Red Rollerskate

2007-07-04T20:31:00.000-08:00

I've been away awhile.

Something about running a home daycare makes me feel very isolated. I've heard stay-at-home moms say that they go crazy staying home all day having three-year-old conversations, but this is different. I mean, I do have that on the weekends, and it's different than my Monday through Friday job. During the week we have a purpose, and I'm focused on teaching them social skills and facts and perfecting our daily routine to minimize the craziness... so it's different than that feeling I have when it's just me and my kids. But it is still isolating.

When all the kids are gone and Husband comes home to watch our kids, I dart upstairs. And I'd like to say it's so that I can log on to CNN.com or call my sister or blog or do some other adult thing, but usually it's to read... about kids.

Every day I encounter some new kid challenge, and in the evening, I read about how to handle it. There's always something.

But what about me? Am I a something?

The other day I had this conversation:
Me: Ow.
Charlie: What happened?
Me: I bumped my head.
Charlie: Where?
Me: On the car.
Charlie: On what part of the car?
Me: Right there.
Charlie: But how did you bump your head on that part of the car?
Me (in my head): What difference does it make? I just bumped my fucking head! I just said "ow." Do I have to stop saying "ow?" Can a person not make a comment in passing without all the follow-up questions?
Me (in actuality): Oh, I dunno sweetie. Let's just be quiet for a minute.

And I realized that a little part of my brain has died. The adult, formerly-intellectual, thirsty for knowledge* part of my brain.
* Adult knowledge, which includes such topics as world events, politics, the arts (not arts & crafts), hell... even Hollywood gossip would be a step up.

So, I am putting myself on daycare bulletin board restriction. Only 30 minutes per day. And while the kids nap... no computer time at all. I am also requiring myself to start reading the paper every day, like I used to, like most normal adults who care about the world do. And I might also start blogging again, though it might be kid related. Baby steps.

2007-04-20T12:44:00.000-08:00

The downside of running a daycare, II.
I got my master's degree. I wanted an "analytical" job that would make me "think" and "ponder" and have grown up conversations.

Instead, I read stories on the floor, answer "why" questions, and talk about boogers and poop an awful lot. I love what I do, but I find myself mentally listing the downsides.

Before starting this, I worried that the quasi-intelligent side of my brain might die if not used. I am starting to realize this truth.

Last week I walked through the family room as hubby was watching a new show.
Oooooh. You like that show? Neat!
He shot me a look, and I realized it. I cannot escape kid teacher mode.

Then, a few nights ago, he let Charlie stay up way too late. The next day, Charlie was clinging to my leg like Saran Wrap, and constantly asking for me to hold him. He was overtired. That night, I laid into hubby. Except, instead of casually mentioning we should find and stick to a bedtime, I became that lady again.
His bedtime is 8:00. No exceptions!
I couldn't tell if he felt belittled or angry, but romantic and sexy were not either of the expressions I read.

Then, last night. I was talking to a girlfriend on the phone. She said something moderately funny, and I actually said:
Nooooo.... silly!

Before you know it, I'll be asking everyone if they went stinky before leaving the house. And then actually offering to wipe their butts. And reminding them to use soap when they wash. And putting the hand towel on the counter, within reaching distance.

2007-04-11T20:30:00.000-08:00

Quotable.
Charlie: Mommy, want to see my poop?
Me: No, not really.
Charlie: Mommy, I went poop. Come see it.
Me: No, that's OK. I don't need to see it.
Charlie: Mommy, do you want to see the long poop with the stripes, or the square poop?

Now this I gotta see.

2007-04-09T12:20:00.000-08:00

The big downside of running a home daycare.
My baby thinks my name is Andrea.

At first, I thought it was my imagination. After all, his pronunciation is not great. But when I put him in his enclosed area and went upstairs for a minute, I heard the following (yelled with great enthusiasm):

"Aaaa-eeeee-aaaaa!"

Naw, couldn't be.

The next day, same thing.

Everytime I go upstairs, I hear, "Aanneaaaaaa" or something similar. I have finally come to accept that my baby, my 13 month-old who barely speaks, no longer calls me mommy. This makes sense, as he hears the big kids (including his brother, who likes to push my buttons) call me Andrea. Now that I think of it, he has not called me mama in a few months.

I have been working hard to teach him that I am, in fact, his mommy, but he has been ignoring me.

2007-03-28T18:46:00.000-08:00

Double Standard.
Once again, we (all right, MySpace) has sexualized breastfeeding as naughty, explicit, and indecent, while happily remaining OK with non-mom boobs hanging out for the world to see. In actuality, I don't care whose boobs are begging to be seen. As I think I've said before, they are just boobs. I am not particularly offended by boobs on the covers of magazines or elsewhere -- sexual or otherwise. But if you are going to object to breastfeeding boobs, then you really need to object to the other ones.

The issue:

Do something:
http://www.petitiononline.com/Brstfeed/petition.html

See for yourself what all the fuss is about:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=86080373

Are you offended?

2007-03-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

I said I needed help. No, not that kind of help.
I have always been very casual about my housecleaning priorities. Now, I wouldn't call myself a slob, but cleaning is a bit low on my priority list. Since I watch kids all day, I want to do important things at night like relax, be with my own family, stare at a wall, catch up on TV shows, and eat chips. Vacuuming is not high on this list.

But being that I run a home daycare, it should at least make the list.

In order to preserve my free time in the evening, I've been instituting this clever idea called, "cleaning as you go." It's actually working out pretty well. I load the dishwasher while the kids play with Play-Doh at the table nearby. I load the dryer while the two-year-old pees nearby. I vacuum when a couple of the kids have been picked up and I only have a few left. It's working out pretty well, but honestly, I still think it's a stye.

A few weeks ago, I finally decided to hire a housekeeper. I am sick of the mess -- the boogers on the window, the stuff stuck under the table, the coffee drips splattered on the white kitchen cabinets, the dust taking up residence atop the baseboards. I didn't really have the money, but I recently learned that it is mostly tax-deductible for me, being that my very business clients create most of the mess.

One of my friends recommended someone to me, and I called her immediately. She said she would need to look at my house and give me a quote. Perfect.

She came over and walked through. I apologized for the mess, and she said things like, "oh, this is fine. This will be fine." I asked her, incredulously, "You want to take this on, really?" She said, "Yes. But your friend's house... oh, it is messy. Dog hair everywhere. So messy." That should have been Clue Number One.

After completing her walk through, she told me it would be $150 for the whole house. I thought about it a bit, and then it was $140. And then, $130. Amazing. I agreed to it, and scheduled an appointment for the following Saturday morning.

Meanwhile, my friend bragged about how clean her house had become. Polished picture frames, clean windows, clean blinds -- all the things she forgets to clean or doesn't have time to clean now sparkled.

House Cleaner Lady came on Saturday morning as planned. She walked in. "Oh my. Oh my goodness. How does it get so messy?" I can't remember what I said, though it looked the same way it did two days earlier. I was on my way out, so I said goodbye. It was Will's Birthday, and I didn't want to spend it talking about how messy my house was.

After running a few errands, I came back home to drop off a bunch of party balloons. I noticed she was quickly going through a roll of fresh paper towels.
HCL: Do you have more of these? The floor under the kid table is so dirty, I didn't realize I would need so many.
Me: No, I don't have any more.
HCL: You have no more paper towels?
Me: No. I didn't know you would need to use mine.
HCL: And your mop. This will not do. Do you have another one?
Me: I do not.
HCL: I need the kind with the long strips, the cloth strips, and you move the plastic handle to squeeze out the water, you know, like this. You know how you squeeze down like this (motioning rapidly)? Could you please go buy me one... I will pay you back, of course.
Me: Ok.

I came back, she talked some more about how dirty it was under the table.
HCL: How does it get so dirty down there?
Me: I watch kids for a living. And my baby is just turning one.
HCL: But how does he make such a mess?
Me: He is a baby.
HCL: You should get a cover. You put it over the floor. It protects the floor. A floor cover. Keeps the floor clean.
Me: But, um, then I just have to mop the cover thingy.
HCL: Oh, no. It is better. Much better. You buy it at the flea market.
Me: Here is the mop you asked for, and the receipt.
HCL: Oh, I was able to use your old mop. I don't need this new one anymore. But you -- you need it. You keep it. You just keep it.
Me: Um, thanks.

Later.
HCL: The floor, it was so dirty. I scrub and scrub and scrub. I had to really scrub.
Me: Yes, I know you scrubbed. Because you are a housecleaner. And scrubbing is one of the services you claim to do well, and which people pay you to do. That is what I am paying you to do, right? (Ok, I actually just nodded, but that is what I meant).
HCL: And I had to scrub for so long, I did not get to the blinds.
Me (feeling ashamed): Ok, that is fine. Here is your money. Can I please get a receipt?
HCL: Receipt? No one ever asked me for that before.
Me: Ok. I need a receipt.
HCL: I don't have one.
Me: I can make one for you to sign. What is your last name?
HCL: How much you save from tax company by giving them a receipt?
Me: I don't know. Maybe twenty, thirty bucks.
HCL: Because, your floor very dirty. I scrub and I scrub.
Me: All right. Forget it.

Later in the week.
Me (talking to answering machine): House Cleaning Lady, I will not be needing you again on Saturday. I have decided to use another company that will give me receipts for the work I pay for.

Two hours later, the doorbell rings. I look through the peephole. Crap. I contemplate pretending to not be home, but the kids running back and forth sort of give me away. I open the door.
HCL: You did not like the work I did? You really need me. And I will give you a receipt next time.
Me: I thought you did not have receipts.
HCL: I do have receipts. Now I have receipts.
Me: Actually, I was kind of bothered that you complained about how messy it was.
HCL: Oh... (covering face with hands), I am so sorry. I am an honest person. Like an open book. I don't talk behind people's backs. I talk to people's faces.
Me: Right.... but I didn't want to feel bad about my house.
HCL: Next time I come, I be quiet. I won't talk. Just work quietly.
Me: Um, Ok...
HCL: So I still come on Saturday? I do a good job.
Me: Ok.

Drats.

Later in the week.
Me (over phone): I won't be needing you on Saturday. I really have just decided not to have a housecleaner lady.
HCL: You still mad that I talk so much? That I complained? You are mad at me.
Me: No, I really am not mad at you. Really. I have just decided to clean my own house.
HCL: You need my help.
Me: I know I do. But I will do it myself. Thanks anyway.
I think I heard a sob on the other end, but she said thank you and hung up. Guess I can't complain about the mess anymore.

2007-03-22T10:56:00.000-08:00

My kid is perfect.
Is anyone else ever surprised by how utterly perfect your own kids seem? As babies, they really are perfect. They don't have 'tudes yet, they have no wrinkes or other imperfections, they are appropriately needy and soft and cuddly so that our love for them can intensify and ensure their survival.

For me, this idealism has continued throughout Charlie's young childhood. If someone so much as suggested their child reached a verbal milestone before mine did, I would chime in that mine was walking early -- therefore, he was focused on the equally-important physical skills. When someone else's kid seems more athletic, mine is sweeter. My kid is perfect.

As he gets older, I am surprised to find that this superiority complex still exists. I mean, I watch other peoples' kids for a living, and I am very fond of all of them. But, although I try to surpress it, I secretly feel protective (and shocked by) any clue that my child might not be perfect.

Take his red hair. Yes, I know, it is pretty and vibrant. But boys don't want to be pretty or vibrant. Heck, I was the girliest of all girly girls, and I despised my red hair and fair skin. I was called Strawberry Shortcake, eraser head, Annie, an unmentionable, and for my fair skin, milk legs. That last one hurt.

Adults always tell him that he has beautiful hair, and I say thank you but cringe inside. Adults love red hair; kids point and laugh at it.

And then there's his height. At first I thought his growth spurt just hadn't come yet. But after three or four visits with his height lingering in the lower percentiles, I have accepted it. He will be short. And my protective, perfectionist side kicks in: he will be short; but husky. He will be redheaded; but cute. He might be the creative (as opposed to athletic) type; but also outgoing and friendly and interesting. He is still my perfect child.

The internal argument intensified today after Charlie returned with his dad from his first dentist appointment. Let me preface this by saying that this kid (bias rapidly approaching) has the pearliest, whitest, straightest kid teeth I've ever seen. He has 22 of these pearly whites, and, according to Mr. Dentist, 13 of them have cavities. Thirteen. I am in my early thirties and have had maybe 5 cavities my entire life. I am a bit shocked considering we are not big on juice or candy or sweets, and he never went to bed with baby bottles. All right, I know we have not been terribly consistent with teeth brushing, but the dentist insists his "soft teeth" are genetic. But anyway, not my point.

This just serves as another reminder that my perfect child - the one whose Birthday was the happiest day of my life and who has made me smile every day since - will someday be teased and become aware of his imperfections. He will deal with it fine, I'm sure (cuz, um, he's perfect). But I, for one, will have to accept that my child is also human.

2007-03-19T19:37:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am still young and hip.

Last month, we bought a minivan. Ok, it is not as pimpin' cool as the one pictured, but I love it. This is coming from someone who swore I would never buy an SUV/van/gas guzzler of any variety.

But I got really sick of having no trunk space because the double stroller and diaper bag took up all the room. And every time we needed something from Home Depot (which is way too often), we had to rent one of their trucks. And also, the new ones are pretty.

So we did it. We bought a newish one. The turning radius is awesome. The ride is smooth. The sound system is actually decent. It smells good. And I just like it.

What I did not expect was the reaction from Everyone In The World. Let's evaluate.

Neighbor #1: I love your new van. I wish my husband would let me buy one like that.
Daycare parent #1: I love your van!!!! I wish my hubby would let me get one!!!
Friend #1: Nice van. I wish my husband would let us get one.
Neighbor #2: You gotta new van, huh? Now you are really part of the Middle Class. (WTF?)
Neighbor #2 (different day, incredulously): So you really like that van, huh?
Daycare parent #2: My wife loves your van. She wishes I would let her get one.

None of the above quotes are exaggerations. Not one.

All of this is making us feel a little defensive. Jerry's response to one neighbor was that he had no idea it would be so "emasculating," (said sarcastically, as in, "I used to be a man but this material object essentially cut my balls of. Wish I would have known.")

Everytime we drive in it, we giddily announce to each other that those who don't have vans, yet have more than one child, and think vans are lame, just don't get it. Fuck 'em.

Which brings me to today.

I had to go to the DMV to get new plates for said van. I came prepared with a double stroller with the boys nicely strapped in, some toys, juice boxes, even. We waited in line, gave the lady some paperwork, waited patiently, paid the obnoxious fee of $600, received the plates, walked out. Once in the car, I look. No, it can't be. It truly cannot be.

405 OLD

I drive kids home, put them down for naps, pace floor, make a few phone calls.
Three hours later, I put down an extra $66 to buy fucking "designer" plates, which just means there's a lame mountain view involved, but at least now we are:

364 OCD.

Perfect.

2007-03-19T18:56:00.000-08:00

This blog is now public. I have no more secrets.

2007-03-15T10:13:00.000-08:00

My baby is a toddler.
March 3 my baby Will turned 1. I can't believe how quickly the last year has flown by. Compared to life with his big brother, with Will I only savored little moments here and there, like a second each, before moving on to the next emergency or crashing in my bed. But here are the moments I have savored, and the things I remember that make me feel truly warm and fulfilled.

Before bedtime, he rests his head on my shoulder, and places his chubby hand on my shoulder. Sometimes he pats it.

He constantly looks back at me for validation and to understand his world. Anytime he starts to bring something to his mouth -- like a rock, toy, hunk of sand, food from the floor -- he holds it in front of his mouth while looking at me with a raised eyebrow, and starts to shake his head 'no.' The look on his face says, "this is a no-no, right?" When I say no, he usually brings it down to his lap, but often sticks it in his mouth later, when I'm not looking.

He uses his hands to talk. Signing is something I never taught his brother to do. The other day I was nursing him, and he heard The Dog bark in the yard behind us. He immediately sat up and looked at me, waiting for me to explain. I said "dog," while doing the sign for dog (patting my thigh). He immediately started to hit his thigh while trying to bark ("ahh! ahh!")

He adores his big brother as some amazing big kid. This is odd for me because Charlie is still practically a baby himself, at least in my eyes. Will looks at Charlie like he is all-knowing and so, extremely cool. If Charlie pushes him with his foot, it devastates Will.

But he's a pretty happy guy. He rarely cries, unless a very exciting opportunity (like sucking on something sharp or touching a flame) is denied him. Then he arches his back and bursts into tears.

He loves people. He cries when one of the kids gets into trouble. He cries when his brother is put into time-out. He waves and says, "haaaa" whenever anyone arrives at our house. He never acts like he wants space from anyone.

... though he doesn't like to share my lap. I was nursing him, and Charlie wanted up, so I let him sit near Will's feet. Will took his foot and assertively pushed Charlie away. Message was clear: this is my lap now.

The other morning, Jerry put him down so that both of us could get dressed. He started to cry, and said the following: "mama baby."

Here are my favorite pictures of my baby.
March

1 month old
The only time he ever co-slept was as a newborn. Here, with Charlie.

2 months

3 months

4 months

5 months
First non-boob food

6 months
Eating with the big boys

7 months
The beginning of getting into stuff

Notice the fingers above the high chair.

8 months
Freshly bathed.

9 months
Getting baptised.

10 months

11 months
Playing outside.

12 months

First haircut.

Self-feeding.

Cute.

2007-02-22T17:46:00.001-09:00

Just like Italy.
The waiter approaches our table: "Oh my!" I realize he has seen the floor and the scattering of Cheerios and corn-flavored puffs. He asks what we want to drink, and I proudly state that we are ready to place our food order, efficient are we. I order for everyone except Jerry, and Jerry is ready as well. This should take no time.

Will starts banging mug. The perfect entertainment, but at least three tables whip their heads around to stare at us. Mug removed, baby cries.

Kid drinks come quickly, I smile at waiter. I feed Will apple juice through a straw. He drinks it happily, and starts to cry when I don't refill it fast enough. I soon get tired of it, put down straw, and he screams. Jerry takes over. That's right, train mommy and daddy.

The people at the next table have a kid the same age, and quickly decide we are friends. I don't want anymore friends. I want peace and quiet over dinner.

Waiter comes with dinner for kids. I am impressed with his speed. He then comes with fake vacuum and makes the puffs disappear. I feed french fries to Will. He is happy for at least 30 seconds.

I think of telling Jerry an important detail about my day, but then forget. No time now. Must focus on keeping beast happy.

Adult food comes. I cram bites in. Bell pepper, angel hair, tender chicken. Which bite first? Which combination best? No time for petty thoughts; must cram.

Will screams. Need more juice. I feed and down cheap wine.

On the other side: Charlie making shooting noises with fork and nugget.

People across table smile at us again. I smile, obligatedly.

Waiter asks how food is, we ask for two to-go boxes, and bill, and quick. He smiles and leaves. I joke that we've only got thirty seconds. Will screams. Ok, two seconds. Jerry takes kids to car, I'm in charge of bill. The usual.

