7/27/09 - Warning . . . the following blog post contains mostly potty talk.

Did I mention we'd started potty-training Jonah? It seems like I'd written just a little something about that . . . I think I might have blocked most of the process from my memory. The thing is? He almost seems to be getting the hang of it now!

Although . . . every time I take him to the bathroom I am required to call the pee by a different name. If I say potty, he says No, it's pee. If I say pee, he says No, it's pee pee. Never in my life have I uttered the words pee pee; even writing it seems to violate something deep inside me, and I don't intend to start now. Except that I do. I mean let's be honest, I'll say whatever he wants me to if he'll just do it.

So tonight he ran into the room yelling, My potty has to go pee pee! I jumped up too and ran him to the toilet where he did not want to stand on the stool and he did not want me to lift him up because he wanted to do it all by himself. It's only a problem because the toilet is somewhat high. And Jonah is somewhat short, still. Do you see where this is going? Don't worry, though, because as stubborn and fierce as Jonah is, he's also a smart little guy. So he stood on his very tip-tippy toes and sort of . . . propped . . .himself onto the edge of the toilet. Note to self . . . clean toilet better from now on. Because it has either 1) had little boy testicles propped all around the rim, or 2) the little boy testicles propped on the rim will end up in somebody else's pee. My stomach churns and I vow never again to let Jonah use a public bathroom.

Our house is full of do-it-yourselfers these days, it seems. Joshua took his very own shower tonight, and even washed his own hair. I watched his tiny yet big lanky body under the water, noted the fading tatoos on arm and belly, his eyes shut while the water poured over his face, and I was so fantastically proud of him. It did not occur to me even once to be nostalgic for his fleeting childhood. Which is so unlike me. I hope that I will not know that the last bath I ever give Joshua is the last one. It shouldn't be something that is so final, so permanently cancelled. I'd like to be sitting around one day watching the boys play in the sandbox and have it suddenly occur to me that, hmm, I don't remember the last time I gave Joshua a bath. And then I can have my melancholy moment, perhaps. Or perhaps not, because as I send him off to the shower I will be rejoicing in the freedom that comes only when your child can bathe himself.

I am talking about the baths . . . and secretly, I realize that I'm also talking about how it was with nursing the boys. Had I written anything about Jonah being done nursing? Egad, you gasp? Well I should hope so, you exclaim? I'm not here to make excuses; I nursed the boys until we were both ready to be done, both times. And both times they were a little over two years. I never shed tears thinking, This will be the last time he ever nurses . . . I never had to deal with the painful engorgement and the to-pump-or-not-to-pump dilemna. I found a full box of nursing pads this evening when I was cleaning out the nightstand drawer and I'll admit that I did sigh wistfully. I'm entitled, no? I will never use another nursing pad, never cradle another nursing infant. I will never take another hot shower in hopes of warding off an onslaught of mastitis, and when I hear a baby cry from another aisle in the store I will never have to panic and wonder if I'd remembered those pads that day. That was a different time . . . a wonderful time . . . and now we've moved on to different things.

--

Carbon Copy

It's been so long since I blogged, I'm almost afraid I've forgotten how. I get so caught up in the everyday tasks of life that I forget how much I need to remember.

Jonah is a walking talking social butterfly of a boy who is so fierce it makes me want to scream and hug him at the same time. We'd thought vaguely about potty training him . . . I'd like to get it done before school starts again. When I walked in to his room the smell of poop hit me in the face and before I said a word he told me, "I don't need a diaper change!" Oh my little guilty and stubborn child! I reminded him that his bottom would get burned if he didn't get a diaper change soon, to which he replied, "I want to sit in the poop. I want my bottom to get burned." What do you say? What do I say when he tells me that he's not a big boy, Joshua is the big boy. Jonah is a baby. When he really is still my baby? Only babies don't wear underwear, only big boys wear underwear. I tried that, it didn't work.

Joshua seems to be . . . well, status quo might be the right word for it. I know that he's growing since his clothes fit differently and he takes up the whole bathtub now, but his classmates and friends are all so much bigger than he is that I wonder why he hasn't grown in the last few years. When the other kids are running outside and playing tag, or climbing onto the top of the fort, why is Joshua alone in the living room reading a book? Why can't he be more like . . . well, more like me? I want so badly for him to fit in, to be the cool kid, to have the answers when the teacher asks . . . and I can't do any of it for him. And I can't stand around and coach him as to what to say or do, because it's something he has to figure it out on his own. I just never imagined that he'd come up with different answers than me. I never imagined that he'd end up being his very own little person. So I hug him tightly and whisper in his ear how wonderful and how special he is. He seems to already know this, which is good.

