The Stitch

"Mommy, tell me about the three dough-ehvs."

"Lib, um, I'm not sure what a DOUGH-EHV is. Can you help me out?

"It's not a DOUGH-EHV, Mommy. It's a DOUGH-EHV!"

"DOUGH-EHV?"

"NO! DOUGH-EHV! MOMMYYYYYYY! A DOUGH-EHV!"

Brian giggles quietly in the kitchen while he cooks dinner.

"Hey!" I shout to Brian. "What is a DOUGH-EHV, Smartypants?" He peeks his head around the corner.

"I have no idea."

Elizabeth is becoming increasingly frustrated at our obvious brain damage and screams loudly.

"THE THREE DOUGH-EHVS, MOMMY! THEY ARE FRIENDS WITH SNOW WHITE! THE THREE DOUGH-EHVS!" As she speaks, she thrusts three of her adorable little fingers in my face. "THE THREE DOUGH-EHVS!"

Brian cackles from the kitchen.

"Oh, honey, the three DWARFS."

"YES! THE THREE DOUGH-EHVS!"

"Yeah, I hate to say it, kiddo, but I think there's actually seven of them."

"No. THREE DOUGH-EHVS!" I can see tantrum approaching. My mind scrambles to diffuse.

"You sure? I think there are actually seven - and that's GOOD because MORE is BETTER."

She ponders and asks, "Seven dough-ehvs?"

I nod. "Yep."

"Okay, Mommy. Tell me about the seven dough-ehvs, please?"

Well, the article about us has been posted! You have to scroll down the page a bit, and you can't read it unless you're a member, but I am quite excited about it!

http://flashnews.com/

Today I was interviewed by Monica Sotomayor, senior editor at Flashnews.com, a media product of Wireless Flash News Incorporated, an independent news agency that provides exclusive feature and entertainment news to radio and TV stations, newspapers, and magazines across the United States and around the world.

We don't know when they're planning to run the story, but as soon as we hear anything, we'll let you know!

When you told us that payback was gonna be a bitch, you weren't a kiddin', were you? If an apology is all you require, please accept my most humbled attempt at sincerity:

I am truly sorry for every loud, obnoxious gift I ever gave to your children.

I am sorry that none of the gifts I gave came with an off button and had a volume of epically brain-drilling proportions.

Jake the Snake? The rabid, remote-controlled viper, complete with VIPER-STRIKING action? Ouch. I'm sorry. I know that one made a big impression.

The hovercraft INDOOR soccer ball? Yeah, sorry about that one, too. I understand that kicking hard plastic objects around the house probably shouldn't be encouraged.

I now have a new-found appreciation for educational, silent toys and I will never again bestow another blinking, screeching, motion-activated, freakish, kickable, 'virtually-alive' gift on your children.

Adam would like to thank you for the new ULTRA SENSITIVE talking barnyard sounds Aquadoodle mat. Apparently you heard about his new favorite game, PILLOW HURL. Because the talking mat has a pillow attached to it. On which Adam likes to hurl himself. And the hurling action activates those really spectacular LOUD barnyard sounds, including a screaming child, a revving tractor, an angry pig, a barking dog and a herd of mating chickens.

And the mat - well, it's touch sensitive. So as soon as the magic Aquadoodle pen touches it, it starts singing OLD MACDONALD HAD A FARM, E-I-E-I-O. And thank goodness it sings the WHOLE SONG because we weren't sure about how many animals lived on Old MacDonald's farm until you gave Adam this AWESOME mat.

46. Yes, that's right. There are 46 animals living on Old MacDonald's farm and Adam's new mat sings about every blessed one of 'em. The song lasts about 8 hours.

And as an added bonus, the mat is also location sensitive, too! So when Adam pounds the pen on the upper right corner, Fido lets loose a string of four-thousand feisty barks, which activates SKYE'S barking sounds, because he is very eager to protect his family from the apparent DOG INFESTATION in the living room.

Lower, center-right features a sheep stampede. Did you know that Skye is a herding dog, Jane?

