tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42699565918585771462024-03-06T04:01:23.405-05:00You a Bad, Bad MommyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-58563753521524329832013-09-04T20:01:00.001-04:002013-09-04T20:01:36.590-04:00KindergartenHere's what I know about kindergarten:<br />
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<li>The bus is magical. It has no seat belts. Riding the bus might be the best thing that ever happened to my children. It also might be the best thing that ever happened to me.</li>
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<li>There is something called a Smart Board in their classroom, which, as far as I can tell, is a combination of Kit from Knight Rider and Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. </li>
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<li>Gym class is fun, except when the girls laugh at the boys trying to skip. Girls skip better than boys.</li>
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<li>Three days in, and they've already learned the Chicken Dance and the Cha Cha Slide. This is quality education, people.</li>
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<li>The cafeteria is like a restaurant, and THEY HAVE CHOCOLATE MILK TO DRINK, MOMMY!!!! </li>
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<li>On Friday, Zach claimed that Cooper already had a best friend (and that he and Charlie had not yet found best friends). Cooper agreed that he had a best friend, but he'd forgotten his name.</li>
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And that's about all I know. They are happy when they get off the bus, and right now, that's the best I can ask for.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-57110038548066292742013-08-27T21:20:00.001-04:002013-08-27T21:22:11.253-04:00Starting a New ChapterThe triplets started kindergarten yesterday. <br />
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We walked Zach, Charlie and Cooper to the media center, where, after quick kisses and hugs, they were whisked away to their first day of big kid school. <br />
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I watched the boys bounce away. I picked up Michael and squeezed him tight, as if hugging him would somehow keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. <br />
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Starting kindergarten means a new adventure for the triplets. It also marks the end of a journey: I feel like I can finally let out the breath I've been holding for six years. <br />
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Six years ago they were born at viability - 24 weeks, 0 days. They each weighed less than a pound-and-a-half. Their skin was transparent, and their eyes were fused shut. We couldn't hold them for weeks. Despite the odds, their lives were saved by numerous surgeries, countless transfusions and amazing medical technology. <br />
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Now, the only proof of our six-month stay in the NICU is a scar on Cooper's neck from a tracheostomy and an adorable pair of glasses that make Charlie the envy of his brothers.<br />
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The boys have graduated speech and occupational therapies. They are reading books and spelling words. They're shooting baskets and scoring soccer goals. They're building Lego villages and performing plays in their bedroom. They're teaching their little brother how to get into trouble.<br />
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I remember, six years ago, wondering whether my tiny boys would get to have a first day of kindergarten, and if they did, what kind of quality of life would they have? Questions like those haunted me for a long time. If I could only go back in time and tell myself then what I know now. Not only did they have a first day of kindergarten, but they knocked it out of the park. They loved every second of it. It's going to be a fun ride. We are so very blessed.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-87051639373013414252013-08-25T20:33:00.002-04:002013-08-25T21:23:57.881-04:00Say Cheese<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday we decided to take a family photo. Michael claimed that Zach farted.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-59241072635649528852013-08-21T22:58:00.001-04:002013-08-21T23:04:25.277-04:00The Dark Knight Rises (and shines and wants his juice)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<u><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">The Evolution of Batman</span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The obsession started last Halloween, when his big brothers chose to dress as superheroes.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaH8zP1N9AXQNLb7551DAKrrdGgrjykAsYhfVC-rkWbQEnHYGpkVLc4qOzXyWbimSueyYs3dHu0AJCQa-nKiEvJROkG-Vl6ADlYJ1DbZEcOmJdK5eTeo9ADc2cspinEcHcQHcoi5H2w/s1600/IMG_1064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaH8zP1N9AXQNLb7551DAKrrdGgrjykAsYhfVC-rkWbQEnHYGpkVLc4qOzXyWbimSueyYs3dHu0AJCQa-nKiEvJROkG-Vl6ADlYJ1DbZEcOmJdK5eTeo9ADc2cspinEcHcQHcoi5H2w/s400/IMG_1064.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I chose to dress Michael as Mickey Mouse.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbWm0ZR9b6W3uImhZ3ft3VSxWZKTMcQvWhvtOxPQIAR5D6NmIKSOFyr2gTNOcMHEwPvaFKVu16Ya23BFAjK8iG4MG3PJaB6KJWyaF6m_uCrVUstreQnIkcKbCyPdng-OPHGeSgmYHNQ/s1600/PA311151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbWm0ZR9b6W3uImhZ3ft3VSxWZKTMcQvWhvtOxPQIAR5D6NmIKSOFyr2gTNOcMHEwPvaFKVu16Ya23BFAjK8iG4MG3PJaB6KJWyaF6m_uCrVUstreQnIkcKbCyPdng-OPHGeSgmYHNQ/s400/PA311151.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The indignity of being disguised as a rodent in the face of the DC Superfriends was too much for this 1-year-old...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And he started insisting on wearing a batman shirt, cape or hood. Everywhere, every day.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3gZN55Y9WX8eETWKsGrUr6U_TmMR2Xm2txojg9jennrpz3mwTUkeRH0lbSLvYga7HEOeHd1ZVpG1EvnHRdFRrqMol_R-Z431FszTIBtyzPcnVpvU9JXXraGemGChaenRj5YnlYD1wQ/s1600/IMG_1473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3gZN55Y9WX8eETWKsGrUr6U_TmMR2Xm2txojg9jennrpz3mwTUkeRH0lbSLvYga7HEOeHd1ZVpG1EvnHRdFRrqMol_R-Z431FszTIBtyzPcnVpvU9JXXraGemGChaenRj5YnlYD1wQ/s640/IMG_1473.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">While eating his Eggos.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the playground. While chasing dangerous marine life.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhV9k6EGFCw2jc4mQxDwKm6s1j8nIcmyfhTccYLPIzpy9s_NidTLFHNOyS6OcpayxU6sRYxqTh92WEULe7uRn-C3D2tHRObd5L-iJ3RItiplMpQjxvjcYQBkKXKdr2ZeThJ9WAsqoYg/s1600/batman+nature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhV9k6EGFCw2jc4mQxDwKm6s1j8nIcmyfhTccYLPIzpy9s_NidTLFHNOyS6OcpayxU6sRYxqTh92WEULe7uRn-C3D2tHRObd5L-iJ3RItiplMpQjxvjcYQBkKXKdr2ZeThJ9WAsqoYg/s320/batman+nature.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">While hiking.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My sweet, adorable one-year-old tossed aside Tickle-Me-Elmo and was asking for Batman gear and books and toys. (But do you really NEED that Batarang, Michael?) His innocence, lost. For his 2nd birthday, he insisted on a Batman cake. I snuck a few Disney heroes on top - desperate to save my sweet baby. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHitEMMNr9-Kb4UQABwF7PziPBXlr6KqiO1lfiI2MuyYRLz8x9aRC0ZS71cXrKzK8MWwBJ7L9gKE_bwekNDA2rfHqcRnzcQXyINnypn8Wl1bqJ8jKD_b8O_BoN_cpE-bj9L0Mecg8f-w/s1600/PC221318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="529" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHitEMMNr9-Kb4UQABwF7PziPBXlr6KqiO1lfiI2MuyYRLz8x9aRC0ZS71cXrKzK8MWwBJ7L9gKE_bwekNDA2rfHqcRnzcQXyINnypn8Wl1bqJ8jKD_b8O_BoN_cpE-bj9L0Mecg8f-w/s640/PC221318.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eventually I gave in. My mom sewed velcro on the backs of other shirts, and Michael wears a Batman cape almost every day. He drives a Batman tricycle and carries a Batman lunchbox (everywhere. Like a purse.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know what you are thinking. That I'm an enabler: clearly, a 2-year-old does does not shop for his own clothes. You would be correct. Michael owns more Batman shirts than I'd like to admit. But, in my 6-years of being a mom I've learned to choose my battles, and Batman is just not going to be one of them. Some mornings I can handle the tantrum that erupts when I am dying to dress him in a cute Janie and Jack ensemble that has been collecting dust in his closet. But usually I'm just trying to get 4 kids fed and out the door, and I'm just as happy to throw him a cape.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And just for the record, I have chosen other battles. And won.</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Battles I Have Won</b></span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1. No food upstairs.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2. Play-doh stays outside with the bubbles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3. No cartoons with guns.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4. We do not eat Legos.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">5. We do not play the piano with our penises.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But I'll save further discussion of these and other battles for another day.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-65735155044504600992012-07-27T22:54:00.003-04:002012-07-27T23:17:36.578-04:00WILDLIFE (not referring to my children)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>BIRDS</b></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> A few weeks
ago, in what turned out to be a vain attempt to get the boys to camp on time, I
popped opened the van doors from inside the house and shooed the boys out to the car. While I was gathering the backpacks, the
lunchboxes and Big Mike, I heard the screams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Oh the
horror. A bird was trapped in the van,
and he had been there all night long.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And this
bird had diarrhea.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">OK, so I
don’t really know what bird diarrhea looks like. All I know is that my van was covered in a sh*t load of
birdsh*t. Black and white paintball
style.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">And even
with all the van doors open, said bird, apparently in shock from having spent
the night in the Odyssey and from having his glorious sh*tting spree interrupted by the
triplets, vainly tried to escape by pounding his head into the windshield over and over, until Brian came after him with a broom. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">The boys
thought it was the best thing they’d ever seen. And despite the ugly, horrible things I wished on that bird, he flew away unharmed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">As I was
cleaning the bird feces out of the air conditioning vents, my wonderful husband
(who was suddenly too “late” for work to lend a hand) said <i>out loud... to me... while I am cleaning <b>BIRDSHIT</b></i> <i>out of tiny crevices</i>, “Maybe if your car was cleaner this wouldn’t have
happened…” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Really?? Perhaps insinuating that the bird was lured into my van by the 17 pounds of
goldfish crumbs on the floors? As
if. Well if he did fly in there to eat
the crumbs, he did a really sh*tty job.
