Teef

Today, I think my son gave his first attempt at a sentence a seriously awesome try. He's been teething again and his mouth is really hurting him. The only thing that seems to calm him down is being near Sam. So he climbed up on the couch next to her and said,

"Sissy, bebe teef. Oh, bebe"

And she knew exactly what he meant. She kissed him on his face and looked at me and said, "You need to give my brother some medicine. His teeth are hurting again."

The Crib

Every morning when I hear my children chatting and singing to each other over the baby monitor, I go into their room, pick up Samantha, and put her in the crib with her brother. We chat and play for a while, then we get up and start our day.

Backstory part 1: When Samantha was a baby, this very same crib was her favorite place in all the world. She would have stayed in there for hours on end if I had let her. She played and talked and looked a little disappointed when we would take her out. I knew, even then, that she had an unusual attachment to her crib. About six months before her brother was born, I took down her crib and put up a toddler bed for her. Yes, she could crawl out of it, but she almost never did. It wasn't a safety issue. I knew she was going to be really upset seeing a new baby in her bed. I was hoping that would be enough time for her to develop a new attachment and forget about this one. Obviously, I was mistaken. Her favorite morning activity is still getting in the crib with her brother and playing with stuffed animals and books.

This morning started out like all the others; play in the crib, drink some chocolate milk, watch some Sprout. At some point, Samantha and I were playing around and I jokingly stuck her in the crib. She said, "Mommy, I'm your little baby!" to which I replied, "Oh really? Are you going to sleep in the baby crib tonight?" This excited her a great deal. I joked around with her about it a few times today, knowing that by the time we got home from my mother's house she would be so exhausted she would just pass out in her own bed without even thinking about it. Sometimes my naivite amazes even myself.

We arrived at our house almost an hour past their usual bed time. Caius was asleep and Sam was only barely awake. As I was holding her sleeping brother in my arms, she walked into the house, went straight to their room, climbed into his crib, and pulled his blanket up to her chin. She looked at me with the sweetest little face and said, "Caius can sleep in here with me if he wants to."

Backstory part 2: Nobody--NOBODY can sleep with my daughter. Its like sleeping with an over-sized weenie dog with exceptionally long and powerful legs. When you leave the experience, you will be sleep deprived, freezing, and likely have several bruises.

So I smiled at her and said just that: "No one can sleep with you, dear." She wasn't sure what I meant, but it was good enough for her and she fell asleep. Now I have a sleeping baby in my arms and a toddler in my crib. I decide since Sam wasn't much older than Caius when she got her "big girl bed" we'll give it a try. I lay him down. He opens his eyes and gives me a "what the...?!?!" look. I caress his hair and sing to him a bit until he falls asleep.

My husband is in Arkansas for a training right now, so I quietly shut the door and went into the next room to call him. I was intently listening for him to fall out of the bed or wake up at all. I didn't want him to be frightened by the experience at all. After about an hour, I decided to go in and check on them.

The door wouldn't open. Immediately, I knew what was blocking it. I tried as gently as I could to wedge it open enough to squeeze my arm through. I rolled him over a few times. He slept right through it. He was all cuddled up next to the door with his blanket (Wubby) and his pacifier (nee-nee). I walked over to the crib and picked up Sam as smoothly as I could (she is a very light sleeper). I tucked her into her bed. I scooped my infant child off the floor and laid him in his crib with his favorite blanket, his favorite stuffed toy, and his favorite book on his favorite pillow. It really is the most wonderful place in all the world.

Be What You Are

Sam: Mommy, I want to be an artist.

Me: You want to be an artist when you grow up?

Sam: I don't have to grow up. I can be an artist right now.

What I've Learned on Twitter

In my brief few weeks on Twitter, I have learned a lot of things:

• If you don't have a website denouncing God, you are not a good atheist.
• If you don't go to church four times a week, you are not a good Christian.
• If your daughter likes Barbies and pretty pink dresses, you are not teaching her strong feminist values.
• If she is in the treehouse hurling spitballs at the neighbors' kids, she lacks composure and discipline.
• If your son plays with cars and trains and footballs, you are not teaching him to be sensitive.
• If he takes a pretty little doll into a public place and demonstrates interest in it, you are setting him up.
• If you don't publicly bash OWS, you are not a good conservative.
• If you are not camped on Wall Street, you are not a good liberal.
• If you didn't have your children before the age of 22, you are contributing to generation gap clashes.
• If you didn't wait until 40 to have your first child, you lack the wisdom and resources necessary to do so.
• If you made your first million before 30, you were lucky.
• If you haven't made your first million by 33, you weren't focused enough.
• If you choose to stay at home with your children, you are hindering their growth and being overprotective.
• If you go to work and send your young children to daycare, you are an absentee mom.
• If your Christmas meal is a double-quarter-pounder with cheese, you are lazy.
• If you prepare a large feast for your family served on your holiday tableware, you are a show-off.
• If you have money, you buy art.
• If you dedicate your life to creating art, you are a pathetic looser that can't handle a real job.

