Bottled up

Every night before bed, we read to The Boy. We started reading chapter books about a year ago because the husband and I were bored with the picture books we read all the time. We read The Wizard of Oz and The BFG and Charlotte's Web. He loved them. Then, we read the first Harry Potter and I figured that would be it for that series for awhile because the the stories get a little complicated after that first one -- and really, even in the first one, what with Voldemort living on the back of a teacher's head, you know. But The Boy liked it and followed it, so we kept going.

We're almost done with book three now, and some of it is, admittedly, a bit over his head. But we go over words or parts we think might be confusing and he gets it. The basic drama of the story he follows without problems, and with our help, he gets enough of the rest to know the story. When a friend asked him the other night what we were reading, he said, "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. ... The hippogriff is going to be KILLED!"

If you've read the books, you know that third book gets rather action-packed and tension-filled toward the end. People are animals and vice versa; good guys are actually bad guys and vice versa; time travel comes up. The Boy is loving it. He lies in bed next to me, his whole body tense, chewing on his blanket and staring into the ceiling. When a big reveal is made, he whips his face toward me: "HO-LY COW! Sirius Black is a GOOD GUY. All ALONG. HO-LY!"

We used to say in college that we wished we could box up people we liked, people who cheered us up or made us laugh, and keep them on our shelves for bad days. I wish I could bottle up The Boy.

"Can we snuggle for a little bit?" The Boy asks every single night after we read. "Tell me a story about when you were a little girl."

I huffed about this a little tonight, laughing because he's so predictable.

"Pllllleeeeeeeease. Tell me another story. Again."

So I told him a story -- about getting in trouble on the playground -- and, as he always does, he then used the basic outline of my story to tell one of his own about him when he was in California.

"Time for hugs and kisses."

"Tickle me!"

I tickled him, like I always do, asking, "Who's my favorite Little Rhys Monkey!?" And like always, he ran through everyone else in the house -- Daddy! Momma! The cat! -- until he couldn't giggle any more and breathlessly shouted, "ME!"

Then, tonight, he stole my line for himself.

"Good night. Don't let the bed bugs bite. I love you, Momma. I love you."

Reader question: Childcare costs

Kristi, a friend from high school, is considering caring for a child in her home full-time (8 a.m.-5 p.m. Monday-Friday). He's a preemie -- born 10 weeks early -- so even at six months, when she starts watching him, he might have some special needs. She has two little ones of her own: her daughter will be 4 and her son will be just less than a year when the baby boy arrives in the house. They live in northern Virginia, just outside DC. 

I tell you all this because she's wondering: how much she should charge for the childcare? What would be fair -- to her and to the family of the little boy? 

As I told her, we pay $257/week for both our boys at a church-based daycare. Infant care at a similar daycare when it was just The Boy charged $180/week. I've not looked seriously at in-home care down here. I'm sure there are lots of nice women who do it, but the only ones I ran across had emails like kavi2hot4u@xxxxxx.com* and, well, could you let that woman watch your kids? A couple OK ones lived too far away to work with our commute, and the perfect, grandmotherly nanny wanted $400/week, which was a lot more than we could afford.

Childcare can be difficult, to say the least.

So, what do you all think? 

*That was a REAL email.

Positive vibes

There's another hurricane way out to sea, and I am trying to stay positive that it'll stay there. Let's all think happy thoughts, shall we?

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Last night after dinner, the boys wrapped the husband's stretching bands around their heads, grabbed the play swords and were "fighting ninjas," according to The Boy. They ran around and giggled, and the husband and I laughed. Every time The Boy would swipe his sword in even the general direction of The Lad, he would fall down as if his legs had been cut out from under him, giggling the whole time. It was like an old Bob Hope-Bing Crosby slapstick routine. I haven't laughed that hard in ages; the husband and I were in tears.

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The husband is running a marathon in December, just before Christmas, and we've decided to turn it into a long weekend vacation for the whole family. I requested vacation days yesterday for that trip and also, on a whim, for the day after Thanksgiving -- just because. I have no intention of shopping on Black Friday. My grand plan for that day is to make myself an amazing lunch of leftovers, including a turkey-stuffing-cranberry sauce sandwich, with mayo.

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I signed up for a five-week, online writing course that starts next week.

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Also next week, Sons of Anarchy returns. I love that show. Hot men on motorcycles, interesting music, good writing ... LOVE.

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The Lad, who never really liked to be rocked as a baby*, has rediscovered the rocking chair. Every night for the last week, he has asked, "Rock, ree, Momma?" He wants to be read to in the rocking chair, and only by me. The husband tried to do it before naptime this weekend and The Lad shook his head. "NO! Momma ree! Momma rock!" There are few things in the world as wonderful as holding the solid weight of your child against you in a rocking chair. I never get tired of squeezing his chubby thighs, feeling his smooth baby arms under mine, rubbing my face against his crazy curls.

*And yes, I just acknowledged that my youngest child isn't really a baby any more. SIGH.

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What's good in your life today? Send some positive vibes this way, would you?

Blast from the past

I meant to upload this video of Peanut, oh, about 18 months ago. And then I got pregnant and things just got busy. But I found it on my phone this weekend and thought, better late then never.

Here is Peanut at about 20 months singing "You are my sunshine." I hope it brings a little sunshine to your day.

8 months in pictures

Michelle's average day

I am jumping on the bandwagon and telling you about my ordinary day ...

6:30 - 7 a.m. Gizmo wakes up, usually cooing and talking to herself. There might be some high-pitch squeals that only dogs can hear. I let her do this for awhile until she starts fussing. The husband gets up, changes her diaper and brings her to our bed so I can nurse her. The husband jumps in the shower.

7 - 7:30 a.m. Peanut wakes up and crawls into bed with us. She wants to snuggle while Gizmo crawls all over me and threatens to take a header off of our bed. I finally give in and get up, telling Peanut she can come downstairs when she is ready for breakfast. We used to let her eat in our bed but I put the kibosh on that awhile ago because I was tired of crumbs in the bed.

