But perspective itself is still funny

When in the midst of a fantastically warm and wonderful day, I might think it's funny when I realize that I mistook the cup that B and M were sharing for the cup K and I were sharing. Ha ha, everyone's been thinking that was their cup.

When M wakes up at eleven with a violent stomach flu, it's not quite so funny. More like a sinking, sinking feeling that just twelve hours earlier, we were all drinking from that mouth.

Thanks, kid--I needed that

M: Hey look, my cup was empty before, and now it has water in it. It's magic!
Me: Hmm. Who do you think might have noticed that your cup was empty and filled it up so that you'd have water when you were thirsty?
M: Um... you?
Me: Maybe. You think that's in my job description to notice when your cup needs water and refill it?
M: (Laughs and shakes his head) No, Mommy. Your job is to write books.

Yes, well, among other things. But it's nice to know that even the little people have my back.

Because it's important to challenge yourself

Just in case this week wasn't crazy enough, let's add an ear infection! Oh, what the heck--let's add two! And while we're at it, throw some asthma on top of it! Let it keep us up all night long! Insert additional witty exclamation here! It masks the lack of sleep! And insanity!

Thanks, Wild Thing

M: I'm all finished with my peanuts.
Me: Great!
M: But I'm still hungry. Can I have something else?
Me: Nope. It's too close to dinner. You'll have to wait until then.
M: Then I guess I'll just have to eat you up.

Another thorn in bedtime's side

M: Daddy?
B: Yes?
M: What if monsters come in our house?
B: They can't. Remember, we have an alarm.
M: (pause to think) But what if they eat the alarm?

Swift thinking, kid. I tried to convince him that monsters are simply misunderstood, that if they came to our house we would invite them in and feed them chicken parmesan sandwiches and send them on their merry way. He told me we could also call animal control.

Career Aspirations

We started our Christmas a little bit early, as we had to celebrate with my parents before they jetted off to spend the holidays with my sister and her family. Much to our great satisfaction, K received plush versions of both Roo and Heffalump, which means she, by default, is now Kanga, and I am back to being "just mommy." M received a transport truck. He now tells me that when I'm done being "just mommy," I can be a transport truck driver. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm just not very exciting.

Can you tell I'm tired?

Me: Okay, you guys can play for a few minutes, and then we're going to run an errand.
M: What are we going to do?
Me: We're going to drop some food off at a friend's house.
M: Can we stay in the car?
Me: No. Where we park is too far away.
M: But I want to stay in the car.
Me: I know, but I don't feel okay leaving you far away from me.
M: What are you worried about?
Me: That someone will take you.
M: (thinks, then brightly) But won't you lock the car?
Me: They could break the window.
M: (even more brightly) But then the police will come.
Me: You might be long gone by then. If someone comes to the car and breaks the window and takes you far away, what are you going to do?
M: (thinks, then not so brightly) I think we will just come in with you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Here's wishing you all a wonderful Thanksgiving, with thankfulness for where you are and what you have. For me, this year is bittersweet. As happy as I am, as full as our table will be, my grandmother will be missing. So this year, I'm most thankful for God and heaven, not just because God is great (which He is), but because He is giving my grandmother the next best thing to being at our table. It helps me to picture her, with her husband and son, eating the stuffing that she loved and smiling so sweetly, when I miss her so much. I'm so very thankful that I have that.

M, on the other hand, reported on his Thanksgiving present from preschool that he is most thankful, on Thanksgiving, for chicken. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to mention that the bird on the table is a turkey. Who wants to spoil thankful?

Thankful Tree

One afternoon last week, the kids made Thankful Trees. I thought it was such a sweet idea that I'd post it here. I cut out leaves in fall-ish colors and gave the kids a big sheet of white paper. They made a trunk with brown marker, then told me, one at a time, things for which they were thankful. After I'd write down the idea, we'd put a little glue on the back and add the leaf to their tree. Turns out they had a lot of things to be thankful for, and I had to cut extra leaves (twice). But it was great to see their big and little thankful thoughts. It's only Monday--certainly not too late for you to make your own thankful trees. Yes, neighbor across the street, we're all still on Thanksgiving around here, so keep your lights to a minimum. Sheesh.

