Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday.

At the end of kindergarten, Mary started talking about what kind of backpack she wanted for first grade. At which point I crushed her dreams of owning an overpriced Target princess special by reminding her that she had in her possession a very nice, very durable pink backpack from LL Bean that had practically cost an internal organ and had her name on it. 

I began to wonder if I was in the minority until a friend Facebook messaged me asking if I was planning on buying the kids new backpacks. My response was a swift “nope, she’s got a really good one.” My friend’s response was something like “thank you!” - because apparently her son was also vying for a new backpack, though probably not in a Sofia the First or My Little Pony theme.

Mary mentioned a new backpack a couple of more times, but I held firm in my resolve. When the backpacks went to $12 on clearance, I was momentarily swayed, but it wasn’t until I was in Target this weekend and saw  Miss Sofia, in all her purple, plastic, glittery, probably poorly made glory, beaming at me from a backpack reduced to $4 that I caved. I stuck it in my cart and was pleased to have gotten a jump on my Christmas shopping.

Of course I forgot to take the stupid thing out of the car and when I got Anna from preschool, I heard a joyful “hey! A Sofia the First backpack!” from the backseat. I had forgotten Anna’s love of searching the “way back” for cast off toys before buckling into her booster.

“Oh, that’s a Christmas present for Mary,” I said as I started the drive to Mary's school. “We can’t tell her about it, ok?”

"Okay!"

I picked up Mary and the girls spent about a half an hour on the playground before we walked back to the car.

“Now Mary, don’t look in the back,” Anna said when we got to the car. 

“Anna!”

“Why can’t I look in the back?” Mary asked, as I opened the back and deftly moved some things to cover up the gift. 

“Anna’s just being silly,” I said, and started buckling Lily into her seat.

“We don’t want you to see your new packpack,” Lily offered brightly.

“Silly Lily, Mary’s ‘packpack’ is in the front seat!” Mary was eying me skeptically.

“Lily you ruined the surprise!” Anna said indignantly. “Well at least she didn’t tell her who was on it.”

At this point I was seriously considering banging my head on the side of the car when I remembered that Mary’s birthday was in a few days. I hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but she wants to go see a musical instead of having a big party and because the tickets aren’t on her birthday…okay, I may have momentarily forgotten. I reached in the back and grabbed the backpack.

“Look what your sisters got you for your birthday!” I exclaimed. Mary beamed.

“Wow, thanks guys!” she squealed, examining it from every angle.

“You’re welcome Mary,” Lily said.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Anna added. “I picked it out myself. And I painted that picture on the front for you too.”

“Anna, stop it,” I said.

“Yeah, okay. Mommy painted it for you. Not me.”

“You did, Mommy?!” I should point out here that the front of the backpack is not even remotely painted looking.

“No.”

“Well I love it!”

“I’m so glad, Mary. Happy early birthday.”

So the lessons I learned today are:

1. You can’t half ass hiding the presents anymore.
2. Anna is an awful secret keeper.
3. Lily is worse.
4. Anna is apparently really, really good at making up stories off the cuff and Mary is apparently really, really credulous. This does not bode well for their teen years. 

Lord of the - well, you know.

As I may have mentioned once or a hundred times, I love summer for the simple fact that we can be outside, which is a lot less crazy making than all four (sometimes five, sometimes six) of us daytime house dwellers bouncing off the walls.

Unfortunately, all of my kids hate bugs. I mean haaaate bugs. Lily freaks out at the sight of ants, and points angrily at the sidewalk.

“The ants can be outside, Lily. They live here.”

“No. You make them go away.”

“Ants are fine, Lily.”

“Dey not gonna eat me?”

“No.”

“I no yike them. I step on them.” Repeat as often as you see ants.

Today, though, all three girls suddenly ran past me in the front yard and into the house.

“Wasps!” Anna yelled as she slammed the screen door.

“What?” I looked around. I saw no wasps.

“They’re going to suck my blood!” she continued, while they all three ran dramatically around the living room. Five seconds in and I was pining for the great outdoors.

“Wasps are tiny and they suck my blood,” Anna informed me.

“Oh! Those are mosquitos!” I said, relieved that I was not going to have to hunt for a wasp nest any time soon. The one in our shed last summer was fairly exciting. (Protip - poison ivy killer will not kill wasps and that’s saying something. Poison ivy killer WILL kill poison ivy and grass and any other nearby plants like a BOSS.)

“Mosquitos!” Mary said, in an “I can’t believe I forgot this!” tone of voice. “Are they like flies?”

“Well no…not exactly.”

“Why do mosquito bites itch? Why do they drink blood? Do they only get a little at a time?” Mary continued. I attempted to answer the first, then moved on to “because it’s food for them” and concluded with “well, yes, but they’re tiny so they only need a little at a time.”

Mary nodded.

“So they’re pretending to be flies?” Anna asked.

