And so it begins...

A has been through his first set of standardized tests now as a first grader. His school doesn't get into a tizzy about the first graders; his teacher explained that test writers are mean, sneaky people trying to trick kids so that they see it as a game.

She had a copy of his tests at his last parent-teacher conference. He'd missed one question in the reading comprehension section. It was a story about a girl who went to run in a race. She and her dad went to the five-lap race, her dad cheered, and she won first place. She got a medal. So the question he got wrong was:

A at the end-of-trimester awards ceremony

Why did Kira's father clap?
a) because Kira ran five laps
b) because Kira won the race
c) there were toads in the road
d) equally unlikely answer

A picked a, because Kira ran. The correct answer, according to the CA Board of Education Mean People Who Trick Kids Dept. was b, because she won. I'm just bursting with pride that he got this one right and the people who wrote it got it wrong.

He's right. Kira's dad should have clapped because she ran, not because she won, or Kira's dad would be a superjerk.

Mad Skillz

Mr. L is obsessed with sunglasses, except he doesn't call them sunglasses. He calls them DJ glasses.

So this is how he looked when we went to go pick up his brother from school. We were stopped by his brother's kindergarten teacher, who said, wow, you're a pretty cool-looking guy today, L said:

"I'm a DJ with mad skills."

Thanksgiving

"I am thankful for my family!" A announced at dinner, and yes, we all agreed. Young Masters A and L do not care for sweet potato pie or cream puffs with warm chocolate sauce (although they both did like the chocolate sauce and whipped cream), and so I am not sure whose children they are. A still does not eat mashed potatoes, so I'm really not sure where he came from.

But they are blissfully asleep, C is cleaning our kitchen as he has been doing all day, I have a cat purring in my lap, and we are happy.

We are heading out right now to shop. Kidding! We are heading to bed. The only thing on schedule for us tomorrow is a playdate and some elving, that is, some present-making.

Well-adjusted

My new working definition of well-adjusted is when we have old family friends who we haven't seen in literally years over to our new house, and I made sure to clean up the bathrooms so they were spic-and-span shiny, and after we'd chatted for hours and everyone had been to the bathroom and the friends departed and we'd all had a lovely time, I went to the bathroom myself to discover a small child had heaped tampons and breast pads in mammoth gargantuan piles upon the counter and I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, because really, nothing else can be done at that stage, no?

First day of kindergarden

Sniff.

Holy cow, three months

Hello, blog, my name is Kim. I'm sure we've met before...

Baby L went for his 18-month checkup today. In a haze of sleep-deprivation, I missed the scheduled one last Wednesday (to be fair, they still had not updated our contact info--one year later--so I didn't get a reminder call), then called the office to reschedule and they offered me September. September! I got all Bryn Mawr on them, "No, that will be unacceptable since this is his 18-month checkup and he'll be significantly older than that in September, so what are you going to do to accommodate my child sooner?"

He's fine. He's average height and weight (25 pounds, 33 inches) and has a HUGE head. This makes me feel better since I've been moving him into 2T shirts that hang on him since I can't cram his huge head through the neck holes of his 18-month shirts. He says enough words according to the doctor, apparently, like mama and daddy and bread and doggie and rock, but I would like him to use more. They can't start talking fast enough for me. It's fine if he lives on bread, milk and fruit, as long as those foods are healthy.

Mr. A is graduating from preschool this week (sniff), a month earlier than anticipated due to the state of California's incredible budget deficit. He will be moving on to swim lessons and hopefully camp but oh boy, I will miss preschool. I just caught the end of the preschool ceremony, but got there in time to listen to the kids brainstorm what they would be doing in kindergarten. "Reading books!" "Writing!" "Problem-solving!" "Being principled!" "Following directions!" "Listening!" A raised his hand and then announced, "I would like to learn about octopuses, since they are soft and can't fight like sharks so they shoot their oil out so the sharks can't see and then they run away." I love that kid. Love him.

If I write about this, it will become funny

I know it's not a good week when I clean my desk. Why would I clean the rabbit warren of papers, photos, cans of cat food, books and pens that is my desk? Well, I'll tell you: the cat threw up on it. Nothing like some cat vomit to make you clean. But this was apparently the warning shot, as it were.

We had a lovely day at the park with friends, and Mister A came home exhausted and I snuggled him and put him down for a nap. What did I not do? Send him to the potty before the nap. He had not gone since preschool. This is a long time for a small bladder.

Years ago, our beautiful kitty Niles climbed into a plastic bag and got the handle caught on his neck when he tried to get out of the bag. He panicked, then literally pissed himself while rocketing around our house, looking for a safe place to hide from the scary bag that clung to his heels. He made a beeline for the tiny channel of warmth under our waterbed, spraying urine the entire way. We had to drain the bed and steam clean the carpets immediately. It was an insta-nightmare of cleaning.

I had a flashback to that today.

A woke up from his nap sick and disoriented with a need to go NOW NOW NOW. Half awake, he became convinced that what he needed to do was get his pants off and he would stop having an accident. He got his pants and knickers around his ankles and discovered this was not the case. Now hobbled by his clothes, he stumbled around his room, peeing freely, down the hallway, peeing freely, and was finally able to get his sopping wet pants off in the library. At this point he remembered that he should have gone to the bathroom and he burst into tears with embarrassment.

I was rocking the baby to sleep. I went to comfort the crying half-naked boy and discovered puddles of urine. If you imagine two dozen puppies having a free-for-all pre-paper training, this is what my floors look like. Exactly what you want with a crawling baby in the house.

Baby L is cutting four molars right now, huge purple bulges in his gums with sharp white edges peeking out, and molars are the bitch. I have considered giving the baby Vicoden. I have debated the merits of single malt versus bourbon for the fourteen-month-old set. Baby L needs to be held every waking minute or he screams.

Do you know when you can't hold a baby? When you are on your hands and knees scrubbing the floors of urine. Do you know when the baby can't be with you? When you are in a veritable river of urine, doing a check on every fool thing on your child's bedroom floor to say, "Splattered or not? Wet or not?" Baby L doesn't scream much, so holy hell, when he screams, he has a year's potential of screams ready to go in one intense, never ending blast.

Babies are all asleep now. The floors that were urine-puddled are shiny clean. C's back to work for a long haul night. One load of urine-soaked toys has been through the wash, two more loads of urine-soaked bedding is in the dryer, and I've got three more urine loads to go tonight, plus a bathtub full of water-safe things that need to be disinfected. Time to debate the merits of brandy versus single-malt for the mommy.