Tips from the Trenches: A Guide to Practical Parenting

One of the very best parts of being a parent is that you get to say all the cool things that you never thought you'd ever say. You get to mix up words that were never meant to occupy the same sentence and you might even get to have a laugh while you're at it.

Who wouldn't laugh if you could spend you whole day saying things like:

• The rhinoceros can come, but the giraffee and the lion have to stay behind to have a bath.
• Oh, hello Mr. Spiderman. Would you like to have some tea?
• Get down from the roof before it collapses.
• Not everyone wants to be shot at from a car. It wouldn't be fun for them unless they had a gun of their own. Right?
• If Barbie was pregnant with hamsters, she would definitely make a great circus act.

This is all fine and good until it comes back to bite in the proverbial a%@. Like today, for example, when my 7-year old said, "Mommy, let's dial down the crazy for a minute. OK? I am trying to say something." I mean really, what can you say to that?

Generally, I think that most kids are ok. Some may take a step or two in the wrong direction at times, but for the most part, they mean well enough. Even mine.

Well, I've finally met the kid who has shifted my paradigm about 179 degrees from where it was. I don't think it will take me long for it to shift that last degree either.

It's a bit ironic since I posted recently about bullying, but my son has recently encountered the playground bully. He's not even in third grade! He's in first grade, like my son. That fancy "blacktop day" plan didn't work very well, did it? Big shock there!

Anyway, this charming little character kicked my son in the stomach while I watched a few weeks ago. My son, of course, completely collapsed in tears and I came to his aid. I took my son over to the other child and asked him why he just kicked my son in the stomach. The bully replied, "'Cause I felt like it." I asked the boy to apologize and he refused.

This wasn't the end of the conversation. I don't really feel like providing all the gory details, but I actually caught myself saying, "Young man, that is not an acceptable way to speak to an adult!" (Yes, I really said EXACTLY those words.)

This kid made me almost lose control of my rational behavior. I couldn't believe the things this little person was saying to me, a (sometimes) grown-up. After channeling my anger into a calm, but pointed discussion with the 7-year old's inattentive, adult babysitter, she ended-up taking him home thinking. We left and, although I was angry, I realized that I probably wouldn't recognize the kid if I saw him again.

As we were leaving, my 3-year old daughter reminded me that this is the same punk child that punched her over the winter one day after the school let out. I'd forgotten, but she is correct. It is the same punk child. Then I just got mad all over again.

I've never had that happen. Usually, when a kid gets caught and is confronted, they just apologize and that's the end of it.I'm not proud to say that I actually had an argument with this kid. I reminded my son what he needed to do if he had another problem with this kid and followed-up on it, but otherwise let it go until today.

I took the kids to my daughter's preschool's "Family Fun Night". The preschool is run out of the church I go to and it's a good place. There's was lots of noise and chaos. All in all, a "good" time. Then the cakewalk began and all the kids dashed to get in line.

The kids and I are standing in line waiting for our turn when I see my son pale suddenly. I thought he was going to be sick. I asked him if he was ok and he pointed to the kid that had just pushed him out his place in line.

When I glanced over, I saw it. It was the delinquent first grader again! We made eye contact and he recognized me right away, but instead of refocusing on something else (an indication that he might have felt chastized as a result of our previous encounters), he made a point of boring a hole in my brain with his eyeballs. A true sociopathic stare. Only once in my entire life have I met someone like that before and that person was a criminal of the worst kind. It was frightening.

What makes such a young boy be so fundamentally flawed? So depressing because the answers to that question can't be good.

Anyway, my goal here is mostly to tell a venting story. I don't really have a point at all. I was completely floored by the encounter and, to be quite honest, more than a little bit frightened by it. At least now I'm armed with the kid's name and a pretty good plan in place should other encounter occur....that should help, right?

GROWING UP SUCKS!

For the first time since 2004, I’m living in a place that observes a biannual time change and I am not happy about it. Not having to bother with the time change was such a luxury. It did mean that summer days were not quite as long, but with two small children, bedtime in daylight is not an event to savor anyway. (Even though I personally like long summer evenings.)


