Which in our house literally means Eew! The Toilet!!
My baby just turned a year old. I officially have a toddler on my hands. Lord help us all! This kid never sits still. He's on the go CONSTANTLY. And into every freaking nasty, gross thing that he can get his chubby little hands on. And the grandparents spoil him with toys, books, anything his little heart could want. He doesn't want any of it.
What does he want to play with? The TOILET! We're not nasty people by any means. Far from it. But I'm also not a bleach-toting spaz, either. We straddle that middle line and every once in a while when the kids have worn my resistance down to a nub, something passes a smell test to determine its use.
I know he loves the water. He showers with my hubby at night before bed and gets excited the SECOND he hears the release of the water out of the faucet. We even bought him one of those tiny molded plastic baby pools from Wally-World. It's the one you can only put a few inches of water into because it's just big enough to him wet but not much more. His favorite thing to do with that is crawl out of it. He doesn't want to play in it. At all. (The only day I saw him give the pool anything more than a passing glance, was when he saw our neighbor's baby was making a beeline for it. Then he was all over that thing - and relieved her of her toys!) Until today. We have a Bradford Pear tree in our front yard. It's just big enough to house a few birds and a feeder, and offer a little bit of shade on our front lawn.
Because we haven't been playing any where near the pool (why would we? The weather's only been in the 90's around here with 100% humidity), today I noticed that the birdies we've been feeding have been using the pool for their own personal dumping ground! They've been pooping on the pool and spitting bird seed shells into it! It turned from a nice safe place for my son to have some supervised water play, into a birdie landfill! So, what draws my son like a magnet? That nasty, disgusting pool. So I pulled out the heavy artillery and got to scrubbing. I scrubbed that thing until I was certain that every last bit of birdie debris was obliterated. Baby thought it was great! He thought I created all that foam just for him to play in. Kept leaning over the side to get his hands full of suds. Bird poop suds.
After I got it all clean and shiny and added fresh water to the bottom of the pool (I could see my reflection when I looked in), I saw his diapered butt out of the corner of my eye bouncing up and down toward the flower beds - he was on his way to de-leaf them. Or eat the dirt. Or squash the bugs. Hard to tell. He didn't want a single thing to do with that pool. I guess the allure was mixed in with the bird poop.
Boys.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Parenting... Eminem style
I'm that white girl that goes all Gangster whenever an old-school rap song with a great bass track comes on the radio. (I go full-out, too - especially if I'm in my truck. I roll down the windows, cock my shades, slouch in the driver's seat and blast it!) I've even downloaded my favorites on iTunes so I can play them round-robin to my heart's content. (Hubby always shakes his head as he heads to the garage, muttering about how his wife morphs into a club kid whenever the music's right.)
This past weekend I was making dinner, rocking out to the tunes blasting out of my computer when Eminem's "When I'm Gone" came on. If you listen to the opening verse of the song, it's beautiful. Poignant and especially true in my case. If you don't know, they go like this:
Have you ever loved someone so much you'd give an arm for
Not the expression, no. Literally give an arm for
When they know they're your heart
And you know you were their armor
And you will destroy anyone who would try to harm her
I don't have a "her". I have "him's". But it doesn't matter. I know exactly where he's coming from.
I love my kids more than I ever thought humanly possible. It's almost panic-inducing when I worry about any number of imaginary complications befalling their sweet heads. (I'm an endless worrier) But I'm going to let you in on a little secret. It was not love at first sight with either of my boys. With my oldest, it was a complicated labor and delivery and I didn't get to see him for a while after he was born. They whisked him off to the medical team eagerly waiting to administer emergency care. I was happy he was finally here but I was in such a drugged haze, that nothing was really registering. (I don't even remember large parts of what happened.) When my youngest was born, it was a night-and-day different experience. I was actually waiting for that moment when the heavens would open and I would hear choirs of angels harmonizing in my ears and I would fall madly in love with my kid. My doctor held him up as soon as he was born. Nope. Nothing. I looked at my husband. His eyes were bright with unshed tears and his face was over-flowing with emotion. He was was in love. This was the little miracle that I'd cut out caffeine for, monitored my salt intake for and forced myself to drink gallons of water for. I was not in love. But I knew it would come.
