One thing that we all know as parents: sooner or later, our child is going to tell on us. They're going to get to that "repeat everything they hear at the worst possible time" age when we're not paying attention, and before we know it, they're saying the "s-word" in front of our mother-in-law whose swearing vocabulary includes things like "oh, foot," and then protesting, "But Mommy says it all the time!" when they're told it's not a nice thing to say.
(I did that to my mom when I was little. And I can still see my grandmother standing at her kitching sink, saying, "Oh, foot!")
(I guess, technically, I just did it again. Sorry, Mom.)
But do you expect, as grandparents, for your grandchild to tell on you? I'm not sure, because I'm not a grandparent (and hopefully won't be for a loooooooooong time), but I didn't.
However, the other morning, after Craig gave the kids breakfast, the Imp started throwing one of his tantrums when his pumpkin muffin ran out. Now, if he'd just asked for another one, I think he'd have gotten it, but instead, he started screaming as soon as the last bite was gone. Daddy, of course, then refused him another muffin, which escalated the tantrum. Then things got really bad. The Birdie started making fun of his screaming, which made him a fount of tiny toddler fury.
Daddy: "Don't make fun of him. That isn't nice."
Birdie: "Grandma does."
Hee hee. Glad to know it's not just us parents who are at risk.
Showing posts with label Toddler Terrorism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Toddler Terrorism. Show all posts
Monday, October 18, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Learning By Example
Do as I say, not as I do - sometimes I feel like that is my motto. I don't always set the best example for my kids, as much as I want to.
Particularly when it comes to keeping my house clean.
But you probably already knew that, right?
Right.
In our house, things that aren't used very often tend to stay where they land until we go on a cleaning spree...or until we decide it's some sort of safety hazard and move it. Case in point: when my husband got a replacement mirror for my car, the box in which it came sat on the third step coming up into our living room for a long time. Like, weeks. At least.
Another example: a marker fell down the steps. It sat there for a while. I'm not sure how long, because after a while, you just don't tend to notice the clutter, at least not until it starts jumping out from behind corners and yelling BOO!
The other day, Craig was bringing the Imp into the house. I was standing at the top of the steps watching them come in. The Imp spotted the little marker and picked it up. "Oh - what a good boy!" I called down to him. "Thank you for bringing that up!"
The Imp, of course, completely ignored me. He looked at the marker, then looked around. Then he spotted the box. He looked back and forth - marker, box. And then - plop. Marker in the box. He beamed at me, then climbed on up the steps.
Maybe he's seen us shoving things into the closet one too many times.
Particularly when it comes to keeping my house clean.
But you probably already knew that, right?
Right.
In our house, things that aren't used very often tend to stay where they land until we go on a cleaning spree...or until we decide it's some sort of safety hazard and move it. Case in point: when my husband got a replacement mirror for my car, the box in which it came sat on the third step coming up into our living room for a long time. Like, weeks. At least.
Another example: a marker fell down the steps. It sat there for a while. I'm not sure how long, because after a while, you just don't tend to notice the clutter, at least not until it starts jumping out from behind corners and yelling BOO!
The other day, Craig was bringing the Imp into the house. I was standing at the top of the steps watching them come in. The Imp spotted the little marker and picked it up. "Oh - what a good boy!" I called down to him. "Thank you for bringing that up!"
The Imp, of course, completely ignored me. He looked at the marker, then looked around. Then he spotted the box. He looked back and forth - marker, box. And then - plop. Marker in the box. He beamed at me, then climbed on up the steps.
Maybe he's seen us shoving things into the closet one too many times.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Domino Effect
I got a pleasant "surprise" yesterday evening. Usually, I forget until the last moment that Craig is going to be gone somewhere the next day and I'm going to have the kids to myself for the evening. Last night, though, I had the opposite happen - he reminded me that he was going to a family reunion for his dad's side of the family, and that he was planning on taking the kids. And that he assumed I wouldn't be going, because of the heat and the whole 37-weeks-pregnant thing.
He was right.
So I got an unexpected afternoon to myself! An afternoon that I planned to spend doing the best thing possible...absolutely nothing! Perfect!
This morning, my friend Nedda, who is going to be my doula and birth photographer, stopped by to discuss my birth plan. She mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start sitting on an exercise ball from time to time. I thought that sounded smart, so I filed it away in the back of my head to do "later." Whenever "later" happened to come around.
Craig and the kids left around 11:00, and Nedda left a little after that. I had the house to myself. Time to relax.
It started out well. I fixed myself a big plate of leftover Indian food and got my DVD of Evita, something I hadn't watched in years. I settled in on the couch and immersed myself in the cacophonous intro of my favorite musical-made-into-a-movie.*
* Not my favorite musical, but the best movie adaptation of a musical that I've seen,** at least that I can recall right now.
** Admittedly, I've never seen it on stage before, although I have listened to the soundtrack*** all the way through many, many times.
*** While Antonio Banderas does an excellent job and has a much better accent,**** I prefer Mandy Patinkin singing the role of Che. Feel free to think I'm weird, but it is what it is.
**** Despite Mandy's perfectly good accent in his portrayal of my favorite character from my favorite movie of all time. "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."
Now, where was I?
I had eaten my lunch and watched about half of the movie when the thought that I should be sitting on the birthing ball started worming its way into my mind, making me feel guilty for being kicked back and sunk into the pillows on my couch. I decided if I could find it, it might actually feel good to sit up on the ball for a while instead of laid back on the couch, which tends to put some stress on my lower back unless I stuff a pillow behind it.
And that was the first Domino. You know, the one that when you just barely touch it, it falls and starts all of the others cascading down the row, until either you reach the end of the line or one of them falls the wrong way.
I paused the movie, which, coincidentally, was right at the point where it would have been going to intermission if I'd been watching it on stage, and started digging in our closet to find the ball. I found it fairly easily, found the air pump, and blew it up. The ball was...dirty. Covered in...crud...where I guess it had just sat around for months and months without being used before my husband finally deflated it and put it in the closet.
I cleaned it off, but quickly realized that all the cat hair and bits of, well, crud on the living room floor would just make it a mess again. So, out came the vacuum.
That was my first mistake.
I vacuumed the rug, and then - since I had it out, and plugged in, I went ahead and vacuumed the hardwood floor and the couch and loveseat.
But, again, since I was already running it, why not go ahead and vacuum the kitchen, too, since the kitchen is basically an extension of the living room?
And while I was at it, I figured I should clean the chairs under the toddlers' booster seats, because something about hers had made the Birdie say, "Ewwwwww" this morning and almost refuse to get in her seat for breakfast, and oh my gosh how did they get that gross? Wow.
And, you know, since I have the vacuum out, I probably ought to vacuum the kids' rooms, too. Right? Those, and Craig's icky man bathroom, because, well, they needed it, and that way I'd covered the whole top floor.
The kids' rooms were my second mistake.
Because you can't vacuum a room that has toys all over the floor. And, hello, toddlers' rooms? They always have toys all over the floor.
So I had to pick up all of the toys in the Birdie's room, which was surprisingly few, really, and I vacuumed that. At some point, a crayon got sucked in, but I wasn't going to dig through the nasty vacuum bag for a crayon. I do have my limits.
And then to the Imp's room...which was a bit of a different story. There were toys all over the place, thanks to the toy bin being in his room. I randomly threw a multitude of small toys into the bins, then found that toys were the least of my problems in there.
I stuffed an empty diaper box under the bed, because that's what you do with empty boxes, right? then emptied a full box into the diaper/pajamas drawer in the Imp's changing table/clothes chest, and stuffed that empty box under the bed, too. Of course, I had to organize his pajamas to make room for the diapers, which involved a fair bit of rearranging, sorting, and putting away things that just didn't belong in that drawer.
I returned to the toys in his room, and found the Cracker Barrel golf tee game (you know those, right?) that we got the Birdie a few months back. It "lives" on top of the pantry cabinet in our kitchen, so I took it in there - only to find that the top of the cabinet was so cluttered that there was no where to put the toy.
Third mistake, right?
I took everything off of it, put away the things that were easy to figure out (like some crayons and a few coloring books), and reorganized everything else so there was at least a lot of free space on top of it. Enough for the golf tee game, anyway.
I finished putting away the toys and vacuumed the Imp's room. Finally...I was able to put away the vacuum.
Then I noticed (haha, as if I'd ever not noticed it) the collection of things that was accumulating behind our couch: a tricycle, a box of old pots and pans that we are planning, someday, to donate, a pink tee for the Birdie's t-ball set, and the bag we'd used to take the four extra toddler outfits (plus pajamas) to my parents' house yesterday (because if you take them, you won't need them, but if you don't take them, the potty-trained Birdie will pee her pants twice and the Imp will have at least one poopy diaper explosion, guaranteed).
I emptied the clothes out of the bag and put all the outfits away, then threw the bag into the Birdie's closet (it's getting scary in there - I think the next person to open one of those doors is going to get an avalanche).
Then...I left everything else behind the couch. Because, as I said before, I have my limits. And finally, finally...I was finished.
And that is how a ten-minute task can turn into an hour-and-a-half's worth of work. In case you were wondering.
Fortunately, I had just enough time to finish the rest of my movie, bouncing happily away on my exercise ball, before Craig and the kids got home.
So I guess it was a good afternoon, since I got to relax and I got a pretty good amount of work accomplished.
Even if I had no intention of getting anything done when the day started.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A note. After proofreading, I realize someone is going to immediately think "Nesting" when they read this. Believe it or not, it's not nesting. It's just how I am. It's the reason I never clean - because once I start, I can't stand to stop until it's all done. I'm trying to work on that, because, as you can imagine, the result is that I never get anything done since there is never ever enough time to do everything at once.
He was right.
So I got an unexpected afternoon to myself! An afternoon that I planned to spend doing the best thing possible...absolutely nothing! Perfect!
This morning, my friend Nedda, who is going to be my doula and birth photographer, stopped by to discuss my birth plan. She mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start sitting on an exercise ball from time to time. I thought that sounded smart, so I filed it away in the back of my head to do "later." Whenever "later" happened to come around.
Craig and the kids left around 11:00, and Nedda left a little after that. I had the house to myself. Time to relax.
It started out well. I fixed myself a big plate of leftover Indian food and got my DVD of Evita, something I hadn't watched in years. I settled in on the couch and immersed myself in the cacophonous intro of my favorite musical-made-into-a-movie.*
* Not my favorite musical, but the best movie adaptation of a musical that I've seen,** at least that I can recall right now.
** Admittedly, I've never seen it on stage before, although I have listened to the soundtrack*** all the way through many, many times.
*** While Antonio Banderas does an excellent job and has a much better accent,**** I prefer Mandy Patinkin singing the role of Che. Feel free to think I'm weird, but it is what it is.
**** Despite Mandy's perfectly good accent in his portrayal of my favorite character from my favorite movie of all time. "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."
Now, where was I?
I had eaten my lunch and watched about half of the movie when the thought that I should be sitting on the birthing ball started worming its way into my mind, making me feel guilty for being kicked back and sunk into the pillows on my couch. I decided if I could find it, it might actually feel good to sit up on the ball for a while instead of laid back on the couch, which tends to put some stress on my lower back unless I stuff a pillow behind it.
And that was the first Domino. You know, the one that when you just barely touch it, it falls and starts all of the others cascading down the row, until either you reach the end of the line or one of them falls the wrong way.
I paused the movie, which, coincidentally, was right at the point where it would have been going to intermission if I'd been watching it on stage, and started digging in our closet to find the ball. I found it fairly easily, found the air pump, and blew it up. The ball was...dirty. Covered in...crud...where I guess it had just sat around for months and months without being used before my husband finally deflated it and put it in the closet.
I cleaned it off, but quickly realized that all the cat hair and bits of, well, crud on the living room floor would just make it a mess again. So, out came the vacuum.
That was my first mistake.
I vacuumed the rug, and then - since I had it out, and plugged in, I went ahead and vacuumed the hardwood floor and the couch and loveseat.
But, again, since I was already running it, why not go ahead and vacuum the kitchen, too, since the kitchen is basically an extension of the living room?
And while I was at it, I figured I should clean the chairs under the toddlers' booster seats, because something about hers had made the Birdie say, "Ewwwwww" this morning and almost refuse to get in her seat for breakfast, and oh my gosh how did they get that gross? Wow.
And, you know, since I have the vacuum out, I probably ought to vacuum the kids' rooms, too. Right? Those, and Craig's icky man bathroom, because, well, they needed it, and that way I'd covered the whole top floor.
The kids' rooms were my second mistake.
Because you can't vacuum a room that has toys all over the floor. And, hello, toddlers' rooms? They always have toys all over the floor.
So I had to pick up all of the toys in the Birdie's room, which was surprisingly few, really, and I vacuumed that. At some point, a crayon got sucked in, but I wasn't going to dig through the nasty vacuum bag for a crayon. I do have my limits.
And then to the Imp's room...which was a bit of a different story. There were toys all over the place, thanks to the toy bin being in his room. I randomly threw a multitude of small toys into the bins, then found that toys were the least of my problems in there.
I stuffed an empty diaper box under the bed, because that's what you do with empty boxes, right? then emptied a full box into the diaper/pajamas drawer in the Imp's changing table/clothes chest, and stuffed that empty box under the bed, too. Of course, I had to organize his pajamas to make room for the diapers, which involved a fair bit of rearranging, sorting, and putting away things that just didn't belong in that drawer.
