Christmas is in the air

It's Christmas morning, and as I watch my children excitedly tear open the mountain of gifts under the tree, I check the clock, knowing that in just a couple of hours we will be in the car, rushing back and forth between the homes of open armed grandparents, and aunts and uncles. Knowing full well that my children will explode into fits of rage at having to get dressed and leave the toys behind, I silently sip my coffee, taking in the last moments of peace on earth.

I dress first, trying to slow down the impending doom that is sure to send my house into an uproar. Of course, I have nothing "Christmasy" to wear, and end up throwing on a pair of jeans and any sweater I can find that's the least bit clean. I clean up piles of wrapping paper, and carefully lay out each child's dress clothes, which they will no doubt destroy before we even reach the first house.

As I tip toe into the living room, my son is busy constructing the latest Star Wars Clone Trooper assault vehicle, while my daughter is playing house with her wide array of barbie dolls and teddy bears. I shake my head knowing that they are never this quiet, and to disturb them will mean hours of dirty looks and pouting. Suddenly they look up from play, knowing exactly why I'm there. I put on my game face, and head into what will no doubt be war.

My son wails as if having to put on clothes is the worst form of torture ever laid upon someone, all while yelling, "It's not fair! You are the meanest mom ever!" My daughter puts up quite a fight, wriggling and sqirming in every direction possible. It takes me ten minutes to get a leg in her little red tights. And comb her hair? Impossible. I limp away from the battle, with bruised abdomen from the kicks of a two-year old, and a scratch just below one eye. Meanwhile the two of them are howling in the background, one vowing to never speak to me again.

"Well then," I look at my husband who's so obviously amused at not having to do anything, "looks like we're ready."

As we pull into my parents' driveway, I quickly scramble to get out, running for the door, children screaming behind me. My son has threatened to rip off his red sweater and stomp it unrecognizable, while my daughter has already stained her beautiful dress with cranberry juice and some other goo I've never seen before. Thankfully, more presents await, and with them more peace and quiet.

We enjoy a wonderful Christmas meal, minus my son freaking out because vegetables are "icky", and my daughter flinging mashed potatoes on everyone. Again I look at the clock in agony, and begin the battle once more. I leave my parents smiling, knowing that they will now have peace until our next visit.

As we head down the road to the next house, my husband begins to sniff the air next to me.

"What?" I say somewhat annoyed, and give him the look of death.
"Oh nothing, you just kind of smell like onions from the food." he shrugs like it's nothing, like people just walk around smelling like onions everyday. Great. I quickly search the car for anything that smells better than onions. I spray on the first scent I find, and take a deep breath as we pull into yet another driveway.

We're greeted warmly by my husband's great grandmother, who gives me a hug. She smiles up at me. "Dear, you smell lovely. What is that scent?" I rack my brain, trying to think of some great sounding perfume, but to no avail. I just shrug.
"It's febreze auto."

Potty Training 101

For those of you out there with small children, I'm sure you know that potty training your child can prove to be quite a hazardous feat at times. And of course, boys are often far less eager to let go of that last bit of childhood. My son is now eight years old, and cannot believe that he has only been potty trained for four years. Yes, that's right. Despite my many efforts, including the Cheerios in the toilet thing, and the sticker thing the little man just couldn't bring himself to let go.

I must have repeated to him countless times that big boys go on the potty, and that going in your underwear just wasn't acceptable. I tried every trick of the trade, only to be defeated time and again. And then one day(his fourth birthday), he just did it. And it is true that you must let them do it in their own time, but seriously, four?

I now have a two year old daughter who has begun the potty training journey. A journey that started out absolutely perfect, with her knowing exactly what she had to do, and doing it. She asked to go when she had to, and she even woke up in the night to go. I was both amazed and suspicious of this sudden change from diapers to pull ups full time. How could it be that easy with one, and so so difficult with another?

Well let's just say that just as I was about to give away the last of the diapers, she regressed. Not only did she no longer want to go on the potty, she downright refused. I have tried all of the old tricks, from "surprises", to charts. I even asked if she might want to go on the big potty rather than the silly looking flowery thing she had been using. Nope.

So what is a parent to do when your toddler is in complete potty denial? Well, in my experience as with all other types of denial there's the twelve step program. So why not have a five step program for potty training? (Twelve steps might be a little much).

1. Realizing you're in denial(both you and the child)
2. Realizing why you're in denial
3. Taking your realizations and turning them into productivity(get bigger, more glittery stickers)
4. Try putting on the adult version of a pull-up, and then realizing that no one in hell would want to wear something so stuffy and hot.
5. Apologize to everyone you have ever hurt with your denial(Just kidding:)

One more step~Let the poor kid do her thing, and eventually by the time she's twenty, she will have mastered the potty, and will probably have a master's degree in potty training.