“No, honey, they’re different insects.”

“But they fly and -”

“Yeah and they’re not smart like flies,” Mary added with finality, at which point they were done with the conversation and moved onto other pressing topics like the color of the stripe on Snow White’s dress. (It’s not yellow and Mommy clearly lacks brain cells for thinking so, in case you were wondering.)

Well, not all of us can be as smart as flies, I guess.

Another season, another post.

Welcome to summer 2014, where the kids are old enough to play in the fenced backyard without constant hovering supervision as long as the pool isn't inflated. It's glorious. I mean, I still have every single chore I had over the winter and spring, and then some (hello dirt and sunscreen residue on every available surface!) but NOW I can tackle those without three sets of feet running past me at warp speed. I can actually walk from one room to the other and return to find it not destroyed. It may be the Twilight Zone around here.

Of course with the summer, which has finally arrived after an exceptionally cold spring, comes the humidity and air you could cut with a knife. And that makes for cranky kids about 1 p.m., so I wasn't surprised when Lily came stomping in the living room where I was folding towels, hair plastered back from her face with sweat, little fists clenched, jaw set.

"I quit!" she announced upon seeing me. I blinked.

"You - quit?"

Angry nod.

"What? Why?"

"Because ANNA drank all the water!" she protested, motioning to one of the six million cups that float around this house in their own orbit. This one was empty. "Now I don't have any!"

Oh, the warped sense of justice you have when you're almost three. (Almost three. How did that happen?)

"Well, don't quit. I'll get you some more." I abandon the towels, pick up the cup and walk into the kitchen, grouchy preschooler hot on my heels, a skeptical look on her face. I filled the cup, put the top back on and handed it to Lily, who took a long drink and grinned up at me, all traces of angst gone.

"Fank you, Mama!" she said joyfully, then handed me the cup and went back outside to join her sisters, the screen door slamming loudly behind her.

Well at least she decided to stay.

On Easter and IQ

Putting my children to bed is a predictable, if extensive, process. There are water cups to provide, extra hugs, the inevitable second trip to the bathroom a mere three minutes after the "last call, oh my WORD just GO" trip, and prayers that "the white elf" doesn't come "hit" one of them in the middle of the night. (And an extra prayer for Mommy who still has no idea what that means and is a little scared herself.) And, like clockwork, Lily and Mary will conk out about 10 minutes after the last goodnight and Anna will sit on her bed for approximately seven hours talking to her toys before collapsing on top of them, not so much having fallen asleep as run out of steam.

So tonight when I heard Mary railing in her bed about the injustices of school, and how she never wants to go back, EVER!, I went in to see my normally enthusiastic kindergartener to ask what the issue was.

"I DON'T EVER WANT TO GO BACK THERE!!!"

"Why? And don't say because "it's boring" or "it's dumb," because first of all it's not true and second of all, that's life and you have to go. So what's the problem?"

"NO ONE IN MY CLASS BELIEVES ME THAT I'M SMARTER THAN ALL OF THEM AND I AMMMMMM!"

I paused. I bit my tongue. I rejected the first three thoughts that popped into my head.

"What happened, Mary?"

"Well, I don't want my sisters to hear, but you know, most of my class believes in the Easter bunny and I know he's not real and-" she started crying. I winced.

"Did you tell your class the Easter bunny wasn't real?"

Sobbing and nodding.

"MARY!" I scolded. "We tell you the truth when you ask because we trust you not to tell the other kids! You know that! You don't spoil the game for other people!"

"I know," she wailed, climbing into my arms. "I'm SORRY!"

"You told your whole class there was no Easter bunny? Go to SLEEP, Anna!" I called into the next room. Anna flopped down on her bed and pretended to snore, one hand inching towards the millions of stuffed toys surrounding her.

"No, I told my two friends and they said I was wrong and I said my daddy TOLD ME-" another cringe from the Mother of the Year - "AND THEN THEY TOLD THE ENTIRE CLASS THAT I DON'T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING EXCEPT HALLOWEEN AND THAT ISN'T TRUE!"

At this point my bewildered husband has put down his work and come to join in the conversation. I can see him holding back a smile, which is doing nothing for my ability to contain my laughter.

"Mary," he said, "We want to tell you the truth about things when you ask but the other kids get to find out the truth from their parents, too - when their parents think that's right. You don't get to do that."

"I know," she said. "I'm really sorry."

"I know you are," I said. "Tomorrow, you can go to school and you don't have to say you changed your mind. But you can tell your friends that people believe all kinds of different things and that's okay - and that the Easter bunny is a fun thing to believe in."

