Tag Archives: fights

Welcome, Foolish Mortals

Lately we’ve been acting as hosts to ghosts.  They’re actually very well known ghosts- perhaps you’ve heard of them?  Their names are “Not me” and “I don’t know”.

Not me and I don’t know have been extremely busy spirits, doing everything from tearing up the boys’ room to finishing off 3 bowls worth of cereal in one sitting.  Its extraordinary.  I know if I had died and had time on MY hands, I’d kick back and relax, but not these guys.  They’re constantly up to something.

Just recently these pesky poltergeists have even started to follow the boys to school!  I had naively thought that MAYBE the ghosts would take their own Summer vacation-

-yeah, I know its not Summer anymore, but its still Summer-y weather.  I thought they might be as confused as me and take a late vacation-

but there was no such luck.  If anything, they seem to have increased their activity!  I’ve almost started to wonder if our home is the newest spot for the ghost dimension- like Fort Lauderdale for the netherworld.

Rather than take an extended holiday, though, Not me and I don’t know started school with my boys and began a new year of shenanigans.  When asked why he was lying under his desk instead of sitting in his chair, Bug replied,”I don’t know,” which -I’m assuming means,”I don’t know” told him to do it, the naughty spirit.  And when asked who’s fault it was for Camo not being able to find his PE clothes, both boys answered,”Not me.”

I’ll admit, I’m a little worried that we’ve gotten so much supernatural interference in this house, but I’m hopeful that sooner or later, those restless spirits will find their peace and leave this place.

Until that day, though, its very apparent that Boystown will be hosting travelers from the Great Beyond.

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Armegeddon: The Tween Years

Lately, I feel as though there should be an announcer in our home, yelling over a microphone,”Let’s get ready to RUMBLE!”

I say something, I get a snarky comment.  I make an observation, I get a rude look.  I ask for something to get done, I get an argument.  I demand for something to get done, well, let the battle begin.

Nothing is easy lately- not that it ever really WAS, but it certainly isn’t getting any easier.  People told me it would get easier once kids get older, but now I have to ask- how old?  13?  16?  18?  21?  The day they have their own kid hit their tween years and they get it?  HOW OLD???

I can’t even ask for a simple request of,”Can you please put your dishes into the sink?” without it turning into a throwdown worthy of Pay Per View.  Suddenly, I’m the witch from a thousand Disney movies, all rolled into one horrifying mother figure, all because I’m trying to teach my son skills that will keep his future wife from maiming and/or killing him.

Its a scary thing, puberty.  If the changes could JUST be confined to his voice, we could all just have a laugh and call it a day, but no.  Suddenly, along with the hair, height and hilarity, there are evil things called “Hormones” lurking about.  Testosterone runs wild, waiting for the chance to take a joke too seriously, overreact to an everyday situation, or duel to the death over an imagined injustice.

Its enough to make a mom want to throw up her hands and ask,”Brangelina have adopted so many kids- maybe they’d be interested in 1 more…?”

And, I know, “This too shall pass”, but- really?  You’re going to put your brother in a head lock because he messed with your deck of Pokemon cards?  Come on.

Soooo… yeah.  Now that puberty has hit, its apparent that everyday will be a battle; sometimes us parents will win; sometimes heads will roll; but in the end, I’m almost certain the hubby and I will win the war and our obnoxious tween will come out a mature young man.

I think.  I hope.

How long does puberty last again?

A Moment of Silence for Sanity Lost

I’d like to take a moment of silence to honor a dear friend I lost today- my sanity.

I’m pretty sure I lost it between the cereal and candy aisles, but after much fruitless searching, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t anywhere to be found.

And, before you point it out, I am fully aware that asking for a moment of silence here at Boystown is, well, a laugh, but I’m a big fan of lost causes.

Anyways, while there’s quite the possibility that it was stolen from me, my money is on the assumption that it fled in mortal dread the moment the shrieking began, so I probably won’t see it again.  I’ve put together a few search parties and I’ve looked into advertising on milk cartons and billboards, but I’m pretty sure its no use.  My sanity is long gone and will most likely never return.  That doesn’t mean I’ll stop looking for it, but it just means that the longer its gone, the more I’ll cease to miss it as much.

Today will forever be burned into my mind, but I guess that’s the way it is for anyone who’s lost something so precious.  What started out as a simple trip to the store ended in turmoil, chaos, loss, and sadness.  The saying is true- you really never do fully appreciate something til its gone.  I should have held onto it tighter, but you just never stop to think that the combined strength of an 11 year old, 5 year old, and a 1 year old could rip something so seemingly strong from its owner.

And, once torn away, that was it.  It was gone.  Maybe it had wanted to leave, I mean, it was able to hang on through Camo’s TODDLER years.  TODDLER years.  Camo.  That’s not even willpower- that’s an act of God.

All I can figure is that my sanity stared into its cold, bleak, dark future that lied ahead- what, with Nicholas now at the walking/talking/ maiming/torturing stage and Camo hitting his pre-teens- and it simply… let go.

And I get that.  If you don’t see hope, its hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Poor sanity.  It must have been so scared.

So, in this moment, I will silently bid my old friend farewell.  Apparently, the question of how many kids it takes to destroy a lightbulb has been answered.

The answer is 3. ESPECIALLY if they’re boys.

Let’s get ready to RUMBLE!

