12/14/2007 - Ice Storm 2007

The backyard is in shambles, and no picture we take could do justice to the carnage. We drive down the street and it's a little sad to see the trees that once stood so tall and majestic, and are now heaps of broken branches and twisted trunks. We've just come out of "Ice Storm 2007" (don't you just love how there's a catchy name now for every event that happens in the world?) and we're really no worse for wear.


It could have been worse, actually. It started raining (and freezing) on Sunday. By Sunday night Tim and I were in the backyard ogling the thick ice collecting on everything. Then we heard the cracks. Gunshot cracks, they were, but nothing actually happened and so we thought we were safe. Good to go, you know? Except that we weren't. I think it was the giant bradford pear that fell first. A third of it went straight into the middle of the yard; no harm done there. The next third landed on the fence, which is still, 5 days later, leaning at a crazy angle. The last third came straignt toward the house, took off part of the gutter and it still partly on the roof. But, no other damage, thank goodness. And it was the other tree we were worried about all along. The one that, you know, leans right over the roof of the house. Lots of prayer later, that tree is still mostly intact and didn't cause any damage at all. Whew. I'm happy not to have to run from the bathroom every time I hear a crack, scared that the roof will soon fall in on me. On the toilet, no less. How embarassing would that be? And I'm also happy not to have to worry about rescuing the boys from a falling roof, as well. My heart in my throat, plans about which kid to grab first and which way to run sprint through my head at the slightest sound. Again, whew.


There are new things for me to be thankful about, too. For instance, having heat and electricity. How often do I take these simple things for granted? But on Monday, when we were in the cold and dark, I learned that I'm so grateful to, say, have a lamp to read by. Or have light to cook by. That I simply push the button for the garage door to open, and don't think twice about it. We spent part of the day out, and came home to cold and dark. Tim had to go to work, and I was left unprepared and empty handed with the boys. What's worse was that since we've remodeled our living room wall, we didn't even have a fireplace cover, and my fears of random sparks catching the hair of a child on fire kept me from lighting it for a while. But as the thermostat reading dropped lower and lower, and as the kids and I added layer after layer, I decided something must be done. I went to the garage and retrieved the old fireplace doors we'd taken off, and hauled it inside. After what seemed like eternity (I mean it had to have been 20 minutes, at least) with a 50 pound fireplace cover trying to fall on myself and the two boys climbing over my back and legs, I fimally figured out how to attach at least the right side of it to the wall. We had fire! And as I fixed a peanut butter and honey sandwich, opened a can of chili by candlelight (did I mention we have a gas stove?), and put the milk and chicken on the back porch to keep cold, I figured we'd done pretty well. I mean it was only 5:15, but still, we'd conquered half the day. And with dark coming early, both of the kids were in bed at 7:00. Woo hoo! Tim came and we had grand plans to play a game by the fireplace, then go to bed early. Of course, that's when the power came back on. So we spent the rest of the evening watching TV and playing on the computer. It's the American way, you know.

12/4/07 - Night to Remember

We've been out tonight doing Christmassy things, and trying to be a normal family who actually does these kinds of things together. For the night we tried to pretend that we weren't in an eternal state of freaking out that it was 7:00 and the kids weren't in the bath. It's 8:30 and the kids aren't in bed! It's 9:30 and we're just driving home!

Can you imagine that there are things to do in Oklahoma around Christmas? Knock us over with a feather, but there's this tiny town about 40 miles away that is apparently the biggest attraction in the state around Christmastime. Over 3 million lights, a pond, bridges, hot chocolate and carriage rides . . . we were in a Christmas wonderland. It's actually a wonder that we made it out of the car, since it's something that you can drive or walk through, and Jonah was asleep. Tim, "I though we'd just drive through, you know . . . since we don't want to wake Jonah." Me (being pouty and sarcastic in a really communicative effort to portray my true feelings), "Fine, if that's what you think is best." Communication issues aside, we ended up waking Jonah, taking a carriage ride, snapping several dozen pictures and having a great time. Joshua asked in amazement, "Is it so silly that it's the middle of the night and we're not in bed?" Yes sweetheart, it is.

And thankfully the batteries to the camera died in the middle of everything so that we were forced to look around and enjoy the night. To actually be there with our kids, and not spend the evening trying to take the Greatest Christmas Picture of All Time. Which is, of course, what I would have done. Do you ever do that? Get so caught up in the logistics of things that you forget to be fully present, fully aware of the wonders around you? Because I do. And then I look at Jonah's face, gazing intently and in awe at the lights and the people, listening with rapture to the Nutcracker symphony over the loudspeakers. I see Joshua running with abandon through the tunnel of lights, dancing in circles. I see my husband's eyes twinkle as he watches them both, and if I could pause time and stay forever in that moment I might. Just me and my family, lights and swirling all around and we're in a vacuum of ourselves. Forget job worries, house worries, car worries. Let us be, just for tonight, young again and in awe. Fully present and aware, fully loving and loved, creating joy and life for these children. It's what they deserve. Merry Christmas.

--

10/18/2007 - The ants go marching one by one . . .

We're being overrun by ants. Literally, they're everywhere, but mainly they're on the kitchen floor. It's understandable that this is where they'd be, since it's where most of the food in our home is. Isn't that where everybody else keeps meals and meals worth of sandwich crumbs and glumpy drying jelly, little crumbly pieces of turkey bacon and spatters of strawberry milk?

In the back of my head I think that if I just never clean the kitchen floor, then the ants will be able to survive and live quite well there, never having to venture out to other areas of our house. It's an excellent idea for their containment, even if I do say so myself.