7:30 a.m. - 9ish Peanut, Gizmo and I hang out downstairs and the husband takes off for work. Peanut must wave furiously to her father as he backs out of the driveway or we have serious drama. Peanut eats cereal, an English muffin and occasionally crackers. Gizmo eats pears (she had two and half bowls this morning). My children can eat. Thankfully they have good metabolisms.

I ask Peanut a million times if she needs to use the potty. She tells me no every time. (She's been a super star by the way with the potty training. Super. Star. Hardly any accidents but she never, never, ever, uses the potty while we are at home in the morning.)

During this time, I also try to keep Gizmo from finding every little stray bit and putting it in her mouth and/or keep her away from the cat food, which attracts her like a moth to a flame. Peanut and I read, practice letters and/or play finding games on the iPad. Sometimes she decides to watch Super Why! on the iPad at which point she tells me it is OK for me to listen to my music (Pandora through the television). While we are doing this, Gizmo stalks the cat through the kitchen and living room grabbing the evil being when she gets the chance. The cat, who does not have front claws, bats back at Gizmo, which doesn't bother Gizmo but sends Peanut into fits. She is very protective of her little sister.

This is what it usually looks like:




9 a.m. Gizmo goes down for her morning nap. She must have this nap. No one will survive the morning if she does not have this nap that can last anywhere between 30 minutes to almost 2 hours. I pack my lunch and dinner and occasional cook something for dinner for the rest of the family to heat up in my absence. Bottles and diaper bags are also packed for the day. I sometimes slip in some laundry or Peanut and I go outside so she can swing.

9:30 a.m. I hop in the shower and get ready, praying the entire time that Gizmo will sleep until I am done doing my hair and makeup. Peanut wanders between upstairs and downstairs. She climbs into Gizmo's crib if she wakes up before I am ready and entertains her little sister. I get both girls dressed, hair done and teeth brushed.

10:15 a.m. I pack up the car with the diaper bag, laptop bag that includes my workout clothes, my pump and my lunch/dinner bag. I'm like a pack mule.

10:20 a.m. I grab Gizmo and try to nurse her one more time. Peanut gets her shoes on and turns the tv off for me.

10:45 a.m. We are out the door. I drop off the girls at the babysitter's and spend about 10-15 minutes chatting with B while Gizmo tries to crawl out the door and Peanut repeatedly tells me she wants to wave to me when I leave. Again, she must wave to me as I back out the driveway or DRAMA.

11:10 - 11:50 a.m. I drive to work, alternating between Beyonce, Glee, Sugarland and a mix CD I made. Sometimes I call my dad and/or mom and give them the latest rundown.

12 p.m. Work. I try to be in my seat at noon since my desk is in the background of the live shot for the noon news (our newspaper and local television station work out of the same newsroom. I am a star, or maybe just the little head in the background trying to look diligent.) Everyone else has been there for hours and I have to do a quick catch up of what has happened in the morning. I make my list of stories I am in charge of for the day and check in with my editors and my reporters.

1 p.m. Eat lunch at my desk.

1:30 - 5 p.m. My afternoons are filled with various planning meetings depending on the day. I also handle any breaking news and coordinate who is doing what with other editors. I try to get a pumping session in around 3 p.m.

5 - 9 p.m. (sometimes beyond) The husband and I exchange car keys at 5 p.m. when he leaves for the day (we only have one set of carseats because I am too cheap to buy another set). I edit stories, continue to handle breaking news, put out fires, etc. I eat dinner at my desk and try not to be caught on air during the evening news shoving food in my mouth. I call home around 7 p.m. to see how everyone is doing. I get a second pumping session in around 8 p.m. Leave around 9 p.m. if nothing is going on, which happens about half of the time. During this time at home, the husband is picking up the girls, getting them dinner, occasionally braving the store with both of them, getting them both bathed (every other night) and then into bed no later than 8 for Gizmo and 9 for Peanut.

9-9:45 p.m. Work out if I feel up to it. Sometimes I go to the grocery store instead.

9:45-10:15 p.m. Drive home. My call list includes the husband, my sister and Hillary.

10:15 p.m. Home where I chat with the husband and get the rundown of how the girls did for the day. I also read, get whatever I can ready for the next day, do laundry, etc. Lately we've been watching episodes of Hardcore Pawn. Those people are cuhrazay.

Midnight crash in bed

3 a.m. Gizmo wakes up to nurse.

6:30 a.m. start it all over again.

What is your day like?

Hillary's average day

Along with K and a few others, I'm sharing my average day. Michelle's is to come (though she makes a cameo in mine) ...

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4:47 a.m.: Roll over as the husband gets up for a ridiculous early morning run. It's like he has a secret life. By the time the rest of us are up and awake, he's already run double-digit miles, met up with friends, eaten breakfast and had adventures. The time is all oddball because I can't stand to have an alarm set for a time ending in zero or five, even if I'm not the one getting up. I don't know; I can't explain it.

Some mornings I then wake up at 6ish on my own, sneak my door closed and either play on my phone or read a book until the boys get up. Some mornings, the boys wake me up at around 6 with squawking (The Lad) or chatting (The Boy telling me the Lad is squawking). Other mornings, we all sleep in until 7. Those are the mornings we run behind.

We usually spend about 30 minutes getting breakfasts. The boys eat at the table, kept company by the husband, stretching after his run. I eat in my reading chair with a book and a cup of coffee. Halfway through breakfast, The Boy has to go to the bathroom. Every morning.

7:30 a.m.: This is our cut-off for getting our butts in gear. On a good morning, I'm showered and dressed by this point. On a late one, I look up from my coffee, realize it's 7:30, shout, "Crap!" and run for the shower as I holler at the boys to get dressed. The husband and I tag team showering and getting The Lad dressed. In between, we hurry The Boy through getting his clothes on.