I returned to the toys in his room, and found the Cracker Barrel golf tee game (you know those, right?) that we got the Birdie a few months back. It "lives" on top of the pantry cabinet in our kitchen, so I took it in there - only to find that the top of the cabinet was so cluttered that there was no where to put the toy.
Third mistake, right?
I took everything off of it, put away the things that were easy to figure out (like some crayons and a few coloring books), and reorganized everything else so there was at least a lot of free space on top of it. Enough for the golf tee game, anyway.
I finished putting away the toys and vacuumed the Imp's room. Finally...I was able to put away the vacuum.
Then I noticed (haha, as if I'd ever not noticed it) the collection of things that was accumulating behind our couch: a tricycle, a box of old pots and pans that we are planning, someday, to donate, a pink tee for the Birdie's t-ball set, and the bag we'd used to take the four extra toddler outfits (plus pajamas) to my parents' house yesterday (because if you take them, you won't need them, but if you don't take them, the potty-trained Birdie will pee her pants twice and the Imp will have at least one poopy diaper explosion, guaranteed).
I emptied the clothes out of the bag and put all the outfits away, then threw the bag into the Birdie's closet (it's getting scary in there - I think the next person to open one of those doors is going to get an avalanche).
Then...I left everything else behind the couch. Because, as I said before, I have my limits. And finally, finally...I was finished.
And that is how a ten-minute task can turn into an hour-and-a-half's worth of work. In case you were wondering.
Fortunately, I had just enough time to finish the rest of my movie, bouncing happily away on my exercise ball, before Craig and the kids got home.
So I guess it was a good afternoon, since I got to relax and I got a pretty good amount of work accomplished.
Even if I had no intention of getting anything done when the day started.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A note. After proofreading, I realize someone is going to immediately think "Nesting" when they read this. Believe it or not, it's not nesting. It's just how I am. It's the reason I never clean - because once I start, I can't stand to stop until it's all done. I'm trying to work on that, because, as you can imagine, the result is that I never get anything done since there is never ever enough time to do everything at once.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The One-Inning Scream
The Imp has started screaming at bedtime again, or shortly thereafter.
The good news is that he's not holding out for thirty minutes of rocking with Mommy.
The bad news is that he is, instead, holding out for an inning of baseball (watched) with Daddy.
On the bright side, at least an inning doesn't last a whole thirty minutes.
Does it?
The good news is that he's not holding out for thirty minutes of rocking with Mommy.
The bad news is that he is, instead, holding out for an inning of baseball (watched) with Daddy.
On the bright side, at least an inning doesn't last a whole thirty minutes.
Does it?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Pool Fool
I had planned on posting tonight about my daughter's t-ball experience. Her last game was this evening, and I took a few pictures and had a few ideas started up. But it was hot, it stormed in the middle of it, and basically, it was a fairly miserable experience for me (fortunately, not for anyone else, but I'm going to be self-absorbed and call it NO FUN AT ALL, at least right now). I'm sure I'll feel better about it tomorrow and I can write about it then, but tonight I'm still feeling a little bitter at the elements, so I'm going to save my sanity and pretend it didn't happen.
So, instead, I'll post about my husband. At his request.
Remember, as you read this, he suggested I write about it.
And I'm all too happy to comply.
Yesterday evening after I got home from work and collapsed on the couch, he made a little suggestion: that we inflate the blow-up-pool my parents got the kids last summer, put water in it, and let them splash around a little bit. Since it's been in the 90's for the past several days, this sounded like a pretty good idea.
Note to self: at 35+ weeks of pregnancy, in 90+ degree weather with 70-ish percent humidity, nothing involving toddlers and playing and outside is a good idea. They are 100% guaranteed to drive me crazy for something, even if they're technically not doing anything wrong. But I digress.
I agreed that we should take them out, so he got the electric air pump and went out to blow up the pool while I rounded up the kids and got them ready. After I stuffed the Birdie into a swimsuit two sizes too small for her (but it's Princess! Ooh, Princess! Must wear the PRINCESS swimsuit! Even if it hasn't fit for OVER A YEAR!) and suited the Imp up in a swim diaper from a package that was handed down from my cousin's daughter who turned FIVE a few months ago (thanks, Tabitha!), we headed back into the living room.
A glance out on the deck told me some not-so-good news, the very news, in fact, that I had been dreading: although Craig had been trying to inflate the pool for a good five or ten minutes, it appeared that no progress had been made. And I don't mean "very little" progress. I mean NO progress. The pool mostly resembled a blue tarp that had been left outside for months, gathering rainwater and leaves and creating a habitat for mosquitos.
And the only thing I could think was Oh no oh no oh nononononono. Because I had two toddlers in swimsuits, convinced they were going to get to swim. Please please PLEASE Lord, do not let there be a hole in the pool. Please please please!
I told the kids "Don't get into anything, Mommy is going outside with Daddy for a minute but I'll be right back," which is, of course, a carte blanche for them to start tearing up everything in sight, but I didn't care - if that pool wouldn't inflate, I'd have much worse trouble on my hands than toys and mess all over the place.
I'd have a disappointed three-year-old. And there is no greater force on this earth than a 3-year-old who has been told she gets to do something fun and exciting, only to be told a few minutes later that she isn't going to get to, after all.
"So, it's not inflating," I remarked to my husband, much more casually than I felt.
He tugged at it in a few places and looked puzzled. "It doesn't look like it, but I can't figure out why."
I thought, "I KNOW WHY! IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A HOLE IN IT! A HOLE A HOLE A HOLE AND NOW THE BIRDIE IS GOING TO THROW A FIT AND THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!"
But I didn't say that. Because the weird thing was, it didn't look like any air was going into the pool at all. Usually when you try to inflate something with a hole, it will at least work a little bit before starting to seep back out. But this wasn't even pretending to inflate.
So I grabbed the side of the pool, and started looking for the little air hole - you know, the kind you actually blow into - because Craig was trying to inflate it through a big one, made for the electric pump, and I thought, I don't know, maybe something was wrong with it, even though I couldn't imagine what. And as I was turning the side of the pool over, looking for the other plug, I commented, "It's really weird. It's like you're putting air in and it coming right back out..."
...the other side.
Blink.
Because, you see, it was coming back out the other side.
Blink. Blink.
Oh yes. The nozzle of the pump was actually sticking out the bottom of the pool. And somehow...my (sometimes) annoyingly intelligent husband never noticed he was trying to inflate it through the drain.
Snicker.
Snicker snicker.
Umm...I think we found our problem.
I was just relieved there wasn't a hole in the pool.
At least, not any unauthorized holes.
Bitty tantrum avoided. At least for a little while.
So, instead, I'll post about my husband. At his request.
Remember, as you read this, he suggested I write about it.
And I'm all too happy to comply.
Yesterday evening after I got home from work and collapsed on the couch, he made a little suggestion: that we inflate the blow-up-pool my parents got the kids last summer, put water in it, and let them splash around a little bit. Since it's been in the 90's for the past several days, this sounded like a pretty good idea.
Note to self: at 35+ weeks of pregnancy, in 90+ degree weather with 70-ish percent humidity, nothing involving toddlers and playing and outside is a good idea. They are 100% guaranteed to drive me crazy for something, even if they're technically not doing anything wrong. But I digress.
I agreed that we should take them out, so he got the electric air pump and went out to blow up the pool while I rounded up the kids and got them ready. After I stuffed the Birdie into a swimsuit two sizes too small for her (but it's Princess! Ooh, Princess! Must wear the PRINCESS swimsuit! Even if it hasn't fit for OVER A YEAR!) and suited the Imp up in a swim diaper from a package that was handed down from my cousin's daughter who turned FIVE a few months ago (thanks, Tabitha!), we headed back into the living room.
A glance out on the deck told me some not-so-good news, the very news, in fact, that I had been dreading: although Craig had been trying to inflate the pool for a good five or ten minutes, it appeared that no progress had been made. And I don't mean "very little" progress. I mean NO progress. The pool mostly resembled a blue tarp that had been left outside for months, gathering rainwater and leaves and creating a habitat for mosquitos.
And the only thing I could think was Oh no oh no oh nononononono. Because I had two toddlers in swimsuits, convinced they were going to get to swim. Please please PLEASE Lord, do not let there be a hole in the pool. Please please please!
I told the kids "Don't get into anything, Mommy is going outside with Daddy for a minute but I'll be right back," which is, of course, a carte blanche for them to start tearing up everything in sight, but I didn't care - if that pool wouldn't inflate, I'd have much worse trouble on my hands than toys and mess all over the place.
I'd have a disappointed three-year-old. And there is no greater force on this earth than a 3-year-old who has been told she gets to do something fun and exciting, only to be told a few minutes later that she isn't going to get to, after all.
"So, it's not inflating," I remarked to my husband, much more casually than I felt.
He tugged at it in a few places and looked puzzled. "It doesn't look like it, but I can't figure out why."
I thought, "I KNOW WHY! IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A HOLE IN IT! A HOLE A HOLE A HOLE AND NOW THE BIRDIE IS GOING TO THROW A FIT AND THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!"
But I didn't say that. Because the weird thing was, it didn't look like any air was going into the pool at all. Usually when you try to inflate something with a hole, it will at least work a little bit before starting to seep back out. But this wasn't even pretending to inflate.
So I grabbed the side of the pool, and started looking for the little air hole - you know, the kind you actually blow into - because Craig was trying to inflate it through a big one, made for the electric pump, and I thought, I don't know, maybe something was wrong with it, even though I couldn't imagine what. And as I was turning the side of the pool over, looking for the other plug, I commented, "It's really weird. It's like you're putting air in and it coming right back out..."
...the other side.
Blink.
Because, you see, it was coming back out the other side.
Blink. Blink.
Oh yes. The nozzle of the pump was actually sticking out the bottom of the pool. And somehow...my (sometimes) annoyingly intelligent husband never noticed he was trying to inflate it through the drain.
Snicker.
Snicker snicker.
Umm...I think we found our problem.
I was just relieved there wasn't a hole in the pool.
At least, not any unauthorized holes.
Bitty tantrum avoided. At least for a little while.
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Lesson in Privacy With Toddlers Around
Since last night's post was fairly serious, tonight I'll give you something that requires a little less thought.
(Well, on your part, at least. Obviously, what I wrote last night didn't use a whole lot of my own effort beyond spewing out what I've been thinking about for the past 5+ weeks without much cohesion or attempt to be entertaining. I guess that is what happens when you blog while you're supposed to be sleeping. Which is what I'm doing right now, too, come to think of it. I really need to get my priorities in order.)
(And in another aside, why the heck didn't they put a "Delete" key on the Macbook? I mean, there is a "Delete" key, but it's not a real "Delete" key, it's the backspace. I want a forward delete. WHERE IS IT?? Can anyone tell me?)
Let's move on to my story.
Any of us who are parents are aware of how privacy works when you have kids: as soon as they are mobile enough to get into the bathroom/bedroom/hall closet, your privacy becomes one of those things you sit and dream about during those brief moments when you can manage to tune out the yelling and running and general wildness going on around you.
That is to say, it no longer exists.
I will confess, though, that I am one of the lucky ones, at least in this respect. I have a job, which means I am usually up, showered, and out of the house before my kids are awake. I get to shower without little hands pulling back the shower curtain, little eyes peeking in, little mouths grinning at me, little voices laughing at how funny Mommy looks. It's bliss, and I am well aware of how good I have it.
On Saturday, Daddy took the Birdie out of the house before I'd had a chance to shower, and I was left alone with the Imp. Normally I would just sit around until Daddy got home and shower then, but I decided to be proactive and get it out of the way early. I turned on the TV, left the bathroom door open, and got started.
Almost right away, I heard the distinctive thut-thut-thut-thut-thut of footsteps that accompanies the Imp wherever he goes. The curtain pulled back at the corner, and he stopped, looked, and giggled. Then he turned and ran off - thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Less than a minute later, thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens. Giggle. Curtain closes. thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
This went on for the entire shower. He was very cute with his grins and giggles, but really, after a few times, I kept hoping he'd find a toy or the TV and stop looking in at me. I know well enough I look funny right now without the why-do-you-look-so-weird-Mommy? stares coming at me every thirty seconds.
Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens.
And then I smelled something. Actually, it wasn't quite that sudden - I'd noticed it at the beginning of the shower, and I'd thought, "Ew, gross, what did Craig leave in his shower?" After a few giggle trips, though, I realized the smell was coming and going with the Imp.
Aha. "Well, the shower's going anyway. May as well clean the kiddo while I'm at it." So I reached down for him and grabbed his little shoulders. To my surprise and chagrin, he cried out and started to whine and shake pathetically.
Me: Don't you want to take a shower?
Him: (wailing and shaking his head emphatically) Noooooooooo.
Well, okay. It scared him. But...too bad. It was going to be much easier on Mommy's aching back to not have to bend over the tub, so I decided the shower was the way to go. He'd get used to the idea once he got in the water.
He wriggled a little, and I put him back on his feet so I could get a better grip and start undressing him. Before I could stop him, he slipped away and took off. Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Me: Come back here!
Him: ...
Me: You little Imp! Come here!
Him: ...!!!
