All Hell Breaks Loose On Saturdays

Monday through Friday we are on a tight schedule in the morning to get breakfast, take showers/tubbies, get dressed and ready for the bus. Our little system usually works quite well, and the down time that's left gets used up peacefully; quietly watching a quick episode of Sponge Bob, or playing a video game, or setting up matchbox cars all over the hallway for an unsuspecting parent to step on, and rather ungracefully skate into a wall, leaving an array of ugly bruises and sore feet. Sure, there may be small quarrels over the t.v., or who gets to use the laptop, or what to wear for the day, but they're usually small and smoothed over easily enough.

Saturday blows in like the stink from the sewage treatment plant on a windy day. While I look forward to Saturday all week, it never fails to arrive like a kick in the ass. I wake up to Miles screaming about something that doesn't meet his expectations (his choice of breakfast, someone else watching a television program, the dog chewed his Lego's, he peed his pants and a parental figure is insisting on him changing his clothing). Max is heard in the background complaining that there's nothing to dooooooo and he never gets any time on the computer, and Miles is bothering him. This usually prompts an argument between the two in which an action figure who goes by the name of "Red Power Ranger-with-the-missing-hand-because-Sammy-chewed-it-off-and-ate-it-then-pooped-it-out" is used as a weapon upside the face. Someone wails. The other retaliates by karate-chopping his brother with one of the many "play" swords we have kicking around this house. The other one wails. Meanwhile, we discover the pile of poo that Sammy the dog has left because it's Saturday and we didn't get him out first thing in the morning like usual. And by "discover", I mean someone has stepped in it.

All this is happening while that first sip of coffee is being consumed and we're trying to clear the fog from our brains. I have decided that the easiest thing to do is lock our children in their own rooms until I feel like letting them out. It actually worked quite well for us this morning. Sure, there were some tears initially, but in all fairness, they were both crying already. I have no pangs of sympathy for them, their rooms are stocked full of interesting toys, books, video games etc., with no one else to bother them, take their toys and get into what they are trying to do. However, it's at this moment of solitude that they suddenly realize they sure do love their brother and feel bad about that black eye and do, in fact, want to play nicely. They will exit their rooms with a renewed sense of familial love and may even hug their sibling affectionately before launching into a new battle over who gets to watch what show and sit in the choice sofa section.

By this time in the morning Rob and I are already perfectly annoyed with our children and thinking about if there are any pressing chores or errands to do that will extract us from their presence. It's just something about Saturdays, always so pleasantly anticipated, so hard to wake up to.

Oh, how times have changed.

Two weeks ago, I was a chaperon on Miles' preschool class field trip to Cook's Orchard. Although Max has had many field trips since starting his schooling, I was never able to be a parent volunteer because I had my little Miley. Well, seeing as how little Miley is now getting on to be school-age, I can now tag along. The day was sunny and crisp and perfectly fall, and we all loaded onto the big yellow school bus. This was wildly thrilling for Miles, and I felt a strange flashback to high school climbing up the steps. We settled into a seat (Miles kneeling to see over the seat, and me, with my legs twisted sideways and my knees crushed into the green plastic seats.) and even I felt a twinge of excited anticipation and the bus rolled out. I was chatting with Miles about the bus, and how "awesome" it was when I noticed this above the front window.

Now, I sure as hell don't remember that from high school. I know it's been around eleven years or so, but c'mon, it's only been eleven years or so!! Do bus drivers nowadays really have a big problem with bodily fluid? I know, I know, we have to be careful in this day and age. It just gave me a laugh, is all. A funny little choked-in-the-back-of-your-throat kind of laugh. The kind where you look around at all the other adults on the bus and think "How can they not notice this??". I took this shot and passed my camera to my friend Jen, who smiled and shook her head (probably thinking I was a lunatic or a sicko). Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy??

On Sanding Spackled Walls...

When your intentions are to help a friend out with fixing up their new home, don't get all gussied up before hand. There's just no sense it. Or, is there?



Since starting my own Mary Kay business, I have determined that the best way to peddle my wares is to be beautiful 24/7. That entails waking up each morning, cleansing, moisturizing and becoming beautiful (not sure how? just ask!). This readies me for the task of making breakfast, or waiting for the bus with Max, or walking the dog. 'Cause darn it, you just never can tell when someone will see you and you may or may not have an opportunity to hand out your business card. And girlfriends, ain't no one gonna buy beauty products from a haggy momma who hasn't gotten perttied up. Seriously, it's a fear of mine that one of my many friendly neighbors will stop by on a walk and we'll get to talking and there I'll be all crusty-eyed and rumpled. SO, I've made a point to put make-up on each and every day (barring sick days, of course) as a way to feel fabulous and to represent. Today was no different.


