I’m going to say something kind of wrong. Something that would get my mother of the year card revoked immediately were this blog to ever be brought to the membership committee. Something we all think but never voice.

Sometimes?

Sometimes I really don’t like my children.

It’s not that I don’t love them– I totally and completely do. I love them like I can’t even tell you, so much that I can’t breathe at times, and I get all misty eyed with pride when they do the simplest things. If something were to happen to one of them, I would be without the sun in my sky. If something (God forbid) were to happen to all of them, I would step in front of a bus within minutes of lovingly saying goodbye to them. While they are not the entirety of me, they are the best of me, and without them I could not go on.

That said.

Sometimes I just don’t like ‘em.

Like sometimes when my son makes the same noise over and over again without ceasing for hours on end? I want to shake him. (Never, ever ever shake a baby. Or a 5 year old.)

Like when my daughter coughs loudly for effect or attention, just because she happens to be awake? Even if you’re not awake? I want to shake her HARD. (Again, don’t shake annoying three year olds.)

Like when my baby cries like a banshee because my husband had the audacity to want to sleep right next to me and possibly make out with me a little? SHAKE. (Do not shake the cockblocker.)

When I was a kid, I would sometimes get upset at what I perceived as my parents having a favorite child. Now, as an adult, I can see that this distinction was not favoritism– it was simply that they preferred to spend more time loving and less time yelling at the child who was NOT repeatedly hurtling themselves at them for fun. AND I CAN NOT BLAME THEM. Because I feel the same way.

Here lately? I can’t stand being around Funk for more than 20 minutes. I LOVE HER, dammit. I think she’s amazing and the special-est little gem in the world. BUT SHE IS DRIVING ME BATSHIT INSANE. It’s not even worth going into the reasons, really, except to say that she is three and headstrong and kind of like her mother.

Hubs feels the same way about Squeak much of the time. Squeak has the loudest cry any of our babies have ever had, and it is largely directed at Hubs. He’s a momma’s boy, that one, and much of the time Hubs’ only offense is that he is not me. It doesn’t really lay the groundwork for a relationship of unicorns and rainbows. Again, Hubs LOVES Squeak. But I think he’d like to have some “marital time” without trying to sneak it past Mr. Cockblocker McScreamybritches.

It’s only normal, I think, to have the urge to avoid a person who is constantly making light sabre noises three inches from your ear for hours on end.

So I don’t have a favorite. I don’t. But sometimes I like one of them more than the others.

Is that wrong?

So the time has finally come for me to burn this motha down. And as weirdly excited as I am about it, I guess I haven’t really been doing my homework or anything. Because it’s apparently a way bigger deal than I thought it would be. It’s, like, ACTUAL SURGERY.

Such was my level of ignorance about my ablation that I scheduled it during Funk’s time at preschool. Because I thought I would just, you know, get my uterus fired and then swing by to get her.

(My completely delusional) TASKS FOR THE DAY

• Take Funk to school
• Have blow torch inserted into my vuh-jay-jay
• Roast uterus like a marshmallow on a camping trip
• Pick up Funk
• Go about the rest of the day occasionally spurting smoke from my skivvies from my still-smoldering girlie bits

In reality, this IS kind of a big deal, I guess. So now I’m all nervous and gulpy about it, which I totally don’t need to be.

It didn’t help that the nurse who did my surgery pre-cert today was completely without humor and also kind of a bitch. It was time for Squeak to nurse while I waited for my appointment, so I just sort of whipped it out and let him eat– of  course she came to get me about 5 minutes later and was completely APALLED.

Huh. You’re a nurse. Have you not seen one of these before?

Anywho. I asked her if I could continue to nurse him while we talked, and she said that was fine but then refused to even look at me. You couldn’t see anything, folks. I’ve gotten pretty sly after 5 years of nursing babies.

She was just… not nice. She asked me all the regular questions, and just seemed so angry, and so annoyed with my presence, even after Squeak was done eating. She asked about prior surgeries. When I told her about my Mutt Bowl, she actually said, “that is disgusting.” She asked about meds. I told her I was on some meds for Teh Post-Babee Cahrazee. Then she asked if I was suicidal or depressed, and I said no.

