The Helpful Games

IN WHICH I POWER-RANK MY CHILDREN IN ORDER OF THEIR GENERAL USEFULNESS AROUND THE HOUSE

ROUND ONE: CLEANING UP TOYS

Okay guys, we need to clean up the Legos. Every single Lego needs to get picked up and put in the blue Lego bag over there. Got it? Go.

EZRA

Sits down, then puts forehead on floor. Sl-o-o-w-ly picks up a single, solitary Lego brick. Scoots belly-down like a slug over to Lego bag. Sits up, stares at ceiling. Holds hand over bag and lets Lego fall through fingers. Lego hits the bag and immediately bounces back out onto floor. Collapses in exhaustion. 

Score: 1/5

NOAH

This is going to take forever. FOREVER. How long is this going to take? FOREVER. I never get to do anything because I have to clean up all the time and also FOREVER. I'm not cleaning those Legos up because I'm still playing with them. And I'm not cleaning those Legos up because even though they are right in front of me I have gone selectively blind. I will clean those Legos up, at least, but only after I've spent 10 minutes complaining about them, which equals approximately three-and-a-half FOREVERS.

Score: 3/5

IKE

Hurls Legos to floor, runs. Has Legos in mouth, probably.

Score: 0/5

ROUND TWO: HAND ME THAT THING

Okay guys, hand me that thing. That thing right in front of you. Right, that thing. 

EZRA

Hands me that thing, immediately and enthusiastically, but knocks over an entire cup of juice in the process.

Score: 3/5

NOAH

What thing? This thing?

Me: NO, WRONG THING. 

What is a thing?

Me: *EXPLAINS THING* 

What does a thing look like?

Me: *DESCRIBES THING; COLOR, PURPOSE, MATERIAL, ETC.*

Where is the thing?

Me: RIGHT THERE, IN FRONT OF YOU.

Oh! Okay. One minute.

*leaves, heads to bathroom, brings back the sink drain stopper*

This thing?

Score: 1/5, for effort

IKE

Hurls thing to floor, runs. Has other thing that I need in mouth, probably.

Score: 0/5

ROUND THREE: OH LAWDY IT'S A JUICE SPILL

Okay guys, someone's spilled some juice. What do you do?

EZRA 

Is totally the one who spilled the juice. Will totally sit there and do nothing (while sitting in bonus puddle of maple syrup that will also go unnoticed and undealt-with). When asked what they teach him at that fancy-pants Montessori school that he and a good deal of our money go to everyday, will respond by getting a towel and throwing it sort-of in the direction of the spill. Will then tap towel with foot before recoiling in sticky disgust and return to his syrup-covered seat.

Score: 1/5

NOAH

Ezra spilled his juice Ezra spilled his juice Mom Mom Mom Ezra spilled his juice Mom it's going everywhere oh no Mom Mom Mom Ezra spilled his juice it's on the floor now too Mom Mom Mom Mom.

Score: 1/5, mostly for the Amy Poehler impression

IKE

Hurls spill-proof sippy cup to the floor, because THAT'S how you don't spill juice, bitches. Not sure what your damage is.

Score: 1/5

ROUND FOUR: THROW THIS OUT

Okay guys, we've cleaned up the juice spill with some paper towels. Please throw them out.

EZRA

Gets immediately and irrationally attached to Mister Paper Towel Wad. Mister Paper Towel Wad is later found in his backback/lunchbox/"house"/bed, covered in ants.

Score: 0/5

NOAH

After a five-minute lecture about the environment and whether or not we can reuse Mister Paper Towel Wad, followed by another five minutes of anxiety over whether or not Mister Paper Towel Wad would be recyled as another paper towel specifically and not something different, I give up and throw Mister Fucking Paper Towel Wad into the trash myself, then lie about sending him upstate to live on a nice big paper towel farm. 

Score: 0/5

IKE

Happily and joyfully throws it out. Because throwing things out is his FAVORITE. Things that he also threw out today include a perfectly serviceable sippy cup, my good nail file, Legos, four unopened cans of tuna fish and our voter registration forms.

Score: 4/5

ROUND FIVE: PUT YO SHOES ON

Okay guys, it's time to go. Put yo shoes on.

