Call Me Garden Sally

Tommy and I are excited for our summer project of growing tomatoes.Tommy isn't willing to eat the tomatoes, but he can't wait to use the watering pitcher to care for them. We're hoping the tomatoes grow as big and as delicious as Great Grandpa's.My mother claims her Dad would occasionally go on a summer diet, eating only tomatoes for several weeks. Yum. Homegrown tomatoes with a touch of salt and balsamic? I could live off that for a good, long while.

In My Life

Keri Russell and her cohorts don't get everything right in the 2007 film The Waitress. On the whole, though, I did find it rather amusing.
One thing I'd like to cultivate, though, is her character's ability to create pies in her mind. I'm adding the creation of at least one great pie to my list of goals in life.

On the Subject of Living Large

Phew. According to the technical quiz in today's local paper, we do not live in a McMansion. I guess our townhouse could be categorized better as the mini version. My favorite (or, more precisely, my least favorite) characteristic is the fake facade---brick or shakes on just the most-viewed portion of the home. Classic.

Actually, though, I didn't really define McMansion by these standards until I read the article. I used to think a McMansion was a newly-built home that dwarfed its neighbors.

There are definitely some characteristics of the McMansion that appeal to me: I'd love to have 4 upper level bedrooms in our next house. On the other hand, the sheer size of these homes makes them daunting to fill and daunting to clean. Do we really want to live somewhere that doesn't feel like a full home?

Now is the point where I begin kicking myself over not more seriously considering that older home John and I looked at about a month ago.

Word Association: Traveling Poop

I'm just going to let your mind wander with that one.

It Goes So Fast: This Weekend

As usual, it's Monday morning and it seems like Friday to Sunday is a blur that passed without enough time in between. Lucy was sick this weekend with quite a fever (103.5), so we spent most of the weekend hanging out at home and canceling plans. John went to the Wild game Friday night, and I caught up on my brother's latest novel. While I was reading, the local cops (4 squad cars full of them) were outside my bedroom window questioning two guys. I'm waiting to get the scoop from an inside source.
On Saturday, Tommy and I went to the gym. He played dinosaurs and I ran. Then we hit the grocery store, and he behaved like an angel as he gulped down a Slurpee and about 10 food samples. For dinner on Saturday night, I pulled out the George Foreman grill to make grilled chicken sandwiches on thick French rolls. I sliced up avocado, slathered on mayo, and also added my new favorite type of tomato---Campari. Yum.
On Sunday, John & I alternated church attendance to take a break from holy discipline. Then we walked around the mall, met the cousins for ice cream, and convinced my sister to keep an eye on Tommy while we took Lucy out for Mexican food. Lucy loved a bit a personal time out with Mom and Dad. She garnered attention from several nearby tables, and danced back and forth in her highchair to the music of a charming trio.
Then it was an all-new Desperate Housewives (finally!), and off to bed.

Secrets to Surviving Pregnancy: Good Seamlessness

There is a weird phenomenon in the world of maternity clothes: apparently, if you are carrying a baby, you are supposed to show as much cleavage as possible. This may work great for 1st time moms who are trying to show off their hot stuff, but when I'm constantly bending over to play with Lucy or help Tommy zip his jacket, I don't need to give playgroup a peep show. I've taken to wearing seamless camisoles under almost every shirt. This one from A Pea in the Pod is extra-long to offer serious coverage of a growing belly. It's little spendy, but for the first 2 trimesters, I used cheaper models from some teenie-bop store called Charlotte Russe. Wherever you get yours , elasticity is a key factor. Before I discovered this, I bought cotton tanks that shrunk with constant washing and didn't expand well...as I do.

Secrets to Surviving Pregnancy: Vicks Vapo Rub

One of many annoying pregnancy symptoms is having your sinuses clogged continuously...for 9 months. What the heck do sinuses have to do with gestating? Anyway, if it weren't for Vicks, I would've spent many hours laying awake in these past months.

Excerpt from the Car Ride

Tommy: Grader, grader, where are you??
Tommy [as the Grader]: I'm down here! On the floor!
Tommy: I can't reach you!
Tommy [as the Grader]: Really?!
Tommy: Yeah!

I'm Getting Smarter All The Time

I now know that when I take a bath, the rest of the family doesn't interpret this is as a private activity.

Best idea: Lock the door, slip on the iPod, and ignore the chaos in motion.

Evil, Evil, Evil

Sometimes my sister tells me stories of things her kids have done, and then, as if through ESP, my children absorb and repeat these ordeals. One example of this was last spring: Tommy was just under 2 years old when he made like his cousins and busted out of Sarah's house with a large bottle of hand soap. I found him in the street a few minutes later, playing with the bottle of soap as a car rolled up the street.

A similar cousin-style feisty action began occurring this week. Now that Tommy realizes he can control his urine stream, he stashes away just a tad of pee for each time he is forced to take a nap, say goodnight, or go in timeout. "But I peeeeeeeed!" He cries, pointing to the drop of urine on his pants. For about the first 6 times this happened, John and I played along, exasperatedly changing his outfit and letting him postpone bed and/or punishment.

No longer, kid. We're onto you.

Today, I informed Tommy that poop or pee, he'd be finishing his timeouts no matter what incident occurred in his pants. The look on his face was just priceless.

You can try, Tomster, but you'll never win.

A Sweetheart

Adjustable Waist for the Whole Fam

I just bought these new maternity pants from the Gap this morning. In prior pregnancies, I felt more comfortable with a full-stomach panel, but these days, it seems like my stomach outgrows the panel but I need pants that are tighter everywhere else. Additionally, as it gets hotter (if it gets hotter), the under-the-stomach feel might be more comfy. Great news! Adjustable waist isn't just for toddlers and grandparents anymore. I cinched in these pants for now, and I'm sure to be letting loose as the weeks pass by.

Three Frames

The kids and I packed it up, and headed to Bed, Bath, & Beyond this morning. I rarely visit this store, possibly because it is an accident waiting to happen. As we breezed through, though, I spotted three 8 x 10 frames in a dark finish for our bedroom. They are pre-matted, so now I just need to find three great images to frame. I've been checking out images from shutterstock, but I'm not surely what motif I even want. It would be nice to have some scenic shots from places we've visited, but we haven't really taken great quality pictures ourselves. Should I go with three shots from the same location? Or mix it up?

Fee Fie Fiddlie-I-Oh

So Sassy

It runs in the family. Check out my cousins' new online shop, Zeichen Press. If you've got a messy break-up in your near future, you just have to stash this card away.

My Ear of Corn is Growing

Since I've spent about 25 months pregnant in the last 3 years (hey, who's counting?), you'd think I'd have the gestational growth chart pretty much down pat by now. I still subscribe, though, to an online newsletter which gives me weekly updates as to the new developments of my baby in utero. According to BabyCenter, #3 this week is approximately the size of an ear of corn. Last night, as I lay awake, the corn was jabbing at my stomach in several areas at once. Really. Hard. I don't think the other kids were this powerful at such a young age, and this has to be a bad sign.

A Slow Spring Start

This weekend started off with a bang when Tommy woke up Friday with his classic Croup cough. John and I both had a congested chest cold earlier in the week, so I'd assumed one or both of our kids would catch it. Tommy has been to the E.R. about a half-dozen times for Croup. The cough is always worse at night; they treat his cough and restricted air flow with a nebulizer and oral steroids. Thankfully, for the 1st time, we were able to head off a hospital visit and have our regular clinic prescribe the steroids. Shortly after Lucy was born, Tommy had a very serious Croup case and was actually the in the hospital for a few days. He is still coughing this morning; I'm hoping it passes soon and that Lucy doesn't develop a case of her own.

