You know I’m about ready to throw in the towel when I give in… to SpongeBob.

Despite having so many plates spinning that it takes all my circus training to make sure they don’t break, my kids are sick.

There are plusses and minuses to the timing of this plague. On the plus side: we’re planning to go on vacation next week. A real vacation- you know, one where I don’t have access to emails and voicemails and can actually relax. So if the kids are going to get sick, I’m actually kind of glad that they’re doing it now instead of when we’re on said vacation. (Which would totally suck).

The minus: I am trying to cram about 3 weeks worth of work into this week. Finishing large projects, anticipating every need, prepping files, touching base with everyone, etc. etc. etc. And I simply do NOT have time to handle two sick kids at home. Or even one sick kid.

Normally, this garden variety cold/48 hour flu time at our house involves me playing nursemaid, getting juice, reading beloved books, taking temperatures, Lysoling everything in sight that doesn’t move (and some that do). And making up the work into the wee hours of the night.

But I was already planning to use the wee hours as well to get everything done. I simply do NOT have the time. (Let’s not even mention the fact that I’m sure this thing will bring me to my knees later this week – thereby giving me even less time – but I’ll cross that diseased bridge when I come to it.)

So after a day of rest yesterday where I tried to make client calls from the laundry room (you know, so I’d be accessible to the kids but not in the midst of the shouting), edit some stuff between getting crackers and cheese and various other delicacies that sound good to their majesties rumbling tummies – and getting nearly nothing accomplished — I’m calling in the big guns.

I’m calling in SpongeBob.

Yes, I know the little sea creature with the square pants isn’t the devil—it’s just a show we’ve never watched. (And at one point I made a big stink about not watching it, so I was required to stick to my guns on subsequent days.) But today when they asked me if they could turn on the TV and SpongeBob was on… I caved. Without hesitation. Honestly, if they asked me if they could wire the internet directly into their brains for the day, I’d give it serious consideration if it could get me a solid 3-hour stretch of time without interruption.

I think I might make it. With SpongeBob on, they’re quiet. They think they’re doing something slightly illicit, so they’re less likely to call me into their den-of-disease for the need du jour (or du-30 minutes).

Whatever– I’ll take it. A mom needs all the help she can get. And if it comes from Bikini Bottom with a side of escargot, so be it.

While I am a fully fledged adult (job, kids, responsibilities to the world at large) there lurks deep inside me a snarky, sulky teenager. You know, the one who spent years raising sarcasm and the eye-roll to a high art (so Emma comes by it naturally, I have to admit). This dual-action mind is especially weird when talking to my kids: I try hard to stay positive during setbacks, be calm during chaos and generally take an active role in listening and responding to their stories and questions. But the teenager inside whispers an inner monologue littered with a few choice, unfiltered phrases in response to the situation.

She quietly makes suggestions as Emma and Ryan heatedly argue over which TV show they want to watch in their allotted time. I listen to the ever-increasing volume and as things take a turn for the aggressive, and my rational, adult self says: Okay, you two need to decide in the next few minutes which show to watch, or we won’t have time to watch anything.

My inner monologue: Are you KIDDING me?!?! It’s a TV show, for the love of God. Just PICK one—ANY one. They’re cartoons– how hard can this possibly be?

When I ask Emma to pick up the flotsam and jetsam that have been littering the living room for past few days — and she responds with an exasperated, “Why do *I* have to do it? I do everything!” My everyday self takes a deep breath, and tells her that we’re all part of the family and everyone in the family needs to pitch in and help. I do things to help her; she can do things to help me.

What the teenager suggests as a response: Everything? Really? You must have had a hard time making dinner, paying bills, planning activities and putting away laundry, you poor thing (insert eye roll). Honestly, the hardest thing you’ve had to do was decide which TV show to watch — and that went really well, didn’t it?

Ryan will interrupt anybody — anywhere or any time. Especially if you’ve indicated that you’re doing something particularly important (or just want 5 minutes to shower without a constant barrage of questions). Despite your request, Ryan will holler your name over and over and OVER until it feels like you’re listening to a CD skip. “Momma! Momma! Momma! Momma!” The adult in me gently stops him, tells him (again) that he needs to wait his turn, it will only be moments until I’m done, and when I’m finsihed, I immediately go back to him and provide my full attention.

