I recently read that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had a 9ft bed specially made so that it would fit themselves and their 4 children. Brad was then quoted as saying that they would soon need to move up to an 11 ft. bed.
As flawed as my imagination might be, I couldn’t help but picture a stunning Angelina in satin nightie and flowing hair propped up on her elbow looking lovingly across 4 spread eagled children towards an equally handsome and well coiffed Brad. They reach out their hands to try and touch fingertips together but come up several feet short, smile fondly and then stretch out with infinite space in which to seek restful sleep.
I actually felt a little sad for them as I lay tightly snuggled against my husband’s back in our full sized bed. The baby, having gotten up 20 minutes earlier, was tucked into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder. I sigh contentedly.
I hear footsteps and Joshua appears at our door. He sees us still sleeping and comes and climbs in at the bottom of the bed. He intertwines his body around our legs and quietly snuggles in. The baby begins to thrash and whine a little as I adjust my body to accommodate Josh and the disturbance brings a grumble from my husband’s back.
We re-adjust and everyone quiets down again.
The door creaks and I see Ben sneaking in with his arms laden with 2 stuffed animals, a sippy cup, book and his Buzz Lightyear toy that has lights that spin above his head when the legs are pressed together. He starts to chuck his paraphernalia into the bed hitting Brett in the back with his sippy cup and the baby in the head with the book. The quiet is now officially broken. He hoists his body into the bed and seeing that all horizontal space is taken, firmly positions himself on my face.
Brett glances over his shoulder with a scowl and scoots closer to the edge so that the ice cold sippy cup is no longer pressed against his back, but now falls into a crack to begin rapidly leaking onto the sheets. I move my head to find an air pocket and re-adjust the baby so I can rub the tiny bump developing on his forehead. I no longer have a view of the door but become aware of the presence of another child when the mattress dips heavily and my chest becomes uncomfortably restricted. I adjust my breathing to take shallow breaths and fight desperately to keep my air pocket open when Josh starts screaming “OW! Mom, you’re kicking me!!”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to breathe.”
“Why can’t they sleep in their own beds?” comes the cranky response from the shivering mound now desperately trying to fit his 6ft frame into the 4 remaining inches on the side of the bed.
“Josh! I want some covers, you can’t take them all!” whines Will and begins a tug of war that quickly removes all remaining air from my lungs.
I feel a warm, oozy sludge run slowly down my neck and into my hair as I begin to lose consciousness.
I’m in a tunnel now and see light up ahead. It is flashing and colorful and I begin to run towards it. I reach up and feel something hard and cold. I crack and eye and realize that it’s Buzz Lightyear with his lights buzzing wildly above his head.
Brett has finally given up his attempt to ignore the 4 children screaming and jumping on his bruised and battered body and rolls off the last 2 inches of mattress and onto the floor. The shift sends the mountain of children falling off my chest and oxygen floods back into my lungs.
I’m laying in the cold, wet remnants of the emptied sippy cup with spit up plastered and crusting in my hair. The kids are still fighting over blankets at the foot of the bed and Ben is animatedly playing with his 2 stuffed animals. Desperate for some of the tranquility I woke up with, I seek out Sam and lovingly cradle him on my chest. He looks at me and smiles past his pacifier. I smile back as he reaches up and removes the drippy, drooly binky from his mouth and firmly shoves it in my mouth.
I bolt upright sputtering and spitting with children flying everywhere as I jerk pillows and blankets out from under them to try and wipe out my mouth. I barely grab Sam’s leg as he begins to topple over the side and the incensed cries and yells from fallen children fill the room. Breathing heavily I look over at my husband who still has a sour look on his face and firmly declare “I want a 9 foot bed!”
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Day in the Life
Its 5am and I’m awakened by the rapid pattering of barefeet. Seconds later my two year old hoists himself and his bevy of bedtime essentials into our bed. He snuggles in and I hope for another couple hours of sleep. At 7am I waken again after a fitful attempt to sleep with a thrashing toddler and realize that I’m wet. I’m hoping this is due to a leaky sippy cup as opposed to a leaky diaper but I am not so lucky.
