I’ll admit it: I’m a news junkie. I read the papers and watch C-SPAN late at night. (Nerd, you say? That’s Geek Chic, thank you very much!). But a while back I was watching a congressional debate, and at one point I became unusually transfixed:

The House had just had a vote, people were milling about, a few were shouting, and then the man at the head table picks up a gavel, bangs it, and shouts, “The House Will Come To Order!!” And they did.

At least for a moment.

That got me thinking. How *great* would it be to have a gavel that I could bang when things were getting out of control in my own home, and shout “THIS house will come to order!”

Now I’m not thinking Mary Poppins-esque style of toys magically putting themselves away and beds making themselves. I’m thinking more along the lines of instant recognition by the kids that they were out of line, without the raised voices and promises of no books after bed if they don’t start behaving.

Can you imagine how handy? Fighting in the backseat of the car? Bang goes the gavel. Arguing over the blocks in the basement? Pound it again! Coming out of their room for the 57th time to get a glass of water at night? Thump! All the kids scurry back to bed.

But then again, it would probably end up similar to how it works in the real House of Representatives. How might this go?

Me, banging gavel: “This house will come to order! I have asked you here to sit and eat your dinner without excessive running about, lolly-gagging or poking of your siblings.”

Emma raises her hand.

Me: “The speaker recognizes the young lady from the messy room upstairs.”

Emma: “I have a point of order, Madam Momma. I don’t believe we read aloud the menu for the evening prior to your preparation of it.”

Me: “The reading of the menu was waived this weekend, when I wrote out the menu on the board, and we took a verbal vote on it.”

Emma: “I call for a recorded vote on that menu. Who said yes to brussel sprouts? I want to hold those people accountable.”

Me: “You are out of order. The measure was voted on and passed. Onto next business…”

Ryan raises his hand.

Me: “The speaker recognizes that young man in the Spiderman costume. State your business.”

Ryan: “I wanna ask you a question.”

Me: “You have a question on the menu?”

Ryan: “No. I wanna tell you about Spiderman. And Star Wars. And Black Spidey. And…”

Emma interrupts: “Ryan, we know ALL ABOUT Spiderman, now… (begins poking at her brother).”

Me, pointing the gavel at Emma: “The boy representing the radio-active Spider bitten population has NOT yielded the floor. Please refrain from further comment until you have been recognized.”

Me, pointing to Ryan: “Have you finished your question?”

Ryan: “Yes. No. Yes.”

Me: “Okay.” Big sigh. “So the next issue is an amendment to the Bill, uh, I mean menu, to substitute Broccoli for brussel sprouts on the menu for this eve.”

Looking at both of them. “Would you like to vote on this?”

“Yes,” they nod.

Me: “Okay, all in favor of said substitution say “aye”. (AYE!) All opposed? (silence). Motion carries.” And the gavel bangs again.

And when the gavel bangs, it is the opposite of coming to order—it’s the sheer chaos and joy of having avoided the dreaded sprout. No amount of shouting “come to order!” is going to work.

But a mom can dream.

I love my kids. I say it a million times a day. Sometimes – when things are rough going in mommyland — it’s like a mantra: I love my kids; I love my kids; I love my kids.

I’m chanting right now.

I just found half a spit out marshmallow. In my living room. In the carpet.

I love my kids.

I know exactly who is to blame: Ryan, my 3 ½ year old. He loves marshmallows – any food frankly. He has an insatiable appetite, and an overwhelming desire to completely control when, where and what he eats. He gets into the pantry at all hours, and scavenges all *kinds* of foods: pretzels, peanuts, raisins, the aforementioned marshmallow — you name it.

Don’t get me wrong, I feed him. All the time, so that’s not the issue. But I need to know when he gets something to eat, because he has a tendency to wander about with it, and then leave the remainder in the oddest places. Which, as you can see, has an astronomical gross-out factor.

I’ve tried all kinds of solutions to keep him from grazing and wandering. I’ve implemented systems – and enforced them all consistently — to no avail. I’ve told him – time and time again – that all he needs to do is ASK, and he can have food. Then at least I know he has something, what it is and where he went with it.

But this marshmallow is the last straw. It’s time for some serious motivation to behave; some consequences with teeth. Pumpkin teeth, specifically.

Last Halloween we got a battery-operated light-up ceramic pumpkin from a relative. It’s cute—ceramic with tinfoily orange covering and a goofy, gap-toothed grin. Ryan took an immediate dislike to it. Called it “The Scary Pumpkin” and ran in the opposite direction whenever he saw it.

The Scary Pumpkin is going in the pantry. I’ve tried to be nice about it, but it’s time for the big guns. I’m pretty sure I’m in for some tears when he sees it the next time he opens the pantry when he’s trying to sneak in.

But I’m also pretty sure I won’t see any half eaten marshmallows on the carpet anymore, either.

—————–
Post Script: Curses! Foiled Again!