2007-02-20T19:43:00.000-09:00

Another Birthday.

Last weekend I had a Birthday. Jerry and Charlie sang to me while Will banged a wooden spoon in his high chair. They presented me with a cake with 23 on the top. The numbers were reversed, but whatever.

I was giddy all day. I had a massage, pedicure, and manicure. I had the following conversation with the lady doing my discount manicure:
Me: Oh, don't file the sides of the nails, please.
Her: Um, ok.
Me (sensing obvious discomfort). Thanks.
Her: Why don't you want sides filed?
Me: Because it weakens the nails.
Her: Who told you that?
What are we? In seventh grade? I have to provide references for facts that we all know are facts?

Aaaaanyway. I also enjoyed a cup of coffee, by myself, in peace.

And read my book, the Bonesetter's Daughter, at my favorite cafe.

And at night, we went out to dinner with friends.

I was happy all day, because I love my birthday, because I am inherintly a little self-centered.

Top Seven: How I Know I Am Getting Old.
7. Last week I heard myself say the following (while at McDonald's): Oh, I love this song.

6. I have lately felt very excited whenever I get to drive somewhere. I drive a minivan. We just bought it. I love it.

5. I haven't been to a concert in over two years. I haven't been stoned in ten years. I haven't been drunk in at least two weeks.

4. I recently signed up for an IRA, and got excited. I have life insurance.

3. For my Birthday dinner, we reserved our babysitter until midnight. Jerry scoffed when he heard me say that. A little before midnight, I reluctantly admitted to our friends that I had to go home because I couldn't stay awake any longer. When I say, "a little before midnight," I actually mean 9:15.

2. I find myself often choosing Briefs instead of my once-trusty Low Waisted Hipsters. I like my briefs cuz when I bend over, they don't show crack. They stay up, reliably, all day long. They also look like old lady panties, complete with some bunching in the back. But the truth is, I don't care.

1. There are all sorts of ways to become cool. If I wanted to appear cool, I could read up on bands and clothes and pop culture. But I honestly, truthfully do not care about appearances anymore. And I am happy about that.

2007-02-14T13:50:00.000-09:00

Quotables.
The talk.
Charlie (to me): Mommy, do you want to see my penis?
Me: Uh, ok. But we need to talk. You know you never show that to anyone else, right?
Charlie: See, mommy? See it?
Me: Yes. Only mommy and daddy should see it. And don't let anyone touch it.
Charlie: No one touches my penis?
Me: That's right. Except for mommy and daddy when we are washing you.
Charlie: Ok. I won't let Lucy touch it. And I won't touch Lucy's, either.
Me: Um, ok.

So I guess I need a brow wax.
Charlie [staring intently at my face, upper region.]
Me: What are you looking at?
Charlie: Your eyebrows.
Me: ok.
Charlie: What is that under your eyebrows? [Lifts brow hairs.] Oh, just more brown stuff.

And a cleaning.
While cuddling in bed with him this weekend...
Charlie: Mommy, I love you so much.
Me: I love you too, sweetie!
Charlie (with furrowed brow): Mommy, you have something in your teeth.
Me: Ok. I will brush them right after I'm done cuddling with you.
Charlie: Before they turn brown and fall out of your mouth?
Me: Yes, before then.

2007-02-14T13:17:00.000-09:00

It's Valentine's Day. Leave me alone.
I am in a crappy mood, and I'm not really sure why. I have some ideas, though.

The snow is still all over the ground and I am ready for the days when the kids and I can run outside barefoot, when they can splash water and not need an immediate clothing change, when gloves don't get lost and I don't have to carry around a wiggly, back-arching 11-month-old who wants nothing less than to be confined by his mommy.

The age group I have now is prooving to be sucky. Even though I am down one high-maintenance child, I have 6 who aren't exactly low maintenance. The two three-year-olds entertain themselves well, but still challenge authority and are big enough to break out of time-outs (well, Charlie anyway). The two-year-olds don't have tantrums, but are potty-training, requiring much time in the boring, windowless bathroom, and they are still at the age where they follow me around a little and make it hard for me to make lunch and pay attention to the babies. Will naps well and complains little, but gets into everything and bumps his head about ten times a day. New newborn baby is easy - sleeps often - but I feel like I give her no one-on-one time.

My goal with this daycare is to have what feels like a preschool, to potty-train the young ones, to give all the kids -- babies especially -- some meaningful eye contact and conversation; instead, circle times are just a distraction from their sole desire to play with cars, we only make it to the bathroom twice a day (not enough to potty train those not in the habit), and the babies... I feel like I just want them to grow up so they can keep up with the rest of us. And one of those babies is my own, so I feel guilty and crappy for having such thoughts.

And financially, don't get me started. Somehow someone underestimated what we needed to put into escrow for property taxes. Underestimated by almost two thousand dollars. And we have to turn in our leased car, the one where we went over on the miles, so that's another just-under-two-thousand-dollars. And both our cars have recent dents -- one my fault, the other a hit-and-run, so there's another thousand. And we have a family wedding coming up (out of state, of course). And apparantly I was supposed to be putting money aside for taxes, but I didn't, because I didn't owe last year, the year I had all the business startup costs, so I think that's another couple thousand. And then there's some medical deductibles and shit for the house.

And hubby just got a raise and promotion, but he is working such long hours that he is crabby at night. And on just the days that I can't wait to get away from the kids -- when all I want is to read and finish reading one simple article in an intelligent-sounding, adult-focused newspaper over a decent cup of coffee, which I also would like to finish without interruption -- he is stressed out and also needs a break. So we snap at each other. And it's Valentine's Day, and my Birthday is in three days but we have no money, see above.

When it rains, it pours.

2007-02-13T20:15:00.000-09:00

Toddler eavesdropping.
Here are some of the things I heard today from the four boys, as they ran back and forth with their trucks:

I'm gonna get you. no no no! here i coming. You better watch out. [pow pow pow]. I gonna shoot you [pow pow crash]. I am gonna eat that poo poo off your face [slosh slosh slosh.]

That last one was from Charlie.

2007-02-11T05:07:00.000-09:00

Sparkle butt.
When I put him to bed the other night, his jammies glowed in the dark. He had stars and other twinkly things all over his chubby little baby body. He had no idea how cute this was. After nursing him, I held him in front of the crib and he put his head on my shoulder, which means he is tired and will not fight sleep. I enjoyed the cuddle for about 3 seconds, and then he pushed me away and dove toward his bed. So I put him down and watched his glowy baby butt for another second.

2007-02-08T19:16:00.000-09:00

Saying good-bye.
I had two weeks of Lucitis, the equivalent of Senioritis, but with my passionate, strong minded daycare girl of over a year. One minute I would be asking (in my head), "Are you really crying about that?" And the next minute I was semi-close to crying on the inside because she was hugging me.

I don't know if her parents told her she would soon be saying good-bye to me, but I received many hugs those last two weeks. And they made me realize how much I really did love, or like, or some other strong word, her.

One time she got a time-out, and when she was done, she looked especially tired and sad. I asked if she wanted a hug, and she said yes. While her normal hug lasts .000264 seconds, just long enough to not interfere with serious play, this one lasted about 5 very long seconds. When we were done, I pulled away, ready to say some wise-sounding words. But then she hugged me again and held on for awhile. Then I again pulled away, thinking that surely we were done now, and she went in to hug me again. I waited until she was done, and then she ran off to play.

Wow.

On her last day, I gave her a little homemade book called, Reasons We Love Lucy, and each page had a picture of a daycare kid and a quote from them on what they love about her. Charlie said he loves to paint with her. And so on.

At pickup, her dad looked me straight in the eye and sincerely thanked me for everything. I felt happy. And sad.

That night, Jerry kept asking why I had such a spring in my step. And what the humming was all about. But in spite of these things I was still a little unsure.

My new group.
I realized long ago that adding or taking away just one kid has a huge impact on the whole group. So while I was glad to say good-bye to the drama, I was sad to say good-bye to such passion for life. And also the pink. Because excluding the newborn -- whose gender is completely irrelevant at this point -- I now have all boys.

Two three-year-olds, both boys.
Two two-year-olds, both boys.
Two babies, boy and girl, but gender not a factor.

Some stats for this week, the first week with my "new group":
Number of crying-for-no-reason spells: 0
Number of times I felt my heart pound out of my chest: 0
Number of times I contemplated quitting: 0
Number of tantrums: 2 (down from about 15)
Number of minutes they wanted to sit in circle time: 1 (down from 5-6)

So. I am bummed about that last item. Unless you consider circle time to mean running around the house shooting other kids with your index finger, it has been pretty non-existant.

There will always be some sort of a challenge, whether it is misbehavior, money, nap struggles, or circle time. I decided in the beginning that I didn't just want to watch kids -- I want them to learn here. But how do I do that if they act uninterested?

2007-02-08T19:14:00.000-09:00

Book meme.
Kyla tagged me for this book meme.

The rules:
1. Find the nearest book.
2. Name the book & the author.
3. Turn to page 123.
4. Go to the fifth sentence on the page. Copy out the next three sentences and post to your blog.
5. Tag three more folks.

The Tenth Circle, by Jodi Picoult
But just in case he started running out of time on a deadline, it was easier to draw straight lines and buildings and roads than to dynamically draw a figure. Daniel began sketching the outline of an ungainly, birdlike creature, half man and half woman. He roughed in a wing --no, too batlike.

I hereby tag:
CUNY Queen
Project Kjetil
Mommy off the Record

2007-02-08T19:13:00.000-09:00

The boy likes boobs.
I might feel embarassed later about posting this one, but I also don't want to forget it.

Lately when he is breastfeeding, he will pull away, see the nipple that feeds him, flick it with his finger, and then giggle. Sometimes he will go back to feeding, other times he just wants to flick it, and I have to distract him.

2007-02-07T07:11:00.000-09:00

Quotables.
Last night I came home to find Charlie and his new sitter (whom he loves), using Mega Bloks to build airplanes.
Charlie: And this is the hairplane and its fighter jets, and these shoot like this (shooting noises), and these are the boobs.
Me: Did you just say the boobs?
Charlie: Yes, so that other jet planes don't run into him.

2007-02-06T07:06:00.000-09:00

Let's hope no one was watching.
He is obsessed with mouths. Early this morning, he took a ball and shoved it at my mouth. A sucker for cute Will moments even when they promote germ sharing and look very weird, I bit down on the ball and pretended to be chewing on it, shaking my head back and forth like a golden retriever. He cackled. My mouth dropped the ball, he reinserted it.

Whenever he sees our new little daycare baby, he tries to stick his finger into her open, wet mouth.

Mouths - fascinating.

2007-02-05T17:48:00.000-09:00

Tiny violin.
Previously I wrote about how Will is lacking the things his brother got -- cafe visits, swim lessons, stroller rides on city streets. And it sounded like I was feeling typical motherly guilt for not giving him the perks Mr. Firsborn had.

But I know Will is happy. In fact, he is less needy than Charlie was and is now, and often pushes me away to play near the big kids. He loves to help open the front door for them (while being held by me) and to wave out the window at them. He sits in his clip-on chair at the toddler table and eats with them, imitating their noises. When they color, he stabs paper with his crayon.

So it is not Will I am sad for, but myself. (Waaa, I know. My blog.) When I let myself really think of it, I am regretful that I didn't savor all his baby moments -- or even half of them -- as I did his brother's. When I did savor a moment, it was cut short by a screaming kid or my realization that I needed to start lunch or the smell of a nasty diaper. There are millions of cute things he did that I know I missed -- though I'm not sure what they were. Cuz I missed them.

Which is why every day this month, I am going to savor at least one baby moment.

The end of babyhood, part 3.
When Will was a baby, I would sing "one little, two little, three little baby boys" while bouncing him on my hip to the rhythm, and then put him down to sleep. But I stopped doing it awhile back because every time I started to sing, he would shake his head no.

Today I went to put him down for his nap, and as I stood in front of his crib, he started to bend and then straighten his knees, causing his body to bounce up and down, while saying "ahhhhh." I realized he was asking me to sing for him, so I did. Every time I stopped, he bounced and said "ahhh" for me again, and he got a good 5 minutes of singing. When I finally put him down, he cried like his little heart was broken. Ten seconds later, he was out cold.

2007-02-04T13:36:00.000-09:00

The end of babyhood, part 2.
The stuff I'll always remember.
Today when he was nursing, he looked up at me, made my eye contact, and then tried to stick his chubby little index finger into my mouth. I shut my mouth tightly. He made great attempts to force it in.

Later, while still nursing, he put his baby foot in my face. I kissed it. He let it fall, and then raised it to my mouth again.

2007-02-03T08:25:00.000-09:00

The end of his babyhood
Today Will is 11 months old. He has one month left of being a baby, and I am sad. So, every day for the next month, I will post something babyish that he did that day, and that I am going to fully appreciate.

Today I handed him a yellow school bus and let him watch me put a Little People in its driver's seat. Then I added another Little People, and then two more until the bus was full. I pushed the bus in his direction one inch. He picked up a Little People and used it to bang the other People until they were all lying on their sides.

2007-01-29T19:15:00.000-09:00

Baby number six.

Sometimes I wonder how my career choice will affect Will, or rather, my relationship with him. I don’t regret starting a home daycare because it allows me to stay home with him and Charlie. But Will’s upbringing is already so different than Charlie’s was, and I can't help but feel that this time around is a bit inferior.

I stayed home with Charlie for a year while I went to school at night. I look back on those days with giddiness. They were truly some of the happiest days of my life. Every morning, we went to the same city park where I pushed him in the stroller, we played on the swings and fed the ducks. We took swim lessons and went to moms’ groups. We regularly went to a cafe where he got all the “cute” compliments and pulled coffee bags off the shelves while I sipped my lattes. I didn’t miss anything with him and have never had one regret.

I have these little memory snippets of his babyhood. Like how, when I was standing in line for my coffee, I had his little butt propped up on my chest, so he could be high and look forward. I made a kissing noise at his cheek, and, with his thumb still in his mouth and looking straight ahead, and without missing a beat, he very deliberately leaned his cheek into my lips so that he could more fully receive my kiss.

So many times, when Will is doing cute things, my mind is racing with all the things I need to do. Refill Lucy’s milk cup, finish grating cheese, get whatever it was I put in the microwave out of the microwave so that microwave stops beeping, tend to Charlie in the bathroom while he screams for me, give cat his milk or at least kindly shove him outside the kitchen, take a few bites of food before I faint, and clean as I go so it is not a sty tonight. While I am thinking all this, I realize Will is doing his native American “ah ah ah” sound whereby he puts his fist to his mouth and with the back and forth motion, gets my attention. I look at him and realize he has been screaming/fussing for the last 10 minutes, but I have been tuning him out. And with a cute smile on his face, he has learned that by making this noise, I will stop and look at him. He is literally leaning out of his chair smiling at me, so happy to have grabbed my attention. I stop and smile back. Still, I wonder how many times he wants my attention but is not successful.

What am I missing?

How many times did he figure something out while I was tending to someone else? What clues did he exhibit on his face that told how he felt about Lucy and Nova and Mikey? Is he awestruck? Annoyed? Oblivious? How many times did he try to sign or talk but I was too busy wiping a butt or giving a time-out to notice?

It’s like I went from having one child to having six, except the second baby never really had a chance to be a baby by himself, or even sorta by himself.

At the end of this week, he will be 11 months old. I am stunned. I cannot believe his babyhood is almost over. Charlie’s babyhood went on forever. I took in every detail and made each week last a month. Will’s has flown by as I have thought about how to make ends meet, how to turn this into a preschool atmosphere, how to fill remaining spots and then keep them filled, how to get everyone to take decent naps so I can recharge. So many outside details that have nothing to do with him, that I wonder what I have missed. And I wonder what details of his life I will remember that have to do only with him.

2007-01-24T17:21:00.000-09:00

How the math works out.
The new baby started this week. And she was pretty typical: sleep 2 hours, wake up, eat for about 3 minutes, lie on back or tummy for like 4 minutes, then look extremely tired and fall asleep again. Repeat.

So why am I extremely exhausted? Why were my clothes damp by 11:00 a.m.? Why did I actually have B.O.? Why did I go an entire day without peeing?

I only added one person to the daycare. Just one, and she is the easiest one. So how is it ten times harder now?

'Tis 7:30, so I am off to bed.

2007-01-23T10:19:00.000-09:00

Aw, that's lovely.
Charlie was wiping his butt, and decided to leave the toilet paper in between his cheeks, so it stuck out just like so, visible for the world to see.
Me: Charlie, what are you doing?
Charlie: Look at me! I'm a chicken!

2007-01-21T11:24:00.000-09:00

Charlie Dice Clay
Last night I was rummaging through the cubbards, trying to figure out what sounded good. Not thinking this innocent question could possibly be a set-up, I asked:
Do I smell cookie dough, or do I just smell what I am craving?
Husband: I don't know. It smells like vagina.
Charlie: It smells like va-gina!!!
Husband: [withholding laughter, not able to talk].
Charlie: It smells like.... vagina!
Me: Um.....
Charlie: It smells like vagina!!!!
Husband: No, we don't say... [laugher.]
Charlie: It smells like va-gin-a!
Me [to hubby]: You are so going into time-out.
Charlie: It smells like vagina!!! Vagina! Vagina! Vagina!
Husband [goes and stands in the corner]. Sorry.
Charlie: Vagina!

This should probably be a good time to add that our kitchen strictly smells like spices and sugar and honey and things.

2007-01-19T17:49:00.000-09:00

Breaking up is hard to do.
Ever been in a really bad relationship that made you feel like crap, that required you to obsess for hours about what to do and to examine how you felt, and where the person alternated between acting sweetly and horribly? And maybe you even had a dream about when and how it would end, and when you woke up your only regret was that it hadn't ended yet? And perhaps the relationship indeed ends, but you are shocked to find that you feel so empty inside that you want to take a bubble bath and listen to Michael Bolton?

Lucy just broke up with me.

Well, not really Lucy, but her parents. It was an odd turn of events. First she acts like a miniature-size crazy woman for three months straight, but after Christmas break, is on her best behavior and starts hugging me and warming up to me and everyone. But while I am enjoying the upside, her parents start acting funny. First they sign my new contract, but cross out the part that says if I must take them to court for non-payment, that they won't pay my attorney's fees. I find it odd that they won't sign this, being that they always pay me and I can only assume, don't plan to be taken to court. Anyway. I stress, consult my provider expert friends, and agree to cross out the line in question if in exchange, they will pre-pay for their last two weeks of care.

Then, as I am planning my vacations for the year, I drop them (and the other parents) an email asking when their vacations will be so that I can plan mine at the same time. They say to go ahead and plan mine; they will work around them. While at it, I ask if my holiday closures are an inconvenience to them. They say no.

Today he drops off the revised contract along with the last two weeks of care, which I decide to tuck away in a far away account, so it doesn't get spent before the time comes. Nine hours later, at pickup, he drops the bomb. My hours are too hard for them to work with, so they are going with a center. Plus, I have lots of days off.

My wildest dream came true. So why do I feel like crap?

