Keep it clean

My kids love bath time, especially Mary and Anna. They like that I put a little of the baby's bedtime bath soap into the running water so their tub smells like lavender. They like pouring water out of the rinse cups, playing with bath toys, making hats out of the washcloths and "swimming like mermaids" because their hair fans out in the water.

As a parent, I do not herald bathtime with the same glee my children exhibit. For me (or Tim) it's another task to tack onto bedtime every other night, something that takes up time and keeps Lily awake as the voices of exuberant preschoolers echos off the tiles in the room that is directly across from the nursery. But for them, I try. Or, I try to pawn bathtime off onto Tim as often as possible.

"I'm with them all day," I rationalize to the man who has just walked in from twelve hours out of the house, when you factor in train time. Yes, he works and works hard, but I've just put in a full tour of duty at Camp Crazy and am ready for my day pass. "They want to spend time with you."

And he sighs and at least pretends to buy my stupid excuse and relieves me of bathtime duty. Usually he tries to save time and give them a shower instead. They protest the lack of bath but then they get over it.

Earlier this week I decided to put on my big girl pants and tackle bath time. Tim had had an especially long day and I had just bathed Lily in the sink and was therefore already drenched. I ran a bath and helped two excited little girls hop in.

I washed hair. Mary reminded me no less than 17 times to use conditioner. Anna flipped out because she's convinced the tear free shampoo still hurts, somehow. They splashed. I got a washcloth ready and scrubbed Mary down, then handed it over to her so she could "do it myself." Anna was pretending to be a frog in the tub next to her sister.

"Okay Anna, your turn," I said. "Do you want to do it yourself first, or let Mommy go first?"

"I peed," she said simply.

"You what? You peed? In the tub? Just now??"

"Yes," she said, as though I had asked her if it was dark out. "I peed. I peed IN THE TUB."

At this point I am frantically draining the tub, standing girls up and rinsing them with water from the faucet. Anna got the fastest scrub down in history.

"Where's my bath going?" she said as the water drained.

"You can't have a bath when you pee in the water!" I snapped. "You know better, Anna, that's gross. WE! PEE! IN! THE! POTTY!"

And from the dining room, my husband chimed in.

"Don't yell at her," he said.

"SHE PEED IN THE TUB!"

"Yeah...you should probably yell at me," he said. I paused.

"...why...?"

A pause.

"I...may have told her she could pee in the shower," he said meekly.

"THAT'S GROSS!" I said, mentally recalculating how much more often I needed to start cleaning the shower.

"It's not that bad," he said.

"THAT IS SO BAD," I said. "WE NEVER PEE IN THE TUB," I added for the girls' benefit, casting an extra long glare at my husband's back.

Tonight was bath, or rather, shower, night again. I made doubly sure they had used the potty before things got going.

"Hey, it's raining," Anna announced, looking up, clearly missing the concept of indoor plumbing.

I suppose as long as she doesn't think it's an outhouse, we're all good.

This is Halloween

Autumn is my favorite season. I love the leaves, the way the light looks golden, the crisp mornings. I have fond memories of being a little kid and tromping around the neighborhood with Mom or Dad on Halloween night, in a costume Mom usually made (except the year I begged to be B-list cartoon star Lady Lovelylocks and they caved, shelling out probably far too much for a plastic tie-over-your-clothes bib dress and garish mask that somehow didn't scare the crap out of my little brother), getting far too much candy and talking to the neighbors.

Needless to say, having little kids has brought out the Halloween excitement in me. I have three girls who can all walk, and my mind was running rampant with various "theme" costume ideas. Two years ago Mary and Anna were Glinda and Dorothy and they were so cute. This year my ideas ranged from the funny (rock, paper, scissors) to the uber-nerdy (five of us, five original alien races from Stargate!) to the adorable (Busytown Mysteries featuring Lily as Lowly!).  Then I remembered I had this cute plush chicken costume that Mary wore when she was Lily's age, and started planning a farm theme. I had visions of Mary as a cute little farm girl riding her bike "tractor" around the block, Anna as a cute pink pig or a pony.