"They don't listen! They say I'm wrong and I'm not and-"

"Oh yeah," I added. "You aren't smarter than everyone in your class. There are people there who probably know more than you do and there are people who know less than you do and that doesn't make anyone bad or good, it's just how it is. And believing in the Easter bunny in kindergarten doesn't make you smart or du-"

"NO!!!" she interrupted, back at full volume. "I WROTE DOWN TWO PLUS ONE IS THREE. THEN I WROTE DOWN THAT ONE PLUS TWO IS THREE AND THEY ALL SAID THAT THE ANSWER WAS WRONG, THAT THEY WEREN'T THE SAME THING!"

At this point I was shaking and had to leave the room. Tim tucked Mary in and no more was said about imaginary holiday mascots or the perils of addition.

I went in the other room and called my mother.

"Is it too early to start drinking?" I began, as soon as she said hello.

"Of course it is, it's only Monday!"

"I was asking if 7:30 was too early..."

"Oh." There is silence from Connecticut. "So how was your evening?"

My evening was two Sam Adams' worth of parenting hurdles, and yours?

This entry not kosher

This is still not the "I have been sweeping up the same Cinderella head for a year" entry (though I have. And recently did again. Her body resides in the doll house awaiting the fates to align and the head and the tube of super glue to materialize at the same time and it never happens). Actually if you read the aside there, that's pretty much the whole entry. Hi, I suck at housekeeping, toy maintenance and keeping track of dangerous substances like super glue. And I'm a nanny!

Ahem. Sidestepping the myriad of issues I just left laying around and moving on to the real entry! Last night Tim and I took advantage of the fact that the older kids were out of the house and set up the Christmas tree and lights, nativity, stockings and various other little holiday knick knacks. Despite having a smallish house with little available surface space, I love Christmas and decorate accordingly. Then I stuck Sprinkles (the Elf on the Shelf) on top of the undecorated tree and eagerly anticipated the girls' arrival home. 

I missed the girls' arrival home. I was at the grocery store. Tim tells me there was much squealing, dancing and clapping, especially when Sprinkles was noticed. 

"I wonder what tricks she'll get up to this year!" Mary exclaimed.

Heh. So does Mommy, kiddo. 

Of course the rest of the day was mayhem as I tried to keep the kids from undecorating the little tabletop white tree. They managed to find a couple of stray ornaments - we were keeping the big box for later - and put them on the tree. And take them off. And try to crawl under the tree. And take the ornaments off. And on. And off.

"Don't touch the tree! Stop! No! Leave the ornaments, don't knock into it, stop trying to pull on the lights..." - insert a kid's name here, because they all took turns. I began to wonder if we could wrap presents that night, convince them Sunday was Christmas and take the whole thing down Monday while they were in school. Finally, by dinnertime, Anna was out and out not listening and messing with the tree. Tim called her over.

"Anna. Anna listen to me. You need to stop touching the tree. Do you want it to fall over and hurt you?"

"Would it hurt Sprinkles if it fell?" Tim sighed.

"She could fall over, yes. You could get hurt. The ornaments could break. You need to stop touching the tree. No one should touch the tree."

"Mama touches the tree."

"Okay, only grownups. We're going to decorate the tree soon but ornaments are for looking. Messing with the tree is a big person's job."

"When I'm bigger...?"

"When you're older you can touch the tree," Tim promised.

"Will ham make me older?" I almost choked. Tim was silent for a moment.

"Will - what, honey?"

"Will ham make you older? If I eat ham will I be older?" Anna fiddled with the hem of the Christmas dress she had insisted on wearing.

"Well, ham is good food and it will make you bigger and stronger..." Tim started, maintaining his composure far better than his wife, who was biting back hysterical laughter.

"Because," Anna kept on importantly, "last year I ate some ham on my pizza and now...well anyway can we have some pizza with ham on it?"

"Sure, Anna," Tim said, giving up.

"Tonight?"

"No, honey, we already had dinner. But sometime between now and Christmas we will eat ham." She brightened.

"But you still can't touch the tree," he finished.

"FINE."

Riddle me this

Just so you are all aware, I have an entry percolating right now that includes the phrase "I have been sweeping up the same Cinderella head for about a year now" but surprisingly, as true as that statement is, constructing a post around that is going to take some thought. And after this morning, I want to write about Mary anyway.

My kids are all approximately two years apart. Mary is only 21 months older than Anna. I love that - they compete for my attention like any other siblings do but there has never been a time when Mary remembers being an only child. As far back as she can remember, Anna has been part of her life and, as much as they fight sometimes, Mary still calls Anna her best friend. (Anna will say the same, unless she's trying to get Mary's goat, in which case she will smirk and announce LILY is her best friend and SHE ONLY HAS ONE, but I digress.)

On the other hand, being the oldest and having two younger sisters right behind her, Mary is in some respects young for her age. She's bright and ridiculously articulate, but, for instance, last Christmas she still wanted a Little People set. She had no idea who "Justin Beaver" (yes, really) was until sometime late in the school year. (For the record, I am totally fine with this, especially now that the young man has decided to become Canada's Most Humiliating Export.) The concepts of One Direction, Bratz and even Barbie were totally foreign to her until she started kindergarten at almost six. Again, this doesn't bother me in the slightest - her infancy and toddlerhood seemed to go by at the speed of light and I know it's not going to slow down any time soon. But it does provide me ample opportunity to be surprised by her. 

