Lea Geller

Here’s what I know for sure: No amount of begging, cajoling, or threatening will motivate my kids to behave quite like the bad fortunes of a sibling.

To wit, Efram spent most of Friday afternoon and evening in the doghouse (Sidney who spends her life trying to figure out what we are talking about, also wants to go to the doghouse. She also really wishes she were able to hold her horses). Efram doesn’t spend much time there, but when he does, a certain older brother and younger sister spring into action. Bennett and Frances, who both refuse to do chores they haven’t thought of themselves (really, I don’t need you to spontaneously clean the freezer or rearrange my makeup drawer) set the table for Friday night dinner:

You may not be able to see this clearly, but there are place cards as well as napkins daintily shoved into glasses.

Last week when I asked them to set the table they left the silverware in a pile in the middle of the table, and heaped all the napkins on one of the chairs, only three people got glasses, and a place was not set for  yours truly.

But this week, Efram was in trouble, and truly nobody shines like a sibling trying to get a leg up. The two of them were falling all over themselves to be of use to me, like obsequious bell hops:

“Is there anything else we can do to help Mummy? Wow, this dinner smells delicious — did you make it?” No, the chicken soup fairy flew in and shvitzed in the kitchen while I got my nails done and read People.

I awoke this week to news that the U.S. military had scrapped its ban on women in combat. I don’t know what took them so long. Not only are woman supremely qualified to defend their country, but as a mother, I have spent about 10 years in basic training. Here’s what I can handle:

1. Leave no man behind: Last week, in a moment of weakness, M confessed to me that not only did he lose Fiona (4) when I was away last month, but that he also lost Sidney (2).

In downtown Seattle.

I know exactly how this happened. I have seen M walk with the children. Stroller-less, he walks among them, as one of the pack. Sometimes, he leads, sometimes he follows. But he always assumes the children are like ducklings, and that as long as they can see him, they will fall in line.

I don’t know the first bloody thing about ducks, but I know for sure that small human children will follow the shiniest, brightest thing they see, and if that’s a pedophile with some tin foil in his hands, so be it.

When I walk with the kids I make sure they are either bolted down, or that I have a hand on each of the little ones. In short, I let no man, or toddler, fall behind.

2. Mutiny/Insurgency: A daily occurrence. This week it took the form of me, in a rare moment of peace, listening to "Candy’s Room" in the kitchen while nursing a cup of tea.

Living with a toddler really is like housing a terrorist. At any moment she could blow and we can do nothing but react. There are no steps of prevention, no safety measure to take. We just wait. And our choices are limited to: 1) remove her and 2) remove her quickly.

Yesterday we had the brilliant idea that Sid and I would accompany my husband, M, and our other four kids to Snoqualmie for ski lessons. I would be an extra pair of hands to ‘help’ M get them all to their classes and then back to the car at the end. And what could be more brilliant than bringing an ornery 2-year-old along?

She screamed and yelled for two hours straight. At one point I took her out of the lodge because she was making so much damn noise. But it was cold outside and we had to steer clear of Fiona’s class, because when she saw us she cried, plopped down in the snow, and refused to move.

Today wasn’t much better. I bravely took all five kids to the dentist (happy MLK day to me!), where she was mostly an angel. She was great in the chair, but while waiting for the others, she snuck in and stole all the no-cavity prizes from the box.

Later, at a coffee shop, she threw such a tantrum we had to leave early because I was getting snarky looks from all the laptop users (get an office, people).

I think at this point we are going to leave her at home until she is 3.

Wanna watch her?

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About Lea Geller
I’m a part-time lawyer, full time mother of five (ages 9 and down)… Currently in sunny Seattle. People ask how I manage it all, and I like to say that I do lots of things, but none of them very well. That’s my secret…. In a house of seven strong, distinct personalities, I always seem to have a story to tell. I suppose I got tired of people telling me, ‘You have to write this down!” So, I finally did, and blogging about our large mishaps, small triumphs, and other adventures, has helped hold my sanity together, albeit loosely.

Check out the rest of Lea's family's adventures on her blog, This Is the Corner We Pee In.

It was pretty clear, from the moment the boys were born, that I’d never have two sons like Doctors Niles and Frasier Crane, no matter how much I wished for them. There are no matching sweater-vests in my future, and if given the choice between a Maria Callas tribute or gouging their eyes out with a butter knife, I’m pretty sure the boys would bid their eyesight adieu.

