How Will They Ever Survive?

By 8:45 am this morning, I had already decided that I suck as a mother. It was that kind of morning. Here are the things that led me to this conclusion:

• It started last night, when I was too tired to give the girls a bath. I decided that I would give them a bath in the morning, before school. Who was I kidding? When exactly was that going to happen? What was I smoking? Anyway, the bath did not happen, big surprise, which meant that I had three little girls who were overdue for a bath and all of them would be out in public today.

• I couldn't find a hairbrush to save my life, which meant that I had three little girls, plus one bed-headed mommy, who were going to go through the day with little rats' nests on top of their heads. I used a comb on Lola's hair -- one of those thick ones with teeth that bow out slighty on alternating sides of the comb. It's slightly better than a regular comb, but it was still just this side of torture on her poor little head. I pulled the mess up into a pony tail and called it "barely acceptable." I ran out of time to make any attempts with Elizabeth or Tallulah. Or me.

• I put the two littlest girls in the car without shoes, because I knew they had left their shoes there last night when we got home. Elizabeth's were still there, but I couldn't find one of Tallulah's...so she went to daycare with no shoes. I searched that damn car forever. Well, as much of forever as I had.

• Tallulah managed to get most of her breakfast all over her nice clean shirt before we left the house, and I managed to not notice until we were already gone.

• In the rush of getting out the door, Lola burned her finger on the toaster. Did I pay appropriate attention to this? No, I did not. Just got her in the car and off to school. At which point, she told me how much it hurt. When we got to school, I saw how bad it was -- she had a big ole' burn blister on her knuckle. I took her to the school office to get a bandaid, feeling sheepish that I had not taken care of this at home. This is the second day in a row I had to ask the school office for a bandaid. Yesterday, it was to cover the healing cut on Tallulah's forehead where she got the stitches, because I had not remembered to put sunscreen on it as the doctor has instructed me to do daily for one year.

Just a recap: I was bringing my kids to school with dirty, unkempt hair; one had no shoes and a filthy shirt; one had the same Disney princess dress she's been wearing FOR WEEKS, complete with about 10 rips and myriad stains; one had an untreated burn on her finger. The boys? They were fine, just mad at me for yelling at them during the rush to get everyone out of the house. No good-bye kisses for me this morning.

Of course, while standing on the school yard, I remembered where one of the hairbrushes was. Remembered that yesterday when I was cleaning up, I put it back in Lola's top dresser drawer, WHERE IT BELONGS. And of course, I didn't look there because it is so rarely where it belongs that I am not in the habit of checking there. I just have to ask: why oh why couldn't I have remembered this when it would have helped?

Also while standing on the school yard, I had to wrestle with a stubborn, squirmy Tallulah, who was bound and determined to get down on the black top and run, while I was bound and determined to keep her unshod feet off of the ground so that I could drop her off at daycare with clean socks at least. Also while standing on the school yard, another mom mentioned in passing something about the 2nd grade project that is due on Thursday -- which of course reminded me about the project in the first place as well as the fact that I have not worked with Vincenzo to do ANYTHING for this project yet.

COULD I BE A BIGGER LOSER?

The one thing I did manage to do was to get the girls to daycare WITHOUT their blankets because they were so filthy I was worried about exposing the daycare kids to some funky science experiments. Somehow, they didn't ask for them and I avoided that particular struggle.

And Tallulah's shoe? Another mom found it on the street near the school, near where I had parked YESTERDAY, and recognized it as belonging to one of my kids; she gave it to one of the teachers, who gave it to me when I picked the kids up at the end of the day.

Got the blankets washed and the girls bathed tonight, so hopefully tomorrow will be better.

I was feeling pretty lousy about my mothering skills, until I ran into a friend of mine with three kids of her own. I asked her how the kids were doing and she said: "They're all doing fine. Heck, if they can survive me, they're all doing great!"

That made me laugh. And made me breathe more easily for the first time all day. Days like this are the reason why Rick and I do not have college funds for the kids: we have therapy funds for them instead.

I'm Not Ready for This

My son is in 3rd grade. THIRD GRADE. He is 9. Most of his classmates are 8, turning 9. He is young.

So I am not ready for the things that are happening in his "social circle." He struggles a little bit, socially; he has a couple of great buddies, but he's the kind of kid who really cares what other people think, so he worries about whether or not the kids in his class like him or not.

