Call me Mother of the Year.
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Christmas Eve turned into an exercise in Peanut control. We went from the great-grandparents to church to Nana and Papa's to home in one day. Let me just say I am in awe of what that kid can take and dole out. Transitions went well, the charm was turned to the max, and when he was done with this sitting still nonsense, he let me know quietly. Silent night, indeed.
A little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
In this house? Are you kidding? Peanut is TERRIFIED of Santa Claus. Boomer attempted to invoke the jolly old elf's name in an attempt to get the kid off me Christmas morning. Nothing doing. I finally asked if he wanted to see the tree, and that was acceptable. No Santa. At all. Maybe next year.
The presents were delightful, but the best part was the unwrapping. Peanut loves wrapping paper and will use his considerable powers of persuasion to unwrap your gift for you. Free of charge. Whether you want him to or not. I was laughing, because really, it made his day to play with the paper. The sheer joy was enough for both him and I to relax.
Then came the fun part: playing with new toys. Peanut just got done with a playdate involving Doggy Luke, new trains, Train Boy, two temper tantrums, and a partridge in a pear tree. We don't quite know what to do with this new stuff, but by golly, we're going to figure it out. The best part was listening to the boys be super polite to each other between joyous shrieks. SuperTeacher and I had to stuff sleeves into our mouths to keep from laughing out loud and spoiling the moment.
But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Santa Claus is Coming!
Call me Mother of the Year.
There is much excitement among We Who Follow Peanut. Christmas is coming. Peanut's yearly obsession with lights, cameras, and wrapping paper (wait, that's not right! Oh well.) is in full force and I am laughing. Best of all, the family is coming in full force. I'm rejoicing.
Peanut's a bit confused about this whole Santa deal. He gets the whole presents thing, but jolly fat man entering without Doggy Luke sounding his personal alarm isn't working so well. He gets the pictures of Santa, but doesn't quite believe in him yet. Wait until next year. Then I can use Santa for my nefarious Make My Kid Behave Scheme that has worked so beautifully for Runner Up. A note about Runner Up: I wanted a different name for her, but she informed me that if I am Mother of the Year, then she's my Runner Up. And the name stuck.
However, there are presents to be wrapped, Christmas cards to be sent, and many treats to be made and eaten. From my wonderful family to yours, may your holiday season be blessed with love, laughter, and all the joy of the season.
I would be remiss if I didn't thank all you who were kind enough to tell me your thoughts on my last entry. For your kind words, your support, and your stories, thank you from the bottom of my grateful heart. The process is ongoing, but that's another blog.
Call me Mother of the Year.
There is much excitement among We Who Follow Peanut. Christmas is coming. Peanut's yearly obsession with lights, cameras, and wrapping paper (wait, that's not right! Oh well.) is in full force and I am laughing. Best of all, the family is coming in full force. I'm rejoicing.
Peanut's a bit confused about this whole Santa deal. He gets the whole presents thing, but jolly fat man entering without Doggy Luke sounding his personal alarm isn't working so well. He gets the pictures of Santa, but doesn't quite believe in him yet. Wait until next year. Then I can use Santa for my nefarious Make My Kid Behave Scheme that has worked so beautifully for Runner Up. A note about Runner Up: I wanted a different name for her, but she informed me that if I am Mother of the Year, then she's my Runner Up. And the name stuck.
However, there are presents to be wrapped, Christmas cards to be sent, and many treats to be made and eaten. From my wonderful family to yours, may your holiday season be blessed with love, laughter, and all the joy of the season.
I would be remiss if I didn't thank all you who were kind enough to tell me your thoughts on my last entry. For your kind words, your support, and your stories, thank you from the bottom of my grateful heart. The process is ongoing, but that's another blog.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
There Goes My Heart
Call me Mother of the Year.
The first stage of the process is now complete. Back in September, I alluded to Peanut's preschool misadventures and mentioned that we were following up on different resources. Those resources have taken Boomer and I to pre-K screenings, the doctor's office, and most recently, a child psychologist. Now, after three months, we have a diagnosis.
Asperger's.
For those who are unaware, Asperger's is a mild, high functioning form of autism. It's more of a focus on the social/behavioral issues. The good news is that Peanut, like many with this, is intelligent to the point of awe. The bad news? It's still autism, complete with all the stigma.
So there's the facts. And we go to stage two. Stage two currently involves finding a pediatrician that specializes in the autism spectrum, another meeting with our school district, and figuring out if Peanut will have a place in a pre-K that will be more suitable than our first attempt. We know they want him; it's now a matter of do they have room for him.
The facts are cut and dried; my emotions are not.
When Boomer and my doctor put that kid in my arms nearly four years ago, I swore that I would be there for him. He would have the childhood I had. Loving parents, friends, grandparents to spoil him rotten, and every opportunity possible. He still has that, but the friends part is getting a bit more difficult. Thank God for Partner-In-Crime. And his parents.
Right now I feel like I've been kicked in the teeth. I want to know what I've done wrong. I want to keep him close to me. But I can't. And I know that I haven't done anything wrong. But it still hurts.
I know now that my son will always have an uphill battle ahead of him. More so than the other kids in his class. And no parent wants to hear that their precious baby's path isn't paved with gold.
I want to keep him safe from harm, from stares and comments. But I can't.
What I can do, however, is be his biggest fan. I can be a passionate advocate for my son. I can ensure the best education, learn his life, troubleshoot for him now, and (most importantly) teach him to deal with this crazy world. I can whisper words of love even when his temper makes him scream at me. I will make sure he knows he is adored by Boomer and me.
After all, isn't that what parenting is all about?
Call me Mother of the Year.
The first stage of the process is now complete. Back in September, I alluded to Peanut's preschool misadventures and mentioned that we were following up on different resources. Those resources have taken Boomer and I to pre-K screenings, the doctor's office, and most recently, a child psychologist. Now, after three months, we have a diagnosis.
Asperger's.
For those who are unaware, Asperger's is a mild, high functioning form of autism. It's more of a focus on the social/behavioral issues. The good news is that Peanut, like many with this, is intelligent to the point of awe. The bad news? It's still autism, complete with all the stigma.
So there's the facts. And we go to stage two. Stage two currently involves finding a pediatrician that specializes in the autism spectrum, another meeting with our school district, and figuring out if Peanut will have a place in a pre-K that will be more suitable than our first attempt. We know they want him; it's now a matter of do they have room for him.
The facts are cut and dried; my emotions are not.
When Boomer and my doctor put that kid in my arms nearly four years ago, I swore that I would be there for him. He would have the childhood I had. Loving parents, friends, grandparents to spoil him rotten, and every opportunity possible. He still has that, but the friends part is getting a bit more difficult. Thank God for Partner-In-Crime. And his parents.
Right now I feel like I've been kicked in the teeth. I want to know what I've done wrong. I want to keep him close to me. But I can't. And I know that I haven't done anything wrong. But it still hurts.
I know now that my son will always have an uphill battle ahead of him. More so than the other kids in his class. And no parent wants to hear that their precious baby's path isn't paved with gold.
I want to keep him safe from harm, from stares and comments. But I can't.
What I can do, however, is be his biggest fan. I can be a passionate advocate for my son. I can ensure the best education, learn his life, troubleshoot for him now, and (most importantly) teach him to deal with this crazy world. I can whisper words of love even when his temper makes him scream at me. I will make sure he knows he is adored by Boomer and me.
After all, isn't that what parenting is all about?
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Thanksgiving Leftovers
Call me Mother of the Year.
I have lots to be thankful for. Peanut was well-behaved during the family dinner (and the leftover feast!), hanging out with the family was grand as always, and Boomer made breakfast Friday AND Saturday. Oh, Spoiled Mommy.
A bit more about the feasts...
We hit Boomer's family first because they were closer and there was a party. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa celebrated their 60th anniversary this week, and we felt the need to celebrate with them. Boomer said he wanted to be like them. I said good, because I get to decide if we stay married the first 50 years, and then he gets the second 50. I may have to revise that one to the first 60, but I'm good so far. So is he.
Other than the minor point of Peanut's begging for toys at his cousin's house rather than eating, he did really well. No temper tantrums, and there was a thankful Mommy. We convinced Wonder Preschooler to leave so he could play with my cousin's kids at Nana and Papa's. We got there and realized they had left 30 minutes earlier. Drat. Luckily, Peanut knows where Nana keeps the toys and that Papa is a sucker for playing with Peanut. Disaster avoided. Too bad the Aggies couldn't say the same.
Friday was a nice, lazy day for us. Boomer made breakfast for his hungry son and grateful wife, and proceeded to take Wonder Preschooler to procure Christmas lights while I got quiet time. And there was much rejoicing. Lights look fantastic, and all are happy.
Saturday looked a lot like Friday, with one notable exception: Peanut is potty-trained! There is much rejoicing! We are quite proud of our Thomas underwear, and Mommy and Daddy are quite relieved.
And now, there is snow on the ground, Peanut wants to ski, and he's settling for going outside and sledding. Now, if only I could find the sled...
Call me Mother of the Year.
I have lots to be thankful for. Peanut was well-behaved during the family dinner (and the leftover feast!), hanging out with the family was grand as always, and Boomer made breakfast Friday AND Saturday. Oh, Spoiled Mommy.
A bit more about the feasts...
We hit Boomer's family first because they were closer and there was a party. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa celebrated their 60th anniversary this week, and we felt the need to celebrate with them. Boomer said he wanted to be like them. I said good, because I get to decide if we stay married the first 50 years, and then he gets the second 50. I may have to revise that one to the first 60, but I'm good so far. So is he.
Other than the minor point of Peanut's begging for toys at his cousin's house rather than eating, he did really well. No temper tantrums, and there was a thankful Mommy. We convinced Wonder Preschooler to leave so he could play with my cousin's kids at Nana and Papa's. We got there and realized they had left 30 minutes earlier. Drat. Luckily, Peanut knows where Nana keeps the toys and that Papa is a sucker for playing with Peanut. Disaster avoided. Too bad the Aggies couldn't say the same.
Friday was a nice, lazy day for us. Boomer made breakfast for his hungry son and grateful wife, and proceeded to take Wonder Preschooler to procure Christmas lights while I got quiet time. And there was much rejoicing. Lights look fantastic, and all are happy.
Saturday looked a lot like Friday, with one notable exception: Peanut is potty-trained! There is much rejoicing! We are quite proud of our Thomas underwear, and Mommy and Daddy are quite relieved.
And now, there is snow on the ground, Peanut wants to ski, and he's settling for going outside and sledding. Now, if only I could find the sled...
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Welcome Home!
Call me Mother of the Year.
After six months, our house is finally a home. All the members of our family are back under the same roof.
Boomer and I quickly realized that when we moved, we would need to fence in the backyard. Not necessarily because of adventuresome preschoolers, but an adventuresome dog who enjoys chasing birds and bunnies. Other projects got in the way, and the fence was put off. Until this weekend.
Boomer and Papa were able to finish the fence yesterday. It looks wonderful, and will keep all children safely in the yard. After admiring his work, Boomer looked at me with a slightly pleading gaze and asked if we could get his dog back ASAP. Since Doggy Luke really is Boomer's, I cheerfully agreed. Grammy was equally pleased, as she had been dog-sitting for the past six month. We owe her. Big.
Suffice it to say that Doggy was ecstatic to see Boomer and lost no time in expressing his love and affection by not letting my husband out of his sight. The ride home was entertaining; seventy-pound dog in the back seat next to Peanut, who went into gales of laughter every time Doggy Luke stuck his nose in Boomer's side.
Doggy is trying to adjust to the much bigger preschooler, off-limit furniture, and an infinitely bigger yard. He's already scoped out the single hole in the fence that we thought was too small for him to squeeze through, and thankfully he came back into the yard when called. Right now, he's on the lookout for Boomer's truck, afraid of being left again.
Welcome home, Doggy Luke.
Call me Mother of the Year.
After six months, our house is finally a home. All the members of our family are back under the same roof.
Boomer and I quickly realized that when we moved, we would need to fence in the backyard. Not necessarily because of adventuresome preschoolers, but an adventuresome dog who enjoys chasing birds and bunnies. Other projects got in the way, and the fence was put off. Until this weekend.
Boomer and Papa were able to finish the fence yesterday. It looks wonderful, and will keep all children safely in the yard. After admiring his work, Boomer looked at me with a slightly pleading gaze and asked if we could get his dog back ASAP. Since Doggy Luke really is Boomer's, I cheerfully agreed. Grammy was equally pleased, as she had been dog-sitting for the past six month. We owe her. Big.
Suffice it to say that Doggy was ecstatic to see Boomer and lost no time in expressing his love and affection by not letting my husband out of his sight. The ride home was entertaining; seventy-pound dog in the back seat next to Peanut, who went into gales of laughter every time Doggy Luke stuck his nose in Boomer's side.
Doggy is trying to adjust to the much bigger preschooler, off-limit furniture, and an infinitely bigger yard. He's already scoped out the single hole in the fence that we thought was too small for him to squeeze through, and thankfully he came back into the yard when called. Right now, he's on the lookout for Boomer's truck, afraid of being left again.
Welcome home, Doggy Luke.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Treasure Seeker
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm not sure I've mentioned this yet, but Peanut has an obsession with pirates. For the record, Opa's Talk Like a Pirate Day is not helping. Right now the obsession involves seeking buried treasure. In throw pillows and clean laundry.
Courtesy of Nana and Papa, we have a toy pirate ship, mainly because I was desperate to entertain the Wonder Preschooler in cold months. We are now following an imaginary treasure map in an attempt to find the treasure of Peanut's dreams. Trains will probably be involved. So far, we have braved the Confusing Couch, the Looming Pile of Laundry (clean! Clean I say!) and the Positively Petrifying Pile of Throw Pillows. Good thing I was an English major; my supply of adjectives is exhausted.
I think I know how to handle Christmas: massive treasure map.
But for now, I must investigate the treasures Peanut comes up with. And plot my revenge to Opa for Peanut's constant yelling of "AARRRGGGHHH!" Most importantly, though, I need to report for duty.
"Right Captain Mommy?"
"Right, First Mate Peanut. Full speed ahead!"
