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.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
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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