Sunday, December 9, 2007

I've Been SPOTED!

Okay, I'm six months shy of hitting 30 and it seems as though I've just hit puberty. Or at least puberty has hit my face.

I seem to be in the midst of a hormonal rage that is attacking my face with red bumps. I'm not talking the occasional blemish that one would normally get around that time of the month, these things mean business. Every morning I seem to wake up with a new enemy staking claim on my face.

I actually considered calling out of work the other day because I felt so awful about the way I look, until my husband, the voice of reason, laughingly said "what are you going to tell your boss that you came down with a case of the pimples?"

These suckers aren't just a nuisance that I'm dealing with, they are a painful embarrassment. I went to my sister's yesterday and before she even greeted me, she asked if I had the chicken pox.

"No, just a case of pimples," I moaned.

Determined not to been defeated, I've collected an arsenal of gels, creams and washes to destroy these little suckers! I figure if I can do battle with the General and the Tank and survive, then I can definitely take on the Pimples.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Road Trip- 2007

The Departure

We recently took the kids, yes all three, on a road trip to Florida to visit my parents and of course Mickey Mouse. You’re probably thinking, “What was she thinking driving 1100 miles for 20 hours with three toddlers and a husband (who counts as a 4th toddler at times)?”

We started our adventure at 4am. We wanted to beat the Jersey turnpike traffic. Normally my husband has only one rule while we’re on a road trip.

I’m not allowed to drive unattended, navigationally speaking. Apparently, I inherited my Nonnie’s sense of direction, who once decided to follow a car with a Florida license plate, because she was going to Fl, and ended up in Michigan. I too seem to suffer a serious deficiency when it comes to sense of direction.

But this trip seemed to pose an odd situation. My husband went to a college football game the night before and, since he only got home two hours prior to our departure; he was in no condition to drive. In other words, he needed a nap. So naturally I assumed I was going to drive the first leg of the trip. And we all know what they say about ASSUME.

My husband’s response to my suggestion of driving was less than enthusiastic. But I assured him that with our new GPS device that it would be virtually impossible to get lost. I just put in our destination and let my cool new gadget lead the way. So with the whole navigation issue resolve, I told him to take a nap that me and Navman had it under control.

So my hubby slipped into a nice cozy slumber passing thunderous zzzz’s along the way.

Suddenly I felt my control quickly slip away. We hit the Jersey turnpike and there were so many lanes and so many exits that I got confused by Mr. Navman’s directions and got off on to the wrong route. Instantly, Mr. Navman picked up on my mistake and quickly corrected my error, “Please perform a U-Turn as soon as possible.”


Okay, I told my self not to panic that Mr. Navman would redirect me. But it just kept chanting, “Please perform a U-Turn as soon as possible.” I needed to find an off ramp and quick so I could turn around and get going in the right direction before my husband woke up. “Please perform a U-Turn as soon as possible,” was starting to become Mr. Navman’s mantra. There was no off ramp and sight, so I just kept driving until the darn contraption’s hymn woke up my husband, the bear, next to me.

“Why is the GPS saying to perform a U-Turn?” grumbled the bear.

“I think I missed the exit for the Jersey turnpike,” I said timidly.

The bear sat upright and turned to me with a fierce growl, “You THINK you missed the exit? Where are we?”

“Okay, I definitely missed the exit. And I’m not sure where we are. I was hoping to find an off ramp and turn around before you woke up, but I’ve been driving for 11 miles with no signs of away to turn around.”

The next bit of exchange between me and the bear I’ll leave to your imagination, but it wasn’t pretty. We eventually got turnaround and heading in the right direction. Needless to say that was the end of my unsupervised driving for the rest of the trip.
Stay tuned for more of Road Trip-2007!

Friday, October 19, 2007

Toughing Out Toddler Torture While the Hubby is Away

My husband’s recent business trip has definitely put a cease on any thoughts that I’ve had about having another baby. After spending fours days alone with The General, The Tank and my youngest, which I’ve newly named The Destroyer has led me to the conclusion that handling three boys under four is like trying to fend off a pack of hungry wolves while standing there with a fresh slab of meat around your neck. I never stood a chance.

