It'll be a Miracle

Nina and Jocelyn turned 10 months old this week, and I've decided it will be a miracle if they make it to their first year. We've had some mishaps recently, mostly courtesy of Samuel and Ethan, that make me close my eyes and shake my head. Will they survive this minefield of preschool creativity and activity they were born into?   About three and a half years ago, I learned a very important lesson as a mother that I still sometimes forget.  Samuel was very efficiently crawling about this time, and I was lounging on the couch, so proud of myself that he was entertaining himself on the floor.  I thought I'd read a page or two of the mystery novel I was working through when Sonja, our dog a the time, came sauntering into the living room.  Sonja was a completely black lab mix and suddenly she had little white dusty hand prints all over her body.  Where in the world did she acquire those?  I jumped up out of my lazy state, and looked over the back of the couch.  Samuel had crawled into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, pulled out the powdered sugar, and managed to tear open the Ziploc bag.  Of course he proceeded to spread it all over a large sprawl of the kitchen, give Sonja a good pat-down, and had now discovered that it tasted wonderful!

The little monkey had powdered sugar all over his face and hands and was shoving powdered sugar in his mouth as fast as he could.  This event was when I first learned the, "When all is silent, something is wrong" rule of parenting.  I don't always remember this lesson.  Why?  Because a second rule often overrides the first rule.  The second rule is, "If kids are entertaining themselves, take a break!"  The second rule sometimes gets me in trouble and leaves me with extra chores.  Add to that two helpful preschoolers who want to entertain their sisters and introduce them to the world as they know it, and life gets interesting.

Two weeks ago, I had finished feeding the kids lunch.  The boys were playing happily in the living room with dinosaurs and the girls were digging into the toddler puzzles.  I thought - whew - finally time for me to eat!  Instead of sitting at the table where I could see the children, I leaned over the counter and perused a Pottery Barn magazine and munched.  The kids were quiet, but I kept eating and reading.  A few minutes later, I freaked, "Why are there bits of my spider plant all over the couch?!  Who destroyed my plant!?"  Samuel reports, "Ethan did it."  Ethan says, "No I didn't.  Triceratops and Brachiosaurus did it.  They were hungry herbivores."  Sure they were.  Meanwhile, Nina and Jocelyn's four little hands were stuffing decapitated plant in their mouths as fast as they possibly could.  We've kept the mangled spider plant and are nursing it back to health, but the jade plant moved away with the philosophy that one less plant equals one more year for my daughters.

Samuel and Ethan have discovered the incredible thing called a knot, which they exercise with their jump ropes on their stuffed animals and dinos.  I'm putting laundry away in the boys' room when Samuel runs up to me with his excited voice, "Mommy!  I saved Jocelyn!  She was all tied up and almost fell against the railing!"  I respond, "Samuel, how did Jocelyn get tied up?"  He says with bright eyes, "She wrapped the jump rope around her legs and tied a knot!"  I smelled a tall tale.  "Jocelyn wrapped the jump rope around her legs?  All by herself?"  He says, a little more cautious this time, "Uh-huh!  I saw her do it."  Raised eyebrow from me.  Downcast look from Samuel, and then his confession, "No mommy, I tied her up."  Then we had to have the conversation about how ropes and babies just don't mix.  Our babies need to continue to breathe.

A third rule I'm finding as a mother is "Just accept the chaos."  This rule exists because in absolutely no way, will my two hands ever, ever be as fast as the eight little hands running around my house.  It seems that no matter how hard I try to keep up, keep everyone safe, how much sleep I lose, or how much I try to settle them before I go do something such as dishes, chaos surround us.  I fight it, or I accept it.  I'm learning slowly to accept because motherhood is less frustrating that way.

