My Little Lawyer

Okay, not sure when our three year old daughter Hailley started studying law.  Who is explaining the ins and outs of the American justice system to this kid? My husband and I briefly mentioned the importance of wearing seat belts in the car; I told Hailley it was the law that she had to be in her seat, buckled in, when she was complaining about her belt straps.  Other than that though... no idea.  Maybe she's catching 24 reruns on the sly? I hope not!

Hailley has taken it upon herself to inform me about "the law".  Let me tell you, if her law was the REAL law, move over Hitler!  I'd hate to be under her regime.

We put little dress panties over her underwear, underneath her dress.  Here's Hailley's thoughts on the matter: "We put these over my underwear because its the law, Mom."

We are in a bathroom, again.  "We wipe our butts and flush the toilet because its the LAW, Mom."  I wouldn't really argue against that one. 

We are wrestling Hailley into her pajamas at bedtime: "We go to bed because its the law, Mom." 

She does it the same every time!  The same matter-of-fact tone, the same serious little face, the same sentence structure.  She is SO right, too.  You try arguing with that sometime.   In Hailley's world, everything has a law attached to it. 

I tried to explain the difference between household rules and laws, morals and laws, and the difference between just acting like a lady and the law.  I literally watched her little mind shut down before I could finish.  Hailley was NOT having that conversation with me.  She already knows the law! Why would silly old Mom possess any new, useful information for her?

 Hopefully this obsession will lead her in a good direction.  Hailley, you will have my back when I forget to pay a parking ticket, right?

We Went to the Beach

Oh yeah.  I finally made it to the beach this summer!  What a wonderful day.  Of course, in order for me and my family to function at any event, we have to bring in the playpens, corrals, diaper bags, proper clothing, food, sippy cups, etc.  Add beach toys, towels, lawn chairs and a wagon to beach day. 

My mom and our family friend beat me there (that's no surprise, they have a lot less gear!) and had a beautiful spot picked out.  I arrived by the picnic table with our wagon loaded up like we were pioneer settlers truckin' out west.  Behind me toddled Maximus, our little ray of sunshine, and Hailley, who whimpered and whined all the way from the parking lot down the long hill to our spot. Leave it to a 3 year old to be upset about being out by a lake in the sunshine. Swaylynn, our 9 year old, had already beat us to the water. 

After a few threats: "I can find a corner anywhere for you to stand in, Hailley," we made ourselves at home and enjoyed our day.  The kids were all great.  They didn't fight once!  We spent hours there playing in the water (Swaylynn put seaweed on Hailley's head), exploring nature (Sway found a baby dragonfly- it was so cool!) and building towers in the sand.  Maximus was furious because I put his corral, with him in it, right down on the sand by the water.  I may have gotten a few looks from the other parents there, but hey, that boy thinks he can swim (he can't!) and I needed my heart to stop pounding after 20 minutes of chasing him around in the shallow water. 

We ended our day with a long walk by the lake.  I can't begin to express how fantastic the scenery was!  God is good.  :)

On the way home I put on Neil Diamond's best hits, my secret weapon.  The kids barely made it out of the state park before they were passed out- their sandy faces slouched against their car seats. Oh yeah.

Yup. I'm Nuts.

We bought a puppy last month.  For those of you who are thinking, "Awwwww", put your puppy dog faces away and evaluate my thoughts here. 

My husband and I have three kids.  Ages: 9, 3 and 1.  The reason we have three is because WE DON'T WANT FOUR.  We brag about how bright we were to have Blake get a vasectomy two weeks after Maximus was born and we lean eagerly into our futures that are diaper-free.  So what do we do? We run out and get a dog. 

Don't get me wrong, he's super cute.  His name is Don Capone (after my grandpa and our current love of mafia film) and he's a pure bred boxer.  He sleeps in the kids' little chairs and chases his stub-tail and rolls around in the backyard barking at his squeaky toy.  My heart has melted again.

