Diapers and Potty Training

                                   
    I am about to disclose a dirty little secret. I have had time to ruminate on whether or not to share this with the world, and I am thinking that I cannot possibly be the only one out there who has been stressed to the core about the ways and means by which we teach our progeny the proper procedures to relieve themselves. Since my diaper-bag days are now a memory, I feel ready to share, and cast caution to the wind. After all, this is a hurdle for every human being, is it not? And as a mother, responsible for this task, I have had enough of the insecurities to last a lifetime, and would seek to liberate parents everywhere from same.

    We have all heard the boasts from somewhere in the ranks about the child who was potty trained five minutes after they were born, and the various methods out there for getting the job done, and done right. Hmph. Well, goody for you. Then there are the rest of us.

    My poor firstborn child – guinea pig to the last. Maybe I just up and had that kid too young, because between his age and my immaturity, what a pair we made!  While introducing him to his only living set of Great-Grandparents, I begin to make conversations with Grandma about diapers. She is beholding the plastic tapes and “new” elastic legs, and insisting that there is nothing better than the good old cloth diapers and rubber pants. Wanting to make a good impression, I spout some foolishness about how, yes, these plastic menaces are ruining not only the baby’s bottoms, but destroying Mother Earth by failing to biodegrade in landfills. To my credit, I made a very good impression on Grandma. To my chagrin, she visits a few days later bearing gifts….six packages of cloth diapers and enough rubber pants for all of the above, pins for the packaging, and a nice, big, white, shiny diaper pail. Gee. Thanks……I think.

    Dressie Bessie proved to be a patient victim of my attempts at learning to apply these ecologically correct items to the strategic areas successfully. Or so I hoped. No matter. They still leak. Oh, yes….they do. Do not tell me I did it wrong, because over the years that I stuck with my newly adopted (albeit contrived) conviction, I learned about 10 different ways to fold them, as many ways to pin them, with two, three and even one pin. I became familiar with every type of diaper cover known to man, from plastic, to rubber, to flannel, to wool (bad idea, by the way).  I learned the intricacies of rinsing, and soaking, and washing, and bleaching (or not), of line drying, of machine drying, of lint filters, of cotton and polyester and the absorbency factor (or lack thereof). I learned about the life expectancy of the diaper, and the amount of diapers you can keep putting in the pail without having to fumigate the house when it is finally time to empty what is now a sewage bin. I learned how to kick myself in the butt for leaving one in the toilet and finding it in the middle of the night, when all I wanted to do was use the toilet and not play “rinsy-rinsy-rinsy” at 3:00 am. I learned what will get the smell off your hands, and how to erase all the training mother gave me about playing in the toilet. I learned how to pack extra clothes because they WILL leak. And if you are at church, it will not only leak fluids, but most likely solids on that fine day. I learned about the economics of it all, and I finally had a long talk with Ma Nature, and how she could talk so smart because she had all kinds of ways of dealing with this stuff, and diapers were not on HER list. After just over six years, I won the debate, and the diapers were retired to burp clothes and dust rags.

    Now…..one would think this experience would have pushed me into the potty training camp early on, wanting to rid myself of this hassle, right?  Well, it did! Why, my little guy would be the first in his play group at church to be found with a skinny, normal sized butt, I vowed. However, as per the course of life for most Mothers, the rubber of my quest failed to meet the road of reality. Like pregnancy and birth, there was just no rushing these things. But don’t get me wrong…we had training, all right. But just who was training who?

    In my obsession to get the child to use the toilet, I first approached it from “The Book”. Scheduled times. Right before eating. Right after eating. Right before drinking. Right after drinking. Right before playing. Right after playing. Right before napping. Right after napping. Before we leave home. When we get home. Right before bed. Right when we wake up. (This, in case you missed it, meant the child spent most of his waking hours in the john.) Why, I had not had this much fun since training the dog!