Thanksgiving and Vicks

It's that wonderful time of year again, filled with ever-changing leaves, crisp fall air and heaps of mashed potatoes and gravy. Ahh Thanksgiving.

7am.

I am rushing between half baked pies and my laptop, trying to remember every word of a sentence I came up with for a novel I'm working on, all while slicing apples and keeping the kids busy. And by keeping the kids busy, of course I mean my son crying because his little sister has covered his nice dress clothes in flour. "See Mommy? I baking!"


I glance longingly at my computer knowing that it will sit untouched until the holiday is over.


"Mom!" my son is pulling on my arm. "There's smoke coming from the oven!" He begins to run around the house screaming "fire!" at the top of his lungs. "Fire! Fire!"

Of course, there is no fire, just smoldering cherry pie filling at the bottom of the oven. Now my daughter is jumping up and down yelling too.

7:22 am.


"Yes, that's it!" I quickly type in the last words in the chapter. Relief.


I finish up the remaining two pies, and carefully slide them into the smoking oven. I look down to find my daughter snoring peacefully under the kitchen table, hands, face and dress covered in flour. After washing the last of the unbelievably gooey white stuff from her face, I lay her down and cross my fingers that the peaceful slumber will last longer than ten minutes. Tip toeing out of the room, I begin clean up duty, throw in some last minute laundry, and quietly slide into my chair. At last, a few minutes to relieve my brain of the next chapter slowly building in my head.

7:45 am.

"Mommm!!" My son's shrieking stops me in mid sentence. Then suddenly, he just laughs.

Thinking he's pulling my chain, which he often does, I go back to writing.



After about ten minutes of silence, I look up from my computer, suspicious. I get up slowly to have a look around. I look in on my son, who is busy scrubbing flour from his hair and clothes. "Hi Mom!"

Suddenly, this scent hits my nostrils. Not a bad scent. It's kind of nice, and sort of familiar. Is that Lavender? Yes, definitely. Then my mind wanders to how wonderful lavender is, and how I used to have this great lotion with lavender, and matching soap....wait a minute! Another scent enters my nose as I near my daughter's room. This one is familiar as well. I stop in my tracks.

Nnnooooooo! I walk as if in slow motion closer to my daughter's room. The scent is stronger.


"Vicks!"

"Wha-how-did you....Vicks!"

"Mommy look, lips pretty!"

"Oh my....!!" Vicks everywhere. Hands, hair, face, clothes and furniture. Lavender scented baby Vicks.

"Mommy look!" "I beautiful!" my daughter cries with delight as she continues to rub the goo round and round on her cheeks.

I look at my watch. 8:15. Yup, pies are black by now. I sigh, wondering if I can still make it to Wal-Mart in time to pick up a couple of Mrs. Smiths, throw them in the oven and make like I slaved all day.

And for those of you wondering about the effects of Vicks on an infant's face, no worries. She fell soundly asleep after I scrubbed her red, with the lips of Angelina Jolie.

Happy Halloween!!

Ah, Halloween. The age-old tradition of dressing your children to the latest superhero craze. Walking for what seems like an eternity in search of the ever evasive full-size candy bar, and perhaps a little change from an elderly neighbor. When I was a child, much to our distaste, we received apples. Yes, apples, and pennies, and perhaps the occasional bag of popcorn. Of course there were a few candies in the mix, but nothing like today's children receive. Our costumes, were simple. One year I was the Queen of Hearts, another year, a daisy. Simple and to the point I think. Our mothers usually made our costumes, and handed us a pillow case with an added, "Have a nice time dear."



Fast forward to the year 2008.



"Mom, I want to be a Power Ranger. No wait. I want to be a Storm Trooper..." my son stands there shaking his head as if the answer will fall out onto the table in front of him.



I just laugh. I knew this was coming. Last year we had a pirate, ninja, and Spiderman. Yes, that's right. My son had three costumes for one holiday. My daughter just says "Mama, Emma is a princess." then she giggles, and does her princess twirl. Easy. With a two-year old daughter undeniably obsessed with Disney princesses, I can no doubt throw together a costume.



"Mom!" my son glares at me.

"Yes, dear?" (Sarcasm.)

"Mom, what should I be? I can't decide!"

"Well..," I begin. "I would be a cat. Yes definitely a cat. Cat's are nice and furry."

"Awww Mom!! I'm a boy, and I hate cats!!"

"Well, how about a ninja turtle?" I smile, knowing that we still have that costume hanging in a closet from previous years. Yup. Makin' it simple on myself.

"No way! I was a ninja turtle three times!"

This is true. Each year, I would just tie a different colored band around his head and tell him that he was Leonardo, Donatello, etc. Oh, well. I tried.

" I want to be a Power Ranger. Definitely." he stands there defiant in his decision, while I just shake my head, knowing that tomorrow it will be something else.