I took this shot before a ballet class a couple of weeks ago. It was chilly in the studio and she'd asked to wear my coat. I took a number of silly pictures of her - posing, mugging for the camera, goofing off with her sisters - but I also got this shot and my heart skipped a beat. There is no "baby" in this picture, no chubby preschooler, barely even a kindergartener. Suddenly I could see the young lady my oldest is becoming and it was breathtaking. 

She is six. Sometimes she acts so grown up and other times she acts, well, like she's six, with all the glorious moods and FEELINGS the age implies. It's unpredictable and sometimes frustrating but often, often, leads to little moments you never would have seen coming. This morning, in the car, she piped up. 

"Mommy I made up a joke!"

I have to admit, I cringed a little inside. The "jokes" Mary and Anna usually come up with are of the totally age appropriate but awful "knock knock! who's there? MACARONI!" variety, which wouldn't be so bad except they will repeat them constantly, expecting uproarious laughter every time.

"Oh yeah?" I asked, carefully backing out into the preschool parking lot. Small lot, lots and lots of giant SUVs, a million parents who's schedules are all the most important things in the world - stress! 

She paused. I could see the anticipation bright in her eyes.

"What kind of flowers can blow bubbles?" she asked, barely containing her excitement.

"I don't know, honey, what kind?"

"TULIPS!" she crowed, dissolving into giggles. I joined her. 

"Mary, that's really funny!" I said. "Did you just make that up?"

"Yeah!" she said, and I could hear the pride in her voice. She knew she had gotten it right, that what she had come up with was truly funny. She told the joke again, and I laughed, again. We drove off to Dunkin Donuts to get a caffeine (me) and donut (them) fix before I had to take her to school and she laughed the entire way. 

"Welcome to Dunkin Donuts what can I get for you today?"

"TULIPS!" Mary screamed happily from her booster. 

"Hi I'll have a medium iced caramel swirl -"

"TULIPS!"

"-skim milk no sugar and -"

"TWOOYIPS!" Lily screeched, getting in on the action. 

"- one-"

"Tulips," Mary said happily to herself, grinning. 

"-no, two, old fashioned donuts."

What can I say? It was a celebration.

Just don't grow up too fast, kid. Mommy won't be able to take it.

Planes, trains and Tinkerbell

I don't want to think about how long it's been since I've blogged. It's not that I think anyone is waiting with bated breath to see what shenanigans my kids have got up to (though I think my mother might be, but that's more out of a sense of karmic justice than anything else). Mostly I like writing so I can look back on the days with my kids, but then the day ends and I'm tired and vegging out in front of Netflix with a Sam Adams seems like a much more appealing activity.

But I digress. 

We live close enough to the school that we can walk Mary to kindergarten every day. It's worked out pretty well so far. The kids race to the next stop sign or crosswalk, look out for seasonal decorations, walk on rock walls. I've met more neighbors in the past two months than I think I have in seven years of residency. And hey, free exercise!

This morning was crisp but still above freezing. The light was beautiful and golden. I put kids in hats and coats and we strolled off. Anna was enjoying a day off from preschool because we had a play date planned with a friend she hadn't seen in awhile and you're only four once. (Although, mothers of other four year olds? It's kind of a long age, am I right? I feel very, very tired some days.)

We walked to the end of the block and found our first "regular" - the absolutely terrifying large dog that seems barely contained by a mishmash of fence pieces and possesses a menacing bark. Mary and Anna shied away to the inside of the sidewalk, as far away from the yard across the street as possible. Lily leaned forward in her stroller and shook her hand towards the fence.

"SHH DOGGIE!" she admonished. "BE QUIET! SHHH DOGGIE! Doggie yowed (loud)," she informed me sagely, shrugging her hands and facing forward once more. 

We turned the corner and Anna found a giant puddle left over from yesterday's rain.

"No," I said quickly, seeing the glint in her eye. We already have a pair of sneakers drying out from yesterday's adventure, thanks. The girls raced ahead to the next stop sign, announcing loudly that they had both won. Lily sat in her stroller, content to wake the dead by announcing every vehicle that drove by.

"OH NO BUS! OH NO CAR! PLAAAAAAAAAAANE!"

If the neighbors aren't morning people I apologize. 

Finally we got to the school, where the crossing guard greeted us warmly. No, seriously - she is the nicest person I think I've met in a long time and she's cheerful despite standing in the middle of the street in some pretty lousy weather. 

"Hiiiii!" Lily called from her stroller, waving like the Queen. 

"Good morning cutie," she replied. 