But I can't do it. They drive me insane, the ants do, and so does the mess. It's not that we're unclean people, exactly . . . it's just that we have a very exuberant three-year-old who just loves to be Cookie Monster at the table. And if it's not that, then he's pretending that his sandwich crusts are actually bulldozers, clearing unwanted debris from the tabletop. And if it's not that, then . . . well, then he's just three years old and half of the food simply doesn't make it into his mouth. Between Tim and me, the floors do get swept at least twice a day, but it's a little like shoveling the driveway during a snowstorm. And we're losing the battle.


So in comes Jonah, who in the last two days, has learned to crawl. Oh we're so proud of his accomplishment, and so . . . well . . . so grossed out that he especially likes to lay on his belly on the kitchen floor and work on that pincer grasp thing with the fallen food. It's a little mini-buffet for him, I guess, but he's going to have to fight with the ants for his share of the crumbs. Of course, Joshua is happy to oblige, and to feed the masses down below, but still . . . yuck. So I'm calling all of the exterminator companies around, to see if there are any who aren't dealing in extortion. Which they all are because, seriously? Three hundred dollars to come treat the house and yards? At that rate I'd throw the ants a party and welcome them in with open arms. And Jonah would be just as happy to dine beside them, or even on them, probably.

Speaking of dining . . . would you look at Jonah and think that he eats his weight in food each day? That we must have started him on solids awfully early? Well, the truth is neither. The truth is actually that he hardly eats any solid foods at all (and by solid I mean as finely pureed as you can make it), and is mostly just nursing for nourishment. But he's such a little hoss that we don't even know what to do with him. At eight months old he is wearing eighteen month clothing. We've had to abandon the infant car seat in favor of a convertible one that holds more weight, and if he doesn't start walking soon we're going to buy stock in the chiropractic industry for the near future, when our backs go out.

And the funny thing? We wouldn't have it any other way. Because when I go in to soothe his big little self at night, and he cuddles his fat rolls into me and I feel his doughy weight on my chest, I am content. As he sighs a breathy sleep-sigh, I know that I hold the world in my arms.

10/14/2007 - Multi . . . hmm . . . cultural??

Mami. How would you say this word? Well, if you were three years old and you lived in our house, you would most definitely not pronounce it the way it was meant, in a lilting spanish-accent "mommy" type way. Because maybe your mom had read to you from a book called "Dora's Treasure Hunt" and pronounced it incorrectly one time, and you were forever stuck on the mispronounced way to say it. Which would be "mammy."

Not that I even took Spanish in college, so how am I supposed to know how these things are said? But that's not the point. The point is, if you lived in our house, you would decide that my new name should actually be mammy. Of course since you would only be three years old you would not be embarassed by any "Gone with the Wind" type associations that might be made in your, um . . . mammy's mind. And you would most assuredly not hesitate to run through the store calling "Mammy, mammy!!" as your female parent glances furtively around in embarassment.

And even your father would play along, unknowingly, by saying things like, "He misses his mammy. He just wants his mammy. He needs mammy to read him a story." Then your female parent would shoot daggers with her eyes and not-so-subtly mouth the words "Don't call me that!"

What? You're not a three-year-old living in our house calling me mammy? My mistake, that must have been Joshua I was thinking about.

It's so embarassing. And then several nights ago I was putting Jonah to sleep, and started laughing so hard I was shaking and making a wheezy sort of sound through my nose. I half dropped Jonah into his crib since I couldn't see through the tears in my eyes, and I had to run and find Tim to tell him my revelation. If I had to be mammy, then I would henceforth be calling him "Pappy." Guess who had a faster-than-fast about face on the topic? Ding-ding-ding, you guessed it! The male parent of the household!

Now Joshua gets reminded that I am either Mama or Mommy. Hopefully this will pass soon.

At least Jonah is calling me Mama now. And maybe we won't have issues like this to deal with again for a little while, because I might die from embarassment otherwise.

--

9/14/2007 - The death of the tricycle

Is life getting easier? I mean, not easier in any sense that I can pinpoint directly, but in a sort of "coming out of the fog" kind of way? Because it feels a little like it. Maybe it's because Joshua's been so blissfully happy lately, except for tonight when he cried for 30 minutes about having to come inside and take a bath, and the boo-boos on his knees, and that Jonah peed in the bath water. Other than that, he's truly been a joy lately. "Yes, ma'am, I will not climb on the counters." "Yes, ma'am, I will stay in bed." "Yes, ma'am, I will turn off the TV." We've been working on the ma'am and sir thing with him, and how nice it is when you speak nicely. He likes the reaction that it gets, how I sigh and smile and gush over how polite and nice he is. And really, he is.

We had a casualty of sorts yesterday. It's something that happens in most families (I tell myself), and was just an accident (Tim tells me), but I ran over Joshua's tricycle. The Radio Flyer one that Santa brought him two Christmases ago, that he hardly ever wanted to ride until he couldn't because it was smooshed. Actually Joshua wasn't so horrified about the incident until he told Tim, and Tim responded rather badly and dramatically, which is when Joshua fell apart. So we ended up at Target today looking at big boy bikes . . . the blue Hot Wheels bike . . . the Diego bike . . . the red one . . . "Mama, does Brady have a red bike?" "I don't know what color Brady's bike is, Joshua." "Oh. I want the red one." And later when he was riding around the driveway, "Hi mama, I'm Brady."