There is one kid in particular whom he has a hard time with. Today, he told me that this kid is his friend now. I asked him how things changed. He said that most of the kids in his class don't like him and that this kid (I'll call him Bobby) is helping him get the other kids to like him. OK, unpleasant enough. But what was next?

"Bobby says I need a girlfriend."

Me: "Why?"

"Because if I got a popular girl to like me, the way that girls like 'Bobby,' then I would be popular too."

The difficult thing about these conversations with him is that I feel like anything I can think of to say just falls short somehow. I asked him if Bobby generally behaves in ways that he (Samuel) thinks are good, knowing that the answer is no. So after he admitted that no, Bobby is generally a jerk, I suggested that a jerk is not necessarily a reliable source for getting advice on how to behave. I also tried to suggest that a person who gives you advice like that is not really being a good friend, that his other buddies wouldn't ever tell him something like that. Both Rick and I reminded Samuel that he has really good friends in his class, both boys and girls, and that it doesn't matter what other people think or say, especially if those other people aren't very kind.

Most of our words just sort of went splat. Didn't seem to register with Samuel or make any difference to him.

The thing is, I think Samuel is well-liked in his class. Not by everyone, of course, and there are some kids he has trouble with, but he is generally well-liked. The school is small, and focuses on community; they try to emphasize good ways of treating each other. It disturbs me that this particular class doesn't seem to be learning this very well; this little episode is just one of many I have heard, from Samuel as well as from other kids and other moms.

Samuel has a story of questionable social interaction at least a few times a week. Today, it's the girlfriend advice. Yesterday, it was the kid using the F-word with the teacher. Yes, with the teacher. Last week, it was some of the boys imitating those wonderful role models of the NBA: "You're in MY HOUSE!" *Sigh.*

I think this is one of those moments when parenting is mostly about faith, that the seeds we plant are taking root and will grow with proper care and nourishment. We cannot see the fruits yet...we have to trust that they will be there someday. This is why parents get heavy-handed: because they think that if they do not HAMMER HOME THE MESSAGE, then the message is not going to be received. We are guilty of that as well. But I'm trying to lighten my touch. I'm trying to talk and listen and listen and talk, and trust that what I say in love and with quiet confidence will take root and grow.

That and raise a little cain at the school and find out why there is so much cattiness, so much "flirting" going on, so many instances that make me say, "What is going ON over there?"

Fun Monday: Raising 5, Feeding 5

Fun Monday for today, hosted by Mariposa, asks us two questions: Where did the name of our blog come from, and what is our favorite or most common dish.

OK, so the name of my blog comes from the fact that I am raising five children. There, wasn't that fascinating? Well, I guess there is a teensy bit more. When I first started blogging (not that long ago, just this past September), I was feeling like I stumbled on this amazing world of blogs and every where I turned, I was suddenly noticing blogs. So I started blogging with the name "Here a Blog, There a Blog, Everywhere a Blog, Blog." Kind of long, kind of obvious. I didn't really like it.

Then one night my husband, who has given me lots of good ideas for this blog, suggested the name "And I'll Raise You 5." I immediately liked it and changed it. Since lots of what I write about, and most of what I think about, and most of how I spend my time is related to those five little gems, it seemed fitting that the Blog Name should reflect them somehow.

And I will admit that there can be an ever-so-slight edge, a slight sassiness to the name. We have heard more than our share of comments - some polite, some impolite, some curious, some nosy, some inappropriate, some well-meaning but intrusive anyway -- about the fact that we have five kids. We would never in a million years say to someone we didn't know well: "So, why did you decide to have just one child? That's amazing!" And while I am aware that five children are rare and that it is amazing to some people, I have experienced some weariness as a result of having to listen to people's full range of reactions to my large, young, beautiful family.

And I had a great picture of all five of them -- that I cannot find anywhere. Argh.

* * *

As for what my favorite dish is...or what my family loves. That's a tough one, because, as I've posted before, my family is hard to feed and I usually feel like I'm not doing such a good job at it. We don't have a dish that we all love. Someone is always complaining about whatever I prepare; fun for me, eh?

So I'll answer for me. My latest favorite is something I call taco casserole. It is YUMMY. I first came to know it after Tallulah was born, and a friend brought dinner over for us. It was this delicious casserole, and I've made it several times since. The first time I had it, it was made with ground beef, but because of health issues in this household, I usually make it with ground turkey.

