Big Daddy Moth

There is a Big Daddy Moth in the kids' room and he should NOT be in there. A Big Mommy Moth would be fine, so we need to go find one outside. And once the Big Mommy Moth comes into the kids' room, the Big Daddy Moth can stay because he will eat the itty bitty baby bugs that will try to eat Audrey's tummy. Then, and only then, can Sebastian go to sleep.

Pocketwatch

Sebastian was super excited to find a pocket watch in his room.  It's light blue, digital, and has some small buttons on it to change modes.  It's also a pedometer.  Aaron and I are waiting to break it to him, but he's feeling really smart and he usually uses this power to achieve our ends (like telling Audrey it's past bedtime and "We HAVE to go to BED!") so we'll get around to breaking the news... eventually.

Deep Thoughts Bedtime

Aaron and I were watching some post-kids'-bedtime TV when Sebastian walked into the living room.  We knew he wasn't asleep for the previous half hour and he does this quite often, so no surprises there.  Mostly, he comes out after Audrey has given up on throwing toys at him.  She can fall asleep mid-throw.  I've seen it happen.


Sometimes he's bored, sometimes he's scared, sometimes he's reminding us that GASP! "We forgot to go to Chuck E Cheese's!"  Each time, his earnestness is half-heartedly entertained and he is swiftly escorted back to his sleeping quarters where he strategizes with his stuffed dragon for the next attempt, which is rebuffed.

Tonight, he took more of a Jack Handy/Sid the Science Kid approach.  He came out with both hands outstretched as if asking the universe a question, walking swiftly in a circle around the living room: 

"Mom! Dad! When can it be daytime and night time at the SAME TIME?"

Then he leaned his little hip against the doorway with eyes bulging from their sockets, taking in the room after dropping this amazingly deep insight.  For he knew he had done it.  This was going to be different.  

No half-hearted entertaining, no rebuffing, no escort, just two parents with identically furrowed brows and eyes darting back and forth.  Whaaaa...?

We did collect ourselves enough to ask.  Sebastian told us that it was light outside his window and dark in the back yard and insisted that, since it was daytime from his window, it couldn't be bedtime for him.  Good point, we'll have the streetlamp's lightbulb removed in the morning after we escort you back to your bed right now. 

Good NIGHT.

(PS, I really hope this becomes a thing so I can create a good compilation of Deep Thoughts to Distract Your Parents from Bedtime)

Big Brothers Choose Breakfast

Sebastian just walked up to Audrey and asked "Do you want some caaaaandy?" Audrey smiled and said "Mmm hmmm..." to which Sebastian replied "Well we can't HAVE candy! We need our breakfast and we need an EGG!" Now Audrey's crying and they're yelling at each other.

What just happened?    

High-Def Please!

Oh my gosh, Sebastian is crying because the Barney episode on Netflix is not in high definition.  Really crying - tears and wailing kind of crying.  I get it, the episode is pixilated, but can he not SEE the huge purple dinosaur skipping in circles?  The world, as this kid knows it, is over.  If he was older, I would make him write some kind of essay on what it means to cry about your picture quality in a world ravaged by war, hunger, poverty...

Yet I know that none of those lessons would ever truly land, because I know this kind of pain and disappointment in entertainment.  Later, they will be coupled with a singular determination to fix the problem, to continue talking over the show or adjusting the television until a true high definition image appears.  I have seen it before in this house.  It is the reason we got this television.

So help me, I cloned my husband.  

Barney in my Head

My kids are watching Barney right now, which means I'm going to have songs in my head for a week. They might enjoy it, be occupied by it, dance around a little.  Sure, it might be good for them, but think of what it will do to me?

I pick my children's TV shows based on whether the songs will get stuck on my head.  I'm not ashamed to admit that.  And they will never watch Caillou, because the song is catchy and Caillou whines.

They do love Barney, apparently, and they knew about it from preschool.  I knew those other toddlers were bad influences the moment I saw my first Dora backpack in the mini-lockers!  I will say, we've been doing rather well.  Sebastian is almost 4 and has never seen an episode of Barney until today.  

I've hidden this from people: when other parents mention a song or dance that they find themselves doing, I act like I do the same thing.  No, no I don't.  And I haven't for almost four years.  

Until this morning, Barney was relegated to long-buried memories from when my younger sisters watched it incessantly.  They're twins, so one of them was always in a Barney mood.  We moved them over to Gymboree, which I think was filmed in a real gym with a clown (and is probably not legal now,) but then the tape broke.  I did love playing in a laundry basket with the twins, since I was like 11 and when we were done playing Row Row Row Your Boat, my brother and I would use the same laundry basket to surf down the stairs.  The twins are college seniors now.  That's a lot of years of avoiding that Yankee Doodle song.

Now it's over.  Everything I worked for, just gone.

Wait!  Audrey is now hopping around the living room like a frog!  I think Barney has redeemed himself.  I'll keep him on mute in the future.

Whales Eat People. All the Time.

Ever feel like you've had the same conversation over and over?  I feel that way sometimes, mostly because I do have the same conversations over and over.  The top hits include:
Audrey's Hitting Me.
I Have to Go Potty.
I Need to Have Chocolate for Lunch.
The Cat Doesn't Like Me.

Then, there are new conversations that go in and out of style:
Why Are The Pigs Laughing at the Angry Birds?
Santa Claus is Not Coming to My House Today.  (sad face)
I Need to Put on My Iron Man Shirt and Fight the Bad Man on This Movie.

For the most part, I can see these coming.  They're situation-dependent and many of them happen like clockwork.  I do get excited when a new conversation starts like...

"Mom, why do whales eat people?"

Whaaaaaaah?

Do you have any idea how hard it is to get to the context of that question?  He's three.  We don't have a whale in our house, we haven't talked about Jonah, and the only time I could think of him seeing a whale is Finding Nemo.  Of course, the whale does eat the fish and keep them in his mouth until he blows them out to Sydney.  It's traumatic: I have to hold Sebastian's hand from the moment Dory and Marlin get off the East Australian Current.

As I tried to assure him that whales do not eat people, Sebastian presented all kinds of evidence.  First, our new movie The Pirates, where a pirate makes his grand entrance in the belly of a whale.  Then, there's Pinocchio, which Sebastian has only recently watched all the way through.  A little boy on the playground was singing a Veggie Tales song about Jonah.  Now, just when I figured I was safe, Sebastian finds a new PBS Kids show on the iPad where a little boy named Noah and his dad or grandfather get eaten by a whale on a fishing trip. 

Seriously?

I got nothing.  I'm ready for all kinds of conversations.  Bizarre conversations.  Like "I can't find my pizza and green beans under the covers of your bed" conversations.  These can be addressed inside the confines of my house or can be easily addressed in a single word or phrase that helps the world make sense.  The whales eating people thing is such a great plot point in children's stories that every time I try to fight it with evidence, I just get shot down.

I'll tell you, as excited as I was to have a new conversation the first time, we discussed whales eating people for the last week and FOUR TIMES BEFORE LUNCH TODAY.  And the kid wants answers.  None of this namby pamby "it doesn't happen" or "they're just being silly" or "whales eat krill like on Finding Nemo" junk.  Because Sebastian has seen it with his own eyes in three different cartoons and even Dory was proven wrong about the krill thing the moment a clownfish and a Regal Tang (if you ever wondered what Dory was) got sucked past a blue whale baleen.

