so here it is- february break in gloomy, snowy upstate new york. the highly anticipated week off chuck full of sledding, playdates, and otherwise fun outings. and all we have done is watch tv. a lot of tv. yo gabba gabba, handy manny, mickey mouse clubhouse, and of course the new favorite- jake and the neverland pirates. ah yes... february break and my kids are sick. not just runny nose and sneezy kind of sick. no way- my kids like to do it big. we're talkin' 103 degree fevers and breathing treatment kind of sick. so instead of sitting here typing furiously away with vents about our plans that went awry, i will instead focus on how big a fan i am of children's tv.
cj (a well-rounded, smart, social kid btw) watched his first baby einstein video when he was 4 months old. his dad came home with the entire collection as a surprise for him a month later. i know, i know, there are parents everywhere gasping right now- "but kids aren't supposed to watch tv till they're two!!" well, i think that is the sole piece of "expert" advice I didn't pay attention to. and guess what happened? NOTHING!! except that he learned what a "wombat" was before he was two years old, and began pointing to the parrot on his nursery wall and saying "tropical bird". thank you, baby einstein.
ty, as anyone who knows from either firsthand experience or from reading this blog, knows that he was unlike any kind of baby we ever could have prepared for. when he first came home from the hospital, there were nights when literally the only thing that would stop him from crying was sportscenter. not kidding. and not just any show would do. the only other show he would/will stop dead in his tracks for (which again, everyone knows doesn't happen often with him) is mickey mouse clubhouse. a show full of colors, counting, opposites, shapes, and call-and-response- what's not to love?
i could seriously go on and on, but neither disney nor nick jr. is paying me nearly enough. let's just say that i owe it to handy manny for teaching my kids spanish, the friends in gabbaland for teaching them life lessons (seriously- do you think they're gonna listen to me when i tell them "keep trying, keep trying, don't give up, never give up" or "don't bite your friends"? yeah right. but if it comes from muno and brobie, it must be truth). oh yeah, and a special thanks to jake and the neverland pirates for babysitting for me while i went upstairs to take a shower by myself. (oh c'mon- don't act like you've never had the tv be your babysitter. you know you'd take the bridge just like the rest of us if it wasn't there to act as your salvation once in a while...)
i literally almost died the other day when i sat down to do playdoh with them, and cut out a bunch of different shapes. (note: see? i do other things with my kids besides watch tv. we actually read a lot and stuff, too...) "oh cool pattern, mama," cj said. excuse me? cool what? where did you learn that? "blue's clues". so thank you also to blue's clues.
so we may not be out sledding or catching up with friends this week, but we are still enjoying our QT together on the couch. it's like one long pajama party. well, minus the party part and with the addition of some horrible virus and periodic doctor visits. we may just come back from this illness a little bit smarter.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Life Stinks
I have come to the realization that my kids will be in diapers until they are ten. Possibly longer. One of them was potty trained at two, only having "accidents" when he was just too busy to be bothered with going to the bathroom. By the time he was two and a half, he was no longer even wetting the bed at night. We were such proud parents and enjoyed bragging about our *obviously* advanced child.
A couple weeks ago, this same child prodigy did Number Two in his pants at the dinner table just because. I, genius mother that I am, had no idea what happened. I thought nothing of it when he announced out of the blue that he wanted to be "maked" and jumped out of his seat to take his clothes off. (After all, the kid is ALWAYS wanting to be maked). When I followed him in to the bathroom with the intention to get him re-dressed, they were nowhere in sight. He nonchalantly mentioned while climbing back up to finish his dinner that he threw them in the garbage because "they were getting old". He failed to tell me that they were filled with a mess of brown nastiness.
Meanwhile, the little one waits until he gets in the tub to do his thing. The first time he did it, he was less than a year old, and had been in the water less than 5 minutes. I may or may not have scooped it out and continued bathing him. I'll admit that was probably not my hit moment as Mother. When it happened again about 2 weeks ago, I didn't do that. I actually got him out and cleaned the tub. The following night, I didn't have to do anything. And that's because his older brother took care of it for me. I put them in the tub and went in to the room across the hall to put away laundry. (They have about 6 inches of water in the tub and the door stayed open, so don't panic here people). Anyway, when I heard a little voice say, "Mah-ahmmm, Ty poo-pooed in the tub again", I returned to the bathroom to find a little brown log sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Yes, CJ had picked up his brother's "accident" and removed it from the water.
I felt compelled to share these stories after my entire household was plagued with the stomach bug this week. So, ummmm, yeah. (SO GROSS.) And I've realized now that my one kid is fully back in diapers at bedtime since he has gone back to wetting his bed every single night, and my other kid won't even look at the potty without saying, "No way. Later", that maybe they aren't the prodigies I once thought them to be. (Well, when it comes to bodily functions at least...)
I love my life. Most of the time. And other times, it... well, just plain stinks.