And good news, Jane! The cat loves the mat, too! At four a.m. she likes to playfully scamper across it to activate the music, which sends her into a frenzied OMGWTFWASTHAT? freak-out session, causing her to charge back and forth across the mat a thousand times before realizing that SHE is the one causing the barnyard animals to screech relentlessly at her.

No volume control, which means it's always at full throttle. And the kids LOVE it, which means we're never allowed to turn the damn thing OFF. You scored HUGE points with the kids, not-so-huge points with the parents. But that was what you were going for, wasn't it?

Truce, please? I'll make a big batch of fudge for you if you'll say yes.

Happy Birthday, Adam!

Yeah, yeah, so I'm a bit behind on my posts. Once classes are over I'll go back to posting lame, boring journal entries and you'll all be begging me to stop. Enjoy my silence. It rarely happens. If you don't believe me, ask the sisters.

ONE BIG YEAR, my baby boy! I'm amazed you've not only survived one full year of Elizatorture, but you've thrived. Don't get me wrong, she actually likes you. But once in a while, when you cross that invisible line and threaten to breathe on her Polly Pocket Princess tribe of 5, ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.

Never, ever touch the Princess Pollies. We're learning this. All of us. We'll get through it together.

I keep a journal for you and write down your milestones. I've been doing the same thing for Elizabeth too, and every few months I check your progress and compare it to hers when she was your age. So far the two of you have been pretty much the same, except you started walking at a year and Elizabeth was almost a year and a half old before she started to walk. We'll keep that our little secret because, well, she's a little competitive and the idea of you doing something before she did might send her right over the edge.

But you. You, my friend, are a laid-back easy goin' dancin' machine. You don't care about competition or rat races or much of anything except FOOD and SLEEP. Those are the two things that dominate your life and it's a delicate balance that can often mean the difference between sunshine and HELL for everyone who comes in contact with you.

In a matter of billi-seconds you can shift from cheery Big Bird to something that might resemble Oscar's mutant offspring, if Oscar had any offspring. The shift is ALWAYS due to one of two possible reasons: Either not enough food or not enough sleep. Thankfully it's pretty easy to figure out which one it is.

Your favorite game is Pillow Hurl. We love playing it with you. We discovered this game by accident one day when we dropped a pillow on the floor. You charged, dove into it headfirst and laughed like a 6-year old who has just discovered the humorous art of farting. Now anytime you start to fuss, we simply toss a pillow on the floor and watch you go. Sometimes you land on the pillow and sometimes you faceplant. You don't seem to care either way because you think it is THE FUNNIEST THING ON EARTH. We do too.

You walk. Dude, do you walk. And you CLIMB, just like your father. I'm certain that one day I'm going to come home to find my tribe climbing along the ceiling like a pack of Brundleflies. Won't that be a hoot.

/sarcasm.

Your sister. You worship her. You adore her. She abuses you. People tell me this is normal, but it's KILLING me, kiddo. She likes to call you BADAM. Sometimes she stands upstairs in her playroom and screams, "BAAAAAADAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMM!" You direct your little ears northward, scan the horizon, determine the direction of her voice, point your little booger-picker toward the stairs and scream "BLAAAAAFAAAAASHAMMMMMMMAAAAAAAADAAAAAAAAA!"

Translation: "MOM! GIT YER ASS OVER HERE AND TAKE ME TO MY SISTER! SHE NEEDS ME, NOW!"

I have never, ever, witnessed such extreme devotion. And I don't understand it, because as soon as we reach the top of the stairs, we're usually pelted by those freakin' pinkie-toenail sized Polly Pocket shoes and met with screams of, "GET OUT I NEED MY PRIVACY IN HERE!"

There was the time I caught her poking you in the eyeballs. "But I'm helping him, Mommy. I'm BLINKIN' him."

There was the time I caught her holding your head down as you tried to stand. "But I'm helping him, Mommy. He likes the floor."

There was the time I caught her trying to stick her toy drill in your mouth. "But I'm helping him, Mommy. He's got the yawnins and they're stuck in his mouth."

It's just a guess, but I think all this 'help' will someday involve extra trips to the ER.

And then those words trickle back from my memory:

"Heather, the day will come when you have children who behave exactly the same way YOU behave."

Man, I am freakin' screwed.

