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# Bad Parenting

# By

# Kris Aguilar

# Foreword by Mike Marcon

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# Copyright © 2013 Kris Aquilar

# Smashwords Edition

#  **Smashwords Edition, License Notes**  
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

#  Foreword

I discovered Kris on the Internet. She was writing a blog, a collection of daily vignettes -- her way of dealing with chaos of her life as a mom. Within minutes of starting to read her work, I was in fits of laughter.

As a writer, Kris is refreshing, earthy, and real. She writes what she thinks and that is mostly funny but, often, it"s poignant. I think it will strike the nerves of anyone who is married, has been married, has kids, had kids, or any combination of the four.

She lives in the Midwest and is married to Art; an ex-Marine wounded fighting terrorism. Between them, they have four children – Chase, Trinity, Cadence, and Quinn.

Kris works nights in a bar and sometimes days in a gun store to make ends meet. Krissy, as she is sometimes called, is a restless and hapless soul who, most days, sees her world tilted on its axis. You will see that her upbringing within a typical working class family, and her marriage to an ex-Marine has made her feisty, vulgar, and above all, loveable.

Mike Marcon

# I am Mommy

Every once in a while, I look around and wonder what in the hell happened to me. I have three children. I have one dog and one cat. There is a fence around my backyard. I own the house I live in, as well as the aforementioned back yard. I drive a damn minivan. So, at least once a day, I find myself wondering just when I stopped being me and turned into the "mom." This leads of course, to wondering who I was before I was the mom. Was there a time in my life when I didn't have anyone to take care of? I can't remember.

I love my children, I am proud of them. I have their names tattooed on my back. I smoked while I was pregnant. That's not something that I am proud of, but I did. I did not however, drink or take drugs. I do not abuse my children, neither physically or mentally. I curse around them, I try not to, but I do it. I do not, however curse at them. There is a difference between calling a kid an asshole and telling her to clean her damn room. I lie to them, sometimes for my own amusement. I deflect tough questions, and let them come to their own conclusions.

"Mommy, where do babies come from?"

"Um-m-m. God?"

A few months before the birth of my second daughter my first born tells me,

"The doctor is going to cut a hole in your back and take that baby sister out."

"Yep. Exactly." I don't know where she got that idea, but I ran with it.

"But, Mommy?"

"Yes, Trinity?"

"How did the baby get in there?"

"Um-m-m. God?"

I have heard, and read, countless times, that motherhood is the most rewarding thing one can do in life. Huh? Perhaps the reward comes late in life, because so far...nothing. So far I have been puked on, shit on, peed on, snotted on, and drooled on. These maybe are the rewards?

I have also heard that your baby's first smile will make up for all of the hard work in the first few months of their lives. Really? Uh...I'd have waited a few more months if I could just sleep for more than three hours at a time. Not that the first smile isn't the most adorable, sweetest, brings tears to your eyes moment in the first few months. It is. Yet seen through haze of exhaustion, both physical and mental, it is somehow anti-climactic. It's like "Woo hoo! We did it, my baby can smile!" What's next? Oh, more shitting and late night feeding.

I suppose everyone has a parenting style that suits them. I have gone from the perfect mom in the first year of my oldest daughter's life to a being a "real" mother. Parenting magazine still has a place of honor in the bathroom, but it is no longer my bible. It is in the bathroom because that is the only room in the house that where I can hide from my children. Seriously. I turn on the fan and pretend that I can't hear them through the door. It's awful I know, but sometimes I just need to breathe.

"They just love you Honey" My husband tells me.

I'm sure they love me, I am their mother, but I think it is more likely that they have secret meetings in the morning while I am still asleep. I believe that they devise a strategy for the day, every day.

"Cadence, you were the bad one yesterday, today is my turn. Quinn, if you could, somehow aim your butthole so that you shoot poo out of your diaper clear up to your shoulder blades while Mommy is chasing the dog around the neighborhood; that would be perfect. Fine Cadence, we can both be bad today- you skip your nap and I will be an emotional wreck."

Somehow I always picture Trinity as the ring leader.....

### Apparently I have offended somebody.

The way that I write seems to be offensive to a few people. I received the following comment from a post I had submitted to Reddit.com.

"If you hate being a mom so much why didn't you stop after the first kid? You sound like a selfish bitch. Maybe you shouldn't take out your life mistakes on innocent children that look up to you and love you. Even if it's indirect actions of resentment, they will pick up on it. You have no one to blame but yourself, stop acting like a victim."

Well, first off all, I do not hate being a mother, nor do I resent or hate my children.

In reply to the above comment was this one;

"With all due respect, you're an asshole. Parenting is a real pain for a huge percentage of people. They muddle through as she is doing. The only difference with her is that she wrote about it. I'm not saying I've met people who don't consider strangling their kids once a day or ponder wtf they were thinking when they had kids but I don't know what planet they came from. Parenting is fucking hard ...so stop being such a judgmental asshole."

Amen, Brother!

Now, strangling is a bit extreme. I have pondered covering one wall with Velcro and making little baby Velcro suits for all of the kids, so that I can, for once, take a shit by myself! Seriously. Maybe I could put one of those little trampolines in front of it and pretend it is a game rather than borderline child abuse.

I do often look around and wonder not only what the fuck was I thinking, but also, what the hell am I doing? No one can be totally prepared for parenthood.

Parenting small children is difficult. It is messy, really messy, exhausting, exhilarating, and thankless work. As a child grows though, and their tears come from places other than their bellies or diaper rashes, it becomes so much harder.

Infants and toddlers are easy to fix. You kiss their boo-boos, hand them a Popsicle and send them on their way. You change their diapers and sing them stupid songs to see their sweet smiles. You slay the monsters under the beds, and ease their fear of toilets and bathtubs.

Nine years ago, I brought my first baby home. Behind the excitement of bringing a first baby home is the paralyzing realization that you and you alone are responsible for her every want and need, her happiness and health. I was terrified that I would make some awful mistake that would ruin her life. I was afraid I was feeding her too much, then not enough. I was afraid she was sleeping too long, then not long enough. I was terrified that I would misinterpret a cry as hunger, when it was, in fact, pain. I was afraid she didn't know how much I loved her, how proud I was to have her.

I stayed up for hours, just watching the perfect, angelic baby girl that I had brought into the world. Then I pondered the state of the world that I had brought her into. That was seriously deep shit for a person like me, who prefers to stay on the shallow end of emotions.

Now, nine years later, that baby girl becomes ever more alien. She is sensitive and emotional. I am not. I am, more often than not, lost.

When she was a baby and hurt, it hurt me. I cried plenty of times when my little girl was in pain. But that was physical pain. I can handle blood. I cannot handle bruised hearts. I am no good with emotional people, and even worse with emotional children.

Last year, when Trinity came home to tell me that the little girl from down the block was being mean to her, that she had tripped Trinity at school, my first thought was retaliation. Right or wrong, I wanted to tell Trinity to go to school and kick that little girl's ass.

Relax, I didn't.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't know how to ease my child's pain. I worried that this single incident would scar Trinity for life, lower her self-esteem, and possibly cause drug abuse in later years. I wanted to make her heartache and embarrassment go away and assure her that she was a beautiful, wonderful person, and that everyone loved her. I wanted to go tell that little girl to go to Hell. Instead, I called the school counselor and asked her if she could speak to Trinity about bullying. I didn't want to seem like an over-reactive parent, but I also do not want Trinity to show up in sixth grade with an AR15.

Generally, I do not think ahead to far. I am sort of a "by the seat of my pants" sort of person. I have to wonder, though, if I react with thoughts of physical violence towards a little girl who has hurt my daughter's feelings; what I am going to do the first boy who breaks her heart?

I don't even want to think about it.

With increasing frequency I am hit by the feeling that I have no clue what to do or say in moments like these, where the bruises and tears cannot be fixed with ice cream and kisses. I am totally just muddling through this motherhood thing. Sometimes it is amusing, other times it is heart wrenching. But, it is what it is and I am doing the best I can.

### The Evolution of a Mother

In order to fully illustrate the evolution of this mother, I feel I must start at the beginning.

Trinity always wore matching outfits - from the hat down to the booties. Oh yeah, she wore booties. I changed her clothes every single time she had a drop of any little thing on her. Once she outgrew the booties, I bought her shoes to match her clothing. And cute, frilly little socks. I washed her clothes in Dreft for over a year, to ensure her sensitive baby skin would not be irritated. Well, that, and it smelled really good. Her bottle's rings had matching lids. I boiled her water for her formula, even though it was tap water. I boiled the nipples for her bottles, to ensure that they were sanitized. I spayed everything that would sit still with Lysol.

Trinity had baths every day. I put her hair in tiny little pigtails.

I owned, and...God help me...even read, Dr. Spock. I took her to every single well-baby visit, and monitored her milestones obsessively. I checked off in her baby book that she had hit every milestone in time. In time for what, I am still not really sure. I talked to Trinity almost constantly as an infant and toddler.

When she was ill, I rushed her to the emergency room; sure that she had contracted West Nile disease, or some deadly, mutated, cold virus.

By the time I had Cadence, I was a bit more relaxed. I only boiled the nipples for the bottles when I first brought them home.

For the first few months, Cadence had super cute, matching outfits as well. After about six months though, she crawled around in her diaper only. Cadence went to her first and second well-baby visit. After that, she only went to the doctor when she was ill. And she had to very ill, because otherwise, she had a tendency to beat the hell out of nurses and scare away doctors.

I'll never forget the sweaty doctor telling us, "If a baby can fight like that, you don't have worry about her being dehydrated."

Quinn doesn't go to well-baby visits. He goes when he is ill, and also a few times when his testicles were swollen.

By the time Cadence was born, Trinity had reached the age where she rolled out of bed talking and passed out in mid-sentence at night. Which would have been okay, had she not insisted on punctuating every sentence with, "Right, Mom? Right? Right, Mommy?"

And so, when we bring Cadence home, I decided that I should probably not speak to that child at all. I was also determined that we would not teach this one to walk until she was old enough to reason with. That totally would have worked - but Trinity wouldn't shut up for years, and Cadence learned to talk anyway.

Trinity was older when I had Quinn, but she was appalled that I didn't want to talk to him. She is making an effort to teach him to talk. She doesn't know about the earplugs...

Just kidding - don't call Social Services.

After having Cadence, I no longer sprayed everything with Lysol. Febreeze, yes. Lysol, not so much.

By the time I have Quinn; I have even given up on the Febreeze. Yes, my house smells like baby shit. It doesn't matter to me, I am immune.

Trinity had millions of Barbie dolls and Polly Pockets, dress up clothes, and play-doh. (She still has most of them. She is going to be a hoarder when she grows up.) I know better now. Cadence had a plunger and a Barbie. At least until she stuck the Barbie in the light socket.

Again, kidding. Put the phone down. We gave her toys. We just didn't give her volume of toys that Trinity had. We started out buying toys for Quinn, but he refuses to play with toys. He just carries around a remote control and the dog's leash.

He is strange little man.

None of them will own Play-doh ever again.

Trinity ate every meal in her high chair, beginning at the age of three months. We didn't get Cadence a high chair until she began to eat solids. Instead of a high chair for Quinn, we got a puppy to clean up the crumbs. It saves a ton of space.

Trinity was potty trained by three. Cadence was potty trained even earlier, mostly because she refused to wear clothing for a year. Quinn, I am going to keep in diapers until he can hold his bladder from here to my in-laws house, four hours from here. Changing diapers sucks. Stopping the car to pee every hour and a half sucks more.

I packed a diaper bag for Trinity as if we would be gone from weeks instead of hours. I packed a normal bag for Cadence. By the time I had Quinn, I discovered that gas stations sell diapers, and also bottles if you are really desperate.

My poor kids. Trinity had the best Mommy in the world, too bad she won't ever remember it. With Cadence, I was distracted and stressed.

Now, with Quinn, I am just tired!

### Better Left Unsaid...

As a wife and mother, I find myself saying things that I never would have imagined I would say to anyone. I'm not talking about the things I swore I would never say to my kids. I'm talking about things that I literally could not even imagine would ever come out of my mouth.

For example, "Why is the toilet on the back porch?" Seriously, who could imagine that you would ever actually have cause to say that out loud?

Here are some more of my favorite "Did I just say that?" moments...

"Cadence! Cadence! Take the damn bag off your head..... Because, Cadence, it will make you die."

"Quinn! Do not put your sister's toes in your mouth. That is disgusting!"

"Really Trin, your sister is that annoying? Okay, lemme get the gun."

"No, Trinity. We are not going to cut Art's arm off so you can play with it. That's just fucked up."

"Trin. We are throwing all of the scraps away. You are not making confetti."

"Seriously, Cadence. That is gross. Don't let the baby bite your toes."

"Want me to carry you around by the ass, Cadence? No, then put the freaking dog down, she doesn't like it either."

"Trinity, that dog is not happy to see us. That is not a smile, she wants to bite you."

"Cadence, you knock and say "trick-or-treat." You do not just walk into the house."

"You also do not tell that old lady to go back down the hallway so you can whistle for her to come to you."

"When I said it started all over again on New Years, I meant the calendar, not the world. Stop crying, you are not going to be a baby again tomorrow."

"Why are you rolling Sweetie up in the rug?" (Sweetie was Trinity's imaginary and slightly creepy friend.)

"Well, to tell you the truth Trin, you are kind of the practice kid. We know better now."

"Well, Cadence, how do you know that you are at the bad witch's house and not the good witch's house?"

She told me that if you go to the bad witch's house they will cook you in a soup, but the good witches like people. She also said that if you call the bad witches first, they won't cook you. (So apparently the bad witches only dislike uninvited company!) And then she said that soup with little kids in it would be yucky. "

"I agree, Cadence. Eating soup with kids in it would be pretty gross."

"Why do we have to shoot them first Cadence?"

Cadence wanted to know why we locked the door. Then she told her dad that if the door wasn't locked the bad guys would come in, and then daddy could shoot them, and then she would jump on their heads. She was adamant that they be shot first. I worry about her.

"Right Cadence. Daddy kills the spiders because spiders are on the man list."

"Hell with it Art, just let the kid play in the toilet. Makes him happy."

"Art, I want you to get off the phone right now, get the baby out of the refrigerator, and feed her. The reason she is sitting in the fridge eating a tomato like an apple is because she is HUNGRY!"

"Seriously? Art. You're telling me that somehow, Cadence just snuck past you with a gallon of paint in her shirt or something?"

"Uh. No, man. Latex paint doesn't clean up easier on carpet if you let it dry first..."

"No, Trinity, there is no such thing as a practice marriage. I don't care what your dad told you."

"Cadence! You are 5 years old. You do not put on your baby brother's diaper! I don't care if Sissy told you to."

"And also, Cadence, I don't care how funny your sister thinks it is; you do NOT piss in your brother's diaper."

"Trinity, how do you keep getting beat up by a baby for God's sake?"

"Yes Cadence the trees are naked."

"Stop calling people sexy Cadence. It makes them feel funny."

"How do you even know that word?"

"Trin get down. You are absolutely not allowed to table dance until I am dead."

"Of course the medicine tastes purple Cadence. Otherwise it would be orange."

"That's right Cadence, Tom Tom is a t.v. that tells us how to get to Gracie's house.

But, you have to stop calling it [Tom-tom] Daddy's girlfriend. The preschool teachers keep looking at me funny."

"Why Quinn? Just why? You have all those damn toys, and you just want to pull the toaster around the house."

"No, that's not playing Trinity. Hear him screaming? That means he is not having so much fun."

"I don't care how funny it is. Stop it."

"I know, Trinity, it's ridiculous huh? They pay me just to give them beer."

"Trinity, why in the name of God would you tell your sister to put on Quinn's diaper?"

"Dad, you can't say that sort of thing to Cadence. She will do it. She does ridiculous things."

"Cadence if you are going to start kissing boys at school already...Do you have to start with the bad ones? "

"Hell no. You are not getting an IPod Touch for your birthday. They are like $250! At this rate, I will have to buy you a car by the time you are 14."

"Sure Trin, when we get rich I will buy you the stupid IPhone."

### The Road to Hell is Paved with Reality

Intention: I will be the Mommy in the drop off line at school with all of her clothes on, and her hair and makeup done. My child will be perfectly presentable, her outfit coordinated perfectly, her hair beautifully styled, her homework would be complete and in its place.

Reality: I usually end up dropping her off in the office, just a few seconds before the bell rings. Her hair may or may not be brushed - forget about styled. She will have shoes on, but her socks probably don't match... I am in my clothes - shoes untied and hair shoved into a bandana because I am simply too lazy to mess with it that early in the morning. Her homework should be done, I told her to do it, but I couldn't tell you where it is....

Intention: I will feed my children semi-healthy food for breakfast and dinner. I say semi-healthy because the last time my dad went on a health food kick - he tried to force us to eat brussell sprouts. It was traumatic.

Reality: Dunkin Donuts if we aren't too late... a zip lock bag of cereal and milk if we are. If dinner doesn't come out of a box that you mix with water - it usually comes from a drive-thru.

Intention: My children will never be the bratty kid at the grocery store. They will show respect for adults and be angelic in public.

Reality: We don't take the children out in public. We leave the house in shifts.

Intention: I will break my babies from the ba-ba before the age of 1.

Reality: Quinn genuinely loves his "ba-ba." He hugs it. Nothing makes him happier. What kind of sadist takes that away?

Intention: My children will be responsible for their own belongings. They will respect other people's belongings. They will dutifully put their toys and clothing away before bed every night.

Reality: I don't have the time and energy to force them to clean their rooms. Either I take care of their mess or it stays on the floor until I eventually get angry enough to spend a whole day fighting with them to clean their shit up. Trinity is able to respect other people's belongings. Cadence claims ownership of anything she wants to play with. Quinn, he pees on people's stuff.

Intention: I will keep my home in order - every day!

Reality: I work too damn much. I am tired. I have to spend a good twenty minutes trying to find socks for all of the kids, homework, school bags, and shoes. Order takes too much energy.

### Hate is a Bad Word

I rarely hit my kids. I have a hard time justifying spankings. I should probably beat them more, but it always seems like they are just not bad enough for a swat. Besides the last time I spanked Trinity, she was four. I was eight months pregnant and she was a slippery little thing. I couldn't physically hold onto her long enough to get her butt.

Art started laughing at my fat ass, while I was trying to hold Trin down long enough to get a swat in, and I lost the momentum.

That said, when my almost three-year-old, Cadence stands in the hallway and tells me, "I hate you," I really want to swat her.

Yes, my feelings are a little hurt, but mostly I am angry.

Part of me feels guilty, thinking that I might have over-reacted and spanked her for that. The other part of me is still reeling.

You hate me? The hell you do, young lady! You made me fat, I have stretch marks, and my boobs will never be the same without a major surgery. I fed you, and rocked you, and cleaned up the paint you spilled on the couch. I sang stupid "pee pee in the potty" songs to you. I got baby shit under my fingernails and baby puke in my hair because of you! You are absolutely not permitted to hate me before you hit puberty!

Cadence, who rarely learns lessons, still thinks that hate is a bad word, up there by "fuck" in severity. So, if I had over reacted, that might have been a good thing.

Cadence also knows better than to lie to me. It pisses me off. I don't care if it harmless or not.

Her brother Chase, my stepson, tells stories. They are mostly harmless stories, but it still drives me crazy.

When Cadence picks up this habit from her brother, I do lean down and tell her, with as threatening a voice as I can manage, that I will put a spoon full of soap in her mouth if she ever lies to me again.

This does not work as well as when my mom told my brother that his nose will grow if he lies. My brother used to hold his nose whenever he lied after that. Cadence generally doesn't lie now, but when she does, she looks terrified, as if she is imagining the taste of dish soap.

I wish it could stay that easy.

I have a co-worker that recently told me that she grew up in a family of ten children. She went on to explain that whenever one of them did something wrong, her father would punish them all.

Well, at first I was thinking how unfair that was to the children.

I have now reconsidered.

My whole summer having been spent trying to determine who is telling me the truth and who is lying. It has convinced me that that my co-worker's father was on to something.

Instead of waiting for them to do something wrong, I am considering just punishing all of them. Once a day. Because, I know they are going to do something wrong. I know not one of them will own up to it. I am just trying to stay a step ahead.

Strategy is important, now more than ever. The children out number us.

Whenever I naively ask the children (and the husband) who did something, I am left staring into three innocent faces. Okay, four. Sometimes, I can spot the guilty party. More often I cannot.

"Chase hit me."

"Cadence hit me first."

"Quinn climbed up there by himself."

"Art hit me with a spoon."

"I did not."

Not a single one of them will admit to coloring on the dog with marker, or drawing circles on the wall, or spilling whatever the hell that was on the floor. No one can explain why there are SpagettiO's stuck to the ceiling. Seriously.

They are evolving now, and are not so easy to trick.

I used to say, "Hey, Trin, did you like that ice cream?"

She would say, "Yeah, it was really good." I then would know that she is one that left it sitting on the counter to melt and drip all over the place.

Now, when I ask the same question, I get only silence in return. Blank stares from three children with chocolate ice cream mustaches.

My co-worker's father was one to something for sure. If only I could find a stick big enough to swat all three, no, four of them at once......

###  Lessons Learned

The first baby is somewhat of an experiment...

Trinity is wearing baby boy clothes in her newborn picture. Actually she is wearing baby boy clothes backwards. New moms, please note that in general, the buttons on baby clothes belong in the back.

At some point, Quinn wore a shirt belonging to the dog. If the sleeves point straight forward, chances are the shirt is not meant for humans.

Please note also that when zipping up the baby sleepers, you should lift the zipper all the way up in an effort to avoid zipping your child's skin. Seriously, I cried harder and longer than Trinity did. I still feel a little bit guilty about that one.

Also, if you should decide to play "Super baby" - keep your mouth closed as you lift Baby over your head. At some point, she will puke on your face.

Babies cry. It's what they do. It is, therefore, unnecessary to get out of the shower with half of one leg shaved and soap still in your hair to comfort her. It is also unnecessary to place baby in front of the bathroom door while you shit, shave, and shower or apply make-up. Doing so all but guarantees that you will never again enter a bathroom alone.

The doctor assured me that if Baby is still hungry, it is okay to feed her without fear of blowing her up.

No matter how hard she cries when you remove the bottle from her mouth, if you don't burp the baby, she is going to throw up on you. A lot.

Diapers can and will become supersaturated. When that happens, be assured that the jelly looking stuff is coming out of the diaper. Not your baby.

If you and your babysitter overlap a dose of Robitussin by an hour, and you call Poison Control - they will laugh at you.

If you call Poison Control after your baby eats cat food - they will laugh harder.

The first time baby sleeps through the night, if you call your pediatrician, he will laugh at you, too.

I have found it unnecessary to lay a hand on Baby's chest to ensure that they are still breathing. If you poke them, they jump. A sure sign they are still breathing.

Babies have multi colored, sometimes neon poop. This is not a symptom of a rare and deadly disease. It means she ate fruit loops.

Bug Juice has 46 grams of sugar in it. If you feed it to your child, she will be an asshole for the rest of the day.

That weird, musty smell coming from your just washed baby is the ring of dirt and milky drool around her neck. You have to lift that fat roll up to wash it.

Years later I have discovered that baby boys somehow develop a similar looking substance under their circumcised foreskins.

It's gross.

Buying all of the educational toys is really not mandatory. In fact, toys at all are pretty much a waste of money. Baby is going to be happier with a pan and the remote control. Boxes and baskets of freshly folded laundry are also highly amusing for babies. The plunger seems to be a favorite toy in my house as well.

Always keep in mind that you cannot reason with babies, toddlers, or Cadence.

### Children Need Consistency

I try to be a good parent. I try to balance discipline and love. I try to be consistent with punishments, and stick to a schedule. Then, of course, I wake up. "Choose your battles" is the saying, I believe. In the arena of childrearing, I have become anti-war. I may as well dress like a hippie and carry around a picket sign reading; "Go ahead and walk all over me, I am too damn tired to care".

"You know girls, there are little kids in Africa that eat dirt just so they don't have hunger pangs." Trinity and Cadence give me puzzled looks.

"So? We should send them food?"

"No, Trinity, you should eat your food and be grateful that you have it." I can already see I am losing this one.

"Well, what does that have to do with kids in Africa?" Trinity asks me.

"I like dirt." Cadence says. Okay then. New tactic.

"Cadence if you don't eat the damn vegetables you are never going to grow. Then you will be a midget and everyone will laugh at you."

Blank stare.

"Jeez babe. And you tell me I'm screwed up," My husband says from the peanut gallery.

And so, I fall back on the tried and true; "Fine, don't eat your food, but don't you dare tell me you are hungry later. You are not having anything else to eat if you don't finish your damn food."

Oh. My. God.

Did that really just come out of my mouth? That is up there next to "Because I'm the mom and I said so." on the list of things I swore I would never say to my children.

Yes, I have also used the "because I am the mom line". Complete with a stomp of my foot. "No, I'm the boss damn it!" That might have worked if the kids didn't already know better.

Children need consistency. That is what all the books tell me. I counter with the fact that psychologists need to make a living. Who am I to try and take away someone's paycheck? As a matter of fact, I often write things down that I think the kids' shrinks may want to hear about in twenty years or so.

"Mom, everyone else at school has a cell phone," claimed my eight-year-old daughter.

"So? If everyone else at school jumped off a bridge would you do it too?"

There was serious contemplation on Trinity's part. "Well I guess it depends what bridge it is." She is not a normal kid.

Trinity, I think may just jump off the bridge. It is simply her nature to go with the flow. Cadence, I am pretty sure would be the first one to jump off the bridge.

Trinity's psychiatric journal entry 123 - "Mommy won't let Trinity have a cell phone". Number seven reads; "Trinity told Mommy that her butt burned really bad after pooping. Mommy told her it was because she forgot to eat ice cream after eating that bag of spicy Cheetos."

Cadence, whose brain is organized much like my own, her journal will read something like "Mommy says that there are African midgets with no vegetables jumping off bridges and eating dirty cell phones."

At the end of the day, despite my resolve, we are all eating cereal before bed. As punishment for my attempt at parenting, I spend the next twenty minutes explaining to Cadence that, of course, she will grow, and will not be a midget after all.

###  On Home Improvement

My mother is always pissed at my father for not finishing some project or another, so I have tried to explain the Screw it Up Method. It had been ten years or so since the bathroom at their house was finished, and my dad still had not hung the trim.

"Mom, do you know how to hang trim?"

"No, but..."

I cut her off. "So just start doing it." She looks a little confused. "You have no idea how to do it, so you are going to screw it up." She still looks confused.

I sigh, "Mom, when Dad comes home and sees that you are totally destroying the trim, he will have to hang it for you. Trust me; I do it all the time."

I smile at the memory of Art coming home to find that I had drug the air compressor out of the garage and set about hanging the trim in the living room. One would have thought he had learned something from that experience.

He hasn't, as evidenced a year or so later, after Quinn was born, and was getting too big for his bassinet;

My husband stumbles out of bed and into the living room, where I, Super Mommy of the Year, have assembled the baby's crib. Half asleep still, he flops on the couch and groans.

