Twin Bed 1, The Boy 0

It's not a very clear picture, but you get the whole my-kid-has-a- shiner look. Luckily, his bruises are hidden pretty well by his glasses.

Entropy, Part Deux

Wednesday is choir night for me -- blessed, blessed choir night. My one night of the week where I can flop childless into the open arms of adult conversation (with great background music!) The ladies in my alto section are wonderful, warm, funny women and I cherish them, so it is no surprise that the door is hitting me in the backside as I run out to the car every Wednesday evening.
That leaves Rob with the children, which is fine because they are his kids and he is more than capable of handling them (I hate it when people ask dads if they are "babysitting"). I have complete confidence that the children will be in as good or better condition than when I left them. (Here comes the but . . . .)
But no one is immune to entropy, and tonight it was Rob's turn. When I left, Older Girl and The Boy were quietly playing downstairs and Rob was getting ready to feed Baby Girl and put her in bed. All was calm, all was bright . . .
Baby Girl fell asleep in the middle of her bottle and so Rob laid her in the crib and went to get the other two into bed. After the uneventful teeth-brushing, The Boy went in to kiss Older Girl goodnight and that's when the crying started. Apparently, Older Girl didn't deem it necessary to rise up and meet her brother halfway for the goodnight kiss and he, The Boy of Vestibular Dysfunction, lost his balance and fell headfirst into the iron scrollwork of her footboard (lovely, but so hard on the skull). He cut his eye, and although the bleeding was fairly easily stopped, the damage had been done. He was overtired and now injured, so the tears just kept on comin'.
Meanwhile, Rob asked Older Girl to go get her pajamas from the dryer, but of course she can't go into the basement alone (!) and just the fact that Rob asked her to put herself in peril in the inky darkness of the laundry room was cause for tears. (Forget about the fact that we have those new-fangled electric lights and all . . .)
Rob fast-tracked both wailing older children to bed, and then Baby Girl decided that she'd like to add her two cents. It was a tearful trifecta. Rob tried to see if she would like to finish her bottle, only to have her lift her dainty head and throw up all over him. Nice.
So he changed her pajamas and he changed his shirt and put the baby to bed, where she went happily into that good night.
Now I'm home, and all three are asleep and all is right with the world . . . for now.
Of course, I have to get the Older Girl to school again tomorrow, so keep your fingers crossed!

Talk to Me

Ok, my friendly friends, I have changed some settings on the blog so that you can now leave a comment without having to jump through flaming hoops first. So leave me a little love note if you wish because you know how I long to hear from you. Just make sure to put your name somewhere in your comment because if you are not registered on Blogger, then your comment shows up as "anonymous" and I'll have to guess who you are (oh, the intrigue!).
Caveat commenter: If I start getting weird spam comments or other things, then I'll probably change the settings back or work something else out. Since I'm figuring things out as I go, I'm sure things will go super-smoothly the very first time!!!

Things Fall Apart

Whenever things are crazy in the house (when are they not crazy?), Rob likes to smile and just say, "Ah, entropy." I used to ask him what he meant, and he would say that everything is naturally entropic, given to falling apart if not acted upon by some force to keep it in order. Well if that's not a definition of a house with young children, then I don't know what is -- and this morning the entropy nearly got the best of me.
First, Rob had to leave early for work, so it was my job to get Older Girl to school. Sounds simple enough, but the course of higher learning never did run smooth. Baby Girl decided that today would be a great day to wake at 5, and The Boy showed his smiling face at 5:15, as usual. Baby Girl ate and fell back into the soundest of sleeps right before it was time to get the car loaded. Any other day, she could have slept until kingdom come and I would have done everything in my power to accommodate her, but this morning she had to be strapped into the straight jacket we call an infant carseat.
We left the house on time, with everyone fully dressed and fed, which is already an accomplishment in my book. We pull into the school parking lot and realize that Older Girl has left her backpack sitting in the garage. Naturally. We pull out of the school parking lot and drive home to find the forgotten backpack waiting for us. By the time we get back to school, they have already rung the bell and Older Girl has to go around to the Office Door and run down to her classroom. Of course.
We drive back home, and while The Boy and Baby Girl play, I decide to make my coffee (oh the beloved coffee . . .) and an egg for breakfast. I drop an egg on the kitchen floor. Goody. I clean up the egg and carefully, oh so carefully, get out another one. The egg is cooked, the coffee is dripped, and things are looking up, when I decide to go into the scary Tupperware cabinet to get a small container. Bad move. Entropy finally catches up with the cabinet and everything cascades down and out of the cabinet like a big plastic avalanche. Crap. Now I throw everything back in, knowing that I am the "force" that is supposed to act upon the cabinet to keep it in order. The Force is not with me today. So I just move on to another cabinet to get out my biggest coffee mug, but when I open it, the hook on the inside that held a large silicone oven mitt finally gives way and the oven mitt whacks me in the head before knocking some things off the counter and hitting the floor. I just stare at the oven mitt and think, "Ah, entropy."

