How do you spell what?

17 Jan 2013 1 Comment

by Natalie in Parenting Battles, What's a mom to do? Tags: , , , , ,

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I am living in a never-ending spelling bee.

My four year-old son’s new obsession with letters, their sounds and word creation has catapulted all of us into an eternal how-do-you-spell _____________? game.

Sadly, I am slowly going insane.

The questions never cease. I can’t go an hour without him asking me how to spell something at least three times.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I were spelling three-letter, one-syllable words for him.

But it’s not just simple words. It’s not even just one word. Sometimes he asks me to spell complex sentences like, “I like playing with my Furby,” or “Luca is my favorite brother.”

It doesn’t stop at wanting to spell. He’s eager to read too. What does __ __ __ __ say? Is quickly becoming his second favorite phrase.

He’s noticing writing on everything – street signs, cereal boxes, clothing tags, you name it. He wants to know what the whole world is saying.

And deep down I am thrilled.

Luckily the spelling/reading is not falling on deaf ears. He’s soaking it all in like a sponge. He’s also regurgitating 90 percent of it back in verbal or written form.

He’s always toting a notebook and pen, ready and anxious to jot something down.
From hate notes to bad guys, to sentences about Spider-Man, he’s on a writing spree.

And although I am thrilled, sometimes I lose my patience. My brain is tired from spelling the title of every piece of furniture in our home, every type of food in our refrigerator and every character on my son’s favorite television shows. Twice.

But I have devised a plan. Now that he recognizes the alphabet, all 26 letter sounds and how to write each letter, I am going to teach him to spell. Then I’m going to teach him to read.

He can already write, “I love you,” as well as all of our family member’s first names. At Christmas time he learned that S-A-N-T-A spelled Santa and every paper I owned was tagged with the jolly man’s name.

He’s interested, he’s excited and he’s ready.

I figure teaching him is the only way I am going to end this real-life endless spelling bee.

Wish me L-U-C-K.

Tenderhearted Jerks

27 Dec 2012 Leave a comment

by Natalie in Parenting Battles, What's a mom to do?

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I am living with a couple of tenderhearted jerks.

Each and every day my two older boys beat up on each other. And each and every day it brings them to tears. Not because they get hurt, but because they can’t believe they have been so mean to their sibling.

“I feel like such a jerk,” “I think I am being so mean,” and “I am bad,” are just a few of my favorite phrases to come out of one of their sobbing mouths recently.

I don’t know where this is coming from.

Don’t get me wrong, I get after them when they pinch, kick and annoy the crap out of their brother. But it shocks me that they end up feeling so sorry for what they have done that they can’t stop crying and I have to send them to their beds where they continue to cry into their pillows until they can calm down.

It’s weird. Yet it’s sweet.

A month ago I took my baby in for his 4-month-old check-up and immunizations. I left my boys in a room with my mom while I went to get the nurse to fill out his immunization record. When I got back, my two oldest boys were bawling.

They kept saying, “I’m so sorry,” while hugging their baby brother. They hated that he had to get poked. He stopped crying long before they did and then stared at them curiously.

Last week my oldest son came to me apologizing profusely while tearing up because he “missed” the toilet and peed all over our bath rug. I don’t know what 6 year olds are normally like, but I would imagine some 6-year-old boys would have wadded up the rug, tossed it in the corner or flipped it over so that I wouldn’t have noticed.

Instead of getting after him for his poor aim, I ended up consoling him because he was so upset that he had done something wrong.

The other morning while I was riding my exercise bike (yes I was actually working out) my oldest accidentally head butted my baby. I ended up holding the poor little 18-pound guy while I rode the bike because he was crying.

But he wasn’t the only one.

My oldest sat there crying too. I didn’t even dare get mad at him for hurting his brother because he already felt so bad. Even though deep down I was super mad.

Recently while I was cooking dinner our baby was screaming and I couldn’t get to him until I put our food in the oven. My oldest kept coming into the kitchen asking me to help him cut out a paper snowflake.

I snapped at him and screamed that I couldn’t help him because I was busy.

Not only did I feel bad for not helping him make a simple snowflake, I felt miserable when I saw the apology note he handed to me after dinner.

“I am sorry that we got in a fite. I love you,” he had written in his cute first-grade penmanship.

Talk about tenderhearted. I could learn a lot from these kids.

I hope I am not the cause of their oversensitive emotions.

