I'm running out of ideas here

Dear Powers that Be,

Can someone please tell me what I'm supposed to feed my family? This all started when I listened to that program on NPR about the movie Food Inc. I haven't actually seen the movie and don't know that I ever will because I'm not sure I can handle the scary information overload it surely would offer. However, as I understand it, the movie examines, among other issues, the dangers of pesticide use, mega farms and fast food consumption.

The radio program discussed the "dirty dozen" list of fruits and vegetables to avoid because of high pesticide levels. I had read about this plenty of times and didn't take action, but hearing the program, I finally decided to do something about it. I would make a concerted effort to buy more local produce, to get organic alternatives for the dirty dozen. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but it's been even more difficult than I had guessed. I started gung ho. I trekked over to the local organic food shop. Of course, the produce was more expensive and, in most cases, didn't look as pretty as the non-organic stuff. No surprise, after one week of trying to visit two different grocery stores, I decided it wasn't realistic for me. Instead, I would do the best I could with my grocery store's tiny selection of organic produce.

I didn't feel like I was succeeding as I had hoped, but I was doing the best I could with limited time and availability of organic choices. Then one day my mom told me about an article in Consumer Reports about BPA. This would be bisphenol A, a plastic additive whose presence has been linked to health problems from cancer to irregular hormone changes. Cans are lined with BPA-containing plastic - all those cans of black beans, soup, and, yes, organic tomatoes, in my cupboard. What to do? According to the article, try to go with frozen or fresh produce. Buying dry beans and dicing my own organic tomatoes? Not looking too practical for this busy mom.

To top it all off, I listened to another program this week on NPR. It was about factory farming and the treatment of animals. The program featured Jonathan Safran Foer, author of the new book, Eating Animals. Foer detailed all kinds of problems with factory farming - negative environmental impact, the use of hormones and antibiotics in animals, and the abysmal treatment of said animals. Though I care about animals, I wouldn't describe myself as anything close to an animal activist. I'm not a big meat eater, but I do enjoy it several times a week. Foer's argument gave me pause. After all, I don't think it's right for animals to be brought into this world only to endure a tortured existence and die a horrific death. But going to vegetarianism for me and my family? Not going to happen.

So, Powers that Be, you see my problem. The fresh produce is riddled with pesticides, the canned foods contaminated with BPA, and the meat is the flesh of tortured animals. How can I find the middle ground and make healthy choices for my family?

I await your reply.

Sincerely,

Jessica Thiel

This kid's outta control

If you had popped into my home this afternoon, you just might have thought I had gone just a little nuts. That's for good reason, because I feel like I'm at my wit's end with my youngest son. At my home you would have found a kitchen table with its chairs missing and a lamp hastily unplugged and set on mine and Mark's bed in a fit of frustration. These are the result of the latest bout of Gus's reckless behavior.

Here's a sampling of some of Gus's latest tricks. His obsession of late has been to climb onto the kitchen table via the chairs, hence the missing seating. The living room lamp? He just won't leave it alone. He's already broken one. Sadly, these aren't even his most dangerous endeavors. The other day he opened the oven drawer and tried to use it as a step in an attempt to reach the stove. Needless to say, that drawer is now taped shut. His pièce de résistance, however, came last week. I was playing hide and seek with the boys. What I saw when I walked into the kitchen took my breath away. The door to the oven was ajar. I had been baking cookies. What kept Gus from getting severely burned, I have no idea. In fact, he was completely fine. I'm convinced he must have a guardian angel. Never had it occurred to me that I would need to put a lock on my oven.

Then again, never have I encountered a child quite like my Gus. Ben was super-curious at this age, and Paulie eventually became a climber (though at an older age than Gus). Gus is both of these combined times 10. He has an insatiable appetite for daring deeds and discovery. Me? I can't stand the feeling of not being able to turn my back for a moment. I expect that the old adage, "This too shall pass" applies here. Until it does, however, my house may look just a little wacky.

Ode to mowing the lawn

I never thought I would be saying this, but I love mowing the lawn. Growing up with three brothers, I was never called upon for yard care. So it wasn't until I was married with two kids that I finally gave it a try. Now, I'll admit that my lawn-mowing skills are nothing to brag about. In fact, I'm quite certain that it looks much nicer when Mark does it. Nonetheless, this summer and fall I've found myself volunteering time and again to take on this task.

Here's why I love it. Unlike most other aspects of my life, lawn mowing is predictable and something I can control. I find it gratifying to see that unkempt expanse of emerald lying before me to tame. When I'm finished, I get the satisfaction of knowing it will look even and neat. After hours unend of being pulled on and beckoned, I find the roar of the lawn mower peaceful. Sometimes I have take the iPod and listen to music, and sometimes I just mow. Either way is fine with me.

