She's Lump

I've been working at my computer for an hour.  The girls have been sitting on the couch nearby watching television.  I walk upstairs to start picking up the house--a routine that always begins with making our bed.  Then I hear footsteps.  (sigh)

  No, not that kind of sigh.

  Yep, that's the kind.

 There's this game we play. Actually, the kids play it while i feign interest.  It's called "Lump" and it's been going on for almost five years now.  It all started with the boy when he was around 2 1/2 or 3 years of age.  I'd make the bed and he would climb up underneath the sheets.  I'd  ask, "Where's Caleb?", then I would lay down on the bed (and him) and comment on how lumpy the bed was.  He'd start giggling and wiggling free, then he'd pop out and say, "Here I Am";  we'd laugh.  It was our thing and it was cute...

...for a while.  Then it just became another hurdle to getting my housework done.  That's when you have to step back and chill.  What's more important:  making the bed or playing with your child?  The aging parent in me says, "playing with your child", while the task-oriented alpha-male in me says, "get off that bed, I have important work here."

  Hey, I'm walking working here!

Caleb has since outgrown this game, but the girls have taken the torch from him and are running with it.  Two lumps are more annoying than one.  It's possible that I'll miss this one day, so for now, I'll stay calm and play the game.  Besides, Lee doesn't respond well when I refuse to play.

Another reason I dislike this game: The Presidents get stuck in my head every time we play.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Enjoy!!!

The Perfect Drug

We just had the boy's Parent-Teacher Conference last week--a wake-up call that we've expected for some time now.  While PTC may sound like the latest street-drug, it is not.  I can assure you that the effects are similar.  Both give you a euphoric high at the beginning, but when it's all said and done, the crash leaves you depressed.  We've always had high hopes going in to Caleb's conferences and this time was no different.

It started out good; he's doing well in school, gets along with others, and hates math.  He's a normal 7-year old.  But then the teacher went over her concerns.  We've had four years of PTCs under our belt going in to this session so we knew what was coming next.  Quirky Behavior.  Stemming.  Horrific Fine Motor Skills.  It's his ADHD Trifecta.

 If only his handwriting was that neat.

We've heard it before and we've hoped that some of it could be attributed to phases (much of it has), but the latest PTC was the perfect drug to wake us up.  We always said that we would avoid the labels and medication as long as the behaviors didn't interfere with school.  They are.  There are some behaviors that may not just "phase themselves out" and it's time to get serious.

Talk of medication and gluten-free diets is in the air.  I don't know what gluten is, but I imagine it's what makes food taste delicious.  Any time a dietician recommends eliminating something from your diet, you can bet it's something tasty.  It's hard enough to get the kids to eat already, I can't create a new menu based on restrictive food and expect to have the kids eat it, can I?

Thus begins the developmental pediatrician visits, dietician appointments, and the occupational therapy.    On the plus side, the time I spend grocery shopping should be cut down exponentially considering that all of my purchases will come from one tiny section of the store dedicated to gluten-free products.  So, while we wait for doctor appointments and some much-needed guidance, we'll just sit back and embrace the quirkiness.

Sunday Night Football

Tonight's game may be one of the best Sunday Night Football matches of the season.  NFC divisional rivals Seahawks and 49ers have taken the field in the 1st quarter.  I sit down to watch.

That's not entirely true.

I've sat in the same seat since 12:05 this afternoon watching Yahoo's Stat Tracker, eating things I shouldn't, and yelling at the television.

  They can't hear me either Ramsey.

Then the kids come downstairs and ask me to tuck them in.

Pause.

Thank you Anthony Wood for inventing the DVR.  Although you don't use one yourself, sports-fans everywhere thank you that we have the ability to pause, rewind, and watch our own replays frame-by-frame.  It's empowering and makes us feel justified when yelling at refs for obvious blown-calls.

As an added bonus, I can also feel like Super Dad and tuck my kids in at night while the Niners and Hawks wait patiently for me to return from my fatherly duties.  The kids have my full attention.  Kind of.

While the boy and I lay in his bed talking about Power Rangers and the Seven-Legged monster they fought today, I can't help but think what I'm missing.  Has Kaepernick ran in a touchdown yet?  Who's winning?  How much Adderall has Sherman taken?

  It's for narcolepsy. Don't judge.

Eventually, the boy tells me he is tired of talking and wants to sleep; he allows me to leave.  I come downstairs to find 23 minutes of time built up on the DVR.

Using the "Pause" button to let me tuck my children in at night is great, but here's the real reason to pause the game: 23 minutes of recorded time lets me skip commercials and half-time.  I plop down on the couch, confident in my superb parenting abilities, and ready to watch an amazing, commercial-free, half-time-free game.

Play.

CRAP!!!  There goes my 23-minutes.  I walk back upstairs to see if I can interest Caleb in some more Power Ranger talk.

I Wanna Rock

We all have our bedtime routines.  For the boy, it's a glass of water and wanting to talk while he falls asleep.  While it was annoying at first (I figured it was just a ploy to stay up later), it soon turned in to one of my favorite parts of the day.  I'm not competing with SpongeBob SquarePants or Angry Birds for his attention.  And like his absorbent, yellow, porous friend, he soaks up everything we talk about at night.  It's a great opportunity to warn him about the dangers of drugs, not wearing a seat belt, and the flaws of a "Two Party" system.

The girl's routine consists of getting out of bed a minimum of three times: once for hugs, again for kisses, and a third for the all-important glass of water.  Depending on her level of tiredness and the inefficacy of my yelling at her to go back to bed, we may see her three or more times yet again.  This results in us locking our bedroom doors, turning out the lights, and turning a deaf ear.  It works.  We might trip over a 4-year old sleeping outside our bedroom door in the morning, but it works.