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm not sure I've mentioned this yet, but Peanut has an obsession with pirates. For the record, Opa's Talk Like a Pirate Day is not helping. Right now the obsession involves seeking buried treasure. In throw pillows and clean laundry.
Courtesy of Nana and Papa, we have a toy pirate ship, mainly because I was desperate to entertain the Wonder Preschooler in cold months. We are now following an imaginary treasure map in an attempt to find the treasure of Peanut's dreams. Trains will probably be involved. So far, we have braved the Confusing Couch, the Looming Pile of Laundry (clean! Clean I say!) and the Positively Petrifying Pile of Throw Pillows. Good thing I was an English major; my supply of adjectives is exhausted.
I think I know how to handle Christmas: massive treasure map.
But for now, I must investigate the treasures Peanut comes up with. And plot my revenge to Opa for Peanut's constant yelling of "AARRRGGGHHH!" Most importantly, though, I need to report for duty.
"Right Captain Mommy?"
"Right, First Mate Peanut. Full speed ahead!"
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Sleep, Peanut, Sleep
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm sure there's a reason for this. I'm equally sure I'm a major part of the reason. But I'm forced to wonder aloud why the HECK my kid is acting like someone gave him the preschooler version of No-Doz? The usual suspects include a contrary Peanut, disgustingly early wake-up time, and nearly two-hour nap due to disgustingly early wake-up time. Result: two hours of diversion while Peanut entertains us, his ghosts, stuffed animals and possibly the neighbors with singing and sound effects from a sippy cup. At least the kid's got rhythm. And we now know that bars on a toddler bed sound kind of like a xylophone when beaten with a sippy full of water. Learn something new every day.
There are lessons here. First, never allow a three and a half year old boy anywhere near my bed before 7:00 a.m. I'd prefer 8:00, but I'm attempting to be realistic. Second, if such insanity is in fact allowed, don't let the kid nap until 4:00 in the afternoon. Thus two-hour block. Not good.
On the other hand, a wired Peanut is seriously entertaining. When Boomer is in charge. And all I have to do is accept kisses and hugs. I'm good with this part. But it fell to me to convince Wonder Toddler that sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed all night wasn't going to happen. Major kicking. And sleeping with Peanut's feet in my face isn't comfortable.
At last, however, there is peace and quiet emanating from the Peanut's room. Which has been torn apart in the valiant but futile attempt at avoiding sleep. And he still needs to explain how sleeping under the pillow and over the covers is comfy. Oh well. Sleep well, little Peanut.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm sure there's a reason for this. I'm equally sure I'm a major part of the reason. But I'm forced to wonder aloud why the HECK my kid is acting like someone gave him the preschooler version of No-Doz? The usual suspects include a contrary Peanut, disgustingly early wake-up time, and nearly two-hour nap due to disgustingly early wake-up time. Result: two hours of diversion while Peanut entertains us, his ghosts, stuffed animals and possibly the neighbors with singing and sound effects from a sippy cup. At least the kid's got rhythm. And we now know that bars on a toddler bed sound kind of like a xylophone when beaten with a sippy full of water. Learn something new every day.
There are lessons here. First, never allow a three and a half year old boy anywhere near my bed before 7:00 a.m. I'd prefer 8:00, but I'm attempting to be realistic. Second, if such insanity is in fact allowed, don't let the kid nap until 4:00 in the afternoon. Thus two-hour block. Not good.
On the other hand, a wired Peanut is seriously entertaining. When Boomer is in charge. And all I have to do is accept kisses and hugs. I'm good with this part. But it fell to me to convince Wonder Toddler that sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed all night wasn't going to happen. Major kicking. And sleeping with Peanut's feet in my face isn't comfortable.
At last, however, there is peace and quiet emanating from the Peanut's room. Which has been torn apart in the valiant but futile attempt at avoiding sleep. And he still needs to explain how sleeping under the pillow and over the covers is comfy. Oh well. Sleep well, little Peanut.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Election
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's the night before the election, and I find myself pondering. Again. About who I'm going to vote for. Again. I have changed my mind more times than I can count, and I'm certain I'm not alone. On one hand, I really wanted to like Obama. But I'm not sure about his policies or his experience (or rather, lack thereof). I wanted to spend my time snarking about McCain, but I find myself agreeing with a few of his policies. As for Palin, well, there's a reason the pit bull costume stayed in my closet. Lipstick didn't match. Drat. So I'm stuck.
As I search for my voter registration card, polling place, and lucky quarter (hey, gotta make a decision somehow), I realize there is a candidate I haven't considered. He's young, but able to make tough decisions. No problem with cutting taxes. Good with foreign relations. Has firm opinions about energy options. In short, the perfect candidate.
Peanut for President.
Partner-In-Crime for Vice-President.
Peanut is excellent at deciding snack time and outdoor play. Peanut has no problem cutting taxes because he doesn't know what they are. Does not know strangers, and considers everyone his friend. Objects to nap time with furious vigor. And, well, he's short. Plus, his Vice-Presidential candidate is six months older, and does his best to tell Peanut what to do. The perfect ticket.
So I've got big plans to vote for the Dastardly Duo ticket on November 4. Except the age thing caught up to me. And the lack of education. And the likelihood that those two would turn the White House into their playground at taxpayer expense. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Where'd that quarter get to?
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's the night before the election, and I find myself pondering. Again. About who I'm going to vote for. Again. I have changed my mind more times than I can count, and I'm certain I'm not alone. On one hand, I really wanted to like Obama. But I'm not sure about his policies or his experience (or rather, lack thereof). I wanted to spend my time snarking about McCain, but I find myself agreeing with a few of his policies. As for Palin, well, there's a reason the pit bull costume stayed in my closet. Lipstick didn't match. Drat. So I'm stuck.
As I search for my voter registration card, polling place, and lucky quarter (hey, gotta make a decision somehow), I realize there is a candidate I haven't considered. He's young, but able to make tough decisions. No problem with cutting taxes. Good with foreign relations. Has firm opinions about energy options. In short, the perfect candidate.
Peanut for President.
Partner-In-Crime for Vice-President.
Peanut is excellent at deciding snack time and outdoor play. Peanut has no problem cutting taxes because he doesn't know what they are. Does not know strangers, and considers everyone his friend. Objects to nap time with furious vigor. And, well, he's short. Plus, his Vice-Presidential candidate is six months older, and does his best to tell Peanut what to do. The perfect ticket.
So I've got big plans to vote for the Dastardly Duo ticket on November 4. Except the age thing caught up to me. And the lack of education. And the likelihood that those two would turn the White House into their playground at taxpayer expense. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Where'd that quarter get to?
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Halloween Wrapup
Call me Mother of the Year.
The candy begging is over, and the sugar rush is just beginning. Despite my son's enviable eating habits (I'm grateful to have the only child in America who begs for broccoli), he is currently convinced that he needs candy for all meals. Seriously, Peanut on sugar high is not on my list of fun things. Especially when I'm the one saying no.
Not surprisingly, there are a few fun stories. One of Peanut's cousins, slightly younger, called "trick or treat" to the kids at his house and then tried to reach into their bags to thief their candy. Too bad wee ones do NOT get the thought of "if I'm giving them candy, they're not giving it back". I'm snickering only because it wasn't my kid. According to Boomer, my kid bellowed "trick or treat" with everything he had (and trust me, this kid's got quite a bit... blame his mother) at an unsuspecting elderly lady. Friends are snickering. Same reason as my earlier snickering.
I too had a moment to ponder that had nothing to do with chocolate. A friend and I were supervising our sons in their I-look-cute-so-give-me-candy scheme and, during our collective admonishments to say thank you, he offered a bit of advice.
"We helicopter parents need to quit hovering."
Huh.
I like to think that I'm giving Peanut his space, or as much space as a three and a half year old can expect. But as I write this, the evidence suggests otherwise. Mommy constantly watching child at the park, ready to correct or make better? Right here. Rarely lets Wonder Toddler out of sight? You guessed it. Husband contemplating patenting phrases "He'll be fine." "I've got this." "Relax!" Present and accounted for.
It may be prudent for me to start realizing that protective is good, but hovering is bad, even for toddlers. And yes, I'm going to start attempting to let go of some of my control. The Peanut will undoubtedly react with glee. The laughter you hear is Boomer's. But then, he knows me too well for my own good.
Call me Mother of the Year.
The candy begging is over, and the sugar rush is just beginning. Despite my son's enviable eating habits (I'm grateful to have the only child in America who begs for broccoli), he is currently convinced that he needs candy for all meals. Seriously, Peanut on sugar high is not on my list of fun things. Especially when I'm the one saying no.
Not surprisingly, there are a few fun stories. One of Peanut's cousins, slightly younger, called "trick or treat" to the kids at his house and then tried to reach into their bags to thief their candy. Too bad wee ones do NOT get the thought of "if I'm giving them candy, they're not giving it back". I'm snickering only because it wasn't my kid. According to Boomer, my kid bellowed "trick or treat" with everything he had (and trust me, this kid's got quite a bit... blame his mother) at an unsuspecting elderly lady. Friends are snickering. Same reason as my earlier snickering.
I too had a moment to ponder that had nothing to do with chocolate. A friend and I were supervising our sons in their I-look-cute-so-give-me-candy scheme and, during our collective admonishments to say thank you, he offered a bit of advice.
"We helicopter parents need to quit hovering."
Huh.
I like to think that I'm giving Peanut his space, or as much space as a three and a half year old can expect. But as I write this, the evidence suggests otherwise. Mommy constantly watching child at the park, ready to correct or make better? Right here. Rarely lets Wonder Toddler out of sight? You guessed it. Husband contemplating patenting phrases "He'll be fine." "I've got this." "Relax!" Present and accounted for.
It may be prudent for me to start realizing that protective is good, but hovering is bad, even for toddlers. And yes, I'm going to start attempting to let go of some of my control. The Peanut will undoubtedly react with glee. The laughter you hear is Boomer's. But then, he knows me too well for my own good.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Wonder of the Peanut
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is entranced. And there was much amusement from his mother.
Mark this on the calendar, kids: the first snow flurries have arrived. It's a disgusting 40 degrees outside, and snow is hanging out on our deck, patio, and doing a fine job of sneaking into our pool. By the way, it's only disgusting because there was an outdoor play date scheduled for tomorrow that is so not going to happen now. Grrr. Anyway. So I look out the window and advise Peanut that it is, in fact, snowing. Then things got very cool around here.
Peanut, being small and full of wonder, immediately hauled preschooler butt to the nearest door to investigate, Mommy closely following. I may be a professional crank at times, but I still enjoy the peace of the first snow of the year. Until I have to drive in it.
"Mommy! It's snowing!!!"
"Yeah, Peanut, isn't it great?"
A pause, and then the fun starts.
A tiny voice asks, "Can we go skiing now?"
And Mommy is hard put to keep from laughing her head off.
Peanut accepts that skiing will not be happening for a few more months because there needs to be more snow. And we're skiing over his birthday, and we can't leave until his birthday. The snow quickly loses favor, and the trains win out.
Meanwhile, I'm enjoying my son's wonder at this small beauty. And searching frantically for my cocoa recipe. Popcorn, cocoa, and snow. And happy Peanut. Life is good.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is entranced. And there was much amusement from his mother.
Mark this on the calendar, kids: the first snow flurries have arrived. It's a disgusting 40 degrees outside, and snow is hanging out on our deck, patio, and doing a fine job of sneaking into our pool. By the way, it's only disgusting because there was an outdoor play date scheduled for tomorrow that is so not going to happen now. Grrr. Anyway. So I look out the window and advise Peanut that it is, in fact, snowing. Then things got very cool around here.
Peanut, being small and full of wonder, immediately hauled preschooler butt to the nearest door to investigate, Mommy closely following. I may be a professional crank at times, but I still enjoy the peace of the first snow of the year. Until I have to drive in it.
"Mommy! It's snowing!!!"
"Yeah, Peanut, isn't it great?"
A pause, and then the fun starts.
A tiny voice asks, "Can we go skiing now?"
And Mommy is hard put to keep from laughing her head off.
Peanut accepts that skiing will not be happening for a few more months because there needs to be more snow. And we're skiing over his birthday, and we can't leave until his birthday. The snow quickly loses favor, and the trains win out.
Meanwhile, I'm enjoying my son's wonder at this small beauty. And searching frantically for my cocoa recipe. Popcorn, cocoa, and snow. And happy Peanut. Life is good.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Follow the Peanut!
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's autumn, and therefore We Who Follow Peanut are accomplices in his last hurrah of outdoor mischief. Last week found Wonder Toddler at not one but two corn mazes. And there was much rejoicing.
This is probably better titled Why The Toddler Shouldn't Lead.
The corn mazes were delightful, mainly because the weather was spectacular both days. However, I confess I got a bigger kick out of seeing the mazes through Peanut's eyes. He was all excited about running away from Mommy and being in charge. For once, I listened to Boomer and let Peanut choose our course on the second maze. Good thing there was no set time on when the maze was closing; Peanut's not much of a directional guy, but he's very good at ordering his parents around. This time, he got away with it. And all was right in the Peanut-verse.
There were parts of the maze that were dead ends and Peanut was allowed to run unaccompanied. His first taste of freedom, and man, he was thrilled. It's good for him, and I know it. But he's refusing to hold my hand now, and that hurts a little. I'm glad of his confidence, but I miss him needing me already. I started laughing at myself, because seriously, if I'm like this now what on earth am I going to do when he REALLY breaks out his independent streak? Not sure yet, but I suspect crying and chocolate will be involved.
Meanwhile, I'm needed to kiss owies and play conductor. It's nice to still be needed, if only on a temporary basis.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's autumn, and therefore We Who Follow Peanut are accomplices in his last hurrah of outdoor mischief. Last week found Wonder Toddler at not one but two corn mazes. And there was much rejoicing.
This is probably better titled Why The Toddler Shouldn't Lead.
The corn mazes were delightful, mainly because the weather was spectacular both days. However, I confess I got a bigger kick out of seeing the mazes through Peanut's eyes. He was all excited about running away from Mommy and being in charge. For once, I listened to Boomer and let Peanut choose our course on the second maze. Good thing there was no set time on when the maze was closing; Peanut's not much of a directional guy, but he's very good at ordering his parents around. This time, he got away with it. And all was right in the Peanut-verse.