This recipe calls for browning your meat in taco seasoning. Again, because of health concerns, I can't use the taco seasoning you can buy in a packet. WAY too much sodium for my husband, whose blood pressure is high. We are constantly watching the sodium intake around here. So I found a GREAT taco seasoning recipe on America's Test Kitchen website. Here's what you do:

Ingredients:
• Meat seasoned for tacos (see ingredients and instructions below)
• pasta
• corn (canned or frozen and thawed)
• black beans (canned)
• tomatoes (canned or fresh)
• Shredded cheese

Don't ask me for quantities -- use about one can's worth of each...

First, make your taco meat:

Beef Filling
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or corn oil
1 small onion , chopped small (about 2/3 cup)
3 medium cloves garlic , minced or pressed through garlic press (about 1 tablespoon)
2 tablespoons chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
table salt
1 pound 90% lean ground beef (or leaner)
1/2 cup tomato sauce
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
1 teaspoon brown sugar
2 teaspoons vinegar (preferably cider vinegar)
Ground black pepper

Heat oil in medium skillet over medium heat until hot and shimmering but not smoking, about 2 minutes; add onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 4 minutes. Add garlic, spices, and 1/2 teaspoon salt; cook, stirring constantly, until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add ground beef and cook, breaking meat up with wooden spoon and scraping pan bottom to prevent scorching, until beef is no longer pink, about 5 minutes. Add tomato sauce, chicken broth, brown sugar, and vinegar; bring to simmer. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, uncovered, stirring frequently and breaking meat up so that no chunks remain, until liquid has reduced and thickened (mixture should not be completely dry), about 10 minutes. Adjust seasonings with salt and pepper.


Next, while the meat is cooking, make pasta; I usually do elbows. They are about the right size and shape for this dish.

Once the meat is ready, and the pasta is cooked, combine seasoned meat, pasta, black beans, corn, and tomatoes in a casserole dish. Top with shredded cheese. Bake in an oven at around 350º until the cheese melts.

I don't know what it is about this dish -- I think it's the apple cider vinegar and the brown sugar, plus all the yummy seasoning -- but this is truly comfort food for me. I'm sure part of it has to do with a truism I learned from my husband: Food really does taste better when someone else cooks it. I first had this dish cooked by someone else, and it just hooked me.

My picky children won't eat it, past the taste I make them have of each dinner I serve. And when I cook this dish, I don't mind so much, because it means there will be more leftovers for me.

Happy Fun Monday to all!

Independence is Annoying

Here's a little piece of advice for those of you just starting on the parenting journey, and looking forward to the joy of sharing new experiences with your baby, of watching her learn how to do new things. DON'T RUSH IT.

Independence in a toddler can be a frustrating and annoying reality.

Tried to have a nice time tonight with the girls. I had a mountain of dishes to wash from the minestrone soup I made for dinner multiplied by all of the lunch and snack dishes undone all day. And I thought it would be fun to put on some dancin' music and rock out with my daughters while gettin' busy with the suds. A few weeks ago, I taught Elizabeth how to use the remote control to the radio/CD player in the kitchen, thinking it was so cute how she could make the thing work on her own. The chickens came home to roost tonight, though, and made a mess all over my dance party.

We were having a nice time, but then she decided she needed "some animals" and she put the music on pause. Which made me pause. Knowing her as I do, I thought to myself, "this is not going to end here." I was right. A few more bars of music, and now she needed her blanket. Music: pause. Blanket: retrieved. Music: play.

Dance Dance Dance.

Music: pause. "I need something!" Music: play.

Dance Dance Dance.

Music: pause. "Now I need yadda yadda yadda." (can't hear her as she is headed the other direction in search of some stupid toy or something.) Music: play.

She repeated this about 20 or 30 times. I stopped dancing. I stopped caring. I just washed the damn dishes and listened to little feet pounding back and forth retrieving multiple items I had heretofore not known were necessary for kitchen-dance-parties.

Parenting could be so much fun if it weren't for the children, and those pesky little minds of their own.

Even the best of music is untolerable if it starts and stops like the family VW van during my first few driving lessons.

A------------NOY-------------ING.

Just Say No to Exclamation Points

Note to self: Avoid exclamation points! Or rather, avoid exclamation points. I have decided that this seemingly innocuous punctuation mark is evil.

