In a discussion this evening regarding his new sneakers:

Mr. Sixth Grade: Mom, you wouldn’t know cool if it hit you in the butt.

Mr. Sixth Grade: I mean maybe in the 70’s or something*, but not now.

Then again, earlier this evening he threatened his younger brother saying that he wished he could “summon a magical unicorn to silence him” or he might be forced to use his “curls of fury.”

I may not be cool, but I am smart enough to record these conversations for future embarrassment.

*Would you take a look at the size of that swish.

And yet again I’m sitting here contemplating the extreme altitude of my level of suckiness as a mother.

My kids are good kids–for the most part they are well-behaved, kind and funny. They listen to me often.

And then some days, over the simplest tasks, I am completely drawn up by my inability to negotiate a desired outcome.

Mr. 5 was in desperate need of hosing down this evening. I mean I can excuse a little dirt, but he was on the verge of being “the dirty kid” in his class. A shower or bath was in order. He agreed. All was fine.

And then the time to get wet and sudsy came, and he refused my proposition.

Now granted, this child probably can’t be held responsible for his skills in the ways of obstinance. Being adopted we’re not so sure of the genetics I brought to the table, but considering only the known players it would be entirely accurate to describe my son as the Vortex of Stubbornness.

Case in point–the flip flops.

On a lark a few years ago, I bought my then two and half year old a pair of flip flops from Old Navy for the Fourth of July. I had no idea at the time that he would wear those flip flops for the next 18 months to the exclusion of all other shoes. That is until I was required to purchase two new pairs in the next size. He decided to mix the new pairs and wear one army green flop and one red, white and blue flop for the next twelve months after that. And god forbid I try to bring him the other set of mates. THOSE were not his flops.

But you live in Virginia Mamma, don’t you? I can hear you saying that now. Yes we do. And it does get cold here in the winter (for at least a week or two).

You most certainly didn’t let him out of the house in flops in the cold weather, did you Mamma? Listen kids, tonight isn’t the first time I’ve decided I suck as a parent. But no, I didn’t let him go out in flops. I had to buy him slip-on rubber sandals that looked like Birkenstocks (pre-Crocs days) so he could at least have socks on under the sandals.

Sheesh! I may take a certain amount of joy in the fact that my son asserts his individuality through the wearing of two different flip flops, but I will not allow his toes to freeze. I mean how would he get a date in high school if he didn’t have any toes?!

Now there was one little snow storm we had during one of the “flop winters.” Mother Nature treated us to eight inches of the lovely white stuff. School was cancelled, we stayed home from work (it is Virginia after all) and we ran to the closets and pulled boxes out from under the beds in search of our snow clothes.

And then I pulled out the boots for Mr. Stubborn.

Oh no! He was not going to wear those boots. They covered his toes for christ sake!

And so the rest of the family trudged out in the snow to frolic and Mr. Stubborn stood at the kitchen door watching us have our fun–with tears streaking down his face. I offered him the boots. He wanted to come out. But he was not about to cover his toes with SHOES.

And so he missed playing in the one decent snow fall we’d had in a long while.

Anyway…

Tonight the Vortex raised its ugly head. He was not going to bathe. He didn’t want to go to bed. And that was that. I tried to reason with him. I tried to be tough. I left him alone for a few minutes. I counted to five. I gave him options. I started the shower. I turned off the shower.

I failed.

And then the hubs went upstairs. And I heard the water come on. And then a chipper little guy came downstairs all clean and shiny.

Fucking husband! Parenting guru freak!

Following a line of reasoning I haven’t quite wrapped my own head around, Mr. 3 is feeling even more invincible now that I’ve convinced him not to wear Pull-Ups today.

Up on the bench in my kitchen, squaring up to his brother:

Mr. 3 to Mr. 5: Punch me in my penis.

What is this boy going to be like in college??

Mr. 3 after falling off the bench in the kitchen last night:

The Dad: Are you okay? What did you hit?
Mr. 3: The floor

Mr. 5 sitting next to me on the couch:

Mr. 5: I just farted.
Me: What are you supposed to say?
Mr. 5: It stinks.

Mr. 11 calling me at 6:30 p.m. while I’m in Target–and it’s raining outside:

Me: Hello?
Mr. 11: Mom, it’s me. Have you seen my shoes?
Me: Um? Not since this morning. I’m at Target.
Mr. 11: I can’t find my shoes.
Me: Did you look around? Did you look in my room?
Mr. 11: I can’t find them anywhere! I don’t know where they are.
Me: It’s raining outside and dark. You don’t need them right now do you?
Mr. 11: I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find them. Moooom…
Me: I can’t do much about it right now. I’m at Target.
Mr. 11: Well! I can’t find my shoes. I’m not going to be able to go to school tomorrow.