"What are you doing babe?"

Absurdly proud of my creation I say, "I made a crib." Art steps over the box on his way to the bathroom.

"What's all that?" He asks me, referring to the few pieces of wood and random nuts, bolts and washers left in the box.

"Those are extras."

"Extra what?" He half-yells through the bathroom door.

"The extra parts."

Coming back into the living room, Art gives me his are you really that stupid stare. "They don't give you extra parts Kris."

I nod my head, "Yes they do Art...."

He cuts me off. "Kris, I don't care what your Daddy says; they do not send you extra parts."

Art is apparently not as confident in my crib-building ability as I am. He shakes the side of the crib, which I had avoided doing, just in case it fell apart and I had to start over. It doesn't fall apart, but one of the bolts or screws (what the hell is the difference anyway?) falls out. Art just looks at me.

Giving him the best smile I can manage, "Something is wrong with that one." I tell him, feeling betrayed by the crib.

He shakes his head. "Something is wrong with you."

Cocking his head a bit to the side, he asks me, "Are you sure that goes there?"

I nod, sure of no such thing. "Let me see the directions." So, I hand him the directions, still sealed in the plastic pouch they came in, Japanese side up.

"Babe."

"My Daddy says we don't need directions Art." Art groans in such a way that I think he must have really bad gas or he is trying really hard not to throw things at me. I remain unfazed.

"Your Daddy also says that brakes are for pussies."

"I know, he is a genius."

My husband is unable to take a hint. You would think that after the trim hanging fiasco, he would have put the crib together right away. The crib has been sitting in a box, in the living room, for the last three weeks. I figured that would have been a good enough hint for him to put it together for me. It wasn't apparently - so I fell back to the tried and true method of getting shit done. I screw it up and he fixes it.

Art's method of detouring me from home improvement projects is to hide the tools. I hung pictures once, and I haven't seen the hammer since. "Babe. You used gutter spikes to hang pictures." Art tells me, I counter with the fact that if he hadn't hidden all the regular nails I wouldn't have had to. (I seriously doubt they were gutter spikes anyway. They were really big freaking nails though.)

"How did you hang them without a hammer anyway?" I used my knife, but I am not telling him that, I just bought the damn thing!

### On Reading Labels

Labels lie. Probably all of them.

Play-doh absolutely does not come out of carpet, furniture, or hair. Okay, it does, but only with a hammer and a punch, and maybe some lye.

I've never read the label and I don't know exactly what they put in a can of green beans, but if you don't pick them up right away, they turn into cement, especially if they've been stepped on and ground into the floor. It's a bit scary.

Baby wipes can clean anything. Grease, ink, mill oil. There seems to be some sort of heavy-duty degreaser in them. Baby soap, on the other hand, is not tear-free. Try it once, you'll see.

If something says "nontoxic and washable" It is probably nontoxic, but definitely not washable. Well, I guess, technically it would be washable, as in, you can spend the rest of your life washing it, but the stain isn't going anywhere.

If something says "not for children under three" it really means that any child under the age of ten is going to want to put it in their mouth. They know better by the age of three; they do it anyway.

They make fake make-up for little girls. This is one of those nontoxic and washable things. It is actually easier to wash latex paint out of carpet than it is to wash this stuff off your kid's face. Save yourself the trouble and just buy her real make-up from the dollar store. It doesn't have glue in it.

Any toy that states, "Parental supervision required" actually means you have to do whatever it is the toy does while your child watches.

Similarly, anything that claims, "some construction required," really means that it comes with 14,000 tiny screws, itty-bitty decals, and Japanese directions. While I'm on that subject, why the hell do the Chinese put wire ties on every piece of a toy in a box? Has anyone ever stolen just Barbie's shoes from the package?

Since my first child was born, toy packaging has evolved from simple little twisty ties, to zip strips, to screws. Seriously, they screw toys in the boxes! Baby, I know you want to play with your knew toy, but Daddy hid the drill, and I can't get it out of the box. Also, if they are going to go to the trouble of screwing toys into the box, what's the harm in applying the tiny decals while they're at it?

It doesn't say this on the label, but temporary tattoos can last for months. Sometimes they are only removable with pumice soap and wire brushes.

Or baby wipes.

### Krissy is restless again.

I get a little bit crazy sometimes. I call it restless, although that probably doesn't accurately describe the feeling. It has happened for as long as I can remember, this restless thing.

It feels like my brain is spinning. I have to move...go...change something...change anything. My poor husband, he shivers when I say restless. He knows that the whole craziness thing is about to multiply exponentially in our house.

This house that Art wanted so badly? I hate it. Not because it needs so much work, or because it is too damn small. I hate the sense of permanency that it represents. The truth is I feel stuck here, which of course I am, because it wouldn't be right to move these kids around as often as I would like. The kids, they need consistency and permanency. Well, at least that oldest one does...the other two are more like me.

So, most of the time, I suck it up and push on, right? Except after so long, the restlessness builds to combustible levels.

It's not that I want to go anywhere...more like I just need to go somewhere. Since the gypsy lifestyle is simply not an option, I do stupid things to relieve the restlessness. I try to hang trim, or I paint walls, or sometimes, I attempt to re-upholster my furniture. (A task better left to professionals, by the way)

I rearrange furniture and sometimes whole bedrooms. Once I decided to try my hand at carpet removal. (Carpet is much, much heavier than it looks.)

I change jobs, or try baking - which never ends well, or clean stupid things...All to release the restless energy that consumes me every so often.

All of these things wouldn't be so bad if I had any concept of follow through. I don't. I do ridiculous things, and then? I run out of restless. Or I get bored with the task at hand. This would be why I have still not finished painting the last part of the kitchen wall.

Well, that and I get the feeling that if everything was done, and in place...I would really lose it!

### On Nutritionally Balanced Meals

The very first time that I got the feeling I was probably not going to win the Bestest Mommy of the Year Award, Trinity was four. I asked her if she would like a grilled cheese, and she said, "From where?", as if I was going to run through a drive thru somewhere for a grilled cheese. (If anyone knows of a drive-thru where I can get grilled cheese, please let me know.)

Obviously, I don't cook much. Well. Actually, if it doesn't come out of a box and include "add two cups of water" on the label, I don't even try to cook it!

I have this really strange relationship with food. Mostly, I eat because I have to; it makes me dizzy when I forget. There are very few things that I eat just because I like the taste of them.

Obviously, my knowledge of nutritionally balanced meals is sorely lacking. I figure I can balance that out by feeding the kids bananas and vitamins with their happy meals and bug juices. I feel so much better now that McDonald's offers apple slices in place of French fries.

I did try to cook once. I wanted to make Chicken Parmesan. So, I went to my mom's house and copied the recipe she had from her mother. Now, in my own defense, the original recipe said 1 1/2 CUPS of salt, not 1 1.2 tsp. of salt. So that is what I wrote down, and that is what I added to the recipe. Before you call me a freaking moron, keep in mind that I NEVER COOK. So how the hell was I to know that it was way too much salt?

My brother says that a good rule of thumb is that if I have to open a new salt container to finish a recipe I should rethink it... Noted. Thanks Jay.

That year, for my birthday, everyone I knew bought me a cookbook and a container of salt. I still have two containers in the cabinet and it has been ten years now. I rarely add salt to whatever I am cooking now. I'm scared of it. I do use the Cooking for Dummies though, mostly for the conversion chart on the cover.

The chicken was super moist on the inside, but we were all afraid to eat it. Actually, I was even afraid to feed it to the dog. Not that I was particularly fond of the dog – but if the kids watched the dog take a bite and keel over, the chances of them ever eating anything I gave them again were slim to none.

Once in a while, I get a bug up my ass and try to cook. I have attempted to make cakes on several occasions. But, you see, I thought the part on the direction that said, "Mix on low for X amount of minutes" was more of a suggestion than a direction. So I skipped it.

My Grandma gets a big kick out of the cakes I make, or at least she laughs at me for a long time. They always taste like cake. They just never seem to look like cake. Grandma pointed out that I should probably follow the directions next time. I will try to. Then again, I don't want to raise the bar too high.

Make one fairly decent cake, and the kids may start expecting homemade grilled cheese...........

### Screw Communicating

After finding my children eating Jet Puffed Marshmallow Spread out of the jar with spoons, I overheard them discussing creationism.

Chase is of the opinion that, "God made people."

Cadence told him that we used to be monkeys.

Trinity thinks that God made monkeys and they turned into people.

Instead of taking this moment to share my own opinion on the matter - I posted their discussion on my Facebook status, and continued to pretend I heard nothing.

A friend posted back, asking what Art thought on the issue, and I realized, I have no clue.

I don't know what my husband's view is on God, religion, or monkeys.

I also have no idea what size pants, shirts, or shoes he wears.

You would think I would know a bit more about this man I married.

My only defense is that we just don't have time for deep, meaningful conversations. We never have. We were a ready-made family when we met!

Well, that and, I prefer to stay on the shallow side of conversation. I get uncomfortable when the talk gets deeper than my ankles. Okay, that's a lie. The truth is I start backing away once it covers my toenails.

This explains our method of communication. Rather than talk to each other about what the issues really are we just nag at each other.

For example:

"I just had a baby! Not that anyone has noticed!" is what I yell at Art, totally out of the blue, when he asks me why I am so crabby.

That's what I said. What I meant was: I am exhausted. I am in pain. My hormones are a mess, and I don't know how to handle it. I spent an hour crying because of a Pampers commercial, for God's sake. I have had a total of 12 hours of sleep in the last five days, and I just want a nap. And a shower. I want to take a shower and a nap and feel like a normal person again. I don't want to talk to anyone; I don't want to run to the damn gas station! Just a Goddamn nap!

Of course, Art doesn't get what I am thinking, just what I have said. He thinks that I don't feel like he loves the baby.

And so we argued about, essentially nothing. We didn't actually get to the root of the true issue until the next week sometime, when I explained what I really meant.

Art's response, "You didn't seem like you were in pain."

Huh. Again, I just had a baby.

For future reference: childbirth generally leaves you in pain. For a while.

I still haven't found out what he thinks about religion, politics, evolution, or anything else that is probably supposed to be important in a relationship.

This has led me to conclude that the secret to a happy marriage is a complete lack of communication.

### My Husband's Viewpoint

I once asked my husband what a page impression meant. If you knew my husband, you would realize that in defining "page impression" he would set the stage by beginning his discourse with how the internet was created in the days of Genesis. For the record, I am still unsure what page impression means.

"Are you talking about your blog?" He asked me.

Inwardly, I flinched. I am uncomfortable sharing my blog, my diary, that the rest of the world sees everyday, with the man who shares my life. Probably because I care if he thinks I am retarded. "Did you read it?" I asked him, feigning nonchalance. "No, I saw the post on Facebook though." Wait a minute. He hasn't read it? "You didn't click on it? If it were you I would have clicked on it." I guess I am just nosier than he is.

Still, when he does read it, after discussing the creation of the Internet, the first computer ever made, something about an RSS feed, and the very beginning of humanity... I am relieved to see him laughing. It can't be that bad, I am thinking, if Art is laughing. He lives in the zoo with us. The fact that his giggles are centered mostly around the maniacal references I made on my blog about the crazy things my children will envision and say doesn't bother me. It made me feel better.

I ask him what he thinks when he is done reading. He smiles and simply tells me that it sounds just like me. He also expresses his amazement that not one of my posts has begun with "My daddy says...," which is what generally precedes my many, random, nuggets of wisdom I hand out to my family.

Hearing Art laugh gave me a bit more confidence though. Either the stuff I write is really funny, or we are both pretty screwed up. At least it gave me more confidence until I remembered that one day I heard the cacophony racket of my children crying and arguing. I come into the living room to find my husband giggling like a hyena from his perch on the computer chair. Cadence and Trinity are crying and Cadence is wet. Quinn is naked. Art seems to have lost his mind. "Come on, Babe...," he says, "...if we don't laugh at this stuff, we are going to go nuts." He tells me this as I step in a puddle of urine.

Quinn was naked because his butt was red. Those of you who have children already know what I am talking about. Those of you without them, envision pooping straight bile. It's like pure acid and it actually burns your behind. Yeah, imagine that, only all over your butt cheeks.

So that's why Quinn is sans diaper. By the time I figured that out, he was standing in the kitchen and begun to pee. Quinn has no control over his bladder. He has developed however, the typical male pride in his penis. Me man. Me make water. My little boy places his hands on his hips and thrusts his hips forward, arcing his urine across the ceramic tile at the exact same time that Cadence, the most active of my children races around the corner. Of course, Cadence slides across the puddle of urine to land squarely on her back and head. On the hard ceramic tile. In a puddle of pee. She immediately begins to cry, and she doesn't even notice that the baby is still peeing on her leg.

Quinn starts giggling hysterically. Quinn is so used to being entertained by Cadence that he thinks this is a show she put on just for his amusement. H-m-m-m. Quinn's viewpoint is pretty much the same as Art's.

It only slightly concerns me that I derive my confidence from people who think peeing on the floor is and urine soaked children are funny.

###  My Husband On Home Improvement

I feel to need to share that I am not the only person in the house that attempts home improvement projects for which I am ill prepared.

I never had any intention on becoming a homeowner. So when Art came up with the grand idea to buy a foreclosed home and remodel it, I questioned his wisdom. Then we argued about it. He actually won that one.

When we were first handed the keys to our new home, Art decided that he would get rid of the nasty, really dark paneling that was all over the house. So he did. With a sledgehammer, a crow bar and baby Cadence in her playpen.

In retrospect, it probably would have been a better idea to move through one room at a time. Maybe that all or nothing attitude I have is contagious.

My father and brother came over to help him hang drywall back up over the gaping holes in the walls. There was beer involved.

At some point, one of the drills must have hit a wire in the wall, because there is still no power on one side of the living room.

My dad and brother unfortunately did not stay to help mud the new drywall. Equally as unfortunate, there was still a cooler full of beer when I left for work that day.

In the course of the six hours that I spent at work that afternoon, Art managed to drink most of the beer, while applying nearly a full five-gallon bucket of mud to _one_ **wall. That's a lot of mud.**

**The wall isn't quite convex, but it is damn close. When I walked in Art grinned at me.**

**"Wanna help me sand?"**

**Ordinarily I would have helped. I hate sanding. But I would have helped him sand if there wasn't four whole gallons of mud to remove.**

**Somehow that "my daddy says that if you don't know what you are doing, you have to do it while drinking so you can blame the beer if you mess it up" doesn't seem nearly as amusing as it usually does.**

**So, my husband is not a drywall guy.**

**He is also not a plumber.**

This becomes apparent when I arrive home to find that he had taken the toilet out. Out of the house I mean. The fucking toilet is on the deck in the back yard.

He told me right as I walked in, "You're gonna kill me."

This is not the best way to greet your wife.

When I ask him why I am going to kill him he informs me that he took the toilet out. I was thinking he maybe broke the toilet. Then he told me that the toilet is on the back deck.

What the fuck do you say to that?

"Hm. Why is the toilet on the back porch?" Yet another question I never once thought I would have to ask anyone.

"Well, it kept overflowing...."

There was probably more to what he was going to say, but I cut him off.

"Normal people use a plunger Art. Normal people do not take the whole damn toilet out of the bathroom." I didn't even mention the back porch thing; I don't think I had quite wrapped my brain around that yet.

When I relate this amusing story to my friends at the bar, Terry says to me,

"The man is a Marine, Krissy. You're lucky he didn't just dig a fucking trench in the front yard."

Well, I guess if I look at it in a glass half-full kind of way...

### Marriage

I love marriage advice almost as much as I love parenting advice... The articles that these people write, I think that they were not meant for people like me. Either that or I am more screwed up that I thought.

For example:

In the article The 10 Shocking Secrets of Marriage from Bride's Magazine, the author lists ten things that may shock you during the first year of marriage.

  1. The author says that you will gain a little bit of love weight in the first year, as it is difficult to maintain the celery diet you went on in an effort to fit into your wedding dress. They advise that you should enjoy your new life and the food that comes with it.

So...marriage is like a value meal? Here's your new husband, a biggie fry and a cheeseburger. Enjoy.

I am thinking the truth of the matter is that a Bride-to-be loses some weight before the wedding, due mostly to stress. There are a million details to plan, the flowers, the colors, the menu, the bar options, and your mother is going to be on the phone fifteen times a day. Celery? Nope. You just don't remember to eat in those hectic last few weeks.

As for gaining weight after the ceremony? What really happens is that you realize you haven't eaten in the last six weeks, and that you are really, really hungry and you put those missing pounds back on.

2. This same article claims that your single friends will abandon you when you are married. They may be jealous, or have a hard time dealing with the fact that you now have to check with your husband before making plans.

At this point in the article, I realize this is one of those normal people things. First, I don't have many friends that are female. I lack the concentration and emotional depth required to maintain female friendships. I relate to men better. Really. I like those buddies I can hang out with, drink with, shoot with, and then not talk to for months on end without them calling to ask why I am mad at them.

And another thing, about checking with the husband before you do anything, that would be the right thing - the nice thing - to do. But, sad truth here: I am an asshole. It doesn't occur to me to check with anyone about anything. It's one of my character flaws. I am selfish and rude.

3. The claim: "Your sex life will be off the charts, sometimes." Then, they say it may turn a bit PG.

Hmm. Again, this is for normal people. The ones that don't have kids before they are married. Because sex? It is a luxury for parents. Really. The article claims that some nights you will just want to do laundry or watch T.V.

In this place, some nights I just want to sleep. When you are a mom, a full-time employee, and creeping up on thirty - sleep takes precedence over sex 2/3 of the time.

It's sad, but it's true.

Plus, a lot of days... the mood is just not there.

I've got baby puke between my boobs, I haven't shaved my legs since God knows when because Cadence used all of the shaving cream to decorate the bathroom wall, and because Trinity keeps throwing the razors in the garbage. (They are dangerous around the baby. She is so responsible.) I just worked 10 hours, discovered that there are, in fact, sweat glands in my butt crack, and then came home to three hungry kids.

Oh. Yeah, I am feeling all kinds of sexy right now.

So, actually, I don't know much about the sex lives of people that are married with no kids. I have never been one of them. But married? With kids? There isn't really a "sex life". It more of a series of quickies during nap times and between commercials.

4. The claim: You won't unpack your china for six months. You will be too busy paying bills, taking the dog to the vet, and working late.

Well first of all...

Who the hell has real china? Who has glass dining ware for that matter! Somewhere in between the births of Cadence and Quinn - I figured out that plastic and paper are the way to go. That way there is no glass to clean up, and also, no damn dishes. Also, Solo cups. Not joking.

And what's more, if you are too busy to unpack your dishes - wait until you have children. Most of the time, I don't have time to put the laundry away, or the dishes, or the groceries for that matter.

Screw it, it's below freezing outside. Leave the cold stuff in the trunk; I'll get it in the morning.

5. The claim: You will do the dishes and your husband will fix stuff.

Hmm. Not likely, mostly because there are few dishes. We throw the paper and plastic out - low maintenance. As for fixing things, that one I have to agree with. Not because I am incapable and my husband is Bob Villa. Nope. It is simply because my husband hides all of the cool shit. I can hang pictures with my knife. I can't fix the refrigerator with it. So, I have to either search for the hammer - or wait for him to do it.

And because I am mostly lazy - I wait for him to do it.

This author suggests that if you would prefer to split chores 50/50, you should come up with a plan, and agree on what's fair. Well, it sounds good. But in real life? If you are thirsty, you are going to have to wash a cup.

6. The Shock: Even though you have two paychecks, you will still feel broke most of the time.

The article says that this is because you will want to spend more money on nicer things...that the hand me down couch from your old apartment won't suit your new, married lifestyle.

Ha! Fact of life here: The more you make the more you spend. Period.

7. The article says that you may be shocked when you find that you don't want to spend every waking moment with your new husband.

Shocked? Really? If I even attempted to spend every waking moment with my husband...one of us wouldn't make it. The truth here, I love him and I am happily married. More truth, bigger truth - I love me too. I need to be alone once in a while, or I will make us both crazy.

8. You'll go to bed mad, even though you vowed you never would.

Well, yeah. Because in real marriages, people absolutely do not sit down and attempt to form a compromise. Never, not once, in all of the time that I have known my husband have we sat together to discuss what the issues are. We yell. We scream. We throw things and slam doors. We do not begin an argument with "When you [blank], I feel like [blank].

The article says you can count on falling asleep fuming at least once in that first year. I would have to put the statistics quite a bit higher.

9. Being a wife won't magically give you the skills of an Iron Chef.

Agreed. In fact, I am so much in agreement with this statement that I will never attempt to prove it wrong. Iron Chef? No. But - I am the master of take out, drive through and Hamburger Helper.

10. The world will seem like a better place.

Well, no it won't. It will feel the same as it did before you were married. Okay, so I am lacking any romantic sentiment, but the day after we got married, it felt pretty much exactly the same as the day before we were married.

The truth, if life sucked before you got married, it's still going to suck after the honeymoon. Getting married will not magically transport you to a world of bliss and peace. A rare, deep and meaningful thought from Krissy, if you aren't happy with yourself - no one is going to make you happy.

### Poo is Poo

A curious thing happens when you become a mother. One minute, you are lying there in the hospital bed, a normal, well adjusted, albeit enormous, version of yourself. Later, after a lot of screaming, a nurse lays a slimly, bloody baby on your belly and you are transformed.

You kiss your newborn, overcome with emotion. The tiny ball is covered in blood, amniotic fluid and some strange waxy stuff, that is, upon further examination, really gross. Your newborn has just been delivered from your vagina. And you kiss it. No normal person would do that. It's just wrong.

But, you are not normal, you are a mother. As such, you have cast aside all of those healthy aversions to disgusting bodily fluids that normal society holds dear.

The loathing of human excrement was well earned through our ancient ancestors. Even when humans could only grunt, they knew that poo was bad. They stayed away from it because it smelled terrible, and also because, somewhere on the evolutionary road, we realized that it could make us sick. Besides, it's poo. Poo is yucky.

And yet, somehow, as a mother, when you find baby poo under your fingernail it won't gross you out the way that it should. It's just baby poo, you think. As if baby poo is special somehow, and therefore, excused from the social norms.

A normal person would recognize that poo is poo. It is a bad idea to have it under your fingernails - regardless of the age of the poo-er. There will also come a time in your mothering, when you will stick your bare hand under your baby's chin to catch her puke.

Not the chair, don't puke on the chair again!

Again, this is not normal. Puke is puke; poo is poo. Both gross.

A bit later in your parenting you will find that not only do you catch baby puke in your hands - you won't even stop eating while you do it. You are thinking, A-w-w, it's just baby puke. Looks like formula - smells like formula...and I'm really hungry. This seems to be particularly disturbing to the normal people around you. (My own father gags until he damn near throws up when the babies puke anywhere near him.)

And then, your baby becomes a toddler, and you regain your senses. This may be because their poo starts to smell like people poo. Their puke looks and smells like big people puke. Your ancient DNA will reawaken.

E-w-w. Poo. E-w-w. Puke.

When the kid starts throwing up chunks instead of formula, you will shamelessly hold her as far away from you as possible. Screw the chair; just don't get any on me! You may feel guilty, dangling your obviously distraught toddler over a towel while she wretches. Don't. She will never remember your guilt.

Instead of feeling guilty, be reassured that you will, at the very least, become a more hygienic mother as she gets older. At least until you have another child. Then all bets are off.

### On Outings with the Children

Well, in the case that anyone has missed this -- I may be mentally retarded. I can read and write, and balance a checkbook - at least in theory. I do, however, seem to be lacking any activity in the areas of my brain that controls decision-making and foresight.

I have a tendency to make split-second decisions, without regard to consequence. That, I guess would be okay, if I happened to learn lessons. Unfortunately, that area of my brain is also Missing In Action.

Take for example, a spring outing with all four children to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. You're thinking, that's not too bad.

Bullshit!

First of all, we are the definition of working poor. So you would think that we would have had the intelligence to pack a lunch for the kids. Nope. We'll just go ahead and spend sixty dollars on hot dogs and pizzas. Baby doesn't really need shoes after all, he can't walk far.

Aside from that oversight, we failed to consider that Cadence is rarely allowed out in public. Her brain is missing stuff too. You get her in public, and my sweet little girl is replaced by some sort of evil garden gnome, who feels it imperative that she demonstrate to the general public just how horrible of a parent I truly am.

We've all seen it. The woman in the checkout line with the kid that refuses to keep his hands to himself. Or the child that throws herself on the floor because Mommy won't buy her the damn M&M's. You don't know whether to feel sorry for her, or buy her a Discipline for Dummies book. You want to tell her to beat that kid before she reaches adolescence. Yep, folks, I'm that woman.

You would think that I would remember those things before venturing out in public with all four children. I don't.

We load up the car to go the damn aquarium. We are attempting to give our children a worthwhile experience. See. We're good parents. We take them places. Right...

No one mentions that it is the first day of Spring Break in Chicago. Just a suggestion here people, but if you could put that little tidbit up on a billboard somewhere, I guarantee I will stay at least 50 miles from Chicago that week.

Right, so there we are in line to get in the Aquarium. Quinn in his stroller, Trinity on crutches because she has hyper-extended her knee, Chase standing quietly and Cadence who is running in figure 8's around the five million people standing in line with us. We are waiting to get in for over an hour because the Aquarium is at capacity. They can't let anyone else in. In the case of a fire.... at the aquarium.... surrounded by millions of gallons of water....

Anyhow, we go ahead and buy the year pass for $150.00. It is actually cheaper than a ticket for each of us.

Now, through three babies, I have come to realize that people are just rude when you have a stroller. Maybe they are assuming you are going to move slower because you have a stroller. People seem to make a conscious effort to get ahead of you; no matter how fast you are walking. In general, I slow down and let them pass. They are assholes, but I am certainly not going to ram them with my baby. Art will, though.

For that reason, he is regulated to pushing Trinity in the wheelchair that we have rented. I would rather him ram strangers with Trinity than with Quinn. At least her bones have developed completely.

I forget that in giving him a wheel chair to push, I have also given him a bayonet. Trinity's aluminum crutches jut out on front of her, and a bit to the side. Awesome. Art is now armed with two bayonets, and a sixty-pound child.

I am pushing a stroller, carrying the diaper bag, and soon, also the crutches because I don't want to see anyone impaled on a rubber tipped crutch. I have no free hands. I have no leash for Cadence.

I cannot make Chase hang on to Cadence. It isn't fair to him. And so, I spend most of the time screaming at Cadence to slow down, hurry up, don't touch that, get back here, get off that, get off the damn floor, what the hell is wrong with you....

The rest of the time I spend giving Art my best "don't you dare" glares, and when that fails, yelling at him for ramming strangers with my daughter. For the record, people are even bigger assholes when there is a wheel chair involved.

Well that's nice. I have to keep calling out for Chase, who happens to be the only good child that day, because I can tell where the bad kids are by the sound of their voices. Quinn is writhing and bucking in his stroller. He wants to get out and join the mayhem that is his sister. We haven't even seen any fish yet!