EZRA

Okay! 

*gets sneakers, puts them on*

No, these are for Friday, when I am a grown-up.

*takes sneakers off, puts Crocs on*

No, it is raining today. 

*takes Crocs off, puts rainboots on*

Me: PLEASE NOTE THAT IT IS NOT RAINING.

*takes rainboots off, puts snowboots on*

Me: PLEASE NOTE THAT IT IS 70 DEGR- AW FUCK IT. GOOD JOB, EZ!

Score: 5/5

NOAH

Where are my shoes where are my shoes I can't find my shoes where did I leave my shoes oh no my shoes are gone FOREVER and I will never find them FOREVER AGAIN I'm just not going anywhere ever and

*trips over shoes sitting in plain sight, in middle of living room floor*

Oh hey I found them Mom!

Me: GOOD JOB, NOAH!

Score: 5/5

IKE

Shhz? Shhz! Shhz shhz go bye car shhz! 

*actually goes and gets his shhz, tries valiantly to put them on himself before bringing them to me*

Hawp? Shhz? Mama? Mama hawp shhz?

Score: 5/5, because ADORABLE 

RESULTS:

10 points each out of a possible 25. Three-way tie. Overall usefulness around the house still woefully subpar, but hey, at least they are all super-cute. 

The (Belt) Loop

Last week, Noah decided that he wanted to quit karate.

I've always told him it's okay if he wanted to quit karate (usually mid-argument over getting his uniform on and out the door in time for class), but he's always insisted that no, he doesn't want to quit. He wants a black belt. 

Well, that's not technically true, I guess. There was one point in kindergarten when he said he wanted to quit, but didn't like our stipulation that sure, you can quit, but you need to go tell your teachers in person. He waffled for a bit, then finally made it into the office, where he quickly changed his mind after 30 seconds of pep talk from a specific instructor. (Who he worships, but kind of in the same way one worships a terrifying, vengeful god.) He kept at it and seemed to be even more dedicated to the black belt goal than ever, after that.

This time, that particular instructor is out on maternity leave, and he had no such qualms about sauntering right in and quitting. 

And my bluff was called.

I don't WANT him to quit. Sure, I can think of a million other things I could do with the monthly tuition and all the schlepping back and forth two times a week, every week. (Four times, actually, now that Ezra's involved and on a completely different class schedule.) But he's worked so hard at this and come so far, plus exercise and focus and discipline and (yes) self-defense skills and etc. And he's good at it. He really is.

But if karate wasn't fun and he hated it, what can you do? I hated piano lessons and ballet with the heat of a thousand suns as a kid and finally my parents had enough of my whining and let me quit. I regret quitting both; not that I was particularly skilled at either, but it'd be nice to have something to show for the time I spent doing each, like being able to play something besides Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or walk across a floor without falling on my ungraceful ass. But I don't blame my parents for "letting" me quit — I was completely adamant about the decision. 

HOWEVER. In my preemptive defense for the rest of this entry, Noah didn't want to quit because it wasn't fun and he hated it.

He graduated to the "big kid" program a couple months ago and yes, it's much harder and more demanding and it's technically for 8 to 12 years olds, and he's in there at 7.5 because he simply tore through the little kid program at a breakneck pace and never missed a belt test. But that wasn't why he wanted to quit either.

He wanted to quit because he'd gotten the names of two katas (forms) mixed up and was convinced the teachers were teaching him "wrong." He argued with them and stressed about it and wouldn't listen to any explanation. And then he worked himself up into a classic rigid-thinking lather about it, refusing to admit that he'd made a mistake and refusing to see any other course of action other than quitting. It wasn't that he didn't know the forms or couldn't perform them properly — he was just...well, he was stuck in the loop and couldn't get himself out. 

We talked. We bargained. Private lessons. A couple weeks off. His instructor demonstrated the forms and explained the differences. We assured him that the name mix-up was understandable and no big deal and not worth quitting over. We called the instructor out on maternity leave on the phone and had her talk to him and promise to come see him do the forms once he felt better about them.

