My husband has had trouble in the past with giving blood. . . to the tune of fainting, getting all tingly, and having to lay down while old ladies fuss over him with cookies. But I didn't really think anything about that and the routine lab work we were going to do this morning.
After they took my blood, I came back out and told Dave that it looked like a lot (6 vials!), but it really wasn't and it went fast. I was trying to be positive. He said he didn't want to do it and may have rubbed his palms together in a nervous way, but I didn't think to worry.
Dave seemed to be gone for a while. Then the nurse came out. "Um. Your husband's not doing so well," she said. "He's lying down in the back. You may want to go to him."
She kind of looked at me funny when I laughed. I guess she doesn't know that it's the kind of thing we make fun of him for. Mercilessly.
He did look pretty bad--all white and sweaty. "Don't even say it," he said when I got in there. "I know I'm ridiculous." Then he moved on to telling me, "I feel bad. . . I feel bad. . ."
There's one minor (or major, depending on who you are) difference between going to the lab and donating blood with the Red Cross. At the lab, there are no old ladies or cookies or orange juice. And even if they have some candy in a back room somewhere, they say they'll get in trouble if they give it out. Even if Reese Cups are the one thing that will make a man feel better.
The kids and I trekked downstairs and got an apple from the van. But that wasn't sugary enough so off we went to CVS. On the upside, the kids had fun on their many elevator rides. We brought our invalid some Reese Cups and peanut butter M&M's. Lucky duck. I didn't even say anything about artificial colors and cancer.
On a side note, I just googled "are peanut butter M&M's bad for you?" and most of the posts said something like, "Help! I can't stop eating peanut butter M&M's!" so apparently most people have more of a problem with the addictive nature than with the red 40.
Did I mention there was also a not-fun diaper to change on the van floor in the midst of all this? And we were trying to do everything quickly so the kids could make their 9:45 swim lessons?
It turned out we were only a little late for the lessons. But one kid didn't want to go in the water, (I don't totally blame him. It was cold this morning!) which prompted the teacher to have a talk with me afterwards. Then we had epic meltdowns trying to change into normal clothes. One Mommy who hasn't eaten + one rambunctious toddler + one ornery preschooler in one tiny shower stall = not pretty and lots of "Don't touch each other!" and "You have to get dressed!" and "Your feet are wet because everything's wet!"
Because we all got dressed and Dave made it to work, I decided I should be rewarded with a Grande Decaf Iced Mocha from my favorite downtown coffee shop. It was delicious. It was grand. It was everything I hoped it would be.
Finally we made it home. On the way into the house I was carrying a bag of wet clothes, my coffee, and the dirty cloth diaper. One of the wipes fell out onto the driveway. Then, in a moment of what I can only describe as sheer brilliance, I leaned over to pick it up and dumped my delicious reward all over the driveway. That's what I call the Cherry On Top.
Showing posts with label humorous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humorous. Show all posts
Monday, July 7, 2014
Thursday, June 5, 2014
What Happens When One Parent Goes Out of Town
I wrote this a while ago, but am just now getting around to posting it. . .
Yesterday my morning started with E. telling me he peed in his bed. Then I went to get A. and the first thing he said to me was: "Poop. Big poop." Lovely. I would prefer it if he waited to have his bowel movements until after I've had my coffee.
Then today, in a rare turn of events, E. took a nap and A. did not. Actually, A. fell asleep in the car for about five minutes. It happened to be pouring down rain when I needed to transfer him from the car to his bed. That didn't work so well. I didn't count the five minutes of sleep in the van as an actual nap, but he did.
E. woke up from his nap super cranky. He didn't want anyone to speak. He told me he wanted me to have nothing. I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure he meant anything in life, ever. Then he didn't want dinner. He only liked long bacon not cut-up bacon. And this went on and on.
And finally seven p.m. rolled around and I thought I'd pretty much made it to bedtime. But the day wasn't over yet. A. rolled away from me while I was trying to get p.j.'s on him. I told him to come back, which he did at a full-out run just as I was reaching back from getting something. I elbowed him in the face. I decided to risk it and comfort him while he was naked. I'm sure you can guess what happened next. I didn't even feel it, but he pulled away from our hug and pointed to my pants. "Did you pee on me?" I asked him. "Yeah," he said. At least he's honest.
And that's how things go when Dave is out of town.
Yesterday my morning started with E. telling me he peed in his bed. Then I went to get A. and the first thing he said to me was: "Poop. Big poop." Lovely. I would prefer it if he waited to have his bowel movements until after I've had my coffee.
Then today, in a rare turn of events, E. took a nap and A. did not. Actually, A. fell asleep in the car for about five minutes. It happened to be pouring down rain when I needed to transfer him from the car to his bed. That didn't work so well. I didn't count the five minutes of sleep in the van as an actual nap, but he did.
E. woke up from his nap super cranky. He didn't want anyone to speak. He told me he wanted me to have nothing. I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure he meant anything in life, ever. Then he didn't want dinner. He only liked long bacon not cut-up bacon. And this went on and on.
And finally seven p.m. rolled around and I thought I'd pretty much made it to bedtime. But the day wasn't over yet. A. rolled away from me while I was trying to get p.j.'s on him. I told him to come back, which he did at a full-out run just as I was reaching back from getting something. I elbowed him in the face. I decided to risk it and comfort him while he was naked. I'm sure you can guess what happened next. I didn't even feel it, but he pulled away from our hug and pointed to my pants. "Did you pee on me?" I asked him. "Yeah," he said. At least he's honest.
And that's how things go when Dave is out of town.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
How to Get Your Kids Ready to Leave the House for a Pool / Picnic Play Date
-Start getting ready an hour before you have to leave.
-Locate the swimsuits.
-Put the swimsuit on kid #2. Tell kid #1 to put his on. (He is bouncing on his bed.)
-Pack the towels, swim toys, and flotation devices.
-Remind kid #1 to put his bathing suit on.
-Pack everyone a change of clothes for after swimming.
-Put your own swim suit on. Avoid the mirror. If that is impossible, stick with a front-on angle. Whatever you do, don't turn to the side to see how much your belly sticks out. That will just send you on a downward spiral and you'll remember how last time you went to the pool, someone asked if you were pregnant. You weren't. Still aren't.
-Raise your arms. Yep, it's a hairy beast under there. Head to the bathroom for a quick dry-shave.
-Close kid #1 in his room and tell him he can't come out until he has his bathing suit on.
-Scrape together some food to pack for lunch. Throw a whole bag of baby carrots in. There's no time to pack individual bags. And let's be real; you're the only one who is going to eat the carrots anyway.
-Fill up water bottles.
-Listen to kid #1. Yep. He has gotten distracted and is now playing with toys in his room.
-Say, "Vitamin Time!" very loudly next to his door, so he'll be more motivated to get dressed.
-It worked! Kid #1 finally comes out. Everyone does the vitamin dance because you bought gummy vitamins. But you have the plain kind you have to swallow. No happy vitamin dance for you.
-Throw your hair into a ponytail.
-Listen to the sound of a heavy crash in living room.
-Come out to find that kid #2 has somehow unscrewed the lid from the mason jar and dumped a crap-ton of water all over the hardwood floor.
-Grunt in exasperation and mumble about not even being able to put your hair up.
-Throw kid #2 into the crib.
-Grab a towel. Enlist kid #1's help because one towel is not enough. Bribe him with being able to put a sticker on his good behavior chart.
-Use three towels to mop up all the water.
-Listen as another unfamiliar noise arises from the bedroom. Check on kid #2.
-Whoops. You put him in his crib while he was holding a pencil! You now have "art" all over your wall. There's no one to blame but yourself.
It may look something like this:
-Call your spouse and tell him to make you laugh so you don't cry.
-Shoot down his "eraser party" idea. At least he tried.
-Tell kid #1 to put his shoes on and go to the bathroom.
-Chase kid #2 down to get his shoes on.
-Realize the kids found a packet of confetti, opened it and sprinkled it all around the house. You now have tiny stars, moons, and the word "baby" all over the house and on the bottom of your feet. Curse whoever included the packet in a card (you can't remember who) and curse yourself for not throwing it away when you had the chance.