I approached the kids.

"So Halloween is coming," I started.

"I'm going to be a PINK FAIRY!" Mary yelled excitedly.

"I wanna be a blue puppy with floppy ears," Anna said. Lily started, mute.

"Really?" I said. "What about-"

"And my fairy will have GLITTERY WINGS, and SHOES, and-"

"My puppy will be soft," Anna smiled.

I gave up. I enlisted some costuming help from my mother in law and consoled myself with the idea that there's always next year, since Lily probably won't be awake for trick or treating anyway this time around.

Weeks passed and the girls started reading Trick or Treat and Halloween themed books in their respective schools. Mary reminded me of the importance of bringing a flashlight and only visiting houses we knew. Anna reminded me about candy. A lot.

Tim and I were sitting on the couch, fall scented candles burning, when I realized that only one of us could take the girls. Someone had to be home to pass out candy. And I knew which job both of us wanted.

"Girls," I said, "who is going to go with you trick or treating?"

"Mary," said Anna.

"Anna and Lily," said Mary.

"No, I mean, Mommy or Daddy?"

"Daddy!" said Mary.

"Mommy," said Anna. Across the couch I saw Tim's gaze drop in disappointment. I knew he'd give in. I also knew his childhood featured fond memories of the neighborhood fathers bringing scads of kids up and down the street (and can neither confirm nor deny that beer may have been involved on the parental side).

"Which do you want?" he asked me.

"You take them," I said. "I'll hand out the candy." He brightened.

"Okay, Daddy," Anna said.

"Yay!" Mary exclaimed. Then she sobered up.

"Daddy," she said very seriously, "I know it's your first day. But don't worry. I'll help you know what to do."

I certainly hope he's up to it.

And your little dog, too

We were driving out of the neighborhood to take Mary to preschool when Anna piped up in the backseat.

"Can we see the witch?"

"What witch?" I asked. It was October but to my knowledge none of the neighbors had done much in the way of Halloween decorations yet, save a large inflatable pumpkin structure and a couple of signs. (I need one that says "Trick or Treaters welcome, stay the hell away, politicians and Jehovah's Witnesses.")

"The witch," she said simply, and I assumed I had just missed it.

"Honey, I have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

"It's a scary witch," she elaborated.

"Mary, do you know what she's talking about?"

"She saw a witch at someone's house," she said, which didn't really help.

"I want to see the witch," Anna insisted as we neared the preschool.

"Anna, I have no idea where it is," I said. "When we drive back home, point it out to me so I know what you're talking about."

"Okay," she said.

That agreement lasted through Mary's drop off and until we were in the car, now heading merrily towards Dunkin Donuts for a coffee (me) and munchkin (Anna).

"Where's the witch, Mommy? I want to see the witch!"

"ANNA. I HAVE NO IDEA. WHERE. THE WITCH IS," I said.

"Drive by it and I'll show you," she offered.

"Is it near our house?" I tried in vain.

"I don't know," she said. "It's just a witch, that's all."

I scanned the street. I saw nothing that remotely resembled a witch. She had just spent the day with my mother in law that prior weekend, maybe she knew. I called her. No answer.

"Mommy, I want to see the witch!"

We obtained coffee and drove away, Anna still asking about "the witch." I called my husband.

"Hon," I said. "Anna is going on and on about a witch. Do you have any idea what she's talking about?"

"Yeah," he said, and I nearly drove off the road in surprise.

"Thank God," I said. "Where the hell and what the hell is she talking about?"

"It's a scary, scary, scary witch!" said Guess Who.

"It's on the way home from the train station," Tim said. "We saw it after you dropped the girls off to me yesterday and I drove them home." (For explanation, we've been doing the "passing in the night" routine as I have been doing run crew for a production that just went up this weekend. I'd drop the girls off to Tim as he got off the train and take his car to make call.)

"Great," I said. "Where?"

"Um..." he said. "Maybe near the high school? Or near-" and here he named a landmark that is a good five miles away from the high school.

"That doesn't help," I said. I had been so close.

"Mommy, what about the witch?" Anna insisted.