Due to the illness, our hot date on Friday was canceled. Instead, we rented La Vie en Rose, a fabulous and sobering French picture detailing the life of a rising and falling starlet, Edith Piaf. While John and I generally feel that films these days could stand to have a few minutes edited out, this picture is really worth its entirety.

The weekend overall was casual, with Tommy trying out his new imitation Crocs and John hanging my massive wall mirror in the bedroom. Yesterday, the rain kept us indoors for the most part. This week, I'm on the hunt for picture frames, a rocking chair, and lamps. The dream bed will have to wait.

I hear Lucy calling, "Mama! Mama!" so my weekend is officially over.

Pen to Paper Source

While uptown last night, I visited a spot glaringly absent from the suburbs: Paper Source. This supply store is surprisingly affordable, and caters to both the seriously creative and the casual letter-writers, like me.

The Dating Game

Last night's book club (we've entertained a nomination to rename ourselves as My Book Club Should Really Be Called Wine Club) featured little discussion of our hilarious read, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris. That's a positive, though, because in our lack of book discussion, we had plenty of time to discuss the dating disasters of several single ladies. Truly, I don't think I have laughed so hard since we watched Death at a Funeral. I wish I could indulge you with some of these dates from hell, but I think I'll keep them private for the sake of the guilty. Perhaps someday they, too, will find their matches.

As I drove home out of the city last night, I was overcome by a feeling of true female camaraderie. It occurred to me that the women around me were each in their own unique stages of life and love---some single, some dating, some married and pregnant. And yet our laughter and empathy for one another through the trials and successes of these various stages was so genuine. As we stuffed our faces with crudites and hummus, I wondered, can men possibly bond on this level at poker night?

My Secret Sin of Pride

Generally, as a pregnant lady, I really suck. I am a whiner, I hate getting bigger, and I regret to say that I'm not a good sport at all. This time around, though, I have a secret weapon.*

After Lucy was born, I worked really hard to get back in shape. I didn't get entirely where I wanted to be, but my endurance was up enough that I fairly easily continued working out into this pregnancy. This is the 1st time I've really pushed myself in running (or moving, for that matter) while pregnant, and it feels great! I am so much more confident about my body, and I feel so powerful when I realize that people are looking at me at the gym thinking, Wow, that pregnant lady is sure making an effort!

I'm 24 weeks pregnant right now, and I'm not sure how long the running will continue. I've had to slow down a bit, but I still go about 2.5 miles every other day. That's something, at least. I figure when my belly starts to really get astronomical, I'll switch machines or maybe continue the treadmill slowly at a higher incline.

*For those who are unaware, I do have another, more important, secret weapon. He is my doctor, whom I've nicknamed He-Man. Dr. He-Man takes pity on me because my infants come out at about the size of an average 4 month old, and he induces me smartly at 37 weeks.

Bedroom Underway

I love World Market for its affordability and great cheeses. Yesterday, my Mom and I stopped by to check things out, and I bought this large mirror on a bit of a whim. The mirror had a few scrapes, so I haggled with the manager for a discount. He tried to give me just 20% off, but I ended up paying $110, which was 40% off the original price. Little did he know that any Martha Stewart fan would just fill those tiny scratches with shoe polish and **voilla**! The mirror isn't quite the full-length that I envisioned for our bedroom, but I took it because the wood frame was significant and beautiful, the price was right, and on second thought, a mirror out of reach of Tommy's Bob the Builder tool set is probably a good thing.

Potty Chronicle: Day 15

The potty training seems to be mostly complete. Most days, we have just one accident. Usually, it's the end of the day, when Tommy's patience is wearing thin. He's getting really good at telling me when he has to go poop, but I still have to make him go pee about every 1.5 hrs. He never says he has to go pee.

In related news, we seem to be mixing our signals around here and confusing many words for potty-related things. This morning, Tommy was invited to a birthday party. "But I don't WANT to go on the potty!!!" He insisted. No, Tommy. Par-ty. Bennett's party. Also, he just told me he wanted a cookie, and I could have sworn he said he had to go poop.

This is Why I Do It

I never knew my house would be filled with:
-ridiculous quantities of Spiderman underwear,
-denim miniskirts that measure less than 5 inches in length,
-books, books, books everywhere,
-children sighing themselves off to sleep,
-so much love my heart is ready to burst.

Oh, Lucy Goose

My middle child. While categorizing my blog entries this week, I realized with dismay that I've neglected to mention Lucy as much as I should. I really should. Right now, my Goose Girl is climbing into a large, child-sized rocking chair. She can't quite get up there on her own today (because her sweat pants cause her to slip down). She cries out for my help, but in Mama-like stubborn fashion, Lucy allows me to lift her only an extra inch to get into the chair. She won't allow me to seat her there entirely.

Then she sings to her herself, "Raaaaah, raaaah" and looks over at me for an approving response.

And then it's off to the next adventure.

Pottery Barn Dream

In my dream bedroom, I would replace my furniture and actually know what cool things to hang on the walls. Here is the bed we covet: I would get these night tables, reminiscent of a bed & breakfast we stayed at for our anniversary once in Door County, WI. I'd like one of those massive, vertical wall mirrors, a comfortable reading chair, and cute lamps. Someday?

A Novel Affair

The Aurelianos ladies (one of my books clubs) came over on Saturday night to discuss Ann Petry's The Street. Afterward, John inquired as to how much of the evening was spent discussing the book. My response? A goodly amount---maybe 30 minutes.
As usual, the evening focused on food and wine. That's my kind of club. I served Wild Rice soup with an herbed spring mix salad. We started with an appetizer that I lifted directly from Friday night's date: crostini with goat cheese, toasted walnuts, and golden raisins. So simple! Rave reviews ensued.

A Flick of His Switch

Old Benjamin Bunny must have had a son like ours. Despite Supernanny JoJo's insistence, I swear that Tommy does not always respond to discipline in the form of a Time Out. Lately, Tommy has been really fighting naps and bedtime. He quickly realized that his newfound ability to use the potty granted him special permission to get out of bed again...and again...and again.

Last week was particularly exhausting as Tommy exercised this freedom, since John was out of town. Upon return, though, John got right to the heart of the matter---a slight spanking seemed to be all Tommy needed to know staying in bed was the best option.

This is a difficult issue for us. We'd love for Tommy to truly feel remorse and stay in the corner, but he's just not that kid. I remember a few years ago, my nephew, Jack, would actually put himself in Time Out. He'd just stand there, facing the wall, practically crying because he was so sad to have disobeyed his parents. My children, on the other hand, seem to be Sass Boxes who laugh in the face of rules!

How many other parents out there find that spanking is one of the few discipline tactics that get through to their child?

Let me be clear: John and I are both agreed that spanking is an appropriate discipline form only in certain circumstances. We wait until we are calm, and we explain to Tommy in a collected manner why his actions were wrong. Spanking out of rage sends a different message than we want to convey. I want Tommy to know that I don't like to spank him; instead, it makes me sad to do so!

In our society, spanking is such a taboo. And yet I do wonder, aren't there others out there---like us---who feel it's necessary and effective for certain kids?

Unbelievably Great Beef Roast

Every time I use my Crock Pot, I swear I am going to convert all my cooking to this ingenious method. Tonight, I simply combined:

1 packet of Lipton dry onion soup mix
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can condensed beef broth

and then added
-2.5 lbs. defrosted beef roast,rubbed with kosher salt and cracked pepper
-4 baby red potatoes
-handful of carrots
-handful of sliced mushrooms

I sliced a bit of onion to cover the roast, and let this cook on high in my Magic Machine for about 6 hours. Fabulous. The result was a tender, juicy roast with a ton of rich gravy. To be honest, I've never been much of a roast person, but with the Crock Pot, it can be so tender as to make me swoon.