I called for him several times, but he knew what I had planned, and he wanted no part of it. As much as he loves taking a bath, for some reason, when the water is coming out of the sky, it terrifies him.
And even though I did have to lean over the tub to get him clean, I may have learned something far more valuable: the secret to privacy in the shower when the kids are around.
It's definitely a lesson worth knowing.
(Well, on your part, at least. Obviously, what I wrote last night didn't use a whole lot of my own effort beyond spewing out what I've been thinking about for the past 5+ weeks without much cohesion or attempt to be entertaining. I guess that is what happens when you blog while you're supposed to be sleeping. Which is what I'm doing right now, too, come to think of it. I really need to get my priorities in order.)
(And in another aside, why the heck didn't they put a "Delete" key on the Macbook? I mean, there is a "Delete" key, but it's not a real "Delete" key, it's the backspace. I want a forward delete. WHERE IS IT?? Can anyone tell me?)
Let's move on to my story.
Any of us who are parents are aware of how privacy works when you have kids: as soon as they are mobile enough to get into the bathroom/bedroom/hall closet, your privacy becomes one of those things you sit and dream about during those brief moments when you can manage to tune out the yelling and running and general wildness going on around you.
That is to say, it no longer exists.
I will confess, though, that I am one of the lucky ones, at least in this respect. I have a job, which means I am usually up, showered, and out of the house before my kids are awake. I get to shower without little hands pulling back the shower curtain, little eyes peeking in, little mouths grinning at me, little voices laughing at how funny Mommy looks. It's bliss, and I am well aware of how good I have it.
On Saturday, Daddy took the Birdie out of the house before I'd had a chance to shower, and I was left alone with the Imp. Normally I would just sit around until Daddy got home and shower then, but I decided to be proactive and get it out of the way early. I turned on the TV, left the bathroom door open, and got started.
Almost right away, I heard the distinctive thut-thut-thut-thut-thut of footsteps that accompanies the Imp wherever he goes. The curtain pulled back at the corner, and he stopped, looked, and giggled. Then he turned and ran off - thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Less than a minute later, thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens. Giggle. Curtain closes. thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
This went on for the entire shower. He was very cute with his grins and giggles, but really, after a few times, I kept hoping he'd find a toy or the TV and stop looking in at me. I know well enough I look funny right now without the why-do-you-look-so-weird-Mommy? stares coming at me every thirty seconds.
Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Rustle, rustle. Curtain opens.
And then I smelled something. Actually, it wasn't quite that sudden - I'd noticed it at the beginning of the shower, and I'd thought, "Ew, gross, what did Craig leave in his shower?" After a few giggle trips, though, I realized the smell was coming and going with the Imp.
Aha. "Well, the shower's going anyway. May as well clean the kiddo while I'm at it." So I reached down for him and grabbed his little shoulders. To my surprise and chagrin, he cried out and started to whine and shake pathetically.
Me: Don't you want to take a shower?
Him: (wailing and shaking his head emphatically) Noooooooooo.
Well, okay. It scared him. But...too bad. It was going to be much easier on Mommy's aching back to not have to bend over the tub, so I decided the shower was the way to go. He'd get used to the idea once he got in the water.
He wriggled a little, and I put him back on his feet so I could get a better grip and start undressing him. Before I could stop him, he slipped away and took off. Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Me: Come back here!
Him: ...
Me: You little Imp! Come here!
Him: ...!!!
I called for him several times, but he knew what I had planned, and he wanted no part of it. As much as he loves taking a bath, for some reason, when the water is coming out of the sky, it terrifies him.
And even though I did have to lean over the tub to get him clean, I may have learned something far more valuable: the secret to privacy in the shower when the kids are around.
It's definitely a lesson worth knowing.
The Imp and I played with the Photo Booth application tonight.
Fun times.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Bitty Surprise
This morning, as I was getting ready for work a little bit later than I usually do have been lately, I heard something unexpected.
The Birdie was awake, and fussing that she wanted to get up. Okay, that wasn't too surprising, because she has been waking up early a lot lately, but what was surprising was what she was saying. For possibly the first time ever, I heard through the baby monitor, "Mom-meeee! I want my mommy!"
Blink. No, surely I must have heard that wrong. Because she has never ever awakened asking for me. Not in the morning, and certainly not in the middle of the night. It's always Daddy she wants, to the point where she will sometimes wail, "Nooooo! I don't want yooooooouuuuu!" if I go in, instead. (But it's fair, because the Imp is the same way with me, except he can't put it into such sharp, specific words quite yet.)
So, after I finished getting ready for work, I popped in and told my still-sleeping husband (who had forgotten to turn the baby monitor on in the bedroom last night) to go ahead and shower, and I'd see if I could get the Birdie to calm down and play quietly in her room until Daddy could get upstairs.
I was still a bit skeptical that she had actually been calling for Mommy, but as I climbed the stairs I heard her wail again, and she was definitely saying "Mommy." Amazing.
I went in her room, and she sat up, all happy to see me. "Mommy!" I sat down on her bed and gave her a hug.
"Good morning, sweetie! What do you want?"
Often, the first question out of her mouth in the mornings is (or seems to be), "Where are we going today?" This morning, she asked a variation on it: "What are we going to eat?"
"Oh, well, sweetie, I have to go to work, but Daddy will fix you something when he gets up here," I replied, with sudden suspicion, but pretending to be oblivious.
She cut right to the chase and confirmed my suspicion. "Are we going to eat cake pops?"
Ahh, yes. Cake pops. She had been delighted by them last night, and ever since she saw them, she had been dying to try them. And suddenly it came together. This was why she unexpectedly and uncharacteristically wanted Mommy this morning. Because Mommy and cake pops go together, in her mind - and the cake pops were apparently the very first thing that crossed her bitty mind this morning. Or close to it.
And before you say, "Oh no, you are just being cynical, she really wanted you and the other is only coincidence," let me assure you that I am not being cynical. I accept that she is a Daddy's Girl, and I have no problem with that now. I am okay (most of the time) with her preference of Daddy, to the point of her often wanting nothing to do with Mommy if he is around. I love my Birdie and I take my hugs when I can get them (sometimes stolen from a screaming Birdie, but I still get them). But, no. It is not coincidence. Mommy made the cake pops. Mommy is in charge of the cake pops. I want a cake pop. Therefore, I must have Mommy come get me so she can give me one. I am quite sure that is how her thought process went.
Back to the conversation.
"No, we're not going to eat cake pops right now."
"When are we going to eat them?"
"We'll eat them after dinner."
"Oh."
"You know, there is one with your name on it, waiting for you."
"There is? Is it the pink one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with the Imp's name on it?"
"Yes, there is."
"Is it the white one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with your name on it?"
"No, Mommy and Daddy don't have their names on them, because I still have to decorate them. But you can help me decorate them tonight!"
I then tried in vain to get her to stay and play quietly in her room, but she insisted on going out. The conversation quickly turned back to the number-one thing on her mind, though.
"Can I help you decorate them?"
"Yes, you may."
"Can I help now?"
"No, sweetie, I have to go to work now."
"Nooooo! You can't go to work!"
And I think this is the first time she has ever cared whether I left the house.
Behold, the power ofcheese Cake Pops.
The Birdie was awake, and fussing that she wanted to get up. Okay, that wasn't too surprising, because she has been waking up early a lot lately, but what was surprising was what she was saying. For possibly the first time ever, I heard through the baby monitor, "Mom-meeee! I want my mommy!"
Blink. No, surely I must have heard that wrong. Because she has never ever awakened asking for me. Not in the morning, and certainly not in the middle of the night. It's always Daddy she wants, to the point where she will sometimes wail, "Nooooo! I don't want yooooooouuuuu!" if I go in, instead. (But it's fair, because the Imp is the same way with me, except he can't put it into such sharp, specific words quite yet.)
So, after I finished getting ready for work, I popped in and told my still-sleeping husband (who had forgotten to turn the baby monitor on in the bedroom last night) to go ahead and shower, and I'd see if I could get the Birdie to calm down and play quietly in her room until Daddy could get upstairs.
I was still a bit skeptical that she had actually been calling for Mommy, but as I climbed the stairs I heard her wail again, and she was definitely saying "Mommy." Amazing.
I went in her room, and she sat up, all happy to see me. "Mommy!" I sat down on her bed and gave her a hug.
"Good morning, sweetie! What do you want?"
Often, the first question out of her mouth in the mornings is (or seems to be), "Where are we going today?" This morning, she asked a variation on it: "What are we going to eat?"
"Oh, well, sweetie, I have to go to work, but Daddy will fix you something when he gets up here," I replied, with sudden suspicion, but pretending to be oblivious.
She cut right to the chase and confirmed my suspicion. "Are we going to eat cake pops?"
Ahh, yes. Cake pops. She had been delighted by them last night, and ever since she saw them, she had been dying to try them. And suddenly it came together. This was why she unexpectedly and uncharacteristically wanted Mommy this morning. Because Mommy and cake pops go together, in her mind - and the cake pops were apparently the very first thing that crossed her bitty mind this morning. Or close to it.
And before you say, "Oh no, you are just being cynical, she really wanted you and the other is only coincidence," let me assure you that I am not being cynical. I accept that she is a Daddy's Girl, and I have no problem with that now. I am okay (most of the time) with her preference of Daddy, to the point of her often wanting nothing to do with Mommy if he is around. I love my Birdie and I take my hugs when I can get them (sometimes stolen from a screaming Birdie, but I still get them). But, no. It is not coincidence. Mommy made the cake pops. Mommy is in charge of the cake pops. I want a cake pop. Therefore, I must have Mommy come get me so she can give me one. I am quite sure that is how her thought process went.
Back to the conversation.
"No, we're not going to eat cake pops right now."
"When are we going to eat them?"
"We'll eat them after dinner."
"Oh."
"You know, there is one with your name on it, waiting for you."
"There is? Is it the pink one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with the Imp's name on it?"
"Yes, there is."
"Is it the white one?"
"Yes."
"Is there one with your name on it?"
"No, Mommy and Daddy don't have their names on them, because I still have to decorate them. But you can help me decorate them tonight!"
I then tried in vain to get her to stay and play quietly in her room, but she insisted on going out. The conversation quickly turned back to the number-one thing on her mind, though.
"Can I help you decorate them?"
"Yes, you may."
"Can I help now?"
"No, sweetie, I have to go to work now."
"Nooooo! You can't go to work!"
And I think this is the first time she has ever cared whether I left the house.
Behold, the power of
Sunday, May 16, 2010
WHAT did that little boy just call me?
Kids do funny things. Kids also do things that embarrass their parents. Sometimes, they do things that are funny in one circumstance, and embarrassing in another. And then you think, Maybe we shouldn't have laughed quite so much the first time.
For instance.
Yes, of course I have an example. I have two toddlers, one of whom is just learning to speak, and hasn't gotten us in much trouble. Until, maybe, now.
It started out very innocently last weekend, after we went to dinner and tried to get ice cream at a nearby parlor. It was jam-packed, and we had to move on, but not before my little Imp got to meet the parlor's mascot, a picture (or statue?) of a cow outside the door. Although I didn't witness this personally, as I was dealing with a potty emergency involving my other toddler, I have it on good authority that he and the Crazy Cow hit it off quite spectacularly. The brief meeting ended with my son waving and saying, "Bye bye, cow!"
This has become his new mantra, and at random times, for no apparent reason, we will hear his little voice pipe, "Bye bye, cow. Bye bye, cow. Bye bye, cow." And he will say it over and over. Sometimes it comes out as, "Bye bye, dow." But we all know what he means. And we ooh and ahh and giggle over it every time, because it truly is adorable. He has a very precious little voice.
So, fast forward to tonight. My mom was in town again this weekend, and the five of us plus Craig's parents went to an excellent BBQ joint ("restaurant" is just not the right word) for dinner after church. After a rocky start that involved some sweet cornbread that looked (and tasted) like cake along with many tears when Mommy wouldn't let him have only that for dinner, the Imp managed to finish off about half of my BBQ pork, most of my cornbread, and half an ear of corn. We were all pleased with ourselves.
Especially him. He realized everyone thought it was funny when he would open his mouth wide whenever I would try to to take a bite of my food, and got a bit punchy from it.
He's a bit into being the center of attention. We may have a class clown in the making.
After dinner, I made the ubiquitous pregnant-woman-fifth-potty-trip-of-the-hour. The Imp was not very happy to see me go, but didn't make a fuss (I don't think). However, when I came out, he started chanting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" in his adorable little voice until (and for a little bit after) I picked him up.
Of course, the folks sitting around us were charmed. "He's so cute," a nice-looking young lady (probably only a few years younger than I am, but with a sweetness that made her seem younger than that*) at the next table commented, while smiling at him.
* I know that sounds a little weird. I tend to assess people - not try to judge their character, but just make observations - and in this case, my assessment was along the lines of, "She is probably close to my age, but something about her makes her seem younger."
I answered with something like, "Thank you. He knows it, too." while patting my son on the head indulgently. After all, he is the sweetest, cutest little boy you will ever see. Ever. I mean it. So take a good look now, honey, because this kind of cuteness only comes around once every seventy-six years or so.
Anyway.
The Imp and I were among the last of our group out the door, and as we left the people who were smiling at him, I told him to "say bye bye!" I almost always do this when we leave people who have taken notice of him, because his bye bye is just so cute, and everyone always loves it.