A few notes: About half of M's leaves are face down. Although I was, selfishly, wanting to be able to see every one of his ideas and therefore resistant at first, I realized that it was his tree and his thoughts. So some of them are face down, but maybe all the more thoughtful for not being shared. Also, some of the leaves are blue, which is not, to my knowledge, a fall-ish color of leaf. I don't actually think it's a leaf color at all. But the kids were sure that their trees needed blue leaves on one of the extra cuts, and I figured why not. And by the time that M said he was now making a Christmas Thankful tree--which is exactly what it ended up looking like--I'd all but let go of the project. There are worse things than being independent.

Can you spot the pattern?

M: Let's think of things that start with the letter F.
Me: Oh, that sounds fun. Okay, what--
M: No, me first. I have lots of them. Fire truck. Firefighter. Um...
Me: How about--
M: No, I'm still going. Um... fire!
Me: Wow. All good ones. What about--
M: No, now things that start with P. Like police. And police car.
Me: Right. Or--
M: Now A. Ambulance.
Me: Yeah, or--
M: Mom, I'm all done with this game now.

We didn't actually stop the game there, although I kind of wish we would have. We tried T, which led to tow trucks--also qualifying emergency vehicles in M's world--and then G, which prompted GG. That's what we called my grandmother, the one who passed in June. A moment of silence followed at the mention of her name, and then M said, sweetly and wistfully, "I miss GG." It's nice to know that he remembers her, and that we can miss her together. It's also nice to know that she was special enough to trump even a frenzy of emergency vehicles.

Pleading nap time insanity

Every day at nap time, I read K and M their choice of story. Then I settle K down in her bed to sleep and usher M to the playroom to play. Every day, M tells me that he wants to sleep. I tried, when the kids began sharing a room, to let him sleep in his own bed. When no one slept at nap time, I realized this was a bad idea. So I told him that he could sleep in my bed if he was tired. So now, every nap time, I have to go into my room, close up all the doors and windows, unmake my bed, and generally prepare the room for rest. And every day, M spends the entire nap time in the playroom, playing.

I know it's a little thing to get frustrated about, but that's exactly what I am. I like having the windows open in our room and the bed nicely made. I don't want to leave them closed and undone all morning in preparation for this nap time charade, but at the same time, it's maddening to open/fix them twice on one day. I know: little thing. But when I feel like I have to make use of every second of my time, these are precious seconds utterly wasted.

If M really slept, I'd be fine with it. If M even tried to sleep, I'd be fine with it. He doesn't. But when I tell him such ("I don't think you're tired enough to sleep" or "Are you really going to sleep today, because you usually don't") I get loud and emphatic protests. Fearful that they will wake the actually sleeping child, I go along. On principle, too, I hate telling him that he can't or won't sleep just because I don't think he will. It is his body, after all.

I know there's probably no solution, except maybe to just not get so up in bunches about it. And most days I just do it automatically. But every day, the same thing, just starts getting to me after a while. This sneaking feeling creeps up that they are trying to break me one nap at a time, and even I doubt my resilience.

He does have a point

As we head to Mom and M time, stuffed in before K wakes up from her nap...

M: You know what would be easier?
Me: What's that?
M: If we only had one kid!

It was the chippy delivery that got me. You could practically see the light bulb go off. Funny that it took him two and a half years to notice. Too bad for him that K's well past return.

I'll take good over fair any day

We arrived at the park this morning to see my dear Long Beach friend, who has recently graced this world with yet another beautiful baby girl. When we parked along the street, M became very concerned. See, back in June when my parents watched the kids for us, my mom's car was totaled while parked along the street at their local park. I explained to M that was a completely random, very rare occurrence. "Those kinds of things don't happen often. Our car should be very safe here."

The car was safe. My wallet was not. We spent the morning playing, had a nice picnic lunch, and finished up taking turns on the monkey bars. When I say "taking turns," I mean I held each child's legs as they hung minimally from the bars while we worked our way across. My friend finished nursing her baby and came over. We talked for a few more minutes while the last ones took their turn, then we gathered our stuff to leave.