Noah immediately agreed...until we hung up the phone, at which point her god-like influence evaporated and he went right back to being a rigid little ball of anxiety over it. 

We eventually left without resolving anything. I told them not to start the cancellation process even as Noah burst out of the office and shouted "I JUST QUIT KARATE!" to no one in particular. 

Ezra had just finished his class, so I took all three boys to a coffeeshop for our traditional post-karate snack. And then immediately made the mistake of trying to resume negotiations with Noah. Why? I DON'T KNOW WHY. I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS. STILL.

A very loud, very public tantrum followed, the kind that makes EVERY PERSON AROUND YOU stop and notice and judge you accordingly for not controlling that child, that child who is too old to be acting like that. Or, among the more sympathetic, judge you for making that poor child sob like that, you stage-mothering monster. 

(The situation was made even more surreal by the fact that this guy, in all his neon question-marked glory, was sitting two tables away.)

We immediately left, of course. I got a very nice long look at the tile floor on the way out, lest I make eye contact with anyone. Not my finest hour, by a longshot.

I tried to drop the subject at home, though I did send Noah to his room to calm down. When I went to check on him he seemed more open to discussing things again and I got him to agree to help me count his belts. I bet him he had completed more belts than were left in his path to a black belt. He disagreed, claiming that black was too far away and he'd never get there anyway.

I won. Ten belts down, seven to go. He seemed genuinely surprised. I left him to contemplate the math.

Jason came home, was briefed on the day's events, went upstairs...and everything promptly fell to pieces again. 

"You weren't kidding," he said sadly. "What do we do?"

We discussed the options. We could let him quit, obviously. We could let him take a break and continue to reason with him in the meantime. We could simply toss him in the car and drag him there. 

Or we could bribe him.

Over dinner, we talked about other things. A couple things nicely dovetailed with the issue at hand and I tried some social story Jedi tricks on him. "Hmm, so it sounds like you made a mistake but admitted you were wrong instead of getting upset about it! And everything was still okay! That's great!"

(Noah immediately glowered at me. I know what you're doing, woman, and it's not going to work.)

Finally, we bribed him. We incentivized him, tempted him, made him an offer he could not refuse.

If he makes it to black belt, we will take him to Legoland. 

You could practically HEAR the record scratch in Noah's brain as the needle jumped off the track. Redirection? Achieved. Rigidity? Left in the goddamn dust.

He ran upstairs to put his belt back on. "I'M GOING BACK TO KARATE!" he shouted. "QUITTING IS NOT FOR ME AFTER ALL."

Ike followed him, and came back downstairs with one of Noah's older belts. "Hawp?" he asked me.

I woke up at 4:30 this morning, staring at the ceiling and rehashing yesterday's (COPIOUS) parental failings and worrying that we'd done the wrong thing. The bribe — ahem, I mean the INCENTIVE — felt like cheating, and maybe we should have let Noah make the decision, even if we thought (or knew) his reasons were coming from a questionable source. 

Noah woke up at 7:00, and sailed through the morning like a weight had been lifted. He was his bubbly, happy self for the first time in...oh.

Since he told me he wanted to quit karate last week. Huh.

"I'm so happy I'm back in karate, " he said with a big sigh, over breakfast. "I'm going to learn the forms and it's okay that I had the names wrong. Mr. W will show them to me and then! I'm back in karate! For good this time!"

I still don't know if we did the right thing or not. But this morning I just lifted my arms over my head.

"WHEEEEE!" I said, and I gave him a high-five. 

Mister Doorknob's Big Adventure

We spent the weekend in Colonial Williamsburg. Full Post With All The Photos will be coming later, under the Sponsored banner, but I promise it will still manage to reach out through the screen and squeeze on your heart until water falls out of your face. I mean, not to oversell it or anything, but Noah was in rare form the whole time; basically a walking, talking blog entry of childhood wonder and awesomeness. He made two different grandmothers CRY on two different occasions, you guys. And I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. Two complete strangers cried actual happy tears in front of me because they just couldn't even with him. 

I couldn't even either. I still can't even. 

We were eating breakfast at the hotel on Saturday morning and my children were devouring a truly frightening amount of food from the buffet, but I guess they were being charming about it, as several older couples stopped to compliment their behavior to me on their way out.