Epilogue: It's now 2 hours later and things are better. I am barely keeping entropy at bay, but I've had my coffee, so I don't care as much.

What A Bummer

The Boy misses his older sister desperately when she is at school. Really. I swear he does. He has a little game where he asks me, "Where's Sissy?" and then he answers himself, in a head slapping kind of way, "Oh, right, she's at school!" You can almost hear the Duh! implicit in his tone. So it is beyond me why he feels the need to needle her constantly when she gets home. Maybe it's because she tends to have an I love you, now get away from me kind of attitude towards him at times, or maybe he just wants to punish her for leaving him -- either way it can drive an otherwise calm woman into cracking open a beer in her kitchen at 3 in the afternoon. . . I'm just sayin' . . .

Since he knows that his sister can never (and I mean never) seem to ignore him completely, he knows that the best way to get a reaction from her is to say something bad under his breath. Now in our house, we try to foster kind and respectful speech so we don't say stupid, butt, dumb, etc in reference to people, so bad words can be a pretty relative term. The kids have to get creative when it comes to verbal combat. In addition, Older Girl is like our own private FCC -- constantly monitoring conversations for something that could pass as offensive in any way. So it was no surprise that yesterday, I heard this from the playroom:

The Boy, laughing crazily.

OG: "What did you just call me?"

TB: indistinct murmuring

OG: "You can't say that! I'm telling Mom!"

-- cut to Me looking for a place to hide from the impending tattlefest --

OG: "Mom, he is calling me a really bad name!"

Me: "I'm not interested in tattling. Work it out with your brother."

OG: "But he called me a bummer!"

Me: "A what?" -- trying hard not to laugh right in her face. Really hard.

OG: "A bummer!"

Me: "Wow, what a bummer -- now go work it out with your brother."

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Grease

Rob, who likes to check my blog to see if the cool kids left any comments, brought my attention to a new comment on my previous post. And lo and behold, it was from a company that makes cute, logo t-shirts with science-themed sayings that are marketed for the scientific community. They usually only do shirts for adults, but after reading my post, they asked if I would buy science shirts that were made for kids. I checked out some of their shirts and they are pretty neat (Team Pluto, anyone? I'm definitely a Team Pluto kind of gal). And so, YellowIbis, I say Yes! I would buy my daughter a good quality, full coverage t-shirt that says something witty about science -- I would buy one for my son, as well -- and while we're at it, I'm kind of liking some of these shirts for myself!
So I am encouraging you to check them out as well. Let them know that you support smart girl clothes. Ask and you shall receive . . .

Cover Me!