2007-01-17T08:51:00.000-09:00

Quotables
For diversity week, we are talking about similar vs. different.

Me: So, Mikey, looking at your hand and mine, how are they similar?
Mikey: Um, they are hands.
Me: Yeah, and they both have five fingers. How are they different?
Mikey: You have these red knuckles right here, and here.
Me: Yeah...
Mikey: You need some... [quietly] ...marsha.
Me: You mean lotion?
Mikey: Yeah. Lotion.

2007-01-16T20:05:00.000-09:00

A turn of events.

Let's review the last six months of daycare politics with Mikey, Charlie's best friend.
* For one year, Mikey comes to me, forms very strong friendship with Charlie.

* Mikey's mom becomes pregnant.

* Toward the very end of Mom's pregnancy, Mom announces that, due to financial reasons, Mikey cannot stay with me during her maternity leave. Her leave is unpaid, so she cannot pay me.

* I stress out quite severely. I tell her she must pay me at least half his tuition if she wants me to hold his spot. In return, I will watch him half-time.

* She can't do it. No money. So she is going to pay me for one day per week only. I accept it, but with the agreement that his spot is not held. I get a call from another boy his same age, tell Mom about him, and her immediate response is, "I can come up with the money. No worries. We really need you. We cannot lose you."

In spite of her compromise with me, I am only receiving half tuition, and the total loss for me amounts to $800. Over Christmastime.

I keep quiet about it because I want Mikey to return. He is more than just Charlie's buddy. He is very intelligent, leads the other kids in creative games, somehow motivates the kids to stay in circle time. His intelligence is contagious.

In the meantime, I stress out about the fact that when he returns, his baby sister will come too. This means...
* I will be "over" on my numbers.
* If I receive a surprise inspection, I am busted.
* My care to the other kids, including my own, will probably be compromised.
* My liability insurance may not cover me if something were to happen.

I realize that I simply cannot be over on my numbers. So I try to decide which child to let go. Many pro/con lists are created. Daycare children are scrutinized for compatability factors. Fellow daycare provider friends are consulted. Head banging ensues. Online advice read feverishly.

If I tell Mikey's mom I cannot accept her baby, I surely will lose Mikey too. And I admit to myself that he is my favorite. And tied for second place are all the rest. I decide to wait and see.

In the meantime, I hire a manny. He is fabulous. He will work only during the times that I am over. In some ways, it might be easier for me to be over, because it allows me to hire him.

I have two test-runs with manny. His fabulousness is further confirmed.

I start to do math. Even after paying manny, I will be bringing in enough extra money to upgrade our old car to a newer van, I will start contributing to an IRA, we have cell phones again, and I can build up the savings account that I depleted during Mom's maternity leave. And, when I need a new pair of jeans, I will not feel guilty for buying them. Yes, things will be good.

Fast forward to this week. Daycare mom and I talk about Mikey and Charlie being in the same preschool class this coming September. It will only be two days per week, 4 hours per day. I suddenly realize by the way she is talking that she expects a rate reduction.

I tell her I don't do part-time rates. I mean, really, what are the chances that someone will call me and need care for Monday and Wednesday from 9am-12pm? Zilch. And why should I have to take an income hit because she chose preschool? Or, getting to the heart of the matter, why should I take an income hit because she now has two kids and doesn't think two should cost more than one? I won't. A lot of people don't take part-time kids, and I don't either.

Today she says, rather casually, that come September, she is looking at other options. Like maybe a nanny.

I am an idiot. I went through all this, and in 6 months she will pull her two kids, leaving me not one, but two spots to fill?

I am angry. I am so, so angry. Obviously, when I agreed to lose $800, I did it with the expectation that her children would be more long-term.

And obviously I can't require her to sign a long-term, I-will-be-with-you-forever-amen contract.

So if she is looking out for herself, then I must do the same. And I have thought of talking to her, but honestly, I feel I can't trust her anymore. This is the second time that a threat was made by her and later rescinded. I cannot keep her two kids and wait, nervously, for her to give me notice. Her spot's been advertised.

2007-01-15T20:06:00.000-09:00

I have a dream
I am trying to prepare for next week’s multicultural awareness week in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Birthday. This is a little tough with two- and three-year-olds, being that I’m not sure they are ready to talk about treatment of African Americans pre 1960s, getting shot, or picketing. So I am focusing instead on the general concept of diversity, loving one another, and looking beyond appearances. I checked out some great books about animals from different species who have become friends in spite of their differences. I have a globe and books about different cultures, how they live, and the foods they eat. I printed some coloring pages of kids holding hands, and plan to buy some “skin color” Crayolas. I bought some rainbow happy faces because, I don’t know, they seemed pretty cool. So my theme for next week is almost complete.

Me: Jerry, can you help me think of a TV show or movie that I can Tivo which highlights people of different backgrounds learning to get along together?
Jerry: Yeah, The Office.

Perfect.

2007-01-14T16:31:00.000-09:00

Fortune Cookies
Last night after eating sweet and sour chicken and edamame, Charlie, Jerry and I opened our fortune cookies. Mine said:

The Happiest Circumstances
Are Close to Home

Charlie broke his open and anxiously handed it to me for reading.

You Are Entering A Time
Of Great Promise
And Overdue Rewards.

He frowned. No, no. The home one. Read the home one. I read it again.

The Happiest Circumstances
Are Close to Home

Yes, that one. Close to, to Home.

It made me think about how much Charlie loves being at home. There have been days this winter that we have been stuck inside for four days straight. Then the roads will clear a little, Jerry will come home from work, and I will announce that I am going to Safeway or the mall or some other horribly boring place, and that I won’t be back for a long long time, because I need to see walls that I haven’t already been staring at for what seems like months. And I’ll invite Charlie to come, and he will decline, stating that he wants to stay home.

Home... The place with piles of laundry in the hallway at all times, that smells like dirty diapers more often than it should, that always has piles of papers on the stairs waiting to be carried upstairs.

But for Charlie, home is the place associated with familiarity. The thing which is often boring to an adult is most comforting to a toddler. And I'm glad that in spite of my failure to become domestic in any way, he loves his home.

2007-01-10T14:14:00.000-09:00

Quotables
I was calling our babysitter on the phone, Jessica. Not the old Jessica, who is 100% sweet but a bit on the shy side and who Charlie can't stand, but the new Jessica, who is outgoing and he seems to like...
Charlie: No, I don't want Jessica!
Me: It's the new Jessica, not the old Jessica.
Charlie: Oh. I don't want the other Jessica.
Me: Was she mean?
Charlie: Yes.
Me: What did she say?
Charlie: Mean words.
Me: What words?
Charlie (looking at the dishwasher): Um, dryer.
Me: Dryer?
Charlie: Yes. Dryer. Buttons.
Me: She talked about the dryer buttons? Did she kick the dryer?
Charlie: Yes.
Me: Are you fibbing?
Charlie: No, Jessica is fibbing.

2007-01-07T21:01:00.000-09:00

And this is where my idiocy is proven

I continued to have sick days and restless nights thinking about my mom reading my blog. And then I sent an email to Stat Counter, just to make sure I was actually interpreting their data right. And I found out that I wasn't.

Data is sorted by a project ID number that becomes part of the code that you generate and install into your site. If you placed the same code into two different websites, Statcounter will send all data to one project.
Rhonda
StatCounter Team

Statcounter will send all data to one project. Statcounter will send all data to one project. I read it again. All data to one project. So yes, it was my mom who I had e-spied upon, and it was her who checked pretty often and stayed long. But it was to my other web site. Idiot.

But the nagging feeling continued. The problem was not just my mom.

This was a wake-up call for me. I watch people's children for a living, and when I have a stressful day, I blog about their kids at night. It is so tempting to do this, as they provide the perfect blogging material. They say funny things, they have crazy tantrums, they act as if they are the center of the universe. They are cute and horrid all at once. How can I not write about them?

Their parents pay me good money to care for them. And implicit in this agreement is the understanding that I shouldn't really talk shit about them behind their backs. And I knew this, but the little nagging voice that told me so was kind of a bummer. So I ignored him.

Anyway. My blog is now private. I am humbled. I really feel horrible.

So I am back to my original goal of 6 months ago when I started this blog: just looking at the ordinary cuteness that kids do, blogging about that, and saving the serious stuff for my counselor.

2007-01-05T08:42:00.000-09:00

The worst feeling in the world.

I love my privacy. I have always kept journals. In periods of my life that I did not journal or blog, I wrote detailed notes (or emails, post 1997) to my girlfriends. I have always needed to talk about tiny aspects of my life in great detail, and be validated either by the talking process, or by the feedback I received. And I've always had friends who I could trust to keep my secrets, and journals that had the perfect hiding spot.

Which is why I now love to blog. Yes, I see the irony. With the potential of hundreds of perfect strangers reading it (or, er, maybe 8 if I am lucky), I should hate the blogging process, but I don't. Maybe it's because I don't currently get paid to write, which means I don't have those ocassional ego boosts ("hey, great job on that last piece.") Knowing that others are reading my blog and returning to read more, even if a month or more later, is a nice form of validation.

Yet, there are certain people who I don't want to read my blog. Like my mother-in-law, because she would hate any perceived critique of her son. Or my mom, who would disapprove of lots of things. Or mybrother-in-law, who would surely criticize many technical shortfallings. Now that I think of it, I would prefer that no family members read my blog.

Which is why I have been freaking out the last few days.

I installed Stat Counter to my blog, mostly so that I could see how long people stayed, which sites they went to next, where they came from, what search terms they used (in a nutshell: I am nosey). My freaking out came into play when I read the following:
66-23x-4x-1x8.starstream.net (Xo Communications)
State, City of Mom, United States, 17 returning visits
January 3rd 2007
12:09:40 PM
www.myotherwebsitedotcom
No referring link.
... and so on, 17 times in one day.

The only people who know of my other web site (basically a baby book online, not really a creative outlet) are my family members and close friends who care enough to read the boring kid updates. But the only people who know about Red Rollerskate are people I've not yet met, plus a few close friends. Yet, someone was visiting my family blog, and then coming to this one. And that certain someone lived in City of Mom, State. And that certain someone was also interested enough to visit 17 times in one day. And that someone had Starstream.

Each time I was awakened that night, whether by Will or by my own thoughts, I thought of what she could have (did) read. A sampling:
"Maybe it is because I still have a fucking cold that has moved down into my chest..."
"Or maybe it is xxxx and the fucking four hours of tantrums that got me in a shitty mood..."
"Why are they bringing this child? All offices are closed. The fucking freeway is closed."
"Being the mom that she is, she thought and thought and thought and then she thought some more about..."
"Boob Stress Reliever."
"Gentlemen's Willy Care Kit"
"Dolly the Inflatable Sheep"
"Spankometer"
"My parents have been here for one week, and it's been pleasant as can be. So far, no buying recommendations other than sink stopper and tub to wash dishes in because of absence of sink stopper. I'm dumbfounded. Besides the blaringly loud TV and occasional right-wing talk, I couldn't be happier. Odd."
"Orgasmitron."
[Pictures of Kuma Sutra Cards] "Married 8 years."
"ITMFA Awesome."

And this is where I want my cake and to eat it too (I hate this saying. Who doesn't want both?) I only enjoy blogging if it contains some element of naughtiness, no matter how lame. The occassional cussword kinda feels good (especially after a day of toddler talk). Venting about mom and other family members is a bit of a necessity.

Yet, I want these feelings to be 100% confidential from certain people. Knowing that my mom had read my most personal feelings made me feel sick, even though we are close. I did not like the feeling that she was saying, "oooooh, this is how she does this. Interesting." That night I dreamed that she went into her garage where I keep all my childhood stuff in a box, pulled out my Trapper Keeper, and read my 4th grade diary. And I threw up in my mouth a little.

To be continued...

2007-01-03T18:24:00.000-09:00

A change of pace.
Is her goal to keep me on my toes?
I open the door, she is sweet. She says hello. She puts her shoes and coat away. She asks the other kids to play. Her hair is cute. She is wearing pink. She smiles at me.
WTF?
Well, I guess anything is possible with a two-year-old.

Quotables

2007-01-02T18:30:00.000-09:00

Charlie: Boys have a penis, and girls have a bagilla.

Later...
Charlie: Mommy, where are my boobies?
Me: You don't have boobies because you are a boy.
Charlie: But what are these thingies?
Me: Those are your nipples.
Charlie: Noooooo... they are buttons.

2006-12-28T18:10:00.000-09:00

Pajama day
I organized piles of papers, I ate french toast at 10am, I lied around on the floor with my two kids, I watched The View for the first time. I stayed in my pajamas the entire day. I applied no make-up or hair products. I put Charlie down for his quiet time when his baby brother went down, and not according to the clock. I stared at the wall a little. I tried to think of things to do.

It was bliss.

I have another day of it tomorrow.

2006-12-27T17:15:00.000-09:00

Christmas

My memories of Chrismas are from age 8 and up. I really don't remember being a toddler or preschooler on the holidays, even though I have a lot of memories from this age. So I never really know what to expect on the holidays with little kids of my own.

Skip the next few sections if traditional, domestic bliss bothers you.

I remember waking up early on Christmas morning and kneeling - no, lying - down at the top of the stairs so that I could peek and see what Santa had brought. No matter what it looked like downstairs, it was always glorious and festive and the best thing in the world. I loved Christmas.

We would tear open presents before eating breakfast. Then we would leave the paper mess in the middle of the floor and eat pancakes or waffles, famished. Everyone in the family loved Christmas; I think that is what made it so great.

My mom would play the piano and we'd sing Christmas carols, even though she was the only one who could really sing. My dad would read the Christmas story from the Bible. My sister and brother would come home from college and stay for the day, bringing me huge Bert and Ernie cookies or an oversized stuffed animal or something along those lines. My mom would cook a huge, delicious feast while the rest of us sacked out on the couch, watched TV, and played board games all day. I loved everyone being there together.

* * *

Our Christmas this year was different in so many ways. We had to wake Charlie up at 8:30 so that we could open presents together before Will's first nap. He came down the steps sleepy and out of it. He was happy to see his new bike, but also a little clingy and uncertain.

Charlie quickly got into the spirit of tearing open presents, and often said, "is that one mine? is this one mine? is it mine? is it? is it?" And I cringed just a tiny bit because I hate the idea of Christmas being all commercial and raising a kid who just expects stuff. So we gently reminded him that other people have turns, and that we can stop and slow down to enjoy the present most recently received.

There was no Christmas story - the boys are too young and I don't know where to begin.

My family is all out-of-state, so that made me a little sad. No Scrabble or Monopoly or Balderdash. (Just wait until the boys are old enough. I am totally raising them to be game guys. Take that, hubby.)

But still, it was a happy day. The four of us were all together, there was snow on the ground outside and it was peaceful and warm inside, we all had days off and time to cuddle and do nothing. And, Jerry was so thoughtful - he got me my first pair of sexy pajamas, that both revealed the lovelies while concealing the mom belly. I felt spoiled, but in a good way.

And then Charlie started acting extremely sassy, apparently thinking that Christmas means the children are kings for a day. And with all the excitement and overstimulation, Will would not go down for his second nap, so he fussed and arched his back, and it took forever to get him down.

Then we made a huge dinner (my part: homemade croutons. Hubby's: everything else. Hey, I was in charge of naps.)

All in all, a wonderful day.

2006-12-23T23:59:00.000-09:00

What daycare providers talk about when parents aren't around, Part II

I belong to a few daycare provider support groups, if you could call them that. I log on, ask my question for the day, and receive tons of answers from people who have been doing this way too long. They are experts, and I love them.

The topics vary from day to day, but are along the lines of: Baby won't stop crying. Parents won't pay me on time. Is this child ADD? This child won't eat. How do you teach the alphabet? Time-outs are not working. Need craft ideas. Are these tantrums normal? Do you teach manners at this age? Feeling frustrated, want to quit. How to get kids to nap in same room?

In December, that all changes. I see things like: Did your families buy you a Christmas gift? Feeling underappreciated. What did you recieve? Gift etiquette. This parent never acknowledges me.

Let me back up. I keep reading articles like this on who to tip at Christmas, and how much. Garbage collector ($10-$30 each). Newspaper delivery guy ($10-$30). Massage therapist - up to one session's fee ($65). Hair cutter - the cost of one visit ($60). When I read these guidelines, I think they sound so unrealistic. If I added up all the recommended tips for people who provided us services this year, we would owe about $200. We can't afford that, and we don't tip all those people above and beyond the normal tip amounts (except the garbage guy. He is different. Another topic alltogether.)

But when it comes to the person who wipes your kid's nose and applies butt paste to their special place, some kind of appreciation is in order. The recommended $25-$75 isn't necessary. Not that I would turn that down, but the monetary gift isn't the point.

I can't ignore the anger that comes out on these boards around Christmastime, and it makes me sad. There is urgency in their typed voices: "what did you receive?" and, "I can't believe I got stiffed again." I can't help but think that the issue is not so much the Christmas present or lack thereof, but the fact that some providers feel under-appreciated all year long, and that anger comes to a head during a time of supposed generosity.

I have received things like candles and chocolates and gift certificates, and I appreciate them. In the two Christmases of doing this, a couple parents did not get me anything at all. But I didn't care, because in both cases I felt totally appreciated by them. A gift would have felt like excess. I think Thank you goes a long way.

2006-12-22T18:01:00.000-09:00

Done whining now.
All right. Two posts of whining, and I am officially snapping myself out of it. Sorry for that.

I am looking straight into ten uninterrupted days off with my kids, hubby, and kitty. Days to rejuvinate and celebrate Christmas. So on a positive note:

Quotables
Jerry: Charlie, why don't you go play in the other room?
Charlie: No, mommy is in there. I don't like her.
Jerry: That was mean.
Charlie (walking over to me): Oh mommy, I sorry. I love you. I love you all my heart.

Later:
Will crawls over to me, uses my arms as handles and pulls himself to a standing position, and gives me a big, wet, open-mouth kiss on my cheek. Aw, sweet stuff.

2006-12-20T17:26:00.000-09:00

I hired my manny.

Awhile back I posted about whether I should hire a manny to help with my daycare. He came over today so that my existing daycare parents could meet him and I could let them provide feedback before I made my decision. And the timing was perfect because I needed an extra set of hands to help with our Christmas crafts.

Ohmygosh. He was awesome. When the kids ate their breakfast and there was a rare quiet moment, Ken spotted a broom between my fridge and the wall, and started to voluntarily sweep under the table. When the kids giggled at the new sight of a tickly broom, he used its bristles to tickle their toes. And when the kids brought their dishes to the sink, he rinsed the bowls and put them into a sink stack. Later, I helped adhere little inked handprints to paper, and Ken followed along to help them add glue and glitter.

At one point, Charlie wanted to tattle on someone, so he said the following: "Mommy asked Mikey to stop running in the house, and he is running in the house, Ken."

Um, I am still in charge here.

2006-12-18T16:32:00.000-09:00

Please, stop hugging.
I never thought I would have to say this to another person, let alone, a child. After all, I am a lover (see my meme). I am totally cool with personal contact, and firmly believe our world needs more hugs.

