The Art of Negotiation...also known as Popsicle Persuasion

Even though I'm a relatively young mom, and I'd still like to consider myself fashion-savvy and pretty hip, I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that children--especially multiple children--really have a way of deducting cool points.  Back before I was married (and surely before I ever dreamed of having kids in the concrete sense), I would look at parents in various setting as they dealt with their misbehaving rugrats and think "that'll never be me, and, even when I do procreate, my kids will never do that!" Ha! I wish I could go back to the precise moment in time when my size two know-it-all-self was thinking those judgemental thoughts and kick her right in her size two know-it-all butt...but I digress.  It's just, it's easy to feel like you've got it all figured out when there's no little angel just gunning to prove you wrong.  And I feel like there are a few sure-fire ways that those on the "outside" (also known as people with zero little spawnlings, or, for our purposes, "non-parents") have come to recognize those of us with young children...including, but certainly not limited to: a collection of spit up and snot on the shoulder of one's shirt, a minivan littered with old sucker sticks, hard french fries and, most likely, at least one lost, partially milk-filled, moldy sippy cup under the seat, and the carrying of a "mom bag" (that massive purse that has everything inside from butt paste to peanut butter crackers that you think makes you look a little cooler than lugging a diaper bag--can we say 'denial'?).  Yes, all of those things point to parenthood, but none of those signs come close to what I'm going to hone in on today--the best way to spot a full-blown parent: our persuasion prowess. I'm talking nitty-gritty, down-and-dirty, put-a-used-car-dealer-who-also-successfully-sells-Amway to shame, negotiating skills.  You see, I've found that the deduction of those aforementioned cool-points is to make room for a major leap in the art of dealing; the Lord taketh away...and the Lord giveth.         

Just the other day I was trying to explain to my son that it's much easier to be fully potty-trained than it is to just go at will in his underwear and let the dog follow him around, but he's apparently not convinced...or, more accurately, he's just plain old unconcerned about the whole thing.  So I came up with a brilliant idea: right before naptime I'd make him sit on the potty until he went and then we could avoid the whole spectacle of removing dirty underwear, cleaning poop off of the legs, feet, floor, and then rinsing underwear in the toilet (any day I don't have to stick my hand in the toilet is considered a good day) etc. etc....I let him in on this little plan, and he seemed to be on board.  He sat down, waited a minute, and then said, "OK, I went.  I'm all done." I looked (something else my teenage self never pictured doing).  He'd successfully squeezed off a pebble. 

"You need to go more.  Let it all out, buddy."

"OK, I'll do one more." 

"No, just do it all.  You're here right now, just go."

"I'll do a piece and a half. That's it." A piece and a half???  Does he actually have that kind of control? Impressive. No. Focus, Ranae. You've got him where you want him.  Just close the deal.

"Buddy, if you let it all out, I'll give you a popsicle." (Am I good or what?) 

""And we"ll dance around and have a party?"

"Um, yeah, OK. Sure."

Another minute passed. "OK, I went five pieces and now I'm done."  Sure enough.  Wow!  I had done it!  I had just waited it out and actually persuaded my child to go on the toilet.  I was feeling pretty proud.  We high fived, danced around, and ate popsicles.  Then I tucked him into bed for his nap.  Five minutes later, his head peeked around the stairway.  "Hey Mom, I pooped again. I really had to do more.  Can I have another popsicle?"  Sebastian 1: Mommy: 0.

And then there was the shopping trip.  It was two days before Thanksgiving and my husband (who goes straight from work to his master's classes on Tuesday nights) called me to let me know he had just invited four more guests.  Speeeeectacular.  Actually, I was happy to have more people, but what I wasn't so over-the-moon about what that now I had to go out and get more groceries. In the dark. In the pouring rain. With three children. Who had not napped.  It was sure to be magical.  I loaded everyone up in the car and we headed to Aldi (naturally, since that was about the most difficult place I could think of to bring my little darlings at this late hour...what can I say? We love a bargain.) 

For those of you unfamiliar with the wonder that is Aldi, it's what I imagine a communist country would be like.  It gives frugal a whole new look--to the point where you have to bring your own bags and pay a quarter for a cart.  Like I said, it's magical.  I parked the van and left the kids while I ran up to the storefront to grab a cart.  I was soaked by the time I had gotten back to the car, so I just threw my purse into the cart and then shoved the cart against the car while I jumped back in to unload everyone from their carseats.  Sebastian and Gabriella had both taken off their socks and shoes, and Maks was screaming.  While I was redressing the menagerie and singing (hollering) a lullaby, I heard car horns honking and then a mysterious lady appeared next to me in the van.  An angel to deliver me?  No, it turns out it was a little old lady who braved the pouring rain to tell me that my cart had rolled out into the parking lot and was blocking her vehicle.  Aldi shoppers are hardcore. 