“Well, then just what are you on Ce1exa for, then?” she sniped.

“Uh. Well, you asked if I am currently depressed. Since I am on medication, I am not currently depressed.”

“Well, that still counts. You’re depressed.”

You know lady? Whatthefuckever. I really don’t care what you write on your little clipboard. Do what you have to do.

At that point, I just wanted to get out of there. I mean is this lady a nurse or what? Not only was she a total bitch, she didn’t even so much as coo at Squeak even one time! She must lack a soul! Because I defy you to see my baby without ovulating on the spot, such is the cuteness.

Anyway, so I’m having my uterus toasted on Friday. Whee.

__________________________________________

Oh and P.S. Sucky Uterus: Thanks for giving me one last completely unnecessary and excruciating period this week. You deserve to burn.

Slow down, little one. You have only heartbeats to be a baby. A few moments to be a child. An eternity to be a grownup.

I see you watching them run and play. I can feel you leaning forward to join in the fun. I know you want to run with the pack, baby. But stay with me, just a little while longer.

It will all be over too soon. Before you know it, you, too, will be big. And momma will look at you with sorrow and say, “no honey, I cannot carry you.”

The next time I turn around, you will be a daring and energetic three year old…

The next moment a circumspect and opinionated five year old…

In the last few weeks you have begun to crawl, gotten two teeth, pulled yourself up to stand, and started eating from our plates.

You say “Mama” and I think you mean to.

I’m so proud, baby. But remember… there is no rush.

We started noticing Funk’s teeth about a year ago. She’s been an avid thumb sucker since the womb, and no amount of cajoling seemed to sway her dedication. Our dentist explained that even though it was wrecking her teeth, chances were extremely slim that we’d have any luck breaking her of the habit– research shows that most hearty thumbsuckers can’t be persuaded to work on the habit until they are at least four.

So we just let it be. We reminded her sometimes, of course, mainly because her response was so cute.

“Funk… what did the dentist say about sucking your thumb?”

“… ummmm… she said SUCK MY THUMB.”

Here lately, though, Funk’s teeth have been getting really crazy. Her palate is very high, her front teeth have moved forward, and she has a visible dip in her bottom teeth.

Classic Thumbsucker Teeth

We noticed that she was doing a lot of idle thumbsucking– not for comfort, but while she was watching cartoons, or listening to books. We were also concerned that with all of the flu going around, she would be more susceptible since she constantly had her hands in her mouth.

Research be damned, we decided to start working on the thumb thing a little more earnestly.

At first, we just told her that she could only suck her thumb in bed. That just led to her spending a lot of time with every toy she owned in her bed.

Then we told her that she could only have her thumb when she was sleeping. But there’s a lot of gray area between “sleeping” and “pretending like I am trying to sleep” so that didn’t help with the thumbsucking at all.

I decided that we should try cold turkey.

Enter… THE STICKER CHART (Da Da Duuuuunnnn.)

Now, I have no problem bribing rewarding a child who accomplishes a difficult task, such as changing a lifelong habit. The problem was, we had tried sticker charts with Funk before, and she just wasn’t all that motivated. Basically, she’s stubborn– if she’s set on something, no amount of bribery, threats, or begging is going to change her mind. I figured we’d try anyway.

I explained the sticker chard concept again, and asked Funk what she thought her reward for giving up her thumb should be.

That child did not even blink an eye.

“IwannahorsethathashairthatchangescolorwhenyougetitwetIsawitonTV!”

She’s apparently spent some time thinking about this.

Now, I had no clue what the hell she was talking about, but her willingness to even consider the chart had me excited, so I agreed to her reward. How bad could it be, I thought? And besides, what were the chances that she would be able to give up her thumb cold turkey for the agreed upon time frame– 20 whole days?

We made a cute little sticker chart, heavily utilizing Funk’s love of cutting and pasting. We hung it on the fridge.

Let me tell you, stubborn does not even begin to describe my daughter. She has not put even one millimeter of either thumb in her mouth for seven days, from the time that chart went on the refrigerator.

