Great. How do I explain THIS one?

The kids have all been sick this week.

With two different bugs: one a cold, the other high fever and early (and short-lived) stomach icks.

Yay me.

Dan has been sick, too. This is the first day he's made it into the office all week.

Did I mention I've been sick too?

All of that aside...

I'm trying to manage three kids, Charity now with the high fever sick and the twins not-so-sick (they just have the cold now and a low-grade fever). Once the ibuprofen gets in Charity, in a few hours she feels "all better." The twins are hard to stop.

I feel like I've been running a marathon all day between catching up on laundry, keeping diapers changed, feeding them, feeding me, feeding cats, giving the old cat her shot on time (I managed that today! I'm so proud of me), doing more laundry with small helpers who are not helping but rather squeezing around me, finally getting around to doing hair, and then lunch.

I had maybe a total of five minutes to myself so far today. All of those were trips to the bathroom. And one was interrupted.

I'm trying to breathe (figuring maybe that fake TV-Lamaze will get me through this without my blood pressure going through the roof) when Faith pops her head through the doorway. (Truly, there is no sense in closing the door.)

"Yes, honey?" I'm feeling somewhat resigned.

"JoyJoy is pushing!"

"Pushing what?"

"JoyJoy is pushing buttons on youwr phone!"

"JoyJoy!" I shout. "Leave my phone alone!"

By the time I have finished up and gotten back out to the living room where I left my phone (silly me), my BlackBerry is blinking at me.

One missed call. One new voicemail.

I recognize the number as that of one of my favorite caregivers--he's always a delight to talk to--whom I'd spoken with much earlier in the day.

I don't know what he wants, but I do know I don't want to deal with it now.

I change diapers. Start laundry. Open a bunch of new CDs that just arrived from Amazon.com that make the kids squeal as they recognize their favorite Veggies all over the covers. Start playing one of the CDs. Keep youngest child from jumping into the washer. Half-kill myself tripping over the hobby horse laying on the floor, not once but twice. (Ankle protests sharply.) Make lunch. Answer the phone. Finally I get thirty seconds when no one is screaming or crying or shouting or demanding juice or talking or whining that "she's touching me!" or anything like that, and I dial my voicemail.

I listen to Daniel's message. In thickly accented English, he tells me that he saw that I just called him, so he was returning my call. I should call him back when I get this.

Golly.

I check the history on my BlackBerry for his number. Sure enough, two minutes before his last call, there was an outgoing one to his number.

I look at JoyJoy, who was eating lunch. "You called Daniel!"

She gives me a goobery happy grin.

I sigh, and note the voicemail on the BlackBerry's notepad app, as well as my next call...to Daniel, to explain that I really didn't need anything.

Then I call Daniel. When he answers, I explain that I didn't call him. My three-year-old had.

He's really amused.

Then I text Dan to find out when he's coming home. And I tell him what our youngest did.

He also finds it amusing.

I can't wait until it gets back to the office that my three-year-old namesake is trying to take over my job....

What makes a parent?

Is it the fact that you contributed biologically to the creation of a new life?

Is it that you were there when your child(ren) were born?

Is it that you are the one who originally instructed your child(ren) that your appropriate term of address was "Mommy" or "Daddy"?

Or...

Is it when you took in three small girls when they needed someone, reprioritizing your life forever?

Is it that you cried yourself on a daily basis for weeks, because your little nieces were scared, you knew it, you were scared too, and you couldn't fix it and hated that?

Is it when your fridge became less full of "adult" food and more full of chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese leftovers, and enough jelly and bread to shake a stick at because the children like PB&J and so that's what you fix?

Is it when you set your alarm for 2 a.m. because your youngest has been so sick, and the fever's been spiking when the ibuprofen wears off, and 2 a.m. is when the last dose is set to wear off? Is it when you check the others' temps too, just to be sure they're okay?

Is it when you set your computer aside because your middlest cheerfully announced, "I want to cuwl youw haiwr, Auntie J!"?

Is it when you spend the morning failing miserably at the job you're paid to do, because your poor sick little girl wants nothing more than to snuggle in your arms?

Is it when you shed both happy and sad tears as you watch your oldest happily get on the bus for her first day of Pre-K?

Is it when you read the same story for bedtime, every night, and you don't even need to look at the pages because you have it memorized, because it's the girls' favorite?

Is it when you console your youngest when the small dachshund she saw thirty feet away absolutely petrified her?