At 10am, I was showered, blow-dried, and done up with no where in particular to go. I had scheduled today to help a friend move, but they pushed their plans back a week because they weren't ready yet. As I looked around at more laundry to be done, and my kids bickering, I declared we were going over to see if we could help out. So, Rob and I brought the kids over to entertain their kids and offer ourselves up as helpers for the morning. Our first assignment, sanding the living room walls. I said, "no problem!", grabbed a block and some sand paper and went at it. After about 15 minutes another helper came in to see the progress, took one look at me and laughed. People, when someone takes a look at you and laughs, that's not good. There are plenty of times in my day when I act like an ass to get people to laugh, but this wasn't one of them. I looked bewildered at Rob, who gently informed me I was covered in white dust. I thought that was obvious, we were sanding spackle. Apparently, though, I was really going at it, and as the dust settled all around me, it settled perfectly on my make-up. My face was perfectly powdered with white, seeing as how my Mineral Powder Foundation in Ivory #2 had set the perfect foundation for spackle dust. Annoyed, but determined to be productive, I plugged away and finished up. Then I shook myself out outside and rinsed my face clean. After a quick assessment, I established that I was still presentable, and went to scrape out nasty old bathroom caulking.


Most people don't feel glamorous digging moldy old caulk out of a bathtub, but I felt fairly sure I looked put together doing my dirty work. After finishing up my work and calling it a day, I returned home with Miley while Rob and Max went off to a Cub Scouts function. We've walked the dog, eaten our dinner and Miley had his tubby. And you know what? I still look fabulous!

At this point in the day, with no plans of going out, I feel fairly safe in cleansing my face, applying my night solution and moisturizer, and hopping into my pajama pants for a hot night of watching Spongebob Squarepants. Whoot!

Farewell to a Friendly Fish

Monday morning started like any other. The dog pooed in the living room. Miles awoke and demanded "cereal and JUICE." I surveyed the pile of papers, work, school notices and other stuff on the counter and made mental notes to deal with said crap after my coffee. I took a sip of my coffee and the next time I got around to it was cold and I dumped it. I convinced my eldest beast that he needed to get his shower done so we weren't rushing at the last minute. I was packing eldest beasts snack when Miles mentioned Plop was sleeping funny. I glanced over to the 10 gallon tank on the counter and saw, in fact, that Plop was indeed sleeping funny. Funny being upside down, slightly folded in half. I sighed and tapped the glass. I took a deep breath and told Miles I thought Plop might be dead. "Yeah, he sure is dead", Miles agreed with all the casualness of someone noticing the time and temperature at the bank. Miles' main interest was in what we would DO with Plop. I was relieved that apparently Miles was a (heartless) 3-year-old who could care less about the family fish. After all, what had Plop done for Miles lately?? I steeled myself for the real drama, though, when I had to break the news to Max. Max chose Plop out of all the gold fish at PetCo. around three years ago, named him with absolute certainty, and overfed him regularly during those first few months. (After that, no one gave a poo about Plop, but me and occasionally Rob, who cleaned the tank, fed him daily and fretted over the cat's glutinous attention to him.) That morning was like stepping into a Meryl Streep film, with dramatics and emotion flowing like a waterfall. Upon breaking the news to my nearly 7-year-old softy, his face crumpled, his throat emitted a high-pitched squeak and then, he threw himself upon the floor and sobbed for a good three minutes. After that, he quelled his tears and began asking a myriad of questions about Plops feelings, his spiritual whereabouts, his extended fish family in heaven. I answered to best of my 6am cognitive ability, and we decided to have an impromptu fish farewell ceremony. We scooped Plop from his watery grave, laid him in and old nail box made of cardboard and picked a tree-sheltered spot down by the shed to lay Plop to rest. With the exception of Rob, who was dapperly dressed for work, we were the sight in our pajamas. Well, technically Max was dressed in what we have affectionately titled his "Hugh Heffner" robe which is his preference to pajamas. Plop was laid to rest, his tank was emptied and stored away (YAY, counter space again!!) and that was that. It wasn't until later in the day I noticed the shovels hauled out of the shed and the pile of dirt. Miles, my outdoor adventurer had decided he wanted to take a look at Plop and check on him. We had a brief, but firm chat about not EVER doing that again.

Plop was a good pet. He was friendly. He never complained. He always greeted me with a smile and a wave of his fin. He never scratched my furniture or my children. He never pooed in my living room. I didn't have to walk him, or even touch him for that matter. He was with us for approximately three years and he was, indeed, a good fish.