Now, there are many things people do to mess up their kids for the future.  In my experience, you need to make note of these things as you go so you can ease the child into normal life later.  That's part of the reason I keep a parenting blog - to help me remember what I need to go back and fix before the kid asks a dumb question in Biology class.

So yes.  Whales eat people.  All the time.  It's a very common occurrence.  But the people are fine afterwards.  They make a grand entrance, find their sons, and get back to fishing - even get more fishing done after everything they learned from the whale.

Now I'll go tell my kid that probably three more times today, and tomorrow, and the next day until he wants to get back to a point with a more immediately addressable hypothesis (see The Cat Doesn't Like Me).  Then we'll discuss the relative merits of chocolate for breakfast and how to make a cat stop running away from you.  Then we'll find something completely different from some other random source.

And at the end of this, with my smug little smile on my face, I'll probably get eaten by a whale.  If you read about it, remember it's not a biological anomaly: it's a higher power teaching my child about Karma.

Correct Mascara Application

Here's why I need to lock the door while I do my make up and put the mascara on a high shelf:

"Um, I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Are you taking a picture right now?"

"Wait, are you taking a picture of me?"

 "Excellent, get my good side!"

   

Audrey Dresses Herself

Audrey's bed is right next to her dresser. She's growing up. Here's how she takes care of business if I'm not here in time. This is STYLE...

Unanticipated Rule: No Raisins in the Whistle

Sebastian was running around at 8:30 in the morning, wearing his gray Spiderman shirt and some blue plaid shorts - a cute outfit he picked, that could only be improved if the shorts were not on backwards.  He was holding a long green and gold whistle that I bought in Ireland before I had kids, tooting into it rather vigorously, then shaking it.  Well that's weird...

"Mom, who put the raisins in the whistle?"

I know better than to say anything when asked a question like this, so I just stopped and looked to either side, waiting for him to clarify.  He examined it again, then came over to look me in the eyes which were admittedly shifty.

"Mom, we don't put the raisins in the whistle," he said, taking my silence for an admission of guilt.  "Mom, tell me, did you put the raisins in the whistle?"

No, actually.  Quite surprisingly, I did not.  I did not even have raisins yesterday.  The person who had raisins yesterday was wearing an adorable brown polka dot dress and was wiping her hair out of her face for about an hour before she could be corralled with a ponytail holder.  Last I saw after I gave her the box and told her I did not want to find any on the floor, she was on the floor sorting them out to eat them.  Or so I thought.

I did not find raisins on the floor.  Sebastian found them - what looks like an entire box of raisins minus the two I saw her eat - shoved into a whistle that is slightly more than a raisin in diameter.  If you look in the finger holes, you can see Audrey's snack from yesterday, piled on each other in their new container.

Now I feel dumb: I thought she ate the raisins and then played the whistle for about 45 minutes.  I was not aware that she used the raisins to see how her whistle would sound.

Of course, Sebastian eventually figured out who had put the raisins in the whistle and went to tell Audrey about the completely unanticipated new rule we have in our house: No Raisins in the Whistle.

Well THAT's Not Right...

I just looked at myself in the mirror, came back and asked Aaron: "So I have a clementine sticker on my neck. How long has that been going on?"

Aaron started laughing. "You know, I noticed that a few hours ago and now that you point it out I realize that's not quite right..."

Seriously?

Sleeping on the swings

I found myself in the odd position of pushing two children on the swings today when one of those two children fell asleep. Not kidding: Complete knocked-out-in-the-sunshine asleep. Now, swinging is awesome. It's the nearest to flying a person can get, with the wind and the sun on your face and nothing in the world to think about but going up and down, up and down. Ahhhh... Still no excuse to fall asleep.

I happened to be pushing both children at the same time. One was asleep, the other happens to be in a bit of a lecturing phase.

So once I said "Is she asleep? Is she seriously ASLEEP right now?" He started in:

"Audrey! It is NOT TIME to sleep right now. We do NOT sleep on the swings! We sleep in our bed! We SWING on the PLAYground, we do NOT SLEEP! AUDREY! That is a BAD CHOICE!"

It makes a good picture though.

Outsmarted. Again.

The kids wanted to have breakfast in their playroom with a movie.  Okay, sure, but the playroom is three rooms removed from the kitchen, so I need to minimize spills.  Plus, if they're watching a movie with breakfast, the breakfast is going to need to be a step up from Pop-Tarts.  Easy: a bowl of Frosted Mini-wheats and a glass of milk for each.  I'm brilliant.  No spills, and they get some kind of fiber with milk.

I sat them down at their table and went to put the movie in, hearing two little "Mmm, mmm, mmm!" voices while they tried to out-dance each other.  Yay yay yay!  Breakfast and a movie!

Not only did I trick them into having no-spill cereal, but I'm totally the mom of the morning.

"Hey Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I need a spoon and Audrey needs a spoon."

Some little jerk had put two-and-two together and took it upon himself to dump his milk into the bowls of dry cereal.

If I had a mustache, I would have twirled it: Rats!  Foiled again...

Hippos should not eat rocks.

From Kiss Kiss by Margaret Wild and Bridget Strevens-Marzo.  A great present with a
purple hippo Pillow Pet who likes to obnoxiously
kiss little kids while you read them a book.

During Audrey's bedtime story, Kiss Kiss, Sebastian noticed something amiss with the Mama Hippo calling out to Baby Hippo:

"Mom, why is that hippo eating a rock?"

"She's not, Bud, she's turning to call out and that's her back."

"No, she's eating a rock. She should not eat a rock. That is disGUSting. That is a BAD CHOICE. I don't want her to eat the rock. That is a BIG rock. She should not eat that disgusting rock, Mom..."

Audrey was so captivated by his version of the story and it was so far after bedtime, I closed the book, handed it over to him, got up, left the room, and turned off the light before he even took a breath.

Illustrators of the world: I'll need this picture in every bedtime story from here on. Thanks in advance.

Oh yes! Veteran's Day!

It's Veteran's Day, so I know I should write something reflective about today's significance, but I really don't know what I could add that hasn't been said before and much more eloquently.  My brother and husband are both currently active in the Army.  My father is reserves, my father-in-law and brother-in-law were in the Army.  My grandmother quit grad school to serve in the Marines, where she met my grandfather.  My life has been fundamentally changed by people who have served in our armed forces.  For the last year and a half, I've worked with active duty Field Artillerymen (and one Ranger!), a really awesome group of people.  When I step back and think of where they had been before my office, what they had seen and sacrificed before I was showing them how to put data in an excel spreadsheet, I get a little overwhelmed.

There are not enough thank yous and accolades or money or awards to adequately thank the veterans who serve my country and those who have served in conflicts around the world.  Enough though I can't say enough, I really could not let this day pass without at least saying something.

Happy Veteran's Day.

Freezing Diney

Sebastian's best friend is an over-loved Ty Beanie Buddy dragon named "Diney-saur" or "Diney."  He goes everywhere with Sebastian and has therefore been through the washer more times than I can count, which means his wings are flimsy and no longer shiny.  If you're keeping up, that means he is no longer a Shiny Diney.  Yep, I said it.

About a year ago, Diney and Sebastian's blanket, Ray-ray (no idea where that name came from) were too hot after another cycle in the dryer, so I just chucked both of them in the freezer.