"Mommy how come she's wearing GLOVES today?" Mary asked me, referring to the guard's bright green gloves in the same shade of "see you coming" green as her (uniform?) jacket.

"Because it gets chilly standing outside for a long time," I said.

"Why do they match her coat?"

"Well see how she's waving at the traffic? It's probably so the drivers can see-"

"MAYBE SHE LIKES GREEN A LOT JUST LIKE TINKERBELL, MARY!" Anna shouted, loud enough that several teachers turned around. 

"Oh, okay," Mary said complacently, walking ahead and greeting approximately 3,000 Kindergarten friends as Lily continued her traffic narration and Anna continued waxing poetic about Tinkerbell. The bell rang, the kids filed in, and we left the school yard.

We went home, had a nice play date and a lovely morning and afternoon. When we left to pick up Mary, Anna was wearing her pink coat, a blue cardigan, jeans and floor-length Cinderella costume. For the fourth time this week. Except this time she had also added a magic wand to the getup.

And I'm surprised the crossing guard remembers us.

Let's get a dog and name him Turtle

  A few nights ago I went into the kitchen to start dishing out dinner and found Tim in there, chuckling to himself.

"You're raising Ramona," he said.

"Excuse me?" I asked, because first of all, awesome, and second of all, awesome. (I cannot hyperlink from the app I use to blog at the moment so if you do not know Ramona Quimby, I suggest a quick trip to Wikipedia and then hie thee to a library or Amazon, like, yesterday. You're welcome.)

"I came in and saw Lily sitting on the floor, holding the strawberry container like a bear, taking one bite out of each berry and carefully putting it back." I looked in the little plastic supermarket container and saw the half masticated berries, thanked my lucky stars I had already assembled the salad for which they were purchased and laughed too. Of course one of my kids would do that. Of course it was Lily, because if any of my kids are going to draw on the walls, or find the train whistle I SWEAR I HID ON TOP OF THE FRIDGE, or take one bite out of a hundred pieces of fruit that she doesn't really like, well, it's going to be Lily. I thought Anna was my master of hijinks and odd situations, and then Lily hit toddlerhood and I realized how wrong I was.

That is until the other day. I was in my room folding laundry/cleaning/hiding out and surfing Facebook (two lies and a truth, who wants to play a game?) when I heard Anna start crying down the hall. It wasn't her hurt cry, but it wasn't her "someone took my toys and the balance of my universe is forever shattered" battle wail either. I was making my way for her when she burst into the room, wailing louder and louder.

"Anna what is it?"

"I SWALLOWED SOMETHING AND MARY SAID IT'S GONNA STAY IN MY TUMMY FOREVERRRRR!" 

There are few things that will put a cold grip around my stomach but a sentence like that is one of them. 

"Okay," I said, forcing myself to sound calm and breathe deeply. "What did you swallow?"

"ONE OF THESE!" she wailed, holding out an entire popsicle stick, a remnant from the kids' snack earlier. My eyes went wide.

"You ate a popsicle stick?" I asked incredulously. My lizard brain was informing me "no way did she swallow a whole popsicle stick" but the emotional brain was looking at Anna, who has done and said some pretty weird stuff in her four years on earth. "A WHOLE POPSICLE STICK?"

"YESSSSSSSS!"

"You mean you put it in your mouth and chewed it up-" here comes the pantomime, and I realize I am raising Fudge as well. (Wikipedia. Fictional turtle death mentioned.) "-like this?"

"YEAAAAAH!"

I looked at the clock. 4:30. Pediatrician closed until tomorrow. Nearest walk in a bit of a drive and a nightmare with three kids. This doesn't seem 911 worthy but...

"Poison control," the woman answered, sounding entirely too calm.

"Hi. I'm not sure if you can help me. I mean, you probably can but I don't know if I'm calling the right place but the doctor is closed and this doesn't SEEM like a 911 thing but of course if it is I can call 911, I mean, I don't mind, but okay, my four year old ate a popsicle stick. She says the whole thing. I think she ate a piece of it or something but regardless, MY CHILD ATE WOOD. SPLINTERY WOOD."

"Okay," the woman said. I know they're paid to be calm in all circumstances but this is a woman who will never die of a heart attack. "I can help you with that. What city are you calling from?"

I hate giving my city. I don't know why. I don't mind now because this time, unlike when Mary sucked on a tube of medicated skin cream or ate - okay, I don't remember what but I know I've had to call twice before and yes I AM A GOOD MOTHER DAMMIT - this one is not my fault. 

Long story short, amid Anna's wails and Mary's now loud assertions that Anna only ate a little piece, she just broke it off and ATE IT, Mommy, and ISN'T THAT SILLY?, I am told that as long as my child isn't choking or having trouble using the bathroom she's probably fine, but take her in if she starts acting like she can't breathe or digest things properly. 

