Yes, I know … Please. Thank you. 50% off. Free. Those are all magic.

But last night, as I was tucking Henry in we discussed some of the highs of the day. Sledding. Working on a project in the basement. Laundry.

Yes. You read that right.

Laundry.

I’m sure it has to do with pushing buttons and the fancy lights on the new washer.  But here’s the best part. As I’m turning out the light and rounding the corner through his door he reminds me, “Oh, and Mom, don’t forget to move the medium load to the dryer.”

Whatta man. Music to a mother’s ears.

Whatta man

Mary Claire turned 14 on New Year’s Eve. Not the eve exactly. The day. But, you know what I mean.

Richard and I decided to splurge and get her an hd video camera. She loves to make movies and her little camera just can’t keep up with her.

We always host a party in her honor on New Year’s Eve. Family. A few friends. This year, no different. Just before everyone was to arrive, we skyped (if that’s even a verb) my mom and dad in Florida. She showed them her camera and a few other gifts. A few minutes later, Cliffy was playing dead. So she recorded him. (It’s hilarious).

When it came time for MC to open her gifts, she was thrilled to receive a case for the camera from my sister. She went to gather the camera and it was no where to be found. We wracked our brains. Did Richard pick it up in a last minute tidy before guests? Did Cliffy get a hold of it? Did MC put it somewhere? It was a mystery. We spent a little time looking, but then went back to our guests.

I admit. I was feeling a bit like a loser. My house isn’t that much of a disaster. I generally know where stuff is. But somehow, in the course of the party, the TV remote went missing, too. Our house was becoming a vortex for battery-operated items. Lithium ion or AAA. There was no prejudice.

We spent the better part of New Year’s day searching for the camcorder and the remote. We stripped beds, emptied drawers. Even went through the garbage. You may remember that my littlest one has a certain affection for the trash can. No luck on either item. Mary Claire suggested a prayer to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things and missing persons. Richard said no. This is not lost. Just misplaced. And Richard has a very specific opinion about praying for material possessions. So we kept looking.

You know that feeling. It’s maddening.

The next day, after church we shared our story with our dear and very tall pastor. He said if St. Anthony doesn’t come through, try St. Expedite. Of course, just the mere fact that there is a St. Expedite was a crack up.

When we got home, we started the process of “one last look” through all the places we’d already looked about 15 times. Finally, I said our prayer to St. Anthony isn’t for the misplaced item, but for my sanity, which at the rate we were going was certain to be lost. A quick prayer.

Two minutes later.

“I turned that chair upside down,” said Richard as I reached behind the cushion for the third or fourth time. Lo and behold, I found the TV remote. It was stuck in the folds of fabric. It’s a recliner. Three cheers! But really. Who actually cares about the stupid remote? I wanted to find that blasted camera.

We devoted another few hours, cleaned the laundry room. Which was good. Went through the linen closet. Also good. But no camera. Found a missing piece to a wooden puzzle. Another bonus. Our labors were definitely bearing some fruit. (That glass is always half full.)

That night, as Richard took out the trash for Monday pickup, he checked it all again. Heads were reeling. Mine the most. MC was occasionally drawn to tears. Who could blame her?

We had to free ourselves. Sat down for dinner. Watched “Despicable Me.: (Cute movie.) Then started the bedtime routine. Defeated.

While in the little kids’ room, MC came in and said, “What’s that saint Fr. Mike said ask for help?”

“Expedia.” I replied.  After laughing and being laughed at (which as a parent of two teenagers, is part of the sound track of my life), we remembered it was St. Expedite. We said a prayer. No joke, two minutes later, I’m standing in Lillian and Cliff’s closet, I’d checked all the bins in all of the cubbies, was ready to turn off the light, only to peer over the cubbie unit to see in the maybe 3-inch space between the shelves and the wall, there, in the far corner, was Mary Claire’s camcorder.

“Eureka!” I shouted. Because that’s what normal people shout. And I presented the camera to cheers from Richard and MC. But then I pondered aloud.

“How could Cliff have done this?” It never made sense that the kid even had his hands on the thing. We’re kind of pros at keeping stuff out of his reach – since he throws EVERYTHING.

Lillian said, “I did it.”

And there stood Miss Lil, who promptly put her thumb in her mouth. Hiding, of all things, a smile.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Daddy threw away my tricycle.” Which, you know. HE DIDN’T. Then she said, “When is it MY birthday?”

