Not the Best Week Ever

So I kind of make some sort of effort not to dwell on super gross things on the blog.

But when you have three children under four, life is so unrelentingly yuck-filled that it sometimes seems impossible to write about motherhood on a weekly basis without getting into some of the job's gorier aspects.


With that being said, I am here to tell you that we here at Short Fat Dictator headquarters have spent the week in the grip of a massive all-family diarrhea outbreak.


I'll take a brief pause for those of you wise folks who wish to stop reading at this time.

For those of you that remain: First of all, it might seriously time to look into a hobby. Second of all, I promise to keep the details of our recent epidemic as un-detailed as humanly possible.


Suffice it to say that diarrhea has taken over our home entirely. It is all we think about. It is all we talk about. I have uttered the sentence, 


"Oh my God, is that poop?"


more times in the last three days than I ever imagined I would over the course of a lifetime.


Diarrhea in all its personified glory has become a sixth member of our household. Poor Snoodie has been suffering the worst and has gotten fairly vocal on the subject.


Each butt-clutching trip down the hallway towards the potty now involves the angrily shouted phrase,


"I don't want anymore of you the diarrhea!!"

Truly the only positive thing I can think of to say about the week is that all but one of the victims of this devilish plague is potty trained. In order to avoid discussing this at any length I will instead provide you with this simple formula:

Diarrhea + Diapers = Soul Crushingly Unimaginable Horror

Yesterday I foolishly allowed myself to believe that the disease might have finally run its course. After an incident-free overnight and a potty trip-free morning, I decided it was time to head out to the local playspace for some fun and lunch anywhere other than our house of pestilence.

Things seemed fine until about 20 minutes after our meal when the Snood shouted down from the apex of the tubing:

"Oh no Mommy! The diarrhea! I think it's back!"

The looks you receive when your child delivers this line in a crowded fast food establishment are not kindly, let me tell you.  I gathered up the children in a whirlwind and sped for the minivan under the withering glares of french-fry cramming diners.


So, we're back to sitting at home and stuffing ourselves with toast, bananas, rice, and any other "binding" food you can possibly think of. 


Which is not so bad really. It's not like we're welcome back at the playspace anyway...

A Lullaby Gone Wrong

I've always enjoyed singing to my kids.

When the Snood was first home from the hospital I would sing John Lennon's classic "Beautiful Boy" to him every night as my husband and I gave him a bath, then again as I laid him in his crib at bedtime.

In case you are not familiar with the song (hi Mom!), it is a lovely lullaby that Lennon wrote for his son Sean. The lyrics feature the famous line, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans," and the chorus that repeats the phrase, 


"Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful / Beautiful Boy."


The song has remained in heavy rotation at our house. I continued to play it for Snood as he grew, and I sang it anew at bath time when we welcomed our second son 19-months later.


In the final line of the song Lennon sings,


"Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful / Beautiful Sean."


Taking a cue from this I began inserting my own kids' names into the lullaby as I sang it.

As it turned out, letting my boys know that a lyric change was an option for my sweet little lullaby was a mistake of epic proportions.

It started out innocuously enough when my flight-obsessed two-year-old stopped me as I sang before bed with a request,

"Buuu-fulll Airplanes!"

I figured what could be the harm in engaging this adorable suggestion? And so I sang, 

"Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful / Beautiful AIRPLANES!"

He smiled brightly, clapped his hands and immediately requested:

"Buuu-full Helicops!"

I sang "Beautiful Helipcopters", "Beautiful Supersonic Jets", "Beautiful Boats", and even "Beautiful Monster Truck Tires".

The real trouble began when my older son overheard the evolution of my beloved song. Immediately he had some requests of his own:

"Beautiful Thomas the Tank Engine!"

"Beautiful Cheeseburgers!"

"Beautiful Mommy!"

So lulled into happiness was I by this last request that I didn't see where this game was so obviously heading.

"Beautiful Poo Poo!"

