Using Your Power For Good Instead of Evil

My children are a force of destruction. Sometimes, destruction can be a good thing. Wrecking balls have a purpose, after all. They are used to destroy old, dilapidated buildings so that new, modern, and more structurally sound buildings can be built. My children; however, choose to use their destructive powers for evil, rather than good.

This morning, I gave the boys fruit cups with mandarin oranges with their breakfast and then went into the living room to feed the baby. The next thing I know, I hear Simon say "Pill orange, Mama." I enter the kitchen to discover a sticky puddle all over the kitchen chair, the floor, the table, and my two-year-old, who proceeds to be seized by a sudden desire to wander about the house spreading his stickiness all over the place. I then spend the remainder of the morning wiping down the child and the house.

By the time I'm finished cleaning up from the breakfast demolition, it's time to make lunch. I busy myself with making a delicious and nutritious lunch for my darling children. I then call out, "Lunchtime!" Simon shows up, and as I'm lifting him onto his chair, I notice orange paint on his belly. Um. Yeah.

I go downstairs to find that my children have spread finger paint and pompoms all over the spare bedroom. All I can see is a Jackson Pollack design all over the bedroom in orange, accentuated by the bright colors of the pompoms.

If I wasn't so horrified, I would have taken a moment to appreciate the true artistry involved in creating such a mess.

I had to take a while to cool down before I could mete out consequences. I considered tarring and feathering them with finger paint and pompoms, but decided that I would end up being the one to clean them up afterward, and they probably would think it great fun, anyhow. I also considered forcing them to eat nothing but broccoli for dinner for a week, but that seemed cruel and unusual. Or at least cruel. So, I ended up taking away the iPad for a week. Which works out great for me, because now I don't have to share it, and I can play SimCity to my heart's content- at least when I'm not busy cleaning up after my children...

Truly, though. My children's destructive powers are amazing. Now, I wonder... How can I harness this power, and channel it into something good? Use it for good rather than evil? Any suggestions???


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More Evidence That My Children are Communists

Jackson's favorite color is RED. Everybody knows that red is the color of communism. Think about it: The hammer and the sickle were on a background of RED. The Chinese flag is RED. The Cuban flag has RED in it. And, everyone knows that Vladimir Lenin had RED EYES. Yes, it's true, he had RED EYES! Now, I ask you, if Jackson is not communist, then why is RED his favorite color???




Vladimir Lenin

So This is What it Feels Like to be Pecked to Death by a Duck

What is it about the drive to and from church that brings out the worst in us? I remember hearing my dad say, "Geez!" multiple times on
Sunday mornings, as we were always late for one reason or another. I always swore that Sunday mornings would be the essence of tranquility when I grew up and had my own family.

Um, yeeeah.

Of course, I arrive late at everything. I usually blame my tardiness on my children; to be honest, I have found that my tardiness increases exponentially with each child. However, I have never been one to arrive early, and punctuality has always been a struggle of mine. Having children provides an easy excuse for tardiness. So, needless to say, we arrived at church late this past Sunday.

The real fun began on the way home from church. Just as we got all three kids loaded into the car, and we got on our way for the trek from Chevy Chase to Rockville, our baby started to cry. Caelyn gives absolutely no warning whatsoever when she is about to lose it. She goes from happy to super ticked in 5.2 seconds flat. And woe to us who fail to respond immediately to her demands. But, the poor thing is the third child, so it is her lot to cry for extended periods of time because her parents are too worn out/busy/overwhelmed/insane to actually respond to her cries. Believe me when I say that the Mommy Guilt over my poor third child is indeed a heavy burden for me.

So, Caelyn was wailing for a good twenty minutes when Simon, our middle child started to shout, "Mama!Mama!Mama!MAMA!MAMA!MAMA!!!MAMAAAAAAAA!!!MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I, the picture of motherly peace and tranquility turned around and shouted back, "What, Simon?!"

"Juice, please." (With Caelyn still screaming in the background.)

"Honey," I calmly said over the noise of Caelyn's screaming, "I do not have any juice in the car. I will get you juice when we get home." I turned back around and resumed trying to tune out my poor daughter's cries by staring out the windshield at the sky.

Suddenly, I was torn from my happy place with, "MAMA! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please! Juice, please!" And it just kept going, and going, and going. I couldn't even respond to him because he just kept shouting, "Juice, please!" over and over and over and over and over again! I am telling you, friends, that it felt like I was being pecked to death by a duck!

I turned back around, looked at Simon and heard myself exclaim, "Simon! How bout I just pull some juice out of my bunghole for you?!"

At that very moment, a hush fell over the car. The baby paused in her screaming. Simon stared silently at me. Chris' eyes grew wide. And I heard a quiet voice in the way back of the van. The voice of my four-year-old son. He said, "Bunghole." And then he chuckled.






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