So it’s been two days since I initially wrote about the scary pumpkin. Things were going swimmingly. Ryan was asking me every time he wanted food, and I was able to keep some semblance of order of where and what he was eating. Then I went to the basement to say hello to the treadmill while the kids were playing upstairs. Emma came down, proud as can be.

“Momma!” she said, “You’re going to be so happy. I helped my brother!”

“That’s great, sweetheart! What did you do?”

“I just taught Ryan that the Scary Pumpkin isn’t scary! He’s not scared of it anymore! Isn’t that great??”

Ryan wandered in, cradling the pumpkin like it was a stuffed animal, calling it “Silly Pumpkin,” just as Emma taught him.

Love that girl. Heart as big as Texas. But really?!?!?

“Yes,” I sighed. “That’s great.”

Call it a curse, of sorts. But I swear nearly every single mom can see something *before* it happens. It’s as though somehow, being presented with your child when they are born or adopted into your family turns you into a superhero. Congratulations! Not only are you a mom, you now have … MOMMYVISION.

Mommyvision allows moms everywhere to look at a situation, and see all the potential outcomes in an instant. While a passerby may see your kid playing and jumping on the wheelchair ramp; the mom sees a kid face down on the concrete after tripping on the edge. Others watch your cute toddler taking first steps outside on the deck; the mom sees that same little one falling into the kiddie pool she’s headed toward.

And lucky you –the gift of Mommyvision isn’t the only superpower motherhood confers. You’ve also been annointed with it’s twin: Superhearing. This supernatural sense can not only pick up the tones of playing that will turn into an argument faster than you can say “one toy; two kids” — it also alerts moms as to when it’s *too* quiet. As in: “Where’s that pan of brownies that I put in the fridge? They were here a minute ago…” quiet. Or “Those kids have been upstairs for a long time, and I haven’t heard a peep…” and you find them silently readying to paint their bathroom walls with spongebob squarepants toothpaste.

The superpowers have their uses. I, for one, prefer to keep my kids tumbling-down-the-stairwell-free, and mommyvision allows me to see that the tug of war happening in my daughter’s doorframe on the second floor could very well lead to one or both of them at the bottom of the stairs in a pile of broken bones. And the ability to hear the exact moment when play wrestling is about to leech over into real-world harm allows you to intercede before real damage is done.

So, face it: mom, you’re a superhero, with the mad skillz to prove it.

I just hope the costume comes with a spanx base layer.

Ahhh—remember the days when you could primp and prep for the day on your own schedule? No little fingers snaking under the door, or worse — small children who take it upon themselves to become backyard explorers while you’re in the shower.

With my youngest now at 3-and-a-half, I’m finally beginning to see the light again. But in talking with friends who have “little-littles,” I vividly recall the days when I was forced to use Dora the Explorer to buy me a time for *any* sort of personal hygiene. And Dora was only about 20 minutes long in the versions we watched, so I was on a timer from the get-go. It went something like this:

Ready? Set? Primp!!

0:00 – 1:00 Make sure all the doors and bolted; put Dora on TV. Turn the shower on and throw clothes off your body, letting them land where they may.

1:00 – 4:00 Get in, frantically scrub hair, face and body in the water that still isn’t quite warm yet. Slather on conditioner with one hand, while brushing your teeth with the other. Rinse. No time to repeat.

4:00 Look down at legs and reminisce fondly about the last time you had time to shave.

4:01 – 4:30 Turn off water, realize you hadn’t rinsed off all the soap, and re-rinse in a cold spray.

4:30 – 5:00 Step out and wrap self in only clean towel available—which is damp, since your kids’ used it last night.

5:00 Make a mental note to put more towels in the laundry.

5:01 – 7:00 Towel dry hair and work over-priced hair gel — or straightening mousse or shine enhancer or whatever the salon was pushing the last time you went for a haircut — into hair.

7:00 – 8:00 Run out to living room in towel (leaving wet footprints on the carpet) to make sure child is still in Dora-induced coma.

8:00 Feel guilty for using TV as babysitter and muse over child-rearing experts who would berate me for letting a toddler watch TV.

8:01 – 10:00 Use hair dryer to damp-dry hair. Plug in hair straightener. Appreciate the fact that the drone of the dryer blocks out all other noise and appreciate the ‘silence.’

10:00 – 12:00 Rapid fire cosmetics.

12:00 Longingly wish for Jetsons-style robot makeup applicator.

12:01 – 13:00 Run into closet to find clothes that have no appreciable stains, drool marks and still fit.

13:00 – 15:00 Use now-scorching flat iron to style hair, ignoring steam that comes from flat-ironing hair that is still slightly damp.

15:00 – 17:00 Realize that clothes you thought were clean have ketchup on the pants and spit-up down the back. Go back into closet to try again.

17:00 – 18:00 Begin cleaning up mess made from functioning like a tornado in a bottle.

18:00 – 19:00 Knock down smoke detector in bedroom that has gone off due to excessive smoke from flat-ironing damp hair.

19:00 Make mental note to buy new smoke detector.

