Three minutes. If my math is correct, that’s 180 seconds. That’s not a lot of time. I mean, it takes me at least 15 minutes to get out of bed in that morning so three measly minutes is like the blink of an eye.

And it would be ludicrous to me if someone suggested that I could actually clean in three minutes time. Are you kidding? It take me three minutes to survey the clutter to decide what can get put away and what can get shoved under the coffee table (Honey, if you’re reading this, don’t look under the coffee table).

But the fine folks at Clorox set out to prove me wrong. Three minutes is enough time to do some serious cleaning. They even created a cute cartoon-themed e-book called, If Mom Had Three Minutes that highlights some creative ways to spend three minutes.

After reading this e-book I realized that I’m pretty darn creative with getting my kids to do my work for me encouraging my kids to clean.  In fact, if you give a six-year-old a baby wipe and tell him to go to town on door jams and light switches, he will think you gave him the keys to the car.  A squirt bottle with water and vinegar and a wash cloth bestowed upon a six year old also works just great.  Bonus points if you break out the stopwatch and see how fast he can get it done.  (Or is that just my kid?)

Anyway, go check out the e-book and let me know what you think.  Because, lord knows, we could all use three minutes.

Disclosure: I am being compensated by The Clorox Company to talk about my favorite time-saving, multi-tasking tip(s) as part of the If Mom Had Three Minutes program. 

TheMonk is in his usual spot on the couch. It’s the spot that has a power strip hanging over the side that he has his iPod plugged into. The iPod, on this day, is plugged into travel speakers and he listens to his music while singing along.

TheMonk mimics his current favorite, Carrie Underwood’s Jesus Take the Wheel, perfectly hitting the high notes with his young, prepubescent voice. I am not paying too close attention as he sings but I am aware that he is, as ever, ensconced in the music.

I vaguely sense that the song has changed and before a few moments have passed, I recognize Katy Perry’s voice singing on the iPod. TheMonk and I make eye contact and he looks at me with the seriousness of a straight and narrow six-year-old and says, “Daddy. Katy Perry says a bad word in this song.”

Immediately my mind races to the catalog of Katy Perry songs that I have indexed in my brain. Last Friday Night jumps to the front and I begin to race through the lyrics in my head looking for the bad word that that hussy Katy Perry surely uttered.

But TheMonk beat me to it. “She says, Daddy, SHUT UP.”

The seriousness and somber tone that TheMonk delivers this sad news is difficult to replicate in the written word but suffice it to say that we had to pause for a moment of reflection and silence. When I make eye contact again I realize that the boy is expecting me to say something.

“Oh, right. ‘Shut up’ is very rude to say, isn’t it?” I ask, hoping that the reverent tone in my voice adequately matches the expectations of TheMonk. It seems to as he solemnly nods and turns back to his music. By this time, the music has changed again.

Ah, Taylor Swift, where have you been?

GirlyGirl is almost 10 and a half months. Time flies when you are outnumbered by kids. Milestones are flying at us at a rate that is hard for this old man to keep up with. Just this week GirlyGirl went from zero teeth to three teeth and is not too happy about it. Her refusal to nap, one would think, would leave her cranky and bitter but that seems to only have affected her parents.

It’s hard not to compare but with the twins they were napping twice a day. Nice, long naps. Naps that meant Mommy and Daddy could have a little respite from babydom for just a little while. I was the only reason we showered, I think.

This one, however, has a mind of her own. Schedule? Nap? If I damn well say so, she says. It’s times like this that I have to remind myself that we chose to have this one.

Another milestone that is creeping up on us is crawling. She has been combat crawling for a number of weeks now but is clearly ready. However “clearly ready” to me is clearly not “clearly ready” for GirlyGirl. Her personality seems to be such that she is measured in what she does and will only attempt something new if she has practiced and practiced and practiced. The girl can climb stairs but won’t crawl on hands and knees.

In spite of the speed that we are traveling down baby #3, I am aware that I’m going to miss all the things I’m complaining about. Someday, too soon, she won’t need me to give her a bottle and rock her to sleep. Someday too soon, she’ll be almost seven, complete with attitude. Someday soon, she’ll call me Daddy and the little embraces I get will be a thing of the past.

Milestones are cool but I’ll take them a slower pace, please.

