Suggestion for a new series

Special Moments of the (last few) Week(s)

At bedtime.

Nina: Mom, can you tell me the best story you have in your mouth?

Me: These are our rules. Be kind. Be respectful. Be safe.

Nina: These are our rules. Number 1: Don't get into trouble. Number 2: Don't get hurt. Number 3: Don't walk in circles unless you are with your friends. Number 3: Wait, what number was I on?

Me: Number 4.

Nina: Number 4: You can't break glasses.

I walk away then return several minutes later.

Nina: Number 9: You can't open a curtain unless someone is with you. Number 10: You can't jump on the bed with a drink because you will break it.

Dad and Nina found some ants on the sidewalk eating a mini Ritz peanut butter filled cracker.

Nina: Look, ants! And they're eating an ant birthday pie! They're singing ant Happy Birthday!

 

Nina: Guess what, I forgot to tell you lasternight Owen peed in the tub! Don't pee in the tub! That's another rule you should write on your list, mom!


Nina: Knock Knock.

Me: Who's there?

Nina: Owen.

Me: Owen who?

Nina: Owen you glad I didn't say Nina?



Nina: Where are we going?

Me: Where are we going?

Nina: Where are we going?

Me: Where are we going?

Nina: Target?

Me: Yes.

Nina:  Why didn't you say that?

Me: Because you know the answer.

Nina: No I don't.

Me: Yes you do. You just said it.

Nina: Said what?

Me: Target.

Nina: Target?

Me: Yes.

Nina: The Targ store?

Me: What's the Targ store?

Nina: They sell houses and farms and little dolls, and uh, milk bottoms and green lights...

Nina: Knock knock.

Me: Who's there?

Nina: Owen.

Me: Owen who?

Nina: Owen you glad I didn't say I'm angry because I am angry because I said "Target" but I wanted you to say "Target" when I asked you where we were going.

Me: But you know where we're going.

Nina: Where are we going?

Me: Target!



Nina: Knock knock.

Owen: Dhere?

Nina: Symbol.

Owen: Haaaaaa!

Nina: You're supposed to say "symbol who?" not "haaaaa!"




Nina: Mom, I closed the bathroom door because I don't want Owen to get hurt because I love him now.

Fun on a scale of 0 to 10

Breakdown:

Eating at a grown-up restaurant: Before kids, this was one of my top two favorite things to do, right along with going to the movies. I loved trying new foods, talking with my husband, and having absolutely no dishes to clean afterward. After kids, going out to eat is akin to throwing myself on a grenade. I know the explosion is going to come at some point, so I sacrifice myself to keep the casualties to a minimum. Meals are now spent shaking objects in front of the kids to prevent a meltdown, picking crayons up off the floor, and shoveling my meal down my throat so I at least get to eat some of it before we have to do the walk of shame to the front door with screaming children in tow.

Going to an amusement park: Before kids, it was rides! games! food! fun! Now it's watching the kids have fun while we watch the coasters zoom by without us. If I'm lucky, I get to go on rides like Lucy's Camp Bus and Woodstock's Whirlybirds. So I guess there's that. Bonus is that by the end of the day, everyone is so exhausted that we leave shouting at each other through tears.

Watching TV: I'll watch anything on TV, so aside from the nonstop talking this hasn't changed much.

Cleaning: I never liked cleaning much, but I like a clean house. Using a few precious Saturday morning hours to clean seemed like such a waste, but it had to be done. Morning was whenever I rolled out of bed -- usually around 10 a.m. Once clean, the house would feel pretty sanitary for a good five days or more. Now, cleaning is my worst nightmare. Not only is there no time to knock it all out in a few hours, but immediately after I clean something, it's dirty again. I sweep the floor; Owen finds an old cracker and smashes it onto the hardwood, creating far more crumbs than mathematically possible. I wash the dishes; someone wants a snack, but not that snack, and not on that plate, and a drink, but not in that cup. In fact, I'm pretty sure my house would actually be cleaner if I didn't try to clean. Because if I lock the kids in a room full of toys so I can clean the kitchen, I return to a destroyed room that needs more cleaning.

Room full of toys? Let's pull every movie and video game out of the entertainment center! Weeee!

Me cleaning is like Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the hill, only to have it roll back down again, for all eternity.

Grocery shopping, alone: Previously one of the most boring items on my to-do list; however, since having children, grocery shopping alone has become a mini-vacation. I sip my Starbucks latte while cruising the isles, making purchasing decisions and comparing prices without interruption. Inwardly, I giggle at all the exasperated moms bribing their children with donuts and M&Ms. Unfortunately, next time I'll be that mom, tossing random items into the cart, trying to prevent their little angry heads from spinning, and rushing to the front to pay before I'm actually done. Of course, I leave without the one thing I went in for.

Who I'm not

I'm not a preschool teacher. The thought of all those kids looking to me for educational guidance for a full 6 hours or more makes my head ache. I'm not a nurse. I can never tell when my child is sick, unless she comes to me and says, "I'm sick" or vomits all over me. Even then, I'm more prone to tell her to suck it up than to recognize she may be legitimately ill. I'm not a camp counselor. I don't enjoy being outdoors unless I'm alone and it's quiet. I don't even really like the sun, with all its bright hotness making me uncomfortable. I'm not an artist, or a musician, or a dance instructor. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. Not good enough, not thoughtful enough, not sensitive enough.

Since having kids, my life has been filled with thoughts of who I'm not instead of thoughts of who I am. I constantly feel the need to be someone else -- a preschool teacher, a nurse, an activities coordinator. I feel the need to change who I am to fit what a mom should be.Things that before gave me a sense of identity -- my love of pop culture, my tendency to get so focused on a project that I can spend hours seeing it through, my daydreaming -- are now glaring personality flaws incompatible with a life where asking for time to do something I enjoy feels selfish and giving someone else responsibility for my children feels like shirking my duties as a mother.