Well, usually.
Can you guess where this is going?
My impish little troublemaker looked at this nice lady and said, "Bye bye, cow!"
Blink.
Except, fortunately, this was one of the times it came out as, "Bye bye, dow!" so instead of looking offended, the young lady just looked a bit puzzled. And it could have just ended there, with me smiling and waving and leaving with at least a little dignity, but I knew what he had said, even if no one else did, and I got all flustered and embarrassed.
"No, no" I admonished him, "Just say 'bye bye!'"
"Bye bye, cow!" he repeated with the sort of stubborn innocence that makes you wonder if he doesn't really know what he's doing, after all.
At this point, I was both embarrassed and at the same time barely able to hold in my laughter, so I just apologized and darted out the door before she could figure out what he had said.
The poor girl probably thought I was laughing at her. Sigh.
Actually, she probably just thought I was one of the strangest people she'd ever encountered. And she was probably right. Double sigh.
I carried my little guy to the car amidst his chants of, "Bye bye, cow! Bye bye, cow!" and loaded him in, then had a good laugh about it with Craig and my mom. And the Imp told the cow goodbye off and on all the way home.
So my little Imp has already managed to inadvertently insult someone - and he can't even talk yet.
(Incidentally, I could go into how my three-year-old who never misses anything just happened to notice how funny we found it that the Imp had told some lady, "Bye bye, cow," and add in there how she tends to take anything that we think is funny and run so far with it we can no longer even hear her crazy little giggles. But I'll save that story for when it happens. When.)
Please pray for us. I think we may be in trouble.
For instance.
Yes, of course I have an example. I have two toddlers, one of whom is just learning to speak, and hasn't gotten us in much trouble. Until, maybe, now.
It started out very innocently last weekend, after we went to dinner and tried to get ice cream at a nearby parlor. It was jam-packed, and we had to move on, but not before my little Imp got to meet the parlor's mascot, a picture (or statue?) of a cow outside the door. Although I didn't witness this personally, as I was dealing with a potty emergency involving my other toddler, I have it on good authority that he and the Crazy Cow hit it off quite spectacularly. The brief meeting ended with my son waving and saying, "Bye bye, cow!"
This has become his new mantra, and at random times, for no apparent reason, we will hear his little voice pipe, "Bye bye, cow. Bye bye, cow. Bye bye, cow." And he will say it over and over. Sometimes it comes out as, "Bye bye, dow." But we all know what he means. And we ooh and ahh and giggle over it every time, because it truly is adorable. He has a very precious little voice.
So, fast forward to tonight. My mom was in town again this weekend, and the five of us plus Craig's parents went to an excellent BBQ joint ("restaurant" is just not the right word) for dinner after church. After a rocky start that involved some sweet cornbread that looked (and tasted) like cake along with many tears when Mommy wouldn't let him have only that for dinner, the Imp managed to finish off about half of my BBQ pork, most of my cornbread, and half an ear of corn. We were all pleased with ourselves.
Especially him. He realized everyone thought it was funny when he would open his mouth wide whenever I would try to to take a bite of my food, and got a bit punchy from it.
He's a bit into being the center of attention. We may have a class clown in the making.
After dinner, I made the ubiquitous pregnant-woman-fifth-potty-trip-of-the-hour. The Imp was not very happy to see me go, but didn't make a fuss (I don't think). However, when I came out, he started chanting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" in his adorable little voice until (and for a little bit after) I picked him up.
Of course, the folks sitting around us were charmed. "He's so cute," a nice-looking young lady (probably only a few years younger than I am, but with a sweetness that made her seem younger than that*) at the next table commented, while smiling at him.
* I know that sounds a little weird. I tend to assess people - not try to judge their character, but just make observations - and in this case, my assessment was along the lines of, "She is probably close to my age, but something about her makes her seem younger."
I answered with something like, "Thank you. He knows it, too." while patting my son on the head indulgently. After all, he is the sweetest, cutest little boy you will ever see. Ever. I mean it. So take a good look now, honey, because this kind of cuteness only comes around once every seventy-six years or so.
Anyway.
The Imp and I were among the last of our group out the door, and as we left the people who were smiling at him, I told him to "say bye bye!" I almost always do this when we leave people who have taken notice of him, because his bye bye is just so cute, and everyone always loves it.
Well, usually.
Can you guess where this is going?
My impish little troublemaker looked at this nice lady and said, "Bye bye, cow!"
Blink.
Except, fortunately, this was one of the times it came out as, "Bye bye, dow!" so instead of looking offended, the young lady just looked a bit puzzled. And it could have just ended there, with me smiling and waving and leaving with at least a little dignity, but I knew what he had said, even if no one else did, and I got all flustered and embarrassed.
"No, no" I admonished him, "Just say 'bye bye!'"
"Bye bye, cow!" he repeated with the sort of stubborn innocence that makes you wonder if he doesn't really know what he's doing, after all.
At this point, I was both embarrassed and at the same time barely able to hold in my laughter, so I just apologized and darted out the door before she could figure out what he had said.
The poor girl probably thought I was laughing at her. Sigh.
Actually, she probably just thought I was one of the strangest people she'd ever encountered. And she was probably right. Double sigh.
I carried my little guy to the car amidst his chants of, "Bye bye, cow! Bye bye, cow!" and loaded him in, then had a good laugh about it with Craig and my mom. And the Imp told the cow goodbye off and on all the way home.
So my little Imp has already managed to inadvertently insult someone - and he can't even talk yet.
(Incidentally, I could go into how my three-year-old who never misses anything just happened to notice how funny we found it that the Imp had told some lady, "Bye bye, cow," and add in there how she tends to take anything that we think is funny and run so far with it we can no longer even hear her crazy little giggles. But I'll save that story for when it happens. When.)
Please pray for us. I think we may be in trouble.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Battles
As parents, we are guaranteed battles with our children. We might not like it, but it's a given. It's going to happen.
Tonight, our house was a regular battlefield. At bedtime, of course, because all good battles occur at the end of the day, when everyone is tired and cranky.
Or maybe that's just me.
Two battles were fought - and lost - tonight. Were they worth fighting? In one case, probably not; in another, quite possibly. Was harm done in giving up the battle? Possibly. But was there another real option? Perhaps, but it wouldn't have been pretty, and may have done more damage than giving up.
So in continuing the spirit of airing my dirty laundry, I'm going to tell you about these battles, give you some details, and see what some of you might have done in my situation.
Battle #1
The first battle was with the Birdie, and it was by far the more traumatic of the two.
It was The Battle Of The Pajamas. Or, I Don't Want To Wear This One, I Want To Wear That One Instead.
My husband almost always gets the Birdie ready for bed. It's become such a habit that if he is around, she won't tolerate me doing it. Fine, we have two children, so he takes one and I take the other. And the habit is further cemented.
He got her into some pajamas, and she came and sat on the couch with me. They were cute pajamas. Princess pajamas. Really, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?
Apparently, it does.
As I was putting away the Imp's clean laundry, I heard the words that started it all: "I don't want to wear this to bed. I want to wear a nightgown."
The Birdie has roughly fifty sets of pajamas right now, thanks to grandparents, hand-me-downs from friends, and Christmas pajamas that she hasn't yet outgrown. About six of these are nightgowns. So you can imagine how often we end up with all nightgowns in the laundry, and nothing but shirt-and-pants pjs to wear. However, no matter what they look like, all she ever wants to wear are nightgowns.
So it wasn't really a shocker to me when I heard her say that, but we are trying to raise our children to make their choices and stick with them, and not change their clothes three times before they go to bed. Or fifty times.
My husband denied her request.
The battle began.
At one point she must have taken them off, because I heard, "If you're not wearing those pajamas when I come back in, I'll..." And she did put them back on.
Then my husband brushed her teeth. When they were done, she said, "I need to take my pants off. These are wet." She had peed in them. While I know accidents happen, this was just a bit too coincidental. I asked her whether she had peed in her pajama pants because she didn't want to wear them, and she replied, "Yes."
Sigh. At least she's honest.
Perhaps this would have been a good point to just go ahead and put her in a nightgown, since we had to put her in something else anyway, but it just didn't seem like a good time. It seemed like a particularly bad time, actually - one that would teach her that if she didn't want to wear something, all she had to do was pee in it and she would get her way. Hmm. Not really a lesson we want her to learn.
While I brushed the Imp's teeth and read him his bedtime story (actually, he read it to me for once, it was pretty cute) Daddy handled the pajama issue. I heard the sounds of war coming from the Birdie's room, and finally let the Imp sit in his chair and left to see what was happening. Daddy was leaving the Birdie's room, telling her she could "spend a few minutes in time out." She was standing by the bed in her underwear, sobbing.
I sent Daddy in to take the Imp his water, and went in with the Birdie. I held her in my lap while she sobbed, and sang to her until she calmed down. When she was calm, I tried to get her into the (clean) pajamas.
Absolutely Not.
I held her a little longer, at a loss, then made an executive decision: It was time to throw in the towel. We weren't getting anywhere with this. She was just getting more and more and more worked up. She was adamant that she wanted a nightgown, not flannel pj's, and I started to suspect that, more than a control issue, it was just that the nightgown is more comfortable to her. While I don't want her learning the lesson that if she just holds out long enough, Mommy and/or Daddy will eventually give in, it seemed silly to make her wear something that she so obviously did not want to wear and that probably was less comfortable for her.
So. Did I just reinforce a bad lesson there, or did I do what was necessary to keep the peace? Obviously, the real solution would have been to avoid the situation in the first place. The best way to do that is to let her choose her own nightclothes, which is what I had thought had happened in the first place, but in fact was not - Daddy chose the cute Princess jammies. And they were cute. Just not the right shape.
At what point should we have stopped fighting? Should we have given in when she first made the request? At that point, it sounded like toddler flightiness - "No, I want to wear this one instead" - which is something we'd rather not encourage, at least not when it leaves us piles of unnecessarily dirty laundry. When we chose to fight the battle, should we have seen it all the way through? Or does there, in fact, come a point where it is more harmful to keep fighting than it is to give it up?
I have no idea. But I do hope we can avoid that one again in the future. I hate fighting with her because I already don't get enough positive time with her anyway - she's Daddy's Girl through-and-through, and if he's available she doesn't want me to do much of anything with or for her (unless it means he can hold her while I do something for her). I love her so much, and I can't stand to see her so upset, especially when it's over something as silly as what she's going to wear to bed.
Battle #2
This battle was with the Imp, and it was not nearly as hard-fought, although perhaps it should have been. Perhaps it should have been even harder-fought. But it felt less like a battle than the pajama fiasco because it didn't appear, on the surface, to be a control issue.
One night this week, either two or three nights ago, the Imp fussed after we put him to bed. Daddy took baby duty and went in to him, calmed him down, and left, only to have the little guy start right back up. Daddy decided enough was enough and that he'd let him go.
About half an hour later (or less? Maybe it only felt that long.) his fussing had escalated into sobbing/screaming, and I went in to him. It took him a good two or three minutes to settle down even after I was holding him, with the residual shuddering sobs hitting him every few seconds. I held him and comforted him and rocked him while his crib soother played the Winnie-The-Pooh song over and over for fifteen minutes. He still seemed shaken after that, so I let it go another fifteen minutes before I put him back down. His nose was really stopped up, so I figured that was what had kept him from being able to fall asleep (in other words, he was sick, so he really did need the comfort).
The next night, it happened again, and instead of letting him go and get all worked up, I just went on in and held him for two rounds of the music, then put him down and he went on to sleep.
Again the next night (or so, depending on how many days ago it started). At this point, I'm starting to suspect the development of a bad habit. But it's easy for me to give in, because he's such a snugglebug that I actually enjoy sitting there and rocking him for half an hour. Plus, I know he's not going to want this forever. In fifteen (or ten, or five, or two) years, I'm going to look back on this and wish he would still let me do it. So in a way, it's hard not to love on him and snuggle him while he'll let me, because I know the day is coming when he's not going to want anything of it.
But tonight, when he started fussing almost the moment I left his room after putting him down for bed, I knew a habit was forming and that it was one I can't let develop, because it's just going to cause problems for everyone. So I asked Daddy to go in and soothe him, instead, because it's not the soothing he wants, it's Mommy.
Craig went in, then came back out maybe five minutes later. The Imp was silent, and Craig commented, "That was a pretty good job!" and went downstairs to play his video game.
Not a full minute had passed before the Imp had started fussing again. I sighed, and sat on the couch a bit longer. Do I go in or not? If I do, I'm reinforcing the habit, but if I don't, he's just going to scream and cry until he gets so worked up that he makes himself sick from it. Because we learned months ago that crying it out just doesn't seem to work for him.
So I caved.
The moment I opened the door, he stopped crying. "Bah-ee (Mommy)? Bah-ee? Bah-ee Bah-ee Bah-ee!"
And I melted.
You see, he usually cries until I pick him up, then snuggles his head on my shoulder. But this time, as soon as I opened the door, the little booger - the little Imp! - made it clear that he had been waiting for me the whole time. He wasn't crying because he wanted comfort, or because he felt sick, or because he couldn't fall asleep. He was crying because he wanted me to come in and hold him, and as soon as I opened the door he knew he was getting just that.
And that's just what he got. 30 minutes of being rocked by Mommy.
Sigh.
