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. 

Ezra the Collector

This post is sponsored by Citrus Lane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

He’s never been happier, the goof. 

***

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

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

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

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.

This Is Me Not Writing About Being Sick; This Is Me Writing About Being an Idiot

I took a couple half-hearted stabs at blogging yesterday — probably out of some pseudoephedrine-fueled psychosis where I believed I could make being sick "funny" — but I kept coughing mid-sentence and losing my train of thought, so all my attempts fizzled out and either became First World Whinefests or kind of gross, full of overshare-y details like what it's like to blow your nose and have stuff come out your tear ducts.

(See? Aren't you glad I spared you that one?)

(Waaaaiiiiit...)

By late afternoon I decided I felt a little bit better and that leaving the house sounded like a nice idea. Putting on pants, even! The sun was shining! It was a beautiful day and I AM SO HOPPED UP ON ADVIL RIGHT NOW WHEEEE.

So I took Noah to karate. Minutes after we arrived, I realized my phone (and thus my sole source of entertainment, because no offense, Precious Child o' Mine, but watching the 3,204,280th game of karate dodgeball is no longer the thrill it once was) had died. I also realized that my child was coughing. And sneezing. And sniffling. Profusely. 

OH COME ON.

He'd been completely healthy all of five minutes prior in the car, but apparently managed to come down with cold #4,293 somewhere in the parking lot.

His symptoms were obvious enough that the other parents in the seats ahead of me were shifting around uncomfortably and side-eying each other, clearly trying to figure out who the hell brought the contagious diseased child to class. 

Now, a normal, thinking human being would probably just get her kid's attention and leave, since obviously a regrettable — yet easily correctable — mistake had been made.

But you know, I'd put on paaaaaants. 

So instead, I also turned around, like, who the hell? 

(Note: THIS IS WHY I DYE MY HAIR RED. PLAUSIBLE GENETIC DENIABILITY.)

Of course, this move would have been much smoother if I 1) hadn't been sitting in the back row, and 2) didn't start having a coughing fit right at that moment.

Being an expert in How To Adult, however, I had an escape plan ready to go before anybody could give me a dirty look: FAKE PHONE CALL.

My phone was dead, but I pulled it out, scowled at the imaginary called ID and pretended to answer it while getting up and heading out the door, like a POLITE cell phone user who was not at all the sort to show up and hack germs and parasites all over innocent people. 

Another mother and her child were just coming in as my fake phone call and I were exiting, and...I froze.

The obvious script "Oh hi yeah hang on I'm at karate let me step outside blah blah" flew out of my head, and I stood there blocking the door like an moron, with my mouth hanging open and my completely dead phone by my ear while this random woman stared at me, possibly wondering if I was having some kind of neurological incident.

"Oh hey..." I started, which only made the encounter more awkward, since NOW she probably thought I was talking to her instead of my fake phone call.

In a panic, yet committed to this stupid pointless charade that nobody else was probably even paying attention to until I went and turned it into a thing, I blurted out the first name that popped into my brain.

"...Beyoncé."

Yes.

Yeah.

Beyoncé.

SHE'S PROBABLY ASKING WHAT SONGS I THINK SHE SHOULD SING AT HALFTIME THIS WEEKEND, OR WHETHER OR NOT SHE SHOULD CLOTH DIAPER BLUE IVY. YOU KNOW, THE USUAL DRAMZ. 

At this point the other mother was clearly aware that she was wasting precious seconds on a crazy person and stepped aside so I could leave. Which I did. With my phone still glued to my ear, where it remained until I was fully out of view from the glass-fronted karate studio. Because BEYONCÉ. 

I wandered over to a coffee shop and ordered a Mortification Tea for myself and a cookie for Noah. Which I waved through the glass windows at the end of class as bait because don't make me go back in there. It's not safe. I can't be trusted. Put on your shoes and let's go, omg. 

The good news is that I actually am feeling better today! The bad news is that several of the boys are now sick with a completely different cold that I will probably get, and also that I have no idea whether the Destiny's Child reunion rumors are true or not. Dammit Bey, I thought we were close!

THIS IS ME NOT WRITING ABOUT STILL BEING SICK

...

....

.....

......

WELL. THAT WAS FUN. I'M OUT. 

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. 

Ezra the Ezra-iest

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

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

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

On the other hand:

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

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

Complete with the revolutionary accessories of the day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

So naturally he chose a bear. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

On Being Outnumbered, Part Whatever (Of A Never-Ending Series)

In an oddly convenient coda to yesterday's post, last night I got a flu shot while my children watched. I wanted to show them that no, really, shots aren't a big deal. It ended with me almost saying the f-word in front of them, because DANG THAT HURT LIKE A MOTHERHUGGING CHEEZIT CRACKER. 

ProTip: RELAX your arm. I forgot to do this and remained coiled up and tense, probably since I was so intent on bracing myself to display absolutely no facial reaction at all, because I was trying to be a badass in front of Noah and Ezra and, in retrospect, set up dishonestly high expectations that shots don't hurt at all, when everybody knows they DO hurt and now the next time they get a shot it will further erode their trust in me, forever and ever amen. WINNING!

But listen: When I took them for THEIR flu shots a few weeks ago, there was so much goddamn sturm und drang over it — I'm talking children hiding under waiting room chairs while wailing for someone to help them, why won't someone helllllllp them — that I finally turned sweetly to the receptionist and asked that she instead put us down for two of the nasal mists, please. Then I pretended like I didn't know them for awhile, until our names were called. Hello! Look at this adorable and oblivious toddler sitting on my lap! This is mine! Just this one! Those other two might look a lot like him but I dunno. I think I saw them come in with a pack of wolves. Their packmaster must be getting his parking validated or something. 

