Did I mention I need a pep talk today?

Did I mention that two weeks ago, I bought a Costco cake for a baby shower held the very morning that we were leaving for Las Vegas (or as M puts it, Lost Vegas, which is probably unlikely since it's the only bright, shiny water filled object in a very large desert)? I bought this cake because it seemed like way too much work to bake and decorate a whole cake when I had cleaning and packing and busyness to attend to. Plus I wasn't even going to the shower anyway.

Did I also mention that I left this cake in the back of the van while I took the first load of groceries into the house, even though I could clearly see K heading toward the back of the van? But of course she could wait thirty seconds for me to return and move said cake out of the way so that she could climb out.

Did I also mention that K is two? Very, very two?

Oh, you know where this is going. I'm not sure what body part dragged across the cake, but it was something that allowed her to run past me as I stood staring, google-eyed, at the smooshy mess that was once my ticket to a quiet, pre-vacation afternoon. I strode back over to my daughter, who was happily wheeling around on her tricycle, and tried to keep my voice in the semi-human tenor of supremely-pissed-but-still-sane as I explained, demonic like, that some things are very delicate and that she should not try to climb across them. She turned her bright little smile up to me, at which point I strangled her with my bare hands. Oh, no, just kidding (we obviously wouldn't be enduring the binky crisis of 2009 if that had happened... hmm). No, I stared at her for a few seconds, totally unbelieving that she didn't comprehend for a microsecond that she'd just destroyed something of value, when it occurred to me that she wouldn't have any way to know that the cake was that delicate. I mean, sure, probably should climb over stuff, but eh, it probably looked stable enough.

I took the cake and kids inside and we all stood there for a while. I cried a little, and K talked sweetly, and M reminded her that Mommy was not happy with her right now, which didn't phase her in the least. I called B, cried a little more, then went back to staring. Finally, I scraped the frosting from the top, took a break to feed everyone lunch, and after they went down for nap (back when we were actually sleeping--joy!), I spent that afternoon redecorating the cake I never meant to decorate in the first place. Then I spent that evening packing , and I got my rest on vacation, like a good vacation should provide.

The moral to this story--wait, is there a moral to this story? You do remember all that sleep we're not getting. Yes, the moral! The moral is that we endure so much, so many big and little triumphs and tragedies in life, and that in the end, whatever you think you can't handle or do or survive any longer usually ends up handle-able or do-able or survivable. Two weeks later, I hardly remember that afternoon, or the ire I felt, or the exhaustion-induced tears. I remember that I had a messed-up cake and that it got suitable fixed, and we still went on vacation and everything. And no one died, not even me. Sometimes we just have to give ourselves that due credit, and (wo)man up to the task at hand. Living life to the fullest isn't always pretty, and sometimes that's the best part. Perfection breeds happiness, but imperfection breeds character.

Yogurt=Tapioca=Ipecac

M will not tolerate yogurt. Won't even swallow a probiotic. One bite/dose, no matter how cleverly disguised, and he coughs, chokes, gags. Yogurt is not going down that pipe, so you better be ready with whatever means available to remove said yogurt from mouth before anything else comes out with it. We don't respond well to suggestions that we swallow, swish with a drink, spit in a cup, etc. Instead we just pause, paralyzed, with our mouth hanging open in shock. You tried to feed me what?

Turns out that holds true for tapioca pudding, too. Who'd have thought it? Not that it tastes anything like yogurt, but maybe there's a similarity in texture? On the flip side, you can freeze that very same gag-inducing yogurt--no other additions whatsoever--and it goes down just fine. So that has a different texture, but same taste. Hmm.

When I get to heaven with my long list of my life's mysteries, God's gonna get a kick out of me.

Don't make me ruin Curious George

I've been seething all day about something from this morning. See, I'm part of an online group called Parent Connection. It's really just a message board where San Diego parents post questions and give advice to each other. All very useful, when you need a recommendation on a new stroller or want to find a reliable contractor.