Swee’Pea, seeing the remnants of our old blender tucked away in the pantry, suddenly looks up at me as I tend the pancakes on the griddle. “Daddy, did you know you can get a Ninja Blender?”

Thinking there is a punchline to the joke forthcoming, I ask her to continue.

“Yes, while some blenders leave the nutrients of vegetables you blend behind, the Ninja Blender does not. And you know how much it costs? Not, $300. Not $200. Not even $100. You can buy it with four easy payments of $39.95.”

Hmmmm… Maybe her mother was right about limiting the amount of TV she watches (and maybe spend that time with her math skills).

But, damn, I think she’s right. I need that Ninja blender.

*(This is not an endorsement of this product. It’s a sure sign that my daughter is watching informercials instead of Nick Jr. Buy this product at your own risk. If you do buy this product, let me know how it works. I’m really interested.)

It’s Friday. Which means the favorite clothes have been worn and the kids are reduced to bargaining with their dad over what they can and cannot wear. Normally, this back and forth is with Swee’Pea. I have often said that I could hand TheMonk a garbage bag with holes for arms and a head and he’d put it on with no argument.

But not today.

It’s threatening rain here in paradise – so our normal shorts and t-shirt attire is out of the question. Unfortunately, the entire week has been a bit chilly and TheMonk has worn all of his pants. I am skeptical when he tells me he has no pants left so I check his drawer. Sure enough, there is one pair of jeans in the drawer.

I pull the stylishly faded jeans out and hand them to TheMonk. “But Daddy,” he says. “I don’t like those jeans. When I put them on, they squeeze my booty too much.”

Upon closer inspection, I realize that these jeans, bought with love by Grandmother, are tapered and would probably fall into the “skinny jean” category of fashion.

“Okay, Buddy.” I laugh. “Lets dig some jeans out of the hamper to wear. I don’t want your booty to be squeezed.”

Now let’s just hope he doesn’t learn of the sagging jean trend. Then I’m really in trouble.

She sits on the chair in her Sunday best.  The chaos around her is the rest of us rushing to get ready for church services on this Easter Sunday.  She is oblivious to the chaos, however, as she quietly reads her book.

The book was a gift from the Easter Bunny and it’s a chapter book about Fancy Nancy and some mysteries.  Swee’Pea has yet to put it down.  As we leave for church she implores me to allow her to bring the book along.  While we want her to start listening to the service more, I acquiesce and allow her to bring it along knowing there will be time to kill before mass.

She reads it in the car to church and on the way home.  As I prepare lunch she is fervently bent over the book and I announce that lunch is almost ready and that she should find a good spot to stop reading.  She tells me, with a proud smile, that she has only two more pages.  Lunch is ready but I tell her that I have a bit more to do before lunch is served.  She smiles and buries her head into her book for the final push while I wander around the kitchen pretending I have things to do.

With a flourish, she is finished.  She closes the book and approaches the table.  “I’m done, Daddy” she says.  And she was.  Thirteen chapters in half a day at six years old.  I’m amazed at how big she is getting and I smile at her and tell her how proud I am of her.

Then we sit down for egg salad sandwiches and she tells me about the book.  I hope it’s the first of many book reports.

I am helping TheMonk get out of his car seat in a crowded parking lot.  Lovely wife is helping Swee’Pea and I know I will have to also get GirlyGirl out of her car seat momentarily.  I am always a bit nervous with the kids in a parking lot and I am focused on getting everyone out safely on into IKEA as quickly and safely as possible.

“Excuse me, Sir.” A voice beckons from the rear of our SUV.  “I am hungry and I was wondering if you could spare any money.”

I look over and see a young man with dirty clothes, looking at me.  Our eyes meet and I can see the look of hunger in his eyes.  Often, I question the authenticity of these types of requests.  Particularly from someone who is young and seemingly free of physical disabilities.  But on this day, I think differently.  I think differently because, for the first time, TheMonk is at my side.  I can feel his little eyes taking in the situation as I pull out my wallet and hand the young man a $1 bill.  “Good luck.” I say, because I can’t think of anything else that seems appropriate.  “Thank you.” he says, taking the bill and stuffing it into his pocket.  He wanders away, looking for others who may hear his plea.

I instinctively reach for TheMonk’s hand.  Finally, TheMonk speaks. “Daddy, why did he ask you for money?”

