In Which Mother's Day is Celebrated

It began like Mother's Day usually begins at my house. I awake in the wee hours and decide I just can't ignore the call of Nature. I take care of business with my eyes half closed and try not to gain full consciousness lest I lose a rare and glorious opportunity to sleep in. As I hurry back to my warm spot in the bed, I find that my boy-child, who joined us sometime in the night, has rolled into MY warm spot and Dear Husband is still sleeping soundly on the other side of him. I shove the boy over and reclaim my spot and blissfully doze back to sleep, waking much later to the thump, thump, thump of little boy and little girl feet running down the hallway. Next time I awaken, Dear Husband is no longer in bed, but I refuse to look at the time and manage to doze off again. Thump, thump, thump down the hall again followed by SLAM as my bedroom door flies shut. Loudly. That's my kids' way of making sure they don't wake me up with too much noise outside my bedroom. I haven't yet figured out how they think they can keep from waking me up by slamming the door so loudly.

I look at the clock and sigh. Time to get up. Minutes later I'm preening in front of the mirror in my bathroom when I hear the bedroom door open slooooooowly and carefully and little whispering voices say, "Hey! She's not in here!" Dear Husband is standing in the bedroom holding my "breakfast in bed" when they find me already up in the bathroom. Bacon and eggs. I would eat them in bed if I were still in bed. Instead, I tell Husband I'll be out to eat them in a couple minutes.

Thump, thump, thump, again in the hallway headed towards the kitchen followed by a little boy voice shrieking, "Whew! Look at all the smoke in the air! I can't even see in here! I need some goggles!" Thump, thump, thump back down the hallway the other direction. In the mirror, I see a little blond head peek around the corner behind me. The little blond head is wearing swim goggles and grinning from ear to ear. "Mom! It's so smokey out there that you gotta wear goggles to see!" His dimples are popping out everywhere in all his giggly excitement. He doesn't wait for my reply. Thump, thump, thump towards the kitchen. I hear his voice across the house, "Dad! I gotta wear goggles to see in here!" Thump, thump, thump back down the hallway. Boy-child with dimples still popping out under his swim goggles stands behind me, and waits. I see him in the reflection of the mirror watching me. "Mom, are you gonna come out here? Because if you do, you really need some goggles to see!" Off he goes again, thump, thump, thump back towards the kitchen. "Are the windows open in the living room?" I call after him. Pause. "No!" the boy-child responds. "Ask Daddy to help you open them to help the smoke clear." A moment later I also hear the whoosh of the attic fan being turned on.

"Daddy is cooking," my girl-child says matter-of-factly. as she plops down on my bed to watch me finish preening my hair. That's what we always say when the house fills with smoke: Daddy is cooking. And it's usually the correct explanation.

A few minutes later, thump, thump, thump boy-child comes back to my bedroom. "Are you gonna come out here yet?"

I ask, "Has the air cleared yet?" This time I follow his thump, thump, thump down the hall

My two rapidly growing not-so-wee ones hover over me, watching me eat my cold bacon and egg breakfast, eagerly waiting for me to open the presents they have for me. It's the best cold bacon and eggs breakfast ever. I sip my re-heated coffee as two little faces excitedly watch me unwrap the beautiful collection of homemade sun catchers. My warmed heart makes up for the cold breakfast now hitting my stomach. I'd have no Mother's Day at all without my little ones. As I pull them close to me, my heart beats loudly with gratefulness in my chest, thump, thump, thump.

Turning Corners?

My Dear Daughter, in all her almost-eight-years-old-ness, has developed a penchant for passive-aggressiveness, especially toward her little brother. If you're a mom, you know the kind I mean.... I'm talking about how she has this uncanny way of saying something to her brother under her breath or behind our backs or in just such a way that she knows will really get her brother's goat. The kind that allows her to follow up with overdone "innocent eyes" and an overdone, "What??!!!" followed by something like, "...all I said was that the show Zach wanted to watch on tv is a 'baby show'." And this really translates into, "You're a total stupid-head if you like to watch that show, so you'd better agree to watch what I want to watch." Dear Son knows that even if his big sister's words appear relatively innocuous, he senses that he's somehow been made fun, belittled, or manipulated. He doesn't have the verbal savvy his big sister has to express exactly WHY he gets so fed up in response to her, so he simply handles it by slugging her. Hard. Eight times in the face.

And some of the time, I confess, I feel like I really can't blame him. HOWEVER--we have been working on the hitting thing since the boy-child was about two years old. No consequence for this behavior ever mattered enough to short-circuit the brain pathway he had built around the idea that when his sister is subtly passive-aggressive or manipulative, the only way to feel better is to smack her. It's been a hard habit to break.

I've come down hard on them both this summer, deciding that it didn't matter if it cost them their entire summer if it had to; the subtle antagonizing and the not-so-subtle beat-the-crap-out-of-my-infuriating-sister behaviors had to stop.

I had long discussions with my girl-child about how she repeatedly sets her brother up to hit her. I had long discussions with my boy-child about how I know his sister knows which buttons to push, but that no matter how antagonizing she is being, it's not okay to haul off and deck her.

The kids lost a trip to play in the water fountains downtown and a trip to the water park another week, and still the rotten behaviors continued. Then one day I promised my little gamer boy-child that he could play Sonic on the Xbox after lunch that day, until I found out he had punched his sister in the face for annoying him earlier that morning. I looked at him sadly and calmly informed him that he was not going to get to play Sonic after lunch after all because he hit his sister, and that has GOT to stop. Whereas he was seemingly unfazed by the other lost privileges this summer so far, apparently this one hit home hard. He left the room silently, and a moment later I heard absolute wailing and sobbing coming from his bedroom. Even Daughter was caught off guard and ran to his side to see if he got hurt. It is not Son's M.O. to cry and wail when he doesn't get his way. He didn't throw a fit, he just sobbed like his little heart would never mend again. I stood my ground, sad as I was myself about the whole ordeal, stressing to the boy-child that he simply had to learn to stop hitting. Meanwhile his sister was impacted by how sad her little brother was and realized how she had again set him up. He asked her to stop doing something that was annoying, and she didn't. So he punched her in the face. I sternly reviewed with her how she is the older sister and how she behaves affects how her brother decides to behave, and how she repeatedly sets him up, blah blah blah blah.