Last night I decided that I should probably do a little research on this “horse that has hair that changes color” thing. And, ugh. I am nauseated.

May I introduce you to the Barbie Shower and Show Horse. Now featuring forty million tiny parts for one’s baby brother to choke on, and a fuckuvalotta pink.

I guess I should be happy that there’s finally something she wants bad enough to quit jacking up her teeth. And I guess I lucked out that I agreed to a $30 toy and not something more ridiculous. After all, $3o now sure beats $3,000 on braces later. But still… It’s so… pink. Think there’s any chance I could slip her a Breyer instead?

Recent evidence to the contrary, we’re fairly watchful parents. The injuries my children have sustained have thus far been negligible. I once set Noise down in a chair and he flopped over on his head. One time Hubs pinched his chubby little thigh in his bouncy seat and left a bruise. Uh, Funk had that cough, but that wasn’t because of us.

And that’s it.

We’ve also gotten lucky so far in the major mess category– no writing on the walls, wiping their poo all over themselves and the furniture, or eating vaseline (I once did that as a baby.) They also didn’t put much in their mouths, even as babies. Funk was a thumb sucker, Noise a devout binky kid.

Our older two kids are really, embarassingly easy. This doesn’t have a ton to do with us as parents– I think it has to do with their basic nature. They are basically rule-oriented little souls. They aren’t very high strung and are rarely out of control. They are curious, but within bounds. Once we were able to teach them ‘no’ and help them understand our family concept, things went fairly smoothly other than the usual fits and starts.

Of course there were fits– they are only children, after all.

Again, I say, this had SO MUCH to do with who they intrinsically are. I don’t feel we can take all that much credit for it.

It’s becoming clear, however, as the months go by that Squeak just might be our E.R. kid. He has been crawling for three days. In the past 24 hours he has fallen off of the bed (our first child to do so,) headbutted a wall, tried to stick his finger in a (thankfully baby-proofed) electric socket, and possibly eaten a small Cootie part. All of these things happened within inches of a parent; he’s just lightening quick and fearless as hell.

When you tell him ‘no’ he only smiles.

You can see a glint in his eye.

I used to watch my friends whose kids seemed to be running from the time they were 6 months old, into everything, and thank my lucky stars that mine were slower to walk, quicker to talk (and therefore be reasoned with to some extent,) and not incredibly motivated to explore at that frenetic level. I could not believe how busy these parents were, how much more watchful they had to be. To be on DEFCON 5 all the time– well, just thinking about having to parent at that level exhausted me.

But looking at it so far, I do believe the third time’s the charm.

(And just so you know, I had to stop writing this entry five times because Squeak kept picking fuzz off the afghan and eating it. We are screwed.)

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few)
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

When the phone rang from Noise’s school on Monday, my heart leapt into my throat. He was sitting right next to me, so I knew he was alright– but I was worried that he was in some kind of trouble.

I know. I know. Noise is the last kid you would expect to get into some kind of trouble. But I was still worried.

See, the Pairs are an extremely rule oriented gaggle of folks. So the idea that he might have done something that was against the rules instantly worried me. Of course, he was fine, everything was fine– his teacher was just calling to ask me to bring something healthy for the “Fall Party” on Friday. (Note: NOT a Halloween party. FALL PARTY.) Then she explained to me what “healthy” was. (No I will not shut up.) Then she asked me what “fruit” or “vegetable” I would be bringing. (Apparently these “fruits” are some kind of healthy food source for you humans?)

I committed to bring apple slices and various dips of questionable nutritional value.

Now, communication from Noise’s school is shoddy at best, and usually manifests itself in the creation of an ever-changing cadre of rules which I can neither understand nor keep track of. Thankfully, Hubs is even MORE rule oriented than I am, and he does drop off in the mornings, so I don’t have to keep track of the rotating set of expectations. So when Noise’s teacher actually took the time to call me personally about the healthy food rule, I took notice. In addition to this call, the school has sent home various handouts in the past on healthy eating, so I understand that it is an important part of the education going on there.

