Vitafamiliae

Tonight after dinner, Andrew let the kids have a water balloon fight.  He filled two buckets full of balloons and set them on opposite sides of the yard.  The gang waited eagerly to exit the porch.  (After they were vehemently warned not aim any missiles at Mommy.  I’m like a cat.  My fur doesn’t respond well to water.)

We cut them loose and all four kids headed for the same bucket.  We thought they would fire at each other from across the yard, but they preferred the up close and personal method.

Ellen was less than thrilled when Adam smacked her in the back.  I don’t believe she entirely understood the point of playing water balloons.  Once they’d chased each other around the yard, the kids knew exactly which direction to head:  Daddy.

As the sun set behind the fence, Adam chased Ellen around the corner of the house with the final water balloon.  Squealing and crying occurred.

Ellen wasn’t the only one.  Willa didn’t like all the running and screaming and wet stuff.  Of course, she spent most of the day crying for no reason, so maybe this was just more of the same.

Over the wails of our two girls, the neighbor peeked over the fence and told us, “Y’all are such fun parents.  You do such fun things.”

To my credit, I didn’t snort in her direction.  She didn’t see us go back inside to a totally trashed house, more wailing and gnashing of teeth during pick-up time, baths for everybody (wailing and gnashing of teeth from the parents), and an early bedtime when Sam shoved Adam off the ottoman just for kicks.

Here’s hoping our kids choose to remember that 3.2 minutes of fun they had throwing water balloons over the other 8,589 hours of their childhood.

We seem to have survived the stomach bug only to catch colds.  Because God has a sense of humor or because Ian must have licked every chair in the doctor’s office on Monday.

But lest you be concerned, life is still very much rolling along as usual.  For instance, ever since I went fall shopping for the kids at the consignment sale, Ellen has been obsessed with her new shoes.  Today, she lined them up in the window and guarded them like a mother bear.

Not all of those shoes fit her, but she’s playing house and it involves wearing a pink princess dress and lining up her shoes.  She didn’t get her version of playing house from MY life, apparently.

Meanwhile, Willa did her own dress-up game, only she never bothered getting OUT of the dress-up box.

This picture was taken AFTER lunch, of course, because her before-lunch-look involved much more snot and whining.  Which looked suspiciously like my after-lunch-pre-nap-look.

You all should come visit.

No, really.  You bring the chocolate and I’ll put on my pink princess dress…

Rejoicing today in the stomach bug!

Never thought you’d read those words from me, did you?

Sam woke us up early this morning to tell us that Ian was throwing up.  This did not inspire peace and calm in my mama-heart, I assure you.  The pediatrician said that we had to take him to the ER.  In the meantime, Adam threw up and Ellen woke up saying her tummy hurt, so we both relaxed a little.  If it was a virus, that was a lot less scary.  (And by “relaxed,” I mean mentally.  Physically, we were a bit crazed dashing from kid to kid with buckets and wash rags.)

Ian and I spent the morning in the ER while Andrew had the other sick and well children.  I believe it was a time of bonding and Nick Jr. for everybody.

The first doctor we saw had the nerve to mention things like “meningitis” and “lumbar puncture.”  I will forever hate her guts just for speaking such words in my presence about my son.  Fortunately, they decided to start with a CT scan.  By this time, Ian was keeping some fluid down and getting his color back.  When the CT results were normal, and word came from Andrew that Ellen had puked, we all agreed this was a stomach bug and settled down a bit.

We had hoped that we might be able to see a neurologist while we were at the hospital, but apparently neurologists are as elusive as unicorns.  Even our pediatrician was surprised when we were sent home without further testing.

And so we wait.  We’re handing out saltines and soup and, for once, trying to be grateful for the stomach bug among us.  Nothing like a little perspective…

Since I know disinfecting is heavy on my mind right now, I’m pleased to tell you that our old natural home cleaners are now for sale again.  We sold the business and the new owners recently launched a new look.  I’ll be stocking up, for obvious reasons.  How about you?

Last night at dinner Ian fell out of his chair and had a seizure.

No, that isn’t a punchline.

Andrew held Ian while I called 911.  I’ve never dialed 911 before.  Later, it occurred to me to be impressed I could do it.   I don’t remember punching those numbers.  By the time the EMT arrived, Ian was awake and wondering what had happened to him.