When Animals Attack

It's 4:30am. Wee Beast is stirring. After told that it's still night time and he needs to go back to sleep, he informs me that he wants to be awake and have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I snort and say "later". Given the option of staying in his own bed, or snuggling in ours, he opts for our bed. Upon arrival, he locates Sammy the dog, snoring blissfully in his spot in the middle. Wee Beast is delighted and lays his head on Sammy the dog. Sammy the dog snorffles and scoots down the bed some. Wee Beast scoots down the bed some and lays on top of the dog. I inform Wee Beast that he needs to be quiet and be still if he wants to stay. He lays down. Then he sits up and begins to play with the dog. Again, I inform Miles of the guidelines and he lays down. Then he sits up. Then, he abandons the bedroom. At that point I fall asleep, assuming he's finding some toys to entertain himself with.

It's 6:30am. Husband informs me Wee Beast has found himself a snack and directs me to Exhibit A. This box of graham crackers was found in Wee Beast's bedroom. In order to survive his hunger pangs, he literally ripped open the box and consumed many many crackers. Interestingly, he has not asked me for breakfast this morning.

It's 8:00am. I am wondering when Wee Beast will pass out from sheer exhaustion. Hopefully he will, so that this cycle does not continue. I'm just glad he wasn't hankering for the pork chops in the fridge.... shudder.

Warning: 3-Year-Olds May Cause Brain Damage

I'm often bewildered about the label "terrible two's", when in fact, my experience has been much more traumatic with my boys at age three. At age two I remember my children learning the word "no", and saying it a thousand times a day. "No" to the sibling, "no" to the cat, "no" to the remote control. It was cute. Sure there were tantrums or crying, but it seemed more innocent. Controllable. We could shrug it off and redirect our little ones. Then, age three comes along and many nights Rob and I look at each other, sigh, and lean back on the sofa, thanking sweet Jesus that Wee Beast is finally in bed, ASLEEP, and cannot possibly cause any more trouble for today.

Yesterday was a regular old Saturday. We had tee-ball in the morning for Big Beast and then came home to putter about. In the afternoon we were all hanging around in the yard watching Daddy work at his project and Miles heads inside. A few minutes lapse and Rob looks up from his project, "You think he's ok in there alone?". I shrug, wondering what he's after. "He's probably sneaking a snack", I said and think to myself I definitely should go check. Then I heard his tiny loud voice from the kitchen window. "MY TOAST IS READY!!". Hmm. Toast? I haul ass up to the house to find that he had gotten the full pitcher of apple juice out of the fridge (from the top shelf, I might add), filled my water glass full of it, and decided to throw in a slice of Weight Watchers multi-grain bread to toast up for a quick snack. He was telling me that it was hot, and it had popped up and he needed butter. I just looked at him, astonished, and nodded. Yes, butter, yes. I'll butter your toast. Wait, toast? You are definitely NOT supposed to operate the toaster, Mr. Big talk ensues. Ultimately, he relished his toast and drank his juice and this morning, I was discovering all the pools of apple juice inside the fridge. On every shelf.

We have daily battles over the silliest things. What clothes he will wear, what he wants to eat for breakfast (No, you can't eat chocolate pudding pie for breakfast. At least not till you're a grown up making bad choices for yourself, buddy.) , going pee on the potty. I know you have to pee, Miles, I see you clutching your pants and that uncomfortable look on your face. WHY won't you PEE? Oh, I see, you prefer to wet yourself and sit in it for a while. Yes, and when I suggest you should change your pants, you will scream at me "It's just water from the sink, not PEE!!" No more naps for my three-year-old, even if he's eyes are half mast and he's limp as a rag doll. NO MORE NAPS, and that's that. He wears us out, but he's just busy, people, and he's got stuff he needs to do. For himself. That means exploring the toaster, figuring out how plungers work, deciding if it's worth the trouble from his mommy to paint the bathroom with strawberry toothpaste. Oh, and of course, what's the harm in pulling down my pants and taking a poo behind our front maple tree? Whatever, at least it wasn't in my pants! Sheesh.

Fiddleheads and Beer Helmets

Our annual trek to upstate Maine has come and gone. We are back home with our laundry done, dog and cat reunited (sorry Rosie), and lots and lots of fiddle heads. You may recall that last year was my virgin voyage to pick fiddle head ferns, a northern delicacy that I'm not all that sure I actually enjoy eating. People up north sure do love 'em. All of them. Every person in Maine, I'm pretty sure. Yup. To me, they look intriguing, taste very... green, and I know they are definitely expensive if you buy them in a store. This year we all went out to pick and we have brought home enough to freeze for the winter. So we can have them all.... year.... long. Seriously, they aren't bad, really, I'm just not sure I love them. I've taken a casual poll of up-northerners and every one I asked really does, in fact, savor them. Even our 7-year-old nephew requests them and when told that they are on the dinner menu, will utter a "yesss!" to announce his approval.

