what my baby called me. And that's what made it so sweet and fleetingly special.

Tl;dr Ike calls me 'Mama."  

For now, anyway. 'Mommy' and 'Mom' are right around the corner, and that's fine.

But oh, it is so nice to hear that word again from this tiny little person. 

 

Doppy Urpdey

Below is an absolutely thrilling video, in which Ike sings "Happy Birthday." Only without any of the actual words...or the right melody...and also there's no cake.

But there is a candle and an excess of toddler confidence and ham-face, so...

 

 

Happy Friday! And no, I'm not paying royalties on that, suckers. It's a new original arrangement.

OH ALL RIGHT

For all my big "I'm over preschool, it's no big deal" talk, this morning was Hard. Very Hard. A whole entire hour of Hard! 

I told Ike he was going to school this morning as I got him dressed, and his entire face lit up at the word and he very literally gasped with delight and clapped his hands. 

"Well," I added, "for an HOUR, anyway. Let's not get ridiculous about it."

I pulled up to the school's drop-off and a teacher calmly collected Ike right from his carseat and carried him up a walkway, towards the classroom door. He and I stared at each other through the windshield. What just happened? Did that just happen? I'm not sure how I feel about what just happened.

I drove home and promptly got ridiculous about it. The rearview reflected nothing but empty carseats and boosters — I'd sent Noah off on the bus carrying a giant posterboard project we completed last night; he refused my offer to drive him to school to protect it because he wanted to show it off to his friends. Next, I dropped Ezra at the curb of the school's primary campus, and he'd bounded off towards the door (with his extraneous backpack and lunchbag, natch) without a look back at me. 

And now my baby, too. 

Ike's entire first hour of toddler-flavor preschool was barely enough time for me to get back home to shower and wipe the breakfast crumbs and syrup residue off my counters, but it was still enough to twinge. My chest felt tight and my arms just felt empty. 

Which: Christ, chill out. Most mornings around this time I'd be handing duties over to a babysitter anyway and plopping down with my laptop and all my other professional-ish (and not-so-professional-ish) duties, but Ike would still be THERE. HERE. Poking his head in my room or downstairs singing. Maybe not in my primary care but still in my...uh...general domain. This was different. Too different. And way too soon. 

(I told you I got ridiculous about it.)

When I arrived back at his school he was sitting at an impossibly tiny table hammering some wooden balls into a tower of ramps. The teacher reported that he did very well, though there were some tears when he first arrived and realized I wasn't coming in with him.

I REPEAT: There were some tears when he first arrived and realized I wasn't coming in with him.

I'm sure this makes me a terrible asshole of a mother, but I was...relieved to hear that. Maybe even a twinge of downright pleased. He noticed. He cared. He gave a rat's ass.

I missed him and he missed me. Good.

He turned towards the door at the sound of my voice and his face lit up for a second time. "Go?" he asked. "Yes?"

"Yes," I said. "Let's go home."

"Yessssss!" he agreed, and ran over to hug me.

Two hours tomorrow. We'll be fine. We can do this. 

Sunrise, Sunset, Yeah, Okay, We Get It, Whatever

So it seems like something interesting happens once you embark on parenting your third (3rrrrrd) child while also entering your 10th (TENTH) (TENNNNNNTH) year of blogging: Reruns. 99.9% of your life has happened before, and hot damn, did you already done document it to death.

Friday was Ike's official "first" day of "preschool." But since the school prefers a gradual transition into the program, it basically meant he and I stayed there together for an hour, and then left.

So...not much different from the day we visited the school a couple weeks ago. So...not much to report, no matter how badly I wanted to work my insides into a nostalgic wreck and then vomit said insides all over my blog because my baby. MY BAAAAAAABY.

Instead we came home and I realized that I've written variations on that first-day-of-school entry four or five times already. Probably three times for Noah, twice for Ezra, at least. So that means I am either:

1) Growing as a person and a writer as I no longer feel compelled to wring emotional drama and emotive blog posts out of ONE HOUR at a GLORIFIED HALF-DAY DAYCARE because my kid PLAYED WITH SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT TOYS THAN THE TOYS HE PLAYS WITH AT HOME, or...

2) I dunno. Just kind of over it? It was an hour. He got REALLY excited in the parking lot and said something that sounded like "yes school yes!" He played with a ball tower for awhile and threw a basket of plastic fruit on the floor when it was time to leave. THE END!

This Thursday he goes for an hour by himself. I am kind of tempted to leave him there a little longer, because: Yeah. He's not gonna care, y'all. He's got an independent streak the size of the Grand Canyon and I predict that instead of rushing into my loving joyful arms when I come to collect him he will again hurl plastic fruit and run in the opposite direction because STOP EMBARRASSING ME BY EXISTING, MOMMMM. 

(There's another not-quite-two-year-old boy in the class who spent the entire hour I was there asking for his mommy. I confidently informed the teacher that Ike would NOT do that, mostly because he still refuses to call me by name, or acknowledge that I even HAVE a name other than a sharp poke to my chest when asked where or who is Mommy. SHE'S RIGHT THERE, DUMBASS.)