You can say my expectations are too high. That no mom can be everything (except for the overachieving ones on Pinterest). But these expectations come from somewhere. They're all around me, in the television I watch and the magazines I read and the stories I hear from other mothers. Just flip through an issue of Parenting to see why so many moms are anxious. There you'll see five-step, sure-fire solutions to every parenting problem, from tantrums to bedtime to healthy eating, and if you can't do it or don't want to, then it's your own fault. You can choose to succeed, or you can choose to fail.

Choices, choices, everywhere, and yet I feel forced into choosing the path of anxiety and self-doubt. Maybe that's because, as Judith Warner explains in her book, Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, the choices we're offered aren't really choices at all.

What kind of choice is it really, after all, when motherhood forces you into a delicate balancing act -- not just between work and family, as the equation is typically phrased, but between your premotherhood and postmotherhood identities? What kind of life is it when you have to choose between becoming a mother and remaining yourself?

After my first child was born, I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. I grieved the person I used to be, and struggled to feel like a mother. The person I thought I was -- confident, logical, ambitious, good-humored, and deep-thinking -- was buried by the new person I became -- obsessed with and overwhelmed by the crushing responsibility of motherhood.

Each choice I made seemed Incredibly Important. To work or stay home, to buy jarred baby food or make it myself, to watch TV or read more books, to send my kids to preschool or hire a nanny. Instead of just being me, imperfect but generally happy, I worried that my imperfections would destroy my children. I became an expert on things in which I had no interest, because the general consensus is that there is no excuse for being uninformed. As Warner points out, if we make the right choices our children will be successful, but "if we choose badly, our children will fall prey to countless dangers--from insecure attachment to drugs to kidnapping to a third-rate college. And if this happens, if our children stray from the path toward happiness and success, we will have no one but ourselves to blame."

No pressure or anything.

Do fathers suffer from the same kind of identity crises after having children? Do they feel the constant need to enrich their children's lives at the expense of their own interests and sanity? I asked my husband, who stayed home with our daughter for a year starting when she was 18 months old, and he said at the time he thought she was too young to do any enrichment activities.

Yeah, I almost jumped out of my seat when he said that, too. I actually almost screamed, "How is it you get off not worrying ONE BIT about our child's future success or failure as a human being, and I spend hours, days, weeks, months of my life doing nothing but worrying?"

I would venture a guess that no mom reading this thinks that 18 months is too young to start enrichment. In fact, I stayed home with our daughter from her birth until she was 18 months old, and during that time I joined a moms play group, went to music programs, signed up for babytimes at the library, and bought a book of activities to do at home to improve her motor coordination and verbal skills. I agonized over bottle feeding her (would she ever bond with me?), and feeding her solid foods (would she end up obese because I didn't feed her enough vegetables?), and letting her cry it out versus soothing her to sleep (would she end up emotionally scarred, or too needy?)

Despite being home with dad for a year, my daughter turned out just fine. Well, she's crazy, but I don't think that's his fault. I think that's just because she's 3. She seems smart enough, and she's on target for all of her milestones. So really, shouldn't I consider my job done and call it a day? Shouldn't I stop worrying so much and just accept that they'll probably be fine despite my obvious shortcomings?

And yet... there is still always the list of "who I'm not" lingering in my mind. I'm not selfless enough. I'm not fun enough. I'm not patient enough. I'm not perfect.

To admit it seems like admitting an immense failure. I'm not perfect; I never was. I don't expect my kids to be perfect, and I hope you'll forgive them for talking a bit too loudly, eating too many snacks, and enjoying TV a little too much. Because one day they'll be parents, too, and my heart breaks thinking about them punishing themselves for being who they are, in all their crazy, imperfect, wonderful ways.

The longest three minutes of my life

Driving home from school.

Nina: Are we 5 minutes away?

Me: Yes. Even less than 5 minutes.

Nina: Six minutes?

Me: No. Six is more than 5. We're, like, 3 minutes away.

Nina: It's been 3 minutes?

Me: No, it's been 1 minute.

Nina: So we're 1 minute away?

Me: No, we're 2 minutes away.

Nina: One minute?

Me: Two minutes.

Nina: Two minutes away?

Me: Now it's more like 1 minute.

Nina: Three minutes?

Me: Yep.

I forgot to include "McDonald's"

Just enjoy it!

"Enjoy this time while you can, it goes by so quickly."

When someone says that to me, I hear this: Enjoy this root canal while you can, because pretty soon it will be over and you will have healthy, happy teeth and lots of free time.

Sure, my kids are cute and say funny things. Sure, I love spending time with them. When they're not screaming. But mostly they are screaming. And their screams say, "You are not good enough. In fact, you are terrible. Now stop being so terrible and get me more milk."

To which I reply, "I cannot wait until you move out." In my head, because saying it out loud would be mean and probably put them in therapy. OK, there was one time I said it out loud, but she probably won't remember it anyway, and I have a special bank account for therapy bills.

Speaking of things we remember, or forget. This quote by Joshua Foer, who wrote a book about memory, may explain why so many older people think "it goes by quickly."

Monotony collapses time; novelty unfolds it. You can exercise daily and eat healthily and live a long life, while experiencing a short one. If you spend your life sitting in a cubicle and passing papers, one day is bound to blend unmemorably into the next—and disappear. That’s why it’s important to change routines regularly, and take vacations to exotic locales, and have as many new experiences as possible that can serve to anchor our memories. Creating new memories stretches out psychological time, and lengthens our perception of our lives.

Life seems to speed up as we get older because life gets less memorable as we get older.