A couple weeks ago, this same child prodigy did Number Two in his pants at the dinner table just because. I, genius mother that I am, had no idea what happened. I thought nothing of it when he announced out of the blue that he wanted to be "maked" and jumped out of his seat to take his clothes off. (After all, the kid is ALWAYS wanting to be maked). When I followed him in to the bathroom with the intention to get him re-dressed, they were nowhere in sight. He nonchalantly mentioned while climbing back up to finish his dinner that he threw them in the garbage because "they were getting old". He failed to tell me that they were filled with a mess of brown nastiness.
Meanwhile, the little one waits until he gets in the tub to do his thing. The first time he did it, he was less than a year old, and had been in the water less than 5 minutes. I may or may not have scooped it out and continued bathing him. I'll admit that was probably not my hit moment as Mother. When it happened again about 2 weeks ago, I didn't do that. I actually got him out and cleaned the tub. The following night, I didn't have to do anything. And that's because his older brother took care of it for me. I put them in the tub and went in to the room across the hall to put away laundry. (They have about 6 inches of water in the tub and the door stayed open, so don't panic here people). Anyway, when I heard a little voice say, "Mah-ahmmm, Ty poo-pooed in the tub again", I returned to the bathroom to find a little brown log sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Yes, CJ had picked up his brother's "accident" and removed it from the water.
I felt compelled to share these stories after my entire household was plagued with the stomach bug this week. So, ummmm, yeah. (SO GROSS.) And I've realized now that my one kid is fully back in diapers at bedtime since he has gone back to wetting his bed every single night, and my other kid won't even look at the potty without saying, "No way. Later", that maybe they aren't the prodigies I once thought them to be. (Well, when it comes to bodily functions at least...)
I love my life. Most of the time. And other times, it... well, just plain stinks.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Dear Ty,
As is customary in my family, each person on his or her birthday has to (gets to?) hear from Mom what it was like the day they entered this world. Although all of us (now 31, 28, and 25) could tell our stories in our sleep, our birthday doesn't seem complete until we've heard it one more time. So in keeping with Greeno tradition, I have a little story for my littlest (I mean, youngest) boy:
Dear Ty,
I couldn't have asked for a more planned, textbook pregnancy. We decided when CJ was a baby that we wanted him to be a big brother right away, and our wish was granted. (so easily granted, in fact, that I knew for about 3 weeks that you were in there, even though the pregnancy tests and nurses were trying to convince me otherwise). I'm not even gonna mince any words with you- from the very beginning, you were huge. People started asking me if I was pregnant (I hate people) when I was only 8 and a half weeks along. (Just to keep this in perspective, I didn't have to tell anyone with CJ until about 14 weeks.) My favorite comment came from someone at the gym who, after I told her I was about 12 weeks, thought to say, "Damn, girl, whaddya have- 5 in there???" yeah, 5. good one. So anyway, I kept telling the doctors that I thought you were going to be huge, and they kept insisting that i was measuring "right on", that you'd probably be about 7 pounds or so.
time went on and your dada decided that he wanted to know whether you were a boy or a girl. even though i dreamed of being a mama to little girls, once i had your brother, i was hoping and praying that you were a boy. how great would it be to be able to give my boy a brother?! well, for some reason, i was convinced during my entire pregnancy (up until about the last month for some reason) that you were a girl. i wanted to stay surprised, but dada found out. he kept a secret for 4 whole months!!! (well, from me at least- just about every other person got told!) but regardless, he couldn't keep a birthday present a secret from me, and i cannot to this day believe that he never told me what you were. he even prepared your nursery all by himself without me finding out!!
everything kept progressing as normal, and when i went in to get checked out at 37 weeks, you had moved in to position and i had dilated. you were due on december 30 and we were all hoping you'd be the first baby of the new year. (i mean, c'mon, who wouldn't want a year's supply of diapers plus the added bonus of your face plastered all over the news just seconds after going through labor?!? sign me up!) so our plan was working out nicely, until our appointment the following week. the doctor, at 38 weeks, couldn't find your heartbeat!!! come to find out, she was looking for it in the completely wrong place- you had completely flipped around! your heart was actually way up by my ribcage. not good, ty, not good. little did i know, you were actually doing me a huge favor for which i will forever be grateful.
so because of all of the complications i had with CJ, they couldn't risk me going in to labor and possibly having to give me another emergency c-section. instead, they told me to "pick a day", and panicking, all i could think to say was "not Christmas".