Parents, this is a tactical error.  Immediately, every stuffed animal and dish towel in our house came down with the same fever and I spent the better part of an afternoon taking things in and out of the freezer.  Seriously, some nights Sebastian would cry for ten minutes before he told us "Diney's hot!" and we would have to stick him in the freezer.  Oh, and you can't fake sticking something in the freezer.  Diney's thin wings get cold after about 10 seconds in there, so you might as well go for the full enchilada.

Note: it is easy to forget the stuffed animals and blankets you stick in the freezer, and if it's the stuffed animal your child has had since birth (who is a Freezer Frequent Flyer), you're going to panic.  Mostly, I panic when it's just me at the house and we have searched "everywhere."  I'll put a crying child to sleep and go to drown my Lost Diney Sorrows in some ice cream before I slap my head.

The other major issue with this use of the freezer is that inevitably someone else will find out.  I can't remember whether it was Nonnie or Grandma, but someone was trying to put Sebastian to sleep one night and he was quite upset about Diney.  After she mentioned it to me, I went to the kitchen without saying a word, opened the freezer, produced a cold Diney, and handed it to her.

These moments do not contribute positively to my reputation for sanity.

Unemployed, Full-Time Mom

Soooooo I'm unemployed at the moment.

Not really unemployed (I'm a contractor without a contract) and it hasn't been that long (two weeks and two days to be exact) and it's because the Army moved us (from Oklahoma to Texas) but, since Aaron's been on leave at the same time, it's been a lovely perpetual weekend that we've spent getting the house in order and keeping the kids from watching too many movies.  Or trying to.  Today we had them draw on some packing papers and cardboard with markers and crayons.  It was a lovely art class until Sebastian didn't like the spider he drew and had a complete meltdown, causing Audrey to scream and me to put everyone in timeout.  Now they are watching a movie so I could clean the marker off the kitchen table from where the cardboard moved.

It's time to get them back in preschool.

Anyway, I hadn't planned to take any time off.  I intended to leave my job on Friday and start a new job in a new state on Monday but of course that didn't happen.  I spent the last month in Oklahoma training my replacement and spending time with friends, doing some laundry and move packing, so I lost momentum on the job search.  We also realized that I didn't need to go immediately into a new job, so I took some time to get the house set up and work on my resume.

More than anything, I've been really excited about the move.  New house, new job, new routine for everyone.  The time together has been great - playing games, heading to the playground, catching up on Netflix, getting organized.  Unfortunately, our little move bubble ends on Tuesday when Aaron goes back to work and I'll be home with the kids, working on my resume and trying to pick up where their awesome teachers left off until they get new awesome teachers.

I'll tell you: it's hard to stay motivated when you're at home, especially after you've been working full time.  I'm not waking up until about 8:00 AM, when I would normally have the kids at school and be on the way to work.  The dishes don't get done as quickly as they did when I was running out the door in the mornings.  I keep opening the washer and going "Now what day did I put THESE in?" and re-running it.

I'm really not cut out for this.

Many people would remind me that I'm not really unemployed if I'm a mom, since that's a full-time job.  I understand that.  It is a full-time job and one that I often had to do while I was at the full-time job I was paid to do in an office.  I'm a good Mom and I absolutely love being around my kids, and I consider this role my most important, full-time commitment, but for me, a huge part of that commitment is working outside of the house.

My kids are smart and happy and healthy and hysterical.  They're the coolest people ever (obviously), but they're also developing in ways that I understand better when I see them outside of my house and when I get to talk to their teachers.  Sebastian has recently started drawing stick figures.  I think that's pretty cool.  His teacher, on the other hand, informed me that this was a pretty big milestone.  I had no idea.  Audrey, meanwhile, can identify several letters, which is pretty advanced.  Do I need to work with her on those or should I focus on colors?  And, um, how do I do that?

More important than the milestones is providing my kids the basics: sleep, food, and hygiene.  Moving has thrown our family schedule into upheaval, and we've had two nights this week where I realized I wanted to take the kids to the park after it was already dark.  When I'm on a daily work schedule, I wake up on time, dinner is at roughly the same time each night, and I at least have a frame of reference for what day it is.

And none of this touches on me, and what I need.  I need adult interaction and intellectual stimulation.  Not just great conversation with a smart friend who also stays at home, but problems to solve that are unrelated to me, my house, or my routine.  I need to feel productive, to contribute to the world around me, and to grow and improve the way I work and how I relate to other people.  

This set up is not without its downsides - mostly the feeling that I do not have enough time for all the things I would like to do.  A lot of things fell off my plate while I've been working with two kids, like cleaning, exercise, de-cluttering, personal professional development, and, of course, writing.  I think I was going to start a Masters Degree two years ago.  Totally didn't happen.  I was also going to go through this box of papers that has moved through two apartments and now three houses.  It's right next to my bed now.  I need to get some file folders...

I'm trying to embrace this time that I have right now to spend time with the kids, get a few things done, but also keep up the momentum to get back into work and a routine.  I'm also trying to relax a little: I don't want to push myself so hard that I need time off when I get to the new job.  These are all completely different priorities and somehow hard to fit into these long, lazy days.  I feel like it's Spring Break or a snow day, and I'm going to cram everything into the last two days when I realize I squandered all of my time off.

Somehow, between tickling kids and breaking up their arguments, unpacking boxes and getting the laundry folded, updating my resume and finishing a professional certification (finally), I'll spend the time I have before the next job.  I can call myself a stay-at-home Mom or an un-utilized contractor, but I'll be both at the same time in the same place, doing the same things.

Hopefully I can get some things done.

Making Tea

After moving a huge box of tea we never drank in Oklahoma, Aaron and I have decided to drink tea as part of our daily life, mostly in the evenings.  Since I'm the Chief Accumulator of Tea and often the first to ask if we should have some tea, I normally make it.  It also tastes better when I make it.

The other night, I was making tea so Aaron said "Will you make some for me please?"

I was not feeling, shall we say, particularly motivated to make tea for everyone (read: one other person) so I said "Fine, but do you want like sugar and shit in it?"

My perfect husband, without missing a beat, replied: "Just the sugar please."

At McDonald's

Since the kids have been super troopers throughout the last week of moving (Oh yeah!  We're in Texas now!), I decided to take them to burn some energy at the McDonald's Playland up the street, usually a dependable place to run around on car trips.  It was late and cold outside, so I figured we could eat and have a little bit of controlled chaos.

First of all, this McDonald's is not kidding with their Playland.  They have a whole dedicated wing of the store - more so than usual - with about 10 tables where families can eat while their 3-10 year olds play.  Okay, so Audrey is not even two, but she's always trying to keep up with Sebastian and she's normally even more courageous when it comes to slides and other kids, so we set up shop.

This particular Playland apparently caters heavily to the 7-10 year-old demographic, so we were outmanned.  There were about 8 other kids playing when we got there and the parents hanging around were speaking Spanish, Korean, and Japanese.  It was lovely and loud.  It became much louder when I had to stand by the stair tunnel while Audrey was in there and remind the big kids to be careful around her.  It didn't help that she kept trying to climb down head-first and I was almost completely powerless to get through the tunnel to correct her.

So this group of parents walk in with five more boisterous kids who immediately descend upon the Playland, hitting each other and shouting.  I extracted Audrey using some apple slices and went back to the table to assess the new situation.