Before kids I had found housework and home maintenance tedious. Now, like most parents, what I wouldn't give for more uninterrupted time for these chores. Rare times when I'm kid-free I can spend happy hours cleaning, cooking or toiling away at a sinkful of dishes. I guess this is just one of the ways having kids has shaped me as a person. I'll take serenity anywhere I can find it these days, and mowing the lawn works out just fine.

He did it!

Call me a pessimist. I was all but ready to declare preschool a failure before it even began. But you know what? He did it! Paul not only is surviving, he's thriving. The first day did get off to a rocky start. As you can see in the photo in front of Paul's school, he's not looking too optimistic. Indeed, when Mark made to leave after dropping him off, Paul did throw the tantrum I had been fearing. Mark called me with the not-so-great news, and I spent the next couple hours half-expecting that the teachers would be calling to say that I would need to come and pick up Paul. No such call ever came, and when I picked him up, I didn't hear howling or see tears, I saw a boy who was excited to tell me about his day and show me the craft project he'd made. Sure, the first thing he said was that he had missed me, but he also said he had fun.

After the first day, things have gotten progressively easier. By the second week of class, he had given up crying all together, much to my relief. Last week, one of his teachers told me what a great smile Paul has and how nice it is to have him there. It looks like now instead of fearing the worst, I can look forward to hearing about the daily star person, what Paul ate for a snack and the fun he had with his wonderful teachers and friends. Hallelujah!

Is this how people end up home schooling?

Today is the big day - Paul's first day of preschool - and I must say I'm a bundle of nerves. Here's why. Any hopes I had of him overcoming his fears were dashed Friday morning when we headed to moms' group at church. I've mentioned before that ever since Ben hasn't been with him there, he has been fearful. I did my best to prep him for it, and though he did protest a bit, I figured that he would cry some and then be OK. But as soon as we set foot in the door, he began to not cry, but sob. Snot-running-out-of-his-nose, heaving sobs. "Mommy, don't go!" he wailed. I did my best to calm him, though that really wasn't possible in his thoroughly panicked state. So I made for the door in the hopes that he would work it out and be OK, as he has done in the past. No sooner did I close the door than he opened the door and threw himself at my feet, begging me not to leave. It was at that point I decided we needed to leave.

Utterly bereft, I trudged into the house and began to look for articles on preschool separation anxiety. Of course many kids his age have it. Many of the others at church cried on Friday, though Paul's display certainly was the most, er, colorful. In my readings, I discovered that I did a lot of things wrong. That's nothing new for me. Don't sneak out, one expert implored, it's dishonest and it's only easier for you, not them. Did that. Don't bribe or offer rewards, another said. Did that. Don't cave in and take the child home, or he will think crying works. Oh, dear. I was beginning to lose hope for him and for me. I did find some tips that I hope will work for today. Often it works better for someone besides the mother to drop off the child, hence Mark taking Paul today. Also I let him choose a small toy to keep in his pocket as a security object.

Many wise people have reminded me that this is a phase, that just as all children one day will be potty trained, they all will go to school and do fine. I guess the hardest part for me is seeing him so scared, so upset. And underneath it all is a kernel of doubt in my mind. Sometimes the worry is simmering, others seemingly boiling over. Am I doing this right? Did I do something to cause him to be like this? I question my very decision to be a stay-at-home mom. Has it left Paul ill-prepared to face these challenges? I don't know the answers.

In preparation for today, we've been reading the children's book The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. It taps right into the anxiety that children and parents alike feel on the first day of school. In it the mama raccoon places a kiss on young Chester's palm and promises that whenever he misses his mom, he will be able to put his palm to his cheek and feel his mother's love (Mama loves you, Mama loves you). By the end of the book when Chester plants his own kiss on his mom's hand and she puts it to her cheek and hears "Chester loves you, Chester loves you," I was a sobbing mess myself, but Paul was smiling. So we'll try it today and hope that it gets us both through.

This one's for you, G

So I'm a little late on writing down my thoughts on Gus's first birthday. What a wonderful, challenging year it was. When I saw Gus's little face on the 20-week ultrasound picture and heard the words "It's a boy," I felt instantly that it was right, that three boys was exactly what we should have. My heart swelled with an enormous wave of love and affection for my boy. Finally I saw him, the actual him, for the first time. He was what the nurses called "a good size," though he looked tiny to me, and he had abundant black hair. I adored my beautiful little boy, and I couldn't wait to bring him home to his brothers and start our life together.

After semi-successfully shepherding two boys through babyhood, I knew bringing up our third wouldn't be easy, but I was confident we would be up for the challenge. Gus, however, decided to give us a surprise. By the time he was a month old, he was extremely fussy during the evening hours, seemingly impossible to soothe during his spells. We made it, though, and the hardship made it all the sweeter when at 4 months the fussiness was flipped off like a switch and he became a delightful, mellow baby.