I saw this button on the sidebar of SFO Mom's Blog (see my sidebar), and I am encouraging you to read the full "Moms for Modesty" article by clicking on the button. Whether you have daughters or not, this is a disturbing trend in American retail, and one that has bothered me for a long time. As I've mentioned before, Older Girl is very tall and has always worn clothes that are a size or two ahead of her chronological age. She just turned 7 and is currently in at least a size 8, and my question has always been this: I'm all for a cute turn of phrase, but why do I want someone reading it off of my daughter's rear end!?!?!? I don't want Cute, Juicy, Angel, Sweetheart, or anything else printed on the butt of my kids' pants. And to take this even further, I am not a fan of those t-shirts with the "cute" phrases on the chest, either. I don't like the placement or the message implied by shirts that have princess, nasty, brat, spoiled, tease (saw this 2 days ago at Target!!!!) or things of that nature splashed across her pre-pubescent bosom. How about shirts that say, I Rock at Science or Math Genius. Why aren't those messages prized enough to be emblazoned in glittery letters?
And while we're at it, let's get rid of halter tops for baby girls, ultra low rise jeans, and underwear with words on them (!!!!!!!!!). I have seen all of these things in the children's department.

I used to think that maybe I was being too overprotective, but the more I talked to my friends and family, the more I realized that other people felt the same way. It seemed like as soon as Older Girl reached a certain size, the vast majority of clothing became very inappropriate -- it jumped from 4T to "prostitot" (we called it "kinderwhore" in our house).

So now I can see that I am not alone. I'm not talking burkas, people, I'm talking shirts that cover my 7 year old's midriff -- it's not that much fabric! I'm not the sew-my-own-clothes type, I'm the shopping type, and I will gladly spend my money on clothes that are cute, comfy, and have full coverage!
Who's with me?

Cupid Wuz Here

Older Girl brought home an invitation to a classmate's birthday party, proceeded to read it aloud, and then breezily announced:

"You know, last year "John Smith" and I used to not get along so well, but now he invited me to his party. He used to always tease me and try to make me mad. This year he is not as mean. Actually, I think he's in love with me."

Numerology

Today, after calling up the stairs for the third (ok, fifth) time to the Older Girl to clean her room, I started thinking about how many times I say or do things before either a) the objective is accomplished or b) I throw in the towel and check People magazine on-line (it's a vice, I know, but I like to think that's it's slightly better than, say, heroin -- although maybe just as addictive). So in the interest of Full Disclosure, I went through a typical day from start to finish and ran the numbers. Here's the ugly truth:

Number of times I hear the Boy calling my name at 5:15 am: 4
Number of times I ignore the Boy: 4 ( it's 5:15 am people!!)
Number of times I look at the alarm clock and swear I'll be up in 5 minutes: 3
Number of times I roll over: 3
Number of times I leap out of bed cursing the alarm clock because now I'm late: 1 (usually)
Number of times I tell Older Girl to get dressed: at least 5
Number of times I walk in the bathroom and step in pee: at least twice a day
Number of times I marvel at the hardiness of Finbar, our fish, given the fact that very little care is taken to change his water regularly: 3
Number of times I think about putting the clothes from the washer into the dryer: 3
Number of times I have to rewash the load because I forgot to put it in the dryer: ideally, only once (yes, I said, ideally . . . infer what you will . . .)
Number of times I think about going back to bed: 4 (and that's all before 9 am!)
Number of times I tell the Boy to leave his penis alone: 10
Number of times I sit down to blog, but get caught up reading other blogs or websites: 4 or 5
Number of times I start a grocery list: 3
Number of complete grocery lists that accompany me to the store: 0 (but I can piece together the ones I have and do a decent job)
Number of times I go into the bathroom followed by one of my children: every single time
Number of home improvement projects I have running at the same time: at least 2
Number of half empty juice boxes in the fridge: 4 (do they multiply overnight?)
Number of times we listen to "Oh, Susanna" as Older Girl practices her piano: approximately 4 times all the way through, but that's not counting the mind numbing stops and starts along the way
Number of times I tell the Boy to stop running the "victory lap" (the circuit from the hall through the kitchen and living room): 3
Number of times the Boy slips on the rug during said victory lap and crashes into the baseboard: 1
Number of times I tell the Boy to push his cup back from the edge of the table: 5
Number of times I wipe up milk per dinner: 1 (if you're goofing around, it's one strike and you're out of milk at our table)
Number of people crying over aforementioned spilled milk: at least 2 (including me)
Number of times I have to tell the Boy to get back in bed before he falls asleep: 3
Number of times Rob asks me if I'm falling asleep while we're watching tv: 1
Number of times Rob is waking me up when the show is finished: 1
Number of times the Boy or Older Girl come into our room through the night: 3

And with that I begin another day . . .