Why? Because every person in Chicago with a child has brought them to the aquarium for the day. There are mounds of people lined up in front of every exhibit. Cadence pushes her way through them to stare blankly at fish.

The only exhibit that we are actually able to examine is the fresh water one. Well that's cool, all this frustration and mayhem, $210, and a two-hour wait for a damn catfish.

Seriously, next time we are taking them to the creek in town.

### Inducing Labor

I hate being pregnant. It makes me a bit crazy, a whole lot uncomfortable, and fat. Those women that are all "I loved being pregnant...," they are either insane or lying.

Not that it is all bad. The boobs are pretty awesome. At least until they begin leaking breast milk. Then, they are not even a little bit awesome.

Feeling the baby move inside of you is an amazing experience. Sadly, the novelty soon wears off. When the baby is big enough to stretch from your pelvic bone to your freaking throat, it starts to really suck. I find it's bearable until around the seventh month. When I am no longer able to tie my shoes without holding my breath I start considering induction.

There are multiple suggestions for inducing labor at home.

They are all lies.

I think someone made it all up to keep pregnant women busy in that last, really long month.

Castor Oil

Castor Oil is thought to stimulate the intestines and therefore the uterus. I should have been skeptical, but I was desperate. Really, really desperate. I threw up the first half of my strawberry - castor oil milkshake, and gagged through the rest. Castor Oil does, in fact stimulate the intestines. To this day, I cannot look at a bottle of Castor Oil without unconsciously clenching my butt cheeks. After taking it, I was awake for hours with cramps, and rather than giving birth, I ended up breaking open the baby bath supply gift basket to steal some Desitin in an attempt to put out the fire on my rear-end.

Sex

The doctor told me to try having sex to encourage labor. There is a hormone in semen that softens the cervix. Sex? Really? Probably not, Doc. I am thirty-five pounds over my normal weight. It is an effort to even roll over in bed. There is this weird line on my belly. My boobs are each bigger than my head. I haven't shaved my legs since the last time I saw them, and I don't even want to mention what used to be the bikini line. I am also acutely aware that semen got me into this predicament. And this guy is telling me I should have sex. I plan on never having sex again at this point, thank you very much.

Walking

I am not sure how walking can induce labor. Maybe it has something to do with gravity? I figure if walking is good, then jumping off of a chair repeatedly should work better. I'd try walking, but I am too pregnant and lazy to get off my butt to attempt it. Plus, I would have to put my shoes on, and I am already out of breath from jumping off the chair.

Acupressure

For the record, this one is really supposed to work. There must be a trick. I spent a whole three minutes looking it up on Goggle and maybe three hours rubbing the spot on my ankle like the instructions said. All I got out of that were bruises.

Herbal Remedies

There seem to be a few different herbs that can induce labor. You don't have to take them orally. You can apply them to the cervix. Uh? Yeah. Probably not. As desperate as I was, herbs scare me. Where do you even buy that stuff?

"Hi, I'd like a bottle of Evening Primrose Oil and really long Q-tip, please. Oh, and you don't happen have to have a diagram on female anatomy, do you?" No?

Oh well, back to Google then.

### Pregnancy and Demolition Tools

A recent flair up of sciatica (which is the medical definition of: There is a tiny man in my ass cheek stabbing me every time I lift my right foot!) has reminded me of my pregnancies.

My first pregnancy was wonderful! I didn't get sick; I didn't gain a single pound until the fifth month. I lost nearly all of the weight I had gained before we were discharged from the hospital. Of course, I was only eighteen when my oldest daughter was born.

I ate all the right foods, felt guilty for drinking a coffee, and balanced it out with a banana.

This is a nutritional guideline that I continue to follow: I can feed the kids anything I want as long as I throw a banana at them every day.

I was fairly uncomfortable in my ninth month but nothing too extreme. I did have some sciatic nerve pain, but it was not too awful. The doctor explained that the weight of the baby was putting pressure on the sciatic nerve, which apparently angers the tiny knife-wielding man that lives in there. He assured me that it would go away when the baby was born.

My second pregnancy was a mess from the beginning. To start - I threw up. A lot. Trinity found this fascinating and managed to watch me puke nearly every day.

I got fat. I don't mean that cute little baby belly kind of fat. I mean I got really fat. My face, arms, and legs. I think I gained 20 pounds in my bra alone.

Nearing the end of my pregnancy I experienced sciatic pain again. In the beginning it was slightly uncomfortable. By the end it was nearly unbearable. I wandered around rubbing my ass cheek for at least the last four weeks. When she was born, Cadence weighed eight pounds and three ounces, almost a full two pounds bigger than her sister. This, I figured, explained why there was so much more pain.

I had an extra 15 pounds that were more attributed to Cheetoes and Mt. Dew than pregnancy. It took me a quite a bit longer to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight.

Fast forward to Quinn's pregnancy....

I had a wonderful pregnancy with Quinn. I didn't get as huge as I had with Cadence. The weight that I did gain gave me that cute little baby belly. I was able to wear my own pants the whole time! Towards the end, though I experienced the familiar sciatic nerve pain. It hurt quite a bit, but it was overshadowed by a new, infinitely more painful sensation.

Symphysis Pubic Dysfunction.

I am not sure what the definition of that one is. It has something to do with joints and pubic bones. Something like the little guy in my ass cheek has moved his friend into my pelvic bone with a hammer and punch. Scratch that, the guy has a jackhammer and maybe a chainsaw. The bigger I get - the bigger the tools get. By the time I give birth, I am nearly certain that the little man has rented a wrecking ball and learned to place shaped charges.

This excruciating pain is actually caused by the relaxation of the ligaments that support the pubic bone. The pelvic joint then becomes unstable, as does the mother-to-be.

I complain to my doctor, who assures me that it is normal and will clear up on its own in about three weeks.

Ahem.

Normal?

I have had a vagina for as long as I can remember... and this is nowhere near normal.

This pain begins at the pubic bone and radiates all the way down the inside of my leg - straight to my knee. I can't even begin to describe it, but it makes me look forward to the pain of labor.

I cannot walk. I cannot sit, stand or kneel. I cannot breathe without this horrendous pain.

When the doctor offered to induce me on my due date, I very nearly kissed him.

### Limiting T.V Time - Or Not.

Experts recommend no more than two hours of television for children over two-years of age, and none for children under two.

Sure, that sounds fine and dandy - if you don't actually have children. Which, I am coming to believe, is a requirement for being an expert in childcare.

Or if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford a nanny. I'm not. Spongebob is my babysitter.

Here are the expert's recommendations and the true effects of television on children....

Television is a leading contributor to childhood obesity.

H-m-m, I doubt it. Sure, television viewing is a sedentary activity, but I have yet to see my kids sit through an entire program without bouncing off the furniture and walls a few hundred times. Probably the childhood obesity epidemic is more due to our diets. Yes, please, super-size EVERYTHING!

Television encourages violent behavior in children.

Well, actually, children encourage violent behavior in children, period. I have yet to meet a child that doesn't hit, bite or kick, at least until they know better. Dora the Explorer will not teach your kid to beat up the kids at Nursery School. Close proximity to other preschoolers will.

Small children are incapable of managing their emotions.

"She took my toy away and I am frustrated and angry, so I will count to ten until I feel better."

Not likely.

"She took my toy and I am going to kick her in the kneecap!" That's a typical response in a preschooler. Bad, but understandable.

Television stifles creativity and lowers I.Q.

Really? Because I will buy Cadence a portable television to watch 24/7 if it can stifle creativity. Bungee-jumping in a closet? How's that for creativity? As for lowering the I.Q.? I hope it does. I don't want these kids to be smarter than me. I am already out numbered.

You shouldn't use television as a babysitter.

Okay Mr. PhD. What's your address? I'll drop them all off at your house instead and see how long it takes you to turn on Spongebob! I could limit the kid's television viewing time as the experts suggest. But, I am thinking that the so called "experts" have never attempted to make dinner with a two year old boy clinging to their legs and his two sisters constantly under my feet.

And, aside from that, if I limit television viewing for their well-being, what would I threaten to take away from them when they are driving me insane?

### Counting Blessings

After the Valentine's Party at Cadence's preschool yesterday, she was going through her baggie of Valentine's cards and making various remarks about them. Of course I wasn't actually listening...mostly nodding and saying "uh-huh, that's cool man." Until she handed me a bright red case and asked me to open it for her.

The label on the emergency dose of glucose had a little girl's name on it from her class. They had apparently switched bags in the cookie/brownie/gift/balloon chaos of the party.

We drove back to her school to return the bag to the little girl's mother, who made the comment, "Thank God I got a hold of you. I couldn't even feed her lunch yet because her sugar meter is in the bag also."

To tell you the truth, I didn't think about it too much until today. I can't imagine having a child with a condition such as diabetes. The planning and schedule that it would require are beyond my imagination. To think that one mistake as simple as a switched school bag could be so devastating to a child's well-being frightens me a little bit.

Trinity is a wreck. She is nine and emotional, and God help me when she hits puberty. She is testing her boundaries right now, at school and at home. She has developed this smart ass mouth that drives me right to the edge of alcoholism.

Cadence is more monkey than girl. She climbs everything; she can't sit still. Her brain spins even faster than mine does, and she is always doing things she knows she shouldn't do. She has no fear of pain, and no concept of consequence. I spend more time yelling at her than anything else.

Quinn is only two, and yet he pushes me right to the edge of my sanity. He refuses to play with toys, and seems to only want to get into shit that he shouldn't. He is a tornado, running through the house full-throttle, damaging something wherever he goes. He won't stay out of the fridge. He is constantly putting stuff in, taking stuff out, and sometimes sitting in it for good measure.

In short, between the three of them, I walk a thin, thin line of sanity. I am in a nearly constant state of frustration and hyper-vigilance, balance out by moments of complete surrender. Fuck it, he'll get out of the fridge when he gets cold right? Or really, what the hell does it matter if he plays with the toaster for hours? And since no one was sitting on the couch anyway, why not let Cadence remove all the cushions? They at least pad the landing when she belly flops off the arm of the couch.

In all this insanity, I forget to be grateful sometimes for the fact that I have these three beautiful, healthy kids. I forget that for as emotional as Trinity is, she never fails to notice the impending Mommy breakdown, and can be counted on absolutely to distract her younger siblings without being asked. For as active as Cadence is, and as nerve-racking as her daredevil spirit is, she is also the essence of empathy and love, and Quinn runs to her when he is hurt as often as he runs to me. As for Quinn, I have yet to find any benefit to sitting in the fridge, but at the very least, he provides a day full of laughter and entertainment.

### Not all Funny

Bug Bug lost the remote. Which is why I was stuck watching Oprah, well, that and I was too lazy to get up and change it or look for the remote. She had a couple on her show that had lost all three of their children in a car accident almost four years ago. I'm sure their story was meant to inspire others. It was an awful show - and I couldn't turn it off.

I watched - tears rolling down my own face as a father and mother described turning off life support for the only child that made it to the hospital. As they told Oprah how they held their son's hand, said goodbye to him, and watched his chest stop rising when the machines went dark.

Usually, I turn these shows off. I simply cannot handle the emotion that comes with even thinking about losing any one of my children - let alone all three of them at once. It makes my chest hurt, my throat hurt, I can't catch my breath, it is a horrible, soul-wrenching feeling...and it's all in my imagination.

I can't imagine how those parents, or any parents are able to go on after a loss like that.

Finally, when the parents were describing how the three little coffins were lined up in a semi-circle for the viewing, I couldn't handle it any more.

I rolled out of bed, walked down the hall and lifted my sleeping baby out of his crib. I just needed to hold on to him for a moment, smell him, and if I woke him up? Hell with it - I would rock him back to sleep, no matter how late it was, how tired I was...and just be grateful that I still have my babies here to drive me crazy.

###  Infidelity

Art and I have the very best conversations when we are in the car. It is probably the only time that we are able to speak to each other without interruption. On this latest trip to Michigan to deliver my step-son back to his mother, we discussed infidelity.

It seems that at some point last week my husband had a dream that he caught me cheating on him. He told me how it woke it him up, and how he was unable to sleep for a little while because he woke up pissed off.

So, to settle his thoughts and fears, I asked him, "Well, what would you do if you did catch me cheating on you?" It occurs to me now that I should have probably started this conversation with something like, Oh Honey, you know I would never do anything like that...but I didn't.

He looks at me sort of strangely before telling me that he really didn't know what he would do. I asked if he would divorce me, and he couldn't say he wouldn't, but didn't say he'd pack his shit right there.

He didn't ask, but I decided to tell him what I would do.

"Well, if she was hotter than me, I would just kick your ass." Art gives me a sideways glance. I'm sure he is wondering, but he has become accustomed to my thought patterns. (Mostly)

"I'm not talking about kicking you in the nuts," although I am fairly sure that would be my first reaction, "I'm talking about blood and blunt objects." Art doesn't speak.

"If she's not hotter than me though, I'm gonna kick your ass, take half your shit, and then file for divorce." I'm getting a little worked up here just thinking about it. Art still doesn't speak.

Ten or so miles down the road he gives me the same sideways glance and says,

"You know, Baby...for the record here...I don't care if he is hot or not." This man, I think, has almost adapted to the way that my brain works.

# I Told You So

### _My experience as a military spouse..._

When Art and I first met, I was a single mother with a three year old. It had always been just her and I, since about a year after her birth. Art had already been in combat in Iraq, and was on Inactive Readiness Reserve status in the Marine Corps. That basically means that he was subject to recall, but also that it was unlikely.

When we discovered that I was pregnant with Cadence in January of 2005, Art decided that he would reenlist in the Marine Corps Reserves. He said he wanted to be able to collect the retirement. I said he was going to war.

After meeting with the reserve station in Joliet Illinois for the first time, Art explained that there was probably only an 80% chance that they would be deployed to Iraq. He went on about how they were converting the station to a recon unit and something about a whole lot of other stuff that I wasn't listening to because I was busy wondering how he could have missed the fact that 80 is the greater part of 100.

A few months later, at a family picnic thing at the reserve station, everyone gathered to hear the commanding officer speak. He told the families and Marines gathered there that there was a 99% chance that they would be deployed to Iraq before the next year. I elbowed Art. 80% my ass.

The orders came the same day we brought Cadence home from the hospital in September of 2005. Art would be activated on December 1st of that year, he would go to California for training in January of 2006 and deploy to Iraq in March.

Dread is the only thing I can compare the feeling to. I watched him tell his parents he would be going. I had the thought that as horrible as I felt sending my husband to war, I could not and still can't, imagine sending my son.

### A Series Of Bad Ideas

Probably I am emotionally retarded. I don't deal well with emotional people. I don't deal at all with my own emotions. I am not sure I even have emotions sometimes. I don't cry. I just don't, unless I am pregnant, postpartum, or on my period.

I was, therefore, completely blindsided by _feelings_ when I dropped Art off in Joliet, Illinois, on January 1st of 2006. We sat in the car for a while, Art, Chase, Trinity, Cadence and I. Chase was 3, Trinity 4, and Cadence was only 3 months old. I think I held myself together fairly well. I didn't cry, at least not at first. I didn't want Art to worry about me... I got this. Right. It probably made him think I didn't care that he was leaving. I did. I just don't process emotion that well.

I cried a tiny bit when he got on the bus, heading for California, and from there onto Iraq. When I saw the local VFW members salute the bus as it pulled away, I lost it. I sobbed. Yeah. Me. Like a baby. I have never, before or since, in my adult life cried like that.

Chase calmly told me, "It's okay Kris. It's okay." Trinity freaked out! She had never seen me cry. She thought I was dying. I tried to bring it back down some, but I still couldn't drive for ten minutes.

I couldn't go home. Or, I really didn't want to go home. So, I decided to drive straight through from Joliet, Illinois, to Saginaw Michigan, where Chase's mom lived.

Bad idea number one.

First of all, I have no sense of direction. I always think that north is straight ahead. I don't know why. I did pretty well until I got the exit for 69. For some incredibly idiotic reason, I took the south exit. South - towards Indiana.

This would have been easily remedied, but I didn't realize I was going the wrong way until I saw a sign that welcomed me back to Indiana.

_Sonofabitch._

At least by then all the kids were sleeping. I should have gone home then. I was closer to home than Saginaw.

I couldn't go home. I was an emotional wreck. I decided I was going to distract myself with a drive to Saginaw Michigan in the wee hours of the morning.

Bad idea number two.

I turned the car around and head back north, towards Flint, Michigan.

Okay. For real this time; I had this. Or I did until highway 69 merged onto 169, or more accurately, merged back off. I missed it completely and found myself in East Lansing.

Three times.

I guess there is just a circle of highway that goes around and around East Lansing, Michigan. I was thinking that I would be better off just renting a damn apartment, since Fate seemed determined to keep me in East Lansing.

I had to stop and ask for directions. I am not opposed to asking people for directions; I do it, literally, all the time. I was opposed to stopping the car for any length of time because it always wakes the kids up. I had to stop though, and wake my three sleeping children to go into the gas station.

At first, I was confused. I was thinking that I had somehow found Indiana again. There are trucks with huge tires, and most of the people walking around are wearing camouflage. The gas station attendant relieved my worry, and told me that I was, in fact, still in Michigan.

Finally, I was on the right track again. I knew how to get to Saginaw. I didn't know exactly how to get to my in-laws, but I would burn that bridge when I got to it.

Bad idea number three.

I didn't want to bother my mother and father-in-law at two o'clock in the morning. So, I didn't call them when I got to Saginaw. I was determined to find the house by myself. So of course, I flew through Saginaw and out the other side without finding the house. Still, I do not call. I got this.

Or not.

I don't know where I was when my father-in-law called me. I was driving past a Ford plant somewhere. I get the feeling it is not the ideal place to be when he tells me, "Just drive. Don't stop anywhere. Just keep going."

Right. Thanks, Dad. Now, I was not only an emotional wreck, I was also terrified.

There I was, driving around with three babies in the car, 2 o'clock in the morning; dangerously close to tears, retarded-tired, and I just happened to be lost in a ghetto. Super.

I finally found my in-laws house, and passed out on their couch, holding baby Cadence.

It was the only good idea I had that day.

### The Worst Day, The Best Friends

Those months that Art was gone are pretty fuzzy now in my memories. I remember mostly that I was unable to sleep in our bed. I spent most nights in the recliner, rocking in my sleep while holding our daughter. It is mostly a blur of work and home and work again in my memory. Cadence wasn't an easy baby. She would fall asleep in my arms, only to wake up right as I put her down.

She was high maintenance, and I didn't really mind. I needed the comfort from her as much as she needed it from me. I was stressed to say the least.

Some experts claim that stress affects your memory. Apparently, stress impacts judgment as well, because on one of those restless evenings I had some brilliant idea that I should take my two children out and go grocery shopping at nine o'clock at night. I am often struck with such brilliant ideas.

It all went well until I returned home with two sleeping kids, a trunk full of groceries and a sidewalk that hasn't been shoveled all winter.

I sat in the car for a bit, hoping some homeless guy would wander by. I have never seen any homeless men wandering down our street, but I was prepared to pay him with food or beer if he would only carry in my groceries.

The homeless guy never did appear, which is better for my marriage anyway, because by the time I carried in the first sleeping kid I was seriously considering paying the imaginary homeless man with sexual favors.

Art's second deployment to Iraq ended early when he got blown up in May of 2006. He called me from some hospital there and told me he was in an accident. I was thinking fender bender, not IED.

As the weeks passed, he was sent to Germany and then on to California, and finally to Midway Airport where I picked him up.

At this point I was still bartending three days a week.

To be clear here, there is nothing funny about Art being blown up.

What really tickled my funny bone was that the Marine Corps didn't call me to tell me he was wounded until a few days before he came home. He already had his ticket for the airplane when his unit decides to call me.

The guy must have thought I was an asshole, because there is the sound of a full bar in the background, and the instant that he begins to speak, I start to giggle. He must have been thinking that I was a total shithead, laughing at my husband's misfortune while drinking it up at 1 o'clock in the afternoon.

One of my favorite regulars at the bar, a Marine veteran of the Vietnam War, asked me what is so funny.

I told him that the Marine Corp had just called to tell me that my husband was wounded three weeks ago.

Terry nodded.

"Well that's the Marine Corp for you. Can't expect too much from them, they sent us to train in the desert and then sent us to war in a fucking jungle."

I was able to go out and see Art before he was sent to Iraq in March. I dropped my little girls off at Grammy's house, and left them there for five days. That is the longest I have ever been away from my children. I was a wreck.

I took the bus from Indiana to O'Hare International Airport. This was to insure that I didn't get lost on the way and miss my flight. I can get lost in a box.

I stood, alone, in a room with a million people. I was even more of a wreck. I had never even been in an airport before in my life. While I wouldn't label myself claustrophobic, I have a strong dislike for anyone in my space, or near my space, or in my visual field. Did I mention I was a fucking basket case?

I took my shoes and belt off and entered the waiting area. Surely there is a name for it, gate or terminal or something – I truly don't know, and don't particularly care. I was just glad to have found the right place and was able to board my flight.

The flight to California was sort of like that trip I took with my parents to Michigan when I was a teenager. Ridiculously long, cramped enough to be painful, and with no hope of a cigarette in the foreseeable future. Finally, with no turbulence, or hijacking, or dramatic crash scene, we landed in San Diego.

I didn't recognize my husband when I saw him. How horrible is that? I thought it might be him, but I didn't know for sure until he was only a few feet away. He had tanned in the California sun, and lost even more weight. Thank God he was not in uniform, I would have never recognized him. They all look the same in uniform.

We spent the next five days with each other. It is, to date, the longest time we have spent alone together. We didn't know what to do. We visited museums, ate, ate a lot more, drank a little, and then ate some more. It was a bit awkward without the distractions that are our children.

Toward the end of the week, we found out that his leave had been extended by a few days. I had already purchased the ticket home, so we called to find out if we could change the date. Uh. Nope. Well, yeah, but only for, like, a million dollars and our firstborn son. It was actually cheaper for me to fly home, purchase two additional round trip tickets, and fly back with the girls the next day. So I did.

Trinity was four years old and Cadence was six months. I was running on two hours of sleep and a pocket full of mini-thins. We rode a bus from Portage Indiana to Midway Airport in Chicago.

The trip to California was fairly painless - we got bumped up to first class because they hadn't saved two seats on the plane next to each other for Trin and I. Trinity settled into the first class seat like she was born for it.

This was the first time I had flown with children. I thought that you could let your baby sit on your lap. The flight attendant informed me that Cadence would have to be in her car seat in my lap for takeoff.

So, baby has to be strapped firmly in her car seat for takeoff - in case of a plane crash... Yes, and children, in the event of a nuclear attack, you will crouch under your desks.

In any case, we made it to California. It was a really good flight, if you don't count attempting to change a diaper in an airplane bathroom. The flights home were totally screwed up. First of all, Art left me and the girls standing in line at the San Diego airport. I knew that I was not going to see him again for at least nine months. He was going to Iraq in just a few hours. It totally sucked.

I did not cry, not when he left. I was afraid Trinity would freak out in an airport full of people, and then I would be detained by security until they verified that she was, in fact my child. Yep - that's the way my brain works.

So, I bit my lip and stared at the ceiling until the urge to cry passed.

The flight was delayed. I can't remember why. The girls and I spent two hours waiting in the terminal to board the plane. Honestly, it wasn't as bad as you would think. Cadence slept and Trin colored.

We originally would have had a couple of hours to kill in San Francisco before boarding the connecting flight to Midway. But now - because we were two hours late, I had to sprint from one gate to the other, balancing Cadence in her car seat and Trinity in my other arm - just so we could sit in the plane, on the runway, for another two hours.

Apparently, it was windy in Chicago. Windy. In the Windy City.

On the upside, both of the girls slept the whole way back to Chicago. By the time we actually got back to Midway, and waited for our luggage to come out, and made our way to the bus place - I found out we had missed the last bus of the night.

I was thinking I could call my dad, or my grandma, or my boss, or that stranger on the corner for a ride home. Except, I couldn't. When I pulled my cell phone out, I discovered that the battery was dead. I couldn't use a payphone, because all of the numbers I had were in my phone. The whole pile of shit just landed on my head. So - then I cried.

Some lady stopped to ask me if I was okay.

I stammered out something like, "My phone died and we missed the bus and my parents didn't answer and I don't know what to do."

The lady offered to let me use her phone. But, of course, I didn't know anyone's phone number.

She took a moment to thank me for my husband's service - which confused me - until I realized I was wearing a Marine Corps wife shirt. I cried harder.

Finally, somehow, I found my way to the USO, through construction. There were even detour signs. There were people camped out everywhere on army cots. Apparently windy is really bad for flying.

The guy at the USO just happened to have the charger that I needed for my phone. So, once I plugged it in, I called my friend April and cried the story into the phone. She said she was coming to get us. She had no idea where Midway Airport was, or how to get there, but she was coming.

Since this was only my third time in an airport, I had no idea that there were so many doors. Seriously, when I told her that I was at the D door, I thought there was only one.

Cadence, Trinity and I hung out in the USO for the next few hours, both of the girls sleeping, and me trying to forget my husband was on a flight to Iraq while surrounded by all things military.

April had called her sister, who was eight months pregnant, at midnight to accompany her to the airport than neither one of them had been to before. They both hopped in the car for the hour long drive through construction. Finally they called my phone to tell me that they were almost there.

I piled the sleeping kids on top of the luggage and pulled the luggage cart to the D door that I had called from, I didn't see the car. After tugging the luggage cart around the damn airport for 45 minutes or so, I finally found them.

I loaded up my babies and bags, and we giggled the entire way back to Chesterton. Not that anything was really funny, just because all of the emotion and stress of the last few days had built up to a volcano of contagious giddiness.

Thank you, God, for the best friends in the whole world.

### I Will Ship Your Ass Back

We played a game at my wedding shower. Every one there was asked to write down one piece of advice on marriage.

The one that stands out the most in my mind?

"He was that way when you married him, so don't complain about it later."

At the time, it was a bit funny...later, it was just not true.

My husband came home from Iraq a different man. At least, I think he did...In the spirit of brutal honesty, I didn't know him all that well when we were married before he left.

I won't pretend to know what happened to his brain over there, or what happened to it on the way home. I know that I cannot relate. Honesty again - I don't even try to.

Now, I will happily admit that I am selfish, and probably a bit stubborn. I can embrace my faults. Humans in general, are selfish beings.

I am not heartless though. I tried to be understanding, to be patient while he worked through whatever demons he had... and then? I blew. In true Krissy fashion I chose the most ridiculous thing to blow up over. The air conditioning.

I have never been to a desert. I have never even seen a desert - although I think I flew over one once. Art, he comes home from the deserts of Iraq, and thinks that 90 degrees and 80 percent humidity is nice. It is chilly. He loves it. He turns the air-conditioning off, and opens the windows. Ahhh.

Except, meanwhile, poor baby Cadence is sweating her baby fat off in the sauna that is our living room.

Finally, it is enough. It is more than enough!

I am hot.

I am annoyed. I am frustrated at this man, wounded or not.

I have to remind myself, constantly, of how much I missed him when he was gone.