We later realized that something similar had occurred earlier in the week when he was alone in a room with only Willa for company.  He claims he woke up on the floor and Willa was screaming at him.  But he didn’t have the words to tell us what happened, so all he said was, “I fell asleep while I was playing with Willa.  And my eyes popped out of my head.”

You have no idea how panicky that makes me feel.

I’d like to say it was the panic that made me eat chocolate peanut butter in the doctor’s office with a tongue depressor, but we all know I would do that on a normal day.

We have tests scheduled for next month, but the doctor assures me that right now, there’s nothing for us to do but watch him closely.  And pray.

And so we will.  Join us?

As the kids get a bit older, they’ve started using more of the phrases that they pick up from grown-ups.  (Yes, this is cause for much tongue-biting and mouth-covering among the adult crowd.)   Adam’s current fave is “Awwww, maaa-an!”

Sam and Ian’s recent acquisition is “Bummer.”  They got this one from me, only they say it “Bommer.”  Which isn’t quite as effective, especially when they use it after every. single. sentence.

Please note my oh-so-classy daughter coming out of the bathroom, still yanking up her pull-up.  I could have cropped her, but this picture was so “real life” it made me laugh.  Which brings me to the subject of Ellen.  Today I noticed she’s started saying, “Dat’s ah-may-zing, Mommy!  Dat was ah-may-zing!”

This is precious and I don’t mind one bit.  But…  later this evening, I heard a voice echoing through the house, “I’m DOOO-OOOONE!”

Every parent knows what that means.  And also what follows.  I had to wander through the house yelling, “Who is it?  Which bathroom are you in?  Well, why did you pick the bathroom that was farthest away?  I’m coooo-oooming!”

I found Ellen upstairs in her bathroom.  I took care of her needs while she chattered away.  “Why do we poop, Mommy?  Why God make us dat way?”

And then, just as I flushed her deed down the toilet, she said it:  “Dat poop was ah-may-zing, Mommy.  Ah-may-zing.”

It’s like Andrew said when I told him about Ellen’s phrase, “Sometimes, you’ve got to be your own P.R.”

In Ellen’s case, P.R. stands for “Poop Rooter.”

If you’re reading this in a Reader, click over and check out the new Vitafam digs.  Thanks to Jules at Everyday Designs for consulting on the header.  And, of course, thanks to the HTD (hunky tech department) here in the House of Vitafam.  Without him we would cease to exist.

Today is my birthday.  In keeping with tradition, Andrew made a chocolate cake last night (gluten-free this year, look at me, I’m growing as a person!) so that I could enjoy a piece for breakfast.  Because he is amazing, he managed to find time to stick a candle in it and get the kids to sing to me before we raced out the door to church.

After church, we went to small group where I learned that our sweet friends have been paying attention when I mentioned that I like chocolate cake.  And they took me seriously.  Cake Number 1:

And Cake Number 2:

Nothing says “love” like chocolate cake options!

After dinner, the neighbors (and honorary members of the culdesac) gathered next door for yet another dessert.

This one was called “the Marriage Saver” and I do believe this creation of deliciousness and peanut butter could quite possibly save not just a marriage, but the world.

I have never felt so covered up with love - all the phone calls, tweets, facebook messages, and desserts that you people have thrown at me.  Thanks for celebrating with me.  Thanks for understanding that my love language is words of encouragement and chocolate.  And thanks for loving me… even if my jeans may never fit properly again.

It was ten minutes before lunchtime.  I had just finished cleaning up Ellen’s poop disaster and changing the baby’s clothes from where she played in the fountain and her sister poured water on her head.  The boys were in sit time for running in the house again, Adam was sobbing and huffing from his place on the couch, Ellen reminded me for the 80-11th time that she was “hungwee, Mommy, I hungwee,” Willa was following me around, “Mommy?  Mommy?  Seez?  Mommy?  Seez?” but it wasn’t clear what she was pleasing me to death over, I was having a blood sugar crisis, I felt my scalp start to peel away from my skull and my head was five seconds from exploding all over the wall, and, and, and…

I scooped up the baby and plopped Ellen next to me in a chair.  “We’re just gonna sit here for a minute and let everyone breathe a minute, okay, guys?”