Son, while absolutely devastated over losing Sonic for the day, was very well behaved the rest of the day and the next morning, and I rewarded him with an hour of Sonic that morning. Not an hour after he got to play Sonic, he hit his sister again. It was out of habit. He didn't think before acting and when I called him on it, it was like he hadn't even realized until that moment that he had hit his sister and thus blown it again. The consequences weren't pretty. The kids lost all summer privileges again for a few days. It was sobering for them. I emphasized how their summer is passing them by while they choose to treat each other rottenly.

And that was the last time such behavior happened. It's been 11 days with no bickering, passive-aggressiveness, hitting....My kids have become delightful to hang with. We've gone to the regular park and the inflatable park with friends and tomorrow we plan to have fun at the fountains with friends. Even just hanging around the house with them playing Go Fish! and Checkers has become enjoyable. I'm hoping (albeit cautiously) that we've finally turned a corner.... Hold your breath!

Superstitious

It was Friday the 13th, and I'm not superstitious. Dear Husband commented that evening about some silly poll on the number of people who are superstitious and because of it do not leave their homes on Friday the 13th. It just happened that the kids and I did not leave the home on this particular Friday the 13th. It had nothing to do with superstition; it had to do with having one fabulously joyous day on which there was nowhere we HAD to go. The house was relatively clean. Even my work for the week was nearly caught up before the weekend. This kind of thing just never happens in my life very often anymore. In fact, I cannot remember the last time. I spent the day not thinking at all about it being Friday the 13th. I schooled the kids peacefully. The phones didn't ring. My only chore for the day was the six loads of laundry that I juggled between Math and Handwriting and Science and Social Studies. I enjoyed some outdoor play with the kids and the dogs as well as some games and silliness in the downstairs playroom. As 5 pm drew near, I was satisfied this had been a very productive and even relaxing sort of day, and I was feeling very little stress or pressure. Days like this are too few and far between.

I eventually succumbed to the kids pleas for television by 5:15 pm while I prepared a meatloaf for dinner and then spent some time in the office shredding sensitive papers, rearranging piles, and filing stuff that has accumulated for the past year. This is how the husband manages things. I stay out of it until I feel like I'm going to go insane or until I worry that one of our children will wander into the office and be buried alive under the sliding stacks and mounds of stuff awaiting sorting and shredding and filing.

I was mindlessly shredding the piles of paycheck stubs from the year 1982 or something, when Dear Son came screaming into the office crying above the drone of the paper shredder, "Mommy! I need a snot rag!" He was nearly hysterical. "I put a sticker in my nose, and I can't get it out now!" and he continued to wail in hysterics. I'm pretty sure I exclaimed something along the lines of "Oh crap!" but probably a tad stronger than that.

I took Dear Son upstairs to put him under my strongest reading lamp so that I could peer up his nose, all the while pleading with him how he could do this after the Trident wrapper thing.

I saw nothing but black way up in the uppermost caverns of his nostrils. He had informed me that it was a black sticker he had shoved up there. I mumbled the derivative of "Oh crap!" again as I went for the flashlight. I peered up there again and saw something black all the way as far back as I could see. I was trying to remain calm, but my mind kept racing between my child's welfare and the steep bill this was going to cost us at either urgent care or the ER.

I did what many hysterical mothers of young children do when they don't know what else to do: I called my mom. She is a (retired) nurse, after all. This means that she can advise on anything from high fevers to amputated limbs to stickers shoved up one's nose. She re-affirmed what I already knew: I would have to take Dear Son somewhere to get medical assistance in extracting the object from the depths of his nasal passages. There was that expletive spewing from my mouth again.

I called the closest walk-in clinic. I don't regard them very highly. They've lost my respect for a variety of reasons. But I was desperate. I explained to them the predicament and asked if they could assist in this sort of thing, and I was told that while they could try, they would probably end up referring us to the ER anyway, and so given that we were going to have to pay for this "procedure" out of pocket, we would probably be better off just going to the emergency room in the first place. Really. I let this sink in. My mind was really racing now. I was worried about my son going through a "procedure" to extract this object from the depths of his nose. I was worried about the cost of said "extraction." And now I was also envisioning sitting for hours in the ER waiting room among hoards of Swine Flu sufferers coughing and sneezing all over my boy child. I had one last option. I called the pediatric urgent care associated with our doctor's office, and they assured me that in the vast majority of cases they are able to extract objects from kids' noses and they rarely have to refer to the ER. Okay then. From our past experience with them, they charge more than the walk in clinic, but less than the ER. Seemed like the best option at this point.

Husband walked in the door just in time to rush off to urgent care. A 30 minute drive (with a brief stop to drop Daughter off at Grandma's house) and 20 minute wait later, we were in. Son had complained of his nose hurting on the drive. I was worried about him, like any good mother would be. The nurse's assistant brought us back to an exam room and asked several questions. She left. A Registered Nurse came in and asked us all the same questions. She left. A Medical Doctor came in and asked us all the same questions again. She left. I nudged Husband and asked him if we were going be expected to pay for each of these people's time when all they had to do was review the first person's notes and we'd all be on the same page. The doc returned. She couldn't help giggling. She sees kids do this sort of thing fairly often, she says. Her own grandson had decided to shove an open tube of Super Glue up his schnoz and squeeze the glue out while it was up there. I didn't ask how that one turned out. She was chuckling, so it must not have been too bad.

She peered in one of Son's nosrils. She peered in the other side. She called me over to peer in. "Do you see anything?" she asked me. Well, no, I don't see anything at this particular moment and now that this very small light is shoved up his nose. She said she needed to check his throat to see if it had moved down there. She gagged him with her tongue depressor. He screamed and squirmed. Nothing. She didn't say much, but she left the room. She came back with two more nurses. I again wondered if we would have to pay all these people for their individual time. Dear Son was clinging to Husband and begging to go home. We convinced him to allow us to have another look. The crew had brought a sheet in to wrap his arms to his sides and keep him from flailing. I was thinking of how much I would absolutely hate this sense of helplessness to have my arms strapped at my sides while someone jabbed around in my nose and throat. We made it sound like a game for Dear Son. He was going to get to pretend to be a burrito. He actually fell for it, and didn't even complain until someone started to stick tools in his nose. Who could blame him? They used something to spread his nostrils wider because they were swollen a bit from his allergies and that made it hard to see up there. They looked in one and then in the other before they decided that it was all clear.

What? I asked incredulously. There's nothing THERE? I asked at least a dozen questions and was told about a dozen or stories of crazy things they've extracted from kids' noses, including a bean that been up a kid's nose for so long that it had sprouted. Seriously. They hypothesized that Dear Son had either gotten it back out himself or swallowed it, and that if there were still a sticker up there, it would dissolve in time and make its way back out. Dear Son had insisted over and over again that he shoved a sticker up his nose. I asked him for the three hundredth time if it felt like there was something still up there, and he was SURE he put something up there. He first said "Yes!" and then said that maybe it had already come back out. While thankful that everything was okay and that my boy child was healthy and nothing worse was wrong, I was also beyond exasperated. The staff handed the boy a Thomas the Train sticker on our way out, and I told them it was a sick joke and a ploy to keep kids coming back in. I quickly warned Son not to dare consider shoving this sticker up his nose. They also gave him a purple Popsicle.

The boy slurped happily and obliviously on his Popsicle, and the husband and I exchanged bets on the way out as to how much this visit, that could have completely been avoided, was going to cost us. We agreed that it would probably be somewhere between $200 and $300.

It was Friday the 13th. Turns out it didn't matter that I didn't leave the house all day. I suddenly felt a little superstitious after all.

Irresistible

Dear Son loves to do errands with me after we drop his big sister off for her afternoon home school co-op classes. Lately we have been frequenting Target. Son has been making his birthday list ever since his big sister's birthday passed a couple months ago. He begs to peruse the toy aisle to drool over his wish-list item each time we go.

Last week he overheard me talking to his daddy on the phone about going to Target that afternoon after dropping off Daughter. He then started jabbering in the background about random stuff that I wasn't listening to. Until I heard something that drew me in. I asked him to repeat what he said to see if he did indeed say what I thought he said.

"I 'need' to loot (look) at that red 'battle ball' when we do (go) to Tardet (Target) today betause (because) it is so IRRESISTIBLE!"

Seriously. Irresistible. He hasn't a clue how to play the silly game, but he sure does love him some robot-like-balls that pop open like little round Transformer orbs. Right now he has his eye on Inclus.

When I asked him where he learned the word "irresistible," he got all shy on me. I was compelled to inform him that HE is IRRESISTIBLE before I smothered him with kisses all over his yellow curly-headed self.

Death to Elmo!

Dear Son was into Elmo oh so briefly. The sentiment was gone by the time Son reached the ripe ol' age of 2 1/2 years. While anything and everything Elmo has generally been banished from the house, a hooded Elmo bath towel remains. I grabbed it last night after Son's bath and popped it over his head before he knew what hit him. As soon as he realized, the protest began, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh! I HATE Elmo! I hate Elmo because he doesn't involve GUNS!"

Transformers have LONG outlived Elmo in this little boy's favor. I think Transformers have enjoyed a year on the pedestal so far. At the moment, the boy (in his 3 1/2 year old big boy status) covets a Bumble Bee helmet and blaster gun more than anything else.

I think I should have at least kept that 28" Elmo doll around for target practice!

Lunch Lady Land

It was a family bonding moment. After enjoying a late Sunday lunch of chicken enchiladas, pico de gallo, guacamole, and the like, we had us a mess on our hands to clean up. The whole family pitched in, and we were getting pretty goofy and having fun. I suggested to Dear Husband that we needed some music while we cleaned up. Suddenly a few lines from an old song that I haven't heard in nearly two decades crawled through my head. "We need 'Lunch Lady Land'!" I exclaimed. "'Lunch Lady Land'?" Dear Husband replied with a what-in-the-world-are-you-talking-about tone in his voice. "Yeah! That old Adam Sandler song. Don't you know it?" He didn't, which I still find odd, but he quickly pulled it up on YouTube on the kitchen desktop computer and we listened while we worked. The kids found it hysterical, and while I couldn't remember the words when I first suggested the song, my memory came back after a line or two, and pretty soon I was singing "Sloppy Joe...Slop-Sloppy Joe..." into a big soup spoon. Dear Husband wasn't impressed. Amused perhaps, but not impressed. In fact, he refused to play it a second time, much to my chagrin. In addition to having the stoopid song stuck in my head all day, I've also been innundated with all kinds of odd college memories.

Apparently I'm not the only one who hasn't been able to get the song out of my head. Just before bed, Dear Son was wandering around humming the Sloppy Joe line, too. I seem to think this is a lot funnier than Dear Husband does.

The Good Life Part II

We were hanging out in the sunshine, enjoying the warmth on our bare arms and legs. Our tummies were full from lunch and there was the faint hint of a breeze in the air. The only sound was the happy chirping of the birds above us and the breeze rustling in the tress, now full again with leaves. I could smell the spring and sunshine in the air as we three sat facing the same direction, me slightly behind them. I looked at their content little baby faces from inches behind them, and I realized it was a perfect Kodak moment. I was desperate to capture the moment, but of course I did not have my camera handy. I took off into the house to get it, and I did my best to salvage the moment when I returned. I was only away for seconds, but the moment was gone when I returned. That is exactly what makes moments like this so worthy of being cherished: they are fleeting and fragile.

Dear Son realized by this time that I was looking for a good picture, and he made it clear he didn't want to be in it. I settled for admiring his towhead full of blond curls from the back. As his hair gets longer, his curls get wilder.








He couldn't stand it, and gave in to his curiosity about what I was doing behind him and why I wasn't arguing about looking at the back of his head.


Dear Daughter wanted to be in the picture about as badly as Dear Son DIDN'T want to be in the picture. So I indulged her. We had been picking strawberries in the garden just before this, and Daughter loves to wash them in the outdoor well faucet and eat them as quickly as I can pick them. The evidence is still on her chin.

As his big sister hammed it up, Dear Son began feeling left out and jumped into the game. And I decided right then and there that if I hadn't already decided it, that my life is as full and blessed as a life can get.





...and that's when Dear Son started getting cocky.