But sometimes, enough is enough. I watch a daycare boy who, let's call him Cassanova, will not stop hugging everyone. He is a very sweet two-year-old. He has never had a tantrum, never thrown a toy or hit anyone, hardly cries, and does exactly what I ask of him the first time I ask. Amazing. And yet, I have to have one-on-one meetings with his parents.

He will not stop hugging everyone.

In the beginning, the problem was actually sort of dangerous. With a huge, enthusiastic, Cool-Aid smile, he would go to each of the kids and bend down a little so that his arms were level with their waists, and he would squeeze. The smile and gesture said please be my friend, I will love you forever. Each of the kids would let out an uncomfortable scream and push him away, or else burst into tears. But that wasn't the dangerous part.

The dangerous part happened when I turned away for a moment. And when I turned back around, he had that friendly smile on his face while he held a pillow. A pillow that was held firmly in place on top of my baby Will's face. While he pressed down. Hard.

I almost lost my mind. My baby could have been suffocated. He received an immediate time-out and a firm talking-to. His parents were notified at pickup. Between the three of us, we echoed "be gentle," and "no hugs - just pats."

But although he has had no access to pillows and baby Will is always within one inch of me now, I swear the problem is worse.

Like this morning when Lucy arrived, she burst into tears when she saw his friendly face. "No, no Nova," she said. I was the only one in the room who knew why she was crying. Her space had been violated by him one too many times.

And whenever Charlie sees him, he uses a gruff, Darth Vader voice reserved only for him. Nova comes within a foot of Charlie, and Charlie says, "No, Nova, I want my space please." But in the raspiest, most unfriendly voice ever.

Mikey, whenever he is gently patted by Nova, will totally shrug his shoulder away, sometimes using such force that Nova falls down. I have to remind Mikey, he was being gentle. Chill.

The little 22-month-old just runs and says nooooo sometimes when he sees him.

It is very sad. My new rule is that he has to ask for a hug, and the other person can say yes or no. If they say no, he has to respect their space. But he can hug me anytime. Anytime. After all, I want him to feel accepted here. But today after I received the ninth gentle hug and the fourth very painful one, I found myself saying, "no more please. Let's just go play now."

2006-12-15T18:36:00.000-09:00

All right, already.
Here's my meme.

Things you may not know about me
1. I broke a bone or sprained an ankle every year of elementary school and one year of high school. My teacher in sixth grade asked me if my initials, A.P., stood for accident-prone. I told her they did not.

2. I have a green dot on my left arm, called a blue nevis mole. When I was young, I got sick of kids asking me what it was, so I made up a story that I tripped on the vacuum cleaner and gave myself a hickey. Later I said it was a partial tattoo, partial because I chickened out and didn't get it completed. Later I looked up the medical definition of my special dot, and told people, truthfully, that it was "a conglomeration of blood vessels formed at the surface of the skin.” Shockingly, that brought about no reaction. Perfect.

3. I used to be a right-wing conservative, and then I went on a European study tour where I studied European politics, and became an extremely happy, I-finally-see-the-light liberal. My parents would say things like, “those Europeans brainwashed you,” but after 18 years of Rush Limbaugh, three months of the other side of the coin was enough for me.

4. My sister and brother are 16 and 18 years older than me, so for most of my childhood I just lived with my parents. It used to piss me off beyond reason when people would say, "oh, you are just like an only child" because my sister and brother were such huge influences on me. I credit my sister almost 100% with my positive self-esteem. She constantly told me how cool it was that my bright orange hair made me different. My brother is mostly responsible for helping me become a writer. He read my 4th grade novel like it was the best thing ever, told me which parts to work on and which parts showed potential.

5. I got my Master's Degree in Public Policy so that I could be a legislative analyst. Instead, I wipe noses and put people in time-outs all day. This blog is my adult time.

6. I used to be a cheerleader, and this is really embarassing to me because they represent the opposite of what I believe a woman should be. That said, I was a clutsy (see above), totally dorky 8th grader, and cheerleading was the very first thing I was ever decent at, and although I was shy, I loved performing. So it brought me out of my shell. Anytime I have a new group of friends or workmates, I work hard to make sure this fact does not come to light.

Things I want to do before I die
1. Go back to Europe, this time with my husband. I would love to revisit all the places I saw in 1996: Amsterdam, Krakow, Prague, Budapest, London, Berlin. I am not big on museums or famous landmarks (and don't ask me to name any of them), but I love windy roads, canals, coffeeshops, clubs, train stations, and for some reason, city buses and trains.

2. Live debt-free.

3. Watch my boys grow up, get married, and have kids. Man I hope they live near us. I cannot believe I just said that. What am I, sixty?

4. Move with Husband into a small bungalow-style house downtown. In a city. Either Seattle or Denver or somewhere else, depending on where our kids live.

5. Create something that will make us lots of money. I have an idea, but it's a secret.

Things I cannot do
1.Give up sugar completely

2.Be a saver (of money, calories, time, whatever). So boring.

3.Arrive on time anywhere

4.Go a day without watching TV

Things I can do
1. I am a great sleeper. I can sleep anytime of day, anywhere. I can sleep deeply for 5 minutes, hear a peep in the house, jump out of bed and yet, feel refreshed. I'm like a cat.

2. Snap a decent photograph.

3. Potty train children.

4. Raise kids to be nice to each other. :)

5. Love. I am a good lover. I love deeply.

Things that attract/ed me to hubby
This list would not be as interesting without first briefly telling the story of how we met. It was at Kinko's. I caught him peeking at me over the rim of the copier (no he is not 4' tall - these are the big copiers). The next day, same thing - this normally reserved guy checking me out somewhat boldly. A week or two went by and we had the Kinko's Christmas party - an extravagent bash held on a nice college campus and where, for some odd reason, all the employees brought their own flasks. Jerry and I were the only two who were like, what the hell? He sat next to me and we started talking. And as he talked, I remembered the many, many, many checklists I had made as a child titled something like Qualities My Future Husband Will Have, and I held my breath as I checked off one, then two, then three items. First the unimportant ones like blue eyes and cute and nice bod, and then the more important ones.

1. He writes (!!!!!)

2. He had interesting things to talk about

3. He was shy, understated, modest. I had a feeling we were in our own world.

4. He had a dry sense of humor and made me laugh

5. He made me feel attractive and cute and yet... he was not overbearing in any way.

Things I say most often (at this point in my life)
1. Get your finger out of your nose

2. Be nice!

3. Can you say that without whining?

4. 1, 2, 3....

5. Honey, when are you coming home?

2006-12-14T09:38:00.000-09:00

Quotables
Charlie: Mommy, I don't want to get small and go into your tummy again. Cuz, I scared of your food.

Later...
Charlie (playing at the table): [bang, bang, bang]
Jerry: Um, Charlie, how old are you again?
Charlie: Three.
Jerry: You are too old to be playing at the table. When you're three, you can act nice at the table.
Charlie: Oh. I be two again?

During the daycare...
Charlie: Lucy, will you sleep with me? And cuddle with me? In my bed?
Lucy: Yes!!
Oh my.

2006-12-08T20:25:00.000-09:00

What I want for Christmas
I just spent the last three hours searching online for the perfect husbandly Christmas gift. Not only does it not exist, but if it does, it is too expensive. So I started to get bored, and wander. And I found a bunch of nice things for me.

Husband, if you are out there and have decided to finally read one of my blog posts, here is my list.

Godiva chocolate covered strawberries

I've been on my pre-diabetic diet for a week, and I've done great. Really. I am so proud of myself. So let's celebrate. Not only does the chocolate contain some protein in the milk, but the strawberry has fiber, cancelling out a carb or two.

Gap wide stripe hoodie

Perfect because: a) I work with kids all day and like to be comfortable; b) this has stripes; c) it zips both ways. Not sure why that is important, but I like it.

Faith slipper

Because when I answer the door to those daycare parents, I need to look somewhat serious about my job, while also feeling extremely comfortable. These will do the trick, and I get to feel cute too.

Kisses bandages

I seem to hurt myself a lot. These will totally help.

Orgasmitron head massager

We went to a party once where they had this, and man, it was a conversation starter for like 2 hours. But that's not why I want one.

Chemise

Because I have never, in all of my very sexy adult life, owned one of these. It is time.

Eye-soothe tension-relieving mask

I don't really want this. But can we make fun of her for a minute?

Kama sutra dice game

Married 8 years

Velour pants

Mmmmm. Comfy.

Candy bra

Requires no explanation

2006-12-07T20:36:00.000-09:00

Charlie's alternate use of toys

"Look, mommy! A crane!"

The best engine pulls... Jergens?

Um, that's a straw.

"Look, mommy! Train tracks!"

Man stuck in ball.

2006-12-05T12:30:00.000-09:00

Would you hire a manny?
A couple months ago, I finally brought on my sixth child, making my daycare legally "full." Now one of my daycare kids has a new little baby sister, and she will be joining our daycare in a few months. That will put me over on my numbers.

I have stressed about this for some time. I don't want to let anyone go. I like all of my daycare kids and their parents. But I don't want to have so many kids that I am frazzled and snap at the children. I want things to still be fun and for us to have circle time without total chaos.

So I must hire a helper.

Awhile back, I posted in my Want Ads, and all the replies I received were from mothers wanting to bring their kids along. Sure, they could change other kids' diapers, but they would also have their own kid in toe. One even went so far as to say, "I must warn you, my daughter is very clingy and needs to be held most of the time. I demand that she never be away from me."

Um, seriously? And I am going to pay you for that?

So I posted another Want Ad, making it clear that a daycare helper could not bring along their child. My goal, after all, is to improve my adult/child ratio. Also, I couldn't afford much, so I hoped for a college student.

I received a reply from such a college student: nineteen years old, had five little sisters whom he helped raise, loved children, was available when I needed him, was excited by the wage I could offer. We made an appointment to meet in person. He was humble, shy, sweet. He came over one day to meet the kids, and they flocked around him like he was a S'more. He threw footballs to three of the kids at once, and they practially fought over him.

Then my mom and dad, who were in town at the time, weighed in on this. I could not hire a male, they said.
"Why would a nineteen year old man want to work with children?" My dad asked.
Later, he rephrased the question, but asked it again.
And again.
"Um, dads like working with children, and they are men. Why wouldn't a man like to work with kids?" I asked.
Then my mom agreed, and my husband too.

My mom reminded me that statistically, men are more likely than women to sexually abuse a child. And besides, it was a little odd that a guy would want to work with children, I heard for the twentieth time. And while I know I can do an FBI check, those only reveal crimes that have already been committed and prosecuted, not unknown ones.

And a little nugget of doubt was planted in my brain. And I began to imagine what it would feel like if something were to happen to these kids who I am responsible for. I argued that this helper would never be alone with the kids; he would work next to me as an extra set of hands.

"Yeah," my mom said, "but be realistic. You know that at some point, he will be alone with them." And I knew she was right. I would have to run the baby upstairs, or go pee, or put someone into a time out. You just never know.

The most important thing to me is ensuring these kids are safe -- my own, and others who trust me with theirs. But I feel extremely sexist. What would you do?

2006-12-05T12:06:00.000-09:00

Quotables
Charlie: I want my daddy.
Me: He is driving home from work.
Charlie: No, I want to see him now.
Me: Well, he can't really drive any faster.
Charlie: Cuz he needs more power? In his car?

Lucy [giving very mean look to other daycare kid]: Go away. I crabby!
Me: You can be crabby in that hallway, or nice in the playroom.
Lucy: I nice. I happy happy happy!!!

2006-12-02T18:16:00.000-09:00

Opening and Closing a Chapter

The night after we returned home from the hospital to watch Charlie's forehead get stitched back together, hubby and I returned home, exhausted and frazzled.

We weren't the only ones. When I went to pick up Will from the neighbor's house, he too was frazzled, except with him, the cause was separation anxiety. Each time I tried to put him to bed, he would wake up screaming, wanting to be held a little longer. After four attempts, I finally took him to bed with me.

Hubby later came in to kiss me sweetly and see if I was OK. Although I felt stressed out, I also felt so incredibly thankful for all that we have. “I love our baby boys,” I said. He smiled at me, then asked: “Want to try for the next one?”

Stunned silence. This coming from the man who made it abundantly clear that we would be done having kids after two. That he felt too “old” to keep procreating like a bunny rabbit. That he -- and I agreed -- wanted our time alone together as soon as possible. That we wanted things to be less hectic, and sooner.

I laughed it off and didn't say anything. I didn't want to jinx the possibility.

* * *

I spent the next two days exploring opposite sides of the fence.

At first: this odd feeling that I should want another child, yet I didn't. I should want a girl, right? Yet I feel complete without one. Three kids would be more fun that two, yes? Yet I feel my life is pretty full of fun already. Peace and quiet, that is what I want.

But then. How cool would it be to be pregnant again? To take each breath and deliver that breath to the life inside me? To literally push a life out into the world again? To see a new face that is both a combination of the two of us, and yet, its own unique being? To give both my boys a new little sibling to look after. A new little sibling that might possibly be a girl.

And then, hours later, the practical thoughts. If we have three, that will delay when I can return to the workforce – the workforce that will give me things like 401ks, pre-tax savings plans, adult interaction, coffee breaks. If I have three children, then as a daycare provider, I would have to let one of my daycare kids go and say goodbye to some significant income, too, as I can only legally watch a maximum of six kids... unless, I thought, I wait until Charlie is in Kindergarten, in which case I don't have to count him and I can have the income of four children... but if baby #3 is delayed until Charlie reaches Kindergarten, then I can't get pregnant for fourteen more months, allowing fourteen more months for hubby to discover a grey hair or feel old and change his mind.

And furthermore... if we have three, we would most certainly need a bigger house, one that is not already bursting at the seams, but we can't move into a bigger house until I have a traditional paycheck that a bank will count as legitimate, and if I get a traditional job then I can't stay home with my third baby and I want to give him or her what I gave my first two.

And the numbers. With three, it will be at least two more years until we are all sleeping through the night, and four-and-a-half more years until we can go to restaurants like civilized people, and two hundred and twenty-five more months until hubby and I can retire, child-free.

But if we have three, then maybe we can have a girl.

Later I go to the library and flip through Taking Charge of Your Fertility. I am not ready to buy it yet. But I skim the chapter on increasing one's odds of producing a girl.

* * *

Later, we are all driving to see Christmas lights downtown. I have a strange feeling that before I let this verbal boxing match continue in my brain any longer, I should clarify something.

Me: You know the other day when you mentioned trying for a third? You meant that, right?
Him: Oh, no, honey. I changed my mind about 30 seconds after I said it.
Me: Did you think maybe you should tell me? Because I've been thinking about it ever since.
Him: I'm so sorry. I thought we were pretty clear about this.

* * *

So, decision made. I was perfectly happy with two before, with only a fleeting question about what it would be like to have a girl, followed by a fleeting feeling that I didn't actually need one. And then I had two days where I allowed myself to picture this family of five, and to plan how to accomplish it. And now the door is closed and there is no more reason to think of it.

2006-11-30T12:39:00.000-09:00

Shopping for men
Does anyone know the secret to buying a good Christmas gift for your male significant other?

My husband does so much for me, and I still have butterflies almost every time I see him. And as time goes on, it becomes more and more apparant to me that I made the right choice in marrying him. Seriously. He's the best.

Yet my Christmas gifts to him always suck. I know it.

I know that all men are hard to buy for, as I've heard other women complain about this. But my man is particularly hard. For example:

* He does not like jewelry of any kind. The watch I bought him 3 years ago sits in his box of momentos. You know, sentimental reasons.

* He does not like cologne or after shave.

* He has indicated he is not crazy about clothing purchases.

* He loves political stuff, and in previous years I have purchased political playing cards, a book, daily calendar with witty sayings, and some cheesy stuff like that. I think it was a moderate success at best.

* Sentimental pictures of kids in frames -- been there, done that.

* My old standby of CD purchases is not an option now that everything is downloadable.

* He loves electronics, but we are on a tight budget.

The Internet has been of little help. Let's explore.

Star Wars Lightsaber

Remote Controlled Crawling Hand

Under Armour Men's Heat Gear Full T-Shirt

Mansilk Sexy Silk Boxers

Intimo Men's Liquid Metallic Bikini

TV Volume Regulator

Boob Stress Reliever

Gentlemen's Willy Care Kit (containing fluffing brush, styling shears, sprucing mirror, and evening wear silver jewelry)

Dolly the Inflatable Sheep

Spankometer

I am open to suggestions.

2006-11-30T07:58:00.000-09:00

911 lady my new best friend
We got a bunch of snow dumped on us the night before last. And while I am all for letting kids play in the snow, it just isn't feasuble when it is 20 degrees with strong, unforgiving winds. So we stayed inside all day yesterday.

Charlie and Lucy kept running in the house. I made them sit against the couch a couple times, a mild form of "redirection" I use to remind them to slow down. Moments after being allowed to get up, they are off and running again.

I am standing at the sink washing a dish when I see Charlie run right in front of me, trip over a large couch cusion on the floor, fly through the air, and land forehead first on the corner of the fireplace.

I drop the dish and run to him. He is already screaming. I pull him up and look at the hole in his head which has blood pouring from it.

I frantically run in a circle around our house looking for the fucking cordless phone, which is never on the cradle where it should be. And in my mind I think, "this is my fault because I am watching too many kids today... no wait, I only have 2 daycare kids today, 2 fewer than I normally have." And then, "I shouldn't have let them run in the house... no wait, I did tell them not to do that." And then, "I should have set up my indoor obstacle course so that they could burn energy safely."

After I complete my circle, I find the phone and dial 911. As the lady is asking me the routine questions, I can't hear a word she is saying because Charlie is screaming in my ear. But I just talked to her yesterday, so I know to give my address, the actual emergency, my phone number with area code first.

And I have a moment where I go blank and have no idea what my first aid class told me to do about bleeding or head injuries. And then I remember. So I grab a white kitchen towel and hold it firmly to his forehead. He is pushing it away and saying, "don't do that," and my gosh, his face is covered in blood and so are our hands.

I force the towel to his forehead even though it hurts him. Charlie holds his hand in front of his face and looks confused by all the blood. I shout some answers at 911 lady and vaguely hear her tell me that I am not answering the actual questions she is asking. I'm still not really sure what she said or I said. But then she said something about sending over the ambulance.

What next, I ask? I want Jerry here. I want the parents here. I want my neighbor here to comfort me. Who do I call first? Where are their numbers? Why haven't I programmed my speed dial yet? Should I just be tending to Charlie? Should he lie down? Should I distract him or talk to him?

I call my neighbor, the sweetest lady ever. I ask her to call our other neighbor, Lucy's dad. I call Jerry, say your son has a hole in his head, come home now. I hang up. Five minutes later, the bleeding has slowed down, and I call the other daycare parent.

After everyone has picked up their kids and the paramedics tell me he does not have a concussion - probably just needs a stitch or two, Jerry comes home. Neighbor takes Will to his house, and we are off to the hospital.

We wait an hour in the E.R. waiting room. Charlie plays happily with a band-aid on his head, and is talking up a storm.