When I look at him, and wonder just where the hell he is in his mind...I have to remind myself that there are no homeless men on my block that I can solicit to unload my trunk - and at least Art helps me with the groceries.

Mostly though, I am scared.

I am wondering if Art is going to end up like Terry. Terry, my very good friend, a former Marine, and a Vietnam veteran. Terry, who downs at least an entire bottle of Jack, every single day of his life. I do not want Art to be this man, who left the front lines of Vietnam in 1970, but still lives over there more than he lives here.

Terry, who ended up divorced and alone, who closes his eyes every night and sees that kid that he killed with an E-tool. I know, because he told me so.

And so, my way of coping? I push the power button on the air conditioner with as much force as my index finger can muster, and yell to Art, in all seriousness,

"We didn't all get back from the damn desert, Art! To normal people - 90 degrees is HOT! If you turn it off again, I will ship your ass back to the desert. "

### A Marine is Laid to Rest

I didn't want to go, but I couldn't not go. While I had no desire to see my dear friend Terry lying in his coffin, I felt that I owed him at least one more visit. One last chance to say goodbye and to apologize for dropping the ball. I hadn't seen him in six months or so, hadn't even called him. That is the thought that dominates my drive to the funeral home. I'm so sorry Terry. Guess I dropped the god damn ball on this one.

The only comfort I can find from my own guilt is that Terry, of all people, would have understood my neglect. Of all of the people in my life, this old man knew me the best.

His daughter saw me come in and came to stand in front of the coffin with me. She rubbed my back, comforting me when I should have been comforting her.

"You know, he loved you so much." She told me, and all I could do was nod. As hard as I tried to hold them back, tears fell anyway. I looked at him in the coffin; so yellow, so much thinner than the last time I had seen him.

Of course, I don't blame anyone but Terry for his death. The man drank Jack Daniel's like it was water. He was the definition of an alcoholic, and we all knew it. I contributed to his alcoholism, going so far as to bring him pints of Jack when he was out of money. Why? Because Terry was in a stage of alcoholism that necessitated drinking. Plain and simple, if he had stopped cold turkey he would have died. Trust me, I have seen it happen.

I stared at the pictures of him in his youth and wondered, behind those smiles, was he as tortured as he was when I knew him? They had put a picture of him and I on the board, from my wedding. I remembered how he had agonized over what gift to buy us. I looked at the Purple Heart medal and the flag draping the coffin, and I wondered if his family knew of his demons. I am wondering, right now, if I should send the letters that he had written to me from jail to his family. Would he have wanted them to know about the things that he did, that he saw? In this day and age, his family surely knows that he suffered from PTSD. But do they know why?

People were all full of concern and advise when Art was in Iraq. Many of them kept assuring me that he was going to be okay, that he would be home soon. All that did was remind me that he was gone; that there was a fairly decent chance that he wasn't going to be okay.

All Terry had to say was, "You hear from that Marine, Krissy?" I would answer, and that would be the end of the conversation. Because Terry knew that I had a hard time processing anything deeper. It helped me more than any amount of reassurances from everyone else.

And when Art came home, Terry was in jail. So we wrote to each other. I tried to remain upbeat, but there was a mountain of shit at home that I couldn't deal with alone. So I wrote to Terry about all of the problems, doubts and anger between Art and me.

I couldn't relate to Art, couldn't understand where he was in his mind. And though Art and Terry rarely spoke, Terry could understand.

Terry wrote of his own demons, the times that he withdrew. He warned me that this sort of depression may be seasonal, and to pay attention to the time of year that Art withdrew from the world. He said that his own depression was at its worst during April and May. He told me that Art may need to seek professional help, or he may be okay on his own. He urged me to stay patient – to a point.

In one letter Terry explains to me, "I once killed a kid with an entrenching tool. (A kind of small shovel.) I see that kid's face all of the time." He went on to explain that he pretended that it didn't bother him for a long time, because he didn't want to seem weak. In Vietnam, he explained, it happened all of the time. So, he never spoke of it, because while it was big deal, he felt that it shouldn't have been.

There are more horrific scenes that filled his mind when all was quiet, so he drank to still them. He drank to sleep. He drank to function. And he made no attempt to deny the fact that he was an alcoholic.

Terry made it home from Vietnam, when so many of the Marines that he served with did not. But his mind and his soul though, never came all of the way home. More often than not, I suspect, his mind was still there. Replaying moments that he regretted, and also ones that he didn't regret, but couldn't forget.

Am I sorry that he is gone now? Not entirely. I will miss him, and I love him. But I find comfort in the fact that finally, all of him has made it home. In death, this man can find the peace that eluded him so often in life.

Silently, I take a moment to thank Terry for saving my marriage, for being my friend, and for knowing instinctively exactly what I needed to hear from him, all the time. I also apologize for not calling when I should have, for not making the time to come and see him. Before I leave, I wish him peace, and tell him I love him.

And in the car, I find myself wishing that I had told him, while he was alive, just how much he meant to me, and how much he did for us. For that regret, there is no comfort. It is one of the drawbacks to being outwardly unemotional.

# Nature Vs. Nurture

_The Natures of Our Children_

Trinity is my firstborn child. She was the first-born great-grandchild, grandchild and niece. They say that it takes a village to raise a child, and I have to agree. Otherwise, I would have no one but myself to blame for Trinity being spoiled rotten. Trinity can be quite a brat when things aren't going her way.

That said, Trinity has always had an innate sense of right and wrong. She is calm in ways that I never have been and never can be. When she was a baby, a stern "no" could stop her from doing anything. I didn't even baby proof the house. Trinity was content to sit quietly and play with toys. She has always been very well behaved, polite and sweet.

I proudly shared the credit of raising such a good child with my parents and grandparents. I wholeheartedly believed that the environment in which children are raised is responsible for their character. Nature vs. nurture, right?

Well, then I had Cadence. Cadence has defied and tested everything that I thought I knew about children.

Where Trinity would sit and quietly play with baby toys, Cadence attempted to put them in power outlets, toilets, VCR's and monitor screens.

A stern "no" would have stopped Trinity in her tracks and brought tears to her eyes. A stern "no" spoken to Cadence elicits only a slight grin and a "who the hell are you talking to" expression.

Trinity was, and is, calm and quiet; Cadence is a bundle of destruction.

Trinity dumped a bottle of syrup all over herself at the age of two. Cadence dumped a gallon of latex paint all over herself, the new couch and the floor at the age of two. (The couch being new because she painted the last one with hooker red nail polish.)

Trinity fell down two stairs sometime around her first birthday; she wouldn't attempt to walk up then again for months. Cadence belly flopped off the couch for fun. Scratch that. Cadence still belly flops off the couch for fun. It hurts her, she cries, but damned if she doesn't get right back up and do it again.

Cadence has forced me to reexamine my views on the nature vs. nurture debate. Surely, I cannot be responsible for this one. I mean, really, there must be a genetic fault there. As I have said before, I did not drink during any of my pregnancies. She was given oxygen at birth though. Maybe the lack of oxygen is to blame? Maybe one of the nurses dropped her? Maybe I should have eaten more than Cheetoes and Mt. Dew during the pregnancy? Or, at the very least taken the prenatal vitamins?

Since I have neither the time, nor the energy, to examine this issue further, I generally blame Cadence's personality quirks on her father. She must have gotten it from him.

Cadence is a bit rough around the edges, but she has a heart of gold. She is just as caring and nurturing as Trinity, probably more so. When Cadence cries, something is very wrong with her. Trinity cries when the wind blows. Or when it doesn't.

Trinity cares about getting approval from the adults in her life. She sometimes struggles with how she feels and how she thinks others want her to feel. Cadence, she loves us, but she really doesn't give a damn what we think.

When they are teenagers, Trinity will be the one sneaking out the window. Cadence is going to waltz out the front door, with that same slight grin and "who the hell are you talking to?" expression on her face.

# Trinity Anne

I see Trinity in shades of pink and purple, pastel yellows and greens, baby blues and lavender, all shades of white, and a speck of red hidden deep within the other colors. If she were a painting, her medium would be watercolor, sketched carefully in pencil first; calming and soothing, nurturing, kind and the definition of fairness. She would be a still life painting; organized and detailed, everything just exactly as it should be. She is wonder. She is mysterious and deep, both emotional and logical. She is graceful and confident, creative. She is perfection and light. She is beauty and wisdom. An old soul captured perfectly in shades of soft blue, white and violet. In the painting of Trinity there is little shadow.

### The Birth of Trinity - My firstborn

My labor with Trinity began slowly. I was technically in labor for around 24 hours, but only seven of them hurt. When I first arrived at the hospital, my contractions were five minutes apart and I was sent home. The nurse told me that I was only dilated two centimeters, and to come back when the contractions were two minutes apart. So, shortly after midnight I returned, in more pain, and a lot less cheerful than I was on the last visit.

They give me Pitocin to accelerate my labor. Apparently the contractions aren't coming as fast as they should. Thus far, labor has been painful, but not unbearably so. The Pitocin causes the contractions to not only increase in intensity, but also in frequency. For the first time since labor began, I feel the need for pain relief. So they put some other shot in my IV and it doesn't do a thing.

Still, I wasn't in a great deal of pain. I was still referring to my unborn child as a 'her'. (Nevertheless, a few hours before her birth, Trinity is reduced to a thing, as in 'Get this thing out of me!')

Now, the doctor thinks the he may need to break my water to accelerate the labor as well. He summons a nurse, they talk quietly. She then leaves and in short order she returns carrying a tray of mid-evil torture devices. They look a bit like knitting needles.

And, no kidding here, my water breaks almost the instant that the nurse sets the tray down. I think I did it with my mind.

Break. Break now. Break before he sticks a damn knitting needle in there!

Then a nurse comes in to teach me how to push. She helps me position my feet behind my ears and counts slowly to ten while I pretend to poop. Okay, we got this. The nurse leaves.

Trinity's dad and my mom hold my legs and prepare for the next contraction. When it begins, I tuck my feet back behind my head, pretzel style. Who knew I could be that flexible at nine months pregnant? I bear down and wait for the 10 count. It doesn't come. No one remembers the counting part. Finally, when my oxygen runs low, and stars are bursting behind my eyelids, I stop pushing and yell,

"You're supposed to be counting to 10!" My mom laughs. I see little humor at this point.

At some point, between contractions and pushing my mom runs off to get a wet rag for my forehead. As she is returning, the contraction begins. Apparently, she is afraid that the pushing will be ineffective if she is not by my side for the entire contraction. So, she tosses the rag toward my face, and it lands perfectly – covering my eyes, nose and mouth. Well, at least they remembered to count that time, and I only remained in the dark through that single contraction.

At some point the doctor informs my mother that we should have the baby in twenty minutes. Asshole. Twenty minutes in stage two labor is approximately forever.

My mother is running back and forth to the bathroom, running cool water on a rag to place on my forehead.

"Twenty more minutes." My mom reassures me, over and over. I want to hit her.

One of the nurses takes this moment to ask if I mind if some student nurses come in to watch the birth. Sure, invite the Pope if you wanna. The baby's head is crowning and I really don't care if they run a live video feed as long as they get this thing out of me. Someone brings in seven student nurses, complete strangers, and I don't even notice until it is all done.

At some point the nurse asks me if I want a mirror to see the baby's head. I don't know if I spoke at this point, or if I just think, Hell no, I don't want a mirror; just get this kid out NOW!

For my entire pregnancy I have been reading about labor and delivery. The thought that I may have a bowel movement on the delivery table horrified me. I did not believe any of the books when they assured me that it was no big deal, the doctor saw it all the time.

Trust me, when it happens, I do not care. I think I even say "I shit." to the nurse, as if she didn't already know.

"Twenty more minutes."

If I ever get this kid out, I am going to have to kill my mom.

The nurse standing over my head tells me over and over, "Push harder, harder, harderharderharder."

Lady, if I push any harder my head is going to explode.

When Trin's head is out, the doctor tells me "Okay now, half a push."

Half a push? After all of that "harder, harder, harder" crap?

I am now going to have to kill both the doctor and my mother.

Finally, Trinity is delivered and the pain is forgotten. A nurse lays all six pounds, eight ounces of her on my belly. I am crying, the student nurses are crying, my parents and grandma are crying.

Trinity is screaming.

And what are the first words that I say to my newborn baby girl?

"Hey! You're peeing on me."

### The Heartbeat Bear

Someone gave me a Heartbeat Bear at my first baby shower. It's a teddy bear that has a speaker inside of it. It simulates the sounds that a baby hears inside the womb. It is supposed to be soothing for the baby.

For the few seconds that I let Trinity lie in peace in her bassinet in those first few weeks – I turned it on for her. I would say that she loved it, but the truth is newborns are pretty hard to read. She didn't scream, so I am assuming she liked it. Of course, she was only a few weeks old, so I am pretty sure she only had a couple of emotions: sleepy, hungry and poopy.

Experts seem torn on whether a child can experience fear before a certain age. I am not torn. I scared the hell out of my newborn baby girl. They say that infants have no concept of cause and effect. I disagree. Trinity thought I was dying and she wasn't going to get food anymore. Cause: No Mommy. Effect: no food. See?

That is purely speculation on my part, by the way.

Heartbeat Bear thumped away in her bassinet for a week or so.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump, a nice, soothing rhythm that lulled both of us to sleep. And then, one day as baby Trinity lay in her bassinet, looking around at her new world, Heartbeat Bear's batteries died.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The volume was set to low, so as not to damage her little tiny eardrums. Oddly, when the batteries died, the sound got louder. Then louder. Thump- thump- thump- thump-thuuuuump. Th-th-th-THHUUUMP! And it then made some sort of electrical whiny sound that I can only replicate in my mind.

And poor baby Trinity, with no concept yet of time, space, or even of self for that matter, screamed like someone had kicked her.

Okay, okay, so the noise probably just startled her. But I like my version better: She thought I was dying...

### Tornado!

As a child, Trinity was obsessed with the movie The Wizard of Oz. She wanted to BE Dorothy. She had the gingham dress, and the braids. At some point my Grandmother bought her the sparkly ruby red slippers as well. Thanks for that, by the way, it made it rather difficult to take her anywhere in public...

Watching this movie over and over and over for a year or so had some adverse effects on Trinity. She has grown up with an irrational fear of tornadoes. Every time the warning thing comes on t.v. she freaks out. And I mean freaks. She cries and shakes and gathers her favorite stuffed animals and Emma the dog and huddles in the bathroom until the storm passes.

In her mind, there is a direct connection between losing power and an impending tornado. Even if we just didn't pay the bill and the sky is bright and clear. While she no longer believes that a tornado can transport the house to a magical, dwarf filled land, she has maintained this fear.

One afternoon in the summer of 2010, Trinity came running into my bedroom, crying and yelling that there was a tornado coming. There was a warning on the t.v. and a hell of a storm raging outside. And, the power had gone out. In Trinity's mind – there was absolutely no doubt that we were all about to be sucked up into oblivion by a giant twister.

In all of my Mommy wisdom, I calmly tell Trinity that there is no tornado. I tell her to go into her room and get her sister, and they can all come and lay in Mommy's bed. Walking through the kitchen, however, Trinity screams.

Apparently she has seen the clouds swirling. I, of course do not believe her, and tell her to go lay on my bed. Looking past my bed out the patio door, though, I see that the sky is a rather scary shade of black-green. Oh. In one of my better mommy moments, I reason that we should probably not be near the giant glass windows.

"Come on guys; let's go into the bathroom okay?" Because we don't have a basement. Walking back through the kitchen with a sleeping baby Quinn in my arms, and pushing Trinity because she doesn't want to move, I glance out the kitchen window and see that there is in fact a funnel cloud, and it appears to be right behind the block across the street from us. Trinity sees it too, screams, and runs the rest of the way into the bathroom, yelling for Emma the dog. Cadence just goes with the flow, sitting on the bathroom floor, looking at us like we are all retarded as the tornado sirens begin to wail in the background.

In a sparkling moment of motherhood, filled with concern for the children's well-being, I deposit my sleeping baby in his bouncy chair, next to his hysterical sister, and rush out to the front door. Why? Because I have never seen a tornado, and I'll be damned if I'm going to miss it! This Mommy failure is not really apparent to me until after the fact, when my Mom asks me, "So you left your kids in the bathroom alone?"

The tornado sirens are still going strong, but the tornado has disappeared. As we find out later, it touched down just a block to the east of us, and did cause quite a bit of damage to homes all over our little town. There was some sort of malfunction with the sirens that day, causing them to not sound until well after the tornado had hit. I don't know who dropped the ball on that one, but they have since remedied it by sounding the sirens every time the wind blows. The utility company, to their credit, had our power back on in just hours.

There was plenty of property damage, but no one was injured. I spent a good week telling Art that the insurance company would never believe that the tornado had skipped over to our house and run his truck into the house... but the worst part of this whole thing? Trinity's intense and irrational fear of tornadoes was proven valid, and I have had to promise her that someday we will own a home with a basement.

### Craftsman, Made in Heaven

I believe in God. I also believe in evolution. I do not participate in any organized religion, and to tell the whole truth, most of my prayers are reserved for when I see a squad car in my rearview.

I have never taken any of my children to church, although I do shamelessly use the name of God as a scapegoat for any questions that I do not want to answer. To be perfectly honest, it simply has never occurred to me to explain to my children who God is.

I warned my babysitter of this fact when she asked me if it would be okay to take my kids to church with her and her kids. Cadence was an infant, and Trinity was a four year-old social butterfly.

Trin loved going to the service with her babysitter. She loved the bible class, playing with the other children, and the juice and cookies that they gave her before the regular service. This is where the problem started.

I wasn't there, so I can't quote the pastor, but the sermon was something about how God was always with us, and always watching us. Which Trinity's four-year-old brain interpreted as "Holy shit, God is a stalker."

In Trin's mind, God was some creepy guy following her around, peeking at her in the bathtub and maybe through her windows at night. So, of course, she flipped out in the middle of the service, crying and shaking and carrying on. She remained a bit wary about God for days afterwards.

When my babysitter relays this Church-screaming incident to me later she ends by saying,

"You know, when you said that they didn't know who God was? I thought you were just being Krissy again,"

Nope. Not that time.

In an effort to better understand God, and relieve some of her fears, Trinity spent the next few weeks asking random questions about Him.

"Mom? God makes babies, right?"

"Um-hm."

"Does God make everything?"

"Sure."

"So, Mom? Does God make houses?"

"No Trinity, people make houses."

"But...God makes the people?"

"Right, Baby, and then the people make the houses."

"Oh, but Mom? What do they make the houses with?"

"With wood Trin. People make houses out of wood."

"Oh. So, God makes the wood though, right?"

"Sort of. God makes the trees, and then people make the wood out of the trees."

"Oh. So, Mom? How do they make the wood?"

"With saws Trinity, they make wood with saws." There is an all too brief blessed moment of silence before Trinity pipes in with,

"Well Mom? What about the saws? Does God make saws?"

There is no end in sight here, and I am dying for a few minutes of silence, so I lie to my little girl and tell her that yes, God does in fact make saws.

Craftsman, made in Heaven.

### Lessons On Diversity

I very vaguely remember being at the carwash with my parents when a midget with red hair smiled at me and scared the living crap out of me. Seriously, I really only remember that he was in a big truck, with red hair and that his teeth were pointy.

Okay, so they must have been crooked, but my 3-year-old imagination turned them into fangs.

Holy shit. It was the living incarnation of those creepy troll things my dad was collecting.

No, not the cute little rainbow hair ones. The freaky looking wooden trolls.

I mostly remember screaming and punching my mom to get past her into the backseat and relative safety.

This moment must have been the ultimate embarrassment for my mother and the midget. My God, if a child reacted to me that way....

To further my mom's embarrassment, she runs into the very same midget years later at the store. (Um. Of course it is the same midget... how many redheaded, fanged tooth midgets can there be?) Embarrassing as it was for her, I am just happy the guy didn't go home that day from the car wash and hang himself.

Now, of course I was too little to understand diversity. I lived in Valpo, we had a single Indian kid in my preschool. I don't think I even had a black kid in any of my classes until middle school. I had never seen a midget, and had no reason to fear one. So honestly, I never gave race, or handicap much thought. Although my mom does remember me asking why the black cabbage patch dolls were burnt.

Yet another embarrassing moment right?

You would think then, that my mother would think twice before telling 3-year-old Trinity that black people were chocolate.

Yep. For real.

When Trinity shares her newfound wisdom, I promptly call my mother and tell her that the first time Trinity bites a black dude; I am going to give him my mom's phone number and address for the explanation.

What the hell would you say?

"Jeez Mister, I am so sorry. She thinks that black people are chocolate."

Surely that would be a sufficient excuse.

Or maybe I would have just been honest. My mom is trying to pay me back for the midget thing. Sorry dude.

### Imaginary Friends and Psychiatric Issues

Spongebob lived in Cadence's butt for a little while. I don't know why or how he was there, but on occasion, Cadence would strip down for her bath, and throw her imaginary Spongebob and Patrick into the bathtub.

"Whatcha doing, Baby?" I would ask her as she pulled her hands from her behind her back and made the motion of throwing something in to the bathwater.

"Bob-bob. Patrick." She told me.

Oh. "Where were they?"

"In my butt." Well, super.

That may seem a little odd to some people, but they weren't around for Trinity's Sweetie.

Trinity's imaginary friend was named Sweetie. Sweetie was three-years old and had black hair and green eyes. She was shorter than Trinity. At first, it was cute. Trinity would very seriously buckle Sweetie into the car seat next to her. She tucked her in at night, and insisted that I hug and kiss Sweetie, too.

I wasn't too worried about the existence of Sweetie. I read that imaginary friends are common and harmless in small children.

One day, when Trinity was three, something happened that had me looking up Child Psychiatrist in the yellow pages. She came up to me, completely out of the blue. She stood in front of me, placed her little hands on my knees and said, "Mommy? Sometimes Sweetie is dangerous."

Holy shit. She gave me chills.

I said, "Why Honey?" I thought, get the hell away from me! Followed shortly by, I have to go hide all of the knives, and scissors, and hammers.

"Well. Abba beats her." Trinity was around four.

I was deeply concerned. I was thinking Trinity was just a little bit psycho. So, I did what any normal mother would do. I hid all of the sharp objects, and pretended the conversation never took place.

Then I came into the living room one day to find Trinity rolling the rug up. Odd.

"Whatcha doing?"

Trinity didn't stop rolling to tell me, "Sweetie's hurt."

Hmm. "So, why are you rolling up the rug?"

"Sweetie is in it."

Yeah - she was rolling Sweetie, who was dangerous sometimes, up in a rug because she was hurt. Awesome.

If Trin grows up to be a serial killer, it is going to be largely my fault for ignoring these disturbing scenes in her early childhood. Sweetie must have died in the rug, because that is the last I heard of her. Which is awesome, because after the whole "Sweetie is dangerous", thing, I had a hard time finding it cute.

I will happily accept Spongebob and Patrick living in my kid's butt.

###  Miscommunication

It was a dark night. I had picked Trinity up from my parent's house and we were driving the back roads home late at night. Did I mention the dark? It was really, really dark. I am scared of the dark... even now, at thirty-years old. It was also really quiet. Dark and quiet make me jumpy.

I thought Trinity was asleep in the backseat, when out of nowhere, she screamed like she had been kicked in the kidneys. I damn near drove off the road. My heart started racing. I locked the brakes up, flipped the lights on and turned around to find that there was not a damn thing wrong with her.

I had expected blood, or a monster in the backseat, or at least a spider on the window. Nope. Nothing. Not a thing to explain the blood curdling screams, and giant, painful sobs.

"Trinity! What the hell?"

"I d-d-don't wan-na be a b-b-baby again." She sobbed to me. Huh? I was totally and completely lost. My stomach dropped from my throat back to its original position.

"What are you talking about?" I was trying to be calm, but my heart was still ready to pound out of my chest.

"You said the world was going to start over after Christmas!" She was still sobbing. I was shaking. The adrenaline, I guess.

I watched her cry for a few seconds, totally dumbfounded. Why would I say that? When had I said that? And then I remembered...

It was after her fourth birthday, when she asked me what holiday came after her birthday and what came after that...and after that...And so we started in January with New Years and ended in December with Christmas. When she asked me what came after that, I told her that it would start all over again after New Year's Eve.

When the light finally dawned on me, I started laughing. I'm sure it was a crazy combination of fear, adrenaline and relief, but she continued to sob while I giggled until I had tears on my face. I am such an asshole.

Finally I was able to explain to her that I didn't mean that the whole world was going to start over, just the calendar.

She didn't really know whether to believe me or not, but she stopped crying. I'm sure she went and asked someone else for confirmation...she never believes what I say. Only, apparently, what I don't say.

### Teaching Politics... Sort Of

I let Trinity skip school to go to the We Are Indiana Rally with me at the Capitol Building in Indianapolis. Unions predicted that there would be over 20,000 protesters there. I thought it would be an ideal moment to show my oldest daughter what America is all about. I gave her a rundown of the problematic bills in the state legislature, specifically House Bill 1003. Except, in my typical talking to fast and forgetting that I am talking to a kid, I called it a law and not a bill. Remember that...it's important later.

The way it worked in my head, we would leave early, drive the 150 odd miles to Indy, find the Capitol Building by sheer dumb luck or some grand move of fate, and join the protesters. Caught up in the energy, Trinity would experience some moment of revelation, which even if nonsensical now, would make a mark on her for life. She would be inspired, as I was, not only by the solidarity of the middle class workers, but the sheer Americanism of the protest itself. Because no matter your stance on the political issues at hand, one has to admit that this has been an impressive show of unity across our state. And my daughter and I? We were going down, come hell or high water, to exercise our Constitutional right to assemble peacefully and voice our opinions. She was going to be moved by what we, as a people, can do if we stand together for something that we believe in. Well, of course that isn't what actually happened.

First of all, we were running late. And worse, I completely forgot that Indianapolis is a full hour ahead of us. So when we pulled into the Capitol Building parking lot, completely by accident, the Rally had been going for an hour and half... I thought we had only missed a half an hour of it.

I had been making jokes with my dad about how we were going to throw rocks and beer bottles at the rally. Usually, Trinity can tell when I am bullshitting. This time, she took it as fact. While the officer at the gate was telling me that I couldn't park in the Capitol Building itself, the speaker on the podium behind him could be heard saying, "If it's a war they want, then it's a war they will get!"

As we pulled out to go to the parking garage the officer had pointed us toward, Trinity asked me, "Uh. Mom, do you think we could just sit in the car and listen to them?"

"Why?" I asked, truly puzzled.

"Well, I don't want them to throw bottles and stuff at us." She said looking more than a little bit apprehensive.

I talked her past that point and we walked toward the rally itself. The wind was ridiculous, but at least it had stopped raining. As we approached the group of people on the west steps of the Capitol, the person giving the speech was winding the remaining crowd up into chants of "Kill! This! Bill! Kill! This! Bill!" Since I called the bill a law when I was talking to Trinity about the rally, she remains very concerned for the fate of whoever Bill might be.

House Bill 1003 allows voucher programs to use public funds in private schools. If it is passed, public schools stand to lose $110 million dollars. This bill, along with the others being protested right now, will affect nearly every person in my life; and no one more so than my children. That's why I took my little girl out of her public school for the day.

