Movin' On Up
Sorry for the lack of updates. I'm in the process of getting a new version of this site up
here. So wander on over and check it out!
Photo albums are password protected. Email me if you want to look at them. If I know you, no problem. If I don't, you'd better have a good reason for wanting to view them.
Happy Anniversary To Us!!
It's been three years--here's to at least fifty more. (Isn't he gorgeous?)
Dear Anonymous (Hi Luke!)
Since you asked, here is how we make poop at our house:
1. Eat
2. Wait.
3. Head for the bathroom, and bring a magazine (this could take a while).
4. Do your business.
5. Flush.
6. If you're Gus, celebrate and flush again. Say, "Bye, poop!" and wave.
It's a simple, no-frills recipe, but it works for us.
Two Going on Thirteen
Today is one of those days when I am sure that Gus is going to turn out to be a juvenile delinquent. Everything today has been a struggle, from what he will eat for lunch to whether or not he will be quiet for three minutes while I watch the headlines on the Today Show.
Me: Gus, please be quiet, I just want to hear the headlines. Three minutes.
Gus: No. I'm talking. [insert unintelligible singing noises, screeches, babbling, etc.]
Me: If you can't be quiet, you need to leave the room. This will be over in two minutes.
Gus: I'm talking. [more unintelligible noise, echoed by Will who now thinks his big brother is trying to communicate with him]
Me: [sigh] (the noise magically stops when I flip the channel back to PBSKids, where DragonTales is on in all it's inane glory.)
Somewhere along the line, between his first birthday and now, Gus has found all my hot buttons--and knows just when to jam his thumb. To date, I have not found a consistent, effective form of discipline. We've tried time-out (in his room and in a corner), we've tried depriving him of treats (bad attitude=no trips to the park, or whatever), we've tried explaining things, we've tried raising our voices sternly--I've even taken a swat or two at the boy (yesterday he pushed me away from him and said "get away from me!" when I put him in the time-out chair, so I slapped his hand. Without thinking, I said at the same moment, "Don't hit!" Well played, Mommy.).
But it's as if he doesn't care. He is so headstrong, so willful and articulate--and he's apparently decided that he's in charge. Time out? Bring it on, oh parents of mine! Go ahead, take the toy I'm throwing, there are plenty more!
When given a choice between helping to clean up a mess or losing a toy, he will (nine times out of ten) choose to give up the toy. Time-outs are a battle of wills--it's me vs. him, how badly I want to hold him in place vs. how long he feels like dangling limp from my hands (dangling is one of Gus's best moves, absolutely guaranteed to make parents insane).
The boy can send me into a blind rage in a matter of seconds. My mother-in-law suggested I ignore some of his behaviour, which I would be happy to do. Except that the things he's most often in trouble for are pulling the cat's tail or the dog's eyelids. Or for knocking over glasses of water onto the floor or flinging his snack from one end of the room to the other.
And Lord, he is smart. Gus knows when I am indisposed (nursing Will or laying him down for a nap), and chooses to act out at those times. He talks back. When told to go to time-out, Gus's response is generally "no" followed by a "you go to time-out." I know that testing boundaries is something children do, but never in my life did I imagine that a two-year-old would look me in the face and
dare me to make him [insert whatever it is I'm trying to get accomplished].
A book I read recently said that a strong-willed child will only respect a person who is up to taking him on. When the gauntlet is thrown, it's up to the parent to regain control and make the child understand who's in charge. That's a wonderful thing to strive for, I think, except that I don't want my child to be afraid of me, nor do I want him to obey me without question in every detail. Yes, I want him to stay out of the street and away from electrical outlets, but does it really matter if he wears the socks I pick out? Does it matter if the sandwich he eats for lunch is ham-and-cheese or peanut-butter-and-jelly?
And I don't mean that I am not up to the challenge of fighting--I'd just like to keep the struggle to a minimum because Christ, it's exhausting. Sometimes when it's all over, I can't help but think that I'm the one causing most of the problems in the first place. If I was more patient, if I was more creative in my solutions, if conflict didn't stress me out so damn much--if this mothering thing wasn't so f---ing important.
Because that's what this is really all about. At the end of the day, I want my son to be happy, well-fed, and one step closer to becoming the man I hope he will someday be. I'd rather teach him to work with the qualities and characteristics he was born with than spend this time trying to change him.
Gallery of Regrettable "Fashion"
Boy, I bet she's glad she decided to go without the pasties after all, huh?
What is up with Hobbit Boy's hair? Is it blonde? Is it brown? Is he going for some kind of light-to-dark gradient effect into his facial hair? And Maggie, girl, that pile on your head looks like, well, a pile. If you know what I mean.
Get this girl some fried chicken, STAT.
Patricia, Patricia. You know I love you as the classy, intelligent, witty crime solver on
Medium, right? But this Old West Saloon Girl thing--NOT A GOOD IDEA. I'm embarrassed for you.
And you, Tess, I don't know who you are. But please, let's leave the bedsheets at home next time. It would have been better to simply leave your house in the nude.
Gus
Will
Purgatory
The other day, Dashing Husband and I had the following conversation:
DH: We need to finish the laundry this weekend.
Me: Finish?
DH: Yes, you know, fold it, put it away ...
Me: By finished, you imply that it will eventually come to some sort of end.
Who Ordered the Poo-Poo Platter?
Today, Dashing Husband cooked up some veggie sausage links I'd bought for us to try. We put one on Gus's plate, next to his cheesy eggs, and urged him to try it.
"Mommy, I don't want poop," he said.
Because I serve that ALL THE TIME.
How Are They Gonna Learn How to Read If They Can't Even Fit in the Building?
Here is Gus perfecting his look, "Blue Steel."
In Which That Mess in the Kitchen Turns Out To Be Dinner
Last week I alluded to my grocery budget and the fact that I choose recipes ahead of time in order to plan a menu we can afford. I also might have claimed to be a fabulous chef in the manner of Emeril or Julia. Maybe.
As it happens, pride does indeed go before the fall (a.k.a. steer clear of culinary hyperbole).
Tonight I made something that was supposed to be sesame noodles, but instead ended up tasting--according to Dashing Husband--like a combination of "peanut butter and ass." I found the recipe in my
Parents magazine and it sounded interesting. Also,
Parents has not steered me wrong in the past. It called for some peanut butter, but there were other ingredients included so I assumed the taste would be well-masked. Blended, as it were.
As we now know, peanut butter on noodles is NOT A GOOD IDEA. I tossed the entire thirteen pounds of food the recipe yields (honestly, what kind of recipe calls for an entire box of pasta anyway?) into the trash. Wasteful? Yes. That's the first time I've ever done that. But it was that or let it grow hairy and evil in the back of my refrigerator. Imagine, waking up to thirteen pounds of slimy, nefarious, peanut-butter covered spaghetti standing next to your bed, holding your innocent boy hostage until you GIVE IT WHAT IT WANTS, DAMMIT--would you or would you not wet your pants and scream like a little girl?
We shall now and ever after refer to this incident as the Slimy Sesame Noodles of Doom*. We will also now and ever after leave room in the grocery budget for the Emergency Back-Up Pizza from Five Star.
*Interestingly, Gus rather enjoyed the Slimy Sesame Noodles of Doom. He gleefully had a generous helping of them, which he followed up with a big fat slice of pepperoni pizza. It's not often that the whole meal revolves around the preferences of a two-year-old. Dashing Husband observed that the noodles must have tasted like "spicy peanut butter" to Gus, and as gross as it is, that flavor
is right up his toddler alley.
Two of My Favorite Butts in the World
This--THIS--Is What Makes Life on the Internet Worth Living
I love
this man.
Thanks to my sister over at
Airborne Momma for the link!
Fun with Bodily Functions and a Lesson in Table Manners from A Chimp Learning to Use a Fork
Me: Don't spit, Gus. That's gross.
Gus: I tried to burp.
Me: Don't do that either.
Gus: Burping is useful. I tried to burp last night.
___________________________________________________
A couple of days ago we were all eating dinner at our little table. Gus was doing the usual, smearing food across the tablecloth and stacking small pieces of cheese.
"Use your fork, Gus," I said.
"Get your elbows off the table, Mommy. That's bad manners," he replied. Because he's two, he could say that without batting an eyelash, with applesauce in his hair and two handfuls of food poised for stuffing into his cheek pouches.
And then his father backed him up.
"That's right, Gus. Good catch, buddy," he said.
I am surrounded by men.
Don't Do Drugs
Do ice cream.
The nature of today made it imperative for me to eat a bowl of Bear Claw ice cream and top it with whipped cream, caramel, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and THREE maraschino cherries. You see, Will is not feeling well. He had his four-month shots yesterday and has been feverish, cranky, and prone to puking ever since. His brother, Gus, ever the helpful two-year-old, has gone on a nap strike in support.
I went into his room this afternoon to see why he hadn't yet fallen asleep, and he was soaking wet. He'd also torn a page out of one of his large picture books.
"I spit milk, Mom," Gus said, adding, "I'm peed on."
I've been up since four am, and these children will not cut me a break so I can get some much-needed sleep. They're like tiny, evil warlords, and just because Will doesn't talk doesn't mean they aren't working together. Trust me.
So it was ice cream or crack.
Pressure
Since childhood I have struggled with anxiety and fear. I remember being ten or twelve years old, absolutely terrified that someone was coming through my bedroom window at night to take me away. I used to crawl into my parents' room and sleep on the floor. I never fell asleep easily or quickly.
The problem got so serious at one point that I had to go see a counselor. I don't remember his name, but I do remember him telling me that being abducted through my bedroom window was about as likely as a tree falling on me while I was walking down the sidewalk. For some reason that helped. My fear never really went away, but it had been couched in tangible terms.
I have never been able to watch the news without wincing. Whenever another murder, rape, abduction, horrible car accident, etc. is reported, I have a physical reaction. It's as if my stomach drops out of my body through my feet. My head throbs a little and I start to imagine [insert horrible scenario] has happened to me or someone I love.
Before I had children, I would deal with this by simply not watching the news. If I didn't hear about it, I wouldn't have to think about it. But recently it seems to me that the world has become a terrible place in which to live. Terrorists, tsunamis, hurricanes--I cannot escape the images, the information, the reality of what people do to each other for no reason at all. My fear and anxiety have returned in a big way, but I no longer worry so much about myself. Instead, I project all of these things onto my boys.
I cannot sleep at night. Tired though I may be, I lie awake wondering how I would feed my children in a starving city. I promise myself that no matter how big the tidal wave or how high the flood waters or how big the bomb, I would somehow never lose them. In my dreams I am hysterical, desperate, willing to do anything to protect the people and places I love.
In the wake of Hurrican Katrina, especially, I have imagined some pretty crazy things. Babies died of dehydration; in my imagined scenario, I somehow manage to save both of my boys with breastmilk, though I am dehydrated and starving myself. I imagine all the liquid in my body going to the production of the life-giving milk, until my veins collapse and I have no tears left to cry.
Crazy scenario? Absolutely. The problem is that I love my children more than I love myself, and my heart breaks to think of EVER being in a position that leaves me unable to save them. Staying up all night fighting the knot in my stomach is not helpful, but it's as if my imagined happy endings are the only thing that keeps me from screaming and tearing out my hair some days.
I hate this about myself, that underneath my good humor and generally unruffled facade I am actually terrified of almost everything. The counseling helped when I was a child--I think maybe it's time to find another counselor. Someone who will come up with another tangible quantifier for me to hold on to when the night gets long and my thoughts get dark.
Barry Manilow Rules!
No, really.
If you donate to his Relief Fund, your donation will be matched twice (once by Barry himself and once by the fund) and all money will be sent to the Red Cross to help hurricane victims.
So
go donate--we did!
Lord, Help Us All
I absolutely cannot believe what has happened on the Gulf Coast. I watched a small snippet of news this evening, and I am unable to get the images out of my head. Bodies, rubble, and water. The floor of the Super Dome oozing urine. Exhausted children and desperate parents. People dying in a hospital without electricity. The basement of the very same hospital filled with twelve feet of water.
Did you know that the New Orleans police are living in a WalMart? With no outside aid, they've been forced to become looters themselves. Many have simply handed in their badges and walked off the job.
And oh God, the children. I looked at my boys this afternoon and realized just how clean, well-fed and comfortably dressed they are. My heart breaks for the mothers and fathers that have had to tell their children that there is no food, there is no water, and there is nothing they can do. How do you explain such things to a two-year-old? An infant?
I have gathered what I have to offer, and will drop it off tomorrow. But I can't help feeling as if it isn't enough.
The Love of My Life is Short, Fat, and Bald
Tomorrow Will turns four months old. I cannot believe how big he's gotten, and how much he's changed. He smiles all the time, though he's still stingy with the giggles. His head has turned from an unpredictable rolling melon into a thing he can control.
He can grab toys, hair, and clothing with ease; everything goes straight into his mouth, except the pacifier which I think he will always hate. The good news is that little Will can (and does!) consistently get his thumb when he needs a little soothing.
All I have to do to get him to sleep is roll him on his tummy and leave the room. This never--NEVER--happened with his brother. Husband and I used to rock Gus until we were sure he was asleep and then ease him into his crib in slow motion, silently, sneakily. Then we'd run out of the room and say a Hail Mary in the hallway, hoping against hope that we wouldn't have to start all over.
Will loves his big brother, and Gus is finally starting to show some interest in this. We bathe them together every night and Gus likes to help wash Will. He brings him toys and says, "it's okay" whenever Will seems upset. Sometimes Gus tickles Will's tummy or toes, and the baby grins humongously. Whenever Gus crosses his line of sight, Will shines.
I have never met such a happy-go-lucky little boy. Will is happy to sleep, to eat, to bathe, to get his diapers changed. He switches easily from breast to bottle, and most nights he doesn't wake up at all. And oh my god, is he ever cute. I can't get enough of his cheeks and his little fat thighs. When he wakes up next to me in the morning he greets me with his biggest smile and reaches out to touch my face. When he's nursing, he holds onto my shirt koala-style, a small, sweet gesture that breaks my heart into a thousand unintentional pieces.
Often he'll come off the breast and just smile at me while milk runs down his cheek, which is another one of those achingly sweet baby things that I know I'm going to miss. He's such a fat, delicious baby! I can't stop smelling his head and kissing his belly. I thought Gus was a miraculous child (I still do), but there is something sweeter and calmer about second babies, something I can't put my finger on.
Maybe it's that I have some experience and don't spend every minute freaking out, or maybe it's just because I'm a little older, a little more mature. Maybe it's because with Will I don't have to go to battle-stations over things like I do with Gus. Will and I are still in that first wonderful place in our relationship where we're free to be hopelessly in love and not notice the annoying or less desirable traits we each possess.
Because--SWEET JESUS!--I am smitten.