My horror at this suggestion only fueled my sons' fire. 

"Beautiful Boogers!"

"Beautiful Butt on Your Nose!"

"Beautiful Poop in the Kitchen!"

Control, at its most basic level, had been lost.

As my kids laughed themselves silly I took a moment to acknowledge the end of a favorite nightly ritual.

Later that night I rocked my newly minted baby girl and sang to her softly,

"Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful / Beautiful Girl" 

I figure I've got at least another 18 months left and I'm going to make the most of it.

The Inner Two-Year-Old

My middle child turned two last week.

And, yes, I mean it's crazy terrible with the tantrums and the "I won't!"s and the falling to the ground in agony at random intervals. I feel quite sure that if he possessed the requisite manual dexterity my son would, in fact, be rending his garments on a daily basis.


Watching my son in all of his wondrous expressiveness has made me think about just how emotionally repressed I really am. The reality is that my days are FILLED with a host of frustrations that my two-year-old can't even imagine. Unfortunately, though, I've been socialized to such a degree that I do not feel comfortable kicking those who offend me in the face repeatedly and am instead relegated to expressing my rage through the occasional passive aggressive note.

It's enough to make me wonder what life would be like if I were to take a cue from my son. Just imagine how much internalized stress I might free myself from if could only get in touch with my inner two-year-old!

It might look a little something like this:

MONDAY: The week is off to a rough start as a fellow Mom at school pick-up edges me out for a parking space. Instead of plastering a fake smile on my face and searching for another spot I exit my vehicle. Gesturing towards the space I begin shouting in a high-pitched voice, 

"MINE!!!!! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE!!!!!!!!!!" 

My fellow Mommy tries to argue that she saw the space first but her words fall on deaf ears. Literally. Because I have shoved both fingers in my ears and I am shrieking loudly enough to drown out her words. If she does not relent I drop to the ground and begin rolling around to show her how committed I am to my cause.

TUESDAY: At the grocery store I reach the checkout stand only to be told that the total for my weekly groceries is nearly two hundred dollars. This seems like an awful lot of money and I am upset. So, when the clerk asks for payment I shut my eyes tightly and repeat, 

"NOOOOOO! I DON'T WANT TO!!!!!!!" 

three hundred times at increasing volume.

When the people behind me in line begin to complain about the delay, I arch my back dramatically, shake my head angrily and swat at them furiously with both hands.

WEDNESDAY: My husband comes home from work and asks what's for dinner. I open the refrigerator and begin throwing whatever contents I find towards his head. If he persists in his requests, there is biting.

THURSDAY: The kids are running wild. Their roughhousing culminates in them breaking the handle off the oven. I consider calmly giving each of them a time out before gently explaining the error of their ways, but instead I grab a blanket, pull it over my head and lie down in the middle of the living room floor while emitting a high-pitched wail. I refuse to emerge until my husband returns from work.

FRIDAY: I finish up the week with a night out with the girls! Conversation is flowing but the service is a bit on the slow side, so I take the situation in hand. I begin by banging my face into the table repeatedly while shrieking, 

"HUNGRY! HUUUUUUNGGGGRRRRRY!" 

This lights a fire under the service staff and our meal appears without further delay. I take a few bites of my meal before announcing loudly,

"EYE DON'T YIKE IT!" 

I then throw the remainder of my meal onto the floor and commence pulling out tufts my own hair.

Now I'm not trying to claim that I'd make a lot of new friends during my week as a two-year-old, but I do have a strong suspicion that I'd sleep better at night. I know I'd be freed from rocking back and forth sleeplessly as I tried to craft the perfect rejoinder to the parking enforcement dude who gave me a ticket EVEN THOUGH I WAS CLEARLY ABOUT TO PUT MORE MONEY IN THE METER!!!!


Perhaps there is some happy medium to be found in which I summon just enough of the terrible twos. I might be able to let fewer things slide, and perhaps I could find a few more opportunities to express my true feelings without going into full-blown tantrum mode.