19:01 – 19:45 Run to living room and console hysterical child who was scared by the incredibly loud noise of both the detector and your attempts to make it stop.

19:45 Realize that what you gave up in primp time you get back in cuddle time later.

19:46 – 20:00 Snuggle some more and begin the day.

It begins when the kids are born. You make plans to go visit someone with babe in tow. But instead of fitting your items sleekly into a single carry on, packing has evolved to a monumental task involving at least three suitcases and a very strategic carry-on bag.

You haul every conceivable convenience, Bedouin-style, through the airport (god forbid you check something and they lose it) and reach your destination, which is – of course – visiting family. Once you arrive it is immediately apparent that you are no longer the star of the show. Yes, your parents love you, but they want to see the munchkin first and foremost (and who could resist squeezing your little love bug?). This makes you, essentially, The Roadie. Your main purpose now? To schlep kid stuff from place to place.

As the Roadie, your job description is to bring whatever item is needed to the destination where it is required. Your presence itself is not really necessary—just the stuff you haul. As the children get older, your role of “Roadie” slowly morphs into “Equipment Manager.” “Do you have your shin guards?” you ask. Your soccer ball? Your ponytail holders/weenie cup? Your hockey stick/ballet tights/baseball mitt/volleyball knee pads? And are there enough snacks/drinks/portable entertainment for the other kid(s) to stay occupied while the first one is practicing to be an Olympian/prima ballerina/track star/the next major league sensation?”

And when it comes to hauling kid stuff around, the king of the hill is the looooong car trip. Remember car trips when you were a kid: sitting in the car for hours on end with nothing to do but play “You can’t be mad; I’m not touching you!” in the backseat? Driving for 14 hours with nothing but coloring books and your parents blasting Wings Greatest Hits from the 8-track? (Yes, I’m aware I sound like a grumpy old man. “I walked to school! Barefoot! In the snow! Uphill! Both ways! I beat a bear to death with nothing but my looseleaf notebook and a number 2 pencil!”) These days any car trip longer than an hour requires at the very least a portable DVD player with a selection of movies, a DS or an ipod to keep the little monkeys entertained. And don’t forget to pack all the adapters to keep them charged for the trip home.

But honestly? I’m generally okay with being a Roadie. When they’re little it’s easier to have what’s familiar. When they’re older and into activities, we stay involved as a family and the kids are active and happy. As for the roadtrips, yes I’m sure those long voyages without a thing to do were ‘character building’ but I remember being bored out of my mind and miserable, so I’m happy to provide the kids with a little entertainment. And now I have peace in the backseat, which leaves me to listen to a book on tape or read a magazine (hubby’s driving!) instead of playing referee or threatening to turn the car around. Of course there’s a balance & they have to learn to entertain themselves, but on a multi-hour car ride? That’s just torture for everyone.

So until they’re old enough to drive themselves (gulp!), I’ll take being a Roadie. But for the record, they *still* sometimes play “I’m not touching you!” in the car. There’s only so much technology can do.

Dear Emma: This week you’re turning 7. And with the rate of maturity acceleration these days, I expect that you’ll soon be interested in boys, makeup and the other things of teen/tween/pre-tween ilk — much quicker than I’d prefer. And it also means that my IQ is going to take a huge hit (at least in your eyes) in the very near future, and I’ll have next-to-no credibility for the next, oh, say 10 years.

So there are a few things I’d like to tell you while you still might listen to me. Some are things my parents told me (and I should have listened) and others are lessons that life taught me along the way. Of course none of this means that you won’t have life teach you a few things – everyone takes their individual lumps – but I hope some of it might be of use to you as you make your way.

First of all, I love you. I love you in a way that is wholly independent of achievement, success or making the ‘right’ decision. As with many first born kids, you seem intent on making everything perfect—and nothing is *ever* perfect. When you’ve got a tough choice, please know that I’ll be in your corner NO MATTER WHAT decision you make, no matter what the outcome.

It’s okay to change your mind.

Instructions for most things are optional – but don’t mess with chainsaws.

If you have to ask yourself if you’re wearing too much makeup, you probably are.

Try hard to love yourself. You are an amazing person. Some will recognize that and appreciate you, and others won’t know what they’re missing. But you should value yourself first and foremost.

Cleaning — while necessary— *can* mean throwing things in a closet.

Never say you can’t do something well until you’ve practiced doing it a lot.

When you get older, you’re going to feel pretty much the same as you did when you were younger. You’re always just you—at 67, there will still the same kernel of a girl who was there when she was 47, 27, 17 and even 7. So don’t forget how important play is at every age, and don’t dismiss what someone has to say just because of how old they are.

When driving, the back way is longer but faster — and a heck of a lot more scenic.

Sunblock… lots, and lots of sunblock. (You’ll thank me later.)

Kids in the band make the best friends.

Happy birthday my delightful, wonderful, awe-inspiring daughter. I love you. And I never really knew what that meant before you came into my life.

And yes, of course there’s cake!