Less memorable indeed. I can't think of anything less memorable than changing thousands of diapers and wiping thousands of dirty bottoms. One dirty tush blends into the next, until before you know it, your kids are in college and you're telling some young mother to just "enjoy it while you can, it goes by so quickly." It doesn't go by quickly. You just don't remember it.

So, the next time someone tells you to enjoy this time while you can, instead of just rolling your eyes, you should kindly suggest that if they miss it so much, they should spend a few days in your house helping out. You can bet time won't pass quickly enough for them when they're up every two hours to get a glass of water and clean up an exploding diaper.

When they "wake" in the morning, groggy and cranky, tell them they should enjoy their time with your children while they can. It will go by so quickly.

Be prepared to duck and run for cover.

TV: The win-win

I love when it's raining. The kids get to watch TV all day and I get to feel like there's no other option. WIn-win!

From what I remember of my own childhood, I spent countless hours in front of a much less educational television set watching shows like The A-Team and Smothers Brothers. I am no brain surgeon, and I wouldn't want to be. Who wants those kind of hours and that kind of pressure? Blame TV for my failures as a human being if you like, but I'm perfectly content with my career, and I can play six degrees of Kevin Bacon like nobody's business. The first R-rated movie I remember seeing was Halloween 4. I think I was 6. Today, that would be child abuse. Back then it was decent parenting.

Nowadays if you let your child watch more than 30 minutes of educational, murder-free TV in a day, you feel neglectful, ready to justify your actions to complete strangers. "She had to watch an hour today! I know, I'm terrible, but I was vomiting non-stop and haven't slept in two days." To which the complete stranger replies, "You probably just ruined her chances of becoming a brain surgeon, you know." Oh well. Someone has to mop up after surgery.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends children under 2 get absolutely no screen time. Which is actually impossible, considering you can't walk into a room anymore without seeing a screen. Just look around when you go to the mall, or the supermarket. Yes, those screens do count, according to the AAP. Our entire lives revolve around screens now. So really, when you think about it, keeping our kids from them is kind of a disservice. Eventually they'll enter the real world, and by then their little Pre-K classmates will be typing dissertations and giving presentations on their iPads, and your kid will be awed at the magic of a touch screen, like a kitten chasing a beam of light. Bless his little heart.

Do you need to look up an address and get directions? Use your phone. Writing in your journal? You're probably doing it on your computer. Signing your name to pay with a credit card at the grocery store? Reading the news? More often than not you're doing those things on a screen. You can say it's depressing, or frightening, or that it will be the downfall of our society. But you can't say it's avoidable, unless you plan on moving into a cave, in which case you can avoid screens, potato chips, and sugary drinks all in one fell swoop.

So if my kids are going to be staring at cash register screens, and ads at the mall, and the large screen TV they actually have in the doctor's office waiting room, then why can't I use my own TV to keep my kids happy for a bit while I do something for myself? Netflix is bursting at the seems with programming that has taught my kids more than I would ever think to teach them myself, so it is quite possibly a better parent than I am. And the mother of the year award goes to... my television! For always being there, always listening, always being patient even when the kids are screaming at it, and never telling them to please go away while mommy finishes this one last thing.

Some of you naysayers are thinking, "If they're going to be exposed to screens all day for the rest of their lives, the home should be the 'safe zone' that is TV-free." And to that I say, "You are crazy." Without TV, I would get nothing done. TV is my friend. A close friend I trust with my children while I take a shower and clean the toilets, or heaven forbid, sleep.

Now, to just rid myself of the nagging feeling that I am the world's most neglectful parent for allowing my oldest to watch Cinderella while I spent my afternoon writing about how I'm justified in letting her watch Cinderella.

Oh, right. It's raining. Win-win!

I'm sorry, woman in the public restroom.

We are at the grocery store.

Nina: My belly hurts.

Me: Do you have to use the potty?

Nina: No.

Five minutes later.

Nina: I have to go potty right now!

We make a run for it. We can't find it.

Nina: I really have to go right now!

There it is! We dash into the first stall I see, the giant one meant for people in wheelchairs. No problem. What are the chances that a woman in a wheelchair will need to use the restroom in this empty grocery store at this very moment? I dangle Nina over the potty while she does her business. Whew. That was close.

Squeaky squeaky. Squeaky squeaky.

Huh, what's that noise?

I turn and peek under the stall door. 

A woman in a wheelchair. Of course.

I hear a frustrated sigh.

Me: Are you done?

Nina: No, I still have to go pee pee, and more poo poo, and then maybe diarrhea.

Another sigh. The wheels roll toward the smaller stall next to us.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Nope, not gonna fit.

Me: Come on Nina, someone is waiting to use this potty.

Nina: No! I have to go diarrhea! I have to go diarrhea!

Me: Let's just move to the other potty.

Nina: No, I want this potty! This potty! This potty! THIS POTTY!

Cue tears.

Squeaky squeaky. Squeaky squeaky.

I hear the bathroom door open and close as the poor woman leaves to go who knows where. The men's room? All the way home? I'm sorry, whoever you are. I hope you at least got a laugh out of my humiliation. Not only does my child insist on narrating all of her bodily functions, but she quickly develops an emotional attachment to whatever public toilet she happens to be hovering over.

I swear I will never use the giant stall again. Unless it's got the changing table. Because they do that, you know. Totally not my fault. And I will probably use the giant stall if my child is about to pee everywhere and it is the only one left. But under no other circumstances will I use it. Except... I will definitely use it if all the other stalls are dripping with urine or clogged up or smell funny. And sometimes all of the other stalls are out of toilet paper. And of course if I have the baby in the stroller I would need to wheel that in with us.

OK, who am I kidding? The same thing will happen to me next week.

Special moments of the week

Nina: Why did the dog cross the road?

Me: I don't know. Why?

Nina: Because the sign says dogs are allowed to go on the street!