But of course, there are some things I could do ad infinitum; like kissing Baby Girl's smooth, round cheeks, telling the kids how much I love them, laughing with Rob over something inane and yet completely hilarious. I find that I don't mind the repetition of my tasks if they are punctuated by all the little, good things that make me realize I am in the right place at the right time -- even if it's not fun or exciting. It's all of these things that make the rest of the load bearable.

Wait your Turn

Transcript of actual events:

The Boy (sobbing uncontrollably): "Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m! I . . . *bwa-a-a-a-a-a* . . . can't . . .
*sniff,sniff, gulp* . . . . can't find . . . . *ah-huh-huh-huh*
James With A Button (a Most Beloved Train - ed.)!"

Me (half-heartedly and fakely sobbing): "Oh, no! What can we do?"

The Boy (totally calm, no traces of sobbing): "Mom, stop. You can't be sad."

Me: "Why not?"

The Boy: "Because I'm already being sad right now!"

An Oedipal Moment

While kissing Rob in the kitchen, I hear the boy wander in and mutter to himself:

"Mommy, why are you kissing Daddy? Why aren't you kissing me?"

Hmm, why indeed? . . . .

An Al of All Trades

While driving to my parents house today, I thought we'd rock out to some classic Ray Charles. Older Girl has now become very interested in the actual artist (and if they are dead or alive, which is a whole other kettle of fish . . .) and she likes to guess who is singing. So while listening to "Mess Around," Rob and I hear this from the back of the van:


Older Girl: "I love this song! Who sings this? . . . Al Roker?"

WHAT . . . .?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Hello, My Name Is . . .

Rob. That's my husband's name and I have obtained official top-level clearance to use it on this blog. It's mostly because I am tired of typing "husband" or "hubby," but also because I couldn't come up with some sexy, undercover kind of name for him with which he would be happy. So there you have it -- Rob. But the children's names are still on a need to know basis . . .

Quick and painful

I dropped the Boy off at school for his first real day and he went in happily with nary a look back. Good, I know, but I still cried all the way home.

You Are Here

Today was pre-school orientation for the Boy, and so we went to be properly oriented. I don't actually know how the Boy really feels about pre-school since he can be so reticent at times, but I suspect it is a mixture of excitement and nervousness and a little bit of sadness -- the very same things I feel when I think about him going to school. I've been prepping him for school for the past few weeks, running through the entire trip from breakfast to pick-up time like a high school football coach running plays. The only thing I was missing was the white-board with all the little arrows and players, and don't think that I didn't think about making a stop at Office Depot (or the Office Despot as Hubby calls it . . .) So it is no surprise that school has been on the front burner for the Boy, and when he talks about going to school he is smiling and bright -- but almost too bright, you know? Like a brittle-bright, it looks good but won't it last. I know that feeling -- it's the way I feel after I've been home with a new baby for a week, and it's usually the first indication that I'll be filling a prescription in short order. I compare it to creme brulee; all shiny and pretty on the top, but easily broken with one well-placed tap of the spoon.

The first real indication of his true feelings came when we pulled up to the school. From the back of the van I hear: "Uh, you guys can just run in for a few minutes and I'll wait here." Nice try, but it's full speed ahead, buddy. Luckily, I love this school. It is like the cover shot for "Cute Schoolhouses of PA," and it is everything I want when I think of a place for the kids to begin their academic careers. It is a lovely old red brick home that was once a convent for the church next door (all that praying can't hurt), and his teachers are patient and funny and comforting.
As we walked up to the door, the Boy seemed happy, so I felt better -- I could even laugh when Hubby started singing "Welcome to the Jungle" under his breath. But still, I could feel that familiar pang at the bottom of my ribcage, that sense of time floating away like glacial ice floes. Change hung at my shoulder like a specter, and I felt it nagging on the periphery.