And so somewhere around 9 in the morning of the 26th, i hopped up (well, kinda heaved my gigantic belly up) on the operating table, and started talking to my doctor about our Christmases through a blue sheet as she pulled and pried you out. (and destroyed every ounce of ab muscle that i had, after saying they were the strongest ones she'd ever felt. they'll never be the same. so thank you for that, too.) now, i promise to never tell you a lie, and i'll start now: when you came out, yes, i was elated to hear that you were a boy, BUT, your dad and i looked at each other and kinda wanted to put you back in. you just weren't cute, Baby. (But dont' worry- you've since made up for it!) you were nothing but fat (reeeaaaallllyyyy fat) cheeks, a loud cry, and pointed head from where my ribs were squeezing the heck out of you. i almost died yet wasn't really surprised when they told me that you were 8 pounds and 14 ounces. (I'll choose not pushing out a 9-pound load of child over some free diapers any day.) we expected you to look like another little CJ, and i guess we were just surprised when you didn't. In fact, you two looked and still look nothing alike. weird. your dada said he wanted a paternity test. i told him to go ahead and call maury.
starting that night in the nursery, you were a crybaby. i stayed by myself so that dada could take care of cj at home. even though they tell you not to, i let you lay in the hospital bed with me during the day and let the nurses take you with them at night. they never had to wake me up when you wanted to eat because i could hear your cry as they pushed you down the hall. i wonder when you're going to stop crying...
from that day on, besides the whole crying all the time thing, well... and the non-sleeping thing, oh yeah, and the acid reflux thing that happened when we got home, you were a good baby. you and your brother have extremely similar personalities, except that you are a little more carefree. you are very funny and love making people laugh. you finally started walking when you were 14 months old and still spend a lot of your time walking like you're drunk. (why can we so easily picture you as a frat boy smashing beer cans on your forehead?!) you love sports. in fact, watching sportscenter with your dad was literally the only thing that would calm you down in the middle of the night for a while. you are SO smart, and LOVE to be held. you are very in tune with people's feelings. we are so blessed to have such happy, healthy boys who are already best friends.
i can't believe that you are two years old already, ty jonathan. i love your laugh, your crazy curly hair, your big blue eyes, and your fatter-than-fat cheeks. thank you for completing our family. you'll always be my baby.
Love,
Mama
Dear Ty,
I couldn't have asked for a more planned, textbook pregnancy. We decided when CJ was a baby that we wanted him to be a big brother right away, and our wish was granted. (so easily granted, in fact, that I knew for about 3 weeks that you were in there, even though the pregnancy tests and nurses were trying to convince me otherwise). I'm not even gonna mince any words with you- from the very beginning, you were huge. People started asking me if I was pregnant (I hate people) when I was only 8 and a half weeks along. (Just to keep this in perspective, I didn't have to tell anyone with CJ until about 14 weeks.) My favorite comment came from someone at the gym who, after I told her I was about 12 weeks, thought to say, "Damn, girl, whaddya have- 5 in there???" yeah, 5. good one. So anyway, I kept telling the doctors that I thought you were going to be huge, and they kept insisting that i was measuring "right on", that you'd probably be about 7 pounds or so.
time went on and your dada decided that he wanted to know whether you were a boy or a girl. even though i dreamed of being a mama to little girls, once i had your brother, i was hoping and praying that you were a boy. how great would it be to be able to give my boy a brother?! well, for some reason, i was convinced during my entire pregnancy (up until about the last month for some reason) that you were a girl. i wanted to stay surprised, but dada found out. he kept a secret for 4 whole months!!! (well, from me at least- just about every other person got told!) but regardless, he couldn't keep a birthday present a secret from me, and i cannot to this day believe that he never told me what you were. he even prepared your nursery all by himself without me finding out!!
everything kept progressing as normal, and when i went in to get checked out at 37 weeks, you had moved in to position and i had dilated. you were due on december 30 and we were all hoping you'd be the first baby of the new year. (i mean, c'mon, who wouldn't want a year's supply of diapers plus the added bonus of your face plastered all over the news just seconds after going through labor?!? sign me up!) so our plan was working out nicely, until our appointment the following week. the doctor, at 38 weeks, couldn't find your heartbeat!!! come to find out, she was looking for it in the completely wrong place- you had completely flipped around! your heart was actually way up by my ribcage. not good, ty, not good. little did i know, you were actually doing me a huge favor for which i will forever be grateful.
so because of all of the complications i had with CJ, they couldn't risk me going in to labor and possibly having to give me another emergency c-section. instead, they told me to "pick a day", and panicking, all i could think to say was "not Christmas".
And so somewhere around 9 in the morning of the 26th, i hopped up (well, kinda heaved my gigantic belly up) on the operating table, and started talking to my doctor about our Christmases through a blue sheet as she pulled and pried you out. (and destroyed every ounce of ab muscle that i had, after saying they were the strongest ones she'd ever felt. they'll never be the same. so thank you for that, too.) now, i promise to never tell you a lie, and i'll start now: when you came out, yes, i was elated to hear that you were a boy, BUT, your dad and i looked at each other and kinda wanted to put you back in. you just weren't cute, Baby. (But dont' worry- you've since made up for it!) you were nothing but fat (reeeaaaallllyyyy fat) cheeks, a loud cry, and pointed head from where my ribs were squeezing the heck out of you. i almost died yet wasn't really surprised when they told me that you were 8 pounds and 14 ounces. (I'll choose not pushing out a 9-pound load of child over some free diapers any day.) we expected you to look like another little CJ, and i guess we were just surprised when you didn't. In fact, you two looked and still look nothing alike. weird. your dada said he wanted a paternity test. i told him to go ahead and call maury.