The Smelly Kid

We started working on this when Dear Son was 2 1/2 years old. I've finally all but given up. The kid just insists, for some reason, on doing his "business" in his pants. I tried M&M's in the beginning. It worked for about two days. Then I tried stickers. He never did get into that. After a few months with only one or two successes, we gave up for awhile. After about a six month break, we tried again. This time I promised to get him whatever toy he saw in the toy magazine that he was dying to have. He talked about the toy nonstop. He dreamed about the toy. He begged for the toy. I enthusiastically promised it to him whenever he decided to stop pooping in his pants. Weeks and months passed and the toy he coveted changed again and again. I guess he gave up on each one when he continued pooping in his pants and decided to try wishing for a new one...as if the new one would somehow motivate him enough to figure out this toilet thing. Sadly, he's never earned a single one of them. I even promised him a million bucks once.

Then, about three months ago when I was at the public library with the kids, Dear Son got that look on his face. You know...THAT look. I had a fleeting thought about rushing him to bathroom and then almost talked myself out of it because I knew it would be like all the other times that I rushed him to the toilet only to find it was too late. Before I finished my thoughts on the dilemma, Dear Son announced, "I need to go poopie!" Okay. If he was going to ask, I was going to do my best to oblige. I rushed him to the toilet, and we met with SUCCESS! I praised him. I high fived him. I did a little happy dance around the bathroom. I handed out cigars to the other library patrons. I hugged him and kissed him and told him how proud I was of him. He was really proud of himself too, and I stoopidly thought that we had this thing figured out. Later, at home, he went back to informing me that he pooped his pants and would I please clean him up. Something about this is just wrong. When a child is old enough to demand having his poopy pants cleaned up, he's old enough to do the deed in the toilet, and since he had done it at the library, I now KNEW he was capable.

My expectations for him increased. I was inspired to really try again. This time I started handing out quarters for him to put in a jar and promised him he could spend them next time we went to the store or save them up for something really cool. He began dreaming again of what he would spend his hard earned coins on. I was cautiously optimistic that he would still get this thing figured out. And yet...he continued to deposit poop in his pants. Now it had become sneaky and defiant. He began running off to his bedroom to hide while he pooped in his pants. If I tried to come in, he would say, "NO! I need PRIVATE time!" Of course what followed was his plea for me to change his stinky britches. Other times I would wait 20 minutes to check on him, and then I would find him playing obliviously in the green cloud that had become the air in his bedroom. Sometimes he seemed completely unfazed by the squish in his pants and the stink in the air. Other times he would stand during whatever activity he was doing to avoid sitting in a squishy, stinky mess. You'd think that if he didn't like the feeling of sitting in poop, it would help motivate him to quit pooping in his pants, wouldn't you?

If I had not already had the experience of my daughter being a cinch to potty train at 21 months of age, I would most definitely feel like a failure.

I've tried being angry with him. I've tried showing no emotion. For awhile I even tried swatting his butt. Now don't go scolding me and telling me what a rotten parent I am. This child is nearly 3 1/2 and had taken to refusing to sit on the potty and instead stood looking me in the eye as he deposited a turd in his trousers, followed by a defiant grin, as if to say "So there!" He knew what he was doing! I had had enough. Alas, after a few incidents of swatting his butt for this behavior, I realized that wasn't helping either; all it seemed to accomplish was to make me feel like the worst Mommy in the world.

It had come to the point that Dear Son would poop his pants and then immediately ask "Are you doing to smat me?" Which translates into, "Are you going to smack me?" Of course "smack" only meant a swift swat on his butt, it's not like I was smaking him around or anything. I don't even know where he came up with the word "smack." It sounded so awful when he said it, and the guilt of the whole ordeal was about to push me over the edge. So one day I informed him in my best matter-of-fact voice that Daddy and Mommy were not going to swat his butt anymore for pooping in his pants. He could just decide to poop in the potty whenever he is ready to quit wearing diapers.

Later that evening, Dear Son deposited a present in his pants and insisted his Daddy change him (it's one of the perks of having a Daddy's Boy--whenever Dear Husband is home, he gets the "honor" of changing his son's drawers). Dear Son followed hi request of , "Daddy, will you change me?" with the question, "Are you doing to smat me?" I told Dear Husband I had a talk with our son and promised him he wouldn't "smat" him anymore. Dear Husband disappeared silently across the hall with our boy-child to clean up his mess. After the clean up was done, Dear Son emerged with great delight and excitedly told me, "Mommy! Daddy didn't smat me!" Meanwhile, Dear Husband did not look at all pleased as he took the bag of nuclear waste to the trash can outside. I responded to Dear Son, "I know child, I told Daddy we promised not to do that any....." Before I finished the sentence, Dear Son went trotting excitedly down the hall to find his Daddy. He obviously felt much more enthusiastic about the situation than his Daddy did as he stated, "Daddy! Mommy said we are not doing to smat me anymore!" I heard Dear Husband at the end of the hall respond flatly, "Great. That's fine. You can just keep on pooping in your pants....." Dear Son was already trucking back down the hall towards me as his Daddy finished, "...until you are 20, and then you can buy your own diapers." After hearing the first part that he could keep pooping in his pants, Dear Son didn't seem to care much about the rest. I was giggling uncontrollably at Husband's words while Dear Son said excitedly to me again, "Mommy! Daddy said we are not doing to smat me anymore!"

And so here we are. I've made good on my promise. No more "smats" and no more emotion about the whole thing unless there is "success," in which case I dole out quarters and act really excited for him. Mind you, "success" has only happened one time since the library incident three months ago. The rest of the time Dear Son makes daily diaper deposits.

I'm haunted with fears that my child will forever be the one Adam Sandler talked about in Big Daddy. You know...the "Smelly Kid." God help me, I think he really IS planning to keep this up until he is 20!

You Snooze, You Lose!

Dear Son doesn't like to nap. He doesn't want to miss anything. The only way to get him to nap is to let him go and go and go until he crashes. We try to put him in his bed and do the whole power struggle thing, or try to "fool him" into a nap by reading stories until he can't keep his eyes open, or "tittle" his back as he calls it (he likes to have his back "tickled"). Sometimes any of these ploys work; sometimes none of them do and so rather than spending the entire afternoon fighting it, we give up and let him go until he crashes. This particular time he was so tired that he barely made it through dinner and never quite got that cookie to his mouth before he crashed. I guess it's true: "You snooze, you lose!"

