You know those rubber bracelets people wear, generally in support of a charity, made famous by Lance Armstrong with his yellow ‘livestrong’ organization? Well, the Kraken has found an interesting new use for them.
Amy, a stuffed giraffe, has been my son’s favorite stuffed animal recently. She generally wears a diaper that momma has to change every morning. Diapers are expensive, and I am cheap. I decided it was high time to potty train. Hooray. It went well. Amy was wearing big boy underwear in no time. The only problem is I actually have to take Amy to the potty and pretend she goes. Like I have time for that.
Well, maybe not the only problem. The Kraken realized his little Siren sister is lacking a penis. My explanation of ‘boys have a penis and girls do not’ seemed to make sense to him, until Amy started using the toilet. Despite the name, my son has determined Amy is a boy and is therefore missing something. Being a resourceful boy, the Kraken easily remedied the missing situation.
Amy now stuffs her tighty whiteys with a yellow livestrong bracelet. Makes sense to me.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Point and Shoot
My son is potty trained. I don’t mean to brag nor jinx anything, but it was easier than any of us were prepared for. Sure we've had one random accident while at the library, but even that was small and he stopped himself from making any kind of mess on the floor. Hey, that’s what the emergency pants are for.
So, when I picked The Kraken up from the toddler room at church on Sunday it took me a moment to find him. His handsome little-self went in wearing khaki cargo pants and a red plaid button-down. He came out wearing a yellow tee shirt and olive green sweat pants complete with tapered leg and elastic hem. Interesting. The volunteer at the gate handed me a couple Ziploc baggies and tried to explain what had taken place, which must have included how my son landed a starring role in an 80s exercise video. I heard what she was saying, but it didn’t quite sink in as I was a little preoccupied with Shovey McShoverson, another parent who apparently needs to hear a sermon on patience.
Fast forward a couple hours and imagine me standing in front of the washing machine holding not one, but two pair of borrowed undies and slightly worn sweat pants. My first thought was the volunteer had given me some other kids pee and dirty clothes. Gag me with a spoon! But then my mind wandered back to our conversation . . .
“He did really well. He told us each time he had to pee.” Okay. So why am I holding two sets of backup bottoms?
“The first time he peed on the wall and sorta just splashed everything.” Oh. So, they attempted to have him aim at the urinal. That makes sense. There is no way in heck a two year old boy would pass up an opportunity to pee standing up at a urinal simply to explain to a stranger that he pees sitting down at home. (Don’t judge me people. I know a real man stands up when he pees. We will get there.) Synopsis: Poor aim during attempt number one led to splashed clothing and church backup outfit number one.
“The second time he told us he had to go,” (And yes, my son would milk every opportunity to pee standing up even if he had to drink 18 Dixie cups of watered down apple juice.) “he peed on the volunteer.” WHAT! How did I miss that? He peed on the volunteer. I wish I would have caught this at the time because it leaves me with only one question . . .
If he peed on the volunteer why did he need the olive green pants?
So, when I picked The Kraken up from the toddler room at church on Sunday it took me a moment to find him. His handsome little-self went in wearing khaki cargo pants and a red plaid button-down. He came out wearing a yellow tee shirt and olive green sweat pants complete with tapered leg and elastic hem. Interesting. The volunteer at the gate handed me a couple Ziploc baggies and tried to explain what had taken place, which must have included how my son landed a starring role in an 80s exercise video. I heard what she was saying, but it didn’t quite sink in as I was a little preoccupied with Shovey McShoverson, another parent who apparently needs to hear a sermon on patience.
Fast forward a couple hours and imagine me standing in front of the washing machine holding not one, but two pair of borrowed undies and slightly worn sweat pants. My first thought was the volunteer had given me some other kids pee and dirty clothes. Gag me with a spoon! But then my mind wandered back to our conversation . . .
“He did really well. He told us each time he had to pee.” Okay. So why am I holding two sets of backup bottoms?
“The first time he peed on the wall and sorta just splashed everything.” Oh. So, they attempted to have him aim at the urinal. That makes sense. There is no way in heck a two year old boy would pass up an opportunity to pee standing up at a urinal simply to explain to a stranger that he pees sitting down at home. (Don’t judge me people. I know a real man stands up when he pees. We will get there.) Synopsis: Poor aim during attempt number one led to splashed clothing and church backup outfit number one.
“The second time he told us he had to go,” (And yes, my son would milk every opportunity to pee standing up even if he had to drink 18 Dixie cups of watered down apple juice.) “he peed on the volunteer.” WHAT! How did I miss that? He peed on the volunteer. I wish I would have caught this at the time because it leaves me with only one question . . .
If he peed on the volunteer why did he need the olive green pants?
Saturday, February 5, 2011
There's a Snake in my Boot
At what point do I decide we watch WAY too much Toy Story?
- The Kraken alerted me to a change in nicknames, “Momma, I no call Rosie, Rosie B. anymore. Call Rosie, Stinky Pete.” And he does. I really hope that one doesn’t stick. My poor little girl.
- Toys are separated daily into a ‘donate’ pile and an ‘attic’ pile with a large percentage of Rosie’s toys being sent to Sunnyside.
- When very excited but can’t quite find quite the right words, my son yells, “To infinity, and beyond.”
- When I ask what movie we should watch, the response is in terms of Toy Story villains: Sid, Stinky Pete or Lotso Huggin’ Bear.
- My son can quote a great many lines, including some uttered by Spanish Buzz.
- If I call my son’s name while he is wearing a hat he asks, “Do you see the hat? I am Mrs. Nesbit.” Oh, sorry.
- He will randomly begin calling me, Wheezy and his daddy, Ken. I’m not sure who should be more worried: me because he thinks I resemble a chubby penguin with a smoker’s cough or my husband because Ken . . . well, need I say more?
- I always find a Toy Story 3 boxed figurine set in the bottom of our shopping cart in the checkout line at Target. Once removed the Kraken concedes, “Wait for it to go on sale? Good idea momma.”
Looks like we are having a Toy Story themed, 3rd birthday party in a couple months. I wonder how difficult it would be to make a rocket ship cake. Maybe I should start working on that with my nonexistent cake decorating tools. It can’t be that hard (says the woman with nary an artistic bone in her body). Maybe I should have a back-up plan on the rocket ship cake.
- The Kraken alerted me to a change in nicknames, “Momma, I no call Rosie, Rosie B. anymore. Call Rosie, Stinky Pete.” And he does. I really hope that one doesn’t stick. My poor little girl.
- Toys are separated daily into a ‘donate’ pile and an ‘attic’ pile with a large percentage of Rosie’s toys being sent to Sunnyside.
- When very excited but can’t quite find quite the right words, my son yells, “To infinity, and beyond.”
- When I ask what movie we should watch, the response is in terms of Toy Story villains: Sid, Stinky Pete or Lotso Huggin’ Bear.
- My son can quote a great many lines, including some uttered by Spanish Buzz.
- If I call my son’s name while he is wearing a hat he asks, “Do you see the hat? I am Mrs. Nesbit.” Oh, sorry.
- He will randomly begin calling me, Wheezy and his daddy, Ken. I’m not sure who should be more worried: me because he thinks I resemble a chubby penguin with a smoker’s cough or my husband because Ken . . . well, need I say more?
- I always find a Toy Story 3 boxed figurine set in the bottom of our shopping cart in the checkout line at Target. Once removed the Kraken concedes, “Wait for it to go on sale? Good idea momma.”
Looks like we are having a Toy Story themed, 3rd birthday party in a couple months. I wonder how difficult it would be to make a rocket ship cake. Maybe I should start working on that with my nonexistent cake decorating tools. It can’t be that hard (says the woman with nary an artistic bone in her body). Maybe I should have a back-up plan on the rocket ship cake.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Amen
The smoke detectors in our apartment are on the fritz. They are powered electrically but also have a back-up battery. The one in my son’s room decides every night around 3am that it needs a new battery and starts that crazy annoying beep every 26 seconds. (I can’t sleep, ever, and thought perhaps counting seconds would help me sleep. After FOUR HOURS of counting, I found the average time to be 26 seconds. Don’t you envy me now?) The Kraken thankfully has the ability to sleep through most of the beeping. Momma however is annoyed and therefore something must be done. And by ‘something must be done’ I mean my husband better fix it now.
My husband loves me or just wants to keep my inner nag kept hidden away and so promptly climbed upon a rickety bar stool to replace the angry battery. The Kraken decided to help by circling the stool stating over and over, “Keep your balance, daddy. Keep your balance.”
The ceilings in our apartment are quite tall, which is advantageous if you don’t want to feel like you live in a cave as many apartments can feel, but not so wonderful when messing with a smoke detector. After a few minutes of standing fully outstretched, my husband began to get a bit grumpy about the height of the stool. My son, always a helpful lad pointed out, “That’s only option. No have taller stool bench.” Huh. You are right son, we don't have anything taller. When did you take inventory of our furniture? And where did you learn the word option?
By this point, with all the beeping and testing of the detector, my little Rosie is wailing. At first I didn’t really notice. (Yeah, I know. What an awesome mommy. Her nighttime screaming is nothing new. She is, after all, The Siren.) The Kraken however, is quite sensitive to his baby sister’s pleas. He thus decided his role of helper needed a bit of a boost. He skipped into the living room, where I had retreated, folded his hands and said, “Dear Jesus, please help daddy no fall off stool bench. Please stop Rosie crying.” Then he looked at me with that precious dimpled grin, “That’s all momma.” I told him the best way to end a prayer was to simpy say, Amen. Delighted he replied, “Oh! Okay. That’s a good idea. Amen.”
Rosie did eventually stop crying and daddy didn’t fall of the stool, but now two more smoke detectors are beeping. It’s a darn good thing I can’t sleep anyway or I would be thoroughly peeved. At least I can lay awake remembering that little Cherub face praying to Jesus for his sister and daddy. Thank you, Jesus for the Kraken. Amen.
My husband loves me or just wants to keep my inner nag kept hidden away and so promptly climbed upon a rickety bar stool to replace the angry battery. The Kraken decided to help by circling the stool stating over and over, “Keep your balance, daddy. Keep your balance.”
The ceilings in our apartment are quite tall, which is advantageous if you don’t want to feel like you live in a cave as many apartments can feel, but not so wonderful when messing with a smoke detector. After a few minutes of standing fully outstretched, my husband began to get a bit grumpy about the height of the stool. My son, always a helpful lad pointed out, “That’s only option. No have taller stool bench.” Huh. You are right son, we don't have anything taller. When did you take inventory of our furniture? And where did you learn the word option?
By this point, with all the beeping and testing of the detector, my little Rosie is wailing. At first I didn’t really notice. (Yeah, I know. What an awesome mommy. Her nighttime screaming is nothing new. She is, after all, The Siren.) The Kraken however, is quite sensitive to his baby sister’s pleas. He thus decided his role of helper needed a bit of a boost. He skipped into the living room, where I had retreated, folded his hands and said, “Dear Jesus, please help daddy no fall off stool bench. Please stop Rosie crying.” Then he looked at me with that precious dimpled grin, “That’s all momma.” I told him the best way to end a prayer was to simpy say, Amen. Delighted he replied, “Oh! Okay. That’s a good idea. Amen.”
Rosie did eventually stop crying and daddy didn’t fall of the stool, but now two more smoke detectors are beeping. It’s a darn good thing I can’t sleep anyway or I would be thoroughly peeved. At least I can lay awake remembering that little Cherub face praying to Jesus for his sister and daddy. Thank you, Jesus for the Kraken. Amen.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Don't look now, but I may have made some friends.
I’ve been avoiding this blog. I’m not sure why, well actually I do know why. Whatever. Here we go.
People terrify me. To the point of ridiculous amounts of sweat, intestinal distress, headaches, a poorly timed gag reflux and a barrier between the intelligent things I want to say and the senseless crap that comes out of my mouth. Generally, for the good of all mankind, I am medicated. However, the drugs that keep this loon under wraps are not good for pregnancy or a breast feeding mother, and thus I abstain.
So, when I signed up for a mom’s weekend away, I did so in a moment of pure insanity. I admit I never really thought I would actually go. I fully intended on flaking out. But my husband is really mean and supportive and forced me to live up to my word. What a jerk.
One of the ladies suggested that we carpool with someone. I prayed that no one would want to leave late so I could travel solo, but alas another mom had to work and graciously offered to pick me up on her way to the cabin. I had never met my chauffeur so when an unfamiliar SUV drove by my apartment, I waved, the driver waved back and I got in the car. I suppose I could have been murdered that evening since I was a bit more concerned about getting into the car without vomiting then I was to actually look at my new friend. Good thing Jesus loves me. I don’t remember much of the 2.5 hour car ride, which is a good sign. I must not have said anything too stupid because our conversation felt easy and natural. I do know that I sweat right through my shirt, and I am thankful I took some Pepto before leaving because there weren’t many places for emergency explosions.
Once at the cabin, I attempted my best to just blend in. For crying out loud, I certainly have some things in common with these girls. Right? Alcohol and I however do not blend well. I seem to do and say really silly things under the influence of half a glass of wine. On a mom’s weekend out though, it is really hard to ‘be one of the girls’ and not partake. So I had a glass of chocolate wine while playing a rowdy game of Pictionary. Anyone else with social anxiety is barfing at the thought of Pictionary with strangers, and I think if everyone had stopped talking for just a few seconds the entire table would have heard my heart beating. I sweat through yet another shirt, but I think night number 1 was a success.
The next day and afternoon, other than being a bit silly due to lack of sleep, was going fine. I was determined to keep a good attitude and try to make some friends. But then my first friend, formerly known as my chauffeur pulled out a game called Quelf. In my opinion this game should be called ‘How to cause panic and terrify anxiety ridden people.’ Case in point, the first card I drew required me to snort every time I laughed, FOR THE REST OF THE GAME. My husband would be proud because I got through it and even had fun. Thank goodness I only had to leave my chair once for a terribly embarrassing action card. Otherwise I may not have made it.
But I made it. I had fun. Actually, I had a great time. No medication required. So, thanks to Sara, Jen, Fawn, Rae, Stephanie and Mandy, for disregarding the sweat stains and awkward moments and accepting me as I come. Or maybe for at least talking about me behind my back!
People terrify me. To the point of ridiculous amounts of sweat, intestinal distress, headaches, a poorly timed gag reflux and a barrier between the intelligent things I want to say and the senseless crap that comes out of my mouth. Generally, for the good of all mankind, I am medicated. However, the drugs that keep this loon under wraps are not good for pregnancy or a breast feeding mother, and thus I abstain.
So, when I signed up for a mom’s weekend away, I did so in a moment of pure insanity. I admit I never really thought I would actually go. I fully intended on flaking out. But my husband is really mean and supportive and forced me to live up to my word. What a jerk.
One of the ladies suggested that we carpool with someone. I prayed that no one would want to leave late so I could travel solo, but alas another mom had to work and graciously offered to pick me up on her way to the cabin. I had never met my chauffeur so when an unfamiliar SUV drove by my apartment, I waved, the driver waved back and I got in the car. I suppose I could have been murdered that evening since I was a bit more concerned about getting into the car without vomiting then I was to actually look at my new friend. Good thing Jesus loves me. I don’t remember much of the 2.5 hour car ride, which is a good sign. I must not have said anything too stupid because our conversation felt easy and natural. I do know that I sweat right through my shirt, and I am thankful I took some Pepto before leaving because there weren’t many places for emergency explosions.
Once at the cabin, I attempted my best to just blend in. For crying out loud, I certainly have some things in common with these girls. Right? Alcohol and I however do not blend well. I seem to do and say really silly things under the influence of half a glass of wine. On a mom’s weekend out though, it is really hard to ‘be one of the girls’ and not partake. So I had a glass of chocolate wine while playing a rowdy game of Pictionary. Anyone else with social anxiety is barfing at the thought of Pictionary with strangers, and I think if everyone had stopped talking for just a few seconds the entire table would have heard my heart beating. I sweat through yet another shirt, but I think night number 1 was a success.
The next day and afternoon, other than being a bit silly due to lack of sleep, was going fine. I was determined to keep a good attitude and try to make some friends. But then my first friend, formerly known as my chauffeur pulled out a game called Quelf. In my opinion this game should be called ‘How to cause panic and terrify anxiety ridden people.’ Case in point, the first card I drew required me to snort every time I laughed, FOR THE REST OF THE GAME. My husband would be proud because I got through it and even had fun. Thank goodness I only had to leave my chair once for a terribly embarrassing action card. Otherwise I may not have made it.
But I made it. I had fun. Actually, I had a great time. No medication required. So, thanks to Sara, Jen, Fawn, Rae, Stephanie and Mandy, for disregarding the sweat stains and awkward moments and accepting me as I come. Or maybe for at least talking about me behind my back!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
My Sweet Little Siren
I don’t like to be touched. I’m not kidding. My personal space bubble isn’t huge but it’s mine. Stay out of it. And don’t try to cure me by hugging me when you see me. Not going to work. You may get a black eye out of the deal, but I’m not going to suddenly enjoy human closeness. It’s not my fault. I was born this way. Ask my momma. Even as a baby, don’t cuddle me, don’t rock me, don’t try to hug me, just put me in bed and walk out the door. I almost carried a stun gun around when I was pregnant since the whole world believes they are supposed to touch the pregnant woman’s stomach. Not this knocked up lady. Step away from my belly!
For the record, this fear of human contact does not extend out to my children. I have spent the better part of 2.5 years trying to convince the Kraken to stop moving long enough to give me a snuggle. It’s not going well. That may be the only trait that boy inherited from his momma. What a crappy gene to pass along. At least now I can claim his as mine and people believe me.
So when my beautiful little girl suddenly became a cuddle bug I had to remind myself that she was indeed my daughter. (It wasn’t hard; I was there the day she slid into this world.) At least ten times a day, my little Siren will waddle over, grab my leg and look at me with those eyes that can only be saying ‘hold me momma.’ As soon as she is up in my arms she will bury her head and snuggle. It’s probably the best thing ever. It also makes the wailing at 1am, 2am, 3am, 5am and 8am less irritating because at least I’m going to get a cuddle out of the deal. In fact, my husband jumps up and tries to beat me to her room. It’s funny because all this time I thought he could sleep right through her crying . . .
For the record, this fear of human contact does not extend out to my children. I have spent the better part of 2.5 years trying to convince the Kraken to stop moving long enough to give me a snuggle. It’s not going well. That may be the only trait that boy inherited from his momma. What a crappy gene to pass along. At least now I can claim his as mine and people believe me.
So when my beautiful little girl suddenly became a cuddle bug I had to remind myself that she was indeed my daughter. (It wasn’t hard; I was there the day she slid into this world.) At least ten times a day, my little Siren will waddle over, grab my leg and look at me with those eyes that can only be saying ‘hold me momma.’ As soon as she is up in my arms she will bury her head and snuggle. It’s probably the best thing ever. It also makes the wailing at 1am, 2am, 3am, 5am and 8am less irritating because at least I’m going to get a cuddle out of the deal. In fact, my husband jumps up and tries to beat me to her room. It’s funny because all this time I thought he could sleep right through her crying . . .
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Bring on the Open Houses
Last week I took the kids to visit a family member. The Kraken was in a very talkative mood as usual and was chatting away as I turned onto the street of our destination. “For Heaven sake!” the Kraken exclaimed. “What’s the matter, Kraken?” I even turned around to look at him. We have been in the midst of potty training boot camp so my first thought was that I needed to bust out the emergency pants. “Oh, momma, these houses are beautiful!” Well, he was correct. We had just driven into quite a stunning neighborhood. I’m just not sure where he learned the phrase ‘for Heaven sake.’
After saying our ‘hellos’ and playing for about a half hour, the Kraken announced he needed to pee. Off we went to a newly remodeled bathroom. “Oh, momma, this bathroom is nice, nice, nice!” Once again, my son, you are correct. I just never knew you really cared much about bathroom decor. Potty time was successful. Let’s go play.
The Kraken mentioned how much he appreciated the work that was done in the bathroom, which led to a tour of the rest of the house’s new renovations, mostly in the master bedroom/bathroom. About every 10 feet my little guy would gush, “Gorgeous! This is gorgeous.” No, I’m not making this up. My 2.5 year old son likes granite counter tops and walk-in closets and spa tubs and double sinks. They are gorgeous. Hilarious!
What does this mean? . . . Looks like I found my house shopping buddy!
After saying our ‘hellos’ and playing for about a half hour, the Kraken announced he needed to pee. Off we went to a newly remodeled bathroom. “Oh, momma, this bathroom is nice, nice, nice!” Once again, my son, you are correct. I just never knew you really cared much about bathroom decor. Potty time was successful. Let’s go play.
The Kraken mentioned how much he appreciated the work that was done in the bathroom, which led to a tour of the rest of the house’s new renovations, mostly in the master bedroom/bathroom. About every 10 feet my little guy would gush, “Gorgeous! This is gorgeous.” No, I’m not making this up. My 2.5 year old son likes granite counter tops and walk-in closets and spa tubs and double sinks. They are gorgeous. Hilarious!
What does this mean? . . . Looks like I found my house shopping buddy!
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