Is it when you scour the Internet, looking for duplicates of your middlest's duckie, that she just can't live without but manages to keep losing? And you buy (ultimately) eight of them?

Is it when you "let" them have lunch with you in the bathroom simply because YOU required the use of that room?

Is it when they're scared in the middle of the night and you let them sleep in your bed?

Is it when your heart breaks as the youngest cries for more juice, but you have to say no because she just threw up?

Is it when you're sick as a dog yourself, but they're sick too and so you care for them anyway?

Is it when you let them kiss you on the lips when they're sick, because they love you, even though you know it'll get you sick, too?

Is it when you take pictures of your oldest after she colored herself blue with your highlighter before you wash her off?

Is it when you fight back tears after watching your youngest--terrified for so long of big, curvy slides--go down the biggest, curviest slide at the park, all by herself, with zero prompting or encouragement on your part?

Is it when you have scowling "wars" with your middlest, just to get her to smile?

Is it when you rejoice outwardly that your youngest doesn't need to cling to you like a leech in the pool anymore because she's no longer scared of the water and yet inside you're crying a little because she doesn't need you for that one little thing anymore?

Is it when you check on them at night, and smile because the oldest is comfortable, the middlest has turned herself around in bed, and the youngest has kicked off her covers...and you right things for everyone before you go to bed?

Is it when you listen intently in the middle of the night because you thought you heard someone whimper?

Is it when you fight like crazy to protect them, even from those who aren't supposed to put them in danger, and you feel your heart break in the process yet you know in your heart it's the right thing? Simply because little girls should never have to wonder where their next meal is or if they're loved?

Is it when you praise your children's successes, give them "special bandaids" for their imaginary boo-boos, hold them when they cry, care for them when they're sick, comfort them after bad dreams, make their favorite lunches, encourage them after a setback, and love them like crazy?


Or is it all biology?


Somehow, I can't believe that it is.

Hair-brushing time is one of the most trying here in my house. There's fine hair, thick hair, coarse hair...and all of it curly! Small Fry seems to think that the brush is an instrument of torture. Large Fry will sit relatively still and let me brush and comb out her hair.

And then there's Medium Fry. All those tight curls wind themselves into often tight tangles, so even liberal application of detangling spray solution doesn't always make it easy.

It's not unusual for her to scream and cry when I'm trying to brush out her hair.

Today was no different. She screamed. Cried. Pulled away (which only makes things worse). Hollered at the top of her lungs. Demanded her Uncle D.

I'm working on a small section of particularly stubborn tangles when she wails, "I want my kitty cat!"

I lean around to kinda look at her face. She often says this when she wants the diaper that has Periwinkle the kitten on it. "What kitty?" I ask.

"I want my Popoki!" she demands.

I decided that telling her that "her" Popoki wouldn't want to be around all that screaming wasn't a good idea.

I also decided that telling Po she's been annexed by Medium isn't a good idea either.

Although...I suspect Po already knows, given the number of full-body hugs she's endured.

Things you never thought you'd do as an adult...

...until you became a mother...

...and even then, you're surprised.


~De-lotion your couch. Not once, but twice.

~Have your four-year-old throw a tantrum because she doesn't WANT to use the big potty. With the Disney Princess toddler seat that she picked out herself.

~Sacrifice two of your plastic Christmas cookie bins because the Fun Foam one broke spectacularly, and nothing else you have is big enough to store all the Fun Foam.

~Have your 2-year-old refuse your help with her pants, only to turn to her twin, and then they both get in a fight over how to fix the pants, and you have to do it anyway.

~Your other 2-year-old hates her pants because they "tickle." And thusly, they're "scawwy." Same with tall grass in the yard. And fallen leaves in the autumn.

~You answer semi-panicked "Owie!" screams from that same two-year-old, forty-five minutes after putting her to bed, only to find that *nothing* hurts, there is no blood, and nothing is wrong...except a fuzzie in her hair.

~Most days, figure that motherhood beats out the Peace Corps for being the toughest job you'll ever love. Until all three of your kids have screaming fits at once. And then you'll want to sell them to the first Gypsy caravan that comes through town. And you'll feel guilty that you don't feel all that bad for thinking that.

Bedtime Music

When the girls first came to live with us, they had a very difficult time settling down to sleep at night. As they cried that first night, scared and not understanding why their lives had so suddenly changed, my dad made a suggestion: music. Perhaps that would calm them. Help them sleep. Soothe their fears, even if temporarily.