Worse

Worse than the embarrassment of two screaming toddlers at Target:
The embarrassment of two screaming toddlers at Target and a visibly pregnant belly whereby strangers stare at you thinking, She's in over her head.

Poop Comes From Your Butt

This has been a week of huge revelations for Tommy. I'm drinking my lemonade, he mutters down the hall. And then the lemonade will turn into pee! Another big shocker for Tom has been the knowledge that pee comes from the penis, while poop comes from the butt.

Yesterday, he experienced this in a new way when He. Went. Poop. On. The. Potty.

Personally, I was so excited with this development that I danced and screamed with joy. Tommy, on the other hand, reacted with fright. He wanted a hug. He didn't really understand what was going on. He said goodbye to the poop, and we flushed it away.

I didn't get my hopes up, thinking two days of this miracle in a row would be too much for any sane (much less insane) mother to expect. But then, just now----I need to poop!! And we ran to the potty together.

From the Locker Room: Modesty or Insecurity?

After Tommy was born and my need for some bodily sanity resurfaced, I began working out at a local YMCA. I loved the atmosphere there; I knew all the people around me, and they seemed to be pursuing the goal of a genuine, healthy lifestyle. The people said hello to each other. They work sweatshorts and ripped t-shirt, like me.

When we moved out to the boondocks of this quality small town, no local YMCA was within a drivable distance. I was lured, instead, to a more glamorous gym with a great outer pool and a glitzy spa facility. I can't complain too much: the childcare department is fantastic, and I can even get my hair cut when the kids are having fun in there. On the flip side, though, the atmosphere has definitely changed. The women around me are practically supermodels, striving to sculpt their bodies while applying extra lipstick. They wear fancy ensembles and carry around yoga gear that just emerged in this spring's Lucy collection. No one says hello to you unless they are trying to pick you up. It's less of a community; instead, it feels like a competition.

One of the most glaring differences between these facilities is the locker room etiquette women display. At my new gym, the women prance about in their fancy gear and loudly discuss their upcoming vacations. At the YMCA, though, women inquired about each others' lives and seemed entirely comfortable shedding their clothing and walking around in the nude. I'm not suggesting that these practices are entirely dependent on one another; I'm merely noting this is the way it is. Why are the seeming-rich so inclined to wear clothing when their bodies are far more "perfect"? Everything about their demeanor should suggest they are proud of themselves and their flashy lives.

Grandma Julie's Pie

This recipe from John's maternal grandmother is too good not to share. John's Mom taught me to make this pie with great patience. Yesterday was the first time I think came anywhere near its potential...pie-making takes precision! I baked this pie to celebrate John's homecoming from NYC. I had originally planned to make another favorite of his (pecan pie), but Tommy informed me that he didn't want "nut pie" and instead preferred apple. Tommy's Great-Grandma would surely be proud to know he enjoyed two slices yesterday.


Julie's Recipe for Pie Crust (top and bottom crust)
1 C shortening
2.5 C flour
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2/3 C milk (added little by little)

Mix flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Use a pastry cutter or fork to cut the shortening into the dry mixture til it resembles a coarse meal. Then, gradually add the milk, stirring gently after each little addition. The pie dough should be sticky, but not overly sticky or crumbly. You may not use all the milk. Form two balls from the dough for a top and bottom pie crust. (Note: For pie novices such as myself, I recommend forming one larger ball and trying this bottom-only recipe. You can use the extra, smaller ball of dough for a different pastry treat.) Roll out the pie crust and transfer carefully to a 9" glass pie pan.

Julie's Dutch Apple Crumble Pie
5-7 tart apples, peeled and sliced thinly
1 9" unbaked pastry shell
1/2 C sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 C sugar
3/4 C flour
1/3 C butter, softened

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Arrange pie slices in your pastry shell. Mix together 1/2 C sugar and cinnamon. Sprinkle this mixture on top of the apples. Then combine the other 1/2 C sugar with the flour. Cut in the butter with pastry cutter or fork until the mixture is crumbly. Sprinkle this mixture over the pie. Protect your pie crust: using thin slices of aluminum foil, wrap the outer formed (decorative) pie crust so it does not burn in the oven. Bake the pie in a hot oven about 40 minutes or until apples become tender. Note: Watch the pie carefully. When the topping started to brown, I covered the entire pie top in another sheet of aluminum foil to prevent burning. The secret to great pie is a flaky crust that is not overcooked!!

Come Home Soon!

Breakdown

I am having a fight with Tommy. Right now. You are in the midst of it. Like most kids, Tommy hits a breaking point in the afternoon when he desperately needs a nap, but in his desperation, defiantly struggles against one. That is what he is doing right now.

This tantrum, coupled with the potty training and his recent return to very violent behavior (hitting me, throwing large toys at the wall) is driving me to insanity. I am becoming a mother I hate today. A ferocious, yelling monster.

Sigh.

How am I going to make it through 3 more months of pregnancy? Somebody get me some Valium.

Proof

I did it! I did it! I kept something alive other than my children. I bought this then-flowering plant at Bachman's about two months ago to put myself in the mood for spring. The flowers died, and I was sure I'd destined another plant to the same fate. I kept watering it, though, and just today, I noticed my plant is sprouting new leaves! Maybe my green thumb has finally kicked in. Does anyone know of houseplants that are easy to grow?

The (Late) Great Lamb Cake

My mom passed the lamb cake mold onto me. On Easters past, Grandma worked with precision on the cake, much as she had on many a Christmas gingerbread house. The cake mold weighs about 10 pounds, a cast-iron beast.

Inside the mold were Grandma's handwritten instructions. Slather the mold in Crisco, then Pam, then flour to ensure that the lamb cake comes out in one piece. I did get that far, but the lamb turned out to be a bit anorexic when my carrot cake recipe failed to rise appropriately.

While quite frightening in appearance, the lamb cake tasted great. Here's the fabulous carrot cake recipe.

Common Potty Sense

When I was a freshman in college, an old service elevator took me 3 floors down from my dorm room to a vending machine that sold my favorite treat: peanut-butter M & Ms. I'm pretty sure I ate a bag of those with each paper I wrote. How did I pull that off and still come out significantly lighter at the end of the year?

Our Easter weekend included many treats, and what bunny is foolish enough not to supply her favorite? While I indulged, I failed to recognize that peanut butter M & M eggs, juice boxes, and fresh fruit were too much for a potty-training young man to handle. Tommy is paying for my foolishness.

Aside from the loose stools, Tommy's training is going GREAT! We took him to the mall on Saturday, and he thought it was fabulous that the family bathrooms had "Tommy-sized" potties just for him. He only had one accident all day. Today, we've already hit the gym and he used their bathrooms twice. I am so proud of him!

Hopefully, the rest of our week will go just as smoothly. John is off to NYC for business, so I am pulling long days on the homefront.

The Pull-Up Chronicle?

Don't worry. I haven't given up. I'm writing that sentence as much for myself as for you. Yesterday was one of those days when a Mom isn't sure to forge ahead or turn back. But I'm a stubborn mule, so onward we go.

We had only four accidents yesterday, but they were brutal affairs, two of which required serious bath scrub-downs. Tommy is actually growing more and more defiant towards the potty training as the potty novelty has worn off.