My kids were eating happily at our table when a child (probably 6 years old or so) came out of the stairs crying - full mouth-open, tear-streating crying - with a big red mark on the side of his face.  His mom asked what happened.

"That little boy kicked me in the face," he sobbed.  The offender, one of the new arrivals, was already headed back into the tunnel with a snide look on his face.  The mother, rightfully, looked for the offenders mother.

"Excuse me," she said, somewhat apologetically, "Your son kicked my son in the face."

The offender's mother was shaking a ketchup packet.  She looked at the mom, then the hurt boy and loudly shouted across the room at him, "My son kicked you in the face?"

Up to this point, everything is completely normal.  Child is hurt, goes to parent, parent goes to other parent.  Ultimately, the plan is, quite obviously, that the other parent will clarify the situation and issue corrective action.  Completely civil, part of raising kids.  They hurt each other, accidents happen, and they learn and grow from it.

Anyway, she was at Step 4: Clarify the Situation: Have the hurt child explain what happened from his perspective.  She can see the large, red, shoe-shaped welt on this little boys tear-stained face.  He's speaking coherently in spite of the situation.  She asks so he can hear: "My son kicked you in the face?"

"Yes," he gulped.

"Well don't play with him then!" she shouted, then turned back to open her ketchup packet.

The room stopped for a minute as every parent in the room slammed their mouths shut and tried to keep their bulging eyes in their heads.  I mean, seriously, did that just happen?  Are we all here?  Did we just see that?  Aren't we all just trying to eat and let our kids play in a 10x10 space that happens to have a plastic slide?  SERIOUSLY?

I expected the whole room to clear in a flurry.  Or all the parents to rise up and say "No ma'am, this is not how we raise well-adjusted, kind children into well-adjusted, contributing citizens.  McDonald's Playland may be a no man's land, but while we are here, we are its lifeguards and we decide who needs to take an adult-swim-style time out from the pool."  I expected responsible revolution.

Nope.  Four of the tables didn't do anything.  They sat there, looking exhausted, and their kids kept playing.  The five new kids were loudly testing the limits of the bolts that kept the plastic apparatus together and probably pulling hair or hammering their shoes to get ready for the next smiling face.  The victim looked at his mom and she looked helplessly back at him.  Then he shrugged and went back into the Playland.

It took about two seconds for me to locate Sebastian, grab his arm, shove two apple slices in his hand and have our stuff together.  I did two other parents doing the same, slyly sneaking out the door with nary a backward glance.  One woman with a four-year-old and a newborn calmly placed the baby on her other hip and grabbed her tray to take to the trash.  I saw her a moment later speaking to the management while I ordered Aaron's dinner to take home.

Audrey was nonplussed.  Sebastian, on the other hand, was talking about when we could come back.  I told him I didn't know but that we had to go because some little boy kicked another little boy in the face.  "Oh," he said sadly, then looked at his hands and back at me, "Did I do it?"

"No, Darlin," I said, "I just didn't want you to get hurt too."  I felt relieved that he hadn't been hurt and super proud at his nicely developed conscience.  I hope that sticks around.

So as we get used to our new neighborhood in Texas, we're starting to recognize some landmarks.  We've driven by five times and, every time, Sebastian yells "Mom!  That's the slide where a little boy got KICKED in the FACE, Mom.  We have to play there another day."

Yeah, Bud.  We'll go back.  Once we have some backup.

Rock the Look

Some kid's parents cut his hair at home, but he hates to get a haircut. His parents just noticed how bad it's gotten. He doesn't care: he ROCKS this look!

Halloween Karma

Quick Note: In order for Halloween to work, both parents cannot go trick-or-treating with the kids.  Someone needs to stay home and give out the candy.  I found myself in a very spiritedly-decorated caul-de-sac last night that had 5 duplex homes (that would be 10 families) with only 3 lit front doors giving out candy.  There was also a bowl.  That makes 6 families who invested in lawn decor but no bag of candy.

I happened to be standing with a bunch of other disappointed parents out with their kids.  Turns out, one of the families that was looking for places to trick-or-treat lived in one of the six units.  Their doorway was dark with no candy out.

Yeah, that's what we call "Karma."  Trick-or-treating doesn't work if no one stays home to give out the candy.

You are relaxed...very relaxed...

I got a massage tonight.  It was my first massage in a while.  Oddly enough, it was at a restaurant, in a booth, and only on one side of my body.  The person used her hands, head, and feet, and I was covered in the macaroni and cheese that she had on both hands and her face.  It only lasted for the minute that she took to go from angry I stopped her from banging her spoon on the table to looking at the jolly people in the adjacent booth, but I did close my eyes and felt that familiar "am I being abused or massaged right now" feeling.

Whatever, I'll take it.

Sometimes the best revenge is peeing your pants in timeout.

After about 10 minutes of constant screaming coming from the kids' room, Aaron and I got to hear those five little words that change everything: "Daddy, I had an accident."

Sometimes the best revenge is peeing your pants in timeout.

I didn't realize I was looking for a slogan, but that right there is probably as good as it's going to get.

Why why why?

Why, when you got into bed tonight, was there a wadded-up cupcake wrapper with cake still in it on your lovely damask striped sheet?  Oh, because I did laundry and when I do laundry I empty my pockets.  Why was that in your pocket since you never make cupcakes?  Oh, because we were at a party the other day.  Why do you have a cupcake wrapper with cake in your pocket if you can't remember the last time you ate a cupcake?  Because when we were at that party and Sebastian needed help to get the third cupcake he was reaching for, someone opened it for him halfway and he ate the icing then passed the rest to Audrey who was happily eating that when I realized she needed her nose wiped while I attempted to feel human at a party.

The CORRECT question is really "Why is there a wadded-up cupcake wrapper with half-eaten cake glued together by mucus on your lovely damask striped sheet?"

The correct ANSWER, therefore, is that, while I was registering for a Damask striped sheet set at Macy's several years ago, I was thinking much more about the white dresses and artistic fondant of an idealistic near-future I was planning than the half-eaten cupcakes and snot-covered trash of the longer-term future that would result.  My visionary expectations were way too high and I had no idea that these sheets would be a reminder of how far I had fallen.  Honestly, I should be sleeping on the floor of a barn somewhere until my kids turn 20.

Man vs Cat

To be fair, the cat was under the bed.

She should not have been under the bed.  She is expressly forbidden to be under the bed.  If she is under the bed, she will be there when we go to sleep.  That means that, in the middle of the night, she will be on my bed, pawing at my chest with the claws we never got removed and rarely clip.  Otherwise, she will be at the door, clawing the carpet and whining to get out.  Very recently, she shakes it up by walking across the bed and stopping with her hindquarters directly in front of my face, debating whether she has a purpose on the nightstand and waking me up with her cat-heiny-stench.

Regardless, the cat should not be under the bed.

This evening was certainly not the night to be under the bed.  Aaron has spent the good portion of a week cleaning the house from top to bottom.  We're talking scrub-brush-on-the-baseboards cleaning.  Going-through-all-the-dishes cleaning.  Calling-me-at-work-to-talk-about-cleaning cleaning.  We're moving in three weeks.  Tomorrow is our inspection.  This is reasonable.