I look quickly into his eyes and I see concern etched with confusion.  “He asked me for money, Monkey, because he was hungry and needed money to buy food.”

“And why did you give it to him?” he asks.

“I gave it to him, Bud, because we are very fortunate to have the things we do and if I can help someone else who isn’t as fortunate, then I will help.”

TheMonk takes this in.  He takes my hand and walks over to his mother while I go to get GirlyGirl out of the car.

The moment is over.  But I hope the lesson stays.

GirlyGirl has been a roller.  Much like TheMonk was as a baby, GirlyGirl’s preferred method of locomotion has been rolling herself where she wants to go.  This method of transportation can be tedious and inexact at times and it was only a matter of time before GirlyGirl began contemplating other modes of travel.  And while it has been reported that she allegedly wanted her first trip in a straight line to be in a silver 1956 Porsche 356A Speedster, reality hit hard when she realized that not only could she not drive, her old man couldn’t pay for a 1956 tricycle.

So, she did the next best thing.  Combat crawl.

That’s right. GirlyGirl is a girl on a mission.  She sees what she wants and she’s off.  Knee, knee, elbow, elbow.   Knee, knee, elbow, elbow.   All she’s missing is a combat helmet and an assault rifle.  She skims across the floor, her baby belly cleaning the floor of dust and potentially lethal antique food items.  She has no fear.

Her parents, on the other hand?  Oh, yes.  Fear. Definitely fear.

It started out as a simple question as TheMonk and I walked down the halls of the YMCA that I run. “Daddy, what are those bananas for?” You see, the walls are currently covered in banana trees made of paper with each banana naming a current donor to our Annual Support Campaign fundraiser.

“Those are people who donated some of their money to our YMCA so that kids who don’t have any money can play sports or go to camp or take swim lessons.” I told him.

Evidently this stuck with him because later that night, as I was tucking him into bed, he announced to me that he had been thinking of the bananas and wanted to give some of his money from his piggy bank. Touched by this, I told him I would be happy to bring his donation to work. He then pledged to give the Y $1.25.

Swee’Pea, the next day, upon hearing of this, wanted to give too. She fished out $6.26 and handed it over to me so that she could help kids go to camp. TheMonk, in a moment of extreme altruism (or sibling rivalry, it’s hard to say which) matched Swee’Pea’s pledge. This morning, I proudly brought $12.52 to the Y on behalf of Swee’Pea and TheMonk.

I then mentioned this in an email to my board and staff and, to my surprise, over a dozen people have responded saying they will match the $12.52. One very generous donor said they would pledge $1,252 in honor of Swee’Pea and TheMonk.

As I write this, I’m humbled and proud of what my kids have done. They have not only done something to help their fellow friends, but they have inspired others to do so as well.

If you are equally inspired, would you can pledge any amount you would like (but $12.52 has a nice ring to it) by going here and filling out the online form. Thank you to all of you.

Having a baby the second time around is definitely different. The first time you have a baby (or, in truly heroic fashion, more than one baby) you do everything by the book. Your house becomes more sterile than an operating room. Anything that belongs to the baby that ends up on the floor must be sanitized – or burned. Binkies get boiled, bottles get warmed, baby books get filled in.

But with the second child? This child is lucky to be alive. This child should thank its lucky stars that after the first one (or two), that we didn’t just throw in the towel and admit that this is all we can handle. This child OWES us. So in that respect, the child gets the shaft. Of course it’s still incredibly loved but dirty binkies now get sucked on by the parent and popped back into the mouth, non-sterilized bottles go down cold and baby books (or blogs) get woefully neglected.

And while it’s easy to say that this child will just have to understand that us parents ARE JUST TRYING NOT TO DIE, the truth of the matter is that this child will grow up to be the tougher one. This is the child that won’t be anal retentive because, shoot, its parents let him juggle knives, for crying out loud. This is the child that, while probably having a hefty therapy bill by the time its 30, will at least be able to take a punch, be tougher and prove to the world that he or she can compete with anyone.

So, while the first (or two) will grow up knowing that running with scissors is bad, the baby will grow up daring the world to toss her some scissors and get the hell out of the way. Yes, she won’t have a baby book but she’ll be making history nonetheless.

And her immune system will kick ass.