Category: Kids, kids, kids

. . . and I’m not talking about baby goats.

Yellow Roses

My husband brought me two dozen yellow roses yesterday.

At 5:30 p.m., he took our three sons to a movie. My baby went to sleep at 7 p.m., so I’ve been alone in my quiet house so long that I have started to worry that my menfolk have been in a devastating car accident somewhere and that the seatbelts failed and somehow, my boys were ejected from the car and are now in a ditch somewhere.

Okay, not really. But it has been weirdly quiet here. I have two television set on “American Idol” and I kept switching rooms as I wander about cleaning and putting stuff away.

My throat hurts still from this cold. Now I feel a little bit bad that I wasn’t more sympathetic to TwinBoyB last week when he had this cold. I am a terrible nurturer sometimes.

Anyway. My husband either senses when I’m close to the edge or he reads my journal. I’m not sure which. At any rate, he’s a good husband and a good person and he makes me laugh out loud almost every day.

Last night, when I got home from a movie (“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”), he was sprawled on the bed upstairs with the thick book about dogs that we bought when we first married. We used to go through all the breeds, imagining which dog would be perfect for our family. Three and a half years ago, we bought Greta, a Newfoundland. After two years, we had to return her to the breeder when she nipped two of the children. They still have scars. I wrote about this a long time ago, so I won’t go on and on about it.

The fact is, last September, just after Babygirl turned one, I drove Greta two hours north to the breeder’s home under cover of darkness and returned home to my broken-hearted boys and Greta’s empty crate. My husband said, “That’s it. No more dogs.” He told me he never wanted her to start with, that it was my idea, that it was a bad idea. Well, it was a good idea, but the timing was off because two months after Greta arrived, I became pregnant.

YoungestBoy still misses Greta. When I’d mention that YoungestBoy had cried about Greta, my husband would say, “No more pets.” But last night, he happened to be the one to hear YoungestBoy’s cries. When he put YoungestBoy to bed, he put Big Dog on the bed (a huge stuffed animal) and Little Dog (a small stuffed animal). YoungestBoy burst into tears and cried for five solid minutes. Those five minutes prompted my husband to begin researching dog breeds so his boy can have another dog.

That sums up my husband. He is soft-hearted and generous and kind. He is the calmest, gentlest person alive.

But YoungestBoy hasn’t mentioned Greta today, so we will move forward without a dog. For now.

Here is the last picture I took of Greta, as she was celebrating Babygirl’s birthday with us:

Life with Terrorists

I’m living with a terrorist. She doesn’t speak much English. She demands sole rights to all the territory. She stinkbombs the house. From the beginning, she insisted upon full attention. Despite her limited English vocabulary, she makes her desires clear through screams and occasional physical demonstrations. She’s been known to grab hair and shove.

They say you should never negotiate with terrorists. And I don’t. I meet her demands. And when I can’t, I just live with the consequences–tantrums and a brain drilled through with incessant noise.

I’ve figured it out. I have been living in this occupied territory for over ten and a half years now. I will not be free of this terrorist presence until the year 2006. We have negotiated a peace agreement which will take effect then. It’s called “Kindergarten.”

Until then, the occasional cease-fire will have to do.

World’s Worst Mother

I am the World’s Worst Mother.

Today was my day “off” from watching my daycare baby. I mentioned by phone to my husband that I needed to go to Home Depot to buy some clog remover for the shower drain at some point. Since we have one reliable vehicle, I wondered if he would be staying in his office today or if he needed the car. He called me back later and offered to come home from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. and stay with YoungestBoy so I could run my errand. I said, “Great!”

At 10:45 a.m., he returns home and at 11 a.m. on the dot, I was in the car with baby Babygirl, heading for Lowe’s. I wandered up and down the aisles, looking at hardware and furniture and shelving units and boards and doorknobs and cabinets. I found exactly what I needed and after wandering some more past doors and plastic pipes and sand, I paid and came home. I did not need the full two hours and was home by noon, so off my husband went, back to work.

YoungestBoy leaves for kindergarten between 12:25 p.m. and 12:35 p.m., depending on when the neighbor arrives to pick him up. At 12:25 p.m., without my prompting, he appeared with his jacket and backpack on. Then he stood in the living room, peering out the window, waiting for his ride.

Babygirl was watching television and I was sitting at the computer, waiting for YoungestBoy to leave so I could put the baby to bed for her nap.

At 12:30 p.m., YoungestBoy says, “Will she be here any minute?” And I said, “Yes.”

At 12:37 p.m., YoungestBoy comes into the family room and says, “I don’t think she’s coming.” I swivel and look at the clock. Twelve thirty-seven? Oh no!