"The witch is asleep!" I said.

"Nice cover," Tim put in.

"Well, you're no help," I said.

"Asleep?"

"Yep," I said. "She's asleep right now. Daddy will take you by her on the way home from the train tonight!"

"Why do you hate me?" Tim asked, probably wishing he'd never answered his phone to begin with.

"Don't worry," I said, "It's somewhere between High School, Random Landmark and home. You'll be fine."

We got through the day with Anna only asking about the witch every time we drove in the car, or saw the car from the front window, or saw another car pass by. Finally it was five o'clock and time to get Tim off the train, and we headed out the door, drove down the road, and eventually passed Random Landmark, next to which was a home, a home we had passed earlier but at which someone had evidently come home since, as a hideous, large, inflatable lawn structure now hovered by the street.

"Anna, quick, look out your window!" I said. "IS THAT THE WITCH?"

"YES!" she said. "It's scary!"

"But that's the witch? You've seen it?"

"Yes, that's the witch! She's awake!"

"Um...yes," I said, continuing on to make the train.

"Can we drive by it again?"

"Later."

Not five minutes went by.

"Mommy? I want to see that scary, scary witch again. Can we drive by it?"

That was last Wednesday. I have heard about this witch every time we get into the car, or someone else gets into the car, or an errand is mentioned. Sometimes we drive by the house and it's not inflated, which prompts requests to go back later and "check."

I don't know what I'm going to say when Halloween is over. Let's hope for a garish, inflatable Santa to keep peace on earth this holiday season.

Cinco

"Anna, it's my birthday!"

That was how I woke up yesterday. Mary was five years old and thrilled about it. In a rare moment of good parenting, I got out of bed, sang her "Happy Birthday" and offered to make her scrambled eggs for breakfast.

"Can I help stir them? Since it's my birthday?" she asked.

"Sure," I said.

"It's my BIRTHDAY!"

"We need party hats," Anna said, reaching into the cabinet and producing a colander and large sauce pan.

"You do not need hats," I said, attempting to take back the sauce pan and colander. She managed to slip away with the other colander while I wasn't looking.

This year, Mary requested she be allowed to have her ears pierced in lieu of a big party, since I told her ear piercing was expensive. Before I had kids I had big stances on cosmetic procedures for kids, now that I'm in the thick of it I find I really don't care anymore. She's old enough to not yank them out and old enough to let me take care of them so we're going with it, assuming I can find an actual piercing place to do her ears. (My issues with malls and guns have not lightened up.)

"Can we get donuts on the way to drop Anna off? Can I get a pink one? Since it's my birthday?"

Are you sensing the refrain of the day? Mary was delighted it was her birthday, looking forward to her family party on Sunday, and was thrilled to find out the dress up dresses she had worn exactly one day before still fit "even though I'm five now."

J came by to drop off Baby G around 11.

"Do you have a present for me, Auntie?" Mary asked.

Along with not magically outgrowing dress ups, new five year olds do not magically download etiquette tutorials, it would appear.

"Mary, we don't ask that," I said.

"Sorry, Auntie," she answered. "I'M FIVE TODAY."

Really? I'd forgotten.

The day continued with calls from her daddy (who left before she woke up), grandparents, Uncle Brian. She got Facebook messages. (No, my daughter does NOT have her own Facebook page.) She was queen for the day and she knew it.

As the day stretched into afternoon, I asked Mary what she'd like for her birthday dinner.

"Mac and Cheese!" she said. "The orange kind!"

"The orange kind," in case you are wondering, refers to the Kraft blue box spectacular, as opposed to my homemade variety with freshly grated cheese and a homemade butter crumb topping. The one that my husband adored and my kids poked at as the adults attempted to not eat the whole pan.

"Really?" Tim asked when he called. "She doesn't want, say, pizza...?"

"No," I said firmly, "she wants mac and cheese."

Resigned, he ended the call.

"Mommy, when is it going to be Sunday? That's when I get presents, right?" At this point I was halfway kicking myself for raising what appeared to be a rather entitled little girl and halfway kicking myself for not having anything for her to open on her actual birthday.

