Three strikes

Eliza is officially banned from the tub for the rest of her life.

For it's one, two, three strikes, she's out, at the old bathtub.

On the other hand, our tub and bathroom have probably been deep cleaned more times this week than they were in the previous two months. And I am very grateful for my bathroom pair of rubber gloves and an on-site washer.

Maybe next time Eliza needs a bath, or has an "accident," we'll just pop her in the washer. She obviously already loves Grandpa's dryer.
On the bright side, perhaps Eliza could be potty trained within a week if we put the potty in the tub. Hmmm.

Who put carpet in the bathroom?

Eliza had another poop incident today. And it wasn’t in her diaper. I wonder if I should change the name of this blog to “The Poop Chronicles.” On second thought, I don’t think that would be a very good selling point. But for some reason I seem to develop an insatiable need to tell a minimum of five people about each major (child) poop incident I have to deal with—especially if it happens before 8:00am. Or at least blog about it. For widespread enjoyment. Or sympathy.

Today’s details: Eliza wouldn’t get out of the tub, even though the water was freezing and we had a little friend over for an all-day stint (another reason for requesting the sympathy of my readers). When I left the bathroom, I heard Eliza calling “Poopies, Leia!” to her friend. I rushed in to find Eliza had done the deed, and launched the evidence out of the tub onto the bathroom carpet. (And I ask myself for the 600^th time WHY DO WE HAVE CARPET IN THE BATHROOM!?!?!)

FYI, Lysol and bleach smell horrible together. And I love my rubber gloves.

And Eliza is grounded for a month. Or a year. Or until she's potty trained.

Marshmallows for the homeless

The homeless around town are pretty lucky today. Lucky that I have a great husband and sister, that is. I slept in this morning (no surprise), and woke up to find a large note with the ominous phrase “Don't Forget: 3 Lunches Before 10:00a.m.” Such a nice husband. Then I saw the clock. Yikes, yikes, yikes. I can’t confess the exact minute I got up, because I will embarrass myself, and someone will probably be justified in calling the Social Services on me. But suffice it to say I needed to get cracking on those lunches.

Then came yikes number two. No bread for sandwiches. Never fear, that is what great backyard sisters are for. Tied to the cupboard, and dangling down, so as to not be overlooked, was a bag of bread from my sister with exactly 7 pieces of bread. [We were talking about my assignment last night.] I knew I was inspired to sign up for 3, not 4 lunches. Bless my great family members. And bless the homeless.

I rounded up Sage and explained that we were going to make meals for some people who didn’t have houses to live in. She was anxious to help after my civic-duty-pep-talk, or maybe because I had mentioned that we needed to include a dessert in each lunch, and she was hoping to be the taste tester.

The instructions that came with my brown bags read: “Each lunch should include a meat sandwich, chips or crackers, a fruit or vegetable, and a dessert.” Wowee. That’s a pretty gourmet lunch, by my standards. Had I just packed three lunches that were typical for our family, the homeless would have all been eating big bowls of Kraft mac’n’cheese, topped off with a half a can of mandarin oranges. (I’m sure they have a drinking fountain at the Homeless Shelter, right?)

I scoured the cupboards for desserts. I found two old (less desirable…obviously because they are uneaten) candy bars and a Fruit by the Foot. Feeling a little guilty for the strange assortment of desserts, I got out our bag of colored mini marshmallows and poured a handful into each lunch sack. If my kids like them, maybe the homeless will too.

Next up: chips or crackers. More scouring of the cupboards. It came down to the two options: Goldfish crackers or tortilla chips. I couldn’t really picture three grown men sitting around snacking on baggies of mini colored fish crackers, so I gave Sage three sandwich bags and asked her to fill them with tortilla chips. This worked well until Eliza came along wanting to “help,” and accidentally sat on the bag of chips. Sorry, homeless.

By this time I began to get a tiny complex about the lunches I was making. In my mental eye, I could see my three homeless guys sitting down next to three other homeless guys that had better lunch luck. My guys pull out a home-wrapped bag of tortilla chips while their buddies across the table unveil individually wrapped bags of Doritos. Hoping for better luck, mine reach in and pull out pre-sliced apples while their counterparts remove Asian pears wrapped in those Styrofoam wrappers. My guys discover the bag of mini marshmallows and stare with confusion while their counterparts snack on homemade, frosted cupcakes with sprinkles, or maybe individually packaged Krispy Kreme doughnuts. My guys throw their lunches down in shame while the happy eaters are sharing high fives all around.

I have a quick breakdown. Does McDonalds sell coupons for value meals? I could just put one coupon in each bag and I would almost make it in time to drop them off…..Wait a second! I gave myself a mental slap in the face. These are meals for the homeless!!! If they don’t like the lunches, they can feed them to their dogs, or throw them out, or use them as a paperweight. What’s good enough for us has got to be good enough for them.

Feeling a little more confident, but still hoping to make it up to the three unfortunate homeless men I’d dreamed up, I got to work on some serious “meat sandwiches.” Ham, mayo, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes. These are looking great. I made half an extra sandwich, which I ate for my own breakfast/brunch. De-lish! And even better when washed down with a few colored marshmallows.

Now that it was three minutes past ten, I threw the kids in the bike trailer and pedaled off to drop off the lunches to a lady who collected them and drove them all to the Food and Care Coalition. When we got to her house, I took the lunches from Sage’s lap, and explained that I would run them in. Sage looked at me with a concerned and disapproving look and said, “They have a house, Mom.” Bless her heart; she thought somebody was trying to pull the wool over my eyes! I don’t know what she was expecting—that we would drop them off to a few men sitting on the side of the road? Or to that one guy that, year after year, wanders up and down University Avenue with his luggage?

Sage’s reaction made me realize that maybe it’s time for our family to volunteer at the Food and Care Coalition. With some good explanation before and discussion after, that could be a really meaningful visit, and a good chance to expose her to a socioeconomic group that we don’t often interact with.

And besides, then we could see what the homeless really think about sandwich bags of mini marshmallows.

No more sleeping in

The luxury of sleeping in is not afforded most mothers, except on Mother’s Day and birthdays. For a pregnant woman, when falling (and staying) asleep at night is difficult, sleeping in ceases to be a luxury and becomes a necessity. Thanks to a husband who gets the girls started off in the morning, I can usually catch another hour of additional zzz’s beyond the early risers of my family. On some days, Mark slips off to work, leaving me slumbering peacefully and the girls glued peacefully to a movie. [Thus it should come as no surprise that Eliza and Sage can quote most of “The Wizard of Oz”—last month’s library acquisition.]

I have been enjoying this naughty little routine of sleeping in while kids lose a few brain cells over “Dora” or “The Wizard of Oz,” fully intending on turning over a new leaf when my little lemon-sized baby in utero decides to turn over a new leaf (called “second trimester”) and quit making me sick. Today it became apparent that it’s time for the leaf to turn, in spite of lemon baby’s refusal to cooperate.

Eliza woke me up in bed at 7:30. She told me she had poopies (which usually means she wants to take off her diaper, and has nothing to do with the contents thereof). I carried her back to the living room black box babysitter, set her down, and went back to bed and fell asleep. [In my defense, Eliza passed on a nasty case of the flu just in time for Mother’s day, and I am still recovering.] Some time later, Eliza woke me up again. I flipped over to see the clock—8:40!!! But actually, I should reserve those three exclamation marks for the fact that Eliza was buck naked—sans “poopy” diaper!!! I have never scurried out of bed more quickly. I’m sure Eliza originally woke me with some request, but she was immediately forgotten as I scoured the floors in every room looking for the used diaper, or any possible contents.

Without going into great detail, I’ll say that within ten minutes I had located the offending diaper (in the trash can), the diaper’s previous contents (on the laundry room floor), deposited my own socks in the dirty clothes hamper, and rounded up both girls for a bath. [Oops, that probably counts as great detail.]