However...

It's officially a circus around here.  I thought it was before, but now it's definitely a circus.  Swing by around noon today for the nap act- you will be rolling around on our kitchen floor.  Admission: no money accepted.  You just stay in our house and I will sneak out the back door.  I will go to the beach by myself.  I will lay on the sand, catching rays and reading.  I might bring a bag of chips along.  I won't share with anybody, either. 

The kids chase the dog who chases them and bites their butts.  Suddenly I'm consoling Hailley, my three year old, for the scratch on her leg and yelling at Maximus, the infant, at the same time because he has wrestled Capone into a position I didn't think puppies were capable of.  Together they all destroy crayons in the kitchen.  Then there's Swaylynn, my nine year old, who plays with Capone for awhile and then complains that he doesn't like her anymore.  Sway- you just chased the puppy around the yard for an hour.  He is so wore out!  Give the poor guy a break.

Capone ruined the plants in our backyard.  He dug a hole there too.  He ate my Money magazine last night.  The first week we got him, he choked on a dandelion. (No worries, he was fine.  It was pretty hilarious, really.)  Capone has been caught standing on our living room table and the one in our backyard. As far as potty training... its been interesting.  Thanks to my son, I've held Capone's poop in my hand. 

Let me be cliché for one moment though: he completes us.  It's totally crazy around here, and he adds to the element of insanity that already stains our lives, but it works.  I love Capone.  He's family.  Even if he did eat half of my birthday pizza. 

Well I guess that's better than crying...

Hailley did it again.  She locked herself in the downstairs bathroom.  We've been through this before, so to my ignorance, I assumed my 3-year old would remember the drama of the past and learn from her mistakes.  Silly Mommy, as Hailley would say.

I tried to explain the mechanics of the door lock to her through the door.  Result: hysterical "I CANT!" over and over.  Nope, not going to work.

I tried to unscrew the door handle off the door (mind you, with a flat-head screwdriver that I KNOW didn't work well with the Phillips head screws in the door handle, but it's ALL I HAD DAMMIT!)  I found myself cursing the very same lock I once so loved; the one lock that allowed me to escape my family every now and again.  Result: The handle got very loose. It could not be removed that way.

I tried to explain to Hailley again about the door lock.  This time I increased the volume of my voice.  (Us parents don't really want to use the term yelling, but yeah, there it is.)  Result: total meltdown inside the bathroom.  Nope, still not effective. 

I tried to simply ignore her and continue my exam studying.  My reasoning: Blake will be home soon, he's the one that fixes this problem.  I also thought she might just figure it out on her own.  Result: after 1 minute of that, total guilt.  What the hell was I thinking?? I can't just leave her in there!

So I went outside the house to the bathroom window.  As I tried to push the window up from the outside, I started laughing.  I was cracking up outside my house in broad daylight while I was talking to the window.  Whatever will the neighbors think? Finally, in-between hysterical giggles, I managed to get the window open. I bribed my daughter with gum if she would try unlocking the door again with me pointing out instructions.  I might have lost some weight recently, but squeezing through that smaller than normal window space was not an option I was willing to exercise.  Hailley quickly unlocked the door and announced she knew that was how it was done.  Awesome, kid.  Thanks.

Final Result: A smile on my daughter's face as she chewed her gum, a smile on my face (possibly complete loss of sanity, but who cares at this point) and a good story to tell. 

COME ON SPRING!

Can't...take it...another...minute...

Must...escape...prison...(my house)....must have fresh air! Must stop cycle of cleaning, eating, sleeping, cleaning, eating, sleeping!

Wait a second...have to take kids with me...snowpants, hats, mittens, boots, diaper bag, Dora doll, purse, snacks, sippy cups...

Nevermind...

Guilt of the 1st degree

I bought the child corral. 

I love the child corral.