Then we go into the doctor's office. They ask him if he would like to wear a Spiderman cape. He says yes. They put his arms back into what looks like a pillowcase, and I realize it is essentially a straightjacket. Then they cover him with a million blankets and say he gets to "be a burrito." We can only see his head.

They give me the rolling chair so that I can sit near his head and talk him through this procedure. I get to hold the washcloth over his eyes as they squirt water into his wound. He screams bloody murder. After all, water in the eyes is very painful.

Once the gel has numbed his head and he is all cleaned out, they start stitching. He just stares straight up at the ceiling, his face expressionless and me wanting to hug him. After the first stitch, he has had enough and starts to wimper. I try to sing him through it, but his wimpers turn to cries and then screams. Every now and then he calms down for a few seconds. I can tell he was trying to be strong. But the surgical tools and the thread which he can see out of the corner of his eye and the nurse's hands on his face holding him still and the straightjacket and everyone trying to distract him just get the best of him.

Three internal stitches and some external "stitch glue" later, he is fine. As if nothing happened. Before we walk out the hospital doors back into the snow, Jerry asks him if he wants his jacket on. "No," Charlie says, "I'm just pulling my pants out of my butt."

I try to talk to him today about how scared I was for him, in an effort to see if he wants to talk about his feelings, and he changes the subject. He is totally fine, and I am frazzled as all hell, waiting for the daycare kids to show up today.

2006-11-28T23:39:00.000-09:00

Closure?

In response to my pre-diabetic diagnosis and my semi-complete failure to give up sugar, I have decided to make the other change that I should have made long ago: start exercising.

Studies show that when pre-diabetic people make lifestyle changes with diet and exercise, the chances of developing diabetes is reduced by 58%. So really, I have no excuse.

I look at the directory of evening classes offered at my local recreation center, and there is one beginners yoga class offered in the evening, called Pre/Post Natal Yoga. Well, my baby is 8 months. Can I be considered Post Natal? I do need an easy class, so this will be a good way to start.

I arrive at class, and I am the only one not pregnant.

Being in a class with six pregnant women and a cutely pregnant instructor named Charity feels a little odd. When it is time to start deep-breathing, I feel excited. I remember how much this relaxed me last time. But then she starts talking about "delivering precious oxygen to our babies." I feel strangely empty.

When doing leg lifts, she says something about "if you are too far along in your pregnancy to lie on your back, you may do this lying on your side." Everyone turns to their sides, and I ask her how to do it the normal way. Then we do a squat-type exercise with a partner, important not just for strengthening our upper legs, but in case we choose to squat during labor.

I hear my mom's voice in my head -- the one that spoke to me just the other day as she read my fortune from my Chinese cookie, the one that mentioned a new arrival -- and she said, "Oh, maybe this time it will be a girl." I told her straight up we are done having kids and my two boys are enough. Later she said, "Well, if you knew for sure that you could have a girl, then would you try again?" Without thought, I said No. I didn't mention that I had just finished asking our insurance company about our vasectomy benefit.

Then, at the end of class, we meditated for 5 minutes, deep breathing and listening to wonderfully odd music. It was serene. And my eyes filled up with tears when Charity directed us to thank our amazing bodies for creating this life inside us.

2006-11-28T09:12:00.000-09:00

Putting myself into a time-out

Will has been opening all the kitchen cabinets lately, so I moved two Costco-size containers of Cascade up onto the counter until I could buy some cabinet locks. It was just a matter of time until he found them and poisoned himself, I thought.

Then I turned to help the kids put away their Play-Doh. Out of the side of my eye, I saw Will put something into his mouth, and I was certain it was another Cheerio. After all, every single time I pull what I think is some horrible, poisonous choking hazard from his mouth, it ends up being a Cheerio.

This time it was not a Cheerio. I could not tell what it was at first. Then I reognized the yellow, plastic cap. It was a Cascade top, half-full of the dishwasher detergent. And I smelled his breath, which was lemony fresh and void of the usual milky smell.

After rinsing his mouth with so much water that his shirt became soaked, I ran to the fridge to find my emergency list, but it was missing. So I called 911. Except I accidentally dialed 411. Then I hung up and called 911, and they forwarded me to poison control. And in the background the kids were asking me to get them stuff. I turned on Backup Babysitter and heard Curious George.

As I waited to talk to a live person, I read the ingredient list. Sodium Silicate. Complex Sodium Phosphates. And Chlorine Bleach. Bleach - as in the corrosive stuff that burns holes in things.

I started cup-feeding him water, which he drank.

A woman came on the line and told me he was probably OK, but to look for signs of a burning mouth -- like excessive salivation, vomiting, and crying, which would happen within the hour. She said to get 6 ounces of liquid into him and to call back if he started having these symptoms.

So after his 3 measely sips of water from a cup, he was done. I took him into a quiet room to breastfeed him, but he wasn't interested. I then tried water from a new cup. Two sips. I tried milk in a more interesting cup. No sips. Finally, I tried water from a straw (where I let go of the straw and water flows into his mouth). He took maybe 8 strawfulls, then started using it as a teething device, shooting the water out the other side.

He then started to let out huge burps. I waited for him to vomit. It never came, but I started to feel extremely naeseous myself.

It was a long hour, but he appears to be fine. No vomiting, no foaming at the mouth. He finally breastfed a lot, about an hour after eating his bleach breakfast, and then fell asleep.

Meanwhile, I can't stop thinking about that bleach working its way through his tender little system and cleansing areas that should be left alone.

2006-11-23T21:12:00.000-09:00

Today I am thankful for...
Four days with only my children

Big, juicy cherries

Consistent poops in the potty

Perfect November weather

Breastfeeding baby who stops feeding to look up at me, make eye contact, and smile thankfully at me

2006-11-22T06:23:00.001-09:00

My lover boy.
Charlie is so loving. Lately, these have been our discussions:
Charlie (watching me walk by): I love you too, mommy.

Charlie (at dinnertime): I want to sit by daddy.
Hubby: No, your seat is by mommy. Can you sit in this empty seat?
Charlie: No, I don't want to sit by mommy.
Me: (pretend crying). Sniff.
Charlie (seeing me cry): Oooooh, mommy... I sorry. I love you too.

Charlie (riding by me on his ride-on car outside, looking at me): Hi mommy. I love you too.

I've been basking in his complete and pure love for me lately. Then...
Charlie (after going poop on the potty): Bye bye pooh pooh! I love you too!

2006-11-20T11:35:00.000-09:00

Need some self-control here

I have never been a person who possesses any sort of self-control. I spend what I want, eat what I want, and pretty much do what I want with my personal time. As a result, my finances are usually messed up, I overeat, and I have been reliably late to each of my office jobs. I've always known that at some point, I would make some changes.

A year ago I found out that I'm pre-diabetic. I have let this small fact sit inside my brain nagging me for exactly 12 months. For example, as I eat cake, I think, damn, I am really going to miss this someday. As I gorge cookie dough, I enjoy it just that much more. Lindt chocolate balls are savored like an illicit affair.

I feel like I just had a turning point. Maybe it started when I was told my glucose levels have gone up since my last test 3 months ago. Or when I was watching Scrubs and Turk found out he was diabetic, and J.D. said, "so if you eat that piece of cake, your foot will fall off."

So I started to organize all the bits of information in my brain into something useful. Instead of bitching to myself about how I can eat nothing, I started to think about what I can eat. And how I can do that. And other ways to not go crazy when all I want is a fat bag of chips and a Coke.

Although I feel my brain had a turning point and I am able to make some changes, there is another part of my brain that wants what it can't have. So I'm not there yet.

Anyone have any tips for maintaining self-control -- with money, overeating, or other nasty habits, let me know.

2006-11-15T18:25:00.000-09:00

Quotables

Charlie (to daycare kids, in the morning): That's my breakfast. My steak from yesterday.
We don't actually eat steak, so I am not sure where he got that. If we did eat steak, we would not serve it for breakfast.

Me: Charlie, what's in your mouth?
Charlie: oh, anything.

Charlie (to his best friend, and holding his fingers about an inch apart): Poop looks like this. Teeny, tiny.
Mikey (disagreeing passionately): Nooooo, poop is like this (arms very wide apart). Like this, Charlie.
Charlie: Nooooo, poop looks like this.

Lucy: I'm here now!
Lucy (later): I pretty.
Lucy (later): I cute.
Lucy (later): I crabby.
Lucy (later): I sweet.
That last one just about killed me.

2006-11-10T18:30:00.000-09:00

Personality is inborn. End of story.
In college I was a huge believer in the power of nurture in the nature/nurture debate. Women are conditioned, via parental upbringing, the media, culture, and religion to be submissive and to care for others, and men are taught to be strong and stoic.

I do still believe all of this. But I have been surprised to see that personality traits begin at a very young age, leading me to believe that nurture isn't exactly 100% responsible for who we are, or even 85% responsible. Before a kid can even poop on the potty or be aware that there is actual poop in their pants, they make their personalities known.

Lucy is testing me again, and I am finally understanding what it is that bugs me. It is not the undeniable symptoms of two-year-old-hood. I watch other two-year-olds, and their tantrums hardly phase me. It is her total brazen-ness.

Take Friday. Another two-year-old hit someone. He got a time-out. Before it was over, he started to repeat, "I sorry... I sorry..." I let him out, and without being asked, he went and hugged his victim.

Ok, maybe he is especially sweet for a toddler. Bad example.

Take Charlie. He was shaking Will in his Jumperoo. Shaking him. Causing Will's neck to go back and forth. I ran to the scene and made him stop. With me still kneeling next to him, he started to put his hand out and shake it again. I threatened a time-out. He started to shake it, though softly -- totally testing me. I made him look into my eyes. "Will's neck is going to get hurt if you do that." He thought for a moment. Then he tilted his head to one side, turned on his high-pitched falsetto and said, "Oh Will. Don't get hurt. I won't hurt you."

So - see? They can all be extremely naughty. But there is a sweet interior and concern for others. And Lucy has it too, but it is buried very, very deeply under the burning desire to communicate naughty bad words with those razor sharp eyes.

Last week I gave her a time-out for hitting. When it was over, I got down on her level. Usually at this point, a kid will either look defiant (really, asking to stay in time-out longer), or they will look a little ashamed and sad. She does neither. Instead, in the split second of waiting for me to say my usual words, she takes a big step toward me until she is one millimeter from my face, slowly sticks out her lower lip, and squints her eyes at me until they look through my eyes and into the back of my brain.

Where the hell would a two-year-old learn this?

This is a good place to add that I adore her parents. They are so nice. They are smart and I respect how they treat her and others.

So between the three of us, her sassiness has not been conditioned. And I remind myself constantly that she will probably grow up to be assertive and successful. Maybe a Hillary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi.

But in the meantime, this sucks.

2006-11-10T17:39:00.000-09:00

Mischief.
I just don't like what is going on here. Eight months old and he thinks the world is his to explore.

Which of these buttons makes the cool noise?

This is SO much better than lying down and cooing.

Can I lie down in there?

Only the big kids watch Baby Einstein while standing.

Oooohhh, a sink stopper.

2006-11-09T01:13:00.000-09:00

Passing on the love
I have a friend who is both a known and an unknown. I can tell her most anything, trust that she will accept me, and feel that comfortable similarity you get from a good friend. But at the same time, she is a puzzle who I am still trying to unlock and figure out. I don't think I will get bored anytime soon.

When I first met her in 2000, we both worked at a HMO in Seattle, affectionately called Group Death. There were about five of us administrative assistants all in our early- to mid-twenties, working only to pay bills and have people to drink with afterwards. One of the first times I saw her, I was fascinated by her very independent sense of style which I did not fully understand, and her commitment to veganism, which was the completion of my half-ass attempt to save the animals as a mere vegetarian.

I think I was the one who asked her out to lunch first. Our first outing at the Green Cat was sorta like an awkward first date. There was more than one uneasy silence and forced giggle. I believe I threw out a few questions like, “So, what's your sign?” and “Have I seen you here before?"

But over the weeks and months, the group of us went out for many drinks—mostly at the Cha Cha Lounge. And we discovered our shared love/obsession for food – eating wonderful things like vegetarian burritos at Bimbo's and possessing an insane obsession with Thai food, requiring lengthy email discussions on work time. And although I did not mean for this to be a post about food or the Seattle scene, no post about Karen would be complete without those things.

I realized how much I liked her when we talked about one of our fellow workmates, Ben. Ben was a pretend surfer who talked about things like sake and beer and Thailand like he was all knowledgeable and stuff, and really, he had no idea what he was talking about. She immediately saw through his bullshit. But at the same time, while I was agitated about how he got under my skin, he had zero effect on her.

And when office politics set in, I would get hurt by someone's perceived criticism of me, and she would laugh and move on.

More importantly, I've always admired her never-wavering commitment to respecting animals' dignity and lives, but without preaching about it. She has never told me in more than a few words why she is a vegan, never complained about meat eaters, never regurgitated the vegan philosophy. Yet I somehow know this is something she feels strongly about. She's like that with lots of things. Passionate without the preaching.

The shyness that we both had on our first, um, friendship outing, occurred because of our similarities. I think we did discuss once the fact that we are both INFJs, a small sect of people who like to spend lots of time alone, write, have meaningful relationships, do meaningful work, employ sensitive B.S. detectors, and talk about the fact that we are INFJs (or at least I do. I think she was mostly shining me on). Interestingly, I also share this personality disorder with Mommy off the Record -- interesting because it afflicts only 2% of the population.

And I like the way she writes. Instead of telling what happened, she describes the scene or feeling in a way that causes the reader to come to their own conclusions. Plus, she had a friendship with a teacher who professed his passion or something to her, which is pretty cool (entertaining cool, not cool cool). She describes it on her blog.

*I wrote this post to pass on the carma love after Mommy off the Record published her October 25th post about little ole' me, which was in response to Chicky Chicky Baby's suggestion to write about a blogger we love.

2006-11-09T00:46:00.000-09:00

It was worth every agonizing second.
I love to vote. I'm going to save my giddiness over this year's results for another post, but for now I just want to comment on the voting machines. Yes, they are efficient. Yes, they are easy and don't require "computer experience," (as the pre-recorded voice told those of us in line over and over, and over again). Yes, they are maybe perhaps less likely to be riddled with problems than paper voting. But there are so few of them that the lines were outta control... Two hours, thirty-five minutes I stood in line. With such boredom I was even excited to get to the stale popcorn table, and then the extra-strong-from-sitting-out-forever coffee table. With such boredom I was excited when Guy Behind Me made his twentieth cell phone call so that I would have something to listen to. I was even excited to read the little stack of church brochures that decorated the long long hallways.
But I did it.

2006-11-06T07:10:00.000-09:00

Why am I so tired?

I sleep a good 6 hours a night. Will only wakes up once, maybe twice per night now. Husband lets me sleep in at least once a week. I often take 5 minute cat naps during the day. Why am I so f*ing tired?

I've done my research and ruled out sleep apnea, insomnia, endocrine abnormalities, anemia, and hypogonadism. So why do I feel like putting my head on the table and either banging it right there, or going to sleep?

I have finally found the cause. It is Charlie. He will not stop talking.

I love the little guy. Don't get me wrong. And when he turned 2 and was hardly talking at all, we were worried sick. Other parents said smug things like, "once he starts, you won't be able to get him to stop." "Yeah, right," we said. We just wanted him to talk. That was just over a year ago.

Now it is hard to admit that they were right.

Here is our dinnertime conversation of last night:

Charlie: Mommy, I set your place for you. See dat? See dat mommy?
Me: Oh, yes, you set the table for me. Thanks, sweetie.
Charlie: Did you see the knife, and the fork, right there?
Me: Yes, I see, good job. Husband, did you...
Charlie: And I put the milk cup there for you.
Me: Yes, sweetie, that's great. Let me talk to...
Charlie: Mommy, see Will? He is eating in his high chair, right there. Right there, mommy. See that? See that mommy?
Me: Yes, that is great. Thanks for pointing that out.
Charlie: We are going to eat chicken? Chicken mommy? And that donut?
Me: Yes. That's a bagel, actually.
Charlie: A bagel, mommy? Right there? With a hole right there?
Husband: Charlie, let's pretend like we are waiting for a bus.
Charlie: What you say daddy?
Husband: When you are waiting for a bus, you are quiet. Can we be quiet while we eat? For a moment.
Charlie: Yes, yes daddy. I being quiet. See that mommy? See? I being quiet. I quiet mommy.
(silence.)
Charlie: See mommy? I being quiet? See?
Me: Yes. That is great. Just great. Husband, I wanted to talk about...
Charlie (whispering): mary had a little lamb.
Charlie (whispering louder): little lamb.
Charlie(whispering yet, louder): la la la la la la la.....

2006-11-04T18:56:00.000-09:00

Smart kid, or just a smarty pants?

Charlie (to daddy): Daddy, that's dirty laundry?
Daddy: Yes.
Charlie: That makes mommy sad.
Daddy: Really, sad?
Charlie: Yes. And frustrated.

Later...
The kids are sitting around the table doing an art project that involves cutting (with kid-safe scissors, of course)
Me: Charlie, stop using those scissors to cut that crayon.
Charlie: No.
Me: Do you want me to take them away?
Charlie: Mommy, you go in that next room, and then I use this scissors to cut this crayon???
It is a genuine question.

Later...
Charlie gets a time-out. He doesn't stay in it. So I give him the once-dreaded but now-useless Upstairs Time-Out, which is supposed to involve boring time away from his best friends. I put him in Will's baby room, because it is extra boring in there. Two minutes later I go to release him. He is sitting in Will's crib, holding one of his wall pictures in his hands.
Me: Uh, Charlie...
Charlie: Mommy, mommy! This picture fell off this wall, so I jump up here on crib, and I catch it.
Wow. My hero.

Later...
We step over a kid's nap mat, lying in the middle of the floor.
Charlie: This is a bed for cuddling on. Mommy, will you cuddle with me, on this bed, right now?
Awww.

2006-11-03T18:37:00.000-09:00

Did I take this too far?

A year ago, when I had just started running the daycare, I watched only one child and regularly dipped into my savings account to cover my bills. After 6 weeks of this, I was finally hired by a mother to watch my second daycare baby. I was ecstatic. The baby seemed easy, and he was the same age as the other baby I watched. Finally, my business was growing.

A week after watching her infant son, she mysteriously said she would no longer need care, and three days later, her check bounced. My checking account balance was so low that five of my checks bounced, and then the bank charged me some additional “inconvenience” fees.

I called her a few (like twenty) times. The first time we talked, she said she was so sorry. Someone had bounced a check to her, and it caused her account to be overdrawn, which caused her check to me to bounce. Her theory was plausible since the same thing had almost happened to me with her check. And besides, I liked her.

The problem would be fixed by the end of the week, she said. Fine, I said, bring me cash at the end of the week – enough to cover the original amount plus all my bank fees.

I transferred more money from my savings account and called her at the end of the week. She said that since her bank was out of state, she was not able to get cash out of it. I later looked at her returned check in my hands, and saw the bank's local address... roughly 5 minutes away.

I called her a few days later. Hubby lost his new job. And her commission from a prominent real estate agency hadn't come through yet. Or something. I lost track after awhile.

After that, she stopped answering her phone. So I sent her one certified letter that said I would take her to court if she did not pay me in full within two weeks.

Two service agencies could not serve her. I could not take her to court without her first being served court papers. She was elusive. The clean-cut, preppy blonde with the respectable husband and cute baby was eluding service agencies. My due date for my baby was approaching, and I thought about the prospect of being in court, a breastfeeding mom with leaky breasts and low amounts of sleep, and I cringed at the thought.

So I turned her over to a collection agency. I signed some sort of contract and sent them her check. They told me I was entitled to the amount of the check plus five measly dollars. I went for it because I liked the idea of teaching her a lesson. It wasn't about the money anymore.

The original check was only for $230, and the collection agency is now after her for over $1,000 dollars, an amount that will be on her credit report for seven years, even if she somehow pays it off.

Months later, I still have not seen any money. Bored one day, I googled her. She is being sued by Pizza Hut. Twice. She is being sued by a company that cuts commission checks for real estate agents. Sadliest of all, she is being sued by Check Into Cash. Check Into Cash, people.

I feel guilty. In spite of my occasional potty mouth and penchant for shallow material things, I consider myself a Christian. And, suing people and sending them to collection agencies isn't exactly a Christian thing to do, especially when the primary motive is revenge (and also considering that I don't need that money anymore). And here is a lady with a baby, who may be at risk of losing her house, who might not be able to afford basics like non-generic diapers, who has to decide which bill to pay. And I can totally imagine being in her shoes even though I have never been there. I feel guilty.

2006-10-30T18:38:00.000-09:00

He did it.
He pooped in the potty.

Sixteen months after his first pee on the potty, almost four months after moving into big boy pants, and two months after I first considered throwing in the poop towel, he finally did it.

It went like this: he started making his high-pitched whine that he does when he realizes that poop is near, and more importantly, that he cannot hold it back any longer. This is very stressful to him because he doesn't want to use the potty, but he knows that using his pants is "bad." We have been in this bad place for so long.

So I picked him up and carried him to the potty, which I have done before, and which always results in disaster. What happens usually is he freaks out that he is being "forced" to go on the potty, and he holds it in. Or he just has such a huge tantrum that I can't get him to actually sit on the potty. So I don't know why I tried this tactic again.

We got there, and I told him it was OK. He freaked out. I hugged him a little, offered more kind words. He continued to freak out. I pulled his pants down and he freaked out some more. Man, I feel like I am doing some horrible thing. Then we stood there for like 20 seconds as he squatted over the floor, me afraid to move too suddenly, him looking quite uncomfortable, and then I just put him on the toilet seat. Literally 2 seconds later, he got this weird look on his face, then turned around and looked into the potty. He said, "I did it mommy!"

Hubby ran into the bathroom, and the three of us jumped up and down for like 10 minutes. I could see a tear in hubby's eye.

We let Charlie pick out a Hot Wheel car from the box of dusty new cars that were waiting for this very day. He was giddy. We called nana and Aunt Katie. Every few moments, all evening long, he giggled and looked so proud of himself.

Our poop intervention finally worked.

2006-10-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Our kid is getting the best of us.

Last July on his third Birthday, Charlie was 90% potty trained. He peed in the potty, stayed dry all day for about 4 days in a row and would have the occasional accident, but wouldn't poop on the potty. That part was frustrating, but at least we knew he could pee on the potty, and pretty independently.

For the last couple months he has been regressing in a major way. I know they say that this is normal, but is this normal?

He will hold it forever. When it has been 4-5 hours, I'll suggest he go on the potty. He says no. So I use the Love and Logic approach: "Do you want to go now, or in 2 minutes?" He always says 2 minutes. So I set the timer. I tell him that when the timer goes off, he isn't allowed to whine or scream or cry or complain. He looks me straight in the eye and says OK.

The timer goes off. He complains and whines, I remind him that he isn't supposed to do that, he reluctantly says OK.

Fast forward 10 minutes. We are now on the hallway on our way to the potty.

Fast forward 10 minutes. He almost has his pants off. I tell him I will help him, but only if he helps me (i.e., don't play with your truck with your pants half off while daycare kids are in the next room unattended, and then freak out and scream when I go to check on them, only to fart around again when I return).

Fast forward 3 (feels like 10) minutes. His pants are removed by him but only with much drama and whining.

Ten minutes later... standing at the potty, semi-playing with himself, giggling, and saying, "mommy, yook."

I say that I'll be right back when he is ready to go pee.

Three minutes later, he announces he has gone. I have to remind him to wash his hands.

Five minutes later I check on him and he is washing his train in the water. I threaten that "candy time is almost over" and will be over if he continues to play. Whining, some odd high-pitched noises, some grunts.

I end up putting his pants on. He is capable of doing this.

Regardless, he gets a fucking gummy bear.

Five hours later he pees himself with a grin on his face. I forgot to remind him to go, but I know that I shouldn't have had to.

Later he is put into a time-out for, like, stealing a toy or something, so he pees himself.

Hubby says we have made this too much of a battle. We have made it too clear that we care about this. Charlie is regaining power by peeing on himself when he is capable of doing otherwise.

So today we asked if he was ready to return to diapers, he says no, but at the same time, he doesn't seem to care much. I put size 5 Huggies on him (no fun pull-ups, even). I feel this is the perfect solution - after all, he can choose to use the potty like a big boy, or he can choose to have his diaper changed like a baby. I don't care anymore -- at least on the surface that is true. Mean? Manipulative?

A few hours later, I tell him it is time to change his diaper. He puts up a huge fight, fusses, screams on the changing table, successfully kicks me and wriggles away a few times. I tell him if he continues to do this, he will have a time-out. He sorta stops. I change his diaper after 5 minutes.

So no matter what we do, there is still a power struggle? What is the solution???

P.S. I also find it very sad and frustrating that if this were not my child (like a daycare kid) this problem would have SO been nipped in the bud months ago.

2006-10-26T18:46:00.000-08:00

How hard is it to pick up the phone, really?
We are having a Halloween party this Saturday, and I can already feel myself getting sorta mad. The invitations said RSVP, which means "répondez s'il vous plaît" which in normal words means "please respond." Fewer than half the invitees have responded yet. Now, they still have two days to respond, so why am I mad?

I threw a baby shower for a friend last month, and the same thing happened. Fewer than half responded. On the day of the shower, some of those who responded "yes" did not show, and a few others decided to stop by even though I hadn't heard from them, and at least ten did not respond or show up. An hour before the party, I had no idea how much food to put out. So I set out a huge double layer cake and a three foot subway sandwich, four inches of which were eaten. (I won't complain about the leftover cake I had to eat.)

Now, as far as the Halloween party is concerned, I know they aren't failing to respond because they don't like me, cuz for the shower, none of the invitees even knew me. They were the guest's friends, really. So let's get that option out of our minds. I'm afraid this failure to communicate is more a reflection of our society's tendency toward flakiness.

So I guess on future invitations, I need to be more clear. Some options:
"Please RSVP whether or not you plan to attend, or not."
"Regrets only"
"Hope to see you. Please fucking respond."

2006-10-26T06:32:00.000-08:00

Crazy dream
Last night I dreamed that a man contacted me for a job interview to wait tables at a golf course. Hubby said, "Oh, that's how you make the best tips." So I went to the interview and the first thing he asked me to do was step into the photo room. I sat down on a bed and then he cuddled up next to me and some stuffy photographer took our picture. "When is the interview?" I asked. "Now," he said. So he asked me questions like:
"So you like the Gap underwear, the low waisted ones?"
"Um, yeah, I guess."
"And the batgirl costume. You gonna do that this year?"
"Maybe."
"Your son really likes that red motorcycle, huh?"
"Yes.... what about the job?"

Then he wrapped up the interview. I walked back to my car and realized he was following me.

The next week he called me again to ask more odd questions. I realized all the questions had one thing in common: they had to do with my blog.

Then I asked, what was the name of your restaurant again? He told me, I googled it, and it did not exist.

Think this has anything to do with my deep-seated fear of one of my daycare parents discovering this private, quaint little blog?

2006-10-24T19:55:00.000-08:00

I loved my job today.

After many days of feeling that things were not working with my easily-tantrumed, extremely loud, stubborn and often-incompatable group, things finally clicked. For two days in a row.

Today we talked about the five senses - smell, in particular. We read My Five Senses, and the girl in the book smelled a horse (who writes this stuff?) I looked at the kids and asked, "What do you think a horse smells like?" One boy said, with total confidence, "grass."

Later I let them smell all sorts of things in little Dixie cups: honey, basil, lemon juice, soy sauce, onion powder, marjoram, crushed black pepper. Although they were brimming with excitement over such a hands-on activity, after each sniff, each child laughed, "eeew, yucky!"

My new shy boy, who is the youngest and smallest of the group, and who has spent the last four weeks on the sidelines watching cautiously, opened up this week. Not only did he let a boy hug him, but he leaned into him a little, and smiled. He ran after the other kids with glee as they ran through the house. He walked up to me and, when I was looking elsewhere, poked my thigh, then smiled slyly as if to tell me he liked me.

Even "Lucy," the passionate, tempermental, future high-paying executive finally responded to my conditioning. When she started to tantrum over silly stuff and I said, "Oh, we aren't going to cry about that," she put her shoulders back, stuck her lower lip back in where it belonged, sniffed, and then went about her day, happily.

And Will, my baby. Today was the first day he was part of the daycare. Not just a passive baby who sat on the outskirts. He sat in the little chair that attaches to the daycare table and watched the kids with total fascination as they stabbed and pressed their papers with crayons. He looked truly happy.

Dude, we were on a roll today. Dare I hope this is permanent?

2006-10-22T18:32:00.000-08:00

ITMFA
Awesome.

2006-10-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

Jr. High Part II

Although my Charlie is not the alpha male of our group, his best friend Mikey is. Charlie and Mikey, the two oldest ones, are totally inseperable. When Mikey and Charlie are naughty at the kitchen table, the three younger ones follow. When they think of an imaginative way to play with Play-Doh and rubber bands, the other ones think it is genius and copy. But let's be clear: Mikey is the leader. Charlie is happy to follow.

When Mikey went on vacation last week, the group dynamic changed. Charlie became the leader. The others followed him around like he was the best thing since Tater Tots. They did whatever he said. One girl in particular was his new best friend, and he seemed to thoroughly enjoy her company. For a full week, she was his official sidekick.

But when Mikey returned, things were not pretty.

They were outside playing on their ride-on bikes as usual. It seemed like a normal day, the five kids playing together happily. I noticed Lucy seemed very emotional, and mysteriously burst into tears a few times, which is not terribly unusual for her. Each time I looked at her, she appeared to be uninjured, so I told her, "you're OK.”

But a few minutes later, she was once again devastated, practically drenched in tears. I approached her to ask what was wrong but she was so hysterical, she could not talk. So I sat back and watched. I watched her ride over to Charlie, and in her nicest, sweetest voice, say, “Hi, Charlie.”

He grunted. A deep, long lasting, gravelly grunt that said, “I am not interested in this right now.” Then he rode away.

Immediately she burst into tears again, this time throwing herself onto the grass and sobbing.

I could not believe my eyes. No, this is not going to happen. I took Charlie aside. “You hurt her feelings. When she says hi to you, she is being nice. When you grunt, it makes her very sad. You need to use nice words with people.”

Nice words. That is the thing I ask for when they whine and I want them to say, “more please.” Nice words is what I ask for when they say, “go away,” or “you stink.” Mostly, I ask them to use nice words when they are tantrumming or sobbing or acting otherwise very dramatic and unattractive when a few choice words would sound so much prettier.

Charlie agreed to use nice words, likely afraid that I would take away his bike if he did not listen, and he ran back to play. Moments later:

Hi Charlie.
Hi Lucy.
Hi Charlie.
Hi Lucy.

This went on for quite some time. He would say hi back and then ride away. She would quickly follow him and say hi again.
Hi Charlie.
Hi Lucy.
He would ride away again, she would predict his destination, go a different way, and beat him there so that she could say Hi. “Hi Lucy,” he would say.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He heard the voice in his head telling him to use his words. So he turned to her and firmly said, “Lucy, no more hi's.”

She thought about this for awhile, then said, “ok.”

He was free. For three minutes. Then she approached him again, letting him know she still existed by saying hi. He said hi back, clearly afraid of losing his motorcycle.

I was so saddened to see how early the junior high stuff begins, and sadder even to realize that some day he will be on the receiving end of obligatory hi's.

2006-10-20T18:18:00.000-08:00

Things I love about winter
1. Everything looks fresh and clean
2. The air smells good
3. Our weeds and twig piles are covered up
4. It's something different

The not-so-good stuff
1. Occassionally housebound with five toddlers, a baby, and a cat for nine hours
2. Constant runny noses
3. Forty-five minutes to get ready to spend 5 minutes outside
4. Wind chill
5. Kid mittens that fall off constantly
6. Falling on your ass in cold snow and crying for 10 minutes straight
7. It melts and then re-freezes (see #6)

2006-10-18T10:00:00.000-08:00

You know things are bad when...
...you fight over who had the worse day.
Example:
Husband: I love when it takes me an hour and a half to get home.
Me: Or when it takes an hour to get sick baby down for each of his three naps.
Husband: Lots of accidents from the first snow today.
Me: He had diarrhea today.
Pause.
Me: I have bad news... regarding the cat poop in the bed.
Husband (looking at me): I guess this means you want me to clean it up?
Me: I cleaned up human poop all day. Your turn.
Husband: I need to get all the snow out of the tree outside first, before the snow breaks off anymore branches. I'll get to the bed later.
Me: Did I mention (client) is pulling her son on her maternity leave? My income will drop in two weeks.
Husband: That's nice.

You'd think this sort of day would mean Will would have a good night's sleep. You'd think.

2006-10-17T18:13:00.000-08:00

I need to be more like a car salesman.

One of my daycare parents/clients has become a good friend. Her son, who I have watched for over a year, is my son's best friend. She always tells her friends how happy she is with me, and I often feel like he is my favorite daycare child. I know him well, we trust each other, he is eager to learn and bright, and, well, I just like him.

The mom is pregnant and she told me she isn't sure if she can have Mikey here during her unpaid maternity leave, but she would think about it. I told her I could only guarantee his spot would still be open upon her return if she would pay half the normal tuition, and in exchange, I would watch him three mornings a week. Today she told me her decision: she will keep him here only one day a week and I'll get about one-quarter of what I usually get for watching him.

When we were discussing this, and before she made a firm decision, I told her that I wasn't sure I could hold his spot if he only came one day per week. I watch four kids, so his tuition is one-quarter of my income. While I'll try to find a temporary kid for the three months that he is gone, those kids are hard to find this time of year. Who looks for new daycare in between Christmas shopping and hanging red and green house lights?

But at the same time, I was also completely honest with her. I told her that I don't want to fill his spot with some other kid. That I care about him, I enjoy watching and teaching him, and I don't want to see him go. I told her I will try to do what I can to find a temporary kid, or whatever else it takes, to make ends meet so that his spot is still open. This is not just a business decision, but a personal one.

Today when she told me her final decision, I was surprised to find myself feeling sorta angry, or duped. I have no right to feel this way. After all, she gave me two weeks' notice for the schedule/rate change, she is within her rights, and she has her own financial concerns. And it isn't even about the fact that we are friends; after all, I hoped that she, my friend, would have made a decision that would benefit me financially. I just had this feeling that she opted to save money because she knew that I would take him back regardless. I made it so very clear that I want him to stay.

So my immediate instinct is to post his opening. I know that instinct exists because I am bitter, not because it is the best thing for my daycare. But I still might do it.

FIrst I'm going to have a kid-free moment with Seinfeld and coffee ice cream.

(c) 2006 Red Rollerskate. Don't mess with a pissy girl.

2006-10-17T12:26:00.000-08:00

No Sharing
I am neurotic about Will having some things just for him, no matter how impractical this desire is. Maybe the problem is that 99% of his clothes and toys are hand-me-downs from his big brother. Or that all of his bibs have sweet potato stains on them from 2003, a full 3 years before he was born. Or that he has to share his mommy, even when he is sick and should have me all to himself. Or that even his bedroom is not his own – it is also a nap room for daycare kids to sleep in.

I try to not to be resentful toward the kids. After all, if it weren't for them, I would not be “staying home” with my baby at all.

But it does lead to my neuroses. For example, there is this gumby-style cloth flower that has a bendable stem and a bright, happy face on it. I used to wrap the stem around the changing table for him to look at while I changed him. Once, one of the daycare kids got a hold of it and put her mouth on it. I almost lost my mind and scolded her, then reminded myself that her action was totally innocent and the problem was mine.

But every time it falls into one of their hands, I feel myself watching it like a hawk, waiting for a sneaky moment to steal it away and return it to its rightful place.

It is this anal retentiveness that made me buy him three new outfits at a semi-expensive clothing store last weekend, despite my tight financial situation. The clean stripes and cargo-pocketed pants got the best of me.

I do not listen to the practical voice inside, reminding me that Will would not know or care if the big kids played with his circus train until he was old enough to appreciate it. Doesn't matter. I want his toys to have no spit, snot, marks, or wear of any kind once he is ready for them. It is the least I can do.

© 2006 Red Rollerskate. I'm not sharing that either.

2006-10-15T18:29:00.000-08:00

Just to re-confirm my love for him...
My baby was hurt today, and I almost killed the on-call doctor. He has been sick a couple days... high fever, throwing up a bit, with a red ear. I had his beloved pediatrician paged, and she said she wasn't terribly worried, but that he could possibly have an ear infection, and to go ahead and take him to Urgent Care if it would make me feel better.

His fever of 102.6 had gone down to 99.4 thanks to Tylenol, but he was still rosy and refused to smile, totally abnormal for my happy-go-lucky boy. The Urgent Care doctor checked his ears and they were clear. She checked his nose and said it was only slightly congested. She listened to his lungs and they sounded great. She pricked his heel and took his blood, and before she read the results, she warned me that if the white cell count was high or even borderline, then she would "cath" him to check for a bladder infection. She said something about how she would be "negligent" if she didn't check for an infection with such a high fever.

Cath as in catheter. As in sticking a tiny tube up his penis while he is being held down. I convinced myself it was only a cold and the cell count would be low.

The results came back, and they were borderline. I knew that although it would hurt, it would be no big deal really... they do it all the time and we can be strong. Plus, it would only last two seconds, she said.

The two doctors held him down and I was instructed to talk to him to keep him calm. I did this and sang a little while they prepped him, let him look at me and hold my hair innocently, and then he burst into tears. It was the same kind of cry he has when he receives his shots, and I think that although it is heart breaking, it is tolerable. I have had shots before, and they hurt, but, you know.

Then two seconds passed, then ten, then what seemed like twenty or maybe even thirty. And suddently, his cries were frantic. I had never seen him like this. It was like he was out of his mind in agony.

