Mother's Day Revised

Call me Mother of the Year.

Once again, I must comment on the sneakiness of my guys. The roses-and Boomer requests that I point out the true number of roses, which was eighteen- are lovely, but what really made the day memorable was the stomach flu. Boomer succumbed first and did a mighty job of attempting to keep me from it. That lasted about a day.

Mother's Day, in my mind, is all about the wishes of the mommy. If we wish to be waited on hand and foot, so be it. Boomer did his level best to wait on me, but let's face it, I'm one of the weird ones who just want to be left alone when not feeling well. Peanut, however, had no such reservations. The Toddler slid into my bed, shoved me away, and proceeded to take a two-hour nap. In my bed. Where I really wanted to be. Because he decided to share his bug.

Evil Twin pointed out (amid much laughter) that we do not wake up the sleeping toddler and I should be grateful he slept at all. Normally I would agree, but I hold that he has a perfectly good bed that ought to be used. Peanut disagreed, and I caved.

However, now that all are feeling much better, I'm looking for revenge. Not sure yet what I'll come up with, but wearing him out on the new playset will probably be involved. Bring it on.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Sneakiness on Mother's Day

Call me Mother of the Year.

Peanut and Boomer are up to no good. Again. Against me. Again.

Boomer asked the age-old question of what I want for (insert appropriate holiday here). In this case, I responded that gifts were unnecessary because we have just bought a house. Boomer chuckled at my departure from my usual request of world peace (one of these days, my wish will be granted) and went to sleep. I smiled, thinking for once he listened to me. I should really know better.

Imagine my surprise the next afternoon when the UPS guy shows up with a dozen roses- they're gorgeous, by the way- and a card bearing the signatures of Boomer and Peanut. I'm grateful, make no mistake, but I'm also a bit perturbed by my own double standard.

I object to sneakiness. To be more specific (and because Boomer is reading this over my shoulder and will swipe the keyboard and correct me) I object to sneakiness against me. If I'm the one being sneaky, then it's perfectly all right. So now I'm stewing because my guys know me too well for my own good, and have pulled a fast one on me. Again.

However, not to worry: Boomer has a birthday and Peanut has daily surprises in store. Sneakiness will run rampant again, and I'll once again be the cause. Next time, I'll accept their sneakiness for the joy it gives them. And plot my revenge.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Playsets and Preschool

Call me Mother of the Year.

The mass exodus is over. We've moved into what Peanut still refers to as "BIG NEW HOUSE!!!!" I'm putting this in all caps to allude to the lack of volume control. The move went smoothly, with the minor exception of Peanut's stomach flu. And Boomer's laughter. At me. With good reason.

Peanut was ragingly sick all over Boomer, and I, desperate to help, got him as close to Boomer as possible. Bad move, because in the next instant I was told to go find a garbage can. Oops. Call me Wife of the Year. Never gonna live that one down.

However, we have discovered the best feature of big new house. The playset. It is awesome! Peanut is developing the habit of racing outside at all hours and in all stages of dress. I'm trying to convince him that jammies and bare feet are not acceptable outdoor wear. I'm being ignored. Again.

More good news on the Peanut front is that he's been accepted to a fantastic preschool program. I'm excited, mainly because someone needs to learn that he's not the only toddler in the world, and it gives me new incentive to potty train. However, I'm a little sad because my baby is growing up. When I pointed this out to Boomer, he countered by reminding me that kindergarten isn't far away. No help whatsoever. Time for me to lick my wounds and realize that Peanut is taking his first step away from me.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Raindrops Falling on His Head

Call me Mother of the Year.

I'm finding myself at war with my toddler and his fear of raindrops. This is a new one.

After a day of no less than ten temper tantrums (no doubt brought on by a new thought on potty training), I was thrilled when Boomer came home early. He's terrific about taking over so I can get a break as soon as he walks through the door. He spent an hour trying to combat Peanut's latest way of avoiding potty training (which, for a three-year-old, isn't bad) and then it was bedtime. Let me just say that Peanut despises bedtime because he's convinced that he'll miss something good. Like my nervous breakdown. As it was raining, we found our excuse. An hour later, Boomer and I were still attempting to put Wonder Toddler to bed because of his cries that he was sorry that it was raining.

As a girl who's still uncomfortable around big thundery storms, I can relate. Sort of. But seriously, it's RAINDROPS. Not like that's going to hurt anyone or anything. Even the coward dog is good with rain. Maybe it's the sound of rain being blown into the window that gets him. He finally gives in when I sit with him, and life is good in his world again.

I, on the other hand, am frustrated to the point of screaming. Not conducive to sleeping toddler.

Once again, I'm forced to admit that I'm not in charge. And that's no fun. My days and nights are constructed at the whim of an increasingly cranky toddler. I know it's only a phase, but it's a phase that's infuriating.

