Running the Gauntlet

The Siren has never been a good nighttime sleeper. In fact that’s where the nickname comes from: She sucks you in with her sweetness by day and wails at you by night, all night. I sincerely don’t know how we as a family made it through the first year of her life. And while, at the ripe old age of three, she has greatly improved her ability to sleep longer than one hour at a time (perhaps due to getting over her acid reflux issues), she still awakens to scream at least once, usually twice, sometimes one hundred times per evening. Generally she has had a bad dream or was frightened by a shadow or has to go potty. Whatever the reason, she absolutely refuses to exit her bed, as if an invisible force field activates at bedtime rendering her unable or unwilling. So what we get is a very loud Siren screaming until someone responds. As I sprint to her room, I pray she doesn’t awaken the sleeping Kraken or we will be up for the duration of the night. That son of mine seems to be charged and ready to conquer on 3 hours of sleep. The momma, not so much. And thus I have been trained to react quickly to The Siren’s screech.

The Kraken has always been a champion sleeper. He goes down easily, generally midsentence, and if left undisturbed is good for 8-10 hours of silence. If however his little bladder wakes the sleeping beast, he calmly gets up, does his business, and then makes his way downstairs to inform me of his activity. I could calmly send him back to his room, roll over and fall back into dreamland, but I know from personal experience that he needs a chaperone back to his room. Somewhere between my room and his, the battery in his body alerts him that he is at full operating capacity. There are things to do, potions to make, towers to build, toilet paper to shred, sweets to eat and mayhem to produce. And so I have been trained to walk him to his bed and tuck him back in.

I love my kids, have always functioned on minimal sleep and have some extra calories to burn so all this walking around at all hours of the night really isn’t the problem. The problem is the path I must walk. I call this portion of my life: Running the Gauntlet.
First are the 19 deadly throw pillows that all beds need to make them look awesome when they are neatly made. Generally however ours are strewn about randomly on the floor creating not so awesome stumbling blocks during my nighttime escapades.

Next I must traverse the wood floors leading to the stairs. Sounds rather benign until I step on one of 12 silky, satiny, princess dresses The Siren models then abandons throughout the day. Those mothers are slippery as heck, and I have found myself on the losing end of that battle more than a few times. I can play match that dent in the floor with my hip, knee, elbow or earlobe. Perhaps I should pick up the dresses in the evening, but I kind of enjoy that natural weathered look I am creating on my floors.

By now I am bloody and bruised, but I have reached the stairs where I know I am basically safe as long as I keep count. The staircase curves around creating a tooth chipping hazard if I skip a number on the way to fourteen. But my brain function is totally back to normal after two children sucked most of the life out of it. I mean, it’s been awhile since I found my hairbrush in the oven, my car keys in the freezer or my credit card in the bathtub. I can’t remember my name, but everyone knows me as The Kraken’s mom anyway so why confuse people?

I’ve made it upstairs and after kicking the desk chair that’s always in the same place, I only have a few things left to say: Legos, Matchbox cars and Barbie shoes. The trifecta of terror. The trinity of doom. The triplet of torture. OUCH, OUCH and OUCH again. It would be so much simpler just to pick up the crap at the end of the day, right? I agree. But sometimes nothing makes me feel as alive as digging a tiny shoe out of my foot like a splinter at two in the morning.

Besides, stepping on an unsuspecting Lego is really good for testing other words to replace the curse words you don’t want your five year old to repeat. Seriously, you should try it sometime.

Puzzles Can Be Fun

The time had finally come, but just the thought of Parent / Teacher conferences strikes fear to my very core. For a tiny portion of my day, I have to admit to another person that my kid has issues. I know if my kids have problems sharing or telling lies or throwing tantrums or being too physical or eating paste, but having another person, who isn’t obligated to even like my child let alone love them, point out my beloved’s flaws is not my favorite moment as a parent. Now, if this was a meeting about how great The Kraken is at gross motor skills I would have no fears whatsoever. I mean he learned to ride without training wheels when he was three and a half. Unfortunately, this meeting is about kindergarten readiness, meaning how well he gets along with his peers, fine motor skills and attention span. These are not The Kraken’s strengths.