I put on a clean pair of pajamas (getting dressed means I’m ready to be productive, and I’m just not there yet), and start making breakfast for the other kids groggily emerging from their rooms. I’m feeling industrious so I make bacon and eggs.
The boys sit down at breakfast and begin complaining that they wanted cereal. “Children all over the world would love to have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You’re lucky to have food at all!” I respond.
Halfway through breakfast I realize that Ben has not touched a single bite of his food but has opted to grab the dry cereal off the baby’s tray and shove it in his toy sharks mouth and pulverize it to dust. He then takes his toy truck and begins running it through the remnants in order to assure maximum destruction. My husband looks contemplatively at his son and his untouched food and says “How does he grow?” “I have no idea” I respond.
Seven complaints and a tantrum later, breakfast is cleaned up and Brett is off to work. I start a pot of coffee and inform the troops that they are to get dressed, brush their teeth and make their beds.
I settle down in front of the computer to read the news with my cup of coffee and, upon hearing ten pounds of Legos being dumped on the floor, realize that it has been 20 minutes since my last finger sweep of Sam’s mouth where I find a mangled mass of cardboard which I soon identify as a puzzle piece.
Overall, the morning is quite peaceful as the boys are careful not to fight because they know that at the first signs of discontent, they will bring to my attention their blatant disobedience to get ready for the day.
After working at the computer for a bit, I decide it’s finally time to get dressed but at the sight of Ben’s soaked diaper hanging between his legs, I chose to change him first. It is only hanging mid-thigh and I usually try to wait until it hits his knees but I’m feeling industrious. For good measure I grab Sam as well and secretly praise myself for being so efficient. I grab 2 diapers and set them both on the hallway floor for changing. Upon opening Sam’s diaper, I am met with a pungent odor I had not expected. “UNDIAGNOSED POOP! UNDIAGNOSED POOP!” I shout. The alarm is sounded and my boys respond with the efficiency of soldiers at the wail of a bomb raid. William runs and throws his body across Sam while I struggle to keep his legs and hands from spreading the mess. Josh runs for the box of baby wipes and Ben lays in utter stillness and silence. It is a serious moment and we all exhale a sigh of relief when it is over.
When I come in from disposing of the soiled diapers, I find Sam sitting in front of the computer as if waiting for my presence before he reaches up to push the power button. As I am ½ an hour into writing a 45th Anniversary letter to my parents, I streak across the house and dive for his hand. In the scuffle, it is MY hand that brushes the power button and deletes all my heartfelt musings. I teach Ben a few choice words to reveal in front of company while I do another finger sweep of Sam’s mouth to discover a honey roasted peanut and a wadded mass of paper that looks a lot like a check stub. I remove the paper and give him back the peanut.
I make lunch then put the younger two down for a nap while the older two escape outside and begin digging a trench in our newly seeded yard. I sigh and decide to be content that at least they aren’t trying to dig up our dead cat again and that the house is quiet.
I start washing sheets and realize that I can no longer put off cleaning the bathrooms as I find that the toilet in the boy’s bathroom is no longer fit to urinate in.
While hanging the sheets on the clothesline, I see the boys have created a small pond in their trench and have taken their $30 Playmobile Pirate ship to sink into its muddy depths. I close my eyes and decide to go inside and clean the kitchen then start in again on my 45th Anniversary tribute to my parents (“Congratulations guys, I think you’re neat” is all I seem to manage). I hear whoops and hollers outside and see that the boys are now jumping on the trampoline – naked.
Ben wakes up from his nap and staggers out of his room, also naked. I go to investigate and find a completely dry diaper sitting on the floor and his bed completely soaked from mattress pad to comforter. I strip the bed and begin yet another load of laundry.
