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. 

Sugar And Spice And Dismemberment

Ah, the joys of having a daughter. Little girls are so sweet. So ladylike. They enjoy quiet activities like tea parties, dress up, coloring.... You can almost hear the cherubic, harp-like music whenever they enter a room, all smiling and clean and free from the intent to fart on you at every turn.


At least, that's what I always thought. Before I actually had one.


Don't get me wrong. I love Elsa. Really, I do. She's fun. She's charming. And she only occasionally sticks incongruous objects up her nose.


But over the past few months I've noticed another quality manifesting itself within this chubby little dynamo of a child: 


She is more manipulative than Hannibal Lector trying to get a cellmate to swallow his own tongue.

Picker Your Battles

I've learned a lot these past few weeks. 

If you're boobs are leaking in public, for example, another, sympathetic mom will most likely alert you to this fact, and possibly offer up her own embarrassing anecdote, just to make you feel less...well...sheepish. And wet.

And speaking of wet, another thing I've learned is that little infant boys don't always pee in a trajectory that will hit you, your curious daughter, and the nearest wall-hanging with the kind of water pressure that would make a fireman envious. Sometimes their pee is real sneaky-like (infant boys', not firemen's). You'll be changing him, quickly wiping and applying the necessary ointments and replacing the diaper like your diffusing a bomb, you'll snap the little outfit back up, all proud of yourself that you dodged another bullet, as it were. 

But when you pick up your grunting little angel and cradle him in your arms, you pause. What the....his back is wet. Why is his back wet? Is he sweaty? Did I lay him down in a puddle of water? What the F is going on?

What's going on is your son just performed what I like to call The Velociraptor. It's not the pee you see that's the problem. It's the pee that you didn't even know was there.... It's the pee he does off to the side, while you're too distracted by the prospect of getting a full-on golden shower to even notice what's happening. Plus, your son is looking at you all wide-eyed and alert, beguiling you with his innocence, that leaves you completely unaware that he's busy ruining another adorable outfit you've just put on him. Little brat.

However, I'd say the most important lesson I've learned as I stumble around the house in a bleary-eyed state of semi-consciousness, is Pick Your Battles has been elevated to a whole new level.

For instance....I decided to be all ambitious the other day and actually take all three children and the dog on a walk before I had to take Rollie to school (which, thankfully, has proven to be far less traumatic than last year...so far anyway). I strapped Finn into a baby bjorn, shod my two older kids, grabbed the dog leash (after almost forgetting to attach the dog to it), and we were off. Why I decided I could do this without a stroller--or a shot of rum--is beyond me. I can't even blame pregnancy brain anymore, although surely there must be some follow-up ailment to account for questionable post-partum decision-making. Possibly hormones, possibly breastfeeding, possibly the fact that I tried on a pair of previously baggy, pre-pregnancy pants on the other day and couldn't pull them up over my ass. Which was not where I carried Finn, if memory serves.

So anyway, I chose to undertake this incredible journey around the block on garbage day. Add this to the fact that Rollie has been really into the show American Pickers lately, and you start to get the idea of where this walk was headed.

My entourage and I crossed the street and headed up a sidewalk that was practically impassible because of the amount of just...stuff piled up at the end of one driveway. Cardboard boxes, old wicker shelving, plastic bags of various sizes and shapes, broken lamps, broken picture frames and assorted other broken items that appeared to be circa the Carter administration. Minus the vicious, attack bunny-rabbit.

As I tried to determine the best way to steer my little ducklings around the pile, Rollie slowed down and eyed the items with keen interest. It's the same look he often gives these crappy plastic handcuffs that hang in the cereal aisle at the grocery store (which he has informed me he would like to buy so he could use them to handcuff his crush and lock her in his bedroom the next time she comes over....yeah, I know....aye-yay-yay).