After enduring hours on end of tantrums and bickering I decided that some serious intervention was needed to round up the cattle and draw them back to the corral. With the meanest and toughest voice I could muster up I tried to scare the herd back in line. The result was definitely not what I was aiming for; the only thing my booming outburst succeeded at was setting off the house alarm.

This was only night one.

The following days didn’t offer much relief. My hubby hearing the distress in my voice kindly suggested that I pack the boys up and head up to New Hampshire to spend the rest of the week with him while he finished up his work.

I weighed my options. Three more days of being tortured alone with no other adult companionship or endure the nuisance of packing up the whole house to head up to New Hampshire to share the insanity with my husband. Visions of more nights setting off the house alarm swim in my head. Option two it was!

The next day I packed up everything but the kitchen refrigerator and hit the road. Thirty minutes into our adventure and the car started to shake and it started to expel this awful order. “Mommy, Mommy the car is on fire!” cried the General. I looked in the review mirror. There was smoke coming from the rear tire. The smoke and the fumes of burning rubber only too clearly pointed to a flat tire.

I pulled over to the breakdown lane immediately called my husband seeking some advice and some sympathy. I don’t know what I was thinking....that maybe he would teleport himself there to change my tire I suppose. “Call AAA,” was the only thing he could offer. I dialed AAA, the gentleman on the other end told me he’d send a repair truck out and that the wait time would be between 1 and 2 hours. I felt like I just landed on Gilligan’s Island. I left my home for what I thought was going to be a short two hour journey, but there I was, on the side of I-91 by myself, with a flat tire and three toddlers.

Just when I thought my situation couldn’t get any worse, tears and screams of panic started to emerge from the back of the car. I calmly pleaded with the AAA guy, “You don’t understand, I have and infant and two toddlers under the age of 4 and I’m traveling by myself.”

Twenty-five minutes later a repair guy pulled up behind me. He put a doughnut on my car and I was off, driving 50 mph down the highway. You can imagine all the friends I was quickly making. “Mommy, who was that?” asked the General as a not so gentleman waived some choice fingers at me beeping his horn.

Needless to say I quickly exited the highway and took the scenic route the rest of the way.
Our time up in New Hampshire with my husband and his family went by smoothly.

When I got home I called my sister, who I knew would be very empathetic to my situation as she was home alone with her son for the week as well. As I was sharing stories about my house alarm incident and my time on Gilligan’s Island, I could tell she was only half listening.

“Are you listening to me?” I selfishly asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “I just left the emergency room with TJ; he stuck a rock up his nose.”

I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Boys!” she said, meaning “you know boys”.

“Yes, boys,” was all I could say back. And so ended my self pity….it could always be worse.

Monday, October 8, 2007

The Not So Holy Bible Of Parenting

When I left the hospital with our newborn son, who looked to be the most angelic child I had ever seen in my life, I thought I was prepared for it all. The dirty diapers, the all night feeding sessions and even the crying. The endless crying. (At first I thought we brought someone else’s child home, because ours definitely didn’t cry this much when we were in the hospital when we had endless amounts of help to come to the rescue if we couldn’t figure out what was troubling our seemingly perfect baby.) After all, the nurse that discharged me gave my husband and me this handy thousand page book, that she assured us would cover everything that we would possibly need to know until our son reached the ripe old age of 5. Like what to do when this yellow pussy stuff is oozing out the side of your baby’s left eye. It even has detailed steps on how to change your baby’s diaper and even more detailed charts on your child’s growth patterns from birth to 5. We really thought we hit the jackpot, “cool, like a how to manual,” my husband, the new dad, said. As if we just bought a new car.