I arrived for my scheduled conference a bit early and sadly heard the tail end of the meeting before mine. Apparently Ariel* is the picture of patience and kindness, can already read and writes her full name beautifully. The teacher, Miss Triton*, only wishes Ariel would assert herself more often and stand up for herself. Hmm. Didn’t know that kind of child existed. Miss Triton and Ariel’s mom finished in record time and had a few minutes to shoot the breeze. In that time I learned Miss Triton really hates these conference thingies especially when she has bad news to deliver and coincidently she saved the “best for last.” Great. It was my turn, and I was asked if I was ready. “Sure,” I said, “though I have a feeling we are about to rumble.” Both ladies just stared at me like I had a rhinoceros horn on my head, which is why I wish there was some sort of “air quotes” for sarcasm. Neither was amused. Awesome. Ariel’s mom was my last potential victim for Operation Make Some Friends.

For the record, I really like both of his teachers. They have been teaching forever and have the right mixture of kindness and sternness. I would bet the classroom shenanigans are kept to a minimum. This certainly wasn’t her first dreaded conference and so she expertly began with, “Do you have any concerns?” This simple question can alert her to the bozo parent that has no clue what their kid is capable of or can cut right to the quick of things to end the agony for herself and, in this case, me. Long story short, my concerns are in fact her concerns: The Kraken can be manipulative and sneaky. This is no news flash.

Here’s what I learned: They do not send the kids to timeout. Instead they send the kids to the puzzle table for a quiet activity and time for reflection. The Kraken is really good at puzzles.

In all the millions of times I have grilled my little man for information on what he did at school each day, I have never, ever heard one small hint that a puzzle table even exists. I don’t blame him, I don’t often tattle on myself either, but I am also oddly impressed. Seriously, not one mention, ever. The Kraken’s biggest offense is walking past someone’s block tower and “accidently” sticking his foot out just far enough to send it crumbling to the ground. He also enjoys taking three cars from the overflowing car bin which just so happen to be Flounder, Sebastian and Scuttle’s* favorite cars, (which isn’t a horrible thing in and of itself, if he had them first, but we all know he is trying to push buttons and make people cry). He gets his wish as both crimes induce angry eruptions from his classmates. It seems he has done enough sneaky nasty deeds that if anyone at all cries out in misery, The Kraken is the one all the kids point at. Apparently he was blamed for a classroom scuffle one morning when he was in fact home sick with croup. Poor little Kraken. Poor little classmates. Miss Triton left me with these parting gifts, “It’ a good thing he is so cute. That curly hair and dimple are to die for. I feel you have a class clown in the making.” Super.

I confronted The Kraken first thing, not on his behavior but on the existence of the puzzle table. He got the hint. Each and every day I now ask how his day was and if he had to go to the puzzle table. Overall, he has been pretty honest about it (the child is NOT a good liar just in case you think I have gone soft). On Monday however I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me even though Miss Ursula had told me herself his behavior had improved by leaps and bounds, and she hadn’t sent him to reflect for quite a few days. Here’s the official report . . .

“Well, I probably should have gone to the puzzle table. But Eric* did have to go. He has curly hair too so I yink someone got confused.” Your secret is safe with me son, just this once.


*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. : )

Valentine's Day and a Hand Cramp

I’ve never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. It’s all too mushy gushy for a girl that neither likes to be touched nor wants to share her feelings. My husband though a bit of a romantic, lost a few grandparents on or very nearly on the 14th and thus also hates the holiday. We spent our first Valentine’s Day together 15 years ago in a car dealership picking out a Volvo for his mother, and that set the precedent. We just don’t celebrate the darn thing. I never really thought my feelings toward this day would get worse or better. Then we had a son. A son in preschool with twenty some odd Valentine’s to sign and a teacher who greatly encourages her kids to sign them all by themselves. I have a feeling this is going to go poorly.

I am all for this exercise in theory. What great practice! Hip hip hooray! And I admit that The Kraken is getting really good at writing his name. Most people can even read it. The problem is The Kraken contains 9 letters. The poor child needs the entire length of a piece of paper and them some to accomplish the feat. Oh, and getting him to actually sit down and write his name once takes begging, pleading and the occasional bribe. I should write myself a note for next year to start the Valentine’s signage shortly after the New Year. Since I can’t even find the grocery list I made yesterday, this plan is foolproof. And seeing as I didn’t have the foresight to write myself this special note last year, we have 25 cards about the size of post-it notes to sign and two nights to get it done. Should I stab my eye out now or later?