Do you like how I slipped that in? Riding around the driveway. Like it was no big deal? Because really, it's a pretty big deal. It's an actual big kid bike . . . okay, it has training wheels, but still . . . an honest to goodness bike. That Joshua rides all around the driveway. He hasn't gotten the hang of the brakes yet, the whole pedalling backward thing, which is why he doesn't ride on the sidewalk. Our house isn't actually on a hill, but there is a downward slope to the block. Joshua gets up a lot of speed on it, and his little 3 year old mind can't think fast enough to figure out how to slow down and he freaks out a little.

So now I'll tell you oh-so-nonchalantly how he accidentally rode into the street this afternoon. Oh all right, I'll tell you honestly how I clambered out of my chair in the driveway, hauling Jonah under one arm, running in my flip-flops to try and catch him before he could make it into the street - which I did not. It wasn't actually his fault, it was the downhill slope, and I could see him freaking out in his inability to stop himself . . . my crazy running toward him and his getting off his finally stopped bike to run into my arms and be consoled . . . not scolded . . . It was an event. And I didn't scold him, either - a feat that I don't usually master. He was just so horrified, though, to have been in the street. I was afraid he wouldn't ride his bike ever again after that, but we agreed that it would probably be okay as long as he only rode in the driveway. He was relieved at that, since it seems safe and close to home. The thought of riding down the sidewalk and away from home is just so big for him at the moment, even before the street incident. He's such a sensitive boy.

Also, I just wanted to relate one of our latest conversations . . . it went like this:

"Mama, what's hospital?" (He knows full well what a hospital is, we just play the question game a lot lately.)

"Well, a hospital is where the doctors are, and where people go when they're sick . . . or hurt . . . or are going to have a baby."

"I have a baby in my tummy."
(Feigned shock on my part.) "You do?? What is his name?"

"His name is baby Kaitlynn."

"Is he a girl?"

"Yes, he's a girl." I can tell he's making this up as he goes. Oh, you got that too?

"When will she be born?"

"She will be born when . . . when we are in Las Vegas."

"And when will that be?"

"That will be when all the people are there." Of course.

"Like on vacation?" I ask. Joshua nods. "Will you take care of her then?"

"Yes, and then I will be a grownup."

"How will you take care of her?"

"By holding her . . . and by nursing her." Hmmmm.

"How will you do that?"

"With my nursing pads, and my nursing thing, and my other nursing thing that has the milk in it . . . and I will pump the milk (here he puts his arms around his leg and makes a pumping action) into the milk hole."

"What is the milk hole?" I'm treading on dangerous ground here, I know.

"It's the thing that holds the milk."

"And then what will you do with the milk?"

"Make bananas!"

Go figure.

--

8/25/2007 - Chunky baby joy

Jonah is a bright, fat butterball of sunshine in our lives. He really is, what with his chipmunk cheeks and sparkly eyes, and his ear to ear grin that is perpetually contagious. How could we have been blessed with such a wonderfully happy baby? Don't get me wrong, Joshua is a treasure and wonderful in his own right, but Jonah? He wiggles his whole body with giddyness when you so much as glance in his general direction. And to make eye contact and . . . gasp . . . pick him up? He might explode with pleasure.

Which actually makes me feel a little guilty sometimes. I wonder, how abandoned must he feel to get so excited over a smidgen of attention? I'm sure he's not really feeling abandoned (or so I tell myself), but I have to have something to stress about, right? It's like how we were at Gymboree the other day and he was, as is the trend these days, drooling like mad. I checked the two teeth that he already has on the bottom, and around them - nothing new. Hmmm, I think. He never has any sign of teeth or swelling on his top gums . . . maybe I'll just check and see . . . FOUR NEW TEETH?? I mean honestly. With Joshua I checked and rechecked his teething progress twice a day, he was under such a microscope. You'd think that the huge bubbles of drool coating Jonah's entire chin and neck would have tipped me off to the arrival of the four teeth. And the thing is, if I'd known, I'd at least given him some teething tablets or something. But he's a survivor and smiles through it all.

Now I guess neither of the kids will be under the microscopic glare of my surveillance. Which I think is good mostly. Or maybe they'll both be under it, but it won't seem so intense spread over the both of them.

But then something happens. Like Joshua . . . we have to take him to the doctor for a little lump I found . . . well, more like a nodule, really, on his jawbone. When I first felt it I thought instantly that he had a little lipoma. Then, being the compulsive person that I am, I googled "lump on neck" (and it isn't really even on his neck) which, of course, took me off in all directions. Hodgkins lymphoma . . . leukemia . . . I was a wreck by the end of the night. I think that a normal person just thinks "I'll have to make an appointment with the doctor to see about that," and goes on with their lives. That would be way too easy. Microscope on.

Jonah is the worst napper in the history of babies, and the longest nap he's taken since birth I think, has been 45 minutes. He sleeps upwards of 12 to 13 hours at night, but is he getting enough sleep? Are we putting him down early enough for his nap? Too early? Microscope on.

Joshua doesn't like his new Sunday school class, and today when I came to pick him up he was lying under a table. "Why were you under the table?" I ask, trying not to let my voice betray any worry I was feeling. Like asking "What color shirt do you want to wear today?" "Because," he replies, "I had my hand in my mouth, but the kids said, 'Don't put your hand in your mouth.' " I try to sort it out in my head. "So you were hiding under the table so that you could put your hand in your mouth?" Nod. Microscope on.

Jonah is six and a half months old, and is not yet eating food. Microscope on.

It's not for lack of trying, he just doesn't want to have anything to do with it. It's funny the looks you get from people who find out how old he is and that he hasn't, say, had rice cereal in a bottle since he was four months old. We have a fat, thriving baby, though, and while I worry that he will still be nursing in fifth grade and we won't be able to pack him a lunch (instead I'll have to show up in the cafeteria and hoist up my shirt . . . do they have nursing rooms for fifth graders?) I have to tell myself that he will eat food someday, and try not to push it.