My husband and I treated this book like the holy bible. Before we gave our son his first bottle we consulted our handy manual only to find out that before we gave him a bottle that we had to sterilize it. Ok that makes sense. But, after further reading we learned that since we have well water that we have to sterilize the water before we could mix the formula. I instantly thought, “Wow, thank God we have this book because our son could really have gotten sick.” Then the next day when the doctor called to check on his new patient, we proudly told him of our finding and not too worry that we boiled our water for 5 minutes before we mixed the formula. And without hesitation Dr. Bill chuckled and said, “What old book did you read that in?” There it was plain and simple our first clue that this book was not the be all and all of raising a child.

Yet, for some reason night after night “the book” called out to us to consult it. At first, even after the little water incident, it proved to be handy. It reassured us that in fact babies do eat ten to twelve times a day and it’s completely normal for a baby to hold his or her poop for 5 days only to release what my husband now refers to as “the Mother Load.” But over time my husband and I began to notice that things started to happen to our son and to us as parents that just weren’t covered in the book. For instance, babies can simultaneously puke out their nose and relieve their intestines at the same time. Or what a child eats comes out their rear the same color that it goes in their mouth. No where in that book did it reassure me not to panic beacause it would be completely normal for my child to poop bright blue for two days after eating Cotton -Candy Trix yogart.

It’s been over four years since that fateful day the nurse gave us “the book” and I am convinced that the authors were paid to purposely leave things out for fear that parents would be leaving newborns unclaimed in hospitals all over America.

Monday, September 24, 2007

The Mom Bag

Men equate the "official" arrival of parenthood with trading in their small, cute, and sporty ride, which most of their friends envy and beg to go cruising in, for a practical and spacious Mom-mobile, aka the Mini-Van, which causes most of their friends to disguise themselves before stepping in for a ride.

Not woman. We'd be OK with a Mini-Van. For us, it's trading in our cute designer handbags for what our co-workers refer to as "the mom bag." With tears in my eyes, I tucked Kate, Andi, and Coach into a safe spot in my closet and broke down and bought A Vera Bradley cross-body cargo sling. This bag is the Mother of all bags. It's has enough room and pockets to pack up all my child paraphernalia, in fact I think I could pack a small child in it too.

I decided to take make bag out for a test drive. I wore it to my son's school fair. I was instantly plagued by Moms green with envy. They were in awe over all the pockets and "the colors," one mom excitedly declared "it goes with everything!" I imagined what followed was similar to to the Man's version of testing the waters with his new ride. You know, when a Dad pulls up with the top of the line mini-van and shows off all the bells and whistles, to other curious Dads who are contemplating taking the plunge, in hopes to gain their approval.

The question and answer session continued for a 20 minutes. "Have you tried to wash it yet?" "What other colors does it come in?" "Can you strap it to your stroller?" "Is it heavy?" "Can I try it on?"

So, yes it is official. I am now the proud owner of a "mom bag." And like most everything else that I've come to acquire through motherhood, I love it.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Is Diarrhea of the Mouth Contagious?

My husband seems to think that I have this awful aliment. Things just spew out of my mouth uncontrollably. For example, when I told his mother, over a nice dinner, that her kitchen wall paper was totally out dated. He refers to these thoughtless spells of mine as "diarrhea of the mouth."

If this is in fact what I suffer from, than I think my children have come down with the same affliction. My boys tend to share the most humiliating things at the most inopportune times. Like the time we were shopping at the Gap and my Tank announced to the kind woman behind the counter, "My mommy poopies in the potty." Or the time that my little General's pre-school teacher noted how much Scotty had grown over vacation, and he responded with, "yeah, I'm getting bigger so I can drink beer like my Dad."

Yes, I am beginning to believe that this particular sickness really does exist. Our most recent presentation of the indisposition happened at our neighborhood block party. Again it was the General who was unable to control himself, while he looked at our very kind yet very bald neighbor, he and asked, "Where did all of your hair on your head go? Is it hiding on your back?" I quickly apologized and told my neighbor, who was thankfully humored by the remark, that my children and I suffer from what my husband refers to as "diarrhea of the mouth." He chuckled and assured me that it wasn't just us, his wife and children make him endure the same condition.