    Lesson learned? As for me, I became a woman obsessed. Potty, potty, potty….it was all about the potty. And Junior? Well, he learned that his mother had some psychotic thing about that porcelain chair with the scary hole of water in it, and learned to freeze up every time I removed his pants and plunked his tiny butt on that cold precipice.

    The less he used the pot, the more obsessed I became. My social life dwindled. And why? Because no conversation could be completed before I had to run baby to the bathroom. And he learned that if he wanted my sole attention, all he had to do was say, “Potty!” and I would drop everything, and off I would run, just baby and me for some quality time in the nearest commode. Of course, he never did his business on the pot, so this resulted in some REAL quality time, changing the diaper (and of course, the whole outfit, because the damn cloth diapers leaked…). Wasn’t this fun??

    No…not fun. Not fun at all. I have read all the books. They do not work. I am frustrated, now. It seems everyone else’s child has been using the toilet independently for at least a year now, and then there is MY kid.  Oh, the shame of it all! And, I confess, it was not too long before I was heaping that shame upon him, too. I had big expectations, here, pal, and YOU are not picking up your end of the deal! Shame on you!!

    Memo, gals….this is not a great idea. The poor kid!  I look back and cringe. What was the tyke to think?  Let’s see. “Every day from the day I was born, nature has taken its course. Mommy comes and cuddles me and changes me and makes me all clean while she croons about, ‘what a wittle stinky wabbit skin I’m in’, and we laugh and she tickles my tummy and powders my bottom.  Then one day, she went crazy! She takes off my diaper and sets me on the ledge of a very, scary well. My butt is cold and exposed to heaven knows what down there. She has me under the arms, and is talking about poopie.  I have no idea what she is thinking, but I know poopie is the stuff I have been leaving in the diaper, and why doesn’t she just go and get this morning’s contribution, which I can smell is still in the diaper pail?”

    Poor child. Things go from bad and confusing to worse: “Mom has become the Evil Toilet Troll! Every time I get relaxed enough to let nature do its thing, Mom gets that look on her face, and I know she is about to interrupt my ‘movement’ and grab me up, pulling down my pants while running me to the toilet and slam-dunking my butt into the hole therein.”

    The child, I do believe, vowed never to poop again. And so he did not. Not the first day. Nor the second. Nor the third, nor the fourth. By the fifth day of eating with no return, the child has a tummy ache. This was no isolated bad cookie. Nope. This was a colon full up to the cecum. So what does Mom do now?  Oh, yeah….Intervention.

    This is potty training’s day in court. This is the day of reckoning for teaching this child of mine what the toilet is for. And this time I seem to have the experts on my side. They suggest: An enema.  (Was I the only woman who feared this more than childbirth?  The very idea! And how is it I forgot that just now?)

    Off to the drugstore, and I leave with the Pharmacists blessing and a Fleets Pediatric disposable enema.

    I will spare you the details of the administration, but I will say that the mother who used to giggle and coo over the baby’s mess and clean up was in attendance. She remembered that little smiling baby, whose place had suddenly been taken by a little boy who was about to have the crap scared out of him, literally. As I placed his tearful form on the pot, the Toilet Troll slunk out the back door.  To this day, I have never seen a human being hold an enema in for that long. That little guy struggled, and cried, and writhed and fought the pressures within, until we were both sobbing wrecks in front of the toilet. Shame on whom??

    Well, let’s head for that happy ending, shall we?  (I never like to do more than pass my regrets in the hall and move right along…)  With Mommy back at the helm, and Nature and Fleets joining forces, the job ultimately got done, and I never looked back. The diapers were back on. The child took to standing in front of the piano tapping on the lowest keys to get the job done. I purposely ignored him while he did what he had to do, and gave him the same look you give your husband when he farts at the table, before asking if he wanted some help into clean pants. Then while we cleaned up we talked about supper, and toys and spiders and the new baby. No stress, no condemnation, just a little fact of life that we deal with.

