Beastie Naps

The Lad sleeps through the night. But he's trying to boycott naps. He doesn't want to go to bed and then gets up at an ungodly hour of the morning. Keeping him up late doesn't mean he'll sleep in later; he gets up earlier. Skipping a nap doesn't mean an easy bed time;  he gets overtired and overexcited and fights bed time even harder. His temper is a little quicker and he gets loud and wild, but he's still a jovial, comic little Beastie.

My mother says I deserve this, that I was much the same as a child. Mom says I gave up naps by the time I was 2. Some times, we allow The Lad to forgo sleep. We let him play quietly in the playroom until his brother is up for breakfast or build block castles during nap time. He just doesn't need sleep quite as much as the rest of us and we live with that.

But other times, he needs sleep for his own good -- Momma is only going to put up with so many tantrums in a single day -- or because we need sleep. And these are the times that, frustrating as they are, make me grateful for Beastie's energetic sleep-fighting.

At nap time, we separate the boys into different rooms and I lie with The Lad. He uses my arm for a pillow and I've learned he'll snuggle up close as long as he doesn't feel trapped by my arms. When The Boy fights sleep, I tell him stories and he listens intently and drifts off. My Beastly Little Lad is too inquisitive for stories. They just keep his mind working. So I sing songs -- Mary Had A Little Lamb, ABCs, You Are My Sunshine and the Beastie Song I made up for him when I bounced him into sleep as an infant.

"You are my bay-bee, you are my son," I sing, stroking his head. "You are my bay-bee, the youngest one.

A half dozen times over and his breathing slows and I shush into his hair, remembering the way his blond fuzz felt against my lips two years ago. He isn't really a baby any more. He's 2 and a half and thinks he's more or less the same age as his 4-year-old brother. He doesn't acknowledge there are things he is too little to do -- unless it's pooing on the potty, in which case he'll tell you that he's NOT a big boy yet. He runs and whacks balls and tells jokes and jumps off steps. He lets the dog lick his plate and his face and his hands. He's still squishy and roly poly, but now when I squish his face, he squishes mine back.

He is not my baby when he's awake. But when he's asleep, he is. 

"... You are the Beastie Beast," the song ends. "You are the best."

Where I've been

So, really. It's been 12 days since I last posted and let's be honest, I wasn't writing much before that.

No, I'm not pregnant. No big news to announce. No new job. No move. Nothing I've been trying to hide. Life has just been busy. So here's what's been happening around these parts:

Peanut had her first dance recital. There are no words to describe the level of cuteness and awesomeness. Her preschool offers a dance and tumbling class. She had three performances - jazz, ballet and tumbling.

One little girl was too shy to do much.

One little girl ran around stage as expected of most 3-year-olds.

And then there was my little girl. So intent on doing every single move correctly. She waved to us enthusiastically when she first got on stage and then she got down to Business. She focused on her teacher who was doing the moves behind the audience and did not take her eyes off of her. It melted my heart as did this picture the husband took of her:

This is her ballet costume. She insisted on wearing her underwear under her leotard even though they stuck out obviously. Another mother and I were backstage frantically trying to adjust their clothing when I realized it was a lost caused. Once all the girls were lined up on stage, I noted we weren't the only ones suffering from "I see London, I see France, I see my daughter's underpants."

Now I need to find a place where she can take dance lessons. I'm not ready for the competition aspect (although who is really?) but she just seemed to enjoy it so much.

****

Gizmo is turning into quite the handful. She is a lot of sugar and even more spice as she rounds the 17-month-old mark. She is so sweet and loving and yet so damn ornery it is hard to reconcile both in such a tiny body.

She's taken to throwing things if we tell her no. She tries to take things away from her sister regularly and even took a running start before pushing Peanut in the face (punching her would probably be more accurate since she had the double fist) when Peanut wouldn't let her have something.

I realized this weekend just telling her "no" isn't going to be enough anymore. We need to start with time outs or quiet time. This was after Gizmo was doing something she wasn't supposed to (shocking) and Peanut chastised her before I could (also, shocking.) When I told Peanut that I would handle it because I am the parent, Peanut retorted, "You never do anything about her!" Oh yes she did.

