It's time for the fun blog party, typically sponosored by MckMama, although she says she's not doing one this week - "Not Me Monday," in which we get to talk about all of the ways we didn't fall short during the past week.
Because, of course, we didn't make any mistakes this week. Not at all.
We finished our weight-loss competition at work this week, with our final weigh-in on Friday morning. I am pleased to announce that I did not gain four pounds during the competition. Oh no. I have much more willpower than that, and if I made a commitment to lose weight - even being on a team with someone else - then I certainly wouldn't have gained weight, instead.
Friday night, my sister- and brother-in-law were kind enough to give my husband and me a few baby-free hours. At dinner, I did not indulge in two beers. I would never be so irresponsible as to have more than one at a time. I was not tipsy when we picked my kiddos up. No, not at all. (But all joking aside, I have to add that my husband most certainly was driving.)
Speaking of indulging, at the other end of the spectrum, I did not, today, have two lattes while sitting at La Vida Java finishing the book I've been reading. Too much espresso makes me sick, so I wouldn't have four shots in the span of about two hours.
After having coffee, I didn't go to the bookstore looking for a computer reference book for something I'm working on at work. I mean, why would I do something for work on my own time? And then spend my own money on it? I'm not that dedicated. Really. I did not sit, cross-legged, on the ground in front of the books looking for what I needed, and I most certainly did not grin and say, "Heh heh, that's perfect!" out loud when I found what I was looking for. Seriously. I am not that much of a geek.
I have not been letting my children watch TV for most of the time since I got home. TV rots your brain. No, really - I actually do think that TV is not that great for kids their age. So I definitely have not had the TV on for them for about three hours straight. Shudder.
When my son came walking into the living room this evening sucking on a kleenex or cloth or something, I did not just let him keep doing it without checking to see what he had. I did not, a few minutes later, hear my daughter making a mess in her room and check on her to discover that she had gotten into the baby wipes and strewn them all around the room. I did not then realize my son wasn't sucking on a kleenex or a cloth - he was sucking on a baby wipe. Ew. At least it was clean.
Oh. And when I asked my daughter if she had gotten the wipes out and thrown them all over the room, my 2.5-year-old did not reply, "Baby Guy pulled one out, too." As if that made it all better.
I also, after having not gained weight during the recent weight-loss competition, have a chocolate milkshake from Sonic after the kids were in bed. Seriously. What the heck is wrong with me??? (By the way, have you had a Sonic chocolate milkshake? Wow. Best fast-food milkshake ever. Yum.)
And you'd better believe I haven't forgotten everything that happened before Friday that I was going to put in this post. My memory is not that bad. And if it is, I make notes. Of course.
So, what did you not do this week? Tell me all about it!
Since MckMama decided not to do one this week, I'm putting a MckLinky on my post so at least my friends can pop around to each others' blogs and see what other people didn't do this week. To put the list on your page, enclose the following code in "pointy brackets" and paste it at the end of your "Not Me Monday" post:
(open pointy bracket)script src="http://www.mcklinky.com/linky_include_basic.asp?id=4602" type="text/javascript"(close pointy bracket) (open pointy bracket)/script(close pointy bracket)
I hope that made sense. If not, leave me a comment on this post and I'll try to clarify.
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.
Friday, August 28, 2009
An Unintentional Break
I haven't posted lately, mostly because I've been too busy reading in the evenings to turn on my computer and write. I apologize. Not that I feel anyone is expecting an apology, but I have intended to post several times this week, I just never got around to it. I tend to get fairly caught up in books, and have trouble putting them down, because, my goodness, what if I stop reading and miss something important? It might ruin the whole story.
I usually don't blog while my kids are awake, but I decided on the way home that I'd get something new out there, even if it meant neglecting not playing with my children. Right now, they are chasing each other around the house. My son is dragging around my daughter's nightgown as if it were a blankie.
I have no idea.
Every once in a while, my son stops by and commands, "Bup! Bup!" At that time, I am expected to stop what I'm doing, put my computer aside, and pick him up so he can hug me, wallow all over, and try his darnedest to get his pudgy little fingers on my computer keys.
My daughter is wearing panties instead of pull-ups for the first time tonight. Not long ago, I witnessed my husband chasing her around the living room, waving purple panties, as she threw a fit because she didn't want to put them back on after sitting on the potty (she wanted to change to her princess panties). He finally held her down and got them on her. Surprisingly, she's kept them on.
Now they're playing in my daughter's bedroom, where the sound of toys being strewn about would make the writers of Stomp jealous. If only they could clean up with the same amount of enthusiasm and creativity.
A mom can wish.
I usually don't blog while my kids are awake, but I decided on the way home that I'd get something new out there, even if it meant neglecting not playing with my children. Right now, they are chasing each other around the house. My son is dragging around my daughter's nightgown as if it were a blankie.
I have no idea.
Every once in a while, my son stops by and commands, "Bup! Bup!" At that time, I am expected to stop what I'm doing, put my computer aside, and pick him up so he can hug me, wallow all over, and try his darnedest to get his pudgy little fingers on my computer keys.
My daughter is wearing panties instead of pull-ups for the first time tonight. Not long ago, I witnessed my husband chasing her around the living room, waving purple panties, as she threw a fit because she didn't want to put them back on after sitting on the potty (she wanted to change to her princess panties). He finally held her down and got them on her. Surprisingly, she's kept them on.
Now they're playing in my daughter's bedroom, where the sound of toys being strewn about would make the writers of Stomp jealous. If only they could clean up with the same amount of enthusiasm and creativity.
A mom can wish.
The Biggest Loser Gainer
A few times, I've alluded to a weight loss competition we're doing here at work. Well, today was the big day - final weigh-in.
My result? I'm sure this will utterly shock you. Four pounds. Yup, four stinking pounds.
Gained.
Sigh.
My result? I'm sure this will utterly shock you. Four pounds. Yup, four stinking pounds.
Gained.
Sigh.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Just...say...NO!!!
Why is it so hard? Why? When the office triathlete - excuse me, Iron Man competitor - comes by with a box of doughnuts that I know he wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole - why is it that just as the words, "That's really nice, but no, thanks anyway," start to pass my lips, my traitorous arm is reaching out and I find myself saying, instead, "Oooh, I really shouldn't, but..."
But.
Of course, I did.
And now I'm 500 calories fuller than I was before the chocolate-covered cream-filled goodies came by. (Why did it have to be my favorite kind?)
Sigh.
But.
Of course, I did.
And now I'm 500 calories fuller than I was before the chocolate-covered cream-filled goodies came by. (Why did it have to be my favorite kind?)
Sigh.
A Fun-Filled Day
My family and I recently spent the day at my parents' house, celebrating my mom's...well, let's just say a milestone birthday. It was very low-key (probably a little bit too low-key, sorry, Mom) and we basically just took the kids up to hang out with Mom and Dad for the day.
We did a lot of different things while we were there, though:
Picked tomatoes with Granddaddy...
...ate the tomatoes right off the vine...
...wore crowns made from foam floor pads...
...got haircuts (before)....
...(after)...
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