I've enrolled Joshua in swimming lessons this summer. It's his first summer for them . . . he'll be five. What kind of swim coach am I that my son is almost 5 years old and can't swim, right? I'm hoping for him to not be scared, to not cry, and to be the best and bravest in the class. At the same time, I don't want to set him up for failure and make my expectations so high he'll never reach them. Will my desires show? My frustrations? I hope not . . . I'm working on it. Letting him be himself and not my carbon copy.

Jonah might well be my carbon copy in some ways. I'm coming to realize that it's not all it's cracked up to be, since he's so fiercly independent and stubborn. I'm reluctantly admitting that he gets it from me. If I open his cheese stick, he has to put it back and pretend to do it himself. If I lift him out of the car he has to climb back in just to get out on his own. If Tim buckles his carseat but he wanted mama to do it . . . watch out world. If the birds fly too close to the backyard he runs out yelling his reprimands. And then after all of it he turns his chubby cheeks toward me, looks into my eyes and wraps his arms around my neck and it's all worth it. Every impossible minute.

--

It's time for the boys to go to bed, and we go through our nightly ritual . . . we read, we pray, we sing. They get into pajamas - Joshua all by himself, and Jonah by the sheer force of my will, as I wrangle his leg into the first hole. His other leg gets stuck halfway through and we're falling over because he can't stop laughing and fighting and laughing about the pajamas, and I'm laughing too, but realizing that I am so done with the nightly pajama wrestle.

And then they're both in bed with the lights turned out, Joshua lying obediently and silently on the top bunk, waiting for sleep. But Jonah just can't let go. He has such a hard time staying in bed, going to sleep. So I kneel beside him and he reaches his little hand out and grasps my neck. Mama here, he whispers, and I confirm Yes baby, mama is here. His breath is warm and thick, and he whispers again, Shhhh, sleep. His little hand softly caresses my cheek, and I want to stay there all night. To curl up with him under his quilt and nestle my face into his soft damp hair that still smells like shampoo and evening air.

I think about Joshua up there on the top bunk, all alone. I want to grab him from his solitude and take both him and Jonah into one bed where we would lie with our legs tangled together, with warm kid breath on my neck and arms thrown across me, and sleep there forever. And I think, this is life.

Except then reality knocks softly on the door and reminds me how much I hate it when their too-sharp toenails gouge my calves, and how I would actually lay there not being able to move, yet wishing that I could just move one inch to one side or the other. Reality bangs on the door and I'm trapped in a web of arms and legs and hot sticky breath and please can I just have a breath of fresh air? Reality kicks the door in as I realize the urgency with which I now have to go to the bathroom, yet if I move my little toe then both boys will be awake for an hour.

So I whisper in Jonah's ear Night, night, baby. Mama loves you. And I retreat to the stillness of the house where I plop contentedly onto the couch with a bowl of artichoke hearts to watch Ugly Betty. I think, this is life.

The mom I want to be.

It's fall now, in that strange not-winter, but not-summer sort of way that fall has. We bundle the kids up to take them out in the mornings, their noses red and cheeks bright from the biting wind. And we find ourselves shedding layer after layer in the warm afternoon sun, basking in the warmth of the rays on our bare arms. It's the time of year to start drinking cider and baking bread, the time of year to stand on the heater vents in fuzzy socks and flannel pajamas. It's the time of year that brings peace and rest, quiet in the warmth of dark rooms with fireplaces crackling.

And yet the peacefulness that I'm waiting for so expectantly continues to escape me. Our days are crazy and our nights are late, there is no rest and no quiet. There are screaming kids fighting over noisy toys, there are corn dogs for dinner instead of steaming bowls of homemade soup. Instead of cozy nights blanketed with fleece and curled on the couch reading Horton Hatches the Egg, we spend our nights in a busy frenzy filled with arguing and scolding, crying and sharp words. And when the kids are asleep and the house is at rest, there is too much to do and not enough time.

This is maybe the way these years are, I guess. For us, anyway. These clingy, tear soaked years of angst and sadness, of frustration at having to share the toys, share the attention, share the love. These are the years of corn dogs and peanut butter sandwiches, of noise and sleeplessness. And I realize I am not the mom I want to be.