Sassiness aside, she's right. We haven't done much except try to redirect Gizmo. She's getting old enough now that it isn't enough. So there's that.

But she does cheese it up for pictures.

 And proof that they can coexist peacefully if only for a minute or two.

****

Other than that, not much has been happening. We are in full out planning for vacation with Hillary and her family. There has been a lot of talk of who is bringing what - toilet paper, beach toys and of course the vodka and bloody mary mix.

The husband and I are trying to figure out how we are going to entertain our two monkeys for 12 hours in the car. Peanut gets carsick pretty easily so there is that complication. Hillary told us the best thing is to have low expectations. My only hope is that we have to clean up throw up only once, maybe twice.

****

Lastly, I will leave you with this cuteness:

Love/Hate: Friday edition

In the spirit of the lovely K: 

Love: I'm a week away from a week-long family vacation on a beach far away from my house. With Michelle and her family.
Hate: I'm a week away from vacation. And in that week, I have to fit in at least a week-and-a-half's worth of work.

Love: Playing ball with my boys.
Hate: Being mocked by the 4-year-old. "WOW, MOMMA! You caught it! Good job." It's giving me flashbacks to the catastrophe that was me in gym class and my sarcastic high school phys. ed. instructor.

Love: All the new clothes I've bought this month have given me fresh perspective on my closet. I like my wardrobe again.
Hate: My favorite (and only) casual, cross-body purse needs to be replaced and I can't find one I like.

Love: Memorial Day pool plans with friends
Hate: Upkeep required by pool plans and beach vacation (ahem)

Love: Memorial Day is an excuse to make potato salad and bake something fabulous.
Hate: There's nothing to hate about this.

What are you loving and hating this holiday weekend?

Anne Shirley: Feminist Role Model

I started rereading the Anne of Green Gables series last week when the husband was traveling because I missed him and hate sleeping alone. When I'm feeling lonely or tired or sick, two things always make me feel better: my old red sweater, which is really more of a blanket with arms at this point, and one of my best-loved books. It might be the Little House books or the Song of the Lioness Series by Tamora Pierce, Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice, A Wrinkle in Time or A Witch on Blackbird Pond. I just want a book that feels like an old friend, something I can read effortlessly and still feel transported. So, last week I decided to check in with Anne Shirley.

I really meant to just read Anne of Green Gables -- I have new books downloaded and waiting on the Kindle -- but I can't ever stop with just one in the series. I get so caught up in the world of Avonlea and the romance with Gilbert Blythe that I go tearing into "just one more" and end up reading the books far too late into the night, just as I did as a 10-year-old.

So, here I am in the middle of Anne of Windy Poplars, in which Anne is a principal at a high school, waiting for Gilbert to finish medical school so they can head off to their House of Dreams. (I'll be on that book tomorrow.) And I find myself having thoughts, deep thoughts.

I haven't read these books in about three years, maybe even longer. I'm not sure I've read them since the boys were born. Reading them with adult eyes -- not "fresh out of college" adult or "planning my wedding, only care about Gilbert and Anne" adult, but "2 kids, a dog, a mortgage and where-is-my-career-going questions" adult -- I've been struck by how much I admire Anne Shirley, the adult. I really think she is a feminist role model.

OK, so I know there are people who would harumph at that last bit. She leaves her career after just three years to get married and keep house for her doctor husband. She has a college degree but ends up staying home with six kids and a housekeeper. She wastes her talent. All of that seems to add up to the anti-feminist. Even I remember being a bit disappointed in housewife Anne when I read the books the first time, so long ago.

But, she is the first girl from her small town to get a college degree. She earns her way through. She dumps a seemingly perfect, boring, traditional man to marry her best friend. She leaves her teaching career, but SHE CHOOSES. She continues to write. She teaches and inspires a number of smart, talented writers; she raises a half dozen smart, talented children and endures the death of two. Her husband hires her a housekeeper when she's ill. Her husband also helps some with the house and children.

