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.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
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.
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