He could have at least made a dent.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<h2 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">FROGS</span></b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Flash
forward five weeks, to this morning.
The last day of camp. The boys and I are in the carpool line. Michael and Charlie are in the middle row, the other two are in the back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">The
counsellors come to the van door to collect my excited campers, and I popped
open the van door closest to Big Mike.
The big boys climbed out, and suddenly I heard the counsellor shriek,
pointing at Michael: “A FROG!! He had a frog!!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I turned
around, and I saw Kermit Kahn (a really ugly little frog) hanging out on the floorboard
next to Michael’s seat. “He had it in
his hand and it jumped out!” shouted the counsellor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">WTF. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Did Michael
really pick up a frog in our driveway and hold it for the half-mile drive to
camp?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">There was a
bustle of excitement and the camp director herself jumped into the van – very
excited to find Kermit Kahn for one of the camp classes that had been doing a
unit on frogs. She caught him in the
back row. I remained conveniently buckled
into the driver’s seat, determined to avoid warts at all costs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I was
marvelling at her braveness when I realized in horror what my van look
liked and what she was crawling around in looking for the frog. (See above, re: Birds). Stale pretzels, smashed snacks of all
kinds, (never give a 1-year-old a cereal bar in the car and think that will
end well), and a half-eaten piece of pizza (which I noticed later).
(Yes, pizza. Thank you Cooper. He later told me he had
“forgotten” it.). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">When she got
out of the van, the camp director was so excited to have captured the frog that
I am hopeful that maybe she didn’t notice the crushed Toast-Chee stuck to her knees. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Later, in an
email from a friend whose son was in the camp group learning about frogs, I
found out that the counsellors had been trying to catch a frog for weeks, and
she told me the campers were thrilled
by “Little Michael’s” catch. It was the
perfect ending to their frog unit, fittingly, on the last day of camp.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Big
Mike. Kicking butt, taking names, and
apparently catching frogs. I am in so
much trouble.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, you’d
think that after the bird incident and the frog episode that I might do
something about the van, seeing as it appears to attract wildlife. Tomorrow is the day. It really is. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-31663878046870137172012-02-20T21:52:00.000-05:002012-02-20T21:58:51.469-05:00Cooper Kahn, Glam rocker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7mG7ddF32ciOEsI1QSsFLjMM14e-lJ_3AJfoeAPAGxAQ-yBlXqJNyuOpmXqSXwLXhPd0KD0FdvcCKRg_-Ax3QxScChMLdOsLIrnzG523oJnTsHRuO_wlyYG-U_tuLVvoQmCrhziVzZM/s1600/cooper+bowie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7mG7ddF32ciOEsI1QSsFLjMM14e-lJ_3AJfoeAPAGxAQ-yBlXqJNyuOpmXqSXwLXhPd0KD0FdvcCKRg_-Ax3QxScChMLdOsLIrnzG523oJnTsHRuO_wlyYG-U_tuLVvoQmCrhziVzZM/s320/cooper+bowie.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3jFbC_3RxYkqGKIRjGiKLRk9ue_i-vup7VOAZJ6sbIznWzawGXkWJWZ9a7L5mm_NbrKqiLO5Uv_dBxOTZXfEJXF5ZOMl4ePO53K5MnPcB5BXYs9mUDcUIaoi-W5ulnRcQWYVET2Mu8c/s1600/david+bowie+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3jFbC_3RxYkqGKIRjGiKLRk9ue_i-vup7VOAZJ6sbIznWzawGXkWJWZ9a7L5mm_NbrKqiLO5Uv_dBxOTZXfEJXF5ZOMl4ePO53K5MnPcB5BXYs9mUDcUIaoi-W5ulnRcQWYVET2Mu8c/s320/david+bowie+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
..... Will be posting a real blog post in a day or two.... <br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-32302868428973288532011-12-05T20:26:00.001-05:002011-12-05T22:29:48.339-05:00PopcornThe email I sent Brian today, to let him know what he was missing back home:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy96gGfO2Lmt24fjkUoNo7PdsReJVqeAB0vPyJmY6klgVd6FvMn0emTFEmLov83sBOePMBm3HPiZN_F1BXrVqEwJcq4NwzpoWGuNzjhwMeYRIh9m86vLSung0MnW0ynaYgB6lNDgrtdK4/s1600/Fullscreen+capture+5122011+82334+PM.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy96gGfO2Lmt24fjkUoNo7PdsReJVqeAB0vPyJmY6klgVd6FvMn0emTFEmLov83sBOePMBm3HPiZN_F1BXrVqEwJcq4NwzpoWGuNzjhwMeYRIh9m86vLSung0MnW0ynaYgB6lNDgrtdK4/s640/Fullscreen+capture+5122011+82334+PM.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This is why I don't have time to blog much lately. Because I spend my time coaching 4-year-olds to blow popcorn seeds out of their sinuses while at the same time, I'm worrying that the offending seed is causing internal bleeding. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Which 4-year-old snorted the seed you may ask? </div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVs0DQ6JiOcmIkmROpZcZRUtAo6_hE5cmhTs37s9QlvujsX0K8yu_GS7Ybjr7U_KFZ7TBtm5sXp_J-1iNqKoKo_rPHxSXSYpt92ZFZ_d4ri5ZVdvCwM89NdipGQzWHnZBYmIeK7i7Zgw/s1600/arrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVs0DQ6JiOcmIkmROpZcZRUtAo6_hE5cmhTs37s9QlvujsX0K8yu_GS7Ybjr7U_KFZ7TBtm5sXp_J-1iNqKoKo_rPHxSXSYpt92ZFZ_d4ri5ZVdvCwM89NdipGQzWHnZBYmIeK7i7Zgw/s400/arrow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Charlie. I have no idea why he thought it was a good idea to put the seed in his nose. Nor do I have any idea what was going on when this gem of a photo was taken. (I found it in a pile of random shots the other day). What's up with Charlie? And why do I look like someone just told me that the turkey burger I just ate was actually skunk? <br />
<br />
Truth be told, I think I actually wear this expression a lot. Like today, when Charlie appeared to be hemorrhaging because of a popcorn seed. Or yesterday when I caught Michael happily playing in a toilet filled with pee. Or the other day when I stepped in cat puke barefoot. Or when Charlie charmingly pointed out "Mommy, you have a big bottom." I'm afraid I am going to wake up one morning, with this expression permanently frozen on my face. <br />
<br />
Anyway, back to Charlie and the popcorn seed. The good news is that we didn't end up back at the doctor's office today for popcorn removal. Had we gone, it would have been our fourth trip in eight days. (Three cases of strep last week kept the boys out of school most of the week and me on the brink of insanity). The bad news is that Charlie now knows how to shoot things out of his nose...<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-88907806183881075652011-10-30T21:19:00.004-04:002011-10-30T21:19:54.386-04:00Underpants<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Let me preface this blog with a PSA to all mothers of boy
multiples.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Once your kids are potty trained, buy 21 pairs of PLAIN WHITE
underwear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not get suckered into
buying fun underpants that decorate your kids’ bottoms with cartoon characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will thank me for this advice and will
be saved countless early morning fights over who gets to wear the coveted Batman underpants that day and who gets stuck with the boring soccer ball
undies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
----</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Twice a week after school, the triplets have swimming
lessons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone from the preschool
takes them from class to the pool and helps them change into their swimsuits,
and an hour later,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael and I pick
them up and take them to the locker room to get dressed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
As you can imagine, the pool locker room is mad chaos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are at least 10 shivering
preschoolers, their moms or nannies, a handful of naked octogenarians, and Big
Mike, who, fortunately, stays content in his chariot as long as he has lots and
lots of snacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Last Wednesday, as usual, Charlie got to his locker
first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s speedy-- yanked on all his
clothes without help. He’s also very impatient.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
In the time it takes Charlie to get dressed, Zach’s managed
to take off his swimsuit and put on his shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cooper, meanwhile, has stopped to get water, to pee, to watch his
friends, and to peak into the showers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“GET DRESSED,” I tell him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
responds that he needs to go potty (again) and disappears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Charlie is headed to the exit door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>STOP, I tell him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell Michael to guard the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope no one notices the pile of soggy cheerios and cookie accumulating
around his stroller.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I pull Zach’s blue Spiderman undies out of his
locker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are crusty. Someone
forgot to wipe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I covertly show Zach the skid-marked underpants and tell him
that he can’t wear them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’ll just
have to go commando, at least until we get home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Now, this would be reasonable to the normal human being, but
not to Zach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently not wearing
underwear is against everything he stands for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He starts bouncing up and down, lips quivering, on the verge of a major