    It was not long before he made peace with his colon, and just moving things along was no longer a threat. I bought a cushioned toilet seat insert for him, so that he would not feel like the toilet was the gaping mouth of hell trying to suck his guts out, but rather a place where he could sit comfortably and read a book for bit.

    And then, Grandma bought him brand new sheets for Christmas!! Wow!  And thank you, Mom, for suggesting that he try and keep those sheets clean, because just a few weeks before his baby sister arrived, at the tender age of three-and-a-half, he came to the conclusion that not only did he not want to pee in his new sheets from Grandma, but the toilet was not such a bad place to eliminate Mr. Stinky.

    Yep. That was it. It was all over. He never wet the bed after that, and never used another diaper. How cool was that?  For all the time and stress and effort I had put into the “project”, it happened when I stopped trying to force the issue. Ain’t life like that, though?

     The benefactors in all this?  The other eight kids. Never again did I make such an issue out of the social graces of the toilet. Aesthetics grow, too, and in no time they will decide that this is not a good feeling. And as long as you have shown them the cleaner alternative, trust me, they will exercise that option!

    And think of the benefit to you, too. No more “misses”. No more “accidents”. No more unexpected laundry. No more “jump and run because Junior has to go”. Forget that. My other kids would try that. I would simply pause my activity or conversation long enough to tell them, “If you have to go that bad, go in  your pants. You’re wearing diaper. Otherwise wait until I am finished here and then I will help you. ”  Coup de Gras….they do NOT want to hear that for long. And they train themselves! How much easier can it get?

    Now that I have divulged my quick and dirty guide to potty training, I suppose you are wondering what ever became of the diaper debacle. Well, as I said, six years of diaper wringing and washing wore me out. There is now a landfill named in my honor in an undisclosed location, wherein lie some 16 years worth of disposable diapers – mute testimony to my endeavor. I have faithfully been changing diapers – continuously -  for 20 years, and only recently retired when my youngest child gave it up for good. I have honorary stock in Kimberly Clark for single handedly keeping one branch of their operation in business. Once I was rid of the burden of The Diaper Bag, I felt a profound burden had been lifted. My chiropractor has adjusted that side of my body back to where it belongs, but to this day, I still cannot bring myself to carry a purse bigger than a fanny pack.

    And what of my son?  Had the toileting trauma maimed him for life? Did he grow up with “issues”?  Somebody needs to call the Freud, because my parental blunder did not result in an anal retentive social misfit. Rather, I will be welcoming him and his new bride home from their honeymoon in Jamaica next week, and helping them settle into their first house. 

    So, my stressed out friend reading this, take my advice and RELAX! You are doing fine, and children, despite warnings to the contrary, are a very forgiving bunch, and your love will be more than enough to cover the debts left from any shortcomings while doing what is in us to do, to give our kids the best we’ve got.

Dear Facebook Dad...

Dear Facebook Dad,

In reference to your newly viral video: Well said, my friend, well said. I am, however, going to stop short of saying well done. Let me qualify that by saying that I feel your pain! I am currently on my 8^th 15-year-old, and if I’ve learned nothing else, I can tell you that as a parent, it’s a shitty age. I can tell you that as far as an attitude goes, your daughter is dead center of the bell curve. Probably the poster child for all that ails that particular age group.

I can tell you that my first run in with this attitude was a 15-year-old know-it-all who called me a lazy bitch. Me…the single parent of my nine kids with no child support from their father, working more than full time - on a farm, no less, - in school part time, building my family a house with my own hands in my off time…a lazy bitch. Hmmm. What to do. That was back in 2003, and she got a backhand across the mouth. The second time a kid put me in their sights as the target of all their teenage rage came down to one of us leaving the house in handcuffs…and although it should have been, it wasn’t her. I found that 15-year-old boys who have out-sized me are not easily extricated from cars to get their ass back in the house “because I said so”. These are just three highlights from the adventures of 15-year-old kids in my parenting career.