Friday night me and the hubs got a little time to ourselves. It was late. We tried to start something, but we just couldn’t–um–finish. I got a little upset, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I then woke up to the sound of the hubs dry heaving in the bathroom–bad sour cream we think.

The next day…

Me: Do we need to talk about last night?
Hubs: Um.
Me: Is there something wrong? Is our sex life over?
Hubs: No. No.
Me: Was it because you felt so bad?
Hubs: Yeah, that sour cream killed me.
Me: Well why didn’t you tell me to stop?
Hubs: I didn’t want to say “Hey babe I gotta stop I think I’m going to throw up.”
Me: Awww. You wanted to save my ego?

Am I a lucky girl to be living with these four guys or what??

I’m laying with Mr. 5 tonight trying to get him to fall asleep. We’re chatting about our day, and so goes the conversation.

Me: What one thing do you think you’re going to ask Santa for Christmas?
Mr. 5: I don’t know. Maybe a car. You know a big one.
Me: The kind with a remote or one you push with your hands?
Mr. 5: The kind that goes on it’s own. You know.
Me: ??
Mr. 5: Like the kind our friend has, that you can ride in.
Me: Oh does she drive it?
Mr. 5: Not anymore it broke.
Me: We don’t have room for one of those.

Changing the subject…

Me: You know there are some kids who don’t get gifts from their parents on Christmas?
Mr. 5: Why?
Me: Their parents don’t have money to buy them.
Mr. 5: holds up his hands and begins spreading some of his fingers apart
Me: I was thinking we might buy some presents for those kids, you know so they can have presents too on Christmas.
Mr. 5: nodding to his hands Do these look like chameleon hands to you?
Me: Were you even listening to me? I’m trying to talk to you about something.
Mr. 5: Yeah, yeah. Kids don’t get Christmas presents.
Me: Yes. I think we should buy presents for them.
Mr. 5: I heard you, but now it’s time for me to talk. Don’t you think these look like chameleon hands?

Trying another approach…

Me: What do you think we should get Daddy for Christmas?
Mr. 5: I don’t know.
Me: What do you think he’d like?
Mr. 5: Something boring. You guys always get boring presents.
Mr. 5: Can you make chameleon hands?

I tried…

And I’m not talking about the 18″ zucchini we just harvested from my garden–though the sucker is big.

No, tonight it’s Mr. 5.

Mr. 5 is my son best characterized as a golden retriever (right now Mr. 11 is a whippet and Mr. 3 is a Jack Russell, but that’s always subject to change). He’s sweet and happy and full of love, and playing with my hair has always been his comforting device–even as far back as when I was nursing him in public.

Mr. 5 and I were laying in bed tonight. He played with my hair as I read him his story. Tonight’s selection was Johnny Appleseed. We came to the part that described Johnny as a peace-loving pioneer who wanted all people to live together as brothers. And that’s when Mr. 5 did it, when he made my heart swell. He stopped me and said, “and sisters too.”

My budding feminist!

To top the whole evening off, he snuggled his nose up to mine as the story finished and told me he loved me. “I love you mama, so much.”

Thank you my sweet boy. That is the best gift I could ever receive. I will love you forever.

While standing at the table doing puzzles:

Mr. 3: I fart in the tub and bubbles come out.

Mr. 5: Awesome.

One of Charlotte’s babies has taken up residence under my eave. Protecting her safety has become an act of daily vigilance on my part.

Why are bearers of the Y chromosome so horrified by spiders?

Some of the burliest men I know (my brother and the four penis-bearers in my house, as well) can be reduced to wimpering ninnies at the sight of a spider in their path.

And I don’t get it.

Spiders eat the other insects that aren’t as pleasant to be around. They protect small pink pigs (one of my favorite books as a child) and they do cool things in space.

What’s to fear?

Now disease carrying rats, venom-spewing snakes and squirrely administration officials–that’s the stuff of horror films.

I had the following conversations with my sons.

A, The eldest: My breath stinks and my teeth feel like rocks.
Me: Why are you taking my toothpaste? You have three tubes in your bathroom.
A, The eldest: I need manly toothpaste mom.

Yeah, he’s not eleven yet.

And then in the bath:

P, the small: Look at my pickles. (Grabbing his testicles)
Me: Your what?
P, the small: My pickles.
Me: Oh no. You know what those called. Those are your testicles.
P, the small: My teckles. This one’s Oodie and this one’s Chonk.

I fear for the women who will date my son.

J, the middle has yet to regale me with any of his wisdom, but the night is still young.

We are getting the sense that Mr. 3 feels better sleeping if he’s well-protected.

Last night:

Shakey [to Mr. 3]: Tell mommy what you’re wearing.

Mr. 3: I have a diaper, a pull-up, underwear and my foot jamas on.

So it’s that or he thought we’d be playing strip poker later.