But, being a place where parents preach a little, it invariably hosts the occasional dialogue about television/video games/vaccinations/etc. You know, those touchy topics that seem to draw out the worst of our judgemental tendencies.

One such discussion is currently taking place. At first I was appreciative at the way everything was handled. First, a parent posted stating that they were finally ready to let their three year old watch television. Since they were unfamiliar with children's programming, they wanted suggestions from parents on healthy/unhealthy options. A variety of responses popped up, most including a virtual pat on the back to the parents who waited so long before turning on the boob tube.

(For the record, I'm not writing as one of those parents, and this isn't one of those posts. I have plenty of opinions on that particular subject, which I'm more than happy to keep to myself. It's the only way I keep my own judgemental tendencies in check.)

Personal opinions, kindly and fairly rendered, very nice indeed. Then I read the most recent response. In it, the parents urged their peers to shy away from television and turn back to the tried-and-true fairy tale--Grimm Brothers, to be exact. They contended that these stories had been around for ages, standing the test of time, and were much better for development than modern offerings.

If I had fur, it'd be bristling.

Turns out I studied a lot of literature in college and graduate school. A lot of children's literature, especially, and pop culture as well. And the thing that became clear to me as I studied children's literature and culture is that there's a surprising amount of subtext in even the most simple of stories. Now, I'm trying to hold back my own judgements on what parents should read or watch with their kids. I think that's a decision that each parent needs to make with his or her own family. But I do want to point out that you should never accept anything at its face value. You should never accept a story just because it's been around for a long time. You should never watch a show just because everyone else says that it's okay. I can come up with many examples right off the top of my head--Peter Rabbit, Goldilocks, Babar--of classic stories with disturbing subtexts. I even delivered a paper at a conference on the dangerous subliminal messages in Veggietales. Veggietales! They're talking Christian vegetables, for pete's sake!

Here's the thing: just because they're cute, classic, or even Christian does not make them okay. What makes them okay is if you sit down and read them, think about them, and consider how they fit in with your values; if you talk about them with your children, working through messages that you find unappealing; if you decide that they are okay for you and your children.

It's so much easier to just ask other people. And I'm not dissing that in the least. Get advice, by all means, but when it's all said and done, lay that advice out on your own kitchen table, make the best decision you can, and then make it work for you. We still watch Veggietales, occasionally, despite the paper and its very convincing findings, and Peter is a favorite around here, too. But I'm too aware now, and I cringe to think that others might blindly take advice without making sure that it makes sense, not just in general but for them and their family.

Geez, this soapbox is making me queasy. I don't rant often, so I hope you'll forgive this one. I just find it frustrating that after studying this topic for seven long years, I still see people offering up opinions that don't relay all the facts. If you had a question about that stroller, you wouldn't want answers from a person who'd never used one. If you had a question for that contractor, you wouldn't want your CPA to respond. So why is it that in questions about literature and culture, everyone's suddenly an authority? I know, I know: we all read books, we all create the culture. But we all have homes, too, and don't pretend like we know how to build them. I can at least hope that if people aren't going to consult an authority on this topic, they will at least enact their own analysis in its place.

What is one-half inch per month?

1) Do not try to cut your toddler's bangs yourself.

2) If you do try to cut your toddler's bangs yourself, do not do it while she is standing or sitting up, when she is free to turn/twist/look away at the worst possible moment.

3) If you do it while she is standing or sitting up--thereby cutting the bangs unevenly--do not try to even them out by cutting off a little more.

4) If you do try to even them out by cutting off a little more, try not to obsess about the fact that her beautiful blond bangs now fall--still uneven--in the smack middle of her forehead only a few weeks before your first ever family picture session.

Well, at least I'm no longer obsessing about the holiday party. Exactly how fast does hair grow anyway?

Craft: Felt Houses

Per Melissa's wise suggestion, today's blog post brings you the felt houses.



It's a great project to cut out six squares, rectangles, triangles, and circles, then assemble them into six houses. Even greater if you have children who are old enough to use scissors with some level of accuracy. Mom will still get to cut out the mouse, and if you think cutting a mouse freehand out of white felt is easy, I'm ready to hire you for future projects.