At that moment, I remember that Beth, the neighbor, had mentioned yesterday that she would not be able to pick up YoungestBoy, but she would bring him home from school. I said, “Oh, you’re right! She’s not coming! We’re going to have to walk!” School starts for afternoon kindergarteners at 12:40 p.m. He would be late, but not much. No big deal.

I grabbed Babygirl (who was not even wearing shoes) and my jacket and a set of keys and off we went. The school is a five or ten minute walk from our house. The sun shone and I was thankful that it wasn’t raining. As we left our driveway, YoungestBoy said, “I sure would be sad if I died today.”

I said, “I would, too. I’d be sad forever.” Then we had one of our usual discussions about death and he said he would be glad he’d be with our deceased cat, Millie, again. And then he said I wouldn’t be sad anymore when I got to heaven because then we’d be together again. Then he chattered on and on about the two little white terriers who live in our neighborhood and how he misses our big dog, Greta, who was sent away after she bit him last September and on and on.

We came down the hill through the woods and wound along the chainlink fence until we reached the teacher’s parking lot in the back of the school. They keep the back door locked, so we had to walk around the school to get into the office. When I signed him in, it was 12:48 p.m. Eight minutes late.

I walked him to his classroom and we went in. The children were gathering on the carpet for the morning circle routine. Three excited boys rushed towards YoungestBoy and said, “You were going to be the Helper today!” And his face lit up. “I am?” And they said, “No, you were, but you were late, so Lauren’s the Helper.”

They were gleeful, thrilled to deliver this bad news.

Being the “Helper” in kindergarten is the biggest honor and the best possible day you can have as a kindergartener. The Helper gets to help the teacher, be first in line, pass out papers, and best of all, have a “Daily News” written about him or her. The “Daily News” is a piece of butcher paper that records the weather, the letter of the day and a sentence about the honored Helper. There is nothing bigger than being the Helper in kindergarten–with the possible exception of being the Birthday Boy or Girl. Being the Helper is like winning the Lotto. Big. Exciting. Random.

I handed the aide his tardy slip and she asked for his red folder, so he retrieved that. His face was flushed and I knew he was using all the self-control he had. I whispered, “Hey, are you okay?” and he fell apart. His whole chubby little red-cheeked face contorted in grief. He said, “I–w-a-n-t (sob) t-o (sob) g-o (sob) h-o-m-e.” Great shuddering intake of breath. I said, “Let’s go outside for a second.”

So, in the hallway, I hugged him and he said he needed to get out of there. We walked down the corridor and he stepped into the brisk air and walked in a circle. Then I said, “Okay, are you ready to go back in?” He said, “Yes.” He wiped his eyes and composed himself.

Back we went. He clenched his mouth and marched towards the carpet where the kids were talking about the weather. He almost reached them and then he turned back and ran toward me. “I can’t do it!” he cried.

I said, “That’s okay. Come on.” We went back in the hallway and he insisted he just couldn’t stay. I said, “Are you sure you want to miss a whole day of kindergarten?” He loves kindergarten. He adores school. He thinks recess is great. “Yes.”

I went back inside to grab his coat. When I came back out, he had a hand in his pocket and he was fingering his six quarters. Fridays are popcorn day. Twenty-five cents a bag. “Can I still get my popcorn?” he said. I told him I couldn’t interrupt the teacher. I thought maybe we’d find them selling popcorn in the multi-purpose room, but we did not.

He’s still sobbing as we walk down the corridor towards the office. The principal says hello to me and I tell her what’s happening. I ask if it’s possible that we get some popcorn. She says, “of course” and makes a phone call. He says, “This is the worstest day of my life!” We wait for the popcorn, then leave the building.

I tell him I’m so sorry. He says with reproach and sorrow, “Why didn’t you remember that Beth wasn’t coming?” I said, “I don’t know. Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

He says, “No.”

I say, “Your dad is going to be so disappointed in me.” He would never make his beloved boy late for kindergarten. Being late is a mortal sin in his book (if he had a book and if sins were classified in it).

As we cross the parking lot and head for the chainlink fence and trudge back up the hill and through the woods, I say, “This is all my fault. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

He is wailing and crying and red-faced. “No.”

Then he stops. “Well, there is one thing. If I could have a Crunch bar when I get home, that would make me feel a little better.”

I say, “Well, that I can do.”

He resumes crying.

I have caused my almost-six year old precious child to have the “worstest” day of his life. What kind of mother am I?

When we returned home, he ate his popcorn and Crunch bar while I put the baby to sleep. (She even napped in her crib. Hooray.) When I came downstairs, I said, “Do you want to play a game or something?” He said, “Yes. I want to play Shipmates.”