Today, we are going to back off (haha) and only make him use the potty every 45 minutes. Even though you may think everyone can hold it that long, the thought terrifies me. I'm looking at the timer, and there are 37 minutes left to go.

In other news, I'm working on the great lamb cake. More to follow.

The Potty Chronicle: Day Three

Not for the Faint of Heart

There are several parenting "opportunities" for which no amount of bleach is really sufficient. One of these is the Rotavirus, and another, as you may have guessed, is potty training. I feel I must speak for millions when I say that after this morning's poop incident, I shudder at the thought of what slipped underneath my fingernails.

By and large, though, I am incredibly proud of Tommy today. He had just two morning accidents, and he went to the bathroom 3 times when we were at a friend's Easter Egg Hunt this morning. I can tell he's proud of himself, too. To see your child achieve something and believe in himself evokes a feeling of joy unattainable by yourself.

Of course, when I say Tommy went to the bathroom, I still mean I'm reminding him---and forcing him---to sit on the toilet every 30-40 minutes. Buy hey, we've got to get there somehow.

We're on our way.

The Potty Chronicle: Day Two

One of the most important things about being a stay-at-home-mom (or any at-home employee, I think) is remembering to shower. This simple rule is exceedingly easy to break, especially when you have a no-shower tendency or when you know you're going to be cleaning up urine all day long.

Yesterday was one of those days for me. I think I put on a good face for Tommy, because the many internet articles I read suggested that a positive attitude was a vital factor in potty training. By the end of the day (and the time of my posting), though, I'd had my fill of you-know-what.

This morning, I turned over a new leaf and decided to be positive for myself, not just for Tommy. I actually showered and put on a cute preggo shirt. I cleaned up several poopy Thomas the Tank engine incidents, and a few pee ones. Overall, though, Tommy has been doing OK. We even had to babysit his cousins for a few hours, and he had only one accident off-site.

I'm not sure when I can expect to leave the house for any real amount of time, and I certainly wouldn't call our experiment yet "successful." Stay tuned.

The Potty Chronicle: Day One

As with most things in parenting, potty training did not begin on schedule or as I expected. Yesterday after his nap, Tommy awoke and wet his diaper. He wanted to take it off immediately, and put on his new Spiderman underwear. I took this as a good sign.

We spent the rest of the evening throwing a Potty Party every time Tommy went on his potty; you will never know just how cute your husband can be until he puts all his enthusiasm into a Potty ChaCha.

Then, today. I knew the Potty Boot Camp would be difficult, and my assumption to that end was correct. So far, we've gone through at least a half dozen pair of underoos and sweatpants. We've had poop and pee incidents on carpet, wood, and beds. We've put stickers on charts and counted out reward M&Ms. Tommy has yet to announce on his own when the pee is coming, but a beeper on the kitchen microwave sounds out a Potty Time alert every 30 minutes.

Perhaps the most frustrating part of this is how hard it is to quickly get Tommy to the bathroom, and yet keep Lucy out. Lucy enthusiastically trots behind us, ready to sneak her hand into the potty or onto the plunger...whatever the grossest available accessory. This afternoon, we took our only venture into the outer world to get the mail, and returned just in time for a potty attempt. Tommy stood waiting for my help next to the toilet, and in just the moment it took me to sweep Lucy out of the way, urine soaked him from the waist down. "I pooooooooooped again," he cried, confused.

I started up the washing machine and cursed John for not having his cell phone turned on, again.

This Means (Potty) War

Tommy has been ready to potty train forever. The kid knows when he goes, and he now uses the coveted potty training as yet another opportunity to defy me. If you think I'm exaggerating, you haven't been hanging out with Tommy very much.

I am working hard to remain positive about this. Tommy is not yet three, and for some reason, our society views non-potty trained two-year-olds as (generally) OK. I do not. I can not handle three children in diapers, and I will not tolerate these shenanigans much longer.

The plan is this: D-Day happens on Thursday, Apr. 3, coinciding with Week of the Letter L and Lucy's (late) one-year shots. Tommy has already selected Spiderman and Thomas the Tank Engine underoos at Target. I will return to the big box for more toy bribes.

I don't know how I will handle the period between D-Day and victory, but Tommy will emerge a potty trained man.

Stay tuned for more info.

The Flood Zone

Yesterday, my sister send me a listing for a house in the small, old "downtown" near us. The house looked amazing! Built in the 1880s, it had 4 bedrooms and a wealth of space...plus, the great and enviable asset we don't have...a yard!

John and I have gone around and around about the advantages and disadvantages of new vs. old homes. Who can deny that an older home with beautiful built-ins and woodwork has more character? This particular house even has a large, historic carriage house as one of its charming features.

On the flip side, though, I can't ignore how accustomed I have become to modern home amenities. We don't even own a dresser because our closet is big enough for twice as many clothes as we have. I appreciate a bathroom vanity that we can actually use to hold our toiletries. Most importantly, I love our laundry room located just 6 to 10 feet from all the upstairs bedrooms.

It's hard to weigh all these things. If I had my choice, I'd look for a beautiful, renovated old house that has all the modern conveniences already added. Unfortunately, this is a tall order on our budget. Sigh.

Anyway, I'm excited to take a look at the house tonight. I just hope we aren't blinded by its charm.

Motherly

Is it wrong to compare your daughter's staggering efforts at walking to those of a drunken soldier?

Big House with No Little People

About once every sixth months, I get a day or an afternoon off from parenting and my house is quiet. If you are single or don't have kids yet, it's hard to appreciate the quiet. Perhaps, like I used to, you fill you home with noise from the television or radio. With two small kids, though, the quiet is simple blessing that I relish.

I'm not really sure what to do with myself today. I'm fighting the urge to get cleaning done, because I could do that anytime. I just finished reading Love in the Time of Cholera and Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim this week, so maybe it's time to visit the library and browse for something new. Tommy would probably appreciate it if I looked for his current favorites, Boom Chicka Rock and Trashy Town.

What do people DO when their day isn't exhausted just filling the needs of a 2 year old, a 1 year old, and a growing baby in utero? I don't even remember. Sometimes I want to scream because it seems no matter how hard I try, I can't keep Cheerios off our floor for more than a half hour.

And then, I have a moment like this: all I want is my Lucy Goose to snuggle, and my Tommy to pull off our couch cushions and build a fort.

Things I'm Thankful For: The Ring

Some rings are less expensive and more useful than others. My husband recently brought a ring into our lives that has saved my sanity over the past month.

Tommy had stumbled onto the habit of obsessively slamming our baby stair gates against the walls and railings of the staircase. Loud and damaging, this activity had me ready to become violent.

John took a simple teething ring and latched the gate to our stairs. No sound can be made, and through some miracle, Tommy hasn't thought to pry it off.

Little Orange Fish

Three kids, one grandma, and two sisters head downtown from the exurbs to see a little orange fish and his dad. Who knew this adventure could be so complete?

Tommy was enamored with Nemo on Ice. I didn't expect much from this kids' show, but once again, Disney's mastery of a child's mind stunned me. The lights and costumes were fabulous. The acting and skating were sub-par, but in a kids' world, these are trivial. The sharks were terrifying, the octopus was cuddly. Tommy didn't blink for two straight hours.

I wish John could've been there, because maybe this show would've given him more insight into why Disney World is the Greatest Place on Earth. To me, it seems there could be no dispute. To a man accustomed to "nature" on family vacations, however, there seems to be some debate. Either way, we will take the kids there. I won't have completed my mission as a mother if we do not.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all about teaching my kids actual history and seeings the great wonders of America. But Disney IS one of the great wonders of America!!

Anyway, back to yesterday.