Me: Is that supposed to be a joke?

Nina: Yeah! And there are people in the road and they will bump into the dog, and then they will say, "What are you doing in the road, dog!" Ha ha ha ha ha!

Me: Uh. Um. Ha?



Me: Did you have fun at gymnastics today?

Nina: Yeah. (Shakes her head sadly) But Joshua and Moosie (her two favorite toys) didn't have fun because they had to stay in the diaper bag.

Me: I've been working on the railroad, all the live-long day!

Nina: Stop singing!

Me: Don't you like my singing?

Nina: No! And if you keep it up, you're going to get a time out!

At the dinner table.

Nina: It's a joke.

Me: What's a joke?

Nina: My dinner.

Me: Thanks.

I got Nina a balloon for Valentine's Day.

Nina: A balloon! It says "Happy Valentine's Day!"

Me: No it doesn't. It says, "I love you."

Nina: No, it says "Happy Valentine's Day!"

Me: No, it says, "I love you." See, here is the letter "I," and then this heart means...

Nina: IT SAYS "HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!"

Me: OK, if you say so.

I'm trying, at least for a little while.

What do you do all day?

Even the checkout guy at the grocery store notices

At the grocery store, Owen is strapped to me in the baby restrainer and Nina is attempting to put groceries on the belt, then trying to climb into the giant racing car cart by herself, then attempting to push the cart over to a bench to give herself a boost. The cart veers into the register and is wobbling up and down as she tries unsuccessfully to swing her legs up and over the side.

Three professional race car drivers are needed to steer this monstrosity.

Me: Nina, please stop trying to get into the cart.

Checkout guy: She is very movey. 

"Movey" isn't a word, but it does accurately describe my child right now.

Nina: Blah blah blah blah... go in the cart... blah blah blah blah.

Checkout guy: Did you ever see "Cheaper by the Dozen?"

Nina: Blah blah blah blah... I can't get in I can't get in I can't get in I can't... blah blah blah blah.

Me: Yes.

Nina: Blah blah... Help! Mommy I can't get in... blah blah blah blah.

Me: Nina, don't get in the cart right now, I need to leave it in the store.

Checkout guy: This is like the same thing, except with two kids instead of 12.

Nina: Blah blah blah... I need to get in! I need to get in! I need to get in!... Blah blah blah blah.

Me: Yeah, the baby is one kid and she is the other 11.

Nina: Blah blah blah blah!

At least that's confirmation of what I've always suspected. Having one Nina is like having a dozen other children.

1+1 = Dante's Inferno

This post about going from one kid to two from Baby Sideburns is exactly true, right down to the Sophie who became Nina's long lost BFF when I dug it out of a box in the garage for new baby Owen.

If you are expecting baby #2, good luck with that.

Special moments of the week

Nina: Mommy, your back is as squishy as your tummy!

iPad: Great job! You drew the letter "Q"!

Nina: No I didn't! I drew the letter "P".

Me: I'm pretty sure if the iPad says it's a "Q", then it's a "Q".

Nina: No, it's a "P".

Me: OK, if you say so.

Me: Did you wash your hands after going potty?

Nina: Yeah, I did.

Me: Good girl!

(I lean in to give her a hug. She gently puts her hands on my cheeks and looks into my eyes.)

Nina: I didn't wash my hands. They still have pee pee on them from going potty.

My kids are trying to destroy me

Do you ever feel like your kids are trying to destroy you? That's because they are.

Why do you think that baby-proofing is a zillion dollar industry?* It's not because Americans love buying crap they don't need. It's because children are on a mission to make their parents look bad, and what better way than to lick an electrical outlet or practice synchronized diving from the open oven door? Total destruction - of your body, sanity, reputation, everything - is the only thing that makes them happy.

Don't believe me? Look at the evidence: 

Babies

• They will scratch out your eyes if given the chance. While you are changing them, while you are rocking them to sleep, while you are playing with them, even while you are trying to keep them alive by feeding them. They are always looking for an opportunity to clench a saggy piece of your flesh in their chubby fists. The look on their face while they remove bits of your skin is either pure hatred or pure glee. I'm not sure which is worse.
• As soon as they can move their wobbly little heads, they Tilt-a-Whirl it into every hard surface in your home. Crib rails, door frames, your teeth. Don't put a helmet on junior unless you want caps.
• Once their eyes can focus, they take inventory of everything that can either kill or maim them. That way when they learn to crawl, they don't have to waste any time locating all of the electrical outlets, staircases, and heavy, unstable objects. Diving headfirst into the tub's metal spout during bath time? How many times is he going to do that?

Toddlers 

• They refuse to eat, especially when someone who is already judging you as a parent is watching. And while that judging judger is busy judging, they make a face that says, "Maybe I would eat more if my mommy tried harder."
• Running full speed at everything is fun! A flight of steps! Jagged rocks! The open ocean! It isn't because they have no fear. It's because they are that determined to make you look bad.
• When they talk, what comes out of their mouth is at best amusing and at worst something that will get you a visit from the Division of Child Protection. "Mommy beat me!" because you won a race earlier that day sounds funnier at home than when it is screamed in the middle of a grocery store, and yet they will always choose the grocery store.

When you do manage to foil their plans, children respond with the ferociousness of a cornered, injured predator. Howls, wails, fist banging, foot stomping, and of course pinching with their little baby razor blade fingers. This is true when you are strapping them into their ultra-safe, ultra-expensive car seats, when you are pulling them away from an open flame, and when you are attempting to remove something teeny from their mouth. Fun fact: Don't swipe your finger too far into a choking child's throat. If you make them gag, they might clamp their jaw shut and bite off your finger. Then you have to worry about them swallowing a tack and choking on your finger.**

Now that is something that would make you look really bad.