starting that night in the nursery, you were a crybaby. i stayed by myself so that dada could take care of cj at home. even though they tell you not to, i let you lay in the hospital bed with me during the day and let the nurses take you with them at night. they never had to wake me up when you wanted to eat because i could hear your cry as they pushed you down the hall. i wonder when you're going to stop crying...
from that day on, besides the whole crying all the time thing, well... and the non-sleeping thing, oh yeah, and the acid reflux thing that happened when we got home, you were a good baby. you and your brother have extremely similar personalities, except that you are a little more carefree. you are very funny and love making people laugh. you finally started walking when you were 14 months old and still spend a lot of your time walking like you're drunk. (why can we so easily picture you as a frat boy smashing beer cans on your forehead?!) you love sports. in fact, watching sportscenter with your dad was literally the only thing that would calm you down in the middle of the night for a while. you are SO smart, and LOVE to be held. you are very in tune with people's feelings. we are so blessed to have such happy, healthy boys who are already best friends.
i can't believe that you are two years old already, ty jonathan. i love your laugh, your crazy curly hair, your big blue eyes, and your fatter-than-fat cheeks. thank you for completing our family. you'll always be my baby.
Love,
Mama
Thursday, December 2, 2010
'Tis the season
There are two things in particular that I am loving about this holiday season so far: the threats to call Santa; and the ridiculously large, delicious meals (and the bottomless drinks) that seem to be everywhere I look. Ah yes, this really is the most wonderful time of the year.
I have been waiting for the day when I could say "You better behave yourself or I'm calling Santa", or "Hmmmm, I don't think Santa would like that", or "Do that one more time and I'm telling Santa to take back all of your presents". Well, that day has come, and Yes, I have officially become THAT mom. And you know what? I'm not apologizing for it. It is unbelievable how well it works.
I'm not sure what family meals are like for the average person out there, but all of this eating has had me thinking about the average family meal for me. One of the most recent gatherings at my parents' house went something like this:
My brother stopped at the gas station on his way over, and walked in as he was cracking open the can of Ridiculousness that he had just purchased (It's approximately 40% alcohol, 40% caffeine, and 20% sugar). Appalled not at the fact that he was about to give himself a heart attack, but rather at the fact that he was drinking out of a can at her dining room table, my mother poured about 2 shots worth of his drink in to a wine glass with ice and poured the rest down the drain. Then overcome with guilt, she slipped him a 5 dollar bill so he could stop and get another one on the way home. (Um, who drinks a $3 can of alcohol out of a wine glass, btw?)
Just as everyone took their seats, Ty began smearing yogurt in (great-great) Aunt Jane's hair. CJ, refusing to even LOOK at the piece of chicken on his plate, promptly picked it up as he yelled, "I will NEVER eat chicken!!!" and whipped it across the table, nearly knocking over the lit candlesticks. That was approximately 17 seconds before my sister yelled at me (yes, she actually did raise her voice) for even thinking about mentioning the New Boyfriend, (who's not-a-boyfriend-so-mind-your-own-business-and-stop-talking-about-it:oh-my-GOD-you-are-SOOOOOOO-annoying). And that fiasco was followed up with my cousin dropping it on me and letting me know that not only is my blog only KINDOF funny sometimes
, and really, I come across as one of those crazy housewives who slips Ritalin into her coffee and madly types away at her computer while the kids go crazy in the next room. (OK, so I've contemplated Hydrocodone once or twice- big deal).
Yes, this dinner really happened, and yes, it was considered a normal series of events. And luckily, we get to do it about 5 more times before the season is over. I hope all of you are as blessed with family as we are. Happy Holidays!
I have been waiting for the day when I could say "You better behave yourself or I'm calling Santa", or "Hmmmm, I don't think Santa would like that", or "Do that one more time and I'm telling Santa to take back all of your presents". Well, that day has come, and Yes, I have officially become THAT mom. And you know what? I'm not apologizing for it. It is unbelievable how well it works.
I'm not sure what family meals are like for the average person out there, but all of this eating has had me thinking about the average family meal for me. One of the most recent gatherings at my parents' house went something like this:
My brother stopped at the gas station on his way over, and walked in as he was cracking open the can of Ridiculousness that he had just purchased (It's approximately 40% alcohol, 40% caffeine, and 20% sugar). Appalled not at the fact that he was about to give himself a heart attack, but rather at the fact that he was drinking out of a can at her dining room table, my mother poured about 2 shots worth of his drink in to a wine glass with ice and poured the rest down the drain. Then overcome with guilt, she slipped him a 5 dollar bill so he could stop and get another one on the way home. (Um, who drinks a $3 can of alcohol out of a wine glass, btw?)
