This is Part Two in my Winter Break Blog Post. If you want to know how the First Day of Winter Break began, go back to Part One.
So. We've arrived at home after a morning of errands and exercise. I bring two kids, four bags of groceries (I know, I went to the store for two things and came home with seventeen), my diaper bag, and two Lego mini figures. As predicted, one of the three that started the journey with us this morning has been sacrificed for the Greater Good and will now spend eternity defending the cup holders and seat pockets in our Honda Odyssey. "No man left behind" does not apply in our household - it's really more of an "Every Man for Himself" operation.
12:03 Kid #3 makes a beeline for his booster seat at the kitchen table, climbs into it, and proceeds to pound his fists on the kitchen table. OK, either he's hungry or this is some sort of new performance art I just don't get. It's noon, so I'm gonna go with hunger. I dig through the grocery bags and come up with some turkey, a bunch of crackers, a banana, and another sprinkle cookie from the dozen I used as bribes to get through the grocery store -- of which there are four left.
I feel good about this lunch because I need these cookies to be consumed before I have time to get my hands on them and derail everything I did at the gym.
12:10 I finish unloading the groceries. My stomach is growling, my grocery store sushi is waiting, and Kid #2 is laying on the floor, still in his jacket and shoes, throwing a tantrum. At least I think he is throwing a tantrum but to be honest most of the noises that he is making are coming out of him at such a high pitched frequency that only dogs can hear them. It's what I like to call his "fingernails on chalkboard" whine and it means that he is either:
1. In serious pain. Or not-so-serious pain. Blurred lines, people.
2. Is tired and wants to be picked up and held like a baby.
3. Wants to color but can't reach the crayons. Wants to color but not on paper. Wants to color but all of his markers are dried out because he's "allergic" to putting the caps on them when he's done with them.
4. Thinks I called him by his brothers' name. Don't judge, you know it happens. I'm pretty sure this is why the Duggars give all their kids "J" names - so they can just be all "Hey, J, get back to your Bible study" or whatever it is those kids do all day besides braiding each others' hair.
They say that Chinese is a tonal language - try speaking four year old. It would take someone fluent in Mandarin and one of those World War Two code breakers to decipher the many nuances of Kid #2's whining.
12:20 After a fun game of 200 questions, it turns out that Kid #2 would like his ninja nun chucks. They are foam nun chucks, in case anyone thinks I'd let my kid play with real nun chucks and risk castrating himself and denying me grandchildren. The way I see it, the whole point to having children is so that one day they themselves can procreate and realize how difficult it was for you to raise them without totally losing your shit. And also so that you can spend time with your little heirs and heiresses just long enough to buy them stuff and get them all hyped up on sugar and then give them back. Because, payback.
12:21 I find his nun chucks in the weapons bin.
Obviously.
12:22 Reflect on the fact that there is a weapons bin in my home. It is a plastic crate like the ones I used in college to store textbooks (yes, we had textbooks at art school!) and ramen and drug paraphernalia in (we also had a lot of weed in art school!) that now is home to an ever growing supply of toy swords, light sabers and handcuffs. I'm a can of paint and a leather whip away from renaming my basement the Red Room of Pain.
12:25 Now that Kid #2 has his nun chucks, he needs his ninja costume. Then he needs to create a ninja map which will show him the way to the kitchen for lunch. It's needlessly complex considering the kitchen is three steps away. Then he needs to eat his lunch as if his goldfish crackers are going to battle against each other, creating a pile of cheddar cracker crumbs on the floor which I will have to vacuum up after he's done.
12:35 I consider writing and illustrating a book called "If You Give a Ninja Nun Chucks."
I'm on the floor dust-busting when Kid #3 approaches me, book in hand, and sits himself down in my lap. Because what else is there to do when you see mom on her hands and knees under the kitchen table but initiate an impromptu story time?
Reading to kids is important, any expert will tell you that, so even though my stomach is growling I sit there on the kitchen floor and read Peek-a-Boo Farm to my youngest child - as quickly as I can without giving away the fact that ALL THE ANIMALS ARE IN THE BEDTIME BARN.
As soon as I'm finished he starts bouncing up and down on my lap grunting "ah-gun." Either he wants me to read the story again or he's thinking about joining the NRA. I sigh and read the book again three more times before I start to wonder if he has short term memory loss or if he's really THAT impressed that a sheep, a cow, a pig and a rooster all live in the same barn seeing as I'm constantly telling my family that our house isn't big enough for three boys and a dog.
12:45 Story time is over, but judging from the screams coming from the playroom, eating my lunch at the kitchen table is out, so I grab my sushi and head to the basement where Kid #2 needs help with his Legos.
I rationalize that eating sushi on a futon is somewhat authentic but decide that what would really take my lunch experience from 'suburban playroom' to 'tokyo cafe' is chopsticks. I know I have a pair of chopsticks somewhere so I dig through the closet of wedding presents that we have never used (fondue, anyone?) in search of a sushi set that someone gave us eight and a half years ago.