-Round up the kids, the pool bag, the picnic bag, the diaper bag, and your purse. Congratulations. You're ready to go and you're only fifteen minutes late!
-Locate the swimsuits.
-Put the swimsuit on kid #2. Tell kid #1 to put his on. (He is bouncing on his bed.)
-Pack the towels, swim toys, and flotation devices.
-Remind kid #1 to put his bathing suit on.
-Pack everyone a change of clothes for after swimming.
-Put your own swim suit on. Avoid the mirror. If that is impossible, stick with a front-on angle. Whatever you do, don't turn to the side to see how much your belly sticks out. That will just send you on a downward spiral and you'll remember how last time you went to the pool, someone asked if you were pregnant. You weren't. Still aren't.
-Raise your arms. Yep, it's a hairy beast under there. Head to the bathroom for a quick dry-shave.
-Close kid #1 in his room and tell him he can't come out until he has his bathing suit on.
-Scrape together some food to pack for lunch. Throw a whole bag of baby carrots in. There's no time to pack individual bags. And let's be real; you're the only one who is going to eat the carrots anyway.
-Fill up water bottles.
-Listen to kid #1. Yep. He has gotten distracted and is now playing with toys in his room.
-Say, "Vitamin Time!" very loudly next to his door, so he'll be more motivated to get dressed.
-It worked! Kid #1 finally comes out. Everyone does the vitamin dance because you bought gummy vitamins. But you have the plain kind you have to swallow. No happy vitamin dance for you.
-Throw your hair into a ponytail.
-Listen to the sound of a heavy crash in living room.
-Come out to find that kid #2 has somehow unscrewed the lid from the mason jar and dumped a crap-ton of water all over the hardwood floor.
-Grunt in exasperation and mumble about not even being able to put your hair up.
-Throw kid #2 into the crib.
-Grab a towel. Enlist kid #1's help because one towel is not enough. Bribe him with being able to put a sticker on his good behavior chart.
-Use three towels to mop up all the water.
-Listen as another unfamiliar noise arises from the bedroom. Check on kid #2.
-Whoops. You put him in his crib while he was holding a pencil! You now have "art" all over your wall. There's no one to blame but yourself.
It may look something like this:
-Call your spouse and tell him to make you laugh so you don't cry.
-Shoot down his "eraser party" idea. At least he tried.
-Tell kid #1 to put his shoes on and go to the bathroom.
-Chase kid #2 down to get his shoes on.
-Realize the kids found a packet of confetti, opened it and sprinkled it all around the house. You now have tiny stars, moons, and the word "baby" all over the house and on the bottom of your feet. Curse whoever included the packet in a card (you can't remember who) and curse yourself for not throwing it away when you had the chance.
-Round up the kids, the pool bag, the picnic bag, the diaper bag, and your purse. Congratulations. You're ready to go and you're only fifteen minutes late!
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
My Crazy Week
On Tuesday I got into a car accident. A line of cars was braking and everyone stopped--except the girl behind me. She slammed into my rear bumper. I got some whiplash, but the kids seemed fine. Somehow, in the midst of it all, I did manage to save the dessert on the passenger's seat from launching onto the floor. You can see where my priorities are!
I would never wish for a car accident, but it has been handy to reinforce what we have been saying to E. about the necessity of seat belts and sitting in your seat properly.
Then on Wednesday, we needed milk. Actually, we needed milk on Monday, but I kept putting off the errand (something about two boys, a small space, and glass bottles made me less than enthusiastic). The back of our car was scraped up, but that was all, so I didn't think anything of going downtown to get some milk. I even bought an extra half gallon to make some yogurt, which brought our total up to a gallon and a half. I loaded everyone into the car, turned the key, and heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. Really? Is this really happening? I asked myself, a question I would keep asking as the week went on.
I tried to call Dave, but I wasn't getting any cell phone service (it was a cloudy day) and I had hardly any battery left. I tried calling a friend for a ride, but . . . still, no service. . .
Right. Alright. So we're really doing this. . .
Thank the Lord, my stroller, huge beast that it is, was in my trunk. I unloaded the kids, reloaded them into the stroller, along with some chicken and three glass bottles full of milk. It was one time I was thankful for a messy car since we had plenty of hats and mittens to keep everyone warm on the almost-two-mile hike back home.
About ten minutes down the road, I was able to reach Dave and he started trying to figure out what to do about the car, which was parked in a two-hour space. He called the city ("please be lenient, we're trying to move our car!") and a towing/auto repair place. But what do you know? The tow truck guy needed the car key. Well, I was not turning around after I had already been walking for half an hour. No, sir. Not a chance. Dave decided (with a little help from me. . . ) to drop the key off on the way home from work and to pray the city would not give us a ticket in the meantime.
The kids and I stopped off at a park on the way and met some friends. Why miss out on a play-date just because of some minor car trouble?
Then the coup de gras on the day: we made it all the way home, and, as I was pushing our stroller up the driveway, one of the milk bottles fell out and shattered, sending a river of whole, grass-fed, low-pasteurized milk down the sidewalk. (Really? Did that just happen!?) I managed to lug them all the way home and then mere feet from door, one half-gallon falls out and breaks??? Whatever. I wanted to go to bed and wake up on a different day. But even that wouldn't have helped. . .
On Thursday, in an unprecedented moment of stupidity--even for me--I put our laptop too close to a candle and burned a big hole into the back of the monitor. I caught it before it went too far, so to speak, but now we have a permanent gray mark about the size of a lime on our computer screen. I thought about blaming the kids, but I'd still come out looking bad for letting my kids play with candles. Oh well. The maple pancake smell was good while it lasted.
P.S. Our car has started every single time since that adventurous morning.
I would never wish for a car accident, but it has been handy to reinforce what we have been saying to E. about the necessity of seat belts and sitting in your seat properly.
Then on Wednesday, we needed milk. Actually, we needed milk on Monday, but I kept putting off the errand (something about two boys, a small space, and glass bottles made me less than enthusiastic). The back of our car was scraped up, but that was all, so I didn't think anything of going downtown to get some milk. I even bought an extra half gallon to make some yogurt, which brought our total up to a gallon and a half. I loaded everyone into the car, turned the key, and heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. Really? Is this really happening? I asked myself, a question I would keep asking as the week went on.
I tried to call Dave, but I wasn't getting any cell phone service (it was a cloudy day) and I had hardly any battery left. I tried calling a friend for a ride, but . . . still, no service. . .
Right. Alright. So we're really doing this. . .
Thank the Lord, my stroller, huge beast that it is, was in my trunk. I unloaded the kids, reloaded them into the stroller, along with some chicken and three glass bottles full of milk. It was one time I was thankful for a messy car since we had plenty of hats and mittens to keep everyone warm on the almost-two-mile hike back home.
About ten minutes down the road, I was able to reach Dave and he started trying to figure out what to do about the car, which was parked in a two-hour space. He called the city ("please be lenient, we're trying to move our car!") and a towing/auto repair place. But what do you know? The tow truck guy needed the car key. Well, I was not turning around after I had already been walking for half an hour. No, sir. Not a chance. Dave decided (with a little help from me. . . ) to drop the key off on the way home from work and to pray the city would not give us a ticket in the meantime.
The kids and I stopped off at a park on the way and met some friends. Why miss out on a play-date just because of some minor car trouble?
Then the coup de gras on the day: we made it all the way home, and, as I was pushing our stroller up the driveway, one of the milk bottles fell out and shattered, sending a river of whole, grass-fed, low-pasteurized milk down the sidewalk. (Really? Did that just happen!?) I managed to lug them all the way home and then mere feet from door, one half-gallon falls out and breaks??? Whatever. I wanted to go to bed and wake up on a different day. But even that wouldn't have helped. . .
On Thursday, in an unprecedented moment of stupidity--even for me--I put our laptop too close to a candle and burned a big hole into the back of the monitor. I caught it before it went too far, so to speak, but now we have a permanent gray mark about the size of a lime on our computer screen. I thought about blaming the kids, but I'd still come out looking bad for letting my kids play with candles. Oh well. The maple pancake smell was good while it lasted.