For a flash, it felt like Little Women. When Amy burns Jo’s book because Jo is going to the theater and Amy has to stay at home and do school work. Except the fact that Jo DID actually go to the theater. And Amy DID have to stay home and do homework.

So my dear and delightful four-year-old has a vindictive streak that she apparently acts on based on her delusions.  Excellent.

Well, St. Anthony couldn’t come through because the camera wasn’t lost. It was stolen. So, special thanks to St. Expedia dot com. But after I realized that Lillian watched us for two days tear apart the house, my next question to our pastor was: NOW which saint do turn to for intercession?

St. Expeida dot com pray for me!

I think I’ve been fooling myself that I am sort of a successful parent. My kids are competent, generally well-mannered, somewhat conscious of personal hygiene, often thoughtful. And it hasn’t been without a great deal of effort on our part. We even reminisce, “Boy, that Mary Claire sure gave us a run for our money as a little one,” or “When he was five, Henry’s energy level was right off the Richter scale.” And, of course, we’re still cutting our teeth with all-things-crazy, keeping up with Lillian’s imaginary universe…

… but then there is Cliff.

I'm innocent

I know, I’ve blogged about the hitting. I’ve blogged about the throwing.

By now, I feel like I should be able to blog about some success story. You know, how we taught him to stop hitting us and whipping hard and heavy objects at our heads. But, I’m embarrassed to say, we’re not anywhere near there.

Yes. I know he’s only 19 months old. But I thought we’d turn some sort of a corner and at least see some improvement. The only improvement is in his aim. Which is freakish. We’ve pretty much stripped the play area and house of blocks, trucks, cars, anything that may draw blood on impact. (Learning today that books are also on that list, since he whips ’em like a Frisbee. Bam, right near Henry’s eye. Yikes.)

We bought a bin of light-weight balls hoping for less damage. Yes, he throws them,  but not with as much satisfaction, so he’ll quickly move on to canned goods or something weightier. I found some heavier Nerf-type foam balls. Those are okay. But a little big, also not as satisfying.  And I’m afraid he’ll bite them. We finally came up with the idea to make small polar-fleece bean bags, with a little stuffing for head-and-face cushioning. They offer a little weight but soften the blow (just in case).

We’ve been trying to teach him what he can hit (a punching bag, a pillow, a blow-up bop bag) and what he can throw and where he can throw it (you know, like not at my head or at the TV). He’s already dented the fridge, the stainless garbage can.  The walls. The dishwasher. My ego.

Setting him up with stuff he can hit and throw feels counter-intuitive to our parenting style. We would really like to teach him NOT to throw things and not to hit altogether. But Richard and I have discussed, that it seems as though he actually needs to swing that darn arm. He spreads out his legs, cocks that arm back and gets ready to let it rip. Maybe a hundred or more of times a day. If his hand is empty, he swings it at something (or someone) and hits it, if he’s got a grip on something, he aims at a target, swings his arm back and ka-pow. You’d better duck. Nine out of 10, your battleship is sunk.

So, since the time-out trick is generally useless at this age, after a non-regulation hit or throw, I pretty much have to sit down at that moment and hold that little anaconda in my arms in sort of a human straight jacket for a minute or two. I calmly tell him not to hit or throw ____ at ______.  And if a human target was involved, instruct him to “apologize” (which, for him, is a sweet lovey head lean/cuddle). All this stopping makes for very productive days.

The good news: the hitting and throwing doesn’t seem to be rooted in either malice or aggression. (That isn’t to say he doesn’t glean some satisfaction from the whoops and wails that follow after he’s clobbered an unsuspecting bystander.)  The bad news: I’m exhausted and, wait, (did I mention this?) pretty much feel like a completely incapable idiot.

Case in point: Tonight after dinner, I presented Cliff with his milk, and in a fake-out reach, he cocked his arm back and clubbed that sorry plastic green-lidded Toy Story cup out of my unclenched hand and clear across the room, smashing it into a wall. And here’s where the idiot part comes in, I should have known.

From the other side of the dinner table, my dear spouse looked at me and calmly recommended that perhaps I leave the house for a little while. Then he added a sympathetic, “If you don’t come back, know I’ll be sad.” Then he glanced at Cliff, “But, I’ll understand.”

St. Monica. Pray for me.