At the car, I realized my wallet was missing. I hadn't noticed anyone else at the park, so I hurried back, assuming I'd dropped it. When we realized it was well and truly gone, we spent the next hour and a half in the hot sun, phoning the police and the cell phone company and the Honda dealer and the banks. See, I have a super wallet that has my cell phone and keys with it too. Not so handy when they all get stolen together.

Poor M snuffled around the entire time, utterly shattered. He'd been anxious enough about the car. Now his security had been violated even closer and more intimately, and try as I might to stay calm and positive when talking to him, I couldn't help but tear up every time I spoke with someone else.

When all hope was lost, we prayed. My friend called her husband, and asked him to pray as well. And regretfully, I must admit that I wondered what the point was. See, the wallet was gone, right? Really gone. God was not going to reach down and drop it back in my lap. I left it where I shouldn't have, and someone took it. Life is not fair.

But as my friend had just been reminding me earlier that morning, although life is not fair, God is good. We were almost finished with the police report when my husband phoned to tell me that a postal worker had found the wallet in a nearby mailbox. The credit cards, phone, and keys were all inside. So were several gift cards. The only thing missing was sixty dollars. The postal worker quickly brought the wallet back to me, and we discarded the police report.

So in the end, really, the wallet was dropped right back into my lap. God is good. I pray now that the money taken helps whoever took it, and that it will be the last money they ever feel compelled to steal. For me, it was well worth sixty dollars to be reminded that when God is concerned, all is never lost.

As for M, well, I'm not sure what to do. We can talk about this incident and the positives that came out of it, but we did the same with the car accident, and that fear is still holding strong. As it is, I can't set anything down now without the fretful reminder that someone might take it if I don't pick it up. It's hard to get a child to believe in something intangible, like goodness and faith, when the tangibles are so much more real. Then again, it's hard for adults to do that to. I guess we all just keep trying anyway.

Now, if we could just get them to *sleep*...

We've had a couple big changes in our house. A week and a half ago, we bought and set up a loft bed for M. The advantage being that it was a great deal on Craig's List, perfectly matched our existing furniture, and allowed us to use our existing double mattress. The disadvantage being that it's so darn tall. Well, that's a disadvantage to me, who is not so tall and happens to be afraid of heights. Yes, even changing the sheets on a loft bed. But M sees the loft bed as the greatest thing in the world, because it's big and high and his own personal space. It surprised me a little, his scampering up without hesitation, but it shouldn't. I sometimes forget that just because he's a lot like me, it doesn't mean that he's me. And even better--he's only fallen off once. Of course, he laid on the ground all still and frightening and I burst into tears, but we survived unscathed (physically, at least).

The second change came last Saturday, when K began sleeping in the big girl bed (which, funnily enough, looks just like the old big boy bed, but with a pink comforter). She absolutely LOVES it, and she's so cute all little and tucked in and giggly about being so grown up. She's never fallen out, but she has escaped a few times. Still, when we found they were playing in her crib the other day, we dismantled it for safety's sake and committed to the bed.

The thing is, I've had that crib up for four and a half years--the entire duration of what I consider our new life. We used to slide Duck and friends up and down its slanted sides. I used to use it for light exercise while M woke up from his nap, my sweet cat lounging nearby. There are teeth marks on the front rail from both kids. I've cleaned all sorts of unpleasantness from it, started and ended countless sleep cycles, lifted small bodies in and out in all levels of happy and sad, asleep and awake. That crib marked the beginning and end of nearly every day.

And now we finish prayers and give hugs and then the kids scurry off to their respective spots. I know it will become the new norm, just one of the many shifts we learn to accept in a life where the only constant seems to be change. But the first time it happened, B and I sat a little perplexed, as though we couldn't quite figure out what to do with ourselves.

