Cigarettes And Beer...And Kevin Bacon

Looks like I picked the wrong week to wear Spandex. As if there's ever a right week.

I was going to a workout class, see. One of those that incorporates your baby in the workout, as if your baby will tolerate being lifted and bench-pressed like a drooling, five-pound bag of flour instead of a squirming, wriggling, 17-pound, just learned to crawl and now wants to maintain the same freedom to roam as an endangered species on an animal preserve. Baby.

And so in my enthusiasm to train my butt to defy gravity--or at least mildly disagree with it--I donned a pair of "workout pants" (as in, a camel called...he wants his toe back), a t-shirt, some new sneakers that had yet to meet any pavement, and ushered the kids into the car. I was planning for a quick, painless drop off at school, followed by a nice hour of lifting Finn over my head and trying to avoid getting any of his bodily fluids in my mouth.

The Big Five

Yesterday Rollie turned five.

Five. Wow.

Five is a neat age. I'm thinking that it will be nice to have a five-year-old in the house. Five-year-olds go to Kindergarten. They ride bikes. They tie their own shoes. They can invent games using rotten pumpkins and bathroom doors. They can hold semi-intellectual conversations about mediocre song lyrics. And they only occasionally need to corrected for insubordination, talking back, and climbing on their little brother's excer-saucer to reach some off-limits Valentine's Day candy, while their little brother is in said excer-saucer.

Texts, Lies, And Boobs Made From Ballistics Gel

Something fishy is going on here.

So I went away for a night. Just me. No kids. No Jeff. Just a nice relaxing getaway with a few other people who also haven't had a good night sleep since the Clinton administration. And while we still didn't get much sleep, at least our insomnia was the result of bar-hopping and having to pee in the middle of the night, and not the result of being startled awake by a mini-person appearing at our bedside and insisting that Cookie Monster was scuttling around the house and making ridiculous demands for Oreos at 2 in the morning.

I wasn't really that worried about Jeff being alone with the kids for 24 hours. He's a pretty capable person. Were he dumped onto a deserted tropical island, armed with nothing but a shoelace, a broken lighter and an empty paint can, he would find a way to either sustain himself for the next ten years, or fashion an elaborate escape plan that would land him on another tropical island, this one inhabited by voluptuous Pacific Island women bearing pineapples and pina coladas. 

Nuggets Of Wisdom

And then there are times when you find yourself locked in a knock-down, drag-out battle of wills with one of your children, a battle which will only end when one of you ends up eating dog puke.

Sorry. Hope you weren't just eating your dinner. Especially something brown and chunky, like stew.

Actually, it wasn't real dog puke, merely implied dog puke. Elsa's the one who ate it. And while I've been wondering where my baby girl gets her little stubborn streak from, I know for a fact I didn't pass along any dog-puke-eating gene to her. That trait is supposed to skip a generation.

On the night when my daughter proved to me that while sometimes my cooking is unfit for human consumption, a steaming pile of animal vomit hits the spot just fine, I had purchased some chicken fingers from the store and cut some up for the kids, keeping the rest to put on a salad for Jeff and me. And let me preface this by saying that lately I've been trying to work on instilling better table manners in my children. By manners I mean things like like saying the blessing before they eat. Saying excuse me after they burp. Keeping their hands to themselves. Making sure the objects they insert into their noses are retrievable. You know...the important ones.

So one of these things I've been struggling with is having them stay in their seat until they are finished eating. And this one is probably my fault, since I used to allow Rollie to eat just about anywhere--the couch, the floor, the bathtub, while perched atop my shoulders--so long as he actually ate. Man what a battle that used to be.

This time Elsa got up from the table and wandered off to cause destruction somewhere else, leaving one chicken nugget piece on her plate. She had cleaned her entire plate save for that last piece, practically licking the Lightning McQueen decal from the plastic. And so as I cleared her place, I grabbed that last piece of nugget and tossed it in our dog's bowl. (Who says I don't love my dog? Take that, Anonymous!)

A few minutes later, Elsa came flitting back to the table and, noticing that it had been cleared, asked me what happened to her nugget.

Me: Oh, I gave it to Ollie.
Elsa: But I wanted it.
Me: Well you left it on your plate and got up from the table, so I assumed you were finished.
Elsa: But I wasn't finished.
Me: Well, I'm sorry about that. Next time don't get up until you're all finished.
Elsa: Where is my nugget?
Me: I just told you. It's in Ollie's bowl.
Elsa goes to investigate, then pops back around the counter.
Elsa: It's gone.
Me: I guess he ate it then.
Elsa: But I wanted it.
Me: Yes, you made that clear. I'm sorry I gave it to him. Next time I'll make sure to ask you first.
Elsa (quickly whipping up some crocodile tears): I want my nugget.
Me: Seriously, Elsa? You're crying about half of a chicken nugget?
Elsa: I'm still hungry.
Me: Well you can have some grapes or something.
Elsa: I want my chicken nugget.
Me: Elsa, there's nothing I can do about it now. It's in Ollie's tummy.

