Thursday.

Staples.

Blessing #3 is still milking it for all he can. Granted, the kid has got STAPLES in his head. But, really, this weary Moma can only show so much compassion and patience towards her unfortunate victim of a scissor-stabbing.

Monkey Moma: Why aren’t you dressed for school? You need to get downstairs right now!
B#3: I can’t do it. I’ve got staples. How will I get my shirt over my head?

(I remind him that he’s done this exact thing at least twice a day for the last week.)

Even so, rather than asking for that much-needed assistance, he is poring over the Lego magazine that came in yesterday’s mail.

MM: Why aren’t you out of the car yet? You need to get to class right now!
B#3: I can’t. I’ve got staples. The staples make me heavy, and it’s *grunt* hard *grunt, grunt* to move *grunt* my legs *grooooaaaannnn*.

Even so, on the brink of complete helplessness, he is able to somersault and catapult himself over the seats and out to the grass.

We go to get him after school. His teacher leads the class out of the room and down the sidewalk for pick-up.

Except he’s not with them.

I spy him by the building, gazing into the sky. I call his name, and he starts turning in circles, hands cupped around his ears. Amazingly, as he is turning himself dizzy, he catches my eye.

He skips to the car, rocking out to the tunes jammin’ in his head. (For a more accurate mental picture, watch his t-ball video.) His teacher spots him galloping over and heads towards him.

Teacher: Did you get lost from the class?
B#3: Nah. I was just lookin’.

MM: Why didn’t you follow your class? You need to stay with your teacher.
B#3: No, it’s okay…See? She was coming back for me.

He gets in the car, head still bobbing. (Must be a good song playing in there.)

MM: What did you do in class today? Did you have a good time?
B#3: Well, my music teacher asked me about my birthday.
MM: Really? What did she say?

B#3: She said, “Is your birthday blah blah blah-blah.” And I said, “I don’t know. Sure. That sounds pretty good time me.”
MM: What day did she ask? Did she say November 14? ‘Cause that’s your birthday.
B#3: No. That’s not the day she said. But it sounded good enough.

(Insert a slight pause while he thinks.)
B#3: Mom… My toes never have to go potty.
MM: Really, huh.
B#3: Nope. Not my toes. But Mr. Peeps does. I think there’s a squirt gun in his head.

We get home, and I start cooking the mac’n’cheese for lunch. The thought certainly triggered by the observance of my lingering post-baby belly, B#4 spontaneously asks, “Moma, how did the baby get out of your tummy?”

B#3: While we were all sleeping, God reached in and pulled her out, right, Moma? That’s how she got out of your tummy, isn’t it, Mom. God got her out His special way!

He’s a character, that boy. He might seem like he’s off in la-la land, but really his mind is in constant ponder. He is forever speculating and formulating, questioning and theorizing. And daydreaming.

Half the time you’d think he’s not listening to what you’re saying.

And you’d be right. He isn’t.

Ask him his name and he won’t tell you what it is. He’ll spell it for you. At super-sonic speed, all the letters slurring into one mumbly-jumbly word. This is usually met with a look of bewilderment and a “Huh? What was that?” To which he just spells it a little bit slower.

I took all the kids to Kohl’s a few nights ago so that B#3 could get some shirts for school. It was about time to get him out of those shirts that he’s been clinging to, the ones that are his “favorites”… and are three sizes too small.

MM: Oh… look at this one!
B#3: Nah.
MM: You like Star Wars. How about this fun Yoda shirt?
B#3: Nah.
MM: Oh! A Lego shirt! You love Legos.
B#3: Nah.
MM: How about this one?
B#3: Nah.
MM: You’d sure look handsome in this one.
B#3: Nah.

We finally left… with neither the Legos shirt nor the Star Wars shirt… but a Lego-Star Wars shirt. And a Wall-E shirt. And a dinosaur shirt (that came with coordinating flip-flops.) And a Transformers shirt. (It’s not really Transformers, but he thinks it is. As such, it won the top honor of being the “First Day of School Shirt.") He’s into those “designer graphics” tees, it seems. I obliged and bought because I’m just a way cool, totally hip mom. Or maybe it was because they were all half-off.