12: 46 Wonder if that person had visions of Husband and I feeding each other sashimi in front of a roaring fire while our offspring played quietly at our feet?
Wonder if that person knows that the last meal Husband and I had together was spent in front of a screaming four year old who DOESN'T LIKE TACOS and a six year old that just learned how to burp on command.
12: 50 I can't find the chopsticks. Figure that they were poached from the set so that they could be used as drumsticks or Samurai swords or floss picks and are now lingering somewhere in a dark corner of our house with Husband's missing sunglasses, a pair of scissors that have been missing for two months and about 17 mismatched socks. I am fully prepared for Kid #2 to emerge from that deep dark place one day wearing designer sunglasses and sporting a homemade gi made of cut up socks knit together by chopsticks. He's crafty like that.
12:51 Settle in on the futon and start to eat. Kid #3 suddenly descends on me like a vulture - a vulture addicted to sticky rice and nori. I've always wanted to have one of those precocious little kids that eats sushi, partly so that I can brag to my friends about what an adventurous little eater I have and partly so that I have an excuse to eat. more. sushi. But right now I just want to eat my lunch and not have to share it. I shove a piece of maki in my mouth and hide the rest of it under the futon.
This might seem selfish but keep in mind I haven't peed alone all day. I deserve this.
12:52 The phone rings. It's not a number I know so I answer it in case it's Kid #1's sports camp calling. It is not. It is a consultant from a website that sells essential oils.
See, I've been getting into the essential oils thing after a friend of mine swore up and down that there are oils that can do everything from creating peace and tranquility to helping you to relax to keeping your family healthy.
Now, I'm pretty sure it would take a horse tranquilizer to calm my kids down and I have other, er, herbs that I use to relax but I would practice voodoo and drink pigs' blood if it would keep my house flu-free this winter.
The woman on the phone wants to know why I filled out the profile online but haven't ordered anything yet. I start to explain to her that as soon as my kids give me three minutes of peace I will place that order but right now --
"OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST BITE ME!?!" Kid #3 laughs but his dental records have been impressed upon my shoulder like it's a piece of raw tuna.
12:53 Consider asking if there's an oil that will keep your kid from biting you. Or one that will get your kids to stop whining. While we're at it, how about an oil that will create the illusion of a clean house?
I decide that will develop these oils and call them "Use Your Words" and "Cleaning Lady Came Today."
12:54 I get off of the phone and examine my wound to make sure I don't need a band aid...or a tetanus shot. The skin isn't broken so I figure I'm OK.
1:00 This is probably the low point of Day One. I'm hungry, tired, and haven't showered- and I'm not sure if I will have the chance to do so in the next fourteen days. I spent too much money at the grocery store - again - and I've been bitten. I've vacuumed the floor four times and it still looks like a bag of goldfish were run over by a Tonka truck (because they probably were).
And yet, somehow, we survive the next two weeks without any illnesses, broken bones, or the loss of my sanity (more or less). I yell a lot, and I consider going to therapy to deal with my yelling, but then I decide I'd rather spend that money on retail therapy and shop the after Christmas sales online while the baby is napping.
Maybe my kids will grow up and tell people that their mom yelled a lot, or maybe they'll tell people that their mom sat with them under the kitchen table and read Peek A Boo Farm eight times in a row.
Maybe they'll remember that their mom was always late, or maybe they'll tell people that she made car rides fun by singing Taylor Swift songs a little too loudly.
Two weeks later, it's the last day of winter break and Husband walks in the room. My new essential oil diffuser is on full blast and the kids are shooting each other with foam darts from a foam dart gun that I did not give them but that I don't have the heart to take away from them.
"Isn't this oil supposed to calm everyone down?" He asks. I stare at him, confused, and then I see what he sees:
I've got one kid army crawling accross the kitchen floor like he's in a Mekong River swamp and another one perched on the back of the couch ready to catapult his brother onto the leather ottoman.
Meanwhile I'm on Facebook, reading about how amazing all my friends' winter breaks were (hashtag blessed).
This is the kind of scene that two weeks ago would have sent me into a frenzy.
Why aren't my kids making artisinal birdfeeders out of upcycled burlap and mason jars?
Why do my kids insist on treating my living room as if it's under siege?
Why has my husband just spent the last five days in his office listening to all 12 of the Serial podcasts when I have been trying to listen to the final episode for three weeks now?
Instead I just smile. Maybe it's the essential oils. Maybe it's the gift of having three healthy kids. Maybe it's having a husband who's been in town for a record 14 days straight, driving me crazy with his overzealous tooth brushing but otherwise providing me with moral support as we navigate life with our three tiny terrorists.
Maybe it's the fact that school starts tomorrow.
"I don't know what you're talking about" I tell my husband, "I'm totally ZEN."
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