tantrum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Because I will not let him
wear poop-crusted underwear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I
don’t have much time; my patience is wearing thin, Charlie is pushing on the door
to leave, Cooper is finally naked, but marching through the locker room waiving
his swim trunks like a flag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael’s
snacks are almost gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I’ve learned to choose my battles, and I just hoped the
other moms weren’t watching as I rolled my eyes and let Zach pull on the dirty
britches.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Little did I know that a bigger battle was brewing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
As Zach is pulling up his pants, Charlie spots the blue
Spiderman underpants on Zach and realizes that a terrible mistake has been
made. He cannot believe his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“NOOO!!! Those are MINE! Give those BAAAACK.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, turns out that the poopy undies Zach was refusing to
take off, were actually Charlie’s coveted blue Spiderman undies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very pair that Charlie himself had worn
all day and skidmarked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There had been a mixup at the lockers when they got changed. </span>Charlie wanted the underpants
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That instant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
There is screaming and tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Charlie yanks down his own pants to show Zach the
mix-up. He is wearing the WHITE Spiderman underpants that Zach had chosen that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zach doesn’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will not take off the poopy blue
underwear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I have a headache.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I look at Michael, whose face and hands are covered with
mushy training cookie goo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I look at Cooper, who is now singing God Bless America,
wearing his swim trunks on his head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I look at the other mothers in the locker room, perfectly cool and calm, with their perfectly cool and calm children, none of whom are wearing soiled underpants, I am sure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I look at the old ladies and hope they don’t get soggy cheerios
stuck to their bare feet (and if they do, that they don't associate them with me).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I man-up and threaten hours of time-out to any child of mine who
dares take off underwear or any other article of clothing (except for Cooper
who I threaten a 3pm bedtime if he didn’t start putting clothes ON). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
And that, my fellow parents of multiples, is why 21 pairs of matching underwear is the only way to go for your preschooler boys. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-50944294404147664702011-09-11T20:55:00.000-04:002011-09-11T21:06:07.452-04:00SkillsToday began a new chapter in our lives.<br />
<br />
Team Sports. The much anticipated Micro-Soccer league began this afternoon.<br />
<br />
Practice began on a high note before it even started when Zach sat in our driveway and stuffed rocks down his socks under his shin guards. <br />
<br />
Cooper moved like a robot to the van. The "pee wee" sized shinguards (the smallest we could find) came over knees. His socks were like thigh-highs. <br />
<br />
Eventually, we arrived at practice, ready to DO THIS. Today was "skills assessment" day.<br />
<br />
I looked around. Most of the kids were wearing cleats. My boys were in their brown-leather, rubber soled school shoes. The ones with the hologram of a dinosaur eye on the side. (What we lack in skill, we more than make up for in pure intimidation.) <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the intimidation factor of the bad-ass dinosaur shoes quickly wore off.<br />
<br />
Cooper and Charlie held hands midfield. Zach kept looking for more rocks to add to the collection in his shinguards.<br />
<br />
I think their favorite part of practice was getting to put their hands on top of the other kids' hands and shout something about teamwork. To their credit, though, it was hot, and they were trying their best to do the drills. I was very proud, and they seemed very proud of themselves.<br />
<br />
During the skills assessment, I could feel Brian shooting me dirty looks. I knew what he was thinking. This was MY fault. "Don't blame my genes for their lack of coordination," I told him. (I may be as unathletic as they come, but I reminded him that HE was the one in an acapella group in college). <br />
<br />
By the end of practice, the boys decided that - despite still having, well, no skills, and really no clue as to what the game entails - they love soccer are super excited for next week's game. And Brian decided to volunteer to help coach their team. <br />
<br />
Michael and I are looking forward to bringing orange slices and practicing our cheers. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-55402801738402171012011-08-21T21:58:00.001-04:002011-08-21T22:11:54.595-04:00Cooper's Best FriendCooper has a new best friend. A stuffed stegosaurus named Jimmy Jim.<br />
<br />
Cooper tells us that Jimmy Jim lives in a house near the Blackhawk Hardware store. (I think this is a lie because Jimmy Jim seems to spend most of his time at our house). Jimmy Jim also takes yoga classes, and after yoga he eats lunch at IHOP.<br />
<br />
I can't make this stuff up. Neither can Cooper. This is the stuff that Jimmy Jim tells him.<br />
<br />
Charlie is a bit afraid of Jimmy Jim, and I've had to take the dinosaur out of the boys room at night to protect Charlie from being bitten.<br />
<br />
That's not all Charlie is afraid of lately. <br />
<br />
The boys are I were discussing who looks like who. "You look like me," I say to Zach. I told Charlie he looks a lot like daddy. He started <span style="background-color: black;"></span><u>crying</u>. "Nooo! I don't look like daddy. He doesn't have much hair!!" <br />
<br />
In addition to being afraid of losing his hair, Charlie is also afraid of Jeff Burton. That's because Brian found a life-size Jeff Burton cardboard cutout in the garbage at work and just had to rescue him and bring him home. So the <strike>tacky piece of trash</strike> treasure ended up in the boys' playroom that night, and the next morning, around 6 a.m., the boys discovered the creepy man in the orange jumpsuit. I'm not sure poor Charlie will ever be the same. On the bright side, he probably won't ever be a NASCAR fan. <br />
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And now... the scariest thing of all. Our house. Please, no judgement. The other 99% of our day is pure bliss. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_2xOMgtTFc">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_2xOMgtTFc</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-49232595485931236902011-08-02T22:04:00.005-04:002011-08-03T06:45:18.863-04:00Field Trip<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">This summer I’ve found that the only way for me to keep the big boys from destroying my house, killing each other and driving me insane is to keep them as busy as possible -- usually out of the house. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">So the 5 of us take lots of trips. To the pool, to the park, to the mall, to the Teeter, to the library, you name it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">Yesterday we took a trip to hell. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">It started with a Groupon to a place I’d never heard of called Zootastic. Advertised as kind of a mini-zoo, full of exotic animals, about 45 minutes away. Sounded like the perfect way for 3 4-year-olds and a 7-month-old to spend a morning. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">I should have turned the van around about 20 miles from home when Charlie started shrieking for me to “TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF…” --- referring to the DVD I checked out from the library about clowns, which apparently scared the crap out of him. Damn clowns. Charlie was traumatized 20 minutes into our field trip and never fully recovered. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">At about 9:15 we arrived at Zootastic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">There was nothing <i>tastic</i> about this place, at least, not to the group of 4-year-olds I was traveling with.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">The “zoo” was basically a large piece of farmland, with a bunch of random, fenced-in animals. You get assigned to a group with tour guide to take you past each animal. It wasn’t one of those places you could simply wander around in on your own. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">And let me tell you. Four-year-olds love guided tours. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">In the heat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">With swarming bees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">Cooper was stung about 5 minutes into the tour. This trauma, compounded with the clown trauma, made Charlie a basket case. (Perhaps he overheard the helpful gentleman who was worried that Cooper would go into anaphylactic shock and die). Charlie really needed a Band-Aid too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">After we rejoined the tour, the boys were patient (for about 5 minutes) because I promised them that (at some point) our tour guide (who was actually very sweet) would let us feed some animals. After all, I’d paid $6 for them each to have a huge cup of foul-smelling animal feed, which they dutifully carried. Until the bee sting incident. After which Charlie and Cooper abandoned their cups (to me). Zach insisted on carrying his and dropped it about every 100 feet. Each time he dropped it, he was devastated beyond belief, and I had to bend over (with Michael attached to my back, mind you) to scoop the foul-smelling stuff with my hands. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">At 9:30 a.m., just as we were entering the barnyard animal portion of our tour, Charlie demanded lunch. And Zach needed SOMPHING TO DWINK MOMMY SOMPHING TO DWINK. Cooper just kept on the lookout for bees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">And so it went for the next 45 minutes, as we continued our tour down “safari row” (which contained fenced-in cows, goats, donkeys, and other assorted safari animals). <i>When is lunch? Can we leave? What DVDs do we have in the car? What are we doing after quiet time? This is not fun. Bees!?! Somphing to dwiiiiiink. Somphing to dwiiink.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">At about 10:15, when Zach collapsed and claimed he could no longer walk because of the volume of wood chips (and animal feed) that had gotten into his sandals, I gave up. We abandoned the tour.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">I tried to give the boys a snack and feed Michael some pureed sweet potatoes at a picnic table, but when the bees started to swarm, we made a beeline to the car.</div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">And poor little Michael had been so good, so patient the entire trip that he decided to scream the ENTIRE 45 minute drive home.</div><div align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">And the boys (despite being terribly unhappy by the selection of DVDs I’d chosen for the field trip) complained the whole way home that they couldn’t hear said unsatisfactory DVDs because of the constant screaming.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">All in all, a great day. Can't wait to go back. I think Zach still has some feed in his shoes we need to return. Next time, though, I'll find some extra preschoolers to bring with me, just to make the experience that much more delightful. <br />
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[This incident aside, we've had a really wonderful summer. Will post some pics of the gang and an update in the next day or so!] </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKySrnDe-Sqy_SKdir03-IVb1EZUHW0DN-aAtcQyVVnYUMxhKL8lm2d1EiGbjqeVFi4dyPWgwr-mEdnS74-xj0cQmdPGuVshJVSCA6p7h4Wau8QeSiYXgmZjehwuAwVWp9agq8kW3DtY/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKySrnDe-Sqy_SKdir03-IVb1EZUHW0DN-aAtcQyVVnYUMxhKL8lm2d1EiGbjqeVFi4dyPWgwr-mEdnS74-xj0cQmdPGuVshJVSCA6p7h4Wau8QeSiYXgmZjehwuAwVWp9agq8kW3DtY/s200/photo.JPG" width="150" /></a></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-30838193952406805522011-06-05T15:07:00.001-04:002011-06-05T15:12:44.739-04:00We are 4!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The boys turned 4 today!!! And we celebrated with nearly 30 preschoolers and a bouncehouse/waterslide in our backyard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And now... it's time for the annual "Cooper Kahn v. The Slide" photos. <span id="goog_1978150431"></span><span id="goog_1978150432"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboMcRMNYPEv39NKjOWoUnfawMScFiAwHF9YZ1bvp6BTOKo6SqrHUl0di1M4oMoT3iEDcAc1oqEJcduIq0D_f-9zC-7u4OW11IaAC8qGRyNaZF0JB9TgP79n26irYZl4BNOeIpUcKpJKQ/s1600/cooper+slide+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboMcRMNYPEv39NKjOWoUnfawMScFiAwHF9YZ1bvp6BTOKo6SqrHUl0di1M4oMoT3iEDcAc1oqEJcduIq0D_f-9zC-7u4OW11IaAC8qGRyNaZF0JB9TgP79n26irYZl4BNOeIpUcKpJKQ/s400/cooper+slide+2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWw0rl5vzZhZKnF2uB7uTTOf5gem5o0J_z-MDbwOVSIAInHro5U1IPUNR2ldBT08dYCZvGGLtpQNsnSwV0y4AnxZkz5eBZlUAkLso5BaZAtulrK6nDM9sem252zIVPNYApjYv0lN7lIM/s1600/cooper+on+slide+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Don't worry --- truth is, for the first time, Cooper actually enjoyed the waterslide.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Speaking of the truth, apparently not all 4-year-olds understand the concept...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2spVKa3uso&feature=youtube_gdata_player">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2spVKa3uso&feature=youtube_gdata_player</a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-7026876388187070342011-06-01T21:55:00.005-04:002011-06-01T22:29:16.370-04:00The Tunis ProblemPeople ask me all the time: Do the boys have their own secret language?<br />
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I've heard rumors that twins can develop their own "twinspeak," but my boys really never have. Until now.<br />
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The past few months we've had a problem with potty mouths. "Can we have diarrhea for dinner?" "Pee-nis, pee-nis, pee-nis" (chanted as they congo around the room). You get the point. At first I thought it was a phase. Until the phase didn't stop after a few days. And the boys would feed off each other and seemed to be in competition for who could use the word "penis" at the most inappropriate time and make the others laugh the hardest. Finally I made threats and told the boys that they could not use these words unless they were in the bathroom. (That would solve the problem, right? Ha.) Cooper and Charlie ignored me and continued to get in trouble for their dirty mouths. Zach would run to the bathroom for the sole purpose of shouting out the forbidden words (he's big on rules, that Zach. And I <i>did</i> say they could use them in the bathroom...) <br />
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And then last week the boys kept talking about "tunis." Tunis-this and tunis-that (i.e. "you a tunis!", "hey tunis!", "what are you doing tunis?"), followed by hysterical laughter. This had been going on for several days. And when they were getting ready for their bath one night and talking about their tunises, I realized what they had been doing. Making up a secret language for their potty mouths. Circumventing my rules. <br />
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So then I started wondering whether I could/should put them in timeout for use of the word "tunis"?? You can't call your mother a tunis and get away with it... right? RIGHT??<br />
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And at the same time that I am pondering this whole tunis situation, I'm reading the recent (and controversial) book, <i>The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother</i>. I can only imagine what the tiger mama would have to say about the tunis problem and my parenting skills (her girls were deep into piano lessons and math by age 3. I highly doubt they were singing songs about poop and tunises). But were they making up their own language? I think not. That's real talent.<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-85141408513012471732011-05-22T21:07:00.003-04:002011-05-22T21:09:51.593-04:00Taking the Gloves Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOTt3bCri3z58Qy2p_uewDIufhyphenhyphenMoC2jtESbL0igAkbzFXKGcoKo0e5fP-tvQLuyw2YW0en3gMYxv9qFmgcqWI0iTc7GRALecWF8Yjch4_z81VNbdpj8bb7NnTNnLb1ajoMt9XN0sPx4/s1600/garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOTt3bCri3z58Qy2p_uewDIufhyphenhyphenMoC2jtESbL0igAkbzFXKGcoKo0e5fP-tvQLuyw2YW0en3gMYxv9qFmgcqWI0iTc7GRALecWF8Yjch4_z81VNbdpj8bb7NnTNnLb1ajoMt9XN0sPx4/s320/garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfO3NFByzTCgkcNzXZZ2zWNAHamUtNkc9Vxofj4CbCZ8bwmyJwEuM8Fi9A5SH0GGdTvpLLNtr80SEBTaiE4xuaIOoN-aelrncZy4mRb4cQaDcswTvw1Qvj7fFoJZ3pd6SuciQQyYQOE9Y/s1600/garden2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfO3NFByzTCgkcNzXZZ2zWNAHamUtNkc9Vxofj4CbCZ8bwmyJwEuM8Fi9A5SH0GGdTvpLLNtr80SEBTaiE4xuaIOoN-aelrncZy4mRb4cQaDcswTvw1Qvj7fFoJZ3pd6SuciQQyYQOE9Y/s400/garden2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Last weekend, the boys and my dad built a mean vegetable garden in our backyard. Granddad did 105% of the work. The boys, -5%. We had two issues. First, Zach lost his pants. Second, and more problematic (because, really, isn't gardening while wearing pants a bit overrated?), we only own 2 pairs of gardening gloves. One of those pairs were being worn by my dad, leaving two other single gloves for three boys to fight over. And they were willing to fight to the death over those damned gloves. <br />
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So this weekend, Granddad (who, to the boys, is even cooler than Handy Manny, if you can believe it) was visiting again, and this time the project was replacing one of our sprinkler heads. Another project involving shovels and dirt. The boys were beside themselves, and couldn't wait to help, and were even more excited because this was an opportunity to wear their brand new, very own pairs of gardening gloves that Grammy had brought especially for them:<br />
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I have to hand it to my mom. Her idea prevented another world war. <br />
