There was a time in my life that I would have argued that a woman who can get annoyed with her children is the devil incarnate. I had a whole power point presentation and printed pamphlets outlining an argument that if you were lucky enough to have children, you should walk around with a smile on your face and rainbows shooting out of your fingertips all the time, with no exceptions. Baby's eating dog vomit off of the floor? Smile, Momma! Baby just tipped the dog's bowl of water over the the fifth time today, threw your phone in the toilet, and screamed the entire time you were at the grocery store, while every single senior citizen you saw commented, "Little fella's not happy, is he?" Say cheese! You guessed it, this period coincided with the time that I was recovering from losing my first pregnancy.
Since the day he was born and refused to nurse, all the while screaming at me because he was starving, Luke has been destroying all of my preconceived notions about parenting, and humbling me every step of the way. And this morning...good gravy, was he annoying me!
As I sat down to spoon-feed George his delicious Gerber baby food, I gave Luke a bowl of blueberries. Since Luke can put a whole pint away in one sitting, this was no modest portion. And as he ate each berry one at a time, he asked me, "Is this a blueberry?"
I remained cheerful the first few times, answering, "Yes, it's a blueberry," thinking that it would get old after a few bites. But I failed to remember that NOTHING gets old to a two-year-old except putting on his own shoes and being quiet at church.
After about twenty-seven blueberries, I started answering through clenched teeth, if answering at all. And then the little sucker baited me. He started asking me if it was a blueberry with nothing in his hand! What a clever little guy! "Yes, it's a blueberry! OKAY?" I'd say, and then he would show me his empty palm. Talk about egg on my face!
Finally, when he was about two-thirds of the way through, I told him that his question was getting annoying and he needed to stop asking it. "They're all blueberries. Got it?" He pouted and asked me, "Why are you treating me like that?"
I decided that on Monday, the next time we're alone for breakfast, he will get grapes. They're bigger, so fewer fit in a bowl. Also, "grape" isn't nearly as fun to say as "blueberry". We'll just make blueberries a rare treat...like, for when his father is flying solo with the kids.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Effective communication is important for so many reasons. Throughout history, poor communication has changed the outcome of wars and shaped major policies. I remember a recent piece of Arkansas state legislation being written in a way that allowed babies to enter into marriage. The legislature had to cut into their recess time to fix the blunder. In my personal life, miscommunication has only served to irritate my family members and me.
Yesterday, my baby brother landed his dream job. This means that after many years of living modestly and paying for school, he's going to live a little higher on the hog, and we're all thrilled for him. "I think it's safe to say that Uncle Matt is going to buy you a pony for Christmas," I told my kids excitedly last night. Luke misinterpreted what I said to mean, "Tomorrow is Christmas! Candy and presents await you in the morning! And don't forget to be really difficult at bedtime, it's a Christmas Eve tradition!" Needless to say, Luke woke up asking if Santa Claus had come to see us, and if presents were under the tree. When the bad news that Christmas is still nine and a half months away was broken to him, he had a royal fit, stormed into my parents' room, and tuned out the world around him by watching television. He then started to complain of a headache. I'm not surprised, as this is the way I handle disappointment, too.
My dad came in to watch cartoons with him. After a few minutes, Dad shouted, "OH, it's 'BLUES CLUES'! I thought it was 'BOOZE CRUISE'. Nevermind, I don't want to watch this!"
Later, as we were preparing to make our departure to our new home in Mississippi, Mom and Dad started talking about our bill. Something about how many paper towels we had used, how many hours of babysitting services I had wracked up, water bills, administrative costs, etc. As they were yukking it up and I was losing my innocence about where clean laundry comes from, I realized that we had had a miscommunication about the seven-week vacation I was supposed to have been on. I'm not a totally unreasonable person, though. As long as there's a deep military discount, I'm happy to pay for the story hours and the and the floors they're going to have to replace, the drywall they're going to have to patch, the electricity we used, the daytime excursions we took, the personal days used because if the germs we shared, the stamps I borrowed, internet access...
Yesterday, my baby brother landed his dream job. This means that after many years of living modestly and paying for school, he's going to live a little higher on the hog, and we're all thrilled for him. "I think it's safe to say that Uncle Matt is going to buy you a pony for Christmas," I told my kids excitedly last night. Luke misinterpreted what I said to mean, "Tomorrow is Christmas! Candy and presents await you in the morning! And don't forget to be really difficult at bedtime, it's a Christmas Eve tradition!" Needless to say, Luke woke up asking if Santa Claus had come to see us, and if presents were under the tree. When the bad news that Christmas is still nine and a half months away was broken to him, he had a royal fit, stormed into my parents' room, and tuned out the world around him by watching television. He then started to complain of a headache. I'm not surprised, as this is the way I handle disappointment, too.
My dad came in to watch cartoons with him. After a few minutes, Dad shouted, "OH, it's 'BLUES CLUES'! I thought it was 'BOOZE CRUISE'. Nevermind, I don't want to watch this!"
Later, as we were preparing to make our departure to our new home in Mississippi, Mom and Dad started talking about our bill. Something about how many paper towels we had used, how many hours of babysitting services I had wracked up, water bills, administrative costs, etc. As they were yukking it up and I was losing my innocence about where clean laundry comes from, I realized that we had had a miscommunication about the seven-week vacation I was supposed to have been on. I'm not a totally unreasonable person, though. As long as there's a deep military discount, I'm happy to pay for the story hours and the and the floors they're going to have to replace, the drywall they're going to have to patch, the electricity we used, the daytime excursions we took, the personal days used because if the germs we shared, the stamps I borrowed, internet access...
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Laundry Fairy
You know, when you go back home, there are some things that never change. I spent my whole childhood and teenage years plagued by a mystery, and now I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to figure it out, just like old times. Who on God's green earth has been doing my laundry?
Obviously, when I'm left to my own devices in my own household, I have to suck it up and do it myself. But growing up, the clothes would just disappear from my bedroom floor while I was at school, and end up washed, dried, and smelling fresh in my closet.
Ever since I've been home this winter, I've been way too busy catching up with old friends, taking naps, holing myself up and sewing, and navelgazing to take care of my and my children's laundry. And just like in the good old days, the problem seemingly takes care of itself.
I have my suspicions. I think the spritely character of lore, The Laundry Fairy, has been washing our clothes. I remember my mom making a sarcastic comment when I was younger, like, "Who do you think does your laundry? The Laundry Fairy?" But I think she was telling one of those white lies of parenting. you know, the ones that are for a child's best interest, so it's not really a lie. Kind of like when Luke asks me about the snack he abandoned three hours earlier, the one that has probably for sure entered my large intestines by the time he's asked me, and I tell him that a bird flew in the window and took it. And although the window is closed and most of the birds have flown south for the winter, he totally buys it and goes back to playing. That kind of white lie. Why would my mother have to tell a white lie about The Laundry Fairy, you wonder? Well, because that was the year that my brother, aged eleven, was finally told the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. He was having some serious denial since he'd spent ELEVEN YEARS getting comfortable with the whole premise, and she probably had to make it sound like there was no Laundry Fairy to really drive her point about Santa Claus home. She really had to play hardball that time.
But anyway, I know there is a Laundry Fairy, because my dirty clothes are disappearing from my floor (yeah, my floor...too busy navelgazing to be bothered with the hamper), and reappearing so delightfully fresh and spanking clean. George's whites are coming back so white, I need my sunglasses to look at them. That is no small task! And whatever fabric softener she uses, I hope she never switches. I wonder if her cousin is The Dirty Diaper Fairy, who has been picking up the rolled-up diapers that I sometimes absentmindedly leave sitting on the floor wherever I happen to change a diaper. (Childless friends, please don't judge. I was always appalled by people who did that, and here I am doing it.)
On Saturday morning, as we're loading up the minivan to head to our new home, if any of my family members see me thrashing around in the laundry room with a butterfly net, be assured I'm not crazy--I'm just trying to catch that slick little fairy so I can take her to Mississippi, where she can keep working her magic for me.
And Laundry Fairy, if you're reading this, it would be really neat if you would strip my sheets and sprinkle your pixie dust over them. I love the smell of fresh sheets, thanks!
Obviously, when I'm left to my own devices in my own household, I have to suck it up and do it myself. But growing up, the clothes would just disappear from my bedroom floor while I was at school, and end up washed, dried, and smelling fresh in my closet.
Ever since I've been home this winter, I've been way too busy catching up with old friends, taking naps, holing myself up and sewing, and navelgazing to take care of my and my children's laundry. And just like in the good old days, the problem seemingly takes care of itself.
I have my suspicions. I think the spritely character of lore, The Laundry Fairy, has been washing our clothes. I remember my mom making a sarcastic comment when I was younger, like, "Who do you think does your laundry? The Laundry Fairy?" But I think she was telling one of those white lies of parenting. you know, the ones that are for a child's best interest, so it's not really a lie. Kind of like when Luke asks me about the snack he abandoned three hours earlier, the one that has probably for sure entered my large intestines by the time he's asked me, and I tell him that a bird flew in the window and took it. And although the window is closed and most of the birds have flown south for the winter, he totally buys it and goes back to playing. That kind of white lie. Why would my mother have to tell a white lie about The Laundry Fairy, you wonder? Well, because that was the year that my brother, aged eleven, was finally told the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. He was having some serious denial since he'd spent ELEVEN YEARS getting comfortable with the whole premise, and she probably had to make it sound like there was no Laundry Fairy to really drive her point about Santa Claus home. She really had to play hardball that time.
But anyway, I know there is a Laundry Fairy, because my dirty clothes are disappearing from my floor (yeah, my floor...too busy navelgazing to be bothered with the hamper), and reappearing so delightfully fresh and spanking clean. George's whites are coming back so white, I need my sunglasses to look at them. That is no small task! And whatever fabric softener she uses, I hope she never switches. I wonder if her cousin is The Dirty Diaper Fairy, who has been picking up the rolled-up diapers that I sometimes absentmindedly leave sitting on the floor wherever I happen to change a diaper. (Childless friends, please don't judge. I was always appalled by people who did that, and here I am doing it.)
On Saturday morning, as we're loading up the minivan to head to our new home, if any of my family members see me thrashing around in the laundry room with a butterfly net, be assured I'm not crazy--I'm just trying to catch that slick little fairy so I can take her to Mississippi, where she can keep working her magic for me.
And Laundry Fairy, if you're reading this, it would be really neat if you would strip my sheets and sprinkle your pixie dust over them. I love the smell of fresh sheets, thanks!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Lunch Conversation
If you were a fly on our wall, here's what you could have heard around our table at lunch:
Luke: Cookie, what's your secret?
Cookie: What's my secret? Wellllll....I eat right, exercise, and get plenty of beauty rest.
Luke: Mommy, what's your secret?
Laura: Sometimes, when George was still in my tummy, I'd be making your lunch, and I'd tell you that your chicken nuggets were poisonous, so I had to throw them away. But really, I'd eaten them right out of the pan, and then you had to have peanut butter and jelly instead.
Luke: What's George's secret?
Cookie: George sometimes keeps secrets deep inside his diapers...Luke, what's your secret?
Luke: I'm eating a sandwich.
Riveting. Simply riveting. Inquiring minds would like to know what other skeletons are hidden in his closet.
Luke: Cookie, what's your secret?
Cookie: What's my secret? Wellllll....I eat right, exercise, and get plenty of beauty rest.
Luke: Mommy, what's your secret?
Laura: Sometimes, when George was still in my tummy, I'd be making your lunch, and I'd tell you that your chicken nuggets were poisonous, so I had to throw them away. But really, I'd eaten them right out of the pan, and then you had to have peanut butter and jelly instead.
Luke: What's George's secret?
Cookie: George sometimes keeps secrets deep inside his diapers...Luke, what's your secret?
Luke: I'm eating a sandwich.
Riveting. Simply riveting. Inquiring minds would like to know what other skeletons are hidden in his closet.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
What I Said/What He Heard: Church Edition
What I said: Have fun at Sunday School, Punkin! Be a good boy for your teacher. We'll see you in just a little bit.
What he heard: Good luck in the Southern Baptist concentration camp! Don't choke on the stale goldfish crackers and watered-down apple juice. See you...never! We're going to leave you here for good. When you get out, er, that is, IF you make it out, you're on your own. It's rough out there, but please don't become a drug-addicted hobo. Have a nice life! And by the way, we love your brother more than you!
***********************************
Luke never did calm down after that. They tried as many tricks as they could to calm him down, but finally had to page me after the worship service, and about halfway through Sunday School. When I picked him up, he was being carried around the lobby with a pout on his face. The teacher explained to me that he couldn't calm down and he wouldn't stop telling her that he was too old to be in there.
"I'm too old to go in there!" he added for emphasis.
I gave him the option of going back to play with all the toys, or sitting in Cookie and Pops boring class with old people and not talking. He chose boring.
Remembering that we had made Neiman Marcus Cake to bring to Sunday School, as we approached the classroom, he demanded to know, "Which room is the cake room?????" Instead of sitting quietly in the back of the room, Little Lord Fauntleroy sat in his grandmother's lap in a small unoccupied room, having his chubby little cheeks stuffed with cake, and coloring on another class's prayer request sheets for the remainder of the hour.
Thinking ahead for next week, I warned him that I was planning on bringing a tuna noodle casserole, so it probably wouldn't be worth making such a fuss, and that he should just go ahead and stay in the two-year-old room.
How did George do in the nursery, you ask? Just fine.
What he heard: Good luck in the Southern Baptist concentration camp! Don't choke on the stale goldfish crackers and watered-down apple juice. See you...never! We're going to leave you here for good. When you get out, er, that is, IF you make it out, you're on your own. It's rough out there, but please don't become a drug-addicted hobo. Have a nice life! And by the way, we love your brother more than you!
***********************************
Luke never did calm down after that. They tried as many tricks as they could to calm him down, but finally had to page me after the worship service, and about halfway through Sunday School. When I picked him up, he was being carried around the lobby with a pout on his face. The teacher explained to me that he couldn't calm down and he wouldn't stop telling her that he was too old to be in there.
"I'm too old to go in there!" he added for emphasis.
I gave him the option of going back to play with all the toys, or sitting in Cookie and Pops boring class with old people and not talking. He chose boring.
Remembering that we had made Neiman Marcus Cake to bring to Sunday School, as we approached the classroom, he demanded to know, "Which room is the cake room?????" Instead of sitting quietly in the back of the room, Little Lord Fauntleroy sat in his grandmother's lap in a small unoccupied room, having his chubby little cheeks stuffed with cake, and coloring on another class's prayer request sheets for the remainder of the hour.
Thinking ahead for next week, I warned him that I was planning on bringing a tuna noodle casserole, so it probably wouldn't be worth making such a fuss, and that he should just go ahead and stay in the two-year-old room.
How did George do in the nursery, you ask? Just fine.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Hidden Booty
The other day, Luke woke up bored. He looked at his toys, and his face read, If I have to play with those legos one more time, I am going to puke.
Luckily, Cookie is prepared for such emergencies. Out came a treasure chest full of treasure. Or, as it looked to the rest of us, a small basket, circa 1988 with country hearts and buttons around the side of it, filled with Mardi Gras beads and coins that came with the King Cakes she had purchased at Fresh Market for Fat Tuesday.
After the initial excitement of showing us his loot wore off, she suggested that she hide the treasure chest and Luke could look for the buried treasure. He didn't quite understand the game, so the rest of us had to join in the fun.
"ARRRRRGH, where's the buried treasure?" Cookie shouted.
"AAAAARRRRRGHH, I'm only after me rum! It's five o'clock somewhere!" I bellowed. (The kids had me up no less than eleven times the night before. I was joking about the rum. Sort of. Later, I found out that Luke is cutting four molars. Did you know there are twenty baby teeth in a full set? I thought there were only sixteen, since he hasn't gotten teeth in fifteen months!) "And if Luke ever wakes me up that many times in one night again, I am going to make him walk the plank. ARRRRRRRRRGH!"
We zeroed in on the booty, which was located in plain sight underneath the dining room table. Luke STILL couldn't put two and two together. "Look!" my mom shouted, pointing at the basket, "Look what I found!"
"A CHAIR!!!!!!!!" Luke shouted excitedly, grabbing onto one of the dining chairs.
I looked at my mom, stonefaced, and said, "I hate to break it to you, but we're not doing an Easter egg hunt this year."
Luckily, Cookie is prepared for such emergencies. Out came a treasure chest full of treasure. Or, as it looked to the rest of us, a small basket, circa 1988 with country hearts and buttons around the side of it, filled with Mardi Gras beads and coins that came with the King Cakes she had purchased at Fresh Market for Fat Tuesday.
After the initial excitement of showing us his loot wore off, she suggested that she hide the treasure chest and Luke could look for the buried treasure. He didn't quite understand the game, so the rest of us had to join in the fun.
"ARRRRRGH, where's the buried treasure?" Cookie shouted.
"AAAAARRRRRGHH, I'm only after me rum! It's five o'clock somewhere!" I bellowed. (The kids had me up no less than eleven times the night before. I was joking about the rum. Sort of. Later, I found out that Luke is cutting four molars. Did you know there are twenty baby teeth in a full set? I thought there were only sixteen, since he hasn't gotten teeth in fifteen months!) "And if Luke ever wakes me up that many times in one night again, I am going to make him walk the plank. ARRRRRRRRRGH!"
We zeroed in on the booty, which was located in plain sight underneath the dining room table. Luke STILL couldn't put two and two together. "Look!" my mom shouted, pointing at the basket, "Look what I found!"
"A CHAIR!!!!!!!!" Luke shouted excitedly, grabbing onto one of the dining chairs.
I looked at my mom, stonefaced, and said, "I hate to break it to you, but we're not doing an Easter egg hunt this year."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
Luke is what we call an "active dreamer". It's never a mystery what he's dreaming about (loudly). Last night his dreams were full of two things he regularly deals with: sweets and injustice.
Last night, he started crying around 11:30. I went in to check on him and he was still asleep. He started shouting, "I want more. I want more. I want more chocolate." I rubbed his back until he calmed down and moved into a different stage of sleep, then went back to bed.
At 4:30, I sprang from my bed in response to some ear-piercing screams coming from his room. Based on the severity of his sceaming, I had expected to find that he had fallen out of bed...onto a pile of glass shards...with mutant bats flying through the window and attacking him.
He was still in bed, screaming intensely, "I WANT MORE. I WANT MORE. GIVE ME MORE. I WANT MORE 'NILLA WAFERS." Oh @#&*, not this again, I thought. The shouting went on for about thirty seconds before I could get a word in edgewise. I jostled him a little bit and started explaining to him that he was having a dream. He woke up and looked at me and demanded that I spit the 'Nilla Wafers out.
"I don't have any. You're having a dream," was what I was trying to say, but he thrust his fist into my mouth at that point. He wiggled his fingers around, sticking them down my throat. His sharp little talons (which I JUST cut to nubbins on Saturday) scratched my throat as I pulled them out. This all happened very quickly. Thankfully, my saintly mother rescued me from the situation and sent me back to bed.
As I woke up this morning (to stickers being put on my face by the same perpetrator), I felt like I had been intubated.
I have no funny punchline about the situation. And really, I'm only recording this story so that someday, when Luke is building me a mother-in-law suite in his pool house, I can have documented reasons why he should stop selling me short on formica countertops. I want the granite countertops, you son of a gun. I DESERVE THE GRANITE.
Last night, he started crying around 11:30. I went in to check on him and he was still asleep. He started shouting, "I want more. I want more. I want more chocolate." I rubbed his back until he calmed down and moved into a different stage of sleep, then went back to bed.
At 4:30, I sprang from my bed in response to some ear-piercing screams coming from his room. Based on the severity of his sceaming, I had expected to find that he had fallen out of bed...onto a pile of glass shards...with mutant bats flying through the window and attacking him.
He was still in bed, screaming intensely, "I WANT MORE. I WANT MORE. GIVE ME MORE. I WANT MORE 'NILLA WAFERS." Oh @#&*, not this again, I thought. The shouting went on for about thirty seconds before I could get a word in edgewise. I jostled him a little bit and started explaining to him that he was having a dream. He woke up and looked at me and demanded that I spit the 'Nilla Wafers out.
"I don't have any. You're having a dream," was what I was trying to say, but he thrust his fist into my mouth at that point. He wiggled his fingers around, sticking them down my throat. His sharp little talons (which I JUST cut to nubbins on Saturday) scratched my throat as I pulled them out. This all happened very quickly. Thankfully, my saintly mother rescued me from the situation and sent me back to bed.
As I woke up this morning (to stickers being put on my face by the same perpetrator), I felt like I had been intubated.
I have no funny punchline about the situation. And really, I'm only recording this story so that someday, when Luke is building me a mother-in-law suite in his pool house, I can have documented reasons why he should stop selling me short on formica countertops. I want the granite countertops, you son of a gun. I DESERVE THE GRANITE.
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