Costumes: They're not just for Halloween and they should probably cover your fanny

I wish I could lie and say that everything's been peachy since we had our family-wide meltdown. It's been better, but it's also been kind of trippy. Like we hit rock bottom and everyone decided to change their costume for the ride back up, and when we got out of the elevator we didn't really recognize one another.

Except Chuck. He's still bald. And me. I'm still fighting the grays and wishing I got that nose ring 30 years ago. 

We've been working on creative ways for the older boys to handle Cam's tantrums. I asked them if they could try to make it game when Cam runs into the room and takes their toys. I reminded them that he's just trying to play with them.

HE JUST WANTS YOUR ATTENTION, I always yell. JUST LET HIM PLAY FOR GOD'S SAKE. 

I never thought they'd actually listen, but low and behold the other day Cam grabbed Junior's Lego jet and when Junior raced after him he yelled, "Hey Cam! I have a cooler, faster jet I want to give you!"

Cam stopped in his tracks and handed Junior the jet. He even accepted the "cooler" replacement jet — which was clearly 10,000,000 times inferior.

It doesn't work every time (the next time it happened, Cam dropped the jet and it broke into a million pieces and Junior raced to his bedroom in tears, muttering, "He ruins everything!" but hey, it's progress).

It was enough progress that I was feeling pretty damn good about my parenting skills — for like, oh, three minutes. Then Junior got invited to a friend's house, and Everett decided to immediately fill the vacant spot in the tantrum department.

How are children so adept at that?

It was yesterday. I had walked Junior out to the driveway so we could wait for his friend and his friend's father to pick him up. Everett came racing outside and demanded to know where Junior was going.

"To a friend's!" Junior said in a haughty voice.

"Don't leave me!" Everett cried. Cam stood at the door yelling, "I want to come outside too!" Chuck was inside pooping. I swear, it's how he manages to evade all the stressful moments.

Just then Junior's friend's father pulled up. Before Junior could take a step, Everett wrapped his arms and legs around Junior's leg.

"Get off me!" Junior shouted.

"I want you to stay!" Everett cried. It was raining. He was still in his pajamas, which were decorated in Christmas moose (meese?). I calmly asked Everett to please stop.

Junior started walking towards his friend's car, dragging Everett with him. Junior shouted, "Everett! You're making a scene. YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO." It was like something out of a romantic comedy. I swear, sad music started playing in the background and the wind picked up just enough to tousle their hair.

"YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO."

"BUT I DON'T WANT TO!"

"BUT YOU HAVE TO!"

"PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!"

I saw it: Brothers. Changing. Growing up right before my eyes. Not toddlers. Not even little kids. But real people with genuine, big people feelings and emotions. Junior is leaving Everett behind, I thought. He wants to break away.

It hurt my heart. I tried not to get choked up. It was easy, given that the friend and the friend's father were gawking at us from their car, and Cam was still screaming at the door. I bent down (this detail will be important in a minute) and helped pry Everett off Junior's leg. I held Everett (all 60 pounds of him) and we waved goodbye. Because I no longer have standards, I used my clothing to wipe the snot and tears off his face.

"He needs to see his friends," I told Everett. "Everyone likes to see their friends from time to time."

When we got back inside, Cam was ecstatic to see Everett. "Will you play with me?" he asked. Everett grudgingly agreed. I said a silent thank you to the universe, hopeful that maybe Cam will help fill in the gaps when Junior is out of the house. Maybe this is the silver lining of being the middle brother. You always have options for playmates.

Chuck finally emerged from the bathroom three hours later. He wanted to know what all the drama had been about.

"Nothing," I lied.

"That's not true," Everett giggled. "Everyone saw Mom's butt."

"What?" I shrieked.

"You have a huge hole in your pants."

"Bend over," Chuck said.

I did. "You have a huge tear. I can see...crack..."

"Omigod," I said.

Moral of the story: I need a costume change too.

Tackling the tantrums one drink at a time

I'm fried. There's no other way to put it. If you have children, they kick your ass; not because they're horrible but because they are little people with needs, wants and endless energy and because you are old, tired and don't feel like it.

Ok fine, I'm old.

This is Junior and Everett's last week of school. Last year at this time I was a wreck, unsure of how I would balance work while keeping three kids happy enough. I say enough because I don't think it's my job as a parent to lead a non-stop happy parade. I believe boredom is good. But hey, it's summer, there have to be some popsicles and pool time.

This year I'm not such a wreck. Cam is almost two and a half, so it should be easier to travel, unless it's during nap time, in which case it will still be hellacious. I have a new, not pregnant babysitter. Chuck has three weeks off instead of five days. There are no more lunches to pack at 6:45 a.m., no more homework, spelling tests or nightly reading quotas.