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A bit later, it occurred to one of the boys that he had seen these gloves somewhere before... These weren't JUST their special gardening gloves. "These wook wike dentist gwoves too!!!" <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRUURiVmqwtnv6C3if_lCMLGkQqXsS2_FwZdqcJmRLwHcZcN8X2UYnCvwi6nOEryk6KBf32SuIwzQqGm0NT54DJOudArEFkqwsYHkXjqCjahA4xokIEhTJnuHb3_7B846G1o7LyN4G4k/s1600/dentist+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRUURiVmqwtnv6C3if_lCMLGkQqXsS2_FwZdqcJmRLwHcZcN8X2UYnCvwi6nOEryk6KBf32SuIwzQqGm0NT54DJOudArEFkqwsYHkXjqCjahA4xokIEhTJnuHb3_7B846G1o7LyN4G4k/s320/dentist+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-25306669838781982302011-05-15T22:02:00.003-04:002011-05-15T22:56:44.599-04:00Back up and running<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SjBQt5SvA3w9dsUBQPbWstW5MfQkGRJWag6mwUS07JlcthoQM7D35b3t3prN2-pYdsMh8kpTdDS1Oe3E6DfKe0jIOE0F8VR3w6JbUWA9nIdQccWvHOK_4Fka3anGnQvVmQHHD5tYvDA/s1600/monkeys+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SjBQt5SvA3w9dsUBQPbWstW5MfQkGRJWag6mwUS07JlcthoQM7D35b3t3prN2-pYdsMh8kpTdDS1Oe3E6DfKe0jIOE0F8VR3w6JbUWA9nIdQccWvHOK_4Fka3anGnQvVmQHHD5tYvDA/s400/monkeys+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Hello friends and family!! It's been a tad busy over here, hence the lack of any updates. So without further ado...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzquTrUuqOfLGOYoMT5hwLVPGctJ39GRZpsKan3jr86gEJxG8rJuYs1UwdPHAkg-WmdwupTjXIbcqXd2K94s9msM6uINbU3uCkOk2AeoMp5vFaQayHolTtAmT7YL0e2pDAdRULgSDKGis/s1600/michael+bath+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzquTrUuqOfLGOYoMT5hwLVPGctJ39GRZpsKan3jr86gEJxG8rJuYs1UwdPHAkg-WmdwupTjXIbcqXd2K94s9msM6uINbU3uCkOk2AeoMp5vFaQayHolTtAmT7YL0e2pDAdRULgSDKGis/s200/michael+bath+3.jpg" width="150" /></a>Michael (a.k.a. The Fat One) is large and in charge, weighing in at over 17 pounds (90th percentile, thank you very much). Fat and happy as can be. TFO is fascinated by his big brothers, who are less than fascinated by him. "He doesn't have teeth, mommy," they keep reminding me (apparently the day he grows teeth he'll be worthy of their attention). Every once and a while one of the big boys will show him some lovin', but he usually gets ignored. His big brothers are just too busy playing and too involved <strike>in destroying my house, trying to kill each other, flushing plastic people down the toilet, chanting the words "diarhea" and "penis" over and over and over and over again</strike> in their own lives to worry a whole lot about Michael. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSqW2QVa9fkz3R64IRm_8Lf7uWcJKHHxqu7djlF0v6YzdMcKdaH8MLjGwwOOuFlm_Ud00sweruzq1YehK2pq7VmkqpdDfQ9EARWbnkZB-ls-HbzPV2s2yPWeDcfxu6i07acHPd7uL5Xk/s1600/michaelbad+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSqW2QVa9fkz3R64IRm_8Lf7uWcJKHHxqu7djlF0v6YzdMcKdaH8MLjGwwOOuFlm_Ud00sweruzq1YehK2pq7VmkqpdDfQ9EARWbnkZB-ls-HbzPV2s2yPWeDcfxu6i07acHPd7uL5Xk/s200/michaelbad+hair.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Mike today. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmq3jXZEiKTyaN717FGu-mBzk3EInIufcoHcndJPd8DpHDP_z4kXxR_kvSE1dN8iq_sKoCt-h82m0478ux89Vrsl1aZ_AA28CMMLDHbIJsRIAXpEYOlSdkbrG5OX2xe5R9QOlcwZht5p4/s1600/fluffy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmq3jXZEiKTyaN717FGu-mBzk3EInIufcoHcndJPd8DpHDP_z4kXxR_kvSE1dN8iq_sKoCt-h82m0478ux89Vrsl1aZ_AA28CMMLDHbIJsRIAXpEYOlSdkbrG5OX2xe5R9QOlcwZht5p4/s200/fluffy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1 week old. Nice, fluffy hair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>TFO's been a great baby. When I'm chasing the big boys around outside, Michael's perfectly content to ride along on my back. (To all of my pregnant friends: buy the ErgoBaby carrier NOW). And when we're inside, he's pretty happy just watching the crazies in action. We've only had three real issues with TFO. First, his need for attention at 3 a.m. He's a terrible sleeper. And in that respect, it's been a long first five months. Second, something is terribly wrong with his hair. At birth, he had thick, beautiful hair. The recent metamorphosis of his hair into something Trump-esque on top and bald in the back is a bit disturbing. Third, he only poops about once every 10 days <i>at best</i>. And let me tell you something. There is no outfit (let alone a diaper) on this earth that can contain the volume of poop that comes out of a child who hasn't pooped in two weeks. Last explosion happened while I was nursing him, at the gym. I'll just stop right there, because I don't ever want to relive those moments. <br />
<br />
The big boys are great. They are about to graduate from their 3-year-old preschool class, which terrifies me because it means the summer is here, and SCHOOL IS OUT. Last summer (I was newly pregnant and potty training) (the boys, not myself) nearly did me in. Age 3 to 3.5 was rough. But when the boys turned about 3.5, they suddenly became so much more mature. OK, so I use the word "mature" extremely, <i>extremely</i> loosely, but let's just say that poop painting appears to be a thing of the past. The boys are best buds, and the best thing about multiples is that your kids have constant playmates and (for better or worse) partners-in-crime.<br />
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Before I sign off, a quick shout-out and thank you so very much to all who supported our March of Dimes team this year. We exceeded our goal and raised over $1100! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi25dgvZRows1hK85J7FIQA0LDKkriP0_Wjpl8tjZHecP71-hBENwa8SOnBhlpOszPX92CGUbFf1jGwTtvdaJnVbt3bLYiI2cG0Bb-mmgVNgrnffmIp-wDltTQi3vBewmMCev4EuQs77sc/s1600/boys+mod.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi25dgvZRows1hK85J7FIQA0LDKkriP0_Wjpl8tjZHecP71-hBENwa8SOnBhlpOszPX92CGUbFf1jGwTtvdaJnVbt3bLYiI2cG0Bb-mmgVNgrnffmIp-wDltTQi3vBewmMCev4EuQs77sc/s320/boys+mod.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the 2011 March for Babies, showing off their signs on Ambassador Row.</td></tr>
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Thanks for checking in. Now that I've done an official update, I'm back on the blog wagon. Will start reporting again regularly on the delights and chaos of <strike>living in a zoo</strike> raising 4 under 4.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SjBQt5SvA3w9dsUBQPbWstW5MfQkGRJWag6mwUS07JlcthoQM7D35b3t3prN2-pYdsMh8kpTdDS1Oe3E6DfKe0jIOE0F8VR3w6JbUWA9nIdQccWvHOK_4Fka3anGnQvVmQHHD5tYvDA/s1600/monkeys+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-53018224484051274772011-02-06T20:40:00.001-05:002011-02-06T20:44:18.419-05:00Checking in...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hi everyone! I’ve tried for nights now to write a blog. But since Michael was born, I’m lucky if I get a chance to return an email, and REALLY lucky if I get a shower. I don’t remember being this insanely busy when the boys were born. I guess the difference is that now I’m pulled in 4 different directions, and back then, at least the boys were on the same schedule. For example, at the same second (at any given moment) over here, #1 is dying of hunger because we ate 30 minutes ago, #2 is on the verge of death (and needs a band-aid <i>right NOW)</i> because #3 threw a car at him, #3 is melting down because said car bounced off #2’s head and vanished under the couch, and poor Michael is crying because, well, because he is 6 weeks old. And as soon as I start nursing Michael, someone is upstairs needing their butt wiped while someone else is shouting “Uh oh. UH OH. Mommmyyyy!!” And so the day goes. So anyway, when I have more than 10 uninterrupted minutes, I’ll write a better update. But suffice it to say, everything is going well. Michael’s been fussy lately, but mostly has been an easy baby. The biggest challenge has been a practical one: how to feed him according to his unpredictable schedule and get the boys to school on time three mornings a week). We’re managing, though (it’s amazing how much can be accomplished with a kid hanging from your boob), and Michael certainly hasn’t missed any meals. He eats like a horse and is wearing clothes the boys wore at 8 months. And he's still got that awesome head of hair. Here’s some pics, and I promise to write more soon! </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghclhoY4-a3zt4dGPdtz0kdiWL_1x9EP4W57lVt8derGn8YCvl3xQb-Q7q90spYgjbBiQ3rcIFP2LmxjGV-d67Di_fHjRpWu5bMH8CY3laGAijygjrq5XAW53kdeXBh_IL0O94A-8SGug/s1600/buddies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghclhoY4-a3zt4dGPdtz0kdiWL_1x9EP4W57lVt8derGn8YCvl3xQb-Q7q90spYgjbBiQ3rcIFP2LmxjGV-d67Di_fHjRpWu5bMH8CY3laGAijygjrq5XAW53kdeXBh_IL0O94A-8SGug/s320/buddies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brothers model the latest in headgear.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RtZ0JUoQljNJNJWN8u-loXxy_VKbSLC1e3G3kgVNjaZQYNEziNQHJ0AzEfcR_Jmkqe2S2tGNWsuyQZtbpfpXapTHh62r_tSKK3prBqSXa6qJ3I8nP0F_EC2ASKFRrcLusIRatQFGW5E/s1600/charlie+talking+to+michael.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RtZ0JUoQljNJNJWN8u-loXxy_VKbSLC1e3G3kgVNjaZQYNEziNQHJ0AzEfcR_Jmkqe2S2tGNWsuyQZtbpfpXapTHh62r_tSKK3prBqSXa6qJ3I8nP0F_EC2ASKFRrcLusIRatQFGW5E/s320/charlie+talking+to+michael.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie tells Michael the rules of the house. According to Charlie.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmgRZzpuiyfuROzR6LMGoyqAbL820245HaVa-9gIeKd0va7WXGqSacp0euCX0wGf3Q4BJMPeNUpA1g4Pk4msEkNYXE8sTw5NlQVFYDi8XhIyOn4eu4RSyfjFwQfsK5Y5AO3kI50IBsy6A/s1600/fluffy+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmgRZzpuiyfuROzR6LMGoyqAbL820245HaVa-9gIeKd0va7WXGqSacp0euCX0wGf3Q4BJMPeNUpA1g4Pk4msEkNYXE8sTw5NlQVFYDi8XhIyOn4eu4RSyfjFwQfsK5Y5AO3kI50IBsy6A/s320/fluffy+hair.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmy3sXTyiqvrZAD2Iyaf59A94yOVup4hdIlwGsBal9eiFgs2gvXNYc3ci3fLLtYI2KINlZaMHkiz9AV7tPYcBxgE44F96mUmzdB5SE_ejnUyVqglv3AlIZV1MPar8GD1RFdhPqoaJbpgo/s1600/michael+bumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmy3sXTyiqvrZAD2Iyaf59A94yOVup4hdIlwGsBal9eiFgs2gvXNYc3ci3fLLtYI2KINlZaMHkiz9AV7tPYcBxgE44F96mUmzdB5SE_ejnUyVqglv3AlIZV1MPar8GD1RFdhPqoaJbpgo/s320/michael+bumbo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxkb9F4sgF2kW5eKIwzLbgwrZ3IIQFAGEDhBfcG9Is5sqC8KIz5Y31WM1kBzS6-kBoN1FcsMC83DD9G3r18N2IpSRPyFwjP2agMyJoNb1N3VCZ3hakm7-uMpaRRGzgL7zFPJFjAXNMuk/s1600/michael+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxkb9F4sgF2kW5eKIwzLbgwrZ3IIQFAGEDhBfcG9Is5sqC8KIz5Y31WM1kBzS6-kBoN1FcsMC83DD9G3r18N2IpSRPyFwjP2agMyJoNb1N3VCZ3hakm7-uMpaRRGzgL7zFPJFjAXNMuk/s320/michael+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyy3yoQRhGIApFMU2A7pPuIysVY9G-MvsR7W-Tg_kYmtKPKmBZURRrXjG9_5E9rAQZAPOmTO992klqhFOEnm8aoXcMBAnwlgZ95JLA1a32QG9_xTj3yow7u3vpoZoXWpmdXaoZua6yOf0/s1600/michael+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyy3yoQRhGIApFMU2A7pPuIysVY9G-MvsR7W-Tg_kYmtKPKmBZURRrXjG9_5E9rAQZAPOmTO992klqhFOEnm8aoXcMBAnwlgZ95JLA1a32QG9_xTj3yow7u3vpoZoXWpmdXaoZua6yOf0/s320/michael+2.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCII76t5XkrnarDgx34U9Wzzl9yjPG2Q9JLCJWjyNiIO0yl1v1hzANaRLN73oGS6Ep6Wl7e8E3vMfhsOSwNmpqI6gVfwM7vyeLWxU0b1Q8pIlWAP21ld-8rw6lnmp1jSKoY5cT-hheAwU/s1600/michael+4+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCII76t5XkrnarDgx34U9Wzzl9yjPG2Q9JLCJWjyNiIO0yl1v1hzANaRLN73oGS6Ep6Wl7e8E3vMfhsOSwNmpqI6gVfwM7vyeLWxU0b1Q8pIlWAP21ld-8rw6lnmp1jSKoY5cT-hheAwU/s320/michael+4+bath.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyPBjLSNp86satO1O5ykyxUmg7UXL-GkefdWZekg8gzeU5KIn4qm3u8XMVahWpl2b4Oe0pDf6PCezHxcaeVU2Eve2uO4i-bgqEz_qyXv1zcK1YvuziA75kHjwZ4RW9V36Bw835D7T-9o/s1600/wrestling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyPBjLSNp86satO1O5ykyxUmg7UXL-GkefdWZekg8gzeU5KIn4qm3u8XMVahWpl2b4Oe0pDf6PCezHxcaeVU2Eve2uO4i-bgqEz_qyXv1zcK1YvuziA75kHjwZ4RW9V36Bw835D7T-9o/s320/wrestling.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wrestling match #425 of the day. Good thing Michael's growing so big so fast...</td></tr>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-19040292993539344592011-01-02T21:31:00.003-05:002011-01-02T22:30:37.945-05:0012 Days Later...<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>DEFCON </b>[def-kon] - noun<b> - </b>"An alert posture used by the U.S. Armed Forces, providing graduating levels of states of alert."</span></div><br />
