Life After Kids: The Tale of a Clean House

    This post is not about what my children have done, well, at least not directly, but I wanted to share, so there you have it.
    Tonight, well, technically last night, you know, Thursday night, not right now, Friday morning... Anywho, last night I stayed up until midnight so I could get my girls signed up for tumbling tots at one of the local recreation centers. The only one in the county that has a tumbling tots program. The same one that the slot for 2 year olds fills up faster than a blink, so if I didn't stay up the class would be full before I got a chance to get on sometime in between nail polish fiascoes and syrup slip-n-slides. I had to do something leading up to that marathon of staying awake, that, mind you, I just got myself out of for the first time since Cassia was born. (Long story short, my husband deployed just before our first baby was born and I stayed up until 2 am to be able to talk to him most nights, so yeah, I didn't sleep much. Then, after our second was born he deployed again. For non-math majors, that means he got home, we got pregnant and he deployed 12 months later. I had never switched back from the previous deployment, so when he got home and, you guessed it, we got pregnant again, I didn't both switching back. I only mastered the 9-10pm bedtime in the last month.)
    Where was I? Oh yeah, doing something to keep myself awake. I started by taking the dog on a walk so I had energy to stay up. And once we were home I cleaned. I cleaned the bathroom.

 

 I cleaned the living room.

I cleaned the kitchen.

 

And when all the cleaning was done I sat and I reveled in the clean. (No need to clean the children's rooms, they're always clean.)
    Side note: Last night I got some estimates on how much it would be to get a maid in here once a month to do the stuff I just don't want to do, like dishes and laundry, the price of that spurred me to action to get some of it done.
     My house used to be clean. When we were first married and living in student housing at my university we won awards for how clean my house was. I loved cleaning and organizing. I had so much energy to do it, but not after kids. My house is never that clean anymore, much to my chagrin. Even now, as I write this, my house is not clean. I can see popcorn under the sofa and the entertainment cart and I know there is popcorn under the chair I'm sitting in. (All left over from last week's, "Let's watch a special movie and eat special popcorn so mama can get something done on the computer that she's been putting off for weeks," event. I know it was vacuumed up, but apparently a 14 year old's version of vacuuming and mine are different, but I don't care because it wouldn't have been done otherwise.
    So I sat, reveling in the clean and decided to catch up on a show, because it doesn't matter that my kids go to bed at 6pm, the two year old has to pee thirty times before bed so she doesn't have an accident at night and wake me up, and the four year old thinks bed time is the time to tell me every story in her head, so I never actually get to watch programs when they air. I closely watched the clock so I could get on as quickly as possible and get them signed up for their classes. 12:02 and we were all settled with classes, but I still didn't go to sleep. I reveled some more...and then I put on another episode.
    My house is "clean". Just don't go into my bedroom or the laundry room and the house is clean, but that's not a part of the house anyway, really, they are outer darkness where things go to die. It won't win any awards. It's nowhere near as clean as I would like it, but I can sit here and feel complete because my house is clean, my children are in bed (and haven't made a sound since 8pm. The baby has been asleep for 6 hours straight!) and that is a big accomplishment. A bigger accomplishment than I ever knew it would be after having kids. Enjoy the pictures. They're more for the next time I think, "I need a maid because my house will never be clean again. Ever!" So, the next time you're feeling like your place will never be clean, just remember, it can happen occasionally.

Syrup

      On February 25, I'm sitting in the brown reclining, nursing the baby while the kids eat. I look over and notice Camellia's not in her seat. "Camellia, what are you doing?" That's when it happened.
      "Camellia spilled!" Cassia reported.
      "Well, clean it up. Get the towels out and help her, please, Cassia."
      When Jewel Plant finished nursing I went in to help and the full scope of what had happened hit me. Camellia had not spilled water, as I had thought, but cooling syrup. Over the counter, down the dishwasher, splattered on the stove, and dripping in gooey puddles all over the floor.

      Sweeping before moping wasn't an option at this point, so we got down to business, which of course means taking off your clothes if you're two or four. (Maybe I shouldn't have let them take a "mopping bath" that one time to try and make mopping fun, but the damage is done, no going back.)
      Lesson number who-knows-what in The Children's Handbook states to make sticky messes by being independent as often as possible. I'm just grateful the syrup had cooled and hadn't caused burns on anyone and that the glass syrup container hadn't broken when she knocked it over on the tile counter tops. I really got luck, too, because not a single drop of syrup got on the lids I had put on the counter to reorganize after breakfast.

Mani-Pedis

     

       The sound of my husband's call, "Lela, come in here. Lela, come now, hurry!" was terrifying. He sounded panicked. Thoughts burst in my head of who was hurt and how. The sharp knives that had been on the counter were in the dishwasher, and it was still running, I could hear it, but did they get into the knife block?! I was half laying on the bed watching Jewel Plant as he woke up and was looking around. We had just gotten out of the shower. I chose showering over taking the dog on her walk and over food. I couldn't remember the last time I had a shower, but I smelled awful, so I changed my priorities today. Luckily I had already finished getting dressed, so I rushed out.
       The smell hit me like a ton of bricks. I had smelled it faintly as I got dressed, but I hadn't registered what the smell was. As my eyes found Camellia I learned that the sound in Sam's voice was not panic, but amusement being held back. Covered from head to toe in yellow nail polish. You see, yesterday we did mani-pedis, my attempt to give the girls some better one-on-one attention. They wanted me to do my nails too, so as the day went on I eventually got mine all done, except I wanted to finish my toes, so I left out my yellow polish and my topcoat.