Hmm. I am suddenly aware that a lot of my recent jokey-jokes about my children are possibly making it sound like we are some kind of traveling circus of feral dogs, which is of course not true. They are splendidly behaved most of the time, capable of eating out at restaurants with napkins on their laps while discussing that day's events ("and so I says to Peter I says, it's MY turn on the swings, ol' chap"), or navigating the grocery store without knocking anything over, provided you're generous with the free cheese samples. 

They're just, as Melissa McCarthy said in Bridesmaids, a lot of energy to deal with. So very much energy, both good and bad. They feed off each other, too: If one is hyper, the whole gang is running around screaming for no real reason before you know it. Three-child pile-ons happen at an alarming rate, usually beginning as "group hugs" and quickly escalating to something more like I LOVE YOU AND AM THEREFORE GOING TO SQUEEZE THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR ESOPHAGUS. And if one of them is anxious and decides that a flu shot = murder, well. You've seen 28 Days Later, right? It's like that, only less bitey and more 28-secondy-er. 

When they reach that point I usually separate them and send each boy off to his favorite activity (Noah = Legos, Ezra = play kitchen, Ike = chalkboard wall). And then they have the audacity to act like this is a PUNISHMENT, being forced to leave each other alone just seconds after they were all howling in rage because touching! Bothering! Bottom-of-the-brother-pile-ing! Moo-ooo-om! Make him stop! But not really.

Anyway, I am at a loss as to how to tie this entry together for a satisfying conclusion. (Flu shots! Profanity! Wolves! Boyfights!) So instead, let's just send all these disparate points off to sit in their disparate corners. We'll stay over here with Ike at his chalkboard wall mural and pretend he's the only point we brought up today. 

The Hypocritical Oath

Yesterday, I punished my firstborn child for swearing. 

(Here is where every reader who has ever cringed at or suggested I curb my horrible language and penchant for the f-word lets out a well-deserved cackle.)

He said the word...hell.

(Here is where every other reader who could not give a flying fuck about my fucking language and who appreciates a good mastery of creative fucking obscenities also lets out a cackle, followed by a sigh and a YOU USED TO BE COOL, MAN.)

But yeah. Noah told Ezra to "get the hell out" of the bathroom. Twice!

Which, on the one hand: SERIOUSLY. HE WAS GOING. GET THE HELL OUT OF THE BATHROOM, EZRA. 

But on the other hand: I heard it the first time and sternly reminded him that no, you do not talk to your brother using that kind of language, even though I COMPLETELY feel you, dude. I told Ezra to give Noah his privacy but was still within earshot when Noah repeated the slightly PG-rated command.

God fucking dammit, kid. Why you gotta make me give you shit?

I felt like a huge, self-aware tool as I sent him to his room and waited outside just long enough to let the YOU'RE IN TROUBLE NOW, CHILD, WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A TALK sense of dread build a little bit. (Oh yes, that's how I roll.) And then we talked about That Word and why we don't use That Word Like That, especially at school or in front of his little brothers or other adults and blah blah disrespectfulcakes. Manners! Upbringing! Show the nice people that you weren't (entirely) raised by a pack of incompetent savages!

For the record, I actually think I'm pretty good at watching my language around the kids. At least compared to the potty-mouth I chose to procreate with, who is incapable of driving from point A to point B without letting a few choice words fly at That Fucking Idiot Asshole Over There, What The Hell Is He Doing, Jesus Christ. I've certainly had...moments, though, where I've caught myself a second too late and had to add a bunch of nonsense blibble flabble sounds to distract from the staccato'd motherfuck..uh...duck..uh...er that I accidentally let fly.  

And yes, as curse words go, "get the hell out" is pretty low on the ratings scale, and could have easily been picked up from a wide number of sources, including movies and TV shows we've possibly deemed appropriate for him before noticing all the hells and damns peppered throughout. THOUGH AGAIN, JASON IS WORSE! JASON IS WORSE! He is the slowest remote-grabber in the world when watching something wildly inappropriate for children and will sit there engrossed in like, Showgirls or something for entire MINUTES before noticing that Ezra is standing there, grinning and pointing and saying, "Heh. Butt."

(That is actually a true story.)

Though speaking of Ezra, he once thoroughly impressed me when, as a still-fairly-new talker, he dropped a toy on the floor and let out a perfectly-placed OH SHIT.

As hilarious as it was (note: FUCKING HILARIOUS), that was the moment when I realized how spoiled Noah's initial speech delay and refusal to mimic anything had made us. Noah never repeated anything we said! So we never had to worry! And now we did! It was like...as if...how does that saying go? SHIT JUST GOT REAL Y'ALL.

But yesterday marked the first time any of my children deliberately, knowingly swore (at least in my presence, anyway) and I hope I did not bungle it too badly. I didn't want to make a huge deal out of it but also do not want to get regular calls from the principal's office or his friends' parents...so, sorry, kiddo. You're gonna have to do what your mother did and watch that mouth until you get a summer job in high school, where you will learn all sorts of delightful new words and combinations in the employee breakroom, and you will revel in the freedom to weave them into a colorful tapestry of adolescent offensiveness on a daily basis. 

And then hopefully we can have a laugh over that time I sent you to your room for telling your brother to get the hell out of the bathroom. God, what a bitch I was sometimes, right? LOL.