I love these boys more each day, more than I ever thought possible, yet my expectations cloud the picture. I long to spend cold winter evenings listenting to Dean Martin and stringing popcorn for the Chistmas tree, the smell of cinammon surrounding us. And instead I am a referee, a judge and jury to determine the just punishment for throwing a toy train at somebody's head. I corral boys in for dinner, in for a bath, in for story and bed, and it's all such a struggle somehow. By the time I have wrestled both kids into pajamas, I am exhausted and snippy, just hoping that Joshua will pick a short book so that I can check my email and get on with the night. I am not the mom I want to be.


And these days, these corn dog days, will end at some point, probably without my even realizing it. We'll be sitting around the fireplace one cold winter evening and I will wonder where my babies went, and maybe I won't remember that I wasn't the mom I wanted to be.

9/27/08 - Word Up

What, your kids don't swim naked in the rain? And they don't insist through blue lips and chattering teeth that no, they aren't cold, and no they don't want to come in yet? Yeah, neither do ours . . .


It's official now that Joshua is going to be WordGirl for Halloween. Have you heard of WordGirl? No? It's a new show on PBS where WordGirl is kind of a superhero who flies through the air and defeats bad guys - like the Chuck the Sandwich Making Guy and other villians of equally malicious character.

I've always thought that I am a fairly easygoing (you know, in my neurotic worrying kind of way) parent. I mean, I was totally okay with Joshua's Dora the Explorer stage. Tim was the one trying to talk him out of the pink Dora scooter at Target. We came home with a Diego scooter. I don't think that Joshua will be destined to a life of femininity, or decide to wear hairbows or pink tights . . . Although he really used to like when I pretended to put makeup on him while I was doing my own, but that's a story for another time.

And so I've started gathering items needed to make the best WordGirl costume Joshua could possibly have. And at the same time? I'm thinking of ways to make it as un-girly as possible. Is that a sort of salmony pink color that WordGirl wears? Well, maybe Joshua would like it better if his was actually red. And yellow. With some, say, windpants in lieu of tights?

But I am totally okay with this. Really :-) By the time Halloween comes around I won't even have to wink at you in my oh, kids will be kids sort of way when you ask what he is and I tell you. Tim, on the other hand . . .

Of course, Joshua will need a trusty sidekick, will he not? And so Jonah's fate this year is to be Captain HuggyFace, faithful companion of WordGirl. He has no opinion on it, really, except that he would really rather not wear anything like the lion or monkey costume that we already have. In fact he might freak out if somebody simply wanted to test the costumes to see if they even fit him, howling in anguish at the torture he's being put through. I mean, he might. I'm just saying.

--

9/1/08 - A Joyful Time

"It's such a joyful time, isn't it?"

Those were Tim's exact words to me over the phone this evening, listening to me recount the ups and downs of our evening. Have you ever had one of those days where everything is just a little off-kilter? Mealtime doesn't happen at quite the right time, naps are skewed . . . Joshua doesn't take one most days, and Jonah is in that strange land of inbetween. He no longer needs two naps, but one just doesn't quite cut it. Where is the middle ground in that situation? We're not sure yet.

So our day was off-kilter. Jonah's one and only nap started when he fell asleep in the car around 11:30 this morning, and he woke about an hour after that. We ended up not eating lunch until almost 1:00, and both boys were ready for dinner by 4:30. I felt a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, where everything is somewhat peculiar, and doesn't quite make sense like you'd like for it to. We had biscuits for dinner, which we never do, but the boys like them so much . . . with the butter dripping down their arms, and the strawberry jelly oozing out, plopping down onto the table, and their clothes, and the floor. Jonah looked at me and asked, "Own-ee?" because he really wanted honey for his biscuits. It's so hard to tell him no to anything, but we're on honey rationing for the next week or so (in order to be able to take peanut butter and honey sandwiches to school).

Come to think of it, our conversations are a little Alice in Wonderland-ish lately too.

"Reech, reech, wat-ee, wash," (Wat-ee, of course is water. What, you didn't get that?)

"He wants to wash his hands, mama! Don't call me Joshua, I'm WORDGIRL."

"Tim, does Jonah need his hands washed? Yes, wordgirl, I hear you, and no you may not have your lightsaber back right now."