Then you put the houses on the felt board with the mouse hidden underneath one lucky house. Eyes open, everybody sings: "Little mouse, little mouse, come out to play! In which little house are you hiding today?" (No, three-year-olds hardly ever get that grammatically correct. Mom's working on letting it go).

As a side note, Elmer's glue will not hold felt pieces together. You will keep adding more glue, only to find your toddler running around with errant roofs while your preschooler screams. Hot glue works like a charm. And you can make your own felt board from a cheap frame (like this one from IKEA, only $4.99) and duct tape. Really. Just don't look too close at the finished product.

Two kids + three years = ALL THE ANSWERS

Want to potty train your children? It's super easy. Just wait until they suddenly tell you that they need to poop (this will, of course, happen before they're old enough to distinguish between poop and pee, so everything is called "poop"). Then let them sit on the potty. Don't make a big deal, don't push them, and by all means, never remind them that they should be using the potty. They'll just do it all by themselves, whether you were actually ready to potty train or not.

Because this is what happened with M, and what appears to be happening with K (who is, by all accounts, way to young to be effectively using the potty, which she is occasionally using, well, effectively).

And because it happened just that way with my kids, I'm sure it will be just that way for everyone else. Isn't that how parenting advice always gets passed, anyway?

The Great Pumpkin (Patch)

If you were, perhaps, planning to take your kids to a pumpkin patch, and one of them was all dressed up in a fluffy fleecy costume, be advised that said fleece with attract any and all hay in the general vicinity. Pumpkin patches abound with hay.

Copious amounts of hay on a black and white costume will result in people complementing you on the very cute cow, which will only generate ire and dismay since you went to a lot of effort to coordinate your kids as a firefighter with his dalmation.

All the people commenting on your cow/dalmation will cause your cow/dalmation to become very bashful, which means you will be carrying the animal for the rest of the visit.

Hay is very itchy when it's attached to a cow/dalmation butt that now rests on your bare and sweaty arm. Such discomfort will make a once fun pumpkin patch excursion a little less worth the two very small pumpkins you have to show for it, especially since these pumpkins took all of five seconds to select and were quickly forgotten in 1.5 days.

You will, of course, immediately wash the outfit upon your return home, only to find that the hay has actually settled in quite nicely, at which time you will spend the next two weeks intermittently picking hay from the tiny fleece nubbins in a desperate attempt to make the costume wearable again by Halloween.

Just, you know, in case you were wondering.

Maybe, possibly

When your child has wandered off, and you find them curled up in the dark bathroom between the toilet and the sink, it might just be time to put them down for a nap.

Just in case I thought I could figure things out

So back in the day, I devoted a post to the concept of genderization, going on and on about how K ended up into trains and trucks and all things boy regardless of her gender. This put to rest my assumptions that M was into boy things because he was a boy. See, they were both into boy things.

Until now.

While K was still in utero, we did what doting expectant parents often do. We picked up a baby doll, complete with pink stroller, and gave it to M. This was meant to be our tool to practice talking about baby, until said baby arrived. No interest in the doll, of course, but pink stroller came to be the preferred mode of transportation for all animals. I took it as a boy thing, always making something into a car.

Then K discovered the doll, long forgotten in a bin of toys. For all I want to say that genderization is created by parents, or that it doesn't exist at all, I watched her pick up that doll, cuddle it, kiss it, and carry it around like I'm sure it had always expected. Bay-bee! She knew it right away, knew what to do and how to do it. And today at naptime, I could not pry baby from her fingers, even though she'd never slept with it before.

I sit again baffled, as motherhood often leaves me. Same toys, some boy stuff, some girl stuff, such mixing. And I'm just as clueless as when I started.

Sobering up

So I fell off the wagon yesterday. The breastfeeding wagon. I kept thinking about the whole breastfeeding thing and after a week and a half, I had myself convinced that K had still been nursing, that she would have continued to nurse if I'd continued to offer, and that the whole thing had been a giant misunderstanding. "Besides," I told myself, "even if she hadn't been too interested before, surely a week and a half without would have made her want it more." Plus she's sick. They always want mommy milk when they're sick, right?