*This claim is not supported by facts.
**I learned this in my CPR class, so it is probably supported by facts.

Bedtime Stories: The Evil Magician and His Eight-Legged Minions

Me: Good night, Nina.

Nina: One more story please!

Me: Why don't you tell me a story?

Nina: OK! Once upon a time there was a girl named mommy and she lived in an orange castle with daddy and Owen and me. Then one day a magician came and took us to his castle and put us in the dungeon! And along came a spider and scared us into a gate! 

Um... this is what you think about while you drift off to sleep at night? Not puppies and rainbows, but magicians locking us up in dungeons and creepy nursery rhyme spider wardens?

Me: Yikes. Did we get out?

Nina: No, we couldn't because we didn't have a wand.

Me: We could just take one from the magician.

Nina: No, we can't use wands because we're not magicians. If we try he will say "abracadabra" and we will have to stay with him forever and ever. 

This explains a lot.

Me: Forever and ever, huh?

Nina: Yeah, and along came a spider and we said "ahhh!" and we couldn't get out of the gate! 

Again with the spider. No more nursery rhymes before bed. Or maybe ever. I need to give this a happy ending or I'll be up at 3 a.m. explaining that we are not actually trapped in a dungeon with an evil magician and his spider minions.

Me: Maybe a magical unicorn came and unlocked the gate with her horn and then a bus came and we all went home on the bus.

Nina: No! We don't take buses to go home! We take our car to go home. We take buses to go to school. Silly. 

Fine. I could explain the difference between a public bus and a school bus, but let me just try a different angle.

Me: OK, maybe the magical unicorn drove our car to the castle and picked us up in our car.

Nina: Noooo... unicorns can't drive cars because they don't have hands. They only have feet. 

Hahaha. I should correct her.

Me: They only have feet?

Nina: And horns. Horns that go "beep! beep!" 

One day, when she is 12 or so, she will realize that even in fantasy worlds where unicorns do exist, her running shoe wearing, car horn on the forehead brand of unicorn would be mocked by all of the other imaginary creatures. But who am I to be the one to break it to her?

Me: So that's it? We are stuck in the dungeon with the magician and spiders forever and ever?

Nina: ...

Me: ...

Nina: Will you sleep with me mommy? 

OK, I deserve that.

Hopefully I don't smell too bad today

Why my day is usually a total fail

There are many things I took for granted before I had kids. Like how easy it was to leave the house. Just get up and go. No packing two bags with diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, lotions, toys, bibs, and 10 varieties of snacks and drinks. No children to corral into one location, pin down, and dress for the weather. No realizing that I failed to pack something crucial when we are two streets away from our destination, but being unable to return for it because that would mean driving past a playground and a McDonald's for the second time, and I am not dealing with that catastrophe again.

Back before kids, getting ready when I had the day off started whenever I woke up -- 9 a.m.? 10? The memory of sleeping late fills me with the kind of nostalgia that only a parent who hasn't had a full night's sleep for nine months can truly appreciate. I would wake up, shower, get dressed, eat, grab my purse and go. If I was in a hurry I could do it all in 30 minutes.

Now that I have two children (otherwise known as the slippery fish I have to bring with me wherever I go), getting out of the house starts at 7 a.m. and sometimes takes until 2 in the afternoon. Sometimes, I start at 7 a.m. and give up completely around dinner time. Better luck next time, mom. And that's just to get the kids ready. Me? Shower? "Do it on your own time," my children say. Between 10 p.m. and midnight, when everyone is asleep. Unless they're not.

The whole leaving the house process requires the foresight and strategizing of a military commander. It all starts the night before. I think about the day ahead of me. What do I need to do? How many stops do we need to make? How many times will the baby need to nap (in the car or at home?) How am I going to tire my children out so they will leave me alone by the afternoon? All of these things must be considered. I make a plan. A plan that will fail, and I know it.

There are many kid-sized wrenches that can be thrown into the cogs of my intricately planned day. It all starts when...

My child wakes up too early. My kids usually wake up at 7 a.m., and the baby naps at 9. That's two whole hours to fit in grocery shopping and still make it back before the little guy is a crankasaurus. Except today little Baby Sunshine is bright eyed and bushy tailed at 5 a.m. He will need an early nap, probably around 8 a.m., and because I am not going grocery shopping at 6 a.m, we will have to wait and go after he wakes up. But that doesn't always work because...

My child doesn't nap as expected. Did I say I planned on going out after nap time? I had better write those plans in pencil. If I expect the baby to nap at 8, it is possible he will either lay in his crib for an hour before falling asleep for two hours, or not fall asleep at all. Now I have one of two problems. 1.) It is 11 a.m. when he wakes up. By the time I am ready to leave it will be almost lunch. Or, 2.) the baby still hasn't napped and it is 9 a.m. He will be tired any second, but I'm just not sure when that second will come. If I go out with a tired baby, there is always the risk that...

My child falls asleep in the car. Or doesn't. Either way, I'm screwed. If the baby hasn't napped by this point, it's basically a lose-lose-lose-lose-lose situation. If he falls asleep in the car, I have to drive around for 30 minutes or more and hope that's enough sleep to keep him from going nuclear. If the baby stays awake in the car, he will definitely go nuclear. If he sleeps, my 3-year-old is in the backseat waiting quietly for her brother to wake up. No, not really. She is alternating between screaming her head off and asking me questions that have no answer. Of course, being in the car is at least a start. Some days I haven't even made it that far when I realize that it's...

Lunch time! If it's 11:30 and I haven't left the house yet, I just give up until after lunch. If it's 11:30 and I find myself driving around with a sleeping baby in the car, I just give up and go to McDonalds. Because if  nothing else, at least french fries taste good. But naturally after lunch, comes...