Just as everyone took their seats, Ty began smearing yogurt in (great-great) Aunt Jane's hair. CJ, refusing to even LOOK at the piece of chicken on his plate, promptly picked it up as he yelled, "I will NEVER eat chicken!!!" and whipped it across the table, nearly knocking over the lit candlesticks. That was approximately 17 seconds before my sister yelled at me (yes, she actually did raise her voice) for even thinking about mentioning the New Boyfriend, (who's not-a-boyfriend-so-mind-your-own-business-and-stop-talking-about-it:oh-my-GOD-you-are-SOOOOOOO-annoying). And that fiasco was followed up with my cousin dropping it on me and letting me know that not only is my blog only KINDOF funny sometimes
, and really, I come across as one of those crazy housewives who slips Ritalin into her coffee and madly types away at her computer while the kids go crazy in the next room. (OK, so I've contemplated Hydrocodone once or twice- big deal).
Yes, this dinner really happened, and yes, it was considered a normal series of events. And luckily, we get to do it about 5 more times before the season is over. I hope all of you are as blessed with family as we are. Happy Holidays!
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Wheatons do Halloween
I was never a huge Halloween fan. I mean, sure, as a kid I always liked dressing up and getting tons of candy, and as an adult I always liked dressing up and getting drunk, but I never really got in to all of the decorations and scary music and stuff the way some people do. And carving pumpkins? No thank you. Not fun. But Halloween with small kids is so great! Going to Target for the sole purpose of looking at all the "scary stuff", walking through the dark teepees at the pumpkin patch 50 thousand times, and picking out the perfect costumes are things that we are so excited about now! I almost hit the floor when my husband, Captain Businessman (CB)himself, (who I FORCED in to a cheerleading costume while we were dating), actually SUGGESTED that we all dress up as Yo Gabba Gabba this year. I think it might have been the most ingenius idea he's ever had.
Yet the second he stepped out of the car, he overcame the intial embarrassment. It started out as cute when kids dressed up as bumblebees, Spiderman, and ladybugs pointed and yelled, "Look! There's Yo Gabba Gabba!" It became funny when mothers of little Buzz Lightyears, Woodys, and other superheroes announced to each other and their kids that, "There goes the Yo Gabba Gabba family". And it became downright crazy when four seperate fathers on four seperate occasions approached us to say, "Wold you mind if my kid gets a picture taken with DJ Lance?" I kid you not. This actually happened. CB, who has never been in the running for Animated Father of the Year was doing Halloween Disney World style- walking around waving, smiling, and posing for pictures with random children.
When the zoo staff picked up on the fact that children were stopped frozen in their tracks not because they were mesmerized by the sad animals dreaming of worlds bigger than the confines of their metal bars, but instead by the fact that DJ Lance had somehow jumped out of their tvs and come to the zoo, they too took our picture. "We don't know who you are, but we think it's just great when whole families dress up". (Wait, I thought. How do you not know who we are? Are you trying to imply that there's life outside of Yo Gabba Gabba??? You must be crazy!)
Real Halloween came and went a week later, and was noted with a whopping ten minutes of trick-or-treating that was rudely interrupted by snow, sleet and a high temperature of approximately 15 degrees. Additionally, I learned that my children enjoy carving pumpkins as much as I do. (Yes, I carved both of them by myself while they beat on the side of the bowls with their spoons.) But who cared? Not us. After all, we had just become famous! We made it to the cover of the Zoo Newsletter, and got a spot on the website! Hooray for Halloween!!
We decided to make the day the zoo hosted it's trick-or-treating event the day we would debut the outfits. For the two weeks leading up to the day, CJ had changed his mind about 67 times about what he was going to be. First it was Spiderman, then Iron Man, then Buzz Lightyear, then it stayed at Scuba Diver for a solid 4 days (Whatever... he likes to wear his goggles in the bathtub... so what?) But luckily, with some major playing-it-up on our parts, (and the ordering of some pretty legit costumes) he decided that Plex would be a pretty fun option, too. So we dressed up and headed out.
As soon as we pulled in to the ridiculously crowded parking lot, CB noticed that he was the ONLY father dressed up. "Oh hellllllllllllllllll no" he said to me. "There is no way I'm going in as the only Jack a$$ in a costume. I can't believe you tricked me in to this" (sidenote: I tricked him in to nothing. Every mailing that got sent to our house to promote this event showed entire families in costume. Not my problem that so many other fathers were boring.)
Yet the second he stepped out of the car, he overcame the intial embarrassment. It started out as cute when kids dressed up as bumblebees, Spiderman, and ladybugs pointed and yelled, "Look! There's Yo Gabba Gabba!" It became funny when mothers of little Buzz Lightyears, Woodys, and other superheroes announced to each other and their kids that, "There goes the Yo Gabba Gabba family". And it became downright crazy when four seperate fathers on four seperate occasions approached us to say, "Wold you mind if my kid gets a picture taken with DJ Lance?" I kid you not. This actually happened. CB, who has never been in the running for Animated Father of the Year was doing Halloween Disney World style- walking around waving, smiling, and posing for pictures with random children.