So, we played Battleship. He won, even though we didn’t finish. Fortunately, he finished crying.

Then we played Uncle Wiggly. I made sure he won, without letting on that I was reverse-cheating. In fact, he won twice.

Eventually, he even forgave me.

I talked to his teacher on the telephone and she was sympathetic and kind. She promised that he can be the helper on Monday. I love her now. (She’s brand new. YoungestBoy’s original teacher is on maternity leave and until today, I’d never even seen his new teacher.)

In the backyard, YoungestBoy practiced riding his bike without training wheels for the first time. The trauma of the morning seemed forgotten.

I tell myself that if this is the worst day he’ll ever face, he’s a lucky boy, indeed.

However, I could still slap myself for being such an idiot. As my husband would say (if he was insane enough to comment on this issue), I should write these things down! My memory is not what it used to be! Make a note! (He’s learned to just not comment, though. Even though he doesn’t comment, I know what he’s thinking, though, which is kind of funny, when you think about it. He knows me well enough not to comment, but I know him well enough to know that he is commenting silently inside his head. Six of one, half dozen of the other.)

Tomorrow will be better. For one thing, there is no school.

My Cute Little Baby Face

Babygirl is boycotting nap-time. Instead, she’s putting a red and white checked hat onto her head, then flipping it onto the floor and laughing maniacally. She’s watching Teletubbies do some kind of scary dance and occasionally she falls down, too. I just took her picture with the red hat over her face and the flash distracted her, so she dropped the hat and ran across the room with great glee. Now, how can a child who would not nap today be so cheerful?

The boys will be home from school and alas, I have turned into Old Mother Hubbard and my cupboard is bare. I need to go to the grocery store. My husband has had meetings at night for so many days in a row. I will have to go tonight. I’m going to make Hamburger Helper tonight. How pathetic is that? I won’t eat it, of course, but my kids like it. And it cost a dollar on sale.

Today is the 100th day of school. YoungestBoy took one hundred Pokemon cards to school. His homework was to draw what he would buy with one hundred dollars. He didn’t even consider spending his fictional one hundred dollars on anything but 25 packs of Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I hate Yu-Gi-Oh cards so much, not only because they are addicting to small boys, but also because I despise Japanese Anime’..

My family room, the central room in our house, is in complete disarray. My computer desk has accumulated papers and magazines and a newspaper from last week, in addition to a small pile of used tissues. DaycareKid has a runny nose, again. There are scattered Cheerios on the floor, the toybox has been emptied and there is a precariously stacked pile of folded laundry on the back of the couch. The wall still needs to be repainted red. The dry clothes need to be folded and the wet clothes need to be put in the dryer and the dirty clothes need to be washed.

And here I sit because all these tasks never disappear. They reappear just like those horrible birthday candles that you can’t blow out. I often tell my husband it’s like pushing a boulder up a hill, just like that Greek guy I can never remember. (Remind me to take a course on Greek Mythology in my next life.) Click here if your knowledge of Greek mythology is as deficient as mine..

Okay. Time to speed clean. 1 – 2 – 3 – GO!

Nap time

I am so depressed. My baby stopped napping for four months, starting here: October 15. That was the day she stopped napping. Her naplessness lasted for four months, give or take.

Then, almost two weeks ago, a miracle occurred and she asked to be put in her crib. Then she went to sleep. That continued until yesterday when she popped back up when I put her to bed. She screamed for half an hour until I picked her up. Last night, she went to sleep at 6:20 p.m.

Today, same thing happened. She fell asleep, I laid her down, then she popped up, screaming. I let her cry for thirty minutes. She’s quiet now, so she either jumped to her death or fell asleep.

Let’s hope she’s sleeping.

Charades

I never really played charades when I was growing up. I’d see them played on television and I knew the gist of the game, but we never played at home. But now, oh boy! Every day is a new opportunity to play charades. And not just charades! No way. I get to play Baby Charades.

Babygirl is a pretty agreeable baby, as long as you do things her way, of course. She says a few key words, but more importantly, she nods. She’s been nodding for months now and mostly her nods mean “yes.” If she means “no”, she just looks at you blankly like you need a new brain or a translator or at least electric shock therapy. Then, the charades begin.

She leans in a runner’s stance, rocking towards her target. “You need something?” She nods. Then she points. I say, “You want to go into the kitchen?” Big emphatic nod. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.” Then, she gestures towards the refrigerator. “Oh,” I say, “You want cheese?” “Chhhzzzz,” she says and nods. “All right,” I say, “Here you go!”