Not nearly as much of a "battle" as the one with the Birdie, but probably one with more lasting consequences. But how do we fight it? Do I let him cry it out? But I know that won't work. Do I hope this is a phase, and just go with it until he starts falling asleep on his own again? Or does Daddy just go in repeatedly, until the Imp gives up?
I don't know. I just know that when the only thing in the world my little guy wants is for Mommy to hold him, it's awfully hard for Mommy to not give it to him. Especially since I know from experience - with his big sister - that these days won't last forever, and someday I will miss them.
Tonight, our house was a regular battlefield. At bedtime, of course, because all good battles occur at the end of the day, when everyone is tired and cranky.
Or maybe that's just me.
Two battles were fought - and lost - tonight. Were they worth fighting? In one case, probably not; in another, quite possibly. Was harm done in giving up the battle? Possibly. But was there another real option? Perhaps, but it wouldn't have been pretty, and may have done more damage than giving up.
So in continuing the spirit of airing my dirty laundry, I'm going to tell you about these battles, give you some details, and see what some of you might have done in my situation.
Battle #1
The first battle was with the Birdie, and it was by far the more traumatic of the two.
It was The Battle Of The Pajamas. Or, I Don't Want To Wear This One, I Want To Wear That One Instead.
My husband almost always gets the Birdie ready for bed. It's become such a habit that if he is around, she won't tolerate me doing it. Fine, we have two children, so he takes one and I take the other. And the habit is further cemented.
He got her into some pajamas, and she came and sat on the couch with me. They were cute pajamas. Princess pajamas. Really, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?
Apparently, it does.
As I was putting away the Imp's clean laundry, I heard the words that started it all: "I don't want to wear this to bed. I want to wear a nightgown."
The Birdie has roughly fifty sets of pajamas right now, thanks to grandparents, hand-me-downs from friends, and Christmas pajamas that she hasn't yet outgrown. About six of these are nightgowns. So you can imagine how often we end up with all nightgowns in the laundry, and nothing but shirt-and-pants pjs to wear. However, no matter what they look like, all she ever wants to wear are nightgowns.
So it wasn't really a shocker to me when I heard her say that, but we are trying to raise our children to make their choices and stick with them, and not change their clothes three times before they go to bed. Or fifty times.
My husband denied her request.
The battle began.
At one point she must have taken them off, because I heard, "If you're not wearing those pajamas when I come back in, I'll..." And she did put them back on.
Then my husband brushed her teeth. When they were done, she said, "I need to take my pants off. These are wet." She had peed in them. While I know accidents happen, this was just a bit too coincidental. I asked her whether she had peed in her pajama pants because she didn't want to wear them, and she replied, "Yes."
Sigh. At least she's honest.
Perhaps this would have been a good point to just go ahead and put her in a nightgown, since we had to put her in something else anyway, but it just didn't seem like a good time. It seemed like a particularly bad time, actually - one that would teach her that if she didn't want to wear something, all she had to do was pee in it and she would get her way. Hmm. Not really a lesson we want her to learn.
While I brushed the Imp's teeth and read him his bedtime story (actually, he read it to me for once, it was pretty cute) Daddy handled the pajama issue. I heard the sounds of war coming from the Birdie's room, and finally let the Imp sit in his chair and left to see what was happening. Daddy was leaving the Birdie's room, telling her she could "spend a few minutes in time out." She was standing by the bed in her underwear, sobbing.
I sent Daddy in to take the Imp his water, and went in with the Birdie. I held her in my lap while she sobbed, and sang to her until she calmed down. When she was calm, I tried to get her into the (clean) pajamas.
Absolutely Not.
I held her a little longer, at a loss, then made an executive decision: It was time to throw in the towel. We weren't getting anywhere with this. She was just getting more and more and more worked up. She was adamant that she wanted a nightgown, not flannel pj's, and I started to suspect that, more than a control issue, it was just that the nightgown is more comfortable to her. While I don't want her learning the lesson that if she just holds out long enough, Mommy and/or Daddy will eventually give in, it seemed silly to make her wear something that she so obviously did not want to wear and that probably was less comfortable for her.
So. Did I just reinforce a bad lesson there, or did I do what was necessary to keep the peace? Obviously, the real solution would have been to avoid the situation in the first place. The best way to do that is to let her choose her own nightclothes, which is what I had thought had happened in the first place, but in fact was not - Daddy chose the cute Princess jammies. And they were cute. Just not the right shape.
At what point should we have stopped fighting? Should we have given in when she first made the request? At that point, it sounded like toddler flightiness - "No, I want to wear this one instead" - which is something we'd rather not encourage, at least not when it leaves us piles of unnecessarily dirty laundry. When we chose to fight the battle, should we have seen it all the way through? Or does there, in fact, come a point where it is more harmful to keep fighting than it is to give it up?
I have no idea. But I do hope we can avoid that one again in the future. I hate fighting with her because I already don't get enough positive time with her anyway - she's Daddy's Girl through-and-through, and if he's available she doesn't want me to do much of anything with or for her (unless it means he can hold her while I do something for her). I love her so much, and I can't stand to see her so upset, especially when it's over something as silly as what she's going to wear to bed.
Battle #2
This battle was with the Imp, and it was not nearly as hard-fought, although perhaps it should have been. Perhaps it should have been even harder-fought. But it felt less like a battle than the pajama fiasco because it didn't appear, on the surface, to be a control issue.
One night this week, either two or three nights ago, the Imp fussed after we put him to bed. Daddy took baby duty and went in to him, calmed him down, and left, only to have the little guy start right back up. Daddy decided enough was enough and that he'd let him go.
About half an hour later (or less? Maybe it only felt that long.) his fussing had escalated into sobbing/screaming, and I went in to him. It took him a good two or three minutes to settle down even after I was holding him, with the residual shuddering sobs hitting him every few seconds. I held him and comforted him and rocked him while his crib soother played the Winnie-The-Pooh song over and over for fifteen minutes. He still seemed shaken after that, so I let it go another fifteen minutes before I put him back down. His nose was really stopped up, so I figured that was what had kept him from being able to fall asleep (in other words, he was sick, so he really did need the comfort).
The next night, it happened again, and instead of letting him go and get all worked up, I just went on in and held him for two rounds of the music, then put him down and he went on to sleep.
Again the next night (or so, depending on how many days ago it started). At this point, I'm starting to suspect the development of a bad habit. But it's easy for me to give in, because he's such a snugglebug that I actually enjoy sitting there and rocking him for half an hour. Plus, I know he's not going to want this forever. In fifteen (or ten, or five, or two) years, I'm going to look back on this and wish he would still let me do it. So in a way, it's hard not to love on him and snuggle him while he'll let me, because I know the day is coming when he's not going to want anything of it.
But tonight, when he started fussing almost the moment I left his room after putting him down for bed, I knew a habit was forming and that it was one I can't let develop, because it's just going to cause problems for everyone. So I asked Daddy to go in and soothe him, instead, because it's not the soothing he wants, it's Mommy.
Craig went in, then came back out maybe five minutes later. The Imp was silent, and Craig commented, "That was a pretty good job!" and went downstairs to play his video game.
Not a full minute had passed before the Imp had started fussing again. I sighed, and sat on the couch a bit longer. Do I go in or not? If I do, I'm reinforcing the habit, but if I don't, he's just going to scream and cry until he gets so worked up that he makes himself sick from it. Because we learned months ago that crying it out just doesn't seem to work for him.
So I caved.
The moment I opened the door, he stopped crying. "Bah-ee (Mommy)? Bah-ee? Bah-ee Bah-ee Bah-ee!"
And I melted.
You see, he usually cries until I pick him up, then snuggles his head on my shoulder. But this time, as soon as I opened the door, the little booger - the little Imp! - made it clear that he had been waiting for me the whole time. He wasn't crying because he wanted comfort, or because he felt sick, or because he couldn't fall asleep. He was crying because he wanted me to come in and hold him, and as soon as I opened the door he knew he was getting just that.
And that's just what he got. 30 minutes of being rocked by Mommy.
Sigh.
Not nearly as much of a "battle" as the one with the Birdie, but probably one with more lasting consequences. But how do we fight it? Do I let him cry it out? But I know that won't work. Do I hope this is a phase, and just go with it until he starts falling asleep on his own again? Or does Daddy just go in repeatedly, until the Imp gives up?
I don't know. I just know that when the only thing in the world my little guy wants is for Mommy to hold him, it's awfully hard for Mommy to not give it to him. Especially since I know from experience - with his big sister - that these days won't last forever, and someday I will miss them.
Just Peachy
This will just be a little post, a blogette, or something like that. I can't resist sharing a funny little conversation I had in the car with the Birdie on Wednesday night.
From the back seat, I hear a somewhat startling question. "What color is the Imp?"
Me: [thinking: they really do notice. They just don't care.] I turn the question back on her, as I have learned to do when she asks something unexpected like that. "What color is the Imp?"
Her: [thoughtfully] "He's kind of a peach color."
Me: [blink] "Why, yes, he is."
Her: [pause] "We eat peaches."
Me: [blink. blink.] "Why, yes, we do eat peaches." [pause] "But we don't eat the Imp."
Her: [giggling] "Nooooo. That's silly!"
Well, good. I'm glad we got that cleared up!
I muttered to Craig, who was driving, "Well, that's one word for it."
In typical Craig style, he responded something about how cannibalism is usually frowned upon.
Little piping voice: "What did Daddy say?"
I'll let you explain that one, Honey.
From the back seat, I hear a somewhat startling question. "What color is the Imp?"
Me: [thinking: they really do notice. They just don't care.] I turn the question back on her, as I have learned to do when she asks something unexpected like that. "What color is the Imp?"
Her: [thoughtfully] "He's kind of a peach color."
Me: [blink] "Why, yes, he is."
Her: [pause] "We eat peaches."
Me: [blink. blink.] "Why, yes, we do eat peaches." [pause] "But we don't eat the Imp."
Her: [giggling] "Nooooo. That's silly!"
Well, good. I'm glad we got that cleared up!
I muttered to Craig, who was driving, "Well, that's one word for it."
In typical Craig style, he responded something about how cannibalism is usually frowned upon.
Little piping voice: "What did Daddy say?"
I'll let you explain that one, Honey.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Mind of a Toddler
You just never know what is going through the mind of a toddler. Until they open their oh-so-innocent little mouths, that is.
My Birdie was in rare form this past weekend.
I did not personally witness the first event, and I think I may be glad of that. My mother-in-law recounted it to me over the phone later that evening, Saturday evening. We went to a restaurant with my mother- and father-in-law as well as some good friends of ours and their daughter (who is, of course, also a good friend of ours, but you get the point).
For whatever reason, my father-in-law got to be the one in charge of leading my daughter out of the restaurant, and as they walked out, they were stopped by a lady sitting at another table. I saw them in there talking, but was already outside putting the Baby Guy in the car.
As my mother-in-law told the story, at one point, my precious little daughter turned to the lady and asked, so sweetly, I am sure, "Are you a girl?"
As I said, I think I may be glad to have gotten that story later rather than having been in a position to bask in the embarrassment first hand. My father-in-law had that pleasure.
The very next day, the next evening, to be exact, she did it again, although this time it was not embarrassing, just funny.
The evening started with a fun trip to the Louisville Zoo, where we attended their Halloween party. It was followed by dinner at a restaurant that was new to us, the "Hall of Fame Cafe," located conveniently close to both the University of Louisville and the KY Fair and Exposition Center.
I'll keep things mysterious and let you guess what their main attraction is.
It turned out to be really good (I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, right?) and we plan to go back sometime. To that end, we quizzed our waiter on when their busy (and, by extension, less busy) times tend to be.
He surprised us by informing us that basketball/football games are not as great a driver of traffic for them (oops, I guess I just gave away their main attraction) as are conventions at the Fair and Expo Center. For example, the prior Monday, there had been some sort of carpenters' convention going on. "We were slammed," he told us. "I could barely find the time to take a break."
At this point, he was interrupted by my crazy daughter, who was looking around the table at the rest of us, excited and shocked and, above all, hyper. "Ohhhh noooooooo!" she exclaimed. "Ohh NO!"
We all stopped listening to focus on our little drama queen. "What? What is it?" I thought it was going to be something traumatic and unrelated like her Minnie Mouse shoes had just fallen off - oh the horror. I had no idea she was following the conversation, but, with a shocked, worried, hyper little gasp, she announced, "He bwoke!"
Everyone stared for a moment, then we all cracked up. She laughed too, and wasn't upset, but she was fairly concerned that our poor waiter had been broken. We reassured her that he had been fixed and he was just fine.
I can't wait to see what she will come up with next.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Night Three
He slept all night! Woo hoo!!
Now if we can only figure out how to get my daughter back to sleeping all night, we'll be in business.
Now if we can only figure out how to get my daughter back to sleeping all night, we'll be in business.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Naked, Loaded and Dangerous
My husband wasn't home, so I was bathing the toddlers by myself. I got them undressed, put the Birdie in the tub, and the Baby Guy ran off. Naked. He gets antsy in the tub, so I figured I'd let him run around a little and I'd try to get the Birdie mostly washed before I put him in. I just hoped he wouldn't pee on anything. Knew he might, but...hoped he wouldn't.
Well, he didn't pee on anything.
