Posts Tagged ‘family’

Rocks

November 23, 2009

This seems to be the first year Bub is really understanding about Christmas. He’s truly excited about the lights and decorations, and, of course, the presents. I’m trying to get him excited about giving, also, and at almost three he really does seem almost as interested in making things for other people as he is about getting some new toys.
He is also sort of getting it about Santa. Not a lot about the logistics of the sleigh, the reindeer, the around the world in one night stuff–but the presents parts are becoming crystal clear.
So my husband started the whole thing about how only the GOOD kids get presents. Every time the Bub was awful this weekend, husband told him Santa was watching. And when we were at our wit’s end and the Bub was running around naked after bathtime (which often leads to him peeing on something…) husband said that Santa wasn’t bringing any presents–only rocks.
Rocks! The Bub wants rocks. He wants them now! When are his rocks coming? When is Santa bringing all the rocks!? He cannot wait to get his rocks. He’ll be super naughty and then he’ll get LOTS OF ROCKS! Yay!
I hate Christmas.

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Spider!

October 23, 2009

The Bub is seeing spiders everywhere.  Sometimes they are fuzz, or pet hair, or a mark on the wall, but occasionally it’s a real bug.  This has turned me into a cat on a hot tin roof.  Several times a day he will yell “Spider!” and point.  Then I have to deal with whatever it is.  Sometimes he says, “Spider on you!” God I hate “Spider on you!”.  So far it’s always been lint, but YOU NEVER KNOW!

It’s fall, and there are actually some pretty huge spiders in the house.  Twice, one has fallen from the shower curtain into the bathtub during bathtime.  I try to stay calm as I’m scooping it out of the water and dumping it into the toilet.  And I tell him it’s just a fluffy or a fuzzy.  But I’m so freaked out by them!!

Worst of all, we take them outside (if not drowned) so that the boy will learn compassion.  So I have to scoop up the thing with a broom and dustpan and carry it around while my heart is racing and I’m praying it won’t “get on me” (the biggest spider sin!).   My husband thought I was exaggerating, until he heard the cry of “Spider!” and it turned out to be the biggest one yet!  Silver dollar sized, if you count the legs and you do.  He started hyperventilating and I just gave up on compassion and sprayed the crap out of it with bug spray.  Then I carried the corpse outside.  “It’s just a fluffy, Bub!”

Jack Johnson

August 20, 2009

Ages ago an aquaintance said that their favorite artist of all time was Jack Johnson. I really slagged him for it. Not so much for taste–but just that it didn’t seem like Jack had done enough to be an all-time fave. The response was, “What’s better than relaxing on the beach, with beers and a small fire listening to JJ?” *Cue gales of laughter*
Over time, and for no apparent reason, this has become one of the little touchstones of my marriage. You know, the little jokes that you have with your partner that only you guys think are funny. Any question about “what’s your favorite” will get “Jack Johnson” as an answer. Or, “What could be better…” Or something about “chillaxing”.
Of course, I really hadn’t listened to a lot of Jack Johnson. But we got the Curious George CD when our son was born and I admit, I played it a few times during those long, long days of maternity leave, stuck with a baby I really didn’t know what to do with, stressed out that I wasn’t stimulating his mind with a variety of songs. (I KNOW! I was nuts.) It was pleasant enough, but I can’t say I listened too closely. I was sleep deprived and and anxious.
The other night my throat was too sore from strep to sing my boy to sleep, so I asked him if he wanted me to play a CD. He, of course, had to look at all his music and pick. He picked the “monkey music”.
The next night, he asked for monkey music again. I turned it on and he kept pointing at the CD player and saying “broken”. It was working fine–not broken. It was totally a wtf moment. And, since he’s two, he started to cry.
FINALLY, I remembered that track 2 is a song CALLED “Broken”. So I played it.
He stood up in his crib and put his arms out for a hug. I picked him up and we swayed. He moved in for the big snuggle and said, “This is mama’s song. I like this music.”
Me too bub. It’s my favorite.

Swing, Set, Match

August 6, 2009

Eighty seven unlabeled pieces of wood.  Countless nuts, bolts and screws.  (Only) three trips to the hardware store.  (Only) two fights.  Three weeks of working on it.  And we now have a swingset in the backyard.