P.S. Our car has started every single time since that adventurous morning.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Just Another Manic Monday (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,Friday,Saturday, Sunday)
Parenting makes me feel manic--up, down, up, down like an elevator in an old-people's home.
I feel joy when I see those angelic faces.
When I see those silly faces.
And then.
There are those other times when I wonder how I'm going to make it through the next five minutes or the 1 hour 36 minutes and 29 seconds until bedtime.
When E. says, "Poopy Diaper" for themillionth billionth time.
When A. screams, loud ear-piercing screams. (I won't subject you to a video of them.)
When E. bonks his head on the floor, door, washing machine so that A. will copy him.
And the nose-picking. So tired of the nose-picking.
We can be having a lovely moment. All feels right in the world. Little birds are chirping. My life is like a scene from Pollyanna (pre-fall Pollyanna) and I feel like I could have a dozen kids. And then, as quick as you can say, "Poopy diaper," it all falls apart and I wonder what I'm going to do with the two kids I have.
And when I do make it through the day, at 7:30 p.m. I feel like I deserve a reward, such as chocolate mousse and not one, but two servings. (Yes, I had two cups of chocolate mousse last night and that was on a day when Dave was home from work! But, I suppose that deserves its own set of rewards.)
I love chocolate mousse. I think Heaven is not only going to have streets of gold, but rivers of chocolate mousse and lots of mochas and biscotti, but that's another topic.
Yesterday when E. asked if I was making dessert, the best I could come up with was: "Um. . . kind of. It's mostly eggs and whipped cream."
Thankfully, Daddy distracted him and he accepted my lame answer. Otherwise, I would have had to launch into how it actually was going to be fluffy, decadent chocolate and how I was going to savor it after he went to bed so I didn't have to share it. That's right even though I harp about how "Sharing is caring" and all that crap, when it comes to me and my mousse, my mantra doesn't apply and I turn into a hypocrite. But not entirely. I did share with Dave--a little bit. I saved the rest for tomorrow's nap time as a reward for making it through the morning. Yay me.
Up again. E. tells me, "You're so nice to me," even though I lost my temper with him an hour earlier. That unconditional love and forgiveness send me sky high. And those peaceful sleeping faces.
And I wouldn't change being a mom for anything.
I feel joy when I see those angelic faces.
When I see those silly faces.
When I walk in to get A. up in the morning and he says, "Morning!" in his high, soft voice.
When I snuggle up on the couch with the kids and read to them.
And then.
There are those other times when I wonder how I'm going to make it through the next five minutes or the 1 hour 36 minutes and 29 seconds until bedtime.
When E. says, "Poopy Diaper" for the
When A. screams, loud ear-piercing screams. (I won't subject you to a video of them.)
When E. bonks his head on the floor, door, washing machine so that A. will copy him.
And the nose-picking. So tired of the nose-picking.
We can be having a lovely moment. All feels right in the world. Little birds are chirping. My life is like a scene from Pollyanna (pre-fall Pollyanna) and I feel like I could have a dozen kids. And then, as quick as you can say, "Poopy diaper," it all falls apart and I wonder what I'm going to do with the two kids I have.
And when I do make it through the day, at 7:30 p.m. I feel like I deserve a reward, such as chocolate mousse and not one, but two servings. (Yes, I had two cups of chocolate mousse last night and that was on a day when Dave was home from work! But, I suppose that deserves its own set of rewards.)
I love chocolate mousse. I think Heaven is not only going to have streets of gold, but rivers of chocolate mousse and lots of mochas and biscotti, but that's another topic.
Yesterday when E. asked if I was making dessert, the best I could come up with was: "Um. . . kind of. It's mostly eggs and whipped cream."
Thankfully, Daddy distracted him and he accepted my lame answer. Otherwise, I would have had to launch into how it actually was going to be fluffy, decadent chocolate and how I was going to savor it after he went to bed so I didn't have to share it. That's right even though I harp about how "Sharing is caring" and all that crap, when it comes to me and my mousse, my mantra doesn't apply and I turn into a hypocrite. But not entirely. I did share with Dave--a little bit. I saved the rest for tomorrow's nap time as a reward for making it through the morning. Yay me.
Up again. E. tells me, "You're so nice to me," even though I lost my temper with him an hour earlier. That unconditional love and forgiveness send me sky high. And those peaceful sleeping faces.
And I wouldn't change being a mom for anything.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Major Blowout at Chick-Fil-A
I saw that look of disgruntled determination on A.'s face towards the end of our meal. My suspicions were confirmed when, about a minute later, Dave said he smelled something awful.
These things always happen when you don't have an extra diaper with you--or wipes, don't they? We were getting a little too confident about our parenting skills and left home without our diaper bag. We have since been humbled.
I don't want to be too gross or graphic, but there are reasons I love cloth diapers and one of them is the nice bit of elastic at the top that keeps "stuff" contained. Unfortunately, A. wasn't wearing a cloth diaper.
Dave and I split up. I volunteered to clean the highchair while he took A. to the bathroom. And now I know why people use those cart and highchair cover things. I am not a germaphobe in the least, so I never understood them before. But now I realize they are appealing because you never know what was there before you. It could have been an A. explosion. (I cleaned it up really well and used those Purell moist towelette things, but still.)
Dave said he was dry-heaving in the bathroom and I thought I might lose my waffle fries. That's how bad it was.
I sent E. in to the men's bathroom with a handful of more moist towelettes. That was my contribution. Then I sat at a nearby table and waited. I saw one man open the door, take one step inside, and hightail it back out. No joke. A good while later, Dave and A. came out, A. wearing nothing but Dave's humongous sweater. Then we did the walk of shame through the rest of the restaurant. Not only did our kid have the most disgusting diaper of his life, but we were also super unprepared. That's right teenyboppers, this is what you have to look forward to. I'd like to think we were a walking advertisement for birth control.
These things always happen when you don't have an extra diaper with you--or wipes, don't they? We were getting a little too confident about our parenting skills and left home without our diaper bag. We have since been humbled.
I don't want to be too gross or graphic, but there are reasons I love cloth diapers and one of them is the nice bit of elastic at the top that keeps "stuff" contained. Unfortunately, A. wasn't wearing a cloth diaper.
Dave and I split up. I volunteered to clean the highchair while he took A. to the bathroom. And now I know why people use those cart and highchair cover things. I am not a germaphobe in the least, so I never understood them before. But now I realize they are appealing because you never know what was there before you. It could have been an A. explosion. (I cleaned it up really well and used those Purell moist towelette things, but still.)
Dave said he was dry-heaving in the bathroom and I thought I might lose my waffle fries. That's how bad it was.
I sent E. in to the men's bathroom with a handful of more moist towelettes. That was my contribution. Then I sat at a nearby table and waited. I saw one man open the door, take one step inside, and hightail it back out. No joke. A good while later, Dave and A. came out, A. wearing nothing but Dave's humongous sweater. Then we did the walk of shame through the rest of the restaurant. Not only did our kid have the most disgusting diaper of his life, but we were also super unprepared. That's right teenyboppers, this is what you have to look forward to. I'd like to think we were a walking advertisement for birth control.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Shallow Well of Sympathy
E. scraped his ankle on some cinder-blocks the other day. I think it might have been the worst injury he's had to date, besides the giant nosebleed that happened yesterday, but that's a different story. Let's just say it involved two beds and E. trying to superman between them.
Anyway, the ankle scrape wasn't that bad, but you'd have thought the world was ending. He cried and just wanted to be held, which wasn't always possible since kid #2 was climbing on the same cinder-blocks and he doesn't quite have the whole balance thing mastered yet. I kept thinking that the crying and whining would stop. But it went on for a long long time: during our entire trek across a soccer field to get to the car and continued throughout the duration of our drive home.
"You're okay, Buddy," I told him.
"Oh, but," (his two new favorite words) "I don't want a boo boo."
I thought about saying "too bad" or "it's a little too late for that" or the ever-enduring "if you don't stop crying, I'm going to give you something to cry about," but in a more generous moment, opted for: "You already have it. Now you'll have to wait for it to get better."
"Oh, but it hurts. I want you to pick me up."