By about seven months, it became clear that he would walk in the footsteps of his brother, Ben (who walked at 9 months), literally. He quickly found a way to get around, first commando-style, then hands and knees, and finally, at 10 months, walking. He now has the dangerous combination of Ben's curiosity and early mobility and the reckless adventurous streak of 1-year-old Paul. He's an explorer. A climber. Fearless. This ensures that I'm never far behind and nearly never at rest. Thank goodness that with all of this, he still likes to take many breaks for a snuggle with his mom. I love you, my boy. Happy birthday.

A classic Ceman family vacation

My family loves to reminisce about vacations we took when I was a kid. A great many of those include memories of minor disasters that almost always seemed to accompany us. Take the time that my parents had tethered Sean's and my sleeping bags to the top of the car, and they rolled away into oblivion before we reached my grandpa's cabin in Drummond, WI. Or the time when we were driving home from Drummond and a garbage bag full of dirty laundry fell out of the car top carrier and my parents were pulled over for suspicion of improper disposal of garbage.

Of course anyone who knows my family knows that car troubles far and away made up most of our vacation maladies. Driving to my Grandma Flaherty's in Chicago or to Drummond, more often than not something went wrong. Legend has it that Sean was able to diagnose car troubles at the tender age of 8 ("Dad, I think we threw a rod again"). One memorable time the station wagon broke down in Merrill. We needed a mechanic to look at it, but we had to wait for some hours because he was at the Hodag festival along with everyone else in town. No lie.

For all of these reasons, it's ironic that I have any kind of expectations for vacation at all. My mom and I spent hours on the internet last winter searching for a vacation spot. It needed to be waterfront and able to accomodate our large group. Finally we settled on a pretty-looking place in Amery. It would be a long trip but worth it, we were sure. After visiting Mark's brother and sister-in-law in Minnesota, my family and I arrived first. It quickly became clear that the place was not exactly as advertised. The outside was decidedly not well-maintained. Soon we ventured down to the "water" and discovered that the lake actually was a weedy marsh. Despite some lacking qualities, the inside of the place, overall, turned out to be fairly nice, but the absence of water stung.

It didn't take long for hijinx to begin. Wednesday night Mark and I were cooking dinner. Mark went to start the grill and, no big surprise here, it was out of gas and home to some kind of nest. I sighed deeply and preheated the oven and returned to the basement. Twenty minutes later I went upstairs to put the food in the oven. Smoke and the smell of burning plastic were coming from a burner on the stove. Unbeknownst to me, in a bit of morning chaos, my mom had stuck a washer game (a kind of lawn game) in the oven to get it out of the way. Foolish me. I was laboring under the silly assumption that I would not find a lawn game in the oven. Miraculously, the game was only mildly charred, and dinner made it to the table without further incident.

Wednesday and Thursday were terrible weather days. Rain fell in sheets, and the sky stayed a depressing color of gray sun up to sun down. The kids were acting up, and I felt desperate to get out of the house. Friday started out the same way. However, when a break in the rain came, we decided to venture outside and hope for the best. I'm so happy we did. We headed to Interstate State Park. The weather turned warm and sunny, and Ben, Paul, Kelan and Gus finally got a chance to frolick in the water and play in the sand. Suddenly it all felt worth it.

We've vowed to start early to research and find an ideal place for next summer's vacation. No doubt it, too, will contain some unwanted surprises. No matter what happens, though, we'll always have our memories and funny stories.

He just may

Ask Ben what he would like to be when he grows up, and his answer is the same that many boys probably give: a professional baseball player, more specifically, a Milwaukee Brewer. Typically I like to have a little laugh about that because, sorry to drag you into this, Mark, between our contributing genes we don't exactly bring a lot of athletic prowess. What I remember most about my middle school gym days is my classmates shouting, "Come on Ceman, hit the ball!" in a not-so-supportive way while playing my most-hated sport, volleyball.

But Ben never ceases to surprise me. This summer he was determined to play in a coach-pitch baseball league rather than tee ball. Though he was younger than most of his team by a year or more, for the aforementioned reasons, I was surprised to see him hold his own. Last week we took the boys to the annual Menasha Park & Rec summer scamper. Ben had taken first place in his age group the year before and very much wanted to again. The race began, and Ben was neck and neck with a girl from his class at school. I tried to cheer, but every time I watch him perform, I get choked up. He overtook the lead and emerged victorious. (Check out the video: http://benpaulandgus.shutterfly.com/393). Now, I know this is just a small race, but it says a lot about Ben. Whatever the challenge, he brings his unique blend of confidence and determination. (After the race, my dad reported that Ben told him, "Not only am I really smart, I'm also really fast!) A Milwaukee Brewer someday? Maybe so.