But then, almost suddenly, we were all inside and I remembered how much I really love school, especially pre-school. Everything is shiny and small, each toy has a labeled spot, each child has a special cubby to themselves -- it's how I want my house to be. The children were all milling around each other, such little citizens, with expectations of immediate friendship and goodwill.
Don't get me wrong, there were tears and assertions of ownership and shyness all around, and the room was as warm as an incubator from all the little bodies, but overall the Boy could see some promise in this place. When it was time to go, he was eager to help clean-up (a phenomenon I can never recreate at home) and happily walked out the door saying, "See you Thursday!"

He hasn't said much more about school since we came home, but when he does mention it, that brittleness seems to be gone. Maybe it was just a fear of the unknown for him, which is what I fear most about change myself. I can still feel it hanging there by my shoulder, and while I'm not ready to turn around and shake hands with the specter, I feel like I can lean into it.

This Just In

Apparently 2nd grade is "awesome." Mostly because the classroom is just outside of the cafeteria, so it's only a short walk to lunch and recess. Glad to know that some priorities never change . . .

There's More Where That Came From . . .

The Boy is at that great age where he likes to make up jokes. Maybe all kids go through this phase, because I can remember Older Girl doing it as well -- heck, I can even remember doing it myself! It's that age where they realize that certain sayings or phrases make people laugh, and they spend a huge amount of time and brain-power trying to figure out the magic. Some kids are natural born comedians, and others have to work at it, but they all have one thing in common; once they get started, it is awfully hard to get them to stop. At our house, it goes a lot like this:

Older Girl: Hey Mom, what kind of dog likes to get a bath?
Me: Hmmm, I don't know . . .
Older Girl: A shampoodle! Get it? A shampoo-dle.
Me: hahahahah, oh, that was pretty funny . . .
the Boy: Hey, Mom, what kind of dog is a dog?
Me: I don't know -- what kind of dog is a dog . . .
the Boy: A shamp-mustache!! Get it? hahahahahahahahahahah . . . .

And then he continues to laugh like some kind of deranged maniac until he comes up with another, even better and funnier, joke. They never make sense, and I never expect them to make sense, so once in a while he really catches me offguard with something that actually cracks me up. Like last weekend when we were out to dinner with my parents and my brothers for the Boy's birthday -- we were sharing our shrimp appetizer and the kids were trying to amuse themselves until dinner arrived and so naturally they decided on a joke-telling marathon. Now Older Girl has reached the point of no return when it comes to proper joke-telling -- most of the time she knows what is funny and what makes absolutely no sense, so she has little patience with the Boy's more extemporaneous offerings. After about ten minutes of jokes and the resulting bickering over what is a "real" joke, I put the hammer down and said that no more jokes could be told if there was going to be arguing. They were both silent for about 2 seconds and then the Boy stands up in his seat and says:

Mom, what did that shrimp just say to Gee-Gee (his grandmother)?
I don't know, what did the shrimp say to Gee-Gee?
Hey, let go of my face!

Well, that just struck the whole table as incredibly funny. We started laughing so hard that I thought my brother might have an asthma attack. I kept picturing a little shrimp face being squeezed between two fingers on its way to my mom's mouth, and I thought' "well, of course that's what the shrimp would say!"
And through the gales of laughter, I looked over at the Boy's face and he was beaming, eyes shining with pride. He had really made a joke, at long last, and there is no end in sight . . .

Shout Outs

Shout Out #1 goes to all of my family and friends who have been so lovely and supportive of this blog. Thank you!

And shout out #2 goes to good friends in NJ who just became the parents of a "little" girl -- all
9 lbs and 13 oz of her!! They shall all remain nameless, but they know who they are and we are thrilled to welcome their newest babe. Can't wait to meet her!