"Okay then, I will go to the store tomorrow and get a Power Ranger costume." And then I catch myself, and attempt to avoid the inevitiable melt down he is sure to have if I get the wrong color costume.

"Oh! What color Power Ranger do you want?"

He looks at me with that oh man, I have no idea look. "Umm....blue? No, red! No, yellow."

"Yellow it is." with a small sigh of relief, I look to my daughter.

"And Miss Emmi will be a princess, right?"

"No Mommy. Emmi a bug." Great, here we go again.



I slowly make my way to the costume section at Wal-Mart. With my daughter in tow grabbing at every brightly colored Halloween item in sight, I finally come to the Power Rangers. I find one yellow left in my son's size. Mission accomplished. Now, where are the bugs? After some searching I find a cute little lady bug costume and show it to my daughter.

"See Em? A beautiful lady bug."

"Nnnnoooooo!!!!!!" She immediately drops to the floor in a fit of rage. Arms thrashing, I can barely make out the words.

"Emmi be a fly!!"

A fly? Seriously?

"Hmm. I don't know honey. I don't think they make fly costumes for baby girls." I say with a shrug. With that, she goes into a full blown histerical cry. Time to run for the check out, past the annoyed looks of people who clearly don't have children. I mean seriously, were these people never children? Did they arrive via spaceship or something? I hate people that become furious when a child acts out as if the mother must be the worst on earth. If you don't like children, stay home.

After a brief struggle in the car(she felt the need to throw herself out of the carseat a few times), I went home to give her a nice long nap, and hopefully surprise my son with his beloved yellow costume.

As soon as he gets off of the bus, he whizzes past me straight to his costume, hanging neatly before him. I give myself a silent pat on the back for a job well done, and ask how his day was.

"MOOOOOOMMMMM! I wanted the yellow ranger from Power Rangers: Jungle Fury, not the regular old one!!!!"

I take a deep breath, walk slowly to my bedroom and grab a pillow. I scream into it as if I'm being murdered.

Halloween night~

"Having fun, honey?" my son just gives me a look of sheer anger as he walks to the next house in his "regular old" yellow ranger costume, swinging his pillow case in the air. I look to my daughter who is happily skipping along saying "trick or treat!" in her sing-songy little voice. "Are you having fun baby?"
"Yes Mommy! I love Halloween!" She skips past me in her fly costume to the next house with her brother. Yeah, that's right. A fly costume. (I put two mini mesh strainers over her eyes, and saftey pinned her old fairy wings to her back....)

Why Is The Sky Blue?

7:00 am.

It's a beautiful sunny day, with chirping birds and big billowing clouds. I look to my left, the curtains are open wide with warm rays spilling onto my face. To my right, Patrick Dempsey and his McDreamy smile holding a glass of fresh~squeezed orange juice, asking if I need anything before he goes into surgery. I just smile and close my eyes.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm is so loud that I sit straight up in bed wondering where I am. With bride of frankenstein hair, and obvious morning breath, I look to the left. Outside, my dreams of warm sunshine have faded to a dull grey, and the rain begins to beat onto the window. To the right, my son standing there staring at me, as though it's the first time we've met.
"Mom! What are you doing?! I called you like ten times!"
"Huh? Wha-hmm.. Oh, okay."
"I said, I'm hungry!"
I close my eyes one more time, hoping to escape back to McDreamy land, where alarm clocks don't exist.
"Mom!"
I slap myself awake, and slowly rise. It's freezing, and there are beds to be made, clothes to be put on, and teeth to be brushed. My son giggles.
"Oh yeah, and look what Emma did."
I look down to see my two year old standing in a puddle, with toilet paper draped around her like a mummy.
"Hi Mama!"
I give a hopeful glance back at my bed, knowing that if I crawl in right now, it would still be warm.
I quickly snap back to reality.
I clean up the baby, throw some bread in the toaster that only works when it wants to, and turn on the coffee maker to heat up last night's coffee. (Don't judge.)
I get my son dressed, toss him a vitamin and make an attempt at wetting his poor colic~stricken head. (They are everywhere!)
"Mom, why is the sky blue? And why does the earth spin? And why...."
These are obvious questions that an eight~year old asks at 7:15 in the morning right?
"Well honey, you see the sky is blue because when God created earth, it was like building a house. And when you build a house, you have to paint the walls right?" he just smiles, knowing that I am completely making this up.
"Well, God was mixing his paint one day, and accidentally tripped and knocked over the blue paint. Then He said, "Hmm, I like this color. This will be the sky." "The end."