She points, she leans, she grunts, she squeals, she nods, and occasionally, she’ll turn her head away or just fling herself to the ground to kick and holler. I’m a little scared that I can just look at her and know she’s thinking “I need a drink of water, you idiot.” My husband cannot do that. Understand, I mean. He certainly can think “I need a drink of water, you idiot” but he does not have the ability to send or receive telepathic messages. It’s something that seems to come standard with the uterus.

About a month ago, we had six inches of snow. This was Babygirl’s first experience in the snow. Here is the way she said, “Mom, I hate snow. Get me out of this stuff now. Snow is bad!”

Happy Rain

Last week, Babygirl learned an important skill. YoungestBoy taught her to jump in mud puddles. Here they are, stomping with glee. I am the kind of mother who says, “Hey, it’s washable,” and then I take pictures. This philosophy has carried me through many messy times. I have pictures of a baby with paint on his whole face (TwinBoyB), a picture of twin babies with poop smeared all over them and the carpet (The Poop Incident) and of course, random pictures of kids covered in mud.

Today, the sun shone and Babygirl insisted on going outside. She’s learned to climb onto the Little Tikes plastic slide contraption and then she sits and slides. When she lands on her bottom she says, “Uh-oh!”

The days have been so much more pleasant since Babygirl has resumed napping. I almost feel like a human again.

TwinBoyB and YoungestBoy went to the dentist today for check-ups and cleanings. I was relieved to hear that they are both cavity-free. YoungestBoy had a lot of dental work the year he turned four, so I always worry about his teeth now. My husband took them and reported that YoungestBoy entertained everyone in the waiting room with his math skills.

Last night I goofed off so long talking about my red wall and my mother’s hideous fashion sense that I never painted the wall.

I just realized that I need to run to the store for milk and bread, so I leave you with a raindrops-keep-falling-on-my-head shot of YoungestBoy:

Early Release

I feel like I’ve been paroled. Suddenly, out of the blue, the key turned in the lock and the door clanged open and I’m blinking in the light of freedom. Yes. Freedom. For now, my baby sleeps. She points to her crib and wants to nap. She sleeps for two hours! At night, defying all laws of logic and fatigue, she wants to go to bed even though it’s not yet 7 p.m.–and even though she actually napped–so I put her gingerly into her crib and cover her and close the door behind her and blink in the light of Freedom at 6:40 p.m.

I kind of waste my free time, though. I’m like a parolee who sits in his jammies watching cartoons instead of reading the classified ads. Today I read the newspaper and a chapter of a book and then looked at websites about Vacation Bible School and marveled that some fanatics not only have already constructed 10 foot replicas of volcanoes–they have also created websites on which to display their handiwork, complete with complicated directions. I’m more of a “read the directions and slap it together, how hard can it be?” kind of VBS director.

At any rate, tonight while my husband was gone at meetings, I read YoungestBoy two books and then came downstairs to watch the Grammys and paint the wall. The wall behind the recliner (also known as Command Central) had two gigantic holes punched into by the force of our ex-dog, Greta, a Newfoundland of great glee and even greater strength who used to run laps in the living room and into the kitchen. Then she’d come flying back to the living room where she’d land in the recliner with force great enough to break the wall. After an obscene amount of time passed, my husband finally finagled a repair by asking a handy friend we know if he could borrow some tools. (The oldest trick in my husband’s book, but it works every time. His alternate trick is so ask a friend for “help.” Then he stands around and watches the friend work and possibly holds a tool and chats.)

So, the friend came and fixed the wall and for weeks now, maybe a month, the wall has been staring whitely at me, begging for paint. While I was painting, YoungestBoy popped into the room, surprising me, and said, “Excuse me, Mom,” which caused me to scream a tiny scream. “Yes?” I said. “Mom, can I read the B Book, just for one or two minutes?”

Of course I said yes.

Then, more painting and another appearance by YoungestBoy. “Excuse me, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“I just counted to 500!” He’s an enthusiastic numbers guy.

“Good for you. Now go to bed. I love you!”

After I’d finished painting, he came downstairs one final time to tell me that he’d counted to 1,000. I told him it was 9:30 p.m., time to stay in bed. He wanted to know if he could count to 3,000 and I said, “I don’t care how much you count. Just don’t come downstairs again.”

My husband likes to think that all of YoungestBoy’s good characteristics are genetic, that they, in fact, directly passed from father to son. I’d like to think that he is a shining example of my exceptional parenting skills, but then I remember I have two other kids who are not shining examples of my parenting skills. So, it probably is genetic, but I’d like to think that my genes have made YoungestBoy who he is today. Okay. Well, at the very least, I did carry him in my womb. That’s got to count for something.

Here’s my boy, last year: