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.

 

 

15 Things I Love About This, The Greatest Gift of All

Thing #1: Why yes! I do love this so much I might marry it. Thank you!

Thing #2: He's inherited my favorite writerly colloquialisms.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I hop yall (ed. note: YA'LL! YES.) like this book. Yall proble be so prod of me (ed. note: DAMN SKIPPY). I love you.

From Noah

Thing #3: Seriously, though, he wrote us a book.

Thing #4: All farms still have red barns, even when they actually don't.

It's nice to see that life has not shaken his belief in the big red barn.

Thing #5: This picture of our timbering tree.

Thing #6: VIOLENCE.

Thing #7: Trees on top of cars. 

TREES ON TOP OF CARS. No big deal, Mom. 

Thing #8: No detail is worth leaving out.

You are learning well, young blogger-san.

Thing #9: When your narrative drags, go with some hyperbolic exaggeration. 

(We did not drive over a river. It was more like a slightly dramatic puddle.)

Thing #10: I...I did?

 

I think Dad might nitpick this version of events, as Mom is a useless asshole. 

Thing #11: Seriously, I am coming off SO WELL here.

He left out the part where I got all annoyed at my children's useless decorating abilities and wanton ornament destruction and finally did the dramatic "JUST LET ME DO IT MYSELF" parenting win of the year move. 

Thing #12: NERRRRRRRRD.

"My favorite ornament on the tree is the Frodo ornament."

Thing #13: Everything about this illustration.

The clasped stick arms! The dreamy dream bubble! The image of Santa delivering presents while possibly strapped to the electric chair!

Thing #14: "About the Author." 

ZOMG.

Thing #15: The secret bonus material on the back page.

"The alien zombies from the Black Lagoon showed up and stole all the presents. The end."

 

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. 

Downs & Ups

UP:

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

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

DOWN:

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

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

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

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

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

UP:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blessed Holy Tradition of Mall Santa

Heh. Heh heh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

Quarantine Lifted

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaaaand now I'm sleepy. 

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

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

Solution = never eat candy ever again. 

We'll see how long that lasts.

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

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

Let us never speak of that crib sheet again. 

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

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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photography. EVERY TIME.

(Noah and Jason continue to hold on and fight the good-immune-system fight. Ezra has moved on from Pedialyte to bananas and toast, with distinctively mixed results. I am fighting off an encroaching post-stomach-flu sinus infection, because why the hell not? And Ike thinks it's all a bunch of malingering bullshit and would like to go to the playground already, GOD.)

(In other words, hav sum pitchers. Hork.)

PHASE ONE: 

Behold, a photo opportunity!

PHASE TWO: 

A CHALLENGER APPEARS.

PHASE THREE:

A pile-on quickly follows.

PHASE FOUR:

Poorly-focused and unsynchronized hamming, but still with some promise.

PHASE FOUR AND A HALF:

Look at the camera and hold still, guys. No, I meant YOU look at the camera, not twist your brother's head like a Barbie doll, I mean...

PHASE FOUR-AND-THREE-QUARTERS:

Can you stop screaming "cheese" so loud? I think you're starting to freak the ba...

PHASE FIVE:

Foreshadowing of the inevitable.

PHASE SIX:

Hold up. That's not bad...maybe just one more second...if you two would just SMILE like NORMAL PEOPLE, PLEASE...

PHASE SEVEN:

Denouement. Heartbreaking yet oddly LOL-worthy denouement.

EPILOGUE:

The immediate shifting of blame and innocent stares of "What? Us? That? No."

Adventures in Family Photography (AKA HERDING CATS UPSTREAM BOTH WAYS)

OMG. So I have like, 40 million things to do today. And approximately 30 million of those things may or may not involve butter.

(Plus I obviously need to go to the store and buy some more butter.)

But I just got our photos from a photo shoot with Blue Lily Photography we did last month, for the second October in a row. (Once again: I have the best boss who gives out the best Christmas presents.) Last year, Ike was a four-month-old blobby of suspicion. 

This year, he proudly moved up the ranks to fully accredited goofball:

He's in good company, obvs:

Despite bribing them with toys and threatening their very lives, my gorgeous children were a horrifically uncooperative pack, I must admit. 

Luckily, Tyler stumbled on the winning trick of getting them to look at the camera by ordering them to not look at the camera. 

Occasionally, we even managed to ALL look at the camera at the same time:

(And by "occasionally," I of course mean "basically those three times.")

And finally, presenting what may be my favorite photo of anyone, ever:

I plan to use this photo as my universal reaction to everything from stupid PR pitches, writing deadlines and suggestions that maybe I should take it easy on the butter.