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Yesterday D. asked how John had done in school, and Ann, his classmate said "perfect," which swung jealous James into a tizzy.
"No he wasn't perfect, James hyperventilated, "I saw him--punch someone on the playground!"
Brother Mickey, lazily chewing on a cheese stick, chimed in. "Yeah, that was me."
"Oh" said Mom"..."Did you do something to provoke him?"
"Yeah," said Mickey, waving his cheese stick, as if the answer were stunningly obvious.
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The last four weeks have marked the beginning of a tradition.
At the urging of one of D's friends, a loyal sevensidekicks reader eager to learn more about each of our kids individually, I've named the tradition "Kid of the Week." (This one's for you, Carrie).
Four Mondays ago, as the Colts prepared to battle the Titans on Monday Night Football, and prompted by feelings of neglectful parenting--several cavities at the dentist, a grandparent concerned about reading progress, etc.-- I took D. up on an insanely kind offer to let me leave the house with one kid and share dessert somewhere (sugarless tofu pudding, of course). A rare opportunity (outside ER visits) for one on one time.
So the deal has become this. I take out each school age kid in succession, from oldest to youngest (Mark and Daisy will have to wait a few years). Kid-of-the-week and I order a sundae the size of my head, and between spark-shooting spoon jousts, we write notes back and forth to one another in a tiny notebook, called _____'s Notebook (each kid has one).
Even though I might be training my children into the insidious habit of passing notes in class, the idea actually came from Ann's teacher, who calls these notebooks "correspondence journals." They're a great way of practicing reading and writing with humor and spontaneity. We even break the rules and draw from time to time.
Here's a sample of a written conversation between me and John, age 6.
John: Dad, can we get an ice cream maker?
Dad: No way. Too expensive.
J: What is this word?
D: "Expensive," I say out loud. "It costs lots of money," I write.
J: Why?
D: Because all I'll do is make ice cream and eat ice cream.
J: That cost money?.
D: Yes, because we will have to buy new doors for me to fit into the house. New doors are expensive.
J: "Expensive," John says out loud.
D: Yes.
J: It is ok. You can live outside. Be happy.
Promptly after this exchange, our waitress brought us a disgustingly large sundae.
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Last night, after feasting robustly, I stretched out on a quiet patch of living room floor and stared up at the ceiling.
Blood filled my temples as a mass of undifferentiated noise barreled toward me from the other room. I closed my eyes, and began counting heartbeats, while little feet began to dance around me as if I were the fallen Lord of the Flies pig. The noise did not cease but grew louder, but instead of fighting it, for whatever reason, I chose to fall into it. I opened my eyes and realized, in a moment of rare detachment, that the chaos of my children was really just a collection of distinct and logical parts, and didn't always, as I assumed, stem from onerous sibling rivalry or their intense desire to give me a heart attack.
Nate, Mark and Mick courteously took turns climbing on top of the coffee table, then leaping to the couch, and somersaulting to the floor. Shrieks of delight, not aggression or pain, while John and James chatted excitedly over James' deft computer skills. Sailor cajoled baby Daisy as she tested her balance over the pillow strewn floor (and my belly). It turns out that Daisy was the only one making noise for the sheer hell of it, even though she's always the last to get blamed for the din. Who would of thought? A room filled with playful, even constructive sounds!
This everyday moment suddenly struck me as one in which alien dissectors of the human race, or people without children, might be fascinated. It reminded me of an essay I read recently in the Sun Literary Magazine about a wanna-be dad who practices parenting by au pairing for friends during a wedding road trip and finds himself lovingly drawn into their messy clockwork. Definitely worth a read, both for aspiring parents and parents who feel so entrenched that they've forgotten why they had kids in the first place.
Here's the link:
http://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/394/dad_for_a_day
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In the winter months new routines start for keeping skin soft and children smelling their finest. We are eczema prone around here, bio and adopted, so I learned early, by trial and error, how to best keep skin healthy in these cold months. Baths for little ones with baking soda and baby oil. Pat dry and rub Eucerin cream into their skin. Dress in soft 100% cotton layer with a fleece outer layer, eg. tights, onesie, fleece pants and sweatshirt. I love Hanna Andersson Swedish Moccasins to keep feet warm and maintain traction on wood floors. With cozy layers and conditioned skin we keep scaly dermis at bay.