The other day, right after the big beef recall, Rick and I were watching the news reports about the inhumane treatment of the cattle, and the station we were watching flashed large letters across the screen reading: "POSSIBLE CONTAMINATION!" The use of the exclamation point seemed manipulative; it made the news feel more like propaganda than news, and we were both turned off. I suppose that news companies are trying every which way they can to grab their share of the market; I just wish they could do it without exclamation points. Don't exclamation points convey a touch too much emotional energy to have a place in objective journalism?

A day or two later, I was making my to-do list, which is, as usual, way too long for one mere mortal. Good thing I am actually a superhero; according to Lola, I am ElastaGirl (from The Incredibles). I wish. After creating a list that is so large I can actually roll it up and use it to beat myself over the head and into unconsciousness, I sat there in a state of shock looking at it and slowly realizing that unless I change my mind about the ethical implications of cloning, I'm never getting through this list.

Then I noticed the exclamation points. I had added these little babies to the items that were most pressing, or that seemed the most daunting. The effect? Each one of those little points increased my anxiety level about ten-fold. It was like the list I had written was yelling at me. It sucks to get yelled at by a piece of paper you have created yourself.

Each time I looked at an item with an exclamation point, my heart raced a teensy bit and the little screws on each side of my head turned an eentsy bit. Before I knew it, I was furiously scribbling out the exclamation points, taking aim at their insistent little shapes, and ripping holes in my list as I did so.

I rewrote the list, sans exclamation points. Somehow, I felt more confident looking at a list that said: "Reschedule Sam's dentist appointment" rather than "Reschedule Sam's dentist appointment!!" So there was one small source of pressure I was able to remove from my day.

I wish I could figure out how to neutralize all those other anxiety-producing experiences in my life; if I could figure that out, market it, sell it and make millions, I could cross out that pesky "work for a living" item on my to-do list.

Talking to Myself

I can be the kind of mother I want to be, the kind I know will raise my children to be well and happy. That kind of mother is somewhere inside of me.

Take time to talk and listen.
Don't yell.
Don't scream.
Be patient: they are still learning.

Breathe.

Don't fight them. Help them negotiate the world by giving them confidence.
Give them confidence by making them safe.

"You call this a happy family?"

"Why do we have to have all these kids?"

Of course, this quote comes from the movie It's A Wonderful Life, a favorite of mine for many years, since growing up. I can recite most, if not all, of this movie by heart. This particular line is one that has risen to my mind many times over the past several years. This past Christmas, we introduced the kids to George Bailey and Mary Hatch, and Pete, Janey, ZuZu, and Tommy, and they LOVED it.

But I digress. Really, this post isn't about that terrific movie, but about how impossible it is to have a happy family when you have kids.

Take tonight for example. Today, when I picked up the kids from school, Samuel handed me a note. Here's the gist of what it said:

"Dear mom and dad,

Tonight I would like to have some family time, like playing Apples to Apples, building a fire in the fireplace, and having some hot chocolate. I love you.

Love, Samuel"

(The spelling was MUCH more creative in his version -- he's such a poet -- but I went with boring in the interest of helping my readers...)

It was one of those moments. When you get a note like that, and you don't have a handy excuse like "Oh, sorry sweetie, but you have a dentist appointment this evening" or "Gee, I'd love to, but the tax guy is coming over tonight," then you must have a Game Night with your children. So we did. And it went the way Game Nights usually go at our house. The boys get more and more hyper, until they are practically coming UNGLUED with excitement, hilarity, and volume.

We played Apples to Apples, a gift from my Aunt Carol this past Christmas. It's a really fun game, based on language and playing with words. Each player gets five red cards with words or phrases on them. Players take turns as "The Judge." The Judge turns over a green card with a word on it, and the other players select the card from their hand that best matches that word. Then the Judge gets to pick the best match from those selections. The winner keeps the green card, and the first person to get four green cards wins. It's a quick game, and can get very silly, such as when the green card word is "GOOFY" and someone throws out a red card with the word "UNDERWEAR" on it. Sure fire way to get schoolboys to laugh: say the word UNDERWEAR.

The fun part of this game -- or I should say, the potentially fun part of this game -- is when players try to convince the judge to select their red card as the winner. Sometimes, you have to get very creative about what you pick, when there is no clear match in your hand. I selected "Jelly Beans" when the green card word was "Awful" tonight, because I really had no other options and was hoping to convince the judge that it's just awful when you get jelly beans stuck in your teeth. I forgot that a nine-year old boy doesn't care where his jelly beans are, as long as he can taste them; I did not win that round.

