I need my pocket protector.

I know.

But I’m back. And this is why.

The baby who doesn’t talk (at least in English), who will soon be the two-year-old who doesn’t talk … sings.

Feliz Navidad. Actually.

So, not only does he speak Mandarin, Chinese (which I, unfortunately, don’t), he speaks Spanish.

Why? Because, he’s a genius. Dontcha know?

That should be my superhero name.

After this morning, I need a serious refresher course in motherhood. Whenever I think I do okay, my kids quickly remind me, “I don’t know nuffin.”

I'm a supa hero.

It started with an extra-early wake up. Followed with Lillian insisting I take her termperature because she was quite sure she (once again) had a headache and could not go to school. Why couldn’t she go? Because she was not going to wear a the skirt she had decided on yesterday. Because the pockets bother her. When she put on her second choice, she decided the waist band was “noying” her. And proclaimed again, she must have a headache.

While this is going on, the little man of the house is running at full-force with a toy shopping cart banging into closed doors. Which is every door, because we have to protect rooms from his wrath. As a diversion, he runs into my legs, as I stand attempting to make sandwiches for those heading to school. We’re planning to repaint two rooms, and I think for a moment, why? But water damage, child damage. Got to be done. Wait, is there rubber paint?

Out storms Lillian. With a summer dress in hand (which regrettably didn’t make it to the right spot after Florida), “I’m going to wear this.”

“No, you’re not,” I calmly reply.

“I said: I.  am. wearing. this. I will wear a sweater.”

“No, you will not.” I’m still remarkably calm. An audible hmph echos behind the slammed door, in the nick of time as the shopping-cart operator crashes into it full-bore.

I take away the cart. He squeals and runs off with his little padded jammy feet to find something else to destroy.

Lunches are packed. Gloves and scarves accounted for. Two out the door. (Not the two I wish were leaving …)

“When I have PE. I am wearing a DRESS!” I hear behind the door. The ultimate declaration of defiance in the world of my 4-year0ld who knows she cannot wear a skirt or dress on PE (physical education) days at Montessori school. She has to be able to clearly see her feet without the obstruction of a puffy garment. (And she’s all  puffy. All the time.) PE isn’t even until tomorrow. So, is this the set-up for what lies ahead?

After given some acceptable choices, she finally agrees to an appropriate dress. Chooses tights that don’t match. But who cares? Then insists that she wear her snow boots and take her school shoes. I should note that her snow boots are hand-me-downs from Henry that she has adorned randomly with little sticker gems so they could have “twinkle toes.” A sight, for sure.

Thrilled that she even got dressed and dropped the headache bit, when she orders me to go warm up the car and take her to school so she’ll have time to change her boots, I jump. Who cares that it was a half-an-hour early? I am just grateful to strap her in the car and unstrap her anywhere but home. (I know. I’m rotten.)

I take her to school and share a bit of my woes. Dear teacher thoughtfully reminds me to set out her clothes the night before. Which with Lil is truly an exercise in futility. After all, how can Lil make a decision about what she’s going to wear tomorrow when she changes her clothes 5 times a day based on which imaginary world she’s in. It’s what she does. And pretty much what she lives for. And a part of her I appreciate. Most of the time. Just not today.

Okay. But there’s the happy ending. Once in my van, I got a text from our oldest away at school. Reminding me she loves me. Thinks she’s lucky to have me. (Me? Remedial Mom?) Thinks I’m hilarious and sweet and misses me completely.

For that moment, until Clifford screams at me from the back of the van and chucks his sippy cup, I feel like a superhero. Instead of like this …

BOILED ALIVE!