Now, a holier person than I am would have started singing worship music or a hymn.  Instead, I made the mistake of asking Ellen what song would cheer everybody up.  She chose her favorite, “A, You’re Adorable.”

I told her she had to help me, so she sang around her thumb and together we serenaded the pouting boys on the couch.  I could feel my voice shake as I tried not to laugh, cry, or scream my song.  Willa sucked her fingers and pinched her own fat, perfectly content in my lap, which was apparently what she wanted all along.

Slowly, I saw Ian’s eyes light up a bit.  He cut his eyes at me slyly.  I winked.  He grinned.  Sam tried to wiggle away from my song, but pretty soon he was firing a toothless smile in my direction.  Adam was the only hold-out.  I had to break into a round of “Suppertime” to induce a smile from him, but eventually we all had a happier face and could be civil to one another.

I just wanted to share that dose of reality with all of you in case you needed to feel like you weren’t the only one who had a come apart today or wanted to cry in the kitchen or felt the need to knock two of your kids’ heads together… Family is messy.  Relationships are messy.  Reality is messy.

But I’ll love your mess if you’ll love mine.  And maybe we can all sit around and sing silly songs together until we’re smiling…

I love my Roomba, but we only use it on the thicker carpets.  I reserve the easy to vacuum downstairs rugs for my slave labor little helpers.  This morning, it was Sam’s turn to vacuum.  I was standing in the kitchen, doing three things at once, when I heard a big CRASH!!!!

That would be the table leg over in the right hand corner.  We recently put casters on our coffee table to make it higher for the kids to color at.  Sam got the caster stuck on the rug and then kept pushing.  The result was a broken table leg, broken glass pencil jar, and spilled crayons.  We spent about half an hour picking glass out of the crayons.  And, of course, I ended up with a nice gash on my finger.

After lunch, I was in the kitchen, doing four things at once, when I heard Ian yelping at Andrew that he was hurt.  Pretty soon, Andrew was yelping for me.  I came running, paper towels in hand.  Ian had somehow managed to slice in between his toes with none other than the vacuum cleaner cord.  (Truly, I don’t understand it.  I just know that’s the apparatus he blamed for his woes.)

Fortunately, Andrew was working from home today and he does much better in traumatic situations than I do.  I nervously stood around, offering weak jokes and saltines to a green Ian while Andrew carefully crafted just the right band-aid for such a wound.  Lucky for me, Andrew figured out early on that:

• A) we have boys therefore there will be lots of injuries and
• B) treating said injuries would fall to him as I am singularly useless when my babies are hurt
• Well, except for that time when I super-glued Sam’s head shut, but that was only because Andrew had to hold him down
• And even then I still required a good mental pep talk that included phrases like “big girl panties” and “suck it up, Mama”

Where was I?

Oh, anyway, Andrew made it his mission to always be Trauma Ready.  He’s even got a top-secret first aid kit that only comes out in special situations.  This was one of them.

Andrew put his signature finish on the bandage (a round of duct tape) and Ian was all set.  The poor kid ended up taking a nap he was so worn out from the ordeal, but he seems to have healed up nicely since then.

In a great twist of irony, today was the first day in 12 weeks that we let Sam back on the trampoline since his broken leg.

At least he wasn’t operating a vacuum cleaner…

As is the case on any summer vacation, whether it lasts 3 months or 5 days, we mamas have to be concerned with hot weather entertainment of the children.  Since the novelty of “no school” didn’t wear off until today, I scurried around the last two days, checking things off my list and then lying in bed every night feeling guilty for being “Not-Fun-Mom.”

(I do make it a practice to say “yes” to reading books when asked.  My kids know that’s the one way to get me to drop almost anything and cuddle.  They very sweetly accept my limit of “just this book” or “alright, maybe three more” and I do my best to say yes to a book whenever possible.  It’s a nice arrangement that keeps us all content.)

This morning, I knew my hours of productivity were numbered, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything we could do fun inside that didn’t involve undoing the last two days of my work on the house.  (Outside, you understand, absolutely isn’t an option in an Alabama August.  Trust me.)  I finally hit upon the idea of shaving cream on the table.  I have tons of shaving cream that I never used because it made me itch or gave me a headache, so the only logical thing to do was to let my kids play in it, right?