When the zoo staff picked up on the fact that children were stopped frozen in their tracks not because they were mesmerized by the sad animals dreaming of worlds bigger than the confines of their metal bars, but instead by the fact that DJ Lance had somehow jumped out of their tvs and come to the zoo, they too took our picture. "We don't know who you are, but we think it's just great when whole families dress up". (Wait, I thought. How do you not know who we are? Are you trying to imply that there's life outside of Yo Gabba Gabba??? You must be crazy!)
Real Halloween came and went a week later, and was noted with a whopping ten minutes of trick-or-treating that was rudely interrupted by snow, sleet and a high temperature of approximately 15 degrees. Additionally, I learned that my children enjoy carving pumpkins as much as I do. (Yes, I carved both of them by myself while they beat on the side of the bowls with their spoons.) But who cared? Not us. After all, we had just become famous! We made it to the cover of the Zoo Newsletter, and got a spot on the website! Hooray for Halloween!!
Friday, October 15, 2010
Dada's morning off
I'm two months in to being back at work, and am still trying to figure out the best way to wake up: do I set the alarm for a crazy early hour which will ensure me plenty of time to get ready in peace (but also taking an enormous gamble, since it's quite possible that the buzzing of the alarm will travel through our paper thin walls and wake the baby dragon in the next room); or do I allow the baby dragon to actually BE my alarm (which ensures that at least HE'S waking up on his own terms, but then I chance him trying to crawl back in to the womb as I scramble to piece together a decent outfit and brush my hair)?
My loving husband, who had been letting me get up and get ready at a leisurely pace, finally decided that if I wasn't taking my lazy a** to go work out before work (as had been the original plan), I could start sharing some of the morning duty with him. Begrudgingly, I agreed. I even took it a step farther and told him to sleep in the next day, as I (Supermom) would get both myself AND the boys ready for our days. After all, every morning the boys are so quiet. They just sit there and eat their breakfast and watch their shows. How hard could it be?
I will NEVER. OFFER. AGAIN.
On this particular day, I opted for Alarm Option #1, but defaulted to Alarm Option #2 when the dragon started breathing fire before the alarm clock had the chance to. Thinking that maybe Sleeping Husband would have some sympathy, I laid still and listened to the rhythmic beating on the side of the crib. When I realized that he was in fact NOT moving, I quickly rehearsed the "no-fail" morning routine that was already being used every other morning, and wished myself luck.
I tip-toed in to get the little one just in time to discover that he had successfully waken up his big brother. Both boys climbed into their little chairs which are placed strategically in front of the TV and waited anxiously for me to turn on Handy Manny. So far, so good. Literally the second I stepped foot on to the cold kitchen floor I heard padded footprints following me. "bup, bup, bup." I looked behind me to find two little outstretched hands reaching up to me. What? Why did he want me to pick him "bup"? Dada never carries him around. "No, go sit and watch your show so I can make your breakfast" was definitely the wrong answer. Drama King instantly started crying (loudly), and out of fear that Husband would wake up and deem me a morning-routine-failure, I picked him up and continued buttering some toast one-handed.
If my memory serves correctly, it was approximately at this time that the requests for water, a different show, a quick round of Candy Land, and everything shy of the moon began. I had finally convinced the little one that on-the-floor was cooler than on-the-hip just in time for him to spill his brother's Cheerios all over the floor. As I walked over to politely tell him to stop yelling at his brother because we use nice words in this house, I caught a whiff of something so gross, and yet so familiar. Ah yes, another night-time accident. "Blank" (the inappropriately big security blanket that replaced the little stuffed green elephant that I lost) was saturated, as were the pajamas he was sitting happily in. Oh good, I was hoping I was going to have to do laundry before sunrise.
A little while later, the breakfast grabbing and toy snatching seemed to be at a momentarily lull so I decided to sneak upstairs to take a quick shower. Before I even had the chance to lather my hair, I heard a little voice innocently cry out, "Hi Mama! I see your goobies!" Oh well. Showering before work is over-rated anyway.
I quickly covered up and walked in to my room, only to find I already had company. "Ba-pup", the little one exclaimed as he held up a tube of my too-expensive makeup. He had the lipstick up as far as it could be out of the tube, and was smearing it on his face. "Preeety."
The rest of the morning is a blur. I think I pulled something off of the unmade guest bed and ran an iron over it as the boys thought it was funny to knock every single pair of my shoes off the shoe rack. I managed to remember to change the wet sheets, wash the dishes that were left in the sink from the night before, change two poopy diapers from the same kid, and stumble in to work 20 minutes later than normal. Also known as: a series of events that NEVER happen on Dada's mornings.
Why my children save all of their drama and bodily functions for ME and me alone I'll never know. But there is one thing I DO know: I am about to become the morning workout QUEEN.
My loving husband, who had been letting me get up and get ready at a leisurely pace, finally decided that if I wasn't taking my lazy a** to go work out before work (as had been the original plan), I could start sharing some of the morning duty with him. Begrudgingly, I agreed. I even took it a step farther and told him to sleep in the next day, as I (Supermom) would get both myself AND the boys ready for our days. After all, every morning the boys are so quiet. They just sit there and eat their breakfast and watch their shows. How hard could it be?
I will NEVER. OFFER. AGAIN.
On this particular day, I opted for Alarm Option #1, but defaulted to Alarm Option #2 when the dragon started breathing fire before the alarm clock had the chance to. Thinking that maybe Sleeping Husband would have some sympathy, I laid still and listened to the rhythmic beating on the side of the crib. When I realized that he was in fact NOT moving, I quickly rehearsed the "no-fail" morning routine that was already being used every other morning, and wished myself luck.
I tip-toed in to get the little one just in time to discover that he had successfully waken up his big brother. Both boys climbed into their little chairs which are placed strategically in front of the TV and waited anxiously for me to turn on Handy Manny. So far, so good. Literally the second I stepped foot on to the cold kitchen floor I heard padded footprints following me. "bup, bup, bup." I looked behind me to find two little outstretched hands reaching up to me. What? Why did he want me to pick him "bup"? Dada never carries him around. "No, go sit and watch your show so I can make your breakfast" was definitely the wrong answer. Drama King instantly started crying (loudly), and out of fear that Husband would wake up and deem me a morning-routine-failure, I picked him up and continued buttering some toast one-handed.
If my memory serves correctly, it was approximately at this time that the requests for water, a different show, a quick round of Candy Land, and everything shy of the moon began. I had finally convinced the little one that on-the-floor was cooler than on-the-hip just in time for him to spill his brother's Cheerios all over the floor. As I walked over to politely tell him to stop yelling at his brother because we use nice words in this house, I caught a whiff of something so gross, and yet so familiar. Ah yes, another night-time accident. "Blank" (the inappropriately big security blanket that replaced the little stuffed green elephant that I lost) was saturated, as were the pajamas he was sitting happily in. Oh good, I was hoping I was going to have to do laundry before sunrise.
A little while later, the breakfast grabbing and toy snatching seemed to be at a momentarily lull so I decided to sneak upstairs to take a quick shower. Before I even had the chance to lather my hair, I heard a little voice innocently cry out, "Hi Mama! I see your goobies!" Oh well. Showering before work is over-rated anyway.
I quickly covered up and walked in to my room, only to find I already had company. "Ba-pup", the little one exclaimed as he held up a tube of my too-expensive makeup. He had the lipstick up as far as it could be out of the tube, and was smearing it on his face. "Preeety."
The rest of the morning is a blur. I think I pulled something off of the unmade guest bed and ran an iron over it as the boys thought it was funny to knock every single pair of my shoes off the shoe rack. I managed to remember to change the wet sheets, wash the dishes that were left in the sink from the night before, change two poopy diapers from the same kid, and stumble in to work 20 minutes later than normal. Also known as: a series of events that NEVER happen on Dada's mornings.
Why my children save all of their drama and bodily functions for ME and me alone I'll never know. But there is one thing I DO know: I am about to become the morning workout QUEEN.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Mama Tears
When I was about 10 my mother took my sister, my cousin and me out to eat. We were standing in line being reminded to hurry up and make up our minds so that we wouldn't leave anyone waiting. When it was our turn, my sister and I spit out our choices as fast as we could, as my cousin stood staring at the menu. After being told to hurry up about three times, she finally opened up her mouth to speak. "What kind of cheese is on the cheeseburger?" she asked. With the quickness, my mother grabbed her hand, yanked all of us out of line, and hauled us to the car saying, "if you can't make up your mind in a crowded restaurant, you gotta go. You can take all the time in the world at home." And this was the story of our lives. When a poor, impatient mother gives you the opportunity to make a choice in a restaurant, you don't give her any time to think about whether or not she really has the money to be buying you that lunch in the first place. You make a choice and you enjoy it.
Why then, after an entire childhood of quick decisions, am I constantly second-guessing myself as an adult?
Where I came up with the notion that my 3-year-old MUST go to preschool I'll never really know. It's not exactly like my kid is shy or anything (he'll talk to anyone and everyone who will listen), nor was he falling behind academically (he did spend 10 hours a week with his teacher-certified nanny), but I didn't want to hear it. My kid was going to school and that was the end of the conversation. After months of research, consideration, reconsideration, site visits, and getting my anti-preschool-for-three-year-olds husband to agree that he actually would benefit from going, I finally decided on the perfect place to send my son. My son who's never been left ANYWHERE except the daycare at the gym, and well, let's face it- that just doesn't count. (After all, I was only a hallway away- I could easily drop in early to spy.)