As I was sitting in the bathroom washing the Bitty Girl, the Baby Guy ran back and forth like a naked little maniac...into the living room...back to the entry of the bathroom...back off into the living room...back to stand at the bathroom door...and I noticed...something...on his legs.
And I thought, surely not. I must be mistaken. I must. Please. Please please PLEASE let me be mistaken.
But I wasn't.
I ran him down as he darted away from me, laughing his naughty little head off. I grabbed him...and sure enough: poop...all down his legs...on his arms...on his belly...fortunately NOT on his hands, toys, or face. But, ew. So I snatched him up - gingerly, of course, taking care not to spread the nastiness. I put him on the changing pad, reached for a baby wipe...a baby...a...wipe? No wipes. No wipes?! I had a naked baby with poop all over him and there were no freaking baby wipes! And by this time he was starting to get all, "What am I doing up here? I don't want to be up here! Get me down!" And then of course, of course, he rolled over and sat up. On his naked bottom. His naked, poopy bottom. YUCK YUCK YUCK!!! So I frantically searched for wipes, hoping all the time he wouldn't touch anything, and by then it was all up his arm and oh yeah, now there's a spot on the wall, too, and is that some on my shirt? And finally I found a new package of wipes in a drawer, opened the package, open, dangit, OPEN YOU STUPID THING!!! - and got him wiped up.
Next, I carried him, kicking and screaming, and put him in the tub, where his sister was playing cheefully and noisily enough that I was able to keep an "ear" on her the whole time even though I couldn't actually see her because did I mention I don't like leaving them in the tub alone? Yeah. But she was fine. Anyway, the Baby Guy stiffened up as usual as I tried to put him in the tub, and wouldn't sit down. So I picked him up and did a little swipe thing, trying to knock his feet out from under him while holding him, of course, so I could get him into a sitting position in the tub, and he's all stagger-stagger-stand. NO DANGIT SIT! SIT!!! I finally got him sitting and immediately soaped him up and got the poop residue washed off. Popped a toy in his hands and he was happy. For the time being.
But then I knew I had baby crap somewhere on my floor and I couldn't go clean it up because I had two babies in the tub and I couldn't leave them alone. So I tried to ignore the little voice in the back of my head whispering, Baby poop on your floor. Baby poop on your floor. The cats might step in it and track it around. Baby poop everywhere. Baby poop everywhere! I got them all washed up (if only it were as easy as that makes it sound, but I won't go into all of the gory bathtime battle details, at least the Birdie didn't act up, but it did include the Baby Guy standing and falling once in the tub, thank goodness he didn't hit his head) and got the Baby Guy out and turned the drain on on the tub while the Birdie was still sitting in it. Got him dried and in a diaper - IN A DIAPER!!! - and went back and got the Birdie out. By now, the Baby Guy was throwing a fit, I guess it was all just too traumatic for him. Yeah. For him. Got the Birdie dried...gave her a pull up to put on herself (she has to put them on herself, now) and went out and finally cleaned up the poop.
No more naked Baby Guys running around for a while. As cute as he is when he does it.
Well, he didn't pee on anything.
As I was sitting in the bathroom washing the Bitty Girl, the Baby Guy ran back and forth like a naked little maniac...into the living room...back to the entry of the bathroom...back off into the living room...back to stand at the bathroom door...and I noticed...something...on his legs.
And I thought, surely not. I must be mistaken. I must. Please. Please please PLEASE let me be mistaken.
But I wasn't.
I ran him down as he darted away from me, laughing his naughty little head off. I grabbed him...and sure enough: poop...all down his legs...on his arms...on his belly...fortunately NOT on his hands, toys, or face. But, ew. So I snatched him up - gingerly, of course, taking care not to spread the nastiness. I put him on the changing pad, reached for a baby wipe...a baby...a...wipe? No wipes. No wipes?! I had a naked baby with poop all over him and there were no freaking baby wipes! And by this time he was starting to get all, "What am I doing up here? I don't want to be up here! Get me down!" And then of course, of course, he rolled over and sat up. On his naked bottom. His naked, poopy bottom. YUCK YUCK YUCK!!! So I frantically searched for wipes, hoping all the time he wouldn't touch anything, and by then it was all up his arm and oh yeah, now there's a spot on the wall, too, and is that some on my shirt? And finally I found a new package of wipes in a drawer, opened the package, open, dangit, OPEN YOU STUPID THING!!! - and got him wiped up.
Next, I carried him, kicking and screaming, and put him in the tub, where his sister was playing cheefully and noisily enough that I was able to keep an "ear" on her the whole time even though I couldn't actually see her because did I mention I don't like leaving them in the tub alone? Yeah. But she was fine. Anyway, the Baby Guy stiffened up as usual as I tried to put him in the tub, and wouldn't sit down. So I picked him up and did a little swipe thing, trying to knock his feet out from under him while holding him, of course, so I could get him into a sitting position in the tub, and he's all stagger-stagger-stand. NO DANGIT SIT! SIT!!! I finally got him sitting and immediately soaped him up and got the poop residue washed off. Popped a toy in his hands and he was happy. For the time being.
But then I knew I had baby crap somewhere on my floor and I couldn't go clean it up because I had two babies in the tub and I couldn't leave them alone. So I tried to ignore the little voice in the back of my head whispering, Baby poop on your floor. Baby poop on your floor. The cats might step in it and track it around. Baby poop everywhere. Baby poop everywhere! I got them all washed up (if only it were as easy as that makes it sound, but I won't go into all of the gory bathtime battle details, at least the Birdie didn't act up, but it did include the Baby Guy standing and falling once in the tub, thank goodness he didn't hit his head) and got the Baby Guy out and turned the drain on on the tub while the Birdie was still sitting in it. Got him dried and in a diaper - IN A DIAPER!!! - and went back and got the Birdie out. By now, the Baby Guy was throwing a fit, I guess it was all just too traumatic for him. Yeah. For him. Got the Birdie dried...gave her a pull up to put on herself (she has to put them on herself, now) and went out and finally cleaned up the poop.
No more naked Baby Guys running around for a while. As cute as he is when he does it.
Nights One & Two (or Trudge, Trudge, Trudge, Trudge)
Night One went almost better than I could have imagined, with the Baby Guy waking only once, around two-ish. This was pretty consistent with his usual schedule, but - but - he went back to sleep with two playings of the musical soother on his crib. And here is the important part: without a bottle.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times he has not insisted on a bottle (or two) overnight, or at least I could if I could remember them. This was a huge accomplishment. Huge.
And encouraging, of course. Could it be that this truly would be a new beginning, a new era of baby sleeping that didn't include a bottle overnight?
Maybe. But, as you might guess from the fact that I'm writing this post at 2:45 the next night (or next-next morning, in fact), Night Two is not going quite as well. This is not too alarming, because what would be a step forward without a step back? Plus, there were other factors that went into play tonight: he didn't eat quite as much today as he did yesterday (I'm guessing); my parents watched him all day while my husband and I played (the reason I'm guessing about the food); my parents put him to bed at their house before we picked him up around 10:30 p.m., and then we didn't get home until midnight-ish, when I put him back to bed for real; and, because of the craziness surrounding bedtime tonight, he didn't get any ibuprofen before bed.
So, yeah. It wasn't exactly a normal bedtime. So it's not truly alarming that it's been a little bit of a rougher night. He woke up fussing a bit before 2 a.m. I trudged upstairs, hugged him, settled him back in bed (I know, and I wouldn't pick him up, but he had escaped his covers so he needed to be settled anyway), and turned on Winnie-the-Pooh (the bedtime music crib soother thingie).
Then I returned to bed to listen to that on the monitor as it played over and over for about fifteen minutes.
Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff, He's
Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Willy nilly silly ole bear!
Of course, there aren't any words on the crib soother, it's instrumental, but don't worry, my brain filled those in all on its own.
Oh, and the fussing. Don't forget the fussing. Because of course he didn't settle down. So I sighed, and groaned, and was about to trudge (there really isn't any other word for it) back up to re-settle him and turn Winnie-the-Pooh back on, when my husband got out of bed. "Where are you going?" I inquired. "Up to turn Winnie-the-Pooh back on." All right! Ooh - but - "Make sure you give him some ibuprofen!" Because I forgot the first time, and I'm pretty sure my teething little prince needed it.
Husband came back. Baby still fussing. Sigh. So, a third trudge, up I go, pick up the baby and hug him, and he just melts into my shoulder like that's where he really wants to sleep all night. Very sweet, precious, adorable...but, um, no, but thanks anyway. I settled him back in, to the misery of all involved (or maybe it was just him), turned Winnie-the-Pooh back on for yet another run (let's see how long those four D-batteries last, haha!) took some ibuprofen for myself, and settled down on the couch to write this post.
Because, at least that way, if I had to soothe him again, at least the trudge would be shorter this time. No stairs involved, anyway. Not enjoying the stairs at 2 a.m. At all.
As of now, he's been quiet for most of the time I spent writing this post. He's made a peep every now and then, but I am at least a little hopeful that we might avoid the warm milk again tonight. A little.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times he has not insisted on a bottle (or two) overnight, or at least I could if I could remember them. This was a huge accomplishment. Huge.
And encouraging, of course. Could it be that this truly would be a new beginning, a new era of baby sleeping that didn't include a bottle overnight?
Maybe. But, as you might guess from the fact that I'm writing this post at 2:45 the next night (or next-next morning, in fact), Night Two is not going quite as well. This is not too alarming, because what would be a step forward without a step back? Plus, there were other factors that went into play tonight: he didn't eat quite as much today as he did yesterday (I'm guessing); my parents watched him all day while my husband and I played (the reason I'm guessing about the food); my parents put him to bed at their house before we picked him up around 10:30 p.m., and then we didn't get home until midnight-ish, when I put him back to bed for real; and, because of the craziness surrounding bedtime tonight, he didn't get any ibuprofen before bed.
So, yeah. It wasn't exactly a normal bedtime. So it's not truly alarming that it's been a little bit of a rougher night. He woke up fussing a bit before 2 a.m. I trudged upstairs, hugged him, settled him back in bed (I know, and I wouldn't pick him up, but he had escaped his covers so he needed to be settled anyway), and turned on Winnie-the-Pooh (the bedtime music crib soother thingie).
Then I returned to bed to listen to that on the monitor as it played over and over for about fifteen minutes.
Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff, He's
Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Willy nilly silly ole bear!
Of course, there aren't any words on the crib soother, it's instrumental, but don't worry, my brain filled those in all on its own.
Oh, and the fussing. Don't forget the fussing. Because of course he didn't settle down. So I sighed, and groaned, and was about to trudge (there really isn't any other word for it) back up to re-settle him and turn Winnie-the-Pooh back on, when my husband got out of bed. "Where are you going?" I inquired. "Up to turn Winnie-the-Pooh back on." All right! Ooh - but - "Make sure you give him some ibuprofen!" Because I forgot the first time, and I'm pretty sure my teething little prince needed it.
Husband came back. Baby still fussing. Sigh. So, a third trudge, up I go, pick up the baby and hug him, and he just melts into my shoulder like that's where he really wants to sleep all night. Very sweet, precious, adorable...but, um, no, but thanks anyway. I settled him back in, to the misery of all involved (or maybe it was just him), turned Winnie-the-Pooh back on for yet another run (let's see how long those four D-batteries last, haha!) took some ibuprofen for myself, and settled down on the couch to write this post.
Because, at least that way, if I had to soothe him again, at least the trudge would be shorter this time. No stairs involved, anyway. Not enjoying the stairs at 2 a.m. At all.
As of now, he's been quiet for most of the time I spent writing this post. He's made a peep every now and then, but I am at least a little hopeful that we might avoid the warm milk again tonight. A little.
Friday, September 25, 2009
A New Beginning?
Tonight is our Baby Guy's first night in his own room. Yes, yes, YES. I know. Fifteen-and-a-half months old. Beyond due. I know.
Now that we're past that...
We have been toying with the idea of putting him in his own room for weeks, now. Months. Years. Oh, wait.
No, falling asleep isn't the problem. It's staying asleep. So in another hour or three, we will know the truth. Will he sleep all night? Or will he wake up screaming, as usual, insisting on a bottle of warm rice milk? Will he wake the Birdie, thus causing her to also insist on a serving of warm milk in the middle of the night?
Now that we're past that...
We have been toying with the idea of putting him in his own room for weeks, now. Months. Years. Oh, wait.
We were all set to do it last weekend, and then he went and got sick, and we decided a major upheaval probably wasn't in anyone's best interest.
We had planned on this weekend, then. The Bitty Girl would stay with my parents all weekend and we would be free to get the Baby Guy transitioned into his own room, his own bed...all night long...no matter how noisy it got, without fear of him disturbing his sister in the next room. But then our plans changed again, and our daughter stayed home, so I didn't think we were going to do it this weekend.
Then, five minutes before bedtime, my husband starts puttering around in the Baby Guy's room. He comes out with the video monitor and the apparent intent of using it tonight. "What are you doing with that?" I asked.
"I thought we could go ahead and put him in his room tonight anyway."
Despite my misgivings about doing it while the Bitty Girl is here, I didn't argue because I do want my son in his own room. As much as I love the proximity of having him in our bedroom, it just isn't a good long-term solution for us.
As I was sitting in the living room, I heard my husband laughing. My son likes his crib. It's bouncy. He stood at the side, held onto the rail, and jumped, and grinned. It was adorable.