There were parts of the maze that were dead ends and Peanut was allowed to run unaccompanied. His first taste of freedom, and man, he was thrilled. It's good for him, and I know it. But he's refusing to hold my hand now, and that hurts a little. I'm glad of his confidence, but I miss him needing me already. I started laughing at myself, because seriously, if I'm like this now what on earth am I going to do when he REALLY breaks out his independent streak? Not sure yet, but I suspect crying and chocolate will be involved.
Meanwhile, I'm needed to kiss owies and play conductor. It's nice to still be needed, if only on a temporary basis.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
No, Diego, NO!
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm not much into television. Sure, PBS Kids is a godsend when I decide I need a shower or housework is desperate, but I prefer coloring or trains when Peanut is unable to be outside. I'm starting to understand why.
There are a few shows that will never be allowed in this house. Some I've never been a fan of, but the rest I've discovered through trial and error.
Barney and Friends
Any form of Power Rangers
Most of Cartoon Network (except for Looney Tunes when he's a bit older-- classic!)
Go Diego Go
The problem with these is they get seriously annoying when repeated ad nauseam by the small voice of the Wonder Toddler. Plus, in the case of Diego, the kid turns into a major drama king. Whatever gave programmers the idea that making everything completely urgent for small children was a good one?
I thought that this would be good. Learning about animals, learning a second language, kindness and helping. In theory, it works. The practice is a bit skewed.
Due to the ferocity of Peanut's temper tantrums after a few days of Diego, it has been turned off forever. Interestingly, Peanut does not seem to miss his former obsession, and the the quotes have gone away. There's been more train playing, and a happier preschooler and Mommy. Good thing the only girl is me, and I won't watch Dora.
But for now, the trains are getting their cargo, my house is reasonably clean, and the television is off. Peace and quiet. For the next thirty seconds.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm not much into television. Sure, PBS Kids is a godsend when I decide I need a shower or housework is desperate, but I prefer coloring or trains when Peanut is unable to be outside. I'm starting to understand why.
There are a few shows that will never be allowed in this house. Some I've never been a fan of, but the rest I've discovered through trial and error.
Barney and Friends
Any form of Power Rangers
Most of Cartoon Network (except for Looney Tunes when he's a bit older-- classic!)
Go Diego Go
The problem with these is they get seriously annoying when repeated ad nauseam by the small voice of the Wonder Toddler. Plus, in the case of Diego, the kid turns into a major drama king. Whatever gave programmers the idea that making everything completely urgent for small children was a good one?
I thought that this would be good. Learning about animals, learning a second language, kindness and helping. In theory, it works. The practice is a bit skewed.
Due to the ferocity of Peanut's temper tantrums after a few days of Diego, it has been turned off forever. Interestingly, Peanut does not seem to miss his former obsession, and the the quotes have gone away. There's been more train playing, and a happier preschooler and Mommy. Good thing the only girl is me, and I won't watch Dora.
But for now, the trains are getting their cargo, my house is reasonably clean, and the television is off. Peace and quiet. For the next thirty seconds.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Them Lovable Losers
Call me Mother of the Year.
And now for something completely different!
October is one of my favorite months, strictly because I can watch football and baseball, sometimes on the same night. While Boomer and I are in firm agreement on which football team to root for (all about the Bears, kids, and Peanut will be brainwashed), baseball is another matter entirely.
I remain convinced that I'm still allowed in family gatherings because of my husband and son. Let me explain. Not that my family doesn't love me to distraction, but, well, they're Cubs fans. All of them. And I am not. So from April to October things tend to be a wee bit tense. To his eternal credit, Boomer refrains from my family's snarkfest because the Cubs tend to be less than trustworthy.
Now, however, I'm being ganged up on. My team stank so badly I'm still smelling it, my kid yells "Go Cubs!!" (and thank you Grampa Sarge) every time a sporting event comes on, and I figured it was time to cower. Until tonight.
Bottom of the sixth, game three, Cubs vs. Dodgers in L.A. And the Cubs are losing. Again.
Hee hee hee.
I'm fairly ignorant about the Cubbies, but I was under the impression (given to me by, oh, EVERYONE AROUND ME) that the Cubs had the best record in the National League. Not the division, the League. And so far, they're imploding. Reminds me of a line from the Steve Goodman classic "A Dying Cub Fan's Last Lament": "the doormat of the National League".
Granted, they could pull this off. But I doubt it. Maybe there's still time to show Peanut the error of his ways. After all, he's just repeating what he's hearing. Which reminds me to watch my mouth around him.
Or maybe I should just duck and cover and wait for the season to end. After all, there's always football. Now there's a comforting thought.
Call me Mother of the Year.
And now for something completely different!
October is one of my favorite months, strictly because I can watch football and baseball, sometimes on the same night. While Boomer and I are in firm agreement on which football team to root for (all about the Bears, kids, and Peanut will be brainwashed), baseball is another matter entirely.
I remain convinced that I'm still allowed in family gatherings because of my husband and son. Let me explain. Not that my family doesn't love me to distraction, but, well, they're Cubs fans. All of them. And I am not. So from April to October things tend to be a wee bit tense. To his eternal credit, Boomer refrains from my family's snarkfest because the Cubs tend to be less than trustworthy.
Now, however, I'm being ganged up on. My team stank so badly I'm still smelling it, my kid yells "Go Cubs!!" (and thank you Grampa Sarge) every time a sporting event comes on, and I figured it was time to cower. Until tonight.
Bottom of the sixth, game three, Cubs vs. Dodgers in L.A. And the Cubs are losing. Again.
Hee hee hee.
I'm fairly ignorant about the Cubbies, but I was under the impression (given to me by, oh, EVERYONE AROUND ME) that the Cubs had the best record in the National League. Not the division, the League. And so far, they're imploding. Reminds me of a line from the Steve Goodman classic "A Dying Cub Fan's Last Lament": "the doormat of the National League".
Granted, they could pull this off. But I doubt it. Maybe there's still time to show Peanut the error of his ways. After all, he's just repeating what he's hearing. Which reminds me to watch my mouth around him.
Or maybe I should just duck and cover and wait for the season to end. After all, there's always football. Now there's a comforting thought.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Part the Second
Call me Mother of the Year.
In reading yesterday's post, I realize that I elaborated more on the crankiness (mine) rather than the confusion (Peanut's). And his friends.
Peanut is still trying to understand why I took school away from him. Boomer has done his best, but the message is only being repeated back to him by a still befuddled toddler. I just don't have the words yet. Actually, in the interest of being completely honest, I don't have words that may hurt a small psyche. Right now, Boomer and I are working on the temper tantrums, the physicality of Peanut, and the all important potty training. We're having some small successes, and I'm encouraged by that.
Peanut, however, still wonders about his cohorts. One in particular. The other half of the Dastardly Duo was in Peanut's preschool class (still is). He was thoroughly down last week, and refused to talk about it to the teachers or his parents. Mommy Cohort told me that when he finally talked about what was wrong, he looked at his teachers and said "I'm sad because my friend Peanut isn't here anymore."
Ouch.
Don't worry, Partner-In-Crime. Peanut's bouncing back from this. As is his mother. He may be in a different class from now on, but the park is still your kingdom. And as long as the slides are available, Peanut will know the love of friends made and turns taken. Without shoving. Or not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
In reading yesterday's post, I realize that I elaborated more on the crankiness (mine) rather than the confusion (Peanut's). And his friends.
Peanut is still trying to understand why I took school away from him. Boomer has done his best, but the message is only being repeated back to him by a still befuddled toddler. I just don't have the words yet. Actually, in the interest of being completely honest, I don't have words that may hurt a small psyche. Right now, Boomer and I are working on the temper tantrums, the physicality of Peanut, and the all important potty training. We're having some small successes, and I'm encouraged by that.
Peanut, however, still wonders about his cohorts. One in particular. The other half of the Dastardly Duo was in Peanut's preschool class (still is). He was thoroughly down last week, and refused to talk about it to the teachers or his parents. Mommy Cohort told me that when he finally talked about what was wrong, he looked at his teachers and said "I'm sad because my friend Peanut isn't here anymore."
Ouch.
Don't worry, Partner-In-Crime. Peanut's bouncing back from this. As is his mother. He may be in a different class from now on, but the park is still your kingdom. And as long as the slides are available, Peanut will know the love of friends made and turns taken. Without shoving. Or not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Crankiness and Confusion
Call me Mother of the Year.
It was a wickedly bad last week. Make no mistake, the omens were neon, but still. This is ridiculous.
Last Monday I had a conference with Peanut's preschool teachers. They called after his third day of preschool (I'm counting orientation) and said that they had some concerns about Peanut's behavior. Could we meet without him? Yes.
With a feeling of dread, I let Boomer know what was going on. After all, we had some concerns of our own. Potty training is nonexistent, which in my world means no more preschool. Boomer tried to calm me down. Didn't work.
Sure enough, when I came into his school on Monday, they were waiting for me. With a list. Not good.
To their credit, they wanted this as much as I did. Which is not at all. The professional in me heard "overwhelmed", " temper tantrums", regression of "toilet issues". The mommy heard that we were being given a full refund of Peanut's tuition. And all of a sudden, it hit me: my careful preparation was shot. They were asking my child to go home and not come back.
Wow. That hurt.
The teachers realized what a blow this was and gave me a few resources, all of which I'm using. Here at home, I realize that there were signs I was missing. Peanut is easily overwhelmed by choice and there were many more children than he was used to at one time. He has serious issues with transition. A different class would be in his best interest, and Boomer and I have come to understand that this is for the best.
It's no one's fault, but the thought that keeps me awake when my guys are asleep is that Peanut was expelled from preschool. After three days. And it's all my fault.
It isn't, actually. And when Boomer reads this, he will shoot me his now-patented, not-so-much look, and reassure me. I think now I'm finally ready to listen to him.
In the meantime, Peanut is trying to figure out when he can play with his preschool buddies and enjoy the wonders of new trains. I'm trying to find the words to tell him he can't yet.
All I can say is "Not today."
Call me Mother of the Year.
It was a wickedly bad last week. Make no mistake, the omens were neon, but still. This is ridiculous.
Last Monday I had a conference with Peanut's preschool teachers. They called after his third day of preschool (I'm counting orientation) and said that they had some concerns about Peanut's behavior. Could we meet without him? Yes.
With a feeling of dread, I let Boomer know what was going on. After all, we had some concerns of our own. Potty training is nonexistent, which in my world means no more preschool. Boomer tried to calm me down. Didn't work.
Sure enough, when I came into his school on Monday, they were waiting for me. With a list. Not good.
To their credit, they wanted this as much as I did. Which is not at all. The professional in me heard "overwhelmed", " temper tantrums", regression of "toilet issues". The mommy heard that we were being given a full refund of Peanut's tuition. And all of a sudden, it hit me: my careful preparation was shot. They were asking my child to go home and not come back.
Wow. That hurt.
The teachers realized what a blow this was and gave me a few resources, all of which I'm using. Here at home, I realize that there were signs I was missing. Peanut is easily overwhelmed by choice and there were many more children than he was used to at one time. He has serious issues with transition. A different class would be in his best interest, and Boomer and I have come to understand that this is for the best.
It's no one's fault, but the thought that keeps me awake when my guys are asleep is that Peanut was expelled from preschool. After three days. And it's all my fault.
It isn't, actually. And when Boomer reads this, he will shoot me his now-patented, not-so-much look, and reassure me. I think now I'm finally ready to listen to him.
In the meantime, Peanut is trying to figure out when he can play with his preschool buddies and enjoy the wonders of new trains. I'm trying to find the words to tell him he can't yet.
All I can say is "Not today."
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Mother of Peanut
Call me Mother of the Year.
I had plans for a different blog today. It was going to be all about the Wonder Toddler's first day of preschool, and how he reacted. I sat down, ready to discourse on the joys of the miniature playground and how he didn't want to leave it, his inability to sit still during the story, and how his teachers handled the inevitable shoving matches he started. And then it hit me.
My baby's not a baby anymore.
For those who have seen Peanut recently, this is all too obvious. But not to me. At least, not before yesterday. I can still see the innocent baby he was in the boy he is. I see it in the way he wants to climb into bed with Boomer and me first thing in the morning. He still requires hugs as he watches SuperWHY, and will not nap without a sippy cup of water.
But now I'm seeing other things.
I see an independent little boy who loves riding his tricycle around our neighborhood, who likes to walk beside me rather than hold my hand. I see a boy who wants to comfort someone smaller than him who is crying rather than focus on his own needs. I see that his friends are getting a bigger place than I currently occupy.
I know that it's a part of growing up and being independent. I know that I'm doing my job well enough that he feels comfortable with himself to let me go.
But it still hurts. And he's only three and a half. And I don't want to let go.
But I will. I will help him stand in line with the other kids and ask for a hug that he will fleetingly give before walking into the wonders of preschool. And if my heart breaks while I smile and say goodbye, well, that's for the other (perceptive) mommies to see. Not my baby who is no longer a baby. And I can smile, knowing that he is well-cared for and will learn what I cannot teach him. The joy of playing with friends, the wonder of knowledge gained, and the comfort of loved ones at the end of the school day. My job is not over, but it's time to let others help with the teaching of Peanut. I need to be wise enough to allow it.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I had plans for a different blog today. It was going to be all about the Wonder Toddler's first day of preschool, and how he reacted. I sat down, ready to discourse on the joys of the miniature playground and how he didn't want to leave it, his inability to sit still during the story, and how his teachers handled the inevitable shoving matches he started. And then it hit me.
My baby's not a baby anymore.
For those who have seen Peanut recently, this is all too obvious. But not to me. At least, not before yesterday. I can still see the innocent baby he was in the boy he is. I see it in the way he wants to climb into bed with Boomer and me first thing in the morning. He still requires hugs as he watches SuperWHY, and will not nap without a sippy cup of water.
But now I'm seeing other things.