Make a Joyful Noise?

I began teaching Dear Daughter piano lessons a few months ago, soon after selling my "sentimental" acoustic piano (gifted to me by my grandparents when I was about 7 years old). As I've said in at least one previous post, parting with that piano wasn't easy. I moved it cross country at least twice and probably about a dozen times in between. We were inseparable from the time I acquired it. I even moved it into my apartment in college while I was studying piano and completing my music degree. I'm sure my neighbors all had "opinions" of their neighbor banging out Chopin and Bach, which I know they could hear through their walls. I had that piano in at least six different apartments over the years.

I considered going digital a few different times over the years, but could never bring myself to it until the point that Dear Husband decided to install a wood stove. Part of the deal was that if he installed the stove, I got a new piano. This was because the only place in our new home where the piano could live was in the same room where the stove was to be installed.
The wood heat would have dried out the soundboard and destroyed it.

I knew what I wanted to replace my acoustic with if I ever did it. I did my research years ago. Since that time, the model was upgraded. It is touted as the "flagship" of the digital pianos. Upon selling my acoustic to some nice young woman who was serious about her piano studies (I wouldn't let the piano go to just anyone), Dear Husband and I went shopping. Early last fall we came home with my very own Yamaha CP300. I was in love. It is the next best thing to a 30 foot Steinway grand, IMO. I've played on those monsters before in performance halls. This digital beauty has an amazing keyboard action that mimics a concert grand piano. It even has a vibration feature programmed into it that makes the instrument feel like a full size grand under your fingers. And it has a sound that I wouldn't be able to distinguish from a full size grand if I were listening with closed eyes. It also has some other great electronic features for MIDI and recording. I haven't learned those yet; I bought this thing purely for it's sound. It is the only digital piano I could accept in place of an acoustic because it literally feels like an acoustic in my hands, only much better than the little spinet acoustic I sold. It has much better tone and keyboard control than my little acoustic ever did. Have I mentioned that I'm in love?

It's a $2,200.00 "toy" that my children love to play with. Fortunately, they are gentle with it and aside from an occasional reminder to be "gentle," and sometimes a little trouble sharing, I am okay with them playing with it as long as I am close by to supervise.








From the looks of their faces, the kids were eating something chocolate before these pictures were taken.

This last one is my favorite. Dear Son is into whatever he is singing while his big sister plays along.

Good thing we live in the country now and the nearest neighbors are not so "near" anymore.

I Guess He's on "Boy Time"

Before I explain, I have to admit that I got confused by the instructions (no big surprise there, huh?). You see, I was tagged by Ed at Zoe's Dad for a really fun meme. Only, I couldn't figure out what the sixth file in a person's "documents" had to do with the sixth picture. I didn't have a sixth picture in my "documents" file, and I couldn't figure out what to do with the sixth document either. Sooooo...instead, I went to my "pictures" file and chose the sixth one. This happens to be a pic that I considered blogging about a couple months ago, but decided against it. That was apparently a fortunate choice at the time, or else this post would have been redundant. First of all, here are the rules of the meme:

1. Go to your documents
2. Go to your 6th file.
3. Go to your 6th picture.
4. Blog about it.
5. Tag 6 friends to do the same.

Here we go....

I did not realize how easy my Dear Daughter made potty training seem until my Dear Son reached his own right of passage. Dear Daughter sat on the potty relatively patiently by 18 months of age. She was fully potty trained in a single day by 20 months and never had an accident. Really.

As most things go, I did not fully realize the precociousness of my daughter until my son entered the picture. Since I had not spent much (ANY) time around babies or small children until my own came along, I did not know what was "normal." Apparently whatever "normal" is, it is NOT my daughter. She spoke in clear, full paragraphs well before two years of age. She knew her entire alphabet and counted to 20 by twenty months of age. She also knew all her colors (including brown, peach, and other more "exotic" shades), and shapes (including PENTAGON and OCTAGON) at this age and could sing several nursery songs correctly from beginning to end --including Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, the ABC song, and Jesus Loves Me. Really. I am not exaggerating. I have many witnesses who will vouch for my honesty in this, and lots of video footage to back me up as well.

Dear Son is not dumb by any means, he's just not precocious like his big sister. He knew all his colors (especially BROWN, which he originally defined as "turd") by two years of age as well as all his shapes (the standard fare here...I'm pretty confident he does not know pentagon and hexagon), and somewhere around two and a half we was able to count to 10 correctly. At just-turned-three years of age, he can sing the "ABC" song and get it mostly correct. He's no dummy...but as far as I can tell, he's much more in line with typical developmental abilities.

This, I dare say, is also apparently true about the potty training thing. Around two years of age we began the training thing.... I figured we were late to the show as his sister had this mastered well before two years of age. We gave up relatively shortly with Son, realizing he just wasn't ready yet. I started reading books about how to train boys and asking LOTS of people how they trained their boys. Nearly EVERYONE told me that their boys were not trained until three and half years. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" was my response. When the first mom told me this, I just thought her child was an imbecile. When the second mom told me this, I figured she didn't pay enough attention to her child or get involved enough in his little life to train him properly. When the third mom told me this, I began to get very worried.

At two and a half we tried training Dear Son again. He would not always agree to sit on the potty, but after several attempts one day with no luck, Daddy arrived home from work. I suggested Daddy put Son on the potty, and wouldn't you know it. Not ten minutes after Daddy walked in the door from work, there was a turd in the potty chair. Dear Son has been a die-hard Daddy's boy for the past year and a half, so it made sense that Daddy got the turd and not me.

SIX MONTHS LATER we are STILL trying to wrap up this potty training thing with him! We are at the stage now where Son will pee in his Peter Potty training urinal every time we ask him or require him, but he has only ever ASKED to go about twice. His code is usually, "My ding dong hurts." What can I say? Yes, I am responsible for teaching him to call his boyhood a "ding dong," but I didn't necessarily MEAN to. I called it that once in some conversation we were having regarding his parts, and it apparently stuck. In that split second, I just couldn't bring myself to say the "p" word to my child. I have no idea why, but it just felt wrong (not that "ding dong" feels quite right either). But I digress....

