Try Again

My daughter loves graham crackers.  She really does.  Every afternoon either my husband or I give her half a graham cracker and sometimes its the biggest smile we get all day.  But today was a little different.  She didn't ask for the cracker until it was much later in the afternoon, almost supper time, in fact.  I felt I should still give it to her, but I wanted her to be hungry for supper as well.  So, I gave her half of what she usually gets.  I handed her the sliver of crunchy sweetness, and she looked at it with a very confused little face.  Then she resolved herself and looked back up at me and said, "That's not right, mommy.  Try again."

After I got over how adorable the moment was, I realized it wasn't just a funny moment.  It was a victory.  For several months I've been trying to teach her to use her words to voice her opinion about something rather than scream and throw a fit.  And she just did it!  I was so excited I wanted to hand her the whole pack of graham crackers.  I know, I know.  And I didn't cave.  I just wanted to.

I ended up explaining to her that we were going to be eating supper very soon so she would be having a smaller portion of graham cracker for her snack today (which, of course, she found completely unacceptable), but I was so proud of her for using her "big girl" words that she could have a Dora sticker (which made her forget about the graham cracker incident entirely).  I don't know that I did the right thing.  Honestly, I'm not so much concerned about always doing the right thing as I am about trying not to do the most wrong thing. 

But, my daughter was upset about something and did not throw a fit.  I'm sure that Hell has completely frozen over and I keep looking out my window for flying monkeys.  I hope I need more Dora stickers.

Time Out

sam:  mommy, baby Caius is flipping out.
me:  yes, sweetheart.  he is.
sam:  is he throwing a fit?
me:  yes, sweetheart.  he is.
sam:  does he need a time-out?
me:  um, he can't sit yet.
sam:  hmmm.
exit sam.

a few seconds later....
enter sam with pillow in hand.
sam places pillow on time-out stool.
sam:  here ya go caius.  nobody wants to hear it.

I find myself continuously amazed at my daughter's ability to reason and apply those things I have taught her to situations that are actually appropriate.  What makes this truly fascinating is its juxtaposition to her randomness and rebellions.  The same child that counts to 63 before getting bored dreams about "monkey kites".  The little girl who was having tea on the windowsill with Thomas Jefferson and Gumby at 18 months is refusing to toilet train at 2 1/2 years.   The child that practices her letters and spelling on the front porch will pretend she can't speak when company arrives.

And then, there's bedtime.

sam:  mommy, I'm a sister!
me:  yes, and I'm a mother.
sam:  you're not a mother, you're a mommy.
me:  well, a mother is the same thing as a mommy; so I'm a mother AND a mommy -- Just like your dad is a father AND a daddy.
sam:  no, he's not.  he's just dad.

Goodnight Miss Mommy

There's nothing like being away for a whole Monday after being sick for a whole weekend while your husband takes the children to the farm to visit his parents to ensure you'll have presents awaiting your arrival on Monday evening.  My husband is a great father, but he's pretty clueless when it comes to being a mom.  He finds himself sorely lacking laundry, housekeeping, balanced diet, and other general organization skills required to keep the daisies spaced properly.  While he swears he always appreciates what I do as a mother and doesn't need reminders, I always hear these affirmations on Monday evening. 

This last weekend, I was too ill to travel, so he took it upon himself to pack, drive the kids out to the farm, take care of them overnight, and travel back the next day.  We had planned the trip for some time, and he felt it was really important not to miss it.  When he returned on Sunday, the kids were fine (maybe a little mis-matched and dirty, but fine) and he was as frazzled as I've ever seen him.  He filled me with stories of crying babes and inconvenient diaper emergencies.  Stories of stained clothes and scraped knees.  Stories about how little other people understood how necessary it was for him to keep his schedule with these two kids.  I listened, all the while laughing inside.  He knew these events crafted a normal day for me.  That did not change the fact that he had no idea how to handle them.  So I cleaned up the kids, fed them, and put them snuggly in their beds.

And, as usual, he was with the kids all day Monday.  I knew it was going to be rough for him, but it couldn't be helped.  On Monday evening, I walked through the door of my home to find my economy pack of 112 feminine products opened and stuck to everything in the house within reach of a two year old.  My husband was sitting on our bed giving the baby a bottle with a look that left Sunday's frazzled face far behind.  I put my hand on his face and kissed his eyes, took the baby in my arms, and balanced the bottle under my chin.  I asked Sam to come to the kitchen with me.  We got a trash bag out of the cabinet and began to fill it together with the mess she had created.  We finished the evening routine only slightly behind schedule.  We didn't talk about it, but we both knew. 

As I was putting Caius to sleep, he looked up at me and said, "mamma".  I almost cried.  As I was reading to Sam, she wrapped her hands around my neck and rested her cheek on my shoulder.  I kissed her on her head as i pulled up the covers and she said, "Goodnight Miss Mommy."  And it was.