The part I’m dreading the most is Monday morning. Sleep is in short supply already at my house in my bedroom and when my body thinks it is 6:46 am and the clock says it is 7:46 am, it makes for a very bad Monday.

See, they try to trick you by changing the clocks on a Saturday night. Probably under the sage advice that a one-hour time change only requires a one-day grace period. (Same for jet lag…one day per house of jet lag.) But we all know we don’t have to really make the change until Monday morning so it is completely pointless.

This time around, my kids magically knew to wake-up an hour early. No time change lag for them which is not surprising since they don’t seem to get jet lag either. Then today (Monday), they slept late as if to taunt me. Turns out I was right. It made for a very bad Monday.

This morning on the way to school Jack, who is in first grade, announced that it was "black top day" today. Like a fool, I asked what that meant and he explained that black top day was when the first graders had to play on the playground black top so that the third graders could play on the playground equipment (slides, swings, etc.)

A little confused, I felt relief, at first. I was glad that someone had created a procedure to minimize bullying during recess. Then, upon reflection, I was just confused. Wait a second, I thought. We're talking about first and third graders here. What the....

When did elementary school become so risky and hard to manage that a few playground monitors can't keep up with the bad guys on the playground? What happened to hoping for the best and training them for the worst? (e.g Tell a teacher if someone does something you don't like.)

I don't want my child to be bullied or to bully someone else, but how are they ever going to learn to handle bullying if they don't have exposure to it while the bullying is on a first/third grade level. I don't want Jack's first encounter with a mean kids to be on the bus as the child pummels him to a pulp. I want him to get used to setting boundaries now!

Not only that, but isn't this also the time when children should be required to be together so that they can start taking care of each other? If we segregate them, aren't we giving the third graders more power? Aren't we just telling them, hey, look at how much we fear what you can do?

Come on, people! Let's be reasonable. Isn't there a better way to teach kids about life while also keeping them safe?

Why can't school projects be made of materials that rot so I know when to throw them away?

In the spirit of Bloggy Love and good Christian hospitality, TftT is thrilled to welcome an anonymous guest poster today. Please welcome her into your homes as you would your own house of prayer.

Hi! How was your Sunday? Oh, we haven't met? Sorry! I'm anonymous military spouse/disgruntled chapel-goer. Nice to meet you! I just know you're dying to hear all my thoughts on the chapel on base this fine Sunday morning, right?

I went down there this morning with my husband and two small children. We've tried all the English speaking churches around here and don't really like any of them. It didn't take long; there are only three. The chapel is really convenient, and roomy. There's all these families here now and they keep talking up how great it is for families now, lots of new housing, facilities and programs. I thought the chapel would be great, nice and welcoming, maybe with a nursery and/or Sunday school for the kids. Jesus loves the little children, right? There's even a song, for God's sake! I guess the chapel here didn't get the memo, because they obviously hate children and don't want them around at all.

There was no Sunday school or nursery at the service we went to, so we sat way in the back by ourselves. There weren't many people there, so we weren't bothering anyone. There is a little room in the back, intended for crying babies, but it appears to be full of musical equipment. Our two-year old isn't too good at going to church yet, so I took him out pretty quickly. At the end, I came back in to pick some tags off the Angel Tree so we can get some gifts for less fortunate children. While we were discussing why some kids need Angel Tree gifts, the almighty holy colonel in his shiny robe was making an enormous fuss in the back pew, calibrated precisely for our 'benefit': 'Cracker crumbs! Someone ate a cracker back here and there are crumbs all over!' Keep in mind there were less than ten people at the service and he knew exactly what he was doing.

• Keep your grimy kids out of our church;
• We don't care enough about our community to offer childcare or children's church so families can come;
• The chapel floor is more important than a kid's feelings; and
• Passive aggression is the way to go.

Is that what Jesus would do? I don't think so. He would definitely write a blog post about it, though.