Except, being so late, we must have missed most of the education speakers. Trinity is completely and totally baffled. She cannot figure out what the President of the International Sheet Metal Workers Union, and the Marine Corps veteran, and the little kid that gave speeches have to do with her school and their money.

I tried to explain the union aspect of the whole thing simply, but it is not a simple issue. Well, that and I suck at explaining anything to anyone...

On the way home, when she asked me again why I had wanted her to go, I told her simply, "That, Trinity? That's what America is about." She remained confused.

"We can protest and we have freedom of speech, because we live here in America. If we were in China, the government could shoot those people. Or put them in jail for the rest of their lives." Trinity was silent for a moment before piping in with,

"But Mom? We aren't in China, you know."

In hindsight, I should have taken Cadence instead. That one wouldn't give a shit about the issues at hand. She would still be up in front of the crowd, fist pumping, screaming, chanting...and probably throwing rocks for good measure.

All of this has only strengthened my view on House Bill 1003. If we take money away from the public schools, my kids are going to be screwed. Seriously. This was probably a perfect time to teach my daughter about how our state government works, and what unions do, and the meaning of collective bargaining...and somehow, I screwed it up.

All she learned was that China is a bad place to be, and that someone named Bill is likely going to be killed by a mob of neon yellow shirt wearing, sign wielding, singing union people.

### Mom Who?

Trinity started Intermediate School this year. My baby is a whole ten years old and in fifth grade. Ahem. All grown up now, just ask her. She is the picture of ten year old sophistication.

No longer does she ask me to brush or style her hair. I am now forbidden to so much as offer an opinion on her clothes. She is out of the house as soon as she gets her homework done, home in time for dinner, and getting all of her things ready for school before bed.

She is probably not really my child.

First day of school pictures are "lame." The clothes that I want her to wear are "babyish". She is making her own decisions regarding lunch. She fills her water bottle every single night, takes it to school every single day. She wears hooker boots to school. She brushes her teeth without being told. She wants to walk from school to her Aunt Kathy's house.

She is trying things she has never tried before. Turning her nose up at the things she used to love. She insists on wearing a bra, when all summer she cried because I forced her to wear one under certain shirts.

She reminds me to sign her homework, reminds me to sign Cadence's paper. She asks me what we are going to be doing days in advance. Wants to know what's for dinner before she finishes her breakfast. Her neat little organized brain so different from my own, not at rest unless there is a PLAN. My oldest daughter PLANS things.

I really think she was switched at birth.

She is asserting her independence, her identity no longer tied to me. It hurts me, and also it pleases me. I see some pieces of myself in her. None of the good pieces of course, she has inherited all her good pieces from her Great Grandmother.

She has my stubbornness, a bit of my temper. The part of her that she allows to be pushed and pushed until she finally explodes with tears and anger, and then after releasing all of her pent up frustrations, she is content again. So much like me.

So much not.

She sees things differently. She plans and organizes and has a talent for making things. She is crafty.  She is annoyed and amused in equal parts with her sister. She dotes on her baby brother. She questions my every direction. Wants to know the WHY of everything. Not so much displeased at doing something as she is obsessed with the reasoning behind it. She does not accept"because I am the mom and I said so".

A typical conversation with her, so analytical, so exhausting, so mature. I am losing my baby girl to this young woman she is becoming. A girl so sure of her, secure in this chaos that is our lives. I had worried she would be a follower, anxious to please people.

She is not.

# Cadence Joan

Cadence is vibrant. Shades of green both bright and dark, shades of purple and yellow, the essence of energy. Colors in neon. Everything extreme. She is abstract art; bold and defiant. She is acrylic paint splashed across a background of mellow green, because, at her core she is balance and harmony. She is love. Outwardly, she is chaotic and busy; she is indefinable. She captivates. She rages. In the painting of Cadence there are bold streaks of red temper, splashes of deep purples and grays scattered about. Those pieces of her that can only be described with color. A contrast of light and shadow that makes Cadence so uniquely Cadence. In the painting of Cadence, there is hidden meaning.

### The Birth of Cadence - My second born

First and foremost, my pregnancy with Cadence was awful. Start to finish. I puked, I got fat and I had the most awful pain in my butt cheek. My due date came and passed without the slightest uterine twinge. I was reasonably sure that I was going to be pregnant for the rest of my life. Cadence had to be evicted from my womb. She would have perfectly content to stay there forever. I should have taken advantage of it, and stayed pregnant. She hasn't been content to sit still anywhere else since we brought her into the world.

Week after week, I would go back into the doctor's office, only to be told that not only am I not dilated, and that the baby is still developing. The doctor is unwilling to induce labor until I am ten days past my due date. He pats my hand and tells me to just let nature take its course.

Right.

Nature has never given birth to a freaking toddler.

They send me in for non-stress tests once a week. This is to ensure that the baby has not stopped growing, is in no distress, and to measure contractions. It does not measure the distress of the mother. On the way there I wonder if espresso would raise the baby's heart rate enough for the nurse to be alarmed and insist on delivering the baby that day.... couldn't quite talk myself into it though. I also wonder if it is possible to fake contractions.

Finally, a whole ten days after her original due date, the doctor agrees to induce labor.

You would think I would want to kiss the doctor, but I am still pissed off at him. Why? Pitocin, that's why. I have come to the conclusion that when Pitocin is used to accelerate labor, it is really more like torture. Seriously, I'll take water-boarding over Pitocin any day. In my impatience to get the kid out of me, I ignore this fact. Yep, it's going to suck, but if I wait for nature I may be pregnant for the rest of my life.

And so we check into the hospital. I don't remember the nurse's name that day, but I love her. Giving birth to Trinity, the doctor and nurses never offered me an epidural. Actually, during labor with Trinity I never really felt the need for an epidural. Honest to God, it just didn't hurt that much.

When we first got into the room, the nurse asked me if pain relief was part of my birth plan.

Ha! Birth plan. I'm thinking, Lady, I didn't even plan the kid. Hell if I'm going to plan the birth. I tell her my options are open.

They nurse offers me an epidural almost as soon as the contractions begin. I decline, because the pain isn't so bad - yet.

So, she turns up the Pitocin.

I am not loving her yet.

I love her a few hours later, when I am finally dilated to 3 and the contractions are peaking at 90 and not dropping all the way down before they begin to rise again.

She pokes her head in and says cheerfully, "How about that epidural now, Honey?"

I nod 'yes' because I am now incapable of speaking.

Epidurals are awesome. In the middle of labor, I am unconcerned that they may hit my spine with a needle and paralyze me. That probably rarely happens anyway, I assure myself.

The doctor gives me a shot and the pain magically goes away.

I am much happier now, chatting with my parents and taking phone calls. Awesome. I can't feel a thing. My mom is watching the monitor looking concerned as the contractions peak even higher.

She seems to be afraid that at any time I may start to feel them again and possibly kill someone.

Labor progresses more quickly with the epidural in place, and before I know it, it is time to push.

Not one person says 20 more minutes like the first time with Trinity. They're afraid to.

Someone wakes Art up for the birth of his daughter. The fact that he is sleeping doesn't even piss me off until well after the birth.

The drawback to an epidural is that I can't really push well. I try, but I have so little feeling from my ribcage down that I don't know if I am really pushing or not.

So, I push for a really long time, and there is little progress.

The doctor tells me that the baby's heart rate is dropping with the contractions and they are going to use a vacuum.

A vacuum? Why has no one mentioned this option before now?

If you had a damn vacuum, why have I been pushing for an hour?

If you had a damn vacuum, why am I pushing at all?

Cadence has resisted labor all the way through, refusing even to turn for the birth until the absolute last minute. She remained head down, but face up until the very last minute.

There is still pain, because while the epidural has numbed me from the ribcage to the pelvic bone, I am still able to feel her come into the world. It probably didn't hurt as much as I now think it did. It probably had more to do with the fact that I have been numb for most of this, and now, I am shocked by the sudden fiery pain in my vagina.

And then, suddenly it is all over.

They pull Cadence into the world with a suction cup thing attached to her head. Her face is purple, not from lack of oxygen; it is bruised from hitting my pelvic bones on the descent into the birth canal.

She has to be given oxygen. I think she was holding her breath on purpose because she was pissed off at having been ripped from the womb before she was ready. In hindsight, this was probably a sign from God that Cadence will never, ever do anything the easy way.

### Cadence - ESE

"Look Momma. I pretty." Cadence tapped me on the face a couple hundred times. "Look. Momma. Pretty." It was 2 something in the morning.

"Hmm. Yeah, very pretty Cadence. Go back to bed now." Cadence was just under three - I think.

"But Momma. I pretty." I had to get up; she wasn't going to go away by herself. I picked her up and stumbled out the living room to lay her on the couch, which she had adopted as her new bed.

"Pretty?"

"Yes Baby. Pretty." It's 2 o'clock in the morning, Cadence; you're a beauty queen. Now shut up and go back to sleep!

My eyes were still half shut, but I sort of registered the nail polish on the pillow. Hmm.

2 am? Oh, yeah, I flipped the pillow over, and we both went back to sleep.

When I drug my happy self out of bed and into the bathroom the next morning, I didn't look at the couch. I think I had written it off as a dream. At least until I saw myself in the mirror.

It can't be chickenpox. Maybe some strange rash? Nope. Upon further examination, I discover tiny, little, hooker red, Cadence fingerprints all over my face. Not a dream then.

I went back into the living room. Cadence had gotten into the reddest nail polish that she could find and proceeded to paint her fingernails in the wee hours of the morning. I have to admit, she did a fairly good job. She had all of her nails covered, half of her face, a bit in her hair, and what must have been the rest of the bottle on the white couch. (Yes, I know, the white couch was not one my better ideas.)

You'd think I would have learned that "pretty" is a Cadence code word for "look at the mess I made!" But, I didn't.

"Momma. Kitty pretty." I was washing dishes.

"Right Cadence, kitty is pretty." I didn't know what she was talking about. I didn't really care. I needed to get the dishes done.

"Look Mom. Kitty. Pretty." With those four words spoken, I am overcome by a sense of foreboding.

"Okay, let me see Kitty." Cadence took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom. She pointed at my formerly gray cat.

"Pretty!" My hot pink cat glared at us as we came in the room.

Yeah - the cat certainly looks gorgeous with my entire container of powered blush ALL OVER HER. And my bed, and my floor - and I swear I would have kicked the kid's ass right then, but she was so freaking proud of herself.

Plus, she has these amazing blue eyes that are going to help her get away with murder at least until she is a teenager.

### Bungee Jumping in Closets

"So, if Cadence says her crotch hurts later, she did it herself." My husband says to me in the kitchen.

"Dude. What?"

"Well her and that little one went bungee jumping in the closet." As if that explains a damn thing. Maybe "bungee jumping" is some new secret code word for playing doctor? I am almost hoping that's what he is talking about. Almost.

Nope.

My five-year old, who certainly knows better, and my babysitter's son decided to bungee jump this afternoon.

They took bungee cords - those little ones - and poked holes through the tops of their pants, for the hooks of course. They then attached the other ends of their bungee cords to the pole in the closet and jumped from God knows how high. I am not so sure what they jumped off of.

I couldn't help it. I laughed before I scolded her. In fact, I laughed while I was scolding her.

"Why would you do that?"

"Well. I don't know - but I had a really long wedgie, Mom. All the way to the front." Cadence tells me, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. I am surprised the underwear did not have to be surgically removed from the kid.

Later, she comes out of the bathroom to tell me that it still hurts a little when she pees.

I ask her if she is going to bungee jump again.

She is Cadence, so, of course, she answers, "Well. Maybe."

Well, here's to hoping that at least next time, they will poke the holes in the back of their pants, rather than the front.

The Way She Thinks

"I wish I had a million dollars." I said aloud while in the car with Cadence.

She promptly replied, "I wish there was a million Cadence's." Nothing stimulates gratitude like a statement such as that.

"Oh Cadence! What would we do with a million of you?" Blank stare. "That would be like having a million monkeys." A small giggle, because she doesn't understand the comparison, but monkeys make her laugh. "We would have to get a cage for them."

"But not for me, right Mommy." Especially for you, Sweetie.

"Oh. Of course not, for the other Cadences. Otherwise there would little yous hanging from bungee cords all over the place. We wouldn't even have room to hang our clothes up in the closet." I am rewarded by a full belly-laugh from Cadence.

God, I love when she does that, the way her blue eyes sparkle with humor and love and mischief. She must have a visual image in her head - I know I do. I am having a small panic attack just thinking of having more than one Cadence.

"They would be in trouble, huh Mommy?" Cadence thinks for a moment. "We could get a million of you too."

"We'd have to."

And then she breaks from her giggling as we pull into Dunkin Donuts - which is her very favorite place in the world.

"We would need a million donuts. And a million chocolate milks." There's no giggle. She is serious. That's the way she thinks. Well, there goes my million dollars then.

### Popping Tampons

I sometimes think that my children deliberately make me insane. The things they do...they do with intent. Or so I believe at times. I lose sight of the fact that Cadence is simply Cadence. She is so much like me...

There is no evil intent there, just a restless brain.

This is why I was standing in the gas station line at 6am, behind a half dozen construction workers, buying tampons. Somehow, I think I will never outgrow the discomfort of buying tampons. I feel the need to blurt out that I am buying tampons for my Mom.

At home, in the bathroom cabinet, right next to the Parents magazine is a whole box of tampons. They are all open, though unused.

(Another of those things I never would have imagined asking...) "Girls, who opened all of the tampons?" And I do mean all of the tampons.

There was snickering from Trinity, because she knows now what tampons are for. And from Cadence?

A very sincere, unapologetic, "I did it Mommy."

"Why on earth would you do that?" I am not giggling.

Neither is Cadence. She is very serious.

"They pop, Mom." As if that should explain everything.

And it sort of does.

I can imagine Cadence sitting in the bathroom, methodically opening all of the tampons in the box, delighted by the sound the plastic makes when she "pops" it open.

And I realize that this was not a deliberate, ha-ha, let's make Momma crazy, moment for her. This was a simple, I'm bored, Daddy is on the computer and this is a really cool sound, moment.

### More Inconsistency

Cadence is more difficult to get a rise out of than her sister. Trinity, for some reason, still believes some of the random threats that I throw her way in desperation. Most of them involve cleaning her room. I offer rewards, I bribe, I lie, and finally I threaten.

"You know what! If you don't want to clean your room, then fine. You have ten minutes to pick up the shit you really want to keep, and then I am throwing the rest of the stuff on the floor in the garbage." To be clear here – I say this every time that I tell them to clean their room, and after I have spent hours arguing with them.

It always works on Trinity; she will rush in, bawling at the top of her lungs, and clean her damn room. Mission accomplished. Point for mom.

Well, not Cadence.

Cadence reappears in the living room, a full seven minutes before the timer goes off and tells me, "Okay Mom, I got my stuff." She waves her hand dismissively, "You can throw all that other stuff away."

Well shit. Point for Cadence. Mom, zero.

Both children now realize that I am not going to throw all of their toys away. I paid for them. Now, we are back to threatening bodily harm, which they don't believe either. I am going to stop keeping score.

Another thing I am always telling them is that if they do not eat what I give them for dinner, they will not have anything else to eat for the rest of the evening. I mean it when I say it. I really do. However, I have zero follow through on this issue as well.

Inevitably, an hour or so before bedtime, Cadence is climbing up on the counter to look for something to eat. I yell at her, and she gives me the saddest face she can manage,

"But Mommy, I'm just hungry." And I fold, because there is something about denying my child this most basic need that I cannot bring myself to do.

Oh well, at least I am consistent in my weaknesses.

### You Know You Have To Feed It Right?

Cadence has a side of her that is rarely seen. She is caring and nurturing. She can, at very specific times, be patient and still. Very specific times.

No amount of threatening or bribing can bring this side of her out on command. Nothing can stop the boundless energy and movement that is the essence of Cadence. Nothing except puppies and babies apparently.

Emma the dog gave birth to SEVEN puppies six weeks ago. Cadence has made it her sole purpose in life to cuddle, spoil, even rock to sleep these seven tiny dogs. They are, for all practical purposes, her puppies. She has spent endless hours this summer, sitting in front of the cage holding one puppy or another, cradled gently in her lap. She pets, kisses and talks to the puppy. Then puts in back into the cage, picks another one up and starts all over. She drags a hapless Emma to the cage, locks her in there with the puppies, insisting that Emma needs to feed them. Right. Now.

Now that they are getting big enough to go to their new homes, Cadence has taken it upon herself to feed, water and take the puppies outside. She has done this all on her own. They are her puppies. All of them.

Yesterday, two of the puppies were adopted by the neighbor lady from around the block. Cadence is not so happy about that, but she seems to realize that we cannot possibly keep all seven of these things. She watches the neighbor lady cradling the dogs. She kisses each of them on the nose, and then pokes the neighbor lady in the leg.

"Hey. Um. You know that they eat dog food right. Emma doesn't need to feed them anymore. But sometimes they try to eat from Emma, and then Emma runs away. She doesn't even growl at me anymore when I get a puppy. She just growls at the puppies when they try to eat her food. She doesn't even like to share with her puppies. And also, if you take them outside, sometimes they will poop. But mostly they poop inside when you are not looking. "

The neighbor lady does not know Cadence. She only stares at her, mouth agape.

"Um. Okay." She says to Cadence.

I go on to tell neighbor lady that the dogs have had no shots. They also have fleas. There is nothing you can put on a dog to kill fleas when they are so little.

"Right." Pipes in Cadence. "But we wash them in dishes. [She means dish soap] That kills some of the fleas. Then they scratch again, and we have to wash them again. And? You should not leave them on the table alone. Not even if you only have to go pee real fast. Because they fall off. On their heads. Just fall right off, even if Trinity was supposed to be watching them for me."

Neighbor Lady looks slightly overwhelmed.

I explain to Neighbor Lady that we are broke. Stupid broke. That there is no way in Hell I can afford their first shots. That I understand if she changes her mind about taking them now. That they probably have to be dewormed, even though I have not seen any worms in their poop.

Neighbor Lady does not care. She is nuzzling the puppies' heads, looking like a little kid herself. She is cooing and kissing and loving the puppies.

Cadence taps on her leg again.

"Um. You have to water them too, you know. They drink water. Then if you take them outside, they sometimes pee. But mostly they pee inside when you are not looking. And also? They like to be held until they are sleeping. Sometimes they cry. It sounds like whining, but they are crying." She sighs. "Those puppies. They just love me."

She kisses them goodbye. Then she goes inside to pick up another puppy and holds it to her chest until it is sleeping.

# Quinn Steven aka: Bug Bug

Quinn is shades of white and grey, red and blue. The painting of Quinn, largely unfinished. The colors almost visible. A concept of red temper. An aura of blue analytic intelligence. A hint of yellow friendliness and violet empathy. A happy soul. Both independent and fearless. The idea that underneath the background of white and grey there is a sort of rhythm. A pulsation of love and acceptance of all things living. A pattern of green and black, harmony and masculinity. Sweetness and strength. Purity. Still so much undrawn, so much undefined. A canvas that is being uncovered rather than painted over. In the painting of Quinn, there is light, there is awe. There is the concept that all things are possible.

### The Birth of Quinn - My Third Born

By the time I am pregnant with Quinn, I think I know everything there is to know about being pregnant and giving birth....Not so.

I had a new doctor, who I loved, by the way.

Mostly I love him because when I saw him a few days before my due date he offered to induce labor at 39 weeks.

"Well, we can wait for nature," he tells me, "or we can go ahead and induce."

Now, I am thinking that he means at a later date, and I opt for the induction. I am not totally sure I hear him right when he tells me to report to the OB section at 7pm that night, to begin the induction with Cervidil.

Of course, rather than going home and packing a bag, I go home and Google Cervidil.

Cervidil is a hormone patch that is applied to the cervix in the hopes of softening and thinning the cervix. I think it is mostly used before they start the Pitocin.

Super.

Now, I know that I am not a nurse or a doctor, and that my knowledge of human anatomy maybe sorely lacking, however, I do think that I have a good idea where the cervix is. Why the nurse decided to place the hormone patch on my freaking tonsils is beyond me. I have a good deal of respect for the nurses that take care of me, so I do not bother to tell her it is easier to get to the tonsils through the mouth than it is the vagina.

By the time they place the patch, we have been in the hospital for maybe an hour. Art has been asleep for maybe 50 minutes. I am not joking. I have a picture. Cervidil causes mild contractions....all night long. It sucks. They run an IV with fluids, and for some reason, as well as the contractions, the medicine causes really awful gas.

Nice.

Never mind Doc, I think I would like to wait for nature now.

I don't actually get a chance to tell the doctor that when he comes in to check my progress in the morning. I was actually dilated to 2, but the cervix is still high and far back. I have no idea what that meant, but the doctor thinks it means he should poke the baby in the head with a knitting needle.

Awesome. Now my water is broke and I don't have the choice to go home. Plus aside from contractions, gas, and the urge to pee every five minutes because of the IV fluids, they start the Pitocin pump.

I am never, ever, ever, drinking tequila again. It was the root cause of all of this.

They do not want you to eat while you are in labor. I don't know why. Maybe they are trying to avoid the whole shitting on the delivery table thing, or getting puked on. I don't care though. I was seriously starving.

So, I send my poor husband (Who, by the way, has been sleeping soundly all night while I lay on the hard bed in misery.) to Burger King for a cheeseburger. He sneaks it in to the hospital room in his coat pocket at about the same time that my parents arrive with pockets full of chocolate. God bless them!

I am so hungry that I forgive him for sleeping all night. I swallow the last bite of my cheeseburger just in time. The nurse comes in to check me and I am at 4. This seems like such a far way away from 10, but on the up side it means I can have the epidural now. Which makes everyone feel a lot more comfortable. Art even takes off the bullet proof vest.

After they give me the epidural, labor seems to be going so well that they turn down the Pitocin. (You can see why I love these people right?)

The epidural lady, who speaks broken English, is my new best friend ever. She must have felt the love too, because she seems to have given me an extra powerful epidural.

I honestly thought that I wasn't having any contractions at all, so I am a bit surprised when they tell me I am fully dilated two and a half hours later.

The nurse tells me that I am ready to have the baby, but that I have to wait a bit because the doctor got called away for an emergency C-section.

Not a problem. I can't feel shit.

Quinn, like his sister, is brought in to the world with a suction cup thing on his head, after some unproductive pushing, and a drop in his heart rate.

It's better this time though, because there is no sudden pain. The lovely epidural lady has numbed me literally from my ribcage to my toes.

Quinn arrives, weighing only 7 pounds and 2 ounces. He neither holds his breath, nor does he pee on me.

He is the good one.

### Yes, Son, the World is Your Toilet

Please allow me to set the scene;

It is early morning when I get Quinn out of the bathtub and wrap him in his towel. He has already peed in the bathtub, so I figure it can't hurt to leave him naked while I wake up Trinity and we get dressed. I should have known better.

Trinity, by some miracle from God, wakes up easily and comes out to sit on the couch, while I write. As I am engrossed with relating amusing stories about my family, Quinn decides to poop on the floor. One would think that we would smell it before we see it, but this is not the case. You see, after having three children, your nose becomes immune to the smell of baby poo.

The poo remains on the floor long enough for Quinn to step on it.... I think. At least, there appears to be a foot print on the pile of poop. On my floor. I couldn't make this up if I tried to.

When Trinity finally brings to my attention that there is poop on the floor, I giggle. I am reminded of Cadence, who pooped in a cup and brought it to me. For some reason my children enjoy running about the house buck naked. I believe I was on the computer at that time as well. Cadence toddles up to me with her purple sippy cup in hand. It has no lid. Again, since my nose is broken where baby poo is concerned, I have no warning. She handed me her cup, and it was full of poop. Seriously.

"Yook." She tells me, proud of herself. I pooed in a cup! Yay me! I have to admit that I examined the cup, confused.

Cadence was not quite two years old, yet she had managed to get all of the poop in the cup. I peered at the side of the cup, wondering if she had pooped somewhere on the floor and then scooped it. There is nothing on the outside; there is nothing on her hands... She must have extraordinary aim.

Trinity is laughing while I clean up Quinn's poop. She does not offer to help. As I am cleaning up, I notice that there is a slight puddle by the front door, which at first I credited to the dog. Upon further investigation, I see that the puddle begins in the house, and leads out to the sidewalk in front of the door. Hmm.

As I imagine my naked son, pressed up against the screen door, peeing onto the sidewalk from inside the house, I think that I may have to give up the writing thing.

### War Games

I am locked in a battle of wills. We stare each other down from across the room, the recliner between us. He rocks silently from side to side. I stand, my hands on my knees, ready to spring. One of us is going to lose this battle, sweating, panting, and maybe even crying. I am determined that it will not be me this time.

Quinn makes the first move. He turns and runs, ass cheeks jiggling down the hallway. I give chase, the clean diaper tucked in my back pocket.

"I am going to win this one Quinn." I threaten him, psyching myself up for the tears and sweat. I taste victory as I sweep him up from the side of the toilet... It is short-lived.

I plop him down on the couch and pull my concealed diaper from my pocket. He bucks and twists at the same time, effectively knocking me off balance and leaping from the couch with cat-like agility.

"Sonofabitch." I mutter. No, I am not calling him names. Calling my son a son of bitch would just be fucked up.

Against my better judgment, I try to reason with my foe.

"'Member last time Quinn? When you got your wee wee stuck to the couch and couldn't get down?"

Blank stare.

Obviously he either doesn't remember, or doesn't care.

The couch is fake leather. The baby was sweaty. He attempted to slide down on his belly and ended up balanced on the edge of the cushion, screeching.

The child is running again, giggling insanely. I stiffen my spine, and give chase.... to no avail. Every time I catch him, he employs some sort of baby-ninja trick and eludes me, still bare-assed.

I sense that I have, yet again, under-estimated my adversary.

I will not admit defeat, not this time.

Adapt and overcome, right?

I change tactics again.

"Quinny," I say in my best Mommy voice, "wanna donut?"

He regards me skeptically, and then holds his hand out in the universal sign of "gimme".

Oh no. I am not falling for that again.

"No, come here and I will get you a donut."

I can almost see understanding spark in his eye.

"That's right Buddy. No diaper. No food."

He gives me "mean face". He doesn't want to give in so easily, but he really wants the donut....

And so I win this battle, not through superior firepower, or even the escalation of force; I win through diplomatic sanctions.

Put simply, I bribe the child with a donut and none of the sisters get peed on for the moment.

### Bug-Bug Vs. Kitty Poop

Quinn is pissed.

He is deeply offended by the smell emanating from the cat's litter box.

I am not sure what he expects me to do about it, but he is standing in front of the door, pointing and screeching.

"Ew."

"Yep. That's yucky, huh?" I am trying to humor him, but am only making him angrier.

"MOM!" He has now used about half of his whole vocabulary.

"What Bug?"

"EW!" He is shaking his hand at the door.

"Well what do you want me to do about it, Bug?"

He doesn't answer me, of course. His body language and expression, however, suggest that I get up off my ass and maybe find a cork to plug the cat's butt hole with.