I see an independent little boy who loves riding his tricycle around our neighborhood, who likes to walk beside me rather than hold my hand. I see a boy who wants to comfort someone smaller than him who is crying rather than focus on his own needs. I see that his friends are getting a bigger place than I currently occupy.
I know that it's a part of growing up and being independent. I know that I'm doing my job well enough that he feels comfortable with himself to let me go.
But it still hurts. And he's only three and a half. And I don't want to let go.
But I will. I will help him stand in line with the other kids and ask for a hug that he will fleetingly give before walking into the wonders of preschool. And if my heart breaks while I smile and say goodbye, well, that's for the other (perceptive) mommies to see. Not my baby who is no longer a baby. And I can smile, knowing that he is well-cared for and will learn what I cannot teach him. The joy of playing with friends, the wonder of knowledge gained, and the comfort of loved ones at the end of the school day. My job is not over, but it's time to let others help with the teaching of Peanut. I need to be wise enough to allow it.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Peanut Orientation
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut has decided that initiating Boomer and me in his mischief attempts is simply not enough. Now we must send him upon an unsuspecting world.
Peanut finally got to go to school this afternoon. Boomer and I were witnesses, and at times, referees. Not surprisingly, Peanut made his presence known immediately. He was holding both our hands, and as soon as he saw his teachers he ditched us like we were yesterday's diapers, sprinting toward the door with hapless teachers in his wake.
"This is Peanut, and he's very excited," explained our greeters to the other teachers.
"You have no idea", I think.
Peanut receives name tag and greetings, and promptly ignores the rest of the pupils and teachers in favor of the cars and trucks. Seriously, he hangs out at the crane for a half hour straight, blowing off all attempts to get him to see the rest of the room. He also decides that the other kids should find something else to play with. Finally, transition music is played for all the kids to get in a circle for storytime. Peanut takes this as his signal to dance and explore the room. It takes three teachers, their supervisor, and Boomer to get Peanut in the story circle. Once there, it takes the kid all of two minutes to figure out how to escape. Boomer then eyes me and offers the thought that we are in trouble. Um, duh.
Peanut eventually calms down, but this is merely a lull. The kids have to wait in single file line, which the Wonder Toddler cracks up at. Suffice it to say the temper tantrum was vicious in the parking lot.
However, I take heart that Peanut will learn patience and routine. Or be the first kid ever kicked out of preschool.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut has decided that initiating Boomer and me in his mischief attempts is simply not enough. Now we must send him upon an unsuspecting world.
Peanut finally got to go to school this afternoon. Boomer and I were witnesses, and at times, referees. Not surprisingly, Peanut made his presence known immediately. He was holding both our hands, and as soon as he saw his teachers he ditched us like we were yesterday's diapers, sprinting toward the door with hapless teachers in his wake.
"This is Peanut, and he's very excited," explained our greeters to the other teachers.
"You have no idea", I think.
Peanut receives name tag and greetings, and promptly ignores the rest of the pupils and teachers in favor of the cars and trucks. Seriously, he hangs out at the crane for a half hour straight, blowing off all attempts to get him to see the rest of the room. He also decides that the other kids should find something else to play with. Finally, transition music is played for all the kids to get in a circle for storytime. Peanut takes this as his signal to dance and explore the room. It takes three teachers, their supervisor, and Boomer to get Peanut in the story circle. Once there, it takes the kid all of two minutes to figure out how to escape. Boomer then eyes me and offers the thought that we are in trouble. Um, duh.
Peanut eventually calms down, but this is merely a lull. The kids have to wait in single file line, which the Wonder Toddler cracks up at. Suffice it to say the temper tantrum was vicious in the parking lot.
However, I take heart that Peanut will learn patience and routine. Or be the first kid ever kicked out of preschool.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, September 5, 2008
SuperPeanut
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's official: I'm now in trouble.
Peanut has been quite busy making sure my hair changes color early. Thus far, he's used the low wall outside our fire pit as the scene for leaping off burning buildings, but now that's old news. We're on to bigger and better things.
As I was busily discussing family news and bemoaning Peanut's latest outfoxing maneuvers with Nana, Peanut came tearing into my room. The kid had removed his socks and donned the all-important Thomas backpack (specifically for preschool and any adventure Peanut deems appropriate). This, I have learned, is not a good combination. Sure enough, Wonder Toddler leapt off the bed and tried mightily to land among my pile of throw pillows. Thankfully, he succeeded.
"OMG!!!" He's a stunt double!!!"
"And you're surprised??"
Hmph.
When it comes to Flying SuperPeanut, Nana is no help whatsoever. I'm guessing it has something to do with Evil Twin and I, but in all honesty, I'm happier if I can pull of plausible deniability. Or not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's official: I'm now in trouble.
Peanut has been quite busy making sure my hair changes color early. Thus far, he's used the low wall outside our fire pit as the scene for leaping off burning buildings, but now that's old news. We're on to bigger and better things.
As I was busily discussing family news and bemoaning Peanut's latest outfoxing maneuvers with Nana, Peanut came tearing into my room. The kid had removed his socks and donned the all-important Thomas backpack (specifically for preschool and any adventure Peanut deems appropriate). This, I have learned, is not a good combination. Sure enough, Wonder Toddler leapt off the bed and tried mightily to land among my pile of throw pillows. Thankfully, he succeeded.
"OMG!!!" He's a stunt double!!!"
"And you're surprised??"
Hmph.
When it comes to Flying SuperPeanut, Nana is no help whatsoever. I'm guessing it has something to do with Evil Twin and I, but in all honesty, I'm happier if I can pull of plausible deniability. Or not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Laughter
Call me Mother of the Year.
Somewhere, Papa is laughing his head off. Peanut has copied his mother.
Papa tells a story of my childhood that has long been backed up by Nana. It seems that when Evil Twin and I were toddlers, we were busy running amok and causing mischief outside. Hard to believe. Anyway. Papa sent us back into the house and told us that punishment would be discussed when he came in. Imagine his shock when, five minutes later, his children came outside to finish their mischief. Evil Twin had the brilliant idea to ask Nana if we could go outside. Nana, being unaware of potential punishment, agreed. Thus longer time-outs. Thus me no longer listening to Evil Twin, who still claims this was a good idea.
With some slight changes, history repeated itself tonight. Peanut has a bag of counting bears because Grammy has a wicked sense of humor. Right before bedtime, Peanut yanks the bag out from his toy box and requests a game. I know how this works: bears get dumped, and bedtime gets put off while Peanut slo-o-o-owly puts them back in the bag. Request denied.
Peanut being Peanut didn't stop there. With my refusal still lingering in the air, he went racing down the hallway to where Boomer was washing dishes and unaware of my conversation. Thus the smile on my face (for two seconds) and relief when Boomer said no as well. He's played this game, too.
I guess Peanut really did get more than my eyes and hands. He got Evil Twin's conniving spirit. Now I'm in trouble.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Somewhere, Papa is laughing his head off. Peanut has copied his mother.
Papa tells a story of my childhood that has long been backed up by Nana. It seems that when Evil Twin and I were toddlers, we were busy running amok and causing mischief outside. Hard to believe. Anyway. Papa sent us back into the house and told us that punishment would be discussed when he came in. Imagine his shock when, five minutes later, his children came outside to finish their mischief. Evil Twin had the brilliant idea to ask Nana if we could go outside. Nana, being unaware of potential punishment, agreed. Thus longer time-outs. Thus me no longer listening to Evil Twin, who still claims this was a good idea.
With some slight changes, history repeated itself tonight. Peanut has a bag of counting bears because Grammy has a wicked sense of humor. Right before bedtime, Peanut yanks the bag out from his toy box and requests a game. I know how this works: bears get dumped, and bedtime gets put off while Peanut slo-o-o-owly puts them back in the bag. Request denied.
Peanut being Peanut didn't stop there. With my refusal still lingering in the air, he went racing down the hallway to where Boomer was washing dishes and unaware of my conversation. Thus the smile on my face (for two seconds) and relief when Boomer said no as well. He's played this game, too.
I guess Peanut really did get more than my eyes and hands. He got Evil Twin's conniving spirit. Now I'm in trouble.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, August 15, 2008
School Days
Call me Mother of the Year.
Now that potty training is well in hand, Peanut and I have a new obsession: school. Apparently, my constant discussion has paid off, because all the Wonder Toddler wants is to attack the preschool the way he is currently attacking his trains.
In an effort (futile) to appease Peanut, I told him about Vacation Bible School. Like many churches, ours is at night and there is a special program for preschoolers. Since Grammy is in charge of the preschool class, I thought it would be a good idea to let Peanut get accustomed to the routine preschool will undoubtedly be. Good intentions, but the results are mixed.
Knowing that Grammy raised Boomer, I hold the thought that Peanut wouldn't get away with much in her classroom. This proved to be correct because I can think of at least two occasions where Peanut was vociferously removed from class.
Author's Note: Yes, parents were present at all times.
The mischief wasn't helped in the least by the facts that Peanut's cousin and favorite church cohorts were in his class. Ten preschoolers, their parents, and Grammy. That woman deserves medals. Or alcohol. Maybe both. Peanut held that he should run amok with said cohorts, and Grammy and I spent much time and effort debunking this myth. One night, after multiple warnings, I removed him in favor of bedtime. Another night, I was told it was time to leave. Readers may think this is harsh. It really isn't.
However, VBS has given me a hint as to what preschool may look like. Good thing his teacher has my number; by the end of the year, I'll wager it'll be on speed-dial.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Now that potty training is well in hand, Peanut and I have a new obsession: school. Apparently, my constant discussion has paid off, because all the Wonder Toddler wants is to attack the preschool the way he is currently attacking his trains.
In an effort (futile) to appease Peanut, I told him about Vacation Bible School. Like many churches, ours is at night and there is a special program for preschoolers. Since Grammy is in charge of the preschool class, I thought it would be a good idea to let Peanut get accustomed to the routine preschool will undoubtedly be. Good intentions, but the results are mixed.
Knowing that Grammy raised Boomer, I hold the thought that Peanut wouldn't get away with much in her classroom. This proved to be correct because I can think of at least two occasions where Peanut was vociferously removed from class.
Author's Note: Yes, parents were present at all times.
The mischief wasn't helped in the least by the facts that Peanut's cousin and favorite church cohorts were in his class. Ten preschoolers, their parents, and Grammy. That woman deserves medals. Or alcohol. Maybe both. Peanut held that he should run amok with said cohorts, and Grammy and I spent much time and effort debunking this myth. One night, after multiple warnings, I removed him in favor of bedtime. Another night, I was told it was time to leave. Readers may think this is harsh. It really isn't.
However, VBS has given me a hint as to what preschool may look like. Good thing his teacher has my number; by the end of the year, I'll wager it'll be on speed-dial.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Sighting of the End
Call me Mother of the Year.
After a very loud weekend involving tears, tantrums, and Peanut's Shriek of Death (Patent Pending), we finally have a toddler willing and able to use the potty reliably. And there was much rejoicing.
Peanut has finally figured out that Mommy and Daddy will win this one, and is completely focused on the idea of school. I'm exploiting this for my own means, and using Vacation Bible School as a current form of bribery. As Grammy is going to be Peanut's teacher, I figure it's okay.
Now that we have the peeing under control (reasonably), we must tackle the second part: pooping. This promises to be as challenging as the first, but now that I have some success, I'm hoping that I'm wrong and this will go smoothly. The laughter you hear is Peanut's.
However, that is a battle for another day. Right now, I'm reveling in my son's success, and laughing at myself. Wonder Toddler showed all the signs of being ready to sit on the potty this morning, and I totally blew them off. Joke's on me, because I got to clean up the mess. Oops.
Call me Mother of the Year.
After a very loud weekend involving tears, tantrums, and Peanut's Shriek of Death (Patent Pending), we finally have a toddler willing and able to use the potty reliably. And there was much rejoicing.
Peanut has finally figured out that Mommy and Daddy will win this one, and is completely focused on the idea of school. I'm exploiting this for my own means, and using Vacation Bible School as a current form of bribery. As Grammy is going to be Peanut's teacher, I figure it's okay.
Now that we have the peeing under control (reasonably), we must tackle the second part: pooping. This promises to be as challenging as the first, but now that I have some success, I'm hoping that I'm wrong and this will go smoothly. The laughter you hear is Peanut's.
However, that is a battle for another day. Right now, I'm reveling in my son's success, and laughing at myself. Wonder Toddler showed all the signs of being ready to sit on the potty this morning, and I totally blew them off. Joke's on me, because I got to clean up the mess. Oops.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Positive Reinforcement
Call me Mother of the Year.
It seems that it's been quite awhile since I've posted something without complaining about the Wonder Toddler. Make no mistake, the temper tantrums are still frequent and loud. However, I'm grateful that I can focus on the positive for a change.
Peanut has hit a couple of major breakthroughs this week. I've rediscovered the joys of stickers, and noticed that they're not just for restaurants and peacekeeping missions. Now that we have a sticker chart, Peanut will on occasion deign to sit on the toilet without a screaming fit. Today was a bit more interesting.
First thing this morning, I point out the need for the potty. Screaming ensued. For once, I kept calm, and told him that when he was ready, we would go into the bathroom. Sure enough, thirty seconds later there was a small voice requesting potty assistance. The second he got on there, there was a need for stickers. And many hugs. And much rejoicing.
I'm taking this as a victory because I think Peanut's finally getting that this isn't so much about thwarting me, but having control over himself. It's another step toward independence, and really, isn't that what everyone wants? Plus, the Diego and Thomas underwear are really cool. I'm not sure just how long this will last, but right now, it just doesn't matter. I'm off to rejoice and congratulate.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It seems that it's been quite awhile since I've posted something without complaining about the Wonder Toddler. Make no mistake, the temper tantrums are still frequent and loud. However, I'm grateful that I can focus on the positive for a change.
Peanut has hit a couple of major breakthroughs this week. I've rediscovered the joys of stickers, and noticed that they're not just for restaurants and peacekeeping missions. Now that we have a sticker chart, Peanut will on occasion deign to sit on the toilet without a screaming fit. Today was a bit more interesting.