Consider that all of that is at the turn of the century. Put that into modern terms and what you have is a woman who decided to freelance so she could work and have a good family life. At the very least, she is a model for work-life balance.

I guess what I'm really finding inspiring in these books this time through is the idea that there are many ways to use your talents. The key is seeking out those ways and approaching life with an open mind and heart. If that's sounds cheesy, well, I did warn you I've been reading L.M. Montgomery for a week.

In other, lighter Anne of Green Gables news, I really think someone needs to write a screenplay for a romantic comedy based on a small story from Windy Poplars about a girl named Nora Nelson. She's about to be an old maid, but winds up with her true love -- and a bloody nose -- thanks to Anne and a light in a window. It's one of my very favorite anecdotes in the books. If you know what I'm talking about, we should trade Anne of Green Gables emails. We'll write the screenplay together.

The adventures of Climby McClimberson and Sassafras

Gizmo has been getting up earlier and earlier lately. But when she started jabbering before 6 a.m., I decided she could hang in her crib a few more minutes since I hadn't planned to get up until 6:40 a.m.

For about 30 minutes she talked to herself off and on. I thought she might eventually go back to sleep. Then, I heard a soft thud and crying. Wondering what the heck she could have done, I went to check only to find her standing outside of her crib.

OUTSIDE OF HER CRIB. SHE'S NOT EVEN 17 MONTHS OLD.

I gasped, "Oh no!" and the husband rolled over in a panic to be greeted by a running Gizmo who hit him repeatedly, her version of the morning wake-up call.

"She climbed out of her crib. She. Climbed. Out. Of. Her. Crib," I told the husband, who just rolled back over, failing to grasp the gravity of the situation.

I am not ready for a free-range baby. The crib is not on the lowest setting although it can be lowered only another two inches - maybe. I'm not sure those two inches will be enough to stop her. Our experience with Peanut was that once she found the way out, she was not going to let anything stop her. She was 20 months and within a week, she was in a twin bed.

(Here is the first experience with her transition. Here is her first night in the bed, which didn't go well. Oh, and the second and third night, which didn't go much better. Here are my lessons learned.)

(Also, I think I am having flashbacks because I was in my first trimester with Gizmo when we started the transition ordeal with Peanut. So on top of my already exhausted pukiness, I was getting up as many as six times a night or sleeping with an acrobatic toddler.)

When I lamented my plight on Twitter this morning, Elsha suggested a crib tent. It's a possibility but I'm pretty sure my little Houdini would find a way to dismantle it in short order. I'm hoping lowering the mattress will buy us a few more months but I will also do some research on crib tents.

(Edited to add: Crib tents have been recalled. As of yesterday. Of course they have. If you have a crib tent, this says you should stop using it. Immediately.)

After I got over my shock this morning, I had to deal with a very grumpy and angry Peanut. A wild badger mixed with a rabid wolverine is probably calmer than she was this morning. Everything made her angry and everything made her cry. The babysitter told us Peanut wasn't her usually self yesterday - that she was cranky and had lost her listening ears somewhere.

While on the way to preschool, I calmly told Peanut that I needed her to be a better listener. That the adults in her life were trying to keep her safe and that she needed to listen and stop throwing fits. She whimpered in the back seat. I told her that I wasn't upset and she wasn't in trouble. That there was no reason to cry.

"I know, momma. I was just kidding," she said as she smiled and started laughing.

She fake cried on me. Faked it.

My mother laughed a lot when I told her all of this. I think she feels that all this behavior is justified given my antics as a child.

So, I'm just going to start wishing that my daughters have daughters that are just like them - sweet, lovely, smart with a side of drive their momma crazy.

Cold coffee

I am more than a little spoiled.

My husband gets up at some ungodly hour most mornings to run. I hear the alarm go off, usually, and roll right back over, taking his side of the bed as he leaves. He runs with friends and does things like nearly stepping on a possum because it's so damn dark and comes home sweaty and pleased with whatever new goal he's met or idea he's gotten or conversation he's had. Meanwhile, The Beastie usually wakes me up and I begrudgingly get out of bed to let the dog out and start fixing breakfast. I turn the coffee pot on -- the husband, who doesn't drink coffee, always has it ready to go -- and typically get as far as pouring orange juice and getting vitamins before the husband comes in and takes over. Many mornings, he's already gotten home and quietly has taken the dog out back to play while he stretches and lets us all get a few more minutes of sleep. The few mornings when he's not right in, I get downright cranky. He butters pancakes and pours cereal and corrects the dog and I retreat to my chair with my coffee, sometimes snuggling a boy or two on my lap until he's gotten their breakfast on the table.

