I could have background checked her, but I resisted the impulse

Preparations for the babysitter today have taken at least as long as the time she will be babysitting. I'm driving over to Eastern University to do some research, a trip that will take about 8-9 hours. We decided to get a babysitter to cover the witching hours (is that the word for that horrible time between late afternoon and bed?) for James.

I contacted our usual babysitters, and none were available. I used Messiah's babysitter list, e-mailing ten students. I contacted only the ones who said they could care for special needs kids...my kids aren't special needs in that sense, but still, I figured a babysitter who can handle a disabled child is more likely to be able to handle three under the age of three. One young woman contacted me, so we e-mailed a few times and she came over to meet the boys and impress us with the obvious reality that she will probably take care of them better than we do.

That was the advance preparation. Today's the big day: I leave in 20 minutes. This morning James and I worked together to put away toys and laundry, do the dishes, and sweep the floors. Now the house looks just disheveled, instead of toxic. I made dinner for the boys, set out food items on the counter, and tacked up the emergency phone list. Then I wrote a 2-page single spaced document titled "Babysitting the Paris Boys" in which I list how to tell the twins apart, how to deal with the baby when he cries, how to give a bath, how important it is to supervise the baby against choking and drowning, how to heat up dinner, and what to do if you are bored. Print document and post it on fridge. The only 'vanity' preparation I did was to pick up the last three day's worth of my clothes off the bedroom floor -- I do have some dignity left.

Now it's time for me to leave, and despite all my preparations, there's still so much left to do...worrying, that is. Worry that the baby will cry for num-nums, and I won't be here, and he'll grow up with a lingering sense of abandonment. Worry that the house will explode. Worry that the bathtub water will be too hot. Or too cold. Worry that I'm missing out on their lives and they'll hardly know their mother because I missed bedtime tonight.

But I do really have to go.

Here I go.

Seriously, I'm going.

Flat Katherine

In response to Colleen and Colleen below, no, that wasn't Flat Stanley. I've never even met Flat Stanley. It was Flat Katherine. My 2nd grade niece's entire class was flattened, and though disappointed, they used the opportunity to mail themselves to friends and relatives. Flat Katherine is living with us for a month, and then in February we'll send her home along with photos of her adventure.

She is a wild girl -- she was our Christmas tree topper, she rode an antique train in Hershey, and partied down at the Pennsylvania State Farm Show in Harrisburg. In this photo she attempted to throw herself over Niagara Falls, and James caught her just in time!

You know the old joke, "An elephant and a cow walk into a bathroom..."

Wesley has the physique of a boy twice his age, but the pants of a boy half his age

Wesley's favorite Christmas sweater, worn in his favorite way

daddy and oliver at the Hershey Train Museum

Oliver at the Christmas tree farm














happy Max













Happy 10th anniversary to us on the Niagara River

Crappy New Year

January 1 was anything but a happy new year-- we traveled to western New York to visit James' family, but various members of our family started getting sick soon after we arrived, reaching a several-day climax that began early morning on January 1, with Oliver showering his bed with the pizza-fruitcake-cookie remnants of his New Year's Bash with Grandma. I think our relatives were happy to see us come, but they may well have been even happier to see us go.

Some lingering questions...

How did the diarrhea get all the way down the arm of the pajamas, filling the boy's palm?

Why, why, why, God, was I given a son with the same sensitivities as me? While Wesley was vomiting (from sickness) all over his car seat, Oliver joined in simply because of the smell. I was driving the van, covering my nose and mouth with a scarf.

Why did I have to change three outrageous diapers in a fully-packed van that already smelled like vomit, and then stay in that van with the diapers, the smell, and two boys, for over 20 minutes? The answer is that James had taken the one healthy boy into the grocery store to have a meal, and I was watching the other two. It was so cold outside I was afraid to crack a window or door and expose the baby to the cold. Two days later, I'm still wondering whether there might have been a better way to handle those 20 minutes. I knew I was a super-mom when I changed Max's diaper while dangling him by one ankle. (Poo from knees to top of head, so I couldn't lay him down)

How did I manage to get such a great husband? I did my share, but he must have cleaned up at least 85% of the 10-12 vomiting episodes (five of which were in the van). At my worst, I became a hysterical human ball, wadding myself up near the glove compartment and refusing to move. James handled the boys, the bad snowstorm, and even got himself a Tim Horton's coffee in the midst of it. He also pointed out that this season of life might involve the most bodily fluids that either of us ever have to deal with in our lives. Let's hope so.

We celebrated our 10 year anniversary by spending 4.5 precious child-free hours in Niagara-on-the-lake, the small Canadian town where we got engaged. If I knew then what I know now, that 10 years hence we'd be in over our heads like this, I'd still do what I did on January 2, 1998 -- wonder why I didn't marry this man even sooner.