So I have my own issues and I foster them and care for them like they're furry little pets that need to be combed and washed, watered and fed. And all the while I keep trying to realize that it's the kids I need to invest my time in, not my worries about who they are or what they did, or what they're turning into, or not turning into. I don't want to squash them with my microscope. I want Jonah to always be a little spark of joy who lights up the room he's in. I want that for Joshua, too . . . for all of us. We need that little spark of joy in our lives.

8/7/07 - My poor lost Cheetos

Oh, the Cheetos. I miss the Cheetos. I really wanted them, and I was going to save them for later when Tim and I settle in to watch our next disc of Lost episodes. They were the baked kind, which is not that much healthier, but it always makes me feel better to eat baked snacks. Now they're gone. Where, you ask? Okay, I'll share. But beware, because it's a gruesome story.

The Cheetos are lying forlorn in a little pile in a gravel parking lot somewhere between Aunt Gwen's house and our own. We'd been at Aunt Gwen's to go swimming, and we had a great time. Since she and Uncle Doug are out of town, we'd taken our hamburger patties over to grill, and our corn to boil, and we had a great afternoon of swimming and dinner. Joshua even ate one of the little Jello pudding snacks from the refrigerator (thanks Aunt Gwen!), and was relishing every moment of the afternoon in the way only 3 year-olds can. We packed up, and didn't even have to remind Joshua to go potty before we left - he remembered himself. We thought we were good to go. And we were. Until.

Driving in the car, and then: "Mama, I have to go poop!"

Why do so many of these stories revolve around bodily functions?

"Joshua, we're almost home," Tim replied without missing a beat. But I knew better. I looked back and saw the panicky face, and he said it again, hoping to impart the desperateness of the situation to us. "But I have to poop!" I entered panic mode.

"Tim, he has to go now," I said.

"I'm looking for somewhere to stop," he replied. But Tim was looking for somewhere to stop that had, you know, and actual toilet. Plumbing, utilities, the works. Unfortunately we were beyond that.

"Tim, you have to find somewhere to pull over right now," I said, as Joshua was beginning to wail about not wanting to poop in his pants. And the poor little guy kept interjecting helpful comments like, "Mama, can I poop in there?" about each abandoned-looking warehouse building we passed. After what seemed like ages we finally pulled over into a rocky parking lot, overrun with weeds, and thankfully, empty. I honestly thought that he could just poop over behind the trees, out of the way, and we'd find a way to cover it up. The problem is that Tim has much more delicate sensibilities than that, and was already looking around for a plastic bag or other poop-appropriate receptacle.

"We can't just leave feces on the ground," he said with such disgust that I almost laughed. And now, writing about it, I am laughing. So my poor, poor Cheetos had to go. I dumped them into a little pile underneath the car, and Joshua promptly decided that he no longer needed to poop, but instead needed to eat the Cheetos. Tim corralled him while I rolled the bag several times to, of course, make a toilet. Out of a Cheetos bag. Very unsure of how to proceed, Joshua stuck his little bottom backward a little bit, and Tim propped him up. I'm still wondering how I got stuck with bag duty. (Get it . . . duty? Doody? I'm so lame.) I don't think that there are many things grosser in the world than the heavy thud of the poop landing in the bag, and the smell wafting into my face. So I'm holding the bag, gagging and laughing at the same time, only laughing silently so that my poor little boy wouldn't feel somehow embarrassed, or like he'd done something wrong.

He finished pooping and, if you can believe it, things still got worse. We noticed that he'd actually dripped poop onto his underwear, and urine onto his shorts. Ugh. What can I say? We're not practised side-of-the-road poopers. If I'd been prepared in any way it wouldn't have been so bad. As it was, since I had no extra clothes with us, he ended up wearing one of Jonah's swim diapers home. And I hung the Cheetos bag out the car window until Tim found a dumpster. All I can say is how thankful I was that Jonah was peaceful and happy throughout the ordeal. I can't imagine it all happening with a screaming infant in the picture, too.

And so maybe now I have all of the poop blogging out of my system. I'm not promising anything, because you never know what will happen with the little guys. I'm just saying, I'm ready to move on to the next topic. Next time, I promise, no poop talk.

--

7/28/2007 - Peanut butter and poop

What funny things they say and think, these little ones. Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that the frame of reference they have is so, so small, but their minds are so, so big. For instance, Joshua has had the funniest saying lately. He'll cough a little, then say "Chicken pog." What, you ask, is chicken pog? I have no idea. I'd wager that he heard something somewhere . . . you know, something that actually made sense in its original language and context, but that's what it sounded like to him. Chicken pog. With the little cough first.

Also, we've been playing the "peanut butter and . . . " game. The one that I inadvertently started by trying to be funny. Usually I'll ask whether Joshua wants peanut butter and honey or peanut butter and jelly . . . only this time I spiced it up a little.

"Joshua, do you want peanut butter and honey . . . or . . . peanut butter and worms?"

(Hysterical laughter ensues. Tim chimes in.)

"How about peanut butter and ketchup?"

We ventured into realms we'd never imagined (peanut butter and boogers? poop?) and now that it's all said and done, well, I guess I only wish that it was all said and done. I can see the little wheels turning in his head as he looks around the room for various items with which to pair the peanut butter? A fan? Pictures? The door? At which I have to laugh obligingly each time. Until I can't laugh anymore, and Joshua says, "Please laugh, mama." I try to explain how sometimes people actually need a little break from laughing, but it doesn't matter. He's off in his own world of peanut butter and pencils.

