Real Life: Wednesday Absurdity

We had 3 kids in 4 years. Now, with our offspring aged 2, 4.5, and 6 years, life is — well — humorously absurd. They say you either laugh or you cry. We laugh. A lot.

These tree scenarios aptly described our run-of-the-mill Wednesday evening.

**My 2-year-old tantruming beside me at the dinner table seething that he simultaneously does and does not want eat his dinner… because 2-years old.**
Me: Remember when a kid fussing and crying used to stress us out?
The Hubs: **laughing** Yeah. Now it’s just the background noise of our daily life.
**The 2-year-old squat-runs pantsless into the dining room holding his bum**
2-year-old: Bwahhhhhh!!! I wanna poop in dining room!
4-year-old: What’s N + N + a banana?
Me: **staring blankly wondering how my life got so absurd**
4-year-old: 5

Sooo… yeah. That’s Wednesday in our house.

The “Two Toy” Christmas Plan

If Halloween is the season of crap, Christmas is the tsunami of stuff. Excess is the name of the game during the holiday season but, if you’re anything like us, living with multiple kids and all of their belongings every day feels like a Christmas hangover.

Three kids 5 and under means toys… SO many toys. My kindergartener is securely in the hoarding phase, when acorns and no-longer-sticky stickers hold the same value as Barbies and princess dress-ups. She tries to clean up her room at the end of the day but the volume of stuff overwhelms her limited organization skills. Her yelling, “I can’t clean up! I have nowhere to put all of my things!” Spurred concern about the impending Christmas deluge.

With our bank accounts hemorrhaging and playroom brimming with 5 years and 3 kids worth of toys, I knew we needed a Christmas plan. And so I devised the “two toy” rule.

This year, I have told the kids that they get to choose two toy gifts and they will, otherwise, receive just books and needed clothes. How did they respond? Not a single complaint!

On our way to see Santa, I asked what each would be asking for from the big guy. “Rockstar Barbie pink hair and dress-up,” exclaimed my preschooler. “A music player,” said my kindergartener. Knowing that my husband had ordered both of them children’s Kindles for Christmas — thank you Amazon Daily Deals! — I knew the Kindle would already suit her music player needs. So, I asked what else she would want if Santa asked her for a second gift idea. She hemmed and hawed saying a music player was all she wanted.

I didn’t process it in the moment but she only wanted one thing for Christmas… ONE THING! At 5-years old I was circling nearly 90% of the Toys ‘R’ Us catalog for my Christmas wish list. I’m so proud of her, and I’m so glad we limited the Christmas purchasing.

A little less stress. A little less financial burden. A lot more smiles. The makings of a happier holiday season.

My Preschooler’s Parenting Goals

On the way to preschool drop-off, I chatted with my 3.5-year-old. After discussing who he hoped to play with on the playground that day, we delved into this conversation.


Him: I’m bigger today.

Me: You are! You’re bigger every day.

Him: I grew when I sleeped.

Me: Yep. When you eat your fruits and vegetables, you’re giving your body fuel to grow. When you sleep, you’re giving your body the energy it needs to grow. What do you think would happen if you didn’t eat healthy foods?

Him: I would get sick. I wouldn’t get bigger.

Me: What if you didn’t sleep?

Him: I would be tired. My body couldn’t get bigger.

Me: Maybe!

Him: When I’m bigger, I’ll be big like Daddy.

Me: Yep.

Him: When I’m big like Daddy I’ll be a daddy, like Daddy.

Me: Oh, yeah? How many kids do you want?

Him: **pauses to think** Five.

Me: Five, huh? All boys, all girls, or some of each?

Him: **pauses to think** I want five girls. All girls.

Me: That’s a lot of girls! Why do you want just girls?

Him: I’ll have five girls and they all have long, pretty hair. I can help them brush it so it not get tangled.

Me: Will you help them do their hair?

Him: Yes. They won’t sleep.

Me: Why?

Him: Because I will love them and will want them to be kids forever. If they sleep, they grow. I want them to be kids because I love them. I love them one hundred. (Translation: he will love them immensely.)

For a quirky kid who is just graduating from speaking like a New Jersey caveman, how does he already understand the parental juxtaposition of wanting to help your child grow and develop but simultaneously wanting to keep your child little? There’s a lot going on in that bobble-head of his. Who knew?



Boys do some odd things. With two sons of my own, I often ask myself (sometimes aloud), “Why would he do that?” The answer is often: “because… penis.”