"Right," I said. "Friday, we're going to try and get you earrings. Sunday is your cake. And Monday, you are going to lunch with Daddy. You get a birthday week, kind of!"

"Is it Sunday yet?"

Other facts about new five year olds: Cake > all.

"Soon, Mary. Want to help with dinner?"

"Yes. Oh, and you can just call me Birthday Girl."

You got it, Birthday Girl.

Annaisms

This morning the kids and I were up and rolling bright and early, with plans to jump in the car and meet my parents at a halfway point so Mary and Anna could spend the night with them in Connecticut. Of course, Lily spent most of last night teething and expressing her separation anxieties in decibels loud enough to notify Providence, so I was a little slow moving, but nevertheless tried to sow enthusiasm amongst the troops.

"Mary, go use the bathrooom! Anna, come here, I need to tie your shoe!"

"So we can go to Mime and Boppa's?"

"Yep! We're going to leave in just a few minutes!"

"But I want to live here!"

I paused, mid tie.

"Anna, you do live here. We're not giving you to Mime and Boppa. You're having a sleepover and Mommy and Daddy will see you in the morning."

"Oh," she said, as if I had corrected a great misunderstanding. "Okay then."

Crisis averted, we managed to get baby, preschoolers, overnight bag, purse, assorted bedtime stuffed animals and sippy cups and all manner of of miscellany into the car and were on the road within five minutes of my desired start time. Anna, no longer convinced she was about to be adopted out, was quite chatty.

"Why're we going to Mime and Boppa's?"

"You're going to spend the day and have a sleepover," I reminded her. "Then tomorrow Mommy, Daddy and Lily are going to come to Mime's house. Mommy and Daddy are going with Mime and Boppa someplace and Mime's friend Miss Audry is going to watch you. Do you remember her?"

In the rearview mirror, I saw two little girls shake their heads no.

"Miss Audry is really nice," I said. "And she's going to bring her little girl, too. Well, her big girl. Rachel is eleven."

"Will she play with me?" Mary asked.

"She sure will," I said. "She wanted to come, she likes little girls."

"Is she dis many?" Anna asked, holding up three fingers in my mirror view.

"No, honey, she's not three," I said.

"Is she my age?" Mary asked.

"No," I reminded her. "She's eleven. If you wanted to count that on your fingers, you would need both hands plus an extra finger to get to eleven!"

"And if we wanted to count on our TOES," Mary said giggling madly, "We'd need all our toes and an extra toe!"

"Why?" Anna half muttered, half mumbled from her car seat. "Is she barefoot or somethin?"

I snorted. I assured Anna her soon to be new friend wears shoes.

"She doesn't have shoes," I heard her mumble (or something like that, I was too busy trying not to crack up.)

We continued. Somehow, Mary and I got on the subject of race cars.

"You know what Mary?" I said. "Mime's daddy, my grandpa, who you never got to meet, drove race cars!"

"HE DID?" she asked in awe.

"He did," I confirmed. "And Mime, when she was a little girl, she used to help build them with my grandpa!"

"REALLY?!"

"Really," I said, to Mary's delight.

"Can we do that today?" mumbled Anna.

"Can we do what today, honey? Build a race car?"

"Yeah!"

"Uh...no, baby. You're going to Mime and Boppa's. We're not going to build a race car."

"Pleeeease? Just ONE?"

Well, sure, kid, if it's just one, but you know, stock cars are kind of like potato chips, I don't know if you can build JUST ONE.

We arrived at the meeting point, whereupon Anna announced she had to go to the bathroom, and of course, the restaurant wasn't open yet. Mom assured me she had it under control and there was a place up the road that they could visit.

I wonder what Anna had to say about that.

Zip

My morning schedule looks like this:

6:45: Alarm goes off. Note that I did not say "I wake up." If I am actually still horizontal when my phone starts chirping, it means someone did not get me up at dark thirty, and it's a miracle.

