I have a post up over on Yahoo’s Shine! about my (finally, successful!) search for a non-clunky, smooth-riding double stroller.

When I was ten years old, I chased a grown woman six blocks (she on bike, me on foot), then demanded she give me back my (stolen) bicycle. I did this not because I was a particularly brave or confrontational or athletic kid (nope, nope, and NOPE) but because there was no way my parents were going to get me a new bike just because I’d been dumb enough to leave mine laying in the driveway. I don’t see a lot of similar appreciation for things in my own kids, and it bugs me. Read my post at Chicago Moms Blog for the whole story!

Isn’t it funny how you forget what “HOT” really feels like? (Kind of like how you forget what labor really feels like until you have that first “fo’ real” contraction and you say “Ohhh, yeah. THIS again.”) Here in Chicago, today was the first bona fide HOT day of the 08 spring/summer season. This morning it was only about 63; now it’s 86 and feeling hotter by the minute. I just took a shower, and my hair is drying curly in the heat (hey, it’s actually not looking half bad, either…). The boys have a couple of friends over, and they’re sitting on the back deck yakking about God knows what (I can’t understand their language half the time). The windows and doors are open and there’s a nice breeze blowing through the dining room. And I just went into the fridge and was reminded that my dear husband made Jello Jigglers before going to bed last night.

jello jigglers, glistening in the sunlight

Life is good.

I went to the boys’ end-of-year school awards ceremony today, which was a) long and b) long and c) punctuated by my wiggling toddler yelling “WANT TO HEAR CHICKEN SONG!” (his name for Weird Al’s latest “Polkarama” medley). When it comes to this kind of thing, I’m rebellious at heart, and honestly I find the whole awards-ceremony-for-elementary-school-kids thing a little overblown, but all in all the ceremony was pretty cute and at least made an effort to be inclusive. In the lowest grades, every kid got a certificate, which was nice. In the upper grades, all the kids seemed to get something in the end, but the actual awards were a bit more competitive.

As for my family? No kid went away empty-handed, but only one of their awards seemed to be based on an actual achievement–the Major Mathematics award, granted to my second-grader, AKA the family acheiver.

The other two?

William, who’s four, was part of the class where every kid got a certificate. For something, no matter how, well, nothing it was. In his case, the certificate read “This Certifies That __’my favorite part of school is when I get to go home’__”

Very true. A joiner he is not. Nor, apparently, a lover of school. His teacher has a good sense of humor.

Jacob, who’s in fourth grade, got an honorable mention in the “Brought most Box Tops for Education to School” contest. (I think he was fourth. His entire class consists of about 10 kids). The funniest thing? His grandmother actually collected those and put them into his backpack with a note reminding him to turn them in. Jacob had almost nothing to do with it, beside unzipping his backpack that day.

It may not have been a hard-won victory, but Jacob was thrilled with his award trinket. And our family left together, a happy and victorious bunch.

We may not be actual winners around here, darnit, but at least we’re easy to please.

Long weekend. Short week, filled with too many commitments. No time or energy for a post today, but I’d love you to read my latest Mama-Rama column, about kids and social media.

Our fabulous babysitter* is better than me at a few things: consistency, routine, and getting Owen down for a freaking nap. Sure, some of it is probably out of necessity–she has three kids of her own, and when she started taking care of Owen, her youngest was four or so months old. She said that it didn’t always go so smoothly, but that she spent the first few weeks establishing a consistent bedtime ritual the kids could get used to. I can only imagine that without a firm routine, naptime at her house would resemble a pack** of drunken squirrels trying to escape a burning tree. But from what I’ve heard, it sounds like it goes off without a hitch. And I’m more than a little jealous.

That’s not to say that our house is total chaos. But, we’ve given Owen some leeway–probably more than we should have–when it comes to how/when he goes to sleep, so on the occasion that I really NEED him to go to bed at a predetermined time, it’s almost impossible to pull off. When our sitter told me that, at her house, Owen not only goes down for a nap willingly, but actually yells “Yay! Naptime!” and puts himself in the bed, my curiosity was more than piqued. I decided to get to the bottom of it by consulting Owen himself, and this is a transcript of the conversation we had.

ME: Owen, Melanie (sitter) says that you take good naps at her house!

OWEN: Yeah! Melanie has house!

ME: (realizing I have to break this down a little) Right. When you’re at Melanie’s house, do you take a nap?

OWEN: Yeah! Tessa takes naps! (Tessa is her three-year-old)

ME: And Owen, right?

OWEN: Oh! Yeah! Owen (unintelligible) every day!