His anxiety is making me anxious

Separation anxiety. Paul's got it bad. This is new territory for me. From a young age, Ben never had a problem with saying sayonara to me. While sometimes that gave me pause (hey, Ben, you could be at least a little sad!), Ben's freedom seeking was much preferable to the situation I'm in now. It started in fall when I brought him to the church nursery for child care during my Friday moms' group. He would sob and carry on in the car all the way to church. Once I got him in and snuck out of the room, he always settled down fairly quickly.

It's gotten worse. I signed him up for vacation bible school in June, thinking there was maybe a 30 percent chance that he would finish out the week. Nothing doing. About an hour after I dropped him off, I got the call: "Is this Paul's mom? Yeah, he's been crying since you left. You should probably come get him." In the time it took me to get there, they moved Paul into Ben's classroom, and, no surprise, he was just fine. However, after that first day, I considered VBS a failed experiment. It was then that my anxiety began to set in about how hard it would to send him to preschool in the fall. It's only two hours a day twice a week, but I'm picturing panic, kicking and screaming.

Unbelievably, the situation has declined further since June. We went to Great America a couple weeks ago. He would only go on rides if I could ride with him. And I'm talking the tamest of kiddie rides: little boats and helicopters, rides he has gone without pause plenty of times at Bay Beach. When I tried to cajole him into going on the boats with Ben, he planted his feet and threw his body to the ground as if I were threatening to tie him up and strap him into the scariest ride in the park. Sleeping over at Grandma and Grandpa Ceman's house always has been a favorite treat for Ben and Paul. Lately Paul has been getting crying when Mark and I try to leave. Movie, popcorn and treats usually fixes that pretty quickly, but still.

I know this is a phase that will pass as quickly as it came. Someday I'm sure he will be fully independent and I will look back on this time and wish he were a little more like he was. (I can picture me throwing myself at Paul's feet when he leaves for college: Paulie, don't leave me!) Until then, I've decided this much: Mark is bringing Paul to the first day of preschool.

Orally fixated

I know all kids Gus's age go through a phase of putting things in their mouths, but I've never seen a child quite like Gus. Keeping a vigilant eye and preventing those chubby little mitts from inserting junk into that cute mouth of his is a full-time job.

Foolishly, I had pictured the idyllic summer I would spend with the boys enjoying the beauty of the outdoors. I would be able to lead Ben and Paul in fun and enriching activities while Gus sat closeby and amused himself quietly. Of course, as soon as summer began my little fantasy went the way of my idea of what being a stay-at-home mom would be like (unlimited reserves of patience, leading in the kids in fun craft projects - I lose it almost daily and stink at crafts). What I had not imagined was that Gus would be walking already and that I would have to spend much of my time chasing him and trying to wrench contraband from his hands. Pebbles, grass, sand, mulch, you name it, he's tried to consume it. It's pretty sad when to get a respite I set him in the sandbox with the thought that him eating a small handful of sand or two isn't as bad as the possibility of him swallowing a stone. What really scares me is knowing how many outdoor plants and flowers are poisonous.

Inside is easier but not by much. One of Gus's many talents is the ability to quickly locate the smallest item in a room and stuff it into his gob. Certainly it doesn't help that he has older brothers who have toys with small pieces. But that I can manage fairly well. The biggest inside battle is paper. He can rip it up and get in his mouth in record time. Many times a day I catch sight of his little jaws masticating and it is time again to go on a fishing expedition to remove bits of paper and other junk.

The only thing that gets me through is his naptime and the fact that this too shall pass - someday. During my little breaks, I rest up and prepare again for mouth watch.

The swift passage of time

I'm not one to cry easily, but there's nothing like watching one of my kids perform to get the waterworks going. So if you hear sniffling while watching Ben's dance routine on the last day of kindergarten, that's probably me. (Check out the video on our share site: http://benpaulandgus.shutterfly.com/237. That's Ben in the straw hat and plaid shirt.) The day was an emotional one for me. Yes, I'm delighted to have a whole summer to spend with all three of my boys. But this milestone was a reminder for me of how quickly time passes. Sure, Ben's first day of kindergarten was a tearjerker, and I had the added benefit of fresh post-pregnancy hormones to spur along the sorrow of turning my firstborn over to the school system. This last day of school took on a whole different poignancy. How is it that I have an almost-7-year-old sleeping in the bed down the hall from me? It doesn't seem possible. Ben has morphed into a considerate, intelligent, creative kid. It is a privilege to watch him grow.

Now it seems that Ben's little brothers are hot on his heels. In this house, it seems that we're always on the verge of some milestone. Paulie will start preschool in the fall. Gus is almost walking and will turn 1 in less than two months. My baby! I guess my only choice is to sit back and enjoy the ride. And cry at the appropriate times. Sniffle.