Designer graphic tees and a pair of “zippy” pants. No zipper on them… but “when you wear them, you can get things done in a zippy,” he says.

As if picking out clothing weren’t a task in itself, leaving the store was just as exciting.

Planning ahead, I’ve got to the double stroller… with B#6 in her carrier in the back and B#5 strapped into the front. I’ve got him contained. Can’t cause any trouble that way, right?

We made a last stop at the shoes on our way to the check-out. I parked the stroller in the middle of the aisle, as I helped B#1 look at these sparkly sequined fancy things that were only $4. I turn back around to find that the entire contents of the shoe shelf in front of the stroller are now piled on the floor.

Boxes off shelves. Shoes out of boxes. Paper wads out of shoes. All on the floor in a magnificent mountain of shoe stuff.

I feel guilty leaving a huge mess on the floor, but with neither the time nor the patience to put all shoes back into their respective boxes, I just pile everything up on the bottom shelf. At least it’s off the floor, right?

(As for Runnin’ and I, we know that this is just job security for those Kohl’s employees. Back in the good ol’ college days, we’d make the midnight run to Wal-Mart, go on a mad shopping spree as we raced through the store grabbing everything in sight. “Oh, I want this! And this, and this, and this!” Then after our carts were overflowing with randomness, we’d park them at the McDonald’s in the back of the store and head home to the dorm. We thought it was hilarious. Some people might say inmature troublemakers. Au contraire. I call it safe, wholesome activity.)

I digress.

As I’m shoving boxes, papers, and mismatched shoes into the shelves, I turn to see that B#s 1-4 (and just those four only because the other two are shackled to the stroller) have gotten the workers’ shepherd’s hooks off the wall and are moving around the shirts on the really high hangers.

MM: Do you work here? You better put those clothes and put those hooks back on the wall. Right now.”

We get in line to pay. Of the six lanes, there is uh, yeah, one open for business. We stand behind Miss I’m-Buying-Out-the-Entire-Teeny-Bopper-Section.

B#6 is now awake and hungry. She fusses for 2.2 seconds and then is belting it out at the top of her lungs. “Give her the soothie,” I tell myself. I reach in to get the pacifier.

No pacifier.

From his front seat, B#5 turns around to grin at me. With a pacifier in his mouth. (Nope. Not his. He hasn’t used one since he was six months old.) I yank it out of his mouth… Pop it in mine… Pull it out and wipe it off with the burpy rag… Plug into baby’s mouth.

Doesn’t work. She’s still screaming. While I’m trying to quiet her (or at least give that appearance to my shopping neighbors, as I know it's a futile effort), I hear flutter-flutter-splat. B#5 has pulled the stack of gift cards out of the rack and spilled them all over the floor.

I start to move him farther away from the check-out counter, but the lane next to us is now open… and customers are in the way.

I reach down to scoop up all the gift cards and see that B#5 has shoved his foot in his mouth and is sucking on his big toe. With a doubly big grin on his face.

I am paying, and I hear the gleeful squeals of B#3 and B#4… and see that they have pulled all 503 stuffed animals off the shelves… those ones Kohl’s puts at the end of the counters for that impulse $5 buy. Albeit a worthy help-the-children cause, the placement of these toys is frustrating… kinda like kid-height candy racks in the grocery store check-out.

Far surpassing the magnificence of Mt. Shoe Boxes is Mt. Charity Toys.

MM: You put every single one of those back on the shelves. Right now.

“Why?” I ask, as we’re walking to the car. “Why did you pull all of those down? And why did you pile them up on the floor?”

B#3: Well, the elephants and the tigers were in a club together. But not the polar bears. They weren’t in the elephant and tiger club. Then the polar bears had to fight them. And, sooo-oo... they were all wrestling.

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