I bought the kids two giant slurpee cups of lemonade, and they spent most of the event happily sucking away. When Nemo had waved goodbye, I erroneously handed Tommy my cell phone FOR A SPLIT SECOND, and he managed to immediately drop it into a crevice at the bottom of our temporary stadium seating. Thankfully, Grandma bought us 7th row seats, so I could see my magenta phone glimmering 15 feet below.

I hauled my pregnant belly to the ground floor, and proceeded to crawl underneath the stadium seating to retrieve the phone. It was sticky (with lemonade? with puke? with pee?) and claustrophobia-inducing and my thoughts very quickly turned to rats. I grabbed the phone and scuttled back out to the Disney lighting only to discover that in the commotion, my scarf had also fallen down under. Aaaack! Goodbye, scarf. Facing rat world for you is not worth it.

Post event, we naturally lost ourselves trying to find the correct parking garage. Claudia declined a trip to the bathroom, and thought I knew this was stubbornness on her part, I did not intervene. Finally, we found the car.

Just as Claudia's booster seat belt was snapped into place, her pleas began, "Moooooooom.....I have to gooooo....tooooo....the.....baaaaathroooom....RIGHT NOW." Sarah tried to convince her otherwise, but the emergency was clear. She hopped out of the car, and in a Seinfeld-esque move, stripped off her polka dot tights and peed into a drain in the parking garage. Thankfully, no policemen were nearby.

I Spy with my Little Eye

Two children playing.
Tommy saying, "Now it's your turn, Wuce!!"
[Watches her put the ball into the ball poppin' toy]
"Good job, Wuce!!!! Now it's my turn."

And over, and over, and over again.

Lucy Walking!

The Sea Witch

Sometimes kids identify unexpectedly---and embarrassingly---with strangers. Like when we were at Target yesterday.

We passed a woman in the soda aisle. She was rather large, with even larger, unwieldy dark hair.


Two feet after we passed her...."Mom!!!! Is that Ursula?!?!!!"

And then, as I was pushing the cart faster and faster into the next aisle, "Mom....is that Ursula??? Mom!!! Mom!!!"


Maybe she didn't know her Disney characters.

Rules of Engagement: Bar Soap

1. We don’t run out of bar soap at our house. Or toilet paper. If either of these things appear to be lacking, check the linen closet (general overflow) or underneath the bathroom counter. On my side.
2. A bar of soap is not used up until it is at least the size of a votive candle. I feel that is generous. A bar of soap does not need to be replaced when has only done half of its job.
3. If you are the person who “needs” another bar of soap, then you are also the person responsible for eliminating the soap remnants from the soap tray.

Isn’t this basic logic? Do I need to start a remedial soap training course?

Lucy Louise

On Her First Birthday

One year old. The house is decorated, and quiet. We have pink streamers and pink balloons, and yes, I am the kind of mom who actually had those just sitting around the house from some other project. I bought pastel napkins with little baby ducks on them. I guess I still want her to be my baby.



And she is. She is a squealing, gurgling delight. She is feisty and curious and has as much energy as Tom. But she also has a dainty streak, a snuggly streak, a difference that makes her Lucy Lu and my special little girl.

We bought her a shopping cart for the occasion. What better way for a little girl to be like Mama? She is truly obsessed with it. She laughs maniacally as she begins to push it, faster and faster on the wood floors. The wheels on this thing spin uncontrollably like the real carts at Costco. Then, she spies a wall ahead. She breaks down even before she hits the wall, because she knows a wall ahead means her journey will be halted. This process went on and on for about an hour this morning until finally, tired and exhausted and wondering why we have so many walls and so little room for shopping, she crumpled into a pile of tears. Tommy ran to console her and held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth and whispering, "It's okay, Wuce. It's okay."



There are more days now that I feel ready to be a mother of three. Still, the diapers pile up at an enormous pace and the grocery store seems an obstacle for the insane. But the kids are snuggly and peaceful and beautiful when they aren't fighting. Lucy pages through her fuzzy chick book, and Tommy asks, "What letter does lobby man start with?" It is rewarding...and exhausting.

Then again, what full time job worth keeping isn't?

To the Man with the Navy Tattoos

Thank you.

All Before 8AM

Read a book, ate bo-nana, cleaned up cereal, watched a backhoe and a bobcat in action.

Never knew that holding my boy in my lap, outside, on a muggy morning, could be so beautiful.

Lucy's Internet Debut

What a sweetheart!

Job-related Risk

Every job has its hazards, but none so humbling and dangerous as this:

I was grooming my son's toenails last night when a shard landed in my eye.

Happy DiDi, Mama!

On Saturday I turned one-quarter of a century. 25. I'm not feeling too old, in case you're wondering. In fact, I feel just about right.

John and Tommy made french toast for breakfast that day, and John worked pretty hard to get Tommy to offer birthday congrats. What came out was, "Happy DiDi!!" Pretty close.

Then, this morning, we had waffles with syrup, which Tommy confused for french toast. "Happy DiDi!!" he exclaimed. After all, syrup must mean it's my birthday again.

I like the way this kid thinks...

Materialism: The Reason for the Season

I have to admit I'm already pretty well prepared for the gift-buying season. I have a list of what I'm buying for who, and (to toot my own horn a bit) I have already figured out what I'm getting for those my most difficult-to-shop-for category.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is Tommy, of course. I can barely go into a toy store or think about Christmas without wanting to buy him just about every toy out there. Ok, I am exaggerating a little. First of all, I definitely do not want to buy him any of the Noisy Toys out there, and that's almost all of them. Second of all, I do have a pared-down sense of what is needed, compared to most parents, so I don't think I'm going overboard. Still, I haven't bought him a thing yet. I think the longer I wait, the less likelihood of excess...

And also, days like today come when I realize that getting him more toys won't occupy him any more than those he already has do. In fact, he has spent the last 45 minutes playing on the living room rug as quietly as a mouse with just 3 items:

1.) A cup,
2.) A brush, and
3.) A rubber duck.

Are You Mischievous? Are You Curious?

There's nothing in the world like making your kid squeal with delight. Especially when all it takes is cutting a picture of his favorite cartoon from the paper.

"Monkme! Monkme! Monkme!"

Occupational Responsibilities

Things to Add to my Resume
(Or, what I have been doing since I haven't posted in forever)

*Scrubbing chocolate chip cookie residue out of every orifice of Tommy's body
It's shocking how much talent it actually takes to do this when your toddler is running away from you.

*Teaching Tommy the ABCs.
So far, he can get to D.

*Working out at the Best Gym Ever.
Let me remind you that it is heavenly for a mother to drop her kid off for an hour of relaxation and know he is safe. And, can I get an extra round of kudos because I somehow drag my pregnant self out of bed for this, against all odd?

*Avoiding finishing touches around the house.
We still don't have window treatments or hand towel hooks or the painting hung that has been sitting on our bedroom floor for over 2 months.

*Covering pumpkins in very fine glitter.
I got this idea from Martha Stewart, and since I like to christen a house by getting as much glitter around the place as possible, it was fitting.

Back to Me

One of the difficult things about just having ONE child* is that children are not fools: they covet your attention 100% of the time. At least, this is what I find with Tommy. He will NOT sit quietly and read books so I can fold the laundry. He will NOT play with trucks so I can take a shower. No, he must explore the dangerous laundry room by my side or peek his little head in through the shower curtain, leaning himself into a stream of water.

Mostly this attribute is exasperating, but sometimes it is endearing. Yesterday, for instance, Tommy sat on my lap while I was watching the 5 o'clock news and realized my attention wasn't on him.