I get off the phone and lean against the wall. Anna has stopped crying after multiple reassurances that Mary is not a doctor and the popsicle stick will not be maintaining permanent residency in her abdominal cavity. Lily and Mary have moved on to trying to coax the cat out from under my bed. And I have a mountain of chores left and dinner to make.

"Mama?" Anna asks brightly. "Can I have another popsicle?"

"No, Anna. No more popsicles."

"But I bet it would make that stick I ate just pop right out!"

"You know what kid? Sure. Have a popsicle."

Because Mommy's having a drink.

Friends, Bostonians, Countrymen, lend me your ears

  *

This morning Tim took a personal day to take Anna to a specialist's appointment in Boston and I was a basket case.

To start this off and not cause a lot of worry, I want to stress that Anna is FINE. We weren't ruling out any horrible illnesses or anything. And the procedure/test the nurse had said she was to undergo was not some horrible thing, either, in the grand scheme of the medical world, but for her privacy that's all I'm going to say about the specifics of the matter. 

I knew she wasn't going to like the procedure. It's one I had done as a kid and I remember freaking the hell out over it, and I was older than she was. I remember my mother almost in tears. I am told that when it was over, a nurse comfortingly tried to say "now that wasn't so bad was it?" and I sat up on the gurney, looked at her and tearfully said "HOW could you do that to a LITTLE GIRL?"

She left the room in tears and my parents began thinking about putting me in the performing arts. Hi, Mom!

So I knew Anna would be fine regardless. But I also knew she was going to be frightened, and cry, and it was going to be tough and I was almost in tears as she and Tim embarked on their drive to the train station. (Lest anyone think I am a horrible mother for abandoning my daughter on the brink of medical trauma, she had the choice and picked her daddy for a companion.)

"Bye Anna, be good and Daddy will get you an ice cream after."

"I only gonna cry at the hurting parts," she said solemnly, then smiled, and I almost sobbed.

The test was scheduled for 10:30. At 10 I tried to call to talk to her but couldn't get through. The phone rang before 11.

"How'd it go?" I asked with no preamble whatsoever. I didn't hear screaming in the background, or tearful requests for Mommy or anything. Did they drug her?

"She did great," Tim enthused.

"Really??" I was stunned. Literally stunned. This is the kid who sobbed like I was boiling her when she had to lay on her back for an XRAY and I was standing right there. 

"It wasn't the test they said," he clarified. "This was some other type of ultrasound stuff. She didn't make a peep."

"Let me talk to her."

"Hi Mama!" Anna sounded like she could have been anywhere. She certainly seemed unscathed.

"Anna, you had pictures taken again?"

"Yeah, I did! It tickled! So soft...so soft..." I thought I heard, and then she started mumbling so Tim recovered the phone.

"Did you get all that?" he asked.

"Only that it tickled and then...something else? What happened?"

"Oh. She was patting my arm hair and saying it was soft. She's changed subjects."

Of course she had.

"Well, anyway, it went fine and we're just waiting for the doctor to see us so I'll let you know how it goes!"

An hour or so went by and I hadn't heard anything. I needed to know what train my two would be on, so I called back. This time I heard screaming. Rampant, loud, soul-shattering screaming. Tortured screaming. Wails.

"Tim WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" I asked, possibly slightly hysterically.

A pause.

"Tim! WHAT IS HAPPENING?"

More wails. More tortured screams.

"She won't pee in the cup so we can see the doctor," he said, trying to maintain a level tone of voice.

And there's another one destined for community theater.

Duck weather

  *

Today was the first day all week I woke up and wasn't immediately wishing for (Sunday and Monday) or turning on (Tuesday and Wednesday, thank God we finally got it installed) the air conditioner. The weather was nice, not too humid, and I hustled the kids outside to play.

Of course, it had rained the night before and no one wanted to play on the grass. Yesterday when it was boiling and I was worried about them being in the heat too long they were DYING to play in the sprinkler and dump the wading pool and roll around the lawn, but I guess it's not as fun if it doesn't result in a dramatic spike in the water bill. When the mosquitos started in, I asked who wanted to go inside.

"Me!" Mary said, abandoning her attempts at making a "fairy garden" out of sticks and clover in my as yet unplanted corner garden. (Tomatoes. Someday. Maybe.)

"I go inside" Lily babbled, heading for the gate. "I go inside. SHOES! SHOES! SHOES!" 

"I want to stay out here," Anna said. Now, our yard is totally fenced and Anna can't work the gate on her own, so I gave my consent, reminding her that the door to the house was open and I'd be watching her through the window (so for the love of God, leave the hose alone). 

We weren't in the house five minutes before I heard Anna come in, stop, and then open the door again.

"Anna! Enough with the door!"

"I gotta get Ducky!" she called from the yard. "Ducky needs to get warm!"

"Ducky is a stick she found," Mary informed me. "A little stick."

Fine, okay, whatever. You have rooms of toys but you want to play with twigs, go for it. The other day Baby G licked the fireplace. You learn to roll with it. 