First thing this morning, I point out the need for the potty. Screaming ensued. For once, I kept calm, and told him that when he was ready, we would go into the bathroom. Sure enough, thirty seconds later there was a small voice requesting potty assistance. The second he got on there, there was a need for stickers. And many hugs. And much rejoicing.
I'm taking this as a victory because I think Peanut's finally getting that this isn't so much about thwarting me, but having control over himself. It's another step toward independence, and really, isn't that what everyone wants? Plus, the Diego and Thomas underwear are really cool. I'm not sure just how long this will last, but right now, it just doesn't matter. I'm off to rejoice and congratulate.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Master Peanut, Quite Contrary
Call me Mother of the Year.
Proving once and for all that my kid is too smart for my own good, Peanut has discovered the power of the contradiction. Luckily, he has yet to perfect this art.
We have introduced new and improved weaponry in the battle against diapers, and it's getting pretty entertaining for friends, relatives, and anyone else who doesn't live in this house. Peanut will inform Boomer and I that he would like to go to school, play with cohorts at school, etc. Boomer and I will gently tell Peanut that he can't go to school and enjoy it if he isn't potty trained. Amid some tears and a remarkable increase in volume, Peanut invariably declares those delights unfit for his enjoyment.
What????!!!!
Not even his beloved trains are enough of an incentive. In fact, there is nothing Peanut wants more than outsmarting, outfoxing, and infuriating his mother. Diapers are the way it's been so far, and diapers it will be until the end. Or so he thought.
Peanut had earlier discovered the joys of stickers. Now he realizes that if he ceases the temper tantrum and goes on the potty, there are stickers for his very own. We have finally caught his interest. Still unwilling to do anything in it, but at least he deigns to sit on it and look at books. It's progress.
However, I'm hoping this progress isn't slow; we have five weeks until preschool starts.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Proving once and for all that my kid is too smart for my own good, Peanut has discovered the power of the contradiction. Luckily, he has yet to perfect this art.
We have introduced new and improved weaponry in the battle against diapers, and it's getting pretty entertaining for friends, relatives, and anyone else who doesn't live in this house. Peanut will inform Boomer and I that he would like to go to school, play with cohorts at school, etc. Boomer and I will gently tell Peanut that he can't go to school and enjoy it if he isn't potty trained. Amid some tears and a remarkable increase in volume, Peanut invariably declares those delights unfit for his enjoyment.
What????!!!!
Not even his beloved trains are enough of an incentive. In fact, there is nothing Peanut wants more than outsmarting, outfoxing, and infuriating his mother. Diapers are the way it's been so far, and diapers it will be until the end. Or so he thought.
Peanut had earlier discovered the joys of stickers. Now he realizes that if he ceases the temper tantrum and goes on the potty, there are stickers for his very own. We have finally caught his interest. Still unwilling to do anything in it, but at least he deigns to sit on it and look at books. It's progress.
However, I'm hoping this progress isn't slow; we have five weeks until preschool starts.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
This Scene Again, Just Once More
Call me Mother of the Year.
I find that Dante's Inferno left off the tenth circle of hell: potty training a recalcitrant toddler.
There has been some small success this week. Peanut, under extreme protest, has finally found his way to the potty. There has been much cheering from all concerned parents, grandparents, aunt, and cohort mommies. Granted, said cohort mommies were congratulating me rather than Peanut, but that's okay. They've either been there, there now, or about to be there, and fully understand that this is as much my battle as his.
With all this ado (about something), one would think that Peanut would find this encouraging. In fact, the opposite is happening. My contrary toddler scorns all adulation, turns up his nose at rewards, and downright ignores blatant bribes in an effort to stay as far away from potty training as possible. I'm not amused. Neither is he.
Potty training now looks and sounds like a war zone. Peanut screams and hits as we go into the bathroom. Trains, sippy cup, books all have no calming effect. The screaming can last upwards of thirty minutes. This could be longer, but honestly, I stopped timing. I don't want to know. Even after I get my way and am congratulating Wonder Toddler, he will look me in the eye and inform me that he's "never sitting on potty ever again". I can't make this up.
However, I am taking heart that my fight is nearly over. He is finally nearing the end of the diaper run, and there is the potential that he won't have to change his own diaper before he graduates college. Then again, knowing Peanut, he will.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I find that Dante's Inferno left off the tenth circle of hell: potty training a recalcitrant toddler.
There has been some small success this week. Peanut, under extreme protest, has finally found his way to the potty. There has been much cheering from all concerned parents, grandparents, aunt, and cohort mommies. Granted, said cohort mommies were congratulating me rather than Peanut, but that's okay. They've either been there, there now, or about to be there, and fully understand that this is as much my battle as his.
With all this ado (about something), one would think that Peanut would find this encouraging. In fact, the opposite is happening. My contrary toddler scorns all adulation, turns up his nose at rewards, and downright ignores blatant bribes in an effort to stay as far away from potty training as possible. I'm not amused. Neither is he.
Potty training now looks and sounds like a war zone. Peanut screams and hits as we go into the bathroom. Trains, sippy cup, books all have no calming effect. The screaming can last upwards of thirty minutes. This could be longer, but honestly, I stopped timing. I don't want to know. Even after I get my way and am congratulating Wonder Toddler, he will look me in the eye and inform me that he's "never sitting on potty ever again". I can't make this up.
However, I am taking heart that my fight is nearly over. He is finally nearing the end of the diaper run, and there is the potential that he won't have to change his own diaper before he graduates college. Then again, knowing Peanut, he will.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Thwarting Mommy
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is up to no good. This time, it's so inventive that it's infuriating.
Once again, I'm fighting the potty training battle. Peanut is oblivious at best and furious at worst. He's still refusing to go anywhere near the bathroom, still tries to sneak away from diaper changes (boy, does that fail miserably) and still insists that the potty is "too big" for him.
Last week, Boomer and I decided new tactics were in order. I put Peanut in underwear and forbade him from sitting on the furniture and on the carpet. He had a few toys and was able to eat lunch on the floor, which was totally cool for him. He was told that he couldn't sit on the furniture until he went on the potty, and he needed to keep his underwear dry.
I kept checking on him, and he obeyed. The underwear stayed dry for three hours. He even told me that he needed to sit on the toilet (but didn't do anything). That's when I realized what he was up to.
The kid figured out how to pull down the underwear and relieved himself on the floor. Underwear was dry, and potty was avoided. Mission accomplished.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me is excited that he knows to keep himself dry, and that's the main thrust of this battle. On the other hand, he still wants no part of toilet training.
Right now, I'm using all accomplices and showing Peanut the coolness of underwear. Maybe cool weapons will finally win the war.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is up to no good. This time, it's so inventive that it's infuriating.
Once again, I'm fighting the potty training battle. Peanut is oblivious at best and furious at worst. He's still refusing to go anywhere near the bathroom, still tries to sneak away from diaper changes (boy, does that fail miserably) and still insists that the potty is "too big" for him.
Last week, Boomer and I decided new tactics were in order. I put Peanut in underwear and forbade him from sitting on the furniture and on the carpet. He had a few toys and was able to eat lunch on the floor, which was totally cool for him. He was told that he couldn't sit on the furniture until he went on the potty, and he needed to keep his underwear dry.
I kept checking on him, and he obeyed. The underwear stayed dry for three hours. He even told me that he needed to sit on the toilet (but didn't do anything). That's when I realized what he was up to.
The kid figured out how to pull down the underwear and relieved himself on the floor. Underwear was dry, and potty was avoided. Mission accomplished.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me is excited that he knows to keep himself dry, and that's the main thrust of this battle. On the other hand, he still wants no part of toilet training.
Right now, I'm using all accomplices and showing Peanut the coolness of underwear. Maybe cool weapons will finally win the war.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Band-Aids
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a busy few weeks. We've been finishing up the moving sequence, renting the townhouse to the most awesome people, and entertaining friends and family. Peanut has been busy keeping up with his latest project: acquiring band-aids.
I realize this is a rite of passage for all children. Amass as many band-aids as possible as badges of honor. I'm certain Nana and Grammy will be happy to share stories of how Evil Twin, Boomer, and I decorated our childhood selves with cartoon adhesives. Peanut, being Peanut, has taken this to the next level.
Not content with merely plastering band-aids on himself for no apparent reason, Peanut has been sprinting across concrete and climbing up brick walls on his knees. He sees bloodshed, he gets band-aid. End of story, at least I thought. I gave the toddler way too little credit. Being an investigative child, he figured out that if the scabs are picked off incessantly, there is cause for more band-aids. Coolest thing ever. I'm in need of stock in band-aids. And new excuses for them. Seriously, how much longer can I possibly pull off "No, really, he does this on purpose"? Or worse, "No, he hasn't figured out this particular cause-and-effect yet"?
I am assured, once again, that this too will pass. After all, no great harm ever came from a couple of skinned knees. Or shins. Or elbows. I figure if he goes for a band-aid on his nose, it's time to be worried. And hand him off to Boomer. Who can tell horror stories. Maybe not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a busy few weeks. We've been finishing up the moving sequence, renting the townhouse to the most awesome people, and entertaining friends and family. Peanut has been busy keeping up with his latest project: acquiring band-aids.
I realize this is a rite of passage for all children. Amass as many band-aids as possible as badges of honor. I'm certain Nana and Grammy will be happy to share stories of how Evil Twin, Boomer, and I decorated our childhood selves with cartoon adhesives. Peanut, being Peanut, has taken this to the next level.
Not content with merely plastering band-aids on himself for no apparent reason, Peanut has been sprinting across concrete and climbing up brick walls on his knees. He sees bloodshed, he gets band-aid. End of story, at least I thought. I gave the toddler way too little credit. Being an investigative child, he figured out that if the scabs are picked off incessantly, there is cause for more band-aids. Coolest thing ever. I'm in need of stock in band-aids. And new excuses for them. Seriously, how much longer can I possibly pull off "No, really, he does this on purpose"? Or worse, "No, he hasn't figured out this particular cause-and-effect yet"?
I am assured, once again, that this too will pass. After all, no great harm ever came from a couple of skinned knees. Or shins. Or elbows. I figure if he goes for a band-aid on his nose, it's time to be worried. And hand him off to Boomer. Who can tell horror stories. Maybe not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Warning Labels
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm pondering warning labels these days. I realize they're a common sense measure for parents who, let's face it, don't always use their common sense and must therefore rely on others. Like me.
Peanut has had his fill of warning labels. I've been pointing out that we do not need to investigate the cleaning supplies, the knives, or (more recently) the very pretty, very breakable china. After this week, however, I'm wondering where Peanut's warning label is.
It all started last weekend, at a friend's party. She decided that I could leave my child with her. After a phone call an hour later requesting my presence "to sit on my child", I decided I should really know better. Apparently Peanut was unclear about why the moonbounce was not an appropriate venue for human bowling. Into older kids.
Fast forward to last night. Peanut and Boomer were playing in the backyard, and the tricycle was introduced. There was, as usual, much rejoicing. Peanut's into pedaling hell-for-leather into the brick wall and announcing that he's okay as soon as the wall stops him. I'm not crazy about this game, but Boomer has assured me that it's a guy thing and Peanut will survive. Naturally, as soon as our backs were turned, Peanut decides to attempt to avoid the wall and ends up hitting his hand on it, scraping three fingers. No permanent damage, but it did require medicinal kisses and sippy cup to make it all better. Dinner helped as well.
It's not only objects that need warning labels. I'm seriously considering posting one on Peanut's forehead for all to see:
WARNING: Do not leave child unattended.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm pondering warning labels these days. I realize they're a common sense measure for parents who, let's face it, don't always use their common sense and must therefore rely on others. Like me.
Peanut has had his fill of warning labels. I've been pointing out that we do not need to investigate the cleaning supplies, the knives, or (more recently) the very pretty, very breakable china. After this week, however, I'm wondering where Peanut's warning label is.
It all started last weekend, at a friend's party. She decided that I could leave my child with her. After a phone call an hour later requesting my presence "to sit on my child", I decided I should really know better. Apparently Peanut was unclear about why the moonbounce was not an appropriate venue for human bowling. Into older kids.
Fast forward to last night. Peanut and Boomer were playing in the backyard, and the tricycle was introduced. There was, as usual, much rejoicing. Peanut's into pedaling hell-for-leather into the brick wall and announcing that he's okay as soon as the wall stops him. I'm not crazy about this game, but Boomer has assured me that it's a guy thing and Peanut will survive. Naturally, as soon as our backs were turned, Peanut decides to attempt to avoid the wall and ends up hitting his hand on it, scraping three fingers. No permanent damage, but it did require medicinal kisses and sippy cup to make it all better. Dinner helped as well.
It's not only objects that need warning labels. I'm seriously considering posting one on Peanut's forehead for all to see:
WARNING: Do not leave child unattended.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Best Friends Forever
Call me Mother of the Year.
As regular readers have discovered, the Peanut has hit the Terrible Threes with a vengeance. My confidence has taken quite the beating, as has my patience. Peanut is still convinced that he's in charge, and I'm merely a spectator in his play. Or is he?
Make no mistake, the tantrums are still frequent and loud. Peanut is still pushing all my buttons, and Boomer's arrival home is the highlight of both of our days. Still, there is a change afoot.
Peanut is usually far more eager to distribute hugs and kisses to pretty much everyone but me. This includes family members, Boomer, Doggy, Mommy Cohorts, salespeople, etc. I'm at the very bottom of his list. Over the last few days, however, he's been the one to initiate the "I love you" sequence. I'm happy to reciprocate, because really, I lap up any affection from the Wonder Toddler I can get.
This morning was the best. As SuperWHY was on television, Peanut comes tearing over and gives me a hug. As I hug back, he mumbles something unintelligible. Toddler will be my second language.
"What is it, Peanut?"
He raises his head and, comletely seriously says, "Best friends forever, Mommy?"
My heart melts. Finally, for one brief moment, everything's okay. My child doesn't hate me, and the tantrums just don't matter. My baby loves me, and it's all I need.
Yeah, Peanut, best friends forever. I love you, too.
Call me Mother of the Year.
As regular readers have discovered, the Peanut has hit the Terrible Threes with a vengeance. My confidence has taken quite the beating, as has my patience. Peanut is still convinced that he's in charge, and I'm merely a spectator in his play. Or is he?