I would die for my children. I would kill for them. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to keep them safe. My oldest knows that. My baby will learn. I taught my oldest this while walking through the parking lot at Target. He was a runner when he was a toddler and I always needed to maintain a firm grip on his hand. And I always made sure that he walked between me and the parked cars. (I would LOVE to see parking lots built that had safe pedestrian walking between the rows of parked cars. Think about how much better it would be to be able to safely get to and from your car without worrying about either you or your child succumbing to the tires of the oncoming SUV and becoming a brand-new speed bump. Then the only thing you'll need to worry about is backing out in front of someone who's paying more attention to their cell than they are to what's in front of them. But that's for another post.) When he was about six, he told me he was "big enough" to walk on the outside. I told him no. His feet grew roots and he planted himself behind a Buick. So, we stopped and had the following conversation:
Me: No
Him: Why not?
Me: Because if one of these people hits you with their car, I will pull them from it and beat them to death.
He laughed.
Me: Baby, I'm serious. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to protect you and if someone hurt you, I would kill them.
I wasn't sure how much of what I said sunk in, but I was serious. I reminded him constantly after that about the safety of walking on the inside. And he always did. And one day about a year later, as we were walking through the striped pedestrian part of the parking lot right in front of the store, I watched as someone ignored the posted stop signs (they're rather useless to begin with - people rarely even pause, let alone stop) and raced right toward where we were walking. My son grabbed my hand and started pulling as hard as he could.
"Hurry up, Mom", he said. "I don't want you to go to jail."
At least he understood. I might have taken it a little far. (Just a bit) But with my son, it doesn't sink in unless you're overly dramatic. But honestly, what wouldn't you do to protect your kids?
I want my boys to grow up secure in the knowledge I love them.. Knowing that I always have their backs. And that even if they do something I don't agree with, I'm always on their side. And that I'd "give an arm for" (or more), anything to keep them safe.
This past weekend I was making dinner, rocking out to the tunes blasting out of my computer when Eminem's "When I'm Gone" came on. If you listen to the opening verse of the song, it's beautiful. Poignant and especially true in my case. If you don't know, they go like this:
Have you ever loved someone so much you'd give an arm for
Not the expression, no. Literally give an arm for
When they know they're your heart
And you know you were their armor
And you will destroy anyone who would try to harm her
I don't have a "her". I have "him's". But it doesn't matter. I know exactly where he's coming from.
I love my kids more than I ever thought humanly possible. It's almost panic-inducing when I worry about any number of imaginary complications befalling their sweet heads. (I'm an endless worrier) But I'm going to let you in on a little secret. It was not love at first sight with either of my boys. With my oldest, it was a complicated labor and delivery and I didn't get to see him for a while after he was born. They whisked him off to the medical team eagerly waiting to administer emergency care. I was happy he was finally here but I was in such a drugged haze, that nothing was really registering. (I don't even remember large parts of what happened.) When my youngest was born, it was a night-and-day different experience. I was actually waiting for that moment when the heavens would open and I would hear choirs of angels harmonizing in my ears and I would fall madly in love with my kid. My doctor held him up as soon as he was born. Nope. Nothing. I looked at my husband. His eyes were bright with unshed tears and his face was over-flowing with emotion. He was was in love. This was the little miracle that I'd cut out caffeine for, monitored my salt intake for and forced myself to drink gallons of water for. I was not in love. But I knew it would come.
I would die for my children. I would kill for them. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to keep them safe. My oldest knows that. My baby will learn. I taught my oldest this while walking through the parking lot at Target. He was a runner when he was a toddler and I always needed to maintain a firm grip on his hand. And I always made sure that he walked between me and the parked cars. (I would LOVE to see parking lots built that had safe pedestrian walking between the rows of parked cars. Think about how much better it would be to be able to safely get to and from your car without worrying about either you or your child succumbing to the tires of the oncoming SUV and becoming a brand-new speed bump. Then the only thing you'll need to worry about is backing out in front of someone who's paying more attention to their cell than they are to what's in front of them. But that's for another post.) When he was about six, he told me he was "big enough" to walk on the outside. I told him no. His feet grew roots and he planted himself behind a Buick. So, we stopped and had the following conversation:
Me: No
Him: Why not?
Me: Because if one of these people hits you with their car, I will pull them from it and beat them to death.
He laughed.
Me: Baby, I'm serious. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to protect you and if someone hurt you, I would kill them.
I wasn't sure how much of what I said sunk in, but I was serious. I reminded him constantly after that about the safety of walking on the inside. And he always did. And one day about a year later, as we were walking through the striped pedestrian part of the parking lot right in front of the store, I watched as someone ignored the posted stop signs (they're rather useless to begin with - people rarely even pause, let alone stop) and raced right toward where we were walking. My son grabbed my hand and started pulling as hard as he could.
"Hurry up, Mom", he said. "I don't want you to go to jail."
