Call me Mother of the Year.
This morning, as usual, Peanut came hauling into our room to bury himself on Boomer's side of the bed. I'm certain that he's the only one in the house who is happy Daddy gets up at the crack of dawn. His side is nice and warm still, and it's the perfect place for a small one to relax before fully waking up and wreak havoc.
Once a week, Peanut falls back asleep and stays in our bed until late (for him: 8:00 or 8:30 a.m.). This is that morning. I'm not objecting, because I know his energy needs recharging and, well, I get stuff done.
So laundry's in the washer waiting to go when Peanut arises, plans are made for today, and I have a good start on my work for the morning when I hear something from my room.
My child is laughing in his sleep.
And I stop in my mommy tracks to savor this moment.
There is nothing cooler than that. I like to think he's so secure that his dreams are happy and he sees nothing more than the joy of life. In reality, he's probably plotting all manner of mischief to run me ragged today. I'll take it. Because right now, all is quiet. My small son is laughing in his sleep. He just woke up, and has a smile for me. And all is right with my world.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Festivities
Call me Mother of the Year.
I feel as though I have pulled off the scam of the century. Complete with pregnancy-related exhaustion. And Peanut as my willing accomplice.
For the few who didn't know, Boomer turned 30 this week. He was quite proud of the way we celebrated my 30th last year, complete with Nana and Papa throwing a party for the family and Evil Twin and family coming to play. Boomer gloatingly told me that I wouldn't be able to do this for him as he has no siblings to fly home. This is true. Boomer is an only child. But I'm unable to throw my beloved a surprise party? And possibly top his surprise? Perish the thought!
My plan was set in motion last year. Figure out how to get Opa home for Boomer's birthday. Not surprisingly, Opa was all for this. And then came the inviting of the relatives, telling them to keep this quiet (again, not difficult; Boomer has mischievous relatives), and keeping my fool mouth shut around my husband. This proved to be the most difficult; I'm a rotten liar who prides herself on telling her husband everything. But I had a mission, and was determined not to fail.
So, on the date in mind, Boomer went off for a much-needed motorcycle ride and the family gathered. Boomer just stared at me when he came home to a yard full of people and I explained that, while he has no siblings to bring home, he does have a father. Who was going to the zoo with us in two days. Boomer was shocked; I was smug. And Peanut got to blow out candles and eat cake. A grand time was had by all.
The zoo was delightful. Peanut behaved beautifully, and was fascinated by the animals. His favorite, by far, was the raccoon exhibit at the Children's Zoo. Thankfully, he has not been able to imitate them. He was thrilled with the polar bear, imitated the monkeys, and did not want to leave the penguins. We found a carousel, and there was much rejoicing. Best of all, no temper tantrums.
All in all, it was a grand birthday. Or so I was told. And, as is my tradition:
Happy Birthday, Boomer. I love you. And you have (as I write this) two days until our anniversary.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I feel as though I have pulled off the scam of the century. Complete with pregnancy-related exhaustion. And Peanut as my willing accomplice.
For the few who didn't know, Boomer turned 30 this week. He was quite proud of the way we celebrated my 30th last year, complete with Nana and Papa throwing a party for the family and Evil Twin and family coming to play. Boomer gloatingly told me that I wouldn't be able to do this for him as he has no siblings to fly home. This is true. Boomer is an only child. But I'm unable to throw my beloved a surprise party? And possibly top his surprise? Perish the thought!
My plan was set in motion last year. Figure out how to get Opa home for Boomer's birthday. Not surprisingly, Opa was all for this. And then came the inviting of the relatives, telling them to keep this quiet (again, not difficult; Boomer has mischievous relatives), and keeping my fool mouth shut around my husband. This proved to be the most difficult; I'm a rotten liar who prides herself on telling her husband everything. But I had a mission, and was determined not to fail.
So, on the date in mind, Boomer went off for a much-needed motorcycle ride and the family gathered. Boomer just stared at me when he came home to a yard full of people and I explained that, while he has no siblings to bring home, he does have a father. Who was going to the zoo with us in two days. Boomer was shocked; I was smug. And Peanut got to blow out candles and eat cake. A grand time was had by all.
The zoo was delightful. Peanut behaved beautifully, and was fascinated by the animals. His favorite, by far, was the raccoon exhibit at the Children's Zoo. Thankfully, he has not been able to imitate them. He was thrilled with the polar bear, imitated the monkeys, and did not want to leave the penguins. We found a carousel, and there was much rejoicing. Best of all, no temper tantrums.
All in all, it was a grand birthday. Or so I was told. And, as is my tradition:
Happy Birthday, Boomer. I love you. And you have (as I write this) two days until our anniversary.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Circus of Life
Call me Mother of the Year.
Last week began Peanut's adventure in owning fish. Fish with remarkably short life spans. After Grammy finally stopped laughing, she pointed out that perhaps we should have gone with a small aquarium rather than a fishbowl. Boomer pointed out that if she really felt that way, she could buy it. I pointed out that I'm not terribly interested in multiple burials at sea. Luckily, that hasn't been my lot.
As predicted by Nana, fish death happened fairly quickly. I suspect this is due in no small part to carnival fish being sick anyway, but this was helped by fish getting fat in the water. I wasn't responsible for fish meals; blame the guys. Bait the Third, smallest of the fish, was the first to go. It lasted all of four days. Bait the First died after the Ritual Cleansing, which Peanut was more than happy to attempt "all by myself!" Suffice it to say he was the Official Helper to Daddy. Bait the Second was the last, hanging on for over a week. I'm sure he died of a broken heart and overfull stomach.
The only good thing about this is that Peanut was asleep all three times death was discovered. Good thing Boomer gets up before the crack of dawn. At least we were spared the bathroom funeral; after all the time we've spent on potty training, I don't want to think about Peanut's objections against using that toilet again. Instead, we had the respectful Ziplock in garbage can option. Our trash guy is going to love us this week.
The funny thing is, Peanut is seemingly unconcerned. He's wondering if the fish swam away, or (my favorite) they somehow got out of the bowl. If he asks for more fish, I'm certain grandparents will be happy to fund this project. Otherwise, I'm good letting the fishbowl go empty for now.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Last week began Peanut's adventure in owning fish. Fish with remarkably short life spans. After Grammy finally stopped laughing, she pointed out that perhaps we should have gone with a small aquarium rather than a fishbowl. Boomer pointed out that if she really felt that way, she could buy it. I pointed out that I'm not terribly interested in multiple burials at sea. Luckily, that hasn't been my lot.
As predicted by Nana, fish death happened fairly quickly. I suspect this is due in no small part to carnival fish being sick anyway, but this was helped by fish getting fat in the water. I wasn't responsible for fish meals; blame the guys. Bait the Third, smallest of the fish, was the first to go. It lasted all of four days. Bait the First died after the Ritual Cleansing, which Peanut was more than happy to attempt "all by myself!" Suffice it to say he was the Official Helper to Daddy. Bait the Second was the last, hanging on for over a week. I'm sure he died of a broken heart and overfull stomach.
The only good thing about this is that Peanut was asleep all three times death was discovered. Good thing Boomer gets up before the crack of dawn. At least we were spared the bathroom funeral; after all the time we've spent on potty training, I don't want to think about Peanut's objections against using that toilet again. Instead, we had the respectful Ziplock in garbage can option. Our trash guy is going to love us this week.
The funny thing is, Peanut is seemingly unconcerned. He's wondering if the fish swam away, or (my favorite) they somehow got out of the bowl. If he asks for more fish, I'm certain grandparents will be happy to fund this project. Otherwise, I'm good letting the fishbowl go empty for now.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
New Pets
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a good weekend. We relaxed with the family, celebrated soon-to-be-born life (not my baby, BFF's), and learned that Nana is a sucker for her grandson. Or I'm the sucker. I'll let you decide.
Yesterday being the Fourth of July, Boomer and I decided it was our patriotic duty to barbeque. Being of mischievous minds, we invited Nana and Papa over. The icing on the proverbial cake was the hometown mini-festival. Add one Peanut, and watch what happens.
It rained. All freaking day. And Peanut celebrated by waking up at 5:00 a.m. Figures.
So after our hour-long "go back to sleep, Peanut; it's too early to wake up" discussion, Boy Wonder finally crashes in our bed until 9:00. The rain eased to a drizzle long enough for Boomer to grill, and we finally decide after a futile attempt at a nap to hit the festival. Which was right about when the it started raining harder. And nearly everything was packed up. Except the fish game.
A friend whom I've not seen in a couple of months was there and I fell into conversation with her. Peanut found the fling a ping-pong ball into a small bowl with fish booth and pulled Nana toward it. The kid was on a mission: win fish. Nana was on a mission: spoil grandchild. I need to be on a mission: quit trusting Nana.
Sure enough, Peanut came scampering over, clutching a take-out container holding his three new pets: Bait One, Bait Two, and Bait Three. My friend started chuckling at the look on my face. For the record, we did not have a fishbowl in our house. Note past tense. I was to find out that Peanut's first two attempts to fling and win were unsuccessful, and Nana, in an effort to be helpful, guided Peanut to victory. Literally. Her hand was on his when the ball landed in the water. She claims she couldn't say no. I claim she had no problem with that word when I was growing up, and I have no problem with it now. Apparently, my child is used against me for payback. Figures.
So now we are the proud owners of three goldfish and one bowl, courtesy of the Grandparents Who Can't Say No. And now Papa is talking about a hermit crab.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a good weekend. We relaxed with the family, celebrated soon-to-be-born life (not my baby, BFF's), and learned that Nana is a sucker for her grandson. Or I'm the sucker. I'll let you decide.
Yesterday being the Fourth of July, Boomer and I decided it was our patriotic duty to barbeque. Being of mischievous minds, we invited Nana and Papa over. The icing on the proverbial cake was the hometown mini-festival. Add one Peanut, and watch what happens.
It rained. All freaking day. And Peanut celebrated by waking up at 5:00 a.m. Figures.
So after our hour-long "go back to sleep, Peanut; it's too early to wake up" discussion, Boy Wonder finally crashes in our bed until 9:00. The rain eased to a drizzle long enough for Boomer to grill, and we finally decide after a futile attempt at a nap to hit the festival. Which was right about when the it started raining harder. And nearly everything was packed up. Except the fish game.
A friend whom I've not seen in a couple of months was there and I fell into conversation with her. Peanut found the fling a ping-pong ball into a small bowl with fish booth and pulled Nana toward it. The kid was on a mission: win fish. Nana was on a mission: spoil grandchild. I need to be on a mission: quit trusting Nana.
Sure enough, Peanut came scampering over, clutching a take-out container holding his three new pets: Bait One, Bait Two, and Bait Three. My friend started chuckling at the look on my face. For the record, we did not have a fishbowl in our house. Note past tense. I was to find out that Peanut's first two attempts to fling and win were unsuccessful, and Nana, in an effort to be helpful, guided Peanut to victory. Literally. Her hand was on his when the ball landed in the water. She claims she couldn't say no. I claim she had no problem with that word when I was growing up, and I have no problem with it now. Apparently, my child is used against me for payback. Figures.
So now we are the proud owners of three goldfish and one bowl, courtesy of the Grandparents Who Can't Say No. And now Papa is talking about a hermit crab.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Unintentional Lying
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm confused. Granted, this isn't an uncommon emotion, but I find myself in need of more experienced mommies. My son has caused a parenting conundrum that I've no idea how to get through.
Like many of his age, Peanut has a literal mind and a small short-term memory. Thus, whatever is happening at this second is the truth and the actions of two seconds ago is ancient history. Case in point: Peanut knows that he is to avoid roaring at the top of his voice in close proximity to friends' ears. He tells me this rule as we head to the park. After thirty minutes, this rule goes out of his head.
Me: "Peanut, why are you roaring?" (Dumbest question of motherhood, but must be asked. It's in the rule book.)
Peanut: (Looking wounded) "Because I'm not!"
The entire park heard my kid. Yet, because he stopped when I outshouted him, the roaring never happened.
Therein lies my dilemma. How does one teach a four-year-old why lying is bad when said four-year-old has no concept of truth?
Boomer and I are still figuring this one out, and I'll keep you updated. Meanwhile, I'm off to explain to Peanut why "because" is not a reason and referring to the baby as "The Thing", while funny, isn't a good habit to be in. Wish me luck.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm confused. Granted, this isn't an uncommon emotion, but I find myself in need of more experienced mommies. My son has caused a parenting conundrum that I've no idea how to get through.
Like many of his age, Peanut has a literal mind and a small short-term memory. Thus, whatever is happening at this second is the truth and the actions of two seconds ago is ancient history. Case in point: Peanut knows that he is to avoid roaring at the top of his voice in close proximity to friends' ears. He tells me this rule as we head to the park. After thirty minutes, this rule goes out of his head.
Me: "Peanut, why are you roaring?" (Dumbest question of motherhood, but must be asked. It's in the rule book.)
Peanut: (Looking wounded) "Because I'm not!"
The entire park heard my kid. Yet, because he stopped when I outshouted him, the roaring never happened.
Therein lies my dilemma. How does one teach a four-year-old why lying is bad when said four-year-old has no concept of truth?
Boomer and I are still figuring this one out, and I'll keep you updated. Meanwhile, I'm off to explain to Peanut why "because" is not a reason and referring to the baby as "The Thing", while funny, isn't a good habit to be in. Wish me luck.
Call me Mother of the Year.
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