Mothering Mayhem: Life with the Wild Boys

Recently I reconciled myself to the fact that I cannot keep up.  I am but one woman, and the testosterone has so vastly overwhelmed me here in la casa that I decided in certain matters I need to tag in a teammate.  Enter the housekeeper. Now for every one of you that just thought to yourself anything along the lines of "really, she has time to blog but can't even clean her own house?" go away.  Because until you've walked a mile in my chocolate milk encrusted flip flops, you have no idea.  And really I think most of my readers will support me in this latest investment in my sanity.  Because truly, the blog is a once a week thing.  And the house, well it takes about 3.5 minutes for the house to be destroyed top to bottom, inside and out. Take as an example a winter day.  A snow day, as it were.  And my cherubs decide that while I shovel our driveway, AKA the icy hill of doom, they will play outside sledding. Sounds picturesque, right?  But...

Before I was a parent there were so many things I never knew were invaluable privileges rather than rights.  For example, picking music in my own car.  You would think that having to actually do the driving I would get control of our audio ambience, right? But alas, no.  Enter again Choo-choo Soul, or Christmas music (yes, year round, and always "Up on the Housetop by The Jackson 5...don't ask), or the Imagination Movers, or some such toddler fodder that may be educational but sometimes makes Mommy want to steer us into oncoming traffic. Another privilege? Eating the meal I order in a restaurant. Or anywhere, for that matter.  Because sure, I will let my kids pick whatever they want to eat.  I will let them order for themselves, because I feel like it fosters independence and self confidence.  And when our food arrives I will watch them take two bites of whatever they have ordered and then suddenly turn their focus to mine.  And devour it in front of...

I'm not sure how a typical Sunday starts in most homes.  In my mind though, I comfortably nestle into the 50's era nuclear family bliss.  Children sleeping in until at least 8 am, tucked soundly in their twin beds in a neat and tidy room.  Mother and father waking just early enough to be dressed and sipping coffee at the table with a coffee cake baking in the oven when the cherubs awaken.  The mother, hair and makeup perfect, heels and pearls donned, smiling at her perfect family.  Father, peeking over his paper and smiling past the pipe in the corner of his mouth.  Aaaaahhhh. So nice and tidy. Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not really all that naive.  Because when I met the cop I myself was embarking in a career in what society has dubbed "community corrections." So yes, the liberal has her own kevlar and glock.  That's right, ha ha, go through all the chuckling of his and her gun belts. Go ahead, get it out of your system, I'll wait. I...

Sometimes in horror movies there are scenes where there is a mass exodus of horrified people fleeing a building.  Some fall and are trampled, left helpless in the wake of the ensuing terror.  And this is often how I imagine buildings must look once me and my pre-schoolers enter. A little background.  I like to keep busy. Constantly moving.  Gavin is just like me.  But Gabe, my poor helpless three year old, would rather take life at a more leisurely pace, like his Daddy. Unfortunately we travel as a team.  This weekend, for example, started with the barber shop, a pre-school promotion ceremony and swimming on Friday.  Saturday was a full day in a gold mining town panning for gold, climbing rocks, and inhaling sarsparilla and candy.  And today, well today was started with a parade but also included the necessary grocery shopping for the week. The boys did very well at the parade, all things considered (meaning my five year old HATES fire trucks ...