Happy Birthday to my Big Bumbleboy Handsomepants. Your cheery personality brightens every day we spend with you. I'm so very much looking forward to the upcoming year and watching in amazement as you overcome every obstacle Elizabeth shoves in your path. Together we'll rid the world of Polly Pocket shoe missiles.

Happy Birthday, Elizabeth!

I have to ask, what is up with the GREEN POOP, kiddo? Is this a birthday thing? I've been going crazy all week worrying that you're at death's door over this entire green poop situation. You have no fever, no spots, no black tongue - just green poop.

You just turned three years old on the 26th, and you've not-so-quietly informed that you're not just a big girl, you're a really, really REALLY BIG girl, and that you'll be needing the car keys on Saturday night.

You've endured a lot of changes this year. The greatest change being the addition of a new brother to our family. This brother guy, the one we call ADAM and the one you call BADAM, he gazes at you with so much worship in his eyes, I think he might be bringing a bit of religosity into our heathen home.

That kid would follow you until the cows danced home in pink tutus, carry out your every fork-over-the-chocolate-or-the-cat-gets-it command without once questioning your ethics (or ability to share chocolate) AND rescue you from Dora's menacing, invisible, rabid crocodiles who apparently live under our couch cushions.

Kiddo, I've got one word for you: MINION. You could totally be cashing in on his unconditional loyalty, but you seem to think that sometimes kicking him down is more fun than having him carry out your evil deeds. So I humbly recommend that you enjoy it while you can, because the way you treat him, this loyalty ain't gonna last much longer.

One of these days, you're going to knock him in the chest, blink his eyes for him, shove him off the cat, or hold his head down to keep him from standing up just one time too many, and he's going to whoop your skinny little butt. And I think I will say to you exactly what my mom said to me after kid sister Erin beat me down, fists a flailin' after 12 years of relentless torture from me.

"Kid, you had it coming."

Your language skills are unbelievably advanced for your age. Yes, I am biased, but I think a three-year old calling out from the living room, "Come here, sweetheart! You HAVE to see this! It's lovely and delicate and well, I just LOVE IT SO MUCH!" is reason enough for me to call you advanced. That comment? That is what you said about a box elder bug you found crawling on the curtain. And you DO love box elder bugs, in your special Elizabethan-love kind of way. Every day you find a new one and call it 'your best friend.' Then you feed it to Skye.

You say things that render us constantly speechless. Mostly because we know you'll repeat everything we say and you can't be trusted with the BAD WORDS.

Lately you have eliminated punctuation from your spoken sentences and everything is yelled at maximum volume in BIG CAPITAL LETTERS WITH AN UNNERVING MONO-ROBOTIC TONE. Often repeated, over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. . .

"Mommy, may I get up from my nap now?" has become "MOMMAAY I WANT TO GET UP NOW MOMMAAY I WANT TO GET UP NOW MOMMAAY I WANT TO GET UP NOW." Sometimes you give up on enunciation, because, you know, it's so freakin' exhausting to enunciate your words. So, "MOMMY I WANT TO GET UP NOW " has become "MOMMAAYAHWANAGEDUPNOWMOMMYAHWANAGEDUPNOWMOMMYAHWANAGEDUPNOW"

In all, though, you're doing really well considering how much you've had to sacrifice this year. You astound me at how unselfish you can be at times. The other day you were feeding Adam little corn crunchies one at a time, cooing to him with your quiet butterfly voice. Then you fed one to me and I understood your generosity. They tasted like month-old gruel.

Speaking of gruel, at dinner the other night, you devoured your usual meal of one-98th of a grain of rice and announced, "I'M FULL BE 'SCUSED PLEASE!" We told you that there were children all across the United States and beyond who only had GRUEL to eat for dinner. Couldn't you eat one more bite, please? Or we might have to start giving you gruel.

You replied, "No, thanks. I don't like grooooooool anyway."