At this point, I was reminded of just how little compassion I have. I think I might be missing the empathy gene. My husband can attest to this character flaw of mine. Just ask him about the time he cut his finger with a hand saw and had to get stitches. He had to yell and fall to the ground just to get me to stop what I was doing and come over. Then I had to endure 2 weeks of looking at the wound, talking about the wound, bandaging the wound, and putting plastic bags on the wound so it didn't get wet. To be brutally honest, most of all, I resented having to do all the dishes myself. It was the longest two weeks of my life. . . I mean. . . I was very supportive and really felt for the guy.
Where was I? Oh yeah. No compassion.
I think E. inherited Dave's tolerance for pain. When we got home, he limped around, saying he couldn't run fast, only slow and need to walk on tiptoe. I might have rolled my eyes here. I'm not sure.
After about an hour, or maybe twenty minutes, I couldn't take it anymore. My shallow well of sympathy had run dry, so I told E.: "I think you need to toughen up."
"Oh, but I don't know how."
"You just look at your boo boo and say I'm okay and then you keep playing."
After he slept on it for a night, he decided to take my advice.
Anyway, the ankle scrape wasn't that bad, but you'd have thought the world was ending. He cried and just wanted to be held, which wasn't always possible since kid #2 was climbing on the same cinder-blocks and he doesn't quite have the whole balance thing mastered yet. I kept thinking that the crying and whining would stop. But it went on for a long long time: during our entire trek across a soccer field to get to the car and continued throughout the duration of our drive home.
"You're okay, Buddy," I told him.
"Oh, but," (his two new favorite words) "I don't want a boo boo."
I thought about saying "too bad" or "it's a little too late for that" or the ever-enduring "if you don't stop crying, I'm going to give you something to cry about," but in a more generous moment, opted for: "You already have it. Now you'll have to wait for it to get better."
"Oh, but it hurts. I want you to pick me up."
At this point, I was reminded of just how little compassion I have. I think I might be missing the empathy gene. My husband can attest to this character flaw of mine. Just ask him about the time he cut his finger with a hand saw and had to get stitches. He had to yell and fall to the ground just to get me to stop what I was doing and come over. Then I had to endure 2 weeks of looking at the wound, talking about the wound, bandaging the wound, and putting plastic bags on the wound so it didn't get wet. To be brutally honest, most of all, I resented having to do all the dishes myself. It was the longest two weeks of my life. . . I mean. . . I was very supportive and really felt for the guy.
Where was I? Oh yeah. No compassion.
I think E. inherited Dave's tolerance for pain. When we got home, he limped around, saying he couldn't run fast, only slow and need to walk on tiptoe. I might have rolled my eyes here. I'm not sure.
After about an hour, or maybe twenty minutes, I couldn't take it anymore. My shallow well of sympathy had run dry, so I told E.: "I think you need to toughen up."
"Oh, but I don't know how."
"You just look at your boo boo and say I'm okay and then you keep playing."
After he slept on it for a night, he decided to take my advice.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Survival Mode
I love P.B.S. Masterpiece Theater and their miniseries. I recently lost myself in them when Dave was away on his longest work trip yet. I watched Upstairs and Downstairs (similar to Dowton Abbey
only set pre-WWII instead WWI), Call the Midwife, and other random things. And I knitted away. In other words, I went into survival mode.
The first day Dave was gone, my dinner with E. was quiet. I'd already talked to him about taking a trip in a spaceship, how he would walk on the moon, and then go back to earth. We talked about how tomorrow was brown day at preschool. And I said I was going to have to do some laundry and we were going to go to a thing at church later.
"Do you like church?" I asked.
"Yes."
"What are you going to do there?"
"Play."
"What are you going to play with?"
"Toys."
I was really trying, even purposefully asking questions without yes or no answers. "What kind of toys?"
At this point, E. became engrossed in his food, either because he was unimpressed with my conversation skills or the leftover enchiladas were just that interesting. They were colorful-I'll give him that.
I really missed Dave, hearing about his day, being updated on what was going on in the world. I even missed hearing the latest about what people were saying about Tim Tebow or the Big Ten. (I can't believe I'm admitting that.)
"Are there beans in here?" E. asked.
"Yes."
"I don't like beans."
"Okay."
"Are there peppers in here?" he asked.
I knew exactly where this conversation was headed but participated anyway; I was that starved for talk."Yes."
"I don't like peppers."
"I like them," I said.
"I like them, too," E. said.
"Me, too."
"Me, too.
Then I started a new mantra: four. more. days. four. more. days. four. more. days.
I give a ton of credit to single parents, military spouses, or the person stuck at home while the other half travels for work. They should be canonized as saints. I don't know how they get anything done. During the week Dave was gone, if I miraculously got the kids to sleep at the same time, all I wanted to do was watch PBS and knit--not do dishes or laundry or even shower (who for?). I thought about taking advantage of the luxury of showering by myself, but even that seemed like work. Besides, there was no one getting close enough to smell me except E. & A. and, no offense to them, but they have produced smells way worse that I have endured (without sticking my nose in my shirt, which is more that I can say for Dave. . .).
If I was getting the death sentence, my final meal would definitely include ice cream--real ice cream not the fake light stuff or frozen yogurt (why bother?!). Ice cream is my comfort food. I ate a lot of it when E. was in my womb and he now asks me five times a day (not exaggerating): "Want to get ice cream, Mommy?" It's like a trick question. The answer is: "Yes. Always. Yes." But can we? Should we? Probably not. But thanks for bringing it up again and making me want some.
In the effort of full disclosure, I will admit that when Dave was gone, I ate ice cream in the middle of the day if I managed to get both kids to nap at the same time. That deserved a reward, right? And then I really wanted more after I got both kids "down for the night." (I use the term loosely where A. is concerned.) But I only had two-a-day once. I swear.
So I've come to realize that if Dave spent much more time away, he'd come home to a much heavier, smellier wife and a dirty house. It's probably best for both of us if we limit these work trips.
only set pre-WWII instead WWI), Call the Midwife, and other random things. And I knitted away. In other words, I went into survival mode.
The first day Dave was gone, my dinner with E. was quiet. I'd already talked to him about taking a trip in a spaceship, how he would walk on the moon, and then go back to earth. We talked about how tomorrow was brown day at preschool. And I said I was going to have to do some laundry and we were going to go to a thing at church later.
"Do you like church?" I asked.
"Yes."
"What are you going to do there?"
"Play."
"What are you going to play with?"
"Toys."
I was really trying, even purposefully asking questions without yes or no answers. "What kind of toys?"
At this point, E. became engrossed in his food, either because he was unimpressed with my conversation skills or the leftover enchiladas were just that interesting. They were colorful-I'll give him that.
I really missed Dave, hearing about his day, being updated on what was going on in the world. I even missed hearing the latest about what people were saying about Tim Tebow or the Big Ten. (I can't believe I'm admitting that.)
"Are there beans in here?" E. asked.
"Yes."
"I don't like beans."
"Okay."
"Are there peppers in here?" he asked.
I knew exactly where this conversation was headed but participated anyway; I was that starved for talk."Yes."
"I don't like peppers."
"I like them," I said.
"I like them, too," E. said.
"Me, too."
"Me, too.
Then I started a new mantra: four. more. days. four. more. days. four. more. days.
I give a ton of credit to single parents, military spouses, or the person stuck at home while the other half travels for work. They should be canonized as saints. I don't know how they get anything done. During the week Dave was gone, if I miraculously got the kids to sleep at the same time, all I wanted to do was watch PBS and knit--not do dishes or laundry or even shower (who for?). I thought about taking advantage of the luxury of showering by myself, but even that seemed like work. Besides, there was no one getting close enough to smell me except E. & A. and, no offense to them, but they have produced smells way worse that I have endured (without sticking my nose in my shirt, which is more that I can say for Dave. . .).
If I was getting the death sentence, my final meal would definitely include ice cream--real ice cream not the fake light stuff or frozen yogurt (why bother?!). Ice cream is my comfort food. I ate a lot of it when E. was in my womb and he now asks me five times a day (not exaggerating): "Want to get ice cream, Mommy?" It's like a trick question. The answer is: "Yes. Always. Yes." But can we? Should we? Probably not. But thanks for bringing it up again and making me want some.