We took evenings after bedtime to label all the wood and sort the screws.  We read the instructions beforehand.  We took a day off, after several rain delays, and got most of it done.  Then I took a few hours off to finish by myself.  We broke two drill bits.  We lost parts in the grass.  We cursed, alot.

It’s truly riduculous the amount of stress this caused.  I was dreaming about the swingset.  I still am.  Every creak, every gust of wind and I’m sure it’s coming down.  And that little place where it doesn’t quite touch the low spot on the ground?  It’s killing me.  I have got to dump some dirt there.  And should I poly it?  Two different paint department guys said to let it weather for a year–but I don’t want it to “weather”.  I want it PERFECT.

But, all that really matters is that is it perfect to my son.  He adores his “lellow” slide and his “wings”.  He talks constantly about being “pushted” and going “higher, higher”.  He looks out the window at it, and eats snacks sitting on it, and cries when it’s time to come in for supper.

I totally get to kill the dog if he pees on it, right?

Sluggo

July 7, 2009

Yesterday evening, after playing outside, the bub had something on his hand. I thought it was a booger (gross, but it happens) and I went to get a tissue to wipe if off. He held out his hand and the the booger unfurled and extended it’s antennae. OMG, it was a teeny slug!
Now, I hate bugs. I’m pretty afraid of them, especially spiders. Since I’ve become a mom, I’ve really tried not to let that show. When there’s a bug in the house, I just breathe and try and sweep it up and take it outside. When we’re outdoors and we see bugs, I just look at them and talk about them. I don’t want the bub to be afraid, or to kill them. I’m happy when he’s just interested and curious.
But this time I was just so surprised by the slug. I screamed and jumped up. Then the bub screamed and shook his hand and started crying and crying. And, I didn’t do anything. I was just too freaked out, and I didn’t know where the slug went, and I was so skeeved out that it could be touching me that I just let him scream and cry while I shook out my hair and brushed at my clothes. I finally got so convinced it was on me that I stripped off my shirt. I just got the major wig and couldn’t shake it. Meanwhile, my husband had come down and was trying to calm the bub down while I stood there begging him to check my hair.
I finally got it together and hugged my child. We talked all about it and he finally calmed down. We got through bath time, and bedtime, and right before he fell asleep he said that the bug was scary, but that he was OK. I said that I was sorry I got so scared. Sometimes, you just can’t be “the mom”.
But we never found the slug. It’s still somewhere in the house, or on my shirt, or maybe in my hair. I mean, I’ve showered and changed clothes but YOU NEVER KNOW!

Too Big

June 26, 2009

I’m not entirely sure how this happened, but now anything undesirable is “too big”. Like, “Do you want peaches?” “No, peaches are too big.” Or “Do you want Daddy to put you to bed?” “No, Daddy is too big.”
All I can guess, is that when we play Hot Wheels, some of the Tonka trucks are too big for the tracks. So those trucks are “too big”. Somewhere along the line, we never explained that “big” was a relative size. It just meant that they won’t work. So they are “wrong” or “bad”. I don’t know.
Damn “too big” is hilarious. I don’t want to stretch it out for too long, and I’ve already started to try and explain things, and show him sizes and “big” and “little”.  He’ll get it eventually.  It’s just too hard not to laugh when he’s upset and saying he doesn’t want to go to bed because going night night is too big.
But yesterday I did end up desperately telling him that throwing his toys was “too big”. And he stopped throwing them.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night

June 10, 2009

Not so very long ago, the weekend meant sleeping in, then coffee, a workout, and a shag.
Then some shopping, getting dressed up and going out. To a bar, dinner, a movie–whatever.
Sunday afternoons I would watch decorating shows, email friends, pick up the house, maybe even a second movie.
Real pedicures. Long baths. Naps. Daytime TV.
Now, the weekend means getting up early and making pancakes. Then going to the playground. Making hot dogs for lunch. Frantically trying to clean the house during naptime. Doing mountains of laundry. Playing Hot Wheels for hours.
Then, after the hours of trying to get the Bub to sleep, finally, a glass of wine and a few minutes of TV. That half hour feels like a whole party to me now.

