Five Minutes

The baby is awake. She took a lengthy three-hour nap, which is beginning to become a rare occurrence. I run the tap water in the kitchen waiting for it to heat up so I can make a fast bottle. I forgot to pre-warm six ounces of filtered water in anticipation of her waking. I should really use filtered water more often. 

Thankfully she's well-rested and cooing and talking happily as she waits but obviously she's going to be hungry. The water isn't warming fast enough.

My two-year-old comes screaming toward me like he's having bamboo shoots shoved up his fingernails and cowers between my legs. His big brother, three, follows closely yelling the same repetitive nonsense that always sets the house in a rampage. He knows how to torment his brother so well at such a young age.

The water finally warms and I can make the bottle. I try to measure out the three scoops of formula without losing count because the noise volume in the kitchen has reached epic proportions. Even counting to three is a challenge since I have mom brain. I'm also attempting to pour the formula without missing the mouth of the bottle due to the barrage of bumping and shaking from my youngest son who now sounds like he's dying. 

Screw on the top, shake and I'm ready go. Wait. I need a bib and burp cloth since we're now playing upstairs as part of our "rotate the house to not get bored" campaign. 

I finally turn and in one firm word - STOP - my oldest quits yelling. I switch my gaze to the spider monkey locked on my legs so I can briefly comfort him but also reprimand him for the dramatics.

The baby is still jabbering over the monitor.

I head for the stairs and get two steps up when my firstborn tosses his trucks into the large box we emptied early this morning. Thank God for free shipping on baby formula!

"I'm taking this box upstairs," he announces. 

I back pedal the two steps and poke my head around the corner. "That's Mommy's box and it's staying down here." There, that was easy. Turning to go back upstairs toward the baby, I hear, "Mom! I have to go potty!"

Freeze. Sigh. 

"Ok, go potty and let me know if you need help." 

He doesn't put up his usual fight to get me to come with him. As he heads for the bathroom, my littlest son heads for the box of trucks. 

Oldest son stops his potty train of thought when he sees his brother and "Nooooo!! He's getting my trucks!"

Still with bottle in hand, "Your trucks are still yours AFTER you go potty. Go!" Pause for a moment...what was I doing? 

Then I hear the baby who is now no longer content. 

"Don't touch your brother's trucks," I command my youngest as I head for the stairwell once more." He smirks at me as only a stubborn, mischievous two-year-old can. Oh, I'll give you a reason to wipe that look off your face. Crazy turkey. My middle child.

"Mom!!!!!"

Argh! What now? I only made it four steps that time.

"There's pee out the front!"

Now the baby is crying. Poor thing is so hungry!

Pass the littlest boy and give him the "I'm warning you" point with my finger. Frustratingly I set the bottle, bib and burp cloth down and peek in on my kid who won't move from the toilet because there's pee and it could get on him. I do a rudimentary job of cleaning just to get him out of there. I'll remember to come back and sanitize. I will!

Crap. Where did I put the bottle? 

I find it quickly, which is lucky, and run upstairs followed by the two boys. Shutting the door behind me, and probably in their face, I get to my sweet baby whose whimpering turns to smiles when she sees me.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Please stop banging on the door"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Stop banging on the door!"

The trucks have reappeared as ramming rods on my bedroom door. Does the noise ever stop! I stumble/trip over them, making my way to the big boys room and their rocker.

Baby girl proceeds to only eat one ounce and not a drop more. So much for being hungry.