As I said, I am on number eight, now, and I have never raised a hand to this kid, and rarely raised my voice. Not because she is a perfect child, or somewhere out on the edge of the aforementioned bell curve, but rather because I have learned something over the years of dealing with this attitude.

The first thing I realized, is that they all have it. They all go through the ‘Mom and Dad are such schmucks’ stage to one degree or another. They are full of hormones and angst and we are convenient targets.

Secondly, and more importantly, they outgrow it. Oh, there are plenty of people who outgrow the attitude, and go on to adopt even worse ones, of victimization and anger toward everything.  But most of them grow to realize over time that they were brash, immature, and just plain old nasty to their folks. For some it takes longer than others, but it happens. Life is not static. It’s ever moving forward.

Third, I have learned that my response to their ugliness will by and large set the stage for the next few years of their teen-hood, and their launch into adulthood.

What you said is absolutely true, and I hope that the many who see this will take note of the generation of kids we have raised, who have a sense of entitlement that I cannot even fathom. As a Facebook video, it was a “Go DAD!” moment, because you acted upon something that we all WANT to do when we come up against the same thing. And if this were a movie, we’d all cheer you on. But I do suspect that this is a reality. That you are a real person, with real frustration, and a real father/daughter relationship at stake.  And there is a reason why we don’t go out and act upon the violent urges we have.

Anger begets anger. As I indicated above, I am not some hippie who does not believe in corporal punishment. It’s just that I have learned how to make it pretty much unnecessary. I have learned that we are not raising kids…we are raising adults. I’ve learned, further, that parenting as a means of controlling another person just doesn’t work as well as parenting as a means of teaching our children to take responsibility for their own lives, and this is far more profitable when taught via our actions rather than our words. They are not always listening, but they are watching, whether they admit it or not.

I am not presuming to know the “right” solution to this kind of issue, but what I am suggesting is that shooting the computer was probably akin to poking the bear with a stick. You pissed me off, now I’m gonna piss you off…the start of what I hope for your sake won’t be a life-long pissing match between you and your daughter. At some point, someone has to give, and let me tell you, that as the parent to take the “high” road, and not respond in-kind to their nastiness generally diffuses a situation in the end.  Never, and I repeat, NEVER underestimate the power of karma for these kids.

Had I handled the altercations, insults and disrespect from my teenagers in the manner that I wanted to – (and shooting their stuff was probably high up on my list, too!) – I might not have the friends that I have today in my grown children.

Most of us were/are able to parent and discipline in the privacy of our own homes. And while I applaud your intentions, this action, especially having gone viral, is going to live for a long, long time, immortalized in video on the internet for all to see. You are now the new hero to a million parents out there, who actually DID what we all fantasize about doing, to the cheers of the same.

But what about the kids? While they may gasp or chuckle at the video, the comment that keeps repeating is “I’m glad I’m not HER!”  It would seem that your actions may have served to widen the rift between parents and teens in a day and age where teens need the input and guidance of their parents more than ever. But that cannot be accomplished when we are at war for control of their lives and attitudes. They need to trust us. They are moving from a stage of dependence to independence; from depending on us as their parents, to depending on themselves. And through the teen years, their brains are not even done growing, for heaven’s sake! They need as much wisdom as we can possibly expose them to. If they see us as the enemy, how will they trust us to guide them? They won’t.  In fact, too often they will do the polar opposite of whatever we say just out of spite. And we end up having to look on while they charge headlong into walls and box canyons in their lives. Trust me, the lamentation then is not that I did not ground them longer, or discipline them more severely. It will be a sorrow that we do not know this person better…and that this person does not hold us in esteem…this person has no clue how very much we love them.