That seemed like a rational end to the discussion: No matter how badly you want this nugget, it is now housed within the gut of our 12-year-old dog. Case closed.

But 'rational' and 'three-year-old' don't exactly go together like Mario Lopez and cheesy TV.  Because even as I sat on the couch with Finn and started nursing him (my children's cue to start behaving like they've been raised by jackals), Elsa followed me, repeating that she still wanted her damn nugget.

Me: Elsa, I don't know what to tell you. You can't have it. Ollie ate it up and now it's sitting in his tummy waiting for him to poop it out.
Elsa: But I really want it.
Me: Elsa, listen, the only possible way you can have that nugget would be if Ollie threw it up outside in the yard and you went into his puddle of barf and got the nugget out.
Elsa: ....Ewwww!
Me: I know. So trust me, you wouldn't want to eat it after Ollie had thrown it up.
Elsa: Yes I would.
Me: No you would not. It would be all gross and chewed up and covered in doggie throw up. Why would you want to eat that?
Elsa: Because I'd want to. (Her debates are often impossible to trump).
Me: I don't think you would.
Elsa: Yes I would.
Me: Really? So if I took Ollie outside right now and made him throw up your nugget and brought it back inside, you would eat it?
Elsa: Yes.
Rollie (who has been listening this entire time and seems quite intrigued by the conversation): Ew!
Me: Yes, exactly. Thank you, Rollie. Ew. Why would you do that?
Elsa: Because I'm still hungry!
Me: Elsa, there is plenty of food in this house that hasn't already been eaten by our dog. Go get a squeezey yogurt. Go get some crackers. Go get something that doesn't need to be regurgitated.
Elsa: ...But I want my nugget.

And since this was quickly becoming a very disgusting rendition of There's A Hole In The Bucket, I finally decided that the only way to get my daughter to realize how grossly (and I do mean grossly) mistaken she was about still wanting her nugget was to demonstrate.

Me: Fine. You wanna eat doggie throw-up? I'll let you eat doggie throw-up.

I called Ollie, took a detour through the kitchen where I grabbed a piece of nugget from my salad and brought it and the dog outside to our darkened back yard. Elsa and Rollie stood on the other side of the back door, their noses pressed to the glass as they watched. I positioned myself in front of the dog and leaned over, pretending first to assist in Ollie puking, and then retrieving Elsa's beloved piece of nugget from the puddle. Because as a parent, if you want to make a point, sometimes you've got to pretend to force the family pet to vomit.

Was I being immature? Sure. Was there a better way to resolve Elsa's insistence on getting her nugget back? Probably. Was I thinking that this would finally put an end to Elsa's obdurate attitude and turn her into a compliant, agreeable little cherub? Foolishly, yes. Did I need Jeff to hurry up and get home so I could hide in the closet and drink a beer? Does a bear poop in the woods? Or, in this case, does a dog puke in the backyard?

I turned toward the door and help up my chicken nugget like a pearl I'd just harvested. Rollie and Elsa looked amazed, and...did I detect a slight look of wariness in Elsa's big blue eyes?

Me (flinging the door open and almost crowing): Here it is!
Rollie: Did Ollie really throw that up?
Me: Yep.
Rollie (looking at Elsa and grinning): Eeeewwww!
Elsa (examining the nugget): Did you wipe it off?
Me: Yep. I wiped it off on the grass. You ready to eat it?
Elsa: ....Is it clean now?
Me: I wouldn't say it's clean. It was just in a pile of barf.
Elsa: Can I eat it?
Me: That's what you wanted, isn't it?

Elsa doesn't respond, but she carefully takes the nugget from me, examines it for a moment, then places it in her mouth.

Rollie: Ew, Elsa! You ate it!
Elsa: Mmmmm...
Me: I can't believe you just ate that. What are you, Andrew Zimmern?
Elsa:Why?
Me (sighing): Elsa, I would never really let you eat something that disgusting.
Elsa: ....
Me: That wasn't really the piece Ollie ate.
Rollie (seemingly disappointed): It wasn't?
Me: No. I would never have given you that, Elsa. I gave you piece from my salad. But I didn't really think you'd eat it. I just figured you'd be so grossed out you wouldn't want it at all.

Perhaps Elsa wants some dessert, too.

Shows how much I know. Score one for Elsa in the stubborn column. And the really really disgusting column.

The Human Butt Weighs HOW Much?

Yeah. Hi.

I really hadn't intended to abandoned the blog for so long. I miss it. I miss writing. I miss documenting the lovely new tricks my children have been working on. Like just the other day, Rollie put on my glasses and did an amazing impression of Jonathan Limpnicki's character on Jerry McGuire. I just hope that resemblance doesn't continue into Rollie's preteen years.

But seriously...where has the time gone? Finn's already four months old and eating rice cereal. Just pause for a moment while you soak in his ridiculous potential. Eating rice cereal is only the first of many of his amazing feats. Oh wait...that's feasts. Not feats.

And for my next amazing feast--whirled peas

Middle Child Much?

And Rollie just finished his second season of soccer. Which means I just finished up my second season of shouting at him from the sidelines to Pass The Ball For God's Sake.

And Elsa is...still...Elsa....

But I'm not gonna lie. Three kids takes some work. And some time. I know...News Flash, right? Did you know the earth is actually round, too? ROUND? I can't make this stuff up, folks.

Does the 12-oz variety count?

What I mean is, in order for me to handle three kids and NOT want to shoot myself in the eye repeatedly with a Nerf gun is that I've temporarily ceased all other activities that don't involve clothing, feeding, bathing, cleaning up after or engaging my children in some sort of Imaginative Play...although lately Imaginative Play is Rollie pretending Elsa is a wide receiver and his sole purpose in life is to throw things at her, then tackle her. So I guess my role in all this would be that of Ed Hochuli. Which means I need to work on my arm curls with way more regularity.

But that also means that writing, reading, cleaning, shaving, eating balanced meals, and going anywhere where I might feel uncomfortable whipping out a boob (to feed Finn anyway), just ain't happening.

It is kinda nice, in a way. To have an excuse to be a Total Slacker when it comes to everything else in my life. Oh, haven't blogged in a while? Well, of course you haven't--you've got your hands full! Oh, you haven't showered in five days? Well, how could you--you're busy with three little kids! Oh, your house is a mess, you don't return phone calls, your kids are eating nacho flavored Combos for dinner again, your neighbors called the police because they could smell your diaper genie from across the street and figured it was a dead body someone buried beneath your house? Well what do you expect? You're home with your kids all day long!

Well, fear not, dear readers. I foresee more time to write come January, when Elsa goes to preschool two days a week and Finn will be napping for longer than ten minutes at a time. . And if both of you would like your fix in the meantime, I have an article coming out in Parents magazine's January issue. I've included the link if you simply cannot wait to read what marvelous parenting wisdom I have to bestow upon the reading masses. (Namely that whatever shreds of dignity you've managed to cling to throughout your teens and early twenties will be destroyed the instant you have children. But most of you already knew that.)

Plus, now I have a built-in New Year's resolution: Post More Blogs. Which means I don't have to make any other ones, including Exercise More, Eat More Vegetables, Try Not To Lose Track Of My Keys So Damn Often, and Empty The Diaper Genie Once In Awhile.

In closing, I'd like to post a few pictures of Jonathan Lipnicki, in case you weren't sure who I meant. Because really, the resemblance is uncanny. It did of course take some coaching on my end for Rollie to belt out the famous line. After several takes I convinced him to say, "The Human Head Weighs Eight Pounds," instead of, "The Human Butt Weighs Poopy Butt."

Everyone has an awkward phase...right?

Death Of A Salesmom

I recently came to the decision, possibly after inhaling too many Desitin fumes, that it would be a great idea to sign up for Rollie's school fund-raiser.

I don't know what made me think I would actually be good at selling things door-to-door. The last time I attempted this was selling citrus senior year of high school to raise money to go on the class ski trip. It was such a disaster. To this day I can't even look at a grapefruit without braking out in hives. Why my school chose citrus--something that literally grows on trees in Florida--and not a rarer commodity, like decent pizza, or a pro football team that doesn't suck, is beyond me. Although it would have been difficult to cram a bunch of linebackers into the back of my 1985 Chrysler Town and Country Station Wagon come delivery time.

I could have fit a few kickers, though.

And then there was the failed magazine subscription sale I attempted in sixth grade. I went out, made a whopping two sales, then lost the envelope with the collected checks until the next school year, when I was rearranging my room and found the envelope behind my bed, covered in dust bunnies and Halloween candy wrappers. For the next five years I had to put a lot of effort into avoiding eye contact with those two neighbors so I wouldn't have to explain to them why their copies of Family Circle and Dog Fancy never arrived.

Three's An Intestinal Parasite Waiting To Happen

So what's it like having three kids?

It's a question I've been fielding for about two months now. A question which for some reason is kind of hard to answer. I mean, I ramble a lot when I try to answer it. Although I've been rambling a lot when I answer any question lately. Yesterday at Publix it took my fifteen minutes to let the cashier know that I'd forgotten my coupons. I'm thinking of hiring someone to follow me around with a hooked cane and haul me offstage when my monologues get too long. Or I can download some Wrap It Up music on my phone to play in similar situations. I wonder what genre that would be under. Soundtracks? Classical? Maybe rap...get it?

ANYWAY, the main talking points I touch on when answering the aforementioned question are as follows:

Having three kids is really not that different from having two kids. Honestly. With two kids, you're used to chaos. Messes. Stumbling around the house bleary-eyed and borderline nauseated due to lack of sleep. You're used to laundry that multiplies when you're not looking. You're used to feeling at times like you've lost your mind, and you scream more loudly than a gaggle of fifth grade girls at a Justin Beiber concert. I guess the only difference here is that on top of all this, your clothes will often smell like spit-up.  And you have bigger boobs.