Getting kind of down to the wire on Christmas shopping… and Sarah & Jen had someone land on Momalom by Googling “gift for mother of three boys.” Obviously there’s a need for some assistance out there. And I am here to serve. I’ve compiled a list of things that might be helpful, trying to take into account a variety of tastes and budgets. The Mother of Three Boys in your life will be thrilled to find any of the following under the tree on Christmas morning.

Holiday Gift Guide for Mothers of Three Boys

Pink. Anything pink, because there is a good chance that there is nothing pink in her entire home. Bubble gum. Handcuffs. Cadillac. Use your imagination. Just get it in pink. Cost: $0.59 and up.

The Idiot’s Guide to Pokemon and Bakugan and All Those Other Stupid-Ass Trading Card Games with Weird Japanese Cartoon Characters that Elementary-School-Age Boys Love. These games make absolutely no sense to adults. Or females. Cost: paperback $16.95; e-book $9.99.

Plane Tickets. To anywhere, provided they are one-way. Cost: $87 and up, plus about $302 in airline fees.

Four-Shooter Rotating Liquor Dispenser. I know, I said I didn’t want this. But as I thought about it, I realized it was The Perfect Gift for a totally strung-out mother who has three boys running around shooting Nerf guns and farting all the time. Cost: $17.88, plus booze.

Valium Salt Lick. I stole this directly from The Kitchen Witch, because it is an awesome idea. You could also get a Junior size, guaranteed to chill those boys the hell out. If you get both this and the liquor dispenser, you might urge her to exercise caution in using both simultaneously.  Cost: No idea. Maybe a little pricey. Couldn’t tell you what Valium is going for these days.

Georgia O’Keeffe Print. Let’s just say it: there are a lot of penises in her house. This might provide a little balance. And if you don’t understand this one, I’m not gonna explain it. Cost: $22.99; $129.03 framed.

Noise Cancelling Headphones. All she wants is a little peace and quiet, without the constant roar of boy-children yelling out of anger. Or joy. Or hunger. Whatever. Get her a pair of these and she’ll be able to relax no matter what’s going on. (Disclaimer: not responsible if mother fails to hear screams when boy cuts off his brother’s hand with a chainsaw.) Cost: $27.68-399.99.

Imaginary Bullet-Proof Vest. To protect her from all the imaginary bullets that the firearm-obsessed little Rambos are constantly shooting from their imaginary guns. Cost: Free.

Prostitute. For him, not her. To satisfy whatever needs he may have. Because when she goes to bed at night, all she wants to do is sleep. Trust me on this one. Cost: Varies by region. Check Craigslist for current rates in your area. I would advise you to avoid bargain-basement prices, however.

Bathroom Renovation. Toilet training one boy makes your bathroom disgusting. Toilet training two boys makes it unusable except in emergencies. Toilet training three boys results in the need for a floor-to-ceiling decontamination, and requires the use of biohazard suits to enter. Reclaim your home and gut the bathroom. Cost: I dunno. Probably at least a couple grand.

A Year’s Supply of Air Freshener. In case the renovation isn’t in your budget. Cost: $168.

So there are just a few ideas to get you started. Ho. Ho. Ho.

(Oh, and many apologies for the rampant gender stereotypes in this post. In my defense, there is a reason for most of those stereotypes. I know this for a fact.)

That thing I wrote the other day about not knowing if I regret having a daughter… remember that?

This is my fear (rational or not) about raising boys exclusively: I just don’t think, eventually, that I will understand them entirely. They are going to grow up with a different cultural reference than I have. There will come a day that Jeff will implicitly understand something about their maleness, and I will feel confused and left out.

Actually I think that day may have already come. On Wednesday, to be precise.

Within about an hour on Wednesday evening the boys:

· Used colored pencils as guns and ran around pretending to shoot each other (including the toddler);

· Upon being told that wasn’t safe, turned the pencils into swords and swash-buckled around the house;

· Rearranged the furniture (these are the same kids who claim they aren’t strong enough to carry in groceries, by the way), thus transforming the living room into an indoor football arena, and played a full-contact game with a regulation-sized football, using the Christmas tree as a goal-post;

· Cranked up the stereo and flattened an enormous cardboard box which they used as a dance floor, which was totally fine until they

· Turned dancing into a game called “Push Each Other Off The Box,” whereupon Caleb—at a distinct size disadvantage—was plowed into a wall and started crying;

· Turned the sofa into their personal stunt-man-training-facility, which also resulted in Caleb crying. And bleeding;

· Placed the flattened box at the top of the stairs and helped Caleb lay down on it and said something about “…sledding!” and were clearly planning on launching the poor baby to his death until I intervened.

They accomplished this destruction in under one hour.

The sledding incident pushed me over the edge. I may have yelled. Okay, I did yell.

And Jensen, offended at being told (in nicer words of course) that he was a complete bonehead, threw up his hands and rolled his eyes and said, “But, Mom, there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve hurting each other!”

I fell into stunned silence and looked at Jeff with pleading eyes. “What is wrong with your children?” I asked silently. And he smiled. And shrugged. And he understood them with absolute clarity. I was the only one not in the loop.

It has happened.

My husband has a dependency problem. We work through it, mostly. It’s the same old story. Sometimes he manages it well, sometimes he slips into old patterns of using and avoidance and defensiveness and untruthiness. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I just let him withdraw from us. It threatens us. But, so far, we have survived.

His drug of choice? The Economist. Cross my heart and hope to die, he is strung out on global financial affairs. Could be worse, I suppose.

But if anything’s going to ruin our marriage, it will be that damned magazine. He has them stashed all over the house… tucked into bathroom drawers, behind sofa cushions, in the storeroom. He is probably never more than five steps away from a fix. Maybe an article about rule of law in Russia. 5:30 on any given weeknight, and I’m in the kitchen tripping over 73 Legos and Hot Wheels and am openly swearing and burning my hand on the oven and the older boys are engaged in a battle to see who can remove the other’s eyes first and the baby has taken off his diaper and peed on the floor and the decibel level in our house approaches the output of a jackhammer. (When did we become this stereotype? That is another post for another day.)

And with pupils that I’m sure are dilated, Jeff sits in the middle of it all, blissfully reading about the rise in India’s manufacturing output in the past decade.

He looks confused when I ask calmly (albeit with a perceptibly bad attitude) if he would kindly put down the magazine and remove the propane tank from Evan’s grubby hands.

Then he gets mad when I not-quite-yell, five minutes later, for him to put away the damned (I whisper that word, so the kids don’t know I’m mad) magazine and engage with us for a few minutes.

“Just let me finish this article,” he says. Every. Single. Night.

I do not exaggerate.

___________________

Jeff was home on Monday. Late in the afternoon I ran some errands. I came home to a crying toddler who was pouring dried pasta all over the floor; an eight-year-old who was screaming, “Fine!” and slamming his bedroom door;  and a preschooler who, wearing nothing but underwear, was repeatedly jumping off the back of the sofa and yelling maniacally about… something. Jeff was cooking dinner. Or trying to. (If you ever stop breathing my husband will save your life without batting an eyelash, but putting dinner on the table for a family of five without splattering tomato sauce on the ceiling and breaking something is beyond his skill set.) His jaw was set. He threw a pot in the sink. The house was a disaster.

I surveyed. I sat down at the table and opened my laptop. I read. I typed. He stared aghast at me from the stove as Caleb attempted to eat a Christmas ornament.

“I can’t get a single thing done,” Jeff said, and threw something else in the general direction of the sink.

“Hmmm. Wonder how that feels?” I replied. Calmly. Sweetly.

He not-quite-yelled, “How about if you put away the computer and help?!”

We looked at each other for a good long minute. I closed the laptop and rescued Caleb from himself, then checked the bread in the oven. Jeff turned to the sink. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think some sort of intervention occurred in that moment.