8-8:15 a.m..: Filling water bottles, getting lunch bags out of the fridge, brushing teeth, last-minute diaper changes (god help us), hugs and kisses and out the door.

Most mornings, the husband takes the boys to school while I head straight to work, arriving around 8:30. He gets there about 10 minutes later. We work in the same office. If I have to take the boys to school, obviously, it's the other way around, though usually that means he's got an early morning appointment or meeting in another office or in the community. About once a month, I'm the one working from another office, in which case, my commute doubles or triples.

9-4: email, 11 a.m. meeting to determine what we have for tomorrow's paper, reading copy, making assignments, returning reader phone calls, on the internet (sometimes productive, sometimes less so), 2 p.m. meeting most days with my boss, more email, etc.

4:30 p.m.: Crap! How'd it get to be 4:30? Daily email to editors about what needs to be read or posted online. Tidying of desk, making a to-do list for the next day, rushing through whatever needs to be read/written for tomorrow.

5 p.m.: I hit the door so I can go pick up the boys. Nine days out of 10 this is my job.

5:10 p.m.: School pick up -- chatting with teachers, exclaiming over the boys' "work," fielding requests for music on the drive home

5:30-6:30 p.m.: The boys and I arrive home. I get the mail and, on trash days, the trash/recycling bins. The Boy can now help with this job; yay! for child labor. I start dinner and unpack the lunch bags, washing containers as I go, while the boys beg for a snack/play/scream/fight/read/generally drive me nuts. On bad days, I turn on cartoons. If I have time or am feeling generous, I start packing lunches. The Boy sets the table and I make sure their milk cups are full.

If dinner is under control and the weather isn't ridiculous (so, maybe October-May) we'll go outside and play while we wait for the husband to get home. Usually, the husband calls on his way. We chat while the boys do whatever it is they're doing.

6:30-7 p.m. Family dinner. Nine nights out of 10 we're all at the table, eating -- or pretending to -- together. This makes me happy.

7-7:30 p.m.: The boys get baths every other night. One of us bathes the kids while the other cleans up the kitchen and packs lunches. Whoever is on bath duty usually ends up helping the one on kitchen duty because you can see into the bathroom; our house is little. We holler in every other minute, "Everyone above water!?" My mom works nights and this is her lunch break, so she often calls -- or I call her -- during this time. I sit on the toilet chatting with her while the kids splash. A new wrinkle is that The Boy wants to take a shower, in which case, we clean the kids up in turns, letting The Lad have a bubble bath to himself. On non-bath nights, this is puzzle time, clean up time, wrestle time, etc. We brush everyone's teeth -- usually. Sometimes The Lad misses out because he's cranky and ends up in bed early.

7:30 p.m. Bedtime for The Lad. He gets a book or two, gives everyone flying Beastie hugs and flops into his crib with Waldo, the turtle Pillow Pet, Puppy and Blanky. His musical fish is turned on.

7:30-8 p.m.: The Boy brushes his teeth, pees and then heads to his bed for a reading session. Right now, we're on Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban and he almost always picks me to read. The husband lays on the bedroom floor to listen and go through a ridiculous number of stretches. After the reading, The Boy always says, "Can we snuggle for a little bit?" And then he wants to hear stories about when I was a little girl or to tell me stories about California. Hugs and kisses and good night, don't let the bed bugs bite.

8-10 p.m.: Reading, internet, TV for the husband and me in some variation or another. When we're feeling particularly mindless, we flop on the couch together and watch TV series on hulu or Netflix. We just finished True Blood (Season 3) and we're very much looking forward to the new seasons of Sons of Anarchy and Parks and Recreation.

Occasionally, Michelle calls on her way home from work at 9 p.m.

10 p.m.: Bed, at least for the husband. Sometimes I stay up til 11 or 12 reading or futzing on the internet.

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After reading this, I realized how much time we all spend together. I'm incredibly blessed.

Life with boys

Supper was over. Each of the boys had two graham cracker sticks dipped in Nutella for dessert. (I had Nutella-dipped pretzel crackers.) The Lad had chocolate and crumbs all over his mouth.

"Get down, push your chair in and come over here, please, so I can wipe your face" I told him from where I stood by the sink.

The husband scooted The Lad's chair out and he turned around to start to follow my instructions. As he climbed down, he passed gas (farted, tooted, poofed ... whatever your preferred word for flatulence is). Everyone still at the table giggled.

"Beeshie Beesh fart." More giggles from everyone with a penis.

"Say 'excuse me,'" I said.

"ME!" More giggles and, from me, a sigh.

the biter vs. the bitee

I hesitate to write this, but here it goes: We have a biting lull.

I'm not going to say The Beast has stopped biting. Only tonight, I grabbed his shoulder mid-lunge as he went for my leg after I told him he could not eat what he thought was toast -- it was a black bean burger -- until dinner. But, I haven't had any more biting reports from school.

Several things have contributed to the lull. First, the daycare director -- smartly, in my opinion -- didn't make me pick him up right away after last week's incident. She was afraid my rather clever kiddo (her judgment, though I agree) was connecting biting with going home, which is more of a reward than a punishment. Instead of biting and immediately getting to see Momma, The Lad still had to wait til the end of the day (or after nap anyway, which is more or less the same thing until he can tell time). Secondly, I gave the director and his teachers a bit of a guilt trip after the last incident. I'm not trying to excuse The Lad's behavior -- it's unacceptable -- but I was at a loss. I warn them when he's had a rough morning. I let them punish him when he bites (timeouts and a teaspoon of vinegar, which he seems to enjoy). We don't tolerate biting at home. But I can't punish him for things that happen at school; he's too little to understand the connection when the punishment comes hours after the incident. And we don't have many incidents at home because WE STOP THEM before they happen, I told the director. Since then, I think his teachers are paying closer attention.