I want my boys to be kind, loving gentlemen. But I hope they don’t live in fear of me.

I don’t want them to grow up thinking they can’t ever make a mistake, or that they shouldn’t ever get upset.

And I definitely don’t want them to think they are “bad.” I tell them all the time that they are not.

I’m going to have to come up with a no-one-is-perfect pep talk to give to them during these pity parties.

Heaven knows I don’t want them to stop feeling sorry for antagonizing their siblings, but I don’t want them to feel as if they are going to be damned because of their actions.

And I definitely don’t want them to think they are jerks. Any 4 and 6 year-old who would cry harder than their brother did over his shots, or write an “I’m sorry” letter all on their own after their mother just yelled at them, could never be a jerk.

Gingerbread Trap

13 Dec 2012 4 Comments

by Natalie in Cooking/Attempting to Cook, Failed Housewife, What's a mom to do? Tags: , , ,

 

I am never making another gingerbread man. Ever. gingerbread-man-hi

I tried to do something nice and fun with my kids and it backfired.

Apparently I promised my oldest son that I would make gingerbread cookies with him Saturday night. The same night my husband was gone to a church meeting, my boys were going to a basketball game and I had to speak at a local event.

Somehow that promise had slipped my mind. So I found myself trying to whip up some last-minute cookies to keep him from flipping.

First of all, let me say that the ingredient list for gingerbread cookies is not for the amateur chef. I’d like to know who has molasses, ginger and cloves readily on hand.

Let’s just say that I don’t.

My neighbor doesn’t either. But she had something even better. A Betty Crocker gingerbread cookie mix.

One egg and ¼ cup water later and we were ready to roll. We threw several “men” into the oven and they were finished just as we were ready to leave for the night.

My boys didn’t get home until late and went straight to bed. Magically, in the middle of the night, two of the gingerbread boys disappeared.

The next morning I thought they would be thrilled that their creations had come to life, but my 6-year-old was far from thrilled. He was horrified.

First of all he was mad at me that I let the gingerbread escape. As if I had any control over it. He wanted to run the streets of Roy searching for him.

Secondly he was even more upset that part of his gingerbread (he thinks a leg, I think a head) had fallen off when the little guy “hopped” away. Somehow part of him was lying next to the pile of crumbs on the cookie sheet.

How part of that gingerbread boy got left behind, and how he could run away without his “leg” or “head,” I will never know.  Oops!

My oldest spent all of Sunday afternoon searching for footprints in our yard and building a trap to catch the remainder of the gingerbreads – A trap that required string, tape, fabric, etc. – A trap that tied to my oven and left a big mess in my kitchen – A trap that I made him take down.

I tried to convince him that the gingerbreads that were going to escape had already escaped.

We compromised. Now I have a pyrex glass container filled with gingerbread men sitting on my stove, covered with two bandanas tied extra tight.

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I tell you, you try to do something fun with your kids and it backfires. My son couldn’t be excited that we made magical dough. He had to turn into a gingerbread hunting, killing machine.

It turns out, we don’t even like gingerbread cookies at our house. I don’t know how long those little men will sit trapped on my stovetop.

The only reason my oldest wanted to make the stinking things was to see if they would escape. Go figure.

Grownups Come Back???

06 Dec 2012 19 Comments

by Natalie in Parenting Battles, What's a mom to do?

life-lessons-finalHas anyone seen the new kid on the PBS block, Daniel Tiger?

He’s the cute little brown-and-orange striped tiger that took over for the late Fred Rogers on the hit PBS show Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.

Now it’s called Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood and overall I really like the show. My four-year-old has watched it a few times and he likes it too.

But recently I really didn’t agree with one of the episodes.

At the beginning of the show, Daniel’s parents were heading out on a date for the night and he was nervous to be at home with a babysitter. So, the tiger couple talked to their son and told him that grownups always come back.

They even sang a catchy little tune with the lyrics: “Grownups come back.” And sure enough at the end of their date, when Daniel was in bed almost asleep, his parents came back and tucked him in.

Then later in the episode Daniel’s father was taking him to preschool. Daniel was nervous about being dropped off at school and wanted to stay with his dad. His dad broke into song, reminding his son that, “Grownups come back.”

I couldn’t help thinking, what if a grownup doesn’t come back?

My children have all had serious problems with separation anxiety, and I have had to get creative on how I help them cope with their feelings, but I don’t think I would ever sing them a song about grownups always coming back.