I then offend him even more by laughing at him. The kid is irate now. He runs through the kitchen to come and slap my leg, giving me the dirtiest look he can manage.

He then toddles back toward the stinky cat to point and screech some more. He doesn't leave that door until the cat comes out. Then he walks back out to me, looking satisfied. As though, somehow, the fact that the cat is done crapping can be credited to him.

Mission accomplished. Cat neutralized.

Thanks, Bug-Bug.

### Quinn's Testicles

I assumed that caring for a baby boy would be just about the same as caring for a baby girl. Wrong. I have discovered a whole new set of worries that come with a little boy.

First of all, there was the circumcision to consider. I am not Jewish. I told my husband that we should probably not have the baby circumcised. I researched it - sort of. I told him that Google said there was no increased risk of infection in un-circumcised boys, and that there were billions of nerve endings and blah, blah, blah. I didn't tell him that I was afraid of the circumcision. I don't know if you can screw one up, but there it was. I was afraid I would do something wrong and my baby would have a deformed penis forever.

Art protested. He is not Jewish either. He said if we didn't circumcise Quinn, all the other kids would make fun of him. Okay, then. That certainly trumps any moral or religious views.

I am happy to report that I didn't make any drastic mistakes and deform my son. After it healed, I didn't really pay much attention to his wee-wee. I wiped him during diaper changes, but didn't realize that I needed to pull back the skin to clean under it.

It was sort of like when I learned that you have to lift up the fat roll under the baby's neck to clean it...Really, really gross.

And then there was the issue with his testicles.

Obviously, I do not have any testicles. My husband does, but he was already at work on this particular morning. I pulled Quinn's diaper off and noticed that one of his testicles seemed to be bigger than the other.

It doesn't look right. It doesn't look normal. But it doesn't seem to be causing him any pain, so what the hell do I know? I drop him off at my mom's and go to work. Later, I call her to mention the swollen testicle. "Hey Mom, if you get a chance, will you take a look at Quinn's balls?"

"Uh-um."

"Well one of them looked swollen, so can you just look at it?" Like she was going to know any more than me...My mom doesn't have any testicles either.

And my dad, we are close, we have a great relationship, but I am not asking him about balls. His or my son's. So, in an effort to avoid my own discomfort, I thoroughly embarrass the guys at work during our smoke break.

They stammer a lot, and say a whole bunch of things that I don't understand. One of them mentions "balls dropping". I do not know what that means – still.

As it turned out, Quinn had a small hernia. It was too small for the doctor to feel. They assured us it would be okay on its own. And just a few days later, his right testicle returned to normal size.

The guys at work still refuse to make eye-contact with me.

### A Life Lesson For Quinn

Bug is not shy. He will talk to, smile at or follow anyone anywhere or at least he used to. Yesterday I took him in for his shots. The poor kid is all excited to be "bye-bye". He runs into the health department and spends the next half hour pointing and exclaiming," OH. Mom! Ligh-light." and "Oooh. Mom! Beebee." After which, he proceeds to drive me absolutely nuts by running up and down the hallway, disappearing around a corner and taking a shit in the very last diaper I have on hand. He follows some old man with a cane down the hall to the Veteran's Service room and back, attempting to imitate the man's limp and proclaiming him to be "Pa Pa".

This show, for some reason, prompts the old man to stop and share the story of his childhood with me, because apparently, with a kid as friendly as Bug Bug, I must seem all kinds of approachable and friendly. I am not in a friendly mood. I am not trying to appear approachable, but I find it impossible to be rude to an old guy, so I listen while he tells me about his seven sibling and the parents who were married for 33 years. Awesome.

Finally, the nurse calls Quinn's name and we are headed back to the exam room. The nurse is not happy with me. She scowls at the paperwork and informs me that Bug Bug is way behind on his vaccines. Well no shit, Lady. She inquires as to whether there is a medical reason for his lapse. Uh. Nope. I will not apologize, no matter how shitty of a parent she attempts to make me feel like. I do not like vaccines, or really, I do not like giving so many vaccines to such a tiny helpless being. Every one of my children has been negligently late for their vaccines. So many shots in such a short time, into a baby so small makes me nervous. So sue me. Coincidentally, none of my kids have ever had measles, mumps, rubella, Hep A, Hep B, polio or chickenpox.

In any case, after my Vaccines are important lecture the nurse moves on to the business part of the appointment. Bug Bug has been running back and forth in the room, from my lap to hers. She picks him up and hugs him, tucking one of his arms behind her and hugging his head to her chest. Shockingly enough, he does not protest. Why? I suspect he is having a man moment. Oooh. Boobies. Then the nurse pulls on his other arm, extending it so that the second nurse can stab him in the arm with a needle. Bug is paralyzed for a moment, a look of betrayal and pain on his face. And then, in a phenomenon unique to children, he screams for a minute straight without breathing while they flip him over to get the other arm.

They then enlist my help in yet another betrayal, having me hold his arms down while they stab him in both legs. This is not as easy as it should be. Bug Bug is huge. And strong. And PISSED. But then it is done, and I can pick him up for cuddles. He buries his face in my neck, refusing to say goodbye or look at the nurses until they give him stickers.

Bug Bug's life lesson for the day. Do not trust the pretty lady who lets you cuddle her boobies. It's a trick.

# Things That Should Never Happen In a Bathroom

I should be more surprised to find the plunger stuck to the wall in the hallway.

"Uh. Guys?" I say, staring at the plunger.

Cadence pops her head around the corner and says, "Oh. I put that there for Quinn couldn't reach it."

Awesome. I remove the plunger from the wall and hide it from the children.

Unfortunately, I also hid it from myself. I am constantly putting things places and then forgetting where I put them.

So, when the toilet overflows a few days later, it causes quite a scene. I hear the sound of water hitting the floor and look in the bathroom.

"Shit." I look in the usual place for the plunger. It is not in the hall closet. Hmm. I remember hiding it; I just don't remember where I hid it. "Girls! Where is the damn plunger?"

"I don't know." Both of them say.

It does not occur to me to turn the water off, so the water continues to pour out onto the floor.

Art, who is apparently smarter than I am, comes in to turn off the water. We then proceed to check under the kids' beds for the plunger...It is not there, which I knew. Why the hell would I hide the plunger under the kids' beds to keep it away from the kids? He thinks I'm an idiot.

Did I mention that it is the night before the first day of school? Or that I had just told Trinity to brush her teeth before I heard the water falling? The phone is ringing, and the baby is following me around demanding his "ba ba".

Trinity comes in to the bathroom, her snow boots from last year on her feet.

"Trin. Really."

"Well I don't want toilet water on my feet." Okay then. No harm.

I am mopping up the water with my new smart mop, or perfect mop or whatever the hell it is called when Art locates the plunger behind the furnace. Right. Now I remember where it was. Why is it always the last place I look?

### Bathroom Candy

I don't keep things in my bathroom. If you have read through, you will understand why. The make-up? The hair products? The toothbrushes? They are all strategically placed randomly around the house. Why randomly? Because the kids remember things now. My babysitter does keep things in her bathroom. Or at least she used to, before Cadence became one of her daily visitors.

I had gotten home and Cadence's lips were red. I thought nothing of it. I simply assumed it was lipstick or something.

The next morning, when I dropped my two youngest off at Jenny-Jen's house, she asked me about Cadence's mouth. My confusion must have been evident on my face, because Jenny-Jen went on to explain...

It seems that Cadence startled Jen by screaming in the bathroom. And by startled, I mean she screamed like there was a snake in the toilet and Jenny-Jen maybe peed her pants a little. Cadence then kept telling her babysitter that her mouth was hot. It was red. And she smelled like cinnamon. Jen is hit by a realization. She had left cinnamon scented, air freshening crystals in a dish in her bathroom.

"Cadence? Did you eat one of the red rocks in the bathroom?"

True to form, Cadence, in all of her cinnamon scented, mouth burning glory, denies the obvious. "No."

This one doesn't take a whole hell of a lot to figure out. My baby girl entered the babysitter's bathroom, with the intention of peeing and/or pooping. Upon standing to flush the toilet, she discovered a dish of bright red, shiny, cinnamon smelling rocks, and she thinks, Oooh. Candy.

Yeah, because, everyone keeps candy in the bathroom.

And so she pops one shiny, red, cinnamon-y rock in to her mouth and proceeds to scream her little ass off.

### Toothbrush Shenanigans

When Cadence was little she loved playing with the toothbrushes. She had a "mommy one, a daddy one, a kid one and baby one." This was right around the time that Trinity decided to argue with _every damn thing I told her to do!_

**So, I assumed that Trinity was just being difficult about brushing her teeth... "Trinity! Brush your teeth!"**

"I don't wanna," she whined at me.

"Trin, brush your teeth right now or they are all going to rot out of your head."

Trinity came out seconds later, telling me that her toothbrush tasted nasty. I thought she was just trying to be difficult.

"For God's sake Trinity, tooth paste isn't supposed to taste good!"

"No," She is crying by now, "It tastes like deodorant."

"Trinity." I say through clenched teeth. I am really close to losing my patience now. "There is no way the damn tooth paste tastes like deodorant." It does not occur to me to ask how she knows what deodorant tastes like anyway.

After a few more of these exchanges I grab her toothbrush out of her hand and stick it in my mouth.

Holy Shit.

I want to apologize to her, I really do. However, the deodorant on the toothbrush has sucked all of the spit out of my mouth.

Finally, after wiping my tongue off with a paper towel, a bath towel and drinking a half a bottle of pop, I am able to say, "I'm so sorry baby. There really is deodorant on your toothpaste."

For some reason, although it brought tears to _her_ eyes Trinity thinks it is hilarious that I now have deodorant in my mouth.

"Cadence Joan!" I yell to my three year old. "Did you put deodorant on your sister's toothbrush?"

Cadence smiles and says yes, she did.

"Why the hell would you do that?" I ask her, still trying to build up saliva in my mouth...

She only shrugs. I hide the toothbrushes. Until I forget where I hid them and have to buy all new ones.

# Our Circus: Glaring Examples of Daily Failures

### From An Outsider's Point of View

I got to experience my world from an outsider's point of view. I felt a little sorry for not posting a "beware of circus" sign in the front yard.

My favorite friend Harry came over for a few minutes one afternoon. He said it sounded like I needed to talk, because life has gotten quite screwy lately.

In any case, Harry arrives, bearing candy for the kids and I, cigarettes and an energy drink for me. I was cleaning, with the front door propped open, one dog on the lead out front and the other barking her fool head off behind the fence in the backyard. Trin and three of her friends were sitting on the sidewalk, making something or another out of something as usual.

Harry parks his bike and yells hello to the kids. Cadence runs towards him and he hands her a bag full of candy and cigarettes and energy drinks, she immediately drops most of the contents out in a trail to the doorway. Quinn gets off of the riding mower he was sitting on and runs over to the girls. Trinity yells, "Hi Harry! I started my own business. I'm selling hair things."

Cadence steals one of the fake flowers from her sister and presents it to Harry as a gift. We go in, Quinn run in behind us holding a huge forked branch, He runs to the far wall, spins, yells some gibberish at Harry, smiles and runs back out the front door, branch held high over his head. Harry makes the comment that he has no idea how that worked out as well as it did.

I look out the window while we talk, watching Quinn beat the hell out of the tree in the front yard with his no-longer-forked branch. He runs back in, and then out with the new smaller stick. Cadence comes in to sit by Harry and babble. Trinity is at the door begging once again to go to the gas station with her friends. I tell her no, and then say maybe just so she will shut the hell up about it.

I glimpse a flash of blue and red and realize Quinn is running full speed toward the road. I stand and scream his name and sprint toward him. He makes it across, turns and sees me and begins to run back. I try to grab him, end up tackling him instead when my foot hits mud. Quinn thinks this is hilarious.

Minutes later he discovers the ax that his sister had brought in an hour before and pulls it out from where I had hidden it behind the trash can. He thinks he should use the ax to chop down the... front window. One more sprint outside. Ax hidden, better hidden this time. I have been telling Cadence all through Harry's visit to come back away from the road. She continues to edge the road, one foot in the grass, one in the roadway.

I start dinner while apologizing for being rude to Harry, as it is impossible to hold an actual conversation in the midst of this chaos. I walk back into the living room and see Cadence not only in the road...but right in the middle of it, dancing. I yell at her to come in, sit her on a chair and set the timer for time out. She makes various smart ass remarks until I tell her that I understand she is showing off for Harry and tell her he is really going to be impressed when he gets to watch me spank her butt. Time out ends and she returns outside.

Quinn spends a few moments beating the tree with a stick again and then discovers the giant puddle on the corner and begins beating the water with two sticks and shouting "HIIII-YAAA". He then drops both sticks and falls to his knees. Before I can get to him, he half-ass belly flops into the giant puddle. He lays there on his belly, slapping the surface of the water and giggling until I drag him out. He protests the entire way. I take his clothes off and settle him on the couch with Shawn the Sheep cartoons.

I get them all in the house. Cadence lets the dog in from the backyard, and sits to start her homework...Just as my mom pulls up. The door is thrown open and all three kids race to the side of the car. Both dog dart outside and begin running in circles. Harry looks shell shocked. He comes out to say hi to my mom.

Quinn does not want to go back into the house after my mom leaves. He yells and runs and drops to the ground at least four times before I get him in the house. Inside I give Quinn a piece of bologna to pacify him, which he takes a bite out of and then promptly sticks to his bare chest. Harry laughs and Quinn decided to wear his lunchmeat for the next 15 minutes, pointing at it and grinning occasionally in case we forget it is there. Then he chews some of it, sticks the rest back on his chest and spits it out, deciding that he likes it better as clothing anyway.

The dogs finally come back and bark to be let in. Quinn pushes past me and is back outside, naked. I pull him back in, and he drops to the ground immediately in a full out tantrum.

Harry watches all of this, attempts to answer each of the kids as they hurl questions and statements and show off their costumes while Cadence steals his glove over and over and places it on his head like a hat. When he stands to leave, he gives us all a hug and tells me, "Wow. Krissy. You sure have a lot going on here, huh?"

Yep.

Welcome to our circus.

### Dear Social Services

To whom it may concern;

I swear that I do not abuse my children.

When Trinity said that she ran into the wall, and that's how she got the third split lip in two weeks, she wasn't lying. I saw her do it. She turned, and ran head first into the wall.

I can't explain it, either.

It is not a new wall.

Now, I know she said that someone hit her. That's because I told her to. I figured the whole; "I ran into a wall." thing would throw some red flags at school.

Yes, I know it is a huge coincidence that she only got off the crutches a few weeks ago.

No Ma'am, I do not believe in coincidence either.

She must have pissed off Karma somehow.

Well of course I didn't take her to the doctor the first time she said her knee hurt. She is always telling me that something hurts.

No, what I told her was that everyone's knee bends backwards a little bit. I didn't know she meant it bent all the way backwards.

Yes, I realize that Cadence has a semi-permanent bruise on her forehead. Also, not my fault. She is the perfect height for doorknobs. Right, I am saying that she ran into a doorknob.

As for Quinn's broken teeth. Uh. Well. He ran into an air compressor with his mouth. This is really sort of funny, because I had $20 on Cadence being the first kid to break something.

No, really. He was running and fell straight on his mouth. Now, that time I took him directly to the emergency room, mostly because he threw up on me. I didn't know if you could get a concussion through your mouth.

Why was the air compressor in the bedroom? Well to tell you the truth, I think maybe my husband was hiding it from me. He does that.

That's how Cadence dropped the hammer on her toe.

As for the rest of the bruises, I really don't know. The kid is a freaking monkey.

### I Am Dead

I am dead. I have been blown to teeny tiny little bits by a "grenade bomb". I am just collateral damage in a war between my youngest two children; a war started, or at least encouraged – I believe – by my husband. Or maybe it began with my cousin's wife.

My cousin and his wife bought a Nerf shotgun for my stepson, Chase for Christmas. I have to admit that I thought that it was endlessly adorable when Quinn wanted to shoot it. Art loaded the foam darts, cocked the plastic shotgun and taught Quinn to pull the trigger. And I was even a bit proud of his extraordinary aim. He hit not one, but two of his big sisters right in the middle of the forehead. Of course, it got old after a bit and we had to hide the ammo. Those girls are both a little sensitive. Well, actually, they are both big crybabies. So, after a whole day of crying, yelling, and Mom!-Quinn-just-shot-me-in-the-eye-whining, we were forced to hide the little foam darts. The ones we could find anyway.

Poor Quinn wandered about the house for the rest of that day, looking bewildered and heartbroken, holding Chase's shotgun. He would hold it out to anyone that passed and say "Pew-Pew Boke." It was heart wrenching. Truly.

After a while though, he would simply hold the shotgun out and pretend to shoot, "Pew! Pew! Pew!" This was also endlessly adorable and funny.

But then, it was time to take Chase back home to Michigan, and he took his shotgun with him. Quinn had now reached a whole new level of heartbreak as he wandered around the house, searching in vain for the pew-pew. "Pew-pew" he would say, as sadly as a toddler can manage, his lip quivering. In an effort to ease my son's heartache, I gave him a plastic drill. He did not use it to fix things. He instantly held it in front of him like a pistol and said, full of glee, "Pew! Pew! Pew!"

I am not sure how Cadence got into the fight. I am guessing her part in the war is one of defense rather than offense. I am pretty sure than Quinn fired the first shot. Surely he had gone into her room with the intention of pillaging and maybe burning her tiny Polly Pocket village. Or maybe he was just trying to rob the Monopoly bank and Cadence took the whole escalation of force thing to a whole new level...

In any case, there I was sitting in the middle, oblivious to the danger, caught totally unaware in the crossfire. Of course, I had noticed the kids were running amok in the house, shouting and carrying on...I just tuned out the details. When I was hit though, I tuned in a little bit more.

Quinn was chasing his big sister around the house, holding the toy drill in front of him. He was laughing maniacally while shouting "Pew! Pew! Pew!" As a plastic Christmas ornament [that came from God knows where, because I could have sworn I got them all back in the box] bounced off my head and onto the floor, I yelled. "Hey! What the hell?" And Cadence came running back to stand in front of me.

She rocked from side to side, breathing heavily and talking too fast. I'm sure, after her near death experience, her adrenaline was surging.

"What are you doing?" I demanded in my very best Mommy tone.

"Well. Mom. Quinn. He was trying to kill me with his gun, so I had to throw a grenade bomb at him." Oh. Well now, I guess, it makes perfect sense. Surely she knows about grenade bombs from T.V., right? Or not. I am struggling to remember the last time I saw a grenade on the Disney channel. This, I am thinking, is Art's contribution to the war effort, more so than the teaching Quinn to shoot.

In fact, I can vividly visualize Art telling Cadence, "If he shoots you again, just throw a grenade."

"What's a grenade Daddy?"

"Sort of like a bomb..." Which, I am pretty sure is where she must have gotten the term grenade-bomb.

This is purely speculation on my part, by the way.

"Uh. Yeah, but you just killed your mom, you know." And Cadence? This little carbon copy of her mother? She shrugged, and said...quite coldly, I might add:

"Well, Mom, you know, that just happens sometimes."

The revenge for my untimely death? During this entire exchange, Quinn had come to stand behind his big sister and had shot her repeatedly in the back, his loud "Pew! Pew! Pew!" punctuating nearly every word we had spoken.

The war has ended now, quite suddenly actually. No peace treaty, no negotiation. Quinn apparently has lost interest in shooting his sister. The last I saw, he was trying to crack her in the head, ninja style, with his "hep" (loosely translated as "help") which is actually a Quinn sized broom.

### D-I-Y Haircuts

I arrived home last night with brand new haircutting scissors, hair clamps, and a spray bottle. I was thoroughly inspired by the D-I-Y haircut article in Parents Magazine. It sounded like fun, and I was nowhere near prepared.

Parents Magazine open to page 126.

Check.

Squirming, crabby 17-month old boy.

Check.

Okay.

"Prepare Your Child" is the first step in the article, Cut Your Kid's Hair.

Uh. Nope. I'm gonna make it a surprise.

"Pick a Time of Day" is the second step.

How about right now, because that is how I do everything. No planning. No forethought. Let's just get it done.

"Set Up Shop"

Okay, well I have a newspaper to catch the hair. Candy and sisters to distract the baby. So, mostly I completed this step.

"Have a Game Plan."

Actually, I didn't even read this step. Who the hell plans things?

"Talk About Tools"

Surely the author of the article meant the hair cutting tools. I gave Quinn his little plastic hammer. There. A tool. No discussion required.

Using the D-I-Y steps as a rough guide, I section Quinn's hair with a comb and clamp it to the top of his head. Surprisingly, he doesn't even seem to notice the clamp as he digs his hands into his sister's Spagetti'Os.

Awesome.

"Let top section down and take a very thin section from the left side and comb straight up. Cut off 1/4 inch."

Uh. Well, first of all, toddlers are opposed to having their hair combed straight up. Much like cats are opposed to being rubbed backwards. After a second thorough combing to remove the Spagetti'Os he had just deposited in his hair, I sectioned the hair again.

All right, I've got this.

I cut what I believed to be 1/4 inch from the left section of hair on the top of Quinn's head. Apparently deciding that that was good enough - Quinn took off.

I took a very deep breath.

Wrangling the child with the scissors tucked dangerously in my front pocket; I set him down on the table and bribed him with the remote control. I cut a half of another thin section. Off he goes. Maybe he doesn't like the sound of the scissors?

Finding a foolproof solution, I placed him on the chair in front of the computer and let him play with the mouse. This is normally something he doesn't get to do. He always wants to, is always trying to climb up on the chair and sit in front of the computer and bang the mouse like a hammer. Except, apparently, for today.

Today, Quinn could care less about the damn computer! Every time I comb out a section and prepare to snip, he turns, squeals at me, and rubs his head - knocking the clamp to the floor.

Frustrated, I call for reinforcement. Trinity stands in front of him, giving him licks from her Dilly Bar. I think I have solved the issue. Except every time I pull his hair up, he squeals and rubs his head.

Damn it!

Cadence, having decided to add to the chaos, had run away with the squirt bottle. She was spraying herself in the mouth when Quinn spied her and started screeching. Before I realized what her plan was, she was standing in front of him, asking if he wanted some, too. Too late, I tell her, "No, he doesn't want some." Cadence had already squirted the water bottle into the baby's wide open mouth.

Quinn wrinkled up his nose and coughs a bit. Then, he opened his mouth wide again.

Of course, I should absolutely not allow Cadence to continue spraying her baby brother in the face with water.

Except, he seems to like it. So, that's how our D-I-Y haircut experience ends.

Comb. Cut. Spray the baby in the face. Repeat.

Poor Quinn is thoroughly soaked by the time we are done, and his hair is nowhere near even. But, probably no one will mistake him for a girl, and he seems to have had the time of his life.

In to the bath he goes, leaving soggy, hairy footprints behind him.

### Cake Balls

Okay, I'm going to stop reading Parent's Magazine. I find myself constantly inspired by those stupid DIY articles. First, there were the haircuts. Epic, epic failures. And for my next performance – drum roll, please – I am going to make cake balls.

I make the cake pretty much the way the article said to, and mostly how the box told me too. Add eggs and oil, and then mix for 2 minutes. Except, true to form, I am running late, and who the hell stands there for 2 minutes with a mixer? (Any one that really wants to make a cake, apparently.) So, I mixed the batter for approximately 30 seconds, or until all of the really big chunks were broken up. And then I baked it.

I mixed it with a half a can of frosting when it was more or less cool. The article said to cool completely, but I simply ran out of time. So, when I say more or less cool, what I mean is that it wasn't scalding my hands anymore. I rolled it into balls, again, like the directions said to.

Then I was supposed to insert Popsicle sticks. Well, shit. I totally forgot to buy some, so I used toothpicks, instead. Please note here – not all wooden sticks are made equal. The first few balls fell apart when I tried to insert the toothpick into them, which was a sign that I probably hadn't done something right....but I am not a quitter! I continue to roll, and re-roll, my pitiful looking cake balls.

And then, totally ignoring the fact that they are mostly misshapen and crumbling, I attempt to roll the sort-of cake balls in the icing. The powdered sugar and milk icing may be the only thing that I didn't screw up in this experiment.

I must have done an exceptional job on the icing, because every time I dip the stupid cake ball into the icing, it grabs entire layers of the cake ball and holds fast. The more I roll, the smaller the balls get. Strange, the magazine picture looks nothing like these sad little ball-ish things. I can't give up now though, I promised the kids that they could decorate them.

They are all kinds of excited; they come running in to the kitchen and stop short.

"Uh. Mom?" Says Trinity.

"Shut up, Trin. Just don't even say it." I hand them all a can of sprinkles and they set to work, careful not to actually touch the balls. Every time they do touch them, they fall apart just a little more.

When we arrive at my mom's house for the birthday party, without the cake balls, my grandmother inquires about them. I had told her I was making them...I just didn't realize I would be too embarrassed to take them anywhere.

"Well, Grandma, they taste like cake – they just look like... I don't even know what they look like. Not cake though. And definitely not like the damn picture."

Later on that night, my Grandma calls me to tell me that she has figured out what happened to my cake balls. Apparently, Trinity has shared with her that I do not generally read directions. So, Grandma calls to ask me if I mixed the batter.

"Uh-huh. I mixed it."

"Well, how long did you mix it for?" And the light is beginning to dawn now.

"You know, until it was mixed." Grandma is giggling now. Well, not giggling so much as outright laughing at me. I try to defend my baking skills by explaining that I didn't think they meant that I really had to mix it for a set amount of time.

"Well, Kristin, why would they tell you to mix it for 2 minutes if they didn't really mean it?" Grandma stammers out between laughs, and, I suspect, tears of pity. "You thought they were just kidding?"

So, this latest lesson learned... Those directions on the back of the box? Those are actually directions, not suggestions.

### Next Year? Jewish for Christmas.

I am going to be Jewish next year for Christmas. I do not know very much about Judaism...but I am pretty sure that they don't have Christmas trees. This is the only reason that I am going to convert.

Maybe you are confused right now. Let me set the scene for you:

Despite my better judgment, I am going to set up the Christmas tree, in the middle of the day, with all of the children. I know better, I really do. If I could, I would set the damn tree up at night while they are all in bed...or skip it all together. But, since they have been bugging me for a week straight about the damn tree, I am guessing that will not be an option. Down come the totes and boxes and bags and the tree.

The very first thing the kids do is rip into the totes and boxes, while I yell at them to hold on a damn minute. I may as well be talking to the wall. Instead of setting up the tree right away as I had intended, I have to spend the next twenty minutes removing any glass ornaments and breakable decorations from the boxes, bags and totes. Now, I am able to begin the tree.

The tree is relatively easy to assemble, and only takes about ten minutes to set up and plug in. God bless the person that invented the pre-lit tree. There is an entire box full of lights that I don't need. Quinn promptly begins removing every strand of lights in the box. Awesome.

Cadence cannot help herself, and she is busy removing everything that I told her not to touch. "Aw. Look Mom. It's a baby."

"Aw. Look Mom. It's an angel."