       Sam looked down at Camellia and she looked up at him and in her most darling two year old voice said, "I paint my nails!" He lost it. He held his breath and turned around and let it rush out in a very poorly concealed laugh. Seeing his amusement sparked my own, and I too turned to try and hide my amusement. Then panic really set in. Where did this occur?!?! Do I need to scrub yellow out of the carpet? Where was the top coat? We set out to uncover the mystery. From everywhere we looked the carpet was spared from this yellow carnage, but how? I looked to the table and reclining chair I had been doing nails on and saw nothing.
       "The top coat is gone too, where's Cassia?" I had missed the sound until that point when it registered that Cassia was running water in the kitchen sink. Sam went to investigate.
       "The polish is under the table, and in front of the stove. I found your top coat, only it's just water now." She had filled it up. At least she hadn't dumped it out on the dishes first. Apparently she pays attention to when I make our foaming hand soap and thought that the same principle could be used with the nail polish.
       Sam then found the bottle of yellow nail polish, it too was covered in yellow. I haven't dared look at the dishes, but I'm sure they were spared from the havoc. If not, life goes on and dishes are easy to wash.
       I transferred the girls to the bathtub to try and loosen the polish and got the baby sitting in the Bumbo in the bathroom so he wouldn't be all alone. Sam left for work as I retrieved the cotton balls and acetone.
       Camellia removed herself from the bath and dried off and I got to work scrubbing her down with acetone soaked cotton balls. Face. Hair. Fingers. Arms. Thighs. Toes. Feet. Tummy. I found polish in places I didn't think it could go, but after 30 minutes she was finally cleaned off and back in the tub to get the acetone off of her body.

 

       By this point Jewel Plant was crying so I nursed him while Cassia dried herself off, all the while screaming, "It hurts, it hurts!" When I inquired as to what hurts she said that me using the cotton balls on her was going to hurt. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my four year old is a drama queen. She has been since birth.
       Mostly satisfied, I set Jewel Plant aside and got to work on removing the polish from Cassia, who immediately started laughing because the cotton balls tickled. She then bathed and then the two of them cleaned up the nail polish and we could finally have a sit down.
       "Why did you get nail polish?"
       "We wanted to paint our nails in our house." (Under the table is their "house" "in the game.")
       "If you'd asked, we could have painted nails again today."
       "We know."
       As I put Jewel Plant down for his nap my fear from the moment Sam called for me came true, almost. I walked into the kitchen to find the two year old with scissors and the four year old holding a bag of chocolates from Christmas chocolates, trying to cut it open. I declared, "Naps all around!" And put them in bed.
       And that is how we came to not go on a bike ride immediately after breakfast, like I'd promised the girls we would do.
       The Child's Handbook must state, somewhere around the chapter on being two, that they must get into make-up. I do believe it was around this same age that Cassia started getting into make-up. Not mine, I own nail polish, that's it, but other peoples. She was found in my sister's mother-in-law's room, under the bed, with a $20 tube of lipstick smeared all over the bottom of the bed. Though, I do know Cassia was the person to open the nail polish, Camellia hasn't figured out how to twist things off yet.

Potty Training Attempt #5,000 Results...

Drum roll please.... She did it! She's trained! Camellia is finally out of diapers and Pull-Ups and is taking herself potty! I mean, yeah, I still take her in every hour if she hasn't already taken herself, but her accidents are getting fewer and farther in between. There's only been two or three nights since we started this, two weeks ago, that she hasn't been dry at night. The days are harder for her to stay dry, but she's getting better. I'm so proud of my baby girl! She doesn't typically have poop accidents either, so it's a double win.

Potty training Cassia was a snap. It took 3 days of intense potty training and 2 weeks of steady training and she was done. It took a long time for the accidents to stop, and we had months of dry beds and a few months of wet beds, and then the cycle would start over, but we're finally out of that cycle (I hope). Now with Camellia's potty training experience, and adding my nannying potty training experience, I've learned the Child's Handbook must say, "Potty training, you've got two choices: make it difficult for your parents if you're an easy child, but if you're a difficult child, make it easy on them, they deserve a break.

Not so Unconditional Love

For the last couple of months Cassia has taken to using toilet paper as toy. She unrolls so much, then leaves it there, she uses lot for "my party" and then there are the times she's actually using it for its purpose and she has to have a perfect square or it's not good enough and she drops the ones she won't use on the floor. I'm desperate to stop her from wasting toilet paper, any ideas? My last one failed:

"Cassia, do you think it shows daddy you love him when you waste toilet paper?"
"I don't always love daddy," she said seriously, so of course my response was a very poorly concealed laugh of, "What do you mean, "you don't always love daddy"?"
"I don't love daddy when he's at work."
"Oh, you don't?"
"No, I only love daddy when he's here."
"Daddy has to work. If he didn't work we wouldn't live in a house, or have toilet paper, or food, or a car. We'd have nowhere to live, and be so hungry we would die."
"I want to have a house, and food, and clothes, but beautiful clothes, not hand-me-downs from my friends and cousins, and I want daddy to be here all the time because I don't love him when he's at work."

Apparently the child's handbook doesn't come with instructions on unconditional love, it's something that they just have to learn on their own. Darn.