Along with the gift of fiddle heads, I received another kind of gift from my new bestest friend in the whole wide world, Nat! Some of you may know that I've had a hankerin' for a beer helmet for quite some time now. Interestingly, I haven't received one for a Christmas gift, birthday gift, or even a gag gift. Nothing. I really did want one. Our first night up north, as the festivities were kicking off, someone mentioned my pining for a beverage hat. Nat piped up that she, in fact, had one I could use! After screaming in delight and running to retrieve a fresh brew for the inaugural sip through the straw, I had achieved my goal! I had a beer helmet. I was also being a total dork. Note that I did not include a picture of myself in said helmet. Partly, this is because I don't have a shot from that night on my own camera, and party because I'm not that stupid to post a ridiculous picture of me for all of you to laugh at. By the way, Nat, I forgot my hat in the garage, don't think I don't love it, I just failed to remember to bring it home!

Anyhoo, like I said, we're home and we are back to grind. Snore. I'm off to go measure how tall my pea plants are now.

My Little T-Baller

On May 3rd, my big beast started t-ball. It had to be the most adorable thing ever! He is having a blast and Rob and I are already understanding how parents get so into their children's sports. I was hooting and cheering, and then groaning to myself as about six wee children tackled the ball in a huge pig pile. I think in a small way we are actually surprised that we produced a child who would have an interest in a sport of any kind. We are such non-sporty people, where did this budding athlete come from? Fear not, though, I haven't begun fighting other parents on the side line or shouting obscenities yet. Yet.

Hot Rod

Mother's Day this year was such a nice treat. I felt spoiled from the moment my bunch barrelled into the bedroom with heart shaped Weight Watchers toast and gifts and big smiles. Sure, the dog did an acrobatic leap through the air and secured the heart toast in one swoop, but the thought was pure gold and I felt loved. Among the heartfelt, hand made gifts was a painted flower pot filled with seeded soil (that amazingly made it all the way home from school in Max's backpack!!) and a paper tea cup with a tea bag in it and homemade cards. I also received a really big treat: My very own, very first, PINK fishing pole! After getting the boys and Rob set up for fishing this spring, and happily watching them go at it, it occurred to me that I might, in fact, like to fish. So, Rob was sweet to purchase me my own license and rod. I am now the proud owner of a Lady Shakespeare rod in a pearly pink. Here I am after getting back from Dean Pond Mother's Day. I even was brave enough to bait my own hooks! Nice rod, eh?

On Lunden Pond

Sunday we decided to check out a set of trails up the road from us and head out for a little adventure. The boys had fishing poles they hadn't been able to try out yet, and Rob got a license and a new pole for his birthday. They were itching to fish, baby. We were happily surprised by the picturesque setting, and the ability to bring everyone on the adventure with us, including our new little pugsy. What a thrill for Max to catch his very first fish ever on his third cast! I cannot begin to describe the expression on that boy's face as he was reeling in his catch. Thrill, joy, manic excitement, surprise... his face wasn't really smiling exactly. It was a contorted, eye-bulging, grin. A tad on the scary side, but man was he EXCITED! Rob hustled over with congratulations and then a casual, "How'd you catch that, Max?". Rob wanted a fish too! A very big day for the Jordan boys, a memory seared into Max's mind. Oh, and Rob did catch his own fish the next day on Dean Pond, just so you don't feel so bad for him. He caught a 12 inch Rainbow Trout!

Sweet Doggy Insanity

Well, it's official, I must be insane. Meet Sammy, our newest family member! He is an adorable one-year-old pug we took in for someone who was moving. It has been exactly one week today and we are finally figuring out how we all can coexist peacefully. I wasn't so sure last Wednesday after a sleepless night of dog antics... but, by day two he was snoring blissfully (and quite audibly) at our feet. To my delight, he's surprisingly clean and tidy. No long hair to shed, no drooling, only the slight aroma of dog about him. We even gave him a bath Saturday! That is what my Saturday night has come to! No gallivanting around town, or out for a show. We give doggy baths here. Boo ya!