The baby has taken a lesson from her older sister and comes out of her room each night before bed too.  But instead of wanting hugs, kisses, and water, she only wants one thing.  Like her speed-metal-loving Dad, she just wants to rock.  How can I say no?

  She likes to rock out with her book about crocs out.

If you don't have a rocking chair, you're missing out.  It's the best way to fall asleep, but that can also lead to problems.  The idea is for the baby to pass out, but I usually end up falling asleep first.  It doesn't matter if it's 10 o'clock at night or 10 minutes after seven.  If I'm rocking in that chair, I will be unconscious first.

Every time.

No matter the time.

While the saliva gathers at the corners of my mouth, Libby is left with unfettered freedom to destroy the house in true Rock Star fashion.  Eventually, she tires of pulling the cookware out of the cabinets and spreading toys across the floor; she falls asleep.  I guess we all have our bedtime routines.

Heavy Birthday

I never liked hearing about the "Terrible Twos" that people talk about all the time.  I can certainly appreciate the alliteration of that fabulous phrase, but let's face it, the terrible twos began two years ago.  You started losing sleep, gaining weight, and your exposure to feces skyrocketed.  If that ain't terrible, I don't know what is.  Sure the first few months are good, but eventually that baby starts rolling over, crawling, and getting in to your stuff.  One day you're proud of her for learning how to crawl, the next day you're realizing that you'll never own nice things again.

But, they're worth it.  And while I'll miss my original Peter Venkman Ghostbuster, numerous cd's that will never play again, and my sanity (things Elizabeth has ruined), I wouldn't trade her to have them back.  Happy 2nd to my sweet Elizabeth.  We may have screwed up that first birthday, but at least we had a proper cake this year.

And the food was delicious.  Mmmmmm....crab dip.

Speaking of crab meat and other things that live under the sea, how's that SpongeBob SquareCake taste?

She had a blast opening her presents, trying on her new outfits, and playing with her pom-poms.

Not as much fun as she had playing with the gift bags though.

But, birthdays aren't always fun.  Especially for the older sister that doesn't understand why the baby gets presents while she is left out.

The pouty problem is promptly impeded (I told you I love alliteration), because  pom-poms, like sisters, come in pairs.  With one pom a piece, they were both smiling.

And with the two older kids in school and Libby taking a nap while I write, Daddy is smiling too. Happy Birthday Elizabeth.

Escape From The Prison Planet

There are 3 ways that I love to be woken up from a sound slumber and none of them involve children.  They are: the smell of bacon being cooked,  the voice of Terry Bradshaw and the Fox NFL Sunday crew discussing football, and one that, while it may ultimately lead to children, it should never involve them.

 Look, Terry likes The Parenting Dad!!!*

*image may be photoshopped**   **badly photoshopped
Unfortunately for me, the past couple of days I've been woken up by the thud of Elizabeth dropping out of her crib.  It's a truly horrible sound--meat hitting the Berber carpet.  If you've never heard it before, try dropping your Philosophy 101 text-book on the dorm floor.  A dead, lifeless thud.  The ensuing silence is quite eerie.

Those of us that have kids already know the noise (and the silence) quite well.  That cute little baby mattress only lowers so much.  Eventually, there are only two options:  you switch to a toddler bed, or you wait it out.  Neither one is safe.  Waiting it out is the consensus among parents.  It's the lesser of two evils.  Eventually, your child will learn how to escape from the crib.  At that point, you should switch to a toddler bed, it's easier on the baby, but it's much, much harder on you.

  And there's no turning back.

After hearing Libby drop gracefully from her crib a couple of times, we decided to convert her bed into its Toddler Bed form.  Her bed is pretty cool, it converts into three-different configurations so it can grow along with her.  It's kind of like a Transformer, except instead of being an awesome car and saving the world, it's a milk-stained bed frame.  (Us parents have to grasp at anything we can to escape the harsh realities of raising children.)

While the toddler bed keeps Elizabeth safe from cracking her big, beautiful head open, it presents other dangers--to herself and me.  She's free now ("at large" might be a better term) and since she's the first one to bed at night, she is usually the first one to rise in the morning.  That means unsupervised access to the house.  Here are just a few things that Libby has done with her newfound freedom.

The first morning wasn't so bad.  She started ripping all of her diapers out of the package, but I caught her before she could do too much damage.  The next day was a little worse.  She has this game she likes to play where she rips all the wet-wipes out of the package one-by-one.  I hate this game with every ounce of my fiber.  There are a lot of ounces in my fiber.  It's a small thing to get so upset about, but them wet-wipes ain't cheap and she can destroy a Family-Sized box of them quicker than I can earn $15.97.

  Her reaction after I told her the next box of wipes was coming out of her piggy bank.

After the wipes incident, I moved her changing table, diapers, and wipes into our bathroom where they could be locked away.  There is a problem with not being able to lock up everything though.  The fridge is locked up, the pantry is impenetrable, and after seven years of collecting dust, I finally installed those child-proof locks on the cabinets and drawers. Despite all of our technology, we still can't cure human error.

With doors, drawers, and cabinets locked I woke up to this one morning:

It does no good to child-proof the house if you're going to leave breakfast condiments on the table and last night's dinner on the kitchen counter.  The smell of maple syrup and pepperoni should be patented and sold to the military for top-secret weapon development.  I expected the plate to break in half with the amount of force it took me to pry this pepperoni-platter off the floor.

Forty-five minutes, two-ruined towels, and one bath later, the mess (and Elizabeth) was cleaned up.  We could now get on with our day.  For me, that meant unlocking the fridge and pantry to prepare breakfast (obviously not pancakes now) for the kids.  As I reached for the fridge's lock I smelled that old, familiar smell and felt that old, sticky syrupy feeling.  That lock may be sticky, but at least it works.