Chaos is around us everywhere these days.  Whether we go to the store, try out the park, are eating breakfast, or just putting on our shoes.  One night I bathed the girls and dressed them in their PJs.  I put Samuel and Ethan in the tub and checked on the girls in their bedroom where they are banging on their leapfrog table and baby piano.  I decided I would run downstairs and fluff a load of laundry to fold (yes, we have a LOT of laundry).  I literally walk to the stairs, shut the stairs gate, walk down the stairs when I hear, "Mommy!  Mommy!  Help!"  In the time in took me to get to the bottom of the stairs, Nina had crawled from her room, into the bathroom and had flipped herself into the boys' bath.  The boys had swooped her up and and were holding her up on the edge of the tub.  Nina was soaking wet and had eyes the size of silver dollars.  She was so freaked out and I was so proud of my boys.  My ten month old babies can't seem to swim.

See?  See what I mean?  It really will be a miracle if Nina and Jocelyn make it to their first year!  They have a mother who can barely get a sandwich in her mouth and two very helpful and creative brothers.  Amidst our efforts to be good parents to the boys by having fires and supporting art through an art easel we've suffered in the baby department.  Nina and Jocelyn have both eaten charcoal out of the chiminea.  They liked it, and we fight them every time they are on the back deck.  Both girls have sucked on paint brushes from the art easel.  There is a reason they make things like children's paint, crayons and markers non-toxic.  Those reasons are named Nina and Jocelyn.  Samuel has tried to feed them carrots and sunflower seeds because he likes them, so why wouldn't they?  Ethan has turned the water on in the bathtub so they could go fishing.  Samuel has let the babies on the back deck because they like the fresh air, despite their other love of charcoal.  Ethan has been a very good sharer and passed his play-doh to Jocelyn and was very impressed when she ate it and she liked it.

Only two more months?  Will they make it?  Or will they be poisoned by plant, folded up in the dishwasher, drowned in the tub, choked by charcoal?  Maybe tied in rope, or buried in toys?  It truly will be a miracle when August 22nd rolls around.

Bring Home the Bacon, Baby

At the risk of shocking personalities like Rachael Maddow, never has it been more apparent than this past weekend that in our marriage, Peter and I have succumbed to traditional roles in just about everything we do in our day to day lives. I was so stinking sick that my temperature reached 104 on more than one occasion and I became a shivering, teeth chattering mess. I was in so much pain, my teeth hurt. During this delirium, Peter was one-hundred-percent in charge of taking care of all four children for nearly 36 hours straight, alone. The babies cried the whole time. No really. The babies cried the whole time.

“I don’t know where a goddamn thing is!” To which I replied, “It’s where it always is.” To which he exclaimed, “At least it isn’t where I would think to put it!” After the tempers abated, I explained that the diaper rash cream and all the baby goopy stuff was in the drawer in the bureau immediately below the diapers and wipes…where we change the babies. “Okay, that makes sense.” Peter changes diapers occasionally, but obviously I am the one who has always taken care of diaper rash issues.

Without going into all the trauma and drama of the weekend, the end results were that:

• Everyone survived
• Peter was incredibly stressed out after this debacle. His job, which he loves, he loved even more by Sunday night and couldn’t wait to return.
• I realized, I KNOW I take care of the children 85% of the time, but are we really this delineated in our chores and household responsibilities?

Yes we are.

Much of our gender centered chores result from our own ridiculous obsessions. In other words, our tolerance of the other person’s way of doing is to just let him or her do it. I’ll give you some examples. Peter always mows the lawn. Always. Why? Am I capable? Certainly. Did my parents make me do it in an effort to make me a well-rounded adolescent? You can bet your butt they did. Peter doesn’t let me mow the lawn, because I don’t mow straight enough lines. I’m completely serious. Another example is that I always do the laundry. Always. Why? Is Peter capable? That depends. My whites must be white. My towels and dish cloths must not smell like mildew. Add to these obsessions, Peter’s just made some bad laundry decisions so he’s just not allowed near my machines unless I’m bedridden. Consider the time that I had a white load in the washer ready to go, he looked down at the rug in the laundry room, decided it needed to be cleaned too and tossed it in, turning everything a lovely shade of lime green. I can also agree with him that it is faster to just toss it all together, but colors really should stay the color they originated. You know, white instead of smoky gray, yellow or pink instead of that subtle hint of blue in a certain light.