<br />
Here on Columbine Circle, troops have been placed on <b>DEFKAHN 6</b>, necessitated by the arrival of certain pooping machine. Experienced, brave, and stylish warriors of all types have heeded the call to action. <br />
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<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_ez_1EvPbXgFhYo_HZIvSIgsOMRocB4SIRhZtKVfxkOQRocN-59QtPmghHiP8B23cOxm7TFcM7xxWy6x3n29L_7NbNR6R8eULn6zFcwMNG9CSHW2FQc4nl82PMnaVjXbSYC8Bkd68bU/s1600/IMG_9764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_ez_1EvPbXgFhYo_HZIvSIgsOMRocB4SIRhZtKVfxkOQRocN-59QtPmghHiP8B23cOxm7TFcM7xxWy6x3n29L_7NbNR6R8eULn6zFcwMNG9CSHW2FQc4nl82PMnaVjXbSYC8Bkd68bU/s320/IMG_9764.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_uSla8HlKPfBp1jK0u4vXBOR_AVymMvuiAk3rx3QJ52xkAcSng7-Rpdyp_jHAxnW8DIqCNaaMuaCf79bhT2SFXOkFUO-_JuLYCwAcG0Oksx2IUO-SRrzQoPnZzdPoErQXQJxkbWLebs/s1600/superheros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_uSla8HlKPfBp1jK0u4vXBOR_AVymMvuiAk3rx3QJ52xkAcSng7-Rpdyp_jHAxnW8DIqCNaaMuaCf79bhT2SFXOkFUO-_JuLYCwAcG0Oksx2IUO-SRrzQoPnZzdPoErQXQJxkbWLebs/s320/superheros.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys, not nearly confused as they appear, are ready for action. Or tryouts for the Village People.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">In all seriousness, though, WOW - how life has changed. Hard to believe that Michael is 12 days old. The c-section went smoothly, and as they pulled him out screaming, I couldn't stop crying. It was the most wonderful sound I have ever heard. And to actually take a baby home from the hospital! What a feeling.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgYnDSCDT-8G53P7_4oCfHvK_k71AqiDQeaiFyrPMZmVm49uQwFR8a96Y30vf4R9iRZtRm4dFXfqg7lwqT3GqUZZs-LF-R541iwBYWq4kJjCF7KmbeyA7mQViLj-jmjf7_5DLyHBzS-0/s1600/fluffy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgYnDSCDT-8G53P7_4oCfHvK_k71AqiDQeaiFyrPMZmVm49uQwFR8a96Y30vf4R9iRZtRm4dFXfqg7lwqT3GqUZZs-LF-R541iwBYWq4kJjCF7KmbeyA7mQViLj-jmjf7_5DLyHBzS-0/s200/fluffy.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thanks so much for all of the prayers, thoughts and emails the past two weeks. Michael Henry (named for our amazing fathers) is a doll, and so far, a great baby. (Hopefully I've not jinxed myself by saying that). We've had constant help from grandparents since he was born, and Brian's been able to take some time off work, so things have gone pretty smoothly. I'm on my own starting tomorrow... let's hope the house doesn't implode. I think I'm ready though. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmuKDbziJz6uzD9ryA58cFGEJqIB2CvI96T1l_wIt003HOxLoTOnJs7TQMtv8DRPmFDFUl720BwIemewKNm_me4ZaL6fNmZ_D6R5HsHy3qEJx7GlMPM7qOeVM1wyMOys8oeMbJ048GWI/s1600/michael.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmuKDbziJz6uzD9ryA58cFGEJqIB2CvI96T1l_wIt003HOxLoTOnJs7TQMtv8DRPmFDFUl720BwIemewKNm_me4ZaL6fNmZ_D6R5HsHy3qEJx7GlMPM7qOeVM1wyMOys8oeMbJ048GWI/s200/michael.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDGURVyMBkQtobODuY2exe57UkIoY-KrZUyExP7rSyaeCMtKDDVFE7HVLo1D8H1vGS_kRSHJR0BmuYDauiRj_FMifcHbeWqiTKVdKHss2cmjKgCeVn_OE35jFgEwrRDbgNQecYiV1cyk/s1600/michael+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDGURVyMBkQtobODuY2exe57UkIoY-KrZUyExP7rSyaeCMtKDDVFE7HVLo1D8H1vGS_kRSHJR0BmuYDauiRj_FMifcHbeWqiTKVdKHss2cmjKgCeVn_OE35jFgEwrRDbgNQecYiV1cyk/s200/michael+2.jpg" width="150" /></a> I was really nervous about how the boys would respond to Michael. So far, so good. Charlie is pretty enchanted with his younger brother. He likes to play doctor and listen to Michael’s knee. He was very concerned that Michael might be sad because there are no photos of him on our walls yet. Zach keeps his distance from Michael, but doesn't seem to mind him too much (as long as he still gets to hold my hand when I'm pushing the stroller). Cooper ignores Michael. I thought maybe he just hadn't noticed him, until he announced at dinner the other night that "Baby Michael's poop is yellow. <i>The brothers</i>' poop is brown." Apparently he has been paying attention after all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A few weeks ago, the boys started to refer to themselves as <i>the brothers. </i>As in, "Mommy, t<i>he brothers</i> aren't sharing the Legos!" Or "have you seen <i>the brothers</i>?" Not <i>my</i> brothers. <i>The </i>brothers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A few days after Michael was born, a couple inches of snow fell. <i>The brothers</i> helped build a snowman. In helmets. (My little warriors are always prepared).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6npnh5gVBKK31kJo0XJVWNTmOFKu3rkH4SzOeRUTfDKo3lLUDOgsXmYm8BjzOFfSAd7gvbuoAbh___5ydJ8cP4fLycCrNdgEt3jBY8lNITv8iu_shGzSctjd56bNkGpFi2yGBeVA_to/s1600/SNOWMEN+IN+HELMETS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6npnh5gVBKK31kJo0XJVWNTmOFKu3rkH4SzOeRUTfDKo3lLUDOgsXmYm8BjzOFfSAd7gvbuoAbh___5ydJ8cP4fLycCrNdgEt3jBY8lNITv8iu_shGzSctjd56bNkGpFi2yGBeVA_to/s320/SNOWMEN+IN+HELMETS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3goOjXGF_fcS1qoUpK5iRresjkmcHJ3lHKMN6E0siqix59dDeYTOi_I2QnIQXQfCFS8KtBWEifM5qcmpv2JokfSEqh92M5KuZDdT7j7RWOu9WMHX56UCAeAFHxU87JLrAY-WIRPm0FI0/s1600/charlie+snowman+lookalike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3goOjXGF_fcS1qoUpK5iRresjkmcHJ3lHKMN6E0siqix59dDeYTOi_I2QnIQXQfCFS8KtBWEifM5qcmpv2JokfSEqh92M5KuZDdT7j7RWOu9WMHX56UCAeAFHxU87JLrAY-WIRPm0FI0/s320/charlie+snowman+lookalike.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">At first, Charlie and the snowman were friends...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJk4ai7Lj1Zbq66h15wLVqoeFRcT-0yc51L-4UQ_RgcPX_QmtZYFIODzTgoZm8oo983QCjrtToB-RUwwqKg2LN47WADraBAJX4P5bhPrRdoC2ccOrOopf6lkXIW0H6wyMIJm6D5UPlDY/s1600/charlie+trying+to+kill+the+snowman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJk4ai7Lj1Zbq66h15wLVqoeFRcT-0yc51L-4UQ_RgcPX_QmtZYFIODzTgoZm8oo983QCjrtToB-RUwwqKg2LN47WADraBAJX4P5bhPrRdoC2ccOrOopf6lkXIW0H6wyMIJm6D5UPlDY/s320/charlie+trying+to+kill+the+snowman.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">... until the snowman made some jokes about the helmets, and Charlie tried to kill him. </span></td></tr>
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<b></b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-37378925060718247952010-12-22T16:54:00.000-05:002010-12-22T16:54:16.307-05:00Introducing Michael Henry Kahn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjr6T1yo1W_7Q6ztDdF62xRWZJ3AWLiKU4wdKD_jw6CNxk56qC4rI0GZAKWXLbhPcxNRc3RTa8XwwLpXm24KszPVTB7CzJjIFyd1ZaVNIVgOBCIwAps0kRDvaO_gDt149VOISJwTWWgmo/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjr6T1yo1W_7Q6ztDdF62xRWZJ3AWLiKU4wdKD_jw6CNxk56qC4rI0GZAKWXLbhPcxNRc3RTa8XwwLpXm24KszPVTB7CzJjIFyd1ZaVNIVgOBCIwAps0kRDvaO_gDt149VOISJwTWWgmo/s320/baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NKGKTn7pTV2L1XM0BphDkTbtk4eA9vmmKIN8zxKufPc5dzG0tPTW8u3zQ70rM8HqPpPpxoKidIb1qVYJWU-xjVpzh9YUKu_3P3po4-IV2fvf3IReAfTLCcJF4L1iBiJt0aq9NYsSVu4/s1600/boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NKGKTn7pTV2L1XM0BphDkTbtk4eA9vmmKIN8zxKufPc5dzG0tPTW8u3zQ70rM8HqPpPpxoKidIb1qVYJWU-xjVpzh9YUKu_3P3po4-IV2fvf3IReAfTLCcJF4L1iBiJt0aq9NYsSVu4/s320/boys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdalJBOiU8-3A3R5C47mxRO3YxPRyZswSdO0AMRTOphg0th3Zms1YIaMoc6EdLXvOjm3K0NWndrnsSnkfMKSih45USNTYh4pYkBwdsAa_NplnWtrkTFG3uJHJJFJ40C2Pq7ietg4j7ME/s1600/just+born.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdalJBOiU8-3A3R5C47mxRO3YxPRyZswSdO0AMRTOphg0th3Zms1YIaMoc6EdLXvOjm3K0NWndrnsSnkfMKSih45USNTYh4pYkBwdsAa_NplnWtrkTFG3uJHJJFJ40C2Pq7ietg4j7ME/s320/just+born.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqRTr-QEfrZQcMUqAS-JH7W7sn01rd6ZAkP4mfqsrsIfkqHwG8Ys1oz0iTD5SZ0XCCDhe_BXRqjYwvD575SnE-pmc-22HMLSzquCH3RqNA5WRO6IaknHh9Q4WUfU-DjipPlyl6TdtaZM/s1600/me+and+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqRTr-QEfrZQcMUqAS-JH7W7sn01rd6ZAkP4mfqsrsIfkqHwG8Ys1oz0iTD5SZ0XCCDhe_BXRqjYwvD575SnE-pmc-22HMLSzquCH3RqNA5WRO6IaknHh9Q4WUfU-DjipPlyl6TdtaZM/s320/me+and+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I'll write more later, but suffice it to say, today was surreal. Here's a couple of pics of our new baby boy, who weighed in at 6 lbs. 9 oz. (Freaking HUGE, to me at least). Thanks for all the love and prayers and thoughts sent our way!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-7607279419420220612010-12-21T13:24:00.000-05:002010-12-21T13:24:00.098-05:00And the Results are In!Baby #4's lungs are 100% mature!! C-section scheduled for 7:15 a.m. tomorrow!!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-84492283590413051702010-12-20T12:36:00.001-05:002010-12-20T13:21:29.926-05:00Counting down...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihku2g6CbIIQ_FbIK99X4QoL-eFI9v4eN40JMrGWHmrT2oNwLcfKaa4Zd2a5Mva-Gu-WZXPQFwQD9jXFJFrrcUva3fXXuSP6g7NBezs0fOIQEHCuelU2Q0HhK46R5bwAiZdR-j2lKrX58/s1600/baby+snowman+upstairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihku2g6CbIIQ_FbIK99X4QoL-eFI9v4eN40JMrGWHmrT2oNwLcfKaa4Zd2a5Mva-Gu-WZXPQFwQD9jXFJFrrcUva3fXXuSP6g7NBezs0fOIQEHCuelU2Q0HhK46R5bwAiZdR-j2lKrX58/s320/baby+snowman+upstairs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">This weekend, Zach and Charlie decided to practice taking Baby Brother for a walk. Up the stairs. This is not boding well. Neither is the fact that when we told them we were putting in a 4th carseat in the van they all freaked. They think the baby belongs in the trunk.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">As long as this baby stays put today, in less than 24 hours we should have the amnio results and hopefully in less than 48 we'll have a baby!! We'll keep you posted!</span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span id="goog_1130842468"></span><span id="goog_1130842469"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-46580538262542454522010-12-13T22:05:00.002-05:002010-12-13T22:13:14.808-05:00Baby 4 Update and Other Important Stuff...I can’t believe I am actually typing these words, but here goes – I’m nearly 36 weeks pregnant! We’ve got an amnio scheduled for next Tuesday morning, and assuming that shows mature lungs, the c-section is scheduled for 7:15 a.m. the next day, December 22. That’s NINE days away. <br />
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I’ve spent so much time worrying about staying pregnant, that it has only recently occurred to me that maybe what I really should be worried about is the fact that I am about to have four children under the age four. And I still only have two arms.<br />
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I’m pretty sure the boys don’t really understand what’s about to happen. They know that a baby brother is coming, that said brother cannot eat pizza, that he will poop in his pants (unlike them, of course), and that he won’t have much hair. They are oddly fixated on the fact that he won’t have teeth. And don’t bother trying to tell them that the baby will have a name. His name is officially Baby Brother, no matter what we tell them. They know that mommy will have to sleep in the hospital, and poor Zach is fairly convinced that he will be sleeping there with me. Just the other weekend, when Brian and my dad had finished building the crib, Zach ran to me demanding “take the baby out of your belly now Mommy!! The crib is ready and we need the baby!” I think he understands now that it’s not quite that easy.<br />
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I’m excited and scared. For a time after the boys were born, particularly while they were still in the NICU and we didn’t know the long-term prognoses, I mourned the fact that I would never get to experience the feeling of being a “normal” new mom. (You know, a mom you knew it was appropriate to congratulate; a mom who could actually hold her baby after he was born; a mom who could bring her baby home with her; a mom who could nurse; a mom who could take her 6-week-old out in public; a mom who didn’t have to give up her house for a year-and-a-half to home health nurses). Don’t get me wrong… this is certainly not something I’ve spent long periods of time dwelling upon (and I feel kind of silly even writing about it)… because seriously, this is so unbelievably minor in the big scheme, particularly when I wake up to three perfect, wonderful little boys every day. Still, right now I am so excited about getting to maybe be a "normal" new mom that I can't even believe it just might be reality. Fingers are crossed and double-crossed!!!<br />
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We will keep you posted!<br />
<br />
And now, for the important part of this blog… Presenting:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxfIDtC8dHBun12s_u0oe508YwAmLVDQ8DcFum8NsIfEJELfNslx0BenDQP6LX-faEuSZsQYrFGpWU-GOeUFIZHe6Wz6bP5-2IbuNHxlebgHODPCgpQSfN1XBOUTZQ1_IKBGEjnb-ZTQ/s1600/boys+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="83" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxfIDtC8dHBun12s_u0oe508YwAmLVDQ8DcFum8NsIfEJELfNslx0BenDQP6LX-faEuSZsQYrFGpWU-GOeUFIZHe6Wz6bP5-2IbuNHxlebgHODPCgpQSfN1XBOUTZQ1_IKBGEjnb-ZTQ/s320/boys+cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border: medium none;"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: purple; font-size: large;">The First Annual Kahn Family Superlatives</span></b></div><br />
<ul><li><i>Most Likely to Be Found Hanging Out on Top of the Dresser When He is Supposed to be Napping</i>… Charlie </li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Drink the Entire Bowl of Bluish-Brown Water He’s Been Using To Rinse His Paintbrush</i> … Cooper</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Have a Panic Attack While Digging Through The Kitchen Garbage Looking for the Words "Non-Toxic" on the Paint Packaging</i>… Raizel </li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Feed Baby # 4 Chili</i> - Brian </li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Serenade his Brothers (and Parents) at 6 am</i>… Charlie</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Demand his Mother Stop Singing</i> … Charlie</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Fall Down the Stairs</i>… Cooper</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Pretend He Has Also Fallen Down the Stairs</i> … Zach</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Demand a Band-Aid for his Clothes</i> … Zach</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Demand a Band-Aid for the Wall</i> … Cooper</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Eat Vegetables</i>… Charlie</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Eat Paste (or Drink Paint Water)</i> … Cooper</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Take a Bite Out of One of His Brothers </i>… Zach</li>
<li><i>Most Likely to Wear Underpants on his Head</i>… Cooper</li>
<li><i>Mostly Likely to be Cited for Indecent Exposure... </i>Charlie (I'm kidding. Well, kind of. Not my fault he hates clothes. And sometimes pees on the playground.) </li>
</ul>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-74706053622074057842010-11-14T21:26:00.003-05:002010-11-14T21:40:12.467-05:00On Being PregnantIt’s been forever since I’ve posted. It's not that I haven’t had much to write about, it’s just that it's been no joke being super pregnant while chasing the monkeys (who haven’t slowed down a bit, and in fact, have delightfully decided to give up nap time). Needless to say, I'm in bed by 9:15 most nights. Feeling great, but tired.<br />
<br />
I say that I’m “super” pregnant because, although this is my 4th kid, I’ve literally never been so pregnant. <br />
<br />
I’m 2 days shy of being 32 weeks pregnant. That's 8 weeks more pregnant than I was with the boys. Eight. Weeks. I’m so thankful for each additional day. It feels nothing short of miraculous that as of yet, I've had no bedrest orders or restrictions of any type. I almost feel like a normal pregnant person (who just happens to have had 10 ultrasounds (so far) and at least 18 or 19 doctors appointments, plus weekly visits to the nurse for a progesterone shot. But who’s counting?) <br />
<br />
Twenty-four weeks gestation is considered viability. Zach, Charlie and Cooper were delivered via c-section on day one of week 24, and their situation was so critical that we were given the option to forgo lifesaving measures. I’m not a extremely religious person, but one of my most vivid memories of that horrific day was, right before my c-section, holding hands with Brian and a poor random nurse (whose name I don’t even remember) and praying and praying for three miracles. <br />
<br />
So anyway, on day one of week 24 of this pregnancy I had an ultrasound. Baby 4 was looking great, and my body was cooperating. Huge relief - big milestone. But on my way home from the doctor’s office, emotions took hold of me. There were tears because I knew that if Baby 4 were like his brothers, he would be born at 6:02 p.m. that day. There were tears for what Zach, Charlie and Cooper went through and for those 16 extra weeks they should have been cooking in my belly. And tears of relief for how well things were going this time, but out of fear for what could still happen. But maybe most of all, of joy as I was reminded at how extraordinary Zach, Charlie and Cooper - who seem virtually unaffected by their prematurity– are. <br />
<br />
And as I try to keep up with them these days, I try to remind myself of their "extraordinaryness." Particularly while they are naked wrestling while I’m struggling to get them into the tub, chasing each other with sticks, putting syrup in each other's hair, making up songs about poop, deciding they have to pee the second I buckle them into their car seats (after swearing they did not have to pee 3 minutes earlier), changing clothes for the umpteenth time the same day and torturing the poor cat.<br />
<br />
Some of my favorite lines from the past few months:<br />
<br />
As they were intensely examining the contents of the potty after Charlie proudly declared that he had pooped (poop is the subject of extreme fascination around here):<br />
<blockquote>Zach: Wow. It look like a banana.</blockquote><blockquote>Charlie: It look like a big car.<br />
<br />
Cooper: No. That look like poop.</blockquote><br />
At the mall, while looking at the back of the Mini Cooper car on display:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Me: Cooper, what’s that’s say on the back of the car?</blockquote><blockquote>Cooper: (as he proudly spells out the letters) C – O – O – P – E – R. That spell “car!!”</blockquote><br />
When I was ironing something recently:<br />
<blockquote>Charlie (pointing to the iron): No Mama! That's Grammy's!! </blockquote><br />
Extraordinary indeed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-36537366240233951562010-10-11T21:33:00.003-04:002010-10-11T21:44:29.179-04:00Almost 33, going on 65On our way down the driveway the other day (en route to an early 4:30 dinner), I stopped by the mailbox. And found this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWvxu0f6hg_4bIA_WFEWBW3c4mH2e9K9Zv5X3aYT5-9sa3dVEgsSki0U2mBhb_YDj9fbYUoTxQgZjeXTFfWLeQUMJ3Z4y_meDwcUp-4cVuhfOn1Y8esb20mt32dzE1a0LXtSQBl74d7Dw/s1600/aarp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWvxu0f6hg_4bIA_WFEWBW3c4mH2e9K9Zv5X3aYT5-9sa3dVEgsSki0U2mBhb_YDj9fbYUoTxQgZjeXTFfWLeQUMJ3Z4y_meDwcUp-4cVuhfOn1Y8esb20mt32dzE1a0LXtSQBl74d7Dw/s320/aarp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Apparently feeling like an old lady is qualification enough for membership. I blame the boys for my new gray hairs.<br />
<br />
Case in point: the “incident” at school today. <br />
<br />
When I picked the boys up from school this afternoon, the first thing I noticed was that Cooper was wearing different clothes than what I put on him that morning. Then the teacher tells me there had been an <em>incident</em>. Oh boy. <br />
<br />
I prefer that the <em>incidents</em> only happen at home.<br />
<br />
So apparently, Charlie dropped his pants in the middle of the playground today in front of about 40 kids and all the teachers and peed. He proudly informed the onlookers that <strong>mommy says that is OK to pee outside</strong>.<br />
<br />
Oh my. My ‘Worst Parent of the Year’ Award will be the next thing I find in my mailbox.<br />
<br />
And here’s the thing. I am guilty. We’ve got a big yard. I’ve got a big belly and I'm tired (and don’t forget, old), and so when the boys have been playing outside lately and someone has to pee, I’ve given the thumbs up for them to pee outside (preferably behind a bush). Otherwise, I end up having to race one kid all the way back inside to the potty - within the 5 second window before they'll need new clothes - while leaving the other two to their own devices in the yard. And at 27 weeks pregnant with a kiddo who is growing 2 weeks larger than average, I don't move all that quickly, and this is just easy. (And honestly, I've been quite impressed with the convenience the whole standing up to pee thing in the emergency-I-gotta-pee-right-now situations, particularly those involving port-a-potties. We girls really miss out).<br />
<br />
So anyway, the teachers told me they had to follow “procedure” (involving bleach) after the <em>incident </em>(futher fueling my guilt), and while said procedure was taking place, Cooper apparently realized he was not gonna be able to drop trou outside like his brother, and proceeded to pee in his pants (hence, the new outfit). <br />
<br />
<< Sigh >><br />
<br />
And this on the heels of an <em>incident</em> at home, wherein during naptime (during which no one actually naps any more), someone pooped in the potty, and emptied in the toy box. (I say “someone” because both Charlie and Zach <u>proudly</u> claimed to have done the deed.)<br />
<br />
So somehow, I potty trained the boys, but forgot to teach them fundamentals, such as inappropriate places to relieve themselves. I'll do better with Baby #4. I swear.<br />
<br />
And now, dear friends, it is now nearly 9pm, and it is time for this old lady to go to bed. Sweet dreams...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-18278149696674104292010-09-19T21:30:00.001-04:002010-09-19T21:33:28.617-04:00Another year, another set of flu shotsLast year on flu shot day, I paid my cleaning lady to go with me to help wrangle the monkeys. This year, I decided I’d handle the gang solo.<br />
<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, we had a 4 o’clock appointment at our paediatrician’s flu “<em>clinic</em>.” I expected we’d be in and out. (It was a flu clinic, after all…)<br />
<br />
3:50: We arrive. Miraculously, early.<br />
<br />
3:55: We sit down in the busy waiting room. <br />
<br />
3:56: The boys realize there are no toys in the waiting room for them to play with.<br />
<br />
3:56:06 I regret having left our bag o’ entertainment at home. I know better. Stupid pregnancy brain. No worries, I tell myself, this is a flu clinic, after all, so we’ll be in and out.<br />
<br />
4:00: The boys start rearranging the waiting room furniture, and drag three chairs over to the large fish tank with the sign reading “Parents: do not allow your children to touch this fish tank.”<br />
<br />
4:03: Zach has to pee. The boys abandon their chair project, and the four of us go into the bathroom, but the solo stall is occupied.<br />
<br />
4:04: I apologize to the woman and her daughter in the stall for the boy trying to crawl under the stall.<br />
<br />
4:05: We leave the bathroom. I decide it’s easier for us to wait outside than for me to keep the boys from infecting themselves with e coli.<br />
<br />
4:06: Zach is doing a major pee pee dance, and announces his need to pee about 20 times.<br />
<br />
4:10: The four of us go back into the stall. Zach pees. Cooper swears he does not have to go. But everyone insists on flushing the toilet.<br />
<br />
4:15: Back in the waiting room. The boys climb onto the chairs and start banging on the fish tank. That same one with the sign that says “Parents: do not allow your children to touch this fish tank.” <br />
<br />
4:16: The boys think it is funny that mommy keeps yanking them off the chairs. Such a fun game.<br />
<br />
4:19: Charlie suddenly realizes we are at the doctor’s office. He starts shouting “No mama! I don’t want to lay down!! <strong>We here for Zach’s penis! It’s for Zach’s penis! ZACH’S PENIS</strong>!!”<br />
<br />
4:19:25 I debate whether to explain to the curious folks in the waiting room that the last time the four of us were at the doctor’s office, we were the urologist, for Zach’s post-op.<br />
<br />
4:21: The boys whine to me for the 18th time they are ready to go home.<br />
<br />
4:22: I no longer care that the boys are scaring the hell out of the fish.<br />
<br />
4:25: The boys tire of harassing the fish and continue rearranging the chairs in the waiting room. All the while, whining loudly about going home, needing a snack, and Zach's penis.<br />
<br />
4:28: I watch other children patiently waiting, and wonder if their parents wonder why I cannot control my children. And wondering WHAT KIND OF FLU <em>CLINIC</em> MAKES US WAIT THIS LONG?<br />
<br />
4:29: I decide I am pregnant, and therefore too tired to care, and pretend not to see that the boys are harassing the fish again.<br />
<br />
4:30: Finally. We are called back in the examining room.<br />
<br />
4:35: I’m given a mound of paperwork (times 3, of course) to fill out. Zach and Cooper are opening, shutting and crawling into the cabinets. Charlie wants to “help” fill out the paperwork. <br />
<br />
4:36: The boys have lost their minds. Charlie is furious that I won't let him fill in the address portion of his form.<br />
<br />
4:40: Cooper has to pee.<br />
<br />
4:41: The four of us head to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
4:42: Cooper decides he does not have to pee. Nevertheless, everyone insists on flushing the toilet.<br />
<br />
4:43: Back in the examining room.<br />
<br />
4:46: Cooper announces that he has to poop. <br />
<br />
4:47: The 4 of us, back in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
4:48: Cooper decides he doesn’t have to poop. <br />
<br />
4:55: The vaccines arrive in our room. All hell breaks loose.<br />
<br />
4:55:03 I regret not calling the cleaning lady to see if she was free to come with us again this year.<br />
<br />
5:01 We leave. Halle-freaking-lujah.<br />
<br />
Flu shots, 2010: mission accomplished. Til next year...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4269956591858577146.post-72926233021590254792010-08-18T21:06:00.000-04:002010-08-18T21:06:34.612-04:00WARNING. This post contains way TMI.My bladder is smaller than the average bear’s. And not just because I’m pregnant. It’s the way I’ve always been. I’m the last person you want riding shotgun on a road trip. Unless, of course, you enjoy stopping every 1.5 hours. Poor Brian. He’s a very patient man.<br />
<br />
So for this reason, I’ve spent most of the past 3 years dehydrated. Purposefully not drinking anything, so that when I’m out with the boys, I don’t have to drag the three of them with me to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
And now that I’m pregnant, my bladder has become the bane of my existence. No longer can I be dehydrated (causes contractions or something). And Baby 4 dances on my bladder, so I have to pee constantly. <br />
<br />
Should be no big deal, right? The boys are also using the potty, so they should understand when mommy has to go. <br />
<br />
Yeah right. Here are my options for going with the boys in tow.<br />
<br />
Option #1: Clown Car, wherein all 4 of us cram into one stall. As I pee, Charlie does his best to stuff toilet paper around my butt down into the toilet. Cooper gets down on the fecal floor and tries to crawl out, and (I am cringing as I write this) Zach likes to open and shut the metal box on the stall wall (you <em>know</em> the one I am talking about. Holy disgusting). And all this is happening as I am hovering over the seat, yelling at them to STOP and swatting hands. Then I have to spend the next 10 minutes scrubbing them down at the sink. (Hard to believe I used to be one of those folks who only used her elbows to open the bathroom stalls).<br />
<br />
Option #2: The Freeze Game. Once, at the library, I locked myself into the stall and demanded the three of them “stand frozen in front of this door; do not move an inch; do not touch anything; do not lick anything.” The second I pulled down my pants and squatted, I heard giggles, then the main bathroom door open and shut. And just like that, 2 of them had escaped back into the library. I ran out of the bathroom, pants barely pulled up, Cooper in one hand, and the boys’ urine splattered foldable potty seat in the other (yes, I carry one of these wherever I go, and no, I was not using it, but I had it out because the boys had just gone). I just ignored the stares. <br />
<br />
Option #3: Let It All Hang Out. So now, I usually just leave the stall door open when I go, keeping an eye on my crew. That’s right. (Sorry lady at Bruegger's this afternoon). No modesty here. I left that back at the hospital 3 years ago when I was on a bedpan for 4 weeks. Compared to having your husband changing that thing… this ain’t nothin’. <br />
<br />
So, in the course of 3 1/2 years, I have gone from writing legal briefs and developing trial strategies to strategically planning how to use a public bathroom stall in the company of my three lovely children. Guess I’ll need new strategy when Baby 4 arrives. Or maybe then I’ll just go back to being dehydrated.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6