Maybe I’m a pessimist, but what if things don’t go according to planned and a grownup doesn’t come back?

Now I’m not saying that it happens very often, but what if you tell your child that grownups always come back and then there is a car accident or medical emergency that makes it so that a grownup can’t come back. Or worse, what if, a grownup simply chooses not to come back?

Or, on a less serious note, what if you tell your child you will always come back and then get stuck in the grocery check-out line, or hung up at a doctor’s appointment? Maybe you want to come back to pick them up, but are delayed.

What if you have promised your kid you will be there but end up having to send grandma, or the neighbor to pick them up instead?

I remember when I was pregnant with my fourth baby, having lost my third at 37 weeks gestation, my oldest son kept asking me if we were going to get to take our new baby home this time. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him yes. What if I told him that everything was going to be all right with this baby, and then it wasn’t?

I guess my past experiences have made me wary about making promises I don’t know if I can keep.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe it’s cute that Daniel’s parents crafted a little jingle to help their son deal with a stressful situation.

But I still don’t think I’ll use the “grownups come back” phrase with my own children. I think it’s an exaggerated blanket statement that could occasionally lead to more stress or heartache.

Here’s The Skinny

29 Nov 2012 4 Comments

by Natalie in What's a mom to do?

OK. I give in. I am going to have to start working out for the first time in my life. I thought my body would magically shrink back to its pre-four-kids stage, but sadly, it has not.

My ballooning buns, thighs and middle have been stretched to near bursting four separate times. I’m ready to slap them back into shape. Or at least close to into shape.

I’m not saying I want to fit into my college sized-0 jeans, but I would like to not bulge out of my pre pregnancy pants. And I’d like to feel good about myself.

Now the questions are: What am I going to do, and when?

I want to work out in peace – not while my kids nag me to death or beat the crap out of each other. I imagine it will take all my strength to simply inhale and exhale as I start my body-shaping quest.

I can’t worry about screaming at my kids when all I can do is focus on breathing.

I am definitely not a morning person so I don’t know if I could regularly roll out of bed before my kids do to get the job done. And heaven knows I am usually exhausted by the time they go to bed. I don’t know if I would have enough steam to work out then.

I’ve been told by a number of friends that they actually feel more energized now that they are in a workout routine.

Is that true? Can I believe them?

True or not, I am going to have to take a risk.

I have an exercise bike in my basement topped with a thin layer of dust. Maybe I’ll start by wiping it off and hopping on.

But I’d love other suggestions.

I am scared to death to work out in a gym. I’m worried I’ll sign up and pay for a membership I’ll never use. I’m also worried that people will see my bright-pink sweaty workout face and wonder if I am going to have a heart attack.

Now I know that I am not huge. But I do have to admit that I secretly hoped each of my babies + my afterbirth = at least 25 pounds.

Seriously though, I’m less than 10 pounds away from my ideal weight. And being able to nurse my fourth little baby has definitely helped my middle shrink back sooner than it did after I had my third baby when I couldn’t nurse.

But I still don’t feel happy with myself. And I know I am not in shape.

I’m not saying I’m interested in running a half marathon alongside my husband, but I want to be able to chase my babies across an open field or hike beside them on a mountain trail without ending up with my head between my knees, on the verge of passing out.

This is going to challenging for me. I honestly would rather sit my butt on the couch than do any form of exercise. But like I said before, sitting on the couch isn’t working. I’ve got to quit wishing and dreaming and kick it into gear.

Diaper Drama

15 Nov 2012 12 Comments

by Natalie in Failed Housewife, What's a mom to do? Tags: , , ,

I am so sick of crappy diapers. And I’m referring to quality, not quantity. 

I can’t tell you how many times in the past week my 4-month-old has leaked through his padded diaper. I am getting sick of it.

When he was a newborn I used only the really nice Huggies and Pampers. But the past two times I have bought a store-brand box of diapers because, let’s be honest, they are half the price.

But the consequences have been dangerous. I never know when I am going to be somewhere and pooh will seep through his shirt.

It’s getting to the point where I might as well buy cloth diapers. I mean I have to rinse waste out his onesies anyway. I might as well strap a padded, cloth triangle to his tush.

I will admit that recently I threw a onesie away because I was not in the mood to scrub it out. I was shopping with him late at night when it happened and I am not ashamed to confess that I threw that soiled shirt into a Wal-Mart trashcan.