Jonah, on the other hand, is more than willing to laugh . . . rather, guffaw, at anything that catches his eye. I use the word guffaw since it seems to so accurately describe what he does. The deep, unabashed belly laugh of youth. One of Joshua's favorite things is to make his brother laugh. Sometimes it's by playing peek-a-boo, and sometimes it's by nuzzling Jonah's neck or belly with his face. In any case, it's very precious to watch. Until, that is, a teensy bit of saliva touches Joshua. He wrenches back and wrinkles up his nose in disgust, claiming that Jonah must have spit up on him. (Not a bad assumption, I must admit, since Jonah seems to be constantly soggy and smelly from the quarts of spit-up. But mostly it's just spit.)

And on an "it's midnight and my brain isn't following a normal train of thought" sidenote . . . have you ever noticed that you can tell almost instantly when a mom doesn't have kids who spit up? The look of both disgust and fear, not quite hidden behind the offers for napkins . . . The other day at Gymboree, I was holding Jonah. I started to put him down on a mat, and another mom looked at us and gasped, "Oh, no, he just vomited all over himself!" Oh, the horror!

Joshua, it seems, has also reverted to a little spitting-up. At least that's how he would tell it. If he's running around drools a little, it's spit up. If the water dribbles down his chin, it's spit up. Once, he actually bent over and burped up a little water and partially digested string cheese (gross, I know). That was definitely spit up. In fact (for those of you who aren't familiar with the little OCD traits Joshua clings to - at least, until he moves to the next thing), he has to sleep with a towel spread across the head of his bed. Tonight I asked him why he needs it. He looked at me and said simply, "In case I spit up."

--

7/1/07 - Mama, I have to go potty

Are there actually other people going through this crazy parenthood ride out there somewhere? I mean, besides the put-together people who don't have trouble getting to the grocery store to buy fruit, or the library to return books on time. Is there someone out there who shares my anxiety in thinking about going out - alone - with the kids in tow?

I hope so.

It's inevitably harder than you think it's going to be, right? Say Tim has to work, and I decide like the lunatic that I am that we should go out for lunch. At McDonald's of course. Artery-clogging menu choices aside, it's a little rough to get Joshua to stay with me in line while I'm holding Jonah. All he wants to do is go look at the lovely display of fine happy meal toys; after all, he's just a kid. But I have this storyline unfolding in my head where I turn my back to order and the stealer of children races through to take my beautiful boy. So I can try to place my order with my back actually turned to the cashier, or I can make Joshua stay with me. Which involves much cajoling and pulling of the arms, as well as repeated admonishments not to push the credit card buttons. I mean really, we came to play and have fun, right? When does the fun start?

There's the waiting for the food, which Joshua really doesn't understand at all. Honestly, if there was call-ahead ordering, I'd do it every time. But there's not. So we stand there, and Joshua asks "Is that my food?" only a million times or so. We've told them what we want, why can it not magically appear before us? he thinks. And the carrying of the food is another problem in itself. How, I ask, should I corral an exuberant 3 year old as well as carry a baby and an entire tray of food, not to mention pouring and carrying drinks? I juggle and balance and just as I'm getting it figured out . . . "Mama, I have to go potty."

And that means now.

(On a side note, it's so musical how he says it . . . if it were notes the "have" would be way up high on the scale, and "potty" would be way down low, with a sort of seriousness to it. Mama, I have to go potty. Can you hear it? Anyway.)

Or how about when we've successfully gone to Gymboree, but are headed home already past dinner time, when Joshua announces that he needs to visit a bathroom. In the land of less than a year potty-trained, there's just not much time to wait. He sing-songs over and over again from the back seat, so we pull in to the nearest 7-11 and pile out, and as we're walking past moon pies and week old doughnuts, snickers bars and ranch flavored sunflower seeds, Joshua has forgotten why we stopped in the first place. More arm pulling ensues so that we can finally get to the bathroom, only to find that we don't all fit. Jonah in his car seat, plus me and Joshua, and the door won't close. I've lost all sense of decency at this point, and am doing what I can to keep my sanity and to keep Joshua's pants dry. I prop the door open with the car seat and hoist Joshua up onto the toilet while the world watches. And then he doesn't understand why I won't let him wash his hands in the sink . . . which I can't even reach past Jonah's car seat anyway . . . but which is the grossest sink I think I've ever seen in my life. So I drag him yelling out of the store and douse him with hand sanitizer once we're in the car again, and *sigh* will we ever eat dinner?

At least he didn't sit his bottom on the toilet seat. I don't know if it makes it better or worse, or just odd, but since Joshua's not tall enough to stand on the floor to use the bathroom, we lift him up and have him stand on the toilet seat and sort of lean. It's fairly comical, especially when he decides to draw shapes with the stream of pee . . . "Look mama, I did draw an oval with my potty!"

Whew. Tell me it's not just us.

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5/27/07 - The business of being not-busy

It's almost midnight . . . why do I wait until it's so late at night to start these things? I like to think that I'm a productive person, but secretly I'm actually not. Let's see . . . what have I accomplished tonight? Laundry, no. Dishes, no. Cleaned house, no. Sat in front of computer with trail mix and soda, yes. Fiddled with ceramic tiles in kitchen to try and fit the odd shapes into just the right spot, yes. More time on the computer, yes. I have to face the music - maybe I'm not a productive person. Actually, I think that most days my productivity gets eaten away little by little, until there's just nothing left to work with. As I'm outside with Joshua, keeping guard against the fierce barrage of roly-polies and butterflies, I'm wishing I were inside wiping off the kitchen countertops. As I'm desperately trying to find something both quick and healthy to fix for dinner I'm actually wishing that I were soaking the socks in Oxy-Clean. Bathtime rolls around, and as Joshua and Jonah are being sudsed up, I'm thinking of the sheets that I haven't changed in, um, weeks. All that thinking of what I would like to be doing wears me out so, and then I don't have energy left to actually do those things.