Bitches

May 4, 2009

This weekend the Bub and I got snubbed at the playground. I was chasing a ball while playing “soccer-basketball-slide down the slide” and I ran past some other mommies. I said “Hi” but I just got the snotty nod.
Now these mommies were young, and skinny, and dressed in maxi sundresses with beaded wedge sandals. They had on makeup. I, however, had on paint stained jeans and a spongebob squarepants t-shirt. And I am neither young nor skinny nor made-up.
When I was pregnant, I really, truly thought I would be one of those mommies. And that I would have a little girl in pink sandals with painted toe nails. When I found out I was having a boy, well, that was OK. He would be cool, in Ramones onesies and teeny Chucks. And we would be clean–no Kool Aid mustaches on my kid!
But the reality is, is that I am a mom of a boy. A boy who could care less about the Ramones (other than the obvious pleasure of dancing to Sheena is a Punk Rocker) and would much rather wear his stained and worn Thomas the Tank shirt. And forget the teeny Chucks. They are expensive, and fall apart, and have LACES not velcro so hell no.
And I am a mommy who is ass-deep in the sand box. I’m just as stained as my kid. We probably both have juice mustaches, because I obviously am eating the juice and cookies at snacktime!
I’m still jealous of the thin, pretty mommies, but I know I’m having more fun! Plus, I saw their husbands, and let me tell you, mine is much, much cuter than their Gone to Seed McHigh School Hero and Baldy McAccountant! But they could have at least said “hi” back.0307091547

Let them be little

March 12, 2009

Hello, it’s me, the Bub himself!  I’m here to set the record straight on a few things that other mommies are harshing on me about!

First of all, I still sleep in a crib.  I’m a crazy sleeper–when I sleep, and I need to be caged.  I like my crib so much, I don’t even try to climb out.  I like it so much, I ask for it by name when I’m tired.  I like being up high, so that when I stand up I can see mommy eye to eye.  There’s a rumor that there’s a toddler bed up in the attic, but I’m just not ready yet.

I also sit in a high chair.  I’m short, OK?  I can’t reach the table even with a booster seat.  I could sit in a booster seat with a tray–but that *is* a high chair.  I could sit at a little table by myself, but how fun is that?  Not very.  I want to sit up next to Papa and make faces at him and show him my seafood and have burping contests–from my high chair.  And utensils?  I tried that.  I used them for months.  They just slow me down.  I’m back to using my hands and loving it.

And, I am not potty trained.  I’m just starting to talk, and I can’t say all my letters yet.  I also find it tres amusant to answer every question with “no”.  Even “Do you want a cookie”.  Yes, I do want a cookie, but if I hear your voice go up in query I will say “no”.  Potty training now would just be frustrating for mommy and for me.  “Do you have to go potty?”  “No.”  Change wet pants.  Repeat.  Why not make it easier and wait until we all can communicate better?  My doctor said, “you can potty train at 2 and be trained by 3 or you can potty train at 3 and be trained by 3.”  Who needs a year of wet pants?

And the talking thing, I’m getting there.  I talk all the time.  I never stop.  But I can’t say all my consonants so no one understands me.  I also am sort of fuzzy on what words go with what things.  I need to be reminded all the time.  All cars are blue cars until I am reminded that the red ones are red.  Sometimes papa is mama.  Or, I forget and just call everyone mapa.  And I enjoy putting “my” in front of everything.  Even things that aren’t mine.  I’m sure I’ll get it all straightened out later this year.

I mean, I’ve only been alive for two years.  During that time I’ve grown hair, learned to walk and run and jump and climb, learned tons of words, been to the hospital twice, started to sleep more than 2 hours in a row, I eat real food–I mean, I do tons of things!  I’m a big boy!  As for all this other stuff, I’ll get there.  I promise.0303090924

If you want the real story on your doctor

March 3, 2009

02270911431ask your nurse.
We were in the hospital the other day, as Bub had a wicked infection that wasn’t responding to anti-biotics. While we were there, one of the nurses told us our doctor was basically House. We picked him just on gut instinct, and have taken a lot of flak for having a pediatrician who is so super-young (I think he’s still in his twenties!). He’s also not the greatest with bedside manner–he’s very sweet but sort of intense and “medical”. It turns out that he has found a bunch of illnesses that other docs have missed. Just recently he diagnosed a brain tumor in a little kid, that had been missed. He’s the guy they send mystery cases to. Awesome, right?