Pajamas

First Child: Flame retardant, oxygen filled, radiation- proof union suit that is six sizes too small (as is required by law to qualify as flame retardant)ensures he/she will survive a nuclear blast to live amongst the cockroaches, even though no one else in your house will because, well, keep reading…

Second Child: Whatever first child wore, except that all the machine washings have worn off most of the armour that rendered the first child immortal.

Third Child: Just pull something outta the drawer. Snowman flannel pants in the middle of July paired with First Child’s old soccer jersey works as well as anything.

Sports

First Child thinks:  The soccer net is a really cool thing to climb on and the pitcher’s mound is the biggest pile of dirt I’ve ever seen!

Second Child thinks: I will kick the ball farther than First Child when it’s my turn to play next year.

Third Child thinks (even when autistic): You throw the ball, you hit the ball, you kick the ball, you catch the ball. When you do it well, everyone claps and yells “YAY!” Got it. Not too hard to figure out when most of your weekends are spent watching from the sidelines.

Emergencies/Injuries

First Child: You race to Pediatric Office/Urgent Care/ER with tears of fear and guilt streaming down your face. Hold complimentary popsicle in First Child’s mouth on way home, whether it is 6 hours or 6 minutes later. And you’re still not convinced he/she’s OK.

Second Child:  He shows off stitches to neighbor friends as a badge of honor and considers it a bonus that he has accumulated more over time than First Child has.

Third Child: When he points at the plug outlet, says “Ouchie! Hot!” while grabbing his finger, you assume he has learned his lesson the hard way.

 Immunizations

First Child: You can rattle off the dates of each shot given plus what, if any, reaction there was without missing a beat.

Second Child: You refer to the little pink card that thankfully, you seem to be able to remember to bring to each well visit.

Third Child: The pink card is blank. And still sitting in your hospital bag. You simply trust that since you’ve managed to keep Third Child on the well visit schedule that he or she has had the appropriate immunizations and so you answer “yes” whenever you are asked if Third Child is up to date. Also, your pediatric office has just about had it with the amount of times you’ve had to call them and ask them to fax Third Child’s records somewhere.

 It’s probably a good thing I don’t have any more children. They’d probably be expected to call cabs to get themselves home from the hospital after being born.

What’s the saying? I love you all equally but differently? Totally applies to my house.

As the dust settled after my son’s departure to college, my daughters jumped with joy at the chance to get their own rooms.  They’ve been sharing a bedroom since Eva’s birth.  Sometimes that was a heartwarming situation when I’d hear them giggle and talk at night while falling asleep.  Sometimes that was an headache-inducing situation when they’d fight over space, toys, clothes, dust bunnies….you name it, they fought over it.

Independence day arrived! Their ‘new’ rooms were freshly painted and decorated, and both girls were squealing in glee.  Annika promptly put a sign on her door that said ‘PRIVUTE, KEP OUT!’

The next day when I went to get them ready for school, I found Eva in her sister’s bed.  She had apparently gotten scared overnight, and off she went to what was familiar, warm and occasionally welcoming.  

A few mornings later, I found Annika in Eva’s bed. 

The other night, my husband relayed to me that Eva had decorated her soccer ball with a yellow-blanket (representing Annika’s hair), had named said soccer ball ‘Annika’, then proceeded to cuddle with this pseudo-sister as she fell asleep. 

Meanwhile my son, across the world in France, has been telling me how lonely he is in this strange land. 

Maybe I should ship him a soccer ball.

My older daughter Annika started choir practice this evening.  While she was la-la-la-ing, my youngest and I went in search of dinner.  I found this AMAZING Persian restaurant just down the street.  I was in heaven.  I cannot pronounce the names of the dishes, but they were eggplant-tabouleh-mint-and-parsley-flat-bread-ee-licious!

Eva, my picky eater, ate bread.   She did try the feta cheese and pronounced it edible, but that’s it. 

In her short 5 1/2 years on this planet, all she’s eaten (solid food) has been cheese, mac n cheese, cheese pizza, hot dogs with cheese (sense a trend?), and so forth.  I’ll sneak peas into her cheesy burger casserole and she’ll pick every last one out (and put them on MY plate).

This frustrates me to no end because I like all sorts of foods from all over the world, and yet at home I’m forced to make mac ‘n’ cheese and hot dogs  365 days a year.

We arrived home after practice and she was hungry, of course.  I looked in the fridge and asked what she would like.  Bless her heart she asked for ‘gnocchi’…with cheese on top. 

Baby steps.

One of the coolest things about my girls learning to read and write is that they pass me notes!  I find little notes all over the house, stuck to my mirror, sitting on my desk, buried in the junk drawer.

This week, Allie wrote notes to both Dave and me.  Here they are, with translations beneath:

“To Mommy you have taig care uf us you are a nis mom love is wat we have in awr hus I love mom Love Allie.”

Translation:  “To Mommy you have take care of us. You are a nice mom. Love is what we have in our house. I love mom. Love Allie.”

“Dad has funee in him!!! I like plaig with dad we hav love in are haus.”

Translation: “Dad has funny in him!!! I like playing with Dad. We have love in our house.”

I need nothing else in my life for happiness.

I know a place where all civility is thrown out the window. I know a place where a person can lose his life if he isn’t careful. I know a place where one can find some serious bad manners and road rage in action.

The school parking lot.

I’ve got to tell you, if you want to say that you have finally seen it all, you really need to experience the insanity that are the 15 minutes of dropping off and picking up of elementary school children from the parking lots of such schools. Just a few examples I’ve witnessed over the years…

Honking, gesturing and yelling “COME ON!” at a car who has stopped to wait for two third graders to use the crosswalk.

Parking in the handicapped space because it’s the one closest to the front door and therefore, the shortest distance to walk with a fourth grader’s science project.

Squealing of tires to prove that YOU are the one most in a hurry here, that’s why you had to go around the bus, even though its lights were flashing and the stop sign was activated.

And those are just a few! There are so many more I could mention! So could the principal–he just recently sent home his annual memo of “Parking Lot Helpful Hints” which really is an open plea for everyone to act like adults and follow basic rules of traffic courtesy and safety.

I am not trying to sound self righteous here. As an impatient person myself and also someone who often is running late, I can relate to the feelings of helplessness and urgency that the school parking lot can bring out. And my sons’ school? Has almost 700 students and quite possibly THE shortest/smallest space allotted for the drop off/pick up ritual. It has forced many of us to get pretty creative about how we are going to extract our children from the building in a safe manner yet still have them home before dark, or get them to school by the bell’s ring without having them flattened by someone who needed to be somewhere, like 5 minutes ago. It’s tough to do. 700 kids. One driveway.

Actually, recently, I finally got smart and just skipped the whole thing altogether. No, I didn’t sign my kids up for the overnight plan at the school, I just quit picking them up from the lot. I parked my car on one of the (very) nearby side streets and waited for the two of them to walk down the hill, cross the street with the crossing guard and then find my car amongst several other silver minivans (obviously, I’m not the only mom who’s figured out how to beat the system).

This was going very well until Ryan had the nerve to break his foot last weekend, meaning that I can’t really expect him to hobble all the way from his classroom to my off campus stakeout.

So for the next 3 weeks, I’ll be navigating the war zone once again. Back in the trenches.

Wish me luck. And kindly get outta my way!