ME: Okay. Melanie said that you say “yay” at naptime and get right up in the bed.

OWEN: I say YAY!

ME: Right, you say “yay”. Do you like naps?

OWEN: I play with Tessa!

ME: Uh-huh. So, (changing tactics), why do you like your naps so much at Melanie’s? Do you like your bed there?

OWEN: I have a bed!

ME: Right. Where is the bed?

OWEN: I eat a cheese sandwich!

ME: Yes, you eat a cheese sandwich before bed. What do you do after you eat the cheese sandwich?

OWEN: You make me a cheese sandwich?

ME: We don’t have any cheese. (lie). Now listen, this is important. Do you think, next time I tell you it’s naptime, you could say “yay!” and put yourself to bed?

OWEN: I say “YAY!”

ME: Yes, you say yay! When I say naptime, you say “yay” and go put yourself to bed!

OWEN: Oh! Ohtay! Put myself in bed!

ME: Okay, Owen. Guess what? It’s naptime!

OWEN: Um, no.

Sigh. I guess this bedtime situation is going to require some hard work of my own, not just riding my sitter’s coattails. Oh well, it was worth a shot. And an important reminder: don’t ever entrust a 2 1/2 year old with relaying important information. Unless it involves cheese sandwiches.

*I can’t bring myself to call her a “nanny”, though maybe that is more accurate as she takes care of Owen for three nearly-full days each week? I dunno–what’s the difference between a nanny and a sitter; the actual job they do, or the effect the parent hopes for when he/she refers to them by either name?

**I’m not sure that squirrels actually run in packs. Maybe it’s gaggles.

When I was a little kid, my parents had a closed-door policy about their bedroom. Kids going in there, unless in an extreme emergency, was Just Not Done. But my parents split up when I was young, and after that the bedroom policy became much more open-door. Mom’s bed was where you hung out if you had a nightmare or were home sick from school or just wanted to watch something different on TV from what was going on downstairs. My dad (and eventually, stepmother’s) room became the family hangout; where we watched Married…With Children and Spencer for Hire. Sure, if the door was shut you knocked (or when as a teenager you started figuring out what that meant, you went nowhere near that part of the house) but for the most part, their bedroom had an open-door policy.

I’ve brought that open-bedroom-door policy into our family life, much to the chagrin of my husband, whose parents had the “No Kids Allowed” approach to their bedroom. At first, it was pure practicality. Our kids all slept in our bed as babies, and for a long time we lived in small apartments and often had only one TV, which resided in our room. But even as our kids have moved into their own beds and we’ve acquired bigger homes and more TVs, the ‘just come on IN” approach to Mom and Dad’s room has stuck.

And I think I’ve about had enough. I’m pretty relaxed when it comes to clutter and chaos, but something about kids jumping around in and messing up my bedroom makes me over-the-top crazy. I can’t stand it when my bed gets unmade, or when one of the kids gives a bounce on my bed that slides it away from the wall. I mean, it upsets me so much that I actually feel my blood pressure tick up a few notches while my face goes hot and my fists clench. Maybe, in a house full of kids and mess and noise, I just need one space that I can count on to be quiet and neat? Maybe it’s time to lay down the law as far as the ol’ bedroom is concerned?

I’m guilty of putting the little kids in my room to watch a TV show while I work because it’s easy, it’s close to my office and the kitchen, where I spend a big part of my day, and, well, I know how to work the remote control up here. (the downstairs TV is still kind of a mystery to me). But I think it might be time to start the process of breaking the mom-and-dad’s-room habit.

Or maybe there’s a way to keep an open-door policy while still keeping the bedroom neat, clean, and chaos-free. Maybe the kids could have limited access to our room when it works for us, without them feeling like it’s their playland in there. Anyone been able to pull that off, or enforced a “parents’ room off-limits” rule after years of an open door?

I kinda wish Owen really did have to wear glasses.

Of course, considering the damage he’s done to mine in the past, I probably could never afford to keep him in them. Note the crooked frames? Yep. His handiwork.

Still, though. Holy cuteness.

As promised, here’s the continuation of the cliff-hanging Part 1 of the Wisconsin Dells saga.

When we got to the Dells–much later than originally anticipated–our first stop was Buffalo Phil’s Grille. Our waiter was fantastic and very attentive to the fact that we had four hungry kids (well, actually, the kids weren’t all that hungry, since they’d been pigging out on gas station crud for the past four hours–but Mom and Dad were starving). He brought out little chalkboards for the kids to draw on right away and made sure our drinks arrived quickly and that our chips and salsa came right to the table. The kid’s menu actually had something–rotisserie chicken–that wasn’t breaded and fried or made with powdered cheese, which I always appreciate, as even kids grow tired of eating nothing but greasy, golden food for a whole weekend.