Well, Forte decided to run under the bed, immediately after Aaron gave her a look.  This look held all the spilled milk and scattered toys of a long weekend he had to spend with two toddlers.  The man was in NO mood.  The cat should have realized that, given the situation, Aaron was certainly in no mood for a cat who poops when chased to run under the bed.

First, let's talk about how completely unevolved housecats have become that any member of the species might poop when chased.  Leaving a trail like that when threatened is completely counter-productive.  That is what living inside with no natural predators will do to a gene pool.  Fortunately, thanks to a simple surgery a few years back, Forte has what my dad would describe as "no pride of pedigree and no hope for progeny."  We, meanwhile, have modified our lives by not chasing this cat and are convincing the kids to do the same.

Anyway, the cat was intent on being under the bed and Aaron was intent on the cat NOT being under it.  There was only one way this could end.  The cat would be extracted, there would be I'm-being-chased poop far under the bed, the bedroom would no longer be inspectable, and we would smell phantom cat poop long after we Febrezed the crap out of the area (pun intended).  Regardless, Aaron's point would be made.

I stood paralyzed, watching this situation unfold, knowing that stepping in would not unstink the room or de-escalate either party but, more importantly, that if I stepped in, I would have to remove the cat myself and that wasn't going to work out.  See, I can be sympathetic to my husband when he gets scratched.  I can keep my mouth shut and even clean up cat poop in the aftermath, but there was no way I was going to get scratched AND pooped on AND deny Aaron the satisfaction of forcing the cat to do exactly what he said.  I can't make a drink to fix the kind of bruised pride that would cause.  Nor could I satisfactorily remove the fear poop from my arms.  Yuck.  So I let him make his point.

Now what was that point, exactly?  Something about dogs being better than cats.  About the house needing to be clean for tomorrow.  About affectionate pets that listen to their owners instead of pooping under beds (okay I totally get that).  I don't know.

About five minutes later, I saw Aaron holding the cat, staring into her narrowed eyes and holding his breath to avoid the smell.  He was trying to be affectionate.  She was probably trying not to poop.  I realized something: sometimes you just have to embrace a moment of crazy as inevitable.  People will yell, cats will poop, the room will need to be cleaned.  There are no winners, only points to be made by both parties.

Things seem to have gone back to normal in the last 45 minutes.  The bedroom is clean and ready for inspection.  Aaron is relaxed, watching a show on TV.  From what I understand, Forte is in the corner behind my chair, right now, looking for an opportunity to get under the bed.

I'm trying not to inhale too deeply.

The Unremarkable Tuesday

Yesterday morning, as Audrey and I were walking out of the hospital after her shot, we saw an elderly man walking in.  He was slowly making his way with a cane, wearing navy blue shorts, a white polo shirt, and his Korean War Veteran hat.  The man was probably in his 80s or even his early 90s, and one of his legs looked like it had taken several skin grafts over the years.  Though he shuffled slowly and slightly stooped, his clothes were pressed and he moved with pride among the younger uniformed soldiers.

We had just finished a hectic morning of shots and 18-month check-up questions:  Is she talking?  Does she know 10 words?  Can she throw or kick a ball?  After we give her the shots, would she prefer a Dora or Disney Princess sticker?  Audrey should have been very tired or angry or something, but she was happy because she got grape Tylenol and Audrey exists on a plane where shots and questions don't bother you as much as the injustice of someone stealing your hot pink monkey blanket.

Into the sunlight she charged, fresh from the adventure of the revolving door, with a confident stride and a smile on her face.  As we came up to the veteran and I noticed his cane and his slow gait, I tried to redirect her around him.  My hands were full of prescription bottles and paperwork, so I was rearranging things to pull her out of his way.

Her smile only got bigger.

"Well isn't she pretty?" he  said, as she hurried directly into his path.  I reached for her hand, hoping to move her out of his way so he wouldn't lose his balance or something, but I didn't make it.

Audrey reached for the man and hugged him around the legs, smiling.  For a moment, the only thing that mattered in the world was this happy little girl in her gingham dress, hugging the man who was once willing to give all for his country, bathed in sunlight in front of a hospital on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday morning.  I stopped for a moment, ready to corral my daughter or support the man who needed a cane to walk to his doctor's appointment.  

The man just laughed.  Audrey smiled, looking up at his happy face.

You never know when your day is going to be made, or when a toddler knows better than you how to make someone else's.  I wish I had a bottle that could hold that man's laughter or my daughter's smile, and the way the sunlight framed their moment together.  

In that unremarkable parking lot, on a rather unremarkable Tuesday morning.

Number One Rule of Legos

We got Sebastian a Lego truck this weekend because he's 3.5 years old and we were really ready to deal with a bit more small parts and frustration at play time.  The "City" truck/motorcycle trailer we got is a bit easier to put together than the Spiderman set he wanted, but we totally jumped the gun.

Tonight, he needed to put one of the Lego men on his motorcycle and brought him to me to make sure the hands were gripping the handlebars.  The kid is a bit detail-oriented.
I took it and said "Okay Bud, the Number One Rule of Legos-"
"No, Mom, it's Number Eight."
"What?"
"It's the Number EIGHT Rule of Legos."
"Um... okay..."

I guess someone's been paying attention.

Fruh-lat Spice

Okay, Sebastian's three and a half years old and there are some words that I haven't really corrected yet, like "spice."  When he was about 18 months old and on a tasting tour of anything that happened to be on my plate, he first encountered spicy food so he learned the word.  Around the same time, he asked for a sip of my soda and that was the only word he had to associate with it, so he now refers to any kind of soda as "Spice."  Instead of correcting him, I just tell everyone around him what he's talking about.

We were out of cranberry juice tonight, which Sebastian likes to have after milk at dinner.  Of course he didn't believe that we were REALLY out of juice, so he inspected the fridge himself.  We didn't have juice, but we DID have a little bit of Spice from three weeks ago!  What a treat!

Except it was super flat.  Like just-the-syrup-flat.  Disgusting.  The is partly because we got it three weeks ago and partly because every time Sebastian sees a bottle of soda, he likes to shake it.  This is obviously not a person accustomed to opening a soda bottle.  The kid is so sheltered, right?

I told him it was flat and would be disgusting, which he also did not believe.  How could Spice be disgusting?  He asked very nicely for a glass with ice, so I gave him a little bit.

"Mom!  This isn't Spice!"
"Yes it is.  It's Flat Spice."
"Fat Spice?"
"Flat Spice."
"Fruh-LAT Spice?"
"Yes."
"Mom, how do you get Fruh-lat Spice?"
"You make it.  It's very special.  You have to wait a long time to turn it into Flat Spice."
"Oh wow! Dad!  I have Fruh-LAT Spice!"

Aaron gave me a "this is a longshot" look about Flat Spice being "special," but this looked like an opportunity to avoid wasting what was left of the Spice in the bottle.

That thought lasted about two seconds.  I dumped the rest down the sink and, though Sebastian drank the little bit I gave him, he definitely didn't ask for any more.  I don't think Flat Spice is ever going to catch on.