I should have seen it coming. Anna came in with Ducky. Mary and Lily then decided all of the toys in the house paled in comparison to Anna's arboreal offering. I was down the hall but I could hear the arguing begin and it wasn't even lunchtime.

In case you were curious, no, we do not in fact live in an area devoid of trees and foliage. Ducky was not the only stick in the yard, but it was THE only stick worth fighting to the death over.

The other two lost interest relatively quickly but Anna ran around for 15 minutes making quacking noises before curiosity finally got the better of me and I wanted a closer look. 

"Anna, come here for a sec," I called. I had already posted on Facebook about Ducky and wanted to take her picture. She came down the hall, proudly holding her twig aloft. 

"Quack quack," she crowed. (That sentence looks like it shouldn't make sense but it's totally what she did.) I looked. And damned if that stick doesn't look like a duck after all.

Sorry, kid. Mommy just thought you were nuts. I know I'll be going nuts when, inevitably, at some point today the wail goes up: "Where's DUCKY?" Because these are my kids and Mary still mourns her missing fava bean from November. 

Quack quack, kid.

Don't call us

"Mommy, can you play with me?"

I looked up from my Very Important iPad Time and regarded Mary, who had just whirled into the living room like a tiny blonde tornado. It wasn't even noon yet and she and her sisters had already been outside for hours, had a snack, destroyed two bedrooms (my God...the toys...I swear they're breeding at night) and gone through the bookshelf.

"Sure, honey, what are we playing?"

"Princesses!" 

I smiled. "Princesses" with Mary still mainly revolves around saying which princess you are, talking about your dress and then forgetting the game entirely in favor of something else. (Goldfish crackers, puzzles, tinfoil...)

"Okay, who am I?"

"You can be Rapunzel! And I will be Ariel. Do you know the Rapunzel movie really, really well?"

No, honey, that was someone else who sat through "Tangled" seventy five thousand times before you finally turned your affections to "Brave."

"Sure, Mary," I reply, thinking, well, maybe this time we're actually going to play something. 

"Okay, because you have to do the right things, just like in the movie." Okay then!

"In the movie, Rapunzel's hair glows," Anna said, eyeing me critically from her position at the other end of the living room, where the Little People princesses were sitting around a toy table, upon which several of the Seven Dwarves were perched in a bizarre tableau. 

"Her hair. It glows." I could see her assessing my shoulder length red hair for long, blonde or glowing qualities and it coming up lacking.

"It's okay, Mommy, you don't have to do EVERYTHING like the movie," Mary assured me, tilting her head and smiling sympathetically. Lily and Gigi continued playing with the toy house, ignoring this casting session gone awry. 

"Thanks Mary," I said, as she skipped off. "Um...where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go play Hi-Lo Hamsters," she said brightly.

Game over. 

Cake Wars

  *

Real talk here: I'm not about to start calling myself Betty Crocker by any stretch of the imagination, but in general, I'm pretty decent in the kitchen, especially when it comes to baking. I'm not the world's most intuitive cook, but give me a recipe or some basic directions and what comes out of the oven is probably going to look and taste basically like it's supposed to.

I'm in a play right now and have rehearsal three nights a week. One of those nights - tonight - is Tim's birthday. So I planned an early dinner at a place he really enjoys but that we rarely visit because it's out of the way and not really my cup of tea, but the problem remained with the cake. I had planned to bake it with the girls this morning, but then realized that we were probably going to have to do the whole cake singing extravaganza after lunch in order to get to dinner on time. Plus, I have Baby G today. I decided to make the cake after rehearsal on Tuesday and make the frosting with the girls in the morning.

I got home around 10:30. By the time I had straightened up a little, assembled my ingredients and said goodnight to Tim, it was 11. I pulled out the recipe and realized that I had very little cake flour.

Now HERE is where I should have stopped, decided that I could hit the supermarket in the morning and just called it good. But no. That would imply a degree of reason and forethought that I just don't possess. Well, no, to be honest, I did consider that possibility, I just rejected it outright because I had decided to bake that cake right then, dammit. Instead I went online and found a web site that would give me the cake flour to multipurpose flour ratio and converted away.

I should have known something was up when the cake batter seemed too thick. It was almost...gelatinous? I have no idea. "Cake is done when the top is springy and the edges are pulling away from the sides of the pan," said Recipes for Dummies. Pulling away? My batter seemed loathe to even touch the sides of the pan. It jiggled and mocked me as I attempted to spread it. SPREAD IT. When was the last time you had to spread cake batter? But it tasted okay and it smelled fine - amazing, even - as it baked and in the proper amount of time it rose and looked just great, so I considered the whole thing a success. I pulled the cakes out of the oven and waited for them to cool a bit so I could pop them out of the pans.