Make no mistake, the tantrums are still frequent and loud. Peanut is still pushing all my buttons, and Boomer's arrival home is the highlight of both of our days. Still, there is a change afoot.
Peanut is usually far more eager to distribute hugs and kisses to pretty much everyone but me. This includes family members, Boomer, Doggy, Mommy Cohorts, salespeople, etc. I'm at the very bottom of his list. Over the last few days, however, he's been the one to initiate the "I love you" sequence. I'm happy to reciprocate, because really, I lap up any affection from the Wonder Toddler I can get.
This morning was the best. As SuperWHY was on television, Peanut comes tearing over and gives me a hug. As I hug back, he mumbles something unintelligible. Toddler will be my second language.
"What is it, Peanut?"
He raises his head and, comletely seriously says, "Best friends forever, Mommy?"
My heart melts. Finally, for one brief moment, everything's okay. My child doesn't hate me, and the tantrums just don't matter. My baby loves me, and it's all I need.
Yeah, Peanut, best friends forever. I love you, too.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Mother's Day Revised
Call me Mother of the Year.
Once again, I must comment on the sneakiness of my guys. The roses-and Boomer requests that I point out the true number of roses, which was eighteen- are lovely, but what really made the day memorable was the stomach flu. Boomer succumbed first and did a mighty job of attempting to keep me from it. That lasted about a day.
Mother's Day, in my mind, is all about the wishes of the mommy. If we wish to be waited on hand and foot, so be it. Boomer did his level best to wait on me, but let's face it, I'm one of the weird ones who just want to be left alone when not feeling well. Peanut, however, had no such reservations. The Toddler slid into my bed, shoved me away, and proceeded to take a two-hour nap. In my bed. Where I really wanted to be. Because he decided to share his bug.
Evil Twin pointed out (amid much laughter) that we do not wake up the sleeping toddler and I should be grateful he slept at all. Normally I would agree, but I hold that he has a perfectly good bed that ought to be used. Peanut disagreed, and I caved.
However, now that all are feeling much better, I'm looking for revenge. Not sure yet what I'll come up with, but wearing him out on the new playset will probably be involved. Bring it on.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Once again, I must comment on the sneakiness of my guys. The roses-and Boomer requests that I point out the true number of roses, which was eighteen- are lovely, but what really made the day memorable was the stomach flu. Boomer succumbed first and did a mighty job of attempting to keep me from it. That lasted about a day.
Mother's Day, in my mind, is all about the wishes of the mommy. If we wish to be waited on hand and foot, so be it. Boomer did his level best to wait on me, but let's face it, I'm one of the weird ones who just want to be left alone when not feeling well. Peanut, however, had no such reservations. The Toddler slid into my bed, shoved me away, and proceeded to take a two-hour nap. In my bed. Where I really wanted to be. Because he decided to share his bug.
Evil Twin pointed out (amid much laughter) that we do not wake up the sleeping toddler and I should be grateful he slept at all. Normally I would agree, but I hold that he has a perfectly good bed that ought to be used. Peanut disagreed, and I caved.
However, now that all are feeling much better, I'm looking for revenge. Not sure yet what I'll come up with, but wearing him out on the new playset will probably be involved. Bring it on.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Sneakiness on Mother's Day
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut and Boomer are up to no good. Again. Against me. Again.
Boomer asked the age-old question of what I want for (insert appropriate holiday here). In this case, I responded that gifts were unnecessary because we have just bought a house. Boomer chuckled at my departure from my usual request of world peace (one of these days, my wish will be granted) and went to sleep. I smiled, thinking for once he listened to me. I should really know better.
Imagine my surprise the next afternoon when the UPS guy shows up with a dozen roses- they're gorgeous, by the way- and a card bearing the signatures of Boomer and Peanut. I'm grateful, make no mistake, but I'm also a bit perturbed by my own double standard.
I object to sneakiness. To be more specific (and because Boomer is reading this over my shoulder and will swipe the keyboard and correct me) I object to sneakiness against me. If I'm the one being sneaky, then it's perfectly all right. So now I'm stewing because my guys know me too well for my own good, and have pulled a fast one on me. Again.
However, not to worry: Boomer has a birthday and Peanut has daily surprises in store. Sneakiness will run rampant again, and I'll once again be the cause. Next time, I'll accept their sneakiness for the joy it gives them. And plot my revenge.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut and Boomer are up to no good. Again. Against me. Again.
Boomer asked the age-old question of what I want for (insert appropriate holiday here). In this case, I responded that gifts were unnecessary because we have just bought a house. Boomer chuckled at my departure from my usual request of world peace (one of these days, my wish will be granted) and went to sleep. I smiled, thinking for once he listened to me. I should really know better.
Imagine my surprise the next afternoon when the UPS guy shows up with a dozen roses- they're gorgeous, by the way- and a card bearing the signatures of Boomer and Peanut. I'm grateful, make no mistake, but I'm also a bit perturbed by my own double standard.
I object to sneakiness. To be more specific (and because Boomer is reading this over my shoulder and will swipe the keyboard and correct me) I object to sneakiness against me. If I'm the one being sneaky, then it's perfectly all right. So now I'm stewing because my guys know me too well for my own good, and have pulled a fast one on me. Again.
However, not to worry: Boomer has a birthday and Peanut has daily surprises in store. Sneakiness will run rampant again, and I'll once again be the cause. Next time, I'll accept their sneakiness for the joy it gives them. And plot my revenge.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Playsets and Preschool
Call me Mother of the Year.
The mass exodus is over. We've moved into what Peanut still refers to as "BIG NEW HOUSE!!!!" I'm putting this in all caps to allude to the lack of volume control. The move went smoothly, with the minor exception of Peanut's stomach flu. And Boomer's laughter. At me. With good reason.
Peanut was ragingly sick all over Boomer, and I, desperate to help, got him as close to Boomer as possible. Bad move, because in the next instant I was told to go find a garbage can. Oops. Call me Wife of the Year. Never gonna live that one down.
However, we have discovered the best feature of big new house. The playset. It is awesome! Peanut is developing the habit of racing outside at all hours and in all stages of dress. I'm trying to convince him that jammies and bare feet are not acceptable outdoor wear. I'm being ignored. Again.
More good news on the Peanut front is that he's been accepted to a fantastic preschool program. I'm excited, mainly because someone needs to learn that he's not the only toddler in the world, and it gives me new incentive to potty train. However, I'm a little sad because my baby is growing up. When I pointed this out to Boomer, he countered by reminding me that kindergarten isn't far away. No help whatsoever. Time for me to lick my wounds and realize that Peanut is taking his first step away from me.
Call me Mother of the Year.
The mass exodus is over. We've moved into what Peanut still refers to as "BIG NEW HOUSE!!!!" I'm putting this in all caps to allude to the lack of volume control. The move went smoothly, with the minor exception of Peanut's stomach flu. And Boomer's laughter. At me. With good reason.
Peanut was ragingly sick all over Boomer, and I, desperate to help, got him as close to Boomer as possible. Bad move, because in the next instant I was told to go find a garbage can. Oops. Call me Wife of the Year. Never gonna live that one down.
However, we have discovered the best feature of big new house. The playset. It is awesome! Peanut is developing the habit of racing outside at all hours and in all stages of dress. I'm trying to convince him that jammies and bare feet are not acceptable outdoor wear. I'm being ignored. Again.
More good news on the Peanut front is that he's been accepted to a fantastic preschool program. I'm excited, mainly because someone needs to learn that he's not the only toddler in the world, and it gives me new incentive to potty train. However, I'm a little sad because my baby is growing up. When I pointed this out to Boomer, he countered by reminding me that kindergarten isn't far away. No help whatsoever. Time for me to lick my wounds and realize that Peanut is taking his first step away from me.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Raindrops Falling on His Head
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm finding myself at war with my toddler and his fear of raindrops. This is a new one.
After a day of no less than ten temper tantrums (no doubt brought on by a new thought on potty training), I was thrilled when Boomer came home early. He's terrific about taking over so I can get a break as soon as he walks through the door. He spent an hour trying to combat Peanut's latest way of avoiding potty training (which, for a three-year-old, isn't bad) and then it was bedtime. Let me just say that Peanut despises bedtime because he's convinced that he'll miss something good. Like my nervous breakdown. As it was raining, we found our excuse. An hour later, Boomer and I were still attempting to put Wonder Toddler to bed because of his cries that he was sorry that it was raining.
As a girl who's still uncomfortable around big thundery storms, I can relate. Sort of. But seriously, it's RAINDROPS. Not like that's going to hurt anyone or anything. Even the coward dog is good with rain. Maybe it's the sound of rain being blown into the window that gets him. He finally gives in when I sit with him, and life is good in his world again.
I, on the other hand, am frustrated to the point of screaming. Not conducive to sleeping toddler.
Once again, I'm forced to admit that I'm not in charge. And that's no fun. My days and nights are constructed at the whim of an increasingly cranky toddler. I know it's only a phase, but it's a phase that's infuriating.
For now, however, I can take comfort in the facts that my son is sleeping peacefully, my husband will give a back rub at my request, and the dog will be cowering at my feet. The day hasn't been a total loss after all.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm finding myself at war with my toddler and his fear of raindrops. This is a new one.
After a day of no less than ten temper tantrums (no doubt brought on by a new thought on potty training), I was thrilled when Boomer came home early. He's terrific about taking over so I can get a break as soon as he walks through the door. He spent an hour trying to combat Peanut's latest way of avoiding potty training (which, for a three-year-old, isn't bad) and then it was bedtime. Let me just say that Peanut despises bedtime because he's convinced that he'll miss something good. Like my nervous breakdown. As it was raining, we found our excuse. An hour later, Boomer and I were still attempting to put Wonder Toddler to bed because of his cries that he was sorry that it was raining.
As a girl who's still uncomfortable around big thundery storms, I can relate. Sort of. But seriously, it's RAINDROPS. Not like that's going to hurt anyone or anything. Even the coward dog is good with rain. Maybe it's the sound of rain being blown into the window that gets him. He finally gives in when I sit with him, and life is good in his world again.
I, on the other hand, am frustrated to the point of screaming. Not conducive to sleeping toddler.
Once again, I'm forced to admit that I'm not in charge. And that's no fun. My days and nights are constructed at the whim of an increasingly cranky toddler. I know it's only a phase, but it's a phase that's infuriating.
For now, however, I can take comfort in the facts that my son is sleeping peacefully, my husband will give a back rub at my request, and the dog will be cowering at my feet. The day hasn't been a total loss after all.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Packing Peanut
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been an interesting few weeks. Boomer and I made the monumental decision to buy a new, bigger house and then caused heart failure (mine) by telling the sellers we'd take possession at the end of the month. Thus, we've been buried in boxes. Thankfully, we have a Wonder Toddler who wants to do nothing but "help".
I hadn't realized just what moving with Peanut would look like. For some reason, I figured he'd be curious but far more interested in trains, Doggy Luke, and a shameless chance to spend more time with grandparents. Reality has slapped me upside the head with its sippy cup. Or was that Peanut? Not sure. At any rate, Peanut feels that no box should be packed without his supervision and approval. This makes packing the kitchen way more complicated. Peanut has also discovered the joys of investigating said boxes thoroughly. Suffice it to say that he was playing with Nana and Papa when various toys and books were packed. No way was I fighting that with him around.
Now that packing's nearly done, I've run into another problem today. Peanut would like to play with his trains. I currently have them blocked off with boxes, about to pack them as well. I'm currently trying to explain that the trains are on vacation. No luck. I'm trusting to nice weather for the next week and hoping to wear him out with the one-two combo of park time and playing with Doggy. Only a week left. Then we can explain why his room has moved. I'm leaning toward the use of magic. Wish me luck.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been an interesting few weeks. Boomer and I made the monumental decision to buy a new, bigger house and then caused heart failure (mine) by telling the sellers we'd take possession at the end of the month. Thus, we've been buried in boxes. Thankfully, we have a Wonder Toddler who wants to do nothing but "help".
I hadn't realized just what moving with Peanut would look like. For some reason, I figured he'd be curious but far more interested in trains, Doggy Luke, and a shameless chance to spend more time with grandparents. Reality has slapped me upside the head with its sippy cup. Or was that Peanut? Not sure. At any rate, Peanut feels that no box should be packed without his supervision and approval. This makes packing the kitchen way more complicated. Peanut has also discovered the joys of investigating said boxes thoroughly. Suffice it to say that he was playing with Nana and Papa when various toys and books were packed. No way was I fighting that with him around.
Now that packing's nearly done, I've run into another problem today. Peanut would like to play with his trains. I currently have them blocked off with boxes, about to pack them as well. I'm currently trying to explain that the trains are on vacation. No luck. I'm trusting to nice weather for the next week and hoping to wear him out with the one-two combo of park time and playing with Doggy. Only a week left. Then we can explain why his room has moved. I'm leaning toward the use of magic. Wish me luck.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Peanut the Great
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a busy day in the life of the Wonder Toddler. Potty training attempts are at a new low, and so is my confidence as a mother. Or it was until Boomer came home. Let me explain.
Peanut slept in, which meant I slept in. And there was much rejoicing, until Peanut came clambering into my bed and wet it. Upon this little discovery, I went tearing into his room where the same unpleasant surprise awaited in his room. So much for Pull-Ups instead of diapers. Who knew? Not me. Luckily, all was salvageable.
Later on, I was waiting for Boomer to come home with needed ingredients for dinner. I planned on Peanut eating with us. Boomer was detained at work, and I lost track of time. Bottom line was when Boomer came home, Peanut decided that Doggy Luke's food looked pretty good. Exact words were "This is tasty!" Boomer assures me that every boy chows down on dog food at one time or another. I'm trying to remember where I put my Mommy credentials. Peanut promptly got actual dinner, and seems no worse for the wear. I'm still breaking out rumbling guilt pangs. It's a Mommy thing.