No matter how tempting my son makes it look

The Happiest Place on Earth

This week I was forced to face a decision that, frankly, I've been dreading since the moment they handed my oldest child to me back in the delivery room in 2008.


Yes, folks, I decided it was finally time to take Snoodie to Disneyland.

We live in Southern California, and so the lure of Disneyland is ever present. Billboards call to us from every corner, reminding us each day of the joy and wonder that await a mere 40 miles to the South.


I'd been planning to hold off on visiting until Snoodie was at least 4, but last week I had a cousin visiting from New York who was itching to go, so I decided to take the plunge. 


Some thoughts from our 10 hours inside the Magic Kingdom:


SWEET MOTHER OF ZEUS IS DISNEYLAND EXPENSIVE!


I think I might be a hundred years old because I honestly believed that taking one adult and one three-year-old boy for a single day at an amusement park might set me back about $75 bucks. 


That was incorrect. 


A child's ticket to Disneyland runs $81 dollars. An adult ticket is $89 dollars. Add $15 dollars for parking and consider the fact that they confiscate any food, drinks or snacks treats that you try to smuggle in and accept that your looking at a $300 dollar minimum for a single visit.

Wowzers.


MICKEY'S GUEST OF THE DAY!


We started our day with an exciting development.


As we pulled into the parking lot a grinning and ponytailed woman approached our car and announced with unbridled enthusiasm that we had been randomly chosen as "Mickey's Guest of the Day!" She waved away the money I'd taken out to pay for parking insisting that as "Mickey's Guest of the Day!" our parking was taken care of. Next she handed us some cool, "I'm Celebrating!" buttons before hopping in a little golf cart to lead us to a super-exclusive parking spot. As we followed her car my cousin and I began to ponder what cavalcade of delights might await us now that we'd been chosen as 'Mickey's Guests of the Day!" 

• Would Mickey himself be escorting us around the park?

• Would we get to skip all the lines as we rode attraction after attraction on the arm of a beloved costumed character?

• Would there be free snacks?

We exited our car and our friendly greeter leapt from her vehicle to sincerely wish us a great day in the park.


Then she drove away. 

And that was kind of it. 


I'm not gonna lie, we were a bit disappointed that being "Mickey's Guest of the Day!" really just amounted to free parking and a space closer to the tram. Don't get me wrong, it was nice, but it seemed like ole Mickey could have given us a bit of a sweeter hookup after selecting us for such an honor.


We made our way through the park announcing to anyone who would listen that we were, in fact, "Mickey's Guest of the Day!" but I can't say we got much traction.


MEETING THE MOUSE


When I went to Disneyland as a kid the whole "meeting the characters" thing was an all out free-for-all. You just kind of wandered around hunting for, say, Donald Duck. Then, when you found him, you would just sort of push the other children out of the way and mug him for a photo-op.

But those days are over. Now the characters stand in one place as park workers oversee orderly lines of guests who wait patiently to greet them. Snoodie has a little difficulty understanding the system. Our 15 minutes in line #1 was dominated by Snoodie screeching at the top of his lungs,


"Hi Mickey! I'm ready to see you!!! Mickey!! Hi there!!!!!"


In classic fashion, by the time was actually reached the oversized mouse, Snoodie was overcome with terror, barely stood still for a picture and then spent the rest of the day fleeing in terror from each of beloved Disney favorite we happened upon. 

WHY AREN'T THESE CHILDREN IN SCHOOL?????


We visited Disneyland...

1. on a Wednesday 
2. in May 
3. during the school year 

..and the place was PACKED! PACKED I tell you! 


The lines were long, the restaurants were overflowing and the shops were teeming. 


I am seriously considering abandoning all my other pursuits in favor of calling every school principal in the nation and sternly berating them for letting their charges run wild at Disneyland while school's in session.


*insert fist shaking*


Those children should be in class!!! Not in Southern California getting our way as we try to enjoy Disneyland!!!