Then she said they were done, and she walked away with the sample she came for. And I tried to comfort him but he was too hysterical to know that I was even holding him.

A minute later I went to breastfeed him in the chair. He finally calmed down for a moment, seemed at peace, went to suck, and then seemed to remember the terror and burst into tears again.

I cried the entire time. I tried to sing or talk to him, but the tears were going down my face.

Later she came in and said the urine looked clear, so he was probably OK, but she would give him meds anyway since we wouldn't really have the results back for 3 days. Ok, whatever.

A couple hours later his real doctor called to check on him. I told her about the catheter. She asked what his white blood cell count was, and I read her the scribbled writing off the sheet they gave me. She said it was hardly borderline, and that they could have gotten urine without a cath.

I know he doesn't have anything serious, and there are moms out there dealing with much more serious stuff. There is just something about seeing your loved one in pain that makes you realize the intensity of your love for them. I didn't really need to be reminded of this. I've been a wreck all night.

On a positive note, here is a cute shot...

2006-10-11T19:47:00.000-08:00

Halloween Costumes for Normal People
Every year it is the same thing. I have grand ideas about the Best Costume Ever and husband has no interest in dressing up. Last year we were new to our neighborhood, so we threw a Halloween party, which forced us to dress up (though in slightly lame costumes). This year we are once again throwing a party, and we agree that we need to try a little harder. Our costumes need to look like we tried.

And then the idea came to me. Charlie wants to be Spiderman. Will is going to wear Charlie's old Superman costume. How cute would it be if we were all different super heroes? We could be like the Drawn Together family, all living under one roof, except not all perverted and weird.

Hubby was totally on board. For the first time ever, our costumes were gonna rock.

Then we started shopping online, and this is what we found.

Do you see the way it is hugging his package, so gently, yet firmly?

And for my costume...

... Am I going to save the world, or feed them?

Other options?

What are those spikey things on her arms? This one really bothered me. Let's look at the real batgirl.

While she is sexy, there is no vinyl involved. She actually looks respectful. Classy. But still totally doable.

Hubby says, "Why don't they call the costumes what they really are? Like Brazen Whore?"

Now don't get me wrong. I have no problem with sexiness. There is a part of me that likes to dress slutty sometimes (it helps rectify many days of wiping noses and butts). Showing off what you have can be freeing. And since I'm a nursing mom, I could just go, like, 5 hours without nursing, and BAM, I can overflow just like the rest of them (hopefully the belly fat won't cancel that out). But why? I mean, on one hand, most of the people coming over are thirty- to forty-somethings with kids and normal jobs, and half our guests will be under the age of four. So really, it would be a little embarassing.

Even if (and this is the other hand) the two of us went out as a couple, with normal people, what is the point of participating in the who can be sluttiest competition? I am over it. I just want a decent costume.

Next idea: the nurse from Kill Bill 2. The costume is basic but still interesting and not prepackaged. Spooky but not dumb. Just a nurse's outfit with few blood splatters, eye patch, knife behind the back. Perfect! But one of the neighborhood moms dressed as a nurse last year, and all the men were all atwitter about how they could see through to her thong. Shockingly, she won the costume contest, even though she only wore a plain white nursey dress and heels. So that option is out for me with this group, even though this nurse is way cooler.

Next and perhaps final idea: Napoleon Dynamite. He can be Napoleon, and I can be the 80's girlfriend. I need the fold-down acid wash jeans, the nurse shirt (?), homemade bracelets, pink Reebok hi-tops, fanny pack, sideways ponytail. I love the idea but that means I need to go to like 4 Goodwills in order to accomplish all this. Who has time for this? Let me rephrase. Who with children has time for this?

I need ideas. Anyone?

2006-10-06T21:29:00.000-08:00

So This is Where Junior High Begins

I used to think that I would like all kids equally well. After all, they are kids. While they have different attributes, they all have cute voices, say funny things, get easily excited, and are special in their own ways.

But I think about past jobs that I have had. Jobs with adults. I have not been equally compatible with all of them. Some people made me feel smart and funny. Some made me feel angry and vicious. Some made me feel small. Others grated my nerves like a scared cat on hardwood floors. So why would I assume that all kids would be equally likable to me?

I feel so guilty admitting this. After all, I provide care to people's children for a living. I think about how I felt when I needed to return to work and leave my child with someone else. I had found an excellent provider for Charlie when he was just over a year, and even though I fully trusted her, I also knew that she would not treat him as I would. I gave her a two-page, single-spaced list of his preferences and dislikes, hoped and prayed that she could get him to sleep like I did, and called a few times a day to check up on him (she must have hated me). My trust was so fully in this one person. I really needed her to love him, or at least make him feel secure and happy, and she did.

So how dare I not relish another person's child? I cannot help it. My preferences don't make the child any less lovable as a person (or any less happy here, as her parents tell me); it just means that we are not as compatible as we could be. If the two of us met as adults, we would probably not hang out.

Today was Friday, and Fridays are the worst. All the kids miss their parents, are on edge, act up, are less likely to share, act wild. Even Charlie, who is at home all day with me, went up to me today and was acting very funny and mumbling a little. I got on his level and asked him what he wanted. And he took his long Uncle Sam finger, pointed it in my face, and said, “I want you, mommy.” So I sat down and held him for awhile. Fridays are when all the kids realize that they want their mommies (and in Charlie's case, his mommy all to himself).

But back to my original point. There is one little girl here who I have to work at loving. She is so emotional. Like today when she took someone's toy and I corrected her, she lied down flat on her stomach and let out mind-altering screams. Later, she was standing on a chair, so I asked her nicely to get down. Again, high pitched banshee screams. Moments later she was fine, but put herself into a handstand (yes, a real one), just inches away from baby Will. I asked her not to do that, and again, another blood-curdling series of screams. When she was done with that round, she decided, for the twentieth time that day, that she really missed her mommy, and then she screamed about that an absurd amount of time. Screaming that I could not comfort away and that made everyone in the room feel uncomfortable.

And then there are the moments of her just being mean. Today, she was looking out the window waiting for her mommy to come, and a little boy decided to stand next to her to wait for his mommy too, and in a very mean voice, she leaned in real close to him and screamed, “NO, MY MOMMY!” The little boy walked away, looking crushed and confused. Sometimes when I redirect her mean behavior, she gives a certain expression which brings me back to 1988. It communicates only one thing to me: screw you. I didn't learn how to give that look until I received it myself in junior high.

I know I'm not taking about anything new here: tantrums, dirty looks, yelling at others, freaking out over things of little consequence — this is the life of a toddler. If I include my own Charlie, who has had his share of temper tantrums, I have watched ten kids over the age of two. No one has been quite as emotional as her — not even close. (She is also the only girl I have watched, a very odd coincidence, and I am not sure if her gender is related to her being so emotional. Being that my sample size for girls is only one, I won't draw any conclusions there.)

Now, misbehaving I can handle. If a child hits someone with a toy, the toy toes into a time-out. If a child is mean to others, they can be redirected to play elsewhere. If a child hits, they get a time-out. But constant crying? I asked a bunch of my daycare provider friends about this behavior. Is it normal? Should I coddle her? Comfort her? Ignore her? Punish her?

The consensus is this: crying excessively for no reason or to manipulate is not desirable behavior. People who cry excessively don't tend to make many friends later in life. And while the toddler years are the most emotional ones, toddlers should still be taught to use words instead of screaming, to cry in the next room when it involves disturbing, high-pitched sounds, and sometimes, just to suck it up.

So I took the advice of my daycare provider friends and, when her crying was truly for no reason, started telling her that she was welcome to cry... in the next room. It sounded mean at first. But then it didn't. After all, why should everyone else in the room have to stop talking, stop playing, stop pretending and laughing, and stop enjoying their day in general because one person wants to absolutely freak out over absolutely the lamest thing in the world?

So I started doing that. After a quick hug I started to say, “it's ok to cry, but do that in the next room.” Later, it became just, "next room, please." And when she is crying too loud to hear my explanation, I take her hand and she takes it away from me, running herself into the next room. She knows exactly what to do.

You know what? Nine times out of ten, as soon as she sees me with that “on no you didn't” expression, she wipes the tears off her face and starts playing again. When she does go into the next room to cry, she comes back approximately 4 to 30 seconds later, and tells me, proudly, “I done crying.”

In spite of those semi-successes, I absolutely hate these days. Today I was sweaty, my heart was pounding, and I was irritable with even the good and sweet kids, which really made me sad.

But I know that this is Charlie's very first glimpse into real life. We can't always choose the people we work and play with. We have to learn to work with others. And each day I eagerly await the clock striking 5:00 when I take both my boys into my arms for a very quiet, normal evening together.

2006-10-03T19:00:00.000-08:00

Have you checked your Temporary Internet Files lately?

Something very strange happened with my computer today. Since I post pictures of the daycare kids on my business web site, I first ask the parents if it is OK to post each individual picture. So I sent one of my daycare parents a shot of his daughter to ask if I could post it. He replied with:

"Yes, go ahead. So what are all those other photos? Do you like to collect pictures of storms, mailboxes and stars when they were kids?!"

"Huh?"

And he said that after he saw the daughter picture, he "continued to click on the other pictures and viewed the others in my collection."

Other pictures? Collection?

Frantically I went into my Sent items to see what I had sent him, and after clicking through about 40 images, I realized that Yahoo or some computer virus somehow attached all of my Temporary Internet Files to the one attachment I sent him, with a convenient arrow button for him to easily scroll through.

Just what lives in our Temporary Internet Files folder?
* Images viewed by me on my computer
* Images sent to me by other people via cheesy emails, not necessarily representing my own opinions or likes
* Ads and other graphics that live on web sites visited (i.e., blogger)
* Sarcastic graphics meant to accompany my future blog posts.

Let's review some of what was sent to my, um, client.

At least I don't surf porn on this computer.

2006-10-02T11:16:00.000-08:00

He really does love me!

Dear mommy,
Did you really think I had left you? I was never too busy for you, I just had other things to do. Didn't you know that a full, open-mouthed kiss on your check is the same as a love proclamation? I actually usually aim for your mouth, but will settle for the cheek.
I just couldn't help it, what with everything -- curtains, flies, kitty cats, crap on the rug, my toes, electrical wires, tall house plants -- being so new and all. Now that that stuff is old and normal to me, I am starting to remember how fascinating you are. Especially the inside of your mouth, backs of your teeth, black nose hairs, glasses, and ear lobes. I can't believe I forgot about you a little.
Never forget i love you.
Your Will

I got my boy back last week.
Just over the last couple days he has been making eye contact with me again.
The slobby wet kisses have returned.
The sincere, sparkly eye contact followed by coos, soft eye blinks, gummy smiles, and raised shoulders have returned.
He giggles whenever he sees me.
He cries a little when I put him down.
He didn't complain when I made him sleep in our bed twice - because I was too tired to return him to his crib.
And, most of all, he is willing and even enthusiastic about consuming mama's milk instead of jar food, even doing this during daycare hours. Incredible.

I am smitten.

2006-09-29T21:43:00.000-08:00

Watching other people's kids

There is something funny about other people's kids. Their poop is about 10 times stinkier and at least twice as green as my own kids'. Their cries are screechy and painful. So why do I do it? A lot of daycare providers I know give one honest answer—to stay home with their own kids. This was my answer a year ago.

But there is more to it now. When I first started this, Charlie and his new buddy had just turned 2. In the first week, they learned all their colors, then immediately started counting to ten. The next week or so, they seemed to spontaneously learn their shapes. Over the next few months we learned manners and they started to respect me a little. I loved watching them learn and enjoyed watching Charlie interact with different kids.

I've found that they have as much to offer Charlie as vice versa. They teach him crazy antics, help develop his verbal skills, teach him to share and play nice. They say funny things. They are aloof for months on end and then suddenly, start to hug me. They squeal at stupid things and giggle when they see food, trucks, poop, or bugs. They are eager to learn about everything and appreciate even my lamest attempts to teach them. They laugh at me when I dance and imitate me when we do Itsy Bitsy Spider.

And, finally, not only do I not have to talk about TPS Reports, but I find myself saying things like:
Stop licking the table
Don't lick his finger
The baby is not a couch
Don't eat that booger
Don't sit on her face
You cannot own the color blue. You can share your favorite color.
Are you licking the floor again?
No, we do not eat cat food here.
And so on.

Plus, they give me a lot to write about. So I'm in this for awhile.

2006-09-28T18:05:00.000-08:00

I need love
I'm trying not to use my kids to fulfill my own personal needs, but I can't help it. My 6 month-old wants little to nothing to do with me. Aren't babies supposed to be cuddly, or was it just my firstborn who set up this expectation in me? And if I'd had my second one first, would I be shocked at how “needy” my first was?
Little Will woke up multiple times last night, as he has been doing lately. And his cries sound so pitiful. So being the nurturing mother and person that I am, I pick him up to cuddle him. And what does he do? He jams his sharp little elbow into my chest to push himself as far away from me as possible, while looking around the dark room to see what he can explore.
I'm being selfish. I want to cuddle with him. I feel like a desperate girlfriend. Love me, please. Just one little cuddle, admiring look, comforted nuzzle, sweet smile? Just one?
When I try to breastfeed him, his reaction is, “get that big thing out of my face right now.” Unless he is really starving, in which case he will eat quickly, finish, then sit up as quickly as possible, to explore.
This morning when he made it clear that he did not want to be comforted, I tried not to feel hurt, telling myself that everyone is different, even babies. He is his own little man with his own set of needs (like the need to be left alone, to not be held back, and to see the world).
Still, I felt unfulfilled. So when he was back asleep, I went into Charlie's big bed and cuddled up next to him. He opened his eyes, smiled at me, and curled up in a ball into my tummy, all warm and soft. And I felt satisfied at last.

2006-09-26T19:16:00.000-08:00

Potty Training.
I give up.

On Charlie's 3rd Birthday, I was gloating that he was so potty trained. He kept his big boy Thomas pants dry all day, peed without having to think about it, went without having to be reminded, even put his own pants back on. The only time he ever had an accident was every third or fourth day when he had to poop.

I felt this was no big deal. However, part of mastering the first part of potty training was his feeling of pride in the dry pants; he then fully understood that poop could not ever go in there, either. But at the same time, he had this intense fear of pooping on the potty. His solution? No pooping.

We would have long, drawn out discussions about this.
Me: Charlie, you have to poop.
Him: No, poop stay in my tummy.
Me: No, it will hurt if you do that. You need to poop in the potty, or you can even ask for a pull-up. Here.
Him: Nooooo.... I go poop in the potty when I am big. Big like you.

Let me back up by saying that for the last three months, we have alternated between bouts of extreme constipation, and watery poopiness from the prune juice I sneak into his food. The watery poopiness which results in Thomas pants getting defiled, me quietly cursing at the cleanup, him feeling even more ashamed and vowing to never poop again, me sick of the smell of bleach.

Let me clarify that I did not purposefully shame him. I talked to him about how normal poop is. I read him books like, "Everyone Poops." I let him watch me poop. I pretend-sit with him on the pot while we pretend to push out poop together, me cheering him on. When he goes in his pants, I say things like, "That's Ok, we'll make it next time." When he looks stressed that he needs to poop, I tell him, "That's OK. Do what you need to do."

But now that he has crossed the line and understands what does and does not belong in his pants, there is no turning back.

So I moved him permanently into pull-ups. Then he can poop in them, not withhold, and I don't have to scrub poop out of cotton. The problem? He re-learned the convenience of peeing in his pants. Lo and behold, he is no longer potty trained.

So I've decided that I officially give up. Let him revert back to his two's. At this rate and with his expert fine motor skills, I will teach him how to change his own diapers. Yes, that's it. He can go in his pants all he wants, and then change himself when he is through.

Anyone have any other ideas, let me know.

2006-09-25T17:54:00.000-08:00

Toddler Birthday Parties

For those of you who don't yet have toddlers, let me help you keep your friends with my Top Eight List for a Successful Toddler Party. No, not successful for your toddler, because they won't care if you celebrate their Birthday by throwing sticks in a pond or killing ants with toy golf clubs -- but successful in the eyes of your friends, coworkers, neighbors, and anyone else you claim to care about.

8. Don't schedule the party during the average child's naptime. Seems obvious, right? It's not. 86.5% of the toddler parties I have attended involved the Birthday child having a major meltdown, followed by the following parental explanation: "It's his naptime. You'll have to forgive him." Um, you mean I will have to forgive you, the nitwit who scheduled it now. So if you want your party to last two hours, then don't let any part of that block of time occur between 11:30 and 3:00. Which leads me to...

7. No toddler party should ever, ever, under any circumstances, last more than 2 hours tops. Why? Because no one cares as much as you do about the presents your child received, about how cute they look when they play together, about watching them eat cake. Really. People who have kids would much rather spend their valuable weekend time doing adult activities. If you and the grandparents want to have an extended party, fine, but let the rest of the guests go home after a reasonable amount of toddler craziness.

6. In order to maintain Rule #7, do not plan on opening presents 1 hour and 50 minutes after the party start time, followed by cake time. Why? Because no guest wants to appear rude by not watching your kid open presents, so you are essentially forcing them to hang out with kids for more than 2 hours, and no guest who is also a parent wants to leave before cake time, because their kid has been nagging them for cake the entire time. Give kids 1 hour to play, 15 minutes for presents, 15 minutes for cake, and then those who truly cannot bear to leave can choose to stay another half-hour. Sound fair?

5. Don't talk to your child in a high-pitched voice about how you "super love them," especially if your child is over the age of 3 months. On second thought, you should never "super" love anybody, as the word "love," in and of itself already conveys the strongest form of affection.

4. Don't send kids home with party favors that involve pictures of your child. The goal of a party favor is to give toddlers -- who have just watched another child open and keep forty-five gifts -- something to make them happy, such as a whistle, Dum Dums, maybe even a plastic ring. But no three-year-old is going to be delighted to receive an Olan Mills photo of their buddy standing against a blue marble backdrop. So mail those pictures to those you "super" love and give everyone else the fun stuff - which is what party favors are meant for.

3. If your child has a meltdown during present-opening time, don't force them to open their presents anyway, thus causing that uncomfortable feeling in the room. Just kindly explain to your guests that Jr. will have to open the gifts later and that you appreciate their bringing a gift. Or you could just open the gifts for Jr. while he goes into the other room to nap.

And the lesson I learned for myself, the hard way:
2. Do not spend more than $50 total on your child's party. Why? Because they do not care. Because it makes them start to expect this in the future. Because it is money wasted. Because absolutely no one in the universe is impressed except for you, not even your Birthday child. Which brings me to #1...

1. Think of what is truly the funnest thing for your child, and do that for him. I recently learned that my son's favorite part of our vacation was looking at trees and bushes in his nana's backyard. It involved no picture taking, no getting dressed up, no decoration, and no preparation whatsoever. His Birthday party was quite the opposite and left a huge dent in my wallet. So I guess in a nutshell: think like your child and define "fun" in the most simple way.

