I haven't posted in a terribly long time, and for that, I apologize. I have gotten bogged down in my day to day routine, unable to think up something to write. My life, to be honest, is pretty mundane. Its not the sort of crazed ride that makes for gloriously entertaining stories. For the most part, it sticks to a rather dull routine: kids, diapers, dishes, laundry, cleaning, cooking, etc. Housewife stuff.
For example, the other day, I awoke to small fingers prying open my eyelids. Once Sam had managed that, he perched himself on my chest, grabbed my face in two icy hands, and, my rapt attention now assured, demonstrated a remarkable ability to blow snot bubbles from his nose. Two inches from my face. The fact that I muttered "Yes, very nice", and seriously attempted to go back to sleep should tell you all you need to know about what having four children does to a person.
From there, the day evolves into a continuous attempt to keep Astrid alive. I was fortunate, most of my parenting life: my previous three children were not particularly bad about putting things in their mouthes. I mean, like all babies, they did it. It's a normal developmental stage, after all. But Astrid has taken this to an utterly ridiculous level. I vacuum multiple times a day. I scan the room like I'm back in Iraq, looking for roadside bombs. I have an uncanny ability to predict when she is going to find something. And I have utilized the "Clear Obstructed Airway; Infant" part of my training far more than anyone should. This child will chew bark, toy dinosaurs, rocks, yarn, clumps of dog hair, legos, hair clips, ear buds, puzzle pieces, electrical cords, baby wipes...you name it, I've probably fished it out of her mouth. The only thing she doesn't want to put in her mouth? Any type of food that doesn't come out of a boob. Oh, and did I mention? She bites.
While I'm in the living room, performing the Heimlich maneuver for the 10th time that day, Samuel might decide that his toy helicopters need to stage a dramatic rescue of his toy trains. My darling Sam certainly has a flair for this sort of thing: a dramatic rescue needs a dramatic location. What could be more dramatic than a beautiful waterfall and a treacherous cliff? It turns out that the Costco-sized container of blue dish soap, poured out onto the granite countertops in the kitchen, will cascade to the floor, producing a beautiful pond that is just perfect for this. And, as a bonus, after two solid hours of work, mom will have the cleanest floors in Rock County.
Just about the time the floor gets finished, Sam will pop back in to see what I'm up to, and..."Sam. Where are your clothes?" "Idda know", he says with an adorable shrug, and runs off. This is a frequent situation around here. My beloved husband was concerned that Sam didn't know how to dress himself, and so began an attempt to teach this (admittedly, very important) life-skill. Somehow, while he hasn't managed to actually get himself dressed yet, Sam turned out to have a remarkable aptitude for the reverse. Even more remarkable, there are at least two entire outfits that have vanished without a trace. I have moved furniture, emptied dressers and closets, climbed into every corner of the house, and they are nowhere to be found.
The nudity doesn't bother me, on it's own. It's the other implications. Sam knows how to use the potty, but his relationship with it is...complicated. Asking if he needs to go will likely prompt a shrieking tantrum. And yet, more than once I have walked into the bathroom to discover that he has, without saying a word and with no help at all, gone in and used the potty. If I ask him about it, cheer for him, attempt to reward him for his AMAZING ABILITY TO USE THE POTTY!!, he will run away, hide behind the couch, and insist that it wasn't him. More problematic still is when he appears, stark naked, and his legs are wet. If I'm really lucky (ha!), I will find a little puddle on the wood floors. More likely, I will have to strip off my socks and walk around the carpet, trying to find the wet spots (Yes, it's gross. Parenting is gross. Kids are gross. Nature of the beast, my friends). If I'm really unlucky, he will have peed down the heating duct on the floor.
If you think that the peeing and random shedding of clothing leads to a lot of laundry, well, you are right (and you probably have children). The kids love to help with laundry. Bryn helps by keeping all her dirty laundry in her room until she has been reduced to spandex gym shorts and a tanktop....and it's -40 degrees. Astrid helps by her knack for flipping over baskets of clean, folded clothes. It's amazing, since the baskets easily weigh more than she does, or are placed on top of things, where she cannot possibly reach. And yet, somehow, she does it. Sam, when he's not stripping off his clothes and hiding them, likes to empty his dresser into the laundry hamper, prompting the always-entertaining "sniff test".
At least the laundry room is calm. Quiet. A comfortable 95 degrees with a warm, ruddy glow....wait, your laundry room isn't like that? Oh. Oh yes. Well, it isn't *always* like that. Just right now. Hear that peeping noise? Yeah, there are eight baby chickens in a rubbermaid tub under a heat lamp over in the corner. Why are you looking at me like that? You don't have chickens in your laundry room? Well, good heavens! Where on earth do you keep them?!
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