The Siren has never been a good nighttime sleeper. In fact that’s where the nickname comes from: She sucks you in with her sweetness by day and wails at you by night, all night. I sincerely don’t know how we as a family made it through the first year of her life. And while, at the ripe old age of three, she has greatly improved her ability to sleep longer than one hour at a time (perhaps due to getting over her acid reflux issues), she still awakens to scream at least once, usually twice, sometimes one hundred times per evening. Generally she has had a bad dream or was frightened by a shadow or has to go potty. Whatever the reason, she absolutely refuses to exit her bed, as if an invisible force field activates at bedtime rendering her unable or unwilling. So what we get is a very loud Siren screaming until someone responds. As I sprint to her room, I pray she doesn’t awaken the sleeping Kraken or we will be up for the duration of the night. That son of mine seems to be charged and ready to conquer on 3 hours of sleep. The momma, not so much. And thus I have been trained to react quickly to The Siren’s screech.
The Kraken has always been a champion sleeper. He goes down easily, generally midsentence, and if left undisturbed is good for 8-10 hours of silence. If however his little bladder wakes the sleeping beast, he calmly gets up, does his business, and then makes his way downstairs to inform me of his activity. I could calmly send him back to his room, roll over and fall back into dreamland, but I know from personal experience that he needs a chaperone back to his room. Somewhere between my room and his, the battery in his body alerts him that he is at full operating capacity. There are things to do, potions to make, towers to build, toilet paper to shred, sweets to eat and mayhem to produce. And so I have been trained to walk him to his bed and tuck him back in.
I love my kids, have always functioned on minimal sleep and have some extra calories to burn so all this walking around at all hours of the night really isn’t the problem. The problem is the path I must walk. I call this portion of my life: Running the Gauntlet.
First are the 19 deadly throw pillows that all beds need to make them look awesome when they are neatly made. Generally however ours are strewn about randomly on the floor creating not so awesome stumbling blocks during my nighttime escapades.
Next I must traverse the wood floors leading to the stairs. Sounds rather benign until I step on one of 12 silky, satiny, princess dresses The Siren models then abandons throughout the day. Those mothers are slippery as heck, and I have found myself on the losing end of that battle more than a few times. I can play match that dent in the floor with my hip, knee, elbow or earlobe. Perhaps I should pick up the dresses in the evening, but I kind of enjoy that natural weathered look I am creating on my floors.
By now I am bloody and bruised, but I have reached the stairs where I know I am basically safe as long as I keep count. The staircase curves around creating a tooth chipping hazard if I skip a number on the way to fourteen. But my brain function is totally back to normal after two children sucked most of the life out of it. I mean, it’s been awhile since I found my hairbrush in the oven, my car keys in the freezer or my credit card in the bathtub. I can’t remember my name, but everyone knows me as The Kraken’s mom anyway so why confuse people?
I’ve made it upstairs and after kicking the desk chair that’s always in the same place, I only have a few things left to say: Legos, Matchbox cars and Barbie shoes. The trifecta of terror. The trinity of doom. The triplet of torture. OUCH, OUCH and OUCH again. It would be so much simpler just to pick up the crap at the end of the day, right? I agree. But sometimes nothing makes me feel as alive as digging a tiny shoe out of my foot like a splinter at two in the morning.
Besides, stepping on an unsuspecting Lego is really good for testing other words to replace the curse words you don’t want your five year old to repeat. Seriously, you should try it sometime.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Puzzles Can Be Fun
The time had finally come, but just the thought of Parent / Teacher conferences strikes fear to my very core. For a tiny portion of my day, I have to admit to another person that my kid has issues. I know if my kids have problems sharing or telling lies or throwing tantrums or being too physical or eating paste, but having another person, who isn’t obligated to even like my child let alone love them, point out my beloved’s flaws is not my favorite moment as a parent. Now, if this was a meeting about how great The Kraken is at gross motor skills I would have no fears whatsoever. I mean he learned to ride without training wheels when he was three and a half. Unfortunately, this meeting is about kindergarten readiness, meaning how well he gets along with his peers, fine motor skills and attention span. These are not The Kraken’s strengths.
I arrived for my scheduled conference a bit early and sadly heard the tail end of the meeting before mine. Apparently Ariel* is the picture of patience and kindness, can already read and writes her full name beautifully. The teacher, Miss Triton*, only wishes Ariel would assert herself more often and stand up for herself. Hmm. Didn’t know that kind of child existed. Miss Triton and Ariel’s mom finished in record time and had a few minutes to shoot the breeze. In that time I learned Miss Triton really hates these conference thingies especially when she has bad news to deliver and coincidently she saved the “best for last.” Great. It was my turn, and I was asked if I was ready. “Sure,” I said, “though I have a feeling we are about to rumble.” Both ladies just stared at me like I had a rhinoceros horn on my head, which is why I wish there was some sort of “air quotes” for sarcasm. Neither was amused. Awesome. Ariel’s mom was my last potential victim for Operation Make Some Friends.
For the record, I really like both of his teachers. They have been teaching forever and have the right mixture of kindness and sternness. I would bet the classroom shenanigans are kept to a minimum. This certainly wasn’t her first dreaded conference and so she expertly began with, “Do you have any concerns?” This simple question can alert her to the bozo parent that has no clue what their kid is capable of or can cut right to the quick of things to end the agony for herself and, in this case, me. Long story short, my concerns are in fact her concerns: The Kraken can be manipulative and sneaky. This is no news flash.
Here’s what I learned: They do not send the kids to timeout. Instead they send the kids to the puzzle table for a quiet activity and time for reflection. The Kraken is really good at puzzles.
In all the millions of times I have grilled my little man for information on what he did at school each day, I have never, ever heard one small hint that a puzzle table even exists. I don’t blame him, I don’t often tattle on myself either, but I am also oddly impressed. Seriously, not one mention, ever. The Kraken’s biggest offense is walking past someone’s block tower and “accidently” sticking his foot out just far enough to send it crumbling to the ground. He also enjoys taking three cars from the overflowing car bin which just so happen to be Flounder, Sebastian and Scuttle’s* favorite cars, (which isn’t a horrible thing in and of itself, if he had them first, but we all know he is trying to push buttons and make people cry). He gets his wish as both crimes induce angry eruptions from his classmates. It seems he has done enough sneaky nasty deeds that if anyone at all cries out in misery, The Kraken is the one all the kids point at. Apparently he was blamed for a classroom scuffle one morning when he was in fact home sick with croup. Poor little Kraken. Poor little classmates. Miss Triton left me with these parting gifts, “It’ a good thing he is so cute. That curly hair and dimple are to die for. I feel you have a class clown in the making.” Super.
I confronted The Kraken first thing, not on his behavior but on the existence of the puzzle table. He got the hint. Each and every day I now ask how his day was and if he had to go to the puzzle table. Overall, he has been pretty honest about it (the child is NOT a good liar just in case you think I have gone soft). On Monday however I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me even though Miss Ursula had told me herself his behavior had improved by leaps and bounds, and she hadn’t sent him to reflect for quite a few days. Here’s the official report . . .
“Well, I probably should have gone to the puzzle table. But Eric* did have to go. He has curly hair too so I yink someone got confused.” Your secret is safe with me son, just this once.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. : )
I arrived for my scheduled conference a bit early and sadly heard the tail end of the meeting before mine. Apparently Ariel* is the picture of patience and kindness, can already read and writes her full name beautifully. The teacher, Miss Triton*, only wishes Ariel would assert herself more often and stand up for herself. Hmm. Didn’t know that kind of child existed. Miss Triton and Ariel’s mom finished in record time and had a few minutes to shoot the breeze. In that time I learned Miss Triton really hates these conference thingies especially when she has bad news to deliver and coincidently she saved the “best for last.” Great. It was my turn, and I was asked if I was ready. “Sure,” I said, “though I have a feeling we are about to rumble.” Both ladies just stared at me like I had a rhinoceros horn on my head, which is why I wish there was some sort of “air quotes” for sarcasm. Neither was amused. Awesome. Ariel’s mom was my last potential victim for Operation Make Some Friends.
For the record, I really like both of his teachers. They have been teaching forever and have the right mixture of kindness and sternness. I would bet the classroom shenanigans are kept to a minimum. This certainly wasn’t her first dreaded conference and so she expertly began with, “Do you have any concerns?” This simple question can alert her to the bozo parent that has no clue what their kid is capable of or can cut right to the quick of things to end the agony for herself and, in this case, me. Long story short, my concerns are in fact her concerns: The Kraken can be manipulative and sneaky. This is no news flash.
Here’s what I learned: They do not send the kids to timeout. Instead they send the kids to the puzzle table for a quiet activity and time for reflection. The Kraken is really good at puzzles.
In all the millions of times I have grilled my little man for information on what he did at school each day, I have never, ever heard one small hint that a puzzle table even exists. I don’t blame him, I don’t often tattle on myself either, but I am also oddly impressed. Seriously, not one mention, ever. The Kraken’s biggest offense is walking past someone’s block tower and “accidently” sticking his foot out just far enough to send it crumbling to the ground. He also enjoys taking three cars from the overflowing car bin which just so happen to be Flounder, Sebastian and Scuttle’s* favorite cars, (which isn’t a horrible thing in and of itself, if he had them first, but we all know he is trying to push buttons and make people cry). He gets his wish as both crimes induce angry eruptions from his classmates. It seems he has done enough sneaky nasty deeds that if anyone at all cries out in misery, The Kraken is the one all the kids point at. Apparently he was blamed for a classroom scuffle one morning when he was in fact home sick with croup. Poor little Kraken. Poor little classmates. Miss Triton left me with these parting gifts, “It’ a good thing he is so cute. That curly hair and dimple are to die for. I feel you have a class clown in the making.” Super.