My son, however, does not share the same feelings that I do for the playpen.  He tolerated his colorful prison for awhile at first.  He sat inside its parameters and played with the toys I supplied him.  He drank his sippy cups when I placed them in his little hands.  He smiled and laughed as the world continued around him. 

But as the days turned into a week, his tolerance slowly faded.  Maximus's cheerful smiles turned into cries of anger and resentment.  He literally was angry with me!  He rejected my embrace; he turned away from me and preferred Blake's hugs over my snuggles. 

I felt heartbroken.  I tried to explain my actions to Maximus: "Honey, I only put you in the corral when I have to!  I can't have you climbing the dining room table or pulling knives out of the dishwasher.  I will let you roam free as often as I can." 

It didn't matter to my son.  He refused to acknowledge my explanations!  Every time I carried him anywhere near the playpen, he started to cry.  My feelings of guilt increased with his every wail.  I began to second-guess my genius purchase.  I let my son freely roam the house again.  Trails of destruction piled up in his wake.

This is where parents struggle.  Do we do what is right for the child, even though he does not understand what is best for him, or do we allow our guilt to weigh in the child's favor? 

I am still wishy-washy on the issue.  I continue to use the playpen, but I only use it for short periods of time.  My thoughts are consumed with hopes that Maximus will outgrow his over-curious behavior soon, and the playpen can be put away until we buy a puppy.

Good God, a puppy?

The Fall of the Prince

 For the last few fortnights, my precious abode has been ruled by a tiny prince.  This prince, while handsome and cheerful by nature, also has inherent destructive qualities. He was meandering the rooms, crushing household keepsakes under his hands, teeth and feet.  Too often did I, the queen, my husband and sweet king, and our two bright-eyed princesses weep and mourn over the loss of our treasures at their fate from his chubby fingers and sharp ivories!  His regime left all fearing and trembling in his wake, for who knew when the tyranny would end?  Would any of us even survive to tell our children's children of the terror we endured?

In the evenings, after his highness drifted off towards pleasant dreams in his royal crib upstairs, I would lay awake in my makeshift room and fantasize about overthrowing his lordship.  I envisioned traps and magical spells to quell his wild antics.  I prayed for time for move faster so the little prince would outgrow his ruinous interests!   My dreams, however, failed to rise to reality. 

Seven days ago my fair mother blessed me with a splendid idea.  She, also vexed by the prince's reign over my territory, questioned why I hadn't yet purchased a corral to hold him.  I quickly described my failed attempts to place this tiny male heir into a pack n' play.  I divulged my misery when he outsmarted my gate systems.  My eyes misted as I moaned about his triumphs over my chairs, my desks and my tables! We admitted that any solution I chose must be better than those I had already seen defeated. 

I took to Amazon.com, my technological accomplice.  I poured over its contents in search of the perfect weapon (all my activities I reserved for the dark of night, so as to elude the prince of my deception.)  Finally my weary eyes caught sight of the comfort they desired:


I sent for the package.  It arrived yesterday during the prince's nap (which couldn't have been timed better, I might add.)  My secret weapon did not even require my king's strength and expertise; it was already set up!

The colorful corral was quickly established in the office, the central hub of my kingdom.  When my prince awakened I gently placed him inside its secure walls. I went about my business, with one eye resting on his adorable, beguiling frame.

I unloaded my dishwasher.  I suffered no broken dishes or frights of him grabbing a sharp object.
Maximus played with his musical instrument.

I folded laundry.  I wept no tears for collapsed clothing piles.  My handsome prince played with his sister inside the pen.

I left the bathroom door open.  My reading materials stayed out of the toilet, and my son stayed in his new play spread. Oh, sweet, precious victory!

So goes my tale of the fall of the prince.  He has tumbled from his throne, but I am relieved to note that this tumble is a metaphor, not an actual fall from a chair or table, which I so feared.  I'm sure his fall from the top won't remain perfect.  He may fuss and cry and I will occasionally acquiesce to his mournful vocalizations...

I don't care though.  I won. :)