6:50: Have gotten myself reasonably presentable in that I am wearing jeans and a T-shirt. No hair or makeup, and my glasses are on, but I can answer the door. Change baby, start breakfast. This means on days when I have not gone grocery shopping and the fridge is down to condiments I will be met with requests for Greek yogurt, and on days when we are really running behind I will be asked to cook oatmeal or eggs or somesuch. It will also mean the baby will want to try and feed herself.

By 7: Kids are eating, kitchen is tidied up, I've probably swept once already since my floor starts churning out crumbs the minute the kids' feet hit it, I am picking out clothes for the day. Start packing Mary's lunch on days she has school.

7:15: Baby G arrives. Chat with Baby G's mom for a few minutes, say goodbye.

By 7:30: Baby G is eating her bottle, Lily is ready to throw down because someone else is getting attention from me, the kids are requesting shows, or that I tie their shoes, or asking to play dress up. I remind them they have lost TV for abhorrent behavior the day before, that you can't put shoes on until the rest of you is dressed for the day and that no, you can't play dress up now, we have to be out of this house by 8:15.

Realize bottle is either faulty or not put together properly because formula has leaked all over my only pair of clean pants.

Get kids dressed. Last night I was lazy and instead of planning a cute, put together outfit for Mary, I chose an old hot pink Hello Kitty T-shirt that she loves and some basic jeans. Dress Anna. Wait until last minute to dress Lily because she likes to remove her socks. Do hair. Listen to Anna freak out. Offer to cut her hair if she doesn't stop flipping out. She flips out over the idea. Instead of doing Mary's hair in some elaborate style, today I throw it back in a half pony and plan to give her a clip at the last minute to keep her whispies out of her face.

Put Baby G in high chair with some toys, park her where I can keep an eye on things, run to get myself dressed in something non-scrubby that can pass muster at pre-school drop off and carry me through a morning of errands. Remember all pants are in hamper except for stylishly "distressed" "boyfriend jeans" which, after two years, are now far too ripped to really be fashionable, but it's that or a pencil skirt. Go for the grunge look in absence of stockings and insanity.  Put in contacts, since my glasses don't stand a chance against two babies. It is 8 a.m.

Sit on toilet seat to braid back my hair, since we are running late and there's no time to straighten it. Remind myself I have a coupon I want to use for some sweaters for Mary. Think about when the coupon is valid. Wonder why "September 26" is sticking in my brain.

Realize with 10 minutes to get out the door and one baby who still needs to be dressed that it is school picture day.

Rush to find form. Rush to find checkbook. Glance over and realize Mary looks like a hobo with most of her hair out of her half ponytail and in her face. Realize screen printing on shirt (how I loathe screen printing) is cracked. Have an internal freakout. 8:05.

Rush to Mary's room. No time to find skirt and cute matching knee socks, the jeans she has on will have to do. Thank God they are at least the new jeans without any weird fading or holes yet. Grab a cute shirt and sweater. Throw them on Mary, which messes her hair up even more. Calculate we can leave at 8:20 and still make it on time.

Run Mary to the bathroom. Baby G is looking at me like I've lost my mind as I babble incoherently, trying to entertain, watch, and do hair. Plug in my hair straightener.

"Hi, Hair Straightener!" Mary crows. Back when she had to be in a wedding for some friends, I had had to blow dry and straighten her hair. I knew she'd hate the noise of the dryer because she always had, so I had put on a funny voice and made it "talk" to her. Now we can't do anything without Mary wanting to have a conversation with various personal grooming products. Ask me about Hairbrush's personality sometime.

"No time for that, Mar," I say, wetting the top of her head. I decide to do a quick French braid up top and then straighten the rest just a little, on low heat, to take the frizzies out.

When we are done, Mary looks like one of those Fundamentalist kids on TLC. I cringe and take out the lopsided, too poofy, still whispy, braid. I attempt a side braid. It sticks out at a strange angle like a bizarre appendage. Remove that. Finally pull the hair that's always in her face to the side, secure with a small elastic, spray the hell out of it with hairspray ("Hi, Hairspray!"), put protective spray on the ends, straighten them, and send her out warning her not to touch her hair at all, ever, ever.