But the most important thing I've learned is: If you are going to shoot yourself in the face, wear these. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGXoTAJB_IU

/unfollow everyone except The Bloggess

Not a Parrot. Yet.

This is me talking with my son about the members of our family.

Mommy.

Momma.

Daddy.

Dadda.

Sissy.

Cee-cee.

Peggy.

Bee-cess. (Princess)

Peggy.

Bee-cess.

Dugu.

Easy.

Dugu.

Easy.

PEGgy.

BEE-cess.

DUgu.

Easy.

For those of you who don't know, Peggy is my 3-legged weenie dog, and Ndugu (or Dugu) is my mutt.

Jumping In

I am a capable mother. Friends and family often compliment me in this context.

"You are such a good mother."

"You are a GOOD mother."

"You are the best mom I know."

"You are an exceptional mother."

I am a capable mother. But this woman you describe, she does not exist.

You see what I post. I see what you post. On facebook, twitter, and often in our blogs, we are ALL perfect mothers.

"[my child] said [insert antic] today!"

"i love my babies so much!"

"my life is so much better with [my child] than it was before!"

How often do we post things like:

"I have dishes in the sink that have been there for two days."

"I gave [my child] the dirtiest look today when she was demanding attention from me."

"I fed my kid chicken nuggets and sliced apples for dinner because I was too lazy to cook."

We don't.

Well, some of you do. Some of you do and you are my favorite mommies. I hope to be more like you one day. I hope to cast aside my fear of the "Mommy Shark Pool" and jump right in, knowing whatever bite I take will heal with time. I know I need to. I'll never be myself or be comfortable around other moms until I do.

So here it is. This is me.

• I hate doing the dishes.
• I'm a terrible cook.
• I only recycle about half the recyclables in our home.
• I spend too much time on facebook.
• I walk in to cover up my kids before I go to bed and secretly hope my son will wake up so he can sleep with me (although it has only happened a few times).
• I have OCD.
• I'm completely flustered when our routine changes.
• My kids don't eat enough vegetables.
• Neither do I.
• I let my children watch Caillou.
• I let my children watch too much PBS and Nick Jr.
• I teach my daughter to farm resource nodes on MMORPGs.
• I have beer in my fridge.
• I have cobwebs on my ceiling fan.
• I'm too harsh on other moms because I fear the same judgments myself.

Oh God, this could go on forever. You get the idea. I'll do another mommy purge. Someday.

I'm in the pool. My eyes clenched tight. I'm ready. Bring it.

Dance Moms

Its a terrible show. Really bad. I rarely watch television, but when I do, it is often the worst kind of reality TV that captures my attention. This is one of them. I'm fascinated with the Dance Moms. The level of snobbery and elitism far exceeds anything anyone could possibly justify.

My daughter is in a ballet class at Velocity Dance Studio on the other side of town. Its a bit of a drive in traffic to get her there in time, but it runs about half the price of the dance studio near our house. And she loves it. LOVES it. She wears a beautiful white leotard with a flowing tutu skirt, her hair in a perfect ballet bun, and just a little bit of chap stick for good measure. For that half hour, she is a ballerina princess dancing through life with nine other ballerina princesses just her age.

The experience is a bit different for me. Waiting in the lobby for thirty minutes while she dances has become one of my most dreaded weekly routines. Enter: The Dance Moms.

I admit, its an unfair assessment, but its what I call them. Three mothers that sit huddled in the middle of the floor where our daughters like to play together, chatting with each other like no one else is there (while the rest of us find our places on one of the benches lining the room, trying to stay out of the way). Harmless, right? It should be. To be completely honest, their conversations are harmless. They mostly talk about church, sometimes school. The problem arises when another parent or child tries to interact with them (or their children). No matter what is said, however relevant it is, the comment is reciprocated with a look of complete disdain and a prompt turning of the head to the other moms and changing the subject. If one of our children tries to interact with one of theirs before class, they pull their little girls into their laps and wrap their arms around them like they are protecting them from dangerous beasts. Not once has any one of them made a single statement to anyone else in the room.

To be completely honest, it makes the rest of us pretty uncomfortable. We don't really talk about it, but we look at each other when it happens, and sometimes comment lightly among ourselves. I mean, really? This is Velocity Dance Studio. You're going to be snobby here? Really?