I got my son's sleeping items - his blankets, his Lion, his Glowy Bear, and of course, the ubiquitous green stacking ring - and brought them upstairs. He got a little excited when he noticed me bringing them up the steps, and I think that's when he realized Something Was Up. I dumped them in the crib, brushed his teeth poked at his mouth with his toothbrush while he clamped his lips shut, whipped his head back and forth, and wailed, then dumped him in the crib.
We had planned on this weekend, then. The Bitty Girl would stay with my parents all weekend and we would be free to get the Baby Guy transitioned into his own room, his own bed...all night long...no matter how noisy it got, without fear of him disturbing his sister in the next room. But then our plans changed again, and our daughter stayed home, so I didn't think we were going to do it this weekend.
Then, five minutes before bedtime, my husband starts puttering around in the Baby Guy's room. He comes out with the video monitor and the apparent intent of using it tonight. "What are you doing with that?" I asked.
"I thought we could go ahead and put him in his room tonight anyway."
Despite my misgivings about doing it while the Bitty Girl is here, I didn't argue because I do want my son in his own room. As much as I love the proximity of having him in our bedroom, it just isn't a good long-term solution for us.
As I was sitting in the living room, I heard my husband laughing. My son likes his crib. It's bouncy. He stood at the side, held onto the rail, and jumped, and grinned. It was adorable.
I got my son's sleeping items - his blankets, his Lion, his Glowy Bear, and of course, the ubiquitous green stacking ring - and brought them upstairs. He got a little excited when he noticed me bringing them up the steps, and I think that's when he realized Something Was Up. I dumped them in the crib, brushed his teeth poked at his mouth with his toothbrush while he clamped his lips shut, whipped his head back and forth, and wailed, then dumped him in the crib.
He picked up his toys, showing them to me one by one as if to say, "Look, here are my friends! But what are they doing in here?"
And then he found out.
So far, so good. He went to sleep without a peep. See?
So far, so good. He went to sleep without a peep. See?
However, while many parents would find that encouraging, for me, that was no more than I had expected. Falling asleep is not a problem with him, regardless of where he is, for the most part. If he's ready to go to sleep (or often if it just seems to be expected of him) he will typically oblige.
No, falling asleep isn't the problem. It's staying asleep. So in another hour or three, we will know the truth. Will he sleep all night? Or will he wake up screaming, as usual, insisting on a bottle of warm rice milk? Will he wake the Birdie, thus causing her to also insist on a serving of warm milk in the middle of the night?
Probably. But maybe not. A parent can hope.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Not Pretty
Wow. That was majorly not pretty. We just made a big change in the bedtime routine. Ever since my son was born, he has been my responsibility to put to bed and my daughter has been my husband's responsibility. This has gone over well, because my Baby Guy is a Mommy's Boy and my Bitty Girl is a Daddy's Girl. This is the case about 99% of the time. If my husband is around, the Birdie wants him, and if I'm around, Baby Guy wants Mommy. They will settle for the "other" parent if their preference isn't available, but otherwise, this is The Way It Has To Be.
However, this creates the fairly unfair situation of my husband always having to put the "difficult" baby to bed and me having to deal with the "difficult" baby overnight. My daughter is tough to get in bed (as only a 2.5-year-old can be), but she typically sleeps all night. My son is amazingly easy to put to bed (and so precious, he will tell you "ite-ite" repeatedly as you leave the room), but he wakes at least twice overnight, sometimes for a long time (last night I was dealing with him for about two hours, although there was some dozing going on during that time).
So we decided that now that I'm not nursing the Baby Guy anymore, it's time for the situation to change. Tonight, I put the Girl to bed and Daddy put the Boy to bed. Not unexpectedly, my daughter threw a royal tantrum that started before we got off of the couch.
The first step of the bedtime routine is the Warm Milk. However, the past two nights, my daughter has requested orange juice instead. Last night, she had her orange juice, and then as Daddy started putting her to bed, asked for warm milk also. And threw a fit when he refused. She probably screamed for a good fifteen minutes, only stopping after my husband went in and calmed her down (although he did not give her the milk).
Tonight, I tried to make it abundantly clear to my daughter that if she chose the orange juice, she would not get the warm milk. She agreed to this stipulation and insisted on orange juice anyway. Fine.
So, fast forward to the point when she finished her orange juice. The moment the sippy was empty, it started. "I want some warm milk."
Me: "No, sweetie, you got orange juice instead."
Her: (starts bawling)
Me: "Honey, I told you, you could have one or the other, not both. You chose orange juice."
Her: "Iiiiii waaaaahhhhnnntttt wahhhhhrrrmm miiiiihhhhllllkkkk!" (bawling)
Me: (in the calmest voice I can muster) "Didn't I tell you you could have either warm milk or orange juice?"
Her: (silence. then, resentfully:) "Yes."
Me: "And what did you choose?"
Her: (silence)
Me: "Did you choose orange juice?"
Her: (silence, then nods once.)
Me: "Okay. Tomorrow night, then, if you want warm milk, you may have it."
Her: "I want to have it now!"
Me: "No, you may have it tomorrow."
More crying ensues. This whole time, my son has been lying peacefully on my lap beside her, having finished his bottle of rice milk. But at this point, I have turned the TV off (yes, yes, more TV). He starts saying, "Hairbrush? Hairbrush?" This is his code for, "TV? TV?" As completely random as that seems, it actually makes sense. A forthcoming post will explain it.
Me: "Okay, time to get up." I stand up with both children, put my son in his chair, and start carrying my daughter to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Her: "I don't want you to brush my teeth!"
Him: "Waaaaaahhhhhhhh!" ("How dare you put me down!")
I stop by her bedroom, toss her blankie on the bed (to the tune of "I WANT MY BLANKIE!") and squeeze the two of us into our under construction bathroom. Before I can get the door shut, my sobbing son toddles in after us.
A side note: my son can not be allowed in the bathroom on his own (and "on his own" means even if you are in there, if you are doing anything other than watching him with hawk-like alertness). If you lose track of him for even a second, he makes a beeline for the toilet paper roll. (Spin. Oooh. Spin, spin. Wheeee! Spin spin spin-spin-spin-spin-spinspinspinspinspin until the bathroom looks like the front yard of the local high school's least-favorite teacher after a couple of teenage boys realize they have extra time and a few extra rolls of Cottonelle on their hands.)
Eek.
Back in the bathroom with two unhappy toddlers. My son looks up me, wailing, and says, "Bup! Bup!" (I have no idea where the preceeding "B" came from, but I'm sure you can tell that this means he wants me to pick him up.) So, while still holding my daughter, I lean over and pick him up. By now, I have learned the art of picking up a second child while already holding one of them. Absolutely necessary for survival, but my lower back may never forgive me, no matter how many times I try to appease it with visits to the chiropractor.
Oh well. No pain, no gain.
I deposit my son back in my daughter's room, in front of the toys (hoping to distract him, even if it means I have a mess to clean up before bed) and cross back to the bathroom as quickly as I can. He immediately catches on to the ploy, but I can move pretty fast when I need to, and I get the bathroom door shut before he can get there. His anguished cries haunt me as he staggers, heartbroken, back into the living room.
I ignore him as only a put-upon parent can, prop my knee on the toilet lid, and sit my daughter on my thigh. "NO! I don't want you to brush my teeth! I WANT MY DADDY!" I ignore her (remember, put-upon parent), grab her toothbrush and squeeze toothpaste onto it.
Her: "No, not that one!"
Me: Blink. Blink. Ohhhh. "That's your brother's toothpaste, isn't it? I'm sorry! You're right!" I wash the toothpaste off of the toothbrush and grab one from the cabinet. "Do you want this one?"
Her: "No."
Me: (getting her strawberry kids toothpaste) "How about this one?"
Her: "No. I want that one." (pointing to - you guessed it - the baby toothpaste I had already rinsed off the toothbrush, once.)
Me: Shrug. I start to put toothpaste on the toothbrush again.
Her: "No, not that one!"
Me: Eyeroll.
Her: "I want my toothbrush!"
Ah. Riiiiiiiight. Did I mention that I usually put my son to bed? So by default, I grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste. Whoops! My bad. So I get her toothbrush and his toothpaste, and the rest of the tooth-brushing goes fairly smoothly. At least something did.
Then we finish and leave the bathroom, only to hear my husband (who had just gotten home) soothing my distressed Baby Guy. This starts another round of, "I WANT MY DADDY!" We go in and say goodnight to Daddy, who is holding the Baby Guy. My daughter grabs her daddy and tries to get him to take her. He hugs her and says goodnight, and I finally pry her free. And there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.
I get her in bed ("I don't want you to put me in bed!"), sing to her, and start her music. She is wailing. I turn the light out and close the door. Screaming continues. I sit down and start to write this post. Still screaming. My husband comes upstairs after sharing some "ite-ite's" with Baby Guy. Bitty Girl still screaming. I get about a third of the way through this post. Screaming starts to die down. About halfway through this, it finally stops.
Whew. I just hope she sleeps all night.
Next obstacle: middle-of-the-night when Baby Guy wakes up and realizes Daddy is the one taking care of him. Hopefully without any more weeping and gnashing of teeth.
However, this creates the fairly unfair situation of my husband always having to put the "difficult" baby to bed and me having to deal with the "difficult" baby overnight. My daughter is tough to get in bed (as only a 2.5-year-old can be), but she typically sleeps all night. My son is amazingly easy to put to bed (and so precious, he will tell you "ite-ite" repeatedly as you leave the room), but he wakes at least twice overnight, sometimes for a long time (last night I was dealing with him for about two hours, although there was some dozing going on during that time).
So we decided that now that I'm not nursing the Baby Guy anymore, it's time for the situation to change. Tonight, I put the Girl to bed and Daddy put the Boy to bed. Not unexpectedly, my daughter threw a royal tantrum that started before we got off of the couch.
The first step of the bedtime routine is the Warm Milk. However, the past two nights, my daughter has requested orange juice instead. Last night, she had her orange juice, and then as Daddy started putting her to bed, asked for warm milk also. And threw a fit when he refused. She probably screamed for a good fifteen minutes, only stopping after my husband went in and calmed her down (although he did not give her the milk).
Tonight, I tried to make it abundantly clear to my daughter that if she chose the orange juice, she would not get the warm milk. She agreed to this stipulation and insisted on orange juice anyway. Fine.
So, fast forward to the point when she finished her orange juice. The moment the sippy was empty, it started. "I want some warm milk."
Me: "No, sweetie, you got orange juice instead."
Her: (starts bawling)
Me: "Honey, I told you, you could have one or the other, not both. You chose orange juice."
Her: "Iiiiii waaaaahhhhnnntttt wahhhhhrrrmm miiiiihhhhllllkkkk!" (bawling)
Me: (in the calmest voice I can muster) "Didn't I tell you you could have either warm milk or orange juice?"
Her: (silence. then, resentfully:) "Yes."
Me: "And what did you choose?"
Her: (silence)
Me: "Did you choose orange juice?"
Her: (silence, then nods once.)
Me: "Okay. Tomorrow night, then, if you want warm milk, you may have it."
Her: "I want to have it now!"
Me: "No, you may have it tomorrow."
More crying ensues. This whole time, my son has been lying peacefully on my lap beside her, having finished his bottle of rice milk. But at this point, I have turned the TV off (yes, yes, more TV). He starts saying, "Hairbrush? Hairbrush?" This is his code for, "TV? TV?" As completely random as that seems, it actually makes sense. A forthcoming post will explain it.
Me: "Okay, time to get up." I stand up with both children, put my son in his chair, and start carrying my daughter to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Her: "I don't want you to brush my teeth!"
Him: "Waaaaaahhhhhhhh!" ("How dare you put me down!")
I stop by her bedroom, toss her blankie on the bed (to the tune of "I WANT MY BLANKIE!") and squeeze the two of us into our under construction bathroom. Before I can get the door shut, my sobbing son toddles in after us.
A side note: my son can not be allowed in the bathroom on his own (and "on his own" means even if you are in there, if you are doing anything other than watching him with hawk-like alertness). If you lose track of him for even a second, he makes a beeline for the toilet paper roll. (Spin. Oooh. Spin, spin. Wheeee! Spin spin spin-spin-spin-spin-spinspinspinspinspin until the bathroom looks like the front yard of the local high school's least-favorite teacher after a couple of teenage boys realize they have extra time and a few extra rolls of Cottonelle on their hands.)
Eek.
Back in the bathroom with two unhappy toddlers. My son looks up me, wailing, and says, "Bup! Bup!" (I have no idea where the preceeding "B" came from, but I'm sure you can tell that this means he wants me to pick him up.) So, while still holding my daughter, I lean over and pick him up. By now, I have learned the art of picking up a second child while already holding one of them. Absolutely necessary for survival, but my lower back may never forgive me, no matter how many times I try to appease it with visits to the chiropractor.
Oh well. No pain, no gain.
I deposit my son back in my daughter's room, in front of the toys (hoping to distract him, even if it means I have a mess to clean up before bed) and cross back to the bathroom as quickly as I can. He immediately catches on to the ploy, but I can move pretty fast when I need to, and I get the bathroom door shut before he can get there. His anguished cries haunt me as he staggers, heartbroken, back into the living room.
