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.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Peanut Grows Up (And So Does Mommy)
Call me Mother of the Year.
It has been quite the weekend for Boy Wonder. On Saturday, we went to a local festival and decided that we did not need to be the only gluttons for punishment. So all the grandparents came along. And there was much rejoicing. Peanut discovered the carnival, complete with rides his size. And there was even more rejoicing.
Peanut blew through a roller coaster (at least twice), airplanes, motorcycles, a "giant slide" (keep in mind, we're dealing with preschoolers here), a merry-go-round, and racecars before finally allowing himself lunch. Thus fortified, he went for the motherload: the Ferris Wheel. And Boomer, who was his companion on this adventure. I was happy to allow this, considering I have both a medical condition (pregnancy) and a phobia (fear of heights) that does not let me do well with these things.
Peanut was quite happy to hang out with Daddy while in line, and then clutched Boomer for dear life once he realized just how high this thing was going. He survived, and so did I.
Today was another delightful experience. Mommy Cohorts gather for lunch and water slides. And Peanut behaved beautifully. No temper tantrums, only one warning, and one minor fuss when it was time to leave. Great job from Boy Wonder.
It hit me on the way home that my hypervigilance is no longer necessary. Peanut gets what good behavior means. My habits die hard, however, because I still smart at the looks and comments I dealt with before his transformation. So now it's time for a new change: mine. My kid needs all the credit I can give him, and it's time to start.
So now we're hanging out, bonding over vanilla Oreos, air conditioning, and PBS Kids.
It's a great day here, and I'm basking in our mutual non-frustration.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It has been quite the weekend for Boy Wonder. On Saturday, we went to a local festival and decided that we did not need to be the only gluttons for punishment. So all the grandparents came along. And there was much rejoicing. Peanut discovered the carnival, complete with rides his size. And there was even more rejoicing.
Peanut blew through a roller coaster (at least twice), airplanes, motorcycles, a "giant slide" (keep in mind, we're dealing with preschoolers here), a merry-go-round, and racecars before finally allowing himself lunch. Thus fortified, he went for the motherload: the Ferris Wheel. And Boomer, who was his companion on this adventure. I was happy to allow this, considering I have both a medical condition (pregnancy) and a phobia (fear of heights) that does not let me do well with these things.
Peanut was quite happy to hang out with Daddy while in line, and then clutched Boomer for dear life once he realized just how high this thing was going. He survived, and so did I.
Today was another delightful experience. Mommy Cohorts gather for lunch and water slides. And Peanut behaved beautifully. No temper tantrums, only one warning, and one minor fuss when it was time to leave. Great job from Boy Wonder.
It hit me on the way home that my hypervigilance is no longer necessary. Peanut gets what good behavior means. My habits die hard, however, because I still smart at the looks and comments I dealt with before his transformation. So now it's time for a new change: mine. My kid needs all the credit I can give him, and it's time to start.
So now we're hanging out, bonding over vanilla Oreos, air conditioning, and PBS Kids.
It's a great day here, and I'm basking in our mutual non-frustration.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
When Daddy Laughs
Call me Mother of the Year.
To the amusement of most of my cohorts, I'm finally showing that yes, thank you, I'm pregnant. It's become a bit more obvious because every time I sit down and relax, one can see my stomach moving with the baby. Kinda like Alien on speed. My guys are fascinated by this, which makes my day. Peanut's still a bit confused, but we're working on that.
Last night, Boomer and I were hanging out lamenting over the Cubs/Sox rainout, and the baby started getting its groove on. This invariably happens when I'm feeling like sleep is a good idea. Mommy doesn't need sleep, I need to party! Payback will be swift in the teenage years. So Boomer, being an excited daddy, reaches for my belly.
Boomer: "Holy crap! Your stomach is vibrating!"
Me: "Yeah, this is pretty normal."
Boomer: "I sired the Tasmanian Devil!"
Me: "Duh. How else do you explain Peanut?"
Boomer: Uncontrollable laughter. I'm amazed Peanut slept through it.
At this point, I have no clue if it's a boy or a girl. And I still don't care. Based on the movement, I'd say boy. Based on gestational size, girl. Flip a coin, kids.
In the meantime, Boy Wonder is requiring a bike ride. It's finally decent! And there was much rejoicing.