Today, I swung by the classroom to drop off the aforementioned “fruit.”

And fuck if there wasn’t a table full of cookies, chips, cupcakes, and candy. And my motherfucking apples were the only motherfucking thing on that motherfucking table that could in any way be construed as healthy.

Now don’t get me wrong– I didn’t have a problem sending a healthy snack– I sent the exact same thing to Funk’s class a few weeks ago when it was her turn to provide snack. The thing that pissed me off was that it was apparent that I was the only one who followed the expectations that were set out. I was the only one who followed the rules.

And now Noise is the kid whose mom brought FRUIT to the PARTY. ACK!

And also? Big ass bag of apple slices with dip? $10. Bag of chips? $2. Eating produce costs more.

And lemme tell you that it would have been a helluva lot easier to pick up a bag of chips from the grocery store than make all those dips and cut all those motherfucking apples.

And this is pretty much indicative of what happens to us all the time. We have a motto in our family– Pairs do the right thing. It means that we follow the rules, and try as much as we can to do the ethical, just, thing. Even when that thing is hard, or unpleasant.

Pairs do the right thing.

But it often seems as though we’re one of the few folks that follow that mantra. And all around us, people are breaking the rules and being rewarded for it. And that’s infuriating, because much of the time the only benefit to doing the right thing is the intrinsic value of being someone who does the right thing. Doing the right thing means you pay all your bills while the shmoehead across the street claims bankruptcy and fills his house with brand new shit. Doing the right thing means handing over the $100 bill you found in the parking lot, even when someone has stolen over $600 from you. It means teaching your children to be honest, kind, and trusting, even when many of the people they meet in life will be complete assholes.

I believe in karma. I believe that the energy we put out in life is what comes back to us. So Pairs do the right thing.

But sometimes that means we get screwed.

When I got my new butthole, I had a long, slow recovery that involved many pain killers and an inordinate amount of daytime television. I mainly watched the Food Network, but sometimes tuned in for the afternoon talk shows– Ellen, Oprah, and now and again (though it shames me to say it) Dr. Phil. (And when I say “tuned in,” please understand that this mostly involved sleeping on the couch with the TV on.)

Dr. Phil is this decade’s Jerry Springer. But without the breast implants and the paternity testing.

Anywho.

It’s not like I was paying the most attention– the excruciating pain and narcotics were quite distracting– but I do remember a specific thing that Dr. Phil said once.

He was speaking with a couple who had ongoing issues in their marriage. I can’t remember what, and the domestic turmoil that weaves its web over on that show is interchangeable anyway. But the wife went on a long recounting of her husband’s many flaws. He was dishonest, he was lazy, he was sometimes mean, he made promises he did not keep… The Jerry Springer watcher in me was all, “Oh no he din’t! You need to dump that sleazeball!”

As a woman, I felt an automatic allegiance to this woman, this stranger. I couldn’t understand why she put up with all of this dude’s shit. At the end of her diatribe of his faults, she reassured Dr. Phil that although he made it terribly difficult to do so, she still loved her husband very much.

And Dr. Phil said, “You have to decide what’s more important to you. Do you want to be RIGHT? Or do you want to be TOGETHER?”

And that has struck me ever since.

I am, you see, a person for whom being right is very, very important. I love being right. I revel in it, almost unhealthfully so. It makes me feel competent, smart, confident.

And sometimes… many times… in my need to prove that I am right about something, I lose sight of the bigger picture. I have a hard time letting go of being “right” to preserve important relationships. I fight every fight to win it, regardless of the cost. I couch this in my deep belief that honesty is at the core of who I am, but in truth, my urge to win each fight is not always that altruistic.

I can hear you saying that any relationship worth having should include honesty. I get that. But unless you just walked into your bedroom, whipped back the sheets, and said, “honey, it’s not really all that big” I know you are maneuvering the truth too. It IS a part of a healthy relationship. Not out and out lying, mind you, but massaging our truths to be palatable, gentle, and fair. Every hill is not worth dying on, and I need to be better about letting some things go. (And for the record, that doesn’t change how right I am, it just changes how hard I push to assert that righteousness.)