Whether you were aware of it or not, the fact that your video has gone viral is about to rain upon you more publicity that you could possibly imagine. You will now be the poster child for parents “striking back” against their children. My guess is that this is not what you intended. But like it or not, you are about the get your 15-minutes of fame. What will you do with it? Everyone is listening now. Expect the calls from the media…everyone from Oprah to Tosh.O. What will you tell them? You’ve got the mic…what do you really want to say?

Will you continue to promote parental tactics that further alienate our teens, creating the “Us vs. Them” mentality that seems to have been embraced by so many? Or will you share what it’s like to have your entire life invaded by the masses via video – and perhaps rethink whether or not we need to dip to a level of anger that ends in destruction? Maybe that laptop with all it’s new gadgetry would have been better off donated to someone who genuinely needed it and appreciated it. Perhaps your daughter could be signed up to go on a mission trip to a Mexican orphanage for a season, or volunteered at a homeless shelter to see how the other half lives. Maybe a job at a nursing home should be mandatory,  rather than being confined to her room/home – the last place she wants to be. The very place where teens seethe and plot their courses to go as far away from us as possible.

Motivated by an anger than so many of us clearly understand, we have punitively shown our children what they do not or no longer have.We take their freedom, their toys, their power.  Perhaps it’s time for someone to take the pedestal and suggest that we should count backwards from 10, find our motivation in our LOVE for them, and show them what they DO have.

Goodbye...Again...

This was so unexpected. My 5^th child, 3^rd boy, left yesterday to join the army. It’s been talked about for months, and prepared for, and is certainly no surprise. We have objectively discussed his plans and just lived life through his last weeks and days here. And then the day arrived. 

Shouldn’t this be the same as when all the other kids left? I’m no stranger to this, after all. I remember saying goodbye to my oldest as a daily presence in my life after my divorce when he was 14 to live with his grandparents. Angry and displaced, we missed a few years, but we worked it out. I suppose I was too over-worked and over-stressed by the other eight kids to miss him terribly. That sounds bad, but I wouldn’t trade the relationship I have with him today for anything. We talk daily, and he’s the most together kid there is. And at 27, father of two, he’s not really a kid anymore. 

My daughter and son at 16, leaving in fits of pique to live with their father…while the pain of having them leave was palpable, it was made bearable by the fact that you knew they were off to learn a lesson. They were angry – at me. The grass was greener over there, for sure. But I knew that pasture well, and it just has a lot more shit on it to step in. And with all the responsibilities still loaded onto my plate, again…it was as much stress relief as it was painful to watch them struggle in their new free environment. And again, when I look back, there are no regrets – my kids are my best friends. 

My second daughter, needing to leave home at 15…not in anger, but in determination. A determination and calling that cannot be ignored, despite what the memes of society say. I recall the tears as I left her 1800 miles away on a Texas ranch, staring out the train window, and wondering how this would all turn out. I knew it was the right thing…regardless of how much it hurt my heart. Time has shown, we backed the right horse.

But this…this has been different. I woke up the night before he left, and cried. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to write him a note, but the words would not come. Back and forth to bed and the kitchen. His little sister can’t sleep either. We hug and cry some more. Why? This is crazy – I’m just not given to these outbursts.

The alarms all go off before the sun is up, and I get Phil out of bed to say good-bye. Friends have gathered here to see him off. The recruiter is a few minutes late, and Phil’s bus arrives. It was touching to see him hug and kiss his brother, and Phil tells me later he was trying not to cry.

The recruiter arrives and gives me emergency details, which I really don’t think I’ll need. He tells me his itinerary, and I am holding back a deluge of tears, and I don’t really know what to do with them. I watched my boy get into the car, smile, and wave. See you soon, kiddo. I love you….

It’s taken a day to process this all. Like a holiday, only no one else is observing it. I headed to the kitchen and produced stuffed green peppers, dried pineapple, brussel sprouts, bran muffins and home made bread and rice. And kept the kitchen clean to boot. And all the while I contemplated this shift.