Um, no.

At naptime, I settled down with her and pulled out the goods. Squirming, fussing. "No really, baby, it's mommy milk." It's possible she actually grimaced. Poor timing, I thought. She always liked it better before bed anyway (this is not actually true, by the way, but it sounded true at the time). So come bedtime, we settled down again. Squirming, fussing. This time I tried to gently encourage nursing (read, slip my breast in her mouth as she's going for her cup). A suck--then withdrawal, and a decidedly dirty look. "Just try it for me," I suggested, and she did. She opened up again, took my breast, and bit it. Hard. The look went from dirty to downright ornery.

But hadn't I walked right into that one?

So the moral of the story, I guess, is that we make good decisions for good reasons, and since our memories may play tricks, we have to trust those decisions. Or get bitten. Literally.

As a footnote, I came out this morning and sat down, only to have K run over calling, "Mil, mil," as she climbed into my lap. "You want milk?" I said, incredulous, to which she said, emphatically, "Yeah!" "You're not really going to offer, are you?" B asked, "After last night?" "Of course," I said with a smile. And I did offer. K took one suck, grimaced (again), and rolled off my lap in search of her water. So it's not just me. Memories play tricks on everyone.

For the Love of Trains

I used to marvel at M's boyishness. How do they know, these boys, how to push trucks and crash cars? Before I had M, I used to believe fervently in the genderization of children. However, despite having girly babies and animals and (some) unisex clothes, and even given the fact that M is quiet to begin with, he still ended up as a truck/train/car kid. Some things can't be helped, I presumed.

Until now--genderization, schmenderization. K loves cars. Loves to push them across the floor as she scoots along behind. "Truck" was one of her first words. And now it's trains. Thomas the Train, specifically. She walks around with the crusty old Thomas board book and begs to have it read. All the time. Even when eating. Hence the crust.

Here's the kicker: she knows Thomas. And Percy. And Bertie, even though he's technically a bus instead of a train. She points to them, now with a single index finger as of yesterday. And she kisses them. Bends over with the biggest smile and plants one right on Thomas' flat cardboard face. When you laugh and ask her to kiss Mommy or Daddy, she looks at you blankly, as though to say, Why ever would I do that?

I know, it's because there's all these car and trucks and trains lying about. She watches big brother play with them and can't help but become equally infatuated. And maybe Miss Rambunctious Climber/Runner/Sass-stress has a little bit of boy in her to begin with. Still, it's kind of reassuring, this time, to remember again that kids do their thing, always. Whatever made me think that I could so narrowly define it, even with such a giant theory as genderization, has at last been replaced by a sense that there's no need to define it beyond M will be M and K will be K. If only I could just remember to let D be D.

And it don't hurt, either

Yesterday, in the very long line for the ride we weren't even allowed to ride (perhaps Sea World should consider posting useful information like parent to child ratios and baby restrictions, etc., but I digress):

"Ooh, she's got dirt in her hands."

Uh huh.

"She's got it all over her shirt now."

Okay.

"Um, she has some in her mouth."

Sure does.

Altogether now, repeat after me: It's just dirt. Sheesh.

Top Ten Things I Learned on Vacation

10) A rooster's crow sounds so pleasant in Hawaii. Not like here, where the neighbor's crowing rooster makes me feel like white trash.

9) I like brussel sprouts. Or maybe just brussel sprouts slathered in butter.

8) Giving a two year old any amount of sugar during a long plane flight is a very bad idea.

7) K loves sand. To eat.

6) Sand causes one mean diaper rash.

5) Losing a beloved cup in the middle of the trip turns any good parent into a good liar.

4) Free babysitting rocks. Yeah for grandparents!

3) Pool good. Beach not good. You would think that the same sand, water, and toys in either place would yield the same results. Not true.