#2 on left in 2014, #3 on right yesterday

#2 on left in 2014, #3 on right in 2016

I don’t know whether it’s the y-chromosome (aka: “Why?”-chromosome), the testosterone, or simply the male anatomy to blame. I’m just seeing a connection over here with my boring double-x chromosome.IMG_20140812_183418 (1)

Empty bucket? I would likely fill it with water or sand, not my head or hindquarters. I see my uncovered nether regions? I move on and/or clothe myself, I wouldn’t start shimmying about the room pelvis first, attempt feats of strength with my labia, or pull on my parts like Silly Putty. Boys though, they see these ordinary scenarios as opportunity for experimental enjoyment.


Why does he squirt himself in the face with the hose that has a nozzle set to “Jet”? Why does he lick the floor of the pediatrician’s office? Why is the word “poop” so utterly hilarious? Why is his own genitalia simultaneously humorous and fascinating?

Because penis.

It’s Genetic

Genes, they’re mysterious, powerful, and decisive. Eye color, hair texture, shoe size… they dictate so much about us. Apparently, the affinity for wearing a bucket on your face is also a genetic factor.

#2 on left in 2014, #3 on right yesterday

#2 on left in 2014, #3 on right yesterday

It’s All About Perspective

I had all three kids at the pool yesterday and 3-year-old #2 was comically himself. To see the world through his eyes must be a magical spectacle.

**#1 and #2 are floating about in the pool looking under the water with their goggles. #1 chose a pink pair, whereas #2 chose a blue pair.**

#2: “Mommy, you cold.”

Me: “No, I’m fine. Why do you think I’m cold?”

#2: “You not cold? Why you lips blue?”

Me: (I feel my lips.) “Honey, I don’t think my lips are blue.”

#2: “Yeees.”

Me: “#2, you have blue goggles on. Everything you see looks blue.”

#2: (Looks around with his goggles on) “Oh.” (Paddles off unfazed.)


**#2 just put on his sunglasses and hopped back into the pool.**

#2: “MOMMY!! IT’S DARK!”

Me: (Trying not to laugh) “#2, you’re wearing your sunglasses.”

#2: (Looks at me and cocks his head) “But it’s DARK!”

Me: “Honey, sunglasses make things look darker.”

#2: (Lifts up his sunglasses, looks around, puts them back again, and paddles off.)

Lifeguard: (Utterly losing her sh*t laughing.)

We are, without a doubt, “that family” at the pool.

Backseat Life Goals

“I have lots of plans.” #1, my spunky, sparkle-loving, verbose nearly-5-year-old daughter, informs me from the backseat of the minivan. “I want to be a doctor, a princess, a rock star, and a person who builds houses.” I giggle at her terminology but grin with pride at her vast and varied aspirations. “Goals are good. Go for it, girl!” I encourage her. She smiles and looks out the window, “Oh yeah, and I want to paint people’s nails too.” She says, adjusting her glittery sunglasses.

“Why not?”


Breaking Boob Curfew

I was at dinner with a fellow mom-in-the-trenches when we both realized it was nearing my witching hour. It was 7:06 and I needed to be in #3’s room, in the glider, boob out, and ready for bedtime nursing in 9 minutes. Crap!

Signing the credit card receipt, I flashed back to three months ago when I arrived home just moments after boob curfew. It was utter chaos. #1 and #2 fighting in the tub, #3 wailing, Hubs about to lose his mind. It was not a good scene.

We bolt home. I drop off my friend, who thankfully lives just a few doors down from me, and I repeatedly push the garage door button from halfway down the street. I know full well it doesn’t work until I hit the driveway, but I’m blindly hoping to somehow speed my entry. I race in the door, hear children fussing, kick off my shoes mid-stride, untie my sundress halter as I take the steps two at a time, and arrive in the master bathroom ready to accept my penance.

Then I realize the actual scenario before me. Two of the three kids are half-naked. Hubs is filling the tub. #1 is lamenting the possibility that the bath suds may ruin her pedicure, #2 is moaning about having to go potty before entering the tub, and #3 is dancing while holding onto the tub ledge like a drunk guy shimmying at the bar to “Sweet Home Alabama.”

Everything was fine. I was not needed. Hubby looked at me in shock. “What was all that?” He asked, referencing my stampeding entrance. “I thought he was going to be freaking out,” I say, motioning to #3. #3 grins at me with his lopsided jack-o-lantern smile, and I realize that being a few minutes late is not the nightmare it used to be.

At nearly a year old, #3 is growing up. He still needs me, just not with the fierce dependence he used to. He’s more human and less leech these days.

I scoop up #3, praising him for the lack of belated-boobie bedlam. Put him in his pajamas, and nurse him into a sweaty, milky sleep. He’s still my baby.