Nine kids is a bit of ridiculous number of children to have, and I never did wrap my brain around the empty nest thing. How could I? I could only imagine a day of no kids about the house! The ins and outs of the older kids to date have been more or less breaks in the action – but there was still always action, whether they were there to add to it or not. But these days are a little slower.

I don’t have to get them up and ready for school. I don’t do their laundry. I don’t keep track of all their hats, mitten and gloves, and yes, I’m the lazy mom who doesn’t even attempt to keep up with their academic litter. In the early stages of letting the older ones go, I started to let go of the little ones, too, in a sense. Giving them a little more personal responsibility than perhaps they wanted.(Resentments they will just have to get over – I did the best I could.) But with the needs that Phil has, they see up close and personal that I simply do not have time to cater to needs they can take care of themselves. Welcome to the adult world. It’s always been my philosophy that I am not raising children…I am raising adults.

And then I contemplate my latest child’s departure. Why this difference? Because this dynamic was so different. This child – number five – whose home birth I actually enjoyed; who ushered in a part of my life that made me who I am, and pushed all the limits of what I could do; whose memories are so fond; who smiled so early in life and never stopped; who watched observantly as his siblings tripped and stumbled; who determined to avoid the pitfalls they found; who stepped up to his responsibilities as an older sibling to the best of his ability; and who has been a daily presence in my life for the better of 20 years…is going his own way.

No…for me this is new. This is not familiar. No anger, no arguments, no “I know better than you” bullshit. Nope – this is the way it’s “supposed” to be, you see. They go to all 12 years of  school, have a job at the grocery store, have learned the basics of how to take care of themselves and then leave to pursue higher education, a job or the military…right?

But that’s not how it’s been. As my kids have decided to leave home, they have done so with as much frustration as hope, and as much anger as enthusiasm. A teenager spewing insults at you for your parenting mistakes as they perceive them is far easier not to miss. Especially, as I mentioned, in light of all the other kids I had to take care of. I didn’t miss the drama, the arguments, or the stress. Most of it got internalized to that space between awake and asleep where you wonder where they are and how they are doing. The missing them was more than made up for when they’d show up on the doorstep, or on the phone with a problem only Mom could help them with. And while I wished I didn’t just have to be on the clean-up crew of their fragile independent lives, you can’t help feeling in that letting-go-of-the-angry-teen process, that they are going to learn the hard way….and that is okay. You asked for it, kiddo…you got it.

But here in lies the difference. Life is never “fair”. Not even for the kids who leave home the “right” way. Reality still runs at you and tries to bite at times. But I want the world to be fair to this kid. It’s not that I don’t want this for ALL my kids…of course I do. But the way in which each of them chose to declare their independence  has had everything to do with their attitude. Those who went out swinging have been knocked on their asses a few times. Thinking life was a game to be conquered, they are finding out it’s far more a story to be written. What can I expect now for the kid who is going out into the same world, now, with a smile, a handshake, and high hopes for his journey in life? In the military?

In a house that grows quieter by the year, his presence has been pleasant and steady. His diplomacy appreciated – and in all our time together nary a harsh word between us. Disagreements, to be sure – but always in the context of a reasonable discussion. Even though he was not here a whole lot since his summer graduation, he was still around. The chauffer, the errand-boy, the fill-in-the-gaps and pick-up-the-pieces kind of kid.

He is going now to write his own story – apart from mine. The same as his siblings. His younger siblings are not so young anymore, and my life will simmer down another notch. One less set of footsteps around the house. No more bounding down the stairs, as only he can do. His story will begin to take shape – and I want him to be happy. I want him to succeed. I want life to respond in kind to him for all that he has put forward in his life to meet it with: Love for family, grace, and positivity. So happy to think that these laws of reciprocity will come into play for this middle child of mine…so sad to no longer have this person as part of my daily experience…who could ever make sense of all these tears?

Letter to My Children - September, 2011

I think, sometimes, my dear children, that you forget who you are talking to at times. 