Sadly, my older boys weren’t that impressed with Mommy’s idea of “fun.”  “Is this the only fun thing you planned today, Mommy?”

Yes.  Yes it is.  We’re making memories here, kiddo, and if you don’t like it, tough, but I’d better get credit for being “fun.”

It’s all about keeping score, people.

Fortunately for me and my mommy-guilt, Willa and Ellen got into it a bit more once Willa could be convinced to touch the pile of goo in front of her.

Fortunately for the boys, a friend stopped by and offered to help me take my crew to the neighborhood pool.  Ordinarily, I would have snorted and said no, but today my mommy-guilt squeaked out “yes” before the rest of me had a chance to speak up.  We had a great time, the kids were fantastic, and I got to pat myself on the back for creating more “fun.”

Never you mind that it took two adults, a teenager, and lots of floaties.  It was ALL ME, BABY.

When we got home, I fretted around the kitchen, trying to catch up on two hours worth of “lost time” in the half an hour before lunch.  But I began to notice how calm the people were around me.  They played happily.  They wanted to tell me things.  They wanted to be with me in the kitchen, but not in the whiny-cling-to-my-legs sort of way.

During rest time, Sam and Ian interrupted my nap five times as often as they usually do.  Just to tell me something funny.  And I laughed.  (No, really, I did.)  Because they wanted to talk to me.  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in meeting their needs that we all sort of forget we like each other.  I had to force a bit of fun today.  For all of us.  But it worked.  We were content again.  Happy together.  And somehow, my all-important list of things to do still got done.  Or maybe some of it just ceased to be important…

Tell me, how do you “force the fun” at your house?

I downloaded the pictures off my phone so I could look at my weekend and remember what happened.  The short version is: with the help of our sweatshop elves, some relatives, and the kindness of strangers, we sold HopeSuds at a local market.  But you know I have never yet let the “short version” suffice in place of a good long story…

First, we should all begin with a deep sigh and a “Poor Aubrey.”

Aubrey is my sales guru.  She always holds my hand at festivals, because she’s got business savvy and she can make her booth look pretty.  These are valuable assets to have in a friend.  This was my first go-round without having her with me in flesh and bone.  Thank goodness for unlimited texting.  I assaulted her eyeballs with numerous photos of our table, asking if I should move something a little to the left or put more product out.

She never got these pictures or texts until much later, because her phone is possessed, but she very sweetly checked on me often and talked me down off of numerous booth decor-related ledges.

For the second day of the market, I brought out the big guns and added a few pics of Ugandan children and then one of my own kids grating soap in our little sweatshop.

This shameless use of my children to sell product did not stop there.  Oh no.  I had my sister haul the kids up to the flea market for some face time with the customers.  The three boys stood in front of our sign with open bags and invited people to smell some HopeSuds.  Sam sold 3 bags and Adam sold 2.  It was all very Oliver Twist.

Before the kids brought the cute and started to move the detergent off the shelves, I had some quality time to sit behind my booth and mentally shop.  Had I visited the flea market as a guest, wandering the booths, I wouldn’t have found half the good deals I found.  But since I was sitting there, staring, my eyes would light upon items which would have otherwise never garnered my attention.  Which explains why there are pictures of such items like this one on my phone.

It was followed by a text to a friend that said, “Get over here and talk me out of buying these peacocks.”

She arrived not thirty minutes later for a peacock intervention.  Only she intervened the “wrong” way (according to Andrew) and I am now the proud owner of peacocks on paper.  You may congratulate me.  (No, seriously, I have a plan for them, do not be afraid.  One day, it will all be clear.)

In the end, we sold some ‘Suds and I bought a dress for fifty cents.  (And some other things.)  But more than that, it was a family affair.  Aunt Katie arranged for us to have the booth.  Uncle Stik helped me out in the booth on Friday.  Aunt Abbi watched the kids.  Andrew did some hauling of goods and he was also a charming salesman.  Our kids got to see the bags of HopeSuds go into a customer’s hand (something they don’t understand when we’re shipping boxes).

And one day, hopefully soon, I will get to tell our new baby about how loved she is.  How wanted she is.  And how many people, family and strangers alike,  who worked to bring her home.