Anyway, there we are, trying to play this family game, and the boys are just ratcheting up the noise and energy level. At one point, Samuel actually threw his body over the dining room table to challenge Vincenzo's decision. As the game wore on, they became incapable of talking without screaming. When something was funny, they fell to the floor laughing and carrying on, and delaying the game with their jocularity. Their extreme, high-octane jocularity. Meanwhile, Elizabeth, being too young to play, but mollified with a handful of green and red cards anyway, is sitting just to my right and yelling as loud as she can about whatever is on her mind.

I took her sweet little face in mine and IMPLORED her to lower her voice, whereupon, the sweet little face crumpled and she said, "But everyone else gets to be loud: why can't I?" Because I can't control them one whit and I'm trying to salvage one small little corner of control from this craziness and because you are within arm's reach, baby!

Then there are the hurt feelings to deal with. Hopefully, as we play more games together, the kids will learn how to lose without disintegrating, but presently, we are not quite there. Better than the first time we played, but we still have lots of miles left on that road.

So we have: two screaming boys...lots of maniacal laughter...arguments over whose word is a better match...bodies hurtling around like we are in a wrestling match...cards falling on the floor...mom and dad trying to ensure that beverages don't get knocked over...a three-year-old just trying to match her siblings decible for decible...

It all adds up to misery. We were so spent by the end that I came up with a new rule on the spot: When we play Family Games at night, no storytime folks: straight to bed! I have learned that Rules are the product of what I call spontaneous almost-combustion, as in "My head is going to explode if I don't institute this rule RIGHT NOW and I don't care if it makes no sense whatsoever it will get me through the next 5 minutes, thank you very much!"

I hope I don't get any love notes from Samuel tomorrow. But the next time he asks for Game Night, new rule: must have enough alcohol on hand to dull my senses before the first card is dealt.

Fun Monday: I Can't Show You What Isn't There

For today's Fun Monday, AOJ and the Lurchers gave us this assignment: Continuing in the spirit of "being interested in people," I would like to know, or see, what's on, in or under your bedside table!

Well, I can't show you what isn't there. I have no bedside table. Yes, I know, weep for me now, it's quite sad.

We've tried a few different configurations of our bedroom, and the only one that allows for the two dressers we need, plus a bookshelf, without having our bed right up against a window -- because we live in California and Californians don't put their beds near windows if they can help it because we do not want shards of glass to fall upon us during an earthquake -- is also a configuration that does not leave enough room on the sides of the bed for tables. My husband has the bookshelf within arm's reach, so he can put his books, his glasses, his bottle of water there.

So what do I have on my side of the bed? About 1 foot of space between me and the bedroom door. In other words, I'm easy access for nighttime wanderers, of which we have many. I don't blame my husband for this; we picked sides of the bed so long before we had kids that I just got the luck of the draw on this one. But being where I am, I hear EVERYTHING coming from the kids' rooms and I'm the first parent they reach when they somnambulate around at 2AM. Big fun.

So IF I had a bedside table, I would keep on and in it the things that end up tucked underneath my bed when I am too tired to get up and put them on the dresser. They are:

• at least two issues of the New Yorker, with all of the cartoons read and at least two articles having been started. Rarely finished.
• the book What to Eat, by Marion Nestle, because I really want to read it but never do.
• whatever book I really am reading, which currently is So Long, See You Tomorrow.
• the socks I took off right before I got into bed last night. And the night before that, and the night before that.
• usually one children's shoe. The one I spend way too long looking for before I remember that the foot in question unshod itself in my bedroom and somehow managed to leave just one shoe behind.
• a soccer ball. But then, you'll find soccer balls in almost every conceivable nook, cranny and corner of this house.

Someday, I'll have a bedside table. Either when I find one I like that will fit in a one-foot space, or when we hit the big time and move to a house that really does fit a family of seven. Maybe when I do get one, I will finally feel like a grown up. Probably not, though: the minivan didn't do it...the mortgage didn't do it...back-to-school night didn't do it...not even labor and delivery have done it.

So you'll have to tell me: Does a bedside table confer adulthood?

Time for a Story?

I listened to an interview today with William Maxwell, the writer and one-time editor for the New Yorker magazine, who was born in 1908 and died in 2000. The interview was aired on the NPR program Fresh Air, hosted by Terry Gross. I have read Maxwell’s book So Long, See You Tomorrow, and after listening to him speak today, I will be reading it again.