By 5:00, the boys beds are still unmade, their teeth unbrushed and I’m still in my pajamas. Ben has dumped all his toys bins so I call the boys in to begin cleaning up the mess. There is much protesting as they begin to whine that it is Ben’s mess so I take the much anticipated moment to delve into my speech of how I clean up their messes all day long and maybe this will help them to have a little more appreciation for what I do. They roll their eyes and decide to just clean it up before I can start in on my “You should be thankful to even have toys” tirade.
Brett calls from work to tell me he is going to be late. I’m bummed but decide to look on the bright side that I can just throw some granola bars and bananas at the boys for dinner.
It’s 7:00 and we’re approaching Zero Barrier. Bathtime.
I attempt to stem the flow of disaster by informing the boys that they are to get in the shower, get wet, soaped, rinsed and OUT of the shower. There is to be no splashing, playing, yelling or fighting.
An hour later, the boys are running around the house naked and screaming. I’m trying to sop up the water on the floor and wipe the water droplets ominously hanging from the ceiling like stalactites while yelling over my shoulder at several sets of deaf ears, “Just how hard is it to keep the water INSIDE the tub??”
I’m harried and ready for the house to be quiet again and try to rush through bedtime prayers, but Ben finds it necessary that every item in his bed, including the Spiderman on his pajama shirt, has a turn to pray and the quickie ritual is stretched out an agonizing 20 minutes.
The baby starts crying and Josh begins praying for the safety and provision of the whole world. I sigh heavily and try to get my mind on what is important (the spiritual growth of my son) but after he begins to pray that everyone he knows does not have nightmares that night, I begin to get antsy. Sam is still crying when Josh closes his prayer “Thank you God that I have such a good mommy who is pretty and smells good. Amen.” I silently leave his room and return with a package of cookies for him to sleep with and then go and put the baby to sleep. From the rocking chair I see the stack of inedible items on the counter that I rescued from his mouth – an eraser, 3 legos, a piece of plastic, a knarled up page from a book, 2 more puzzle pieces and a baby wipe which I desperately hope was nicked from the wipes box and not the trash.
By the time Brett gets home, I am sitting down on the couch for the first time that day. “So, what did you do today?” he asks. I look around me and realize that the house looks as though I’ve been in bed reading romance novels all day. I give a heavy, defeated sigh and respond, “Nothing.”
I put on a clean pair of pajamas (getting dressed means I’m ready to be productive, and I’m just not there yet), and start making breakfast for the other kids groggily emerging from their rooms. I’m feeling industrious so I make bacon and eggs.
The boys sit down at breakfast and begin complaining that they wanted cereal. “Children all over the world would love to have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You’re lucky to have food at all!” I respond.
Halfway through breakfast I realize that Ben has not touched a single bite of his food but has opted to grab the dry cereal off the baby’s tray and shove it in his toy sharks mouth and pulverize it to dust. He then takes his toy truck and begins running it through the remnants in order to assure maximum destruction. My husband looks contemplatively at his son and his untouched food and says “How does he grow?” “I have no idea” I respond.
Seven complaints and a tantrum later, breakfast is cleaned up and Brett is off to work. I start a pot of coffee and inform the troops that they are to get dressed, brush their teeth and make their beds.
I settle down in front of the computer to read the news with my cup of coffee and, upon hearing ten pounds of Legos being dumped on the floor, realize that it has been 20 minutes since my last finger sweep of Sam’s mouth where I find a mangled mass of cardboard which I soon identify as a puzzle piece.
Overall, the morning is quite peaceful as the boys are careful not to fight because they know that at the first signs of discontent, they will bring to my attention their blatant disobedience to get ready for the day.
After working at the computer for a bit, I decide it’s finally time to get dressed but at the sight of Ben’s soaked diaper hanging between his legs, I chose to change him first. It is only hanging mid-thigh and I usually try to wait until it hits his knees but I’m feeling industrious. For good measure I grab Sam as well and secretly praise myself for being so efficient. I grab 2 diapers and set them both on the hallway floor for changing. Upon opening Sam’s diaper, I am met with a pungent odor I had not expected. “UNDIAGNOSED POOP! UNDIAGNOSED POOP!” I shout. The alarm is sounded and my boys respond with the efficiency of soldiers at the wail of a bomb raid. William runs and throws his body across Sam while I struggle to keep his legs and hands from spreading the mess. Josh runs for the box of baby wipes and Ben lays in utter stillness and silence. It is a serious moment and we all exhale a sigh of relief when it is over.
When I come in from disposing of the soiled diapers, I find Sam sitting in front of the computer as if waiting for my presence before he reaches up to push the power button. As I am ½ an hour into writing a 45th Anniversary letter to my parents, I streak across the house and dive for his hand. In the scuffle, it is MY hand that brushes the power button and deletes all my heartfelt musings. I teach Ben a few choice words to reveal in front of company while I do another finger sweep of Sam’s mouth to discover a honey roasted peanut and a wadded mass of paper that looks a lot like a check stub. I remove the paper and give him back the peanut.
I make lunch then put the younger two down for a nap while the older two escape outside and begin digging a trench in our newly seeded yard. I sigh and decide to be content that at least they aren’t trying to dig up our dead cat again and that the house is quiet.
I start washing sheets and realize that I can no longer put off cleaning the bathrooms as I find that the toilet in the boy’s bathroom is no longer fit to urinate in.
While hanging the sheets on the clothesline, I see the boys have created a small pond in their trench and have taken their $30 Playmobile Pirate ship to sink into its muddy depths. I close my eyes and decide to go inside and clean the kitchen then start in again on my 45th Anniversary tribute to my parents (“Congratulations guys, I think you’re neat” is all I seem to manage). I hear whoops and hollers outside and see that the boys are now jumping on the trampoline – naked.
Ben wakes up from his nap and staggers out of his room, also naked. I go to investigate and find a completely dry diaper sitting on the floor and his bed completely soaked from mattress pad to comforter. I strip the bed and begin yet another load of laundry.
By 5:00, the boys beds are still unmade, their teeth unbrushed and I’m still in my pajamas. Ben has dumped all his toys bins so I call the boys in to begin cleaning up the mess. There is much protesting as they begin to whine that it is Ben’s mess so I take the much anticipated moment to delve into my speech of how I clean up their messes all day long and maybe this will help them to have a little more appreciation for what I do. They roll their eyes and decide to just clean it up before I can start in on my “You should be thankful to even have toys” tirade.
Brett calls from work to tell me he is going to be late. I’m bummed but decide to look on the bright side that I can just throw some granola bars and bananas at the boys for dinner.
It’s 7:00 and we’re approaching Zero Barrier. Bathtime.
I attempt to stem the flow of disaster by informing the boys that they are to get in the shower, get wet, soaped, rinsed and OUT of the shower. There is to be no splashing, playing, yelling or fighting.
An hour later, the boys are running around the house naked and screaming. I’m trying to sop up the water on the floor and wipe the water droplets ominously hanging from the ceiling like stalactites while yelling over my shoulder at several sets of deaf ears, “Just how hard is it to keep the water INSIDE the tub??”
I’m harried and ready for the house to be quiet again and try to rush through bedtime prayers, but Ben finds it necessary that every item in his bed, including the Spiderman on his pajama shirt, has a turn to pray and the quickie ritual is stretched out an agonizing 20 minutes.
The baby starts crying and Josh begins praying for the safety and provision of the whole world. I sigh heavily and try to get my mind on what is important (the spiritual growth of my son) but after he begins to pray that everyone he knows does not have nightmares that night, I begin to get antsy. Sam is still crying when Josh closes his prayer “Thank you God that I have such a good mommy who is pretty and smells good. Amen.” I silently leave his room and return with a package of cookies for him to sleep with and then go and put the baby to sleep. From the rocking chair I see the stack of inedible items on the counter that I rescued from his mouth – an eraser, 3 legos, a piece of plastic, a knarled up page from a book, 2 more puzzle pieces and a baby wipe which I desperately hope was nicked from the wipes box and not the trash.
By the time Brett gets home, I am sitting down on the couch for the first time that day. “So, what did you do today?” he asks. I look around me and realize that the house looks as though I’ve been in bed reading romance novels all day. I give a heavy, defeated sigh and respond, “Nothing.”
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Products We Mommies Really Want
Vomit Alarm
In case there is anyone out there in that great void of blogland that works in the Product Development Industry, I thought I would give you a budge towards some products that us mommies REALLY want.
I will begin with a product that I could have used this morning for example. A Vomit Alarm.
Too many times have I lain an ailing child on the couch with a pillow, blanket and bowl and their list of instructions: “If you feel like you need to throw up, run like hell to the bathroom and do it in the toilet. If someone is on said toilet, grab them and throw them to the floor. If you feel like you may not make it to the bathroom, then USE THIS BOWL! You are washable, my couch and carpet are not. Do you understand these rules as I have stated them to you?” A feeble ‘yes’ is the usual reply, otherwise a weak nod of the head. After signing an affidavit, the ailing child is left to rest.
It is then a mystery to me how this same child, given all the tools and instructions necessary for the proper removal of one’s stomach contents, can then proceed to lean over the couch and heave all over the carpet while holding the bowl aloft in the other hand.
As many of us mommies have more than one child and cannot umpire with a bowl waiting for the pitch, a Vomit Alarm would certainly come in handy. I’ve attempted to set up a human alarm in the form of a sibling to come screaming when heaving begins, but they are usually more interested in watching the process and giving the standard “Ewww, gross!” to come and get me.
I’m not asking for anything elaborate, just a device that can measure the heave factor and give out the standard warning. A soothing female voice that will warn me as to when it is a false alarm (“Dry heaves commencing, comfort needed”) or when the stomach is in fact getting ready to empty it’s contents (“Regurgitation imminent, bring reinforcements”).
No more streaking through the house throwing children and chairs aside at the sound of a cough, no more washing sheets and showering children at 2am and no more wailing from a brother who had the misfortune of being in the lower bunk when the ailing child up top turned towards the wall instead of the bowl. Ah, the bliss of a vomit free environment.
Please stay tuned for more Products Mommies REALLY Want in future blogs.
In case there is anyone out there in that great void of blogland that works in the Product Development Industry, I thought I would give you a budge towards some products that us mommies REALLY want.
I will begin with a product that I could have used this morning for example. A Vomit Alarm.
Too many times have I lain an ailing child on the couch with a pillow, blanket and bowl and their list of instructions: “If you feel like you need to throw up, run like hell to the bathroom and do it in the toilet. If someone is on said toilet, grab them and throw them to the floor. If you feel like you may not make it to the bathroom, then USE THIS BOWL! You are washable, my couch and carpet are not. Do you understand these rules as I have stated them to you?” A feeble ‘yes’ is the usual reply, otherwise a weak nod of the head. After signing an affidavit, the ailing child is left to rest.
It is then a mystery to me how this same child, given all the tools and instructions necessary for the proper removal of one’s stomach contents, can then proceed to lean over the couch and heave all over the carpet while holding the bowl aloft in the other hand.
As many of us mommies have more than one child and cannot umpire with a bowl waiting for the pitch, a Vomit Alarm would certainly come in handy. I’ve attempted to set up a human alarm in the form of a sibling to come screaming when heaving begins, but they are usually more interested in watching the process and giving the standard “Ewww, gross!” to come and get me.
I’m not asking for anything elaborate, just a device that can measure the heave factor and give out the standard warning. A soothing female voice that will warn me as to when it is a false alarm (“Dry heaves commencing, comfort needed”) or when the stomach is in fact getting ready to empty it’s contents (“Regurgitation imminent, bring reinforcements”).
No more streaking through the house throwing children and chairs aside at the sound of a cough, no more washing sheets and showering children at 2am and no more wailing from a brother who had the misfortune of being in the lower bunk when the ailing child up top turned towards the wall instead of the bowl. Ah, the bliss of a vomit free environment.
Please stay tuned for more Products Mommies REALLY Want in future blogs.
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