Son got into a rut. While he would pee in the potty and frequently stay dry in between, we could not seem to get him to sit through the symphony long enough to complete the second "movement." Going into Halloween we started to get all these junk mailings with costumes and Halloween paraphernalia in them. The kids loved to study them. Son loves to play dress up and has an infatuation with costumes. So I stashed a few magazines in the bathroom and bribed him with these when I wanted him to sit long enough on the potty. Sometimes it worked. Other times Dear Husband and I simply grew weary of sitting in the bathroom for long periods of time analyzing Halloween costumes while waiting for the elusive turd to finally show up to the party (it rarely did).

The picture? Don't blame me, it was the sixth one. And anyway...doesn't every doting parent snap at least one pic of their potty-training child on the potty?

Who's up on my tag list?
1. M&M at Maternal Mirth
2. CaraBee at Land of Bean
3. Serena at Zip 'n' Tizzy
4. Riahli at My Life with Boys
5. Nyssa's Mommy at Julie, Cameron, and Nyssa's World
6. Whoever reads this and would like to play along (insert your name here)

Public Display

Don't ask me WHY I felt like running all over the city doing errands with the kids today. Today...FRIDAY...my ONLY weekday in which I do not keep any professional appointments in my office. But this is what I felt like doing, and so it is what I did.

I dressed the wee ones up on their matching pumpkin sweatshirts (it was Halloween today, after all) and off we went. They were very well behaved and tolerated my shopping in "boring" stores (as my daughter described them). I was looking for wall decor for my new office space at the clinic. As I unbuckled Dear Son from his carseat at about the third stop, he informed me, "I just detting some booders out of my nose." I sarcastically replied that this was "just great" and by the way, what did he do with those "booders?" His response, "I just put them on the floor in the car." Great again. Nonetheless, I was pleased that he got his nose pickin' done before we entered the store.

After the fourth or fifth stop the kids were hungry, and I still had more errands. Dear Son began asking "Tan we det a Happy Meal? PULEEEEZE? Tan we? Tan we?" I decided to indulge them because they had been so good while I shopped.

The lady wearing the McVisor was waiting at the counter when we walked in. I was holding Dear Son on my hip throughout the order process and then sat him on the counter as I dug in my purse for my wallet. He was busy with something, but I didn't pay much attention as I dug for the exact change to give the McVisor lady. That's when Dear Son screamed at the top of his lungs, "Look! Look! I dot a booder! It's a BID one!" and he waved his hand way above his head with a very large, pulsating, dark green booger stuck to the end of his left index finger. The thing was larger than his finger tip. I had to reply in order to get him to stop announcing it over and over and over again. Under my breath, trying NOT to draw any more attention to us, I said in my quietest but most validating voice, "Oh wow! That IS a big one!" as I snuck glances from side to side hoping and praying that no one was watching this event. If a McMeal doesn't turn stomachs on its own right, I'm sure the giant throbbing green booger at the McCounter could.

I, of course, had no tissue or napkin or anything in which to swiftly and casually capture this thing in. A few solutions raced through my mind. I could take it from his finger onto my own, thus ending his wild waving of it above his head, but then what would I do with it? I could wipe his finger on his pants, but the things was soooo large and I figured if someone were already all grossed out watching us, that could seem even grosser. I dared not wipe in on the McCounter, though I didn't figure I would be the first to do so. So I just pulled his little hand down closer to his body to not be quite so obvious about the giant booder. He complied...his little index finger still extended with the green glob on the end of it as he studied it. We made it to the condiment counter and Son continued to examine his treasure until whisked it away with the first napkin I could find. Then I put on my dark glasses and hustled the kids to the darkest and most remote corner in the joint and watched them munch their McBurgers.

I, on the other hand, had lost my appetite.

Schmoozing

I suppose I've been a bit on the short tempered side these days. It seems like my house is always a mess. I can barely ensure that one mess is cleaned up before the kids have created three or four more messes within seconds. Dear Husband is in the middle of a pet project involving reconstruction in our home that has dragged on for nearly two months now. I have way too many things to get done at any given time and never enough time to do them. I'm working extra hours as I transition into a different clinical practice, and the bodies that govern managed health care are making the transition a constant source of stress for me. My reimbursement by these companies is slow at best, and on indefinite hold at worst. My kids, who were once routinely admired by the grocery bagger at the local food mart for their great behavior, now act up so badly any time I take them anywhere that I am constantly embarrassed and mortified when I step foot in public with them. Additionally, they are making certain that Dear Husband and I never get an uninterrupted night of sleep as Dear Daughter gets up in her sleep and wanders into our bedroom with various dramas that apparently play out in her dreams (as if the drama when she is fully awake is not enough). She apparently has no memory of these 2 am dramas the next day, but Dear Husband and I certainly do when we are yawning and rubbing our eyes the next day (and the next and the next). Dear Son also gets up in his sleep with an unconscious mission to join us in our bed in the wee hours each morning. If Dear Husband has the energy, he takes Son back to his bed. I never have the energy. So we share our bed with an octopus each night. One that likes to squirm and twist in his sleep a lot and sleep horizontally across the mattress. I, of course, always get the feet end kicking me in the stomach or the ribs or the butt in my face, while husband gets the charming little baby face.

I had a mountain of various stuff piled on the kitchen table today as I tried to prepare lunch for the wee ones. Actually, none of the stuff was mine; it was all the kids'. As I stood with plates in my hands and no room on the table to place them, I felt my head might explode. The kids quietly and solemnly gathered their stuff and busily put it away before returning to their respective chairs to receive their plates for lunch. It was silent as I took my place next to Dear Son, and we all munched awhile without a peep.

Then Dear Son eyed me from the corner of his eye and timidly stated, "I like your hair!......(long pause)" I snickered despite myself and felt that warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach towards my child as I smiled at him and replied, "Thank you!" He smiled to himself and then paused another moment before timidly asking, "You happy now?"

So thereyago. My not-quite-three-year-old boy has already begun to figure out how to schmooze the opposite sex.

Froggies and Other Stuff

In case I've left ANY room for questioning on this matter, let me clarify: HE'S ALLLLLLLLLLLLL BOY!!!!!