It's also very possible that I'm missing out on enjoying my children because of my inability to just be in the moment. It's all very yoga-zen-taoish, I know, but as I recall the day, I wish I'd just relaxed - played a little more, laughed a little more, lived a little more. While all I did through the day was prepare for what came next, I was missing out on life all around me. It's so fleeting, this time that we have while the kids are little. We have no actual responsibilities, and can spend countless minutes snuggled on the couch, then dashing to the sandbox, back inside for that one special toy, and back out to play with the water hose. It's a flurry of passion and breathlessness, and it will be over before we know it.

Tim is a much better zen-master than I'll ever hope to be, which is good for the kids since they get a balance between the two of us. Tim takes them for a walk so that I can be deliriously task-happy. Tim and Joshua go to the park so that I can plan our meals for the week. The only moment that I'm great at being in (I hate to boast, but I would actually call myself an expert) is naptime. Not only because I really, really, really like to sleep, although that's a small part of it, but because I love to nap with Jonah. I can almost always get him to sleep during Joshua's naptime, by lying in bed and nursing him into oblivion. I remember it being the same with Joshua, both easier and more frequent since he was the only baby, the two of us napping together in bed, on the couch, in the papasan chair. Is there really anything more wonderful than a cuddly milk-drunk baby cradled in the hollow place of your arms, warm and squoshy and fast asleep? I think not.

So maybe there is a part of me that can embrace life with these kids as much as I embrace my trail mix and computer time. Maybe I can learn to sit outside and play without the burning desire to pull weeds or sweep the driveway. These tasks will always be around, but there is precious little time to enjoy the kids at this age. To marvel at Joshua's intellect and curiosity, and to breathe in the smell of Jonah's baby scalp. I know it gets easier, the older they both get . . . but I don't want to spend my days waiting for them to get older, all the while missing out on the here and now. Waiting for it to get easier, but forgetting to see the joy around us.

I'll keep working on it; and if I ever learn to stop and take a breath, I'll let you know.

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5/15/07 - The people in our lives

Joshua's friends have been coming over to play. I use the term "friends" lightly, since some of the neighboorhood kids are a far cry from who I imagined Joshua would bring over. Not the nice little boy from across the street, necessarily. He's such a polite little thing whose only downfall is the googly-eye glasses he has to wear. And not the small sweet lispy girl from next door, either. She can come over anytime and tell me that she likes my "houth." Namely, I guess, is the little girl from the end of the block. We'll call her "Ricky." Well, okay, that's actually her name. I figure it's okay since only 4 or 5 people read these posts anyway. What, oh what, do I do with Ricky?


She's the kid who has to be in charge, at all costs. She's the one that weasels her way into your house when you open the door, no matter how you try to block the entrance with your body. She's the one who comes over and uses words to which your sweet little boy has not yet been introduced, and is not, as a matter of fact, allowed to use. She'd eat the apples right out of your basket of fruit without asking, then leave the core lying on the living room floor. If, of course, she were even allowed into your house. Which, by the way, she is not. See the picture up there? She's the one that you have to keep reminding to pull up her pants, since you can actually see butt-crack every time she bends down.


Yikes. What a dilemna. Why, I lament, has Ricky picked our house to bestow her presence upon? Do the other parents on the block have the same problem? Regardless of whether or not they do, we have to find a way to be kind and diplomatic while still guarding our precious and naive little boy for as long as we can. And I guess in the meantime, we'll keep reminding Ricky that she's not actually allowed to sneak into our backyard without us there, and she really only has to ring the doorbell once for me to hear it, and when I say that Joshua can play in "a little while" she doesn't have to sit at the door and stare into our house until the elusive "little while" comes to be. Oh, don't worry. I'll do it all with a smile on my face and kindness in my voice, since she truly is somebody's little girl, somebody's baby, even if she is currently the thorn in my side.


Brady is the boy across the street. He's a middle child, and six years old. Why, you wonder, would he want to play with an almost-three-year-old? I ask myself the same question, and can only figure that Joshua is the only other boy on the block that will play with him. Whatever the case may be, I've often thought that he's the best first friend that Joshua could have. I mean really, who else would let you bring them your pants and underwear, insisting on help from nobody else to put them on you, even when your very own mother has offered this same service? And who else would say nothing (though obviously disgusted) when you strip off all of your clothes, pee in the grass, then come to the sandbox naked? What a great friend, I think.


Kayla is the sweet girl in the pink, with the Barbie umbrella. Friend to Joshua? Not really, but she's along for the ride, anyway. She's more a casual acquaintance right now, but might eventually turn out to be the pretty girl next door that Joshua pines over in his teen years. I've entertained the thought in a weird and somewhat miserable "my boy is growing up faster than I ever thought he would" kind of way.


The long and short of it all? Joshua now shoots the basketball from, say, 4 feet away and says "long range, man." He rides his scooter through the living room and tells me he's "just ridin' around." He runs around the driveway, shouting with glee, "my friends are here, my friends are here!" And lastly, best and worst of all, he stands in the middle of the driveway, yelling "RICKY" over and over, until she shows up to play.

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5/6/07 - The mom in me

I'm not very far into this voyage of being a parent, and I find myself constantly trying to figure out who I am in the ebb and flow of motherhood. I look around and see other moms, the ones who have it all together just a little more than I do, or maybe a little less . . . am I like them?

