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.

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.

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.

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.

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.