I sometimes fail in this regard. I forget that at the end of the day, it’s probably worth giving up a few fights to preserve the love I value. And I’m not just talking about marriage. I’m talking about friends, family… even my kids.

I would rather be together than right all the time.

Sisters Of Mercy by Leonard Cohen

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who’ve been travelling so long.

Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.
It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul.
Well I’ve been where you’re hanging, I think I can see how you’re pinned:
When you’re not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you’ve sinned.

Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession to them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.

When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon.
Don’t turn on the lights, you can read their address by the moon.
And you won’t make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened your night:
We weren’t lovers like that and besides it would still be all right,
We weren’t lovers like that and besides it would still be all right.

Our house is not very big. It’s a three bedroom, but since it was built in 1961 the rooms lack the cavernous design enjoyed by modern construction. With three bedrooms, room sharing becomes necessary. Right now, Squeak is in our room.

All right, let’s be honest. Right now, Squeak is in our BED.

Ahem.

But we’re working on that.

Eventually, Squeak will not be in our room anymore.

We’ve been going along with random sleep arrangements for the better part of a year. Funk has a room, and her own bed, but she sleeps in Noise’s room on a pull-out trundle each night. All of her things are in her room, but her body is in Noise’s. I’m not sure when exactly we got into the nightly habit of her sleeping with her big brother, but they both really enjoy sharing a room, and pulling them apart has never been easy.

The plan initially was to “big girl” Funk’s room (it has not been changed since we got pregnant with Noise) and put the boys together.

Sunday, we went about the task of installing Funk’s new big-girl bed. We put her bed in her room, and set up the crib in Noise’s room. She was excited about the promise of Princess sheets to come, and the chance to decorate her own space.

When nighttime came, I sent each child to their respective rooms.

And that’s when the hysterics began.

It seems like neither of my elder progeny understood that once Funk had her own big-girl bed, we would expect her to sleep in it.

“We’re not READY!” cried Noise.

“Noiiiiiiiiiiiiiiise!!!” wailed Funk.

I explained to the kids that this was the whole point– they need their own space, and they have a nasty habit of keeping each other awake. Because they were terrified that this meant they could NEVER share a room again, I reassured them that they could bunk together on the weekends.

“Two nights is NOT enough,” bargained Noise. “How about FOUR nights a week?”

Because Funk’s room was still destroyed from the great furniture debacle, it was really not suitable for sleeping in. But because I had already put the crib in Noise’s room, there was no way to pull out the trundle.I gave her a choice: sleep in her own bed that night, or sleep in Squeak’s crib.

She’s been in Squeak’s crib for the last two nights.

The idea that they will eminently be separated has plagued them for days. It’s all they can talk about; the worry of every waking moment. They approach bedtime with fresh dread because the discussion with begin anew. They desperately do not want to be separated.

And I’m torn.

Really, there’s no reason to separate them right now. They could go on, the way they’ve been, for at least another year before gender issues rear their ugly head. They sleep better together, they have a strong bond with each other, and they are happy. It’s not hurting anything.

On the other hand, we can’t continue with the trundle bed– it makes the whole room a solid block of mattress and leaves them no room to play. With Squeak getting progressively more mobile, the older kids need a place to play with their chokeable toys that’s NOT the family room.

So I don’t know what to do. I am thinking the solution will involve purchasing a bunkbed. Right now, my thoughts are that this bunkbed should go in Noise’s room. We can move most of Funk’s clothes and toys over (that’s going to be a fuckton of crap in one room, but I’m trying to remain calm about that) and then keep the baby room a baby room. When the time comes, maybe when we move (which will hopefully be next year,) we can separate Noise and Funk again, and put Squeak in with his big brother.

By keeping the baby room separate, we maintain a space where a) the big kids can play with their non-baby-approved toys, and b) Squeak can sleep without restricting the access Noise has to his stuff.

I hate to store Noise’s bed– it is a beautiful piece of furniture that I love and he loves– but there’s nowhere to put it if we bring in bunk beds.

Argh. It’s like trying to stuff ten pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack.

Thoughts?