In the effort of full disclosure, I will admit that when Dave was gone, I ate ice cream in the middle of the day if I managed to get both kids to nap at the same time. That deserved a reward, right? And then I really wanted more after I got both kids "down for the night." (I use the term loosely where A. is concerned.) But I only had two-a-day once. I swear.
So I've come to realize that if Dave spent much more time away, he'd come home to a much heavier, smellier wife and a dirty house. It's probably best for both of us if we limit these work trips.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
It's a Good Thing I'm not a Bomb Deactivater
Between getting stuff ready for Christmas and A.'s growth spurt (?), I have not been getting a lot of sleep lately. So you can imagine how thrilled I was this morning to hear that shrill staccato beep from the fire alarm letting me know the batteries were dying. They couldn't manage to hold on a little longer until, say, noon? It had to be right then--five minutes after Dave had left for work.
I lay in bed cursing the short lifespan of batteries and hoping that maybe I was just imagining loud noises. Then I heard it again and knew I had to get up. So I struggled out of bed, dragged over a chair, and took the alarm down and put it the dining room. The I snuggled back under my covers.
It happened again. This time I didn't bother cursing the batteries; I cursed myself for being dumb. I'm not sure why I thought just taking it off the ceiling would make it stop beeping. All I can say is that it was early.
If it weren't for the two sleeping kids, I might have put a pillow over my head and tried to ignore it, but that wasn't possible. Then again, if it weren't for them, I would be well-rested in the first place. I made myself get up one more time.
I thought I could just pop out some batteries and be done with it, but it wasn't that kind of alarm. The directions said something about destroying (okay, maybe not destroy, but something along those lines) a cross-hatched section and that I would need a tool like a screwdriver. Really? It took me a while to figure out that "cross-hatched section" meant a tiny square with diagonal lines. Is it just me or when you read "hatched" you picture something like basket-weaved? And why could they just say diagonal lines? I peeled back the square and then used a butter knife to slide over some plastic to deactivate the thing.
Sleep would once again be mine. I collapsed onto my bed, but my feet weren't even warm yet when I heard another annoying beep. Ahhh. I might have thrown a small temper tantrum just then.
Back into the hallway I went and I saw another round thing with an affinity for loud beeps. I had "destroyed" our fire alarm for no reason and cut it's lifespan in half. It was supposed to last twelve years-not six. Oops.
I took the carbon monoxide detector off the wall and read the instructions. They said if there were four beeps in a row and if it kept beeping, it meant there was carbon monoxide in the house, but if it just beeped every thirty seconds, the battery was low. Mine was beeping once a minute or couple minutes. What did that mean? I think they should make some that talk to you. "There's carbon monoxide in your home. Calmly but quickly exit your house and call 911." Or: "Please replace the batteries in your carbon monoxide detector, not your smoke detector." That would be more helpful than having to decipher what kind of beeps your hearing at o'dark thirty in the morning.
I was 99% sure that it was the batteries so I took them out and went back to bed. Then I lay there thinking about that one percent. What if it really was a carbon monoxide leak? I know it's odorless, but are there any symptoms? Maybe I should get up and google it. The detector said we'd have between 4-15 minutes to get out of the house. It's probably already been a couple minutes. I don't have much time left. How embarrassing would it be to call 911 and get everybody outside in their pajamas for a false alarm? Then again, what would it do to Dave if he came home and nobody was here anymore? And he would see both detectors on the kitchen counter and live the rest of his life knowing his wife's stupidity caused their entire demise. And on and on my thoughts went.
I had stopped the ear-piercing beeping, but I still couldn't find sleep. Yet, I'm happy to report we are all safe. . . we just have a couple things to replace. . .
I lay in bed cursing the short lifespan of batteries and hoping that maybe I was just imagining loud noises. Then I heard it again and knew I had to get up. So I struggled out of bed, dragged over a chair, and took the alarm down and put it the dining room. The I snuggled back under my covers.
It happened again. This time I didn't bother cursing the batteries; I cursed myself for being dumb. I'm not sure why I thought just taking it off the ceiling would make it stop beeping. All I can say is that it was early.
If it weren't for the two sleeping kids, I might have put a pillow over my head and tried to ignore it, but that wasn't possible. Then again, if it weren't for them, I would be well-rested in the first place. I made myself get up one more time.
 |
| I blame them. |
I thought I could just pop out some batteries and be done with it, but it wasn't that kind of alarm. The directions said something about destroying (okay, maybe not destroy, but something along those lines) a cross-hatched section and that I would need a tool like a screwdriver. Really? It took me a while to figure out that "cross-hatched section" meant a tiny square with diagonal lines. Is it just me or when you read "hatched" you picture something like basket-weaved? And why could they just say diagonal lines? I peeled back the square and then used a butter knife to slide over some plastic to deactivate the thing.
Sleep would once again be mine. I collapsed onto my bed, but my feet weren't even warm yet when I heard another annoying beep. Ahhh. I might have thrown a small temper tantrum just then.
Back into the hallway I went and I saw another round thing with an affinity for loud beeps. I had "destroyed" our fire alarm for no reason and cut it's lifespan in half. It was supposed to last twelve years-not six. Oops.
I took the carbon monoxide detector off the wall and read the instructions. They said if there were four beeps in a row and if it kept beeping, it meant there was carbon monoxide in the house, but if it just beeped every thirty seconds, the battery was low. Mine was beeping once a minute or couple minutes. What did that mean? I think they should make some that talk to you. "There's carbon monoxide in your home. Calmly but quickly exit your house and call 911." Or: "Please replace the batteries in your carbon monoxide detector, not your smoke detector." That would be more helpful than having to decipher what kind of beeps your hearing at o'dark thirty in the morning.
I was 99% sure that it was the batteries so I took them out and went back to bed. Then I lay there thinking about that one percent. What if it really was a carbon monoxide leak? I know it's odorless, but are there any symptoms? Maybe I should get up and google it. The detector said we'd have between 4-15 minutes to get out of the house. It's probably already been a couple minutes. I don't have much time left. How embarrassing would it be to call 911 and get everybody outside in their pajamas for a false alarm? Then again, what would it do to Dave if he came home and nobody was here anymore? And he would see both detectors on the kitchen counter and live the rest of his life knowing his wife's stupidity caused their entire demise. And on and on my thoughts went.
I had stopped the ear-piercing beeping, but I still couldn't find sleep. Yet, I'm happy to report we are all safe. . . we just have a couple things to replace. . .
Thursday, November 1, 2012
RAGE
I had never known the feeling of rage until I had a toddler.
I have felt upset, angry, even furious before but never seeing-red-can’t-even-think rage.
The situation that brought about this new emotion may not
seem to warrant such a dramatic word, but it's what I felt, nonetheless.
Here’s what led up to that
day:
I had been potty-training for a long darn time. I read
several books on the subject and some claimed that it would take only a day or,
at most, three to achieve success. All I can say about those people is that
they probably waited until their kids were nine to try or they have miracle
kids, for which they should get on their knees and thank God for, at least once
for every day it took me to potty-train: eight months and counting (nighttime
dryness still eludes us). Recently, when I experimented with no diaper one night “just to
see,” E. was nice enough to give me one dry morning, one day to get my hopes up, to see my future diaper free (as far as he is concerned) before he dashed my hopes
again. You cut me deep, Shrek.
We tried the one day thing, even stretching it out to a
week. One week where we didn’t leave the house (torture in and of itself), read
potty books, watched potty movies, and talked all about the potty (more torture. Who would have thought there was that much to say about doing your business?). The first
morning, a naked E. was playing cars on the hardwood floor in the living-room and, with no
warning and without a pause in his vroom vrooming, he defecated right there. Clearly, he was not ashamed and felt no need to go hide behind a couch or (gasp!) actually go sit on the potty.
I will admit that I cried as I envisioned a long, miserable day stretching out before
me. I begged Dave to take the day off work and stay home with me. He took pity
on me, but, unfortunately, couldn’t skip work every day until the mission was complete like I wanted.
The potty-training process took months. I won’t go into too many details,
but we’ve had instances of peeing in the middle of a coffee shop, the farmers’
market, and way too many messes in his room during “quiet time,” a.k.a. “soil your
underpants, take them off, and sit on a bunch of things time.”
During this phase of life, I was writing emails to my
mother-in-law while she was in Korea. After about email number five, I realized
all I had to talk about was bodily functions. My life was consumed with them.
Along came baby A. and things got even more interesting. One word: regression.
Then one
morning E. and I were playing cars (surprise, surprise), which, by the way, is
one of my least favorite things. Let’s play Uno, color, do a puzzle, anything
besides push hot wheels around the couch while pretending they are scooping
dirt and dumping it. Over. And. Over. Again. But, I was feeding A., and a good
way to occupy E. while I was stuck on the couch was cars, so I resigned myself
to the game. Then I noticed E. doing the not-so-subtle-grab-yourself-to-keep-the-pee-in-so-you-don’t-have-to-stop-playing
thing. I told him to go potty. He obliged and walked across the room to the
little BabyBjorn potty. Yes, we keep the it in the living room; easy access
is part of the training process. We need all the help we can get.
I glanced down at A. and when I looked back up, E. was
standing not two inches in front of his potty, peeing all over the floor. Two.
Inches. Away.
I lost it. I yelled. No words, just
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
E. burst into tears. That’s right, I scared my child with
only my voice and probably the horrified expression on my face. Looking back, I
can see how maybe he just wondered what would happen, but in the moment I was
completely baffled and frustrated.
I cried later myself and felt awful. I told Dave I was a
horrible mom and had traumatized our kid forever. With my luck it would end up
being his earliest memory: his mom yelling incoherently at him. Dave said a
little traumatizing might not be all that bad. He may have been sort of right; E.
never tried that stunt again, although, if I could get the same result, I’d
pick a different, less out-of-control method.
I'm hoping that when his time comes, baby A. will be that miracle, easy-to-potty-train child. If he is, I will do a happy dance in my living room right over the spot E. initiated on that first day.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Cupcakes and More
We went to a party this past weekend where, of course, the staple toddler birthday treat was present: a cupcake.
"Take the paper off?" E. asks Dave.
"Just peel it as you go," says Dave, not one to coddle.
Dave walks over to me and we look over at E. who isn't peeling the paper off. He's mostly trying to eat around it which is making the whole process go kind of slow.
"Have you ever seen someone savor their cupcake more?" Dave asks me.
"Yes, actually." I point to a kid in front of us who is only interested in the icing. He sticks his tongue out and waits for his mom to hold up the cupcake to his mouth before he takes a swipe. We watch as little dollops disappear from the top of the kid's cake.
Then we look over at E. He has finished his cupcake and the evidence of his enjoyment is all over his face. Dave goes to clean him up and notices a completely empty plate in front of him. He looks over at the girl next to E. She has a cupcake wrapper on her plate.
"Where's the paper?" Dave asks.
E. looks around bewildered.
"Did you eat it?"
"Yeah," E. says, matter-of-factly.
There are some things you think you don't have to explain. And then you turn out to be wrong.
We learned an important lesson that day: Don't underestimate your child's ability to eat just about anything.
Another lesson: If it does happen, don't fret about it. Paper digests quite easily.
"Take the paper off?" E. asks Dave.
"Just peel it as you go," says Dave, not one to coddle.
Dave walks over to me and we look over at E. who isn't peeling the paper off. He's mostly trying to eat around it which is making the whole process go kind of slow.
"Have you ever seen someone savor their cupcake more?" Dave asks me.
"Yes, actually." I point to a kid in front of us who is only interested in the icing. He sticks his tongue out and waits for his mom to hold up the cupcake to his mouth before he takes a swipe. We watch as little dollops disappear from the top of the kid's cake.
Then we look over at E. He has finished his cupcake and the evidence of his enjoyment is all over his face. Dave goes to clean him up and notices a completely empty plate in front of him. He looks over at the girl next to E. She has a cupcake wrapper on her plate.
"Where's the paper?" Dave asks.
E. looks around bewildered.
"Did you eat it?"
"Yeah," E. says, matter-of-factly.
There are some things you think you don't have to explain. And then you turn out to be wrong.
We learned an important lesson that day: Don't underestimate your child's ability to eat just about anything.
Another lesson: If it does happen, don't fret about it. Paper digests quite easily.
Friday, August 17, 2012
My New Life
So I've taken a little break from posting. In the interim I've had a baby and had another kid turn three.
And boy, has my life changed:
1. I am no longer getting 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep--or even six, for that matter.
2. I am changing diapers at three in the morning--and the sheets on my bed. I only left A. without a diaper last night for about 2 seconds, but apparently it was long enough for him to pee everywhere.
3. Speaking of cleaning up pee, today E. peed his pants and all over the floor of one of my favorite coffee shops. In the exact middle of the shop. And did I mention it is check-in day for the local college? So there were many witnesses to my humiliation. E. didn't seem to mind though. . .
4. E. no longer takes naps. He has "quiet time," which consists of him playing a little bit and also going to the bathroom a million zillion times. Seriously, it's amazing how many times the kid can go in the span of one hour. It's a talent, really. I predict he will go far in life.
5. Yesterday I went to get my hair cut and was so looking forward to an hour without any kids. I didn't mind waiting for my appointment because I got to read a book. A real book. With chapters. Then the owner of the salon asked when I was due. Six weeks ago is what I should have said.
That's it. I'm not going anywhere without A. for the next couple months.
6. One of my dogs, Pickle, a.k.a. Houdini, jumped the fence and escaped our backyard today. Fortunately he decided not to run into the street and was waiting outside the front door to be let in. Oh, who am I kidding? This is nothing new. You'd think I'd put him on a leash or build a bigger fence, but I am always optimistic he'll be a good dog and stay in the yard. Sometimes I should believe the glass is half-empty.
7. E. told me he loved me (unprompted) for the very first time.
8. A. smiled at me for the first time.
I can't say I love every minute of this new life (i.e. apologizing to the coffee shop owner for my son urinating all over his floor), but I wouldn't trade it either.
And boy, has my life changed:
1. I am no longer getting 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep--or even six, for that matter.
2. I am changing diapers at three in the morning--and the sheets on my bed. I only left A. without a diaper last night for about 2 seconds, but apparently it was long enough for him to pee everywhere.
3. Speaking of cleaning up pee, today E. peed his pants and all over the floor of one of my favorite coffee shops. In the exact middle of the shop. And did I mention it is check-in day for the local college? So there were many witnesses to my humiliation. E. didn't seem to mind though. . .
4. E. no longer takes naps. He has "quiet time," which consists of him playing a little bit and also going to the bathroom a million zillion times. Seriously, it's amazing how many times the kid can go in the span of one hour. It's a talent, really. I predict he will go far in life.
5. Yesterday I went to get my hair cut and was so looking forward to an hour without any kids. I didn't mind waiting for my appointment because I got to read a book. A real book. With chapters. Then the owner of the salon asked when I was due. Six weeks ago is what I should have said.
That's it. I'm not going anywhere without A. for the next couple months.
6. One of my dogs, Pickle, a.k.a. Houdini, jumped the fence and escaped our backyard today. Fortunately he decided not to run into the street and was waiting outside the front door to be let in. Oh, who am I kidding? This is nothing new. You'd think I'd put him on a leash or build a bigger fence, but I am always optimistic he'll be a good dog and stay in the yard. Sometimes I should believe the glass is half-empty.
7. E. told me he loved me (unprompted) for the very first time.
8. A. smiled at me for the first time.
I can't say I love every minute of this new life (i.e. apologizing to the coffee shop owner for my son urinating all over his floor), but I wouldn't trade it either.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Gifts
The sermon at church this morning was about how children are gifts from God and we need to appreciate them while they are under our care. The pastor estimated that we have about sixteen years of influence since teenagers stop listening at age sixteen. That means I only have thirteen and half years left!
Dave and I tried to remember this as we drove home and E. was yelling "Open it!" at the top of his lungs. He made a magnet in the nursery and thought it opened somehow. It didn't, but no amount of reasoning could change his mind.
The message would have been even more difficult to apply had we heard it Friday. We took E. to a children's museum. They were having a special one dollar admission deal so it was packed. Nevertheless, while we were there, I was feeling good as a parent and commented to Dave that it was nice to do something fun for just E. since we are always dragging him to the grocery store, bank, butcher, etc. We even thought that maybe we would make it a once a month tradition. That was until we got in the car to make the one hour trip home.
E. cried almost the entire way from where we dragged him away from the digging area in the museum to our front door. I offered him Cheerios, which mercifully made him quiet for about five minutes. Then he started screaming when the Cheerios ran out. This happened again with the raisins. He was so tired, he didn't even know what he was crying about anymore. I got hit with one of his shoes (we took the other one away) and then two socks. I can say the kid has good aim: three for three in the back of Mommy's head.
I do agree that children are gifts, but sometimes I'd like to take that gift and wrap it up for a little while and open it again when the crying, whining, throwing stop.
Dave and I tried to remember this as we drove home and E. was yelling "Open it!" at the top of his lungs. He made a magnet in the nursery and thought it opened somehow. It didn't, but no amount of reasoning could change his mind.
The message would have been even more difficult to apply had we heard it Friday. We took E. to a children's museum. They were having a special one dollar admission deal so it was packed. Nevertheless, while we were there, I was feeling good as a parent and commented to Dave that it was nice to do something fun for just E. since we are always dragging him to the grocery store, bank, butcher, etc. We even thought that maybe we would make it a once a month tradition. That was until we got in the car to make the one hour trip home.
E. cried almost the entire way from where we dragged him away from the digging area in the museum to our front door. I offered him Cheerios, which mercifully made him quiet for about five minutes. Then he started screaming when the Cheerios ran out. This happened again with the raisins. He was so tired, he didn't even know what he was crying about anymore. I got hit with one of his shoes (we took the other one away) and then two socks. I can say the kid has good aim: three for three in the back of Mommy's head.
I do agree that children are gifts, but sometimes I'd like to take that gift and wrap it up for a little while and open it again when the crying, whining, throwing stop.
Monday, December 5, 2011
10 Steps to a Successful Grocery Trip with a Toddler
Step 1. Be prepared. Bring at least two snacks. If using coupons, organize them ahead of time. You'll thank yourself later.
Step 2. Bring reinforcements, at least one extra person whose sole purpose is to push the cart in amusing ways.
Step 3. Locate (scour the whole parking lot if you have to) a cart with the child's car attached so the toddler can "drive". This will buy you a vital fifteen minutes.
Step 4. Work fast to find the items on the list. "Pretend" you have thirty minutes before a bomb is going to go off and you must finish before then.
Step 5. At the 1st sign of toddler's imminent boredom, offer the 1st snack.
Step 6. As soon as the 1st snack is devoured, offer the 2nd snack because a meltdown is not far off now. It's helpful if the 2nd snack is more appealing than the 1st snack.
Step 7. Work even faster.
Step 8. As soon as the toddler shows he's done shopping in not so subtle ways, such as screaming, it's time to go, no matter what's still left on the list.
Step 9. In response to the toddler's pleas to "Walk! Walk!", offer to let him or her give the cashier the coupons, the cash, and/or the credit card. Smile as the cashier comments on how cute this is and resist the urge to explain in great detail how it's actually your amazing foresight and preparations that allow the toddler's cuteness to be evident.
Step 10. Congratulate yourself. You now have food in the house!!! This is no small accomplishment. Then sleep well (provided no said toddlers wake up on the middle of the night from nightmares or just because).
Step 2. Bring reinforcements, at least one extra person whose sole purpose is to push the cart in amusing ways.
Step 3. Locate (scour the whole parking lot if you have to) a cart with the child's car attached so the toddler can "drive". This will buy you a vital fifteen minutes.
Step 4. Work fast to find the items on the list. "Pretend" you have thirty minutes before a bomb is going to go off and you must finish before then.
Step 5. At the 1st sign of toddler's imminent boredom, offer the 1st snack.
Step 6. As soon as the 1st snack is devoured, offer the 2nd snack because a meltdown is not far off now. It's helpful if the 2nd snack is more appealing than the 1st snack.
Step 7. Work even faster.
Step 8. As soon as the toddler shows he's done shopping in not so subtle ways, such as screaming, it's time to go, no matter what's still left on the list.
Step 9. In response to the toddler's pleas to "Walk! Walk!", offer to let him or her give the cashier the coupons, the cash, and/or the credit card. Smile as the cashier comments on how cute this is and resist the urge to explain in great detail how it's actually your amazing foresight and preparations that allow the toddler's cuteness to be evident.
Step 10. Congratulate yourself. You now have food in the house!!! This is no small accomplishment. Then sleep well (provided no said toddlers wake up on the middle of the night from nightmares or just because).
Thursday, December 1, 2011
That Darned Little White Whale (Baby Beluga)
It's official. E.'s favorite song is "Baby Beluga." I know this because almost immediately after we get in the car, from the backseat I hear "Baby Beluga, please?" And then after the song has played once through, the question comes again. And again and again, until I give in and we've listened to it the entire way to wherever we are going.
I would say that on average we go somewhere at least once a day and one car trip usually affords us enough time to hear "Baby Beluga" at least four times. That means I'm listening to the song at least 8 times a day, 56 times a week, and almost 3,000 times a year. How can one little person like a song that much?
Sometimes, if we're lucky, E. forgets or doesn't notice when the song has ended and we make it to track number two, which isn't a bad song in my humble opinion. However, we never make it past or even all the way through track four before E. realizes we are wasting valuable time during which we could be listening to "Baby Beluga."
Needless to say, I practically have the song memorized. I know all about that little white whale on the go. But I'm not sure I agree with the line "Sing your little song, sing for all your friends, we like to hear you." We might have liked you once, but we'd like a break. We'd like to hear something else. Anything else. Please.
(For your enjoyment:)
I would say that on average we go somewhere at least once a day and one car trip usually affords us enough time to hear "Baby Beluga" at least four times. That means I'm listening to the song at least 8 times a day, 56 times a week, and almost 3,000 times a year. How can one little person like a song that much?
Sometimes, if we're lucky, E. forgets or doesn't notice when the song has ended and we make it to track number two, which isn't a bad song in my humble opinion. However, we never make it past or even all the way through track four before E. realizes we are wasting valuable time during which we could be listening to "Baby Beluga."
Needless to say, I practically have the song memorized. I know all about that little white whale on the go. But I'm not sure I agree with the line "Sing your little song, sing for all your friends, we like to hear you." We might have liked you once, but we'd like a break. We'd like to hear something else. Anything else. Please.
(For your enjoyment:)
P.S. Not sure why the truck has to be the microphone, but I do know that a microphone is always, always necessary.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Mommy Awards
If only there could be an Emmy award show for mothers. If actors, actresses, and TV personalities get recognized for their work, I see no reason why we should not get recognized for ours.
Some might say that Mother's Day is our chance for awards and appreciation. However, it's not the same. For one, I received a plant and not a gold trophy and two, I did not wear a glamorous dress and three, I did not see a red carpet anywhere.
Here are some possibilities for categories:
1. Outstanding mother who still functioned after massive amounts of lost sleep
2. Outstanding mother who still got the house cleaned, at least, before the guests arrived
3. Outstanding mother who potty-trained. Enough said.
4. Outstanding mother who stayed in with a sick child all day. In the house. To save other parents and children from having to go through what she was going through.
5. Outstanding mother who cleaned up food that didn't stay down like it should have.
6. Outstanding mother who changed the worst diaper ever, even though, if she were honest, she thought about leaving him or her in it forever. No one should ever have had to subject their noses to that smell.
I can't act, but I can do these other impressive things and I might not, make that definitely will not, look as good as Heidi Klum in a designer dress, but that doesn't mean I don't work hard. It just means I don't have a personal trainer and someone to cook me healthy meals. At least that's what I tell myself.
I would like to nominate myself for categories 5 & 6. The only explanation needed can be given in three words: Berry Cobber (5) and Kiwi (6).
If I won I would say: I can't believe I'm standing here right now. I would like to thank the little guy (literally) in my life who made it all possible. Without him, I would not have changed those awful diapers or those sheets. It was all worth it, but if you could please be potty-trained within the next year, that would be great. And thank you for this six-pound gold trophy and the chance to wear this awesome dress.
(Swelling music signals me to leave the stage. Did I mention there should be a stage?)
Some might say that Mother's Day is our chance for awards and appreciation. However, it's not the same. For one, I received a plant and not a gold trophy and two, I did not wear a glamorous dress and three, I did not see a red carpet anywhere.
Here are some possibilities for categories:
1. Outstanding mother who still functioned after massive amounts of lost sleep
2. Outstanding mother who still got the house cleaned, at least, before the guests arrived
3. Outstanding mother who potty-trained. Enough said.
4. Outstanding mother who stayed in with a sick child all day. In the house. To save other parents and children from having to go through what she was going through.
5. Outstanding mother who cleaned up food that didn't stay down like it should have.
6. Outstanding mother who changed the worst diaper ever, even though, if she were honest, she thought about leaving him or her in it forever. No one should ever have had to subject their noses to that smell.
I can't act, but I can do these other impressive things and I might not, make that definitely will not, look as good as Heidi Klum in a designer dress, but that doesn't mean I don't work hard. It just means I don't have a personal trainer and someone to cook me healthy meals. At least that's what I tell myself.
I would like to nominate myself for categories 5 & 6. The only explanation needed can be given in three words: Berry Cobber (5) and Kiwi (6).
If I won I would say: I can't believe I'm standing here right now. I would like to thank the little guy (literally) in my life who made it all possible. Without him, I would not have changed those awful diapers or those sheets. It was all worth it, but if you could please be potty-trained within the next year, that would be great. And thank you for this six-pound gold trophy and the chance to wear this awesome dress.
(Swelling music signals me to leave the stage. Did I mention there should be a stage?)
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Inexhaustable Energy
After three (not consecutive, thank goodness) days of E. foregoing a nap, the goal today was to tire him out so Mommy could do some homework (and blog. . . ). We went to mother goose at the library and I deliberately parked three blocks away so that E. would be able to run, which he did, three blocks and then some. He needed to expend some energy in order to stay in the mother goose room. During the rhymes and reading, he didn't try to bolt out the door as he has for the past few weeks, but he did think it was fun to bang on a metal cart. When I removed him, he went back. This became a fun game: E. trying to run to the cart and me stopping him and pulling him back. He can be quite single-minded, I have to give him that.
Then we went to the park for lunch and so I could have small snatches of conversations with grown-ups when I wasn't pulling E. out of the fray of swinging swings. The nice thing about the park was that it had a playground and a lot of areas for E. to deplete some of his stored up energy. I have to say two-year-olds recharge something fierce during those eight-ten hours at night.
There was a girl on the jungle gym who wanted to play with E. Their conversation went something like this:
Girl: Do you want to be an alien?
E.: (points to the slide) Slide.
Girl: Do you want to be an alien?
E.: (runs to steering wheel) Driving.
Girl: Do you want to be an alien or not?
E.: Poop in the potty.
Girl: (walks away)
I guess he didn't feel like being an alien today. And although he said "poop in the potty," he really meant in his diaper. The girl was right to walk away.
I'm happy to say that it worked. He slept almost two hours and now I hear him in his room talking about balls and buses. And Up. I think he's trying to tell me something.
Wearing him out wears me out. I should have napped, too or maybe it's just time for more coffee.
Then we went to the park for lunch and so I could have small snatches of conversations with grown-ups when I wasn't pulling E. out of the fray of swinging swings. The nice thing about the park was that it had a playground and a lot of areas for E. to deplete some of his stored up energy. I have to say two-year-olds recharge something fierce during those eight-ten hours at night.
There was a girl on the jungle gym who wanted to play with E. Their conversation went something like this:
Girl: Do you want to be an alien?
E.: (points to the slide) Slide.
Girl: Do you want to be an alien?
E.: (runs to steering wheel) Driving.
Girl: Do you want to be an alien or not?
E.: Poop in the potty.
Girl: (walks away)
I guess he didn't feel like being an alien today. And although he said "poop in the potty," he really meant in his diaper. The girl was right to walk away.
I'm happy to say that it worked. He slept almost two hours and now I hear him in his room talking about balls and buses. And Up. I think he's trying to tell me something.
Wearing him out wears me out. I should have napped, too or maybe it's just time for more coffee.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Potty Stories
#1. It seems as if all my friends are potty training their kids or are already finished. We're still working on E. being willing to sit there fully clothed. However, we did have somewhat of a breakthrough the other day. In the middle of changing him, I realized I had to go and since my bladder isn't the same since having him, I couldn't waste any time. So we went to the bathroom together. E. was intermittently sitting on the potty and roaming around opening cabinets. At one point, when he was seated, I heard a funny noise. What is that? I wondered. It took me a second, but I realized it was the sound of E. actually peeing in his potty. Hooray. I praised him and rewarded him with flushing the toilet and washing his hands. Unfortunately, that has not motivated him to repeat the action.
#2. E. is a great imitator these days. He mimics everything from the way we sit on chairs to girls whining at the pool to his Daddy yelling, "Dang It." So when we found ourselves yet again in the bathroom going potty, he saw me with my hands folded and he folded his, too. Then he started to mumble some words. He was praying, knowing that we fold our hands when we pray before dinner. I don't think I've actually prayed on the toilet before but why not? Maybe I should be using that time to offer up some prayers that E. will get potty trained sooner rather than later. My nose thinks so anyway.
#2. E. is a great imitator these days. He mimics everything from the way we sit on chairs to girls whining at the pool to his Daddy yelling, "Dang It." So when we found ourselves yet again in the bathroom going potty, he saw me with my hands folded and he folded his, too. Then he started to mumble some words. He was praying, knowing that we fold our hands when we pray before dinner. I don't think I've actually prayed on the toilet before but why not? Maybe I should be using that time to offer up some prayers that E. will get potty trained sooner rather than later. My nose thinks so anyway.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Latrucka? Latrucka? Latrucka? Latrucka? Latrucka? Latrucka? Latrucka? Latrucka
Everyone warns parents or talks about the "why" phase children go through, the endless quests to find the meaning behind everything. However, no one told me about the "truck" phase, that every time my son spots a truck on the road, hears the engine of a truck, or imagines there is a truck outside, he must ask, "Truck?" Only it sounds more like Latrucka?. He wants someone, anyone, to verify for him that it is indeed a truck. If said person does not confirm the truck spotting, he will on average repeat Latrucka eight times. Then two seconds later when another one cruises down the road, the process will repeat itself. It's better to give in and say, "Truck" with conviction and pray that he hears you the first time so you won't have to say it again, at least not for another ten seconds.
Who knew so many trucks existed in the world? Who knew when my son turned twenty months he would notice every single one of them and would require a confirmation of "truck" a million times a day? Okay, maybe a million is an exaggeration, but not much.
Who knew so many trucks existed in the world? Who knew when my son turned twenty months he would notice every single one of them and would require a confirmation of "truck" a million times a day? Okay, maybe a million is an exaggeration, but not much.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
He Just Keeps Growing
1.27.2011
E. has grown taller and the consequence seems to be that things keep disappearing and reappearing elsewhere. His little hand gropes the table (he can’t see what he is fishing for). He pulls off whatever he can, then walks away with it, and leaves it someplace new. So, spatulas are in my bedroom, deodorant is in the living room, and I still can’t find my kitchen brush. Perhaps, he just thinks I have no decorating sense and is taking the liberty of rearranging for me. How thoughtful. Thank you, E.
3.15.2011
E. is even taller (imagine that…) since I was first amazed at how much he could reach. And now he successfully stands on tiptoe to grab anything that looks interesting (almost everything is interesting if it is on a table). I’ve learned the hard way, although not the really hard way thankfully (he has not been harmed), that he can now reach whatever is on our kitchen counter. This includes plates, knives, kitchen shears… So far he has dropped the offending object as soon as he has seen my startled expressions and heard the weird noises that leave my throat.
Sometimes it pays to have cheap knives that aren’t sharp. When I am cursing the carrots that won’t chop, I can just be thankful that E. didn’t cut his mouth when he stuck the knife in there.
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