So to combat the spiraling vortex of motherhood doldrums, I am posting three small successes that make me feel like I am doing something–anything!–right.

My children recognize Elvis Presley songs–I guess I play them enough on my iPod!  I’m proud that they recognize and sing along to Elvis.  Furthermore, they are reverent of Elvis the King and always call him as such.  Never just Elvis, or even Elvis Presley.  Nope.  He is always referred to as Elvis the King.

I am not ever bothered in the middle of the night if my kids awaken.  They know to go to Daddy.  Even as a baby, Cupcake would shout, “Daaaaaaddy!” from her crib.  These days, the kids simply head to The Husband’s side of the bed if they need something.

I am teaching my kids which sports team to love, and which we don’t.  Bito intrinsically knows that the Yankees are a hated team and automatically roots against them.  And anytime the Redskins are mentioned or a Redskins logo is spotted, Cupcake and BabyMuffin automatically shout, “Go Redskins!”

Small successes indeed, but at this point, I’ll take them.

Recently, my friend Emily was talking about her two sons.  They are similarly aged to my two boys:  her older is in 2nd grade, and the younger just turned four.

Her words about loving them so resonated with me that I asked if I could quote her here.

Noah’s my good natured, happy go lucky little guy, and my love for him is pretty constant. If I were to get all geeky, it’d be a straight horizontal line on a graph. But Daniel…. He’s my sine curve. Half the time he makes me so damn frustrated and so damn angry, and I swear, I’m going to sell him to the circus, and I don’t want to be anywhere near him. And then, he turns into this sweet little bundle of love, and I just adore him. Awfully hard to remember those times when he’s being a little shit though.

Oh, how I get it.  It is also true of my two sons to a tee, and I could have not said it any better.

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Check out Emily Steele Photography if you’re in the DC Metro area!  Emily takes awesome pictures.  One of these days, I’m going to have to get her to shoot my kids.  With a camera, I mean.

In anticipation of this week, I’ve made it a point to line up playdates and activities to limit the amount of Mommy versus Three time.  Our playdate today wasn’t scheduled to start until after lunch, so I decided to take The Three on an excursion to a local park with their bicycles.

Let me just say that the bikes were indeed ridden.  But also?  Voices were raised in anger.  Tears were cried as well.  Tantrums were thrown in spectacular fashion.  It wasn’t the fun time I’d anticipated.  It’s sad when the good time I planned instead produces frustration and tears for all.

Fortunately, I was smart enough to realize the bike riding was not going to be a smashing success, so I we quickly moved to Plan B.

Unfortunately, Plan B entailed going to Costco, and I was not smart enough to realize this might be a big mistake, given BabyMuffin’s super-bad mood.  And my super-bad reaction to his super-bad mood.

Actually, the shopping portion of the trip went smoothly.  Lunch in the Costco café went pretty well, too.  It wasn’t until we were cleaning up to leave that things fell apart.

While I was getting a piece of foil to wrap up our leftovers, BabyMuffin threw out the remainder of his pizza.  He was just trying to be helpful, I guess.  When I told him I had been planning to take the pizza home, he burst into tears and began hollering.  He wanted to fish the pizza out of the trashcan.  I would not let him.  He wanted me to get the pizza out of the trashcan.  I would not.  He wanted me to purchase another slice of pizza for him.  I refused to do so.  And so I was That Mother who was walking out of the Costco with a bright red screaming child trailing behind her.  BabyMuffin continued to wail that he wanted his pizza.  Every single eye in the place was upon us (so I felt).  My blood pressure was rising, and I was on the verge of snapping at my son.

I managed to wait until we were at the car before I did so.

I called our playdate and explained that it had been a very tantrummy morning, and BabyMuffin just needed to go home and have a nap.

And I probably need one, too.

She is ready.  Really ready.  Like, chomping at the bit, raring to go.

I am ready too.  I’ve already sent one child to Kindergarten, and I know the ropes.  I have complete confidence in the school and the kindergarten team there.  I know Cupcake will blossom in Kindergarten.