I know my other boys leaked through their diapers occasionally, but I don’t remember it being this bad. Maybe it’s because my youngest has several spare rolls around his middle, making the diaper difficult to cinch.

But I just bought a big box of the next size up and they are still leaking. And no matter how tight I get it, these cheap diapers always seem to have a slight gap in the back.

In my defense, I don’t wait to change him. If I know he needs to be changed I do it quickly – most of the time it is still too late.

I guess I might have to break down and buy name-brand diapers again. It’s either that or keep on cleaning up crap. I just wish decent diapers weren’t so stinking expensive.

O-Bomb-A

08 Nov 2012 3 Comments

by Natalie in What's a mom to do?

During the past week I have loved hearing my children tell me who to vote for in the presidential election. They had a lot easier time than I did deciding on a candidate. Apparently it was a lot more black and white for them.

One of my boys told me I needed to vote for Obama because he was more handsome than Romney.

The other said I shouldn’t vote for Romney because he looks like a moustache-less James Jonah Jameson. And since Jameson, the newspaper editor from the Spider-Man series, isn’t nice to the friendly neighborhood hero, Romney didn’t deserve my vote.

I was amazed that my little boys were not only aware of who the candidates were, they had an opinion – albeit superficial – on who they would vote for. And they weren’t the only ones.

On Tuesday morning, one of my friends told me her 4-year-old son said she couldn’t vote for Obama. When asked why, he said because O-bomb-a “throws bombs.”

Four years ago, that same friend’s 8-year-old daughter nearly stole a political yard sign from my front lawn because she supported an opposing candidate.

For my little boys, it all came down what the candidates looked like.

But rest assured, my presidential vote wasn’t cast based upon the physical appearance of the candidates. And although I laugh about why my children said I should vote for a particular person, I love that they were talking about the election.

I am sure my children have listened to my husband and me talk back and forth about politics and have soaked up pieces from our conversations.

They were very interested in what was going on and were devastated when I told them they couldn’t vote.

My four-year-old had been telling people for weeks that he was voting for Obama. Which is a dangerous thing to say while living in the bright-red republican state of Utah. But I guess a cute strawberry blonde preschooler can get away with it.

Although my friend volunteered to watch my children while I hit the poles, my oldest two boys wouldn’t stand for it. If they didn’t get to vote, they at least had to come with when I voted.

They literally ran into our polling location – a nearby church – excited and energetic about being part of the political process. My four and six year olds may not have a clue about the issues of the election, but they still wanted a right to choose.

They stood by my side while I cast my ballot then walked out of the church heads held high as they sported red circle “I Voted” stickers.

As a parent that made me proud.

Let’s just hope in 12 and 14 years, they feel the same way.

Sentimental About Skeletons

01 Nov 2012 3 Comments

by Natalie in Dealing with Death, What's a mom to do? Tags: , , , ,

Halloween – The dark and twisted time of year when blood and gore rules. When snakes, spiders and other creepy crawlies are considered festive holiday décor. When monsters, goblins, zombies and more stalk the streets in the name of fun.

I’ve never given much thought to haunted houses, walking dead or other traditional scary Halloween staples. Until last week when my 4-year-old started sobbing over a skeleton – a skeleton that reminded him of his deceased little brother.

I was making 3D paper coffins – cute black-and-green ones with big RIP letters on top. My second oldest son watched quietly with fascination as I used a machine to cut them out.

Then he started asking questions.
“What’s a coffin?” came first. I told him it was something that we use to bury dead people in.

He watched for a little while longer and helped me punch out the cuttings. Then I started cutting out the skeletons that I planned to put in the coffins. As we were punching those out he held one up and said, “Can we name this skeleton Luca?”

It caught me totally off guard that he wanted to name one of the skeletons after his baby brother who died two years ago.

How did he think of that? How did he make the connection between his brother and the 6-inch paper skeleton he held in his hand?

We decorated Luca’s headstone a couple of weeks ago for Halloween. After that my 4-year-old told me he wanted to see his brother. That he wanted us to get him out of his grave.

I tried to gently explain to him that his baby brother wouldn’t look like he used to. That he isn’t in his body anymore.

Maybe that’s where this skeleton thing came from.

No matter where it came from it made me sad. I told him that I didn’t want to name one of our paper skeletons after his brother; that I didn’t want to think of Luca as a skeleton.