He eats with the boys. I sit in my chair with coffee, breakfast and my phone or a book. He watches baseball highlights with them and fetches more water, more cereal, more yogurt raisins, more, more, more.

He usually herds them into the bedroom to get dressed while I go to shower. When it's his turn in the bathroom, he crates the dog so I can put on my makeup in peace.

I leave early for work, so he's left to oversee the boys picking up the toys they've scattered and to wrangle them out the door.

Of course, I get the evening shift. I pick up the boys from school and fix dinner and play with the dog after she's been cooped up in a crate all day. I empty lunch boxes and get the mail and the trash bins and clean up the kitchen while he bathes the boys or vice versa. I read bedtime books and play the heavy when the the boys don't want to go to bed. I do my fair share of parenting.

But he's traveling this week. And, while the boys and I are getting along just fine by ourselves, I'm quite sick of drinking cold coffee every morning.

Too connected?

I hate and love my iPhone.

I love it because it is so easy to do things - I can tweet like a pro for both work and personal purposes (keeping everyone up-to-date on the process of my hair cut. You really needed to know, didn't you?). I can take and create amazing pictures on Instagram. I can keep in contact with friends on Facebook. I can check my yahoo and gmail accounts whenever I want and now I have access to my work email. I can even blog but rarely do because I can't type a whole post like that. I read books on it and check news. I listen to music and play Words with Friends.

And do you know what that means? I am also connected. When my alarm goes off at 6:40 a.m. (if Gizmo hasn't already summoned us yelling "Daaaaaaad! Moooooooom! Out!") I roll over, turn it off (on the phone) and start looking at Twitter. What's happened in the past 7 hours since I put my phone down? (One morning, I realized I could barely read my feed because my eyes still hadn't adjusted to being open.) Then I start tweeting for work purposes, sharing stories and breaking news. I spend my morning checking, checking, checking. I check it at red lights. I check it in meetings. I check it through the evening.

My husband says I need an intervention. I used to disagree, but really now, I want one.

I'm a news junkie and I'm nosy. I feel like to be part of Twitter in my personal life, I need to be there regularly to get in on the conversation but sometimes it is just so hard to keep up with it all. The last thing I need is something else to feel guilty about doing or not doing.

I don't want my kids to remember that I was always looking at my phone. But, it also how I stay connected. I can text Hillary or send her a Facebook message. It is how we see each other's kids since we live so far away. It's how I communicate with my sister since we don't always have time to talk on the phone at the same time. It's how I've met some awesome mothers across the country, with whom I have been able to share ups and downs. Plus blogging has been one way to keep record of the girls as they grow up.

But even I am feeling a overwhelmed trying to keep up with it all. I haven't been blogging as much. I don't check Facebook as much. Although I've traded both for new things - tweeting more for work and Instagram though neither take up as much time.

Hillary wrote about this earlier this year so I know I'm not the only one. How about you? Do you wonder if you are too connected?

An interview with Peanut

So I've been a little absent lately. We found out last week our babysitter is moving this summer. She's cared for both the girls since they were eight/nine weeks old and I went back to work. They love her. We love her. I'm in denial that this is happening (but we are really happy for you, B, if you are reading this.)

So I've been dealing with that, busy with a big project at work and really, it's been so nice in the evenings that we've spent a lot of time playing outside leaving me little time to blog.

But, after Peanut asked me why she has to go to the bathroom every night and if you have to be born to be a baby, I thought it might be fun to ask her a few questions. Preschoolers' minds are all kinds of awesome. So here goes:

What do you love about mommy?
Um, I love mommy to the moon and back and I love you.

