Since I am once again stuck nuturing my sick children, I do not have the time or brain power for a new and delightfully witty post, so here is an oldie but goody from last year that was run on Startribune.com/cribsheet...enjoy! 

My children are beautiful intelligent creatures who I love with a scary intensity that was previously reserved for Chinese food and donuts, but, this winter at least, I am not finding them enjoyable. At two, five and one, my kids are equally adorable and much, much smarter than me.  I believe that during these winter months they have huddled together, conspiring on how to drive mommy crazy the fastest, oftsucceeding beyond their wildest imaginations.

“I know,” five year old Brooklyn, aka the ringleader, whispers. “Alex and Aiden, you two learn how to walk and scream ‘DaaDaaa’ all day.  Kyan, you color all over everything and get up all night. I’ll just spaz all the time.”

“Daaa Daaa!!!” the babies screech in agreement, as Kyan giggles,

“Hee,hee,hee, Ok, Sister. I don’t wanna go to bed!”

This blatant touting of intelligence along with the constant fighting, crying, whining and complaining is making me want to buy a non refundable ticket to somewhere exotic where my new lover Guido and I will live a peaceful existence in our mess free villa that is decorated in various shades of cream and white.  I will live a life of glamour and sophistication where I will never see another box of mac and cheese, will never hear the incessant whine of “Mama, mama, mama….look at me!” and will lounge luxuriously in bed until I am no longer fatigued.  I will revel in this life and the sheer happiness that the free life brings me for about 10 minutes when I will then start missing my kids.

I credit this rich fantasy life to the insanity of a Minnesota winter, for, when the weather is nice, my fantasies are much duller.  When the weather is nice, we spend most of the day outside exploring the creek, riding bikes, playing and swimming—not sitting in a basement staring each other for 12 hours at a stretch.  

During the warm months, I look forward to our days where I can watch my brood explore and play, with glorious sun glistening off their golden blonde locks.  I love cleaning the sand off of their chubby feet; I love the tan lines that cover their little booties, regardless of the amount of sunblock I apply. I love simply being with them.

During the winter I wake up counting the hours until bedtime because there is nothing to do but sit.  Up until this winter, I made an effort to get out of the house every day.  I was the master of indoor playgrounds, free days at museums, lunches out and mall trips.  As a threesome, and even in the early days of the ‘fivesome’, (there aren’t even any graceful words for it), we were out every day, trying to avoid and suppress the special brand of crazy that I knew lurked within me. 

Now, most likely since I can’t go anywhere without seeking and putting on four coats, eight shoes, four hats, a pair of pants deemed acceptable for Kyan to wear over his shorts (don’t ask), four hats and then lugging four kids out to be buckled into their respective car seats, only to do it in reverse when we get somewhere, I don’t go anywhere.  Since  we don’t go anywhere, we have a lot of time on our hands. And what do we do with this time? The kids tear the house apart, fight over everything from toilet paper to dust bunnies and generally annoy me.  And me? I obsess about not being able to go anywhere and succumb to my crazy, passing the days by creating rich fantasy lives of the Guido loving me, the powerful career person me, the childless me, the person I would be if…

The problem with this brand of crazy is that my kids aren’t going anywhere, and I would miss them if they did.  Savvy conspirators that the are, they  always seem to sense when I am searching out their receipts to facilitate an easier return, for these are the times where they attack me with their own special brands of hugs and kisses.  Kyan, built like a line backer, favors a bear hug with a shift that causes his arms to smash straight down between us, while Brooklyn goes more for the monkey wrap, both arms and legs securely wrapped around my neck and waist.  The babies simply look at me wish big blue eyes and gummy smiles and say, “Da Daaa.”  (only I know they mean Mama…).

These hugs are usually enough to erase the craziness of moments past, but in the rare times when the zaniness was of a higher order, they always know to throw in a “You’re the bestest mommy ever.” Combined with a little hair stroking and it is usually enough to erase any transgressions that may have just occurred, almost always bringing me back from my imaginings.

During the times it’s not enough, I make sure to take a mental note to send them a post card, assuring them that I will be back once spring comes.