We found a clock radio, and located the classical station out of the Maryland/D.C. area. I figured it would be the station most likely to lull them to sleep. All classical station DJs that I've heard have soothing, cultured voices that lessened the shock between music and voice. Not to mention that classical pieces are generally longer than the 3.5-minute songs on contemporary radio. And some studies have shown that classical music is brain food. (Or my astronomy professor is wrong about the effects of "Eine Kleine Nacht Muzik" on astronomy exams.)

Innyhoo, what started that first night is a pattern that continues today. Both rooms have clock radios in them, tuned to the same station. The sleep function lets the music play long enough for the girls to fall asleep.

I told you all that to tell you this story.

The kids have gotten hooked on the Playhouse Disney morning programs. I can handle these, so we watch them.

In particular, they really, really love Little Einsteins. I love it for several reasons. One, they're learning about the music. Two, they're seeing classic art. Three, they're learning different problem-solving skills without really knowing it. Large Fry will actually sit and watch an entire episode without running off to play with something more interesting.

Today's episode was a Halloween special, where they're going trick-or-treating and singing along with "In the Hall of the Mountain King" from Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite, Opus 46, to get enough candy for their party. To find the candy, they listen for the melody line from "Morning Mood," the first movement of the piece. The "ghosts" that seem to be following them are also signaled by the haunting melody line from "In the Hall of the Mountain King." As it turns out, the "ghosts" are merely their instrument friends. They have a marvelous party. Large Fry sang along with the trick-or-treat song after hearing it once or twice.

And I told you that story to tell you this one.

We're tucking the girls into bed tonight, and Large Fry started crying as soon as she got sent to her room after prayers. I told her I'd be in to hug and kiss her in just a minute, and hugged and kissed the twins good night. They did their usual stall tactic and wanted another round of hugs and kisses (it's such a hard thing, really), and Hubby went in to tuck Large Fry in while I finished up with the twins. As I closed their door and headed for Large Fry's room, I hear Hubby saying, "Auntie J will be right here and you can ask her then."

"Ask me what?" I say as I walk into her room.

"She wants you to lay with her for a little bit," Hubby tells me.

I smile down at Large Fry. "I think I can do that."

So I lay down with Large Fry for a bit, thinking that happiness is your four-year-old big girl wanting you to stay with her a bit in her big-girl bed and throwing her little arm across your shoulders because you have your arm wrapped around her.

The DJ comes on, speaking in a smooth and mellow voice, telling us about the piece we'd just listened to and a quick weather report before she announces the next piece. She says the name Edvard Grieg, and I perk up a bit. I wonder if the piece name she's just mentioned is the one from this morning's Little Einsteins show. I think it's the same, but they only mention the piece name once in the show, and I'm not sure it's the same.

The sweet, happy notes of "Morning Mood" begin. Large Fry picks up her head off the pillow, eyes wide as she stares at me. That she knows this music is all over her face. "You know this music, huh?"

Her grin widens as she nods.

"Do you remember where you heard it?"

She thinks, and I say, "Little Einsteins."

She nods again.

The music changes after a few minutes to the second movement. "No more Little 'steins?"

"I think it's still the same piece. We just haven't heard this part."

We lay there quietly and listen. She asks the same question as the third movement begins, and I give her the same answer.

As "In the Hall of the Mountain King," the fourth movement, begins, the same look of wonder appears on her face and she whispers, "Little 'steins," in an awed tone.

We listen through the rest of the piece, and then I give her a kiss and a hug and come downstairs.


I wouldn't have missed that for the world.

Conversations. Again. Really.

Large Fry: Pee-hani, I'm going to go ask Auntie J.

[footsteps as Large Fry walks from kitchen to living room]

Large Fry: Auntie J, Pee-hani didn't listen to me.

Me: That's okay, he doesn't listen to me, either.

[footsteps back to kitchen; Pa'ani meows]

Large Fry: I'm gonna go ask Auntie J, 'cause I'm in trouble.

[footsteps]

Large Fry: Auntie J, I'm in trouble because Pee-hani didn't listen to me.

[footsteps back to Pa'ani; clearly a response from me is not needed]

Large Fry: Pee-hani, come here! Come here!


Honestly, I think she has about as much chance of getting Pa'ani to "come here" as I do getting her to do the same....

Conversations, Part the Millionth

Hubby: Did you go poopy in your diaper?

Medium Fry: No!

Hubby: Did you go pee-pee in your diaper?

Medium Fry: No!

Hubby: Are you sure?

Medium Fry: No!

Hubby: I think we should check.

Medium Fry: No!