This is why there will be no more sleeping in allowed at our house.

Unless I can find some sort of removable super glue for Eliza’s PJs.

(Our attempt at stunting Eliza's unauthorized efforts to access her diaper--pants on top of PJs.)

On eating pancakes and writing talks

I’m looking forward to Sunday--Mother’s Day--aka, Happy No Dishwashing and Breakfast-in-Bed day. My husband makes the best buttermilk pancakes in the world. And in order to give him the maximum opportunity to serve, I stopped doing the dishes yesterday. I already know that the joy I will feel when I enter the kitchen that’s clean (for the first time in five days) will be immeasurable. I love him for the deed already.

Also, Sage is giving a talk in Primary on Sunday. The assigned topic was “Heavenly Father wanted me to come to earth to live with a family. I can strengthen my family.” I think I might have leaned a little heavily on the “I can strengthen my family” part. My first draft went something like this: “Heavenly Father sent me to earth to live with a family. I love my family. I love to help my family. I love to help my mom be happy. I can do this by never fighting with my sister or cousin, always clearing off my dishes, cleaning up my toys without asking, only asking to play computer games one time per day--and accepting the ‘no’ answer with a big cheery smile, never whining, always keeping my undies dry, and trying to be practically perfect in every way.”

Then I read the suggestions for writing Primary talks. I turns out my first draft was over by about 200 words. I wrote a few more drafts. It’s tricky to be concise but meaningful. The end result:

Heavenly Father wanted me to come to earth.

He didn’t want me to be alone, so he sent me to a family.

This is my family. This is my daddy, and my mommy, and my sister and me.

I can help my sister by sharing with her. I can help my mommy by cleaning up. I can help my daddy by making cookies with him.

I’m glad Heavenly Father sent me to live with a family.

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

As I’ve helped Sage practice her talk, I’ve hoped that she realizes how lucky we really are to live in families. I’m so lucky to have her as part of my family (in spite of my Mother’s Day wish list of things I would like her to do!). I’m so grateful for Eliza, and her fun personality. And I’m super grateful for my husband and everything he sacrifices for our family and for me. I could never survive as a single mom (at least not sanely). I’m spoiled by his willingness to work hard, at work and at home, and by his love for me and our children. He loves to shop, so I know he’ll have a few store-bought gifts for Mother’s Day [He called me from the store to remind me that we just got a big tax return, and to not look at the credit card statement online.], but I hope he knows that much more than the gifts, I value the person he is and the commitment he has to doing the right thing. And he is a great kisser.

And that’s why I’m looking forward to Sunday.

Happy Mother’s Day.

You know it’s time to get a haircut when…

--You drive by a field of horses, and your 1 1/2-year-old says, "There's ponytails!" [and she's referring to the horses themselves]

- -You survey the number of days last week your hair was in a ponytail and stop counting at six because the result is too embarrassing.

--Both of your kids like to try and feed your ponytail to you multiple times a day. (Where do they learn this? It’s not like I pull their ponytails around and stuff them in their mouths…although, wait a second, that might not be a bad idea…)

--Your hair is just the right length to hang right in your baby niece’s face and tickle her as you’re trying to rock her to sleep.

- -After one hot day last week, you remembered what it’s like to blow dry in the summer, and now you’re ready to bury your blow dryer.

--You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror after church and realize that less is more, and more is sometimes just gross.

--Split-end hunting has become a new hobby—almost as addicting as smoking.

--You’ve gone nine months without a haircut. (Hypothetically speaking, of course.)

--You have to have a membership at Sam's Club to support your shampoo and conditioner needs.

--You need something fresh and exciting to distract from your 14-week-pregnant belly [the belly growth stage that looks like you took up a job at Krispy Kreme doughnuts a couple of months ago.]

--When allowed to air dry, your hair has a unique way of transforming itself into a Bozo-the-Clown do.

--All your sisters are getting super cute cuts: