tales from a stay-at-home mom of four boys

Archive for the month “March, 2012”


The baby was laying on the bed in just a diaper because it is a hot night here. My middle son began pointing at and touching the baby’s nipples, so my husband explains that they are nipples.
He then asks my middle son, “where are you’re nipples?”. My son answers by pointing at me.


The worst part of my day

Let me just say that I love my boys, I really do.  I couldn’t imagine life without them.  That being said, there is no daily activity that raises my blood pressure more than getting the three of them ready and into the car to go someplace, especially if we have to be there by a certain time.  This is a process that can not be done in under an hour (20 minutes if it is just getting them from the door into the car).  I know that sounds extreme and parent out there are saying, “bull shit, I get my kids ready and out of the house in less time than that!” To those parents I say kudos to you, but I’m not talking about your kids, I’m talking about mine.

The whole process starts with the attempt at getting all three of them dressed in appropriate clothes for the weather and event of the day.  I say attempt because it often times ends with a lot of little naked bodies running round the house.  On a good day, my oldest son will get himself dressed all by himself, but that is often where the appropriateness of the clothing becomes an issue.  My four year old doesn’t understand temperature’s relation to how you dress, or what shorts are versus pants (or short sleeves versus long for that matter).  He often comes out dressed for the wrong weather, but insist on wearing that bathing suit bottom and t-shirt on a rare day when you can see your breath, or more commonly, the sweatshirt and fleece pants when it is going to be 102 degrees.  As far as appropriateness goes, most things, with the exception on pajamas to school, I let him get away with.  Once he’s dressed, it is on to my middle son, who makes getting him dressed  into a rodeo event.  I have to chase after him and practically lasso him to get him undressed and his diaper changed.  If I make the mistake of letting him go before I’ve gotten his clothes for the day on him, we are back to chasing and roping, as he giggles the entire time.  The baby isn’t too hard to dress, but it can be a little disheartening.  As soon as I’ve changed his diaper, wiggled him into his outfit, and snapped all the snaps, one of two things will happen (or on a really good day, both will happen).  He will either proceed to spit up all down his front (and possibly mine) until the shirt or onesie (usually it’s a onesie) will be soaked through, or I will hear a sudden growling as a rumble makes it’s way through his digestive track and deposit all that he’s eaten in the last two hours into his diaper.  Awesome, time to do it all over again.

Once everyone is finally dressed, myself included (which occurs between dealing with crying and screaming from three children who choose that moment to need me), we need to brush teeth.  Most days my four year old can handle this task with minimal supervision, but not minimal mess.  I have to brush my middle son’s teeth, which results in more of the same rodeo-style antics.  Then it is on to shoes.  For this task I try outsourcing.  I tell the boys to hunt down their shoes and put them on while I try to pack up everything we need.  I’ve given up on carrying purses or diaper bags and now carry a full size back pack, which is usually stuffed to it’s full capacity.  I know some of you are thinking, “well here is your time suck,'” but I assure you, this is not true.  Most of the vitals are already packed, so I’m not actually packing the bag everyday (though it feels that way).  However, there are certain things I need to add, take out, or replenish before we leave.  So I go down the check list: two different sized diapers (or three if we need a night time diaper), wipes, extra clothes in case my four year old has an accident, extra clothes for the boys if we are going to be near water of any kind or might be back late and possibly fall asleep in the car, small toys to entertain in case of melt downs, binkie for the baby, burp cloth, baby blanket, extra outfit for the baby, hats and sunscreen if we’ll be outside, my wallet, my sunglasses,  and my phone.  Then we need water; we always need water.  We live in the desert and when you live in the desert you quickly learn that you don’t go anywhere without water.  So I fill up to bottles of ice water and put one on either side of my overstuffed pack back in the drink holders.  By the time I get the back pack on, I look like a turtle whose shell is way too big.

Once, the boys have found their shoes and  have them on,  we are almost ready to leave the house (even if my middle son is wearing his favorite Batman rain boots and both kids have their shoes on the wrong feet).  Now I just have to get the baby into his car seat, except his stomach is making that familiar grumble and there is a rumble in his diaper.  Awesome, time for another diaper change, it never fails.

Once that’s done, I remind my oldest to use the potty, but he swears he already did when he brushed his teeth.  We finally make it out the door.  Now I just have to load my back pack and three kids into the car, that simple right?  The baby isn’t a problem, I just plop the bucket set in.  I dread the day he leaves the bucket seat and becomes part of the next scene.  Unfortunately, the two older boys aren’t as easy.  There is fighting over seats, crying, and running away with attempts to hide in the far back corner of the van where it is nearly impossible to grab them from the front because of all the car seats, and just as hard to grab them if I open the back because I have not just one, but two different strollers in the trunk area (don’t ask).  Eventually I just have to grab a child and force him into the nearest seat, readjusting straps constantly.  My oldest will yell that it is too tight and I’m squishing his penis.  My middle child, well, he’ll just smell like poop; awesome.  So now I’m pulling him out of the car and running in to wrestle with him on the ground while I try to change his diaper.  I come back out to a crying baby and screaming four year old who wants to watch a movie.  I allow them to watch one, for my own sanity, if we are going any distance.  Now I have to rummage through the massive amounts of books, trash, toys, grocery bags, blankets, and nameless other crap on my floor to find the head sets, all the while praying that the batteries in them are still good.  Next, there is the fight over the movie and waiting through the FBI warning so I can skip the previews and get the movie all set up and started before we leave the driveway.  When I finally get into the driver’s seat, buckle my belt, and put the van into reverse, my oldest yells from the back that he has to pee.  So back into park we go, up goes the garage door, out of the five point harness goes my son, and back into the house so he can do something he swears he did only 5 minutes earlier.  By the time I get him back into his seat and everyone settled with what they need, the baby is crying because he’s tired and hungry.  So I pop a pacifier in his mouth and pray he falls asleep once we start moving, promising to feed him as soon as we finally get where we are going.

Finally, I get us out of the driveway and on the road with only five minutes to spare to get somewhere that is 20 minutes away; awesome!  And now you also know why I’m always late everywhere.

Built-in toy

This morning, as I sat in bed nursing my youngest, my oldest came bounding in and hopped into bed with us. When I looked over at him, I caught an eyeful of small balls and penis. I told him to put it away to which he replied, “But Mom, I’m just playing with it.” I told him to take it to his room or put it away.

This is not the first time, I’ve witnessed one of my sons playing with himself. My boys have been playing with their penises since they discovered that they had them. I don’t know though that I’d call what they do playing, so much as abusing. It quickly became their favorite bath time toy, as they’d sit there in the bath tub, smacking the hell out of it. Then they’d pull on it like they were trying to make sure it wasn’t ever going to come off. Once we began potty training my oldest and introduced him to peeing on trees in an emergency, his and his middle brother’s penises suddenly became fire hoses. My oldest son will use his “fire hose” to pee anywhere (see Don’t pee on your brother). The great thing (and not so great thing, when you’re in public) is that they have no shame about it, and I don’t want him to feel shame about it. When one of my boys whips it out, I simply tell them to either put it away or go to their room if they are going to do it because I don’t want to see it.

I guess when you are the mother of three boys, catching an eyeful of tiny toddler penis and balls at an inappropriate time is just an occupational hazard. I’m okay with that as long as I don’t have to catch any eyefuls of that once they get older. So, for that reason, I’ll always make sure to alway knock first.

Sleeping around

My husband and I no longer sleep together. On the rare occasions that we do, it is very brief; I spend more time in bed with other guys these days. Some nights I even sleep with two or three other guys. It’s okay though because he sleeps with other guys too. No, he’s not gay and I’m not cheating. I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about actual sleep.

On a good night my husband will start off in the bed with the baby and me (most nights though, he doesn’t even bother). This never lasts long. Usually a child is coming in before I’ve even stopped reading and turned off my iPad. At the first sight of a small head poking through the now open bedroom door, my hubby leaps from the bed, scoops up the child and brings him into my oldest son’s bedroom no matter which child it is (that room has a queen size bed and is more comfortable than my middle son’s tiny twin). Many times, my hubby and two older boys will cuddle in that bed for a few hours, leaving me alone in our giant king size bed with the baby. A few hours later, another (or possibly the same) child will make an appearance at my door and quickly hop in bed with the baby and I. At this point, the bed is feeling more like a queen than a king since my kids must sleep pressed up against me or at least touching me (usually with their foot across my chest or in the side of my head). A few more hours go by, it might be 5:00am at the latest, when the last child of the three will join me and the other two in bed. My once giant king size bed has now become a tiny hotel cot. I will lay there, not really sleeping, with a child pressed on either side of me and the baby on top of me. I watch the clock tick by, excruciatingly slow until 6:00am, when I can finally wake my husband to take over. When I enter my son’s room, I find my husband sprawled across the enormous queen bed, sleeping blissfully, child free. I hand him the baby and any kids who are awake, rub my red tired eyes, and go back to sleep for the only good hour of sleep I get all night.

Like I said, my husband and I don’t sleep together anymore, we are sleeping with other people. I’m just doing the “with other people” part, while he’s doing the “sleeping” part.

Boobs are the answer

My poor littlest guys is four months old, which means a four month check up, which means shots, which he had today. No kid likes shots, but it is especially hard to explain them to a baby. So to sooth his pain and make life better, I present to him; boobs. He’s been cranky most of the day from the shots, so most of the day I have presented him with boob to sooth him. As I looked down at him today, boob in his mouth, he grinned at me, and I realized, I am creating yet another boob-man.

You see, my other two sons are already boob-men, which I just attributed to the fact that their dad is a boob-man, but when I really think about it, I’m to blame for them being boob-men, after all, my boobs were the first ones they were obsessed with. My oldest son self-weaned at about 18 months. Every once in a while he’d check to make sure my nipples were still there. Once his brother was born though, he realized that “his” boobs were now being used by someone else, and that wasn’t okay (hey in what relationship is it?). So, back to the boob my oldest (two at the time) went and there I was, like any common farm animal, nursing multiple offspring. My oldest didn’t give up the boob so easily after that. I don’t remember when I finally got him to give it up, but I’m pretty sure he was close to three. Then I was down to one on the boob and I felt a little more human again. Not long after that that though, I got myself knocked up again and had baby number 3. My middle child was no where near ready to give up the boobs and was not happy to be sharing them again. Now I’m back to feeling like a sow with a piglet on each teat. Of course my husband complains that the boobs were his first and he’s been stuck sharing them with three other guys over the course of the past 4 1/2 years.

It isn’t just for the breastfeeding that my sons love boob though, it is the boob in general. I can’t take off my bra in a room with one of them around (their dad included) without one laughing and reaching for the boob. I can only imagine them as teenagers years from now. Again, it is my fault. After all, I have conditioned them to think that boobs are the answer to all life’s pains and problems (to which my husband would say “but isn’t it?”). They enter the world, they get boob. They are hungry, they get boob. Tired, boob. Gassy, boob. Scared, boob. Bored, boob. Hurt, boob. I’ve trained them that for just about any problem or any emotion that they have, boob will be given to them as the answer.

So, when my boys grow up to be boob ogling, grabbing, motor boating, obsessed fools, I’ll have to apologize to their girlfriends. Oh, and if I catch them looking at a copy of “Jugs” magazine when they’re teenagers, you better believe I’ll remind them that the first pair of boobs they were obsessed with were mine. Then I’ll show them that boobs really are the answer to everything; even boob obsession.

Poop report

So my plan for my two year old to only poop when his dad is around has far from worked. Today he took at least six horribly disgusting poops just for me. Apparently he’s not hip to my plan.

Oh, and my four year old pooped on a tree at the park tonight. Awesome.

Something to lose your hair over

So, my hair is falling out.  That’s right, but it happens.  Around 3-4 months after a woman has a baby, all the extra hair she accumulated (for warmth?) starts to shed.  My older sister warned me of this and this being the third time I’ve had a kid, I’m not surprised by it.  What I am always surprised by though, is the amount of hair that falls out.

When my sister told me that I’d have some “shedding” after the baby was born, I thought a few extra strands in the sink or on my brush.  I had no idea that it would be hair by the fistfuls.  I can’t believe. with the amount that falls out, that there is anything left on my head.  Then again, with my second child, most of the hair seemed to come from one particular place; just above my right temple.  It became so bad, I seriously had a bald spot.  It was really noticeable and embarrassing.  Luckily it grew back, but that wasn’t much better because now I had a spot at the front of my head that had all these short wispy pieces coming in; almost like I decided to grow bangs on the far right corner of my forehead.

So far this time, I have yet to notice any bald spots, but I’m surprised that the shower drain isn’t clogged.  Then again, most of that hair that comes out during showers then sticks to my wet body causing me to look like a sasquatch every time I exit the shower.  Why can’t the hair fall from a place it is less wanted so I can save time and money on visiting an aesthetician?

New Ipad Game

“I was playing it on Daddy’s IPad Mom.”

“What were you playing?”

“Harry Pottery!”

Poop happens

Potty training has got to be one of the worst parts of raising young children. Don’t get me wrong, I hate changing diapers, especially poopy ones, but there is something infinitely more easy about changing a diaper than teaching a child to use the potty. I mean, sure it is no fun wiping my child’s butt while he lays there, hands clasped behind his head, smiling like he’s enjoying it. However, the mishaps during the exhausting potty training period are grosser than the smelliest, yet contained diaper.

My oldest son is the only one of my three boys potty trained so far and soon I will need to embark on that harrowing adventure again with my almost two and a half year old. I admit that my oldest son wasn’t fully potty trained until shortly before turning four despite having started the attempts at it before he was two. Even now he still has occasional accidents, as well as the occasional “screw you for sending me to my room” non-accidents.

Our potty training journey was ripe with “incidents.” For instance, there was the time my son, almost two at the time, was taking a bath, which promptly ended when we peed in said bath. I took him out of the water and wrapped him in a towel, but before I could get a diaper on him, he was off like a shot, shedding his towel in his haste. He ran into the kitchen where his father was, knelt down on all fours and crawled over to my husband barking like a dog. He then proceeded to stop in front of my husband, squat, and poop one solid turd in front of him, then he was on his way again. I have to admit, at that moment I was proud; he’d managed to hold his poop until the end of the bath. You have to celebrate even the smallest victories when potty training.

Even just a few days ago we had an “incident.” Even though my son poops on the potty now (most of the time, occasionally he prefers near a tree in the backyard), he has trouble with the whole bum wiping. Nothing delights me more than to be just sitting down to a quiet moment, finally getting a chance to eat lunch, when five treasured little words are hollered down the hall, “I need my bum wiped.” Oh yay! Upon entering the bathroom, a greeting like no other is given, as a tiny little bare bottom faces the door with hands spreading cheeks and aforementioned butt awaits wiping. As I relished in this wonderful event the other day, I couldn’t help but notice the poop to be a little, well… squishier than usual. I began to ask if my son was feeling okay, when, mid wipe, I received a sudden surprise of more poop deposited into the wipe. “You’re pooping again!” I yelled as I as tried to figure out how to get the tiny bottom back on the toilet without the poop getting all over the freshly cleaned bathroom. Eventually I resigned myself to my fate, realizing that I was better off just catching the poop in a wipe or two than risk getting it everywhere and creating a big mess that I would have to clean. This was not one of those moments to celebrate.

So I admit, when I questioned my two and a half year old yesterday, as I changed yet another fruit induced near blow out, if he wanted to start pooping on the potty and he defiantly shouted “no,” I breathed a little sigh of relief knowing that his answer had just bought me another month before I’ll need to start down the potty training road again. In the meantime, I will just encourage him to save most of his pooping for evenings and weekends, when his father is home.



Its not a joke Mom

“Sometimes my penis does that. It hangs off to the side and down my pants on my leg. It’s not a joke Mom.” My four year old’s response to a comment I made, while changing the baby’s diaper, about how he peed out the side of his diaper the other day.

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