Many of our other gender based roles have resulted out of the necessity to live more comfortably. Frankly, unless you dig omelets and pasta, Peter’s culinary skills are rather limited. While I will admit publicly that while on bed rest with the ladies, with much grumbling and words flying out of the kitchen that I’ve never heard, he did manage to put together the most amazing tuna casserole I’ve ever eaten. He promised it was a once in a lifetime achievement and he has stuck to that promise.  In general, he struggles in this area so I do all the cooking, and no he doesn’t do all the dishes.

Then there are finances. Peter has a head for numbers that I just don’t have and am not putting in any effort to attain. I always paid my bills on time, occasionally stole from Peter (the nebulous one, not my husband) to pay Paul, but I kept it together. My parents, while they did teach me to change the transmission fluid on their pickup, mow the yard though not in straight enough lines, and be brave enough to cook almost as adventurous as Emeril, they didn’t teach me much about finances. The lesson basically boiled down to, “This is a checkbook, this is a bank. Make sure you have enough cash in that building before you write on that paper.” Obviously this was before debit cards. Peter. Well let’s just say his financial charts and planning are out there. So I just hold out my hand on payday, the necessary money falls into it, and it works rather amicably for all involved.

Isn’t it just so ideologically 50s? Peter prepares to go to work and I make his breakfast, coffee and pack his lunch. He gathers his briefcase, kisses me goodbye and I proceed to wipe our four childrens’ mouths from dripping cereal as they kiss him goodbye. I spend the day raising babies, cleaning house and doing laundry.  He spends the day bringing home the bacon.  I choose the décor, he puts it up. I clean the house, he fixes all the broken things around the house. He makes the money and pays the bills, I stock the pantry and pick up the dry cleaning. On, and on we find ourselves in these traditional female/male roles.

It was never planned this way, and I never spent my days dreaming about a sugar daddy who would give me babies to raise.  No, I wanted an education and a career and I buckled down and accomplished them.  Then I looked into those adoring eyes of Samuel's and my life was changed forever.  Believe me, it's not all roses around here, but it works regardless of who changes the stinkies these days.

There are some blinding exceptions to this gender split household. For example, Peter is wicked fast at picking up toys, and even I can pump my own gas and get the oil changed. But the biggest and best exception of all is this: Peter does ALL the ironing. He even irons my table linens and the childrens' clothes alongside ours. Now what do you think of that? Don’t you want your own Peter now?

The Mostly True Adventures of Scary Moose

Samuel has an imaginary friend. Peter and I can’t recall exactly how old Samuel was when his buddy entered our lives, but we remember how it happened. Over the treat bucket one evening after dinner, we think Samuel was just around 2, Samuel tells Peter that “Scary Moose wants some daddy candy too.” Peter looks at me, I look at him and we both lift our eyebrows. Who is Scary Moose? Instantly, recollections of a movie called The Sixth Sense pop into our brains and we hear a little boy whisper, “I see dead people.” After Peter and I give each other a sideways glance that says “FREAKY!” we proceed to ask exactly who Scary Moose is. A few moments later, we deduct that Samuel has developed an imaginary friend, named Scary Moose of all things. Not Fifi Bunny or Timmy the Mouse. Really, truly, his name is Scary Moose. Over the last two years, we’ve learned a lot about this friend, and he is indeed, very friendly. He’s also well behaved, has a mommy and daddy, and listens to directions much better than Samuel does.

Initially, based on what I thought I knew about imaginary friends, I couldn’t help question, what have we done wrong? Is he emotionally maladjusted? Socially deprived? Having a hard time with transitions? Research into imaginary friends, however, indicates it is actually quite positive. Studies show that children with imaginary friends are usually extraverts, pretty well adjusted socially, very creative, think it is just good fun to have one, often idolize them, and explore new adventures with them. Overall, the concept of an imaginary friend is very encouraging. Thank the stars and moon, our son doesn’t see dead people (that we know of anyway).