As the summer flew by, we started talking up school more and more. Everyone was getting excited, and my former preschool teacher neighbor advised me to not worry about the first day of school tears. Don't worry, she said. They're normal, even for the most social kids. He'll probably cry for the first couple of weeks and then he'll settle in. They all do. Dada took him out to buy a new pair of sneakers, and when he showed me how fast they made him run, I was the one crying. He's too little to go to school, I sobbed to my husband. Call them back and say we're not coming. He's not ready. What if he gets picked on? What if he hates it? What if he cries for me and they don't tell me? We need to wait till next year...
But it was too late. I had made my decision, and I had to stick with it. He would start school, and he would learn to love it. And then it was here- September 18, 2010. The Big Day.
With his Nikes tied tight, and his Buzz Lightyear backpack strapped on, my baby, my buddy, my little man, let go of my hand to walk up the school steps all by himself. There he goes, I thought. The kid who still thinks guns are called space ships, who sucks his thumb when he's nervous, who still calls me Mama, and who innocently told his little brother last night that "you're my best friend". There he goes.
After agreeing that I wouldn't start crying in order to prevent him from freaking out, I followed closely behind as I snapped about 8 thousand pictures. When we reached the classroom door, I walked him in and crouched down. "I gotta go, Buddy. You are gonna have so much fun here." Bracing myself for a major meltdown, I opened my arms and leaned in.
What I got instead was the back of a button-down shirt, and a little hand that raised up just past his shoulder height. "ok, bye" he said as he continued to keep his back to me and wave at the same time.
Wait, that couldn't be it. Where were the crocodile tears, the "Mama don't leave me-s?" Instead I barely got a "see ya"???
With my own tear-filled eyes, I proceeded back down the stairs and back to my car. And I realized that now, much like when I was 10, my first choice was a good one. At least for now. (And I can always pull him out, right? Or maybe I should keep him in... Or maybe I should drop a day... Or... I know- or maybe I should just stop second guessing myself. Yeah, I'll start there.)
Why then, after an entire childhood of quick decisions, am I constantly second-guessing myself as an adult?
Where I came up with the notion that my 3-year-old MUST go to preschool I'll never really know. It's not exactly like my kid is shy or anything (he'll talk to anyone and everyone who will listen), nor was he falling behind academically (he did spend 10 hours a week with his teacher-certified nanny), but I didn't want to hear it. My kid was going to school and that was the end of the conversation. After months of research, consideration, reconsideration, site visits, and getting my anti-preschool-for-three-year-olds husband to agree that he actually would benefit from going, I finally decided on the perfect place to send my son. My son who's never been left ANYWHERE except the daycare at the gym, and well, let's face it- that just doesn't count. (After all, I was only a hallway away- I could easily drop in early to spy.)
As the summer flew by, we started talking up school more and more. Everyone was getting excited, and my former preschool teacher neighbor advised me to not worry about the first day of school tears. Don't worry, she said. They're normal, even for the most social kids. He'll probably cry for the first couple of weeks and then he'll settle in. They all do. Dada took him out to buy a new pair of sneakers, and when he showed me how fast they made him run, I was the one crying. He's too little to go to school, I sobbed to my husband. Call them back and say we're not coming. He's not ready. What if he gets picked on? What if he hates it? What if he cries for me and they don't tell me? We need to wait till next year...
But it was too late. I had made my decision, and I had to stick with it. He would start school, and he would learn to love it. And then it was here- September 18, 2010. The Big Day.
With his Nikes tied tight, and his Buzz Lightyear backpack strapped on, my baby, my buddy, my little man, let go of my hand to walk up the school steps all by himself. There he goes, I thought. The kid who still thinks guns are called space ships, who sucks his thumb when he's nervous, who still calls me Mama, and who innocently told his little brother last night that "you're my best friend". There he goes.
After agreeing that I wouldn't start crying in order to prevent him from freaking out, I followed closely behind as I snapped about 8 thousand pictures. When we reached the classroom door, I walked him in and crouched down. "I gotta go, Buddy. You are gonna have so much fun here." Bracing myself for a major meltdown, I opened my arms and leaned in.
What I got instead was the back of a button-down shirt, and a little hand that raised up just past his shoulder height. "ok, bye" he said as he continued to keep his back to me and wave at the same time.
Wait, that couldn't be it. Where were the crocodile tears, the "Mama don't leave me-s?" Instead I barely got a "see ya"???
With my own tear-filled eyes, I proceeded back down the stairs and back to my car. And I realized that now, much like when I was 10, my first choice was a good one. At least for now. (And I can always pull him out, right? Or maybe I should keep him in... Or maybe I should drop a day... Or... I know- or maybe I should just stop second guessing myself. Yeah, I'll start there.)
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