Call me Mother of the Year.
To the amusement of most of my cohorts, I'm finally showing that yes, thank you, I'm pregnant. It's become a bit more obvious because every time I sit down and relax, one can see my stomach moving with the baby. Kinda like Alien on speed. My guys are fascinated by this, which makes my day. Peanut's still a bit confused, but we're working on that.
Last night, Boomer and I were hanging out lamenting over the Cubs/Sox rainout, and the baby started getting its groove on. This invariably happens when I'm feeling like sleep is a good idea. Mommy doesn't need sleep, I need to party! Payback will be swift in the teenage years. So Boomer, being an excited daddy, reaches for my belly.
Boomer: "Holy crap! Your stomach is vibrating!"
Me: "Yeah, this is pretty normal."
Boomer: "I sired the Tasmanian Devil!"
Me: "Duh. How else do you explain Peanut?"
Boomer: Uncontrollable laughter. I'm amazed Peanut slept through it.
At this point, I have no clue if it's a boy or a girl. And I still don't care. Based on the movement, I'd say boy. Based on gestational size, girl. Flip a coin, kids.
In the meantime, Boy Wonder is requiring a bike ride. It's finally decent! And there was much rejoicing.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Confusion
Call me Mother of the Year.
So far, the first couple of weeks of summer have gone well. Compared to this time last year, there is a distinct lack of temper tantrums and hitting. There is also a major disdain of Pull-Ups. Long may both of these last. We've been investigating new strawberries (once again, Peanut is chief Tester of Yumminess), riding our big boy bike, and attacking crayons.
I'm noticing a new questioning bent in my small son. "Why?" and "But Mommy" are heard rather frequently these days. No subject is safe, but one is particularly interesting and funny.
My belly is moving. And try as I might, I cannot explain this sufficently to Peanut.
Peanut (and his preschool teacher, family and various strangers) is aware that he is about to be a big brother. He has a standing invitation to feel the baby moving, and I've tried to talk about how the baby is growing without completely confusing or scarring my son. Right now, Peanut has one concern.
"But Mommy, I can't HEAR the baby!"
Now I'm confused. Hear the baby? Why are we concerned with that? If this one is anything like it's mother, I guarantee hearing the baby will be the least of my concerns. Then I put myself in my four-year-old's shoes. The babies Peanut hangs out with now are, well, outside of their mommies' tummies. You can touch them, see them, hear them. Peanut can do none of these things yet, and is perceptive enough to be worried.
My son is brilliant.
So I'm doing my level best to explain to Peanut that while we can't hear the baby now, we will in a few months. Meanwhile, we can tell the baby we love it. And feel it beating the daylights out of Mommy's insides. If this doesn't work, I'm calling for backup. Maybe Boomer has some ideas.
Call me Mother of the Year.
So far, the first couple of weeks of summer have gone well. Compared to this time last year, there is a distinct lack of temper tantrums and hitting. There is also a major disdain of Pull-Ups. Long may both of these last. We've been investigating new strawberries (once again, Peanut is chief Tester of Yumminess), riding our big boy bike, and attacking crayons.
I'm noticing a new questioning bent in my small son. "Why?" and "But Mommy" are heard rather frequently these days. No subject is safe, but one is particularly interesting and funny.
My belly is moving. And try as I might, I cannot explain this sufficently to Peanut.
Peanut (and his preschool teacher, family and various strangers) is aware that he is about to be a big brother. He has a standing invitation to feel the baby moving, and I've tried to talk about how the baby is growing without completely confusing or scarring my son. Right now, Peanut has one concern.
"But Mommy, I can't HEAR the baby!"
Now I'm confused. Hear the baby? Why are we concerned with that? If this one is anything like it's mother, I guarantee hearing the baby will be the least of my concerns. Then I put myself in my four-year-old's shoes. The babies Peanut hangs out with now are, well, outside of their mommies' tummies. You can touch them, see them, hear them. Peanut can do none of these things yet, and is perceptive enough to be worried.
My son is brilliant.
So I'm doing my level best to explain to Peanut that while we can't hear the baby now, we will in a few months. Meanwhile, we can tell the baby we love it. And feel it beating the daylights out of Mommy's insides. If this doesn't work, I'm calling for backup. Maybe Boomer has some ideas.
Call me Mother of the Year.
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