At least he understood. I might have taken it a little far. (Just a bit) But with my son, it doesn't sink in unless you're overly dramatic. But honestly, what wouldn't you do to protect your kids?
I want my boys to grow up secure in the knowledge I love them.. Knowing that I always have their backs. And that even if they do something I don't agree with, I'm always on their side. And that I'd "give an arm for" (or more), anything to keep them safe.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Why babies don't need toys...
My baby just turned one. It's amazing how quickly the time flies - even when you're home every day watching it happen. One week ago, he was a baby. An infant, by medical standards. Now he's firmly in the "toddler" camp (even though he hasn't gotten enough courage to take that first solo step).
We have only bought him 2 toys since he was born. A plastic stacking ring thing, and a plastic Harley trike for his birthday (the one they have at Wally-world). Everything else he plays with, he's picked up from around our house. He has a remote to an old TV (with the batteries removed), plastic food containers and lids, a toothbrush (new from the package, but it's far from clean now), an old Dell keyboard from a old computer of my husbands that he pulled from a box in the garage, small plastic Halloween buckets, a Batman BatCave that he dragged out of the back of my oldest's closet, his baby monitors and the pillows from the couch. He's been given books, plush animals and toys from all the Grandparents (they sure do LOVE to spoil him). But I can tell you, he rarely plays with them.
He's happier pulling all the plastic trash bags off the roll, or flipping the lid to the trash can back and forth, or opening the lid to the toilet and splashing in the bowl, or getting underneath the bathroom cabinet and pulling out all the soap and shampoo bottles, than playing with toys that light up and make pre-recorded sounds. He makes his own sounds, coos his content, and plays happily. He's much more interested in finding out about this wide new world he's in than accepting something that was "created" just for him.
He loves being outside and bouncing the dogs' ball back and forth. He loves crawling through the grass, picking leaves off our rosebush, smacking his chubby little hands on the tractor tire in the back yard (an exercise tool of my hubby's), even practicing his climbing skills on the cement steps from the back patio to the garage.
I love him at this age. I know that the hand-held video game stage is coming. I know he's going to fight his brother on Saturday mornings for control of the remote (I refuse to allow TV's in kids' bedrooms). I know the stage where Mom just doesn't "get it" is on its way. If I could, I would keep those stages at bay indefinitely. (Realistically, I know I can't. But a girl can dream.
If you want to get something for our youngest pumpkin, Mommy and Daddy could do with a night away a couple times a month. But you have to call Daddy. He's less likely to actively request babysitting than Mommy is (he uses the excuse that "no one wants to babysit for us" - which is total crap. All the grands have offered their services!). Spend your time with him, and not your money. Teach him a life skill that he will need as an adult. Have an activity that is uniquely "yours". Help us raise him to be compassionate, sweet, considerate, well-mannered, eloquent and fearless. Help us teach him to be a good man. Impart your wisdom. Be silly. Encourage him. Support him. Delight in his adventurous nature and can-do spirit. Love him. Those are the gifts that will always stay with him.
Happy Raising.
We have only bought him 2 toys since he was born. A plastic stacking ring thing, and a plastic Harley trike for his birthday (the one they have at Wally-world). Everything else he plays with, he's picked up from around our house. He has a remote to an old TV (with the batteries removed), plastic food containers and lids, a toothbrush (new from the package, but it's far from clean now), an old Dell keyboard from a old computer of my husbands that he pulled from a box in the garage, small plastic Halloween buckets, a Batman BatCave that he dragged out of the back of my oldest's closet, his baby monitors and the pillows from the couch. He's been given books, plush animals and toys from all the Grandparents (they sure do LOVE to spoil him). But I can tell you, he rarely plays with them.
He's happier pulling all the plastic trash bags off the roll, or flipping the lid to the trash can back and forth, or opening the lid to the toilet and splashing in the bowl, or getting underneath the bathroom cabinet and pulling out all the soap and shampoo bottles, than playing with toys that light up and make pre-recorded sounds. He makes his own sounds, coos his content, and plays happily. He's much more interested in finding out about this wide new world he's in than accepting something that was "created" just for him.
He loves being outside and bouncing the dogs' ball back and forth. He loves crawling through the grass, picking leaves off our rosebush, smacking his chubby little hands on the tractor tire in the back yard (an exercise tool of my hubby's), even practicing his climbing skills on the cement steps from the back patio to the garage.
I love him at this age. I know that the hand-held video game stage is coming. I know he's going to fight his brother on Saturday mornings for control of the remote (I refuse to allow TV's in kids' bedrooms). I know the stage where Mom just doesn't "get it" is on its way. If I could, I would keep those stages at bay indefinitely. (Realistically, I know I can't. But a girl can dream.