And then he grabbed my chin and physically turned my head back toward him as if to say, I am the main attraction here, Mama.

*So, if you suffer from this persistent annoyance, like me, you could just have two children. For that reason. Haha. Or you could rent two cousins from down the block. They are also quite distracting.

Grandpa's Railing

Walkin'

Ode to Shel Silverstein

Family for sale,
Family for sale,
One certified, drama-ful family for sale.
You can't be too choosy,
You can't be too booze-y
to handle my lunatic family for sale!

Honey, I'm Home

We're finally in our new place.

It feels a little empty here in country suburbia. We have beautiful sunsets and lovely farmland and a bonified old-school downtown.

We have new paint and light fixtures, squishy carpet, and a dining room table I'm afraid to eat on.

We need some pictures on the walls, though. And maybe just that sense of "home" that takes time to build in a place. How many dinners or walks to the park? Or maybe we just need Eunice's window treatments.

1% Me

99% Dad.

Grown Up

I have been watching more than my share of daytime talk shows this week. What else are you supposed to do between constant eating, sleeping, and puking? Anyway, the Opera show today actually had a one-liner worth thinking about:

You're grown-up when you love someone else more than you love yourself.

How many people can really love others more than themselves? Can you only love one person that much, or can you be so mature that you even love your enemies that much?*

I know I wouldn't be so foolish as to believe I'd attained this maturity in any sort of high regard. Truly, I love my husband and son and parents and siblings that much, but how far the love goes...I don't know. Would I be or am I really there for others around me when they need comfort? Am I more worried about others' welfare than my own?

I don't know a lot of grown-up people my age, using this definition. There are a few, but there are a lot more who seem to be concerned about their own success, their own time, their own agendas. Sometimes I wish I could be more like that... It would be easier, less painful, I think.


*And if, like me, you wish more people understood that kind of love in relation to YOU...are you the opposite of mature? Or do you just need love?

Bonkers

Everyone is bonkers at this house. Me, being driven crazy. Mom, being driven crazy by me. Tommy, bonking his own head repeatedly into any hard object he can find.

Yes, you read that correctly.

My son chose this week, the week I want to show him off to a bunch of friends and also present him to John's coworkers and clients, to start Head Bonking Syndrome. If he is mad at me or just frustrated in general, he whacks his forehead fairly ceaselessly into the ground.

Incidentally, head bonking is not that rare amongst kids his age. Wouldn't you know that boys are 3-4 times as likely to do it than girls? We would never want to distort our complexion more than nature already has.

I guess I'm supposed to trust that Tommy won't hurt himself too badly, and I'm supposed to ignore his behavior as attention will be his desired result.

Good times. Maybe I should find some baby-scented cover-up for his gigantic bruise.

Bliss

It was a long day. Every day is that way when you're pregnant. I was so tired I stumbled to wash my face and pull my flannel pajamas onto my worn-out body.

There was just enough room in the moment for one perfect sentence.

Even in the dark, I can see you're beautiful.

How does he get it right?

The Great Jade Caper

Grandpa always is the kind of person who solves his own problems. Too little space in this house? Knock out a wall! Too few bathrooms? Install a hallway sink! Missing phone calls while you're on the porch swing? Answer a telephone-on-a-pole as you while the hours away. This is the mentality which still kept ahold Grandpa when, several years ago, the Great Jade disappeared.

It was a large plant, the kind it would take two or three or four men to carry. It was expensive, too: a jade that had multiplied and flourished through years of care by an expert gardener. It sat there on the busy street of buzzing traffic, protected by fencing but apparently not unseen by jealous neighbors.

And then it was gone. Grandpa awoke one morning to note that the jade had mystically disappeared. Who could carry that mammoth pot away in the dark of the night? As Grandpa stood on his front stoop marvelling the strength of the thieves, he noticed the jade had left a clue: a trickling path of dirt and leaves heading off the property!

That's all it took for the caper to unfold.

Grandpa must've had a quickened step in his leather loafers that morning, chuckling to himself at the idiocy of whomever made away with his Great Jade. The trail of plant life led a block or two away to a few apartment units of questionable status. And when Grandpa looked up one, two, three floors, it was there. The Great Jade stood, a trophy upon a third floor balcony.

Grandpa shook his head and walked amusedly home.

"Well, let's just march up there and get the plant!" A neighbor said.

"Are you a fool?" Grandpa replied, "Whoever took that plant is stronger than you and me and we aren't gonna face him. I already called the police. That jade will be mine again."

And so it was. And so it was.

He Shall Eat Cake

Heaven Sent

Pool BW
Originally uploaded by xuarrac.

Simple Pleasures

Which Bolt of Fabric is Heaviest and How Fast Can I Hit Her and Run Out the Door?

Today Tommy and I were a little bored, so we took a trip to the local craft store. Despite the fact that I am a stay at home mom, I don't visit these stores with much frequency. "Crafty" these days seems to mean cutting heart-shaped sandwiches of PB&J for my niece and nephew. There were days* when I clung to a more expanded definition, and maybe someday, they will return.**

At any rate, Tommy and I found ourselves under immediate assault in the heavy-duty fabric aisle. Just as I was about to ponder which fabrics could potentially complement our chocolate brown couches, a petite grandmotherly woman came running and gushing in our direction. "Oh, he is seeeeeeew cute!" she drawled, carrying an armload of obnoxiously bright patterns. "And he is seeeeew smart! I can tell! I'm an early childhood educator! His eyes are so bright and his attention span is great and gush, gush, gush, gush, gush!"

As a mother of an insanely charming son, these encounters are not infrequent for me, but this particular lady was not actually a Baby Gusher: rather, she was a Personal Boaster using Baby Gushing as a tactic to capture her audience.

Throughout the 15 minutes we spent in the fabric section, I learned of:
- the ivy league schools this woman had paid for her children to attend
- the best memento possible to create with baby shoes
- her personal favorite craft for her grandkids (pillowcases)
- her twin sister
- her 1st grade class of 9 women who still get together annually and will be doing so very shortly
- the brightly colored pillowcases she is making for each of her 1st grade classmates
- her 3rd place finish in a marathon of 17,000 runners and
- her daughter's 1st place finish in a marathon of 10,000 runners in Atlanta

Whew. That was intense. And honestly, she told me much more.

The moral of the story? I'm all for small talking and hey, sometimes I'm even an initiator. But if you see a woman with a small baby in a craft store, she doesn't have time to listen to your life story. And please, don't be so bold as to assume that grandmotherly bragging rights apply to every aspect of your personal life. And also, know that those fabrics may blind pillowcase recipients instead of put them to sleep.



*when I was well-rested or procrastinating in college
**when I am well-rested again

One Year Less One Month

Dear Tommy,

I just can't believe it. 11 months old. The next letter I write to you will be on your first birthday! How did the time slip through our fingers? You're pointing, you're babbling, and you're cruising around.

My letter this month is a little delayed, as we've been staying with your cousins for a week so Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brian could go to Mexico. You've loved waking up to Will and Claudia, but truthfully, Tommy, I need my own Mexican vacation to recover from you three kids. You wore me out! Your cousins are so busy, and it seems I was cleaning, folding laundry, or scolding every second. Well, not every second. Dad did joke, though, that it seemed he'd hardly seen his wife all week---we'd both just turned into disciplinarians!

Now that it's nice outside, you love to discover new things around you. You point to the sky when airplanes zoom overhead, you squeal with delight at dogs who bark. You know where your hair is and where your ears are, but you can't seem to put your finger on the nose. Maybe next month, Tommy.