Boomer decides as I'm getting dinner ready that his hands are in need of washing. As Peanut has a major fascination with washing anything, he decides to watch. I'm pretty used to his getting underfoot when water's running, but I had no idea to what lengths he's willing to go. The kid climbs up ON THE DRAWER HANDLES to reach into the sink and wash his hands. He wants to be just like Daddy. I contemplate my kid breaking various bones as he falls. He doesn't, because sometimes, gravity works in Peanut's favor. I'm convinced that I'm not going to survive this experience. Boomer thinks otherwise. Maybe it's time I listened to him. As of right now, I'm not sure who will win this debate. I'll keep you updated.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a busy day in the life of the Wonder Toddler. Potty training attempts are at a new low, and so is my confidence as a mother. Or it was until Boomer came home. Let me explain.
Peanut slept in, which meant I slept in. And there was much rejoicing, until Peanut came clambering into my bed and wet it. Upon this little discovery, I went tearing into his room where the same unpleasant surprise awaited in his room. So much for Pull-Ups instead of diapers. Who knew? Not me. Luckily, all was salvageable.
Later on, I was waiting for Boomer to come home with needed ingredients for dinner. I planned on Peanut eating with us. Boomer was detained at work, and I lost track of time. Bottom line was when Boomer came home, Peanut decided that Doggy Luke's food looked pretty good. Exact words were "This is tasty!" Boomer assures me that every boy chows down on dog food at one time or another. I'm trying to remember where I put my Mommy credentials. Peanut promptly got actual dinner, and seems no worse for the wear. I'm still breaking out rumbling guilt pangs. It's a Mommy thing.
Boomer decides as I'm getting dinner ready that his hands are in need of washing. As Peanut has a major fascination with washing anything, he decides to watch. I'm pretty used to his getting underfoot when water's running, but I had no idea to what lengths he's willing to go. The kid climbs up ON THE DRAWER HANDLES to reach into the sink and wash his hands. He wants to be just like Daddy. I contemplate my kid breaking various bones as he falls. He doesn't, because sometimes, gravity works in Peanut's favor. I'm convinced that I'm not going to survive this experience. Boomer thinks otherwise. Maybe it's time I listened to him. As of right now, I'm not sure who will win this debate. I'll keep you updated.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
The Look of Anger Management
Call me Mother of the Year.
Nana has this look that could freeze hell. Papa would yell when his children did wrong. Said children would cry, based on fear or remorse, depending on the situation. Nana would not yell, but she would stand quietly and shoot her children a look.
I need that look. Badly.
In the last couple of weeks, Peanut's temper tantrums have been increasing both in size and regularity. I've been taking the excellent advice of other Mommy Gurus (no, I'm not the only one) and doing my level best to ignore them. The ones he throws at home are easily dealt with. Time out, and Mommy pretends she's deaf until screaming ceases and penitent hiccupping commences. It's the public ones that have me worried. Time out does not come well to the out-and-about Peanut.
Case in point: we're playing at home with a favorite cohort. Peanut has been instructed to share his trains. Nothing doing. MOTY argues that a big boy shares his toys with others. Begin Crouching Toddler, Shrieking Peanut sequence. Peanut ends up in his room. Apologies come, and all is well.
The public scenario is a bit different. We're once again not playing nicely, and I decide it's time to get while the getting's good. Peanut has other ideas, and proceeds to fling a twenty-minute-long temper tantrum. It probably would have lasted longer, but that's when I finally got him into shoes and coat and hauled him out the door. Crying stopped as soon as we left.
Boomer can usually stop the tantrums more quickly, and I suspect it's because he's massive compared to the Peanut. I'm firmly in the Divinely Delicate category, and it's not making this easier. Thus the need for a look that my child will fear. Or at least not laugh at. Or tranquilizers. For me. Whatever works.
I must repeat: It's only a phase. This too will pass.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Nana has this look that could freeze hell. Papa would yell when his children did wrong. Said children would cry, based on fear or remorse, depending on the situation. Nana would not yell, but she would stand quietly and shoot her children a look.
I need that look. Badly.
In the last couple of weeks, Peanut's temper tantrums have been increasing both in size and regularity. I've been taking the excellent advice of other Mommy Gurus (no, I'm not the only one) and doing my level best to ignore them. The ones he throws at home are easily dealt with. Time out, and Mommy pretends she's deaf until screaming ceases and penitent hiccupping commences. It's the public ones that have me worried. Time out does not come well to the out-and-about Peanut.
Case in point: we're playing at home with a favorite cohort. Peanut has been instructed to share his trains. Nothing doing. MOTY argues that a big boy shares his toys with others. Begin Crouching Toddler, Shrieking Peanut sequence. Peanut ends up in his room. Apologies come, and all is well.
The public scenario is a bit different. We're once again not playing nicely, and I decide it's time to get while the getting's good. Peanut has other ideas, and proceeds to fling a twenty-minute-long temper tantrum. It probably would have lasted longer, but that's when I finally got him into shoes and coat and hauled him out the door. Crying stopped as soon as we left.
Boomer can usually stop the tantrums more quickly, and I suspect it's because he's massive compared to the Peanut. I'm firmly in the Divinely Delicate category, and it's not making this easier. Thus the need for a look that my child will fear. Or at least not laugh at. Or tranquilizers. For me. Whatever works.
I must repeat: It's only a phase. This too will pass.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Nap Time
Call me Mother of the Year.
This is in memoriam to my favorite time of the day: Nap Time. Sadly, it is gone.
Like most toddlers (or so I am told) Peanut has given up on the daily nap. It's not much of a surprise, considering how much energy the child burns. Plus, I had been duly warned by various Mommy cohorts. The sagest advice comes from Nana and Grammy with their suggestion of "Quiet Time". I would think of this as a sensible idea, if not for the fact that Peanut snickers at the mere idea of quiet. If I didn't know three-year-olds were incapable of sarcasm, I would hold that the laughter would have that description. Then again, he is my child. Is it possible that sarcasm be passed through the umbilical cord? What a thought!
I remember with longing the days when my child napped for three to four hours at a time. While I was as exhausted as he, I realize that I got stuff done. Even when he went to two two-hour naps, showers were taken, laundry done, the house cleaned. With one nap a day, I still managed my work and even some desperately needed down time myself.
And now it's gone. And I have no idea how to cope.
There is one bright spot. Peanut is content to play with the trains by himself on rare occasions. Perhaps there is now the hope, however slim, that there will be moments of peace in my day. If nothing else, I'll steal them as soon as Boomer walks through the door.
Call me Mother of the Year.
This is in memoriam to my favorite time of the day: Nap Time. Sadly, it is gone.
Like most toddlers (or so I am told) Peanut has given up on the daily nap. It's not much of a surprise, considering how much energy the child burns. Plus, I had been duly warned by various Mommy cohorts. The sagest advice comes from Nana and Grammy with their suggestion of "Quiet Time". I would think of this as a sensible idea, if not for the fact that Peanut snickers at the mere idea of quiet. If I didn't know three-year-olds were incapable of sarcasm, I would hold that the laughter would have that description. Then again, he is my child. Is it possible that sarcasm be passed through the umbilical cord? What a thought!
I remember with longing the days when my child napped for three to four hours at a time. While I was as exhausted as he, I realize that I got stuff done. Even when he went to two two-hour naps, showers were taken, laundry done, the house cleaned. With one nap a day, I still managed my work and even some desperately needed down time myself.
And now it's gone. And I have no idea how to cope.
There is one bright spot. Peanut is content to play with the trains by himself on rare occasions. Perhaps there is now the hope, however slim, that there will be moments of peace in my day. If nothing else, I'll steal them as soon as Boomer walks through the door.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Bouncing
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut was allowed to go to Bounce Bounce today. And there was much rejoicing.
Bounce Bounce is a parent's dream or nightmare, depending on the toddler. For me, depending on the moment. Peanut considers it Toddler Nirvana. He can go nuts (and does) bouncing around an air-filled obstacle course. What could be better? Bouncing into other kids. Naturally.
I spend most of our time explaining (shouting) that we do NOT need to knock down the other kids and Mommy is not a part of the obstacle course. A couple of kids bounce into him, and he gets the first part of my message. Mommy is eternally part of Peanut's Obstacle Course of Life, and he's either going to knock himself out or knock me out. Not sure yet which it's going to be, or which will be preferable.
Thankfully, he's given up on the Attack of the Mommy in favor of the trains. Doggy Luke is thrilled because he knows once Peanut gets started, it's only a matter of time before Second Favorite Human gets on his level. I suspect I'll spend the rest of my afternoon alternating between Train Conductor and Belly Rubber. Wish me luck.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut was allowed to go to Bounce Bounce today. And there was much rejoicing.
Bounce Bounce is a parent's dream or nightmare, depending on the toddler. For me, depending on the moment. Peanut considers it Toddler Nirvana. He can go nuts (and does) bouncing around an air-filled obstacle course. What could be better? Bouncing into other kids. Naturally.
I spend most of our time explaining (shouting) that we do NOT need to knock down the other kids and Mommy is not a part of the obstacle course. A couple of kids bounce into him, and he gets the first part of my message. Mommy is eternally part of Peanut's Obstacle Course of Life, and he's either going to knock himself out or knock me out. Not sure yet which it's going to be, or which will be preferable.
Thankfully, he's given up on the Attack of the Mommy in favor of the trains. Doggy Luke is thrilled because he knows once Peanut gets started, it's only a matter of time before Second Favorite Human gets on his level. I suspect I'll spend the rest of my afternoon alternating between Train Conductor and Belly Rubber. Wish me luck.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Stickers
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut, Boomer and I went to dinner with Grammy and Game Boy. This usually involves at least one temper tantrum from a certain toddler who does not understand the meaning of patience. Peanut labors under the belief that once food is requested, it should be served immediately. Obviously, this does not happen in even the best restaurants. Thus the tantrum.
Grammy, being a wise woman (and former Mommy of boy toddler), has fixed this little problem. After we order and while Peanut is still fascinated with stuffing his mouth with bread, she breaks out a small pad of paper and old mailing labels. She informs Peanut that these are stickers and would he like to put them on the paper?
Would he ever!
This is incredible! He's quiet, well-behaved, and enthralled at the thought of these stickers staying right where he puts them! No matter how many times he moves them (and make no mistake, he does), they stick to the paper, Grammy's hand, his hand, his sweater. This is arguably cooler than even the trains and Lightning McQueen. Even being told not to put the stickers on the table is okay. I'm in shock. How did this happen? And why the @#$* didn't I think of this?
Perhaps this is where Mother of the Year gets her title. Learn from others. Especially others who have been there and done that. Watch and understand their example. Follow it, and the unspoken advice, and errors will hopefully be minor.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut, Boomer and I went to dinner with Grammy and Game Boy. This usually involves at least one temper tantrum from a certain toddler who does not understand the meaning of patience. Peanut labors under the belief that once food is requested, it should be served immediately. Obviously, this does not happen in even the best restaurants. Thus the tantrum.
Grammy, being a wise woman (and former Mommy of boy toddler), has fixed this little problem. After we order and while Peanut is still fascinated with stuffing his mouth with bread, she breaks out a small pad of paper and old mailing labels. She informs Peanut that these are stickers and would he like to put them on the paper?
Would he ever!
This is incredible! He's quiet, well-behaved, and enthralled at the thought of these stickers staying right where he puts them! No matter how many times he moves them (and make no mistake, he does), they stick to the paper, Grammy's hand, his hand, his sweater. This is arguably cooler than even the trains and Lightning McQueen. Even being told not to put the stickers on the table is okay. I'm in shock. How did this happen? And why the @#$* didn't I think of this?
Perhaps this is where Mother of the Year gets her title. Learn from others. Especially others who have been there and done that. Watch and understand their example. Follow it, and the unspoken advice, and errors will hopefully be minor.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Advice of the Mommy
Call me Mother of the Year.
For reasons I don't quite understand, I'm considered by a few friends as their Mommy Guru. Apparently, when they have children of their own, they plan on calling me for advice. While I confess I'm flattered, and realize this is mainly due to my been-there-done-that status, I must add that I am supremely unqualified for this accolade.
Motherhood is a continual surprise, and I'm a girl who doesn't always like surprises. Boomer still has some explaining to do about the whole sneaking in Evil Twin for the birthday thing, but that's another blog. I liked to plan ahead, to know where things are going. And then Peanut was born.
Just when I think I have Peanut figured out, his needs, his wants, his still massive objection to the potty (okay, still don't get that one), he confuses me once again. He goes through more mood swings than diapers. Today was no exception. He went from happy to have his sippy cup and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to cranky that I picking up on the toast craving to ditching said toast five minutes later to complete ecstasy because I got on the floor and played conductor of the train. It was the only time today I was in charge. I should mention that conductor gig was supplemented by belly scratches to Doggy Luke, who was most pleased by second-favorite human on his level and took full advantage.
How do I advise non-Mommy friends about this?
The answer: I don't. I'll be happy to offer all manner of advice about the best maternity clothes (don't worry, it isn't your butt that looks big) and labor (EPIDURAL!!!) but as for actual child rearing, they're on their own. I shall wait in the wings, laughing from experience as they explode on the latest what-my-child-did-now episode, reminisce, and know that my title has been passed on.
Call me Mother of the Year.
For reasons I don't quite understand, I'm considered by a few friends as their Mommy Guru. Apparently, when they have children of their own, they plan on calling me for advice. While I confess I'm flattered, and realize this is mainly due to my been-there-done-that status, I must add that I am supremely unqualified for this accolade.
Motherhood is a continual surprise, and I'm a girl who doesn't always like surprises. Boomer still has some explaining to do about the whole sneaking in Evil Twin for the birthday thing, but that's another blog. I liked to plan ahead, to know where things are going. And then Peanut was born.
Just when I think I have Peanut figured out, his needs, his wants, his still massive objection to the potty (okay, still don't get that one), he confuses me once again. He goes through more mood swings than diapers. Today was no exception. He went from happy to have his sippy cup and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to cranky that I picking up on the toast craving to ditching said toast five minutes later to complete ecstasy because I got on the floor and played conductor of the train. It was the only time today I was in charge. I should mention that conductor gig was supplemented by belly scratches to Doggy Luke, who was most pleased by second-favorite human on his level and took full advantage.
How do I advise non-Mommy friends about this?