IN CONCLUSION


For a day I was really not all that enthused about I have to admit that Snoodie and I had a pretty great time at Disneyland. We bailed on the place before the nighttime festivities started and we took it a bit easy on the rides as the lines were long, but we still managed to squeeze in a lot of fun during our short visit. 


Was it $300 dollars worth of fun? Hard to say, but I will tell you that ever since we returned the bedtime story that the Snood wants to hear every night is, "The Time I Went to Disneyland" in which I provide a minute-by-minute retelling of our time in the park.


We end the story each night by saying,


"And finally they left the park to come home, knowing they'd be back very soon. And they were happy."

The End

The Power of Three

When Snoodie was around 6-months-old my brother called to find out how everything was going.


I told him that there were good days and bad days.

My brother (a father of four) laughed before telling me,


"You should have another one. Then you can have good days and bad days on the same day."


Now that I have three kids I gotta say - the guy was onto something.


When you have one child there are plenty of things that can go wrong. Any given outing can be marred by a lost toy, felled by a diaper mishap or derailed by an ill-timed meltdown. But when you have three kids (I have realized too late in my child-producing journey) you've TRIPLED your chances of any given day going spectacularly off the rails.

Just yesterday I was having a wonderful day with my two boys. In what can only be described "The Great Mid-May Miracle", the two of them played together for close to an hour (an HOUR people!) before I had to reprimand them for beating each other about the face and neck over a disputed toy.


Later, they ate their entire dinner with nary a complaint before enjoying some leftover birthday cake. They even said thank you before marching off to the bath without incident.


It was pretty much the best day ever.

Except for the fact that my possibly teething or alternately just irrationally furious 3.7 months old spend the entire afternoon and evening in an unrelenting rage spiral.


A good day and a bad day indeed.

My father always cites the old adage that a parent can only be as happy as their least happy child. I always assumed this was said in reference to parents of grown children but I've come to realize that it is just as true for toddlers. I've accepted the fact that my day is only going to go as well as the worst day one of my children is having.


Now, I just spend my time hoping that all three of them don't have bad days on the same day.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Children

Being a mom is hard.

In fact, according to some wildly misguided people (who have never been in the employ of, say, a South American mine) it's the hardest job there is.


In my estimation, the main difficulty of being a parent lies in the profession's vast unrelentingness. I mean, these kids are ALWAYS looking for something from you. They're forever needing to be dressed or demanding to be bathed or OH SWEET LORD is it really time for another meal? I feel like I fed them like 20 minutes ago!!!


I have three children, and I tell you the requests of me begin around 6:30 in the morning and often don't wrap up until sometime after 9pm. On some unfortunate evenings, the demands continue well into the wee hours as David and I are called upon for water procurement, pacifier replacing, and the occasional battling of monsters under the bed.

When one is on the receiving end of such an epic barrage of child-based need, it can be tempting to curl up in a ball on the couch, put one's fingers in one's ears, and rock back and forth while fervently praying that the children will magically remain silent until it's time for them to leave for college.


Unfortunately, I am here to let you know that this path is highly ineffective. 


In better news, I have discovered a method of interacting with one's children that actually does seem to help. After much experimentation, I happened upon a truly extraordinary fact:

I enjoy my children more the more I pay attention to them.

Take a moment. I know it's shocking.


Now, I consider myself an expert at ignoring my children lest they drive me insane. I freely admit to the times that I've sat in the corner of the playroom, willfully ignoring their cries of

"Mommy it's mine!"

"It's broken! I need you to fix it!"

"Milk! I want MILK!!!"

and the always haunting

"I think I pooped!"

as I obsessively hit the refresh button on my Facebook page.


But I've come to understand that this just isn't as effective as simply getting off my butt and getting involved. Rather than hiding away, desperately attempting to deny the fact that I have produced three children in four years, I've found it is actually better to attempt to engage said children in gleeful fun time. 

