Rant on Wednesday

A long time ago, there was a little rhyme that told you the days of the week and the chore (or chores) to be accomplished on that day.  I think it went something like, "Bake on Monday, mend on Tuesday, wash on Wednesday"...and of course I can't remember the rest.  After this past week, however, I am certain that ranting went right along with the washing.  It would take some serious motivation (or frustration) to wash all the clothes on an old scrub board, and let me tell you, I have it right now.  Maybe that's why I bake so much and still haven't gotten a mixer-I take it all out in the mixing and kneading.
So what am I all worked up about?  Here's the list:
I took the boys to the store with me to finish getting Halloween things and look at present ideas for Nadia.  They were pretty excited to come with me, until it was time to look for stuff for Miss N.  Brandon asked why couldn't we just get her a card and be done, because there were toys for boys to look at the next aisle over.  I almost told him that it was a great idea, and we'd do it for him, too, but he'd already had one meltdown in the store.
What was that from?  From me telling him I wasn't buying Caleb a Star Wars Clone costume for $20.  He was a little upset, and then decided that maybe it was okay if Caleb went as an elephant or pea pod instead.  Umm, no, those were all still $15 to $20, and why am I spending that on something Caleb will wear for MAYBE 3 hours one evening?  He has a pair of overalls, and pair that with a good plaid shirt and one of the dress up hats, we have a cute little farmer.  Apparently, this wasn't good enough, and thus was born the first meltdown.
Not to leave anyone out, I must confess that I also had a meltdown when I realized how much we were spending on Halloween.  Who knew that an angel, 2 ninjas and a farmer would be so spendy?  And time consuming?  Or am I just being the Grinch of Halloween since we just finished off paying the children's dental bill?
That of course left Ben being the only mature one of the group that evening.  So now I will tattle on him.  What is the deal with 3 year olds cuddling up to you when they are sick?  And then whispering in your ear, "My mouth is hot," just before the tidal wave bursts the dam?  Huh?  What did we ever do to you (besides the whole potty training debacle) to deserve that?  And why do they always always ALWAYS eat or drink something red right before they spew?  Fortunately, this time it was Cliff and not me.  Hey, I call it like I see it, babe, and I still had to clean up the whole mess, so we're at least even on this one.
Family Home Evening this week was a painful experience as well.  I thought we would talk about Moses freeing the Isrealites, and how when we do what the prophet says, we stay safe.  Unfortunately, I went way too far in the background story, and they lost attention until the Angel of Death came around.  Then we got all kinds of questions.
"So the blood was on the door or on the door frame?  'Cause that would be confusing if it was on the door."
"Does Jesus kill us if we don't obey?"
"Is there a real Angel of Death?  Does he still look around doors?"
"But if it's night, how does the Angel know if there's blood or not?"
I kid you not, these were all questions asked and then answered.  But not by me, because at that point, I was just trying to wrap it up and not kill any one after being either interrupted or ignored the entire lesson.  I will not stray from the Gospel Art Kit lesson again.
Well, I just heard the timer.  Time to take another loaf out and punch, er I mean put another loaf in the oven...

M is for Masochism

As the mother of 4 children, I am asked the following question:  "Why?"  I know, that surprises some of you, but people do ask me why I have 4 children, and if they are truly brave, cringe as they ask the follow-up, "Will you have more?" 
There is just one answer to both questions:  I am a masochist.  It is the reason I became a mother in the first place.  Why else would I purposely decide to go through at least 10 years of short hair and write "Not Tissue"  on the lower half of all my pants?
I have joined a preschool group.  Or more accurately, I have volunteered to help teach 5 smiling terrors once a month, with a 3 week reprieve between torture sessions.  Now, those of you who have not fallen off your chairs laughing at this are probably wondering what the big deal is.  Well, it's pretty simple: I am not a teacher.  I am an excellent enforcer, as my children will all tell you, but I am still learning how to teach.  Except for the whole slow neck roll with lots of cracking noises, I could probably teach that, but once again, that's because I am an enforcer. 
Monday was my first teaching experience.  We did F is for Fire Fighter.  I was going with F is for Fish or Frog at first, but couldn't find enough stuff for younger children.  The boys came over at 10, and were slated to leave at 11:30.  I was trying to not get too nervous and convince myself it would be like educational babysitting, and that it would go by in a flash.
At 11:45, all the boys were out the door, and it was safe for me to curl up in a ball and cry.  In a different room than Ben of course, because he had a great time.  We played Smoke, Smoke, Fire (Duck, Duck, Goose), read books about fire fighters and fire safety, and watched a video about a fire fighter and his equipment. At the end, the boys got fire fighter badges and free time to just play.
Sounds like a pretty normal, somewhat educational preschool experience, right?  Now remember that there are FIVE of them, and they are all BOYS.  I also had a little screamer named Caleb who wanted to be held the entire time.  I had to hide the trains, keep attention focused, make sure no one cried (too hard, anyway), and  keep them all in a similar condition to when they arrived.  That is EXHAUSTING work!  I don't know how teachers do it!
So, in two weeks I am in charge of the letter H.  Any ideas? Or ways to keep my sanity that don't involve chairs and duct tape?