And quite honestly I don’t. I hate to even think of my baby being in the ground. And as sick and twisted as it sounds, I have had thoughts of the state of his buried body before. Thoughts that I try to push from my mind the instant they arrive.

But kids are a lot more matter of fact. I am sure my 4-year-old has thought of his brother as a skeleton. He was innocently connecting his brother with the Halloween decoration we were making and wanted to name it the same.

When I told him no, he started sobbing. He kept saying, “I miss Luca,” over and over. It totally broke my heart.

It makes me sad to think that my children will grow up their whole lives looking at dead things differently than most children. When I was a kid, no one I knew had died. I was 17 years old before I first saw a close loved one pass away. My grandpa died my senior year of high school, and he was 90.

My sons have known someone who died since they were 3 and 1 years old.

Luckily, I have amazing pictures of our little Luca to remind us what he is really like. After my son was crying for his brother, I printed a small 3 by 5 inch portrait of Luca off for him from the computer. It’s his own personal copy now that he can carry around when he misses his little friend.

As for the skeletons, I finished my craft and stuffed the coffins with candy before giving them out as gifts.

I never thought I would feel sentimental about a skeleton, but I’ll never look at the bony skinny guys the same way again. Not even the smiling plastic glow-in-the-dark ones.

They’ll forever remind me of what they actually represent, former human lives.

Cardboard Cookies

25 Oct 2012 8 Comments

by Natalie in Cooking/Attempting to Cook, Failed Housewife, What's a mom to do? Tags: , ,

For years I have spent a lot of time and money on building up my long-term food storage.

No one ever told me I would never want to use it.

I’m not saying I won’t ever need to use it, I’m just saying that after my cookies tasted like cardboard last week, it’s doubtful I’ll ever crack open another can.

I had the thought recently that I needed to start rotating my stored-up food supply. I have cans of flour that I packaged at my church’s food storehouse that date back to 2006. Others I packaged at my home in 2010.

Instead of buying fresh flour from the store, I’ve been opening cans from my basement and using what I’ve stored. I noticed that my baked goods have been coming out flat. I’ve had to add extra flour to each recipe to compensate.

I can deal with collapsed cookies, but I just can’t stomach ones that taste just plain out nasty.

Each Halloween our family makes ghost sugar cookies with M&M eyes. Last week, those poor ghosts tasted ghastly. I knew was something was amuck when the dough tasted a little bitter. But my two oldest boys keep asking for more samples and reassured me it was delicious.

They must have no taste buds.

After rolling out more than 60 ghosts, baking and then frosting them, I let them sit for the night. The next day, before I took the cookies to a Halloween party, I finally tasted one.

YUCK! I told my husband I was going to trash them all and he let me. That’s when I knew they were bad.

Making sugar cookies is hard work. I nearly cried when I had to dump the 5-dozen ghosts into my outside trash bin.

I really think it was the old flour.

My church encourages its members to have a well-established food reserve to draw on in times of natural disaster or personal crisis. I’ve been trying to slowly grow our hoard. I can’t imagine not being able to feed my little family if we fall on hard times.

But I am going to have to do some research and try something else when it comes to flour storage.  I may end up purchasing a wheat grinder and canning wheat from now on. But who know what that type of diet will do to our tummies if we ever have to use it.

And who knows what I am going to do with the dozens of #10 metal cans filled with musty old flour lining the shelves in my basement.

It sickens me to think that I’m not going to want to cook with any of it. Not even in a disaster – or personal crisis.

Then again, maybe it won’t matter if I am starving. Maybe cardboard tastes loads better when your stomach is empty.

What’s in your long-term food supply? Have you had any success cooking from food storage?

Road Trip

18 Oct 2012 6 Comments

by Natalie in Don't ever take your kids..., Parenting Battles, What's a mom to do?

 

On Tuesday night I vowed to never step foot in my 2008 Honda Odyssey again. After riding all day for our family road trip, I didn’t ever want to sit in that minivan again.

And neither did my 3-month old.

We left last week for California, a trip that would take us 750 miles across the country and at least 11 hours each way.

Before we left, I spent $20 in the Target dollar section hoping to give my older boys something to do while riding. We didn’t make it 30 minutes before those cheap activities failed me.

Apparently you have to be able to open them for them to be fun, and my 6-year-old has yet to learn how to tear through plastic packaging. I got to listen to him whine from the back seat as he couldn’t open, only noisily crinkle the crap out of the wrapper.