He laughs."Mom! That's not true. It's the ......" he goes on to give me the scientific facts as to why the sky is blue. Oh well, my daughter believes me.
I start to get her dressed, brushing her fluffy blonde hair, and washing her little cherub face. Maybe this one will stay little forever.
"Mom!" my son comes into the room, arms crossed.
"You didn't tell me why the earth turns!"
Ah, of course. Hmm. Why the earths turns....yes!
"Well, you know how your little globe spins on it's stand? Well just think of the earth as a giant globe. Put your shirt on and have a nice day."
"But Moooooommmm!"
I run for the coffee maker. The old stale coffee is semi~warm, and sludge~like. Oh well. I add a ton of coffee creamer and gulp it down quickly. I glance at the clock. Time is passing awfully slow today.
I gaze into the toxic brown~black stuff in my coffee mug. Just do it. Drink it!
It's almost time for the bus. Much to my son's delight, I throw on my husband's old boots and a corduroy jacket as we head out into the freezing fall air. "Mom, why does...."
I gulp the last of my coffee, take a deep breath, and respond.
"Pumpkins are orange because..." "And leaves fall from trees because..."
"Okay Mommy." then he is silent, and apparently satisfied with my answers.
"Here comes the bus!" I get so excited, I find myself jumping up and down as my son looks at me with a strange fear that his mother may be going crazy. Then suddenly, I don't want him to go. I miss him already.
So, what do I do?
That's right.
I run after him in my big old boots and silly coat, my disheveled hair blowing in the breeze, and I give him the biggest, most exaggerated kiss in front of all of his friends. "I love you bub."
"Awww Mom! Knock it off. You're soooo embarrassing!"

I wave slowly as the bus rides away. I can't help but feel a little twinge of sentiment as I silently wish he were just a little boy again, hobbling around on his little baby legs, calling me Mama and being absolutely enchanted by something as simple as the stars. I close my eyes for a moment, and smile thinking of days gone by.

He used to eat all of his vegetables then, too. Now I can't even get him to look at a piece of corn.

Tools of the trade

Time Management~

This is what I do to manage my time between the kids, husband and writing. It's actually less about time management, and more about squeezing in minutes, or hours here and there, between breakfast, nap time, and playdates.
First, I kneel beside my bed, close my eyes, and ask God for more time in the day. When that doesn't work, I go with old fashioned mommy know- how. In the morning, when the kids are eating, I try to sneak in enough time to answer some emails. This lasts for about 15 minutes until my son comes in to ask what I'm doing.
Mid morning, I sit them down with their coloring books. I try to involve my oldest in my writing. This makes time for me to write, boosts his creativity, and allows for us to do something together. I get him some paper and crayons and ask him to write his own story. He loves this, because he wants to be an author like his mom.
Nap time is perfect "quiet time" for your older kids. Give them a set time each day where they have quiet time. Have them come up with activities to work on while the little one(s) is napping. Now you have a good hour and a half (depending on how long your baby sleeps) to yourself to get some work done. My problem is that I have to do everything at once, so I will often be found working on a story while doing laundry, cleaning, and attempting a shower without any curious little ones trying to get in.
I write a lot of books in the shower. Sort of.
I come up with the most amazing ideas and have to quickly dry off and write them down(which makes for an interesting shower. Drying off, getting back in...etc.)
In the afternoon when I take the kids out to play I will sit on the picnic table and jot ideas for marketing and promotion in a notebook to reference back to later.
Around 10 pm., I take a deep breath and finally sit. Of course by this time, the kids are asleep, and my husband wants to watch T.V. Around 1 am. or so, all is quiet, and I can write for hours sometimes. It's actually more relaxing to write when the whole house is dark around you, and there is not a thing to worry about but your computer and your thoughts. Unless you fall asleep on the keyboard only to wake up at 4am with asdfghjk on your forehead, and find that your manuscript looks like your baby typed it.

Spilled Milk

8 am~

I wake up to singing birds and glorious thoughts of book promotion. With a smile, I slowly rise from bed and stretch. Then I hear my two year old, in her sweet little voice say quietly, "Mommy!". It always starts slow, and cute. "Mommy! Mommy!" The sweet little sound becomes a loud ringing in my ears. My eight year old walks in casually amid the noise. "Hey Mom. Whatcha doin'?" The madness begins.
I change the baby, pop a waffle into the toaster for the eight year old, and give a hopeful glance toward the coffee pot, praying that my husband thoughtfully made the coffee. Nope.
I look at the clock. 8:20. I get the baby a bowl of cereal, and settle her into the highchair. If I'm lucky, I can get in a good ten minutes of writing. I settle with my coffee still brewing into the chair in front of my computer. Silence. Ten seconds go by.
Just as my fingers grace the keyboard, "Mom! Look what Emma did!"
I run to the highchair to find my daughter, spoon in hand, with the last of her cereal on her head, along with the bowl.
"Mommy look! Hat!"

In my head, I can hear the sound of a 2 a.m. writing session calling my name.