We’ve been clean now for 37 hours. Here’s hoping for a sober holiday season.

While you’ll have to wait until next month to see our actual Christmas card, it is my great pleasure to share with you now our 2009 Christmas Card Reject Photos. Enjoy.

Caleb's immediate reaction upon seeing the camera was to throw himself on the floor and start screaming. This was shockingly similar to Jeff's reaction when I told him it was time to take the pictures.

Red-eye from the camera flash? Or photographic evidence of demonic possession? I think the answer is obvious.

In my fictional world, this is Jensen being really excited to have his picture taken. More likely, he was this happy because I promised him candy when we were done. Seriously, isn't Christmas all about bribery? If you don't pull out "If you're not good, Santa won't bring you a cool present" at least once in the next month, you're a better parent than I. You're probably a better parent than I am, anyway.

My fantasy continues: "Yes!" he shouts. "I love posing for pictures! And I have the awesomest parents in the world! And they definitely don't yell at me during Christmas picture-taking!"

Reality check. "You want me to smile?" he asks, truly perplexed. "As if."

My minimum expectation is that the kids actually look at the camera. Which is apparently asking too much.

Okay, seriously. Look at the camera. No! Look! Dammit. (And so the swearing begins.)

Right. While nose-picking is very festive and all, could you maybe not? I'll give you candy if you don't pick your nose. And puppies! I promise.

There are no words that adequately describe this child. None.

Temporarily ignoring this look of anguish, I must explain that I have no idea why two-thirds of our children are not wearing shirts for their Christmas pictures. But, let's be honest: Christmas would be a whole lot more fun if we were ALL half-naked. Am I right?

All I can say is that this one came dangerously close to making the final cut. Best. Christmas card. Ever.*

Shortly after this last shot, Jeff and I indulged in our now-traditional Christmas Card Picture Stiff Drink while the kids withdrew to their bedrooms to flip through the yellow pages for therapists and to plot their revenge for this annual torture session.  This is the stuff memories are made of. God, I love the holidays.

———————–

Some little lies are excusable, right? Because God knows, as a parent, I tell a few of them.

Like this week. Jensen and Evan (the older two boys) went to stay at my mom and dad’s house. It was their version of “vacation,” and seemed especially important since I had to cancel our other vacation earlier this month. So away they went, for a week, where my parents did more fun things with them than those kids have ever done in their entire lives cumulatively. I was completely expecting them to never want to come home.

But on Thursday night, Jensen finally wanted to talk to me on the phone (he’d been having too much fun to talk to me before this). And he talked. And he talked. Then he said, a bit too casually, “So… how are things going there?” Which was secret code for, “I miss you.” But because he’s eight and impending coolness rules his demeanor, he can’t be openly affectionate with me anymore. Anyway, I got the idea. It was sweet.

Then he said, “I’ll bet Caleb misses me a lot. Is he looking around for me? Does he ask for me?”

Jensen’s veiled homesickness broke my heart, just a little. And I lied, because I didn’t want to break his heart. “Yeah,” I said, “he’s kind of looking around for you. I think he misses you.”

Ha. Caleb didn’t miss his brothers one single bit. He was living in the best parent-child ratio he’s ever known, and he loved every minute of it. He was just fine with not having older boys around to compete for our attention or to push him around. He did not miss them.

But on the ride home today, they all just kept looking at each other. They all laughed at each other. And now we’re home and they all just disappeared together. I haven’t heard a word out of them. They’re all happy… together. Weird.

So maybe, completely unintentionally, I really didn’t tell a lie.

I’m liveblogging Mother’s Day. I have no idea why. I guess because liveblogging the presidential debates was funny? Anyway. The first few entries will have to be after-the-fact, until I get caught up. (And I’m totally not blogging about the fact that our neighbors had a party last night and after we tucked the kids in we went over and played drinking games until midnight.)

