Sadly, it's true.

'Twas the last week in April, a rainy, cold day.

Three small children were left all alone to play.

They ran down the hall, shrieking with glee.

“Suddenly it’s too quiet,” I thought with worry.

The children were huddled, studying my door.

Diapers were off, pants on the floor.

I walk up the steps, coffee and bagel in hand,

”What are you looking at?” I loudly demand.

When up from the door, there arose such a smell,

I took a step back. “What is that?” I yell.

Down to the floor my bagel I threw,

Put down my coffee, there was trouble, I knew.

The hallway was silent, I looked all around,

First I looked up, and then I looked down.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

a door smeared with poo! 6 eyes full of fear.

”Who did this?” I say,

Each child looked away.

"She did!” “He did!” “She did!” I hear.

”Turn around then,” I shout, “I look at your rears!”

”Oh Anna, Sophia, and little boy Matty;

Wait till I call to tell your daddy!”

”Matty, we’ll have to give you a bath”

Sophia smiled coyly and let out a laugh.

Thinking she’d gotten away with it all,

She ran away, ran away, ran away down the hall!

I took off in a moment, a 10 foot dash,

Fueled by confusion, I caught up in a flash.

She held up her right hand, it smelled just like poo.

She held up her left hand, that one smelled too.

”How did this get here, what did you do?

We don’t play with anyone’s Number 2!”

Off to the bathtub, all four of us flew.

Scrubbed fingers and bottoms till they smelled just like new.

Now for the door, but wait there’s the phone.

“Wait till daddy hears what you’ve done!”

Silent he was, as I recounted my story,

3 toddlers and poo, in all of its glory.

He tried to hold his hearty laughter in,

I could hear it through the phone, a Cheshire’s grin.

Chuckling and chortling, like a jolly old elf!

And I laughed when I heard him, in spite of myself;

I heard him exclaim, “What else can you do

When faced with a door, 3 toddlers and poo!”

Memory Part Deux

This morning when I was in our laundry room, sorting through wash, I listened to R playing with the Salad. They were screaming and laughing. He was hiding them behind his back and pretending not to see them. Suddenly I heard A shout, "Has anybody seen A?" She speaks so well and her vocabulary and fluidity grow leaps and bounds every day. Seriously. Every day.

I thought about a car ride the 5 of us took a couple of months ago and how much more confidently she uses words now. During our trip, A painstakingly unbuttoned every single snap on her floral pink and brown pants. Then hiked up her bright pink socks to her knees so she looked like a field hockey player. She shrieked with delight “Yeah! Me did it!” She said each word like it was it’s own sentence. Wanting to make sure her mouth got each new word just right. “Yeah! Me. Did. It.” So succinct. So perfect.

Defeat

I lost a battle of wills with an extraordinarily strong-headed 27 month old girl yesterday. I'm not going to rehash the whole ugly scene, let's leave it that one PIECE of Kraft Easy Mac & Cheese, two pacifiers, and a trashcan were involved. Marcus Fabuis Quintilianus said "When defeat is inevitable, it is wisest to yield." I yielded in favour of 75 minutes of quiet during naptime.

'Nuff said.

Memory Part 1

Memory
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: ability to hold in the mind

The ability to hold anything in my mind appears to be fading, and fading fast. Truly the reason I started this blog (and then promptly took a well deserved 48 day hiatus) is because I have so many small things I want to remember about the Salad. Details from when they were bitty 4 pound babies seem near impossible to recall with 820 days worth of new memories edging them further from the forefront. To start at the beginning makes the most sense, but doesn't feel stream of consciousness enough for me. So I will continue to blog and occasionally throw a Memory in the midst.

Today M got very upset when I told them that we had to wrap up Play-doh and wash hands to eat lunch. A typical 2 year old tantrum is anything but for M. Once he works himself up, he has a hard time calming himself. He tries. He looks for things that make him feel better. He'll search out his Blue Beary. He'll ask Daddy to wash his hands. He'll request alone time on the stairs. But most often what he seeks, what soothes his soul, what eases his mind, is me. Tears as big as rain drops make those mile long lashes clump together and while his chest heaves those heartbroken sobs, I'll catch it. "Mommy, hold like a baby?!"


And so I do. I scoop that 26 pound, 34" toddler right up and rock him until I feel the relief come to his little body.


I inevitably flash back to the infant days when I would stay up late, watching the minutes tick away until I could feed him his last bottle of the day. The girls had done away with theirs, but M was so tiny that I would sneak in and steal him away from his crib. I would sit on the couch downstairs, with the lights dimmed so low I could barely make out his face and try to get 4 ounces into him while he slept, the only way he would drink a bottle. He would suck it down in no time at all and I would hold him a while longer, studying his straight nose and perfectly round pumpkin head and suddenly his lips would pucker up, thinking there was more to be had and he would start sucking again. Then he would
sigh a tiny sigh. And then I would
sigh a tiny sigh and off to bed we'd go.
Sigh. Off to bed I go.