I keep the heat down in the house, so less drying out. Also, hydration is key. Our kids drink tea! Today, Nate and Mark and Daisy had peppermint tea with honey and whole milk after lunch. P.S. Only try honey after 12 months to avoid a possible early allergy.
If you’re having any trouble with skin let me know. I’ve probably dealt with it, and I may be able to help.
Sheff has noticed that kids have an inborn drive to “moisten” themselves. Check out his "Moist" entry below.
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I’m trying to decode a possible evolutionary mystery.
Each one of my biological kids has gone through a phase of needing to lubricate everything in sight. Last summer, my then two year old was obsessed with dabbing his cheeks, head and chest with petroleum products.
The usual suspects.At one point, I even caught him lubing up the barbeque with an entire bottle of 50 SPF sunscreen. In his defense, I’ve never seen a more ageless barbeque.
A moist read!Just last week, my current two year old anointed the pages of five library books with diaper rash cream--possibly in an attempt to make them glide more smoothly through the return slot.
Moist!If I had a nickel for every time I’ve mistaken our playroom for Exxon Valdez, I’d be able to feed every parking meter in town--stuffed animals with nary an open pore, action figures glistening like the front covers of muscle magazines, the television set oozing like a giant insect eye. And when toddlers lube hardwood floors, it’s hard to catch the little buggers because their low centers of gravity give them alarming balance in slippery conditions. Then, when you finally do catch them, they’re like little Heismans with their ability to slide out of a tackle.
Mega moist!Late two, early three seems to be the prime age for this moistening phenomenon, and it may coincide with potty training. D. has read that around this age, kids become aware of the unpleasantness of replacing absorbent diapers with “cargo shorts” (not the kind with the pockets), and that they’ll act out by messing up their environments as a way commanding our attention to clean them. Smearing their own you-know-what is the ultimate manifestation of this mess-making drive (we’ve all been there), but anything that smears seems to be a good proxy.
Sticky moist!My own theory is that kids this age, having grown more verbal and aware that they’re stuck in the world of humans with no possibility of return to the womb, find themselves in the throes of a sort of “vernix withdrawal.” Maybe, at this age, we parents start paying a little less attention to them when they get out of the bath. We’re a little more sparing with the baby oil, a little more austere with the powder, and they start to feel vulnerable, like salted slugs.
Cleansed moist!There are several advantages of the “moistening” stage. It’s one of the few times, for example, when I don’t worry about kids’ getting heads stuck in bannisters at friends’ houses. It can be off-putting to walk into a party with a warm plate of ham and a reciprocating saw.
Stylish moist!Also, it’s handy to have little grease fiends around when you’re trying to get your bike up and running after a long winter and you’re chain’s a little stiff.
Short-lived moist!If you’re on a family outing and you see a stranger’s child itching and scratching from a bad case of eczema, a good natured high-five between your little lube-lord and the afflicted may be just what the doctor ordered. It takes a village!
With a little planning, creativity, and determination, this unctious period can go pretty smoothly. Just make sure to keep your slickened away from delicate fabrics and open flames, and when you’re crossing the street, grip sleeves, not hands.
Mini moist.
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We didn’t exactly agree on a number. I wanted some, D. wanted thirty eight, so we compromised and had seven, one for every day of the week. Though large families aren’t as common as they used to be, it’s not our number that makes us unusual, but the spine-shattering pace at which we begot our brood.
In the span of five years, we adopted three from Russia in two trips. On the heels of each trip we had a bio baby, making our number five, four boys and one oh so lonely girl. We figured we’d take a shot at giving sister a sister, and of course, we had another brother.
So we tried again, and voila, baby girl was born, tiny and wispy as a dandelion seed.
Explore the Seven Under Seven section of this blog for a week in our life, or for a condensed downloadable version, check out the Spring '08 issue of the Williams College Alumni Review..
April 20, '08
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SailorAnn (6), by her own choosing, now goes by "Annie." We thought about calling her Annie in the first place but wanted to dodge the stigma of "Little Orphan Annie" that might be associated with her first years. So why did she decide on the name change (other than the fact that it seems a rite of passage in this family)? She loves "Little Orphan Annie." Go figure.
Here's a passage of a letter from my dad describing Annie's first overnight, a nice view into her personality, and his.
My wife and I had a daughter named “Daisy” but she only lived two days. It was a tragedy that she left us so soon, but she’s another story. Years later my son, Sheff, adopted a little girl, Sai-Sai, now “Annie”, from Russia. And a few years later he and his wife, Deirdre, had another daughter called “Daisy.” They named her after Sheff’s sister. It was very poignant. She’s a much-welcomed addition to the core and expanded family.
The point is that I never raised a daughter. Two fine sons but not a little girl. So when it became Annie’s turn for a sleepover with her grandfather, me, I was a bit at sixes and sevens.
I picked up Annie at the appointed time. Her mother whisked her out, well prepared, spit-spot. Apparently overnights with grandfather are popular and she didn’t want six other kids pitching fits. I asked her what she wanted for dinner. She said “cheeseburger.” I asked if she knew where one was close by. She said take a right. We got to Snelling Ave. and she said take a left. I was in the left lane, Then she pointed to the right where the MacDonald’s was. I pointed out, very, very patiently, honest to God, that that was right and not left. She smiled. We were at a stop light in the far left lane. I learned long ago in Thailand that if you actually smile and talk to other motorists, you could do almost anything. So I motored down Annie’s window and asked the lady on my right if I could cross over in front of her. It’s a busy intersection so this was brazen. She shrugged in a “whatever” way. And she actually held at green as we committed a gross moving violation to get to MacDonald’s.
At the car she said her grandmother lived down the street we were on. She knew. And it was several miles down. But she knew. I asked if she’d like to visit her newish sister, Daisy and a brother, Mickey, at her grandmother’s house. She smiled. Yes. My son and his wife had farmed all the children out to four different host houses. They were celebrating their wedding anniversary, somewhat delayed because of projectile hurling flu on the actual day, September 29th. We dropped in on Nor and had a nice visit. Then on to Minneapolis.
We got to the house and she checked out everything like a fairly laid-back drill sergeant. I’d fixed up her bed and bedroom so it would be welcoming. I put up a picture of her, of her Dad, my son, and her whole family on a low bureau in her room to remind her we were kin. Somehow that was smart of me. After she left I found she’d carefully placed a little paper pumpkin next to each picture except the one of herself. I found other little things in her tiny wake. Little things moved around a little in her wake. Things that never moved when it was just me. It was quietly wonderful.
Right off I made a fire and we fired up the oven for the cookies. Nothing from scratch. Nothing left to chance. She saw the brand new games on the coffee table and wanted to get right to it. I’d read the instructions before she came but was still a little hazy on the rules. Everyone knows CANDYLAND. It’s been around about 60 years. I’d never heard of it. She taught me. She taught me this and four card games. She’s a good teacher. She’s six.
Breakfast the next morning...
She wanted French toast. So that’s what we had. French toast and bacon. She ate most of it and I automatically ate her leftovers when she was done. A sort of phantom limb quality of parents, or former parents, of little ones. You eat what they don’t. There are hedge fund managers in New York starving, you know. You don’t waste food.
Grandpa Pocky, Minneapolis
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For a recent profile of Deirdre, go to November issue of CSB Alumnae and Friends from the College of St. Benedict.
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If you give a tot iced coffee,
She’ll want a second sip.
You’ll give her one and,
She’ll probably enjoy it.
When you refuse to give her a third,
She’ll get bossy,
Then she’ll try to pull off your nose.
She’ll scoot across the floor...
And out the door...
And into a mud puddle.
Then she’ll want a sink bath.
She’ll ask you for your freshest pie while she is in the bath.
Then she'll ask for her brother.
When you turn to call for him, she'll escape.
She’ll dress herself and learn to walk.
She’ll find her brother and challenge him to a tricycle joust.
Then she’ll command him to do fancy tricks like touching his nose to the floor.
She’ll command others to do fancy tricks as well.
She’ll be a bit sassy about it.
You’ll ask her what’s going on,
And she’ll ask you for a crayon.
You’ll give her one of your finest crayons,
And she'll make wall art for her brothers to enjoy.
But by the time you’ve found her again,
Chances are,
The iced coffee will have worn off.
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Mickey (5) was falling asleep (in his mom's childhood bedroom) clutching his handmade gorilla book (he'd dictated his own "virgin" of Goodnight Gorilla, drew the pictures and wrote The End). I told him we'd better put it on the table so it didn't get crumpled in the night. He agreed, started to slip into sleep and said "All my dreams are coming true." I hesitated to ask because he was nearly asleep but couldn't resist so asked him what was happening. He pointed languidly at things around the room from his dreams: "that window," "those books," "the door"...
-Grandmother Boo
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This morning I took James (8) to the polling place, where he was able to vote in his own "kid election." Based on this e-mail excerpt from grandmother Boo a few days ago, I had some confidence in his being able to practice an informed choice or two.
It was so nice to have James on Saturday. Big Daddy and I are so pleased and impressed with his way of being in the world, including his interest in the election. Sunday morning he wanted to know what the polls were saying and when I told him Obama's lead in Minnesota was good, he said, Minnesota doesn't matter... wow. Of course he gets it from interested parents, but not all kids pick it up.
He made a comment about asking Mr. Nelson about being born in Russia, but could he vote in the U.S.? Is any child adopted by American parents immediately a citizen? James said it was 'confusing' though I think he understood that he is a citizen. Are the wee Russians instantly citizens? I remember something strange about passports & being stopped coming into the country...
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For Halloween we celebrate the Great Pumpkin.
The term comes from the Classic Charlie Brown movie, but we invented the ritual. On Halloween night, after everyone has gorged on candy, we brush teeth, climb in bed, and dream of the Great Pumpkin, who creeps in the night, eats ALL THE CANDY, and leaves pumpkin marked presents in its place.
Great Pumpkin anticipation outstrips candy coveting. I get as excited as the kids about running downstairs to find the colorful packages on the kitchen table (we have similar rituals for Valentines Day and St. Patrick's day). We talk about All Saints day and the beautiful dance we saw at church commemorating the souls that have passed this year.
This year I also organized all the costumes for next year, labeled by name and type, with extras just in case--a good way of averting conflict over who's wearing what next year. I tell the kids that next year we'll embellish by making homemade masks and face paint. Something to look forward to!
Daisy was Cindy Lou Who (who was not more than two) for Halloween.
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REDISTRIBUTE THIS!
1 MINUTE IN...
5 MINUTES IN...
10 MINUTES IN...
15 MINUTES IN...
17 MINUTES IN...
20 MINUTES IN...
WISHFUL THINKING...
...WITH A VENGEANCE!
25 MINUTES...
HANDY REPLACEMENTS...
30 MINUTES...
CLEANUP...
ZOMBIES!
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More thoughts around November's column, entitled Dancy Pants.
A Chinese philosopher once proclaimed that “before there was anything, there was music.” I can’t help but believe that dance was close on its heels...
My mom was a dancer, a good one. She apprenticed with Martha Graham, auditioned for Broadway shows, came very close, met my dad, had me. One of her best friends from boarding school went onto run Martha Graham. Mom hung it up and became a dance critic for the Pioneer Press. I got to see Baryshnikov when I was three. I got to sit in on rehearsals for New Dance Ensemble. I lived with Mom in dance culture, but never thought to like it...
I was an athlete--more of a dabbler. Baseball, football, hockey, soccer, basketball, tennis. To this day, I can lose gracefully in every sport. In tenth grade, I got injured and took up theater, which led to a fruitful college acting career and a half-baked one in Hollywood, but I avoided musicals because they required dance. “Is he trying to do aerobics?
Curiously, in college I went to nearly ever dance production, often to see friends perform, but just as even when friends weren’t involved. Ballet. Jazz. African Drums. I was drawn as a spectator, but vestiges of that adolescent thin skin kept me from taking the plunge and auditioning.
My kids are athletes. They know how to move because my wife D. and I never stop moving. I coach their teams, baseball, basketball, soccer. I teach them at home. “Dip your back knee when you pitch and bring your leg around.” My four year old has no interest in sports, but he’s very athletic. He wants to dance. I see him twirl and lunge and stomp and I marvel at the beautiful “aerobics” he does. He is a dancer. I am proud.
It turns out that boys like to dance, except when they’re told that they shouldn’t. Circus Juventas founder Betty Butler disparages that girls gravitate toward circus more than boys, but that her dance classes fill up equally. Dancing is the purest form of fun and athleticism. It’s no guarded secret that the Dallas Cowboys have trained with ballet for decades, and retired cowboy great Emmitt Smith says that training to win “Dancing with the Stars” was the most physically demanding challenges of his life.
Sam Rockwell is a 25 year old drummer who grew up in the Twin Cities and moved to New York. Now he’s a campaign manager for a NYC city councilman. He’s an athlete, tall and handsome with dark curly hair. His dad’s an athlete, also handsome, bald, a winner, so much so that his name is “Win.” Sam’s mom is a local theater producer. Sam had no choice but to be a renaissance man, and at the center of his childhood was dance.
We have tried a few community ed dance programs for our four year old. Girls in pink tutus mostly, adorable. My son has tried to fit in but can’t quite. He is fitful, uncooperative, intense, riveting. He reminds me of Billy Eliot, whose father thinks he should be a boxer, but who rebels by dancing with a boxers fury in his feet and torso and eyes. My son has a like intensity, but our overweening love and support probably won’t feed his fury--he’ll have to find it somewhere else.
P.S. This is Drums Alive, a wildly inventive and deservedly popular YMCA program that I reference in this month's column. Many thanks to Group Exercise Specialist Sean Levesque for hustling up this photo.
More info at www.ymcatwincities.org.
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I baked a blueberry pie after dinner. It felt good to focus on a singular task at the end of another crazy day.
Sailor and Mick were working at the table doing homework so I could answer questions about the letter H and counting by fives while measuring the berries. Nate and Mark were playing mermen--tying blankets around their waists and racing around sliding on the floor battling octopi, crabs and baby Daisy, who shrieked at them as she stumbled on new walking legs. James and John were at Cub Scouts, while Sheff worked on a writing deadline.
I made a double batch rectangular pie. The dough felt clean and smooth, unlike the mess of my day. As I cut neat slices for a lattice top, I became suddenly aware of why people love cooking. I don’t particularly, but tonight I did. The pie was a start to finish accomplishment, sweet, richly colored and beautiful. Just a slice in a day.
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Here we are, seven months into this blog, and as a testament of what we have covered so far, here are the 50 most popular search terms that have landed visitors at our site. Personally, I find this list fascinating...
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Brought to you by...
100% American.
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My cousin Scott (James Thach Otis) has come out with another book, The Tickle Monster is Coming.
More rhyme, play, and fun in this much-anticipated follow-up to his A Child’s Guide to Common Household Monsters. Both monster books have passed the test of my seven with flying colors, which says a lot about Scott’s story appeal to a very broad range, including adults. I’m always delighted to find books that I enjoy reading as much as the kids enjoy having them read. Scott’s writing seems to give my eyelids helium boosts even in my most groggy tuck-in moments with the kids.
Check out Scott’s site, www.jamesthach.com for more info about him and his books, including his upcoming opus of love, a lyric poem about a wayward seal pup. I read it a while ago in an earlier draft and it was fantastic. I can only imagine how good it is now. Its scheduled for release in Fall ‘09.
Also, check out the Tickle Monster Music Video that has baby Daisy rocking like its her job.
You can also buy the book and play the Tickle Monster Video Game at http://theticklemonster.com/
Yeah!
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We baby-sat a sweet dog named Mixie for MEA weekend, or rather that was the intent.
Please note: This Shih-Poo is not Mixie.
Mixie is a small, poodle type hypoallergenic dog. Really they breed those. Mixie is a boy, the poor thing will have gender identity issues upon departing our home because we all called him "her" and "Misty" repeatedly. Sheff took to calling him Mr. Mix-a-lot and laying down a beat-box. Daisy thought this was quite grand and did a little dance each time.
I figured it would be an all American experience, you know, boys and dogs and all that. I thought they could all wear jeans, no shirts and frolic in the leaves, saying things like "Gee what a super time we are having Mixie!"
The actual highlight was Daisy finding high perches and stretching at the dog in gibberish "Ma, blog, TA TA TA, Anya ga Shiva WHO" while gesticulating widely. Mixie would cock his head and yip in agreement. It was a battle of the tiny.
Mixie came Wed afternoon--by Thursday morning Mickey had morphed into a large itchy blob of a boy. Mickey does not complain about pain, never has. He will just kick through it and ask me what is happening next-- as being able to look forward to going to Grandma Boos on Tuesday might cure an earache on Sunday. It was clear Mickey was reacting, so we gave him Benadryl and hoped he’d recover.
He started taking baths. His affliction grew worse, huge blisters and hives covering everything--his hands swelling. We had to call for help--good samaritan Uncle Tom and kids--to take the dog away. Then the cleaning started, and the crying. Tom and Leslie have nine hundred cats and one poodle aint no thing in the fur menagerie.
SailorAnn was the most upset about Mixie leaving. The doggie bed and toys had been in the room she shares with big brother James. SailorAnn loved walking Mixie, she even brushed his hair and gave him her fave mini Carebear. Her tears were real I felt horrid for her. Mickey said, through swollen lips "it wasn't Mixie fault".
So we’re probably not going to get a dog anytime soon, but at least it’s nice to know that the one that got a way--well, that we sent away--legitimately stole our hearts.
After Mixie’s departure, I had to wash everything, pillows, comforters, cushion covers. I vacuumed until 1 am and got up with everyone to start the laundry loads. Heavens, that tiny little dog was everywhere! I felt like Hera (The Greek Goddess of the hearth) was punishing me for thinking I should just let the house go for MEA weekend.
Mickey is still a bit puffy but on the mend. Sailorann has named all her dolls oddly canine names like fluffy and lulu. James attached leash to a stuffed tiger--Mark freaked out and tackled James, Nate is waxes poetical about his day with Mixie, while John is resigned to the loss. Sheff and I are...still cleaning.
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D. took James (Satchel) 8 and Sailor 6 to
A Little House on the Prairie at the Guthrie Theater this weekend. During intermission, James had to use the restroom, so D. took him downstairs as James disappeared and then re-emerged moments later looking proud.
JAMES: Mom. A really nice man in there gave me a peppermint?
D. (disturbed): A what? A who?
JAMES: A peppermint. He said I was smart cause I figured out how the sink worked.
D. (relieved): Oh...you mean...a compliment?
JAMES: Yes. One of those.
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Sailor, 6, has something on her mind but doesn't quite know how to bring it up.
DAD: What's up Sai?
SAI: Dad. Where can I get a cret card?
DAD: A what?
SAI: A creh-dih-card?
DAD: A credit card? Why do you wanna know?
SAI: My brothers want one.
DAD: Really? Well, tell your brothers credit cards are dangerous. You know why?
Sailor thinks for a moment...
SAI: Because you can cut yourself?
DAD: Yup.
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When the Otis family gets sick, it gets throw-down, rockem-sockem, lovely lily Linda Blair vomitorious. The sheer effluence that we have accomplished in the last four days calls forth the majesty of Victoria falls, ancient times when whale spume spined the seas, and that fancy fountain in Vegas.
Although many parents blog to plead daily hardship and vie for credit, D. and I are too busy changing rubber sheets and paddywaggin' kids home from school to do either--all we can do, between pinch-nosed breaths--is stretch for that narrow sliver of perspective. This bout of illness has pierced our well-deserved amnesia to remind us of how to better prepare for next time. Nine tips...
1. Secure blast radius. The best use for those left over crib mattress pads. Add a decorative fringe of towels and save countless dollars on carpet cleaner.
2. Lower all kids to bottom bunks immediately once the first kid has turned green.
3. Customize containers, decapitated gallon jugs, buckets, and/or wastebaskets with 4 gallon waste basket liners. The liners can be whisked out and replaced without having to wash containers.
4. Unless you have a tiny infant, don't try to protect kids from infection. If one turns green, they will all turn green. Better to toss them all to the wolves and pass around a sippy cup!
5. Don't send the "healthy" ones to school. Even if the uber-immune kid doesn't walk and talk bubonic, don't be fooled, he is a carrier. Save teachers and caregivers the hassle and realize that your own hassle is temporary and has an economy of scale.
6. Act like a new mom, sleep when the sickies sleep, because you won't be able to count on nights.
7. If you do survive the onslaught, you have been eating raw garlic and fresh lemon juice and deserve a nice hearty pat on the back (hold off on the smooching).
8. Buy fragrant candles to cut the stench, but don't use your favorite vanilla honeysuckle sunset candle or you will gag immediately on future romantic nights with your dear spouse.
9. Enjoy the unnatural calm of your subdued kids. Infirmity is an opportunity to share captive, quiet moments of unabridged sweetness and comfort. From my own childhood, I remember that backrubs were as healing as Tylenol.
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Two-year-old Mark notices that this toy tractor can wiggle its chassis, as if doing a tiny bootie-dance, and says to me...
MARK: Look, Dad, this truck can do exercises!
ME: Wow! What kind of truck is that?
MARK (with a quizzical look): Mine.
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Sheff and I were supposed to go on our seventh anniversary overnight (first time being alone overnight since we have been married!) and instead I got the flu, blahh! 24 hours of throwing up, 24 hours of Daisy throwing up. And it seems it takes my body another five days to feel totally normal, maybe breast-feeding has something to do with it too, trying to replenish for two of us. Anyway, I wanted to write an entry of today. Just one day in the life of us. The background is that I am still a wee bit woozy, but it is all very typical.
Sunday
12:00am
All is quiet in the Otis house. I have the night sweats, I do this when I have the pregnancy or nursing hormone and my immunity is down, I change PJs and get back into bed, squeezing between Sheff and Markie on one side and Mickey on the other.
3:00am
James has a bad dream, I listen he calms down. I go around and cover everyone up, carry Mickey back to the bottom bunk in his and Johnny’s room, turn off the orange sea horse night light. Slip back into bed.
4:30am
Daisy wakes up. I make a warm 4 ounce platex nurser bottle. She fusses, nurses a minute then takes the bottle, finishes the bottle I pat her back, she pats mine and nuzzles into my neck. She cuddles down with her baby doll.
6:30am
“Mommy, do Tigers eat Pony’s for real?” Nate’s eyes are very big, Mark rolls over groggy (the tiger lover) and watches for my response. “I, well, Markie Otis tigers most certainly DO NOT eat Natie Otis Pony’s, in the wild its...” I am cut off by a relieved look on Nate’s face and his rapid departure. Mark is now up, and clearly from the ruckus downstairs, so is everyone else.
7:45am
Sheff gets up and makes french toast, whole wheat bread from Breadsmith, cinnamon, brown eggs and hormone free milk. Hot water with a little molasses and brown sugar, is natural and cheeper than syrup,q uite yummy. We go through a loaf f bread, a dozen eggs and a gallon of milk.