(Which some day, when I am not so completely focused on getting out of restaurants alive, I promise to pay forward and do that for another families dining out with young children, because it really is nice to hear that someone appreciates your efforts to keep everyone's inner helldemon from unleashing itself all over the appetizers.) 

That's when one of the ladies noticed the doorknob.

"I'm guessing there's a story behind that?" she asked.

There was. Of course there was.

We recently swapped out the brass doorknob on our bedroom door for a silver one, to match the rest of the hardware in the room. Noah found the old doorknob and...well, got a little attached to it. In the grand naming tradition of Mister Woodchip, our family now had a Mister Doorknob.

Later, I found Noah walking around the house with the doorknob. "This is my room! And that's my bunk bed. I sleep on the top. Would you like to look out the window?"

I asked him what he was doing; he explained that Mister Doorknob had spent his whole life stuck on our door and had only ever seen our room. Now Mister Doorknob was getting a tour of the rest of the house. 

So naturally, it was only fair that Mister Doorknob get to come on vacation as well. He's never seen Williamsburg either, Mom. 

By the time I got to this point in the story, I realized my voice was catching. Mister Doorknob had seemed just kind of funny before, and even borderline annoying. (Mister Doorknob falls apart into two separate pieces, one of which is always getting lost and ALSO MY CHILD IS WALKING AROUND WITH AN ANTHROPOMORPHIZED DOORKNOB.) But at that moment, I was suddenly whalloped with the innocent preciousness of the whole thing, of my sweet little boy wanting to show a doorknob a nice time, because he liked it. And because it never would occur to him that it was weird or embarrassing to like it. 

The woman listening to my story was hit with the same little pinprick of emotions, as she brought her hand to her mouth and gasped. "That is...so sweet," she said, as we both awkwardly wiped our eyes. "Thank you for sharing that. What a wonderful child you have." 

Mister Doorknob spent most of our visit tucked safely away in Noah's backpack. But Noah made sure to pull him out every once in awhile to show him anything important. 

Shuttle bus = obviously super-important

Oh, Noah. Don't ever stop being so...you. 

Another Super-Exciting Post About What We Ate This Week, Oh My GOD

(So it's come to this. Oh, blogging. The world had such high hopes for you!)

Despite the now-documented existence of ZOMBIE BETCHTABULS, Ezra continues to blow my tiny little mind with his love of salad. And Noah continues to glare tiredly at me, meal after meal, because he is NOT RELATED TO THAT FREAK OVER THERE. THE ONE EATING RAW LETTUCE LEAVES. 

So meal planning continues to be a delicate dance o' Food Tetris — Child A will eat this but not that, Child B will eat that but not this. Child C is a wildcard, accepting and rejecting foods randomly and capriously like a total freaking jerk.

Meanwhile, Jason and I would also, you know, like to eat things that we like. And to eat things that are healthy-to-healthy-ish, but are satisfying enough to curb the 10 pm cravings for ALL THE CARBS IN THE HOUSE. And can it not take a million hours to make? Also, please include some free diamonds and a unicorn, while we're making requests. 

We have had some successes, though. Noah discovered that he likes carrots. Cooked carrots, anyway, and carrots that have been glazed in butter and maple syrup. Which...okay, maybe not the biggest nutrition win in the world but I will take it. He calls them "fruit carrots," and I will take that as well. Especially since he gamely tried and roundly hated all of the following:

• Cantaloupe <--- WHAT
• Grapes <--- ARE YOU HUMAN
• Strawberries <--- SERIOUSLY I AM ASKING
• Kiwi <--- okay the seeds are kind of weird
• Cauliflower browned in sesame oil with a little sea salt <--- FINE KID MOAR FOR MEEEE

But! Buuuuut! He also ate these turkey burgers and these bison burgers, despite them being completely chock full of things that could be picked out. And despite them being BURGERS, which he refused to have anything to with for about 80% of his life. (He would eat the bun, maybe, and only if he could pick off any microscopic flecks of any evidence that it came in contact with the burger patty.) After a dubious breakthrough involving a McDonald's cheeseburger last year, I of course tried to get him to eat burgers at home, but was informed that my homemade burgers were not McDonaldsy enough, either in taste or appearance. 