For now, however, I can take comfort in the facts that my son is sleeping peacefully, my husband will give a back rub at my request, and the dog will be cowering at my feet. The day hasn't been a total loss after all.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Packing Peanut

Call me Mother of the Year.

It's been an interesting few weeks. Boomer and I made the monumental decision to buy a new, bigger house and then caused heart failure (mine) by telling the sellers we'd take possession at the end of the month. Thus, we've been buried in boxes. Thankfully, we have a Wonder Toddler who wants to do nothing but "help".

I hadn't realized just what moving with Peanut would look like. For some reason, I figured he'd be curious but far more interested in trains, Doggy Luke, and a shameless chance to spend more time with grandparents. Reality has slapped me upside the head with its sippy cup. Or was that Peanut? Not sure. At any rate, Peanut feels that no box should be packed without his supervision and approval. This makes packing the kitchen way more complicated. Peanut has also discovered the joys of investigating said boxes thoroughly. Suffice it to say that he was playing with Nana and Papa when various toys and books were packed. No way was I fighting that with him around.

Now that packing's nearly done, I've run into another problem today. Peanut would like to play with his trains. I currently have them blocked off with boxes, about to pack them as well. I'm currently trying to explain that the trains are on vacation. No luck. I'm trusting to nice weather for the next week and hoping to wear him out with the one-two combo of park time and playing with Doggy. Only a week left. Then we can explain why his room has moved. I'm leaning toward the use of magic. Wish me luck.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Peanut the Great

Call me Mother of the Year.

It's been a busy day in the life of the Wonder Toddler. Potty training attempts are at a new low, and so is my confidence as a mother. Or it was until Boomer came home. Let me explain.

Peanut slept in, which meant I slept in. And there was much rejoicing, until Peanut came clambering into my bed and wet it. Upon this little discovery, I went tearing into his room where the same unpleasant surprise awaited in his room. So much for Pull-Ups instead of diapers. Who knew? Not me. Luckily, all was salvageable.

Later on, I was waiting for Boomer to come home with needed ingredients for dinner. I planned on Peanut eating with us. Boomer was detained at work, and I lost track of time. Bottom line was when Boomer came home, Peanut decided that Doggy Luke's food looked pretty good. Exact words were "This is tasty!" Boomer assures me that every boy chows down on dog food at one time or another. I'm trying to remember where I put my Mommy credentials. Peanut promptly got actual dinner, and seems no worse for the wear. I'm still breaking out rumbling guilt pangs. It's a Mommy thing.

Boomer decides as I'm getting dinner ready that his hands are in need of washing. As Peanut has a major fascination with washing anything, he decides to watch. I'm pretty used to his getting underfoot when water's running, but I had no idea to what lengths he's willing to go. The kid climbs up ON THE DRAWER HANDLES to reach into the sink and wash his hands. He wants to be just like Daddy. I contemplate my kid breaking various bones as he falls. He doesn't, because sometimes, gravity works in Peanut's favor. I'm convinced that I'm not going to survive this experience. Boomer thinks otherwise. Maybe it's time I listened to him. As of right now, I'm not sure who will win this debate. I'll keep you updated.

Call me Mother of the Year.

The Look of Anger Management

Call me Mother of the Year.

Nana has this look that could freeze hell. Papa would yell when his children did wrong. Said children would cry, based on fear or remorse, depending on the situation. Nana would not yell, but she would stand quietly and shoot her children a look.

I need that look. Badly.

In the last couple of weeks, Peanut's temper tantrums have been increasing both in size and regularity. I've been taking the excellent advice of other Mommy Gurus (no, I'm not the only one) and doing my level best to ignore them. The ones he throws at home are easily dealt with. Time out, and Mommy pretends she's deaf until screaming ceases and penitent hiccupping commences. It's the public ones that have me worried. Time out does not come well to the out-and-about Peanut.

Case in point: we're playing at home with a favorite cohort. Peanut has been instructed to share his trains. Nothing doing. MOTY argues that a big boy shares his toys with others. Begin Crouching Toddler, Shrieking Peanut sequence. Peanut ends up in his room. Apologies come, and all is well.

The public scenario is a bit different. We're once again not playing nicely, and I decide it's time to get while the getting's good. Peanut has other ideas, and proceeds to fling a twenty-minute-long temper tantrum. It probably would have lasted longer, but that's when I finally got him into shoes and coat and hauled him out the door. Crying stopped as soon as we left.

Boomer can usually stop the tantrums more quickly, and I suspect it's because he's massive compared to the Peanut. I'm firmly in the Divinely Delicate category, and it's not making this easier. Thus the need for a look that my child will fear. Or at least not laugh at. Or tranquilizers. For me. Whatever works.

I must repeat: It's only a phase. This too will pass.

Call me Mother of the Year.