Oh, right, that takes a long time and here it was around midnight. I sat on the couch and surfed the Net. My eyes got heavier and heavier. The pans were still warm. Finally I just covered the pans with Saran Wrap, put them up out of the way and fell asleep.

You can see where this is going, can't you? This morning when I went to pop one cake out of the pan...it refused to budge. At all. Even a little. I ran a knife around the edge over and over. Tried again. Nothing. Turned the pan over onto the desired surface and gave it a good hard whack, trying to evenly distribute the pressure over the bottom of the pan.

Three pieces of cake fell out, one big, two small. I glared at it, then at the pan, where a sticky film of cake clung stalwartly to the yes-I-DID-grease-and-flour bottom. I decided that would be the bottom layer. 

The second pan yielded worse results, if that was possible. 

"DAMMIT!" I yelled. A little blonde head peeked around the corner, just up from bed. Tim came into the kitchen behind Mary.

"What happened?"

"YOUR CAKE FELL APART AND I DON'T HAVE TIME OR INGREDIENTS FOR ANOTHER," I ranted, dropping hunk after hunk of cake into a large mixing bowl. "I can't frost it, it's too dense, and I ruined the whole thing."

"It's fine," Tim said, trying to hug me and backing up when he caught the look in my eye. "It's FINE. We're still going to dinner, we can do cake another time..."

"Mommy next time it'll be fine!" Mary chirped. "We can make it again. I can help you! We can try it again and I'll help and then it will be-"

"Mary, don't talk to Mommy right now," Tim advised sagely. 

"Your cake is in a bowl!" I raged.

"Yeah but it still tastes good," he said, helping himself to a small piece, then a larger one. Mary, and now Anna and Lily, eyed the bowl. I gave up and put a small piece on three small plates.

"Cake for breakfast," I sighed. I sensed a trip to the grocery store for an ice cream cake in my near future.

"YAAAAAAAY!" Mary and Anna squealed. 

"I like bowl cake," Tim said, wandering off to get ready for the day. "Let's have it every year."

It takes a village in light up shoes.

  *

Mary's last day of school was last Friday, but thanks to a series of commitments and work, today was the first day I didn't have to be both awake and presentable by 6:45.  (Don't worry, the kids took care of making sure I was up at an eye-blearing 6:15 or so.) I enjoyed a lazy morning - feeding the kids oatmeal in my scrubby pajamas, leisurely cleaning up the kitchen, and eventually making my way to the shower at 8.

At approximately 8:01 I remembered I had a 9:20 appointment on the other side of the highway, which requires at least 40 minutes of driving for what would normally take 15, and therefore I had 29 minutes to shower, dress, get the kids dressed and brush their hair and teeth and somehow wrangle a snack for them (Dunkin' Donuts to the rescue).

I hopped out of the shower at 8:05, which must be some kind of record now that I'm no longer sporting a haircut that would make K.D. Lang look like the feminine one, pulled together presentable outfits for the kids, made sure everyone was brushed, washed and had gone to the bathroom and somehow got out the door by 8:30. They even had matching socks, which is a real accomplishment around here. (If anyone really likes pairing up socks, I have a laundry basket with your name on it and all the coffee you can hold.)

Somewhere around three minutes into the drive, my pulse returned to a somewhat normal rate, despite Anna and Lily in the backseat gleefully kicking the back of the front seats to make their shoes light up. Mary looked at Lily's "new" shoes, hand me downs from Anna?

"Do Lily's shoes have light ups too?" she squealed as only a five year old girl can.

"They do!"

"Oh," she sighed sweetly. "I love those little shoes." I couldn't help but smile. The rain was letting up, the sun was starting to peek through and here was my oldest, acting like a kid from those chapter books I always hated because the little girls were always so much better behaved than I was. 

"Mary, you're a great big sister, you know that?" She beamed at me. "You get so happy for your little sisters, it's so nice!"

"Yeah..." she said reflectively. "But sometimes I get mad at Anna."

"That's okay," I responded, embracing the Teachable Moment. "It's okay to get mad. She gets mad at you, too. And one day, you'll probably get mad at Lily."

Mary paused.

"Mommy...I do get mad at Lily. A lot. You know why?"

"Why, baby?"

"Because she's the littlest and so she's the hardest to control!"

At that point I almost lost control of the car and drove off the road. I bit back laughter and tried to keep a neutral face. It almost worked.

"Who told you that, hon?" The cadence of kicking feet continued in the backseat. The line at Dunkin Donuts was too long and I mentally calculated the amount of time it would take to hit the next one.

"Mom-my," she laughed. "No one had to tell me that! I've been working with Lily for a long time now!"

Kick, kick, kick.

The next Dunkin Donuts had a long line but since traffic had been okay, we waited it out and were rewarded with fresh donuts, which in turn rewarded me with a chocolate covered two year old upon pulling into the parking lot. 

When we got to the doctor's, my blood pressure was a good 20 points higher than normal.

I have no idea why.