There's the mom sitting just down the row at church - you know the one I'm talking about. Somehow she manages to be picture perfect, with the hair flowing over her shoulders, the expensive clothing, yada yada yada. How, I wonder, does she manage to wear her hair down like that and not have it pulled and yanked by grubby little hands? I think of my own hair, pulled back as always to try and escape the inevitable weaving in and tangling of little fingers. My hair that, as a matter of fact, did not even get blow dried before church today. At least people know I shower, right? And the clothes? How can a mother of a baby less than six months old be so, so skinny? Because the clothes that this mom wears fit her so nicely, and are a far cry from my brown cotton maternity pants I'm wearing. I hate to spend money on clothes that aren't (hopefully!) going to fit me in another six months to a year, but the inevitable downside to this is that I'll be wearing maternity clothes long past the point that seems socially acceptable, to me anyway. And look at that little baby girl sleeping so soundly in the seat next to this mom. With her rosy cheeks and perfect little nose, how is she sleeping without being held? Oh how I love my fat baby Jonah, but we just can't seem to keep it together for public appearances. Somehow we're suave and debonair when we're at home, but once in the outside world we become a little bumbling and awkward. Jonah cries, so I comfort and console him only to have him emit an earth shattering belch, while the spit up cascades down my arm and back, making icky splattering noises as it hits the ground. Are people looking yet? Because then he decides it's time to poop, which is another loud event in itself. As this other little baby sleeps in her doll-like state, mine has overflowed his diaper, causing a giant stain of yellow to spread across his back - don't worry, we carry 6 to 8 extra changes of clothing with us everywhere we go. This isn't an uncommon event. I forrest-gump my way out of the pew with my backpack, bible, carseat, diaper bag and baby, and hope to make it to the nursing/changing room before anything else catastrophic can take place. The worst that will happen in the nursing room is that the other mom will come in and quietly nurse her little doll-baby, designer blanket draped easily over one shoulder, while Jonah loudly smacks, sucks, gulps and burps our way into total embarassment.

But this is our life and we do the best we can. There's the other mom, the one at the La Leche League meeting. You know that one, too. She is the one that already has four other kids, and they all wear organic clothes and eat hummus and celery for snacks. McDonald's? Perish the thought! She manages to walk around and corral her other children, all while nursing her baby in the tye-dye sling she wears. I venture into a conversation about extended breastfeeding, and though I'll never be as earthy and granola as this mom is, at least I did manage to nurse Joshua until he was a little over two years. There is a sparkle of approval in her eyes, and then the conversation goes awry. We're talking about nursing pads - my preference, Lansinoh. Her preference? Wool. Yes, you heard right, she owns a very expensive pair of wool nursing pads. It gets better, though. It turns out that it's okay that they are expensive, since you only need one pair that actually never needs washing. At this point I turn my head and vomit a little in my mouth . . . well, not quite, but I think that my eyes do glaze over as she extols the wonders of self cleaning wool, and how she only has to scrunch her nursing pads around a little and viola, they're as good as new.

So I'm not the clean and pressed sophisticate mom, and I'm also not the all natural tree hugger mom. Which leaves what? I guess it just leaves me - the jeans and t-shirt mom with spit-up all over one shoulder, failing to nurse discreetly but giving my baby what he needs nonetheless, showing up at church with damp hair and flip-flops, and fumbling my way through these awkward times. What happens next? Only time will tell. And I'll just keep trying to be me.

4/26/07 - A Family of Four

Well, we've gone and done it. We've had another baby. Sure, we knew it was coming, but who could have guessed just how much it would have rocked our world, this new snuggly little ball of fat rolls and giggles. Jonah arrived in the world around 10:00 a.m. on February 13th, and I just have to say . . . it's a good thing I had an epidural.

Stop reading now if you don't want too much information. The thing is, I didn't know that there was anything out of the ordinary about Jonah's delivery until after everything was said and done, and it's probably for the best. I mean, I guess they don't tell the laboring mother the details of how things aren't exactly as they're supposed to be, right? For starters, Jonah was face-up, not the traditional face down, and I guess that put a lot of stress on him. Poor little guy, like being born wasn't stressful enough. His cord was prolapsed. He had what they call meconium staining, which basically means that he pooped during delivery, then ingested said poop. And also, he was a very scary greyish color. Not your happy-go-lucky delivery. And about the epidural? I don't know if I could have done it without one because, although I could feel no pain, I knew the OB was pulling and prying (in the sort of way you know the dentist is pulling and prying on your teeth, even though you can't technically feel it) to speed Jonah's arrival. Yikes.

But the Lord was watching out for all of us, and now we're blessed to have such a cuddly little baby who giggles and coos and sleeps more than we ever thought possible. Really, truly, is a two month old baby supposed to sleep for eight hours at night?! If he was the first baby, I'd be waking him up to eat . . . HA! Not this time! In fact, this time all rules are out the window. The reason I mention this? Our lovely baby sleeps each and every night on his jolly little belly. Do I worry? Of course I do; I've read what the doctors and researchers say about "back to sleep." In fact, I was a huge proponent, appalled and aghast at others who put their babies to sleep on their stomachs. And now I guess the shoe is on the other foot. When Jonah sleeps on his back he gets a good 20 minutes, give or take a little, of solid sleep. Then he starts this horrible wheezing/coughing/gasping/shrieking sound that I just can't deal with, even if he is the second baby! (The reason: he does not latch well while nursing, thus swallowing tremendous amounts of air, and needing to burp numerous times over that 20 minute span, which he cannot do on his back. But that's a story for another time.) In any case, I truly do not think that we are doing the wrong thing and trust me, I've been over and over and over it in my head, in that OCD way that I have of thinking of these things.