Things never to say to a mother at the grocery store with a child having a tantrum:

• If the mother pretends to leave the scene of the crime in the hopes the child will stop screaming, do not stop the mother to tell her that she forgot her child.
• If the mother is carrying a screaming child to the check out, do not stop her to ask the child "what's the matter?"
• If the mother is in the check out line with the aforementioned child, do not do a "price check" on a toothbrush. The mother would gladly pay $5 for the toothbrush if she had to.
• If the mother is escorting her screaming child to the car, the bagger helping her to her car should not ask her, "How is your day today?"

I think this post may explain a lot. Maybe a lot more to me than anyone else, but that's not a bad thing.

A little background: I was born in England and moved to the US when I was between 8 and 9 years old. I am the child of British parents (not American military or anything like that). I was very young when I moved, but it turns out it has a much greater impact than one might think.

Consider this...

Imagine not having the following reference points in your life:

• Sesame Street
• Mr. Roger's
• Mary Poppins
• The Brady Bunch
• The Electric Company
• Saturday morning cartoons
• Sid and Marty Krofft
• School House Rock
• Smurfs, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, GI Joe, Hot Wheels

Now instead, imagine you have these references:

• Blue Peter
• Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
• Monkey (Monkey Magic)
• Fawlty Towers
• Bagpuss
• The Clangers
• Noddy (The real one, not that weird version on Noggin.)
• The Magic Roundabout
• Play School
• Jamie and the Magic Torch
• Mr. Benn
• Basil Brush
• The Adventure Game
• It's a Knockout
• And I could go on...

There was some spillover:

• Dukes of Hazzard
• Dallas (I never really saw this, just the beginning as I was on my way to bed, but I do remember the "Who shot JR?" drama.)
• Pink Panther
• Tom and Jerry
• Honk Kong Phooey
• Top Cat
• The Banana Splitz (with some British and some American cartoons)

Now imagine that everything you really knew about the US was encapsulated in these TV shows. Back then, the Brits really did feel that Americans were all Texans.

It really amazes me how much, even to this day, there is a disconnect between what I know and think and what American folk know and think, just because of this cultural mishmash. I cannot typically participate in conversations about US pop culture of this time which can be quite frustrating. Music, television, food (e.g. peanut butter and jelly....yuck!), clothes, school, my understanding of the news of the time (e.g. Not as much Vietnam as Falklan Islands. Rooting for the Brits during the Olympics.). Everything is different.

It even affects my parenting. For example, I never watched Sesame Street until I saw it with my kids and I really dislike it. It actually pains me to watch it. I just don't get all the hype. As a result, we hardly ever watch it which means my kids will suffer from a disconnect similar to mine unless I deliberately choose otherwise. Being culturally literate is so important, so I have to choose Sesame Street some times. But, interestingly enough, my kids don't have any interest in it either.

My favorite kids show for my children is Charlie and Lola because it speaks my language, literally. (Well, that and Tom and Jerry, of course.)

Anyway, this post wasn't really designed to go anywhere. Mostly just an observation and a trip through my BBC past. Just think about the impact your childhood cultural references have in your life and in how you parent. It is really amazing that it can be relevant even today.

As TftT passes it's landmark first year in operation, I decided to post a blog for one of my most ardent athletic supporters...Anna. She is my inspiration and a fellow parent (which is probably the only thing that really makes this post relevant for TftT). This may also be the last post since, in one solitary year, we seemed to have solved all the key parenting issues (and some of the non-key ones, too, dog-gone-it!)

Anyway, when I asked Anna for inspiration to lubricate a recent dry spell, she offered up some fodder that has taken shape below....


On the way to school the other day the kids were shooting each other (and occasionally me) with the Nerf guns that my son got for his recent birthday. I was late for my PTA board meeting and still had to make sure that I was properly turned out for such an occasion. It was then that it stuck me (with about the same force as those pesky Nerf gun bullets) that being a woman is really a man's job.

Not only was I recovering from my recent encounter with the Swine Flu, spelling tests (this week it's "an" words. Yippie!), vomiting 3-year old, counting to 100 projects, facilitating an activity filled morning with 20 first graders, and preparing an absolutely gripping PTA newsletter, but I also had to think about writing responsible advice and general information for parents for my new job, research whether my Nerf gun toting children qualify for NRA membership, and get a balanced, healthy meal on the table (or floor) up to 3 times per day. All that before I can even really think about showering (and drying), cleaning up unicorn poop, and, of course, all the unicorn's toys.