Best friends

When my brother, Mike, and his wife, Kelly, found out they were expecting a boy, the fifth grandson in our family, the trend became undeniable. Those XY chromosomes run strong in these genes. At this point, it seems like a miracle that my mom ended up with even one girl. When we found out with Gus that we were having a third boy, I was pretty excited. With his cousin, Kelan, just nine months older, I anticipated that the two could become lifelong friends. Now it looks like that is coming to fruition. Of late, Gus definitely has become enamored of his cousin, attempting to copy Kelan's every action. Just look at these photos.












And speaking of best friends, these two are pretty tight, too - that is when they're not driving each other nuts.

Take 31

In our ongoing journey to find discipline that works with our kids, Mark and I once took a class called 1-2-3 Magic. The idea is that when your child is misbehaving, you give him three chances to stop. (That's a 1, that's a 2, that's a 3 - take 3.) The child would then take a three-minute timeout. We always thought it made sense for our kids to sit out one minute for each year of age, so Ben would get six minutes, Paul three.

Not for the first time, I got to thinking how great it would be if I could take 31 (OK, so it would be almost 32 - there would be a reason to appreciate getting older!). I just read somewhere that you shouldn't discipline your kids when you're angry - you'll end up saying things you don't mean and making threats you have no intention of keeping. I think this is great advice. Makes perfect sense. But the calming down part would be so much easier if I could go to my room and take 31. Too bad at this stage in my life, it's an impossibility. Taking a timeout while caring for a 3-year-old and 9-month-old is out of the question.

Oh, but how I could have used a take 31 today. We're having a tough time with Paul's sleeping habits. He usually doesn't take naps anymore. However, on a typical day he's likely to catch a catnap in the car or on a stroller walk. Yesterday he fell asleep on the 10-minute drive to Target early in the afternoon, and when we got home from Ben's baseball game around 6 p.m., he was so sleepy, I could barely rouse him to eat supper. This, of course, was enough to mess with his going to bed for the night. He was in and out of bed, completely restless. He finally succumbed around 8:30. Of course, this morning he was up bright and early at 6 a.m. Clearly, nine and a half hours is not enough sleep for a 3-year-old.

So, today I put my foot down. I told him he needed to take a nap. He was going to do it, and he was going to do it on my terms. This nap would be early enough and just the right length so as not to interfere with bedtime. After lunch, I told him it was time. He was having none of it. He acted silly, he got up, he lay there and kicked the wall. Me? I tried everything. Rubbing his back and trying to help him to sleep eventually gave way to anger, resentment and threats. He would lose treats and cartoons if he didn't go to sleep. I would take away his guys. It didn't take long for those threats to rear their ugly heads. Finally, I had to come to grips with the fact that I had lost the battle. He laid in his bed quietly for 30 minutes but never slept. That was the best I was going to get. Score another one for the kids.

If only I could have taken 31, maybe at least I would have been able to save myself from the shame of those empty threats.

He's from Bah-ston

When my niece, Nora, was about Paul's age, my brother- and sister-in-law used to joke that she was from Boston because of the Northeastern-sounding accent she affected at the time. One day, Steve and Sara got a postcard from Boston, and Nora said, "Hey, that's where I'm from!" It must run in the family, because Paul's developed the Bah-ston-speak too.

As someone who had a speech impediment well into middle school and who hated to be made fun of for it, I shouldn't tease. But since Paul's only 3 and I fully expect him to outgrow this, I figure I can joke a little. Besides, I truly think it's chah-ming. The other day, he said, "Mommy where's my Stah Wahs chaht?" "Your Star Wars shirt?" I said, thinking he was asking about the t-shirt he would wear every day if I let him. "No!" he said, frustrated. "My Stah Wahs chaht!" Hmmm ... what was he getting at? "Oh! You mean your Star Wars chart?" I said. "Yes!" (He was looking for the behavior reward chart I had created for him. He's trying to earn a light saber.) Unlucky for him, chaht and shaht sound very similar, you see.

Now if you'll excuse Paul, he's going to pahk the cah in Hah-vahd Yahd.

Springtime fun

Blog, how I've missed ye

As a parent, I expect to face challenges and the little stresses daily life brings as I rear my three boys. But the past month has been hard. I mean hard, hard. It started normally enough about four weeks ago. Ben got strep. That, unfortunately, is not a rare occasion in this household. A couple days off of school, and Ben was much better. No big deal. A few days later, Paul fell ill. I knew bringing him in to have a throat culture would be no picnic. Paul absolutely hates having his throat swabbed. "Don't worry, I'll be quick," the technician said. Paul was having none of it. Tears, kicking and screaming, a steadfast refusal to open his mouth. I laid him down on the examining table and tried to pry his mouth open. As the tech tried to work the tongue depressor in, Paul bit down on it, hard. "Come on, I don't want me to have to plug your nose," the getting-a-little-frustrated tech said. (Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. Traumatize him for life!) Finally, the tech managed get the swab past his protestations. The test came back faintly positive. That sounded about right, I thought. Probably not the best sample ever taken ...