And so I use funny voices to convey the danger Thomas the Tank Engine faces as he heads towards the ravine. Then I gather everyone in the backyard and play several dozen rounds of "I chase you around in a circle while you laugh hysterically". Later I supervise the baking of several dozen muffins, fully realizing that this will mean scraping batter from the ceiling at some later date. If things get desperate enough there is a rousing sing along of "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round."


All of us, myself included, thoroughly enjoy ourselves. We laugh a lot, I get some exercise, and amazingly enough the entire experience proves vastly preferable to pretending the children don't exist.


By 6pm or so I'm exhausted but guess what? So are the children! This means they no longer have the will to attack each other violently over toy disputes; they lack the verve to destroy the couch while watching Dora; and they can barely summon the energy to call my name 1,000 times in a row, thus causing me to wish to drop them off in a basket in front of the firehouse.

Folks, all I can tell you is that in my house this playing with the children racket seems to be working. 


Now if you'll excuse me, I have some batter I need to scrape off the ceiling.

Inside the Husband Triangle

I have a lot of needs.


When it comes to making me happy, my husband must complete a complicated series of feats in which he is part home helper, part mind reader, part amateur psychologist, and on some days, part rabid bear wrangler.

I think it would be fair to say that approximately 96% of all the discord in our marriage originates from me. This is because it is remarkably easy to keep my husband happy, as long as I stay inside what I've come to think of as my husband's "happiness triangle".


What is the happiness triangle, you ask? Well, allow me to spend 64 seconds using my wildly limited word processing skills to illustrate:

The above represents the three key aspects to my husband's overall personal contentment. 

Back when I was dating David I remember spending a lot of time wondering what he was thinking. Now that we have lived together for over four years, I've come to realize that there is an excellent chance that the answer to that question is

"Gee, I really wish I had some brownies."

Which brings us to the opening point of the happiness triangle:

FOOD

That old saying that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? The person who came up with that was clearly some sort of crazy genius. My husband and I have seen some hard times in our short time together, and it never ceases to amaze me how effectively I can soothe my husband's heartaches with a well-timed baked good. It's nothing short of astounding.

ENCOURAGEMENT 

The second part of the happiness triangle is words of encouragement. Now, when I need encouragement, I have a tendency to just scream things at my husband like, 

"Look at my hands! Do they look like crazy old lady witch hands to you? DO THEY?"

My husband takes a different approach in that he never ever complains about anything and rarely gives voice to his concerns. Still, I know that it's important every once in a while to give him a totally unsolicited pat on the back, to tell him what a great job I think he's doing at home and at work, and to reassure him that every little thing is gonna be alright. Sometimes, on very rare, special occasions, I will even use his most-beloved phrase, "Honey, you are right."

SEX 

This is a very important part of the happiness triangle that I will not be explaining in detail due to the fact that my Dad reads the blog. I trust you to figure this one out for yourselves, K?

And that's THE WHOLE THING. I mean sure, there are other things my husband enjoys: he's a reader, he's ambitious in his work, and he loves it when his favorite sports team wins. There are plenty of points in the overall happiness mosaic, but as his wife, if I stay firmly within the above triangle, I know that my husband will be reasonably content for pretty much, like, ever.

Seems simple, right? Unfortunately, like most things, living within the happiness triangle is easier said than done. I carefully explained the triangle theory to a girlfriend recently. She agreed that her husband had similarly simple needs, and we came to the conclusion that the rest of our marital lives would be defined by "post happiness triangle revelation" married bliss.

Earlier this week she texted me:

• FRIEND: Are you inside the triangle?
• ME: Not exactly, yelling at husband b/c he 4got to tell me about upcoming weekend work plans.
• FRIEND: Oh no! Where does this fit in the triangle???
• ME: Oh, we are FIRMLY outside the triangle at present.

It turns out that knowing and doing are two different things. But all I can tell ya is that at least I have a goal...