Terry Gross asked him what he thought about living through so many changes in the world, having been born in the time of horse and buggy, and seeing things like moon landings, cell phones, and instant messaging come into being. His answer stopped me in my tracks and held me captive for a few moments. He talked about how his “condition,” his place in the world still existed some 40 or 50 years ago. Here is my best attempt at memorizing what he said while driving down I-80 in a fierce rain storm, because I wanted to hold onto the words for as long as I could:

“I like the world I came into as a child. It was a beautiful world..unhurried...it left time for brooding and for thought. It left time for being nice to other people. It left time for making presents instead of buying them. It left time for telling stories.”

What struck me about these words is how much we all still want those things in our lives, and how certain he was that this world leaves no time for them. We still regard careful thought and kindness as important, and we strive to teach our children to practice both. We all like it when our children hand make gifts, when we receive them ourselves, or when we make them for others...they seem – no, they are – more meaningful. And telling stories...well that seems to be what life is about. How sad, then, that from his perspective, we just don’t have time for them anymore.

Last night, as Elizabeth was settling into bed, she asked me to tell her the story about when she was born. “You know mom, that one!” I had no idea what she meant, but her big sister reminded me: “She wants to hear about how Sam forgot her name.”

So I told her:

When you were born, Elizabeth, Samuel was the happiest big brother imaginable. He went around telling everyone about you, and wore a smile bigger than his face. Your birth also coincided with his first few months of Kindergarten. A few days after you arrived, he was at school, and his class was in the Church, practicing for some Mass or other special event. He was standing at the alter with his classmates, when his teacher noticed that he was just sobbing away. She went to him, knelt down next to him, and asked him why he was crying. Between breathless bursts of tears, he managed to tell her: “I...can’t...remember...my...baby...sister’s...name!”

Thankfully, she knew it, first and middle, and was able to help him out. “ELIZABETH ROSE!” He felt better immediately! He was so happy to remember the name of this little person he had just met and about whom he could not stop thinking.

Who cares if the past three and half years have changed their relationship a little bit...to the point where I had to ask him four times this morning to leave her alone, and I have to keep an eye on her so that she doesn’t wreck his stuff just to be sneaky and spiteful?

Point being, I hope I always have time to tell the kids the stories that make up their lives, and I hope they will tell me stories when I am old and gray. I hope that Mr. Maxwell is wrong about the world we live in. And yet, I know that he is at least partly right, and that the world can indeed keep us from the things that really matter if we do not fight the good fight to keep those things alive.

The language of warfare, while violent, is apt. We must fight with everything we have to keep the world from running over us, to know that the world’s values are not the ones that will nourish our hearts and replenish our spirits, to keep this knowledge foremost in our minds, and to make time for thought, kindness, homemade gifts, and stories. What more do we need?

Little Messes

Here are a couple of things I never really thought I would have to explain:

• Why it's not a good idea to put glue in the bathtub while your three little sisters are taking a bath.

• Why it's not a good idea to store your bedtime story in the bathroom sink...while you are brushing your teeth.

***

And how about this for a question from a nine-year old?

"Mom, do you know what 'She had a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed' means?"

That crazy Shakespeare again!

It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere, Right?

Socks

This one pulls her socks off before I have a chance to find her shoes. Three times.
This one gets fussy if the socks are “too thick.”
This one pulled “clean” socks out of his drawer, except they weren’t. Discovered approximately 5 seconds before we need to leave for school.
This one won’t take off her dirty socks, which she slept in, to put the clean ones on. Why do I care? Because she’s not going to be with me today; she’ll be with her daycare providers.
This one…no drama. Smooth sock transaction.

Pasta

This one wants it plain, no nothin’ on it.
This one wants it with butter only.
This one wants it with butter and parmesan cheese.
This one wants it with red sauce. And parmesan. No, wait, just parmesan. No, red sauce only. No, both. I’m not hungry anymore.
This one will eat and eat and eat and eat and eat, with whatever I put on it, for as long as I let her, until she falls asleep, head nodding over her highchair tray and finally coming to rest on a little pile of elbows.

School/Daycare Lunches

This one likes string cheese every other day; wish I could remember which day we are on.
This one likes apples…if they are cut in slices.
This one wants whatever he has.
This one wants me to deliver In-n-Out to him. As if.
This one eats and eats and eats…

* * *

This one needs a drink.