Normally, you sleep through the night now, but about a week ago, Daddy woke up to you crying around 3AM. "Mamamamama!" You screamed in your usual fashion. But as soon as Daddy came to the crib to pick you up, you switched your tune to, "Dadadada!!" Dad was so contented to hear you, for the first time, definitively call his name. It's those experiences that warm our hearts and make us want to snuggle you with a thousand snuggles.

I love you, my baby-in-a-towel.

Happy 11 Months!

Love, Mama

This One's For You

[Emerging from our bathroom...] When people talk about life's simple pleasures, they should really include among them having a good 'poo. There's nothing quite like it.

From the Mouth of a Potty-Trained Babe

She's scratching her tummy, so I ask, "Whacha up to, Claudia?"

"I'm buttoning myself," she replies, tapping her belly button as if to show I should have surmised this much.

Seen & Heard

My husband and I recently served on a panel for an Engaged Retreat. We sat and offered expertise on marriage based on our accumulated 19 months.

One of the anonymously submitted questions:

"Why is it wrong to watch porn together if you are both OK with it?"

We didn't have time to answer all the questions, and this one somehow slipped through the cracks. Any answers?

Hypo-optimac

(Noun) Grandma who breaks her glasses in an effort to gain attention from the optical staff

True Story

And we're running through the department store as she yells, "I'm pooping! I'm pooping!" and I yell, "Don't poop! Don't poop!" and then finally we're there in the bathroom and there's no accident and we're both so proud.

Talk about job satisfaction!

10 Months Old

Dear Tommy,

You're 10 months + 5 days old today, and to celebrate, I'm looking back at a picture of you from near-birth. You're snuggling up with Miss Kate, undoubtedly looking for a bit of nursing from the wrong Ma. This is a habit you've embraced throughout your infancy, although now you're a bit more overt----instead of just snuggling, you ferociously bite whomever holds you. It's a little alarming, my love.



Despite your sharp snappers, you're growing into such an loveable, alert, brilliant, and humorous young man. Each morning, you rise at 5:30 AM and I groan in exhaustion. Can't I just sleep in until 6, Tommy? I can't be mad, though: you climb into bed with me and lounge around until you decide it's time for your first daily ritual---climbing over our mound of pillows towards the blinds in the bedroom. The blinds give you such great joy, Tommy. You pull them forward and they SNAP back at the windowpane with a tremendous noise. You laugh and laugh and laugh. Sometimes I think this activity could last for hours, but it's time for breakfast.



Speaking of breakfast, you've really moved onto the Big Kid stuff lately. You usually either eat oatmeal or Cheerios with milk and bananas. Some of your other eating habits are not quite as mature: at dinner last night, you decided you didn't want to eat the tortilla we'd ripped up for you, so you steathily took the pieces and snuck your hand into your lap. We saw you dropping those pieces onto the floor, Tommy. We're onto you. You Love Milk. Anything dairy, actually. Lately, you are consumed by such great thirst that just seeing anyone POUR liquid into a glass transforms you into an insatiable roaring lion. Your curl your tiny fingers into fists and literally growl until a cup is brought to your lips. It's endearing.

Your attention span is growing such that a toy now occupies you for about 2 minutes at max. (Prior to this month, it was maybe 20 seconds.) You like to investigate the manufacturer tags on items.

You like to investigate everything.

You are mobile in a way I couldn't have believe until I saw it unfold. We construct impediments all over the house so you can't get into dangerous things, and you pull, push, or wiggle your way through any obstruction. In Grandma M's living room, we've used large tupperware bins to block off dangerous outlets and corners in the seating area. If I leave you in there for 60 seconds, you've discovered one TINY crevice big enough to scuttle 1/2 your body through. You wriggle yourself in there and are promptly stuck between couches til I return.

I can see that your mobility is about to explode into a new level even beyond this, though, as you have recently stood---first with my help, and now on your own. You smile that big, dimpled grin and your eyes just light up with pride.



It seems like the list could go on and on this month, my kiddo. In the springtime sunshine, we're constantly exploring new terrain. It's as if a new world has opened up for you this month....what is grass? What are leaves? Do they taste good? Can I eat your shoe? I know these are the burning questions in your mind.



Among your many talents, you're now clapping and waving and kissing and...well, now I'm just turning into a bragging mom. I love you, Tommy. I can't believe my love as a mom is growing faster than even you are.

Yours to the moon and back,
Mom

Nature or Nurture? My Son, the Coquette

At the tender age of about 4 months, Tommy started exhibiting Fear of Strangers. Initially, I was mortified. Sure, I want my kids to be who they are and everything like that, but I have to admit that I really want Tommy to be friendly and a great conversationalist with others. (Does that make me a bad mom?)

Anyway, as you might surmise, I feared Tommy's shyness doomed him to a fate of eternal shyness. To counter this, I'd tickle him when he met strangers, so he'd smile* and they'd think, "Wow, what an outgoing boy."

I'm not sure if it was nature or nurture, but Tommy the Introverted has been outed. That is, he's now an Extrovert. While shopping at an unnamed outlet mall today, I noted my son flirting with no less than 20 women. He's pretty coy about it, actually: he snuggles his chin and face into me as if to FEIGN shyness, but then he pops out his head with the most adorably flirtatious grin.

And the grin keeps coming.

Tommy is visibly upset when we are forced to move on to a new store, as it means diverting eye contact from his ladies.

I think I've created a monster.

*Some might read this and misconstrue it as a manipulative effort to force personality traits upon my son. It was.

First Day Standing

First Day Standing 41106
Originally uploaded by xuarrac.

Public Bathrooms

I had to get a little distance from this topic before I could write about it. It's one of those.

Last week, the Gkids came over for a round o' fun, except that Claudia is on the post-potty training brink. I was suspicious about how much fun would be had, but my concerns were assuaged when Claudia announced immediately upon arriving, "I have to go pee on the potty!" Dutifully, I took Claudia upstairs and granted her some privacy so she could use the toilet and admire her Cinderella underwear.

Hours later, the novelty of Grandma's potty had worn off. I caught a whiff of something potently offensive, and naively assumed it was my own child. "I'm going to change Tommy's diaper," I told Claudia. "He's poopy."

"Poopy?" Claudia repeated. She seemed to be considering that as I walked away.

When I got to the changing station, I found Tommy wasn't in need of a diaper change, but---still way too naively---I assumed he'd just passed some gas. Moments later, Claudia was rushing towards me, pulling her pants and Cinderella underpants down in a state of complete panic. "Poop in the pants!! Poop in the pants!!! Aaaaaaaaahhh!"

Check that. I still don't think I have enough distance to make the 'ol remove-poop-from-the-pants-sterilize-the-bathroom-bathe-the-niece-while-anticipating-more-poop-in-the-bathtub-and-a-later-episode-of-seven-pee-puddles-in-the-bedroom entirely comical.

More better, though:

Yesterday, I was on the phone with my sister when she started in with a serious scolding. Scolding while on the phone is common in the mom club, so I didn't think too much of it until her tone was really rising, "William James!!! What are you doing!!!? Get back in here!!! Pull your pants up!!!"

Apparently, Will had decided it was too nice of a day to waste a second of sunshine. He'd taken a potty break on the front porch.

And It's Gonna Be Bright and Sunny Today!

Tommy has a toy remote control (how manly) that you can flip to the weather station. A man with an annoyingly high-pitched voice says, without fail, "And it's gonna be bright and sunny today!"

Yesterday, and today, it's true.

