Happy New Year!

The Burrus triplets have put together a little pictorial essay to help give you an idea of what to expect of your New Year's celebration.




8:05 PM

Champagne? Well...maybe just one glass.











Midnight

Happy New Year, everybody!!
Who wants Jello shots?!?!










8:00 AM

New Year's resolution #1:
No more Jello!!

Surviving Tuesday

For each day, I try to have but one goal. Some days it's a quest for clean underwear, sometimes it's a walk around the neighborhood -- small, but incredibly significant things. For the past several Tuesdays, I've meant to take Jack to story time at Barnes and Noble at the Summit. Each time, something would intervene -- laundry, crying fits, an unavoidable grocery run -- but I was determined that this Tuesday would be the one. Thanks to our very own Supernanny, Tessa, I was able to get Jack fed and dressed for the day, myself bathed, dressed and hair dried (I cannot stress how huge the last step was for me), and the trips fed and happily napping by 10:30 a.m. I knew the reading time began at 11, so we headed for the door. Jack pulled his hand free of mine to rub his nose and say, "Huhts... scratchy." We're all suffering from the effects of gas heat, so I gave him a quick dose of Dimetapp, and we were once again on our way.

Only after I took the shortcut through Cahaba Heights and began making my way down Summit Boulevard did it dawn on me that this is the week before Christmas. I...am...an...idiot. Oh, well. We were almost to the bookstore with a minute or two to spare. I actually found a parking place directly in front of the bookstore and took it as a sign that God was smiling. Turns out God was laughing at my predicament instead. We made our way to the children's section at the back of the store -- dodging people filled with holiday cheer all the way (did that woman really throw an elbow? Oh wait, that was me) -- only to arrive in front of a large sign that announced story time takes place on Wednesdays, not Tuesdays. Thankfully, I had put on my big girl panties that morning and decided we'd just make the best of it. I decided to spring for Goodnight Moon for Jack's bedtime. It's completely mind-numbing for adults but apparently taps in to a toddler's need to bid a nightly farewell to everything from his Daddy and the dog, to the wall and the heating vent. With a saintly halo hovering inches above my head, I sat on the tiny tot benches, and with my knees next to my ears began to have my own story time with my lovely and attentive son Jack. Only my attentive son was in no mood for bedtime fare at mid-day and had climbed on to the story reading stage and was dancing to the overhead Christmas Carols.

Still...the day wasn't a total bust. Jack was having a good time with mommy, right? That is until he danced too close to the edge of the stage. Before I could disentangle my knees from my neck, he'd toppled off the stage and cracked his chin on one of the oh, so cute tot benches. I couldn't decide if he bit his tongue or the inside of his lip, but there was some blood. From the onlookers rained a hail of "I told you so" glances in my direction. A few, upon making eye contact with each other, took it a step further to "Some people just shouldn't have children" eyebrow raises. I crooned nonsense to Jack until he stopped crying. Thankfully he's tough. I mopped the blood from his lip only to realize I had no tissue. Covertly, I wiped my fingers inside the cuff of my jeans, and slunk to the checkout counter to pay for Goodnight Moon and the Backyardigans book I quickly snagged to say "sorry for letting you almost brain yourself at the bookstore, but mommy really loves you anyway."

We made it out the door and into the ever increasing crowd of shoppers. I realized it was now lunchtime, and decided to make a Zoe's run. Jack loves their pasta and the fruit cup, so I hoped it would help him forget his scraped chin and bloody mouth. I found a pretty decent parking space near Zoe's. I opted to carry Jack instead of letting him walk simply for the sake of speed. Once inside, I realized we were 10th in line, but it was moving quickly. I made it to the front and ordered something for myself and Tessa, putting Jack down long enough to pay. As I settled him on my hip once more, I began to realize that Zoe's food didn't really smell as appetizing as usual. I wondered if their feta was a bit old, or if a cantaloupe had been allowed to rot in the garbage can nearby. Suddenly, I identified the smell. It was coming from Jack. Once again, poop -- my arch nemesis -- had foiled me again. It was one trauma too many. I briefly contemplated cleaning him up in the van, but quickly discarded that idea owing to the fact that every flat surface was occupied by a car seat base. Since we were only 5 minutes from home, and Jack seemed fine with his state of being, I opted to take the easy way out and wait until I made it back to my own turf.

We arrived safe at home, the poop was disposed of, and Jack took a nap. He then awoke with a fever and got rushed to the pediatrician where we found he has an ear infection and impetigo (which is a type of strep infection I had never heard of and couldn't spell well enough to Google it). His poor nose really did "huht." Today, he's feeling great and doing fine. He even made it to his school Christmas party -- "canny canes" are a new favorite.

There's no moral to this story. Just best wishes to all for a safe and blessed holiday filled with family and friends. Also, if your mom fails to come through with exactly what you wanted, just know that she loves you and was probably trying really hard. But after getting you through childhood, she just doesn't have a lot left to work with upstairs.

P.S. Please don't tell Santa about this site -- I might never make it back on the good list.

Variation On A Theme

I know you all must think our life revolves around poop, but with four un-potty-trained butts in the house, it does make up a large portion of our lives. Last night was no exception. At 1 AM, Jason and I were just beginning our feeding routine. I had changed Sam's diaper and settled down on the sofa to give him his bottle. All seemed well until a desperate cry rang out from the next room, "Oh!! Oh no! OH GOD!!!"