"Aw, look Mom, its Tinkerbelle."

Aw, look Mom..."

Seriously I am feeling like beating the kid with the damn Tinkerbelle, because now Quinn has spied his sister, and he joins in the new game.

Except Quinn can't talk much, so all comes from his is

"Aw," and then, when I don't respond, "MOM! AW!" He yells, because he compensates for his lack of vocabulary with volume.

Trin, God bless her, is waiting patiently on the couch, wearing the same overwhelmed expression I suspect is on my own face. I am now feeling very UN-Christmassy.

Finally, after a bunch of "awing" back at Quinn and threatening to ground Cadence for the rest of her life if she doesn't start listening...we are ready for the decorations. I hand them the decorations that people have given them for Christmases past, and the homemade preschool ones.

Cadence is in awe of the tree, and places her decorations very deliberately and with more care than I have ever seen her give anything. She is transformed by Christmas magic. My little hellion is gone, replaced by a quiet, careful, sweet little angel. Until....

Quinn cannot hang decorations, his motor skills are limited. So, he decides instead, to remove every single decoration that he can reach from the tree. Still, Cadence remains calm, taking them back and hanging them high in the tree while standing on the coffee table.

Quinn is now hit with the realization that the coffee table is not a coffee table. It is a Christmas decoration-stealing-assistant. Shit.

So, while Cadence screams at Quinn to get away from the tree, I make several trips to remove him from the table, during which Cadence screams at me to give her more decorations. And Art? Art has escaped to his happy place, and seems to not hear any of this commotion. After the umpteenth trip to pull Quinn off of the table, I finally deposit Quinn unceremoniously into his father's lap, breaking Art's reverie. He looks startled. I wish I could learn that here-but-not-here trick he has.

Cadence and Trinity hang the remainder of the ornaments, while Quinn squeals and bucks in an effort to escape his father. Well, good. Art now has the same someone please shoot me expression that Trinity and I have perfected. At least we are all in this together.

I am thinking that there is a lot less bullshit involved with the Jewish candle thing. I betting Quinn would only attempt to steal a candle once. So, I am going to look into converting to Judaism. Right now.

### After Christmas

It has been over two weeks now since Christmas, and the only thing that I have accomplished is getting the damn tree put away, with the help of my youngest two children.

Cadence did her very best to help me. Bug-Bug? He tried to kill both of us. I was attempting to get the box up the ladder to the attic, which is a simple enough task, except I couldn't tape the box shut. Why? Because Art has added duct tape to the list of shit to hide from Krissy.

So, no matter how hard I push from the bottom, the top of the box has sprung open and is hitting something up there, and stubbornly refusing to move.

In my infinite wisdom, I decide to squeeze myself alongside the box to push down the box tops. In my mind, this allows the box to spring up into place easily. In reality I am trapped between the wall, the attic opening and a Christmas tree that is getting heavier by the second. Shit.

I simply do not have the physical strength to push the box the rest of the way up with my arms.

Cadence recognizes that I am in grave danger of dropping the whole damn thing, so she climbs a few of the ladder stairs to assist me. She holds the bottom of the box and attempts to shove. God bless her for her efforts, but rather than making the whole thing easier, I am now afraid that I am going to squish my middle child under a ton of Christmas tree. Yes, a ton. The longer I hold it, the more it weighs.

And now Bug Bug decides that he cannot be excluded from this adventure and he climbs a single ladder rung. He cannot reach the box, but he pushes on Cadence's butt.

And here, I am struck by that familiar feeling...the one that says somehow; I have gotten myself stuck in a damn sitcom.

I use the very very last of my strength to hold the box long enough to get my leg underneath it. I don't know if you have picture this or not, but it is extremely uncomfortable. I then straighten my leg up and hop up the ladder with my other foot, using the walls for balance. Cadence thinks that this sudden movement is due to her efforts, so she shoves harder. I am caught unaware, and nearly drop the whole damn mess.

I finally maneuver the box so that three of the corners are in the attic, with just one hanging over the ladder opening. And then? Thoroughly exhausted from the whole ordeal, I close the damn thing.

Screw it, I figure. Yes, Art is going to be super surprised the next time he opens the attic...but maybe that will teach him not to hide the damn duct tape!

### Neighbor Boy and Girl

As if my children were not punishment enough for my own childhood excursions... I have found myself blessed with the nearly constant presence of Neighbor Girl and Neighbor Boy. Neighbor Boy is a charming, and quite handsome boy of five. Neighbor Girl is a quiet and very pretty four-year-old. Er. At least she is quiet until she gets to know you a little bit... She then has no qualms about sitting on your front step screeching at the top of her lungs.

There have not been many warm days yet this year, and already they have done a number on the yard. Neighbor Girl likes to dig. Holes. In the yard. Probably her parents do not allow her to dig holes in her yard, so she digs them in ours. Cadence is her accomplice. Cadence brings spoons outside to Neighbor Girl. There are dozens of spoons hidden in our grass. I find them with the lawnmower.

Neighbor Boy can't be much more than 50 pounds. He likes to climb. The fence in our backyard is sturdy. It has concrete and stuff around the posts. Somehow? Neighbor Boy knocked one section down. They have also destroyed the net thing around the trampoline. If I had more ambition, I would supervise these children a bit more. Their parents probably hate me. They go home covered in mud and dirt and grass, with splinters in them from scaling the fence. Neighbor Girl once went home covered in nail polish. Covered. Her hands...all the way up to her elbows and her feet... all the way up to her knees. In addition to being red? She was probably high from the fumes. Which is simply what happens when you attempt to paint a frog with nail polish. Nevermind. That is a whole different chapter.

Art gets mad, I think. He claims that I have no control over Neighbor Girl and Boy. He said that as though it should bother me. I have no control over my own damn kids; I am certainly not shocked by my lack of control over other people's kids. And all that aside? I am pretty sure that this is what childhood summers are all about. Not so much the frog painting...but the hours of barely supervised play. That intensity that only children feel, when nothing in the world matters as much as seeing just how far one can dig in a day. So simply? I let them dig. I let them climb. I let them play in the hose. I pretty much let them do what they want out there. Fences can be repaired. Holes refilled. Spoons replaced. There is only one childhood. And for them? There is only this day, this moment that matters. When they are grown? They will remember these feelings one day. I do. I don't remember what our grass looked like, whether or not we had a fence, or how long it took to fill the holes in my yard....

###  Sometimes the Dog Really Does Eat the Homework

I am running late for work. Almost always.

It doesn't seem to matter than I get up at 5:00am or that I wake the kids up an hour and a half before we have to leave. We are always running behind.

It never fails that as we are running late, the dog darts out the door and I spend ten minutes chasing her through the neighbor's yards and threatening to kill her.

"Come here Emma."

Stand off as we stare at each other. She thinks this is a game. When I step towards her she bolts.

"Aah. You bitch. I swear when I catch you I am going to kill you."

Right, I know. That would make me come right home too.

Or, as was the case yesterday, Trinity pulls the knob off of the front door as she is leaving for the bus stop. Super.

Doorknob is on the Shit to Buy list. I stick the doorknob back in the hole and continue getting dressed for work.

Now, as I obliviously apply mascara, Quinn decides to mimic his sister's new doorknob trick.

Twenty minutes later, we are ready to go! I reach for the doorknob, all thirty-five pounds of Quinn on my hip, and find only air.

I look, thinking that I must be really, really, tired. But no, the doorknob is really gone.

I have maybe five minutes to get out the door, make it to the sitter's, and get back to work on time.

In a futile attempt to save time, I try to turn the stick where the doorknob is supposed to me.

Not happening. All right, I've got this. How far can a doorknob go?

I search the hallway and the living room, balancing Quinn, my coffee and the unopened Diet Dr. Pepper in one arm while moving various items of clothing, blankets and toys with the other.

I am negative three minutes by the time I find the stupid doorknob, right there, in the last place I looked. On the desk.

Whatever, I shove it in the hole and we are out the door.

Except that Cadence is freaking barefoot, and upon entering the car, I find that while Art put the baby's car seat in, he neglected to buckle it.

Damn it!

So, I strap Quinn into the seat and then strap it in, scraping the hell out of my hand and arm and dropping my pop. Because if I strap the seat in first, Quinn climbs into the front seat and maintains a death grip on the steering wheel. Then, when I pry his little hands off, he screeches the whole way to the babysitters.

Cadence is in, and buckled...And still barefoot.

Sonofabitch!

I race back into the house and grab her shoes, turn and pull, and the freaking doorknob pops off in my hand.

How could I forget about the doorknob?

I am so late now.

I throw the knob on the couch and run to the car.

Of course, I hit every single red light on the way to work. Why? Because, as Daddy says, Murphy sucks. Sitting at the red light, I see a guy from work. I honk and wave and think, at least I am not the only late one today.

On my way back into town from the babysitter's I practice my excuse for my tardiness.

...Well you see, we were stuck in the house, because the door wouldn't open.

Well because the doorknob fell off of course....

Right and the dog ate my homework.....

### Global Warming My Ass

Well it started a few months ago when the blower motor started to go out in the van. Just in the front, and it still blew a bit of air, it didn't really matter much, because the blower in the back works just fine. SO, as long as I start the car and let it run for a little while, it is fine. Except apparently, for when the temp dips into the negative double digits.

To make matters worse, the power steering pump just died on the car as well. It may or may not have been a direct result of my method of snow removal. Art says it wasn't my fault, so I'm just gonna run with that....

And then there is the fact that I am rarely cold. I start the car, run out to it and then run into where ever it is that I am going. I see no need for a huge winter jacket and usually only wear a light leather jacket.

So...last night I went to work the closing shift. I was, of course, running late, so I didn't bother to grab a hat or gloves. I threw my coat on and ran to the already warm car and drove to work, my ass half off the seat most of the time because I now need my entire body weight to turn a corner.

And so now that you have the back story...

It was midnight when I left and the temperature was -4 degrees. That's actual temperature...not wind chill. I started the car and let it run for over 20 minutes.

I locked the bar and got in to the car only to discover that the back blower will not sufficiently heat the car in subzero temperatures. Usually if it runs for long enough, the windows will even defrost. Not. Today.

There is a clear spot, right in the middle of the windshield, so I lean far to the right to see and steer at the same time. Once I start driving, the temp goes from -4 to -12 on the thermometer in the car. There is no warmth coming from the back of the car and my teeth are chattering, and my nose is frozen.

Since I neglected to bring any gloves with me, I am reduced to putting on a single kid glove that I found in the backseat, while sitting on the other hand, my nose pressed against the hand that is on the steering wheel because I am reasonably sure it is about to freeze and fall off. This is quite a picture.

As I am pulling out of the bar I realize that if anyone could see through my frosted windows, they would have to assume that the bartender is hammered, or sleeping, or maybe both.

Now, I probably would have been able to drive the entire way home that way...but I can't leave my ungloved hand tucked under my ass because I am unable to physically turn the stupid steering wheel with only one hand. Stupid power steering pump.

When I stop at the stop light before my turn, I reach back and pull Cadence's Disney Princess hat on. I look like a fucking retard at this point, I am sure. But I reason that I am probably not going to get pulled over because no sane cop wants to get out of the warmth of his car, (which probably has perfect power steering by the way.) to pull over a possible maybe-mentally-retarded-and-possibly-intoxicated-but-could-just-be-a-little-kid-driver.

I absolutely do not want to stop at the gas station...but I am out of cigarettes. And I am pretty sure we will need milk, and I know that there is no way in hell I am leaving the house in the morning after this whole fiasco, so I stop. I remembered to take the single glove of my hand before going in, which hardly mattered, because I forgot about the hat.

My teeth are chattering because the damn heater is actually blowing snow instead of hot air, and my nose is running, I cannot park close to the door because there is no way I can make that tight of a turn, so I park at the pump and run.

"Cold out there, huh?" Say the gas station lady. I am too cold to offer any witty retort so I roll my eyes at her instead and go about collecting the crap I need for morning. I briefly wonder if they will let me sleep in the gas station all night so I don't have to go outside.

But of course I don't ask. I run back to the car, drive – er, sort of – home and run into the house. I spend ten minutes sitting in front of the heater before removing my shoes and climbing into bed, jeans, coat, and stupid pink glittery hat still on my head.

I wake up early with the kids, and make a firm resolution to pack my shit and move somewhere south of here...where it is always warm...just as soon as the power steering pump is fixed.

### Snow Removal

The last few winter storms have dumped a fair amount of snow on our area. Every time I leave the house, I see people outside in the bitter cold, plowing, snow blowing, and shoveling. They are sprinkling salt on their walkways, and digging their cars out of the piles of snow left behind by the city plows.

Silly, silly people.

Shoveling is dangerous. People have heart attacks, throw their backs out, get lost and die of hypothermia...So, I avoid shoveling. And cold. I hate cold.

It probably would be a good idea to shovel the sidewalk...But I am not going to do it. Instead, I send the kids out the door first, so they can trample some of it down for me. Why? Because the kids have snow boots. I do not have snow boots. I have tennis shoes. Plus, they are kids. Kids love snow, so even if they fall in it, they think it is great fun.

The driveway is a whole other matter. I suppose I could send the kids out to trample that snow too, but it would probably be frowned upon. Some people just do not agree with sending the kids out to play in the street.

So, instead, I let the car get nice and warm, pile the kids in it and drive over the mound of snow left by the snowplows. Yes, in my minivan. It is not always as easy as it sounds. Sometimes there is a fair amount of rocking back and forth, and sometimes one needs a fairly big running start. After the first few times, though, provided there is no new snowfall, the mound of driven over snow turns into a giant ice skating rink.

Now, and only now, do I sprinkle salt on the ice. The salt melts the ice (mostly) and the rest of the week is a breeze...Unless it snows again. In which case, I find myself almost completely screwed. Because the ice is now under the new snow, and salt or no salt, the tires spin and spin and spin.

I am not a quitter though, and usually after no longer than twenty to thirty minutes of spinning my tires they burn through the ice to the pavement below and we are mobile once again.

As for pulling into the driveway...Usually I back into my neighbor's (plowed) driveway to get a good running start and I don't let off the gas until I am all the way in. We usually end up a little bit sideways, and sometimes almost completely sideways, but the kids think it is a fantastic game.

Since I have an aversion to cold, and wet, and snow, and mostly cold...This is the closest the children are going to get to sledding with Mommy.

###  Graveyards

I am not an overly superstitious person. The fact of the matter is, I really don't know much about superstitions. While I don't truly believe that it is bad luck to walk under a ladder...I don't actually KNOW that it isn't. So, generally, I don't do it.

I hold my breath when I pass a cemetery. I always have. It is more a habit than a superstition now. Trinity noticed that I was doing it one day and asked me why I wasn't breathing.

I could have told her that it was bad luck to breath by a cemetery. I could have even explained that people thought that a long time ago, because it really was. The burial methods and cemeteries of the past were breeding grounds for all sorts of bacteria and disease. I didn't. I simply told her that it was bad luck.

"But why, Mom."

"Because Trinity, its bad luck to breathe around dead people."

And, because small children are a never ending game of Chinese telephone, she translates this later to my father as, "Mommy said it isn't nice to breath when other people can't." She tells him this as they are driving past a cemetery.

Later, when she tells me about the conversation, I remember my own graveyard memory with my father.

We were driving down the road, a cemetery on one side, and corn fields on the other when my father nudged me with his elbow.

"You know something, Sissy? The people on that side of the road," He pauses for dramatic effect and gestures toward the headstones, "they don't talk to the people on that side of the road."

And my reply? "Why not, Daddy?"

He sighs and shakes his head sadly, a sign that I now recognize as stifling a giggle. "They never have, and they never will."

For real though, I didn't get the joke until several years later.

Trinity gets it right away when I share it with her, "Well, duh, Mom. The people on that side are dead." I'm glad she is smarter than I was, but strangely disappointed.

Cadence knows little of death. Or so I thought. We were driving past yet another cemetery when she made the comment, "that place is always open, Mom."

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"It's a cemetery, Cadence."

"Oh. I thought it was just the dead people place."

Damn it. I'm going to have to save my dad's cemetery joke for Quinn.

The girls do not seem to be overly sensitive to the thought of death. It is evidenced in the car, when we pass a dead raccoon.

"Aww." Cadence says, "That's a kitty."

I tell her that it is a raccoon, and that it is sleeping in the middle of the road.

Cadence is only five. She should be buying that...but she isn't. She instantly corrects me.

"I think it is a chinchilla. And Mom? It's dead. Not sleeping."

"No Cadence, I think it's just sleeping."

"Well, if it put his bed in the road and was sleeping. But now, it's dead." She is being all philosophical, but I have to giggle anyway. I translate her statement to mean that the stupid chinchilla went to sleep in the middle of the road, and its dead now...because it's stupid.

Cadence yells at me for laughing. Which I translate to mean that even though the chinchilla, who was really a raccoon, was obviously an idiot, we should show some respect for the dead.

Just A Typical Morning Here...

"Mom. Hey. Mom. Can Jamie and I have some pizza?" Trin yells from the cover of my doorway, as I have been known to throw things in the morning.

"Mmph" I say into my pillow.

Drag myself out of bed, walk to the bathroom.

"Oh, by the way, I ate the last of the Raisin Bran. Can I go to Jamie's house with her? And then maybe go shopping with her mom at Town and Country. Oh and if I do go shopping with Grammy, can Jamie come too? And after we go to Jamie's..."

"Peeing Trin. I'm peeing."

"...can we go to Ashley's, 'cause she wants to show us the puppy?"

"Puppy? The puppy she got last night from us? You want to go see the puppy that just left our house last night?"

"Uh-huh. After we go to Jamie's because her mom wants her to check in. By the way, Quinn peed under the table again..."

And Cadence pipes in with, "I wanna go to Jamie's house Mom! Can I go too, Mom? Can I? Can I Mom? CAN I?"

"Sure Cadence. Sure. Wait. Crap. No, you can't go to Jamie's." At which point she begins to throw a temper tantrum, her newest trick. She is screaming and bawling. Loudly.

"So Mom," Trin yells from right beside me. "Can I go now? Can I?" And also, later, can I watch a movie on the computer?"

"WAAAAAA. WAAAA. WAAAA." Says Cadence. "I WA-WA-WANNA GO WITH THEM!"

"Cadence. That is it. If that is the way you are going to act when you don't get your way then you are grounded to the house for the rest of the day. Don't so much as ask me to step out that door. Go finish crying in your room now."

"Now Cadence. NOW!"

"Mom." Says Quinn, sneaking up beside me. "Mom. Poop." And he holds up his foot for me to examine.

Puppy poop. Damnit.

"Girls? What did I tell you? If you insist on taking the puppies out to play with them then you have to clean up after them. Speaking of, Cadence, take those two out right now so they can pee. They are sniffing around."

"Poop."

"I know Quinn, stay there, I'm getting the wipe. No. Stay. No. Quinn, don't walk on the poopy foot."

"What about the computer Trin?"

Eye roll.

"No, Mom. I want to know if I can watch a movie on the computer later, or tomorrow. Or something. Right now, I want to go to Jamie's."

"Fine Trin. Go to Jamie's. Now. Go to Jamie's RIGHT NOW."

There is a blessed nano-second of silence.

Cadence stands in front of me smirking. "Guess what Mom? "

The suspense of what she is about to say is killing her. She hops from foot to foot.

"What Cadence?"

"You said I couldn't even go through that door, but I did because you told me to take those puppies outside. So I went through that door Mom. Two times."

Yeah.

Good Morning to you too.

#  Pets

As a parent, a wife and a daughter, I have made a ton of mistakes, mostly harmless ones, but mistakes nonetheless. The one currently on my mind? Emma, the Dog. In my own defense, I purchased Emma in November of 2008, four months before Quinn was born.

I must have been overcome by deep maternal emotions, and Art dropped the ball. I hold him entirely responsible for Emma. He was the sane one at that time. He was supposed to knock me upside the head and say, "No dog, Krissy. What do we need a dog for? The kids are still peeing on the floor."

Instead, he said, "Oh. Sure, let's get a dog for the girls. They have been wanting one for a while now." In my typical lack of impulse control, we bought a Jack Russell Terrier. We did no research. In fact, we didn't even Google the breed. Not only are we bad parents, we are bad pet owners.

It was only after we brought Emma home that we looked up the temperament of the breed. It turns out that Jack Russells are supposed to be extremely intelligent and hyper dogs. Emma is hyper, but she seems to be lacking any of the famous intelligence. Of course we would choose the dimmest dog in the litter.

Emma probably could have been a good dog, with some other family. She was thrown into this chaotic family at a young age. Her formative months have been tainted by this circus. Of course she isn't any better behaved than my children. Why should she be?

That said, aside for the poop in the closet, there are many perks to being the owner of an insane and dimwit dog.

First of all, Emma eats anything that hits the floor. Gone are the tomato sauce stains from spilled spaghetti, the candy wrappers on the floor. There is no longer chewed gum stuck to the side of Trinity's dresser.

Emma keeps our cat in line. I don't know how Emma figured out that the cat wasn't supposed to scratch at the window, but when she does, Emma launches an all-out attack, jumping and nipping at the cat's tail until the cat retreats to the safety of the top of the fridge.

And best of all, Emma is a pack rat. When I pull her doggie bed out of the cage and shake it out, I am greeted by a scattering of items. There are Barbie shoes, Polly Pocket heads, toy soldiers, building blocks, cheeseburger wrappers and pencils that are only barely recognizable. There are half eaten crayons, paintbrushes, and markers. This may not seem like a perk to other people, to normal people, but my kids have more freaking toys than they will ever need. And Trinity is going to be a hoarder someday. She refuses to throw away almost everything. She does not protest if a toy is a half chewed, slimy pile of dog slobber though.

Emma can keep Quinn entertained for hours. He loves her. She is his best friend. He hasn't said so, but I can tell, because he shares his Cheerios and M&M's with her. The dog enjoys a status that no one else in the house shares. Quinn loves us, but he would bite our fingers off for an M&M.

Quinn finds it great fun to drag random objects along on the floor and yell, "UM! UM!" Which Emma, dimwitted or not, has come to recognize this as a call to play. Quinn drags the shirt, or dog leash, or plastic teapot on the floor and the dog gives chase. It's not much of a contest. Emma is small and fast. Quinn is a Neanderthal baby, slow and unsteady.

Quinn giggles over his shoulder and runs the length of the kitchen. Until Emma catches up, snatches whatever treasure Quinn has been flaunting and darts away. For a moment, Quinn chases after her, but he always gives up quickly. He toddles over to grab my hand, grunting and gesturing, and pulls me in the direction of the dog. He wrinkles his brow and yells, "UM." This in no longer a call to play, it is a battle cry. Loosely translated it means, "Mommy's coming to kick your ass Emma."

I retrieve the stolen treasure and return it to Quinn, who giggles like a drunken schoolgirl and shouts, "UM. UM." And the cycle is renewed.

This can last for hours. Until Emma tires, and lays on the couch, dutifully accepting that the treasure in Quinn's hand is now a weapon used to bludgeon her when she refuses to rise to his taunting. After a few bludgeonings and squeals from Quinn that must hurt her ears more than mine, she gives me what can only be described as a solemn expression of commiseration and retreats to her cage to chew on her own hidden stash of treasures. She is maybe not as unintelligent as I first thought.

The cat, Dora, was another of my less than fantastic ideas. I don't even have a defense prepared for this one. I knew getting a cat was a bad idea.

Art was in Iraq at the time. My favorite friend, Harry, had just brought a laundry basket of kittens into the bar where I was working. I had already told him, several times, that I absolutely did not want a cat. But few things are cuter than a bunch of kittens in a laundry basket, and Harry knew it. And, aside from that, Harry offered to give me $25.00 toward her food and cat litter.

Still pretending that I was uninterested, I told him that I would only take a female kitten, and low and behold he had one left.

My girls had stayed the night at my Mom's house the day I brought the tiny kitten home. I took her to the vet before taking her home to my kids. I might be a little screwed up, but I wasn't going to present my children with a dying cat as a gift. The vet gave me the all clear, assuring me that the kitten didn't have any deadly diseases. I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts on the way to my mom's house and asked the drive thru worker for an empty Munchkins box. He looked confused, but he gave me one.

I shoved the little kitten into the donut box and handed it to my four-year-old daughter when I got in the house. Trinity, thinking only of donuts, opened it, and the kitten sprang out like a furry jack in the box. I had expected surprise. I had expected joy and fanfare and you're the best mommy in the whole world statements. I had not expected Trinity to watch the kitten bounce out of the box, onto the floor, and then look back into the box with a "What the...!? " expression on her face. I had expected her to run excitedly to me and hug me. Instead, she looked lost. "Mommy. Why did they put a cat in my donuts?" She seemed a little bit ticked off, as if to say, that's cool man, but where's the jelly filling?

I had to explain, in detail, where the cat had come from and why it was in a box. To this day, Trinity detests surprises. And because Trinity is used to me lying to her, I spent the better part of the week reassuring her that we really could keep the cat.

And then, Art called home. We were on the phone, pretending to have a normal conversation, edging around the fact that he was half a world away, and I was slowly but steadily losing my damn mind, when I mentioned the cat.

"Wait. What?" Art says.

"Well, Harry had them in a basket, and he gave me 25 dollars towards the food and litter and stuff." I was going on to explain that I was taking the cat to the vet the next week to be spade...but, Art didn't hear me. There was a few second delay on the phone line, and while I was talking about the vet, Art was stuck on the $25.

"What!? He paid you to take the cat! Kristin! That is never a good sign." Also not a good sign? When Art uses my full first name.

But Trinity doted on the damn cat, and tortured her a little bit, too. She tried to put Cadence's diapers on it. She tried to shove it into baby clothes and strap it into the toy stroller. The cat took it all in stride, her eyes sort of losing focus now and then. Dora the Cat was probably imagining herself in her very own happy place.

When Trinity fell asleep though, the cat got even. Trinity would lie in peaceful slumber, her chest rising softly with her breathing, sometimes her eyelids twitching around in dream and the cat would run full throttle out of nowhere and pounce on her head and dart away before Trinity could even open her eyes. Trinity would shoot upright and look around, unsure what had just happened. She would look at me, confused, and then lay back down to sleep again. And as she slipped back into dreams, the cat would tear around the corner yet again to pounce on her head and dart away.

This marvelously entertaining scene all but disappeared after I had the cat spayed. They claim that spaying a cat doesn't really change their personality, but it does. The rambunctious kitten, became a really, really, fat and lazy cat. Really, the one and only time we had a mouse in the house, Emma the dog killed it while the cat looked on from her hiding spot on top of the fridge.

Rereading that last paragraph, I realize that I have lied. There was more than one mouse in the house. The first one, Emma didn't kill. Chase did. I had given Trinity a mouse for some reason. She loved it. She watched the thing for hours in its cage.

When Chase came down to visit one summer vacation, they were in the bedroom, staring at the mouse, when the idea came upon them to take the mouse out of the cage to play.

I wasn't in the room. I was sitting on the recliner, probably reading a book, when two guilty children emerged from the bedroom. Trinity bounced up to me and said, "The mouse isn't dead, right Mom. I think he is just sleeping." It was a fairly odd thing for Trinity to come up with, and when I looked up from the novel, I notice Chase standing near the doorway, cupping something in his hand and shaking his head sadly.