Still, doctor's office shenanigans aside, not a terrible experience overall. Until Gus got sick. He had been nursing cold symptoms for almost three weeks - lots of snot, but nothing serious. Then in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, Mark noticed he was a little feverish. I thought ear infection, and off Mark and Gus went to the weekend clinic. No ear infection, the doctor said, but Gus definitely had something. She just wasn't sure what. The possibilities, she thought, were strep, a bladder infection/UTI or pneumonia without a cough. She said she could run a blood test but recommended that we take a wait-and-see approach. Because Paul had had a UTI when he was a baby and Gus wasn't doing well, I wanted to do the blood test. Off we went to the hospital. The doctor said the blood work indicated that his infection was bacterial rather than viral and recommended we take Gus to the ER. We made our second sojourn to the hospital for what was sure to be an unpleasant experience. To make a long story short, the doctor, an arrogant fellow, was certain that Gus's problems were respiratory. I knew he probably was right, but it would have been nice if he had at least listened to our concerns. We took Gus for a chest x-ray. I'm sure the experience was terrifying for him. The x-ray showed "an arguable small spot of pneumonia." The doctor sent us off with a prescription for amoxicillin and me with an uncertain feeling. When you hear that your infant's blood work is not normal, you want to be sure that you have found the source of the problem. I was not at all confident.

The next day, things had gotten worse. Gus was spiking 104 and 105 fevers and was completely miserable. We brought him back to the doctor. His oxygen levels were lower than she was comfortable with, so she sent us to Children's Hospital. There, he received IV antibiotics, another chest x-ray and a new prescription. The pediatrician at Children's informed us that my friend the ER doctor's recommended dose was too low by half if Gus did indeed have pneumonia. If anything, the next few days were worse. On top of Gus's illness, he had thrush and a yeast infection, ahem, down below. I'm sure he was feeling assaulted from every angle. He'd had it with medicine (antibiotics, fever reducers, disgusting goo for the thrush) and rectal temperature takings. He was spitting his amoxicillin back in our faces and screaming at every diaper change. Of course, antibiotics cause diarrhea and make you more prone to yeast infections, so he was pooping like a newborn, and his yeast problem was only getting worse. This resulted in the worst diaper rash I've ever seen. And I've seen some bad ones. My house was a war zone decorated with detritus of illness. All around were clothes soiled with baby poo and amoxicillin from medication-delivery battles.

Finally, things began to improve. We were coming to the end of Gus's antibiotic regimen, and he was taking his meds much better. I had finally breathed a sigh of relief. Then the day before Easter, Ben felt sick. He was running a fever. Shortly thereafter, Paul spiked his own fever. I had so been looking forward to a fun Easter, but it looked increasingly like Ben and Paul would be sick. Indeed, that was the case. Monday, we brought them to the doctor. Ben: a double ear infection. Paul: strep. Again.

Today is Paul's last day of antibiotics. Pray with me that my refrigerator will be free of the dreaded pink stuff for a long, long time. And maybe I'll be able to get back to doing my beloved blogging more than once a month!

Hair's the thing

I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday looking for the hair of a Lego guy - actually a Lego gal. Willie, aka the Screaming Girl, is Paul's latest favorite toy. I'm not really sure if her name is really Willie or if that's something Paul conjured. She is a Lego figure with two faces - one happy and one screaming in fright. Willie, part of an Indiana Jones Lego set, sports a platinum-blond hairdo that you can rotate to reveal the face of your choosing. The problem: her hair is prone to popping off or being removed and then lost. Further complicating matters is the fact that Paul likes to bring her everywhere he goes. In his few short days of owning her, we have already had many close calls of losing the hair forever.

That brings me to yesterday. Paulie had brought Willie on a walk with us. I brought Paul in the house and had seen Willie's hair on the kitchen floor. I made a mental note to pick it up. I told Paul not to leave his sunglasses on the floor. I put said sunglasses in his room. I ran out to retrieve Gus. Paul told me Willie's hair was missing. These are the facts of the case.

I must have retraced my steps three or four times. It was driving me crazy. I had just seen the hair. I literally crawled around on the kitchen floor looking for it. There it is! I thought once. But alas, it was only a nugget of Kix. I retraced my steps. Had I had a mommy moment and somehow dropped it in the refrigerator when I went to get the one daily Diet Coke I allow myself to get through the long afternoon? I wouldn't put it past myself. No, not there. Not in either bathroom. Not in the wagon or on the driveway. I checked all these places, though I was sure I had seen it on the kitchen floor. I pictured myself breaking the news to Paul in a sober tone, detective-style: "I'm sorry, son. However, statistics show that the longer the hair's been missing, the less likely you are to find it."