What's fun about mommy?
Playing with you. Tickling and doing this ... (she makes a funny face, pulling her mouth in different directions with her fingers.)

What do you love about daddy?
I love him to the moon and back.

What's fun about daddy?
Tickling me and playing with me and I don't know what else? (her interest in these is already starting to wane.)

What's fun about sissy?
I love playing with her. When she shares with me. Going downstairs with me. Watching her dance. Shake her booty. That's all I like.

What do mommy and daddy do at work?
They eat their snacks...Remember that time we went to daddy's work and his work people gave me a book? Where is it? I'll have to find it later. (This happened about 18 months ago. I have no idea how she remembered it.)

What's your favorite song?
ABC, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I like to sing "I love you on the moon tonight when you come to my city but if we don't know each other then we aren't friends where are we going?" (I don't even know but it gets better. Just wait.)

What's favorite thing to play?
Strawberry Shortcake, at school, with sister, with momma, daddy, mammy and pa and my cousins, and Lucy, it's fun playing with all the people. I just want to sing the rest of my song. "If you don't love me, I will love you. Our heart makes us feel sad and makes the people sad..."(see, even better. I don't even know where she gets the drama llama but I'm pretty sure she's going to be the next Taylor Swift.)

What do you want to be when you grow up?
(Yawning)
I want to be a police officer and go to work and be a mom and dad and I don't know what else?

I love this kid.

Books and love

The moment I knew for certain my mother loved me and understood me better than anyone, we were in a library.

As I've mentioned 1,000 times, I am a bookworm. I always have been a reader. I don't remember learning how to read. Family lore ties my love for books right to the womb; Mom swears she read constantly while pregnant with me. Reading was something that would soothe -- or at least drown out -- my colicky screams, so Mom would read endlessly to me from anything up to and including the phone book. Later, books really felt like worlds to me. I acted out scenes from the Little House books in our backyard, dreamed of marrying Gilbert Blythe and made up fantasy worlds to set my own stories in. My family teased me and called me weird. I was a bit.

My parents' house is 12 miles from town. That's 20 minutes from the library. Mom and Dad both worked, so weekends, when we had a million other errands to run, was the only time for library visits. We didn't get there every weekend. When we did visit, I literally would stock up on as many books as I could carry. While Mom searched for books, my sister and I would stop by the Victorian dollhouse, a fussy little thing behind glass that fascinated me. (Still does. On my last visit home, I found they had re-wallpapered half the rooms.) I'd watch the checkout and try to make sure I wouldn't have to hand my card and books over to the Mean Librarian. Sometimes, I'd time it wrong.

This woman wore her hair in a severe, '70s-style bouffant, everything slicked back from her face and then pouffed out dramatically over a polyester scarf. She tended to wear pastels, which brought out the large, pale pink wart on her face. It's been a long time, but this is how I remember it. Her eyes were piggy little squints behind big frames. She sat on a stool like a frog and looked down her nose at patrons. She smelled of powder and too much perfume. I never saw her smile.

On the visit in question, I was in grade school -- maybe 10, 11 or, at the most, 12. I had just started venturing occasionally into the adult stacks for novels. I timed my checkout wrong and had to bring my stack of books to the Mean Librarian. I must have had more than a dozen books. She frowned at me between the stacks I pushed onto her high counter and snapped my little gray card off one of the piles. And then she refused to check me out.

Too many books, she insisted. Too old, she said, pointing out a book from the adult stacks. Where's your mother?

I waved over Mom. I don't remember if I was crying. If I wasn't, I certainly wanted to. I never liked being scolded. I wanted every single one of those books. I needed those books to get me through to the next library visit. As it was, I probably still would have to reread one or two of them.

Mom listened to the Mean Librarian's concerns. And then she basically told her to go to hell. I can't recreate her speech word-for-word. Let's just say, I'm a champion ranter and I learned from the best. Mom told that woman I was a fast reader and would read every single book in the pile. HER DAUGHTER COULD GET AS MANY BOOKS AS SHE WANTED. She told that woman I was smart and could read any book in the library. SHE TRUSTED HER DAUGHTER TO READ ANYTHING AND TO TALK WITH HER ABOUT IT. Furthermore, HER DAUGHTER'S READING HABITS WERE NONE OF THAT WOMAN'S BUSINESS.