Monday, August 20, 2007

"In In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. You'll find the fun, and...snap! The job's a game!"
-Mary Poppins

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

The Diary Continues

March 14, 2007

Since it’s still too chilly to run outside and when I run inside on the treadmill there are always three tots mingling around my every step, I haven’t gotten much running in over the last month. I’ve tried several times to rise early to sneak in a run before one of the boys finds me. Except I think my husband has installed a secret sensor on the basement door so when it opens it sounds an alarm in my kids’ room, because without fail, before I am even done lacing my shoes, one of them is standing at the top of the stairs demanding breakfast.

My sister in law has now taken to sending me “inspirational” emails to let me know how far she’s been running. She has also set the date of our 5k run, April 29, 2007. She assured me that it will be a lovely run along a river with a “few rolling hills.” Sounds like something I should definitely be looking forward to.

Distance : 1.4 miles

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Diary of a Wanna Be Runner

"The trouble with jogging is that by the time you realize you are not in shape for it, it is too far to walk back." - Author unknown.

January 1, 2007

I must have drunk too much wine last night. My husband greeted me this morning with a chipper grin on his face and a pair of running shoes in his hands. I couldn’t imagine why he’d have running shoes. He despises running, rates it up there with getting teeth pulled with no Novocain.

Rubbing my eyes, I said to my sweetie, “Wow, I’m impressed. Decide to get in shape for the New Year. Good for you!”

Laughingly my husband handed me the running shoes. I looked at them, size 7.5 staring at me. “Cutie, I don’t think you’ll get very far wearing my sneakers.”

My husband’s charming grin quickly faded into a giddy smirk as he informed me that I had committed to run a 5k with my sister in law. “What?” I said bewildered, “You know I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.“ It’s true. I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions, mostly because I never seem to follow through with them. I’m still trying to shed the 10 lbs that I vowed to loose from the last resolution I made, in 1998.

But I was determined to wipe the snide look off his face; I sat up and said, “5k, no problem. I ran cross country in high school. I can totally run a 5k.”

The expression on my husband’s face quickly washed away. But instead of batting a look of unconditional support or motivation at me, he had the appearance of a school age boy heckling at other kids on the playground. He was laughing so hard that he had tears welling up in his eyes. Through his fit of laughter I was barely able to make out him saying, “Yea, that was 10 years ago! Happy trotting!” And he walked out of the room leaving behind the echoes of his amusement.

I laced up my running shoes and headed out the door settled on the fact that not only did I make an asinine resolution, but now I had something to prove. I thought I’d start out nice and easy and jog a leisurely 1.5 miles. I didn’t want to push it too much my first day.

As I rounded the first bend on my road, the frigid air made it feel like someone had lit a match in my lungs. This wasn’t a positive sign. And I was convinced that my dear supportive husband tampered with my sneakers and lined them with lead. I felt like I had bricks tied to my ankles. My optimism was quickly vaporized. There’s always tomorrow.

Distance: ¼ mile.

February 8, 2007

Ok, so tomorrow came later rather than sooner. I haven’t set out on an official run since my first outing. I needed sufficient time to investigate my sneakers. Unfortunately there were no signs that they were tampered with. That and it took nearly two weeks for my calves to recover from my last excruciating run. But I’ve been chasing after two toddlers and an infant, which should definitely count as a workout.

Again, I didn’t want to over do it, so I set a more realistic goal this time. I thought a mile should suffice just fine. I even had my I Pod set with a play list that was sure to keep me moving. Oh, and this time I thought I’d stick inside the comfort of my warm home. After all it’s winter in New England.

I set up movie for the boys to watch while I hit the treadmill. I can see two heads in font of me fixed on the screen before them. “This should definitely buy me enough time to run a mile,” I thought.

Thirty-three seconds into my run and it started, “Mom, can you fix Darth Vader’s mask? It keeps coming off.”