What changed? I bought a package of slider buns. 

And my kids were TOTAL SUCKERS for those slider buns. They were so excited about the stupid tiny buns that they didn't even notice or care that we'd put beans in the burgers. Beans! TEXTURE MADNESS YOU GUYS.

(The recipe calls for kidney beans, which we did not have. I used cannelini instead and they were delicious. Thanks to basically being raised at a Chipotle, Ezra and Ike actually like plain beans, so I just served the rest of the can as a side for them with some olive oil and seasonings.)

Two nights later they were STILL so excited about the stupid tiny buns that they didn't even notice or care that we'd put DICED JALAPENO in the burgers.

I think I shall write my own book about how to get kids to eat. I shall call it "Stupid Tiny Buns" and it will be exactly three pages long. 

Chapter One: Buy Yourself Some Stupid Tiny Buns

Chapter Two: Put Stuff on the Stupid Tiny Buns

Chapter Three: PROFITTTT

Now I want try some veggie burgers on the Stupid Tiny Buns because I can't leave well enough alone. I will up this goddamn burger ante to antes previous un-upped. (Anyone have a good recipe? Preferably one with lots of beans and lentils since I THINK that would have a higher chance of acceptance? Of course now that I've put that in writing...)

For the record, and in the interest of full disclosure, this one would not even TRY the bison burger, despite loving the turkey version. He ate some tomato and two Stupid Tiny Buns. Luckily he is cute and obviously not wasting away to a carb-based nothing.

Sounds About Right

Things That Have Been Dropped On My Foot Since Reuniting With My Children:

1) One National Geographic Kids United States Atlas

2) One vintage Fisher Price toy stove top

3) Ike

Things That Have Sat On My Foot Since Reuniting With My Children:

1) Noah

2) Ezra

3) Ike

4) The dog

5) The cat

6) Jason, almost, until I shrieked and recoiled just in time

Things That My Foot Has Tripped Over Since Reuniting With My Children:

1) Their shoes

2) My crutches, which Noah left lying right outside the bathroom door (In case I needed them, I guess?) 

3) The dog

4) The cat

5) Legos

It's so good to be back. I missed them all so much, even if they totally didn't follow my pre-trip orders to not get any bigger while I was away. 

Bright & Shiny & Full of Win

The meeting went just as well as expected, which is to say awesome, which to say I love everyone and everything right now. Including you! Oh, you. Come give us a cuddle.

Noah will transition to the general education classroom for math after spring break, surrounded by the nicest, most supportive team of bona fide Noah Fangirls that we've ever encountered since starting this journey over five years ago. These people looooove him and think he's amazing. And of course I tend to agree.  

I should note, in case anyone was/is concerned that we're getting rushed or pushed out of services: There is actually no change or reduction at all in the number of service hours on the IEP. As Kari explained in her comment: It's simply a placement change, aka where he will RECEIVE those hours of service and special ed support. Least Restrictive Environment; pull-outs vs. integration; etc. But the support is still there: The school is still being held accountable to make sure Noah's needs are being accommodated and that he makes progress on all his academic and behaviorial goals. He'll continue to receive one-on-one OT and be allowed extra time for tasks and testing and to leave the classroom for walks/breaks for self-regulation and he'll have personal token system and blah blah blah I'll refrain from typing out his entire dang IEP. 

This is a really good leap for Noah to take, but there is still a fully operational safety net underneath him in case it doesn't work out. And it's probably still more like "baby steps" than an actual "leap." But still BOO YAH YAY HE IS DOING SO AWESOME.

Also, because important:

This. Yes. SOON.

Pomp & Circumstance

So that...figured.

Despite all my big talk and confidence on Friday, Ezra completely freaked out and melted down at his first belt test. It was held in a different room, with a different instructor, and Ezra decided to show his displeasure with these changes by being as obstinate as humanly possible. 

"Okay, boys and girls, everybody please sit criss-cross applesauce facing me."

Ezra sits criss-cross applesauce facing the opposite side of the room.