The Almost Rotten Pineapple in My Fridge

Two and a half weeks ago, my mom and I went to the grocery store.  The few items we needed turned into several items the kids might want which then turned into a bunch of items I could use.  We found ourselves in the produce section at the end of our journey to get a watermelon, grapes, bananas, and apples for the kids.  This is when my mom asked her usual "Is there anything else you need or want or could use?"
I looked around.  We had the basics and more food than could fit into the fridge.  I was searching my brain for something else we might want, when my eyes settled on the huge selection of pineapple.  We had just had kabobs and I do love pineapple, so I grabbed one.  It was also an opportunity to teach my mom how you can tell if a pineapple is ripe, which I learned from a woman at the produce section the week before who told me to pull a leaf from the top and if it comes out easy, it's ripe.  (If that is incorrect, you might wait a while to tell me.  Read on.)  We picked a good ripe one and finished shopping.
The rest of the pineapple's story that day was rather boring.  We got home, unloaded the groceries, had dinner, packed up my mom, and sent her off to the flight where I traded her for a box of donuts.  The next week, I got back to work, the kids got back to daycare/preschool, and we all got back into our routine.  It also got very hot around here so we haven't been grilling much which means no kabobs and no specific reason to cut the pineapple.
Through all of this, the pineapple sat on the counter and kind of blended in with its surroundings.  We maneuvered around it while cooking and doing dishes, moved it from one side of the kitchen to another and never really thought about finding a place for it.  I noticed it a few times, on the way out the door in the morning, at the end of the day when I had already settled on a snack that was far less healthy for me.  It was turning a little more tan and a kind of bright yellow on the bottom.  Whenever I got around to cutting the thing, it would probably be half rotten.
Then, last week, after a long day at work when the kids were being heiny-heads (my new favorite descriptor as of three months ago), I decided I needed to get that pineapple off my counter and out of my thoughts.  I grabbed a knife and began cutting, expecting the jump back at any moment from disgust at whatever kind of rot had settled in.
What greeted me was a delicious smell of fresh, perfect pineapple in a beautiful golden shade that was like sunlight made solid.  Even the center was not too hard.  This was, as Gordon Ramsey would say, the most AMAZING pineapple, and with each cut, I had visions of myself snacking on it in a state of utter bliss.
I should tell you that my husband loves to cook, and loves to learn new techniques.  We had a set of crappy knives that he made better by watching YouTube videos on knife care.  Not even kidding.  Gifts are easy for him: quality pots and new kitchen gadgets make his face light up.  The new gourmet knives I bought at Christmas last year sent him over the moon and he's taken care of them to keep them nice and sharp.  Very VERY sharp.
"This is perfect," I thought.  "This is the perfect pineapple and I'm going to make this crappy day that much better by sharing it with Aaron and the angels will sing and all the fairies will get their wings and I will grin like an idiot.  Now I only need to make ONE...LAST...SLICE...AAAHHHHHH!"
I... embarrassed myself.  To anyone else the cut was not that deep or that bad, but I didn't realize that cutting the side of my nail could bleed that much or that the juice of a delicious pineapple would sting that badly or that I could scream that loudly after the kids went to bed.  Aaron came running in because he recently cut HIS finger (same finger oddly - the left ring finger which means we're soulmates or should take some kind of hint about our marriage).
I sent him away in supremely dramatic fashion.  I needed a Disney Princess bandaid and some solitude to get over my disappointment, to wallow in the punishments that God dishes out when all you want in life is to feast on the pineapple that you neglected for a week.
Then I got over it and called Aaron back, but he was already in bed.  I threw out the two ruined slices of pineapple and shoved the rest into a bag for the fridge.  My finger throbbed, so I took some ibuprofen.  I didn't get to write that night or the next because it honestly hurt that bad.
That was a week ago.  The finger feels better, but no one's eaten that stupid sliced pineapple wasting space in our fridge.  I think Aaron's grossed out and I don't blame him.  A part of me thinks that I should eat that pineapple to justify the sacrifice of my finger and the typing I haven't done this week, maybe assert some kind of hunter-dominance over the conquered fruit.  Another part of me thinks it's probably fermenting in there and I would get sick just by opening the bag which would be the ultimate defeat.  I also realize that if I just throw the thing away, I'll be admitting defeat.
I'm at a point where every time I open that stupid fridge and see that stupid pineapple in that stupid plastic bag, I get a really bad cramp in my pride and I'm not hungry anymore.
I think it'll be a while before we have kabobs at our house again.

All at once

As I walked out of my bedroom a moment ago, the cat darted across my feet to find sanctuary from Sebastian, who loudly proclaimed "I need to go potty because I'm peeing on myself." While he was walking into the bathroom, Audrey was walking out holding a bar of Irish Spring which she was scrubbing with a baby wipe, which means the wipe canister is somewhere in the house with its contents strewn all over a floor.

I don't have any answers for this.  I think I'd like to phone a friend.

A Little TOO Quiet...

Audrey is sitting quietly at the dinner table waiting for the watermelon Aaron is cutting for dessert. She is also spitting on the table and wiping it off with her dress. This is not a coincidence. Since she's quiet, it is also not my problem until we're finished with dessert.
Yeah, it's seriously like that tonight.

New Disney Movie: The Plunger And the Washing Machine

"Whoever so pulleth off this plunger..."

(Hey, it's harder than it looks!)

It's not just a mail run, it's an EVENT!

My favorite daily routine is checking the mail, hands down.  We have a central mailbox in our neighborhood which is located in the neighbor's front yard, so it's not a far walk, but Sebastian and I go every day.  Normally we'll race and I'll jog around in weird patterns yelling "I'm gonna win!" or singing my "I'm the fastest Mom in the world, and I can walk faster than Sebaaaastian..."  (it's got a super catchy tune).

Today was unusual because A, Aaron picked the kids up from daycare early and B, I came home from work about 2 hours late.  I was a bit exhausted and barely remembered to invite Sebastian, but he screamed from the back of the house that he could join me once he picked up his Spiderman mask.

There he appeared, racing around the kitchen counter in his Spiderman light-up sneakers, Thomas the Tank Engine shirt, and Finding Nemo underwear, putting on his Spiderman mask as he ran through to the front door.  "I'm the faster!  I'm the faster!" he yelled.  Shrugging off my early morning airport drive and unexpected 10-hour workday, I let the door go and jogged on out.

I wonder what we're supposed to wear tomorrow?

When in doubt, DONUTS!

Today I traded my mom for a box of donuts and it was awesome.  Muuuuhahahahaha!  Or Mwaaahahahaha!  I don't really know how that's spelled.

First, you have to understand that we lived within 3 hours of both grandparents until Sebastian was almost two, so he got used to seeing either Grandma or Nonnie for at least one weekend per month.  Then we moved to Oklahoma and those visits became few and far between.  We've had both sets of grandparents out and we've been able to visit them three times in the last year and a half, but we all miss being closer.

Second, we had a bad experience dropping Nonnie off at the airport before.  Aaron's mom had visited a month before and, though Sebastian was really geared up about the airplanes at the airport, he was very confused when we left without Grandma.  We pulled up to the airport with Nonnie and he immediately went into hysterics: "No!  No airplane!  No, Nonnie NO!"  Fifteen minutes later, he had flailed and screamed himself to sleep.  It was horrible.  

For the end of this trip, I arranged for an early flight both to get my mom home before the afternoon and to avoid the trauma at the airport.  In the last few days, I regretted it because I hate the idea of him waking up in the morning to find Nonnie gone, kind of like a reverse Christmas.  A few days ago, we started talking about Nonnie going home, but at bedtime last night he was worried about whether he should go back to her house or go to school and see his friends.  He was so upset we dropped it.  