Rollie: What is all this stuff, Momma?
Me: It's just garbage, honey.
Rollie: Why is it so much?
Me: I don't know...maybe they cleaned out their garage recently.
Rollie (now stopped directly in front of the giant pile and scrutinizing an especially tacky, gold-colored reindeer): ...Look, Momma.
Me: Yeah, I see it.
Rollie: Why are they throwing it away?
Me: I don't know. It looks like it's missing an antler.
Rollie: It's for Christmas.
Me: So it is. Come, let's keep moving.
Rollie: ...I'm gonna pick that reindeer.
Me: Oh, Rollie, come on. Don't go rooting through other people's garbage.
Rollie: But it's a decoration. We could put it in our yard.
Me: Wouldn't that be lovely?
Rollie: We could keep it out there until it rains, and then I could put it in my room.
Me: Rollie, I really don't want you to touch any of that stuff. Now come on or you'll be late for school.
Rollie (still not moving from his spot, transfixed on the golden reindeer, which now that the morning sun has hit it, is beginning to sparkle like a diamond in the rough): Look, Momma. I'm that guy from American Pickers.
Me: No, Rollie, you are not that guy from American Pickers. That stuff is gross and dirty and full of germs and if we don't keep moving you won't have time to play with any toys in your class before school starts. So let's GO.

Finally Rollie dragged himself away from the garbage pile and kept walking, all the while talking about what a find that reindeer was and how badly he wanted it for his very own. And as if the gods of all that is tacky and hideous was smiling down upon my son, Finn started fussing, which soon escalated into crying and rooting around on my chest in a way that meant if I didn't whip out my boob in about two minutes I was in for some full-scale, red-faced goat-like inconsolable baby crying. Forget the fact that I literally fed the kid 20 minutes ago. And changed him. And already dealt with one Velociraptor sneak attack.

And so I had to make a U-turn and lead my crew back home. Which meant of course, walking past the gleaming reindeer.

Rollie: Look, Momma. The reindeer is still there.
Me: Yep.
Rollie: Don't you think Dadda would like that reindeer?
Me: If Dadda knew it came from the garbage he would put it right back in the garbage.
Rollie: But it's not even dirty or anything, Momma. It doesn't look like garbage. (Translation: we wouldn't have to tell Dadda it came from the garbage.)
Me (sighing as I try to convince Finn that the pacifier I'm holding in his yelling mouth is indeed my nipple): Rollie...I...oh, whatever.Fine. I don't care. But I'm not carrying that thing home.
Rollie: I'll carry it home.

And so it came to pass that I watched my son raid my neighbor's garbage and pull forth his prize: a sparkling, golden, one-antlered reindeer. I walked behind him, watching him proudly strut home with the  treasure tucked beneath his arm, the cheap gold-flecked paint flaking off on his school shirt. At one point he raised the reindeer over his head like a hockey player who'd just won the Stanley Cup.

Rollie: Look, Momma. He's pooping on me.
Me: Nice. Rollie.
Rollie: I'm gonna put this in the front yard so Dadda can see it when he gets home.
Me: I bet he'll love that.

One man's trash...

So yeah. Pick your battles. Was I about to get into a heated tete-a-tete with my son about taking a relatively innocuous (albeit ugly-as-sin) bit of abandoned Christmas decor for himself? Nah. Not when I was starting to sweat, with a fussy baby strapped to my chest and an old dog panting at the end of his leash and about to take a dump in the middle of someone's beautifully manicured yard. So what if the reindeer ended up among my hydrangeas? And that Jeff was pretty skeeved out when I told him where it came from (although his response was, You should have made him pick that Christmas tree stand out there--we could use a new one)? I consider this a win in my column.

Although my other lesson of the day is: Don't take the kids out for morning walks on garbage day.

And So It Begins....

Well, I'm back.

Took a break. Gave birth. And now I'm currently enjoying the benefits of having parents who are both retired and are so sick of each other at this point that any external stimuli is a welcome break from sitting across from each other in a sticky booth, watching each other eat platefuls of turnip greens and rice pudding at their local International Super-Duper Buffet.

Their help mainly comes in the form of being extra audience members for my children, whose antics have grown tiresome to me, but Nana and Pop-pop find hilarious. And my dad is very, very good with his intimidation tactics. Why just last night I enlisted his help in making sure my children ate their dinners. He took his duty seriously, and proudly reported that Elsa ate every last bite of hers. Which she  subsequently puked up into the double-stroller 30 minutes later. But hey, Pop-pop got the job done.

Baby Finn....So sweet, so innocent,
so incapable of making fart noises with his armpit and a straw.

This entry won't be long, mainly because I am playing catch up with many things, including cutting my children's fingernails so they don't look like X-Men characters. But I wanted to let you know that Baby Finley Palmer has arrived. And he is perfect. Mainly because he can't sass me yet.

I also wanted to let you know that I plan on blogging a lot in the upcoming months, as I see the potential here for many many many entries.

In other words, I am in big, big trouble.

Stay tuned, dear readers. It's on like Donkey Kong.