Yes, we are friends in many ways, but I will always be your MOTHER. 

I will ALWAYS be concerned with your well being.

I will ALWAYS try to tend a wound. 

I will ALWAYS give advice - you are free to take it or leave it, but by god you will hear it. 

I will ALWAYS try to "make it better", by action, word or even thoughts if that's all I can do, because along with profound joy, you have no idea how much heartbreak it is for me to just be a spectator in the stands and watch my children play their own game of life - through 9 other peoples up and downs - I get to experience them ALL in my heart. 

I will ALWAYS remind you all to STAY SAFE. I don't care if you think I'm accusing you of being stupid. I'm not. I just genuinely want to remind all of you every time you leave here to remember your safety. 

I will ALWAYS be honest with you - even if it's not want you want to hear, because that's who I am. 

I will ALWAYS be REAL with you - because I want you to be the same with me. 

I will ALWAYS be a part of your life - because I AM - and so ARE YOU. Life or death is of no consequence in that matter. 

I will ALWAYS want the best for you, and have - and will continue to support any means to that end - even when it means changing a belief system to accommodate it. 

I will ALWAYS be proud of you NO MATTER WHAT - because just living your lives the way you are - on the edge, adventurously, and with gusto - takes tremendous courage and fortitude in this culture - and
I will ALWAYS BELIEVE that my kids- every one of them - will be total successes as defined by themselves and me - and that is a belief no one can take away from me. 

I will ALWAYS love you with a Universal love that is yet undefined in it's power and virtue.

Things you just needed to know.

Namaste'.................(look it up!)

Your Mother - Sally

   

Bedtime - circa 1994

                                           
Do you Remember bedtime as a kid?  I am told that it was a dreaded hour that we tried to ignore in hopes that Mom and Dad would overlook and forget about it.  Sources close to my family have told me that they never did, and now I understand why!

Actually, I have been trying very hard to remember when going to bed was something to be dreaded.  I cannot seem to find that mentality in my memory banks anywhere.  Bedtime is now a word right up there with Paradise, Heaven, Bliss and No Calories.  I cannot wait to go to bed each night.  And I am doing my level best to instill that attitude in my children.  To date, I have failed utterly. 

The best attempt so far is to have set a specific bed time.  This fluctuates a little with daylight savings time (do not get me started on THAT great idea!), but I have chosen the 8:00 p.m. mark as the ideal goal.  However, like so many perfectionistic thoughts and ideas, this too has been smashed upon the rocks of reality.

It is 8:15 p.m. in our house.  The children have been laid in their beds with a belly full of water, a story in their ears, a kiss on their lips, a hug on their necks, a tousle on their heads, a “Now I lay me..” said and repeated after me, and all the piggies have been counted, and finally, their tape decks are all playing soft music or bedtime stories, the lights are turned out, the door closed.  Mom sighs a very satisfied sigh and decides to….

“Mom!”

Satisfaction blown to bits as child #4 emerges from his snug little cocoon announcing that he cannot sleep.  Mom, who still has a little bit of patience left, explains to the child that: A) He has been in bed less than a minute and B) One cannot fall asleep while walking about the house. The boy then puts on his best totally pathetic look and informs me that he cannot sleep because his bed is grumpy!

“Grumpy?” I ask.

 “Yeah.  It’s dus grumpy!” he insists. 

I follow him to his room, carrying the brother who followed him out of his room, to behold the grumpy bed. “See?”  He points, vindicated, at the mass of bedding that seems to have been mercilessly flung about the room. “It’s dus grumpy and unmaken!”

Heavy sigh.  Put child #5 in bed, fluff covers to find missing Nukky, (can’t sleep without it, you know) then tend to the grumpy bed and somewhat less irritable occupant who wants to know why I have not read him Prince Bertram the Bad for the  8017th time.  Apparently, 8016 times was not enough.  (When they finally get to sleep I silently vow to burn the book.) We repeat the lights out routine again and I tippy-toe toward my room for some time to…

“Mom?  Mom are you up here? Mom, I hafta ask you a really ‘portent question,” calls child #2.  Through thinly veiled irritation, I tell her I’ll talk to her in the morning.