The boys seem to have fallen in love with him, although Miles has a distinct love/hate relationship with him. Sammy has cramped Miles' style of lounging about snacking. The dog will not rest if there is food being enjoyed and Miles needs to have his snack time reprogrammed to suit this new lifestyle. He wavers between squealing with delight and running across the house repeatedly with Sammy at his heals, to howling like a teenager that no dogs are allowed in his room. That is followed by a shuddering door slam. He's a fairly moody three year old.

Max has no complaints, and giggles with child-like adoration whenever Sammy's in the mood to play with him.

Rob and I are going with the flow. We are the walkers, the feeders, the tick-picker-offers, the referees. And at the end of the day, we are the couch snugglers, stealing sheepish smiles at one another over the fuzzy-headed friend we have taken in.

Living in Luxury

Our latest home project has involved our master bathroom. It was atrocious, and something needed to be done. So, one boring afternoon I decided to start pulling wall paper off the walls. It was really fun. That was the easiest part of the whole ordeal, honestly. Since then, and some three weeks later, we have finally finished the wall prep, the priming, the painting, the caulking and the cleaning, and the fun part begins. We get to use our bathroom again tomorrow! Whoot! Our last task today is to hang the new vanity light fixture. The old one was this darling brass/flowered/scalloped thing from 1988 that wasn't doing it for me, so it will be doing it for the garbage.

Another fun part of finishing the hard work on a room is placing the final touches. The new toothbrush holder installed, the new tp holder, the new towel bar and the placement of the new "luxury" bath mat. While at WalMart the other day, I decided our old bathmat would no longer match with the wall color, so I picked a soft plush new rug for the inaugural shower. Upon arriving home, the boys tore apart my bags inspecting every new purchase and oohing and ahhing. This is grocery day, they don't get much excitement I suppose. Miles was immediately taken with the new "luxury" bath mat. He rubbed it against his cheek and laid it out on the counter and put his head down on it. I thought it was cute, it was very soft and fluffy after all.

Imagine my surprise yesterday upon finding Miles in my bathroom. Buck naked. Laid out on the luxury bath mat. I suggested he put his clothing back on and he burst into tears. Why have that sweet, sweet luxury if no one's allowed to enjoy it? Later in the evening, I called Miles to dinner. He emerged from my bathroom without his shirt on. Maybe this novelty will wear off, but I guess everyone just wants to enjoy the luxurious new bathroom!

Can I Get a Workout?

Exercising is one of my least favorite things in life. I would much rather park my pleasantly plump hind quarters on the sofa and read, knit,watch tv, anything other than working out. There's actually lots of excuses I'll use to postpone my thirty minutes of sweating goodness; "Boy, that kitchen floor could use a scrubbing, I should whip that up. While I'm over here, I'll just throw in another load of laundry. Hey, where is that other sock? I better check the kids' rooms. Holy Mother, look at this mess! Might as well pull all this junk out from under the bed, feed the fish, reorganize this closet, make the bed. Ok, laundry's underway. Oh darn, I can't find the cd I wanted to listen to. You know, my workout mix that gets me pepped. Well, I'll just burn another one really quick. Hmmm, is it my turn in Scrabulous yet? Kay really kicked my butt on that last game, I better take my turn before I forget.... Wow, 27 emails! How many of these are spam? Let's find out. Oh, hi Miles, yes, I know I said I was going to exercise, are you going to play downstairs while I'm doing it? Well, I see my breath down here, so you'd better get your boots and coat. Hah, hah, just kidding, but definitely wear your slippers, ok? Alright, here goes... music's cranked, kid is happily playing in sight. Did I turn off the coffee maker yet? I wonder what I should make for lunch. Huff puff, sweat sweat. Doing good.... it's really not that bad once you get yourself going... Sweet Mother of Mercy, what is that SMELL? Lawd, I'm gagging with every ragged breath I gasp for, what IS that? Oh, hi Rosie, I see you needed to use your litter box right now. I know, you're situated directly in front of me about five feet away. I'm not going anywhere, but I'll look away so you can have some privacy, ok? Sweet Mother, Rosie, that's one helluva stink bomb you just dropped. Good God. Ok, I'll just hop down from the elliptical for a minute and run that litter box into the other room and close the door so that I don't suffer asphyxiation from the noxious odor in the air. Phew, ok, my legs feel like jelly, but here I go again, I'm underway. Good song. What? What Miles? Where are you headed? Oh you have to poop on the potty? Ok, go ahead, give a holler when you are done and I'll run up and clean you up. Huff puff. You done? You WHAT? I'm coming... puff puff. Let me just run up the steps and get this taken care of. Oh, nuts. You pooped in your pants. Ok, well, I see you were trying and you just didn't make it. Let's get you cleaned up. Ok, all set, I'm gonna finish up my program real quick. Ok, back on board. Only five minutes left. Lord, help me. Good song. Yay, I'm finally done. Yes, Mommy's stretching... yes, you can stretch too. Yes, this is a good stretch for the back of your legs. Oh, well, yes, that was a loud toot. Whew! It's kind of stinky too, huh? I think I'm going to finish stretching upstairs. Next to the glade plug-in. Wow, I feel good after that workout. It feels good to have that accomplished, why do I always think it stinks so bad? I feel all pumped up! Why is it so hard for me to get motivated usually I wonder?