But the thing I think has helped most to keep Beastie's teeth out of the hides of his classmates is that one of them bit him. Hard. The kid nearly drew blood. The Lad was crawling through a tunnel, apparently not fast enough for his classmate because the kid sunk his teeth into The Lad's back. The teacher was apologetic when I picked up the boys that day. I was glad it happened.

Apparently, The Lad wailed and cried and yelled at the boy, "NO BITE! You no bite me! No bite me! NO BITE!"

I'm hoping he began realizing the rule applied to him, too.

Stubborn little poop

Fair warning, I am going to use the word poop no fewer than a dozen times in this post.

Good news: potty training has been mostly successful this weekend. We started in earnest again Thursday evening. Peanut has had only one accident, which wasn't really her fault. She tells us when she needs to potty and doesn't want to wear diapers anymore.

Bad news: she hasn't pooped the entire time since we started this. That's right. The last time she pooped was on Thursday. It's Sunday afternoon.

That can't be healthy.

We've tried everything. The potty chair comes with us wherever we are in the house. We try to make a big deal about it. Then we try to be low key. We try to withhold things that she likes, namely tv, telling her she can watch a movie when she poops. We try letting her watch a movie while she sits on the potty to get her to relax. We try sitting with her. We try leaving her alone. We try big prizes like DVDs. We try little ones like m&ms.

We've told her the poop wants to come out. It needs to come out. That she has to push the poop out.

Nothing works. Nothing.

This afternoon, I'm giving her some diluted prune juice in case she's constipated to see if that helps.

She just keeps walking around holding her booty. Sometimes she says she has to poop and then sits on the potty but nothing. I even put a diaper back on her but she wanted it off within minutes, opting instead for her underwear.

I don't even know what do anymore. I'm afraid if she doesn't poop soon she will make herself sick. I don't even know how she isn't sick yet.

I can't tell you how many poop conversations the husband and I have had this weekend or how many websites we have looked at after googling "withholding poop and potty training." Did you know there is a support group for parents of kids who withhold poop? I can jet imagine the meetings. "Hi. My name is Michelle and it's been 72 hours since my daughter last pooped."

Any suggestions?

(And, Peanut, if you happen to read this post when you are older and try to claim you need therapy for it, get over it. Mommy was trying to make sure we didn't end up at the hospital because you are so full of poop.)

UPDATE: Peanut pooped a tiny bit in the potty Sunday night and then got the rest out in her pull up Monday morning. I'm just glad she isn't holding it in anymore (and that I didn't have to clean up anything off the floor.)

PSA: Don't fix anything

I read somewhere once that if you upgrade one appliance in your kitchen -- even just the lowly toaster oven, say -- you are more likely to end up renovating the whole room. The one nice, shiny new item makes everything else looks shabby and pretty soon you're replacing all the major appliances just for something shinier and looking into square footage costs on granite counter tops.

There's some truth to that.

We're getting new windows installed. Our old windows were original to the 30-year-old house; they needed to be replaced. When we got the estimate, the handyman company doing the installation also gave us an estimate to paint the whole house. No, we said. We'll wait another year. The paint is faded, but it wasn't until the new windows -- shiny, new windows sparkling in the sun and rimmed in perfectly white sills -- were installed that I thought it looked dirty.

The husband just emailed the handyman. We're getting the house painted, too. It's not a huge extra expense, but still, it would have been cheaper to keep living with windows that needed to be propped open.

Between those new windows and Pinterest, I'm itchy to rearrange and paint. I want to get the boys into a shared bedroom and paint our front door. The husband just sighs heavily whenever I mention this stuff.

What projects are you thinking about these days?

Phases

A few months ago, I wrote how Peanut was driving me crazy with her willful ways. I chalked it up to being a phase.

She has improved so much recently but I have to admit something. I've improved too.

I wasn't reacting to her willfulness correctly. It's hard for me to admit that I was wrong but I was. I was impatient. I wasn't treating her properly for her age. I was trying to control everything too much for no good reason.

I came to the realization that if I had someone telling me exactly what to do all day long, I'd be pretty pissed off too. Not to mention the fact that her life had been completely disrupted by a new sister. A new sister that she loves dearly but still disrupted nonetheless.

So, while she's learning, so am I.

I've learned that she needs choices. I am careful about the choices that I give her but she gets to pick. Instead of telling her she has to brush her teeth, I ask her does she want to do it or does she want momma to do it. Instead of giving her breakfast, I ask her if she wants an English muffin or cereal. When I am at home to tuck her in at night, she gets to say if the fan in her room should be on (never) the blinds up or down (always down) and the door shut or closed (always closed). I know the answers but I still want her to feel like she gets a say in the situation.

She also needs independence. I've adjusted our morning schedules to give her extra time to get dressed on her own, to buckle herself into the car, to shut all the car doors when we go to the babysitter's house. She gets to pour her own cereal, milk and get her own spoon (all with a guiding hand from momma). If she wants a yogurt, she can get it out of the fridge. She feels more in control and I don't have to do everything for her.

I've enlisted her help with Gizmo. If the baby wakes up early from her nap and I am still getting ready for work, I send Peanut in to entertain her. Most mornings, I find both of them playing in Gizmo's crib, surrounded by toys Peanut chucked in there before she climbed in herself. There is nothing better than seeing both of their smiling faces looking up at me and having Peanut say, "Momma, when I was a baby, I used to sleep in here."

I've also learned to be firm with her without raising my voice. If I give her a choice of two things and she starts whining, I simply tell her those are her options. If she ramps it up, I tell her she can stop crying or go to her room for some quiet time. She always has options, whether she likes them or not. She at least gets to pick.

Our mornings together are easier. We laugh more now. Neither of us is so frustrated to the point of tears four out of five days.

We still have problems. We both have been known to throw an unnecessary fit given the situation. But we are working on it.