8:13. I slap on some makeup of my own to try and look less like death warmed over, fill out the picture form, throw the baby's clothes on amid protest, get Baby G into her seat, carry her and Lily out at the same time, asking Mary to shut the door behind me. The second it latches and we are at the car I realize her backpack is still on the piano. Curse. Buckle everyone in, dash in for the backpack, am back in 10 seconds flat. Achieve the whole thing with minimal screaming and crying (on my part).

We get to the school at 8:29. The teacher looks down at Anna, Mary, and sees Lily in my arms, Baby G in the carrier car seat in my left hand.

"Who's this?" she asks. She hadn't seen us last Wednesday, when Baby G came with us at dropoff.

"Baby G," I say. "I watch her a few days a week for my friend."

The teacher looks from kid to kid and shakes her head.

"You're amazing," she said, as I fix a clip that matches the sweater applique exactly into Mary's hair and send her on her way.

Ha.

Swamp rock

Tonight I tried a Zumba class for the first time. I am supremely uncoordinated, to the point where, as a child, I was asked to leave a ballet class where I was the oldest because I just wasn't getting it. The fact that I survived tap dancing in 42nd Street is nothing less than a miracle. Still, someone I know runs the class and I figured it would be as good, if not better, cardio than doing my Couch to 5k program in my neighborhood at dusk, where motorists view a runner as some kind of moving target. Most drivers in most cities would slow down for someone jogging where there are no sidewalks. In my little piece of paradise, they speed up.

I arrived, workout clothes on, hair braided back, proper footwear. I figured, an hour of dancing. I can do that.

Fifteen minutes in I was sweating. Twenty minutes in and my face matched the magenta shirt of the girl next to me. By the half hour mark I stank. I gulped water in between songs. I got most of the steps, gave up on 90 percent of the arm movements, and desperately moved back and forth to Rhianna, Gloria, and a whole bunch of other people who sing really, really fast songs.

I survived. My legs feel like jelly. But it was a nice end to a long day, one where my daughters alternately made me crack up and want to move to Istanbul. At one point one of them told me she hated me because I wouldn't let her watch Pingu on Netflix. (Guess who lost television privileges for tomorrow as well?) At another, I had both of them on my lap, asking for cuddles, while Lily toddled all over the living room and the newly teething Baby G kept surreptitiously trying to sample my arm.

At 1 p.m. I surveyed the scene. The older two were watching TV (this was before IHateYouGate). Lil was crawling all over and staring at the door. Baby G seemed up for anything and it was a gorgeous day. I snapped off the TV and told everyone to go to the bathroom, put on shoes, we were going to the playground.

Much rejoicing was heard as we drove away from the house. I walked with the babies while Mary and Anna played. I noticed a couple of free baby swings and loaded Lil and Baby G into one each. They giggled and chortled as I pushed them.

"I want to swing, too!" Anna called over to me. There was one swing left, but there was a kid between Anna and the babies. I loaded her up and started jogging between swings, pushing Lily who screamed for more, gently nudging Baby G who liked her thrills on the tamer side, and convincing Anna that she did not, in fact, need to be death defyingly high to have a good time.

"Me too!"

"Mary, you're too big for a baby swing."

"Well what about those swings?" She pointed to the regular swings, about 15 feet to the right of the baby swings. I sighed and helped her on. I gave her a push.

"Mommy, I not high enough! I goin' slow!" I ran back to Anna, pushing Lil and nudging Baby G on the way.

"Higher, Mommy!" Back to Mary.

"Mama!"

At this point I was debating even going to Zumba later that evening, since I was clearly getting my cardio in and amusing the heck out of the other playground goers as I ran back and forth like a demented hamster.

Then Baby G had had enough. She started fussing. I held her. No good. I put her in the stroller and pulled the sun shade down. Absolutely not. Finally, I had no choice.

"We have to go," I said, over mild protests. I performed car and booster seat maneuvers and set off down the road.

"Mommy, are we babysitting?" Mary asked me.

"We are."

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes..." she sighed. "I feel like I am inside an alligator."

Me too, kid. Me too.