2) No matter where you are, laundry, dishes, and sleepless nights are sure to follow. On the plus side, copious amounts of ice cream still make me feel better.

And lastly,

1) Getting back into the swing of things after a fabulous vacation--which includes the writing of this blog--is very, very unpleasant. Wholly necessary, but unpleasant nonetheless.

Holding on and letting go

When K crawls off into another room, usually with a quick backward glance and congenial smile, I feel hurt. I know I should be all for her newfound independence. Independence is a good thing, maybe a great thing. Still, I feel hurt.

Each time I got pregnant, I spent nine endless months waiting for our baby. We planned, imagined, organized. We educated ourselves on every aspect of parenthood we could get our grubby little hands on. Only I realize now that I should have been preparing myself for the real truth: they aren't our babies. They don't actually belong to us at all, not in the true sense of the word. We are caretakers, not owners. We are obligated to raise them in a safe, education, considerate fashion--still using everything we got--as we slowly but steadily relinquish our hold.

It's like the parent who holds the back edge of the bike seat, steadying his or her child as they gain confidence, speed, and ability, only to finally, with heart in throat, let go and watch them glide away. It was never our bike ride, never our trip at all.

Perhaps I'm more aware of these moments because K will likely be our last child, or maybe it's the experience of M's growth that makes me more in tune this time around. For whatever reason, these moments strike me ruthlessly: the crawl away, the push off, the turn from the breast. Wait, I think in a panic, we were doing something here. But no, the truth is she is doing something here. I'm just the hand at the back. Keep that hand on, and they'll never get anywhere. Keep that hand steady, loose but ready, and they can go as far as they dream. Who knew having a child would be so much more about what you never really have to begin with?

The sound of progress

K is developing the full reaches of her vocal development. Yeah for K! She's also experimenting with the consequences of putting one object against another. Way to go! Let's all appreciate how precious these developments are! What feats! How wonderful!

Oh, and I've discovered that listening to a baby who's shrieking like a pterodactyl while banging every object within reach on my desk makes me a wee bit sarcastic. We all learn new things every day.

At the risk of sounding like a know-it-all...

My kid goes out with a dirty face.

Before I had kids, I was regularly disgusted by little rug-rats with those smudgy marks all over . What kind of parent lets their kid go out like that? In public!

I have the answer now: me. It's not that it doesn't bother me. In fact, every time I open the car door to find M's face bearing the remains of breakfast or lunch or whatever he ate in between, I let out an audible groan. But cleaning his face would require fishing through the diaper bag for a wipe, pinning him down while wiping, then wiping some more after he finished screaming. Since I'm running late about 90% of the time, it's easier for me to just let it go. After all, at least we made it to the park/gym/church. That in itself is a miracle.

(I sense here that there might be some moms out there who use the old lick-the-thumb trick to wipe their kids faces. I have a permanent phobia of the smell of spit from my mom using said trick, which I have vowed not to pass along to M and K. I do now understand why she used this trick, but I have to abide by my principles.)

The funny thing is that I don't ever hear anyone comment about M's dirty face. I'm sure they might think a few things to themselves from time to time, but no one actually calls me on it, like, "Step it up, Mom, and clean the poor kid." I do, however, get lots of comments on M's shyness, such as, "Why won't he play?" or "Does he ever have fun?" or occasionally, "What's wrong with him?" Even close friends prod me on his personality as though I somehow wanted to make my son turn out the way he did. M is M. I can't help that, no matter how I've tried. So why would people feel like they can criticize something I can't control while ignoring the obvious shortcomings that I can control?

I guess maybe they don't comment on his face because then they'd have set the standard that their kids had to have clean faces too. Or maybe they too can live with the dirty face but not the kid who clings. Except isn't that my problem? When did our kids have to fit into these predetermined molds? And who came up with those molds anyway? Why can't our kids just be what they are, dirty or bossy or preppy or shy or whatever? They're individuals, after all, and not just extensions of ourselves.

Yes, and M's dirty face is just my way of breaking out the mold made for parents. Okay, I know. That was pushing it.