Taking my mom to the airport was easy, as dropping people off at the airport at 5 AM usually is.  As she disappeared inside, I sighed, thinking about the kids' reactions when they woke up.  Audrey would be confused, but Sebastian would be a whole other matter.  He's not a morning person in the first place, so I was sure the tantrum that awaited me was going to be epic.  

Then, on the way home, there was a moment of true serendipity as a light shone directly in my eye, a stroke of brilliance from Heaven or the OPEN sign on the donut shop I know not.  I would have to face the children, that much was inevitable, but surely a half dozen donuts - with some strategically chosen sprinkle specimens - could save the day!

Sorry Nonnie had to go home, kids, but look!  A DONUT!

Mission accomplished.

Careful: A high-powered flashlight will bright you.

Sebastian just walked in as my mom and I were packing, holding our new super-bright emergency house-loses-power flashlight with the beam pointed directly at his eye.

"Mom!" he cried, "The fwlashlight is bwighting me!"

"I'm sorry, it's brighting you?"

"Yeah!"

With that, he turned it off, blinked a few times, and walked out of the room.

Time to find another higher shelf for emergency flashlights...

The Cuddle Monkey

My mom had her son after three girls, so he was an entirely new adventure.  When I found out I was pregnant with a boy, she said "Oh boys give the BEST hugs!"  She was right: when my son started hugging me, it was absolutely awesome.

When I had my daughter two years later, I understandably figured she would be a sucky hugger.  I mean, Sebastian was, by then, an awesome run-and-hugger, so not only did she have the handicap of being a girl, but she was several years behind.

Turns out, I had no idea how awesome a baby hug could be.  After three weeks, Audrey earned the nickname Cuddle Monkey.  Pretty soon, the only thing that could describe the phenomenon of this baby who hugged us all the time was an even BETTER nickname: Snugglebiscuits.  I don't think I'll top that one or that I can use it when I have, say a 13-year-old daughter, but it describes her perfectly right now.

I just got to start my day with five or six giggly Audrey hugs.  Then I got happy whole body hugs from the little boy who taught her how to pat people on the back when she hugs (which she does all the time).  It's been a pretty great day so far.

Good question.

The other night, as I was putting Sebastian to bed, he looked at me inquisitively and asked, "Mom, are you a butthead?"

I was surprised by the question, but I think I handled it well:

"No," I said, "But I'm afraid Daddy might be."

Nonnie = Playground

My mother, Nonnie, is visiting, so we're going for more walks and hitting up the playground more often.  Five years ago, I fully expected to spend EVERY DAY at the playground with my kids because I would finally have an excuse to swing and go down some awesome slides and someday they'll grow out of it.

Yeah, that doesn't happen.  Toddlers are armed with energy zappers that can seek out anything you have left after a full day of work and just suck you dry.  This is how kids stay charged, you see.  Plus, when I went to the playground, I realized that A, there are never swings because there are always some jerk 5th Graders showing each other how to throw them over the top or crinkle up the chains and B, the slides got a lot smaller and less daunting than they were in the golden age of slides (which, as I recall, was about 1984-1992 or so).  My kids think they're cool and if they slide down, I act like it's an accomplishment, but when I was three, I swear I was on a MUCH bigger slide than this thing that's only like 2 feet above my head.

Anyway, because of my mom and Aaron's mom, I know that one day I will get back into playground mode.  As a matter of fact, I will see it as an awesome vacation to go to the playground every day for two weeks.  Then I will go back to my house and sleep for a whole weekend with nothing but a mildly eccentric husband and somewhat arthritic dog to worry about, content in the knowledge that now my children's children expect candy for breakfast and ice cream for every snack.  Ah... bliss...

Now, playgrounds have also come a long way since I was little, and I know this.  If I wasn't at the mercy of the energy zapper, I might revel in this fact every day.  The slides are thick plastic so you don't get that Gordon Ramsey sear on your heiny every time you slide down.  Plus, every metal thing is coated in a thick coat of paint so you can actually touch it in the sun light which means you don't grill your hand and fall off the monkey bars as you clutch your wrist and howl in pain, falling to the ground and then running from a rogue blacksmith who mistakes your palm for his heated iron.  That also reduces the risk of kids daring each other to lick the fireman's pole in the winter.

I haven't even gotten to perhaps the most unjust part of being born too early for the playground revolution: the SPRAYGROUND!  Seriously, some genius realized that you can turn some concrete into a series of fountains and that EVERYONE WOULD LOVE IT and then that genius made it happen.  I heard we had one near us in the winter, but when I went out, it looked like some concrete and a few bright metal poles.

Oh no, my friend.  That thing was Pure. Freaking.  Awesomeness.  Fountains all over the ground, water shooting out of the poles, ALL AFTERNOON LONG!  I'm totally obsessed.  And my mom's been there twice in three days!

I haven't.  I went there once.  A month ago with a friend who is new in town and found the same sprayground.  Then I came home and napped longer than my kids.  When I woke up, they had all my energy and I couldn't even THINK about going back to a playground.  We went to a regular playground this morning with Nonnie and while I think I'm going to need to sleep this off, my mom is getting everything ready to hit up the at least one more before the day is through.

This is the story...

This is a story about Maggie (me).  And Aaron (my husband)... and Sebastian (our son)... and Audrey (our daughter)... and any other people and animals who come into our lives.  We live in Oklahoma (for now), where the wind goes sweeping down the plains like God running a hairdryer and knocks you down so that the sun can fry you completely as you lie helplessly on the yellow grass.  But that's only if you go outside.  No one goes outside for very long here: we all just hang out inside with our kids and pets and sweat over the DIY projects we need to do outside.

The children just returned from a two week adventure with both sets of grandparents in Virginia where they were indulged by their grandparents, encouraged by their aunts and uncles, and mentored by their adventurous cousins.  They have returned as almost full-on Jedis, ready to train their rested parents.

This parenting stuff just got real.

Hot Dog in the Bed

After How to Train Your Dragon, Sebastian decided to go into his own room to watch Finding Nemo (yes, he has a TV in his room, let’s not talk about it right now) and eat his lunch (yes, he also eats in his room, at the table where the TV sits). His FAVORITE entree is Ketchup with a side of mustard.  Occasionally, he adds chicken or a hot dog or french fries, though french fries are basically an apparatus from which to suck ketchup and mustard.  Yesterday, he went with a hot dog.

I went in to drop off some clean laundry and refresh his juice and saw his plate licked clean of ketchup and mustard with no hot dog, so I picked it up to take to the dishwasher.  I asked if he needed anything else.  He said no.  I turned to go.

Just as I reached the door, he said “And Mom?” I turned back around to see his sweet, triumphant smile, responding with one of my own, as he said “I threw my hot dog in Audrey’s bed!”

My eyes bugged out of my head – who DOES that? – and I searched through Audrey’s crib, finding every last piece of hot dog.  I wrote a mental note to launder her blankets and sheets as I admonished Sebastian about keeping food on the plate.  Then I went off to do dishes and more laundry and make some phone calls.

Needless to say, Audrey’s crib linens completely slipped my mind which brings us to this morning, when I went in to find Audrey, awake and smiling with a “Hi!” to greet me, reeking of hot dog.