Poop. I might think I am ready to go. Just then, my 3-year-old will need to poop. She will sit on the potty for 30 minutes and insist she really needs to go. Maybe she will go, maybe she won't. The point is, I'm not leaving the house. When she is finally done, I bundle everyone up. Layers of clothing and coats, strap everyone into the car seat -- then the baby poops. If I'm lucky, I will only have to unstrap the two of them and change one diaper. If I am not so lucky, I will be washing poop from my baby's armpits, doing a load of laundry, and giving up on going out because the car seat is quarantined in the decontamination chamber (the garage) until someone can hose it down. If there is no poop, there is still the possibility that we won't make it out of the house because...

My child takes an absurdly long afternoon nap. Sometimes when the baby misses his first nap, I don't go out because I know he will be tired any second. I wait and wait, but he doesn't want to sleep until after lunch. Why did I wait? See #3. Once he is asleep, he naps from 1 to 4 p.m. This is a big, fat fail. I don't even try to go out after that. Sometimes it's less frustrating when...

My child gets sick. Scrap the plan entirely. Giving up immediately instead of spending the entire day attempting to leave the house is far less annoying. At least I have an excuse for being in my sweat pants all day. But then the next day the other kid is sick. They continue to alternate diseases for all of eternity. When you wonder why some parents bring their sick children out, that is your answer.

So I've just learned to lower my expectations. Then it's a really happy surprise when I manage to get to one store. High fives all around! Let's treat ourselves to some McDonald's! Maybe we'll actually make it out of the house before dinner time.

You were really cute 12 hours ago... now... not so much.

In my head this seemed like a better deal than it actually is

Nap Time: The Game

My 3-year-old doesn't take naps anymore, so for her, a fun game is pretending to take a nap. You know what would be a really fun game? Actually taking a nap.

You'd think playing nap time would be a really restful game. Not so. That's because Nina is a dictator. You must nap according to a very specific set of rules, in a location of her choosing (the more uncomfortable, the better), with blankets covering your whole body, always with your head on a pillow (don't you dare try to prop your arm under there), and next to the stuffed toys she forces asks you to sleep with.

Lights out. We're all settled in for our pretend nap. Now we can rest, right? Wrong. Now she jumps up every 10 seconds or so, turns on the lights, and screams "Wake up! Start talking!" This is a dream come true for her. I am sure that whenever she wakes up at night, she thinks about running to my room, flipping on the lights and screaming "Wake up! Start talking!" But part of her must also fear the firestorm that would rain down upon her should she ever really do it. Playing nap time is her outlet for such whimsical fantasies.

Playing nap always ends badly, because I'm already bitter about the fact that I can't actually sleep. Sure, rub it in my face, kid. But it also ends badly because 8-month-olds are no good at pretending to sleep.

So here we go, with an episode of "Nap Time: The Game":

Nina: I want you to sleep here with me.

Me: That sounds like the worst game ever. Why don't we play something else?

Nina: No, I want you to sleep. (Turns off the lights) And bring Owen too.

Me: You know what will happen if I come over there with Owen and try to sleep.

Nina: What?

Me: He will crawl around and try to touch your toys, and then you will cry and push him, and then I will put you in time out, and then we will all be upset and it will be no fun.

Nina: I want you to sleep here with me. And bring Owen too.

Me: ...

Nina: Or we could play hide-and-seek again.

Me: Well played. Zzzz. Zzzz.

Owen: I'm going to just crawl around here.

Nina: Owen! It's time to go to sleep. Make Owen go to sleep mommy!

Me: Zzzz. Zzzz.

Owen: Toys! Let me just put a few of these in my mouth! 

Nina: Noooooo! Owen! My toys! Ahhhh! (Pushes Owen)

Owen: Waaah! Wahhh!

Me: Time out!

Every. Freaking. Time.

My ideal child

Nina: My game just turned off all by itself! Maybe the batteries just ran out.

Me: No, it just stops making noise if you don't play with it for a while.

Nina: ...

Me: If only that's how children worked.

My point exactly. No, wait. Not at all my point.

I showed my husband this hilarious post from one of my favorite blogs, Crappy Pictures, and he laughed the whole way through. Then he said this:

Him: That is just like you!

I started nodding in agreement, because yes, I was up every two hours for six months with our son while hubby snoozed the night away, just like in this Crappy Picture. Then in the morning, my dear, sweet, husband would unwittingly say crazy-making things like, "I slept so well, I didn't even know you got up!" or even better, "I sure am tired from being slightly disturbed by the baby's crying and then immediately going back to sleep!"

I stopped nodding when he finished his thought.

Him: You need 10 hours of sleep too, just like that guy in the cartoon! Ha ha ha ha ha!

Not exactly the comparison I was hoping for.

There were 32 in the bed and the little one said...

When Nina was a baby, I did what most first time moms do. I read all about baby care, panicked, and was overly cautious whenever possible. So naturally I wasn't going to let my baby sleep in a death trap. Everyone knows that babies die if they so much as think about a snuggly blanket while in their cribs. I was very careful about removing the fluffy menace from areas in and around her crib. She didn't sleep with anything cuddly for the first eight months of her life.

This is what a baby with a loose blanket looks like.

Then Nina started going to sleep with her favorite stuffed animal, a little piece of fabric with a zebra head sewn on top named Moosie (I know, but Zebra-ie doesn't have the same ring to it). They purposely make these toys so small and flat that infants cannot die on them, but I was still pretty sure she was going to suffocate, so I dutifully sneaked into her room every night to take it away.