After taking a quick look at my watch (which I couldn't read due to the thin layer of some dried out substance that may have been yogurt), I decided that I just needed to man up and realize that the only person who could really do my job well is a man. After all, the only way to really approach this day is to eliminate things methodically and linearly from from my cerebral list without asking for any directions.

I remember long, painful minutes of torture that began once the lifeguard blew his whistle and hopped down from his all-seeing perch above the pool. Slowly I would get out of the pool and sit on the side with the other kids discussing how much longer it was going to be and trying to talk one of the innocent younger kids into going to ask the lifeguard how much longer it would be. A completely unfair way to treat the pool's main occupants, we thought.

Today, though, I finally got the other side of the picture. We are staying at a "family resort" where the children abound. The pool is madness and swimming really just consists of keeping out of the way of the kids leaping through the air and swimming between your legs. So when the blessed whistle blew today, I actually felt relief. Pure joy. Peace. And, finally, yes, relaxation.

I didn't even mind flaunting my new found space in front of the jealous eyes of 40 7-year olds. I swam and floated and rolled around like a seal released into the ocean. It was sublime. I dunked myself under the water every time one of the kids opened their mouths to speak. I swam with a joy long-forgotten. I even talked about how nice the water felt with the other Adult Swimmers.

But, as with all good things, the whistle blew and we were engulfed in a tidal wave of 40 kids simultaneously plunging into the water. Within 10 seconds, the Adult Swimmers were out of the pool and the noise was earth shattering once again.

The only question I had was for the lifeguard..."how long until the next adult swim?"

...And it isn't the kiddie pool.

After playing on the beach for a while, we decided to check out the pool on the way back to our room. We saw it on our way out and knew exactly where to go as it was beautifully exposed to the entire hotel populous. Full of people greased-up and cooking like fresh vegetables on a hot, fat-free olive oil Pam-sprayed skillet.

Like a good hotel guest, I read the "Rules of Entry" sign and noted rule number 1 was "No One Under 18 Allowed!" Huh!? I gasped. After pointing this out rule out to my husband who was queuing (with my son and daughter) to get in, an "Over 18 Guest" pointed "over there" to a thick grove of trees. "The family pool is over there. The kids will love it." Uh-oh, I thought.

So off we trekked back in the direction from whence we came. We burrowed around the hedges and thickly fauna-ed "wall" to locate a long line of "We may be over 18, but our kids aren't" folks waiting to get wrist bands to gain access to the pool that was deemed hidden or remote enough for them.

At first, I was insulted. What's wrong with us?, I considered. (Or at least, what's wrong with us that is so obvious that would prevent us access from the other pool.) Then, I looked around. Hey! I thought. This is where my peeps have been hiding. Apparently, the "Over 18 Pool" was code for "The Pretty People Pool" because all of a sudden I was at home in a veritable sea of imperfection! Hurray!

I guess once you have kids running your life, you no longer have time to look pretty sunning by the pool In fact, for 10 minutes, I simply counted mismatched swim suits: 31! Incredible. These people were so overwrought with their parenting responsibilities that they couldn't even match a bikini/tankini/T-shirt/sun cover-up top with an appropriate and similarly coordinating bottom.
Not only that, but those who were greased-up were cooking like Thanksgiving turkey with all the fixings. And, those who weren't laughed freely at my "Rock Lobster" jokes.

The kiddie pool is a beautiful thing!

Life is far from simple in the world of Tom and Jerry, but there are many lessons to be learned from each encounter.

Friendship

First and foremost, Tom and Jerry is really about friendship. Not just regular TV friendship, but the kind of friendship that involves the real complications of being different and being friends despite those differences. They may horse around a lot. Sometimes it is not very gentle (just like 5 year old boys, in my experience), but over all, they choose to engage with each other regularly and sometimes they put their friendship to work for a joint cause (most often, against Spike the dog.)

Conflict Resolution

This one is pretty obvious really. Tom and Jerry routinely find something to argue about. They are creative in how they work to solve the problem and, for the most part, they always come to resolution. They work hard and try different methods; and eventually, something works. Problem solved. What better lesson is there about solving life's problems, big and small?