Distance: 1 mile (with three pit stops to fix Darth Vader’s mask)

Thursday, July 19, 2007

The Name Game

For months , before the arrival of my first son, my husband and I spent hours on end trying to contrive the perfect name for our first born. We wanted something meaningful and special. My husband turned down my suggestion of Jameson, saying that it sounded like I picked it off the shelf of a liquor store. And I quickly vetoed his suggestion of John Deere Putnam. "Are you kidding?" I replied, "I can hear the kids on the playground, "Hey John Deere want to come mow my lawn?"

After much deliberation and great thought we decided on Scott Michael Putnam Jr., after my husband of course. We thought our eldest son would be proud to share his Daddy's name. Yet, he insists that everyone call him Peter.

Everywhere we go he proudly boasts his name is "Peter the Knight!" Last week I dropped my son off for his first swimming lesson at the local YMCA. When I returned to pick him up, the instructor walked my son over to me with a perplexed look on her face and asked, "is this your son?"

"Oh, boy. What did he do now?," was my first thought. "Yes," I replied.

"What is his name?"

"Scott," I said.

"And his last name?" she asked.

"Putnam," I knew where this was heading.

The swimming coach continues, patting my son on the head, "He told us his name was Peter the Knight. So I thought he meant Peter Knight. But I didn't have a Peter Knight on my roster. I thought we had the wrong kid in the class."

With an embarrassed giggle, I said I was sorry and explained that my son has decided to call himself "Peter the Knight" after a character in the movie Narnia.

I'm sure that there are a lot of little boys that prefer to be called by names that they think are way cooler than their own. Like Spiderman, Superman, or Batman, but at least if they tell someone that their name is Superman, one can infer that is not his real name. Although if my husband was ready to name our son after a tractor than I am sure that there are some boys out there with some Super names.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Bringing Sexy Back

I too like Justin Timberlake want to bring sexy back. Some time, after baby number three, I lost the whole concept of sexy. Maybe out of fear that it would bring baby number four!

After watching an inspirational OPRAH, , I decided it was time to conquer my fear.

I set out determined to bring my sexy back. My decision easily lead me to these beautiful black patten leather peep-toe heels called Ginger. Even the named screamed sexy. I put them on. Excitement started to bubble inside me! Yes, these could definitely do the trick. I checked out the price. They were on sale, $18, marked down from $70. Sold!

I called my husband and told him that I bought a sexy little number that I would gladly exhibit for him when I got home.

When I walked through the door my husband was eagerly awaiting my big reveal. I told him to close his eyes while I slipped into my new something. A second later I told him to open his eyes.

The look on his face wasn't exactly what I was going for. I was hoping for a "Wow, strut on over here" look. But my husband looked wildly confused.

"Don't you like them?" I asked with disappointment.

"So where's the sexy little number you're going to surprise me with?" he responded with equal disappointment.

"These are my sexy little number!" I replied. "Aren't they beautiful?"

My husband still looked confused. So I explained my new plan about how I wanted to feel sexy and feminine.

Although my dear hubby tried to understand, he just didn't get it. "You're home with the kids all day, where are you ever going to wear those things?"

Visions of Ginger and I vacuuming the house and heading out to the grocery store suddenly popped into my head. Hmmm. I guess I could see his point.

Determined not to part with my new heels, I reasoned all the events coming up that I could wear Ginger to, weddings, showers, even a bachlorette party, which would be my first outing with Ginger.

It was a Saturday night and I was feeling pretty good about the way I looked. I slipped Ginger on and off I went, strutting down the stairs ready to prove to my husband that I would get some use out of my new purchase. Except, I wasn't really strutting, it was more of a slow wobble. I looked like a seven year old girl trying to look cool, walking around in her mother's heels. Definitely not sexy.

What can I say, if at first I don't succeed then I will try, try and try again!

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

Mom's Cutbacks

My husband and I have recently found ourselves on the brink of a crisis. It seems that lately when it comes to spending money that I have as much control as a teenage girl during prom season. In recent months, we've had weddings, showers, birthdays and three growing boys to feed, and I see no end in sight. We have more weddings to attend, it's always someones birthday and my boys seem to get hungrier with each passing day.