Of course, we are still needed, always always. There are sheets to fix and water cups to fill and animals to rearrange. And most nights we have to rearrange K too, who despite being a big girl still manages to spin herself around the bed like a scooting baby and wind up with her feet on the pillow. I guess with every change there's a little catch-up time, no matter how ready (or not) you are.

P.S. I'm thrilled to find we solved the Bunk Bed Challenge in less than two months. What? That's not fast to you? Well, see, I get to deduct time lost to sleeplessness. Turns out I managed it in negative three days.

Bob Dole wants his shtick back

M's got a new habit. He refers to himself in the third person. You know: "M needs more water" or "M can do that for you." I don't know why this annoys me so much. Maybe it's because I feel guilty every time I hear it, because this probably came from me referring to myself as "Momma" for the past four years. Or maybe it's because he's supposed to be getting better at sentence construction, not worse. Or maybe it's because he sounds like Bob Dole, and the last thing I need in my day is an aging Republican.

I've tried various strategies to kick the habit, from kind correction ("Do you mean 'I'?) or mild ignorance ("Who?" which only results in M repeating his name over and over) to more involved ignorance ("Oh, is that someone in your class?"). And lately, in terrible mom honesty, I've been doing a lot of glaring and maybe a little growling too. Yes, we sometimes growl in this house. It's been a long time since we had pets, but some things never die.

All of which makes me realize that twenty-one days (you know, to form a new habit?) is going to seem like a really long time. Especially when the habit in question isn't yours, and there really is no incentive or interest in the breaking it. Does that even work then? Well, Momma **growl** er, I am determined to find out.

Back to School

Yesterday was M's first day back at preschool. I gave him extra hugs in the morning, then took K to the park with her little girlfriends, where I promptly announced that I was thoroughly depressed about the whole thing.

"Um," said very concerned friend, clearly trying to understand my emotional outburst, "this isn't his first year, you know."

No, it's not his first year. But it is the beginning of another year. I feel the passage of time as though it were traffic on the interstate, and I'm standing right in the middle. This was the one and only summer when the kids were two and four, when they had those little tiny sweaty hands in mine nearly constantly and the best entertainment chalked up to lazy afternoons in the pool and cleverly spotted work trucks.

I was at dinner with friends the other night when this topic came up, and I silenced the table with my (slightly white wine induced) monologue about time, how precious this time is and how quickly it's passing, how I try to enjoy every last minute because I know in the end I will never, ever have time to enjoy it enough.

"Um," said another perplexed friend, directing her words to the rest of the table, "most moms get burned out when they stay home all the time and never get a break." Then they all looked pointedly at me as if to figure out (a) what was wrong with me, or (b) what I was hiding.

Let me be clear: I'm not that mom. If for nothing more than the countless muttered (okay, in total honesty, sometimes clearly shouted for all to hear) curse words, I'd have been gong-ed off the Mom Show a long time ago. Just this week I claimed to have two #1 all-time pet peeves: stepping on my feet and repeating statements. Which really are just minor annoyances in the grand scheme of things. Plus I muddled my way through the following:

M: I'm all done with lunch.
Me: Okay. Do you want to take the rest of that carrot stick with you?
M: (Dramatic sigh) But I'm all done with lunch.
Me: That's fine. I was just asking.
M: But I do want to eat it.
Me: Okay. Go ahead and eat it.
M: Why do I have to eat it?
Me: I never said you had to eat it. I said you could eat it. And hey, I forgot to get your plum out of the freezer. Did you still want it?
M: But I was going to eat the carrot.
Me: You can eat both. Or neither.
M: Why do I have to eat them both?
Me: You don't. I was just offering.
M: But I DO want to eat it.
Me: The carrot stick or the plum?
M: (another dramatic sigh) I don't know.

I still have no earthly idea what was going on there. And seriously, getting through lunch with your four-year-old shouldn't be a Mensa challenge. I feel many times like I'm failing motherhood, in big and little ways.