14 Month Old Sports STAR!

Last week, I had to update a permission form at Audrey’s daycare which will allow her to participate in any sports. I asked the lady at the front desk if I should note on there that she’s really terrible at sports. I mean, she’s 14 months old. I wouldn’t pick her first for dodgeball. The woman said I didn’t need to write that. I figured it went without saying. She said it was horrible.

Honesty, like chivalry, might be dead.

Sick Day!

Sebastian has something awful – maybe allergies, maybe The Thrax – so I’m staying home from work with him, admiring my own skills on the PS3. Who knew that one day I would stand up with confidence, holding a game controller and navigate through the menu to the blu-ray with such ease? Any prior success on a game console was on the rare occasion I played one of those ninja games and frantically slamming my hand down on whatever buttons I could hit at the same time so that my character either froze up and died or did such supercool artistic flips that my opponent would ask how I did it and then, when disappointed, would turn off the game in frustration.

Not only have my game controller skills come a long way (thanks to marrying a man under 35 in this decade), but I gotta say that, with Dreamworks/Pixar out there, sick day entertainment has come a mighty long way as well. Today’s choice is How to Train Your Dragon or “The Zhaggin Moo-vee” if you’re savvy. Probably better than the infomercials, Lifetime movies, and reruns that I used to check out since there weren’t many cartoons on during the week if we didn’t have a free Disney Channel week.

Sick Day protocol is about the same as it was when I was little – cereal, juice, a makeshift bed on the couch. I’ve got that down, but my basic shirt and jeans attire will never be up to Sebastian’s standards. He’s rocking a Cookie Monster t-shirt with my new favorite invention: toddler boxers. These are plaid and don’t match the t-shirt (some things about sick days haven’t changed), but breathable and comfortable, and funny-looking when they get twisted up one leg. He’s worn three different sets of shoes with them and unpacked his toys around the house, but is quite upset that he hasn’t found his sunglasses, which were this weekend’s ultimate must-have toddler-boxer accessory. We got some street cred with the neighbors because, though our kid was outside in his underwear for a little while, he was totally doing it in style.

That said, I must go tend to this gentleman’s most recent claim that he went potty. I’m skeptical: he sees using the potty as a mere formality on his way to getting a prize and claims he has to go every few minutes or so. I heard water running, so now I’m torn on whether to reward the possible effort or go all CSI as I investigate a false claim for a prize.
I’m assuming, of course, that he doesn’t fully understand Sick Day protocol: if you can keep it down, the menu is ice cream for lunch whether you earned it or not. Save the fake potty success for a normal weekend!

Beware the Constipated Baby

Ever heard someone say they can't relate to someone with kids because "I don't care about their kids' pooping schedules?"  I had heard that descriptor in that context for years and thought it was a joke.  Being one of the first of my friends to have a baby, I didn't really get to experience that annoyance with a friend but now, I'm telling you, I get it.

Babies get constipated.  And it is a horrible thing to behold.

Their digestive tracts are new, they're adjusting to formula or new food, and they don't move enough to make things move, so babies get gas and they get REALLY uncomfortable.  It's probably the worst screaming you will ever hear (unless your 16-month-old has Foot-And-Mouth Disease and it's 3 AM and you don't realize his drooling mouth is full of blisters and he's running a semi-fever and can't communicate and you've been sleeping through the night for a year and are completely delirious and the screams just...won't...stop!) and it will echo in your head forever (just like the Foot-And-Mouth screams actually).  I'm telling you, you will GET obsessed with their pooping schedule if you have to deal with it even once.

If they told you in family life class about how dramatically the baby-deconstipation process plays out in your relationship, teen pregnancy would be a thing of the past.  We have come together and apart over baby poop - and no one told us.  When I say we've come together, I mean our child was 3 weeks old when my sister handed me a glycerin suppository and, with an understanding but evil smile, sent my husband and me into my parents' guest room.  "Now it's your turn," she said.  That would be the soundtrack to the romance in our relationship dying if the guy hadn't seen me in labor a few weeks prior.

Before it gets that bad but when I realize it's been a while for the kid, I try talking quietly and rubbing the baby's stomach downward.  My husband runs their little legs and shakes their little heinies to get some motion going.  Honestly, his method is MUCH more effective, but I'm too scared to try it.  Not just because you're moving uncooperative legs on an 8-pound creature, but because you can't know when things are going to suddenly... happen.  Babies are cruel beings like that.

And newborn poops are the worst.  It's like liquid kryptonite and all of the newborn detergents seem too gentle for the task.  It's like you need to burn the cute little clothes to get them fully clean (or throw baking soda in with the wash).

I say this because I am sitting on a chair at 1 AM and just heard her first poop... of yesterday... from across the room.  It sounds like that diaper has taken it like a total champ.

Unlike that diaper, I am not built for this crap (pun intended).  My feelings are mixed: fear of what lies ahead of me and relief that we've fought off constipation for one more day.

Then, ultimately, for the next 24 hours, I will feel the words on the tip of my tongue as I try to NOT tell everyone about how much joy this child's latest poop brought me.

"KIIIIIITTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

As I got out of my car yesterday evening, my ears were assailed with a high-pitched "KITTY!!!  KIIIIIIITTY!"  Three more little voices immediately started echoing the same as my eyes moved instinctively across the street.  There were four kids, aged between about 4 and 13, gathered around this recently-abandoned fluffy black and white cat.

I stared on helplessly, unable to abandon my own children in my car to save the poor creature as it was flung into the air, found its way to the ground, and ran away through another person's backyard.

"KITTY!  KITTY!  KIIITTY!" the mob screamed as they tried to climb the neighbor's fence to get after the cat, which showed up on our street a week ago and has gotten noticeably smaller since.  I was paralyzed, searching for someone - anyone - who might have some authority in this situation.  My brain was suddenly on fire.  After all, who the hell throws a CAT and then tries to CATCH it?

"Mom!  What's that?"  I registered Sebastian at my side, looking on the scene in confusion, by now watching the cat running frantically toward our side of the street while the children were distracted.

The parent in me snapped to attention, recognizing the danger this situation presented.  "Get inside," I said.  "Get inside now."

I grabbed Audrey's car seat as the cat ran directly at me.  I looked around.  I only met this cat a week ago, so we are basically strangers.  I did the first thing I could think of: I gestured to my own front door, where he could hide behind a low brick wall, and frantically whispered "Go!  Go!" Then, I took the kids in the side door.

I do believe in the kind of parenting instincts that make you go far beyond your normal capabilities to save your kids from harm.  I always thought it would come in the form of unexpected strength  or something - lifting a car or punching a predator.  And I guess I thought that "harm" would have to be life-threatening, but, for some people and special situations, those instincts kick in faster.  I realized yesterday that I have those instincts, that untapped power, and I can rise to the occasion for my kids.

Because if someone is about to teach my kids that throwing a cat, calling it a "kitty," being obnoxious, and trespassing is somehow socially acceptable, I tell you here and now that I will not only get my kids out of that harmful situation but will SUCCESSFULLY COMMUNICATE WITH FREAKING ANIMALS WHILE THEY ARE CHARGING AT ME AT THE SAME TIME.

Um, booyah?

Receiving earwax was NOT on my bucket list.

Who hands someone their earwax so they can go play? Sebastian does. And who does he hand it to? Me. Not Aaron, just me. I think I pulled the short straw here.

Is there any hope that Aaron might receive something disgusting in some other phase down the line?