Last night was "Bring a Friend Night". The Dance Moms huddled in their usual spot with two new potential recruits. All of the sudden, I found myself inspired. I'm not going to pretend to know why. I just felt like being funny.

After the girls went into class, I walked over and sat down right in the middle of them with my son dangling from my hip and (unintentionally, of course) kicking them in their heads on the way in. I just started talking. I didn't give them a choice. I talked about Housewives of New Jersey (which Selina and I discovered on a marathon event one night) and pretended I knew all about it. I talked about the internet. I talked about the ballet class itself. Nothing was off limits. I didn't LET them change the subject, and reveled in the shock on their faces. (They don't WATCH television or surf the web. They have QUALITY family time ONLY. Bla, bla, bla.....) I probably wouldn't have lasted more than a few minutes, but I could hear snorting from the benches and that was all the cheer-leading I needed. At one point, I got a text and I handed one of them my son while I dug my phone out of my purse.

When the girls were let out of class, the Dance Moms scraped their jaws off the floor, quickly scooped up their toddlers, and scrambled out the door. I waved excitedly and said "See you next week!" as they left.

One of the "bench moms" met me outside as I was getting in my car. "Next week, its my turn" she says with a smile bigger than I've ever seen on her.

One point for the ladies on the bench!

The Bandwagon

I've been so busy reading blogs I haven't had time to write one of my own lately. I'll jump back on. In my own time.

Something Hilarious

My daughter has a unicorn. Named Unicorn.

I sent her with Dave to pick up a birthday present for Caius at Toys'r'us. I gave specific orders to both father and daughter that the point of the exercise was to learn about getting a present for someone; that it was better to leave the store empty handed than leave the store with something for Sam. I told Dave to be patient with her. "This will take some work" I said. They came home with some long-ago-forgotten baby toy, and Unicorn.

Time to digress for a moment:

Before Sam was born, Selina and I were discussing the most likely ways I would torture my daughter. I told her I needed an epic plan. Something completely off the wall and something I could spend her entire life setting up. That is when we developed The Collection. It will either fail miserably or turn out to be the greatest prank we've ever pulled. I intend to write about this idea in detail when I obtain the first piece. (Hopefully this holiday season. No promises.)

The problem is, the plan relies heavily on Sam sharing my disdain for cheap, broken items that fail to age well. So far, it appears there is a better chance than not the plan will backfire. (Both Unicorn and Little Plastic Cow conspire against me.) I'm not ready to call it off, but I'm leery. Just sayin'.

Sam: Mommy, what do unicorns eat?

Me: Each other. That's why they are extinct.

About four hours later.

Sam: I don't have ANYTHING hilarious!

Me: Of course you do!

Sam: I do? Where is it?

Me: In the bathroom (her brother was taking a bath, I was referring to him)

Samantha runs into the bathroom and returns, less than enthused.

Sam: Its just Daddy. He's about to take a dump. (I have NO IDEA where she heard that phrase! Still, I laugh as she wanders off to her room)

Sam: Mommy! Mommy! I brought you something ELSE that is hilarious!

She hands me Unicorn.

Me: Um. Awesome. So what does it eat?

Sam: A Chudder. Because its pink.

Mom, I Need an i-Phone, Part 1

There are some conversations that a mom just knows are going to continue. Indefinitely. This is one of them. Although, admittedly, I didn't expect this one to start just yet.

Sam: Mom, Super-Why has his own i-phone.

Me: Yes. Yes, he does.

Sam: That's because he's a super hero.

Me: Orly?

Sam: Yes. When I'm a super hero, I'll have my own i-phone too!

Me: Orly?

Sam: Yes.

Sam: Mom, can I be a super hero today?

More Than One Square

WARNING! Poo Blog!

Look around you.

Look around you.

Look around you.

Have you discovered what we are looking for? That's right. Biological waste.

An experiment was carried out in which a three year old female child was given temporary free reign of the toilet half of the bathroom. What do you think will happen? You can write your hypothesis down in your copy book now.

All right, all right. Enough with the British comedy parody. But we've only just begun talking about Poo. That's right. Poo. I've put great effort into avoiding the subject so far in my blog, but it is time to face cold hard facts. Being a parent often involves being elbows-deep in human excrement. I feel like there are a few misconceptions about this that should be cleared up.