Mother’s Day, 2009

8:31 pm: Off to bed to read a book and fall asleep after two paragraphs and wake up in two hours to wipe the drool off my chin. (Adults do not go to bed at 8:31, do they?) (Am I really the only one?!) (Am completely okay with that, actually.) Mother’s Day. Over. Which is fine. I have no reflections. Because (aside from the precious metal writing utensil) it was shockingly no different than any other day. Because I’m a mother every day. And sometimes my kids are grateful for me. And sometimes they’re not. Again: okay with that. If I’m not, I’m totally in the wrong profession.

8:10 pm: Kids in bed in record time. They even brushed their teeth because I’m an awesome mom. Or whatever. And Evan also managed to sneak in several somersaults wearing not a stitch of clothing, which is a sight to behold. And nobody said “Happy Mother’s Day” as I was tucking them into bed because the day’s novelty wore off sometime between breakfast and immediately after breakfast. But I am okay with that.

8:03 pm: Back from in-laws’. As suspected, no masseur.

4:40 pm: Off to my in-laws’. Bet they don’t have a masseur either. But: gin! and pizza! and I feel no obligation whatsoever to wear make-up, so that will have to do in the place of Juan.

4:14 pm: The day has become dangerously dull. Dangerously like any other day. You know what Mother’s Day is missing? A masseur named Juan.

3:21 pm: Evan just popped his head in the door long enough to prove that yes, he does have a pulse and to clarify that Brother’s Day gifts should include toys, not flowers.

3:16 pm: Haven’t updated in a while because it’s been so quiet around here. Which, first of all, means I need to make sure that everyone still has a pulse. And if they do, it means that it’s a perfect afternoon. (If they don’t, this will probably be my last entry and Mother’s Day will go down in infamy.) Still haven’t showered though, which means the cleanliness problem is obviously with me and that I shouldn’t blame the kids. But I think I already knew that.

12:32 pm: Evan just called for a paradigm shift. He believes the rest of the day should be called “Brother’s Day” and that we should all gift accordingly.

10:57 am: Jeff has taken the big boys to visit Great-Grandma. Baby is asleep. Blessed quiet.

10:13 am: Just told Jensen and Evan they may not play Wii right now. They got mad and stormed off to the toyroom where I’m pretty sure they’re plotting my untimely demise. Which would put a damper on Mother’s Day.

9:50 am: Mother’s Day phone calls: check. And my sister and I are both still in our pj’s, neither one of us slept, have not brushed our teeth, and have fussy babies. There is something poetic about this state of affairs on Mother’s Day.

8:05 am: Holy hell. Mother’s Day gift: platinum and rose gold fountain pen. (This? is impressive. My husband loves me.) And a water bottle for my bike. And hand-drawn Mother’s Day cards. Evan drew me with gray hair and wrote, “Sorry” across the front. Jensen made his at school and wrote, “Mom, I love you very much.” But crossed out the “love” part because he didn’t want his friends to see it. I want to frame these cards.

7:47 am: Jeff laughs and says, “No!” when I ask him if I should anticipate a lovely breakfast in bed.

7:37 am: Older boys are wrestling in my bed. Jensen just yelled at Evan, “Quit kicking me in the nuts!” and punched Evan in the crotch. Evan is rolling around moaning, “Oh, my nuts!”

7:30 am: Kids got up a while ago. Now they are all back in my bed jumping up and down. “Happy Mother’s Day!!!” Lots of hugs and kisses. I love them.

4:44 am: I look at the clock for the last time before falling asleep. Children are in my bed. Jeff is on the sofa trying to look intimidating in case it wasn’t a false alarm. I’m tired. Shouldn’t have stayed up playing beer pong. Stupid alarm. Stupid keg.

3:07 am: Security system detonates. I think I just got killed, but once I realize I’m still alive I panic. False alarm. Jeff fixed the problem. He also panicked. Kids up and panicky. Mother’s Day Panic. Awesome.

My mom is not going to like this post. Your mom probably won’t either.

Because Mother’s Day? Bah.

Please note that I did not write, “Mothers. Bah.” I like moms. I love moms. I love my mom. It’s just that a day of guilt and forced sentimentality doesn’t seem to have a whole lot to do with motherhood.

Also: I’m a mom. I do not want my kids to grow up thinking they need to tell me they love me just because it’s the second Sunday in May and the Crap-Selling Industrial Complex tells them they have to. I don’t want them to think that an ugly necklace purchased at Jared because the commercials told them to means anything. I emphatically do not want an over-the-top lavendar card that, in large loopy script, says something along the lines of, “Mother [they never call me "mother" and I sincerely hope they don't start, not even in a Mother's Day card], you are the most beautifulest, most caringest person in the entire world and it means everything to me that you gave me a Band-Aid when I was four and skinned my knee in t-ball and do you remember the time when I got sick when I was eight and you made me stay in bed and then I got better and you miraculously fixed me and that made me everything I am today and what about that time when I was a teenager and my head started spinning around and I projectile vomited and you made cookies and it made everything all better and you always know how to make everything better and I am the luckiest person in the world to have a mother like you and are you crying yet? because the point of this card is obviously to make you cry and I love you all the way to the end of the universe and back and even these superlatives aren’t enough for me to prove my love for you.” Put it all in iambic pentameter and I think it deserves more than an envelope with a shiny gold seal, it deserves a Pulitzer.

But if they get me that card they probably should also get me the card that says, “Mom. You’re a good mom, but you screwed up sometimes. Like when you spanked me when I lipped off to you when I was seven and you were too tired to tolerate it and when you screamed at me to just leave you alone when I was in kindergarten and just wouldn’t quit asking “why” and that time when I was a teenager and dyed my hair blue and you told me I was a reprobate and the time you had a hangover and didn’t want to take me to swimming lessons and and then there was the time you let me eat staples when I was a baby and also the time I got diaper rash because you didn’t change my dirty diaper in time and and the time I ended up having lung surgery because you knew I was sick but figured it would get better so you didn’t take me to the doctor and the time I got lost when you were shopping and not paying attention and also when you forced me to eat spinach and I told you it would make me sick and you told me to eat it anyway so I did and then I threw up all over the table. There were lots of times like that, Mom. But I love you anyway.”

And that is motherhood. There are lots of moments of happiness. Some of them are transcendant, but most of them aren’t. There are lots of failures. Some of them are epic, but most of them aren’t. Mostly motherhood is a state of constant mediocrity, of constant just being there, of constant and quiet love. It’s true for me. It’s true for my mom. And it’s probably true for your mom.

I don’t want the gifts. I have Christmas. I have my birthday. I have our wedding anniversary. Those provide me plenty of gifts. More importantly (much more importantly), I have the countless times when the boys’ love and my commitment are made plain, if only for the briefest instant. The moments when one of them gives me an unsolicited hug, or looks  overjoyed to see me at school, or says from the back of the car with no prompting, “I love you, Mom.” Or the instances when I’m so proud of the kids they are, the people they are becoming, that my heart threatens to overflow. Those are the moments that a Hallmark card on Mother’s Day will never capture. And those moments are more than enough.

_________________

In case you’re thinking about using this post as an excuse to blow off your mom on Sunday: don’t. I have every intention of buying the cards and the gifts and making the phone calls. So if you plan to dis your mother, give it at least a show of independent thought. Plus, I don’t want a whole bunch of jilted moms sending me hate-mail.

Overachieving doesn’t pay.

I made a hot breakfast for my kids this morning. Usually they’re lucky to get cereal with milk. This morning’s menu: Bacon. Waffles. Whipped cream, for God’s sake. (Who the hell am I and what did I do with my real self???)

Figured this would buy me at least a few hours’ unabashed love and adoration and maybe even some good behavior.

Needless to say, I was wrong.

Jensen got mad at Evan during morning toothbrushing. Jensen threw Evan’s prized toothbrush in the unflushed toilet. Jensen, attempting to conceal evidence, tried to retrieve the toothbrush. But failed. Caleb came to the rescue, got the toothbrush out of the murky toilet, and proceeded to brush his sweet baby teeth with it. After I finished gagging and decontaminating the baby, I dropped the hammer on Jensen. He got mad and pouted, and pulled out the standard, “I wish I didn’t have parents.”

By the time he left for school, he was happier. Smiling, humming. He practically skipped out the front door, sweetly singing. His song of choice? “I Shot the Sheriff.”

I’m pretty sure I’m the sheriff, waffles and whipped cream and all.

Stupid iPod.

I’m a girl. Sure, I like sports. (Just this weekend I watched golf, baseball, NASCAR, and some NBA.) And beer. And I freely admit to having a 17-year-old boy’s sense of humor. But still: girl, with girl sensibilities.

And I’m the lone girl around here. Mostly this isn’t an issue. I mean, sometimes when I get the Hanna Andersson catalog I wish I had a daughter. That’s usually as much as I think about it. But this past long, rainy weekend we were all cooped up indoors together and I had many occasions to reflect on the sheer boyishness of my housemates. The juvenile testosterone was so thick that it practically dripped off the walls.

For starters, I realized that we have a lock on the scatalogical humor. The boys fart. A lot. And when they’re not farting, they’re killing each other by pretending to fart. Want to render a four-year-old helpless with laughter? Ask him to pull your finger (or, more accurately, have his dad do this). Or belch. Even the baby knows how to fake-belch, which he finds hysterical. Oh, or they tell pee jokes. Or poop jokes. All. very. funny. Especially for 48 hours on end, with breaks only for sleep. (What’s funnier than a good poop joke at dinner? Oh, I know! A poop-puke combination joke!)

And (unfortunately) the smells don’t end there. The kids aren’t old enough to make our house smell like a locker room yet but they just smell… funky. Little boys smell like puppies. (Do little girls smell this way too? I wouldn’t know. Pretty sure I didn’t.) But then there’s something else. Something about sweat and an aversion to soap and perhaps an unhealthy disdain for toilet paper. (Oh, don’t judge. You know your kids are the same way.) A long weekend in a closed-up house with these kids and… we needed a good airing-out by Monday morning.

Oh, and then there are the battles. The play battles that are just for fun until somebody actually makes contact, and then it’s game on until somebody bleeds. Somebody is constantly jumping on/off/over the furniture in battle. I’d venture to say that someone in our house is airborne about 68% of the time. And if someone isn’t in the air, he’s crying because he had a bad landing or his brother just totally nailed him. Our house is like one gigantic mixed martial arts cage.

If it’s a really good brawl, somebody gets knocked in the testicles. Balls. Nuts. Nachos. Jewels. There are eight of them under this roof, and the boys are obsessed with them. I swear somebody is constantly adjusting himself or scratching himself or saying “Ow! My nachos!” or snickering when I ask Jeff if he got any nuts at the store. I have no doubt this ball-banter will continue until they’re old enough to realize that they should be embarrassed. And then I will not want to know what they’re doing with them, so all things considered I’m okay with these discussions.

Shall we talk about Bionicles? Legos? Hot Wheels? (All of which, by the way, hurt like royal hell when you step on them barefoot.) Cleaning the bathroom (gag)? The staggering volume of milk and food these kids consume? (The oldest eats twice as much as I do. Easily. I buy four gallons of milk at a time now. How many will I buy in eight years?) Playing ball in the house? Knocking holes in the wall? (That actually happened this weekend.) I have no argument about whether this is nature or nuture, something essential to the Y chromosome or how we’ve raised them or societal roles. A combination, most likely. All I know for sure about it is how things are around here.

Gah. Boys. They’re weird. I think today I’ll wear pink. Pink everything. It’s a pink day. I need it.