So Jonah is nearing 2 1/2 months, and he weighs in at a whopping 14 pounds already. (At his 2 month doctor visit, so who knows- maybe he's gained another 5 or so since then.) He's wearing Joshua's hand-me-downs that Joshua wore at five and six months, and he's outgrowing them with amazing speed. Did somebody secretly shoot my breastmilk full of fat and steroids while I was sleeping my way through the first part of the delivery? How in the world did we manage to have two babies at entirely opposite ends of the spectrum? It's not fair to Jonah, really, since we expect him to be oh so much older than only 2 months. Surely he should be able to hold his head completely steady at all times . . . surely he can go to sleep all by himself . . . surely he'll be sitting soon on his own . . .

Joshua has set the bar so high that our expectations are probably unrealistic.

Especially when it comes to speaking, thinking and reasoning. Can I just say for the record that Joshua is a genius? He thinks so abstractly, and in such a wonderfully young way. I'll admit I sometimes think that if I have to pretend to be a bulldozer, forklift, or bobcat conversion - no joke - one more time, that I might officially lose it . . . but he wants so badly for these things (and more, of course) to talk with him and be his friends. On the way to Gymboree today, we passed a white dump truck.
"Hello big white dump truck, where are you going?" Joshua asks in his little sing-songy voice.
"Hi, Joshua, I'm going to the construction site to do some work," I reply in a gruff voice.
"Oh. We're driving on the freeway. Are you behind me now?" And on it goes, until we see another vehicle that Joshua would like to speak with. (His current favorite? "Only left bulldozer." Translation - the only bulldozer left at the construction site, presumably sad by being abandoned by all of the other vehicles.)

These are the conversations have every single day, countless times a day. Not that I'm complaining . . .

The funniest thing, though, is his new use of slang. How he now says "yeah" for yes, and says it oh so nonchalantly. You'd think he was a teenager. Or how he announced one day that "Daddy is Dad, and Mama is Mom, and I am Josh." Whew, I don't know if I can keep up. One boy oh so old, and another just starting to gurgle and smile and discover the world. I can only imagine the things that lie ahead.

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1/6/2007 - My not-so-little boy

I look at Joshua as we go through the day, and am suddenly and overwhelmingly filled with wonder at just how big he is. When did his little arms and legs get so long?? When did he become so articulate?? I hear other parents talk about how they'd like to stop their kids from growing anymore, and enjoy them at this age forever (whatever age they may be). And honestly, this is the first time in Joshua's 2 1/2 years that I've felt that way. I've so enjoyed watching him grow, and anticipating what comes next, that I haven't felt like I've missed out on anything, or that it's been going too fast. But now, as his stretched out little body fills the bathtub, I'm suddenly wondering where it's all gone. We've jumped from a squiggly little newborn to this real, live person. When did that happen?

I love babies. Really and truly. But it's not my favorite part. Am I supposed to say that? I mean, I think that the cuteness is wonderful, and they are precious, and spectacularly made . . . but I can do without the endless days and nights of poopy diapers and nursing, with only little breaks here and there for laying and staring and looking cute. Now that Joshua's such a kid, he's so much fun. We go everywhere without the stroller and diaper bag, which has made it so much easier to get out. And he obeys so well (okay, mostly anyway) that we don't constantly chase him and nag him about everything. What a sigh of relief I've been breathing!

Our conversations are . . . well, fun and a little clever now, too. Joshua is so spontaneously sweet, it catches me off guard sometimes. Today we were at McDonald's, and he came over and hugged my leg, patted me a little, and said in a gentle and sing-songy voice, "Don't worry, Mama, I'll keep you safe." I got a little teary (I am, don't forget, 33 weeks pregnant), and said, "Oh thank you, Joshua, I'll keep you so safe, too." Boy do I want to try to do just that.

Isn't it a hard line between nurturing and smothering? I want Joshua to be brave enough to climb in the (germ infested, but that's for another time) McDonald's tunnels without Daddy in there with him, but at the same time, it scares me to death that there are other kids running around who might -gasp- be mean to him. My heart breaks in two when he speaks so kindly and earnestly to other kids around him, who then ignore and run right past him. Or when we're talking after McDonald's, and he tells me "Those kids were not speaking nicely. That boy pinched Joshua like that," and he shows me how his cheek was pinched. My blood boils a little at that point, and I start grilling him (because maybe it was innocent, or maybe somebody really was being mean) about just how he was pinched, and did it hurt, and did the boy say sorry, and yada yada yada. We go over what he should do when these things happen, and later when I tell Tim, he wonders why I didn't tell Joshua to pinch the boy back. What a fine line, isn't it?

At least Joshua can tell us (and so well, I might add) what he's thinking and feeling, and what's happening around him. He hugs me gently and says, "You are beautiful, Mama . . . you are wonderful." He runs vibrantly into the kitchen and tells Tim as he's leaving, "I will miss you, Daddy, at work." Or on a sadder note, over the phone, "I going to cry because I miss you, Daddy." He even gets a bit feisty because, for some reason we can't understand, when we're driving in the car, Tim and I are NOT allowed to dance, sing, hum, whistle, or anything else having to do with the stereo. So he'll say, "No, Mama, stop doing that." And I have to sit still and quiet and try not to move too much while driving. Today was a new one, actually, when he told me, "No, Mama, no tapping your finger like that," when I was tapping on the steering wheel to the music. What a feisty, finicky, loving, sweet, boisterous, big boy we have on our hands here.
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