I confronted The Kraken first thing, not on his behavior but on the existence of the puzzle table. He got the hint. Each and every day I now ask how his day was and if he had to go to the puzzle table. Overall, he has been pretty honest about it (the child is NOT a good liar just in case you think I have gone soft). On Monday however I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me even though Miss Ursula had told me herself his behavior had improved by leaps and bounds, and she hadn’t sent him to reflect for quite a few days. Here’s the official report . . .
“Well, I probably should have gone to the puzzle table. But Eric* did have to go. He has curly hair too so I yink someone got confused.” Your secret is safe with me son, just this once.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. : )
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Valentine's Day and a Hand Cramp
I’ve never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. It’s all too mushy gushy for a girl that neither likes to be touched nor wants to share her feelings. My husband though a bit of a romantic, lost a few grandparents on or very nearly on the 14th and thus also hates the holiday. We spent our first Valentine’s Day together 15 years ago in a car dealership picking out a Volvo for his mother, and that set the precedent. We just don’t celebrate the darn thing. I never really thought my feelings toward this day would get worse or better. Then we had a son. A son in preschool with twenty some odd Valentine’s to sign and a teacher who greatly encourages her kids to sign them all by themselves. I have a feeling this is going to go poorly.
I am all for this exercise in theory. What great practice! Hip hip hooray! And I admit that The Kraken is getting really good at writing his name. Most people can even read it. The problem is The Kraken contains 9 letters. The poor child needs the entire length of a piece of paper and them some to accomplish the feat. Oh, and getting him to actually sit down and write his name once takes begging, pleading and the occasional bribe. I should write myself a note for next year to start the Valentine’s signage shortly after the New Year. Since I can’t even find the grocery list I made yesterday, this plan is foolproof. And seeing as I didn’t have the foresight to write myself this special note last year, we have 25 cards about the size of post-it notes to sign and two nights to get it done. Should I stab my eye out now or later?
Care to learn the stages of a 4-year old losing his mind?
We began the activity with excitement, “This could be fun, momma!” And for three seconds it was. Then he realized there was no way on this green earth he would be able to fit his whole name in one line. He melted and seized for only a minute, then, being a problem solver, he wrote what letters he could and floated the remaining ones in random order just above the rest. Not all that easy to ready, but crises averted. Let’s continue. 24 more to go.
The second stage, boredom cropped up somewhere around card number 5. “How many more, momma?” He would write a couple letters, look up at me, shake his head and repeat the question. I gave him the option of stopping and picking it back up in the morning. But at the beginning of this mess I offered a temporary Star Wars tattoo when he finished the job. He never misses the opportunity for a Star Wars tattoo. When given the out he would just sigh as if exhausted, and then carry on. Only 19 more my son. Only 19 more.
Wiggles. The Wiggles phase. Not sure there is much more to add here. No one can wiggle like a 4 year old boy. Only 18 more. We can do this.
This is the crying phase, and it’s pretty ugly, folks. Upon finishing card number eight, The Kraken slammed his head down on the table and gushed, “This is torture.” No drama in this house, right? Well, son you are doing it to yourself. I would have abandoned ship three cards ago. On we tearfully go. 17 more. Ugg.
If The Kraken were a bit older our next phase would need to be censored because he just got mean. I guess he felt the only way to cope with the situation was to hurl insults: “This is so mean. Your kitchen sticks. I’m going to tell daddy you are mean. I hate this pen. No one else in school is doing this. I’m going to mess up this time just to make you mad.” Those were the only insults he could muster, and I’m very relieved. I’m just not sure what I would have done if my sweet little innocent Kraken had called me a poopy head or stupid brain or whatever it is the kids are saying these days. Talk about heartbreaking. At this point I’m really not sure how many we have left. Does everyone in your class really need a Valentine? Maybe we can shave off a few.
Cue the final and most entertaining phase: The giggles. Wow. Who knew everything, literally everything, could be so funny: the rip in the tablecloth, the sun coming through the blinds, that weird noise the refrigerator makes, my shirt. So funny in fact that all the laughter causes crying, runny nose and even the occasional drool drip. Don’t worry fellow preschool kiddos; we will wipe the body fluids off the Valentine’s before passing them out. We are finished! Hooray. 18 mostly legible. 2 really not at all legible. And 5 that are clear as day if you squint your eyes just a little bit.
I call it a victory! Forty minutes of handwriting practice through a roller coaster of emotions without the slightest inclination of bowing out. Good job Kraken! You are a better man than me. Now I’m going to need your help locating your sweet sister who disappeared more than 25 minutes ago. Wouldn’t it be great if she were practicing her handwriting on a wall somewhere? Perfect. I hate Valentine’s Day.
I am all for this exercise in theory. What great practice! Hip hip hooray! And I admit that The Kraken is getting really good at writing his name. Most people can even read it. The problem is The Kraken contains 9 letters. The poor child needs the entire length of a piece of paper and them some to accomplish the feat. Oh, and getting him to actually sit down and write his name once takes begging, pleading and the occasional bribe. I should write myself a note for next year to start the Valentine’s signage shortly after the New Year. Since I can’t even find the grocery list I made yesterday, this plan is foolproof. And seeing as I didn’t have the foresight to write myself this special note last year, we have 25 cards about the size of post-it notes to sign and two nights to get it done. Should I stab my eye out now or later?
Care to learn the stages of a 4-year old losing his mind?
We began the activity with excitement, “This could be fun, momma!” And for three seconds it was. Then he realized there was no way on this green earth he would be able to fit his whole name in one line. He melted and seized for only a minute, then, being a problem solver, he wrote what letters he could and floated the remaining ones in random order just above the rest. Not all that easy to ready, but crises averted. Let’s continue. 24 more to go.
The second stage, boredom cropped up somewhere around card number 5. “How many more, momma?” He would write a couple letters, look up at me, shake his head and repeat the question. I gave him the option of stopping and picking it back up in the morning. But at the beginning of this mess I offered a temporary Star Wars tattoo when he finished the job. He never misses the opportunity for a Star Wars tattoo. When given the out he would just sigh as if exhausted, and then carry on. Only 19 more my son. Only 19 more.
Wiggles. The Wiggles phase. Not sure there is much more to add here. No one can wiggle like a 4 year old boy. Only 18 more. We can do this.
This is the crying phase, and it’s pretty ugly, folks. Upon finishing card number eight, The Kraken slammed his head down on the table and gushed, “This is torture.” No drama in this house, right? Well, son you are doing it to yourself. I would have abandoned ship three cards ago. On we tearfully go. 17 more. Ugg.
If The Kraken were a bit older our next phase would need to be censored because he just got mean. I guess he felt the only way to cope with the situation was to hurl insults: “This is so mean. Your kitchen sticks. I’m going to tell daddy you are mean. I hate this pen. No one else in school is doing this. I’m going to mess up this time just to make you mad.” Those were the only insults he could muster, and I’m very relieved. I’m just not sure what I would have done if my sweet little innocent Kraken had called me a poopy head or stupid brain or whatever it is the kids are saying these days. Talk about heartbreaking. At this point I’m really not sure how many we have left. Does everyone in your class really need a Valentine? Maybe we can shave off a few.
Cue the final and most entertaining phase: The giggles. Wow. Who knew everything, literally everything, could be so funny: the rip in the tablecloth, the sun coming through the blinds, that weird noise the refrigerator makes, my shirt. So funny in fact that all the laughter causes crying, runny nose and even the occasional drool drip. Don’t worry fellow preschool kiddos; we will wipe the body fluids off the Valentine’s before passing them out. We are finished! Hooray. 18 mostly legible. 2 really not at all legible. And 5 that are clear as day if you squint your eyes just a little bit.
I call it a victory! Forty minutes of handwriting practice through a roller coaster of emotions without the slightest inclination of bowing out. Good job Kraken! You are a better man than me. Now I’m going to need your help locating your sweet sister who disappeared more than 25 minutes ago. Wouldn’t it be great if she were practicing her handwriting on a wall somewhere? Perfect. I hate Valentine’s Day.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Love Potion #9?
The Kraken is really into science experiments, which I must admit is a welcome change from races and obstacle courses. (There is a well-worn path through my kitchen, up the stairs, around the bend and straight on ‘til morning from hundreds of timed sprints.) I like the idea that we are making a mess with a purpose even if my inner scientist tends to over complicate things and confuse the poor kid. He may not be able to read any words but by golly he’s gonna write out a chemical reaction. His kindergarten teacher is going to be so impressed and not creeped out in the least I am sure.
One of his new favorite activities is potion making. I know what you’re thinking: potion making sounds more like witchcraft and wizardry than science but since he hasn’t yet required a frog eye, bezoar or essence of dittany we will keep it lumped into the experiments category. All this really means is he fills the bathtub with a couple inches of ice cold water and then pours in the dregs of our almost gone shampoo and soap bottles with an occasional squirt of my expensive face moisturizer. Part of his experiment requires him to run from the master bathroom to the kitchen in order to test all my cooking utensils for maximum frothing potential. The good ones he saves for himself, the not so great ones he passes off to The Siren, who is sitting in the frigid water just happy to be participating.
I find the best seat in the house to witness the mayhem is my very warm and cozy bed. From this vantage point I can observe the bathtub to ensure my budding scientist and his assistant don’t drown, answer frantic questions as he sprints through on the way to and from the kitchen and pin all my favorite things on Pinterest. Multi-tasker of the Year and it’s only eight in the morning!
Somewhere amongst the running back and forth, the “may I use this funny looking ying (turkey baster) to stir my potion?,” the stripping down of clothing because The Kraken doesn’t enjoy damp pajamas and the 400 how to organize your house pins, I got a little lost in the calmness of my morning. It’s not anything close to a typical morning when my spawn are getting along and I can half concentrate on a mommy hobby. Then suddenly snapping me back to reality, The Kraken screamed on the top of his lungs, while running to the kitchen, “DO WE HAVE ANY BOATS?” Boats? No, no boats. “Anyying that floats? Please!”
We spent the next thirty minutes racing the empty shampoo bottles, our boats, around the bathtub.
He may not be able to read or write much of anything at this point. She may not want to do much of anything that doesn’t involve a Disney princess or fancy shoes. They may become best friends and forget the days they drove me crazy fighting for a living. They may not even remember the day we spent the better part of our morning getting our pajamas wet and soapy in the bathtub. I however will never forget it.
One of his new favorite activities is potion making. I know what you’re thinking: potion making sounds more like witchcraft and wizardry than science but since he hasn’t yet required a frog eye, bezoar or essence of dittany we will keep it lumped into the experiments category. All this really means is he fills the bathtub with a couple inches of ice cold water and then pours in the dregs of our almost gone shampoo and soap bottles with an occasional squirt of my expensive face moisturizer. Part of his experiment requires him to run from the master bathroom to the kitchen in order to test all my cooking utensils for maximum frothing potential. The good ones he saves for himself, the not so great ones he passes off to The Siren, who is sitting in the frigid water just happy to be participating.
I find the best seat in the house to witness the mayhem is my very warm and cozy bed. From this vantage point I can observe the bathtub to ensure my budding scientist and his assistant don’t drown, answer frantic questions as he sprints through on the way to and from the kitchen and pin all my favorite things on Pinterest. Multi-tasker of the Year and it’s only eight in the morning!
Somewhere amongst the running back and forth, the “may I use this funny looking ying (turkey baster) to stir my potion?,” the stripping down of clothing because The Kraken doesn’t enjoy damp pajamas and the 400 how to organize your house pins, I got a little lost in the calmness of my morning. It’s not anything close to a typical morning when my spawn are getting along and I can half concentrate on a mommy hobby. Then suddenly snapping me back to reality, The Kraken screamed on the top of his lungs, while running to the kitchen, “DO WE HAVE ANY BOATS?” Boats? No, no boats. “Anyying that floats? Please!”
We spent the next thirty minutes racing the empty shampoo bottles, our boats, around the bathtub.
He may not be able to read or write much of anything at this point. She may not want to do much of anything that doesn’t involve a Disney princess or fancy shoes. They may become best friends and forget the days they drove me crazy fighting for a living. They may not even remember the day we spent the better part of our morning getting our pajamas wet and soapy in the bathtub. I however will never forget it.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Stitches from Santa
I have social anxiety disorder which I leave untreated due to a very uncomfortable dependency on the drugs that are supposed to balance out my crazy in public situations. All this really means to you is all the shaking, stammering, blushing, gagging awkwardness you see before you is my normal. It doesn’t matter how long I have known you nor how often we get together, I would rather be hiding behind a curtain somewhere. I would do nearly anything to keep my children from inheriting this bucket of lame. Therefore, like a good mother and perhaps a glutton for punishment, I refuse to allow my kids to miss out on any opportunities simply because I would rather not handle social interaction. I figure all parents embarrass their children at one point or another; I just started from birth.
An opportunity arose to see Santa at a nearby shop, and I jumped at the chance. What kid doesn’t want to meet Old St. Nick? After all, The Kraken had drawn him a picture and was hoping to give him his wish list. Long story short, he was thrilled with his encounter. I was thankful the only stranger I was forced to speak to was an old man in a ridiculous red outfit. The Siren however was not impressed. Like a good sport she sat near Santa so I could at least capture the moment on my camera. She seemed more reluctant than scared, so I had the delusion she would warm up with a second visit with the jolly man, which was comforting since I had already signed us up for pancakes with Santa and Mrs. Claus the following Saturday.
When I broke the news to my brood, The Siren began to wail. It seems I didn’t quite catch the hint: my baby girl is in fact terrified of Santa. It’s really hard to force my kid to do things that I myself struggle through, but we had already paid and her brother was so excited. Besides, people say the best way to conquer your fear is to face it. And though it has not been at all true for me, it could work for her, right? As it turns out The Siren had other plans than facing her phobia of synthetic facial hair. Rather than choke down a couple pancakes, stand in a line, sit on Santa’s lap and smile for a picture, she decided instead to bash her lip on the footboard of our bed minutes before departure requiring an emergency room visit and two stiches. Well played, Siren. Well played. And I don’t blame her one little bit.
An opportunity arose to see Santa at a nearby shop, and I jumped at the chance. What kid doesn’t want to meet Old St. Nick? After all, The Kraken had drawn him a picture and was hoping to give him his wish list. Long story short, he was thrilled with his encounter. I was thankful the only stranger I was forced to speak to was an old man in a ridiculous red outfit. The Siren however was not impressed. Like a good sport she sat near Santa so I could at least capture the moment on my camera. She seemed more reluctant than scared, so I had the delusion she would warm up with a second visit with the jolly man, which was comforting since I had already signed us up for pancakes with Santa and Mrs. Claus the following Saturday.
When I broke the news to my brood, The Siren began to wail. It seems I didn’t quite catch the hint: my baby girl is in fact terrified of Santa. It’s really hard to force my kid to do things that I myself struggle through, but we had already paid and her brother was so excited. Besides, people say the best way to conquer your fear is to face it. And though it has not been at all true for me, it could work for her, right? As it turns out The Siren had other plans than facing her phobia of synthetic facial hair. Rather than choke down a couple pancakes, stand in a line, sit on Santa’s lap and smile for a picture, she decided instead to bash her lip on the footboard of our bed minutes before departure requiring an emergency room visit and two stiches. Well played, Siren. Well played. And I don’t blame her one little bit.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Princess and the Potty
I very much dislike three things. Okay, sure there are many more than that but for right now while I am potty training my daughter, these three are really pissing me off: public restrooms, restrictive clothing and fancy dresses.
The first is obvious, public restrooms are generally dirty, soaking wet, a great place to be killed and not so kid friendly. But of course being a mom of two kids with tiny bladders, we are always in need of a potty stop and therefore a public restroom. Taking my son isn’t such a hassle really. Boys have it easy, point and shoot. If he misses he is just adding to the general splendor and aroma. No real harm done. However, there aren’t enough disinfecting wipes in this universe to make me feel warm and fuzzy about sitting my sweet innocent baby girl on a public toilet seat. Seriously, yuck. I cannot wait for the day she is tall enough to learn the hover method of public restroom safety, until then I am always packing Lysol spray and disinfecting wipes.
Secondly, I hate restrictive clothing. If you know me at all, you know that I live in my sweats. Now for the sake of my dignity and overall comfort of those around me, I generally get dressed when I leave the house, most of the time. (You can thank me later.). Either this condition is genetic or my beloved Kraken has learned well from his momma as he fights tooth and nail every morning for “soft pants.” And although there is nothing cuter than my baby in khakis, I cannot disagree in the comfort soft pants provide. They are also amazing during the potty training process. Creating a puddle just in front of the toilet because one of my babies couldn’t get the snap or zipper undone in time is not fun for anyone. Knowing she has to potty, communicating the need, reaching a toilet, cleaning said toilet and undoing her clothing in time is whole lot to ask of such a little girl.
Last but certainly not least, I hate dresses. I probably own three now, two I bought for weddings and one little black dress I was told every girl should own, which I admit is handy for my husband’s fancy work parties (though I often wonder how many times I can get away with wearing it). I always feel ridiculous, awkward and conspicuous in a dress, my least favorite feelings if I am honest. Either this condition is not genetic or my beloved Siren has not learned anything from her momma. My Siren is always fancy. She has 6 full length princess gowns which she cycles through each day. When I get dressed up it means I put on my dark jeans. The Siren however isn’t fully dressed without lace and toile and broaches. If I didn’t have the stretch marks to prove otherwise I would say the milkman dropped her off. Really it is quite adorable, except when she needs to use the facilities.
Can’t you just see us in the public restroom, me holding disinfectant spray and wipes, keeping my daughter steady on the toilet while attempting to keep her precious princess gown dry? And where is The Kraken? Gross.
The first is obvious, public restrooms are generally dirty, soaking wet, a great place to be killed and not so kid friendly. But of course being a mom of two kids with tiny bladders, we are always in need of a potty stop and therefore a public restroom. Taking my son isn’t such a hassle really. Boys have it easy, point and shoot. If he misses he is just adding to the general splendor and aroma. No real harm done. However, there aren’t enough disinfecting wipes in this universe to make me feel warm and fuzzy about sitting my sweet innocent baby girl on a public toilet seat. Seriously, yuck. I cannot wait for the day she is tall enough to learn the hover method of public restroom safety, until then I am always packing Lysol spray and disinfecting wipes.
Secondly, I hate restrictive clothing. If you know me at all, you know that I live in my sweats. Now for the sake of my dignity and overall comfort of those around me, I generally get dressed when I leave the house, most of the time. (You can thank me later.). Either this condition is genetic or my beloved Kraken has learned well from his momma as he fights tooth and nail every morning for “soft pants.” And although there is nothing cuter than my baby in khakis, I cannot disagree in the comfort soft pants provide. They are also amazing during the potty training process. Creating a puddle just in front of the toilet because one of my babies couldn’t get the snap or zipper undone in time is not fun for anyone. Knowing she has to potty, communicating the need, reaching a toilet, cleaning said toilet and undoing her clothing in time is whole lot to ask of such a little girl.
Last but certainly not least, I hate dresses. I probably own three now, two I bought for weddings and one little black dress I was told every girl should own, which I admit is handy for my husband’s fancy work parties (though I often wonder how many times I can get away with wearing it). I always feel ridiculous, awkward and conspicuous in a dress, my least favorite feelings if I am honest. Either this condition is not genetic or my beloved Siren has not learned anything from her momma. My Siren is always fancy. She has 6 full length princess gowns which she cycles through each day. When I get dressed up it means I put on my dark jeans. The Siren however isn’t fully dressed without lace and toile and broaches. If I didn’t have the stretch marks to prove otherwise I would say the milkman dropped her off. Really it is quite adorable, except when she needs to use the facilities.
Can’t you just see us in the public restroom, me holding disinfectant spray and wipes, keeping my daughter steady on the toilet while attempting to keep her precious princess gown dry? And where is The Kraken? Gross.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Swim or Die
I can’t handle my kids. They are faster than me, sneakier than me and have made a pact never to stay together when attempting to escape the wrath of momma. This isn’t a shock. I haven’t ever in his whole life been able to handle The Kraken, and ever since The Siren went mobile more than 2 years ago chaos reins at my home, local grocery store, van, backyard, neighbor’s house, church . . . basically wherever we haven’t yet been forcibly removed and banned. The list of places we may spend our day grows continuously shorter.
Due to a lack of venues we were allowed to enter, in a moment of rare brilliance, I decided to try taking my kids swimming. Instantly the speed factor was tipped in my favor. I may not be able to outrun The Kraken, but I can certainly out doggie paddle him! As it turns out, swimming is the perfect activity for this family. Certainly I cannot be outrun but there also isn’t much the kids can destroy in a swimming pool, splashing is expected and if I need to shout at my kids no one knows as the sound is drown out by this cool but loud waterfall feature. And so we swim at least twice a week, every week. And we have been doing so for about two years.
Needless to say, the kids are pretty decent swimmers. The Siren, for example, was evicted from her age range of swim classes a year ago because she had already “mastered the material.” She only has to wait one more month before she can try again as a 3 year old. The Kraken would be a level ahead of his age range if he would just stop throwing huge, earth shattering, running, screaming, tantrums during swim lessons. This was a new development this past summer. It was four weeks of super awesome and perhaps proof that I will never truly control anything. Whatever the case, the kid can swim. I don’t mean to brag. The poor monsters really didn’t have a choice. Honestly once I learned I could wear them out and keep them mostly in check, they had to swim or sit still to watch mommy swim. They both chose to swim.
My favorite morning activity is picking on lifeguards who have not yet had the privilege of watching my babies at work. Maybe it’s mean, but I take a small sort of pleasure in tossing my two year old princess into the deep end and watching the new lifeguard jump to his or her feet, whistle in mouth, blow-horn in hand, poised to rescue, only to realize I am perhaps not the worst mother ever to walk the planet. The Siren calmly swims to the side, laughs in delight and shouts “again momma!” The lifeguard usually gives me a look of confused displeasure before sitting down, not quite sure if it is yet safe to put down the blow-horn. In my defense, I’m not the only one who likes to pick on the rookies. The other lifeguards who know us very well, step out of the office to watch. I like to think I am providing a great service: we bring laughter to some while making sure the new guards are actually paying attention. Nothing wrong with that!
As for Miss Barb, the swim instructor The Kraken terrorized for a month last summer, we see her a couple times a week, and he believes she is a “wonderful teacher.” So will I be signing him up for lessons anytime soon . . . Nope! I can’t risk the tantrums because I choose to live under the delusion I have it all together and under control. At least for those two or three mornings a week in which we go to the pool.
Due to a lack of venues we were allowed to enter, in a moment of rare brilliance, I decided to try taking my kids swimming. Instantly the speed factor was tipped in my favor. I may not be able to outrun The Kraken, but I can certainly out doggie paddle him! As it turns out, swimming is the perfect activity for this family. Certainly I cannot be outrun but there also isn’t much the kids can destroy in a swimming pool, splashing is expected and if I need to shout at my kids no one knows as the sound is drown out by this cool but loud waterfall feature. And so we swim at least twice a week, every week. And we have been doing so for about two years.
Needless to say, the kids are pretty decent swimmers. The Siren, for example, was evicted from her age range of swim classes a year ago because she had already “mastered the material.” She only has to wait one more month before she can try again as a 3 year old. The Kraken would be a level ahead of his age range if he would just stop throwing huge, earth shattering, running, screaming, tantrums during swim lessons. This was a new development this past summer. It was four weeks of super awesome and perhaps proof that I will never truly control anything. Whatever the case, the kid can swim. I don’t mean to brag. The poor monsters really didn’t have a choice. Honestly once I learned I could wear them out and keep them mostly in check, they had to swim or sit still to watch mommy swim. They both chose to swim.
My favorite morning activity is picking on lifeguards who have not yet had the privilege of watching my babies at work. Maybe it’s mean, but I take a small sort of pleasure in tossing my two year old princess into the deep end and watching the new lifeguard jump to his or her feet, whistle in mouth, blow-horn in hand, poised to rescue, only to realize I am perhaps not the worst mother ever to walk the planet. The Siren calmly swims to the side, laughs in delight and shouts “again momma!” The lifeguard usually gives me a look of confused displeasure before sitting down, not quite sure if it is yet safe to put down the blow-horn. In my defense, I’m not the only one who likes to pick on the rookies. The other lifeguards who know us very well, step out of the office to watch. I like to think I am providing a great service: we bring laughter to some while making sure the new guards are actually paying attention. Nothing wrong with that!
As for Miss Barb, the swim instructor The Kraken terrorized for a month last summer, we see her a couple times a week, and he believes she is a “wonderful teacher.” So will I be signing him up for lessons anytime soon . . . Nope! I can’t risk the tantrums because I choose to live under the delusion I have it all together and under control. At least for those two or three mornings a week in which we go to the pool.
Friday, July 20, 2012
My Mom Thought I was Cute. Strangers, Not so Much.
I have been recording all the wonderful shenanigans of my mythological creatures in their respective baby books. I like to leave out the various bits of drama and craziness and only keep a record of the amazing, advanced and perfect things that they have done: walking at 9 months, swimming underwater way too early, jumping off diving boards and usage of vocabulary words far beyond their years. My kids are special, and I won’t let them forget it! I used to believe this was a normal practice; remembering the extraordinary while glossing over the not so fun aspects of growing up. Every parent thinks their kid is the gifted right?
In an attempt to downsize and organize my momma began giving my siblings and I all of our treasures growing up, including our baby books. There’s nothing like diving into your own baby book to see all the fantastic reasons why your momma thought you were the best baby in the whole wide world. My mom didn’t disappoint. Even though most second children get the shaft, she did her best to write down my achievements and dreams. One entry however was less than ideal and a bit sad: “6 months – You are covered from head to toe in eczema.” My fantastically awkward skin adventure began early and cropped up often. Apparently I can’t help the daily scabbiness and puffy redness of my daily life. I was born this way. Yea.
Finally after 30 some odd years, 42 different dermatologists and more steroid treatments than I can remember, I have to try something else. I wish this included soaking in mud from Peru, eating a rare flower from Madagascar or taking a dip in the Dead Sea, however insurance is a tricky business and traveling with children doesn’t always add up to a fantastic voyage. So I have decided to seek the advice of an allergist to calm a portion of my woes in hopes of doing one on one combat with my eczema at some point in the future. Baby steps.
My first foray at the allergist started wonderfully. After handing the receptionist my insurance card she looked at me and asked if I knew my father’s birthdate or social security number. It’s not every day that I am mistaken for a girl in my late teens/early twenties. It was looking like a good day. Thirty scratch tests, 28 reactions and 15 minutes later, I began to wonder if it’s the policy of my allergist to flatter every new comer in the hopes of keeping us calm during this itching nightmare. To make matters worse, just after the scratch tests were applied the nurse promised to be back in twenty to check the results and then slather a “miracle” crème on my back to end the torture. She then placed the bottle of miracle soother BACK ON THE COUNTER, told me to try not to scratch and left the room. Jerk.
The ultimate diagnosis is . . . I am allergic, to quite a bit. The only hope for me is to give up a Saturday in exchange for nine months’ worth of allergy shots. In preparation, I am supposed to pick up an Epi-Pen. That makes me only slightly concerned. I will let you know how it goes . . . if I survive.
In an attempt to downsize and organize my momma began giving my siblings and I all of our treasures growing up, including our baby books. There’s nothing like diving into your own baby book to see all the fantastic reasons why your momma thought you were the best baby in the whole wide world. My mom didn’t disappoint. Even though most second children get the shaft, she did her best to write down my achievements and dreams. One entry however was less than ideal and a bit sad: “6 months – You are covered from head to toe in eczema.” My fantastically awkward skin adventure began early and cropped up often. Apparently I can’t help the daily scabbiness and puffy redness of my daily life. I was born this way. Yea.
Finally after 30 some odd years, 42 different dermatologists and more steroid treatments than I can remember, I have to try something else. I wish this included soaking in mud from Peru, eating a rare flower from Madagascar or taking a dip in the Dead Sea, however insurance is a tricky business and traveling with children doesn’t always add up to a fantastic voyage. So I have decided to seek the advice of an allergist to calm a portion of my woes in hopes of doing one on one combat with my eczema at some point in the future. Baby steps.
My first foray at the allergist started wonderfully. After handing the receptionist my insurance card she looked at me and asked if I knew my father’s birthdate or social security number. It’s not every day that I am mistaken for a girl in my late teens/early twenties. It was looking like a good day. Thirty scratch tests, 28 reactions and 15 minutes later, I began to wonder if it’s the policy of my allergist to flatter every new comer in the hopes of keeping us calm during this itching nightmare. To make matters worse, just after the scratch tests were applied the nurse promised to be back in twenty to check the results and then slather a “miracle” crème on my back to end the torture. She then placed the bottle of miracle soother BACK ON THE COUNTER, told me to try not to scratch and left the room. Jerk.
The ultimate diagnosis is . . . I am allergic, to quite a bit. The only hope for me is to give up a Saturday in exchange for nine months’ worth of allergy shots. In preparation, I am supposed to pick up an Epi-Pen. That makes me only slightly concerned. I will let you know how it goes . . . if I survive.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
No Shame in my Game
Among the millions of other things I haul around in my car to keep the children safe, happy and subdued, I always have the emergency potty at arm’s reach. Young children and bladder control never seems to coincide with easily accessible bathrooms. Perhaps more often the bathrooms that are nearby aren’t suitable for my nonexistent dog let alone my beloved Kraken. Not to mention the disgusting things my Siren can get into while waiting for her brother to finish. Yuck. Sometimes it is best for all involved just to pull over and let him relieve himself in the privacy of our own van. The emergency potty has saved us from quite a few disasters, and when I say us, I’m not kidding.
The drive to Oppa’s farm is quite pleasant, mostly highway followed by a bit of farmland in the middle of nowhere. Pop a movie in for the kids and the drive can be very peaceful. On one particular drive home however, life was much less than enjoyable. We had eaten Mexican for lunch, and I started home hoping the kids would nap along the way. Shortly after leaving small town civilization and just far enough away from the highway, my belly began to gurgle. I kept driving, hoping for the intestinal distress to subside, hoping for a random bathroom in the middle of a cornfield, hoping for anything other than what transpired. After a couple minutes, I knew I could hold it no longer. I pulled off the road, grabbed the emergency potty, sat in between my little cherubs who were not sleeping and honestly looked a bit dumbfounded. What the heck was momma doing on the emergency potty?
I am grateful for quite a few things that day. Number one, I had the emergency potty. That is after all what it is for. Number two, my adult size bum fit on the emergency potty and so too did the contents of my intestines. I don’t even want to imagine the mess if this hadn’t been the case. That would have severely hurt the trade in value. And number three, my children were hopefully too young to remember the day momma decided to poop in the middle seat of the van right under their noses.
The drive to Oppa’s farm is quite pleasant, mostly highway followed by a bit of farmland in the middle of nowhere. Pop a movie in for the kids and the drive can be very peaceful. On one particular drive home however, life was much less than enjoyable. We had eaten Mexican for lunch, and I started home hoping the kids would nap along the way. Shortly after leaving small town civilization and just far enough away from the highway, my belly began to gurgle. I kept driving, hoping for the intestinal distress to subside, hoping for a random bathroom in the middle of a cornfield, hoping for anything other than what transpired. After a couple minutes, I knew I could hold it no longer. I pulled off the road, grabbed the emergency potty, sat in between my little cherubs who were not sleeping and honestly looked a bit dumbfounded. What the heck was momma doing on the emergency potty?
I am grateful for quite a few things that day. Number one, I had the emergency potty. That is after all what it is for. Number two, my adult size bum fit on the emergency potty and so too did the contents of my intestines. I don’t even want to imagine the mess if this hadn’t been the case. That would have severely hurt the trade in value. And number three, my children were hopefully too young to remember the day momma decided to poop in the middle seat of the van right under their noses.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Not Your Normal Wake Up Call
The master bedroom is downstairs and this sincerely may be the only reason I don’t weigh much more than I do. Ingesting 14 cookies just before bed should deposit copious amounts of fat right on my rump, but The Siren is really good at wailing after midnight. Maybe I should just move upstairs and sleep in the guest room so I don’t have to climb the stairs twenty times, but then I would have to buy new and much larger pants. Oh, and I love my bedroom, painted one shade lighter than a cave: cozy, calm and safe. So each night I lie in bed and pray I will sleep, climb the stairs to subdue The Siren, return to bed and pray I will sleep. Rinse and repeat. If you were jealous of me in any way, now is a good time to cut that out.
(For those wishing to give expert advice in sleep habits of children, The Siren does not stop crying. Once in full out scream mode, she will not stop. I can’t sleep through her screaming and neither, it seems can The Kraken. Once up, The Kraken is going going going. Since I’m not sleeping anyway, I choose to comfort my daughter, avoid my son’s relentless energy for a few more hours and steal a few extra snuggles. Those will run out way too soon anyway.)
For whatever reason I am a champion sleeper from 6:30am until about 10am. Because The Kraken wakes much earlier, this is usually a nonissue. My little cherub is fighting a cold that caused his little body to oversleep right into my dead to the world sleep window. I didn’t hear the thump as he jumped out of bed. I didn’t hear the pitter patter of his feet on the stairs or through the kitchen. In fact, I felt him long before I heard him. I awoke to a little hand rubbing my head and brushing the hair from my face. Then I heard him, “Oh, there’s my sweetheart. There’s my sweetheart.” I hugged him and told him good morning. He replied, “I’m not The Kraken, I am Anakin. There’s my sweetheart, Princess Leia.” No matter how strange it may sound, that is really quite a nice way to wake up. Or perhaps I am just a kinder more pleasant person after 7am. I did what I normally do in the morning, I sent him away to check on his sister so I could pee in peace.
Over the monitor I heard, “Oh, Padme, there’s my little sweetheart.” The Siren, aka Padme, didn’t scream or slap him, which must mean she is a kinder more pleasant person after 7am as well. She simply laughed and said, “Anakin, get me outta here!”
(For those wishing to give expert advice in sleep habits of children, The Siren does not stop crying. Once in full out scream mode, she will not stop. I can’t sleep through her screaming and neither, it seems can The Kraken. Once up, The Kraken is going going going. Since I’m not sleeping anyway, I choose to comfort my daughter, avoid my son’s relentless energy for a few more hours and steal a few extra snuggles. Those will run out way too soon anyway.)
For whatever reason I am a champion sleeper from 6:30am until about 10am. Because The Kraken wakes much earlier, this is usually a nonissue. My little cherub is fighting a cold that caused his little body to oversleep right into my dead to the world sleep window. I didn’t hear the thump as he jumped out of bed. I didn’t hear the pitter patter of his feet on the stairs or through the kitchen. In fact, I felt him long before I heard him. I awoke to a little hand rubbing my head and brushing the hair from my face. Then I heard him, “Oh, there’s my sweetheart. There’s my sweetheart.” I hugged him and told him good morning. He replied, “I’m not The Kraken, I am Anakin. There’s my sweetheart, Princess Leia.” No matter how strange it may sound, that is really quite a nice way to wake up. Or perhaps I am just a kinder more pleasant person after 7am. I did what I normally do in the morning, I sent him away to check on his sister so I could pee in peace.
Over the monitor I heard, “Oh, Padme, there’s my little sweetheart.” The Siren, aka Padme, didn’t scream or slap him, which must mean she is a kinder more pleasant person after 7am as well. She simply laughed and said, “Anakin, get me outta here!”
Friday, February 24, 2012
Only a Jedi Could Pull That Off
My children and I enjoy Yo Gabba Gabba. The offspring get sucked into the psychedelic colors and odd songs just long enough for me to create a delightful taste explosion for dinner. One of the very few things I actually understand during this acid trip of a child’s program, occurs as a child introduces themselves followed by, “I like to dance!” This has made a great impression on my daughter. I simply say “My name is The Siren!” and she replies from anywhere in the house, “I like to dance!” Cute and quite a convenient way to locate her, I must admit.
The Kraken has decided, as is his way, to up the ante. When asked his name he will shout, “My name is The Kraken! I like to dance and . . . dress up!” We don’t yet have a very extensive dress up box, mostly used Halloween costumes: A couple superheroes, a bumblebee, a police officer and a red riding hood cloak. The latter was knitted by my talented sister for The Siren’s first birthday and comes complete with ruffle trimmed hood. The Kraken now considers this item to be the most special as it aides in morphing him into his newly chosen persona. This little red riding hood has found new life as Anakin Skywalker’s sweater cape, and it very rarely ever leaves my son’s back. I am a firm believer in picking your battles and being sure as hell to win the ones you choose. Therefore, he goes cloak less to school (so it doesn’t get ruined or peed on) and swimming lessons (so he doesn’t drown). Other than that the cape is fair game. I have limits and can only engage in epic warfare a couple times a day.
Imagine if you will a small face encircled in blond curls peeking from beneath a red hood. Now imagine this small face belongs to a little boy in the Star Wars toy aisle explaining all the characters and weapons to a woman he will only refer to as Princess Leia. He is totally oblivious to the many little snickers and stares from passerby. He is more than comfortable in his own skin and quite confident that he is a young man in the Jedi Order. Frankly, I envy his comfy and delightful world. Our little social experiment immediately exposes those with children over 5 (the ones laughing or giving me a knowing nod) and those without children (the ones giving me a ‘shame on you’ glare). What kind of mother allows her little boy to dress like a girl in public?
I think the better question is: How could I, as a mother, stifle the curiosity, creativity and spirit of a three year old? I most emphatically reply that I cannot and never shall!
Oh, and I also secretly enjoy being called Princess Leia! Why ruin that?
The Kraken has decided, as is his way, to up the ante. When asked his name he will shout, “My name is The Kraken! I like to dance and . . . dress up!” We don’t yet have a very extensive dress up box, mostly used Halloween costumes: A couple superheroes, a bumblebee, a police officer and a red riding hood cloak. The latter was knitted by my talented sister for The Siren’s first birthday and comes complete with ruffle trimmed hood. The Kraken now considers this item to be the most special as it aides in morphing him into his newly chosen persona. This little red riding hood has found new life as Anakin Skywalker’s sweater cape, and it very rarely ever leaves my son’s back. I am a firm believer in picking your battles and being sure as hell to win the ones you choose. Therefore, he goes cloak less to school (so it doesn’t get ruined or peed on) and swimming lessons (so he doesn’t drown). Other than that the cape is fair game. I have limits and can only engage in epic warfare a couple times a day.
Imagine if you will a small face encircled in blond curls peeking from beneath a red hood. Now imagine this small face belongs to a little boy in the Star Wars toy aisle explaining all the characters and weapons to a woman he will only refer to as Princess Leia. He is totally oblivious to the many little snickers and stares from passerby. He is more than comfortable in his own skin and quite confident that he is a young man in the Jedi Order. Frankly, I envy his comfy and delightful world. Our little social experiment immediately exposes those with children over 5 (the ones laughing or giving me a knowing nod) and those without children (the ones giving me a ‘shame on you’ glare). What kind of mother allows her little boy to dress like a girl in public?
I think the better question is: How could I, as a mother, stifle the curiosity, creativity and spirit of a three year old? I most emphatically reply that I cannot and never shall!
Oh, and I also secretly enjoy being called Princess Leia! Why ruin that?
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Bible Tells Me So
My little Siren just turned two and my goodness does she have a whole lot to say. Not to brag or anything, but she already counts to ten, recites the ABCs and sings all the words to many songs. I know this isn’t all that exciting to other mothers with daughters, but I had The Kraken first who struggled to say much of anything by age two. I guess he was just too busy climbing and running and skipping and running and climbing and running to work on his language skills. I’m still trying to decide if I prefer listening to endless blabber or sprinting through the mall after a rouge toddler. Ahh, the difference between boys and girls.
My little chatterbox also has the uncanny ability to know the very moment when she is pushing a button with her brother or walking right along the line of good behavior and not so good behavior. Again, a skill many a-toddler has picked up along the way, but amusing none the less. For example, to instantly piss off her brother, The Siren will simply call The Kraken “Luke Skywalker.” The Kraken has recently decided that he is Anikan Skywalker. That small dig will begin a back and forth war that can last for hours. Luke! No Anikan! Luke! No Anikan! Uggg. I think I hate Star Wars.
Her most recent trick is to melt momma’s heart with a beautiful rendition of, “Jesus loves me this I know.” At some point she realized momma really enjoyed hearing her sing about Jesus. Here is the new version: “Jesus loves me this I know, For the Bible tells me POOP!” Cue insane laughter from both babies. I don’t think this delightful change in the lyrics is going away anytime soon, but hey, at least the kids are getting along!
I can’t wait to be pull aside by the nursery worker at church to explain this one . . .
My little chatterbox also has the uncanny ability to know the very moment when she is pushing a button with her brother or walking right along the line of good behavior and not so good behavior. Again, a skill many a-toddler has picked up along the way, but amusing none the less. For example, to instantly piss off her brother, The Siren will simply call The Kraken “Luke Skywalker.” The Kraken has recently decided that he is Anikan Skywalker. That small dig will begin a back and forth war that can last for hours. Luke! No Anikan! Luke! No Anikan! Uggg. I think I hate Star Wars.
Her most recent trick is to melt momma’s heart with a beautiful rendition of, “Jesus loves me this I know.” At some point she realized momma really enjoyed hearing her sing about Jesus. Here is the new version: “Jesus loves me this I know, For the Bible tells me POOP!” Cue insane laughter from both babies. I don’t think this delightful change in the lyrics is going away anytime soon, but hey, at least the kids are getting along!
I can’t wait to be pull aside by the nursery worker at church to explain this one . . .
Star Wars (Part 1)
My son is really into Star Wars. He and my husband bond a couple evenings a week over this epic battle of good versus evil. And even though I’m not sure the movie content is the best for a three year old brain to comprehend, I am very thankful my boys are spending quality man time together. (For the record, they don’t watch Anikan burn to a crisp in the lave pits then be rebuilt as Darth Vader as Padme goes through a very painful birth of twins then dies. That is one boundary I can draw. I am such a good momma!)
That being said, I never was prepared for the onslaught of questions that would assault me daily: Who is Count Dooku? What color is his light saber? Why was Anikan Skywalker a good guy then a bad guy with new name Darth Vader then back to good guy? Do Ewoks live on our moon? Can we visit the Degoba system? Will Darth Vader change his name back to Anikan? What do Yoda’s feet look like? Where did The Emperor get his powers? Do Ewoks bite? Does Yoda know he talks to Darth Sidious? If Yoda and Jar Jar Binks have a baby, what would it look like? By the time 7pm rolls around I hardly remember my own name let alone the planet on which I reside. I am so thankful there are only 5 movies from which he can pull his questions from. Whew. I’m exhausted.
The best question by far was witnessed by my brother, who I happened to be calling when The Kraken’s handsome little face looked at me and said, “Who is more powerful, God or Emperor Palpatine?” My brother answered the phone just in time to hear me so wittily answer, “Well, since God created Emperor Palpatine, God is more powerful.” That seemed to appease the beast for about 35 seconds. Just enough time to finish my phone call.
That being said, I never was prepared for the onslaught of questions that would assault me daily: Who is Count Dooku? What color is his light saber? Why was Anikan Skywalker a good guy then a bad guy with new name Darth Vader then back to good guy? Do Ewoks live on our moon? Can we visit the Degoba system? Will Darth Vader change his name back to Anikan? What do Yoda’s feet look like? Where did The Emperor get his powers? Do Ewoks bite? Does Yoda know he talks to Darth Sidious? If Yoda and Jar Jar Binks have a baby, what would it look like? By the time 7pm rolls around I hardly remember my own name let alone the planet on which I reside. I am so thankful there are only 5 movies from which he can pull his questions from. Whew. I’m exhausted.
The best question by far was witnessed by my brother, who I happened to be calling when The Kraken’s handsome little face looked at me and said, “Who is more powerful, God or Emperor Palpatine?” My brother answered the phone just in time to hear me so wittily answer, “Well, since God created Emperor Palpatine, God is more powerful.” That seemed to appease the beast for about 35 seconds. Just enough time to finish my phone call.
Monday, February 6, 2012
When in doubt, blame a cartoon princess
My son, my Kraken, enjoys the occasional movie. This is a new and exciting development. In the very recent past, getting The Kraken to sit still for longer than 25 seconds was a no go. Since exiting my womb this child hasn’t stopped moving. Frankly, I am mostly thankful he doesn’t turn into a tv zombie anytime it is turned on, but I do occasionally wish for just a couple minutes to cook dinner, do a load a laundry, make a phone call or sneak a cookie in the closet. Now, suddenly he will sit for small spurts of time to bond with one imaginary character or another. Hooray! Now if I could The Siren on the plan, I could pee in peace.
There are a few not so exciting things that come with watching cartoons. Let’s start with, “I’ll kill you, boy!” uttered in Aladdin, “Shut up you idiot!” shouted in Toy Story, “You’re a fool,” from some rendition of Cars and other choice words that aren’t really horrible but also aren’t all that awesome either. It can be slightly embarrassing when my beloved cherubs are going back and forth calling each other idiots while sitting in the shopping cart. The ever present judgment police do not approve of such filthy language. They may let you know or they may just shoot you with their dagger eyes. And even though neither of my babies really has any idea what they are saying, my bid for mother of the year is once again just a very silly dream.
A couple days ago my son, in the presence of his father, told me to “Buzz off!” My husband was understandably irate. I quickly jumped in and blamed the most recent Disney adventure we had watched. After a short discussion of why this isn’t the best way to speak to your mother, my husband let the issue drop. I was holding my breath most of the lecture hoping The Kraken wouldn’t decide to be a tattle tale. As it turns out, Rapunzel didn’t tell her adopted mother/ kidnapper to get lost. It seems my little boy’s momma has the potty mouth. We were having a tickle war, and I was totally joking. At any rate, I may owe a very dainty blond with a 100 foot long ponytail an apology.
There are a few not so exciting things that come with watching cartoons. Let’s start with, “I’ll kill you, boy!” uttered in Aladdin, “Shut up you idiot!” shouted in Toy Story, “You’re a fool,” from some rendition of Cars and other choice words that aren’t really horrible but also aren’t all that awesome either. It can be slightly embarrassing when my beloved cherubs are going back and forth calling each other idiots while sitting in the shopping cart. The ever present judgment police do not approve of such filthy language. They may let you know or they may just shoot you with their dagger eyes. And even though neither of my babies really has any idea what they are saying, my bid for mother of the year is once again just a very silly dream.
A couple days ago my son, in the presence of his father, told me to “Buzz off!” My husband was understandably irate. I quickly jumped in and blamed the most recent Disney adventure we had watched. After a short discussion of why this isn’t the best way to speak to your mother, my husband let the issue drop. I was holding my breath most of the lecture hoping The Kraken wouldn’t decide to be a tattle tale. As it turns out, Rapunzel didn’t tell her adopted mother/ kidnapper to get lost. It seems my little boy’s momma has the potty mouth. We were having a tickle war, and I was totally joking. At any rate, I may owe a very dainty blond with a 100 foot long ponytail an apology.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Don't speak to me like that!
By Sunday morning I had slept about 45 minutes in a three day span. Please don’t panic. This has been a normal occurrence in my life since high school. My husband was fresh off a 24 hour shift without sleep. I think added together the two of us had the brain power of a three year old. We were saying nonsensical things, laughing at farts, looking through the cabinet for cookies for breakfast, and I had a major meltdown when my favorite shoes went missing. What better place to visit in this mental state then church.
As usual The Siren began to wail as soon as we walked in the building. The nursery workers are very kind and reassure me this is all very normal and some day she will stop crying (perhaps I should tell them her nickname). At any rate, they tell me to keep bringing her back. And I do. The Kraken had to be bribed to enter his class not because he is scared but because he knows that mommy and daddy enjoy this hour of childfree time together and will offer almost anything for a smooth transition in front of the other moms and dads. The bribing probably speaks volumes about my parenting skills or perhaps the power of curly hair and a dimple, but frankly I am doing the best I can.
The sermon, which, I’m not going to lie, my mind wandered into and out of, was about identifying and resisting the devil’s attempts to sneak into our lives. As for the resisting part it was suggested we simply tell the devil to SHUTUP! That seems simple enough. When he pops into my head and tells me I am a bad mother or fat or incompetent, I yell SHUTUP! to the liar and move on. I can handle that.
The pastor, who really isn’t as looney as perhaps I am making him sound, made the point that when the devil infiltrates areas of our lives it can be very subtle. For example, worrying about the mundane everyday tasks of what we will eat or what we will wear or where we will go can, for some, take over the whole day, leaving no room to see what Christ is showing us each day. As a mother, I can attest that sometimes I am too overwhelmed by keeping to our schedule and moving from one activity to another, that I forget to look around and enjoy the day He has made for me and my children to explore together.
By this point in the sermon however, I was getting really antsy. Exhaustion had finally taken over and I just couldn’t process anything more. And being told not to worry about what I will eat got me, well, worrying about what I will eat. Every Sunday after church we go out to lunch as a family. It is one of the favorite parts of my week. (I don’t have to come up with it, cook it or clean up after it.) I leaned over to my wonderful husband and asked what he would like for lunch today.
To which he replied, “I think I am supposed to tell you to SHUTUP!”
As usual The Siren began to wail as soon as we walked in the building. The nursery workers are very kind and reassure me this is all very normal and some day she will stop crying (perhaps I should tell them her nickname). At any rate, they tell me to keep bringing her back. And I do. The Kraken had to be bribed to enter his class not because he is scared but because he knows that mommy and daddy enjoy this hour of childfree time together and will offer almost anything for a smooth transition in front of the other moms and dads. The bribing probably speaks volumes about my parenting skills or perhaps the power of curly hair and a dimple, but frankly I am doing the best I can.
The sermon, which, I’m not going to lie, my mind wandered into and out of, was about identifying and resisting the devil’s attempts to sneak into our lives. As for the resisting part it was suggested we simply tell the devil to SHUTUP! That seems simple enough. When he pops into my head and tells me I am a bad mother or fat or incompetent, I yell SHUTUP! to the liar and move on. I can handle that.
The pastor, who really isn’t as looney as perhaps I am making him sound, made the point that when the devil infiltrates areas of our lives it can be very subtle. For example, worrying about the mundane everyday tasks of what we will eat or what we will wear or where we will go can, for some, take over the whole day, leaving no room to see what Christ is showing us each day. As a mother, I can attest that sometimes I am too overwhelmed by keeping to our schedule and moving from one activity to another, that I forget to look around and enjoy the day He has made for me and my children to explore together.
By this point in the sermon however, I was getting really antsy. Exhaustion had finally taken over and I just couldn’t process anything more. And being told not to worry about what I will eat got me, well, worrying about what I will eat. Every Sunday after church we go out to lunch as a family. It is one of the favorite parts of my week. (I don’t have to come up with it, cook it or clean up after it.) I leaned over to my wonderful husband and asked what he would like for lunch today.
To which he replied, “I think I am supposed to tell you to SHUTUP!”
Someone, somewhere is missing their books.
When it comes to the internet, I am a big fan. I can stalk, I mean, keep in touch with old friends, shop without my two amazing children displaying their lung power in a public arena and perhaps best of all I can unleash the inner-workings of my quirky brain onto my unsuspecting blog reading public. But let’s be honest, the internet isn’t all rainbows and kittens.
My mother loves books. And she loves to share her favorite books with those she loves. It’s pretty handy really as I don’t have much free time to read. She screens them and sends the helpful ones my way. I am currently reading about how to draw boundaries in my life, which has been very eye opening even if I am as of now, still incapable of saying no. When she stumbled upon a great internet deal involving a discount and a credit card, she did some research, signed up and ordered her books. This morning they arrived in two boxes!
The first box contained a few devotionals and various assundry writings about how to save the world by showing Christ’s love to one person at a time (my mother is a saint in the making). The second box, well, it housed something quite different. She picked up the first sealed book and just assumed from the title that it was about cats. The second selection had a picture on the cover with the title, Cats Cats Cats Galore. (Okay so that’s my own edited title because frankly the idea of a purple bra makes me blush. I cannot type that word!) Needless to say, the picture on the cover was not that of a cat.
Tomorrow my mom will be making a whole bunch of calls to her credit card company hoping to get an actual living breathing human being on the line to make sure she wasn’t charged for the pornographic material. Then she will be burning a couple books.
My mother loves books. And she loves to share her favorite books with those she loves. It’s pretty handy really as I don’t have much free time to read. She screens them and sends the helpful ones my way. I am currently reading about how to draw boundaries in my life, which has been very eye opening even if I am as of now, still incapable of saying no. When she stumbled upon a great internet deal involving a discount and a credit card, she did some research, signed up and ordered her books. This morning they arrived in two boxes!
The first box contained a few devotionals and various assundry writings about how to save the world by showing Christ’s love to one person at a time (my mother is a saint in the making). The second box, well, it housed something quite different. She picked up the first sealed book and just assumed from the title that it was about cats. The second selection had a picture on the cover with the title, Cats Cats Cats Galore. (Okay so that’s my own edited title because frankly the idea of a purple bra makes me blush. I cannot type that word!) Needless to say, the picture on the cover was not that of a cat.
Tomorrow my mom will be making a whole bunch of calls to her credit card company hoping to get an actual living breathing human being on the line to make sure she wasn’t charged for the pornographic material. Then she will be burning a couple books.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
It isn't an air tight container
I was displaying all the classic signs. My hair had a subtle frizzy look that only an electric shock or a child plowing through the terrible twos can produce. My eyes were red and puffy from a recent cry. I was pale as a ghost and not making eye contact with any of the other parents. It had obviously been an extremely rough day. But The Kraken had swim lessons, and I am a momma not a quitter. So I picked myself up from our horrible day, dusted off and didn’t even bother covering up the bags under my eyes before leaving the house.
Ladies, ladies, ladies, will we ever learn to be supportive of other mothers around us or will we always be critical meanie heads? Can you cut a mom a break now and then, especially one in the fragile state I was in? Can you just take a step back and realize that just because you aren’t excited about certain activities (like jumping on the bed or eating fair food or smiling) doesn’t mean I am a bad parent for disagreeing. Now if you see me allowing my children to wrap plastic bags around their heads by all means, step in. If there is an empty refrigerator that I feel my children are safe to play in, please kindly remind me the oxygen is limited and the door difficult to open from within. If however you witness our weekly rec center ritual, just back off.
After swim lessons were over, I took my son to the locker room to change where he promptly clambered into a locker and asked me to shut the door. And I did. I let the kids hang out in the lockers while they dry off and I get their clothing out of the bag. I’ve never really thought much about it. They enjoy being in their “caves”, and I enjoy thirty seconds of peace to get organized. No sooner had I closed the door than a mother behind me turned to her daughter and shouted, “Don’t even ask me to do that. So dangerous. You will run out of air and you will die. So dangerous.” I did what I do best and avoided a confrontation by pretending not to hear her. I told The Kraken to come out so I could dress him. He popped out, clearly oxygen deprived and asked, “May I go in locker again after I dressed?”
To which I replied, with perhaps a tad too much gusto, “Absolutely!”
Ladies, ladies, ladies, will we ever learn to be supportive of other mothers around us or will we always be critical meanie heads? Can you cut a mom a break now and then, especially one in the fragile state I was in? Can you just take a step back and realize that just because you aren’t excited about certain activities (like jumping on the bed or eating fair food or smiling) doesn’t mean I am a bad parent for disagreeing. Now if you see me allowing my children to wrap plastic bags around their heads by all means, step in. If there is an empty refrigerator that I feel my children are safe to play in, please kindly remind me the oxygen is limited and the door difficult to open from within. If however you witness our weekly rec center ritual, just back off.
After swim lessons were over, I took my son to the locker room to change where he promptly clambered into a locker and asked me to shut the door. And I did. I let the kids hang out in the lockers while they dry off and I get their clothing out of the bag. I’ve never really thought much about it. They enjoy being in their “caves”, and I enjoy thirty seconds of peace to get organized. No sooner had I closed the door than a mother behind me turned to her daughter and shouted, “Don’t even ask me to do that. So dangerous. You will run out of air and you will die. So dangerous.” I did what I do best and avoided a confrontation by pretending not to hear her. I told The Kraken to come out so I could dress him. He popped out, clearly oxygen deprived and asked, “May I go in locker again after I dressed?”
To which I replied, with perhaps a tad too much gusto, “Absolutely!”
Sunday, November 20, 2011
In Need of a Hobby
During a recent car ride The Kraken began his normal barrage of questioning. As usual his curiosity focused on “fast fast” cars. My son, way too observant for his own good, wanted to know the difference between wheels and tires. That’s a tough one to explain to a three year old, and frankly it had been a very long week. Mommy was exhausted and to tell the honest truth, I just don’t give a good gosh darn about wheels or tires or race cars.
So I did what any devoted and loving mother would do, I deferred to daddy. Why does daddy know the answers and mommy does not? Well, my son, daddy loves fast cars just as much as you do. Mommy doesn’t love cars and therefore hasn’t spent any time learning about the inner workings of the automobile. The Kraken pondered for a moment in silence and then wanted to know what mommy loves if not cars.
Hmmm. I love my children . . . and . . .
(Four short years ago I would have listed a million things: playing volleyball, reading the classic novels, scrapbooking, hiking, camping, keeping up on current events, blah, blah and blah. My greatest passion these days is a nap lasting longer than 30 minutes. I think I am in need of a hobby.)
The silence must have been deafening because my son suddenly stepped in with “and ambulances and fire trucks and police cars and firemen?” Yes! Eureka, you have found it! Mommy certainly loves men in uniform!
So I did what any devoted and loving mother would do, I deferred to daddy. Why does daddy know the answers and mommy does not? Well, my son, daddy loves fast cars just as much as you do. Mommy doesn’t love cars and therefore hasn’t spent any time learning about the inner workings of the automobile. The Kraken pondered for a moment in silence and then wanted to know what mommy loves if not cars.
Hmmm. I love my children . . . and . . .
(Four short years ago I would have listed a million things: playing volleyball, reading the classic novels, scrapbooking, hiking, camping, keeping up on current events, blah, blah and blah. My greatest passion these days is a nap lasting longer than 30 minutes. I think I am in need of a hobby.)
The silence must have been deafening because my son suddenly stepped in with “and ambulances and fire trucks and police cars and firemen?” Yes! Eureka, you have found it! Mommy certainly loves men in uniform!
Sunday, October 30, 2011
For the record, I HATE running
My clothes are too tight. It is a simple problem really. I am fulfilling my daily caloric intake with coke and candy which doesn’t leave much room for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As I see it, I have two options: buy bigger pants or cut some crap out of my diet and get moving. As for the first choice, I have been to every clothing store I can think of and tried on every make, model and fit of anything remotely resembling a pair of jeans. It seems this lumpier version of myself isn’t compatible with denim. And so I have no choice but to eat healthier and find a workout regime I can stick to.
So yesterday I got off my couch and ran a 5K.
My sister and her coworker recruited a rag tag group of seven women to take their best shot at 3.2 miles on Fright Nite, two nights before Halloween. We all had slightly different goals for entering this race: some wanted to run the whole time, others wanted simply to finish, I prayed I wouldn’t pee my pants if someone were to jump out of the shadows to scare me. All in all we just wanted to survive it. The men in our lives also had expectations. Advice to the most fit and most trained member of the group was to make sure she stretched or she would certainly fail. My sister’s husband very sweetly gave her his lucky turtle necklace in the hopes that she wouldn’t be slow. My extremely competitive husband looked me in the eyes as I was walking out the door and said, “Win it. Win. It.” No pressure there.
I didn’t win it. I finished somewhere in the middle just doubling the winning time. But I am still alive, and I very nearly ran the entire time, walking just long enough to relieve a cramp. I am pretty proud. Who cares that I was passed by two eight year olds dressed in Halloween costumes? What does it matter that I can’t quite seem to control the bottom half of my body today due to soreness? I did it.
In celebration I had two doughnuts and a coke for breakfast. I suppose the healthier eating portion of my plan will begin tomorrow . . .
(My brother-in-law was waiting at the finish line with a dozen roses for my sister. This act awards him the gold star for awesome husband and makes her the big winner. Thanks for running with me sis!)
So yesterday I got off my couch and ran a 5K.
My sister and her coworker recruited a rag tag group of seven women to take their best shot at 3.2 miles on Fright Nite, two nights before Halloween. We all had slightly different goals for entering this race: some wanted to run the whole time, others wanted simply to finish, I prayed I wouldn’t pee my pants if someone were to jump out of the shadows to scare me. All in all we just wanted to survive it. The men in our lives also had expectations. Advice to the most fit and most trained member of the group was to make sure she stretched or she would certainly fail. My sister’s husband very sweetly gave her his lucky turtle necklace in the hopes that she wouldn’t be slow. My extremely competitive husband looked me in the eyes as I was walking out the door and said, “Win it. Win. It.” No pressure there.
I didn’t win it. I finished somewhere in the middle just doubling the winning time. But I am still alive, and I very nearly ran the entire time, walking just long enough to relieve a cramp. I am pretty proud. Who cares that I was passed by two eight year olds dressed in Halloween costumes? What does it matter that I can’t quite seem to control the bottom half of my body today due to soreness? I did it.
In celebration I had two doughnuts and a coke for breakfast. I suppose the healthier eating portion of my plan will begin tomorrow . . .
(My brother-in-law was waiting at the finish line with a dozen roses for my sister. This act awards him the gold star for awesome husband and makes her the big winner. Thanks for running with me sis!)
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Life of the Party
If we are home, The Kraken is naked. Well, mostly naked. (There may only be a couple things cuter than my son in his superhero tighty whiteys. Thankfully he inherited his father’s “it’s there somewhere” bum and not the larger “shelf” butt that is so common on my side of the family.) Why he feels he needs to strip the second he steps into the house, I don’t know. He’s been doing it for years. This is not a battle I chose to fight. We have an understanding that “Nakey Time” is appropriate in the house but not so suitable in public. We don’t fight about it or even have to talk much about our rule. He is on my train. Or at least I thought he was.
Last night we were invited over by our neighbors for a get together. Hopefully we were invited because they like us and not simply to avoid that awkward “So I saw you had all the neighbors over last night . . .” conversation, though I certainly wouldn’t blame anyone for not inviting us over. We are a loud, ornery, bratty, tantrum-throwing bunch. The Kraken immediately teamed up with the big kids and headed to the basement to play. We didn’t hear any screaming nor did we smell any smoke and thus assumed all was well. For the first time ever, he was basically unsupervised and the world did not implode. I believe we are making progress.
The Kraken’s choice for BFF, (a term I promised myself I would never use), decided to don his Halloween costume so, naturally The Kraken also wanted to play dress up. He asked me if I would go get his Captain America costume, but I was too lazy to walk three houses down to get it. He smiled and said he had a better idea anyway. That should have tipped me off, but as my social anxiety was having my brain come up with all the horrible things that would happen to me if I said something stupid, I missed that little clue.
A few minutes later, The Kraken came bounding up the stairs enthusiastically wearing his better idea . . . His Mickey Mouse underware and soccer shin guards. That’s it. He laughed, placed his hands on his hips and did his best impersonation of a superhero. He was adorable. I was oddly proud of him and his imagination. Daddy was a little embarrassed.
We may be throwing the next neighborhood bash, just to ensure an invite.
Last night we were invited over by our neighbors for a get together. Hopefully we were invited because they like us and not simply to avoid that awkward “So I saw you had all the neighbors over last night . . .” conversation, though I certainly wouldn’t blame anyone for not inviting us over. We are a loud, ornery, bratty, tantrum-throwing bunch. The Kraken immediately teamed up with the big kids and headed to the basement to play. We didn’t hear any screaming nor did we smell any smoke and thus assumed all was well. For the first time ever, he was basically unsupervised and the world did not implode. I believe we are making progress.
The Kraken’s choice for BFF, (a term I promised myself I would never use), decided to don his Halloween costume so, naturally The Kraken also wanted to play dress up. He asked me if I would go get his Captain America costume, but I was too lazy to walk three houses down to get it. He smiled and said he had a better idea anyway. That should have tipped me off, but as my social anxiety was having my brain come up with all the horrible things that would happen to me if I said something stupid, I missed that little clue.
A few minutes later, The Kraken came bounding up the stairs enthusiastically wearing his better idea . . . His Mickey Mouse underware and soccer shin guards. That’s it. He laughed, placed his hands on his hips and did his best impersonation of a superhero. He was adorable. I was oddly proud of him and his imagination. Daddy was a little embarrassed.
We may be throwing the next neighborhood bash, just to ensure an invite.
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