I finally finagled Seb and Gabs into the basket of the cart and put Maks' carseat in the front and made a beeline for the store.  As I was loading groceries in next to the children, I realized tha Gabriella was taste-testing everything within her reach.  Immediately I started taking everything that was surrounding them out of the basket and began chucking it into the tray underneath the cart as quickly as possible...but by the time I got to the blocks of cheese, it was too late.  They looked like they had had a run-in with a very large rodent.  And the fact that I had taken away everything that my little girl was using to wreak havoc didn't go over very well.  She stood surfer-style and started yelling and reaching to rip as much off the shelves as she could before I moved the cart, and in the ensuing chaos Maks resumed his bawling all while Sebastian screeched "I'm being good, right?  I'm not naughty, right?" over the melee.  I was practically shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Thanksgiving shoppers and, not wanting to make any more of a scene that I already was, I started alternating threats with whispered promises of popsicles and dance-parties (just working' those powers of persuasion...and are we seeing a trend?) if everyone would just chill out.  I was honestly waiting for an announcement to come on over the loudspeaker that if a priest was in the building he needed to make his way to aisle six to perform an exorcism on the little girl gnawing through the cylinder of summer sausage, but then thankfully remembered that Aldi doesn't even have any elevator muzak piping through the store...let alone a PA.  A small miracle.  I finished up shopping and made my way to the checkout, now more sure than ever of the reason baby goats are called kids.  As I was frantically throwing my stuff up on the conveyor, Gabriella made one final attempt to vacate the cart and ended up traveling down the belt along with the cream cheese.  I paid and wrangled her back in the cart, just in time to realize that I had forgotten my bags.  Remember, Aldi doesn't provide them.  So me, the kids, and our cart full of loose groceries went back out into the downpour.  I put everyone in their carseats first, and then shamelessly tossed the wet food onto the floor of the van.  Happy flippin' Thanksgiving.  Gabriella 1: Mommy: 0. 

Upon arrival back home, I stepped into a house that had been decorated with shredded diapers.  The office door!  Was it left open?  Apparently, because the diaper genie had been raided by two dogs that made a gourmet dinner out of it.  Molly couldn't have been happier, she considers poop a delicacy.  Hef had gone a different route, opting to chew through a brand new tube of Boudreau's Butt Paste and then roll in it.  And, I guess he also sampled a bit because he had barfed after his beauty treatment.  Once again, it was time to bust out the popsicles and persuade the kiddos to hang tight and just watch (NOT assist) as I managed the mess.  Thank the good Lord for frozen fruitjuice.   And for Rug Doctors.  Dogs 1: Mommy 0.

Ah, yes.  I'm always learning new things as a mom.  Like how to maintain composure.  And negotiate.  And that it might be wise to buy stock in popsicles.  And life is never boring, I can say that without any shadow of a doubt.  I love this craziness (sometimes I have to wait until I've had a few days to look back on it before I can love it) but I do love it.  And I also love moments like right now: when all three of my beautiful children are sleeping soundly. 

Finally.  Mommy: 1.               
      

Of Sexy Dreams and "Wemme Do's"

So, do you ever have one of those dreams (you know, those dreams) where you wish you didn't ever have to wake up because it's just so...good?  Well, the other night, I was having one of those. Reader be warned...if you're not into anything explicit, you'd better check-out now, 'cause the details of this one are pretty steamy.  I was in my living room, all by my lonesome, when my husband walked in with a beautiful woman.  He had a gleam in his eye, and when he saw me, he smiled and said, "Honey, this is Megan...she's going to babysit tonight."  Is that hot or what?  And I know it's sordid, but in my dream, Megan was also a professional wetnurse...now stay with me here, 'cause I know we just jumped back to Shakespearian time, and it's not like I would ever actually have another woman breastfeed my child in real life (probably...ahem), but it was a dream!  And we went to dinner at a fancy restaurant and no one needed me to cut their food or take them potty or give them the heimlich due to seeing how many nuggets they could fit into their mouth at one time...because they were all at home, tormenting Megan.  Whew! After writing about this I practically need a cold shower!  Anyway, as I'm dreaming, all of a sudden I hear a distant voice.  It's my husband, Joe.  It was very early in the morning and he was leaving for his business trip, but, ever the romantic, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, "Honey, something went through the dryer and now there's white fuzzies all over everything.  I don't know what it is.  I'll miss you--see you Friday night."  Is that sexy or what?  I'm probably going to be censored with all of this...but I know you can handle it.