8:30am
A rush to get dressed for church. Sheff showers I get everyone into khakis. I have a shelf of all khakis just for Sunday so I never have to search there are always 7 pairs sometimes 14, clean and folded in age order. Then everyone just needs a collared shirt or nice top. I rub lipstick on my cheeks, upper lids and lips. Cover with a dusting of ivory powder, makeup done! Tight black jeans, fancier top and sandals. I have my ring, forget all other jewelry, always have my Mary medallion.
9:00am
Make it to St. Peter Claver Catholic Church religious Ed. Sheff says he always pictures some poor fool named Ed wondering around praising God when I say it is time for Religious Ed!
10:00am
Get a latte. A friend once said a latte is a hell of a lot cheeper than therapy, thank you Jen Dusek, you are so right. Once or twice a week we get take out coffee. I realize I have not eaten, the french toast went so fast! We opt out of the 10am service guiltily, we need to get back into the routine of church school and church, it a three to four hour commitment, but I know it is important. I see Father Kevin and feel a wee bit guilty.
11:00am
I get Daisy down for Nap, Sheff whips up Mac n'Cheese, cold cuts and pulls out some Harvest Berry Salad I’d made a a few extra Tupperware after needing some for the PTA potluck. (Frozen blackberries, blueberries, blackberries, with cup up honey crisp, pears, and plums, add a teaspoon of sugar for every two cups of fruit and douse with lime juice and a bit of cinnamon, yummy!)
11:30am
Sheff reads books to the kids I clean the kitchen. wipe down six stools, sanitize the counter, sweep, mop the floor with vinegar, wash bottles by hand, unload the dishwasher from breakfast, load form lunch, get papers in recycling.
12:30pm
Daisy wakes up we gear up for Pumpkin patch outing. Kids try to destroy each other on the way to the door. Sleeves are pulled, names are called, shoes are thrown. Dear heavens, what is the fuss? No one has any idea. Everyone looks around sheepishly and files to the car and hops into assigned seating. Have I eaten yet? I grab a sandwich (french bread, a little pesto, sun dried tomatoes, cold cuts) and I make some black tea. Make Daisy a bottle for the car and we are off.
1:30pm
Arrive at Pumpkin farm and petting zoo. We did not plan, our kids are good about these little adventures. Our only promise was “we will arrive home with pumpkins, so chill out and enjoy the ride” We met goats. One goat escaped. This was a highlight. People were watching the goat with trepidation. Our kids, yes our dear children, ran at the thing with all the glee of budding matadors. The goat ran and leaped back into confinement rather than deal with our kids. Oh the pride.
4:30pm
We arrive home with pumpkins and set up shop. The kids were quite good, really great about picking one from the $2 table. and they all seem to come and go as a pack no need to round up, its helpful. I think maybe they are just worried we will leave without them. Whatever the reason they MOVE! when it is time to go.
6:00pm
We have soup with oyster crackers for supper with 3 bean salad and the promise of homemade pumpkin seeds for dessert. Everyone colors on their pumpkin. Pure chaos, markers flying, pumpkin seeds being glopped into the pans I set out. Daisy squealing, Markie doing a lion dance around the table ritualistically. Sheff trying to get to everyone’s pumpkin to help carve, while still managing creative touches here and there. I washed all the seeds and soaked them in spices and olive oil while we stripped kids down for bath.
7:00pm
Kids in and out of baths, two shifts, backing soda in the bath. Baby oil rub downs, Hanna Andersson jammies on, downstairs to try the crispy seeds. Everyone tries them “like little rain drop chips “ Mickey. We bring our masterpieces outside and light candles. Everyone poses for a photo and we hustle it up to bed. Tucked in, animals and lovies distributed. Lights out by 7:45.
8:00pm
Whew! Now the second clean of the kitchen (see above for lunch) 2 loads of laundry, Sheff needs to do online work, I need to package and ship 12 orders. We need to find a missing bill, did I eat dinner? I think pumpkin seeds count.
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In Kindergarten, Satch got more marraige proposal than anyoe else in his class. He may have revealed why when, on the brink of spring, he asked his teacher how he was supposed to stay "chivverous" when the weather warmed up.
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