“But Mom, it’s really, really ‘portent!” she insists.  Thinking I could be passing up some really decent mother/daughter interactions, I go to her room.

“What is it, honey?” I ask in my most understanding tone.  I have all the books of wisdom open in my head, ready to calm all fears, expound upon great spiritual truths, and share wisdom from the ages.

“Mom?  How come your throat feels hot after you throw up?”

Before I can recover from my blank stare and actually answer the girl, child #4 begins to sing from the bottom bunk, to the dog that sleeps on her bed, “This is my commandment that you love one another and you share your pancakes!”
Hearing this, I begin to chuckle, which is the wrong response to #2’s question.

“Mother,” she scolds, “It’s not funny!  My throat is hot when I throw up!” 

I straighten up and figure I will just go right ahead and give her the medically correct answer.  However, about two-thirds of the way through a description of bile, #3 begins quoting more scripture.  This time it is her own personalized version of the Ten Commandments, “Thou shall honor the Sabbath and keep it holy and not hold yourself when you hafta go potty…”

Stifling a giggle, I put child #2 on hold while I lean down and suggest to my little preacher that perhaps she should just say a goodnight prayer. Child #2, after hearing what manner of nasty stuff resides in her belly apparently now feels the need to pray her soul to keep one more time, too.  Number three volunteers to pray for the lot of us.  She chooses the classic, “Our Father”.  Good choice!  I am proud and impressed!  Momentarily.

“Our Father whose art is in heaven, hello be Thy name.  My kingdom come, my will be done on earth and in heaven!” 

I ask God silently to take this prayer with a grain of salt.  We do not want this child’s will to be done, nor should she be presiding over any kingdom that would pose a threat to anyone greater than that of Barbie and a few stuffed animals.  We manage to get the lights out one more time when, simultaneously Child #1 and #4 call out, “Mom!”  Then it splits into, “Can you come here?” and “He’s out of bed!” respectively.

I repeat the find-the-nukky-in-the-bedding game and get this bite-size child bedded down.  Then off to the eldest son’s room for the urgent request.

“What is it?” I ask as I just peek in the room.

“Come in here a minute.”

I am not sure if it’s safe in there, but I enter at his request to not only come in but to have a seat at the foot of his bed. He is hemming and hawing.  I ask him what’s on his mind.  Finally, he appears ready to ask the mysterious question.  I brace myself for a birds-and-bees question or something of an equally sensitive nature which I feel ill-prepared at this point to deal with.

“Mom…” pensive pause…looks at the ground…fiddles with his sheets.  The suspense is killing me.  “Mom….could you play Monopoly with me?”

I am really trying to keep the sarcastic edge out of my tone of voice as I inquire, “Now?  Tonight?”

“Yeah!” he replies, visibly relieved that I have not blown my cool.  I glance at the dinner-plate sized clock on his wall, first to use it as a tool in lecturing the child on the idea of 24-hours in a day and that at some point we need to sleep, but the same glance tells me not to waste that time because it’s almost 10:00 p.m. and I had really wanted some time to myself.

“Not tonight, Sweetie.” He accepts that, but then offers his proposal.

“Maybe we could wake up early and we could play then?”

“How early?” I ask.

“Oh, I dunno.  Five or six?”

I tell the boy he is crazy and he thinks I am kidding and laughs, and on that happy note I depart to my own room for peace and quiet, too tired to do anything I had previously contemplated.  So I just say a prayer or two as I get ready for bed.  I move the sleeping newborn over to her corner of the bed and crawl in beside her and thank God for all of my wonderful children. 

#1 and #6

#2 and #3

#4

#5