Snowy Snowy Day

After a delightful taste of Spring here for the past two weeks, Winter has curled it's icy breath around us once again. We are in the midst of a Nor'easter, and school has been cancelled for the day. As a kid, joyous news. As a parent (specifically, the one who will be home with both children for the said snow day), a deep, soul-searching sigh. Some siblings get along famously. Some play together, sharing, laughing, watching out for one another. That does not apply to my children. My boys fight. Actually, one minute they are laughing hysterically, sharing the joy of a good poop joke, the next minute might involve blood and screaming. My six-year-old does not wish to be disturbed by his pesky three-year-old brother. He shouts in a guttural bark "Get out of my room!!". This is about the time his brother will take a lightning fast assessment of his elder brother's room, determine with speedy accuracy exactly what would push his brother to the tipping point, and brush it onto the floor in a great sweeping motion. Then he will run from the room in fear of his life, and hide under the nearest piece of furniture. This continues throughout the day, sprinkled with a few happy moments where they might sword fight with those lovely plastic swords we picked at the Dollar Store (insert self ass-kicking here). Inevitably someone will be poked and smacked too hard with the lovely plastic swords and a brawl erupts. Usually by 8am, I am sighing with relief as the school bus will be pulling up soon. I know that my son enjoys school, he will have fun, he will learn. His teachers have patience. Then, Wee Beast will have no competition for attention and he will be sweet, adorable, loving. Until the school bus rolls around at 3:30pm, and we start all over again. Well, today is the wrench in my daily routine. However, with a good dose of playing outside in the snow, a warm batch of brownies, and maybe an impromptu play dough session, I just may survive my snow day.

Christmas Trees and Potty Treats

Last week we designated as Christmas tree weekend. Saturday morning we worked with the boys to set up our tree and unpack the obscene amount of decorations we have. We primped, we strung lights, we assembled a small village, we scolded for making the ceramic lady lay on the roof of the church. We were immersed in holiday delight. Oh yeah, and we were on official day two of potty training wee beast. He enjoyed most of the festivities sans pants, but hey, he made it to the potty, so who cares, right? It was afternoon and we had one last task on our yuletide to-do list: decorate outside. It was cold. Colder than cold. So cold that we bundled Miles up (our outdoor lover), walked to the front of the house, only to have him say he was "cheewy" and was going inside. Rob looked unnerved at him being indoors alone, but I said, nah, the tv's on, he'll just hang out for a bit. Even now, writing those words I feel an icy shiver down my spine. We braved the cold wind, strung our outdoor lights and were picking up the last bits of junk when Miles was loudly talking to us through the front window. Sans pants, of course. It looked important and Rob went to check it out as I finished up. As I entered the house, I heard the washing machine going, and saw Rob stuffing our curtains in. Still in his fluffy fur-lined hat and coat, he was muttering to himself and blowing fine wisps of steam out of his ears. Apparently, while we were freezing our light bulbs off outside, Miles was experimenting with what worked best as toilet paper. He left a deposit in his potty seat, but tracked through the house leaving a trail of destruction and mess behind him. While leaning over the couch looking out the window and checking on our progress, we think he noticed he felt not-so-fresh and grabbed the nearest cleaning cloth around. My white living room curtains.

Fear not upcoming holiday guests, our house has been detoxed and cleaned. My white curtains no longer bear the stain of disgrace and our beloved beast is now successfully finishing his seventh day of potty training. He's doing really well, and I'll just have to be sure to remind him when he's married someday not to buy toilet paper curtains for his own home. Merry Christmas. And you'd better compliment my outside lights our I'll sick poop boy on you.