I ignore him as only a put-upon parent can, prop my knee on the toilet lid, and sit my daughter on my thigh. "NO! I don't want you to brush my teeth! I WANT MY DADDY!" I ignore her (remember, put-upon parent), grab her toothbrush and squeeze toothpaste onto it.
Her: "No, not that one!"
Me: Blink. Blink. Ohhhh. "That's your brother's toothpaste, isn't it? I'm sorry! You're right!" I wash the toothpaste off of the toothbrush and grab one from the cabinet. "Do you want this one?"
Her: "No."
Me: (getting her strawberry kids toothpaste) "How about this one?"
Her: "No. I want that one." (pointing to - you guessed it - the baby toothpaste I had already rinsed off the toothbrush, once.)
Me: Shrug. I start to put toothpaste on the toothbrush again.
Her: "No, not that one!"
Me: Eyeroll.
Her: "I want my toothbrush!"
Ah. Riiiiiiiight. Did I mention that I usually put my son to bed? So by default, I grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste. Whoops! My bad. So I get her toothbrush and his toothpaste, and the rest of the tooth-brushing goes fairly smoothly. At least something did.
Then we finish and leave the bathroom, only to hear my husband (who had just gotten home) soothing my distressed Baby Guy. This starts another round of, "I WANT MY DADDY!" We go in and say goodnight to Daddy, who is holding the Baby Guy. My daughter grabs her daddy and tries to get him to take her. He hugs her and says goodnight, and I finally pry her free. And there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.
I get her in bed ("I don't want you to put me in bed!"), sing to her, and start her music. She is wailing. I turn the light out and close the door. Screaming continues. I sit down and start to write this post. Still screaming. My husband comes upstairs after sharing some "ite-ite's" with Baby Guy. Bitty Girl still screaming. I get about a third of the way through this post. Screaming starts to die down. About halfway through this, it finally stops.
Whew. I just hope she sleeps all night.
Next obstacle: middle-of-the-night when Baby Guy wakes up and realizes Daddy is the one taking care of him. Hopefully without any more weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Breaking News
This just happened. While I blog, I'm (gasp!) letting my son watch TV. Specifically, the Veggie Tales Silly Song Countdown. It's on The Yodeling Veterinarian of the Alps. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, in this silly song, Larry the Cucumber is "The Yodeling Veterinarian of the Alps," an unconventional vet who, instead of giving medicines, yodels to people's sick pets to make them feel better. Doesn't sound effective, you think? It isn't. After each verse, the vet's nurse, played by Pa Grape, gives each owner some practical advice that is really what cures the pet, although the yodeling vet gets all the credit.
Aha. Here it is on YouTube.
Anyway, the second verse is, "This is a song...for your pregnant kitty..." As it started, before Larry started singing, my 15-month-old son announced, "Kitty!"
I guess you had to be there.
Edited to add: Something else just happened. More Toddler Terrorism. I just happened to catch out of the corner of my eye - my daughter just took her socks off and stuffed them in between the couch and the ottoman. I often find her socks down there, so she must do this a lot. I thought they just happened to end up there, somehow. Now I know otherwise.
Aha. Here it is on YouTube.
Anyway, the second verse is, "This is a song...for your pregnant kitty..." As it started, before Larry started singing, my 15-month-old son announced, "Kitty!"
I guess you had to be there.
Edited to add: Something else just happened. More Toddler Terrorism. I just happened to catch out of the corner of my eye - my daughter just took her socks off and stuffed them in between the couch and the ottoman. I often find her socks down there, so she must do this a lot. I thought they just happened to end up there, somehow. Now I know otherwise.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Toddler Terrorism
I want to share something special with you. This is the story that started it all. The original Toddler Terrorism. There's just one thing about it.
"Where's the doorknob?" I asked my daughter. Silence. Also a look that clearly says, "I have no idea what you're talking about but will try to humor you anyway."
"Do you remember where you put it?" Pause. "No." Sigh.
At this point, with my focus largely on finding the doorknob/getting us out of the room, I somehow FORGET that I have a half-naked toddler who needs to potty in the room with me. Continuing the search, I discover a decent-sized puddle right next to the laundry basket that I am pretty sure had not been there previously.
"Did you pee on the floor?"
"Yes."
"Why did you do that?"
"Oops."
Here we paused in our search for the missing doorknob to clean up the pee puddle........ Having cleaned up the pee, the search continues without success. I try other options. How about putting two books around the doorknob stem to gain some leverage? No dice. Same result with everything else I try. I call my wife to advise her of the situation and my plans to deal with it. She is not amused. Time to dial 911.
"Mom? I have a small problem." My mother is incredulous that I have managed to lock myself in a room with a toddler while my 10-month old son is enjoying the rest of the house to himself. She agrees to come over and release us.
In a last ditch effort to save my ailing mother a trip over, I start digging through the folded laundry to see if my daughter could possibly have stowed the $%)!! doorknob in the basket. Lo and behold, with a loud THUNK the thing comes plopping out of the laundry onto the hardwood. We are saved. I phone Mom with the good news and turn my attention to the half-naked toddler.
"Are you ready to sit on the potty?"
"I want some apple juice."
"Of course you do." Ain't kids great?
I didn't write it.
That's right. My blog's catchy title? I may have forgotten to mention this, but I didn't come up with it.
My husband did.
And now he's insisted I confess that - and share the story he wrote. So, without further ado, I give you the original
Toddler Terrorism
Does anyone else have a toddler who does things like this? This morning I took my daughter into her room to get her ready to sit on the potty, shutting the door behind me to keep my son from following us in and pulling all of her clean clothes out of the laundry basket. After removing her (already disgusting) diaper (and wondering why she still needed to sit on the potty) and heading toward the door, I discovered something was missing. Something important. Namely, the doorknob. It's a type that requires tightening with an allen wrench, and had been loose for several weeks while I was too busy to retrieve said allen wrench from the downstairs workshop. Apparently my daughter had found time to remove it this morning when she wasn't strewing the contents of a new box of diapers all over the room. So now I am trapped in a bedroom with my naked-from-the-waist-down toddler (she needed to sit on the potty, remember?) who is now prancing around the room and singing Veggie tunes.
"Where's the doorknob?" I asked my daughter. Silence. Also a look that clearly says, "I have no idea what you're talking about but will try to humor you anyway."
"Do you remember where you put it?" Pause. "No." Sigh.
At this point, with my focus largely on finding the doorknob/getting us out of the room, I somehow FORGET that I have a half-naked toddler who needs to potty in the room with me. Continuing the search, I discover a decent-sized puddle right next to the laundry basket that I am pretty sure had not been there previously.
"Did you pee on the floor?"
"Yes."
"Why did you do that?"
"Oops."
Here we paused in our search for the missing doorknob to clean up the pee puddle........ Having cleaned up the pee, the search continues without success. I try other options. How about putting two books around the doorknob stem to gain some leverage? No dice. Same result with everything else I try. I call my wife to advise her of the situation and my plans to deal with it. She is not amused. Time to dial 911.
"Mom? I have a small problem." My mother is incredulous that I have managed to lock myself in a room with a toddler while my 10-month old son is enjoying the rest of the house to himself. She agrees to come over and release us.
In a last ditch effort to save my ailing mother a trip over, I start digging through the folded laundry to see if my daughter could possibly have stowed the $%)!! doorknob in the basket. Lo and behold, with a loud THUNK the thing comes plopping out of the laundry onto the hardwood. We are saved. I phone Mom with the good news and turn my attention to the half-naked toddler.
"Are you ready to sit on the potty?"
"I want some apple juice."
"Of course you do." Ain't kids great?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Toddler Tidbits
I'm lounging on the couch with my laptop (love laptops!) doing two of my favorite things: writing a new blog post and drinking hot chocolate. Mmmmmm.
It occurred to me today that it might seem odd to my readers that, despite the name of my blog, I often post about things other than my children. The reason for this is simple: I never intended my blog to be entirely about my children.
What? Then...why did you call it Toddler Terrorism?
Because it's catchy! Don't you think? Is there really any better reason than that? And I do have toddlers (officially two, now, as my baby guy has been walking on his own for about a week). And I am going to post about them a lot. Just not exclusively.
Just thought I'd get that out there for all of you who were wondering. Because you were wondering, right?
I do, however, plan to talk about some toddler terrorism tonight.
Toddler Timing
I took the kids out for a walk with my in-laws tonight. Of course, first I had to get home from work, then we had to eat dinner, then I had to chase my son around with a bottle because he had to have it (whine, whine, whine!) until the very moment I gave it to him, at which point it was time to play. By the time all of that was finished, it was approaching 8:00.
Yes, I leave the house with my kids after 8:00 sometimes. So sue me.
I called my in-laws and told them I needed to change a couple of soggy diapers, then I'd be ready to go. Changed diaper #1. Changed diaper #2. Herded the kids into the living room to get my daughter's shoes.
Then, when we were two minutes from getting out the door - we had almost made it - I heard the last thing a parent wants to hear when they're trying to leave the house. Seven dreaded words that (at least in my house) mean it's going to be a minimum of another fifteen minutes before we can even consider hitting the road.
"I need to sit on the potty."
My initial response was some wishful thinking. "No you don't." (Yes, yes. I know. Bad Mommy. But - fifteen minutes. At least.)
"Yes I do!"
Sigh. Yes, in fact, she did. And she went on the potty. And I didn't have to change a dirty diaper. I should have been thankful for that, but all I could think about was that we had been this close to getting out the door.
We did go walk, even though it was getting close to 8:30 by the time we left the house. It was 9:30 - and dark - by the time we finished walking, but it was a nice night and a pleasant walk and we even got to see a deer.
I know you're jealous.
Toddler Logic
As part of my daughter's bedtime routine, she sits with her daddy and drinks a cup of warm milk. Sitting on the couch. In the living room. (Remember this. It's important.)
While waiting for him to get her milk ready, she started complaining remarking that she was cold. I was sitting on the couch giving my son his bottle and she commanded politely asked me to get her a blanket.
Me: "I can't get it right now. It's in the other room."
Her: "It's not in the other room!"
Me: "Then where is it?"
Her: "In my bedroom."
Toddler Terrorism Turned My Brain To Mush
After the kids were in bed, as I was putting together in advance my son's midnight (or 2 a.m.) bottle - yes, yes, my 14-month-old still gets a middle-of-the-night bottle, at least he's no longer nursing for an hour and a half every night - I conscientiously followed the instructions on the rice milk package and shook it like the kid in first-grade music class who gets to play the tambourine vigorously.
I discovered that those instructions excluded one thing that this mind-numbed mom apparently needed to be told, as she wasn't quick enough on the uptake to figure it out on her own.
Hold down the cap while you shake it, because the seal isn't strong enough to withstand maniacal vigorous shaking on its own.
My husband walked in shortly after I finished mopping up the mess.
Me: "Make sure you hold the rice milk closed before you shake it."
Him: "I already knew that."
Oh, reeeeeeeeally.
Me: "You didn't find that out the hard way, too, did you?"
Him: "No comment."
Heh.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Takin' Care of Business
I'll probably be posting off and on today as I get the chance. So, as I mentioned before, I took care of my daughter, who was beating knocking on her door and calling for Mama earlier. A little update on that situation:
I open the door and almost smack her in the face because she, in typical two-year-old fashion, is standing directly behind it, waiting for me to open it.
Me: "You need to take a nap now."
Birdie: "I need to sit on the potty."
Me: "Do you really need to sit on the potty?"
Birdie: "Yes. I'm pooping."
I most certainly did not, at this time, sniff her butt to see if she was really pooping. Not me. (Oh, wait, that's tomorrow's post, isn't it?)
Me: "No you're not."
Birdie: "Yes I am. I need to sit on the potty."
Me: "No you don't. You're just trying to keep from taking a nap. Are you trying to keep from having to take a nap?"
Birdie: "Yes."
Me: "Get in bed."
Birdie: [GRUNT]
Me: [grabbing her hand and dragging leading her to the bathroom] "Okay, okay - hold it! Wait! Wait! Wait!"
Amazingly enough, we made it, and even more amazingly, she did, indeed, fill the potty with poo um, take care of business.
I'd like to say that she then went right to bed and fell quietly and calmly asleep, but judging from the sounds of babbly singing coming from her room, I suspect that wouldn't quite be the truth.
Sigh.
I open the door and almost smack her in the face because she, in typical two-year-old fashion, is standing directly behind it, waiting for me to open it.
Me: "You need to take a nap now."
Birdie: "I need to sit on the potty."
Me: "Do you really need to sit on the potty?"
Birdie: "Yes. I'm pooping."
I most certainly did not, at this time, sniff her butt to see if she was really pooping. Not me. (Oh, wait, that's tomorrow's post, isn't it?)
Me: "No you're not."
Birdie: "Yes I am. I need to sit on the potty."
Me: "No you don't. You're just trying to keep from taking a nap. Are you trying to keep from having to take a nap?"
Birdie: "Yes."
Me: "Get in bed."
Birdie: [GRUNT]
Me: [grabbing her hand and dragging leading her to the bathroom] "Okay, okay - hold it! Wait! Wait! Wait!"
Amazingly enough, we made it, and even more amazingly, she did, indeed, fill the potty with poo um, take care of business.
I'd like to say that she then went right to bed and fell quietly and calmly asleep, but judging from the sounds of babbly singing coming from her room, I suspect that wouldn't quite be the truth.
Sigh.
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