“Is she awake?”
“I don’t know- check.”
“How do I check if she’s awake?”
“Poke her.”
“If I poke her, then she’ll definitely wake up.”
“Mom, you awake?”
“I TOLD you to poke her.”
“I’M AWAKE!”
Thus begins the start of my day. I could try and act like I’m sleeping for a little bit longer, but it just postpones the inevitable.
Every day is like this- a fight to sleep a little bit longer, a fight to get them dressed in an outfit resembling something other than an extra from Les Miserables, a fight to get them to do their hair so they don’t -once again- look like street urchins…
My life, as much as I love it, has started to look like a dialed down version of a WWE match- without the pile drivers and what not…
…though those MIGHT not be far behind.
My parents got me a program by one of those M.D.’s with all the credentials that promises “for $400, you’ll have your kids saying ‘Yes, Ma’am and Sir’ in NO time!”
The problem isn’t always them fighting with ME, though. I often find myself shouting out to the Heavens, asking if there’s a program that will help with sibling bloodshed/maiming. I’ve yet to hear God answer me back, but it could be because I can’t hear Him over the cacophony in the background. To be honest, though, I think -if we’re going to go down the Biblical route- if God allowed Cain and Able to fight like cats and dogs for a reason, well, maybe there’s a reason for the continual boxing match in MY house; and if THAT’S the case, it shouldn’t be too long til I hear one of them shout out, “I’m not my brother’s keeper!”
And all this happens before breakfast.
When I pictured my life with kids, the daily battles weren’t part of the sweet scenery I envisioned. I know I was naïve, but I had a lapse in memory of how things had been with MY parents. I briefly forgot about the grand confrontations my brother and I had- one of which broke the back of a recliner and involved a stick.
I let it slip from my mind that “Yes Ma’am and Sir” weren’t part of our vocabulary- that we had embraced the word “No” from the time we could talk.
I had discarded the memory of when my mom tried DESPERATELY to get me to dress in something she had wanted me to wear, and I adamantly refused.
I don’t get to deny it any more, though. Those thoughts drift in and out of my mind- poltergeists, intent on tormenting me; reminding me, in every action my boys do, that I am their mother.
“Go do your hair.”
“I like it this way.”
“What way? You didn’t even DO it.”
“And that’s how I like it.”
They may win the battle, but I will win the war…
I hope.

“So, you wanted boys, huh?”

Noah was given an ark to build. Moses was sent to lead God’s people through the desert to the promised land. And me? God gave me boys.
Its funny how after you have one boy, people ask you with every succeeding pregnancy, “So, are you going to try for that girl?” My answer is a resounding “NO”.
I’m pretty sure that God wanted to ensure that I never try for another child by keeping my hands full with 3 boys. Yes, we wanted 3 kids- 3 boys? Debatable. Sure, we knew what to expect with boys… but there’s the problem: we knew what to expect with boys. Well, we THOUGHT we knew what to expect with boys. I’m starting to wonder more and more as they get older.
Today I walked in on my 2 oldest sons using whatever wasn’t nailed down as projectiles. These items included, but were not limited to, blocks, crayons, and -at one point- a plush Elmo chair that actually sang as it hit Jacob. It was as if Elmo was singing out a war cry, which seemed to instigate Jacob, who retaliated by picking up a tee ball bat and swinging it at his older brother’s head. Cameron quickly used a pillow as a shield while wielding a plastic drumstick, but Jacob couldn’t have cared less because he was already on top of a craft table they have in their room ready to jump on his brother’s mid-section.
I’m unsure of why I allowed the fight to go on that long-
Eh, who am I kidding? It was a long day and if they knocked each other out, I wouldn’t have had to listen to another fight later.
Which I did.
Because I ended up stopping that particular fight just in time.Eh, give me a break- blood is difficult to get out of fabric surfaces.  I couldn’t have let it go on too much longer.
And no, I won’t tell you who “won”, although, in the future, if you see Jacob’s name in lights at a boxing match, don’t hesitate to place your bet on him. The kid has some moves. Its as if he’s being positioned by some unseen force…
When I finally stepped in, though, to stop the madness, that’s when I realized that this -these boys- are my mission from God. They looked at me with pissed off looks and whined, “But mom! We were having fun!” Yeah. Fun. Its all fun and games until Elmo takes you out.
If I can raise them up to adulthood without them killing each other (or me killing them- I’m kidding! Sort of.), then I’ll win God’s favor.
I have to tell myself this, honestly, because its either this or God is up in Heaven right now saying, “HA! You asked for 3 kids! Well, here you go!”

Ah, the sounds of nature

As you slowly open your eyes, you can see sunlight overhead.  In the distance, you can hear water trickling and smell coffee brewing.  You’ve barely raised your head off your pillow when you hear the sounds of something akin to a National Geographic special on animal packs- growling, hissing, screeches of pain…

One might think they were camping somewhere off in the wilderness.  Not you.  You know that you’re home, and those sounds you hear aren’t TECHNICALLY animals- they’re your children trying desperately to thin the herd.

Unfortunately for me, I cannot afford ignorance.  I know all too well that I’m not camping, although the question of whether or not the  sounds are coming from wild animals is debatable.  I’ve read in books about small children who awaken their sleeping parents with cereal, convinced they’re helping guard their parents’ hearts against the evils of cholesterol-

-or was that a Cheerios commercial?-

-either way, I’ve heard the tales of small children who behave in a way that makes their parents go,”Awwww….”, but so far I’ve only experienced small children that make ME go,”Ahhhhhhh!!!!”  Small children (with not-so-smallish intentions to maim and destroy) who awaken me with the gentle blood curdling screams that only a mother could ignore.  Sounds of crashing and evil laughter gently rouse me from my peaceful dreams, while every nerve in my body screams at me to run as if a hungry bear were on my tail.  But, much like you wouldn’t be able to outrun the bear, I can’t escape my job as mom- or, as I lovingly refer to myself, zookeeper.

Suuuuure, camping is great if you want fresh air and scenic views, but if you want to save a few bucks, let me know.  I have a big living room where you can pitch a tent and wait for the howling to start.