Ferber-izing The Beast

For most of Miles' life, he was a perfect angel at bed time. After a prompting of "time for bed, Miles", he would grab his favorite train toy and head off happily to bed. No worries. About two months ago, the Jordan household was turned upside down by the fact that the wee Jordan decided he would no longer like to go to bed. Instead, he would like to scream bloody murder so loudly that his parents feared a visit from the local officials. His parents conferred, tried different tactics, sweated, conferred again and finally decided to let wee Jordan fall asleep on the couch. He would also frequent the head of household's bed in the middle of the night. Well, the elder Jordans decided that as long as no one was screaming, everyone was sleeping, and no major problems arose, this situation would serve well for the time being. The time being is now officially OVER. For the past two weeks, wee Jordan has consistently come to bed with his parents and harassed them. He has lain sideways in an attempt to claim in territory. He has screamingly demanded that no one, under any circumstances, fall asleep. He has demanded to watch cartoons in bed at 3am. He has headbutted, kicked and in many other ways abused his loving parents and they have had enough. As of last night, at 7pm, Miles was put in his bed, told he was loved, kissed and his door was closed. After five minutes, he was reassured he was loved, but firmly told he needed his own bed. After twenty minutes, he fell into exhausted sleep. Until 2:30am ET. At this point he called out to his mother, and the whole process started again. Tonight, after only ten minutes, he fell into exhausted sleep and we shall see what the nighttime hours hold for his parents. Determined, they will follow Dr. Ferber's program, proving that they can, in fact, regain control of their dominating two year old. They will triumph in having their own bed again. And they their son will sleep blissfully once more in his own bed. Pray for the elder Jordans on their journey.

Bye Bye Binky

As some of you may know, Miles is a bink-a-holic. The kid loves binkies. A lot. Too much. WAY too much. If he sees another kid's binky laying on the floor, he immediately notices it, picks it up, ponders a while whether he should just go for it and pop it in his mouth before finally relenting and finding it's owner. For a long time we have struggled along playing his binky-centered game. Many a night a bedtime, Miles stubbornly resisted laying down, while his two exhausted, bedraggled parents searched the house on hands and knees looking for a binky, ANY binky. It could be three years old and covered in cat hair from being under the couch. No biggie, we'll wash it, Miles will go to bed. Sigh... it's been a long road. For a long time, we didn't dare leave the house without a binky stashed in one of our pockets. God forbid we are out and there's a meltdown and the only thing Miles needs to calm down is his binks. We have been chained to the darn thing.

I am announcing, that as of this morning, we are officially a BINKY-FREE household. Miles had one, sad looking, chewed up binky left to his name and he really really really really wanted a Henry train (Thomas' friend). So, I bribed him. The two of us went grocery shopping and when we were walking in, I suggested he could pick out a new train ("HENRY???!!"), if he could throw away his binky before we left the store. I explained how he was a big boy, his binky had a big hole in it from him chewing it, it was bad for his teeth... this all went over his head. He was going to get Henry, and that was all that mattered.

It was just that easy, too! We headed straight for the toy section, he picked out his new Henry, and we proceeded with the grocery shopping. He told several people he was big now and could have Henry, and they sort of smiled funny and went about their shopping. It was the BEST shopping trip I've had with Miles in a long, long, LONG time. We stopped at the garbage can at the exit, he took one meaningful suck on his beloved bink and popped it in the can. He said "Bye Bye Binky"!! And that was that.

Dirty Dirty Boy

Miles is definitely a little boy through and through. If there's a truck, train, matchbox car or dirt, he's all-together thrilled. Dirt is really the main ingredient in the fun. First thing on a school day, I have to get the kids fed, dressed, teeth brushed, bag packed and out the door for Max to catch the bus. (Only one of these children has to actually GET on the bus, but if I didn't go through the process with both, the wee one would haul ass outside in a diaper and ladybug rain boots to see what he was missing.) So every morning, by 8:20, we are all dressed and clean to start the day. We wave goodbye to Max. By 8:25, Miles has literally laid down in his favorite patch of dirt and perhaps rolled over a couple of times for good measure. He likes to drive his little vehicles through mounds of filth and he likes to get up close and personal with said filth, hence he lays directly in it. When it's time to go inside, I know now to take his boots off on the deck and unroll his pant legs BEFORE entering the house to avoid the shower of rocks, dirt and sometimes moss from soiling my kitchen floor. He is chronically filthy. He doesn't so much play in the nice soft green grass, he prefers the garden, or the patches under the trees where grass won't grow, or the gravel and dirt driveway. Oh, how he loves the driveway. I can actually remember a time when my Max, at age 1, was terrified of touching grass because we lived in a city and didn't have any grass. He didn't like getting dirty and the most he would venture was to throw pebbles down the storm-drains in the street. Rob and I lovingly referred to him as our "city kid". Miles is our "country boy". If he could sleep with his trains in the dirt next to the driveway he would. This picture was taken by Grampa a couple of weeks ago. When we took his boots off he left a pile of sand in my dining room.