Then a break in the case, or so I thought: I found on the living room floor Willie's tiny tiara. Surely the tiara must be close to the hair! No, Paul said he had removed the tiara. I had all but given up hope. Would the Lego company send me a replacement set of hair? I didn't think so. Dejectedly, I went to change Gus's diaper. That's when I saw it. Willie's 'do was sitting next to Paul's sunglasses. It was a mommy moment after all.

Happiness is restored in my household once again. Until the next time we lose the hair. Yes, it's a strange, strange world I inhabit.

A peek into Ben's world

I've often wished I could be a fly on a wall in Ben's classroom, able to observe what he's like in his little corner of the world. Yesterday morning Mark and I got that chance. Ben's kindergarten class hosted a parents' day. With parents and grandparents lined up in chairs on the perimeter of the room, it wasn't an authentic fly-on-the-wall experience. Nevertheless, Mark and I had a great time watching Ben in his element.

The purpose of the day was to show the parents the literacy program the class follows. It's called the Daily 5, and it works to facilitate independent reading through activities like read to self, read to others, guided reading, and writing work. The class started with the daily news. Ben was selected to be the author. The author for the day writes a sentence - anything that interests him or her. Mark and I watched with delight as Ben began. "I like to play Wii with my dad," he wrote. "Oh, no," Mark whispered. "Now everyone's going to think that's all I do with him." No worries, Dad. Among our many mistakes, we must be doing something right, because Ben's sentence looked perfect - all the words spelled right and clearly, and good "finger spacing" to boot!

I often fret about Ben's little tics. He chews on the neck and sleeves of his shirt, he often can't sit still, and we remind him, "Hands!" about 20 times a day when we catch him with his hands someplace they shouldn't be. A veteran elementary school teacher, my mom has assured me all of this is normal. I was relieved to learn yesterday that she was right. Five- and 6-year-olds have startlingly similar mannerisms. They all danced around and seemed to have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves. It's an unusual experience having to sit silently and leaving the discipline to someone else. "Ben, stop bothering that boy!" I found myself wanting to say.

Too soon, it was time to go. Before leaving, the parents and kids enjoyed some refreshments. I giggled as I watched the kids pile their plates high with five or six treat selections, and I relished this little time I was able to spend with my son who is both ordinary and extraordinary. I am a lucky mama indeed.

Indy, the Screaming Girl and Baby Jock

Paulie is really into the kind of play that I think is just great for kids - role-playing, imaginative play. He moves quickly from one obsession to the next, but it's always the same kind of deal. He loves to create dialogue and adventures for whoever is the guy du jour. Lately he's been really into Batman, Spider-Man, Legos, Indiana Jones and Star Wars. Ben got Lego Indiana Jones for the Wii, and Paul loves to watch him play. Paulie tries to recruit Ben into his kind of play: "Ben, you can be Indy and I'll be the Screaming Go-el!" The Screaming Girl, or "go-el" as Paul pronounces it, is a character in Lego Indiana Jones who screams whenever you press a certain button. Ben has never been much into Paul's type of play. He's always been a more structured kind of guy: games, sports, video games. I'm hoping that when Gus gets bigger he will become a playmate in Paul's adventures. Paul's working on getting him on his side already. He's taken to calling Gus "Baby Jock." Jock is another Indiana Jones character.

As a girl, my best friend and I used to play Barbies for probably eight hours a day, so I'm delighted to watch Paul play in his pretend universe. I don't care if he's calling himself the Screaming Go-el, or even Princess Leia ("Are you sure about that?" Mark asked him. "Yup!" said Paul.), as he's been doing lately, as long as he keeps using that imagination.

The terrible threes

I know everyone refers to the terrible twos, but for my kids I never thought 2 was that bad of an age. Now 3, that's a hard age. Take Paul - for a few hours, please. Bah-dum-bump. Seriously, this kid challenges me daily. Ben was a tough 3, too, but Paulie frays my nerves in a different way. Last week he came out of the bathroom and said, "Mommy, I like cough drops." I should have known to move them to higher ground after he had curiously watched me pop a lozenge into my mouth the week before. How many had he eaten? Just one, thank God. Now, Ben wouldn't have done that. He would have whined and badgered me to let him try one, but I don't think he would have just taken one. Of course this goes along with Paul's personality, and I should have known better. After all, he is the child who delights in being naughty, who learned to climb practically before he walked and who painted our basement walls.

Before I tried my hand at raising 3-year-olds, I didn't think it would be that bad. They're a little older, can talk fairly well and therefore I can reason with them, I thought. I neglected to factor in the boundary-pushing and defiant streak. When Paul was younger, I began strapping him into his booster seat for timeouts so he wouldn't be able to get up. When he turned 3, I decided he needed to learn to sit on his own without getting up. Guess what? He won't do it. We had a showdown Sunday night in which he refused to sit. Therefore, a favorite toy had to take timeout in addition to him finishing his own timeout. I shouldn't be surprised that the next day I caught him pushing a chair to the refrigerator in a valiant attempt to free Batman.