I am ready.

I kind of am not, too.

My little girl is my constant shadow and my mini-me.  The past two school years, we have had an especially sweet time every day when her big brother Bito was at school, and her little brother BabyMuffin was napping.  It was just Mommy and Cupcake time.

I’ve been threatening to homeschool Cupcake so that I can keep her close to me for another year.  Cupcake is adamantly opposed to the idea—she cannot wait to get to Kindergarten in a classroom setting, make new friends, and learn like her big brother does at school!  And to be honest, I have no intention of homeschooling any of my kids.  No, thanks.

Still, I will miss the dedicated time I have had with my girl.  I will miss my constant companion, and I will always cherish the years I’ve had her at home with me.  But I won’t keep her from going to on to new and better things.  It’s for the best for her…and for me.

I don’t normally buy kim chi on my own…for the infrequent times I do make the purchase, my mom is usually with me.  Alas, she is half a world away and we are not due to be in the same state for another four months.  So I was on my own, squinting at the jars of kim chi, as if that would magically reveal which was the one to get.

I was at a total loss.  I couldn’t be sure the one I was eyeing was the one my mom normally makes me get.  So, I did what any gal in her late 30s would do.

I called my mom.

The conversation was comical, at best.  Mom was in a very loud area and could barely hear me.  I was in a grocery store surrounded by tons of ambient noise.

I hollered my question at her, “WHAT KIND OF KIM CHI AM I SUPPOSED TO GET?”

She bellowed back, “You want to MAKE kim chi??!””

“NO NO!  I AM NOT MAKING KIM CHI.  I WANT TO BUY KIM CHI BUT I HAVE NO IDEA WHICH TO GET!”

“Okay!  Go to the Korean grocery store and…”

“I AM ALREADY AT THE KOREAN GROCERY STORE.  THERE ARE LOTS OF KIM CHI JARS AROUND ME AND I DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE TO GET!”

“Look at the jars and figure out which one you like.”

“MOM!  I AM LOOKING AT THE JARS AND I DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE…”

“It probably says Kim Chi on it.”

And so the conversation went.  Not real helpful.

While I was shouting on the phone for the entire store to hear, a very helpful clerk scurried over and showed me all sorts of different jars of kim chi, according to what I was screeching at the moment.  Finally, I just grabbed the nearest jar in order to get off the phone and spare everyone’s eardrums.

Later, though, I had to smile because I am glad I can call and have these conversations with her.

The bathroom I ended up in was cushier than most.  The toilet flushed when I stood up.  At the sink, a gentle flow of water turned on when hands were waved under the faucet.  The soap dispenser doled out the correct amount of soap when it sensed my hand waiting beneath it.

Seems like this pit stop should’ve been easier with all the added amenities, right?  Except I forgot to mention that this bathroom break was taken with my recently potty-trained BabyMuffin.  Suddenly, all the automatic luxuries made things much more difficult.

BabyMuffin immediately recognized the automatic flush toilet and almost refused to void his bladder at all, until I’d covered up the sensor, which I did with a length of toilet paper (note:  the t.p. was not given out automatically).

Then, in order to get our hands washed, I had to hoist 35 pound BabyMuffin up to the sink and convince him that the water would turn on when he put his hands under the faucet.  Since recalcitrant boy refused to do it, I gently pinned BabyMuffin against the counter with my body for a moment.  Then I frantically waved my own hands under the faucet to get the water running—which it did for approximately 1.3 seconds—before grabbing BabyMuffin so he wouldn’t slip to the floor.  Repeat the process a zillion times to get his tiny little hands wet, and then figure out a way to get the automatically dispensing soap from my hand to his wet hands.  Let’s just say it wasn’t easy.

All these modern conveniences, but I would’ve just preferred a good old fashioned bathroom for me and my toddler.

Well, I have an update on that situation:  last Friday evening, Bito sang four songs with his class to open up the school’s international festival!  There were no tears and no screaming (on either of our parts).  I did not have to threaten, cajole, nor bribe him into doing it.  He just got up there and did it on his own!

