My head hurts this week. Bad. I fear that my eardrums will burst. The noise and fighting among the older two has reached a fever pitch.
It all started when Jim began using "races" to motivate the kids.
Need them to get their shoes? Make it a race.
Need the kids to head up the stairs for bed? Let's see who can get there first.
Need to motivate Danny to go potty? Race him to the bathroom.
So my smart, observant little Fiona has figured out this week just how to needle her brother Danny. Here's a conversation that I hear about 20 times a day. (I'm not even exaggerating.)
I beat you, Danny, Fiona says and then cackles.
YOU GO BACK UP THOSE STAIRS. I WANT TO BEAT YOU.
Danny really is so loud that I need to use a different font size to express it. Meanwhile, mommy is in the kitchen eating strawberry cheesecake bars straight out of the pan.
He has at least figured out that he can beat her to the bathroom. He gets his pants down and hops on the pot before she even knows what hit her.
And then there's more screaming.
She also comes out with this winner of a statement at least once a day:
Don't beat me, mommy.
Oh, honey. I won't beat you. I might beat my head against the wall. I do pray that she never says this in public.
Stop eating those, Danny admonished me while I was driving. I was eating jelly beans.
You can save them for breakfast. Um, okay.
Five minutes later.
Oh, you got to stop eating those. You got to listen to what your told to do. Oh yeah, you told me to save those jelly beans for breakfast, right?
In other news, we weathered a mild, slightly overhyped hurricane last weekend. Danny was fascinated, especially since the power went out and we got to see the downed tree that caused it.
We got to get in the house before the hurricane comes and sucks us all up. Okay, so maybe he was a little confused about what a hurricane actually does.
Here's the deal: In 15 minutes, you guys go up, go potty, get your pullups on and go to bed. You're old enough to do this yourself, Jim says as he watches football. Um, good luck with that one, buddy.
Okay ... it actually worked.
We should change the bedtime mantra to 'Potty, pull up and shut up,' Jim tells me. Ah. There's our book idea.
Did it go down the wrong pipe? I ask Danny who was sputtering at the table.
Yeah, it went down the cough pipe.
Quick, Danny, she's coming, Jim tells Danny as they ate dessert in the dining room. So Danny closed his eyes.
I love you, Nana tells Fiona.
Yeah, she says. I pity this girl's future boyfriends.
What do you know about this wad of toilet paper I found in Owen's crib?
Oh, it's my race track, Danny replies.
Okay. Deep breath. Toilet paper is not a race track. If you had told me that one day I would utter that phrase, I would not have believed you.
Bye, Dan. I'm going to a meeting, Jim tells Danny.
Don't punch anyone, he replies. Good advice for everyone, actually.
Have a good weekend and don't punch anyone.