Thanks anyway

So I'm out at the grocery store with M and K. Since K's bright-eyed and the trip will be short, I pop her in the Baby Bjorn. It's not that I don't like the Bjorn; it's just that I find the sling so much more soothing for both her and I, but if she's gonna be awake, I figure she ought to get to look around. I know, all you veteran sling-wearers out there are about to tell me that I can have her sitting up and looking out in the sling. That would require me to look up how to situate her so that she doesn't fall out while doing so. And that would require free time and a good memory (do it now, my conscience is telling me, but I'm finally writing on my blog, so there).

Okay, back to the Bjorn. One of the main reasons why I don't find it soothing is that K has a nasty habit of chewing on carrier's top. I try to lift her up, stand up straighter, and even pull her head back, but she knows it's there and she knows she likes to chew. The girl insists.

As I'm loading my groceries into the van, K still in the Bjorn, a woman walks up to me and begins gushing. I smile, tell her a little about K's current stats, and let the fawning ensue.

"She's so cute!"
"Thank you."
"What a precious little face!"
"I know, aren't they so cute at this age?"
"And she's chewing on the top of that thing!"
"Yeah, she does that a lot."

Then, with a pause and an I-gonna-let-you-in-on-a-little-secret smile,

"You know that's not good for her, right? Chewing on that plastic?"

No kidding? They're not supposed to chew on it? But I've been using it as an apparatus for delivering medicines and liquor, along with the general supplementation of her diet. What a total and complete shock. I'm so lucky to have run into someone who could clear up that gross misconception. How could such a lousy mother have managed to have any child make it past infancy!

I didn't say this, of course. I muttered a contrite, "I know," and slunk away with my tail between my legs. Later, though, the guilt broke away and I reminded myself that every mom has her limits, that no mom can (or should) please everyone. It's tough enough just to make it through the day, which I do, happily.

And besides, it's not plastic. It's fabric. Oh wait, I thought I was letting it go...

Diaper Duty

I have learned a few things in the course of this week:

K's diapers have cars on them.
M's diapers do not.
M would like to have cars on his diapers.
Marker does not soak into diapers.
When marker comes off on M's hands, he's more angry than he was in the first place.

Ducks revisited

We're into Day 3 of whining, crying hysterics. Apparently M has developed a phobia of just about everything, including but not limited to butterflies, bank tellers, sippy cups, and naps. Yesterday we managed to salvage the afternoon with a trip to the duck pond, where I was pleased to find that we had not killed the ducks by feeding them cereal on our previous visit. I was not pleased to discover that Chex do not float. Neither was M, nor the ducks. There's another one for my list.

I was forwarned

My baby girl turns 3 months old tomorrow. Back when I was pregnant, my husband and I promised ourselves that we would do whatever it took to make it through that first three months. "It'll be hell," we told ourselves, "but we'll make it through somehow, and soon we'll be on to bigger and better things." Neither of us were baby-people to start with, and we both agree that our son is so much fun at his current age. It seemed harmless to focus on the future. Only last night I was nursing K and looked down to discover that she was holding onto my finger. Wait, she can't do that yet. Except she can. And she should. After all, she's 3 months old. Suddenly, I realized that the milestone we'd been yearning for was finally upon us, and our little girl had grown accordingly. The days of a tiny bundle of joy practically nestled in our hands, barely opening her eyes, crying and sleeping and eating her way through life had passed by. She's our last, ideally, and now that those three months are over, I desperately want them back. How could I have let them slip by so quickly? How could I not have realized that they really do grow up so fast, as everyone always says? I look back to see if I enjoyed them, relished them, and recorded them in all the tangible and intangible ways that I should have. The answer is no, of course. I did my best, loved every last day in fact, but in hindsight it still doesn't seem like enough, not now that it's over. So today I spent a good deal of time just lying on the floor with K and singing to her, memorizing the little cleft in her chin and her round baby face and promising myself that from now on I'm making a concerted effort to focus on the present. Harmless though it might seem, the future has it's place, and I'll get there soon enough.