I am working on it.

the death of me

Before The Lad was able to crawl, he rolled wherever he wanted to go. I would put him down, turn my back for 30 seconds and find him three feet away. Having a 4-month-old, barely more than a roly-poly slug of a newborn, rolling around your house is disconcerting.

Almost six months ago, when The Lad still was less than steady on his chunky toddler legs, I went to fetch a ball for The Boy while all three of us were outside. When I looked up, The Lad was kneeling on The Boy's skateboard and rolling rapidly down the driveway into our road, which is thankfully a quiet one. I grabbed him up just inches from the asphalt. He threw a tantrum after I put up the board.

About a month ago, The Lad's eyeteeth and 2-year-old molars (yes, they're early) came in. That should have been the end of biting incidents at school. Like The Boy before him, The Lad bit whenever he was teething. It was as sure a sign of a tooth as a slight fever and loose poo. But the biting has not stopped. Instead, it's gotten worse. Now, we have dude!-that's-my-toy! bites and get-outta-my-face bites and GAH!-I'm-ANGRY! bites. He bit two kids today within 30 minutes of arrival at daycare.

A couple weeks ago, The Boy -- my little rule follower -- came running out of his room pointing and gasping, speechless. I followed his little index finger back into his room and found The Lad on top of the 3-foot-tall Expedit-like bookcase. Just hanging out. The Boy, who was too shocked by the whole thing to even tattle properly, said his brother was trying to bite the wall. I don't doubt it.

This afternoon, while I tried to work from home after picking up the boys because of the aforementioned classmate maulings, The Lad went into The Boy's room, shut the door and immediately started whining to get out. (He has trouble turning knobs, but loves shutting doors.) I asked The Boy to let his brother out. He couldn't turn the knob. It was locked. The Lad locked himself in the room. I couldn't get the door jimmied. I had to call the husband. He might not be handy, but he's bigger and has experience jimmying doors open (The Boy once locked himself in the bathroom on the husband's watch). While we waited, I kept trying to pry open the door and The Lad, ever helpful, went and got the play tools and matchbox cars and banged on his side of the door. And then he pooped. I could smell it through the door. And then he started screaming loudly. When the husband finally got the door open, all the Lad had to say for himself was, "Beeshie BOOM! Rhyssie and Beeshie," which roughly translated means he, The Beast, caused a mess and he wanted to go play with his brother.

I always tell The Lad, my little Beastie Beast, that his dimples are going to get him into and out of a great deal of trouble. I just wish he wouldn't practice on me.

Handy

I was going to tell you about the spectacular tantrums The Lad threw at a baseball stadium this weekend. But it just seemed like whining, which is less attractive in 30-year-olds than it is in 18-month-olds.

I could tell you about the funny thing The Boy said tonight. But he's taken to wanting his PRIVACY. DON'T TELL that story, please.

So, let me tell you about our latest adventure in home improvement.

When The Lad was born, our washer broke. We bought a stackable, high-efficiency, front-loading washer-dryer set. Since it was delivered, the dryer door has opened the wrong way.

The door opened to the right, smacking into and blocking the shelves, which are the only place to keep things like dryer sheets. Every time I've done laundry for the last 18 months, I had to half close the dryer door, reach around it onto the shelves for a dryer sheet, open the door back up to the throw the sheet in and then close and start the dryer. This, I realize, is not a huge problem. It is, however, irritating.

The door is reversible, but we didn't reverse the door at first because, oh, I don't know -- sleep deprivation, dealing with a newborn, just feeling grateful to have a working washer and dryer. And then, we didn't do it because of inertia. But nearly everyday for a year and a half, I've looked at the dryer and been annoyed.

On Sunday, halfway through the laundry, I just couldn't take it anymore. I half-closed the door, reached for the dryer sheet and then changed my mind and reached for a screwdriver. I had the door almost completely off before I yelled for the husband to come help.

A bit of background here: The husband is many, many things, but handy is not one of them. If forced, I usually can figure things out. But I'm impatient and I rarely stop and think a project through before I start it.

With some swearing and minimal snapping at the husband, I got the door switched -- only it wouldn't shut. Turns out, it's not just as simple as flipping the hinges. The window in the door has to be switched, too. And that was way more project than the husband wanted to take on at 4 p.m. with the boys on the tail end of a late nap and wet clothes in the dryer. He was not happy with me. I, being me, responded to his unhappiness with sarcasm and yelling and martyrdom. I had the door halfway back on by the time he came back, resigned, with the owners' manual.

So, we went about fixing the door. He read the instructions while I handled the screwdriver. Halfway through, confused when his directions didn't work, I realized he was reading me the instructions for flipping a WINDOWLESS dryer door. Ours has a window. The directions are decidedly more complex.

This is why we don't do home improvements.

By this point, The Boy was up and The Lad was stirring. I read the proper directions myself and, while the husband fetched The Lad, rearranged the door. In fairness, I needed the husband's help to snap the tabs in place and rehang the damn thing.

"This is much easier the second time, now that the holes are bigger," the husband said as he screwed in the hinges.

"That's what she said," I said.

A half a dozen jokes later, the dryer door opened the right way.

And I've determined my boys need to spend some time with their grandpas. Someone's got to teach them how to use tools.

Old woman river

I wish I could gather you all around me so I could see your faces when I tell you this story.

A friend of mine is having a garage sale today and tomorrow and told me if I wanted to sell some things to bring them over. The girls and I went over this morning to see how things were going (I sold the pack-n-play, a swing, a travel swing and four outdoor chairs all before 10 a.m. Woohoo!)

My friend and I were talking while Gizmo happily played in the shade in the grass. She kept trying to dive out of my arms so I put her down, in admittedly damp grass. She wasn’t bothered by it and a little dew wouldn't do her any harm.

An old woman walked up, mumbling something and pointing to Gizmo. My friend and I stopped talking and greeted the woman. She asked something along the lines of, “Is the baby for sale?”

“Name your price but I have to warn you, she doesn’t sleep through the night,” I jokingly said.

AND THEN, the old woman said, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Oh. Yes. She. DID.

Shocked, I said something like, “She’s a wonderfully, pleasant child, even when she is awake at 4 a.m.”

THEN that old biddy told me Gizmo must be cold sitting in the grass.

I informed the woman that Gizmo was FINE and seemed to be enjoying herself.

First of all, I didn’t call my child a brat or a hellion. Stating the fact that she doesn’t sleep through the night isn't mean. It’s just a fact.

And second of all, it’s not like I had the kid sitting in a snow drift. It was in the 70s and sunny. She had been there for all of three minutes because the kid can’t sit still for longer than that.

Later, I had plenty of comebacks thought up, including (to paraphrase Adam Sandler) “Hey, old woman river. Zip it or I’m going to break your hip.”

What would you have said? Any crazy inappropriate stories of your own to share?

Thinking happy thoughts

Here's my happy thoughts for the day:

Gizmo is so very mobile right now. She has taken to crawling, stopping, and pushing herself up into a downward-facing dog pose. Then she drops down, crawls and does it again. I have tried to get a photo of this but she is quick like a bunny. Just take my word for it, it’s adorable.

Peanut starts preschool in less than a month. While this makes a small part of me sad because MAH BAYBEEEE (insert sobbing here), it is still exciting. She’s going twice a week in the mornings. I am hoping she will accomplish a multitude of skills – mainly pooping on the potty. That child refuses. She won't use the potty in any form. And, yes, I know she will do it when she is ready but it is time to be ready. She's three. So maybe if she sees all of her classmates doing it, she will hop on the bandwagon. This may be the first and only time in her life that I am counting on peer pressure to help me out.

Peanut has a dusting of freckles on her nose. I told her she got them after fairies kissed her. Now, each day, she asks me to see if more fairies kissed her nose or she just declares, "I have more fairy kisses!" I love this.

The Blathering is so close. Less than three months away. I’ve been mentally packing my bags. Do I want to take more dresses or more jeans? Should I take cowboy boots since it is Austin or will I look like a big dork? So many fun choices. Can I tell you the last time I took a trip with friends? When I went to visit Hillary in Florida before I got married. Six years ago. (It was a lovely trip but my lasting memory is of her evil cat bitch-slapping me when I tried to hold her.) One marriage, two babies and many sleepless nights later, I’m off for what will surely be a lovely getaway.

I am starting a new venture. I’m taking my craftiness to the people. I’ve decided to make a few things such as the ribbon wreaths, fabric circles, button letters and perhaps a few painted canvasses and sell them at one of our local craft shows. This could be an epic fail and I will be left with a bunch of things that I don’t want (you can only put so many ribbon wreaths and fabric circles up in the house before the husband declares an intervention). OR it could be something fun for me to do on the side, allowing me to use my creativity more. I was talking about it with a friend today who said she wants to do the same thing. So, we are going to get a booth together and see how it goes.

I put $2 in a pot at work for Powerball tickets. $220 million. Do you know how much ribbon and fabric that could buy?

What are your happy thoughts?

Divide and conquer

Somehow, we were out of bread, milk and coffee tonight. So, after dinner, the husband and The Lad went to the grocery store. The grocery store gives free cookies. We did not have to ask The Lad twice.

"Cookie! Beeshie Cookie! Cookie!"

He still thinks his name is Beastie.

The husband said halfway to the store, The Lad got fussy because there still was no cookie in his hand. The husband explained again that they were on their way. They were almost to the grocery store and when they got to the store, he would get a cookie.

"Beeshie cookie," The Lad said. (I imagine him nodding. He does that a lot now.) "Beeshie BIIIIIIIIIIG cookie."

Meanwhile, I ignored the supper dishes and flopped on the floor to color with The Boy. We drew a rocket ship and sharpened every pencil he owns. We practiced writing his name. We drew silly pictures of each other, though he said he couldn't draw people.

"Drawing yourself is hard, Momma."

Triangles also are too hard, he said. "But look. I can draw big circles. A huuuuuge circle."

When Daddyman and Lad returned, we jammied and brushed teeth and The Lad gave his flying goodnight hugs all around. The Boy and I talked about California in my favorite chair and checked out his silly bands, the toy that just won't go away. We read some Harry Potter and had a "snack" with his stuffed animals in bed.

"What was your favorite part of the day?" I asked The Boy, just before tucking him in for the night.

"Um, I had two favorite parts. Coloring with you and reading Harry."

Me, too.

(The husband's favorite part was the trip with The Lad. I'm willing to bet the cookie was Beastie's favorite bit.)

WHOLE POTATOES. Seriously.

I had a crappy day at work. I started out behind and felt breathless and cranky most of the day. Five o'clock rolled around and, just as I was starting to think about shutting down to get the boys despite the lengthy list of things yet to do, the husband called from his office. Would it help if he got the boys?

It did help. I got 45 extra minutes of work done. And I tidied my desk hoping for a better start tomorrow. Still, as I drove home I fretted about whether or not I'd get home in time to mash the potatoes. The husband would not mash them to my standards, I knew.

But, Hillary, I lectured myself, this is exactly your problem -- you can't let go of control. They're just potatoes. They might have lumps, but they'll be fine.

I have to admit, I was pretty happy when I came home to find the pot still boiling on the stove. I'd get to mash them! Then I looked in the pot: Six WHOLE, unpeeled potatoes sat under the bubbles. UNPEELED! And not only were they still wearing their tough skins, the damn things were hard as a rock in the center because, did I mention, they were whole?

Do I have to tell you we fought?

I tried to be unbothered by the potatoes. I got an alternative dinner of eggs and toast -- TOS! The Lad cried happily -- and tried very hard to let it go. I really did.

Seriously, though, I had reminded him when he left to peel and boil the potatoes. Even if he couldn't peel them, he couldn't slice them? Really?

Words were exchanged. I was ... less than nice.

Our policy is that if we fight in front of the boys, we apologize in front of the boys, too. So, we did, though really, when the boys went to bed, we both still were peeved -- if not fuming, stewing. The Boy knew it, too. He tried to play peacekeeper. "Hey Momma, want to talk with me and Daddy? Yeah! OK, but you have to sit HERE, next to Daddy. ... Can we all THREE snuggle?"

We snuggled. He went to bed happy. And after bed, the husband and I worked it out. We talked. We ranted a little about our respective days. We apologized. We each admitted the other did more work; we refuted that assessment. We both felt better.

It's funny. I just read a post -- here it is -- where a woman was feeling all overwhelmed and then felt better because she talked to her husband. I mean, it was a little more complicated than that. There were things done -- but the key here, the thing that started the process, was talking to her husband. And I thought when I read it, "Gee. What a good idea."

I don't want you all to think the husband and I don't talk; we do. But I'm very guilty of just dealing with things because, why bother? I can do it! God forbid I should ask for help.

Part of the reason I was so upset about the potatoes is that it felt, for awhile, like the whole incident just drove home the point that I was in this alone. My partner in life, while many wonderful things, is not a competent enough adult to handle boiling potatoes. That wasn't fair; it was an honest mistake. And he is a help. He helped me get the alternative dinner and cleaned up the kitchen and already had lunches made by the time I got home.

Potatoes aside, he volunteered help I never would have asked for. I think maybe I need to ask more often.

So, do you ask for help? More importantly, would you -- or your husband -- have known to peel and cut up the potatoes? (And don't even tell me some people like mashed potatoes with the skins on. Those are SMASHED potatoes, people. I wanted creamy mashed ones.)

Nursing

Nursing a very active 7-month-old (who can now pull herself up into a standing position on a chair or coffee table) as told from the perspective of the aforementioned child:

Hey, woman. I am hungry. That's why I am whiny. I need some milk now.

Ahhh. Thank you. That's exactly what I .... Oh wait. Why are you holding my legs down. I can't believe you don't want my foot in your mouth. Maybe you want me to pinch you arm ... OK, fine. I won't do that either. I'll just pinch this thing that's giving me milk.

What's that noise? Let me whip my head around to see without releasing my latch. Oh it is just my sissy who doesn't know the meaning of hush. Why is that woman cringing?

Hmmm. I wonder why you are taking me to a quiet room?

Oh nice. Sure let's lie down on the bed together. Yes, yes, I know you say I need to eat but climbing over your face seems like more fun. Just be still. I will be back in a second for a quick sip.

Look how cute I am sitting up. I'll just bend over a bit for a drink. Ahhh. That's refreshing. Now, let's get back to climbing.

You know what I haven't done? I haven't blown raspberries all over you. Here we go. Isn't that fun? No? What do you mean you don't appreciate my cute little baby spit all over you?

Hey, wait a minute. Why are you putting that thing away? I wasn't done yet.

Waaaaaaaaah! I am Hungry!

Whew. Thank you. That was a close one. Mmmmmm. Yummy milk ... Oh wait. I haven't done the alligator death roll yet. Here we go ...

That's fine. Put it away. I wasn't that hungry anyway. I'll just whine in an hour when I want more.

The End.



She is lucky she is so cute and lovable.

The husband reports the same situation when trying to give her a bottle. At least the nipple of the bottle isn't very sensitive.

Photo cuteness

I don't have much to say today so I thought I would share something that I am so very happy about. A couple weeks ago, we had an hour-long family photo shoot in our back yard. It was fabulous. The girls were on point and my hair behaved.

We have 82 photos to pick from and I don't think there is one I don't want. Here are a some of my favorites:

If you live in the Miami Valley area of Ohio, use check out Fullam Photography. Wonderful people.

California dreaming

I think I've written before about The Boy's obsession with California. (Yep. Right here and, oh look! foreshadowing, I was crushing his dreams then, too.) For at least a year, he's been telling us about his life in California. He has a condo there and we're all going to live there with him and there's a shark and a goat and 11 dogs and he has a surfboard and .... this stuff just goes on and on and on. Every single day, multiple times a day, we hear about California.

We have never been to California. No one in our family lives there. A couple of friends do, but no one The Boy knows. But for whatever reason, The Boy is obsessed.

"Can we snuggle, Momma?" The Boy said after we finished reading in bed, just before lights out. This is code for: I'm going to ramble on about my imaginary life in California.

"That's what we're doing. ... What do you want to tell me about?"

"Weeeeeellllll, it's going to be a long time before we go to California," The Boy said, his voice tiny and teary.

"Why do you want to go to California so much? We'll get there some day."

"Well, all my cousins live in California."

I don't care that he makes up cousins in California. I love that he's got such a great imagination. But I also don't want him to be sad about imaginary people.

"Oh honey, no they don't," I said. "Your cousins live in Ohio. You have two cousins, L and S, and they live in Ohio."

And then he started crying for real.

I can't recreate the whole circular conversation. I was too boggled by what the hell I should be saying to try to keep the quotes steady in my mind. First, I tried to make him understand that he was just pretending his West Coast cousins so he didn't have to be sad about not seeing them. He got upset about that and tried to convince me I was wrong. He brought up his imaginary friends, Jetty and Despereaux, and said THEY were his cousins and THEY live in California. Then, suddenly, he switched over to my side of thinking and decided he was just pretending Jetty and Despereaux, which made me sad -- my baby is NOT ready to give up his imaginary friends! -- so then I was trying to convince him that it was OK to have imaginary friends. I had them, I said -- I did, at his age -- and just because other people couldn't see them didn't mean they weren't real to me. That made him laugh. But he was still teary. He decided he had cousins in California after all, Jetty and Despereaux included, but he didn't want to talk about it.

"Momma, I really need to go to sleep."

The husband and I tucked him in, tear tracks still staining his face as he sucked on his blanky.

Seriously. What should I have said? I am so glad he's imaginative, and honestly, the consistency of his California stories amazes me. It's almost enough to make you believe in reincarnation or something. This stuff is real to him and it's not something we've told him. But I also don't want him pining for cousins that don't exist. It reminds me of that chapter in Anne of Green Gables when Anne and Diana dream up such scary ghosts for the Haunted Wood that they frighten themselves.

Do you guys have little kiddos with big imaginations? How do you encourage the creativity but keep them from getting carried away?

Good enough

I was talking with my boss about a couple projects for 2012. He wants me to do them. I want to do them. He likes my ideas for them. I think we can do them.

But I'm just a little bit scared.

I don't like to do anything if it's not going to be right the first time. These projects, while doable, are not going to be fabulous right away. Without going into detail that will bore you, it's going to take awhile to get all the things I need coming in regularly. I'm probably going to be struggling for a few weeks, maybe even a few months.

But, as I told him, if we're going to do it, we have to just start. The only way to get the things we need is to start the project and power through the rough beginning. We will get better by just doing it.

This is all starting to sound like a Nike commercial. Don't worry. I have no intention of taking up shredding or crossfitting or whatever. Physically, I plan to remain as much of a slug as ever.

But it is good advice. Sometimes I surprise myself. I'll be in a meeting, talking, and think, "Hey! I sound pretty smart!" -- only I had no idea until that very second what was going to come out of my mouth. Does that ever happen to you guys? That's pretty much what happened to me today, and it occurred to me that maybe I should take my own advice outside of work, too.

I've got two bright yellow vintage lamps I bought at a second-hand boutique because they made me happy, but they needed shades. I've been waiting for the PERFECT shades to go on sale at Anthropologie --- only they're never going to go below $60 and that's just silly. I've been thinking I could make shades, but putting it off because what if I mess up? Well, really, what if? I've decided this weekend I'm going to Michael's and Home Depot and get crafty with a little Pinterest inspiration.

I also have a table and chairs I want to paint for the boys' playroom, which we're going to create once The Lad is out of the crib. I've been putting it off because one of the chairs needs to be sanded and what if I don't sand it properly, I've never done it before, and ... is that not ridiculous? But this is how my mind works. I need to let it go. I sincerely doubt the boys are going to care if the finish on a chair is a little bumpy, and that's assuming I can't manage to figure out how to work sandpaper.

It's the same thing with parenting. Almost every time I get all riled up about discipline or bedtime or whatever, the problem boils down to my trying to be a perfect parent, which does not exist. Really, I just need to be a good enough parent -- good enough to make happy, healthy, not entirely bratty kids.

More books

I am now on book 61 of 100 for the year. I finally was able to get The Help from the library. Here are my latest batch of books I have made it through. You can see my others 2011 reads here and here.

Lovable

Run by Blake Crouch - I really enjoyed this fast-paced thriller. It isn't a type of book I typical like but this was great.

Zeitoun by Dave Eggers - Loved. A Middle Eastern man trying to help people after Hurricane Katrina is accused of looting his own property and detained for weeks. It's amazing that something like that could happen in our country.

Fall of Giants by Ken Follett - Oh, Ken Follet. How I love thee. While you are not brief of words (this is about 800 pages) you are wonderful. Great story about WWI. And for once, I don't even mind that this is No. 1 in a triology.

Garden Spells, The Sugar Queen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon and The Peach Keeper (four separate books) by Sarah Addison Allen - When I find an author I like, I tend to read all of his/her books available. I love these books for their whimsy and magical realism. My favorites of these are Garden Spells and The Girl Who Chased the Moon.

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan - I wasn't so sure about this book at first. It almost ended up in the meh-able category but by and out halfway through I was hooked. Hooked even if the PowerPoint chapter threw me a bit.

Likable

Then came you by Jennifer Weiner - Good book but not her best.

Gathering Blue by Lois Lowry - This is the second in The Giver trilogy. I liked it but not as much as the first.

It's all relative by Wade Rouse - I have not read his first memoir but I did enjoy this book. Very funny and poignant at times.

Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy - Very interesting memoir of a woman who lost part of her face to childhood cancer. The writing is OK, flat at times but the subject is interesting.

A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness - I was not as in love with this as much as everyone else. It dragged at times and the vampire is borderline abusive under the guise of being protective. Still a decent read although a bit long.

The Host by Stephanie Meyer - Another that falls under the good read but too long category. I did enjoy this book even though Hillary mocked me for it. Intriguing concept of alien body snatchers with a romantic twist.

The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht - Beautifully written but confusing at times.

The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown - Lovely story of three sisters. It did poke me that it was based in a fictional town in Ohio with references to Columbus and a fictional university there.

The First Husband by Laura Dave - Fluffy but good.

Meh-able

Death Match by Lincoln Child - Not my cup of tea.

Seattle girl by Lucy Klein - Fluffy and not good.

Confessions of a prep school mommy handler by Wade Rouse - I was expecting this book to be funnier than it was.

I remember nothing by Nora Ephron - It came off as kind of elitist although it had a few funny moments. Very short with little substance.

Crawling by Elisha Cooper - Meh. Dad's perspective of baby's first year. Not very interesting. Not because he is a dad just because it wasn't interesting.

Torn: True stories of kids, motherhood and the conflict of modern motherhood - I could write a whole blog post about how this book poked me. It was a bunch of Ivy League educated women telling you where they got their education and how they could be doing more if it weren't for their kids. Very little diversity. One women even seemed to blame her divorce on giving birth and staying home.

Exploiting my baby by Teressa Strasser - OK. Not very good. A knock off of Jenny McCarthy's baby book.

The girl who fell from the sky by Heidi W. Furrow - I wanted to like this book but it was kind of flat.