So in order to avoid a financial predicament, my husband asked me to moderate my spending. Easy enough. I thought, "I can be conservative. I'm sure there are lots of things that we don't need that I can cut back on."

A few days later, my loving hubby was helping me empty the dish washer. He pulled out a few straws and asked "why are you washing straws?"

"You said that I should try and be more conservative," I replied sheepishly.

I could hear the restraint in his voice, he was trying not to laugh, "Straws are probably a penny a piece. When I said that you need to cut back your spending, I meant that you should stop buying new dresses or new shoes not stop buying straws."

Hmmm. Clearly not the reaction I hoped for. I guess I shouldn't tell him about the Ziplock bags that I washed out and packed his lunch in.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Hungry, Hungry Hobbits

It starts first thing in the morning. My boys hop into bed with me, “Mom, I’m hungry. Mom, I’m thirsty.” I hear this at least 23 times a day. Kids are like stray cats, feed them once and they keep coming back for more. And mine never seem to go away.

My children are more like stray Hobbits. Which if you are not familiar with, are small human like beings that enjoy at least seven meals a day, not including snacks. They indulge in first breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, tea, dinner, and supper. The feasting and drinking never seem to end.

After I wipe the slime from my eyes, that my son slathered over my face while trying to wake me, I ask my little Hobbits “What do you want for breakfast?”

My eldest says, “Peanut butter and jelly french toast sticks, bacon and milk.”

My second in command chirps, “Me want waffles.”

Maybe I should change my title from MOM, to Short Order Cook. “How about Lucky Charms and milk,” I suggest.

I shuffle my hungry guys down the stairs. Open the fridge. Crap there’s no milk. How can that be? I bought a gallon and a half yesterday. I turn to my children and look into their doe eyes, “Sorry, we're out of milk. How about PB &J and water?”

After my kids eat their first breakfast, I strap them into their car seats and we head to the local Dairy Mart for the fourth time this week. I buy another gallon of milk and the guy behind the counter smirks and says, “It’d be cheaper to buy a cow.”

We leave and head home. No sooner do we enter the house, when I hear, “Mom, I’m hungry.”

I head straight to the bread drawer to prepare second breakfast. I think to myself, they're only toddlers, what am I going to do when they’re teenagers. I’m going to need a full time job just to buy bread and milk.

Thursday, June 7, 2007

The Poop Factor

Ok, little boys and poop are like men and sex. If their not doing it, they’re thinking about it. And if they’re not thinking about it, they’re laughing with their buddies at the thought of doing it very soon. And they always stake claim to doing it even if they didn’t.

I’ve literally got the shittiest kids in town. And they are quite proud of their status. I walked into the living room this morning and almost passed out from the stench. Gagging I said, “who tooted?”

My General stands up and proudly says, “I did!” Just as he starts to relish in his foul behavior, the Tank stands up and declares, “No. Me tooted!”

Thursday, May 31, 2007

First comes love then comes, no, not marriage, but the bridal shower.

Having been a bride myself, I have to admit that a wedding shower for a new bride is like Christmas morning or a birthday party to a 5 year old. First we make a list, and then we check it twice, or five or six times. Next we tell everyone what we asked for, in hopes that if we’re good enough we’ll get everything we desire. Lastly, our family invites more family and friends for a gathering to eat cake and watch us open gifts.

Sounds like fun. Of course it’s fun if you’re the lucky lady opening gift after gift, receiving everything you ever wanted and more. But, what about the family and friends? Sure it’s exciting to watch someone open a blender, and an iron, and of course new sheets. But, sometime after opening the third set of dishes the excitement wears off and boredom tends to set in. Much like a bunch 5 year olds at their best friend’s birthday party, women are easily lead a strayed by one another. I guess this is why bridal shower games were invented.