Care to learn the stages of a 4-year old losing his mind?

We began the activity with excitement, “This could be fun, momma!” And for three seconds it was. Then he realized there was no way on this green earth he would be able to fit his whole name in one line. He melted and seized for only a minute, then, being a problem solver, he wrote what letters he could and floated the remaining ones in random order just above the rest. Not all that easy to ready, but crises averted. Let’s continue. 24 more to go.

The second stage, boredom cropped up somewhere around card number 5. “How many more, momma?” He would write a couple letters, look up at me, shake his head and repeat the question. I gave him the option of stopping and picking it back up in the morning. But at the beginning of this mess I offered a temporary Star Wars tattoo when he finished the job. He never misses the opportunity for a Star Wars tattoo. When given the out he would just sigh as if exhausted, and then carry on. Only 19 more my son. Only 19 more.

Wiggles. The Wiggles phase. Not sure there is much more to add here. No one can wiggle like a 4 year old boy. Only 18 more. We can do this.

This is the crying phase, and it’s pretty ugly, folks. Upon finishing card number eight, The Kraken slammed his head down on the table and gushed, “This is torture.” No drama in this house, right? Well, son you are doing it to yourself. I would have abandoned ship three cards ago. On we tearfully go. 17 more. Ugg.

If The Kraken were a bit older our next phase would need to be censored because he just got mean. I guess he felt the only way to cope with the situation was to hurl insults: “This is so mean. Your kitchen sticks. I’m going to tell daddy you are mean. I hate this pen. No one else in school is doing this. I’m going to mess up this time just to make you mad.” Those were the only insults he could muster, and I’m very relieved. I’m just not sure what I would have done if my sweet little innocent Kraken had called me a poopy head or stupid brain or whatever it is the kids are saying these days. Talk about heartbreaking. At this point I’m really not sure how many we have left. Does everyone in your class really need a Valentine? Maybe we can shave off a few.

Cue the final and most entertaining phase: The giggles. Wow. Who knew everything, literally everything, could be so funny: the rip in the tablecloth, the sun coming through the blinds, that weird noise the refrigerator makes, my shirt. So funny in fact that all the laughter causes crying, runny nose and even the occasional drool drip. Don’t worry fellow preschool kiddos; we will wipe the body fluids off the Valentine’s before passing them out. We are finished! Hooray. 18 mostly legible. 2 really not at all legible. And 5 that are clear as day if you squint your eyes just a little bit.

I call it a victory! Forty minutes of handwriting practice through a roller coaster of emotions without the slightest inclination of bowing out. Good job Kraken! You are a better man than me. Now I’m going to need your help locating your sweet sister who disappeared more than 25 minutes ago. Wouldn’t it be great if she were practicing her handwriting on a wall somewhere? Perfect. I hate Valentine’s Day.

Love Potion #9?

The Kraken is really into science experiments, which I must admit is a welcome change from races and obstacle courses. (There is a well-worn path through my kitchen, up the stairs, around the bend and straight on ‘til morning from hundreds of timed sprints.) I like the idea that we are making a mess with a purpose even if my inner scientist tends to over complicate things and confuse the poor kid. He may not be able to read any words but by golly he’s gonna write out a chemical reaction. His kindergarten teacher is going to be so impressed and not creeped out in the least I am sure.

One of his new favorite activities is potion making. I know what you’re thinking: potion making sounds more like witchcraft and wizardry than science but since he hasn’t yet required a frog eye, bezoar or essence of dittany we will keep it lumped into the experiments category. All this really means is he fills the bathtub with a couple inches of ice cold water and then pours in the dregs of our almost gone shampoo and soap bottles with an occasional squirt of my expensive face moisturizer. Part of his experiment requires him to run from the master bathroom to the kitchen in order to test all my cooking utensils for maximum frothing potential. The good ones he saves for himself, the not so great ones he passes off to The Siren, who is sitting in the frigid water just happy to be participating.

I find the best seat in the house to witness the mayhem is my very warm and cozy bed. From this vantage point I can observe the bathtub to ensure my budding scientist and his assistant don’t drown, answer frantic questions as he sprints through on the way to and from the kitchen and pin all my favorite things on Pinterest. Multi-tasker of the Year and it’s only eight in the morning!

Somewhere amongst the running back and forth, the “may I use this funny looking ying (turkey baster) to stir my potion?,” the stripping down of clothing because The Kraken doesn’t enjoy damp pajamas and the 400 how to organize your house pins, I got a little lost in the calmness of my morning. It’s not anything close to a typical morning when my spawn are getting along and I can half concentrate on a mommy hobby. Then suddenly snapping me back to reality, The Kraken screamed on the top of his lungs, while running to the kitchen, “DO WE HAVE ANY BOATS?” Boats? No, no boats. “Anyying that floats? Please!”

We spent the next thirty minutes racing the empty shampoo bottles, our boats, around the bathtub.

He may not be able to read or write much of anything at this point. She may not want to do much of anything that doesn’t involve a Disney princess or fancy shoes. They may become best friends and forget the days they drove me crazy fighting for a living. They may not even remember the day we spent the better part of our morning getting our pajamas wet and soapy in the bathtub. I however will never forget it.

Stitches from Santa

I have social anxiety disorder which I leave untreated due to a very uncomfortable dependency on the drugs that are supposed to balance out my crazy in public situations. All this really means to you is all the shaking, stammering, blushing, gagging awkwardness you see before you is my normal. It doesn’t matter how long I have known you nor how often we get together, I would rather be hiding behind a curtain somewhere. I would do nearly anything to keep my children from inheriting this bucket of lame. Therefore, like a good mother and perhaps a glutton for punishment, I refuse to allow my kids to miss out on any opportunities simply because I would rather not handle social interaction. I figure all parents embarrass their children at one point or another; I just started from birth.

An opportunity arose to see Santa at a nearby shop, and I jumped at the chance. What kid doesn’t want to meet Old St. Nick? After all, The Kraken had drawn him a picture and was hoping to give him his wish list. Long story short, he was thrilled with his encounter. I was thankful the only stranger I was forced to speak to was an old man in a ridiculous red outfit. The Siren however was not impressed. Like a good sport she sat near Santa so I could at least capture the moment on my camera. She seemed more reluctant than scared, so I had the delusion she would warm up with a second visit with the jolly man, which was comforting since I had already signed us up for pancakes with Santa and Mrs. Claus the following Saturday.

When I broke the news to my brood, The Siren began to wail. It seems I didn’t quite catch the hint: my baby girl is in fact terrified of Santa. It’s really hard to force my kid to do things that I myself struggle through, but we had already paid and her brother was so excited. Besides, people say the best way to conquer your fear is to face it. And though it has not been at all true for me, it could work for her, right? As it turns out The Siren had other plans than facing her phobia of synthetic facial hair. Rather than choke down a couple pancakes, stand in a line, sit on Santa’s lap and smile for a picture, she decided instead to bash her lip on the footboard of our bed minutes before departure requiring an emergency room visit and two stiches. Well played, Siren. Well played. And I don’t blame her one little bit.

The Princess and the Potty

I very much dislike three things. Okay, sure there are many more than that but for right now while I am potty training my daughter, these three are really pissing me off: public restrooms, restrictive clothing and fancy dresses.

The first is obvious, public restrooms are generally dirty, soaking wet, a great place to be killed and not so kid friendly. But of course being a mom of two kids with tiny bladders, we are always in need of a potty stop and therefore a public restroom. Taking my son isn’t such a hassle really. Boys have it easy, point and shoot. If he misses he is just adding to the general splendor and aroma. No real harm done. However, there aren’t enough disinfecting wipes in this universe to make me feel warm and fuzzy about sitting my sweet innocent baby girl on a public toilet seat. Seriously, yuck. I cannot wait for the day she is tall enough to learn the hover method of public restroom safety, until then I am always packing Lysol spray and disinfecting wipes.

Secondly, I hate restrictive clothing. If you know me at all, you know that I live in my sweats. Now for the sake of my dignity and overall comfort of those around me, I generally get dressed when I leave the house, most of the time. (You can thank me later.). Either this condition is genetic or my beloved Kraken has learned well from his momma as he fights tooth and nail every morning for “soft pants.” And although there is nothing cuter than my baby in khakis, I cannot disagree in the comfort soft pants provide. They are also amazing during the potty training process. Creating a puddle just in front of the toilet because one of my babies couldn’t get the snap or zipper undone in time is not fun for anyone. Knowing she has to potty, communicating the need, reaching a toilet, cleaning said toilet and undoing her clothing in time is whole lot to ask of such a little girl.

Last but certainly not least, I hate dresses. I probably own three now, two I bought for weddings and one little black dress I was told every girl should own, which I admit is handy for my husband’s fancy work parties (though I often wonder how many times I can get away with wearing it). I always feel ridiculous, awkward and conspicuous in a dress, my least favorite feelings if I am honest. Either this condition is not genetic or my beloved Siren has not learned anything from her momma. My Siren is always fancy. She has 6 full length princess gowns which she cycles through each day. When I get dressed up it means I put on my dark jeans. The Siren however isn’t fully dressed without lace and toile and broaches. If I didn’t have the stretch marks to prove otherwise I would say the milkman dropped her off. Really it is quite adorable, except when she needs to use the facilities.

Can’t you just see us in the public restroom, me holding disinfectant spray and wipes, keeping my daughter steady on the toilet while attempting to keep her precious princess gown dry? And where is The Kraken? Gross.

Swim or Die

I can’t handle my kids. They are faster than me, sneakier than me and have made a pact never to stay together when attempting to escape the wrath of momma. This isn’t a shock. I haven’t ever in his whole life been able to handle The Kraken, and ever since The Siren went mobile more than 2 years ago chaos reins at my home, local grocery store, van, backyard, neighbor’s house, church . . . basically wherever we haven’t yet been forcibly removed and banned. The list of places we may spend our day grows continuously shorter.

Due to a lack of venues we were allowed to enter, in a moment of rare brilliance, I decided to try taking my kids swimming. Instantly the speed factor was tipped in my favor. I may not be able to outrun The Kraken, but I can certainly out doggie paddle him! As it turns out, swimming is the perfect activity for this family. Certainly I cannot be outrun but there also isn’t much the kids can destroy in a swimming pool, splashing is expected and if I need to shout at my kids no one knows as the sound is drown out by this cool but loud waterfall feature. And so we swim at least twice a week, every week. And we have been doing so for about two years.

Needless to say, the kids are pretty decent swimmers. The Siren, for example, was evicted from her age range of swim classes a year ago because she had already “mastered the material.” She only has to wait one more month before she can try again as a 3 year old. The Kraken would be a level ahead of his age range if he would just stop throwing huge, earth shattering, running, screaming, tantrums during swim lessons. This was a new development this past summer. It was four weeks of super awesome and perhaps proof that I will never truly control anything. Whatever the case, the kid can swim. I don’t mean to brag. The poor monsters really didn’t have a choice. Honestly once I learned I could wear them out and keep them mostly in check, they had to swim or sit still to watch mommy swim. They both chose to swim.

My favorite morning activity is picking on lifeguards who have not yet had the privilege of watching my babies at work. Maybe it’s mean, but I take a small sort of pleasure in tossing my two year old princess into the deep end and watching the new lifeguard jump to his or her feet, whistle in mouth, blow-horn in hand, poised to rescue, only to realize I am perhaps not the worst mother ever to walk the planet. The Siren calmly swims to the side, laughs in delight and shouts “again momma!” The lifeguard usually gives me a look of confused displeasure before sitting down, not quite sure if it is yet safe to put down the blow-horn. In my defense, I’m not the only one who likes to pick on the rookies. The other lifeguards who know us very well, step out of the office to watch. I like to think I am providing a great service: we bring laughter to some while making sure the new guards are actually paying attention. Nothing wrong with that!

As for Miss Barb, the swim instructor The Kraken terrorized for a month last summer, we see her a couple times a week, and he believes she is a “wonderful teacher.” So will I be signing him up for lessons anytime soon . . . Nope! I can’t risk the tantrums because I choose to live under the delusion I have it all together and under control. At least for those two or three mornings a week in which we go to the pool.