At our first stop I opened everything I could see that he might have trouble with. Then I gave him a brief overview on how to operate our traveling DVD players.

The ride was much smoother after that.

My husband and I decided to break up the trip by stopping in St. George for the night and driving the rest of the way the next day. With how well the first day’s travels went I was optimistic about our second day. I was naive.

We left St. George bright and early, but didn’t even make it to Mesquite — about 40 miles — before my 3-month old was screaming. I hopped in the back to calm him down, but to no avail. He was MAD.

We pulled off at a barren exit while I fed him. When we all climbed back in the van, my 6-year-old announced that he needed to go to the bathroom. Luckily there was a potty 5 miles away, but then we all had to endure a can’t-you-go-when-it’s-more-convenient speech from my husband.

At that point I was so nervous about having to go before it was “convenient” again, I thought I better try while we were stopped. When I saw the line of four biker chicks waiting outside the Chevron lady’s room, I changed my mind and decided to hold it.

Bad idea. Our next stop was Barstow where we ate a pizza at a park. You can only imagine what the facilities were like there. I ended up squatting over a chrome commode because the nasty metal seat nearly frostbit my backside. It. Was. Gross.

Aside from a couple of smartphone Google-maps mishaps, one of which nearly led us up a rocky cliff in order to find Pizza Hut, we made it to our final destination without any more incident.

Note that I said without any more incident. That doesn’t mean we were free from any more outbursts from the youngest member of our party.

Poor little baby. I think a combination of things drove him to tears — strapped facing backwards, stranded by himself in the middle of the van, restricted to sitting in a tiny chair with a poopy backside, to mention a few.

But the trip back to Utah would be worse.

On the way home, we didn’t stop in St. George. We drove straight through each inch of those 750 miles. It was the longest drive of my life.

Before we even left California my husband made a dangerous suggestion.

“We could slide the middle seats in the van together,” he said. “That way when our baby gets hungry we wouldn’t even have to stop. You could just kind of lean over his car seat to feed him.”

Say what? I didn’t know if I should yell at him for thinking that was a good idea, or laugh at the absurdity of his proposition.

Luckily — for him — I laughed. Then he backed off of the idea like it was a joke. Sadly, I swear he was serious. To his utter disappointment, I sat up front with him and didn’t hunch over the car seat every three hours to nurse.

The drive from California to Las Vegas was actually pretty good. The baby fell asleep and we drove in peace. I finally got to dive into the new novel I bought for the trip.

But after Vegas I think we all had had enough. The two oldest kept punching and pinching in the back while yelling loud enough to keep their brother awake.

Once again I tried to calm the little one down by climbing into the middle and acting like a fool to entertain him, but it was all in vain. I finally climbed back to the front and tried not to let my heart break as he continued to cry. It was horrible staring at his screaming pinkish purple face knowing there literally was nothing I could do for him.

Despite his cries, we drove on.

To top the trip all off, as we were buckling up at our last pit stop, my husband spotted two baby mice frolicking by the entrance to the fast-food joint where we had just eaten. They were inches away from the door to the place where my meal was prepared – Where all of our meals were prepared. Yuck!

Our baby fell asleep while nursing during dinner, giving me a sense of hope. But I guess he has gotten really good at sensing his car-seat confinement. He was screaming mere minutes from our final take off.

Having already hopped in the back seat twice on the trip I figured it would do me no good. I waited an hour or so before I could take it no longer.

By the time we rounded the point of the mountain, I was dreaming of having a taxi-like partition between the front and rear seats of the van. I thought I was going to go crazy with the screaming.

I jumped into the middle of the van hoping that the third time would be the charm and that I could somehow make him stop. We rode the rest of the way with the interior light on as I jingled rattles and babbled like a bubbling idiot trying to entertain him on the last leg of our journey.

Miraculously it worked.

We were able to drive the last hour and a half of our trip in peace listening to the presidential debate while our two oldest boys watched probably their twelfth movie of the trip.

But an hour and a half of peace isn’t enough to forget the other hours of close-spaced stress.

We rolled into our driveway at 9 p.m. At least 12 hours from when we left. And that’s when I promised myself I would never get back into our silver van.

Unfortunately, that promise was short-lived. I had to climb into the driver’s seat less than 12 hours later to take my oldest to school.

So I may not be able to avoid driving around town, but you can be sure it will be a long time before I am ready for another all-day mini-van confinement.

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