Having attended 7 bridal showers in the last year, I’ve played my fair share of bridal bingo, bride trivia, and honeymoon ramblings. But one of the activities I find most entertaining is the advice that guests are asked to bestow to the bride to be. Here are my top five

5. Never let you husband use these four letter words: Dust, cook, and work.

4. Never go to bed angry. Stay up and plot revenge.

3. Don’t withhold sex. You’re only punishing yourself.

2. Don’t have three kids in two years
(Why didn’t anyone share this with me at my shower?)

(And my personal favorite from a mother of a bride)
1. Just remember when the going gets though that it was your father that gave you away,
I wanted to keep you.

Such words of wisdom. Offered by women who’ve been there and done that. And who better to offer such valuable advice, like number 4, than those seasoned brides, who have been there more than once! Like I said, put 50 women in a room together, and some of us are bound to revert to our inner child.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The Four Letter Word No Mother Wants To Hear...


Like many parents, just hearing the word “Uh-oh” sends alarm bells ringing in my head and makes every muscle in my body cringe. Especially, if it comes out of one of my boys’ mouths, you know the ones, The General and The Tank.

Reminiscent are the days that my two cohorts flooded my downstairs bath after continually flushing the potty while depositing an entire roll of toilet paper, or the day when my little General lathered himself with a full tube of Destin, because he needed lotion for his dry skin, or the day when the Tank decided to stoke the fire with his legos. All incidents preceded the word “Uh-oh.”

With three toddlers under one roof, not many days pass without some kind of catastrophe, which leads to “uh-oh.” So, why would today be any different? I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I heard one of my mischievous off-spring utter, “Uh-oh!” from the bathroom. I just bowed my head and said a quick prayer, not for me, but for him. Then I’d headed to the bathroom to see what the damage was.

When I opened the door, the boy before me didn’t look like my usual grinning son. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, waiting to be plowed over with punishment. Looking at him I noticed that the Tank’s arms were soaked up to his elbow and the toilet next to him no longer had a seat on it.

In the sternest voice I could muster up, I asked, “What happened?”

Instantly my son started crying and whimpered, “the toilet bit me!”

I dried the tears from my son’s face then proceeded to the floor, when the phone rang. It was my Dad. So naturally I shared the mishap, in hopes to get some parental guidance and support. Instead, I got an earful of laughter and a brief sentiment from my father, “Ah, payback for all the rotten things that you kids did to your mother and me when you were little!”

Yes, “Uh-oh” indeed.


Like many parents, just hearing the word “Uh-oh” sends alarm bells ringing in my head and makes every muscle in my body cringe. Especially, if it comes out of one of my boys’ mouths, you know the ones, The General and The Tank.

Reminiscent are the days that my two cohorts flooded my downstairs bath after continually flushing the potty while depositing an entire roll of toilet paper, or the day when my little General lathered himself with a full tube of Destin, because he needed lotion for his dry skin, or the day when the Tank decided to stoke the fire with his legos. All incidents preceded the word “Uh-oh.”

With three toddlers under one roof, not many days pass without some kind of catastrophe, which leads to “uh-oh.” So, why would today be any different? I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I heard one of my mischievous off-spring utter, “Uh-oh!” from the bathroom. I just bowed my head and said a quick prayer, not for me, but for him. Then I’d headed to the bathroom to see what the damage was.

When I opened the door, the boy before me didn’t look like my usual grinning son. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, waiting to be plowed over with punishment. Looking at him I noticed that the Tank’s arms were soaked up to his elbow and the toilet next to him no longer had a seat on it.

In the sternest voice I could muster up, I asked, “What happened?”

Instantly my son started crying and whimpered, “the toilet bit me!”

I dried the tears from my son’s face then proceeded to the floor, when the phone rang. It was my Dad. So naturally I shared the mishap, in hopes to get some parental guidance and support. Instead, I got an earful of laughter and a brief sentiment from my father, “Ah, payback for all the rotten things that you kids did to your mother and me when you were little!”

Yes, “Uh-oh” indeed.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Who ever said silence is golden , was never a mother!

Long awaited and almost never present are those few precious moments that any mother desires, the minutes of complete silence and contentment in our home. But as my own mother would say, "be careful what you wish for."

