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 ...

I am a firm believer in a village raising children.  And I rely heavily on my sisters to be a a big part of the village.  Lucky ladies, right?  Memorial Day weekend.  For me this equated to four days out of the office in the company of my lovely little gentlemen.  On Friday we tagged in Auntie Jess to go hang out with us at Funderland, followed by some necessary shopping.  She is our Girl Friday, and a standing date for us.  She gets included in all sorts of fun things like the zoo, the art studio we hang and produce at, haircuts, grocery shopping, doctor appointments...but focus on the fun things folks.  And this Friday was no different.  After Mommy treated Auntie to loads of junk food Gavin informed her she would only be doing "fast rides" with him.  Lucky girl, I've never seen anyone conquer a kid roller coaster that many times so quickly on the heels of chili cheese fries. Rock on, Auntie. And then, to avoid any extra traffic go...

I like to think I'm a pretty brave mom.  I was a tomboy, and somehow this computed in my mind to conquering all shenanigans the hooligans dished out with ease and style. Total fallacy folks.  My kids fear absolutely nothing, it appears.  And conversely since having them I have a whole new crop of parental type fears.  Some that are even more crippling then my fear of clowns... One recently acquired fear is reaching into kid pockets.  This should seem obvious to everyone.  Ever since my kids discovered these little treasure havens they have been jamming them full of increasingly bizarre objects.  My kids used to just catch me unaware with the innocent "Mom, can you hold this for me?" That lasted until after the first live millipede, at which point I started demanding to see what was being thrust at me.  Enter the pockets.  Several weeks ago a smell started emitting from our washing machine. A bad smell. The smell of belt death.  ...

And so it begins.  Once upon a time I wanted to be an author, but had no material. Story of everyone's life, right? Then I married a cop with kids, and eventually we had two of our own. And while my older children will avoid landing in this blog for the most part, the five children have given me enough material to rival War and Peace, minus the actual literary content of Tolstoy. My friends have followed my kids exploits on Facebook in snippet form. And at the request of many, and the prodding of my one brave blogger friend Brittani, I am embarking on the blog journey. So as an introduction for anyone joining us now, liberal meets and marries conservative and takes on his three amazing kids.  Encouraged by the family fun she decides they can handle one, yes ONE more.  After two years of fertility treatments along comes Gavin.  But the doctor fails to mention that post childbirth people are extremely fertile. Extremely. Like sneeze in my vicinity and apparently I'm ...