This is the "froddy" (froggy) Dear Son recently adopted. I think it's actually a toad, but he doesn't know the difference. Besides, it's more fun to say "froddy" than it is to say "toady."

Could he be any more delighted with himself? I was most impressed when, after fondling, dropping, fondling, dropping again, he finally announced that he was going to "Put the froddy in the drass" (Put the froggy in the grass). You may remember that this was the routine in my previous post about Dear Son's love affair with fuzzy caterpillars. This meant he was showing compassion towards the poor thing (nevermind the incessant fondling and dropping), and wanted to return him to his family. Every day since, Dear Son has begged--beeeegggggggged--to go outside and find a "froddy" pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze!

Dear Husband had some luck finding the little baby froggies in our wood pile.

We had a field trip to the zoo recently with our homeschool co-op. When we reached the reptile house and Dear Son saw the various turtles behind their glass enclosures, he was beside himself begging to "touch him." This was due to the fact that a few weeks ago we found a turtle in the yard and it became Dear Son's best companion for the entire morning.

Did I mention that he is ALL BOY?!!??!?!

So far, no snakes. And so far, no "froddies" discovered in the clothes dryer.

Posting has been slow, I realize. Things are a bit busy around here. We are buzzing with homeschooling. I was undecided how structured to get with Dear Daughter on this yet. She just turned five after all. She would have been in Kindergarten per state standards except she missed the age cut off by three days. We've only homeschooled rather loosely so far as I wanted her to be a kid and not be concerned with stuff like school until she had to. And yet I've discovered that she does better with the structure. She is more than capable of a regular school schedule. She does well when pushed a bit towards her potential, and she loves to learn. I had decided at the beginning of the school year that I would review Kindergarten with her and not rush into first grade. That just wasn't working, however. She remembered everything from last year and was whizzing through a week of school in a single day. So I gave in and bumped her into the first grade curriculum I had waiting for her. The only area she is not quite in first grade level yet is math, and she is only a few weeks away from completing Kindergarten math.

For those family members who are interested, here are the things Zoe is doing academically:
She is learning how to count money and do simple subtraction. She is writing complete sentences and reading complete books (such as Dr. Seuess classics). She is learning about weather in science, and can explain the progression of how rain ends up as water that pipes into homes in the city.

She turns anything she can into an art project. We keep an entire chest of drawers in the kitchen filled with art supplies so that she can help herself anytime she wants and sit at the kitchen table for her creations. We also have an art station in the downstairs office where she can plop down and create to her heart's content.

She has begun piano lessons and is a natural at keeping a steady rhythm.

And she is beginning her second year of ballet and tap lessons.

She has "wowed" he teachers at co-op that have all approached me to inform me that she is way beyond the lessons they have prepared and the abilities of her peers in her class. I assure them that I already know this, and that perhaps they can just do their best to challenge her. I get her the other days of the week and can teach to her level. I mainly wanted her to have the experience of learning with other kids her age and developing socially in a setting like that. She would be absolutely BORED in public school. After all, they want her to be enrolled in pre-school this year and made it clear that they would not consider any other alternative.

I'm not sure what the future holds, but I'm pretty sure that my daughter will never be able to make good use of public education (no big surprise there). This will make things quite interesting for the forseeable future.

In addition to the homeschool routine, I am continuing to manage my part time career. I have not quite phased all out of the teen group home, but this is on the horizon as I build a practice at my new clinic. Currently, I am researching and preparing for an adult Bipolar psychoeducation and process group that I will launch next week. I am also coveting that doctorate degree I've not been able to pursue. I haven't yearned for it in the past as much as I've begun to yearn for it recently. I don't see myself being able to pursue it until the kids are at least near highschool as long as we are homeschooling. They require too much time and attention, and besides, they are my first responsibility and top priority. If they weren't, I'd have had that doctorate in the bag already. If I ever reach a point that I can pursue it, the deciding factor will be how much the degree will cost versus whether or not I will be too old for it to pay off.

I surived a week of single motherhood while Dear Husband was gone to Las Vegas last week. It was work, not pleasure (for both of us). I make a horrible single mom and have deep respect and empathy for moms that are full time single moms, perhaps while their husbands serve in the military. My own mom did this while my dad served in the Navy, and for the life of me I cannot imagine how she (or anyone) does this!

So thereyago--an update and a brain dump all in one. Efficiency has become ever so important in my life these days!

Conversations With My Son

Dear Son was my shadow as I wandered from bedroom to bathroom to another bedroom and another bathroom and then yet another bedroom putting away clothes and towels freshly folded from the clothesline. As he followed me through the master bedroom, he eyed the king-sized log bed and stated matter-of-factly, "I like Daddy's bed and Mommy's bed." I sighed as I thought of the past two weeks since that first night that we transitioned Dear Son from his crib to his "big boy" bed. There's not been a single night yet that he hasn't wriggled his way between Daddy and Mommy in the big log bed.

I replied, "Yeah, Mommy likes her bed, too. I also like Zachy's bed." Son responded, "I like my bed, too. (pause) Daddy go to sleep there, but then he goes away!? (his voice raised at the end almost like a question for which he can't quite figure out the answer). Indeed, his daddy does fall asleep in his bed with him while tucking him in, and then "go away" when he wakes up a bit later, leaving Dear Son to sleep alone in his bed.

I added, "I like Zachy's bed so much that I think Zachy should stay in his bed all night!"

And without missing a beat, he replies with, "Well, THAT doesn't make sense!"

"Sense" all depends on whether you are considering these things from a two-year-old mindset or a parent's mindset, now doesn't it?

Toilet Tag

I recently commented that my children were playing "toilet tag," and this seems to have stirred up a great deal of curiosity. Prolly more than it deserves. Nonetheless, here's the explanation:

When I was busy dumping my brain via my last blog post, the wee ones became more and more restless. They can play together nicely with no one getting hurt and nothing getting broken for oh, about ten minutes maximum. My ten were up long before I reached the last paragraph of my last blog post. Like many parents, I have become desensitized to the sounds and sensations of the house rocking on its foundation to the incredible amount of noise and commotion that just two small bodies (with a combined weight of approximately half of my own) can generate. This is why the squealing and thumping that had grown increasingly louder over the previous fifteen minutes was barely perceptible to my consciousness.