"But mama, I'm WORDGIRL and I need my light-saver to kill the bad guys. Mama, mama, mama, you be the Riddler and I'll be Spiderman!"

Jonah points the lightsaber at me, "P-shoo."

My head spins from the sheer amount of words being said at any given time in one room. Many of Jonah's words, of course, are still unintelligible. Which makes him try that much harder to be understood. Many end in "ee" . . . there's "op-ee" for open, of course the "wat-ee" that I've already mentioned. "Do-ee" is door. Are you sensing a pattern? Don't get too comfortable, because just as you think you've got it down he'll ask for Di-buh.

Play-do.

And yes, the kids are going to school. Two days a week. It's called First Learning, and it's the preschool at our church. I have definite mixed feelings about this . . . on one hand it's so good for both of them to be stretched, and challenged in so many ways. Socially, emotionally and intellectually they are really having to adapt and conform at so many levels. The hardest part for me is that I don't get to know everything that goes on throughout the day. Every sparkle of their eyes is there for somebody else to see. Every laugh or new thought. Sadness at not being included, fright at something new and unknown. I worry, as is my way, that the wonder of my children is going unseen because of the busy-ness of the day. Does Jonah laugh for his teachers like he laughs for me? And if he does, do they really see him? Do Joshua's eyes twinkle at an idea he's just had there at school? Will he be able to explore his ideas, and stretch his imaginiation to new lengths, or will he be squashed because it's not time for imagining, instead he has to stand in line to go to the bathroom?

And yet I do get to be there a little. I'm also teaching this year, in the "Kid Fit" position. It's like gym class for 3 year olds . . . so I get to have Joshua in my class for 20 minutes. I have to physically restrain myself from holding his face in my hands and looking into his eyes, searching him to see what's been going on that I've been missing. From kissing his head and holding him tight. Because, you know, he's around his friends, and that just wouldn't do.

But I don't think I'm ready yet to give my kids to somebody else. Somebody who would miss the gleaming smiles, or the mischevious side-glances. Somebody who won't know that Jonah is asking for a drink when he says, "Ngk, ngk, ngk." Somebody who has more kids in class than time in the day, and won't let Joshua be WordGirl. Yes, this First Learning experience is good for us all, and someday I will have to let go. But not quite yet, okay? Because these really are joyful times.

Winning and . . . yikes . . . losing.

At this time last year we had a two year old and a four month old and I could not imagine what the light at the end of the tunnel might look like. I know I've said it before, but the baby part of raising kids is not my favorite part, and I'm not actually that good at it. I stumble through my days in a sleep-deprived stupor and barely manage to shower and get dressed most of the time. Makeup is out of the question, as is doing anything with my hair. Which is why I've spent the last year or so with it in a ponytail every day.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still not great at the everyday things. You know, like cleaning the house. Doing the dishes. Scrubbing the toilets. In fact, if you were to come to my house on any given day you would find 1) a large number of dishes in the sink - s0 much so that they may have spilled over onto the countertops. Which leads to 2) a foul and mysterious odor coming from either the sink, or from the trash that Tim hasn't yet emptied, and 3) a toilet that you use, but kindly don't mention how badly it needs to be scrubbed. And later I lift the lid and see what you must have seen when you were in here earlier, and am flooded with embarassment. Yet surely my husband is not the only one who leaves streaks in the toilet?

When we're invited to friends' homes for playdates, I am always amazed by how clean and generally uncluttered their lives seem to be, especially in regard to the kitchen. As I wade through the clutter in our own kitchen, yelling "Joshua if I step on this speed-racer one more time, it is going in the trash, and I mean it!" I wonder how in the world these other moms manage to keep their homes so spotless, and fix meals, and play with the kids . . . it eludes me. I'd rather lay on the living room floor with both boys blowing raspberries on my belly, than sweep the fallen food from beneath the table. I'd much rather watch the birds with Jonah, or watch Joshua color, than do the laundry. How is there enough time in one day for all of these things?

Although before I get ahead of myself, I do have to mention that we've actually been cleaning up the toys before bed lately. It happens in the form of a race, usually . . . it's how I manipulate . . . uh, motivate . . . Joshua into action. You see, I have to be the announcer ("Mama, can you be the announcer, and is Chick Hicks catching up to me?") who makes the whole thing a car race. And, of course, Chick Hicks (of Cars fame) is always just one step behind him. Like this:

"And here comes Joshua, around the bend, but oh no, does he see the books that need to be put away? No ladies and gentlemen, I think that Chick Hicks might get those books put away first. Oh, who will win the race?" At which point Joshua, of course, races over and puts the books away while I gush announcer-like at how fast and good he is. And yes, if you were wondering, it does get a little tedious night after night and room after room. It's so worth it after they're in bed, though, walking through a living room that's toy free.

Winning is a big thing, lately, for Joshua. When Tim and I have taken separate cars somewhere, Joshua turns it into a big race each time. He pushes past Jonah so that he can enter a room first, and he often races on his little "yellow car" with the next door neighbor. It's actually a point of contention for both of us, since the neighbor girl is 7 and Joshua's just nearing 4 (but is still the size of a small 3 year old). You see, somewhere along the way, kids learn to cheat. They learn to cut corners to get ahead. So as I'm watching Joshua and Kayla race down the sidewalk, I see that Joshua's actually pretty fast at that part. Then Kayla jumps up early and turns around pushing her car back up the sidewalk. "I won, again" is the usual pronouncement. The thing is? It's so hard on him to lose every time. And the other thing? It's so hard on me for him to lose every time. So I'm working on keeping my mouth shut, and it's difficult to surpress the Well, Kayla is so fast in the 7 year old girls' division, and Joshua wins the 3 year old boys' division! type comments. And I'm trying not to moderate their races (did you ever notice that the onyourmarkgetsetgo person always starts ahead of everybody else?) by setting up touch-points, or lanes, or whatever else. And when Joshua comes over crying, and asking "Why does Kayla want to win every time?" I do my best to soothe him and send him back to the race, as noncommital yet encouraging as possible.

And I thought this parenting thing was supposed to get easier.

Jonah might end up being the large and physical one of the two, you know, since he climbs every possible surface he can wrap his little hands around. "Up, up, up . . . up dere." He's been climbing since before he walked. What a surprise it was to look over and see him on top of the kitchen table. At the top of the bunk bed ladder. On the upper level of the backyard playfort. We've had more than our share of scares with Jonah, and I can't imagine what is yet to come. What happens when he gets really brave? We've never been in that territory before; we're entirely familiar with the quiet carefulness of Joshua. But this exuberance for walking and climbing, and this general feistiness, is something new.

And the yelling. The yelling is new, also. Anytime I leave the room, he's yelling with everything in him "MAAAMAAA!" He and Joshua have yelling wars at the dinner table that they think are the most hilarious thing in their lives. It's all gibberish, and I guess it's actually a little funny . . . they just yell gibberish back and forth, with a little giggling mixed in. I guess by not stopping it, I might be encouraging it? But honestly, I think, whatever keeps them entertained is worth it. I think that until we're in a restaurant, that is. Jonah has no internal censor . . . he's only 16 months . . . what else should I expect? But I've grown complacent with my nice and neat, peaceful and quiet eldest child so I hardly know what to do with the food throwing, spoon banging, banshee child seated next to me. Just when we think we have things under control these little ones surprise us with something new to handle, something different to deal with. It's exciting and fun, but sometimes I'd just like a little lull in the roller coaster ride of raising them. Just to catch my breath before the next thing comes along.

--

3/13/08 - A Hand to Hold

We're in the parking lot and I instinctively reach back. A little hand fills mine, and all is right with the world. We're at the store and I reach back again. Once again my empty hand is filled by a much smaller one, and we're on our way. It's ordinary, everyday life for us, this hand-in-hand journey through the aisles of Walmart, through the library parking lot, through the crowded mall.

Joshua's hand has always fit into mine so snugly, so well. In the beginning, it was his whole hand wrapped around my first finger. Then the rest of my hand wrapped around his. Lately it's changed a little, and he puts his whole little hand right into mine. He doesn't notice, but it feels so different to me. My little boy is getting bigger.

Jonah used to need two hands to hold on to, in his voyage of non-walking. (Remember, he's only 13 months, and Tim and I don't produce children who will walk before, say, 16 months . . . please, oh please, let him be walking by the time he gets to kindergarden!) Standing behind him, he'd grasp an index finger in each chubby hand, and hold on like there was no tomorrow. Let go of him? Unheard of! Just the idea of not walking around the house with him for hours . . . hunched over in lower-back agony . . . pleading for a significant other to please, just come walk him, would produce wails from the pit of his being. Now he's a great little creeper, and can manage just fine, thank you, with only one index finger to cling to.