Good thing he is so cute. Good thing they are all so cute. Good thing they never get tired of me telling them how cute they are, even if I can't muster up the energy to write about it for the squidrillionth time.

How we all keep swapping these cold germs back and forth, I will never know.

Baby, It's Cold Outside, But Let's Not Be Ridiculous About It

Oh my God, this week. Fuck you, week! Get off my lawn.

I'm concerned I'm becoming one of those bloggers who starts off every entry with an apology/explanation for why they haven't been blogging, which: Shut up. You're blogging right now! GET ON WITH IT. 

On Wednesday we had the terribly exciting pleasure of getting a new heating system installed in our house. Our heat pump actually died two months ago, but thanks to the mild weather (and occasional use of the emergency heat setting) we were able to procrastinate on the replacement until now. "Now" being when I heard Ezra matter-of-factly explain to a playmate that "the floors in my house are like ice-skating." OKAY FINE. YOU COULD JUST WEAR TWO PAIRS OF SOCKS BUT WHATEVER. 

So of course, the day we finally scheduled the installation was the week the weather plummeted down to the mid-20s. Holy shitbags, was this house cold. The kids and I wore double-sweaters and basically stayed in bed under the covers all day until the new system was up and running. The good news, obviously, is that we have heat and are grateful and fortunate and blahhhhhh one single day without heat, boo freaking hoo, AMERICA.

The bad news is that goddamn, heat pumps are expensive and also letting Noah bring LEGOS into my bed was a bad call. 

Yesterday, I spent literally MY ENTIRE MORNING on a post about the American Horror Story finale, which was supposed to be something funny and short and breezy and then (as these things always seem to go for me) went off the talky-run-on rails and turned into a damn research paper about Final Girls, Character Motivations & the Authentic Redemption of Self, With Bonus Zombies & Adam Levine's Chopped-Off Arm. Time well spent, I'm sure.

1,700-plus words later, I hit publish on that and then took all three children to the doctor for belated physicals. (We switched pediatricians which is always a seamlessly easy thing to do logistical paperwork nightmare.) Ezra and Ike needed multiple vaccinations and even though Noah didn't need any he wouldn't stop talking about SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS WHEN DOES EZRA GET HIS SHOTS and so I ended up with two kids screaming from SHOTS and one kid who was sympathy-sobbing over the SHOTS and Ezra apparently failed some fine-motor-skill milestone and Ike needs prescription butt paste and then Ezra ran away from me in the parking lot because SHOTS and...

...you know? I don't really want to talk about it anymore. Instead, here is a picture of Ike hiding under the exam table while wearing Ezra's Angry Birds hat.

Today? Well. Today I am sick with a terrible cold, where my chest hurts and my throat hurts and my head hurts and all my sinus pockets (tubes? are sinuses more like tubes?) in my face hurt. And apparently we're going to get an inch of snow tonight so the entire DC area is all adorably panicked and the schools are sending everybody home early, which: GREAT, THERE GOES MY PLAN TO DAY-DRINK SOME NYQUIL. 

Have a good weekend, everybody. Stay warm and may you not wake up to find LEGOS in your pajama bottoms. 

The Ike Formerly Known as Baby

Hey, what's going on here?

Oh, nothing much. Just my baby checking out his new preschool.

WAIT. WHAT.

It is true. My baby, who you may recall I just gave birth to all of five minutes ago, is starting preschool. 

Our childcare woes are very close to being almost-solved: A wonderful part-time nanny will start working for us in just a couple weeks, for three days a week. Ike will attend the toddler program at Ezra's (wonderful, oh-God-we-love-it) Montessori school the other two mornings.

Technically, it's a two-year-old program, but they will accept Ike at 20 months (February 1st). I don't know if this is standard practice or if they are making an exception because they loooooove us and because Ike is amazing and awesome and the size of a two-and-a-half-year old already...or because I begged and they felt sorry for the crazy-eyed lady who just spent a morning apologizing for all the shrieking during multiple conference calls. 

(It was rough going there for awhile, you guys. Occasionally the shrieking even came from one my kids!)

This morning I took Ike over for his official classroom visit, something I've done with both Noah AND Ezra at this very school, when they were closer to three. And while THEY both behaved like possessed pinball machines the entire time (running! touching! toppling! defying! No, I don't want you to show me something, I just want to DANCE!), Ike was the most perfect brilliant little angel who ever angel-ed. He played quietly with whatever the teacher directed him to, he observed the other children without getting all up in their business, he colored a picture and demonstrated both his awesomely advanced crayon grip* AND said "yes" at least a dozen times. 

It was sweet and wonderful and happy. And absolutely the end of Baby Ike. 

His brothers have stopped calling him that, all on their own. I thought it would be a hard nickname to shake, but...well. Look at him. He's still got the padded diaper-butt and his little mass of baby curls on the back of his head (while the rest of his downy-blond hair refuses to grow, sparing me the agony of the to-first-haircut-or-not, so far), and his hands are still too knuckle-dimpled to look like "real" big boy hands. But he's not Baby Ike, he's Toddler Ike, which just isn't quite as fun to say, so...Ike. Just Ike. 

Ack. This kid. I just love him so much I can't even take it sometimes. 