Then there was thumping and bumping around the lower level of the house, through the playroom and family room, and great gales of giggles interspersed with the repetitive sound of a toilet flushing. By the time I had finally tuned in with full consciousness, I realized that the flushing had been going on for awhile.

Let me pause to explain that Dear Daughter was never much of a strong leader. Until her little brother turned approximately two. Now that she has a devoted following, her leadership skills have emerged at an alarming rate. All it takes is for me to caution both of them to stop doing some random obnoxious thing and they stop for a moment until Dear Daughter convinces her little brother to continue being naughty while she stands "innocently" on the sidelines watching. This morning, they were screaming "BAP!" at the top of their lungs while I was trying to drive them safely across town in the family mobile. I scolded them both and warned them of dire consequences if they did not stop, and then I observed Dear Daughter in the rearview mirror whispering to her little brother, "Zach! Say BAP!"

And so, as the madness of relentless screaming and toilet flushing ensued, I decided to observe the situation for moment in order to get a grip on what I was dealing with. What I witnessed was Dear Son being chased by Dear Daughter, punctuated with peals of intermittant screaming laughter. Dear Son ran like lighning into the bathroom with his big sister on his heels. Then there was a brief bit of commotion, followed by more screaming, and then a toilet flush before Dear Daughter came screaming out of the bathroom with her little brother close on her heels. The roles reversed with Dear Son chasing his big sister across the lower level of the house and finally into the bathroom again. Then there was again commotion followed by a toilet flush and shrieks of laughter and screams, followed by Dear Son leading them back out of the bathroom with his big sister close behind.

Apparently the two had devised a game whereby the one who was "it" had to make it to the toilet and flush it before getting tagged, which would then cause the other one to be "it," and the scene would play out again in reverse. Over and over again. And again.

I jumped into action, trying to be heard above the commotion to stop flushing the toilet. This was ironic, as I am otherwise frequently hollering at Dear Daughter to flush the darn thing along with the treasures she left for the next unsuspecting soul that would come along. "I just wanted you to see that giant turd I made" has been her response in the past, and she refused to allow the passage of her prize to its watery grave until I "oohed and ahhed" and congratulated her to her complete satisfaction.

So thereyago. Just remember, you asked.

Wishful Thinking

Counting the days until my three-year-old birthday....

Dear Son studies toy magazines at great length for long periods of time. Every so often he pipes up with an exclamation of, "Look!" followed by, "Can I have (fill in the blank) for my present? PLEASE? Can I?"

Needless to say, there is just shy of FIVE MONTHS left until his birthday, and his list is getting quite long already.

"It's a BOODER!"

This won't be the first time that I've pointed out how hard-headed my boy child is. Long ago I discovered a little trick when he insisted on having something that I didn't want him to have at the time; I would tell him said object or activity was "taking a nap." For example, if he wanted to watch television and I was cutting him off for the day, I would just tell him, "The shows are taking a nap right now!" It has seemed to always work well for some reason. He just stops whining and screaming about whatever it was he wants and accepts what is apparently a perfectly logical explanation.

This afternoon I was headed downstairs with the kids. We were on our way out the basement door to the swimming pool and the sprinklers to play in the water on a hot day. Standing at the top of the stairs, I had my arms full of crocs, towels, water bottles, etc. Just as Dear Son was about to turn over and slide feet first down the stairs as he likes to do, he paused with his finger up his nose, pulled out a VERY LARGE specimen and held it out to me saying insistently, "HERE!" That means I'm supposed to take the extremely large booger that has its own pulse off his hands. Literally, off his hands.

I didn't respond fast enough, and so he raised his voice and said it again with a bit more insistence, "HE-ERE (with two syllables this time)! It's a BOODER!" You know, in case I hadn't figured that out. I responded again that I couldn't take his "BOODER" right now as my hands were full. He sat for a split second at the top of the stairs considering what to do about this dilemma before he quickly found a solution. He wiped the creature on the banister. I responded with a grossed out groan and a statement that I didn't want him wiping his "booders" on the banister, but he just sat admiring it in all its smeared glory on the wooden banister. I swear the thing was throbbing as we both gazed upon it. Then he proudly explained, "It's taking a nap!" Which of course meant that I was supposed to leave it there. I confess, I did leave it there. My hands were full after all. Besides, I wanted to save it to impress my child's father when he got home from work. What can I say...I don't want their bonding to end with Transformers!

A Boy and His Wormy

It rained yesterday. A. Lot. That means the worms came out. And that means that Dear Son was very happy. He likes to hold a "wormy" and say, "I love him!" He carries it around in his hand like his most prized possession. He drives it around in his Cozy Coupe and pretends to take it to the doctor (I have no idea).

After dragging it around in his pudgy little palm for a good long while, it was time to go inside. "Wormy," as far as I was concerned, was not invited inside. The problem was that Dear Son was not going inside without his "Wormy." I finally suggested that he put "Wormy" down for a nap in his "crib," the cup holder in Daddy's lawn chair (see picture below). At first Dear Son didn't want anything to do with that idea and was not, under ANY circumstances, going to put "Wormy" down anywhere.

Then he suddenly decided it was a good idea after all, and plunked "Wormy" down in Daddy's cup holder while he said under his breath, "Daddy will love that." It's what I was thinking as I made the original suggestion to him. Apparently I mumbled it out loud, though I didn't remember doing so. Who knows, maybe Dear Son wasn't repeating me. Maybe he really came up with the sarcasm himself. It's not like he never hears sarcasm around our house or anything.


The last picture has nothing to do with the worm story, it's just a picture of the kids taken the same day, traveling into outer space on the big-ass lawn mower. I later commented to Dear Husband that it was no wonder the doggone thing cost so much. We paid for an option that we didn't even know it had.

Pics with Pete

Apparently the love affair is over, at least for now. Dear Son decided to go on potty chair strike. I'm not sure why the fickleness, but it feels like we are suddenly back to square one, so at least for the moment, ol' Pete sits neglected. *sigh*

Yes, that is a rocker "tat" on the boy-child's arm. Don't ask.

Oh yeah, and that's some chocolate at the corner of the boy-child's mouth. Apparently this pic was taken just after the last time that Peter got some attention.