"What is it? What's wrong?" I shouted as a I raced to Jason's side. He stood motionless, hands poised near but not touching a wiggling Tom as he lay on the changing table. In the darkened room, I was at a loss to discern what had happened. Finally, Jason was able to choke out,
"Tom just did...Ugh!" The unmistakable odor hit me.
"...it went all over" (waving his arm toward the baby bed three feet to his right)
"...I can't even find" (wild gestures toward the wipes box covered in unmentionable gore)
...It's everywhere!"

I recognized the beginnings of shock, and wondered if I should make Jason lie down and try to keep warm. But that would make him unavailable for clean up detail, so I dubbed him 4F and advanced to the next order of business. Of course, the only other wipes were upstairs. So I ditched Sam in the bouncy seat (thank God he's the laid back one), and raced to retrieve them. Upon my return, I turned up the lights so we could see the full extent of the devastation. Casualties included the diaper changing table, the changing pad, the wipes container, the diaper genie on the floor below, the baby bed, the bumper pads, the crib sheets, the wall and possibly the carpet. It's a really great berber that doesn't show stains easily, so who knows. We gave it a quick rub down and moved on. Thankfully, my husband is the greatest, so we were laughing about it before we'd even managed to get the whole mess cleaned up. We were just so relieved that Will and Jack stayed asleep during the entire fiasco, that we were practically giddy. Jason re-wiped everything with a Clorox wipe so we could at least feel we'd done our parental duty, and we resumed normal activity.

If anyone would be interested in joining us at the Burrus Zoo, we're thinking of selling tourist packages to those who are bold in both body and spirit. Just like with any safari into the wilds, we can't guarantee what you'll see once you get here. But the odds are in your favor for one whale of an adventure.

Jack shows Will how to kick back in his own baby bed.

Jack and Sam share a snuggle while we get everyone ready for our Christmas pic. Thanks to Lisa Mills for the beautiful blankets -- they made an awesome backdrop for our amateur photo session.

Left to Right: Tom, Jack, Will and Sam

A Christmas Story

I sit here tonight chilled and waiting for the heater to catch up with the cold night air. I've been doing a bit of a dance with the furnace today -- 71 degrees is too cold, the heat just never comes on, and 73 degrees seems to be just a bit too hot for my taste and the boys' as well. My little ones, in particular, are a tough crowd to please. When it's too warm in their room, they can't stand to be swaddled. If they aren't swaddled, they punch each other and themselves in the nose causing much crying and fretting among us all. So the quest for the perfect temperature is very critical in my house. Also, I've begun the process of welcoming the holidays into our home. The tree is up, and most of the decorations are on. All the boys' presents are bought and hidden from the path of a very busy Jack. And as the mercury drops lower and lower, I can finally believe Christmas is coming once again.

The Alabama weather never fails to disappoint as Christmas rounds the corner. A stint in the lower 70s is designed to make the pre-holiday drop to freezing just that much more impressive. Nowhere was it more noticeable than our family home. It began its life as a small ranch house, and was expanded by my dad's own hands to accommodate the large brood that came to populate it. This resulted in a heating system that was seemingly patterned after a game of Russian Roulette. Some rooms were acknowledged as "cold rooms" and served as a weathering station for outside plants waiting for another spring to roll around. They also provided chilly storage for seldom used items and Christmas surprises. Others, located closer to the main source of heat might singe your eyebrows to a frizzy crisp. From Arctic tundra to desert sands, we had it all within our grasp.

An ancient coal burning furnace was our only weapon in the fight for climate control. The coal itself was a wonder to my small mind. Smelling both of the oil it once was and the smoky ash it would become, it started the winter as towering pile of shiny black gems right in our own backyard and ended up a sad scattering of castoffs too small to be chosen for the coal bucket. I remember being warned not to play in the cold rooms because the chill might make me sick, but conversely was never discouraged from my outdoor ramblings, which often included scaling Mount Coal and skittering back to the bottom again and again. The entire mountain was eventually sacrificed into the glowing red mouth of that gluttonous machine in our basement -- one that my father was constantly coaxing back from the brink of a smoky death. I'll never forget returning home from our church's Christmas pageant on a freezing Sunday night only to find our coal-fired dragon suffering from a severe case of indigestion, belching gouts of black soot from every register and leaving it to settle on each flat surface and nestle in every nook. I'd been an angel in that year's production -- perhaps they were casting against type -- complete with wings made from coat hangers covered in white butcher paper and edged in shiny gold garland. I crinkled with every step as I followed my mother from room to room opening windows and letting the smoky heat filter away as the crisp night air rolled in around our ankles. Daddy braved the basement monster and quickly beat it back into submission, emerging victorious with eyes reddened and nose streaming from the ordeal.

The awful smell of that episode still lingers somewhere in my mind -- called out of seclusion when the temperature dips to the lower end of the scale and Christmas begins to loom large. Part of me thinks the season is a little lackluster without it. Martha Stewart recommends an apple/cinnamon/clove combination to help your home smell like an old fashioned Christmas. It's a pleasant scent, but one that falls far from my own remembrances. In my mind, Santa smells like coal and sawdust and the outdoors -- of peppermint and oranges pilfered from my stocking with a wink and a smile. It's something he and my dad always had in common.