But I was not prepared for the enormous role that sports, especially football, would play in their lives, and as a result, in mine.

A few football observations:

1. I am not a stupid person. I may not have been able to hack high school physics, but I ably followed this whole fiscal cliff episode, and I still understand about one fourth of Prufrock. Still, I am not being glib when I say that I cannot for the life of me understand how this game of football is played.

I know there are goals at each end of the field, and I know that it’s a big deal when the ball gets into one of them, but everything that happens in between is a complete and utter mystery. What on earth is a “down” and why on earth does the game stop and start so much?

This has all been explained to me many, many times, but none of it sticks. I suppose I could make room in my brain for it, but then I’d have to get rid of something else. I got rid of all of French history to make room for Star Wars characters, and what little Shakespeare I grasped had to go to make room for Ninjago.

Do I really have to wipe out something else?

2. Entire nations can crumble in the time it takes for a game to be played. The boys used to fool me and say, “We’ll come up for dinner when the game is done. There are only fourteen minutes left.” Fourteen minutes, I quickly, learned,  is a football eternity. Every time  one of those enormous men drops the ball, the whole thing comes to a screeching halt. The whole thing has as much fluidity as a bumper car. We’re talking hours here.

Fifteen years ago, M and I got engaged. It happened to be on the fifth night of Hanukkah, so each year we’ve done something special on that night to commemorate the occasion. By “something special” I mean that I usually demanded an out-of-the-ordinary, show-stopping present and sulked if I didn’t get one.

Often we’d go out for dinner. Maybe even a movie. Never both. Both would require leaving the beasts with a sitter for four hours in the evening. Both is for a really, really big occasion and we haven’t had one of those yet.

This year, on night two or three of the Festival of Lights, M turned to me while driving and said, “I’ve gotten you something really cool this year for the fifth night. I think you’ll like it.”

Crap. The fifth night. I had been so busy dealing with the kids and their loot that I’d completely forgotten M. It wasn’t until he said it that I even realized that this year was 15 for us. After all these years he no longer needed reminding. (This was probably because I’d all but traumatized him with my expectations.) But I did forget. I sucked.

Luckily, I had ordered a rather snazzy looking pair of Superman pajama pants from Old Navy for him. He is notoriously hard to shop for.  Outlandish pajama pants are a good, but safe bet. I tried to think of something else, but I was all out of ideas.

The pants were a big hit. At least with the kids. M was both grateful and gracious. And then he gave me MY gift. I opened a box and found a necklace with a pendant in the shape of a giant vagina. With a gem shoved smack in the middle of it. That’s right, a giant gem-encrusted vagina to hang around my neck.

I took a deep breath. If M was alright with Old Navy pajama pants (which would have been grounds for divorce had I been the recipient), then I’d be damned if I couldn’t be gracious as well.

“Oh look!” I said. “A giant vagina necklace!”

And that folks, is my best shot at gracious.

“That’s your response?” he said.

I feel guilty about many things. I hate reggae. I find Zadie Smith largely unreadable (too much dialect). I find Homeland largely unwatchable (that Carrie is a complete and utter moron. You don’t make a pass at Mandy Patinkin, darling. You throw yourself at his feet and beg him to break into song).

But none of it compares with how guilty I feel each time I realize that despite my best efforts, my children have turned into craven materialists. If you pulled each of them aside and asked them how to define “love,” I am quite certain that each — from the snarky 10-year-old to the chubby little 2-year-old — would say, “Love is presents, lots and lots of presents.”

When you live away from grandparents, often a visit does mean presents. My mother -in-law used to come with a bag covered in small pockets, in which she’d tuck little presents for the children. Upon her arrival she’d plop down the bag and let the kids have at it, pushing each other aside and tearing the bag to pieces in their search for loot.

I knew it had gotten especially bad when a friend of mine (let’s call her Vanessa) came to visit. My two boys snuck into her bedroom, dug through her luggage, and came running out with several large, wrapped tampons.

“Look! Vanessa even wrapped our gifts!”

I snatched the bulky white torpedoes from their little hands and promised them chocolate if they’d busy themselves in another room.

Eight nights of Hanukkah present an especially big challenge. We certainly don’t do presents every night, but we like to do something — go skating or to a Hanukkah party, and last year we felt especially smug because we added a charity component.

Still, the kids have gotten it into their warped little minds that eight nights means eight opportunities for their parents to show them just how much they are loved.