Recently, I was feverishly attempting to mop my boys' goopy blue breakfast yogurt off the kitchen floor. But, my two sons, The General and The Tank, kept tracking their grimy foot prints over it as they re-enacted battle scenes from Narnia. Deafeningly arguing over who would wear the knight suit of armor and hold the sword, that Santa gave to my little General, to fight the "mean witch."

After several minutes, my pleading for them to quiet down and stay in the family room quickly turned in to threatening. And when my carefully chosen words of, "Get off the floor or else," didn't work, I did what any mother would shamefully do to keep her sanity. I bribed my children with a movie.

I marched The General and The Tank up to my room to watch a movie. I got them all set up, put Narnia- The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe on for the 100th time! Then, I left them quietly sitting on my bed, mesmerized by the scenes unfolding before them. I figured this would at least buy me ten minutes of peace before they would come looking for me to sit and watch the movie with them.

Back downstairs I went to finish washing the floor; I was down there for maybe a total of seven minutes. I didn't hear a peep the entire time. No screaming and no loud thuds. I was impressed. I even debated making myself a cup of tea before going to check on my two angels.

Instead, I put the mop away and headed up stairs. As I got closer to my room, I could hear the muffled giggles of a mischievous toddle saying, "Yummmm." I open the door.

There stood the General, soaked with a two gallon jug from my humidifier over his brother's head, pushing the button in that releases water; and the Tank was just parked on my carpet like a wet dog with his mouth wide open at a water spicket trying to catch the ever flowing water.

Before I could even think, I asked, "What are you doing? Are you crazy?" Dumbfounded the General answered, "No Mommy, just thirsty."

After about a minute of reprimand, I realized they were just tuning me out. A trait they inherited from their father. With nothing more to say, I stripped the boys of their sopping clothes, cleaned up the flood in my room, and shuffled them downstairs to return to their boisterous play.

As the room filled with silly laughter, I realized that this is what is truly golden.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Why you should practice what you preach...

As a mother, I pride myself in teaching my children all the valuable lessons they need to lead a happy and healthy life. For example, I tell them, "Look both ways before you cross the street," or "your dinner forking is meant for poking your food, not your brother." I try to exemplify all the messages that I preach into my children's seemingly deaf ears, so that someday they could in turn pass these along to others. But, I had no idea that this day would come so soon for my three year old son.

The other night, my husband had our financial advisor over, while I was at work. My husband told my son to play quietly so he could sit and talk to Mr. Advisor at the table. Being as obedient as any three year old could, he sat on the floor right next to his daddy and amused himself with his dump truck, occasionally interrupting to engage himself in his father's conversation.

Mr. Advisor, trying to appease my little guy with some small talk, said, "I like your UCONN suit that you have on. Are you going to play basketball for UCONN someday?"

My toddler looked up to the man and simply replied, "No, I can't."

Mr. Advisor asked, "Why not?"

My son continued, "I can't play basketball, because Mommy broke my basketball."

My other half quickly chimed in, "What? Mommy didn't break your ball."

Fustrated, my son said, "Yes she did, Mommy ran my Dora basketball over with her car and popped it!"

Hubby to my resue, "Well, if you put your toys away that wouldn't happen."

Without missing a beat my little instructor stood up, pointed his finger and retorted, "You know, you're suppose to watch where you're going when you're driving."

When my husband told me the story when I got home from work that night, I couldn't decide if I wanted to laugh or shrivel up with embarrassment. After all, I did quite literally put a hole in my child's chance at becoming Jim Calhoun's next star player. But, before I could decide how I felt, my husband looked me square in the eye, smiled and said, "And you think nobody ever listens to you."

I am proud that I have such witty children and I am pleased to know that not all of what I say falls upon deaf ears. I guess that I can only hope when my children are able to drive that they do as I say and not as I do.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Welcome to the Putnam Patch!

That's right folks you've just entered the Putnam Patch, where chaos sprouts as fast as the lil' pumpkins around here. Come back for your daily dose of parenting humor where mom's always write!