1. Tiny human = tiny waste. WRONG! How important is it for parents to remember the actual formula is [food in] - [energy used] + [some extra gross stuff for smell and volume enhancement] = [waste out]? Case in point: I was carrying Sam on my shoulders one afternoon when we were shopping at Tinker AFB. We had just eaten lunch. It hit her wrong and immediately (she was still in pull-ups at the time). The family bathroom was closed for maintenance so I found myself with a shopping cart holding an infant seat (infant included) and a poo covered toddler tucked in a small, 2-stall bathroom waiting for David to choose and purchase new outfits (including shoes and a purse) for the both of us. I would swear to this day that the volume was more than her weight at the time.

2. Tiny human = tiny smell. WRONG! This doesn't even require explanation. You've met my son. I can't think of a single witness (including myself) that hasn't been expelled from the room by the smell at some point.

3. Tiny human + potty trained = all good. WRONG! This brings us to our blog-inciting event. Should a parent mindlessly inform a toddler that one square is not enough without providing specific information about how much IS enough, said parent should be absolutely positive there is a plunger on hand, because [one entire roll of toilet paper] + [your average household toilet] + [one flush] - [that plunger you thought you had] = BADNESS!

4. Tiny human is MY human, therefor, it is all okay. WRONG! It is still really, really gross. It just is.

I'd like to pretend that I just got all of poo into one blog. Its a delusion I intend to maintain for a while. Now I need a vacation.

The Garbie Crisis

My daughter is playing in the living room with her dolls. She calls them "Garbie" dolls. It was something she started over a year ago and it has just been too cute to correct. She can hate me for it later. I digress.

She is calmly playing with her dolls as I research recipes for this mango she insisted I buy and now refuses to eat. All of the sudden she screams. I know, I know. SURPRISE! So I walk over to her and ask her to use her words to tell me the problem.

Sam: Garbie has to be a princess!

Me: I think she is a beautiful princess.

Sam: Garbie doesn't want to be a princess!

Me: Do you want Garbie to be a princess?

Sam: NO! NO! NO!

Me: Calm down sweetie. What would you like Garbie to be?

Sam: She wants to be Dr. Garbie in the betinary (veterinary) hospital.

Me: What a wonderful idea! I think Garbie will be a great doctor!

Sam: She can't! She can't! SHE CAN'T!

Me: Of course she can, honey. She can be anything you want her to be. Garbie's adventures come from your imagination.

Sam: She can't! She can't! SHE CAN'T!

Me: Samantha, we are girls. Garbie is a girl. A girl can do anything she sets her mind to, no matter what obstacles she faces. It is important for you to empower Garbie to follow her dreams.

Sam: She can't! She can't! SHE CAN'T!

Sam starts to cry. I wrap my arms around her and hold her in my lap on the couch.

Me: Why can't Garbie be a doctor?

Sam: Because all the stuffed animals are locked in the bedroom with sleeping Caius!

**Me, complicate simple situations? NEVAH!**

To My Daughter on Your Third Birthday

Three years! What a fine young lady you are turning into!

Oh, my pokey, daydreaming princess. Time holds no consequences for you right now. You can get distracted for an hour on your way to the refrigerator for a snack. It takes us at least ten minutes to walk from the car, through the parking lot, into the grocery store. Everything fascinates you (or at least captures your attention).

You are an amazing helper. There is almost nothing I can do that you are not tugging at my pant leg begging to "help". You want to learn everything. There is no book you don't have some interest in. (Case in point, right now you are sitting on the kitchen floor reading a cookbook.)

You are so smart. That is the understatement of the year. Your critical thinking skills are developing at a frightening rate. You apply almost everything you learn to multiple scenarios; and more often than not, you do so appropriately. Although you will outsmart us in less than a year, your father and I couldn't be more proud.

You are learning to control your anger. You try very hard to take a deep breath and/or leave the room when you are upset. We're still working on that one.

You are the queen of saying the darnedest things. Most of my facebook friends are only such because of you. Your perspective on the world and the intensity with which you see it and share it far exceeds normal kid antics.

Somewhere between the uncontrollable laughter and the screaming tears lies this perfect moment that we share many times a day. You feel everything so intently. Jokes and games and funnier to you. Insults and injuries hurt you more. When you love, you really love. When you fear, you really fear.

Even though I try not to, I find myself gazing into your future life, and knowing how hard it is going to be. Knowing at times the pain will seem unbearable. But also knowing you will find such joy as most of us never know. You will experience love closer to God than most of us ever feel. You will see beauty in people that most of us fail to notice.

I pray I am able to help you gather the tools you will need to survive the pain and thrive with the love. I pray you will find an insurance that will cover the cost of the therapy required from having been raised by your father and myself. Most of all, I pray I never take for granted even a single moment that God has allowed me to share with the most beautiful person I have ever known.