What’s also interesting about Scary Moose, is that when Ethan grasped the concept of Scary Moose somewhere in his second year, he adopted him too. Both our boys share this pal, and the three of them often play games. They’ve hunted dinosaurs, trapped spiders, raced cars, rode horses and flown to outer space together. They both talk to Scary Moose, and seem to have a positive relationship with their furry friend. Scary Moose likes to travel, he eats excessive amounts of pasta, his favorite color is black, and he always holds his mother’s hand when he crosses the street. He lives at our house, shares a bedroom with Samuel and Ethan and sleeps on Samuel’s bed. I can’t help but think how uncomfortable bedtime is for Samuel with all his toys he refuses to sleep without and Scary Moose to boot. Ethan says to me the other day, “Mommy, Scary Moose gets to fly on airplanes. When we fly on airplanes?” And about a month ago, Ethan and Samuel had to save Scary Moose from the terrible lizard that inhabited our basement. They proceeded to trap the terrible lizard and free Scary Moose.

We try not to engage Scary Moose too much from the adult perspective, because after all, he is pretend and Ethan and Samuel grasp reality. However, just out of curiosity one day, we asked a couple of questions about what Scary Moose looked like. Ethan seemed full of contradictory answers, but Samuel proceeded to describe his big head and upright posture consistently. We figured he was a human being with an overgrown head and lanky figure. But no, none of our images fit the bill when we tried to illustrate the guy. Then one day I was flipping through old cartoons on Netflix to find new entertainment for the boys and Samuel, who was peeking over my shoulder, exclaims, “Look mommy, that’s a picture of Scary Moose!” You wouldn’t believe it, but it was reruns of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Loading this into our Instant Queue, we watched the cartoon and Samuel couldn’t believe there was an entire movie about Scary Moose! Now we had an image, he looks just like Bullwinkle.

Scary Moose has never been blamed for bad behavior, but is often used to negotiate why the boys should be able to do something that haven’t allowed. Just the other day, while we were at my parents’ house, the boys wanted to run out and see the horses. I told them no, that they’d have to wait because I was feeding the babies, grandma was cleaning rooms for her B&B guests, and Papa wasn’t home from work yet. Samuel insists, “But Scary Moose’s mommy is holding his hand and taking him out to see the horses.” I say, “Yes, but Scary Moose’s mommy doesn’t have two babies to take care of right now.” Samuel says, “That’s because Scary Moose’s baby sister is still in his mommy’s belly.” Ohh! Of course.

Recently I was a bit saddened that we’d lose Scary Moose. My grandmother was in the hospital in Sheridan and we went for a visit and to introduce her to the twins. Scary Moose rode along for this three hour, one way, sojourn. After our visit at the hospital with my grandmother, Samuel whispers then says to me, “Mommy, Scary Moose wants to stay here at the hospital.” I responded, “You better tell Scary Moose that if he wants to stay here, it is a very long way back to the Rossi House and I’m not driving back to get him.” Samuel literally steps aside, has a whispered conversation and then reports back to me, “Scary Moose has decided to come home with us.” And so the adventures continue.

Funny how I had a little pinch in my heart that Scary Moose might leave us. I’d miss him, truly. He leaves me in giggles and provides great entertainment for my sons. And with that, I’ll leave you with a poem written by Robert Louis Stevenson, who himself had many imaginary friends as a child.

Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods. 1913.

The Unseen Playmate

WHEN children are playing alone on the green,
In comes the playmate that never was seen.
When children are happy and lonely and good,
The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him and nobody saw,
His is a picture you never could draw,
But he’s sure to be present, abroad or at home,
When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,
He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;
Whene’er you are happy and cannot tell why,
The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big,
’Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;
’Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin
That sides with the Frenchman and never can win.

’Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,
Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head;
For wherever they’re lying, in cupboard or shelf,
’Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!