Thank goodness my sweet little boy still emerges fairly often too. Just nine and a half months until the terrible threes are over.

And the worrying award goes to ... me!

I learned in the wee hours of Saturday morning that 4 a.m. is not my best decision-making time. Paulie had been diagnosed with an ear infection Monday of that week. The doctor put him on antibiotics, but rather than getting better, he got worse. He developed a deep, barking chest cough and by Friday night he had spiked a fever for the first time that week. Before bed, Mark called the on-call service and talked to a doctor. He recommended we make an appointment at the Saturday clinic and if Paul's breathing became labored we needed bring him to the ER. (By the way, the Saturday clinic is a favorite weekend destination for the Thiel family!)

Paul slept fitfully that night. By 4 a.m. he was thrashing about uncomfortably in our bed. He was running a fever, having coughing fits and acting a bit delirious. Now, I know that kids run higher fevers than adults. Nevertheless, it's always unnerving to me. Even when I'm at my level best, my mind can conjure some truly fantastical worst-case scenarios. But at 4 a.m. after being awakened for the usual Gus feedings and then to take care of Paul, my mind was churning out some doozies. What if he has some kind of serious infection? I thought. I kept coming back to this book I had read a review of about a mom whose daughter is healthy one day and dies of a strep infection the next.

Mark, of course, was up too. Thankfully, he's more level-headed than me. Yet we were struggling to make a decision about taking Paul to the ER. He didn't seem to be having trouble breathing, but he was in sorry shape overall. His appointment at the clinic was just four hours away. But that four hours seemed like an eternity. I fretted and watch the minutes tick by until 4:45. "Take him," I told Mark. "Wait, maybe not." Blessedly, sleep overtook me at 5 a.m. and the decision was made for me.

Mark took Paulie to the clinic at 8:15. The doctor thought he detected a small spot of pneumonia on Paul's chest x-ray, so he upped his antibiotics. Waiting had turned out to be the right decision. I'd like to think I learned something from this, but I'll probably react the same way next time. I didn't win the worrying award for nothing. By the way, Paul's cough remains, but he is getting better.

It's a date

I went on a date yesterday afternoon, though it wasn't with my husband. Mark didn't seem to mind, though. My date was a cute 6-year-old who talked my ear off about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. That's right, Ben was my date. Mark and I had been meaning to set aside alone time with the older boys for quite a while now, and we finally got around to it.

While I took Ben out to lunch at Atlanta Bread Company and then to a movie, Paulie and Mark went to lunch and then to Monkey Joe's. The one-on-one time was great. Since Gus's arrival, the time I have been able to spend bonding with Ben has dwindled. He's the oldest, and we expect a lot of him (maybe too much?). So while Mark or I still snuggle with Paul and Gus at bedtime, Ben doesn't get as much of that as he might like. Ordinarily it's difficult to give 100 percent of my attention to Ben at any given time, so it was nice to have a couple hours in which I could just listen to what he had to say.

After lunch, we headed to the theater to take in "Hotel for Dogs." If Mark were my date, I probably would have chosen a chick flick, but I decided to let Ben choose. I recommend the movie for you and your 6-year-old date. Ben and I sat in of those seats made for two, and I even snuck in a little snuggle time during the scarier parts.

Next up is my date with Paulie. I can only imagine where he'll take me.

Slow down, you grow too fast

If you ever need a reminder about how swiftly time passes (though who really does?), consider inviting a baby into your life. Five months ago I had just re-entered the chaotic time that is mothering a brand-new baby. Now here I am wondering how five months passed so quickly. A friend of mine who is also a mother to three boys warned me about this. "Just watch," she said. "When you get to your last child, every milestone will make you cry." Now that we're on what probably will be our last child, my friend's words are proving true.

Do young mothers ever listen to the words of experienced mothers? I don't know how many moms with older kids have told me to enjoy this time because it passes too quickly. Yeah, yeah, I usually think. I think it's just a fact that when you're in the middle of it, it feels never-ending. By the time you think, "Hey, those moms were right," it's probably too late. I've already experienced this first-hand. Exactly how is Ben old enough to be in kindergarten?

So here I am having one of those moments. Gus is now five months old. He's laughing, babbling and rolling over with ease. "Mark, it's going too quickly," I lamented the other night. His first four months were tough. He was extremely fussy, and I often found myself wishing he were older (read: easier). Now I'm already experiencing pangs of regret for wishing away the days of his cuddly newborn-hood. It's as if the universe is saying, "Ha! You wished it, now you've got it."

Of course, some milestones are met with pure joy. I'm delighted to report that Paulie is now almost completely potty-trained. Good riddance, expensive Pull-ups!

My hope is that whether happy, sad or bittersweet, I will slow down and enjoy all my kids' milestones.