"Everybody line up in a straight line right here."

Ezra plops himself down in a random corner, seven feet away.

"Everybody stand up."

Ezra sits down.

"Everybody sit down."

Ezra stands up.

Aaaaaaaaand ecetera. 

I pulled him aside on at least two different occasions and told him we'd need to go home if he didn't start...uh, where to begin? Cooperating? Listening? Participating? Doing everything that is the exact opposite of what you are doing right now? 

He did not want to leave. He cried and begged to stay when I offered him his shoes, which made me feel just great, super great, I'm so glad we're spending a ton of money every month for this enriching experience, but then he would re-join his class and remain completely paralyzed by stage fright or shyness or general being-four-ness. 

Luckily, the program has pretty low standards when it comes to the preschoolers, and they let Ezra stomp on his board and get a new belt, mostly to boost his confidence for next time. Hooray, everyone's a winner! 

He was clearly thrilled.

So was Ike.

On Saturday we got to experience that thrill ALL OVER AGAIN, when it was Noah's turn. And of course, since he was the one I was worried about (he's been really struggling with attention and impulse control in class lately, to the point that I wasn't sure he was going to be allowed to take the belt test), he completely rocked it the fuck out. 

Noah's test took me by surprise in another way, too: I didn't realize it would officially mark his graduation to the next level of the program, the one for eight-to-12 year olds. He's still only seven, so I mistakenly assumed that he'd kick around in the same class until his birthday. 

Nope. Starting today he'll attend the big kid class, with a new instructor, officially on his way to a real honest-to-God black belt. 

We also have an IEP meeting this afternoon.

No suspense or surprises this time, though, since I already know the team's recommendations and agree with them. Today we will come up with a transition plan to move Noah 100% back into the general education classroom by the end of this school year. 

Uh-uh. That sentence. I just typed that sentence. 

He'll still have an IEP next year and goals and specialized support in the classroom, but he will no longer be pulled out of general education.

Yes. That sentence just happened too. 

And it's the right call, as much as I kind of not-so-secretly love that Noah has essentially been getting one-on-one tutoring this year as the highest-functioning kid in a very, VERY small classroom. He does just as well in the regular classroom and he actually gets his best grades in the gen-ed subjects. Overall is progress has been (as his teachers all put it) "AMAZING." It's time to step up the game now.

Sometimes I thought this day would never come. 

And yet I always knew this day would come. 

 

Noah For President

I imagine many of you, upon hearing the words "LET ME SHOW YOU MY KID'S ART PROJECT," have the exact same reaction as if I said "LET ME TELL YOU ALL ABOUT THIS WEIRD DREAM I HAD."

Which is to promptly set yourself on fire, and then run away screaming that you left the iron on and Beyonce's on the phone. 

Which is fine and understandable and LET ME SHOW YOU MY KID'S ART PROJECT.

Noah had to put together a book for President's Day and answer some questions about what he would do when he becomes president. Which is definitely going to happen. Nothing is going to hold this kid back when it comes to fulfilling his dream of Holding A Stick and Having A Hat. NOTHING, I TELL YOU. IT"S THE AMERICAN DREAM. YOU WERE IN THE DREAM TOO, BUT NOT REALLY AS YOURSELF, YOU KNOW? IT WAS WEIRD.

I don't know who the man and woman are on the other side of the desk here, or what their speech squiggles represent, but I like to imagine that it's me and Jason, continuing to provide guidance and counsel to our hat-wearing, stick-holding runaway success of a child.

I also imagine Noah is telling us to get the hell away from his desk and out of his chair. God, Mom, shut up. 

This is either a really solid presidential plan or a rejected storyboard from a Damon Lindelof sequel to Air Force One. 

Ledis = lettuce? I think?

In other words, Mom, I will eat that salad when I am President, pigs fly, hell freezes over, etc. 

COME BACK HERE DOG I HAVE A STICK.

Please note the SERIOUS EYEBROWS. He is not messing around. Everyone please commence caring about each other right this second. He will send your ass to jail, people. Stop being a bunch of jerks.

I cannot argue with that. He really would. STORCH 2040.

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.