Finally, she turned that magical age: 1. The age when she would no longer be in danger of instantly dying from (this list is abbreviated): egg yolks, peanut butter, facing forward in a car seat, being in the vicinity of blankets, honey nut cheerios, and of course, suffocating on a teeny, tiny stuffed animal. So it was then that I stopped stealing her most favorite, favorite, favorite toy away while she slept. It was also then that I started leaving some toys next to the crib, and hanging over the crib rail, so when she woke in the wee hours of the morning mama could sneak in a few extra minutes of sleepy time while Nina busied herself pulling  toys through the rails or onto her head. And if she knocked herself unconscious for an hour or two in the process, all the better.

Maybe it was all those months of waking up in the crib all alone, no Moosie in sight, that led to her eventual downward spiral into addiction. Maybe it was the excessive number of toys I left around the crib in my selfish attempt to catch a few extra Zs. Or maybe it's just in her nature to be completely insane. We may never know. What we do know is she has a problem, and when a 3-year-old has a problem, everyone has a problem.

This morning, Nina woke up with 32 "friends" in her bed:

• Moosie the zebra
• Joshua Giraffe
• Owen the cabbage patch doll
• Upstairs Panda and Downstairs Panda (Two panda Pillow Pets)
• A backpack
• A Fisher-Price camera
• Louise, the Build-a-Bear cat
• Teddy Bear the tye-dyed Beanie Baby
• Ballerina Bear
• Strawberry Bear
• Winnie-the-Pooh
• Max from How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• Josie the snow leopard
• Sophie, the very squeaky giraffe
• Four books
• Hop Hop the rabbit
• Other Hop Hop, the rabbit wearing a tutu
• Hop Hop's ball (because even her stuffed animals have to sleep with their toys)
• Mouse
• Hoo Hoo, the owl
• Monkey (I just asked her what monkey's name is, and she said, "I'm going to call him mommy.")
• Rexy the T-Rex
• Pinwheel
• Big Bad Wolf puppet
• Thomas the Tank Engine Flashlight that says, "Bust my Boilers! It's dark in here!"
• Toy Story flashlight
• Big Doggy, a stuffed dog as big as she is (thanks, Aunt Elsie)
• Glow Baby, the glow worm

In case you were wondering, she doesn't sleep in a Target. She sleeps in a twin-sized bed. Which is a step up from the toddler bed she was sleeping in a few weeks ago. Back then -- "the good old days," I like to call them -- we were able to keep Nina at a measly eight to ten friends at night because that was all that could fit under her itty bitty blanket. But now she has an entire big girl bed to fill up with snuggly love. And fill it she must.

Now, I don't really care what she sleeps with (well, within reason), as long as she sleeps. But as you can imagine, with so many toys crowding up her bed, this is what I find at 2 a.m.:

And the little one said, roll over, roll over...

Her falling out of bed is the least of my worries, though. The real problem is she is obsessed with her friends being in some magical, OCD-specific order (most loved to least?). They must also be completely covered by her blankets throughout the entire night. Oh, and did I mention she wears glasses and so she can't see unless something is two inches from her face?

So this is what inevitably happens:

8:30 p.m.

Nina: Mom! I can't find Hop Hop!

8:35 p.m.

Nina: Mom! I can't find Joshua!

8:42 p.m.

Nina: Mom! The blankets aren't on Strawberry Bear!

9 p.m.

Me: Finally, she's alseep. Let me just press play on the DVR, stick my hand in this big bowl of greasy, buttery popcorn, and....

Nina: MOM! I really really need you! I can't find Big Doggy!

Seriously, you know that phrase about "the elephant in the room"? Nina wouldn't be able to find it in her bed unless it was in its magical, OCD-specific spot. And she would be so pissed that it didn't fit under her blanket.

So every morning, I take a few friends away and I hide them in the closet, or in a Tupperware in the crawl space, or in the trash can. Slowly, the pile dwindles to a manageable number. Sure, everything still has to be covered by blankets or it's nuclear meltdown time. Sure, she still can't find her most favorite tiny HelloKitty toy because without her glasses everything is a dimly lit smudge. But at least I can find the offender without a search team and detection dogs.

Still, every day, she finds some new toy to obsess over. That McDonald's Happy Meal piece of junk? "It's my favorite, favorite, favorite mom! Hey, and that reminds me, didn't we have 10 other McDonald's toys that I used to sleep with? Where are those mom?"

"Uh, I don't know sweetie. Just don't check the trash can."

Things my three-year-old likes to talk about vs. things I like to talk about

At least we have that in common.

I'm not seeing this, I'm not seeing this

I'm pretending I don't see Owen chewing on a shoe so I can finish drinking my coffee for once.

Cleanliness is next to... ah, who am I kidding?

My highchair's removable top says, "Dishwasher Safe Tray" but what it should say is, "Only when you have a starving, screaming baby doing the plank to avoid being strapped into his highchair will you remember that you never cleaned the oatmeal-booger-drool encrusted layer that formed on this tray after breakfast, so just snap this sucker off and presto! There's a mostly clean tray underneath!" But kudos to Fisher-Price for advertising it as if I actually put the tray into my dishwasher to clean it, rather than just rubbing it with a wipe every few days. It makes other people think I clean things.

I mean, I do clean things. Or at least I make an attempt. Usually I start something, like wiping down the counters, and three to eight seconds in I hear, "Blah blah blah blah, YOU'RE NOT LISTENING TO ME! Blah blah blah blah" and then I have to go do something even worse than cleaning -- playing with a 3-year-old.

"But little kids love helping their moms clean!" you say. You must not have kids. Because if you did you would know that while kids do love helping their moms clean, their moms do not love having children. I meant their moms do not love having children around while they clean. And also the other thing you thought I meant.

It is so much easier to (insert any activity here) when you distract your little walking disaster with something shiny rather than trying to get her to participate. Not that I didn't try letting Nina help me clean. The Books say things like, "pitching in can be a great way for your little helper to feel like she is part of the family" and "if you don't let your sweet, innocent child help around the house, he will turn into a heartless, selfish, antisocial failure."