Loyalty

Tom and Jerry may not always get along, but when someone else tries to threaten the careful balance of their relationship there is hell to pay. When Spike gets involved and tries to get either cat or mouse on his side, it usually ends up backfiring some how.

Fairness

Life isn't fair, but we can be happy despite unfairness. Sometimes Tom wins and other times Jerry gets the upper hand. They both end up happy at times and frustrated other times when they don't get what they want. Just like when we go shopping....we don't always get what we want there either! What self-respecting parent doesn't want their kids to understand that message?

Culture, Sociology, History, & the Fine Arts

Many episodes of Tom and Jerry are set to a spectacular score or involve a variety of fine art experiences, such as conducting symphonies, figure skating, painting, and dancing. Many episodes even have an historical setting, such as the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the French Revolution, and the Great Depression.

In addition, Tom and Jerry are representative of cultural issues of their time. They may not always be appropriate for today's PC culture, but that is also a topic for discussion. What an interesting education our kids would receive if we talked to them about how contemporary cultural and sociological issues even affects cartoons, such as Tom and Jerry.

So next time you sit down to berate this cat and mouse duo, sit back for a minute and reflect on what Tom and Jerry can teach us. Maybe you will discover something to appreciate after all.

Today as my kids were peacefully playing with my friend's, similarly aged, but slightly younger kids, it occurred to me that the peace we were enjoying (relative to play date peace, of course) was the result of an arranged marriage, of sorts. At least, an arranged friendship. And it is a beautiful thing.

When my son, Jack, who at nearly 6 is the oldest of the 4 kids, and my friend's oldest, whom I will call Wesley, (4 1/2 years old) first started playing together I wouldn't exactly say it was love at first sight.

My son is crazy in an "in your face" kind of way. (No idea where he gets it. Such a puzzle.) Wesley, more retiring. In fact, Jack spent a substantial amount of time unintentionally (most of the time, anyway) intimidating Wesley to tears. It would take about 20 minutes for them to warm up to each other. They would play for another 20 minutes and then the following conversation would typically occur:

J: Hey, W. Let's play Transformers.
W: But I don't like Transformers.
J: Come on, W. I want to.
W: But I don't like Transformers.
J: Why?
W: I just don't. Let's play kitty.
J: Yeah, let's play exploding kitty.
W: But I don't like that game.

And so it goes.

The problem was that my friend, Amy (assumed name), and I really hit it off. We wanted to hang out even if it killed us (or the kids). So we commiserated over the yelling and blood shed. Challenging, but worth it. (I think.)

But after a while, the pecking order was established though a variety of hazing incidents. Jack realized that Wesley is really a creative, imaginative soul like himself. And, Wesley seems to understand, most of the time, that Jack doesn't mean (much) harm and sometimes he has some really "good" ideas. (Such as riding the elevator alone and writing their names on the wall in marker.) Not only that, but they both have younger, "annoying" siblings upon whom they can "gang up" at their cooperative leisure.

So after months of playing, with mixed results, Jack and Wesley seem to have established a warm, loving friendship born of minimal respect, joint dislikes, and maximum irritation. Just like any budding marriage.

Now the conversations are much more like this:

W: Let's play kitty;
J: OK. But let's play exploding kitty.
W: All right, but you can be the kitty.

Today I made the mistake of thinking I could tackle the job of cleaning out my "All Purpose Bag" (APB). As soon as I started, I remembered why I don't do it more regularly. Usually, I wait until a sippy cup leaks or a half-eaten cereal bar falls apart at the bottom of the bag, but I had some time (not enough) and the motivation (too much) and I thought I could get the job done. In the end, all I was able to do before being so rudely interrupted by my parenting responsibilities was to pull out 5 items.

The items were:

• A Clinique lipstick with Emma-sized finger dents all over it
• A half-eaten cereal bar impaled on a small, wire bristled hair brush (We'll just call that one item.)
• A dried out dandelion wad
• Mud covered, crusty, boy-sized socks
• A blue, Crayola crayon with teeth marks

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to have a little sharing time. So, grab your APB, close your eyes, and pull out the first 5 things you touch. Tell me what's inside.

Recently, I've been wishing I had a super power. Perhaps it's the laundry piled up all over the floor or the body lotion wiped on the windows or just the desire to feel powerful for at least a few moments in a generally powerless life. But it got me thinking...which one, of all the possible super powers, would be the most useful?

• Invisibility (to hide from all the demands)
• Super speed (to run away...far, far away)
• Super strength (to pick up super-sized laundry piles and the couch when I need to vacuum)
• Invincibility (so that I don't get hurt when games turn bad)
• Super volume (to make myself heard over all the whining)
• Super selective hearing (to tune out all the whining excepting certain decibels)
• OCD (to clean and feel satisfied by it)
• Wings or other ability to fly (That one definitely sounds like the most fun, but might not solve too many of my concerns.)

All have their pluses and minuses and, like the Super Friends, one super power really isn't enough. I really need a few so that they can complement each other. After all, even Superman had a problem with Kryptonite.

What do you think? Help me decide.

Had a couple of food science discoveries today....

1. Over-ripe, but still safe-to-eat bananas left in backpacks take approximately 3 weeks to liquefy. If treated carefully, the skin will not rupture and will contain the liquefied banana. Banana daiquiri, anyone?
2. Fresh milk left in a sippy cup for 9 days will end up having the consistency and smell of cheese. End product not taste tested.
3. Fresh juice left in a sippy cup for 9 days will have the consistency of jello and smell of grain alcohol. Make your own Jello shots. End product not taste (or safety) tested.
4. Starburst jelly beans submerged in muddy water take approximately 2 hours to disolve.
5. Sticky rice left on clothes and put through the laundry (washer and dryer) will adhere to clothes forever...better than Super Glue.
6. Apple hand lotion does not taste like apple butter on toast. (Nor does it taste like chicken.)
7. Jello pudding makes excellent window paint. (Comes in various colors.)
8. Fossilized block cheddar makes an excellent crayon substitute, especially on walls.
9. Frozen peas that are left to dry out on the floor can be quickly reconstituted and fortified in muddy water.
10. There is no such thing as too old to find palatable in the eyes of a toddler.

If I can learn all this in one day, imagine what I'll learn by the end of the year.

We're all hyped-up on Easter candy at my house. After a fun day of reasonable games of egg hunting, candy, and other Easter fare, you'd think they'd be all tapped out. But, no. Any experienced parent will tell you that sugar and excitement don't mix well. (Not as well as, say, a gin and tonic or strawberries and cream.)

So, here I am listening to 2 brilliantly contrived, really, really annoying games.

1. The Round-and-Round game
2. The Cry Like a Baby game

The Round-and-Round game is just like it sounds. Running round and round and round and round the coffee table saying "Look, Mommy. I'm running round and round" at each turn around the coffee table. "Look, Mommy. I'm running round and round." Look, Mommy. I'm running round and round." "Look, Mommy. I'm running round and round." You get the picture.

Now, that is bad, but the Cry Like a Baby game is by far the worst. The game is also quite simple. Cry like a baby. The kid who can cry the loudest wins! Points are given for volume, pitch, and realism.

It's times like this when I reflect back on the ill-fated, overly romantic decision to have a second child, I seem to remember that part of that decision was the dream that one day they could play together.

Well, apparently, I'd had too much gin and tonic that day and I think I must have somehow also incorporated the idea of peace in to those play times. Never did I picture the Cry Like a Baby game. Never. It's bad enough to hear a baby crying for real...just imagine the repercussions of crying as a GAME!

So I'd also like to take minute to thank the Easter Bunny for his/her delivery this year. It is greatly appreciated and deeply meaningful that he/she thought of us.

But next year, I'm not buying a calendar, watching, TV, or shopping in the hopes that I will never know when it's coming round and round again.

Oh, swell. It looks like they are moving on to the Throw the Uncapped Free-from-the-Community Egg Hunt Highlighter at Each Other Naked game. Gotta run.

Yesterday, I accidentally lost my brand-spanking new iPod Touch down the side of the couch. This is an unexpectedly perilous place in my house not only because of the bits of old food and such, but also because there is an upholstery nail/staple that is not properly tapped in. (Found that out the hard way. Lots of blood and gore a little too close to the wrist for my taste. Generally, I want to be the one in charge of slitting my wrists; not have it happen in some kind of freak accident.). But I digress.

Anyway, I couldn't get my hand far enough inside my couch to retrieve the iPod, so I had to turn the couch over and pull off the lining from underneath. While I was there, I found an interesting and surprisingly (to me, anyway) large collection of detris both in the couch and underneath it.

Here is a list of items recovered from under my couch (I'll leave in the couch for another post):

• 1 Twizzler (fossilized)
• 6 plastic balls (various colors)
• 3 pacifiers under the couch/3 pacifiers in the couch (but that's for the other list)
• 31 Cheerios (stale)
• 1 Twix (minus caramel and chocolate top/plus teethmarks)
• 5 Lego men (2 without heads, 1 without arms)
• 27 Lego pieces of varying sizes
• 2 sets of ear bud headphones (all without the padding that fits inside the ear and makes the comfortable courtesy of Emma who likes you pull them off and use them like gum.)
• 3 thumb drives (all missing caps)
• 1 camera case
• 4 remotes (ah, there they are!)
• 1 light saber (blue)
• 2 books
• 1 cordless telephone handset
• 3 clumps of Play Doh (dried)
• 6 Crayola Washable crayons
• 5 wooden blocks
• 1 sippy cup with old milk (don't quite know how that fit)
• 1 laptop
• 8 misc. snack wrappers
• 1 empty water bottle
• 1 Cloisonne egg
• 1 knife
• 1 spoon
• 1 fork
• 1 side plate
• 2 napkins (balled up)
• 2 DVDs (sans cases)
• large distribution of crushed Salt and Vinegar Pringles (various sizes, stale)
• 1 slice of red apple (dehydrated)

Talk about a slice of life. Yikes! You know, it really wasn't that long ago that I vacuumed under there. (Yes, really!)

It's recently been brought to my attention that I talk to myself...A LOT. I knew that my brain was always having "conversation", but I didn't realize that I was actually vocalizing these conversations. One day, I was talking to my husband and wasn't getting the impression he was listening. I asked him if he was and he actually said, "Oh, I thought you were talking to yourself again." Again? Huh?

Between you and me, on the privacy of my own blog, this is more than a little alarming because I often think about the things I wish I could say to people if I were braver and less sensitive to the feelings of others. I always wish I were good at the witty or pointed retort so sometimes I practice with myself in preparation for the next time someone affronts my unusually gentle persona.

Perhaps I really am losing my mind. In some ways, I think that might be a comfort. No more hiding behind the illusion of competence and normalcy. I don't think there is another personality emerging and I believe that I'm beyond the years of schizophrenia onset, but I'm starting to wonder if I need to at least name my conversational alter-ego so that people don't really think I'm crazy.

I do spend a ridiculous amount of time alone or at least in the absence of other adult conversationalists. As much as I love my children, they just can't debate the methods of removing the grease stain from my favorite shirt or why the floor is so dirty when I just cleaned it or even why the third season of "Big Love" has not been released yet on iTunes.

Perhaps what I'm really dealing with is the fact that I've not slept properly in more than 5 years, my neurons aren't firing as sharply as in my pre-parenting life, and, let's face it, I'm the best chance of meaningful conversation I've got on a daily basis (afterall, I'm really quite agreeable and supportive) when most of the day my only other option is the sometimes completely rational tirads of a two and a half-year old's mind.

My big fear now is that I will be talking to myself on the elevator and someone will turn to me and say, "Excuse me? I didn't hear you." So, if you see me, just pretend that you don't hear me. It's really not worth your time trying to get in on the conversation. My new imaginary friend, Talula, can handle it.

Hit "Mommy Rock Bottom" this afternoon so I thought I'd "carefully" adapt a little John Donne to make myself feel better.

Mommy be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore Mommy, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And Mommy you can be more; Mommy, thou shalt not die (today at least).