But the impatient, whiny teenage voice in my head suggests I simply put my fingers in my ears and yell/sing, “LA-LA-LA-LA I CAN’T YEAR YOU!” at the top of my voice so I don’t have to endure the persistent screeching of my name in Ryan’s attempt to pester me into submission.

I know better than to give in to the teenager inside – especially with my kids. It’s too much intensity, too loud, too brash and frankly rude for these small people to handle. And on a practical side, the sarcasm never works as well as the calm, explanatory voice. Putting those thoughts into voice doesn’t accomplish much other than getting my frustrations off my chest in the most immature way possible.

But there are days when I’m sorely tempted.

It’s the end of July, and here in the U.S. temperatures and humidity are out of this world. So that means, of course, I’m shopping for jeans, sweaters and boots: it’s back to school shopping time. I’m not even kidding. (And let me tell you: an 8-year old has a very high glitter tolerance.)

Every year it seems like the seasons (or at least the shopping seasons) creep up faster and faster. I found myself holding the short end of the stick last week when I went to find a sundress for an upcoming party. Silly me! Though it’s the middle of summer, there was barely a thing that wasn’t long sleeved or tweed on the racks. I should have anticipated this, since something similar happened last winter: looking to replace a pair of kids mittens mid-winter was futile. Guess if you didn’t stock up on winter essentials just as the leaves began to change color, your kids are out of luck (but up a pair of really, really cold hands).

Seasonal creeping isn’t confined to clothing, it seems. Christmas has always been the worst: holiday music begins blaring about 4 months before the big day. Now school supplies are set out only weeks after the munchkins were just let out for the summer. Yes, the it’s been just 3 weeks since school let out, but I’m obviously in dire need of a new pencil sharpener, some notebooks and a 64 pack of crayons (with sharpener!) all on ‘back to school’ special prices. Easter candy is out before Fat Tuesday even has a chance to get a little chubby. The most ridiculous case I’ve seen was patio furniture on display in the middle of a blizzard. It may have been months and months before a blade of grass would be spied from under the snow, but I guess I was supposed to be thinking about replacing my outdoor grill and wind chimes.

I get what they’re trying to do: create a demand early, and then create a shortage later. Put urgency in your shopping habits. And it *is* fun sometimes to get caught up in thinking ahead, and look forward to what’s coming.

But I hate it that the creeping seasons make me feel like I can’t just enjoy the NOW of things. That somehow I’m so caught up in looking ahead and planning for what’s next that I miss out on what’s happening right in front of me. I need to take a moment to breathe, and appreciate the two small kids I have right now, who want to play in the sun and have me run through the sprinkler with them.

I’ll think about that right after I put away the bags of back to school stuff I just bought. You’ve gotta get while the getting is good . . .

I’m riding in the car the other day, shuffling the kids from one activity to another, and listening to the radio. (I’ve got plenty of kid-related songs on CD, but there’s only so much Sesame Street Live one girl can take.) When I suddenly notice that the kids are singing along with the songs on the radio.

Well, that’s interesting.

I half-listen as I drive along — and then I hear Princess singing along with Katy Perry. She knows ALL the lyrics. Hearing her belt out “I’ll be your teenage dream tonight” made me almost run a light. It’s a great song, but sounds positively bizarre (and extraordinarily inappropriate) when sung by your 8-year old girl. Added bonus was that the 4-year old brother knows most of the words too.

Over the next week, I start to pay attention to the words of some of the songs they know. A few of the lyrical gems they can sing (for the full effect, you have to imagine them singing it at full volume with no embarrassment at all):

“Now pu-pu-pu-pu-pump it up, and back it up like a Tonka Truck”

“Apple Bottom Jeans, Boots with the Fur… shawty goes low, low, low, low”

“I make the good girls go bad”

“Let’s have fun, this beat is sick, I wanna take a ride on your disco stick”

After a week or so, I thought about seizing the power of the lyrical Jesse James and cutting of the radio entirely. Or at least stop listening to the dance music station they request.

But I took a second and decided to ask them what they thought the lyrics were about. Turns out, the first guy likes to play with his dumptrucks a lot on the floor. The girl with jeans that have apple pockets is dancing ‘The Twist’ and keeps getting closer and closer to the ground as she twists down and back up again. The good girls have gone bad due to too much candy, and the disco stick… well, the disco stick confounded them. But they liked the song anyway.