If you want to get something for our youngest pumpkin, Mommy and Daddy could do with a night away a couple times a month. But you have to call Daddy. He's less likely to actively request babysitting than Mommy is (he uses the excuse that "no one wants to babysit for us" - which is total crap. All the grands have offered their services!). Spend your time with him, and not your money. Teach him a life skill that he will need as an adult. Have an activity that is uniquely "yours". Help us raise him to be compassionate, sweet, considerate, well-mannered, eloquent and fearless. Help us teach him to be a good man. Impart your wisdom. Be silly. Encourage him. Support him. Delight in his adventurous nature and can-do spirit. Love him. Those are the gifts that will always stay with him.
Happy Raising.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Laundry, Laundry Every Where!!
I hate doing laundry.
Let me say that again. I. Hate. Doing. Laundry. I’ll wear a pair of jeans for weeks before I
wash them. I’m not a dirty person – far
from it. I just don’t see the need to
wash something that isn’t dirty. And
let’s face it, when it comes to jeans, they fit better the longer you go
between washings.
When I was a
teen-ager, my mom used to say my jeans could just stand in a corner all by
themselves.
But when I do run clothes through the laundry machines, I’m
very particular about how it’s done. I
separate colors from whites, towels from wool sweaters, my husband’s exercise
clothes from the baby’s laundry. I
bleach whites and hang delicates and specialty fabrics to air dry. I know that running a full load
of clothes is more energy efficient. But
I refuse to ruin clothes to make a full load, and space is limited in our modest (tiny) home. Our laundry "room" is really a closet in our eat-in kitchen. I don't want to climb over clothes waiting to be washed.
My husband has a very different view of doing laundry. He stuffs the washer as full as it will
go. And he throws it all in there together - my Vickies bras, his sweaty, nasty workout gear, the babies clothes with towels and sheets. It drives me absolutely crazy!
We have much more laundry during the winter. My oldest son visits his father all summer and the baby refuses to wear clothes. I run the washing machine every single day. I hate it.
So in an effort to rein in our energy bill, I'm enlisting my husband to help me construct a clothesline in the backyard. We're going full old-school in our house. My husband is skeptical. He doesn't think it's going to do much. (Other than cause him to lose a few hours on a weekend doing house chores.)
Oh, but it will. It will save my sanity. My husband has gotten a new job - he's working from home. Which is great! His previous job as a civil servant had him working AWFUL hours and we rarely saw him. And when we did, he was mainly sleepy and cranky. So I love that this new job has him up during daylight hours and much calmer and happier. But since our house is tiny (read: miniscule), he set up his home office in the dining area of our kitchen. He bought a desk and a whole office worth of furniture. We also have our kitchen table. So in order to do a load of laundry, I'm climbing over him and more furniture in that area than needs to be there.
Not to mention the baby and our 11-year-old Boxer are under foot constantly. They both have to be where we are. There's much more room in the back yard to do laundry than there is in the house. So yes, this weekend we're putting up a clothes line. He'll see once I'm back to doing a load of laundry a day how much easier it makes our home life. And that's what it's all about. Happy wife = happy home life. And what husband doesn't want that!
We have much more laundry during the winter. My oldest son visits his father all summer and the baby refuses to wear clothes. I run the washing machine every single day. I hate it.
So in an effort to rein in our energy bill, I'm enlisting my husband to help me construct a clothesline in the backyard. We're going full old-school in our house. My husband is skeptical. He doesn't think it's going to do much. (Other than cause him to lose a few hours on a weekend doing house chores.)
Oh, but it will. It will save my sanity. My husband has gotten a new job - he's working from home. Which is great! His previous job as a civil servant had him working AWFUL hours and we rarely saw him. And when we did, he was mainly sleepy and cranky. So I love that this new job has him up during daylight hours and much calmer and happier. But since our house is tiny (read: miniscule), he set up his home office in the dining area of our kitchen. He bought a desk and a whole office worth of furniture. We also have our kitchen table. So in order to do a load of laundry, I'm climbing over him and more furniture in that area than needs to be there.
Not to mention the baby and our 11-year-old Boxer are under foot constantly. They both have to be where we are. There's much more room in the back yard to do laundry than there is in the house. So yes, this weekend we're putting up a clothes line. He'll see once I'm back to doing a load of laundry a day how much easier it makes our home life. And that's what it's all about. Happy wife = happy home life. And what husband doesn't want that!
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