I was pumped! My house would be spotless and my kid would end up a well-adjusted failure instead of just a selfish one! But what The Books don't say is you better hire a construction crew to put your house back together after Teeny Tornado starts "helping."

Here is what you can expect when you ask your child for help:

Say: Be mommy's big helper and throw this diaper in the trash!
Expect: To clean poop off your walls.

Say: Let's all clean up after dinner!
Expect: To find a trail of smashed food leading from the dining room table to to the kitchen, the kitchen to the bathroom, the bathroom to your bedroom, and if you have an especially helpful child, from your bedroom onto every nice pair of pants you own.

Say: You can help sort the laundry!
Expect: To fold laundry for the rest of the day and still end up with a pile of unfolded laundry.

Say: Why don't you use your cute toy broom to help me sweep?
Expect: To be hit in the eye with a cute toy broom.

Say: Use this harmless wet paper towel to clean whatever you want while I use the real cleaner to do something useful.
Expect: To stop cleaning every three to eight seconds to pretend-spray the wet paper towel with 409.

Say: You can watch TV while I clean.
Expect: To spend several hours watching Busytown Mysteries and wondering why all of the adults are so stupid and all of the children drive cars shaped like food.

So go ahead and invite your little one to help out. At least it's more fun laughing at their attempts at "helping" than playing hide-and-seek for the umpteenth time.

Pretending to wildly overpay for something you already own? Priceless.

We are playing store with our toy cash register.

Mommy: That is too much money to pay for a used coloring book.

Nina: Charge it!

Mommy: Charge $71 million?

Nina: (swipes card with reckless abandon)

It isn't easy to teach the value of money when the toy comes with a credit card.

Sorry officer, my daughter won't stop talking

We are driving to gymnastics class.

Nina: Where are we?

Mommy: We're on Antioch Street and 149th Street.

Nina: Antioch?

Mommy: Yes.

Nina: Where are we now?

Mommy: Uh... 148th Street.

Nina: Where are we now?

Mommy: 147th Street.

Nina: Where are we now?

Mommy: 146th Street.(Repeat this exchange until 141st Street)

Nina: Where are we now?

Mommy: Nina, I am not answering you anymore. We are almost there. Stop asking me.

Nina: Where are we now?

Mommy: ...

Nina: WHERE ARE WE NOW??

Mommy: ...

Nina: You aren't paying attention to me!

Mommy: I told you I am not answering that question anymore.

Nina: Wherearewewherearewewherearewewherearewe....

Mommy: Please stop, you are making me crazy!

Nina: *laughing uncontrollably* Where are we now?

Then several things happened at once. My blood pressure shot up, my brain gave itself a lobotomy, I realized I was speeding, and I noticed a police officer with a radar gun on the side of the road.

My first thought as the officer walked to my car was "maybe she will arrest me and I will get some quiet alone time." No such luck.

On the ticket there is no place to plead "guilty by reason of insanity."

Moments with Baby: Snuggle Time

Doggy time out

Rocky stole some of Owen's food off the table today.

Big mistake, buddy. Nina caught him red-pawed.

Nina: *gasp* Rocky! You are a bad doggy!

Rocky: *munch munch munch*

Nina: If you do that one more time, you are going to get a doggy time out!

Rocky: ...

Nina: In your bedroom!

Rocky:...

Nina: And I am not going to pet you! I am going to pet your doggy friend Hailey instead.

Oh snap, Rocky. She went there.

A dog by any other name...

This morning I was reading this article from Baby Sideburns, and Nina saw a picture of the author and asked, "Is that you mommy?" It certainly could be, because this is my life.

Nina: (Pointing at her brown stuffed dog) What's his name?

Mommy: I don't know, what do you want to name him? (mistake #1)

Nina: How about Moosie?

Mommy: You already have a Moosie. How about Scruffy? He looks Scruffy.

Nina: No, because that is the dog on Charlie Brown.

Mommy: No, that is Snoopy. Do you want to name him Snoopy?

Nina: No, because Snoopy is black and white and this dog is brown.

Mommy: Ok then, how about Brownie? (mistake #2, suggesting a color name, because now she wants to name everything for its color)

Nina: No mom, because Brownies are something you eat, and you can't eat my doggy.

Mommy: Ok, then what do you want to name him? (mistake #1, repeated)

Nina: How about Teddy Bear?

Mommy: Sure, we can call him Teddy Bear since he looks a little like a teddy bear. (mistake #3, saying too much)

Nina: No mom, he isn't a bear.

Mommy: We can just call him Teddy then.

Nina: No. How about we call him Doggy?

Mommy: ...

Nina: Because he's a dog.

Mommy: Great. Doggy it is.

It's hard being a girl

Nina runs into the kitchen, slips, and lands on her face.

Nina: Owww! Owww! Boobie! Boobie!

Mommy: You are fine, get up.

Nina: Oww! I have a boobie! I have a boobie!

Mommy: You have a what?

Nina: A boobie!

Mommy: How many boobies do you have?

Nina: Three! Here, and here, and here (pointing to her face and hands).

Mommy: They are called boo-boos.

Nina: Oh yeah. Ow! I have a boo-boo!

Bedtime Stories: Princess Nina's Magical Unicorn

Nina: Tell me a story, mommy.

Mommy: Once upon a time there was a princess named Nina who lived in a pretty pink castle and Nina never wanted to sleep and always asked her mommy to tell her one more story, but mommy was really tired and wanted to go to sleep so Princess Nina's magical unicorn told her stories instead. The end, good night.

Nina: But mom! I don't have a unicorn.

Mommy: Nina, it's a story. It's pretend.

Nina: I don't have a unicorn!

Mommy: Ugh, OK, fine, your dog told you stories.

Nina: Hehe, yeah. Good night.