2006-09-21T19:29:00.000-08:00

Still not resurrected

Scratch my earlier post about finding the perfect magazine that speaks to my generation. After I finished, um, reading it, I realized that I am not, in fact, part of their target audience. And since my main need as a magazine reader is to feel a part of some "in" crowd (sad, I know), this flaw is a fatal one.

Exhibit 1

Exhibit 2

'Nuff said.

2006-09-19T20:48:00.000-08:00

A little part of me has officially died.

I was waiting at my chiropractor's office and I picked up an issue of Real Simple. You know, the magazine offering emotional well-being, organizational tips, and crafty solutions to problems you didn't know you had to women of, um, my age. I was ashamed and embarrassed to admit to myself that the Table of Contents was fascinating. When the doctor called for me, I was disappointed to have to leave it behind.

Have you ever been reading something and had this feeling of, “I must continue. The finish line is near?” Anyone? I felt that way last month reading Jane, my former favorite magazine. And since I subscribe to it, I felt that it would only be fair to finish it. Sure, it is somewhat edgy and the writing is good, but I had the distinct feeling that it was not written for me. Let's explore some of the latest topics.

Plan for your hangover
Wild girl Eva Longoria stripped down and way sexier
Q&A Zach Braff
Take our new poll... Is it cheating?
How classy girls have naughty sex*
* might explore that one later

My mom and I were talking awhile back about our chronological ages. She is in her seventies and insists that in her mind, she still feels fifteen. She thinks and feels exactly like she did at that age. And I totally understand, because I do too.

But for the first time, since, I don't know – since I was in college, I feel distinctly different. As a youngin' I couldn't wait to be in my early 20's. Once arrived, I was happy. In my late 20's, I looked back and smiled at how cool I was. But now I am at a new point (I'm thirty-one, OK? Thirty-one!!!)-- and I'm not looking back anymore. I'm not sure I'm really looking ahead, either, but something is different. Let's explore some recent topics in Real Simple to further illustrate my point.

Do You Really Need That Beauty Product?
The Truth About Sizing—How to Find Clothes That Fit
Organizing Your Digital Photos
101 Extraordinary Uses for Everyday Things

And look how pretty:

I've decided to subscribe already.

2006-09-19T18:57:00.000-08:00

I Love TV

I used to think TV was the worst thing you could do to someone, especially a kid. But then I heard Charlie walking around the house saying, approximately 500 times one day, the following phrase: "A-roar Boralus," and then "Auroree Boree-alus," and then, "Aurora Borealis," prompting me to say, "Charlie, what is that thing you are saying?" He told me, "Aurora Borealis, just like on Little Einsteins." Ok, I thought, he learned a phrase. Then, one afternoon, as we were snoozing on the couch together, I awakened to him pushing the buttons on my shirt and saying, "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco!" I asked him where he learned that, and he said Dora. Then there was today. He said to me, "Look! The leaves fall off tree. Turned orange and green and brown, and, and... orange. Then wind blow, it breaks, and fall down." Finding the perfect opportunity to teach him a little something, I told him, Yes! That's called fall, and then it will be winter, and then... and he interrupted me, "Yes, and then it is Springtime. Just like on Little Einsteins."

I was stunned. While I pride myself on being a pretty good teacher to the little ones, I certainly have not taught them about seasons, uttered a word in Spanish, nor do I really know what an Aurora Borealis is, exactly.

I remember, as a kid, watching the Road Runner run through the desert and off the edge of cliffs and past exploding things that said ACME, and it all being very mindless and intoxicating. While I've always been a bit of a TV addict, I also hate myself for it and decided long ago that we would have a strict TV policy. Hubby and I even discussed, numerous times, the prospect of having no TV in our house. We were all for doing it, just as soon as our shows' seasons ended and assuming that no new shows were on for the following year.

We still have our TV.

TV has changed. While I continue to try to limit my time in front of it (I am certainly not learning about Aurora Boreali, or any such things), and I don't want my kids watching too much, especially when it means they are not doing something else more creative, I don't hate is as passionately as I once did.

Anyway. This post was in no way sponsored by Disney or Nick, Jr. I just wanted to share my shift in thinking.

2006-09-18T10:37:00.000-08:00

Hey, remember me?
I feel like a rejected schoolgirl whose boyfriend's buddy just handed me a note saying that he was breaking up with me. It's Will. He doesn't seem to remember that I was his first love.

I can barely get his eye contact anymore. I have to practically beg him to eat, unless it is food from a jar. When I hold him, he is taking his chubby little hand and using it as leverage -- leverage to push me away, to get into the real world of carpet, electrical cords, things that tip over, and small children.

This could very well be the fault of those small children. The daycare kids, that is. They are so mature. They do things like walk, run, hop, make farting noises, fart, scream, blow raspberries with total efficiency, grab toys, wrestle each other, and have extremely fascinating tantrums.

His eyes are like saucers while he watches all of this and takes mental notes. How could a loving cuddle, a soft boob, and protective arms possibly compete?

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard for me to deal with if Charlie hadn't been such a lover at this age. Sure, he wanted to crawl and get into things, but I was truly the light of his life. I received constant gummy smiles and coos. He cried anytime I put him down. Screamed, actually. Not only did he hate his crib, but he hated to sleep anywhere that wasn't in my arms. And although I complained about his lack of independence, how I wish I could revisit those days with my second son.

So here is my love note to Will.

Dear Will,
Remember me?
Remember resting your heavy head on my shoulder, grabbing a strand of my hair, and sighing as you fell off to sleep? Remember nursing in the rocking chair? Remember thinking that I actually had a good voice as I sang "Twinkle Twinkle?" Remember life before you could see those fascinating little brats (your brother included), and the only thing you could focus on were my beautiful brown eyes, perfectly straight teeth, and loving smile? Would you like to revisit those days? Like, how about right now?
I'll be waiting for you in 5 minutes on the couch with a blankie. You can stop on by. Or not. I don't really care. I'll sing you a song if you want, or let you bite down on my pinky finger, or whatever. But if you take too long, like more than 10 minutes, I might get busy with something else. So you better come, or I might not be available later.
Yes I will.
Love forever,
Mom.

2006-09-17T18:08:00.000-08:00

I'm all for public breastfeeding, but...
Today I discovered fine lines around my eye area, so I took the kids to the mall to buy some overpriced eye cream with the hope of erasing a few months. Will got hungry, so we went into the Family Restroom. Ever since his vision developed enough to be 20/20, he has been the easily distractable breastfeeder. As in, suck twice, then pull away to look at Charlie, suck once more, look at fascinating wallpaper, suck three times (just enough to make my milk start squirting), then stop to watch a fly fly by.

Which brings me to my new favorite "hey, over here!" technique. It's called the Lift and Squirt. Step one: lift breast so that it is at the exact location of baby's mouth, wherever that may be. Step two: squeeze breast so as to squirt into, or near, or in the general vicinity of baby's mouth. This generally causes the "oh yea, that's what I was doing" thought for baby, which causes feeding to resume.

Just as I am using the L&S technique, a man and his son barge into the Family Restroom.

The horror. The quick look away. The come on, Jr., let's come back later comment. The embarassment on my part. Cuz I am all for public breastfeeding, but now I remember why I used to be modest. It's easy to forget that the rest of the world isn't around lactating women and our ways all the time.

2006-08-06T06:59:00.000-08:00

It Takes Two

In college I decided that if I had a little girl I would look forward to teaching her to respect herself, to think of herself as an equal, and to determinedly pursue her career dreams.

Now I hear mothers of girls saying things like, "I want my daughter to know she doesn't need to dress slutty/can do what she wants with her career/must go to college, etc., especially since she is a girl."

This bothers me a little. As a girl myself, I have spent a little time blaming men for degrading women, for ogling them on the covers of smutty magazines, for cheating on them, for paying their female employees less than their male counterparts, etc etc.

I hate cliches, but I'll use a partial one here. Equality is a two-way street. Gender equality will happen when both genders respect each other, see the equal value in each other, and all that other good stuff.

So I am not going to just raise my boys to be good people and assume that girls' parents will keep their girls pure and all... Charlie and Will shall know about their responsibilities regarding birth control; will hear me use both "he" and "she" pronouns when referring to a gender-neutral person (as in "the fireman wears her fire hat"); will have their use of arcade games with skanky chicks on sidelines severely limited; will be encouraged to follow their career dreams, even if that dream involves writing poetry, painting pictures, working at McDonald's, or some other thing that precludes them from bringing home most of the bacon; will never be scolded or shamed when they cry or show emotion; will know about the real names of female and male body parts; will be accepted and loved regardless of their sexual orientation; and will know all about conception, labor and delivery, and breastfeeding, so that they are not clueless husbands when they someday get married, if they choose to do so.

My boys are gonna be a real catch.

2006-08-05T19:50:00.000-08:00

It is just a boob.

This article in Babytalk magazine created quite a stir because its cover featured a breastfeeding baby. Readers--most of whom are parents of infants--were offended by the profile of the partial boob. The boob that was feeding the baby attached to it.

The magazine has received over 700 letters from readers in response to the cover.

Why are we offended by the sight of a breast? Why?? A breast's primary purpose is to feed a baby, and it has done a marvelous job since the dawn of time. When did we become embarrassed by our body's ability to do this? I can only assume that hundreds of years ago, women did not cover up with receiving blankets. I assume in Africa today women do not cover up. Why is this an issue here? Now?

The article reported that a survey done by the American Dietetic Association revealed that fewer than half of respondents believed women should have a right to breastfeed in public. That means that when you are feeding your baby at the mall, roughly 60% of the people who catch you doing such a deed think you should be doing it in a public restroom. Or at home, or in the car.

Here is the main part that bothered me: one of the readers said she hid the magazine so that her 13 year-old son and husband would not see the picture. Presumably, this cover is the equivalent to her of a pornographic picture. I feel that hiding such a picture sends the message that breastfeeding is, in fact, a sexual or weird or indecent thing to do. Why else would it be hidden? Why not leave the article out for a child or teen to see? Maybe it will provoke some meaningful discussion.

In spite of my obvious opinion on this issue, I would like to hear what you think of it, whether or not you have breastfed before. Please reply with a comment:
Is this picture offensive to you?
Why do you think so many Americans are offended by breastfeeding in public?
Is this picture sexual in nature to you?

This web page said it much better than me:
http://www.lactivists.org/

2006-08-05T13:19:00.000-08:00

I don't have a penis, but I get to wear make-up
Sometimes I don't know how to answer Charlie's toddler questions, so this is how our conversations can go. The other day he saw me putting on my make-up.
Charlie: "Mommy, can I have some?"
Me: "No. Only girls wear make-up."
Him: "Charlie a boy, And Josh and Matt and Mike boys? And mommy girl?"
Me: "Yes, that's right."
Him: "Mommy, can I have some of that?"
Me: "No, only girls wear this too. Boys don't wear make-up, but they do have penises."
Him: "Oh. I have a penis, and mommy, you don't have one."

Later he was checking himself out, and he said, "Mommy, what's this?"
Me: "Um, your testicles."
Charlie: "What they for?"
Me: "For making babies later on."
Charlie: "Oh. Babies like me!"

2006-07-30T21:31:00.000-08:00

One of each
My cousin's sister-in-law had a BBQ and although we knew none of them, we were invited. After a few glasses of wine and numerous pickled mushrooms, I was trying to get Will to sleep. I sat in the back bedroom in an old rocker and nursed him, looking down the long hallway through the door that was open just a crack. I felt very peaceful and then I saw a flurry of activity. I focused my eyes and it was Charlie ducking into his new little girlfriend's bedroom to play. It struck me that not too long ago, he was the one I was nursing, and I could barely imagine him walking, talking, or playing with a girlfriend so independently. And in spite of my recent maternal urges for one more baby, I suddenly felt complete. These are my two boys and that is enough – I can't imagine it any other way.

When you are pregnant again, people assume that you want the unborn child to be the opposite gender from your first. When I was pregnant with Will, I felt guilty admitting that I wanted a girl, but it was true.

Which brings me to ask myself why it is that I think I want or need one of each. I think about things my mom and I did together, and discussions that we had, and I realize my version of parenting Will and Charlie will be different. But is this a bad thing, or is it just different? Will the boys really want me to take them shopping for their prom attire? I don't know, maybe. Will I talk to them about sex and what I believe is right and wrong? Yes, but should it really be any different than what I would say to a girl? Will they give me all the juicy details of their first kiss like I did with my mom? Probably not, but do I really need to know? Will they want to spend Christmases with us when they are married, or will they join their wives' families, like so many men that I know do? (I don't have the answer; that is still an actual concern in my mind). And the most shallow yet thought-about question of all: will they go shopping with me?

No, probably not. But do I really care anymore? Was it really healthy that my mom lived through me in this way anyway? Maybe in ten years I should be shopping with my girlfriends.

My self-questioning began a couple months ago when I had the following discussion with a daycare girl:

Me: Say, Melanie, I like your headband.

Melanie: Thank you. It is pink. My mom bought it for me because I have a pink skirt which also has white stripes in it, and I almost got the one with the little black stripes to match my other skirt, but then I realized I have a hair ribbon that actually matches better, and my mom got me some black shoes to go with those – you know, the ones with those velcro on them that I wore last week? But anyway, when we were shopping we found a sweater that was just like my friend Lucy's, so she got me one to match hers, but Lucy doesn't have the same headband as me so I told her mom I think she should get her one.

Except it took like five minutes to get all the details out. There was some stuttering and long pauses involved. And I felt compelled to sit and listen, which meant all the other things I needed to get done were just waiting in time for me to get there. It was a real clarifying moment.

This is not to say that if I were to ever become pregnant with a girl, I would be filled with dread at the horribly boring and drawn-out stories about hair ribbons. I would love a girl as much as I do my boys. But I don't feel I need one to fill any needs anymore.

Except for the Christmas thing.

2006-07-26T12:36:00.000-08:00

Boobies
At what age does male obsession with boobies begin? My guess is three years. I am a breastfeeding mom who runs a home daycare. For the most part, the two- and three-year olds I watch pay no attention to the baby attached to me the few times a day he needs to eat. But there is a new kid who notices every time. Today when I was done feeding Will, new boy said, "I think the baby wants to eat again." The other day he said, "I can't wait until I'm a baby again so I can eat more baby milk." Hmmm. It's weird when they are young enough to have these needs, but old enough to express them so eloquently.

2006-07-23T06:00:00.000-08:00

Toddlers and Teenagers

I was still recovering from shock after my husband told me he owns exactly two pairs of work pants when I decided what we would be doing with our Saturday. If I had been in such a pant predicament, I would have remedied the problem months ago. Off to the mall we would go.

Because husband was demolishing our bathroom (a blog for another day), I alone packed Charlie and Will into the car and headed to the outlet mall. Charlie was told that if he behaved himself, he would get to ride the mechanical cars that take quarters. Now, although Charlie has moments of toddler naughtiness, I often think about how he really is a good kid. Let's look at a typical example of Charlie behavior.

Charlie and I: shopping at Safeway, Charlie starts to run away.
Me: Charlie! Stop right there!
Charlie slows to a slo-mo run, but is moving away from me nonetheless.
Me: One.... two....
Charlie stops running and freezes in place.
Me: Now come back and stand here.
With a sly smile, he turns around and returns to me, taking my hand.

Aw. I mean, I am disappointed that he thinks to be naughty in the first place, but he listens so well. Sometimes he even follows up with, "Sorry mommy."

So today I was really in for a shock. I brought our double stroller with us, with Will lying in his seat clutching his velvet hippo and Charlie strapped into the seat closest to me, facing me. We are at the second row of pants, and the 20 year-old lad who works there is helping me find husband's size. I look down, and find Charlie has squirted apple juice all over the floor and stroller, humming happily.

Now. The wonderful discipline book I just read is all about teaching kids personal responsibility through consequences (rather than discipline because that causes kids to feel resentment toward their authority figure, rather than helping them think about what they have done and learning from it), so when the clerk offered to mop up the mess, I said No. I instead asked him to give Charlie some paper towels. Two minutes later, Charlie is done cleaning up his mess... only problem is, he seemed to have enjoyed his consequence. The Book doesn't say what to do about that.

You can see where this story is going. Instead of me taking a paragraph to explain each indescretion, how about I devote one sentence for each. Here are the things I said to him over the next 20 minutes:
"Stop dragging that new shirt on the ground."
"Don't bang those hangers together."
"Did you hear me?"
"If you run away from me again, a crazy man is going to kidnap you. Stay with me."
"Stop licking the mirror."
"Stop pulling Will's stroller."
"I said stop pulling the stroller."
"Don't pull the stroller."
"If you pull the stroller again, you will get a car time-out."
"I need you to stop screaming in the store."
"This behavior is not acceptable."
And, finally:
"We are not going to ride the cars today."

And, except for the multiple warnings given, I did what the book told me to do: I packed the kids in the car, the mechanical cars not enjoyed by us, and headed home. Sadly, Charlie had no tears. In fact, he didn't seem to care at all.

I might have broken some of the rules in the book. With his first infraction, I was supposed to say something like, "How sad. Looks like a little car time." With the second infraction, I should have said, "How sad. Guess it is time to go home." Repeating threats over and over is a strict no-no.

Which brings me to my inner debate on the topic of discipline. I don't like to follow strict guidelines, let alone impose them. Ask any of my former employers how I seem to feel about guidelines. I am a hard worker, don't get me wrong. I am creative, I have good ideas, I play well with others. But I also sometimes take extended lunch breaks, arrive late to work, leave early if it seems the right thing to do, and sometimes my work is inconsistent from one day to the next, depending on my mood.

But when it comes to discipline, in theory, I believe the rules need to be consistent, regardless of parental mood or desires.

I remind myself of this: The Book says to think about how current consequences will make kids into nice, respectful teenagers. And that is something that I really, really want.

2006-07-20T20:14:00.000-08:00

Ortho-Cept

My husband is under the impression that we are done having kids. Our three year-old only sleeps through the night half the time, and our infant is awake for at least seven hours a day. Plus, kids are expensive. Which is not to say that we can't pay our bills, but I can't afford weekly pedicures, either. We need our time alone, need some couple time, need the house to sometimes be quiet, need to have a sense of sanity and control. Two kids will sometimes allow for some of those things. Three kids tip the scale.

I feel just as passionately about these things as he does. But I also love the way my baby son's lower lip curles over his very shapely chin, and the way he breathes all satisfied when he nurses, and his looks of total adoration... I can hardly stand the thought of those things evolving into mature smiles and grunts (darling as they will be) in just a few months, with the newborn stuff gone forever.

Of course, I could use that same argument for having ten children. But that's not what I'm getting at.

I'm just not done yet.

Now, I'm not going to flush my birth control pills down the toilet anytime soon. This is a joint decision, and the rational side of me agrees with him completely.

Sometimes I feel like two is the perfect number. Our boys love each other. Charlie is crazy affectionate with Will, always aiming to please, and despite his intense attachment to me, he never shows jealousy toward his baby brother. Will is easily amused with the slightest snort, sneeze, or fart that his brother produces. Why mess with something perfect?

I'm brainwashing myself into believing this is all that's important.

2006-07-20T19:58:00.000-08:00