I like the hand-holding. I like the security of knowing exactly where Joshua is, wherever we are. Okay, I also like the control of being able to pull him away from the decorative glass orbs placed dangerously on the floor at Kirkland's. That's an added benefit. I like helping Jonah along on his path to independence.

And then the other day I reached back expectantly, knowing that the warmth of a three year old hand would instantly fill mine, and the comfort and the ritual would continue. I waited for the hand to slip seamlessly into mine . . . and I waited some more . . . and no hand ever came. Maybe Joshua was too far away and had yet to catch up, but was hurrying toward my outstretched hand? Maybe he'd stopped to poke at something interesting, a flower, or some dirt, or some really gross old gum dried on the ground? And it was none of these, because the truth of it was that he was walking right along next to me, and when he saw my hand reach for his, he decided not to hold it that day. My hand dropped to my side, feeling as empty as my heart. Truly, life does move on.

--

2/4/08 - Whirlwind

I'm going back and forth lately between feelings that either 1) our children are wonderful and I am intensely smitten with them, to 2) thinking that they must be children from another planet, sent to fray my last nerve and turn all my hair gray. Are your lives like this? Do you have saintly, sweet and courageous little ones that you swoon over and love so much that you want to find a way to hug them right into yourself, because that's the only way to keep your heart from exploding? And then do you turn around to find them pushing, or screaming, or being so rottenly rotten that you just can't stand it? I'm hoping it's not just us, but that's what our lives seem to be lately. I'm thinking that it's the good times that help to carry us through the bad ones, but oh how I long for more of the good ones.

My thoughts lately are that it's a little unfair that Jonah has the advantage of being the second born child. We're ever so much more laid back (except that Tim really isn't more laid back, so I guess it's just me), and Jonah has all the giddyness and giggliness of a secondborn, and such a carefree way about life. "What, my brother just pushed me over and took away all my toys? Ha, ha, ha, ha!" "What, my brother is climbing on top of me and I'll have bruises on my back later where his fingers have dug in? Chuckle, chuckle." And all the while I'm scolding and punishing Joshua, I'm grinning dumbly and making silly faces at Jonah, so that he won't think he's the one being scolded.

And I also think (in my neurotic overanalyzing way) that it's a little unfair that Joshua had the advantage of being the firstborn child. He had years of special one-on-one time, reading books, getting homemade baby food and not watching TV. Ever. And I think I can count on one hand the number of books I've read to poor Jonah, as well as giving him the benefit of watching Sesame Street and Curious George daily.

In my obsessive way I know that I've all but ruined both of our kids because of the things that I either have or haven't done. Except.

Except that Joshua truly loves his brother, and during the times he's not yelling, pushing or hitting, he's hugging and laughing with Jonah. "Yes, Jonah, I see that elephant," he says animatedly and repeatedly about the stuffed animal Jonah is showing him. His eyes glitter that he can make his brother laugh so heartily.

Except that Jonah loves life so fully, and so exuberantly. The scarcity of homemade babyfood hasn't seemed to quell his apetite, so chunky and pudgy is he. He's my butterball of joy whose favorite time of the whole day is bathtime.

Aren't things funnier in retrospect? Can you believe that I didn't think it was funny that Jonah was leaning over the edge of the tub as I washed Joshua's hair? That he actually leaned so far that he fell into the tub headfirst, clothes and all? I know, it's hilarious, right? As I tried to peel the clothes off his squirmy, choking self, I realized that I'd gone too far by ripping off the diaper as well. Since there was actually poop in the diaper, I probably should have gone about the whole thing a little more carefully, especially since the poop flew out of the diaper and into the tub. Thankfully Joshua was there to help, crying out passionately, "I'll get it, mama, I'll get it!!" But you know how things are when you're trying to fish them out of the tub . . . they just don't want to be caught.

I guess I need to learn to laugh more about things as they're happening, and not so much after the fact. So the drink gets spilled over the entire table and floor . . . twice . . . at church. So the diaper blows out when we're not around and the nursery workers get stuck with the job. It's just life, happening. And every moment of it is precious and fleeting, and these kids of mine are in the whirlwind of it. I'm going to jump into the whirlwind with them, and hang on for dear life, so that I don't squelch it for them . . . or me.

--

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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