Seriously seeking a nanny

I am looking into getting a nanny. I mean SERIOUSLY looking into it.
But not the kind you’re thinking of. I want one who will sleep outside, eat out of a bowl and come when I whistle.
I want a Border Collie.
My fascination with this animal (because I am NOT a dog lover) came after Matt and I saw a show about a ranch that used dogs to herd their cattle. And the thought hit me, “I could use one of those for my kids!”
Now, I’m only partly kidding, and mostly I think this is a novel idea.
Matt (who is not so convinced) warned me that the dogs “nip” and “bark” at the cattle to get them to cooperate. That’s fine with me. It will teach the kids not to wander, right?
I can see myself now. Shades on. Feet up. Kids frolicking in the yard. Uh, oh!
Somebody’s escaped! Not to worry, Sally (the name we call most animals at our farm) is on it.
She runs as fast as her legs can carry, barking a warning to the escapee: “Stop or else!”
That child ignores her. Big mistake!
Sally makes a sharp right, cutting the very-near-to-death child runner off, causing him or her to lose footing and come to a halt.
Lesson learned. Child safe. Mom (me) has not ruined the family name by running/screaming/flailing in public.
All is well.
Yep, I need that dog.
Especially since Masen is turning into such a 2-year-old tornado!
In less time than I steal away to use the restroom, he can open the fridge, dump a drink inside, close the fridge, find a chair (from a different room) to drag into the kitchen to find something he “needs” on the counter. Then he will open and dump that much-desired thing, take a bite (not like it), flee the crime scene, and I will find him peacefully (seemingly innocently) watching cartoons with his siblings.
I know you’re thinking that a dog won’t be able to stop him from making messes. BUT, I will have energy in reserves to deal with those extra “Masen” messes because of all the chasing Sally will do for me outside.
I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. Maybe all these kids over these last few years have really gotten to me. Because to me, Sally the Border Collie Oehlschlager sounds like a GREAT idea.
And seeing how life seems to be getting easier and yet harder every day, it is very possible that I might need some live-in help. Unfortunately, God only gave us moms two arms, two eyes and two legs with a bunch of other squishy stuff in between.
He also decided to bless Matt and me with charges with a grand total of eight arms, eight legs and eight eyes.
Hardly even a competition.
I believe with four-legged Sally on my/our team, it should even out the score a bit.

Bathroom boundaries

There is a room in our house I can guarantee you will always smell like pee. And it’s not the bathroom.
DISCLAIMER: To protect the reputation of my family member — who will surely, hopefully and prayerfully grow out of this — I will not disclose his name. (But I will tell you it’s not Matt.)
The room that owns this unremovable stench belongs to a little man whose life revolves around protecting what is his.
You can’t even walk into his room without this Rumpelstiltskin-like boy flying up the stairs to see who is in his room and why. He disappears up there for hours working away on buildings and vehicles (built from Legos) and roads (he’s “carved” into the carpet) — creating his own empire.
And every empire has a few bathrooms, I suppose.
At least that is what I discovered while I scoured the room on my hands and knees, sniffing like a dog to find the source of the odor.
When I came to my child’s bed, the cozy place where I diligently put on laundry clean-scented sheets every week, my odor alarm rang loud.
My son, whom I love dearly, had been urinating under his bed, marking “his territory” like an animal! A WILD ANIMAL!
For how long, you ask? I don’t know. When I asked him that question, he held up all his fingers and I soon realized he’d been doing this more often than he could count.
So I explained to him that he is only to go to the restroom in the toilet or on a tree (preferably not in town).
Boy did we sound hypocritical.
See, Matt and I have been training him since he was 1-1/2 years old to alleviate his problems wherever he pleased (outside or in the bathroom) as long as it wasn’t in his pants.
And he has been my earliest potty trainer.
I guess we literally forgot to explain to him the bathroom boundaries.
We should have gotten the hint after my parents’ incident with him at church. A Presbyterian church, no less!
Services were held outside that Sunday in a casual atmosphere. So casual, in fact, my son simply stood up and made his toilet right there during the worship service.
But we turned a blind eye, never really having the heart-to-heart with him about how that’s inappropriate.
Now I realize how much of a mistake that was. I SMELL how much of a mistake that was.
He was there with me while I cleaned the carpet and I believe he now recognizes the disadvantages of going to the bathroom on the carpet.
We pray he does comprehend, because he goes to preschool next year, and I’m sure his female classmates are not ready for THAT kind of anatomy lesson.

