And THAT'S How I Know I am Getting Old.

I can think of the days in our dating life, or perhaps when we were newlyweds, and even when we were married but did not yet have our children, when we saw New Year's Eve as an opportunity to stay out late, live it up, and ring in the new year in some ridiculous manner.

But not this year, even though we had the best of intentions to party the night away.

My mom kept our children for us, hosting her first ever Grandma's New Year's Eve Bash. She had given us gracious permission to stay out as late as we wanted. Now that's a deal.

We had the makings of a great date. We wanted to do dinner, a movie, then Starbucks, and we had toyed with going downtown to see the fireworks. It was going to be a night to remember.

We decided to start the evening early, and we dropped the kids off at 4:30. We headed to The Cheesecake Factory, one of our blissful favorites. We shared an appetizer (I highly recommend the Factory Nachos), we each ordered our favorite meals, and then we shared a slice of White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle, because you simply cannot leave without a piece of their creamy decadence.

We had some great conversations over dinner, talking about the highlights of 2007 and setting our goals for 2008. I made a list, because this is what I do.

As we left, we talked about what to do next, from our veritable options. We voted against the movie, since it's just stinkin' hard to justify dropping as much money as the movie theaters are asking these days. We decided not to go downtown, since it was about 4 degrees outside, and that's just a miserable experience, no matter how you slice it. There are not warm enough mittens this side of the arctic to keep my hands toasty enough so my attitude doesn't freeze up.

That left us with Starbucks. We had a bag full of games (because we planned ahead, not because we happen to carry them with us for just the right moment), and we were ready for some good competition over some whipped mochas. Game on.

Except Starbucks was closed. After all, it was New Year's Eve. Turns out, there's not much demand for mochas past 7:00 on a holiday, I guess. Except that we really wanted them.

That disappointment officially took us to the end of our list. Now what?

Ultimately, we decided to go pick up the kids, put them to bed at home, and watch a rented movie in the comfort of our jammies.

That means that our last date of 2007 consisted of an early bird dinner at 4:45, and then we were back home and settled in by 8:15. Yep. That's one New Year's Rockin' Eve.

But it was fun, and it was our fun, and when you're with the one you love, sometimes the best place to be is somewhere quiet, warm, and cozy.

And there you have it. Happy New Year.

"Attention, King Soopers Customers..."

We decided to do a family trip to King Soopers on Saturday night. (For my readers in the midwest, this is the Colorado version of Kroger. Think Giant Eagle... with mountains.)

The boys were both happy and cooperative when we left the house, but as we strolled the aisles and balanced food around them in the cart, they began to lose their patience with us and the whole grocery shopping process. Well, to be specific, Tyler wasn't particularly bothered, since he sat above it all in his carseat, but Tucker was wishing to be down, down, down.

He has started this new sassy, back-talking thing, where he shouts at us, "Bah!" He does it in response to any kind of sharp tone from either one of us, and when he's really mad, he couples it with ramming his head into my thigh. It's darling.

Robb and I have had enough of this attitude of his, and we had decided together that from now on, he gets one warning when he is mean, and then he gets a spanking. (I am not opposed to spanking; I think it is a very important and appropriate punishment when done correctly, but unfortunately a few overly angry, out of control parents out there have given it a bad name.)

He needs to know that it is never okay to be mean, no matter how angry he is.

(Could I just say, this is an especially fine line for us to determine, since Tucker doesn't have other words to show us his anger and frustration. I have taught him the sign for mad, but other than that, his choices are few in showing his emotions. As I said, it's definitely okay for him to be angry, but he cannot be mean. It's sometimes hard to tell the difference, but I am asking the Lord for wisdom on that one.)

Anyway...

Tucker was growing more and more agitated as I checked things off my list, and he finally crossed the line into the yelling and talking back. "Bah! Bah! Bah!"

Robb looked at me, and we shared a parental, nonverbal exchange, in which we agreed: it was time. He had been warned enough, and it was time for a trip to the bathroom. Robb snatched him out of his seat in the cart, and he carried him to the front of the store to the men's restroom.

Meanwhile, I finished my shopping.

The two of them joined me at the checkout counter, and that's when I noticed: Tucker was missing one of his snowboots. And you know, after filling my cart with this week's recipe ingredients, that boot could have been anywhere. I suspected he lost it in his transition from the cart to the restroom, but who could know for sure?

Robb began the search, tracing our steps. The clerk said to me, "Ma'am, is he missing a shoe?"

"Yes, and my husband is looking for it. Thank you for asking."

And just like that, before I knew what was happening, he picked up his telephone and announced over the intercom:

"Attention, King Soopers Customers. Attention, King Soopers Customers. If anyone finds a small blue snowboot, please deliver it to the customer service desk. I repeat: If anyone finds a small blue snowboot, please deliver it to the customer service desk. Thank you."

Great.

He began scanning my items, while employees came from far and wide: "Oh, you're missing a shoe? Can we see the other one, so we know what to look for? Would you like to give us your name and phone number, so we can call you if it shows up?"

Meanwhile, Tucker is still crying his head off. I knew he was still crying over his conversation with Daddy in the bathroom, and anyone who knows American Sign Language knew that he had asked if he could please still ride the penny horse before we left, and I had said no. His tears had nothing to do with his feet, but everything to do with this will being thwarted.

But to all the passersby, and there were many, he appeared to be terribly brokenhearted over a lost boot. They were patting his hand, smiling, consoling, and saying, "We'll find it, little buddy." They all but offered him a candy bar to dry his tears.

Finally, Robb came back, with the boot in his hand. Get this: He had found it in the cleaning aisle, on the bottom shelf, behind some merchandise.

That was one good kick, Tucker. I'll give you that.

Everyone was relieved the boot was found, not the least of which was myself, since this meant we could go home. Finally.

We bid farewell to all the sojourners who helped us complete the journey, we bundled our children to go out into the winter's night, and we loaded the groceries into the minivan to drive the 4 minutes to our home.

The boys were now starving to death, as evidenced by their wailing and gnashing of teeth, so I got them settled in their high chairs and began fixing a baby meal, a toddler meal, and two adult meals; all the while, Robb carried in bag after bag of food from the garage.

Before we could eat, several new things went wrong; I won't bother you with the details or the list of errors, but suffice it to say that I was drawing dangerously close to my limit. The boys were still screaming, and I had really had enough.

We finally sat down to join Tucker who was already eating and to continue feeding Tyler his jar of Ginger Chicken and Vegetables (which he would not swallow, but held his mouth open with it sitting just inside his lower lip, waiting for someone to catch what he would not consume). I tried to pull the high chair closer to me, but it got caught on the Elmo backpack underneath the table, and I couldn't move it closer.

This, my friends, was the last straw.

In total exasperation, I held my head in my hands. I needed a moment. I wasn't sure what was coming next with my emotions, but I was at the end of my rope.

Robb jumped up from his chair and said, "What do you need?"

"The high chair. Can't move it. The backpack. In the way." I was reduced to fragmented sentences, which is really not my style. It's the sign of a near mental breakdown.

In an act of pure chivalry, he picked up the backpack and launched it into the living room, and he rolled Tyler's chair closer to me.

"What else do you need?" he asked.

"I think that's all."

My poor, sweet, very tired husband knelt in front of me and said with great intensity, "I need you to stay with me. I can't have you losing it when they are both already out of control. If you lose it in a moment like this, Tricia, I swear to you, I will get in the car and go somewhere. Please. Stay with me."

I burst out laughing.

He was so right! I can't lose it right now! What on earth would he do if I started bawling right along with the children? I can't do that to him. I laughed and laughed, because that's just what you do when you can only either laugh or cry. You make your choice, and you give in to it.

I said, "Fair enough. I'm here."

And I was. And I will be.

Signing in his Sleep

Tuck is in the throes of a persistent cough that has been around for over two months now, and he has been on a nebulizer twice a day for two weeks. He'll continue this routine for two more weeks, and then we'll see what the doctor says as to whether his lungs have been nurtured enough. Bronchial issues run in my family, and I am all too familiar with the drill, having grown up next to a boy who always had his inhaler at the ready.

Last week, Tucker's cough progressed into croup. Croup is no fun, and it's nothing to mess around with. (And it's horrendously, alarmingly loud; in case you've never heard it, imagine your child barking like a seal in the middle of the night.) We spent Christmas Eve in the doctor's office, getting a presciption to bring down the swelling in his bronchial tubes so he could breathe more easily. My poor little guy.

His first dose of medication was to be administered AS SOON AS we got the drugs in our hands (a steroid, mind you), and then every twelve hours for two days. Unfortunately, his first dose was at 1:00 in the afternoon, which meant that half of his doses would take place at 1:00 in the morning.

My body does not often see 1:00 AM, and that is by choice and necessity. Nonetheless, I am a mommy of my word, so I set my alarm to get up and give my little man his teaspoon of predizone. (Did I mention he had to take it with food? So not only did he get the pleasure of my company in the middle of the night, but he also got a little midnight snack of animal crackers and juice.)

All of that to say, I was preparing his dosage that very first night, when I heard his little voice from his room, "Beep. Beep."

I thought perhaps he was awake, which would have been highly ironic and very convenient for our little medicine date. I tiptoed into his room to find him not awake at all, but quite sound asleep.

Here's the darling part: he was signing away. His little hands were moving in his sweet little signing gestures, and he was talking all about something. I really didn't want to wake him, since it was just so precious to watch him instead. But I did, ever so gently, and he snuggled on my lap, eating his crackers, drinking his juice, and finally downing the steroid in syrup form. I suspect he thinks he dreamt the whole thing.

We are done with that round of medicines for now, and I am hopeful we won't have to start that routine again anytime in the near future... I am hopeful that he will recover from this episode, have healthy lungs, and be free of the need for me to wake him in the middle of the night.

But if he hadn't needed those medicines, I would have missed out on that moment, standing over his bed, watching him use sign language in his sleep. It was a precious moment. Truly.

The Kindergarten Teacher Hears It ALL

For those of you who have ever had a child in kindergarten, or for those of you who have children yet to start school, let me tell you one important thing I have learned to be absolutely, 100% true:

Your child's kindergarten teacher knows a LOT about your family.

Having been a kindergarten teacher myself, I could write volumes on the things I have learned from my students.

Some of them are most endearing, such as the little boy who told me all about his girlfriend, how she was so beautiful and he loved her so very much, only to finish the story by telling me her name: Mommy.

But there are others. By golly, there are others.

Like the little boy who told me that his mom didn't like the family dog, because it was always humping her and guests in their home.

I have learned a lot from the five-year-old perspectives on snoring habits, breastfeeding, bad words, kissing, bad breath, and many, many more.

Here is my personal favorite:

"Teacher, would you please pray for my family? My parents want to have another baby, and I want to be a big sister, but my daddy has a low sperm count. I'm quite a blessing, you know."
Try to keep that one out of your mind at a parent-teacher conference!

I dearly love five-year-olds, and I love to hear their stories. They have a lot to say.

Yes, I know I am just three years from having a story-teller of my own. I'm sure our family secrets will be hung out to dry, along with yours. Stay tuned for some of my own mortifying experiences, as Tucker someday learns to tell all.