Slacker Mom

Every time one of my children reach a development milestone I find myself completely overwhelmed and the blogging stops until I've completed my adjustment period. Sam is smarter than me and Caius is almost walking and David is gone for two weeks. This is NOT the blog that gets it all going again. But in the meantime, they are just as sweet and precious as ever. Please excuse me while I go untangle his fist from her hair.

To My Son on Your First Birthday

I wrote you a beautiful (almost poetic) letter for your birthday. When I read it back to myself, I was really impressed with what I had created. Still, it was missing something. For days I have been trying to correct it. I was thinking about it this morning while the sun was coming up through the lens of my camera, and I found it. I found what was missing.

From the day I knew I was going to have you, you have been the most real, most sincere person in my life. Given your propensity for candor, I feel you deserve nothing less from me. So poetic prose will have to step aside. I'll just tell it like it is.

The day you were born was possibly the greatest relief I have ever felt in my life. When mothers say this kind of thing, it is generally an expression of how grateful we are that you are healthy and beautiful and wonderful and sweet and perfect. I am not ungrateful, but my relief came from you finally getting your heels out of my spine.

You are a nocturnal creature. My farmville farm was rockin' the first eight months of your life. I was really sleepy. Often.

You have a talent matched only by your father for creating unfathomable scents with nothing more than your own biology. I left you on the changing table more than once to be relieved of my lunch.

You teach yourself so much. You learn so fast. Your understanding of basics physics far exceeds the average one year old. Your father and I are so proud.

You wrap your arms around my neck every time I pick you up. You always have. You hold me more often than I hold you. You comfort me more often. I miss you every time I set you down. You warm my heart.

Your smile is more sincere than that of any creature I have ever witnessed. Your eyes are open and clear; your love radiates through them.

As I watch you grow, I know in my heart I would never trade you. Not for any person or experience or item that has, could possibly, or will never exist. And its a good thing. The warranty just expired.

Extra Pickles

This past weekend resulted in a LOT of big trash. Unfortunately, big trash day isn't until next week, so the large boxes and packing material will just have to remain stacked by the fence in the back yard. And while it is no secret that large cardboard boxes make the best toys and busting up packing materials can be the most fun (and one of the messiest) activities ever, it is still entertaining as a parent to see exactly what spin your child puts on the game.

Sam is playing outside. I'm watching her through the back door. She reaches into one of the boxes and pulls out a long piece of foam. She breaks the foam into several smaller pieces, and fills her brother's old Easter bucket from the toy chest. I can hear her talking the whole time, but the washer is running and I can't really understand what she is saying. After each piece of the foam is carefully placed in the bucket, she picks it up and opens the back door to come inside.

"Sam, what are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm selling tacos."

"Tacos?"

"Mmm hmm. With extra pickles"

My little entrepreneur.

Clean Up Your Solar System

I'm not the best housekeeper. You all know this about me. But I am working really hard on it. My mother was awesome at making sure our house was clean more often than not. The result was, we feel more comfortable in a clean house than a dirty one. I want my kids to have that too. So sometimes, we have to get creative.

Often, when Sam and Caius and I are going through the house picking up toys and laundry, we make a game out of it. Sometimes we pretend the toys are "animal's in trouble" and we are Diego and Alicia rescuing them. Sometimes we just have a race to see who can pick up the most things the fastest. But I've got to be honest--I'm running out of ideas.

Enter Sam, Queen of Bright Ideas.

Me: Okay, its time to pick up all our toys and clothes!

Sam: A game a game! Lets make a game.

Me: pause......(nothing, I'm stumped).

Sam: I know! Lets be rockets and we can clean our solar system! I'll clean Mars and you can clean Saturn and Baby Caius can clean Jupiter!

Me: Sam that's a great idea!

Sam: Mommy, be sure to collect lots of space rocks to bring back for science.

The Fruit Flower Monster

Me: Sam, what would you like for breakfast today?

Sam: I would like a fruit flower, please.

Me: Okay!

Sam: Without oranges, please.

Me: Okay.

Sam: And pink yogurt, not white.

Me: Um, okay.

Sam: And extra blueberries, please.

Me: Extra blueberries. Got it.

Sam: It needs to have six petals.

Me: Do you think you are maybe being just a little particular?

Sam: No, I just like my fruit flowers.

Bad Dog!

Setting: Its a windy day, partly cloudy, warm. 30% chance of rain. Weenie dog senses potential storm (in our house, we say the "s" word to avoid unnecessary puppy flip-outs).

Me: Peggy! Bad dog! Chewing cords is bad bad BAD!

Sam: Mommy, don't yell at her. She's just hungry. I need to feed my pets.

Enough is Enough

"Mommy, put your camera down first. Then we can talk."