The answer: I don't. I'll be happy to offer all manner of advice about the best maternity clothes (don't worry, it isn't your butt that looks big) and labor (EPIDURAL!!!) but as for actual child rearing, they're on their own. I shall wait in the wings, laughing from experience as they explode on the latest what-my-child-did-now episode, reminisce, and know that my title has been passed on.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Searching for Lightning
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is busily searching for Lightning. While most fear lightning strikes, Peanut is in search of a much louder (in our house anyway) form of lightning: Lightning McQueen! Yes, like most boys, Peanut is obsessed with the movie Cars. In this case, it goes much deeper. Peanut's Lightning is missing, and he will tear the house apart until this talking piece of plastic is found. Mommy is, as ever, the accomplice.
My attempts to distract Peanut are futile. Not even the thought of his beloved trains are enough to pull him off the trail. By heaven, he WILL find Lightning! In vain, I suggest others from his plethora of toys. Nothing doing. Lightning is all that will do, the only toy he will ever need. If only I believed that.
Sure enough, within five minutes of his search, the trains have captivated him. As have his convictions that Mommy is the best conductor in the world. The search for Lightning McQueen has been called until further notice. And then, sure enough, we spy... LIGHTNING MCQUEEN! The world is as it should be, with one exception. Peanut is now confused. Do we play with the beloved Lightning, or do we make the train go backward? And can we do both at the same time?
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is busily searching for Lightning. While most fear lightning strikes, Peanut is in search of a much louder (in our house anyway) form of lightning: Lightning McQueen! Yes, like most boys, Peanut is obsessed with the movie Cars. In this case, it goes much deeper. Peanut's Lightning is missing, and he will tear the house apart until this talking piece of plastic is found. Mommy is, as ever, the accomplice.
My attempts to distract Peanut are futile. Not even the thought of his beloved trains are enough to pull him off the trail. By heaven, he WILL find Lightning! In vain, I suggest others from his plethora of toys. Nothing doing. Lightning is all that will do, the only toy he will ever need. If only I believed that.
Sure enough, within five minutes of his search, the trains have captivated him. As have his convictions that Mommy is the best conductor in the world. The search for Lightning McQueen has been called until further notice. And then, sure enough, we spy... LIGHTNING MCQUEEN! The world is as it should be, with one exception. Peanut is now confused. Do we play with the beloved Lightning, or do we make the train go backward? And can we do both at the same time?
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sickness and Hammers
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's official: Mother of the Year is not allowed to be sick. Gospel according to Peanut.
Peanut is currently bouncing with glee because I have returned to the land of the living. Finally. I'm back to my usual pursuit of happiness involving trains and toy hammers. I should mention that the toy hammer is a matter of some contention; Peanut is convinced that he needs Boomer's hammer. I, not surprisingly, object to giving the three-year-old Daddy's hammer. For once, I win, but only because Peanut gets distracted from his fight about hammers by the joys of his train.
Ah, the train. I'm not sure if Boomer understands completely that this is not his toy, but he surely gets an inordinate amount of pleasure both setting it up for Peanut and spending endless hours playing with him. Being a mere female visiting in the Testosterone Zone, I confess that my patience for fixing Peanut's destruction of his train tracks is limited. Very limited. However, I realize that the taking apart of train tracks is vital to his development. And he's already figuring out problem solving.
Since Peanut has decided that the keyboard looks more attractive than even his beloved trains, the session comes to an end. Here begins the temper tantrum because I decide that it's more important to have a computer than let the Peanut do his worst to the keyboard.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's official: Mother of the Year is not allowed to be sick. Gospel according to Peanut.
Peanut is currently bouncing with glee because I have returned to the land of the living. Finally. I'm back to my usual pursuit of happiness involving trains and toy hammers. I should mention that the toy hammer is a matter of some contention; Peanut is convinced that he needs Boomer's hammer. I, not surprisingly, object to giving the three-year-old Daddy's hammer. For once, I win, but only because Peanut gets distracted from his fight about hammers by the joys of his train.
Ah, the train. I'm not sure if Boomer understands completely that this is not his toy, but he surely gets an inordinate amount of pleasure both setting it up for Peanut and spending endless hours playing with him. Being a mere female visiting in the Testosterone Zone, I confess that my patience for fixing Peanut's destruction of his train tracks is limited. Very limited. However, I realize that the taking apart of train tracks is vital to his development. And he's already figuring out problem solving.
Since Peanut has decided that the keyboard looks more attractive than even his beloved trains, the session comes to an end. Here begins the temper tantrum because I decide that it's more important to have a computer than let the Peanut do his worst to the keyboard.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Saturdays
Call me Mother of the Year.
The Peanut needs help. While he is practically perfect in every way, he does require help in the days of the week and telling time.
Saturdays are always the balm of my week. Boomer is amazingly kind and takes Peanut for the breakfast-and-cartoon experience and lets me sleep in the Saturdays he's not working. I love him for it, and I love knowing my night-owl habits will be recharged for another week.
Peanut, however, has not figured this out. He loves Saturdays because Daddy is home all day and therefore attackable. Peanut figures that since he has all day to play with Daddy, we must not waste any time sleeping. I'm looking forward to the teenage years when I can pay him back for this philosophy. Actually, he'll probably still be waking my lazy self up.
This morning is a prime example. I'm snoozing away and, as usual, Peanut comes toddling into my room to wake me up with a very sweet little "Hi Mama" first thing in the morning. I open one eye as he clambers over me to get to the middle of the bed (the closer to Daddy). Something's not right. It's still dark. I open both eyes. Definitely still dark. What gives? Then I look over at the alarm clock. 5:37 a.m. WHAT????!!!!!! IT'S SATURDAY!!!!!!!!! And Boomer somehow sleeps through this!!!!!!
Peanut finally rouses Boomer at 6:30 and they begin male bonding over Mickey Mouse and toast. Peanut decides he's had enough of Mommy sleeping at 10:15 (I love my husband) and decides to wake me up. Again. This time, I'm ready with hugs and the suggestion of the potty. It's met with resistance, and Boomer explains that today, finally, Peanut was a big boy. YES!!!! Long may this last! My hugs are permitted, and I ask if he'd like to visit the potty again. He screams in terror.
Call me Mother of the Year.
The Peanut needs help. While he is practically perfect in every way, he does require help in the days of the week and telling time.
Saturdays are always the balm of my week. Boomer is amazingly kind and takes Peanut for the breakfast-and-cartoon experience and lets me sleep in the Saturdays he's not working. I love him for it, and I love knowing my night-owl habits will be recharged for another week.
Peanut, however, has not figured this out. He loves Saturdays because Daddy is home all day and therefore attackable. Peanut figures that since he has all day to play with Daddy, we must not waste any time sleeping. I'm looking forward to the teenage years when I can pay him back for this philosophy. Actually, he'll probably still be waking my lazy self up.
This morning is a prime example. I'm snoozing away and, as usual, Peanut comes toddling into my room to wake me up with a very sweet little "Hi Mama" first thing in the morning. I open one eye as he clambers over me to get to the middle of the bed (the closer to Daddy). Something's not right. It's still dark. I open both eyes. Definitely still dark. What gives? Then I look over at the alarm clock. 5:37 a.m. WHAT????!!!!!! IT'S SATURDAY!!!!!!!!! And Boomer somehow sleeps through this!!!!!!
Peanut finally rouses Boomer at 6:30 and they begin male bonding over Mickey Mouse and toast. Peanut decides he's had enough of Mommy sleeping at 10:15 (I love my husband) and decides to wake me up. Again. This time, I'm ready with hugs and the suggestion of the potty. It's met with resistance, and Boomer explains that today, finally, Peanut was a big boy. YES!!!! Long may this last! My hugs are permitted, and I ask if he'd like to visit the potty again. He screams in terror.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Trains, Dogs, and Fire Engines
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut has an obsession with trains. Actually, he has an obsession with all wheels, but particularly with trains. His latest manifestation involves a GeoTrax set, complete with fire house and fire engine. For some reason, he has decided that the fire engine must be pushed along the tracks by the train. As I write this, he's created a line with two trains and the fire engine. Boomer is his witness and co-conspiritor. As usual.
Here's what I don't get. If a fire engine wouldn't be pushed by trains in real life, why on earth would you do so on a toy track? What if my kid is destined to destroy all manner of vehicles due to his insistence on a parade for his personal pleasure?
I know. Mother of the Year isn't supposed to question her child's play! She should lovingly accept and enjoy his statements! Right. And go bankrupt when he destroys his stuff.
I suppose it's at this moment that I should breathe, enjoy the fact that my kid has no interest whatsoever in television (at least right now), and relax. He's in the hands of Boomer and Doggy Luke, and I have a chance to breathe. And there was much rejoicing.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut has an obsession with trains. Actually, he has an obsession with all wheels, but particularly with trains. His latest manifestation involves a GeoTrax set, complete with fire house and fire engine. For some reason, he has decided that the fire engine must be pushed along the tracks by the train. As I write this, he's created a line with two trains and the fire engine. Boomer is his witness and co-conspiritor. As usual.
Here's what I don't get. If a fire engine wouldn't be pushed by trains in real life, why on earth would you do so on a toy track? What if my kid is destined to destroy all manner of vehicles due to his insistence on a parade for his personal pleasure?
I know. Mother of the Year isn't supposed to question her child's play! She should lovingly accept and enjoy his statements! Right. And go bankrupt when he destroys his stuff.
I suppose it's at this moment that I should breathe, enjoy the fact that my kid has no interest whatsoever in television (at least right now), and relax. He's in the hands of Boomer and Doggy Luke, and I have a chance to breathe. And there was much rejoicing.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Age Is More Than A Number
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tim McGraw had it right. "Lord have mercy on my next thirty years."
I'm breaking the Ultimate Mommy Rule and admitting my age. Not 30 yet, but will be next week. And surprisingly okay with it. It helps immensely that hubby Boomer and Peanut the Wonder Toddler are up to no good. Wish they were a little more obvious about where they're hiding my gifts, but I guess I can't have everything. They make me feel cherished however I look and however old I am or feel.
A favorite Mommy accomplice called today to remind me of the big day and after I finished laughing (please! like I could forget?) started ruminating about the "Over the Hill" nonsense for 30. Probably helps that she's been there, done that. I find that I disagree with being over the hill. Talk to me again at 80. I might buy into it then.
30 just feels good. Don't get me wrong, 20s were pretty terrific. But I'm glad to have Peanut and Boomer, glad to be bouncing around the Testosterone Zone, and really really glad the college drama woe-is-me where-is-my-life-going days are long gone. 30 marks the realization that I'm not in charge. And that's okay. I'm not drifting. I'm letting my life unfold and I'm an active participant. 20 can't do that.
And now, I'm off to ponder the newness of my age, toast the experiences I've had and welcome the new ones. And figure out where the #@&* Boomer and Peanut hid those presents. If I find them in the toy box, someone's going to be in trouble. Actually, that's pretty clever. Not like Peanut puts anything in there now.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tim McGraw had it right. "Lord have mercy on my next thirty years."
I'm breaking the Ultimate Mommy Rule and admitting my age. Not 30 yet, but will be next week. And surprisingly okay with it. It helps immensely that hubby Boomer and Peanut the Wonder Toddler are up to no good. Wish they were a little more obvious about where they're hiding my gifts, but I guess I can't have everything. They make me feel cherished however I look and however old I am or feel.
A favorite Mommy accomplice called today to remind me of the big day and after I finished laughing (please! like I could forget?) started ruminating about the "Over the Hill" nonsense for 30. Probably helps that she's been there, done that. I find that I disagree with being over the hill. Talk to me again at 80. I might buy into it then.
30 just feels good. Don't get me wrong, 20s were pretty terrific. But I'm glad to have Peanut and Boomer, glad to be bouncing around the Testosterone Zone, and really really glad the college drama woe-is-me where-is-my-life-going days are long gone. 30 marks the realization that I'm not in charge. And that's okay. I'm not drifting. I'm letting my life unfold and I'm an active participant. 20 can't do that.
And now, I'm off to ponder the newness of my age, toast the experiences I've had and welcome the new ones. And figure out where the #@&* Boomer and Peanut hid those presents. If I find them in the toy box, someone's going to be in trouble. Actually, that's pretty clever. Not like Peanut puts anything in there now.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Intro to Blog
Call me Mother of the Year.
My three-year-old, Peanut, is sick. Major cold. Begs for lunch and refuses to eat. Do I offer sippy cup and sympathy? No... I point out uneaten food and he starts crying. At this point, I finally figure out that he's tired to the point of temper tantrum. Call me Mother of the Year.
I take Peanut upstairs and get him changed (because potty training is but a distant dream of mine) and put him to bed. He sniffles and reaches his arms for a hug. As I get ready to leave his room and finally eat breakfast, I hear a tiny voice. "I sorry, Mommy". Call me Mother of the Year.
He still loves me and considers me Keeper of the Train Set, Master of the Markers, and Giver of Snacks. What have I ever done to deserve this? I lose my temper more times than I can count, want to rip out my hair, and yet feel this fierce protection over this little man. Despite the endless frustrations of the stay-at-home mom, there is nowhere else I'd want to be than by his bed, waiting for him to wake up so I can tag along on all of his discoveries.
Call me Mother of the Year.
My three-year-old, Peanut, is sick. Major cold. Begs for lunch and refuses to eat. Do I offer sippy cup and sympathy? No... I point out uneaten food and he starts crying. At this point, I finally figure out that he's tired to the point of temper tantrum. Call me Mother of the Year.
I take Peanut upstairs and get him changed (because potty training is but a distant dream of mine) and put him to bed. He sniffles and reaches his arms for a hug. As I get ready to leave his room and finally eat breakfast, I hear a tiny voice. "I sorry, Mommy". Call me Mother of the Year.
He still loves me and considers me Keeper of the Train Set, Master of the Markers, and Giver of Snacks. What have I ever done to deserve this? I lose my temper more times than I can count, want to rip out my hair, and yet feel this fierce protection over this little man. Despite the endless frustrations of the stay-at-home mom, there is nowhere else I'd want to be than by his bed, waiting for him to wake up so I can tag along on all of his discoveries.
Call me Mother of the Year.
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