I could not have been prouder of him.  Of course I snapped a zillion pictures of him and video recorded the performance!

But really, I am also proud of myself for allowing him the time and space to just do it when he was ready and not forcing him (as I wanted to do a few times!).

This past Saturday, the DC area bore the brunt of torrential rainstorms. Sheets of rain poured down, causing power outages, dangerous flash flooding, and felled tree limbs throughout the area. Lovely cascades flowed out of gutters, and yard became small ponds!

In my neighborhood of pitted roads and uneven sidewalks, puddles of epic proportions quickly formed. Our street, which is slightly sloped the entire length of it, became a gentle waterfall with beautiful ripples of rain crawling down the pavement. I was mesmerized watching the water move in so many different ways across and around our every day fixtures.

The Husband and I attempted to occupy our three children inside; nonetheless, they became squirrely. Who can blame them? They had spent most of the previous week playing outdoors on the sun-drenched playground, or riding their bicycles through the neighborhood. So on Saturday, they were forced to stare longingly out the windows at the Noah’s Ark rain. They reminded me of roly-poly puppies straining their noses to the fresh scent of outdoors.

Finally, the rain let up late in the afternoon. I ordered the kids to put on their boots and go jump in puddles. They cheered and scrambled to find their rain boots. The Husband sighed and shook his head in dismay. Bito, Cupcake, BabyMuffin and I headed out the front door before he could stop us.

It was sheer delight for my children stomp in every puddle they could find. And stomp they did! The mud, which had been kicked up by the hard storms, was swiftly spattered all over them. They ran up and down the sidewalk to inspect each puddle, and to trudge through the deepest water they could find. I followed along with my camera and snapped away. I loved capturing the joy my children were exhibiting!

The Husband, despite his eye-rolling and weak protests as we headed out the door, wisely lined towels along the foyer floor. When the kids finally returned to our home, exhausted and soaking wet, he directed them to undress and head straight to the bathtub.

I don’t own boots, but after gingerly stepping around the water to photograph the kids’ fun, I’ve decided I need to get my own boots. Next time, I want to play along with them!

As much as birthday parties are enjoyed by all, it’s really starting to cut into our weekend family time!  Parent One will accompany one kid to their party, and Parent Two is left with the remaining two children.  And some days like today, Parent Two will also take another child to a different party, juggling the third child until Parent One can pick up third child.  It can be quite a headache trying to figure out the weekend schedule!

It’s a conundrum.  I want my kids to experience the joy of birthday parties–and it seems they already do since they become so excited at the news of This Kid or That Kid’s upcoming party!  However, I also want to protect the family time that we’ve established. Keeping it as a priority is important to me, especially while the kids are young and still want to be with us.

If only weekends were a day longer…

The Husband, the kids, and I met up with my sister at a local Silver Diner for lunch over the winter break.  The place was packed and my sister was late, so we were waiting in their front foyer area for about 15 minutes.  A party of two older ladies behind us got seated before we did, and as one walked by, she looked at me and snapped, “You need to watch your children better.”

Um, wow.  I said that out loud to her, but other than that, I was speechless as I conjured up the right words to say.  I mean, my kids were wandering about some, going underneath the chain thing designed to keep people in the line.  Once or twice, The Husband or I told them to move out of the way so the people could pass (we were kind of bunched by the exit door).  But really, I don’t think they were doing anything too horribly terrible–they weren’t screaming, they weren’t running, they weren’t terrorizing other patrons.

I can’t figure out why what this woman said to me bothers me so much.  I mean, who really cares what this random woman thinks?  Another person in line quietly asked me what she said, and when I told her, she rolled her eyes and told me my kids were just being kids, and this was the Silver Diner, not some fine dining establishment.  This person also told me that lady had been rude to some other patrons earlier.

I’m shocked that someone thought I wasn’t watching my kids very well and/or that my kids were misbehaving.  Not that I think my kids are perfect angels or anything like that.  I most certainly do not.

Then again, I can’t figure out why it bothers me so much either.