Jon and Jacob ordered the nightly special, the fish fry, which they declared very good. I got the fajitas, which were pretty so-so (meat was tough, veggies didn’t seem fresh). Owen and Isaac both got mac and cheese, which was, well, mac and cheese, and made them happy.

William didn’t even order, which I probably should have taken as a warning sign. He’s our human trash compactor, always happy to clear his own plate and the remnants of everyone else’s, too. And he’ll try anything. One of my favorite memories of Will is him at 2 1/2, gorging on spicy Indian food that was making everyone around him tear up. Instead, he just wanted to lay his head on my lap.

While we ate, we discussed what we’d do next. Go bowling? Play arcade games? It was pretty late by this point, but after several hours in the car, we figured the boys needed to burn off some energy. Buffalo Phil’s is attached to a place called Knucklehead’s , which is like a mini-carnival, arcade and bowling alley in one…basically, a kid’s paradise. As we were debating our plans, I felt a tugging at my sleeve.

Looking down, I saw Will’s crumpled face. “Mom, I feel sick,” he said. As mothers do, I immediately jumped into triage mode, trying to determine whether we were dealing with a mere tummy grumble or headache, or something more…acute. And potentially messy.

So of course, the first question out of my mouth was: “Are you going to throw up?”

He merely nodded in response. Unable to even form words? NOT a good sign. I threw my napkin on the table and started scooting out of the booth, but too late. A mighty heave later, my poor son was covered in his gas station fare (and I wasn’t faring too well myself).

The bathroom was in the arcade, too far away for me to make an easy dash, and I didn’t want to gross out the other diners any more than we already had. I couldn’t be sure if the people around us knew what was going on–the lighting was conveniently low, but William’s pre-hurl noises are legendary in our family for their volume and recognizability (kind of like a cat with a hairball in the middle of the night). Luckily, everyone around us had kids, so if they were staring, it was probably with looks of sympathy rather than disgust. But just as I thought I might be able to cover Will’s more soiled areas with a napkin and get him to the bathroom that way, he began making those dog-horking-on-a-chicken-bone sounds again, and I knew I was screwed. Before I knew it, another helping of oreos-twizzlers-root beer was fleeing his stomach.

Now we had a crisis on our hands. And while I’m calm in public health-related crises, Jon tends to be something more along the lines of useless. Bewildered and unsure of what to do, his reaction was to do absolutely nothing. He and the other kids, in fact, just kept on eating as though nothing had happened at all, only they raised their voices a little as though they could just talk right over the hurling and retching.

“Do you think you could help me out a little?” I hissed, mopping at Will’s poor face with a single paper napkin.

The look on Jon’s face was all the answer I needed. No. He could not. (To be fair, I think he may have handed me another napkin, and gave me a sympathetic look).

When we finally made it to the bathroom I assessed the damage. Will’s pants had escaped unscathed, but his shirt and hoodie were wayyy beyond a simple wipe-down. I took them off, having to be careful not to deposit the shirt’s contents on his face or head as I did, and turned the pukey jacket-and-shirt into a little inside-out package, kinda like a Popple. Then I gave William a head-to-toe soapy-paper-towel bath (thank goodness this was not one of those useless “air dryer only” establishments.) Fortunately, I was wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt over a long-sleeve t-shirt, so I gave Will my short-sleeve shirt and we went back out together with our barfy little Popple. A Bopple.

Getting back to the table, I found that the guys were still pigging out. “We gotta go,” I said, standing there with a kid wearing my t-shirt and his Bopple tucked under my arm.

“Oh, really?” Jon said.

Fortunately for him, I was too exhausted to hit him over the head with the chalkboard. Or worse, the Bopple.

The very-nice waiter was disappointed that we had to take off without dessert, and I can only hope I left him an adequate tip in my frazzled state. We made our way to the hotel, and let me tell you, it was heaven to find that our room was a huge suite with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, living area, and three televisions.

After all that family togetherness, I think we were all happy to spread out a little and zone out in groups of two.

Of course, after emptying his guts, Will was now absolutely fine, and it took me quite a while to calm him down and get him to sleep. Once I did, I zonked out. It had been a long, long day, and the trip hadn’t even really begun yet. It did get better from there on out–well, except for the bowling ball-meets-head incident–but I will have to save part 3 for another day.