The Mean Librarian's frown deepened. But she checked out every single one of my books. I left with a stack so high I could barely see over it. I sat in the backseat one the way home listening to Mom fume about the Mean Librarian and flipping through my books, just basking in love.

That's the kind of mother I want to be.

Things I want to remember and a question

At supper tonight, somehow the conversation prompted The Lad to yell out, "I WANT BACON!" Then the boys began singing, "Bacon and wine are good for you!"

---

I baked derby pie for dessert. It was the first time the boys had had it.

"What do you think of the pie, kiddo?"

"I think I'm having another slice!" The Boy said.

---

We watched Star Wars: Return of the Jedi at The Boy's request. The Lad had never seen it. Halfway through, he was sitting on me whispering, "Chewbacca, Chewbacca, Chewbacca." At the end, when Darth Vader saves Luke and then asks Luke to take off his helmet, The Lad turned around with his eyes wide and his mouth wider.

"His head came off!"

Now, he's in bed sing-songing, "Star Wars, Star Wars," and, from the rocket ship sounds I'm hearing and the random "bad guys," retelling the plot to his brother.

---

Last night, we went to a minor league baseball game and afterward, there were fireworks. They scared the bejesus out of Beastie. He cried through nearly the whole show, burying his little face into my neck and screaming that he just wanted to go home. (It probably didn't help that it was more than an hour past bedtime.) But he lifted his head up for the last couple explosions and on the way out to the car he couldn't stop talking about the fireworks.

"They make lots noiseys and they make me sad. I saw purple ones. And lellow ones. The fireworks were loud. I cried. I like the purple ones."

Two is a fickle, fabulous age.

---

Anyone have bunkbeds for their kiddos? We're looking for a set and can't find any that we're really crazy about. Any recommendations would be appreciated.

The girls

Peanut put her hands on her hips, pursed her lips and stared me down as I assumed the same pose. We were about 20 feet away from each other, having a stare down in the backyard. The husband came around the corner of the house and said tentatively, "Why do you guys look exactly the same?"

The next morning, the husband was in charge of getting the girls dressed. I gave him a quick briefing of options available and went downstairs. Upon a return trip to our room, I found Peanut pointing her finger telling him exactly what she would be wearing and exactly what Gizmo would be wearing, pulling each dress out a laying them on the bed just like I do.

I've started calling her Junior.
*****
Gizmo wants whatever her sister has. I could give them both the same exact thing and Gizmo would snatch whatever Peanut. While playing with bubbles the other day, we gave Peanut a bowl of bubble solution while the husband and I let Gizmo play with the bottle. Upon seeing what her sister had, Gizmo walked over and dumped Peanut's bowl.

Much to Peanut's credit, she took it pretty well. She won't always.

*****
I want to put both of them, just as they are now, in little boxes on a shelf. They are both sassy and funny but it such different ways.

Peanut is so verbally expressive with her emotions. She told the husband the other night that she would never forgive him for working late. She regularly tells us things are not fair while stomping her little feet.

She also makes sure to tell us that she missed us while we were away and that she wants to keep us all. Her answer to "what's your favorite part of the day?" is always Gizmo. She counts out 10 kisses and 10 hugs when we put her to bed each night.

Gizmo doesn't have many words but her actions tell you all you need to know about what she wants and what she's thinking. She pats the blanket to tell us she wants to play peekaboo. She puts her arms up and smiles when she wants hugged. When she is looking for attention, she throws her arms over her head and we all yell, "Gizmo is SOOO big!" and then she claps for herself. She loves to dance, dropping her booty, turning in circles and stomping her feet, smiling the whole time.

Where Peanut still needs hugs and kisses when we drop her off, Gizmo runs into the babysitter's house and doesn't even acknowledge when we leave.

We thought Peanut was independent until Gizmo came along. I'm pretty sure Gizmo will want to move out at 16.

I know every stage has it's good parts but so far, this is the best of both of them.