So I decided, as Frankie urges, to relax. The radio plays the edited versions of most songs (so we avoid true profanity), they’ll generally comprehend at the level they’re ready for, and the rest flies over their heads.

After all, when I was younger and first heard, “Relax, don’t do it, when you want to come” – my only question was wondering where he wanted to go. Well that, and why he used such bad grammar.

I recently had to make a quick run to the grocery store hauling two wild-eyed kids in tow. As any mother knows, a quick run to the grocery store with a 4 and 7 year old is completely impossible.

Your first hurdle during this obstacle course: sneak stealthily past the costly rental carts that have a mini TV playing Dora the Explorer or Backyardigans episodes. What minion of the devil came up with that idea? Yes, my kids are too old for it, but try telling THEM that when they feel the irresistible pull of yet another screen that will provide them entertainment. So best to avoid the argument all together by rushing past the plastic devil carts. Which leaves me grabbing a Titanic-sized cart (and about as easy to steer) because each kid insists that they have to be able to sit down on the bench. Better than chasing kids down the aisle, so the Titanic cart it is.

Second challenge: managing the constant requests for sugar cereals, toys, super-hero themed fruit chews, 20-pound bags of M&Ms, etc. It. Never. Ever. Stops. While they’re quite polite when they ask, they ask and ask and ask nonetheless. It’s enough to make me re-think my stance on the devil-TV-carts.

Okay, you’re going at what amounts to speed walking through the aisles when … STOP!  Do not pass go, do not collect $200: the 4-year old declares his immediate need for a potty break.  After weighing the pros and cons of bribing said child to “hold it,” you decide that discretion is the drier part of valor and make your way to the restroom (which, incidentally, is about as far away from your current point as it is possible to be and still remain in the same building).  Bonus points if you make it to the bathrooms without running into an acquaintance/friend/neighbor who wants to chat at length.

Congratulations….you’ve passed the first three hurdles and now approach the final challenge. This time it’s dealer’s choice: wait in one of the three staffed check out lanes (while there are 25 lanes, only three have cashiers) — or do you risk the self check-out lane, knowing that while you’re busy scanning and bagging your children will take that opportunity to construct an elaborate candy castle using every Hershey’s bar in the lane?

And it’s only when you’ve loaded all the groceries in the car, buckled everyone in, and begin to back out of your parking space that you realize …

You’ve forgotten the wine.  It’s enough to make you consider going back in and running the grocery store gauntlet one more time!

Can I tell you how much I love my mom friends? Not only are they a wonderful group of people with whom I can share joys and triumphs, pitfalls and disasters—they’re also an excellent resource of tips, tricks and a variety of creatively manipulate your kids to desired behavior…all for the good of the family and maternal sanity, of course!

Because honestly? You can’t figure it out by yourself. You need friends who can sympathize, understand your trials and tribulations and give you ideas about how to tackle it.

Which is how I discovered the penalty box. One friend of mine has kids about the same age as mine, and her house is generally a LOT more picked up than mine. She’s not the type to spend all day cleaning, so one mom’s night out I just cornered her and said: “Fess up: how are you *doing* this???” She took a sip of wine and said slyly, “The Penalty Box is the key.”

Turns out that she told her kids that they can play all day with whatever they’d like. But at bedtime (or at special times she announces) things need to get picked up and put away. If it’s out after bedtime, then the item goes in the Penalty Box. Once an item goes in the penalty box, the kid must do a chore to get it out of jail.

Oh. My. God. Sheer Genius.

I wanted to immediately implement it, but hit a few snags in the road:

1.) Apparently, my kids require a visual reminder that the item is off-limits. Simply taking the toy that was left out and putting it in a closet didn’t faze them. A clear plastic container solved that problem… it was sheer torture for them to see their item, but be unable to play with it. (mwah-ha-ha…insert evil laugh here.)

2.) Occasionally, they’d just let a toy sit in the box…for days. When reminded that the item was in the box and needed to be freed, not much happened. Which is why the penalty box now has an expiration date. If something sits in it for 5 days without being freed, it goes to Goodwill. This has improved toy parole rate immensely.

After a bit of trial-and-error, we’re working out a system. One that hopefully gives them some control over their environment and me a bit of Polly Pocket free carpet space to walk in the middle of the night.