And honestly, I'm thrilled to get a break from the kids' schools. The schools in Mulletville Lite expect a daunting amount of parental involvement. A steady stream of flyers came home announcing fundraisers, rallies, poetry readings, fun days, spirit days, crazy hat days, balloon twisting days and of course, everyone wants the parents to participate, but what the hell, all the events were held at 1:30 in the afternoon. Don't forget to bring a baked good!

If you didn't see the flyer announcing the event, no worries, there were 10,000,000 other ways the school communicated with you: there was Facebook (separate accounts for each school); the PTO's Facebook page (separate accounts for each school); Twitter (again, separate accounts); Twitter for separate school departments, such as the library; a weekly digital newsletter; the school system's website; emails from the teachers; a weekly printed newsletter from the teachers; and of course, good old fashioned letters sent home via the school's mascot, an old horse named One-eyed Hank.

(Ha! Just checking to see if you're still with me.)

It felt like a full-time job, and I wasn't even on the PTO. (How do they do it?)

I asked my mother if she had felt this way when I was in school. She snorted and said, "If they couldn't reach you on the phone the only other choice they had was to mail you a letter, so no."

That sounds delightful and a lot more reasonable. Somewhere along the way, from my childhood to my children's, more of EVERYTHING became preferable. But it just doesn't feel good. So that's where I'm at right now, with summer around the corner. Less is more. Less screen time. More staring at the sky time. Less involvement. More meandering. Fewer toys. More homemade creations.

Fewer tantrums would be nice, but we're not there yet. I guess the good news is that once school is out, the tantrums can take place in the comfort of our home instead of say, in an auditorium. The even better news is that I can oversee said tantrum with the aid of a cool beverage.

Frick. It always comes back to the tantrums and the vodka, doesn't it?

I'm okay with that. I have to be. For now.

5 ways motherhood has made me stealthlier. Alternate title: My brain now has tentacles

That was a bold declaration I made in my last post. You know, the one where I patted myself on the back and pronounced that I rock motherhood sometimes. It's true though, some days I do feel like I have a handle on things. I really, really do.

Then one of the kids will grow up a little more and change the rules a little bit and I'll look at him and think, Frick, this is uncharted territory. Now what?

It's like making it to the next level of a video game only to find that the magic torch and invisible cloak with which you'd defeated the wizard in the previous level are now worthless.

But I'm wiser for having children. Here are 5 ways how:

1. Reinforcing basic people skills ("Say you're sorry to Billy for taking his toy") has made me a better communicator.
Before having kids I would have sat back and enjoyed the fireworks of a good argument. Now, if someone is having a disagreement, I feel more confident helping them work it out. I've reasoned with this, after all:

2. Five years of explaining things to a child ("Trees produce oxygen, so we shouldn't cut them all down") has improved my professional career.
Before having kids I would have just written off a colleague as inept if she/he didn't understand a point I was making. Now, I know better how to put 1 + 2 together for him/her. Spelling things out makes everyone happy, especially bosses.

3. Trying to anticipate the irrational needs of a little person ("You wanted a blue one? But your favorite color is red!") has challenged me to prepare for anything and everything.
Before having kids I would have forgotten my own tampons. Now, instead of thinking in linear terms, the tentacles in my brain stretch to the far recesses. I pack supplies for everyone, even the cat. I trouble shoot for Scenario A, G, and Q. You'd be amazed at how often Q happens. 

4. Being continuously interrupted in the bathroom (Knock! Bang! "Mom, I need you now!") has made me a whiz at finding "me time" anywhere.
Before having kids I would have gone in, done my business, and gotten out. Now I sneak upstairs, lock the door, sit on the bath mat and read a few chapters from my favorite book or Real Simple magazine. If anyone were to call me out, a simple toilet flush would silence them (yes, two can play at that game, Chuck). 

5. Being under constant surveillance ("Mom, are you eating ice cream? Can I have some? Can I??") has made me adept at product placement.
Before having kids I would have shoved whatever I wanted into my mouth whenever I wanted to. Now, small beady eyes watch me like scavengers. I have to be better, faster, smarter. I'll put Oreos in the broccoli bag, chocolate bars in the soap dish. As long as you pass the first suspicious glance, you have a few minutes to actually taste the food on the way down. Although, it's amazing how much you can cram into your mouth while rummaging through the fridge for that darn apple juice.

Shoot, is it really 9:15? Arg. I just thought of another one: Being constantly robbed of my sleep ("Mom, I dropped my bear! I need to pee!) has made me a skittish sleeper. Dear God, they could be up at any hour for any issue.

Goodnight. Go to bed!