*Yeah, I did just brag about my toddler's crayon grip. Look. When you're dealing with a small, stubborn human who still craps in their pants, you get your sources of pride in weird places sometimes. IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TOOOOOOO. 

Yes Ike Can

Despite an early surge of talky-ish mimicry, Ike pretty much clammed up and stopped talking altogether around his first birthday. He'd gesture and babble and all that, but it was a long time before we heard any real words from him again. 

He was testing me, of course. He was waiting for me to say something about it, to put the soupy dash of worry I was stirring around in my brain into words and admit that I was concerned about his lack of speech, especially as he rapidly approached 18 months — the age when Noah was officially put on the wait-and-watch list.

(Noah was 21 months when he was evaluated and found to be speech delayed, though by that age some of his sensory issues were already very pronounced — toe walking, texture and oral motor issues, lining up toys, etc. — and it was pretty clear that was all probably related.)

I refused to play that game, this time. Instead, I did exactly THE OPPOSITE what I've probably advised a hundred dozen advice-seekers who have emailed me over the years with concerns about their own children's development. I ignored the shit out of it. 

To be fair (and to sound slightly LESS monstrous), Ike has two older brothers who are basically talking ALL THE TIME, and quite often talk on his behalf. He uses gestures and sigh language (Noah did not point or wave, either), and does not toe-walk or exhibit any signs of sensory issues. Food textures, grass, clothing, noises — nothing bothers this kid. No delays in fine or gross motor, either. So I told myself his silence was probably just another sign of his laidback personality and general affability. A language explosion was just around the corner, probably. 

SPOILER ALERT: He's fine. He's talking now. I won. This time. 

He's certainly not as advanced a talker as Ezra was — that child started talking at 12 months and was practically speaking in paragraphs by this age, but...wow. It's almost like I gave birth to three entirely different human beings, or something! Imagine that. But Ike is now saying a perfectly acceptable number of words and making decent attempts to learn and use more on a daily basis. 

WORDS HE CAN SAY: Shoes, sit, go, off, open, peekaboo, ball, book,  cat, woof woof, vroom vroom, hi, bye, there it is, what's that, teeth, cheese, juice, hat, Elmo, Ezra, Daddy.

WORDS HE CANNOT SAY: Mommy. Or mama. Or mom. Or wonderful exalted woman who gave birth to me. Whatever.

But his favorite word — oh my goodness, his favorite word in the whole world that he says a million times a day — is quite possibly the most marvelous thing ANY of my children have accomplished. And they've all accomplished some pretty damn marvelous things. 

"YES." 

Yes! The opposite of NO, which he actually does NOT say. He'll shake his head for no if he has to, but 99% of the time he'd rather answer your question with YES. 

IT'SSOADORABLEYOOOGUYZZZ.

And yes, it's hard not to abuse a little bit and ask the same question over and over again, or ask questions that he doesn't understand in the first place, like whether he believes in climate change or whether these jeans make my butt look amazing. "YETH!" he'll respond. "HIGH FIVE!" I'll say. "Good talk."

(And double-yes, I realize that by typing all this out and uploading that video, he will probably wake up from his nap screaming "NOOOO" at the top of his lungs, forever and evermore, amen. But it was real cute while it lasted, I guess.)

Germ Warfare

FIRST WAVE: 

Child #1 coughs once. Maybe twice. That is the end of it, and also the beginning.

SECOND WAVE:

Child #2 starts coughing all over the place. Especially at night, or at 5 am in the morning. They also develop a runny nose. Any tissue that touches even the outermost bare edge of their nostril is immediately discarded in utter disgust because BOOOOGERS. Yet there is no such similar aversion to walking around with their sleeve as a reusable snotrag all the livelong day.

THIRD WAVE:

Child #3 comes down with the bug just as soon as Child #2 has thrown out the last perfectly usable tissue, and comes down with it HARD. Coughing, hacking, sneezing, wailing, gnashing of teeth, tearing of garments, hurling of sippy cups, etc. Maybe they toss in a fever, just for fun. Sleep goes all to hell, unless Child #3 is held upright by you, with your shirt/skin/hair as the resuable snotrag while they sigh and moan pathetically. You perform this job gladly, of course, because snuggles are snuggles, bitchez. And hey! At least it's not barf. This time. Yet. Oh, God. 

(Note that if you make it through this wave without a middle-of-the-night ear infection, it will be a goddamned Christmas miracle.) 

(Yup. Hi.)

We were deep into the third wave yesterday, but thankfully Ike woke up this morning greatly improved. Which means now we get to sit around and wait for the FINAL WAVE, which usually comes right after Children #1, 2 AND 3 are back at top speed and full volume, and consists of the worn-to-a-nub parents (who, as a reminder, have likely not gotten an uninterruped night of sleep since at least the second wave) getting whacked at the kneecaps with the worst cold of their adult lives. Or the worst cold since the LAST worst cold of their adult lives. 

Anyway, I need to go take some zinc or vitamins or antibacterial soup tea or whatever, and wash my hands up to the elbows for the 20th time today. Also, does anybody know if you can just hose a house down with bleach? Asking for a friend.