You got sick this past week and threw up. A few times. It broke my heart and all I could do was rub your back and promise you everything would be okay. The whole illness caused a great commotion. You were overwhelmed with cuddle time and attention. Now every morning as you wake, at every nap time and at every bed time you announced, "MOMMAAY I GOING TO THROW UP I NEED A BUCKET MOMMAAY I GOING TO THROW UP I NEED A BUCKET MOMMAAY I GOING TO THROW UP I NEED A BUCKET"

Sometimes if you're really bored and lacking energy it's, "MOMMAAAHGOFROWPNEEDMBUCKIMOMMAAAHGOFROWPNEEDMBUCKIMOMMAAAHGOFROWPNEEDMBUCKIM"

It was cute at first, but now I'm on to you. "MOMMY I NEED A BUCKET I GOING TO THROW UP I WANT SOME CHOCOLATE RIGHT NOW" makes me think, for some reason, you're not feeling all that sick.

I made a cream cheese bagel for you for breakfast the other morning. Normally your face melts into a soggy whinepuddle if I stray from your normal "FROZEN WAFFLE NOT CUT UP WITH EXTRA DIPPING SYRUP" breakfast, but for some reason, you broke your routine and requested something new.

(I should note that you never actually eat the bagel. You only eat the cream cheese. )

As you were licking the cream cheese off half of the bagel, you stopped and stared at it angrily for a few seconds, then looked at me, somewhat shocked. No monotone. No yelling. Abbhorrent disgust and displeasure were the only things you wanted to convey to me. You enunciated every word with great clarity and precision.

"Mommy, there is a HOLE in my bagel."

I have learned that THREE is not better than TWO as far as stability goes. Breaking points are always a whisper away, and something as delicate as a dandelion puff colliding with her skull can send her into an-all day physical and mental breakdown. I braced myself.

"Yes, bagels have holes, kiddo. It's okay."
"I do not like holes, Mommy."
"No problem. You don't have to eat the hole."

This, you pondered a full minute. It's tough work determining acceptance vs. The End of the World as Pipers Know it.

"Okay. I will give the hole to Skye to eat."

You LOVE sweets, but, being the responsible parent I am, I limit them to occasions of bribery. Specifically: you can have the WORLD handed to you on a pink satin pillow surrounded by Dove chocolates as long as you poop in the toilet. Then you get your choice of a marshmallow or a lollipop or whatever it takes to keep me away from dry-heaving over poop clean-ups. Normally you're pretty good about sticking to sweets only during potty-training, however, this past week you discovered the magical deliciousness that is black licorice.

ALL UNMERCIFULLY DAY LONG:

"MOMMAAAY I HAVE BLACKLICORICE PLEASE MOMMAAAY I HAVE BLACKLICORICE PLEASE MOMMAAAY I HAVE BLACKLICORICE PLEASE" She thinks BLACKLICORICE is one word.

Or, if it's been a particularly Hellish day and you've put a run in your good silk stockings, missed the bus to work, got yelled at by your boss, started your period and found out that MERMAID DORA isn't scheduled to be on tv today, it's, "MOMMAAAAVEBLALISHPLEAMMOMMAAAAVEBLALISHPLEAMMOMMAAAAVEBLALISHPLEAM"

After the ten-thousandth request I made you stop with the robot voice and listen to me while I explained that you don't get to eat candy all day, every day. (Only MOMMY gets to do that.)

"You only get candy for rewards, kiddo. For example, if you go poopy in the po----"

And ZIP you were gone, screaming

"MOMMAAAY I HAVE TO GO POOPY RIGHT NOW IN THE POTTAYYYYYYYYYY"

Well, you sat on your little potty and ordered me to give you some privacy.

"MOMMAYGETOUUUT"

I poked my head around the corner every five minutes or so to make sure you weren't flushing my curling iron or the cat.

Kid, you win at stubborn and determination, because 45 minutes later you screamed, "MOMMAAAY I GO POOPY IN THE POTTAAAY!"

I peeked into your little Pooh-bear potty and sure enough, you had managed to squeeze out a molecule-sized turd. You beamed and announced, "NOW I HAVE BLACKLICORICE PLEASE!"

And kiddo, guess what color black licorice turns your poop.

Anyway, happy birthday to my little sweetpeamunchkinpiepotatobug. I love you so very much and I'm looking forward to learning all kinds of new things from you this year! BE NICE TO YOUR BROTHER. He might have bail money someday.