The cat's out of the bag

The cat’s out of the bag.
They know and there’s no turning back.
Our children — all four of them — just recently discovered that there are four of them and only two of us.
And now they have been exercising their power in numbers by plotting and scheming and manipulating the younger and trusting siblings to do things for the darker good.
At night, I can only barely count on my fingers and toes the number of instances I’ve kept them from their own demise.
It seems a child’s — or at least my children’s — main objective in life is to find new and creative ways to harm/kill/maim each other or themselves or property.
And my job is to keep them from succeeding.
It’s exhausting.
So to conquer my exhaustion and to exercise my brain, I’ve compiled a list of “mom rules” you should ALWAYS follow (like I’m an expert — yeah right!).
No. 1: Silence during the daytime? This is a sign of trouble. It’s like the calm, eery feeling before a thunderstorm, you know?
When you don’t hear screaming, fighting, laughing or singing, you need to scour the house to account for all children and their limbs.
More times than not, you will find somebody doing something they aren’t supposed to do.
Like when I found our youngest sitting outside in the garage on the lawnmower. We were all screaming and searching. Finally, the little man (who could barely talk) came strutting out of the garage in too-tall-for-him boots and said, “What, Mom?”
No. 2: Invest in latches for doors and remove all objects that can be used to escape.
We have several escape artist children who will do anything possible to rid themselves of the confines of a bedroom or house.
Now, there are multiple levels of locks on our exterior doors,
And when you undo the latch, stand back because once they are “let” outside, they scatter. Keeping them all in one confined area is like holding water in your hands. Some are bound to get out somewhere.
No. 4: Distraction is key to survival.
Even we adults distract ourselves with the daydreams of what we’re going to do when we get home or when we get some free time.
Children are the same way. They get bored with the routine and if they aren’t mentally stimulated, they will work hard to do it themselves.
And the outcome typically involves mud, toilet water or soap. I do speak from experience on this one.
No. 5: At all times account for where every sippy cup and snack is located.
I don’t know how many times dinner has been postponed while we frantically searched for somebody’s missing cup.
I’ve stepped on a squished-into-the-carpet-half-eaten banana.
Long-forgotten cups have been discovered weeks/months later. Enough said.
No. 6: Smile.
When I wake up grumpy — which is more often than not, unfortunately — I find that I set the tone of the house.
If I wake up in a nothing-can-get-me-down mode, the day tends to be better.
The saying is true: “When Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
One day maybe my kids will get the memo and take it easy on me. But for now, Matt and I are making battle plans of our own.
And though we don’t win every battle, I pray we eventually win the war.

—As seen in the Lawrence County Record

Directionally challenged

I am a direction-illiterate.
That’s right, the queen bee of OCD can’t tell her north from south, let alone be trusted to safely navigate the streets of Springfield.
And that’s why I married Matt. He’s the perfect ying to my yang. He likes the inner pieces of a brownie; I like the edge. He likes a little bit of spaghetti sauce; I like a lot. He is cool, calm and collected while I’m frazzled, frenzied and fried.
And, best of all, that guy knows how to get around. He can navigate with the best of them.
So when Matt found himself parked in a hospital bed last week, he left me, navigator of the year, to fend for myself.
Now getting to the hospital is no biggie for me. I’ve had four kids and have visited that section of Springfield regularly. But once inside those walls, unless I’m heading to labor and delivery, I’m lost.
My handicap may seem ridiculous to those of you who can get around with ease. But if you were to spin me around in even a semi-circular motion, I would be lost. It’s a problem.
Add elevators, no sleep, multiple strangers and stress — forget about it.
I was a mess.
Every time I left Matt’s room (which, of course, was on the top floor of the hospital totally away from EVERYTHING I might have needed, including my car), I had to psych myself up.
My pep talk and deep breaths gave me the false confidence I needed to exit the room without the look of a lost mental patient.
And when I finally found the elevator, I was nearly home free.
Just one other problem. Since there was a little bank of elevators — four to be exact — and you were stuck riding whichever one came first, I was always turned around after I exited.
I had to stop and reorient myself before moving. I’m sure this little quirk of mine was a little annoying for all those who knew exactly where to go.
It was all so stressful I don’t know how I survived.
But I did.
And, more importantly, Matt did.
And I think that if I hadn’t had all the direction drama, I might have worried about him more.
In a weird way, my inability to get from one place to another kept me distracted enough to keep me from losing my cool in more important areas.
While I sit here with those turbulent few days left only in my memory, I am thankful.
I am thankful my partner is safe and returning to his optimal health.
I am thankful we had family and friends to help with the kids and animals and other logistical parts of our life.
I am thankful for the prayers that sustained Matt and me and our family.
I am thankful for our God, who answered those prayers.
And last, but definitely not least, I’m thankful to live in a place where I only rarely find myself lost.

Just the other day

Just the other day, I was a kid.
Just the other day, life was simple.
Just the other day, we were walking down the graduation aisle, toilet papering people’s houses and cruising around the square.
When did we grow up?
I don’t feel “grown up.” But does anybody ever really feel ready to take on life as an adult?
Memory lane was reopened last week and, thankfully, only happy memories came to the surface.
Like when a childhood friend and I dumped an entire bottle of liquid glue into another classmate’s school box.
But he totally deserved it. And I, consequently, totally deserved being sent to the principal’s office in (wait for it) KINDERGARTEN!
(I’ve always been a parent pleaser!)
Or the slumber parties. Water wars with enemy girls from higher grades.
Police were called and we were all told to go to bed.
Dance competitions. Show Choir rehearsals. Home games.
We were all so innocent back then.
There were no bills. There was no stress besides the who’s mad at who and the other inevitable middle and high school drama.
But then we grew up and moved away from the sheltered existence of our youth.
I think most adults long for the days of no bills and real responsiblities.
I don’t want to go back to being a teen, but I certainly would love to be that carefree for a few more years. Maybe if I knew then what I know now I wouldn’t rush the growing up process.
I would savor sleeping in. I would appreciate someone else cooking my meals, buying my groceries, driving me to and fro.
I would forget about having a boyfriend and just hang with my pals.
And we would laugh.
Because that’s the thing I remember most about my youth.
Laughter. Gut-wrenching, pee-in-your-pants, tears-freely-flowing laughter.