But the thing is, motherhood isn't a reality show, and it's not a Mensa test. It's just motherhood. There are no gold medals, no prizes, and no right answers with confetti and balloons. In the end, there's nothing at all, aside from, hopefully, a fairly well-adjusted (or well-therapied) adult. All those little mementos--the crayon drawings, the hot glued sea creature, the tiny little newborn socks--won't ever compare to the actual moment. So I try to remember that if I can't take it with me, I might as well enjoy it while it's here: insanity, sentimentality, big and little events, confusing circuitous lunch discussions, hastily glossed over curses, and the simple joy (or, if you were K and didn't see it, raging tantrum) of a plain old garbage truck.

So M had his first day of preschool yesterday. Again. And it was hard to let him go, and joyful to pick him up. To see him playing with new friends, to watch him trying new things, to see his new room and workbook and cubby and move with him through the traffic of life. Maybe if I feel myself moving with it, it won't sound quite so loud.

Somewhere there's a line blurred

M: Can you open the back of this phone?
Me: Um, no. I don't really want you playing in there.
M: But I need to put in new batteries.
Me: But I don't want you playing with batteries.
M: No, they're just pretend batteries.
Me: Okay, then why don't you pretend open it?
M: But then I can't put in the batteries!

And yes, that did continue, just in that circular fashion, all the way home.

Bunk Bed Challenge

You'd think, after four years as a parent, that I'd know not to mention things to the kids that we are not, at that precise moment, prepared to do. Like, say, buy bunk beds and have the kids start sharing rooms. But no, didn't really think through the inevitable ensuing events. So after a fruitless morning of bunk bed hunting, we've arrived at the following scenario:

(1) K is not napping because she wants to sleep in M's room.

(2) I have promised to move them into the same room right after nap, even though we have an afternoon playdate.

(3) M does not want to share rooms unless there are bunk beds involved.

You have one hour to solve this fantastic parenting dilemma, but no fair telling me I shouldn't have put myself there in the first place. Go!

Well, nobody asked, did they?

M is going through a phase. Dear God, please let it be a phase. Whenever something doesn't go exactly his way, he pronounces, in a petulant whiny way often accompanied by tears, "I am just not happy right now." My response varies, depending on the time of day, the amount of sleep I did or didn't get, and the number of times I've heard this statement in the last ten minutes. Sometimes it's: "I'm sorry, sweetie. What can I do to help?" Or sometimes: "I'm glad to hear you expressing your feelings, even if there's nothing I can do." Or, in zen moments: "Happiness is a choice." Or occasionally: "Life isn't always about being happy." Or finally, in desperation: "Neither am I, kid. Neither am I."

The truth is, every one of these answers seems reasonable and valid. I want M to know that it's good to express your feelings, that I'm there to listen and help as needed, but that not everything can be controlled or fixed based on one person's emotions. As much as I would like to see him happy all the time, I have a lot of other considerations on the table, such as health, safety, education, and general well-being. Plus I have three other people in this family to nurture. And life isn't always going to make him happy, because life isn't always fair. In the end, it really does come down to our own daily choices. As Abraham Lincoln said, "People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be."

But he's four. The thing that's making him unhappy might be as small as the side of the car on which his sister got in. I need one simple response that I can spit out without getting my feathers in a ruffle, because the last thing my happiness level needs is more arguing. But it seems like such a teaching opportunity, about how we feel, communicate, respond, and process, that I can't seem to settle on any one thing. I end up feeling overwhelmed, fumbling, and stressed. What I want is to stop the whole phase in its tracks, because regardless of the positives of the situation, I can't help but feel that the last thing I want to revolve our lives around is a four-year-old's state of happiness.

But instead of passing, as phases ought to do, it's spreading. This morning, K came into the kitchen, frowningly grumpy, and pronounced: "Juss not happy now." Right. Take a number, sweetheart, right behind me.

The Growing Boy's Diet

Yesterday
Me: Which sounds better, a burger or chicken?
M: Hmm... a bacon sandwich.
Me: Oh. Like a burger with bacon on it?
M: No, just the bacon.

Today
Me: How's your dinner?
M: Yum-O.
Me: That's good to hear. Which do you like better, the chicken or the macaroni and cheese?
M: The peel [by which he means the skin].

Tomorrow's prospects already have my cholesterol on the rise.