This is Connor.  He has always been an early riser.  Since he was born I stopped using any kind of alarm clock, because it is always a safe bet Connor will wake us up before we need to be anywhere (this includes a  yearly sunlight service).  So, as usual, this morning Connor comes into my room and tells me he is going to take his shower.  Fine, I mumble to him, in a daze. After his shower he wakes me up again, to help him find his favorite shirt to wear to school.  Okay, fine.  We go through his disaster of a room and start hunting.  We find the shirt, dirty.  So I figure I might have time to do a quick wash and dry so he can wear it.  I go downstairs to look at the clock and throw the shirt into the washer.  It's 3:45 AM.  Apparently he woke up around 3 and figured it was morning.  And none of us noticed that it was really dark for morning!  

mortified

Collin - #5 kid.  

Well, I've been talking a lot about our potty training struggles lately.  This is a related story.  A few days ago my son Collin peed in his shoe.  I don't know why.  I don't really even know how. But he somehow managed this feat (punny!) and then proudly brought me his footwear, filled to the brim.  I tried several different ways to clean his shoe off.  His feet have grown so much he has only one pair right now, plus a pair of sandals.  I sprayed with Febreeze.  I spot cleaned.  I threw those suckers into the washing machine.  Twice.  And this morning, as I took them out of the dryer for the second time, I realized that smell was NOT going to go away.  I went to find his sandals.  I eventually located them- outside by the trampoline soaking wet.  Stinky shoes it was!  I hoped no one would notice the malodor, tied his laces and sent him off to preschoool with a kiss on the cheek (and a reminder to USE THE POTTY!).  At noon I picked them up and headed off to a lunchtime play date.  As we were driving along I glanced over at the art work the boys did today in school.  So cute!  So thematic!  They are studying the holidays - Halloween, and colors- today was white.  This project is so cute I thought I would probably frame it.  And then, realization hit.  Horrible realization.

It's a cute little ghost.  Made from a foot print.

There were many things about being a mom I never figured on.  Things that have surprised me over the last 9 years.  (I am sure there will be more to come.)  One of those things is that nothing is mine.  Not really mine.  Everything in this house -  EVERYTHING -  is fair game.  Why my children would want to play with salad tongs, when there is a room full of toys, I don't know.  But there you have it.  Eyebrow brushes are particularly fascinating.  I have bought about 6 of those guys, and I still don't have one to call my own.  They like to clomp around in my shoes - and then lose one.  Yellow dishwashing gloves are highly coveted. Those little things they put on your baseboards- to keep the door handles from slamming into the drywall?  All removed, in my house.  

So tonight I was helping my oldest daughter (9) with her homework.  Sniff, sniff. "Regan," I ask her, "What is that familiar smell I smell right now?"  

"I don't know.  Could be my lotion."  

"Your lotion?  What lotion is that?"  

"Well, it could be your lotion." 

"Where did you get it from?"  

"Oh...in your room.  In your drawer."  

"You mean the little white jar, with the gold lid?" 

The jar of $65 an ounce skin plumping cream. The jar from the Red Door Salon, that was my present to myself on my birthday.  Guaranteed to fatten out your wrinkles and perfect your skin. (Sort of) 

"Yep.  I was all itchy when I got out of the tub so I put it all over myself.  But it isn't that great.  I didn't even have enough to do all of me plus my feet."

And you know, looking closely at her, she didn't look a day over 7 and a half.

Here she is, looking very young indeed- about a week old. 

I have been working lately to try to get all the kids to be more independent.  With the younger ones in particular, it's potty training. After 9 solid years of changing the diapers of multiples I am ready for the mental and financial break!  Unfortunately, the boys haven't embraced this concept as much as I have.  Yet.  I sat them down and gave them a heartfelt pep talk about how great it is to be a big boy and do big boy things.  I admired their Thomas the tank engine underwear.  I told them how they can do more things with their older siblings, because they are so grown up now.  All the while I wondered exactly how much of my pep talk these little guys were taking in.  Later in the day, my #6 son runs past me and yells, "I gotta go potty!"  And dashes into the bathroom.  Yes!  Success!  I am mentally high-fiving myself and picturing my life becoming easier and easier as my children learn to do for themselves.  My mental celebration was cut short when my son stuck his head out of the bathroom door and said, "MOM!  Come hold my [you-know-what]!"  

This is my 9 year old daughter Regan.  When she was about 3 years old we were having a conversation about different family members, and how each were related to the other. 

 Regan asked me, "Is Connor a boy?"  

"Yes," I told her.  

"And is he your son?"

"That's right."  

"And I am a girl?" 

"That's true." 

"So I am your moon."  

This is the same little girl who couldn't figure out how she had three feet.  A right foot, a left foot and a wrong foot.  Because people kept telling her that her shoe was on the wrong foot.

The other day my oldest (9) year old son told me that he thought he should start carrying a wallet to school now, because, really he is growing up now, and he's responsible, and he should be prepared for whatever comes along, so he should have a wallet with some of his own money it, just in case. "You know," he told me, "like dad and grandad.  Like men do."  So I agreed that this was a good idea.  I asked him if he needed any help and he assured me that he could take care of it on his own.  So this afternoon I checked in his  backpack, to see if he had indeed put the wallet in there, and how much money he was in danger of losing.  And this is what I found.  My grown-up almost a man, responsible boy's wallet.  In case you can't see it- it's a furry wallet with a moose head on it that his cousins from Norway gave him, with two dollars inside. It makes my heart ache with the sweetness of it- him with one foot on each side of the division between little boy and maturity.

We are at a playground one evening.  This particular playground has a rather long row of monkey bars. One row after the next.  Altogether, probably about 20 - 30 feet of monkey bar.  A young man  (older than a teenager, younger than a dad), was there diligently working out. He went the entire length of the monkey bars, hand over hand, swinging gracefully.  He even made those little breathy sounds that people do when they work out. The kind that sound like "Whew!" "Whew!" "Whew!"  When he got to the end of the line of monkey bars he dropped down to the ground and brushed his hands off triumphantly and wiped the sweat from his brow.  Then he turned around and saw my toothless, 45 pound, six year old daughter right behind him.  "Hey look!"  She tells him.  "I followed you the whole way! You know why I am so good at that? Because my mom says I am part monkey, that's why!"  At which point the young man slunk off to his car and drove away without a word.