Except that Tommy and I are sick like dogs. I hate to be a whiner, but I am the youngest child. Isn't it officially spring? Doesn't that mean the cold and flu season is Over? When I signed up for the 2am shift, why didn't I consider the possibility that I might be coughing uncontrollably and dying for sleep-recovery of my own?

Poor Tommy. He's having the scary-high baby fevers and he rests his head heavily on my shoulder. That always indicates a problem, since he'd usually rather be scooting towards the nearest outlet. Or pulling Grandma's tablecloth off the table so the huge vase comes crashing down.*


*Grandchild in a Disaster Zone coming to theatres near you soon.

She-S-P

While shoe shopping recently, I spotted a clearance pair of serious spunk.

"I noticed those, too, except for one thing..." My friend replied. I nodded.

"Toe cleavage."

Ode to Vinnie

You were beautiful, Vinnie, shining in the sun, letting the sun shine in.
You were artful, Vinnie, a statue on Grand Avenue and at the LL Hotel.
You were comforting, Vinnie, a warming place for our freezing behinds.
You were glamorous, Vinnie, a glimmer of hope that even a Mom---this Mom---can be cool.

Vinnie the Volvo was sold yesterday to a handsome young Air Force man who has no kids. He is survived and replaced by the new auto in our lives. We finally accepted parenthood.

[Gasp.]

I'm a mini-van Mom.

Kid Behind Bars

My child has become a danger to himself and society. He's Trouble-Makin' Tommy, the boy who doesn't sleep at night and yet still musters up the charisma to give his Ma a devilish grin as the day starts. He's rarin' to go, crawling across the beds to play with the Venetian blinds and then explore the terrain until I save him from catapulting himself off the edge. Once he's down on the ground, he scoots towards live outlets, casting a smile in my direction. "No, Tommy, NO!"

Then it's onto the fan. Why not grab the fan, looming high above like a glorious conquest? "Tommy, NO!"

So we head upstairs. And he's off...zipping around the kitchen, he opens up the heavy metal drawer underneath the stove, clambering pots and pans into one another until til I pick him up. "No, Tommy! That's dangerous." He heads for another drawer as I slurp down my coffee. His fingers pull this once open and he strains to pull it out with all his weight. Except he doesn't quite have control, so his fingers soon are trapped in the shut drawer and he screams uncontrollably.

The poor kid.

It's gotten to the point where I can not leave Tommy for a split second without worrying that he'll find The Most Dangerous Item in the household. Whether he's stuffing Kleenex wads into his mouth or grabbing Grandma's glass frame of Claudia precariously---yet artfully---displayed on the lowest shelf, this kid is a danger.

And now he's behind bars.

Tales of Sobriety and Inebrity...mostly the latter

You're just not even respetive to that! You're not even respetive! Respetive, respetive, respetive!

Game

A fun game when you're bored is to go to the bathroom and count ants while you sit on the toilet.

Bonus points if you can still count them when your bathroom has a distracting floor pattern offering ant-camouflodge.

Slithering Ants

There is a laundry shoot at our house which conveniently allows us to collect dirty clothes in a closet in the laundry room. My mom and I do laundry endlessly---maybe 3 or 4 loads a day---but despite our efforts, the problem still persists.

Ants.

Disgusting ants.

I don't know how she can live in a house which presents this problem year after year. "It's every spring," she says, spraying toxic ANT AND ROACH KILLER on a pool of slithering friends. The smell, not to mention the sight, nauseates me.

Thank goodness for brand, spankin'-new suburban homes.

2 Year Old Flirts Flawlessly

Claudia: Don?
John: Yes?
Claudia: Do you wear pants?
[Pause.]
John: Yes...
Claudia: I do, too!

Old People Routine

Do denominations other than Catholicism have daily services? If not, I suggest you become Catholic before getting old. Hey, I guess I suggest it anyway, but the reason I'd like to point out right now is that Old People Need a Routine.

I'm not saying this to be disrespectful. In fact, I'm old in a lot of ways myself.

I've been going to daily Mass lately because it's Lent, and I'm too ill-disciplined to give something up for 40 days. Instead, I tote Tommy along and parade him in front of the old people who are always at daily Mass. I believe that a little bit of their daily Mass commitment stems from its familiarity and social opportunity, although I also believe that a great many of these folk are devout & faithful.

Why are so many more people devout & faithful at the end instead of the beginning? Are they just filling their days? Am I just filling mine?

Things She's Taught Me

1. Be patient.
2. Forgive.
3. Trust your instincts with your kids' safety.
4. When in doubt, bake.
5. Don't judge others.
6. Think of others before yourself.
7. Value family.

Globo de Nieve

The snow is thick, rich like icing.
Glistening underneath a rare winter sun.
Perhaps so beautiful because it's fleeting.
Perhaps because here, inside, I'm protected.
The tree bent down low to meet the ground yesterday,
But he shook the snow and released its weight.

9 Months In, 9 Months Out

Dear Tommy,

As my kind friend Miss Kate pointed out over the weekend, you've officially doubled your age. When we put our fabulous math skills together, we calculated that this won't occur again until you are 3 years old. Or 18 months old. Or something like that. Whatever. It's a momentous accomplishment, son.

As I write, you are muttering softly next to me in the bedroom. It's time for bed, and you're not really happy about it. I know you're tired, though. You've rested your head heavily upon the mattress, indicating that the day has exhausted you. You played hard in the bath, and you worked hard figuring out how to flick the lightswitch on and off. You're just getting over a high fever. They always happen over the weekend when we need to take you into Urgent Care to get things checked out.



The last month has been a big one, kiddo. It seems they always are. You're finally realizing that things have a NAME. Like Helen Keller and the water scene. I think this started out with a trick you've been doing...when we ask you to do your trick, you clasp your hands together and hold your hands in an "O" over your head. You look pretty darn proud of yourself.



At any rate, things have progressed since the O took shape. A week ago, you started to take extreme interest in Grandma's mantle clock. Then, one day, the word just came out: "clock." You repeated it several times. Clock. Clock. Clock.

Tick tock.

That day, it all came together. "Mama, mama," you pleaded as you crawled towards me across the rug. I knew you meant what you were saying. Later that night, you reiterated your understanding of the word by screaming, "Maaaamaa! Maaaama!" when you were supposed to be sleeping. I love you, Tommy, but night-night is night-night and I'm not getting out of bed just because you know my name.



I make exceptions for sickness.

It's not only been a big month for you...it's been a big one for our whole family. Last week, Dad and I finally took the plunge and signed a purchase agreement for Our First Home. Well, the first one not underneath the Barreller. And not within the confines of your grandparents' home. There's one bedroom for you, and one for us, and one for your toys or whoever comes to visit.

It's about 6 blocks from your cousins, and Will is planning to bike over as soon as we move in.

You're basically eating whatever's in front of you, although you've decided that Rice Cereal is now beneath your vast palate's standard. Daddy fed you a chocolate chip cookie today, along with cooked carrots, pot roast, and pureed potatoes. You love cheese, and today you gobbled it up atop scrambled eggs.



I wish I could freeze some moments, Tommy, in the way some people freeze cookies or leftovers for later. I wish I could pull out a tiny Tommy to hold and remember---in a physical sense---as these months and years go by. Yesterday, I walked by a picture of you from this summer, and I can't believe how much you've changed. You were so small and pudgy. Now you're long and thin and strong. And smart.

I could go on and on about who you are, Tommy, because you really are...already...coming into your own. It will be amazing to see how that progresses each day that stretches before us.

I love you.

Your,
Mama

P.S. Ask me later about how I accidentally spliced your little finger while cutting your nails. I'm sorry, Tommy. It was horrifying. And then you were SockHand.