So, later in the day, when I finally got up the gumption to investigate this mysterious laundry phenomena, I found out that the 'little white fuzzies' were pieces of a diaper.  A whole entire diaper (clean or dirty, I couldn't tell ya...well, actually, I guess it's clean now, LOL) had gone through the wash cycle.  It was nothing short of magical.  How the thing got in there, one can only guess (I've got a feeling that a two-foot-tall individual may have had something to do with it, since I also found her pacifier in there)...but no one knows for sure.  Maybe it was an early Christmas miracle.  All I know is, if it weren't for my wonderful mother-in-law being in town for the day, (yes, I actually have a mother-in-law that I truly love) and her generous offer to vaccum up all of those little white diaper fuzzies after they had been shaken out of or picked off the clothing, I probably would have failed to see the humor.  If you recall, my vacuum has special needs and I'm about done with the thing.  But watching someone else come to the realization that 50 passes over the same spec of dirt isn't doing a thing is slightly humorous.  (Side note: maybe that's why Dyson has made such a POS: I bet they have hidden cameras strategically placed on the canister to watch the hilarity ensue...touche, Dyson, touche).

Anyway, that was Wednesday, and the rest of the week was fairly uneventful.  Except that both of my "older" (haha) kids have a severe case of the "wemme do's" right now.  Sebastian actually verbalizes this sentiment, while Gabriella just makes it known through her actions, but it's a pandemic that has a severe hold on our house.  Example: Sebastian and Gabriella both love chocolate milk.  I buy Ovaltine, because it makes me feel like less of a derelict mom than using straight-up Hershey's syrup.  Well, about twice a day I find Seb in the fridge, hefting the gallon of milk out to make himself a drink.  And so goes this exchange: 

"Here, I'll help you so we don't make a mess."

"No!  Wemme do it!  I'll do the ch-LOC-late and you do the milk."

And then it comes down to sheer parenting skill.  After all, teach them to do things for themselves and all that, right?  So, the other day, I decided to turn out little chocolate milk-making session into a teachable moment.  "OK, you can do the chocolate, but not too much, OK?  ONE scoop, and that's it.  Then I'll do the milk."  This was going to be great.  I was letting him have a little independence (but not too much) and showing my faith in his hand-eye coordination.  I could sense the trophy-makers beginning to prepare my "Mother-of-theYear" award.  Excitedly, Sebastian took a heaping tablespoon of powered chocolate and dropped it in his sippy cup.  Then, quicker than I could blink, he had another heaping tablespoon out and just as I exclaimed, "No, that's too much!" he dropped it all over the floor.  Then the actual jar of Ovaltine went with it.  I scrambled to pick up the jar and scoop as much of the powered mess as I could with my hands before...but it was too late...the dogs came running and had a heyday.  I swear, if they weren't diabetic before, they're on their way now.  I warned the dogs that it was probably to their detriment that they were scarfing so much sugar, but it was like they couldn't even undrstand what I was saying.  I'm not lying, I'm going to be ticked if one of them has to have a paw aputated or something.  But I digress... 

And then there's Gabriella.  My sweet little toddler.  The other day I discovered her, once again in the bathroom, but this time painting the floor with the toilet brush.  Most people leave their toilet brushes inside their little stainless steel containers, discreetly placed on the corner of the bathroom floor, right?  Well, to discourage further artistic license from my baby picasso, mine has to be on top of the etegere behind the toilet.  Front and center, sticking out like a sore thumb.  Mine has become a piece of the decor.  I could just picture the Better Homes and Gardens people creating a magazine layout featuring my decorating: "And here's Ranae Seestadt's half bathroom, conveniently located on the first floor of their home, with walls done in warm beige and decor inspired by toilet hygiene."  Yup, that bathroom just exudes class.

Still, all-in-all, it was a good week.  But I was definitely ready for Joe to be home.  It's not too often that he goes out of state on business for days at a time, and I was looking forward to having another zookeeper back in the zoo with me.  On Friday evening, I was wrapping up the night, eagerly anticipating serving dinner and then getting the little ones off to bed so I could unwind.  I opened the oven to take out the meatloaf, and a piercing sound startled me.  "BEEP BEEP BEEP!"  It sounded like a fire alarm.  Had I really burned dinner that badly?  I looked around for smoke, thinking about what a major inconvenience it would be in the bedtime routine to have to evacuate for a fire.  And then I realized that the relentless beeping was coming from none other than Pearl, my African Grey parrot.  She was perfectly imitating our smoke detector.  I yelled, "Pearl!  Stop it!"  And she laughed.  Everyone's a comedian.