"I'm sorry, Kris."

I got up, feeling just a bit sick to my stomach and examined the dead rodent in my step-son's hands. It did look as though it were sleeping. So, I patted them on their heads, placed the dead mouse back in its cage, assuring Trinity that it was merely napping, and asked them what they were doing with the mouse.

Chase holds his hands out innocently. "We were swinging the mouse."

"Swinging?"

"Yeah," Trinity piped it, "Chase holds his tail and swinged him around."

"You mean, like in circles?"

They nod. I can picture them gleefully holding the tail of the mouse, spinning him faster and faster, like one of those party noise makers.

Oh. My. God.

"And then?"

Chase shakes his head slowly and sadly again, "He hit the wall."

I did not laugh. I was disturbed. Now, I am laughing. The way Chase said that, like the mouse had died of cancer and he was lamenting on the mouse's brave battle for life.

And then? I lied to them of course, telling them that the mouse was merely sleeping. And then, the next day, I lied some more and told them that I must not have latched the cage and the mouse had run away in the night.

And then, there were the fish. I was pregnant with Cadence, still bartending nights, and, I was in that awful fatigue dominated state of pregnancy. Trinity was staying the night at her father's house, and chase had gotten up before me. I woke up, after just a few hours of sleep and wandered in to the living room to find Chase feeding the fish.

That sounds harmless enough, but he was feeding them the chicken nuggets that he hadn't eaten the night before. Worse, he was covered in dirty fish water. It was all over him, down the side of the tank and in a huge puddle on the carpet. It smelled like a swamp in our living room.

I wasn't all the way awake yet, and I gave him my best Mommy glare and threw a towel to him. "Here. Clean it up." And then I stomped in to the bathroom. I did not explain to him what it was exactly that I wanted him to clean up. In my foggy, sleep-deprived state, I forgot that he was only three.

I walked back into the living room to find him shoving the towel into the fish tank, trying to capture the sinking chicken nuggets and spilling yet more water on the swamp-carpet. I couldn't really yell at him. I had neglected to tell him that I wanted him to clean up the water all over the place, not the chicken nuggets. No wonder he had given me a "What the hell do I need a towel for?" look when I walked away to the bathroom.

### Chaos, the Dog.

I had just moved into my second apartment. It was a one-bedroom apartment attached to an auto repair shop, which I was renting from one of my Dad's friends. My first apartment had been in an apartment complex, where I was close enough to other people that they would hear me if I screamed. It was the first time I had lived alone, just Trinity and I, and I was a bit apprehensive about being alone. Here though, in this new apartment, there was no one close enough to hear me if I screamed. There was a set of railroad tracks across the street, and a parking lot on one side of me, a banquet hall on the other side, that was only used on the weekends.

I had my brother's .380 under my pillow, and a deadbolt on the door. I still didn't feel comfortable. Forget about the fact that I almost always lock the door, or that I slept in the living room, right next to the damn door, I was afraid that I wouldn't hear someone if they tried to come in and steal Trinity.

This was an entirely ridiculous idea. Aside from the previously mentioned facts, I was all of 20 years old, and ran on approximately 3 hours of sleep on a regular basis. Also, I lived in Valparaiso, Indiana. The crime rate there is incredibly low. I was still nervous.

So, with my normal lack of impulse control, I make the decision that I need a dog. I load Trinity up in my hand-me down Ford escort and we go to the Animal Shelter. I have the idea in my head that we will buy a mid-size dog, some sort of mutt that will bark loudly enough to wake me from a dead sleep and maybe scare away a would-be kidnapper.

I pass by a variety of miserable looking dogs, to settle on a choice between two mutts. One is a small female Doberman. She is around 60lbs, and has just been spade. She is beautiful, and quite calm, which I realize now, is an effect of the surgery she had had the day before. I want her.

But then, there is a huge black mutt in the cage across from her, barking and jumping, drool flying. When I lean down to him, his soulful brown eyes beg me to love him. I want him too, but I know better.

The lady came in to ask if I need help. I tell her that I am stuck between these two animals. I really like the black mutt, who I soon learn is named Chaos. Tiny red flag there.

In response that manipulative bitch tells me, "Well, this one will be adopted very easily," as she gestured to the sleeping Doberman. "That one? We are probably going to have to put him to sleep." That is all of the excuse I needed to make a decision.

"I'll take Chaos." The lady is snickering, I am sure of it, when she lets the beast out of the cage to bring him around front. I can see that the dog is big. It does not occur to me to ask just how much he weighs. When I get him out to the car, after filling out the paperwork and learning he is all of 135 pounds, he grows.

He must have grown on the way to the car, because he barely fits. Honest to god, I knew he was big, but didn't realize just how big until I attempted to put him in the backseat of my Ford Escort. It just isn't happening. He has to sit in the front, and even then, it's a tight fit. I am getting the sense that I should have thought this through a little bit further.

When I get Chaos to his new home, he grows again. I knew that he seemed even larger in the car, but when I get him to the house, I realize that he is large enough to sit on the floor, and set his chin on the kitchen cabinet. This is not a dog. This is a monster.

What happens when I realize that I have adopted a monster? I decide to put it on a leash and take it for a walk, in the winter, on the icy surface of the parking lot. I have discovered that Chaos weighs 135 pounds, and also realized that he is a much larger dog than he appeared to be in the cage at the shelter. What I have forgotten is that I am only 105 pounds, and that ice is slippery. Yeah. Everything you are imagining right now? It happened.

I am sure, that someone would have found my adventure in dog walking hilarious. I found it painful. And humbling. I did not walk Chaos. Chaos walked, no, he drug me through the parking lot, and halfway down the alley. He then must have decided that he was cold and trotted up to the front door of our apartment. I was just happy that he was not still dragging me around Valpo, so I rewarded his homicidal doggie behavior with a treat.

As the weeks progress, I begin to understand how two-year old Chaos ended up in the pound. First of all, there is the dog poop. The basic idea of digestion didn't occur to me while I was at the animal shelter. In case you are wondering...the bigger the dog, the bigger the poo. Yeah, in the case of Chaos, I may as well have had a horse in my house.

He appears to be house trained...to an extent. He will whine to go out to do his business. But if we are not home, he feels totally comfortable crapping on the living room floor.

I soon discover that Chaos is not a low maintenance dog. He eats everything: His food, his leash, Trinity's crayons, and an entire tube of prescription ointment for Trinity's eczema. He also runs away. A lot. I chased him a few times, and a couple of times, I bailed him out of doggie jail.

This dog is costing me $40 a pop every time he gets arrested, plus an unending amount of money for dog food. At this point in my life, I was earning $9 an hour, and trying to take care of my daughter and myself. I had no business owning a dog. Still, I kept bailing him out, and taking him back home. Why? Because he balanced all of his craziness with a nature I hadn't expected. I wanted a scary dog.

He allowed the baby to climb all over him. She would climb over his belly and slide down the other side, pull handfuls of hair out of his tail, stick gooey fingers in his nose, eyes, and ears. All the while, Chaos would lay still, accepting the abuse, and even thumping his tail against the floor in pleasure.

On the outside, Chaos was intimidating. I was feeling more comfortable being alone, until this one night, when I had gone around the side of the house to get him off of his chain. He was in the process of pooping when I came around and triggered the motion detecting security light. The dog jumped straight up off his feet. If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have believed it.

Great. This big, scary, incorrigible dog...he is a bigger wuss than I am.

The end of our dog/owner relationship came just a few months after I had brought Chaos home. He ran away one last time. I did bail him out again, because I couldn't stand the thought of him being put to sleep. But this time, he went to live at the garage that Trinity's dad was running. He spent a few weeks there at the shop, until he became Trinity's grandfather's best friend, and went home to live with him.

# To Give Credit Where Credit is Due

The way people raise children is somewhat dependent on the way they themselves were raised... at least that's my excuse!

### But my Daddy Said...

For as long as I can remember my dad has put his hand on my head and squeezed.

"You know what that is Sissy?" This is supposed to be a rhetorical question, by the way.

"It's a brain sucker. You know what it's doing?" Again, no answer required from me.

"It's starving to death." He giggled every time, and so did I, even though I didn't actually get the joke until I was around sixteen.

Okay. So, when I was sixteen, I got my first car. It is a piece of crap Camaro, born the same year I was.

"Well the good thing is the exhaust smoke is blue." My Daddy tells me. Let me remind you that I am a sixteen year old girl and lack any mechanical comprehension.

"What's that mean?" I ask him.

"Well it means the car is burning oil." H-m-m. That's a good thing? I am wondering. "As long as the exhaust smoke is blue, you don't have to check the oil. Because it couldn't burn oil if it didn't have any." Oddly, at the time my father's words make perfect sense to me.

Shortly before the car's engine blows up, the man at the gas station yells at me for not putting oil in the car. Apparently he can't even get any on the dipstick. Strangely, the exhaust is still blue.

"Hey Dad?" I asked him one day before the engine blew up. "You think my car will make it to Michigan?"

He ponders for a moment. "Naw. Probably not, but if you break down, you can always coast home."

My confusion must be apparent because he feels the need to explain, "Well, the Earth is round, and Michigan is north of us, which makes it uphill, so you can coast back if you break down."

Of course. That makes perfect sense.

I remember also, driving on my learner's permit through the grocery store parking lot. I stop at the stop sign at the crosswalk in front of the door.

My dad says, "You know you don't have to stop at those."

"Really?"

"Really...," He tells me, completely straight-faced. "...those ones with the white outlines are optional."

I don't realize that all stop signs have white outlines. So, of course, even though I know better, I believe him.

My Daddy is a genius.

Me: "God! It's hot outside."

"Pshaw." says my Daddy. "Not as hot as it was that one day in Japan, you know when it was 10,000 degrees in the shade."

Politically incorrect? Yes. Inappropriate in mixed company? Obviously. Still, a few years later, when I actually get the joke, it was funny as hell.

I recently overheard my dad telling Cadence something about, "...you can't give him that. It's dangerous. He will swell up and be dead till morning." 'Him' being the baby.

I remember when they first began offering foreign language classes at school. My Dad very seriously tells me that I cannot take French.

"Why not?"

"Because, Sissy, American people can't speak French. Their tongues get all tangled up in front of their eye teeth and they can't see what they are saying and they choke and die." I almost take this one seriously, since he didn't add anything about waking up dead.

My husband has become used to the strange workings of my brain which I attribute to my Dad. He has also resigned himself to the fact that he is probably going to hear 'But my Daddy says...' for the rest of our lives.

Art says that we need brakes on the car. I tell him that my Daddy said you don't need brakes if you still have a horn. And, if the horn breaks, you are screwed.

I have also told Art that Dad said we don't need instructions. I told Trinity that as well.

"Look baby, there is a picture right there on the side of the box, what do we need instructions for?"

Trinity is proud to tell me about how gravity works. I tell her that there is no gravity; the earth sucks. She looks at me skeptically and asks if Grampie taught me that. "Grampie lies, you know." She adds.

In a thinly veiled attempt at protecting my father's brand of wisdom, I pretend to be appalled. "Trinity Anne, your Grampie would never lie." She still doesn't believe anything I say. Knowing that my father and I are alike in our thought processes, she now has the habit of always asking someone else for confirmation.

"I can fix anything." I proudly tell my friend Harry. We are discussing the transmission on his Harley.

"Really?"

"Yep. Duct tape and Elmer's glue."

Harry laughs.

"My Daddy said Duct tape and Elmer's glue hold the whole world together."

"Really?" says Harry.

"Yep, and if that doesn't work we will get a bigger hammer and a bigger punch. Now, what color is the transmission?" Harry does not allow me to help him fix his bike.

I was changing loads of laundry one day when I discovered a freshly washed package of condoms stuck to the side of the washer. I was old enough to know what they were...but I was young enough to want to bust my brother out.

So I carried the soggy condoms into the living room, held them out proudly, and asked, "Mommy, what are these for?"  
My mom laughed-snorted and said, "Ask Daddy." (Who was sitting right next to her by the way.)

Dad, without missing a beat, informed me that they were special balloons. "You blow them up, put a little water in them and throw them off the roof at school." Awesome. I didn't, but that was an awesome idea.

My mother - the normal parent - slapped his arm and took the condoms. Otherwise, I probably would have tried it.

Before I was born, my father warned my mother that if I was a boy - they were going to trade me in for a Corvette. So, all of my life, before hearing that story, whenever I did something wrong, stupid or just was being an asshole, my Daddy would shake his head and tell my mom, "See, we shoulda just got the Corvette."

On the car ride home from the car dealership, my dad was driving my first car, the Camaro, home. He told me as we stopped at a stop sign, "Sissy. Neutral drops are really really bad for your transmission." I had no idea what a neutral drop was.

My Dad slid the gear selector into neutral and revved the engine. "But if you ever have to do one, this is how you do it." And he slammed the car into gear. It was awesome.

Later? Driving alone? I perfected them.

Now whenever I share one of my many random nuggets of wisdom, or even when I am being serious, Art gives me his best skeptical glare and asks me if my Daddy taught me that.

Art worries about money, and plans stuff. I am constantly telling him that we will burn that bridge when we get to it.

"Did your Daddy teach you that, too?"

"Of course not. My Daddy said never burn bridges." Art is looks relieved for a moment. "He says to blow them up."

Funny, I never noticed Art rolling his eyes before we were married.

Daddy Killed my Shrew

I was about sixteen when I lived in the basement. I know, that sounds wrong... My brother had built a room downstairs in my parent's basement, lived there for a few months and then moved out again. So, after he left, I took over the basement room.

My parent's basement is unfinished. The floor is raw cement. So, Jason had built this platform thing and laid plywood over it. He had pretty much built a box in the basement and stuck a door in it. I loved it.

I had only been down there for a few weeks when I discovered that I was not alone. You see, in the space between the plywood floor and the cement floor, a shrew had built a home.

Once I figured out that it wasn't a ghost making all of those noises down there, I decided that I liked the little shrew. I told my dad that it was there. He was not happy about it. Not that he came down to look for the damn thing. I guess he figured it would die down there or something.

I adopted it. It would come out from under my floor when I wasn't there and eat the cat food that I left in front of the door for it. I would crouch (uh- on top of the plywood of course, I didn't want rabies.) and watch the little shrew scuttle back and forth for hours.

My dad, having come down into the basement for some reason or another, discovered a little bit of cat food on the floor. He made some comment about it to my mother, which I overheard.

"It's for the shrew, Daddy." And now, Daddy is pissed. This rarely happens.

"Kristin Leigh! You cannot feed the shrew. Do you want more of them in the basement?"

"Jeez Dad. Okay." And he walks off muttering...

"Do you know that your daughter has been feeding the shrew in the basement?" He tells my mom while I walk back down to my room, handfuls of cat food in my pockets.

But that night, the shrew doesn't come out to eat the cat food. I soon discover why.

As I am switching a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer - I see something stuck to the side of the cylinder. I peer in. And yes, it is my shrew. I have a sick feeling in my gut. Poor little guy. I am thinking.

Gently, I remove the now eyeless shrew from the washer, and wrap him in a Downy sheet. I remember thinking, briefly, that it was pretty gross that the washer sucked his eyes out. And that probably I should rewash the clothes, because who the hell wants to wear eyeballs and shrew guts...I carry the poor little dead shrew up the stairs and hold him out for my parents to see.

"Daddy! You killed my shrew!" And again, without missing a beat, or taking a breath...

My Daddy tells me, "You know, I thought I heard something down there going, 'WO-ow, WO-ow, WO-ow.'" Except this time, even he can't keep a straight face, and by the last "WO-ow", we are all giggling. But I still feel a little sick to my stomach as I throw the shrew in the trash can - and my Dad? He hums Taps as I lower the Downy Mountain Fresh coffin into the can.

### When I was a Kid

My mother was in a panic. She was all flustered.

"Steve!" She yelled at my dad, "Quick! Go get the [insert name of garden tool here] and dig up that thistle before the baby steps on it!"

And my father rushed to comply...

Whoa. Back the hell up! Who are these people?

Of course I didn't want Trinity to step on the thistle barefoot. It hurts. I did it a million times as a kid.

My parents' response, "Well, put some damn shoes on!"

These cannot be the same people, running around in circles in the yard, on a search and destroy mission for tiny offensive thistle weeds.

This cannot be the same mother who made me finish my dinner before taking me to get a tetanus shot when I stepped on a rusty nail. Her response even then, "Why the hell were you outside with no shoes on?"

I had no answer for her, of course. I was too busy making sure I could still open my jaw.

They now spray the back yard for bugs... Where the hell was the spray when we were kids, huh? They don't want the grand babies to get mosquito bites out there.

Really?

Where was that method of thinking when my mom sent me out to the garden at dusk to pick cucumbers? (Cucumbers seem to be giant mosquito bait, by the way.)

And when I came back in, totally covered in itchy red welts, I don't remember even one time that my mother held an ice cube to the bites. No, she would tell me to go get the stinky medicine stuff, and put it on. And then, she would spend the rest of the week telling me not to scratch them or I would get scars.

"They itch Mom."

"Of course they itch. Stop scratching."

Of course I did scratch them, and I do have scars from them.

Mom's response, "Well, I told you not to scratch them."

Let one of the grand babies get a mosquito bite though...and the world stops spinning.

"Grammie, it itches."

"Oh you poor baby. Come here, Grammie make it feel better." And out comes the ice cube, and sometimes ice cream, because ice cream has magical healing properties at Grammie's house.

Really? Are you kidding me?

What the hell happened to that "Suck it up, kid." attitude from my own childhood!

Screw the whole "We walked five miles to school every day, uphill both ways", I now tell my kids,

"You know, when we were little, our parents left evil thistle plants growing wild in the backyard...and they didn't even fog for mosquitoes..."

My parents' excuse for their behavior, "Well, Grandkids are way better than kids. If we'd have known then, we would have had them first..."

###

### My Mother, the Drug Dealer

I don't know what possessed my mother to tell my children that peroxide was "magic water." It sounded okay for a little while, but then they started to say,

"Do I need the magic water in the brown bottle, Grammie?" They may as well have been asking for the bottle in the brown paper bag that no one is supposed to know is in Grammie's purse. At least to an outsider, it appears that my children are asking Grammie for a shot of Jack.

"I want the special white powder, Grammie. Can I have some? Can I?"

Yeah. Because everyone is going to assume that the kids are talking about powdered sugar. That's the first thing that pops up in my head.

In truth, my Mother wouldn't know a joint if it crawled into her lungs and smoked itself. I know so, and I am going to share the story, because the statute of limitations is far past now.

I was fourteen when my mom picked me up from my friend's house. She had come earlier than I expected, and we had just finished smoking pot in a bedroom the size of a bathroom. I reeked, absolutely stunk, of marijuana. I was high and I could smell me. And my mom had always had a nose from Hell. She could smell a burning cigarette in the dead of night, from a block away. I am only slightly exaggerating.

I think that I am busted; I am in deep do-do. But my mom leans over and sniffs me and then says, "What is that smell?"

I tell her what every pot smoking teenage kid tells their parents, "Oh. It's this incense that Leslie just got."

And my Mom? My, nose from Hell, grew up in the sixties and seventies and somehow never smelled marijuana, Mom, she tells me, "Oooh. I like that."

Since she like it so much, I graciously offer to light some at home. In my room, of course, because the smell might be too strong for her sensitive nose otherwise.

A lot of parents are conflicted about admitting their prior drug use to their children. Not me. That's a hell of a detourant.

"Don't smoke pot, kids. Mommy will know. Mommy smoked lots of pot back in the day...I know what it smells like."

###

### My Kids Think I'm an Idiot

Once upon a time, to Trinity, I was God. I knew everything. She didn't lie and she didn't do things she wasn't supposed to, because Mommy would know. Mommy would see her with her infamous "eye in the back of her head."

Now, to Trinity, I am an imbecile. I am a drooling lobotomy patient on daily shock therapy treatment. She is God now. I am just the Mom, who will believe any line of crap she chooses to dole out.

"Well Trin, why didn't you write down ALL of the homework assignments?"

"I didn't see them."

"You didn't see them? Right in front of you on the blackboard? Right underneath the ones you did write down?"

Sad fact: Sarcasm is lost on my oldest daughter.

"Yeah, Mom."

"Trinity, do you think I am stupid?"

"No! Mom, I really didn't see them." She is in shock a little bit. She really does think that I am an idiot. She might not know she thinks that, but she does.

Trinity is missing 14 homework assignments. They up and disappeared. She swears she did them and she put them away in her folder where they go. And then, someone must have come over and removed them. And they must have burned them when they were done playing with them, because the papers are nowhere to be found.

Cadence learned faster than her sister did. She is only five and she thinks she is smarter than I am.

When I find her and Quinn, who was only a year old at the time, perched on top of the dresser. I don't even have to yell before she tells me,

"Quinn got there all by himself Mom. I didn't even show him how to do it." Huh. My drool must be dripping again.

I remember not thinking my parents were idiots, too. But still, handing them incredible lines of crap that I was certain they would buy – hook, line and sinker.

In print now, Mom and Dad, your ultimate satisfaction...I'm sorry. You were right, and I was wrong.

Those cigarettes you found in my backpack? They were mine, not my friends. The beer bottle in the crawl space? It was also mine, but if you must know, it tasted like dog poop, and I only drank a little bit.

All that homework? The truth about it, I did it. I just didn't turn it in. Why? Because I am a little bit of an asshole. You might be able to make me do it...but you couldn't make me turn it in. Damn the Man! Stupid, I know.

The homecoming dance? Of course we didn't go. We were in Jer's basement, smoking pot.

Those cigarettes Jason swore that I stole from him? Only partly true. He said we took three because he had five when he went to bed. We only took two, because there were only four in the pack. So there! Been dying to right that misconception for years now.

And yes, I knew exactly what all of those t-shirts that the school took away from me meant. It's pretty hard to misinterpret "Hooters". Plus, I was way smarter back then, you know, before I had kids and became a moron.

And some truths that you may not know yet...

I never would have considered taking the Bullshit Spray to school if you hadn't have told me not to.

I didn't smoke cigarettes because my friends did, or to look cool. I smoked them because I knew you didn't want me to.

The burn marks on the table and the carpet in my room? They weren't from cigarettes. They were from when I used to pour lines of rubbing alcohol on them and light it on fire. I don't know why. It just looked cool.

The prank calls you got at night? They were my friends. We took turns prank calling each other's parents.

### My Brother taught me most of what I never knew I needed to know.

My brother, Jason, is a full six years older than I am. I have always secretly idolized him.

He has taught me probably as much as my parents....

First and foremost... I never take my shoes off. Not because my parents called me a barefoot hillbilly constantly as a child, or because of the rusty nail I once stepped on...No, this involves a loaded .45 magazine. It is because my big brother always thought it was great fun to chase me around the house and hit my bare toes with a loaded .45 magazine. For those of you who don't know, it's not as heavy as the gun itself...but it's pretty damn heavy.

I am also pretty easy to wake up now - as Jason taught me that if I put off getting out of bed, he will use ICE WATER to encourage me.

Some of you may be thinking how awful that is; I deserved it. I did at some point stab the kid in the back with a paring knife.

A stewardess is a pilot hole. Oh yeah, that totally had to be explained to me. I kept hearing him say that he had to drill a stewardess. Finally, I asked him what the hell he was talking about. "You know, a pilot hole." He then had to explain what a pilot hole was.

Jason is the one that told me about my Daddy, standing on top of the ductwork at work, yelling, "I love me. I love me. I'm the best I ever had!" While stomping his foot on the metal. Thanks for that by the way - it is always a big hit at the bar.

The reason that I love firearms? That is 100% my brother's influence. (Much to my mother's regret.)

I followed him into the incredibly strange world of selling guns. Because Jason did it, I wanted to do it, too. I have since also adopted his attitude toward the general public. Retail will do that to a person.

Jason taught me how to balance my diet as well. His best advice, "Well as long as you shit more than you eat, you won't gain weight. I eat whatever I want and a box of Wheat Thins every day." Ha!

I have friends from middle school who still talk about the way Jason used to shoot groundhogs out at my Uncle Jeff's place. That poor kid on the crutches, trying to run uphill. He must have been around 13... and my brother scared the hell out of him by trying to shoot the groundhog in the bushes. Sigh. We relive it every time I run into one of those boys. Poor guy swears that Jason wanted to kill him.

I am sure that he wasn't trying to hit the kid. Jason hits what he aims for.

Jason has graciously taught me lessons that I didn't even know that I needed to know.

1. Drinking and knives – really bad idea.

2. If your sub-pump is blocked up and an expert recommends shooting a .22 short down into it, and you don't happen to have one with you, you should never, ever, substitute the .22 with a 10mm.

3. Trigger jobs are better left to experts, or at least it is a better idea to do them somewhere that is not in close proximity to a toilet. Yes, the gun has a super sweet trigger pull, but Uncle Jeff needed a toilet more.

To elaborate on the drinking and knives things...

First and foremost, before you think we are a horrible family that didn't care...Jason has been to the hospital more than a few times for self-inflicted knife wounds. He doesn't do them on purpose, really. I guess he just has pretty bad luck.

The last time was a pretty bad one. In fact, they ended up rushing him into surgery because he had cut (sliced?) the gastric artery. Not funny. Not even a little bit funny.

What is a bit funny is that we were so used to Jason going in for stitches that when he called from the ER at some ungodly hour (before the bars closed though) no one even went to the damn hospital. We just all assumed they would stitch him up and send him home, again.

Anyhow, from what I heard and remember...Jason somehow managed to stab himself in the chest with a gigantic knife. Well yes, there was alcohol involved. So, he goes back to his buddies and tells them that he needs to go home. When he releases the pressure from the wound - blood squirts, and that is never good. His buddies, who are maybe not drunk, but probably feeling pretty good until the blood squirted them, finish arguing about whose car he is going to be bleeding in and take him to the hospital.

Jason is protesting that he doesn't need to go to the hospital, he just needs to go home, and he will be fine. His mom can put a Band-Aid on it.

Then he tells his friend that he is cold, but then hot and then cold again.

His friend, in all of his, maybe semi-inebriated-ish, state, tells Jason, "That's because you're dying, Dude."

They are not far from the hospital, and when they arrive they are greeted by the local police department. They naturally want to know who has stabbed the man at the bar. Back and forth they go with my brother's friends, as they do not believe that he has stabbed himself.

Finally, the oldest of the three, very calmly explains to the police that the only crime that had taken place that evening was pure stupidity.

Ha!

Jason has a way impressive scar from the whole thing. It's important that I note here...drunk and bleeding, he still somehow managed to piss that ER doctor off. So the doctor got even by labeling the wound as "superficial" and telling Jason to go back to work on Monday.

Every time I am around my family with a knife in my hand - which happens more than you would think - they warn me to be careful. I have to remind them, over and over, that I am the kid who hasn't stabbed herself.

I know this is supposed to be about parenting, so how about this little tidbit? I hope someday, when my children are grown, they will still believe that Mommy can fix anything with a Band-Aid.