Kindergarten Days

The time for Kindergarten has come. The first day of "real" school for "big kids". My little Max is a "school-ager" as he calls it. I looked forward the the first day of school all summer long, really. Every time I heard him declare with a slight whine that he was booooored and there was nothing to doooooo, I'd think ahead to the days when he'd be so busy all day long that he'd be glad for some downtime. And, for the first few days of school, he climb down off the bus, walk with me inside, kick off his shoes and put his feet up, grabbing the remote. He was exhausted. Really, really, really exhausted. But, boy was it great! I'd ask him how was school? What did you do? What was your favorite part? "I don't really remember what we did today mom, but we had BURGERS for lunch!". He has a hard time recalling what they worked on in class, or what songs they sang in Music. But, boy can he rattle off he had for "Hot Lunch": Turkey Sandwich, Assorted Fruit, Strawberry Milk and Jello!!!!! Wow! He can also remember happily what they did in Gym Class. Hmm... lunch and gym, what else is important? So, even though the first big day of Kindergarten is now weeks behind us, I thought I should post this picture. I needed to document the occasion and come out of my state of slacker-ness. Happy School Days!

Crisp Morning Air, Fresh Cow Manure and Chest Pain

Since the start of school this year, I've had big plans. After being on Weight Watchers for several weeks now and having a total loss so far of approximately 20 pounds, I decided I should start to... you know... exercise. Or something. I knew that I should start with a new pair of sneakers because, well, I didn't have any. Oh, ok, I had some, but they are the "lawn mowing" sneakers and they are an eternal shade of poopy green and they smell. So, I took my birthday gift card for Target (thank you E & K!) and grabbed some sporty new kicks. Step 1 was complete. Today was the kick off of "walking after the bus leaves exercise routine". Miles is always up for a complimentary ride in his stroller; he likes to point and shout out instructions while snacking on various foods and putting his feet up on his cup holder tray. It was a brisk (ok, fricken cold) New England morning so I actually had to scrounge up a real had for Miles to wear that would cover his ears, and grabbed myself a sweatshirt and hit the pavement. In an effort for a fresh, new version of a regular old walk, I decided to go UP the hill that winds into rural cow country at an alarmingly steep rate. I had big ideas that Miles and I would stroll past the farms, cows and horses would come to the fence and greet us, giving Miles a fantastic childhood memory, while affording me a good bout of calorie-burning. I headed up the hill and immediately knew that I had underestimated the work it would be. I'd gotten about six or seven houses up and felt my breath labor and sweat broke out on my brow. Wow, I knew that I was not in peak physical condition, but this hill was STEEP. I am really huffing and puffing now, determined not to look too ridiculous pushing the carriage up a hill at 90 degrees (because, it really looks silly!) and hoping I'd be able to catch my breath soon. Five minutes later, my glasses are useless as they have fogged over with cold sweat, my breathing is still labored, and my little Miles is yelling at me to go faster. Alas, I make it to the first cow farm. I use this as an excuse to halt the stroller to a quick stop, rip my sweatshirt off and wipe my face with it and start mopping the fog off my glasses, all while panting to Miles to "look, honey, see the cute cows having their breakfast?" Then, the smell hit me. Fresh, pungent, awful cow manure. It curled into my nostrils, making my nose hairs singe and I swear I was puffing away so hard, I could actually TASTE it. Forcing down the urge to vomit, I put myself together and we continue on our walk. Next we saw a horse. Or, was it a pony? Perhaps a mule? I swear to goodness, I could not tell. You say, it's obvious which is which, but this must've been some crossbreed or something, because it was just indistinguishable. We left it at saying goodbye to "pony-horsey". Next, more cows, but in a dewy field several yards back, so no over-powering stink here. At this point I'm starting to feel under control now and thinking it's not so bad and I figured we should turn back now before Miles' nose gets any runnier. Past the cows frolicking in the field (well, not frolicking really), past the pony-horsey, past the stink factory and finally to the newly named "Death Hill". It was *almost* as bad going down as it was going up. I had a frantic, tense feeling that both the stroller and I could go careening down the hill out of control in an alarming painful fashion. My knees strained, my back was aching, and finally, mercifully, we reached our driveway. Miles popped out of the stroller with an urgent need to find dirt to drive his vehicles in, while I plopped down in the hammock and closed my eyes for a moment. Was that the vision I'd had of our walk? Nope. But... did I die on the side of the road? Nope. Did I suffer an asthma attack or heart failure in front of Stinky Farm? Nope. All in all, a success. Here's to more crisp autumn morning walks in the country.