Sweet Child of Mine

To be on the receiving end of these sweet little crayon drawings. Wouldn't you agree this is one of those things that makes being a mom so gut-swellingly/heart-bustingly/tear duct-overflowingly beautiful. Guess which one is my favorite. MOOM? Come on now! That's not even fair!

Four and Two

My bundles turned four and two earlier this year! Which was huge for me because I cannot tell you how many people, back when I was struggling with a terrible two and an infant, told me, "It's hard now, but just wait until they turn four and two. Life will get so much easier." So as much as I tried to live in the moment/savor each day/carpe diem (blah blah blah), 2010 was always kind of looming out there like the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Of course, as soon as we closed in on four and two, the new mantra I started hearing was, "Five and three. Those are the real golden ages." Figures. But this year still called for a celebration. So we did some Disneyland . . .. . . some Corvette Diner . . . . . . some Chuck E. Cheese . . . . . . some Wild Animal Park . . . . . . and some good old-fashioned family parties.

And I'm glad we did because so far, four and two have been pretty darn golden compared to those rockier early years. The best parts being that both kids can communicate and be reasoned with, for the most part. And they play together and love each other up like never before. So I think I can safely say, half a year in, that four and two was every bit worth the wait.

Witchy Woman

Like most kids, my two definitely had their witching hours as babies. That no man's zone in between afternoon nap and dinner of inconsolable and inexplicable crankiness. Not fun. But oh man how the tables have turned. Nowadays between about 3:30 p.m. and 5:00 p.m., I can almost feel my skin take on a greenish tinge, my chin get a little pointier, and my voice sound a lot cacklier. Does this happen to anyone else, where all of a sudden the slightest utterance of the word "mommy" can start your skin a-crawling and make you wish you were anywhere else but here??? I think Snook is on to me and is slowly but surely starting to steer clear of me during my witching hour. Or kiss me, which kills me. Poor Bubs on the other hand still chooses to play with fire every now and then ("Go play!" "Mommy needs a break!" "You're still supposed to be napping!" "No, I don't want to play baseball!"). Luckily the mood passes, we all get through it, and we're off to see the wizard once again. But oh man do I feel sorry for my poor little munchkins. Fingers crossed this phase passes quickly and they forgive my wicked ways.

P.S. Isn't that still one of the scariest faces you've ever seen?

The High Shelf

You can usually tell what kind of day I'm having by how many toys make it up to "the high shelf." Yeah. Rough day.

P.S. The warthog on the wall is not a toy. And that is not a prominent wall in our home.

Calm Down

I got an unexpected late Mother's Day present this morning in the form of this Newsweek article. A must-read I think for all of us mothers of young children these days, who for some reason keep striving for that elusive "p" word in the work of morhering. Not gonna happen, so why are we beating ourselves up and harmfully glorifying our children in the process? Happy reading, and I wish us all guilt-free, calm, and maybe even slightly more Victorian mothering from this day forward.

Dos and Don'ts

Sweet Ballerina - Brunette Stretched Canvas by Karina Bania

Never again will I tell Snook that ballerinas don't wear pigtails. I mean, have you ever?

Nurses Wear Shoes

This poster represents what I think will be one of my toughest parenting challenges-- letting my kids do their own thing regardless of what I think is right or good or acceptable.

So Snook's poster assignment was to fill in the blanks on such topics as "This is What I Look Like;" "When I Grow Up I Want to Be;" and "If I Could Wish For Anything It Would Be." She told me her responses. We were good so far. Then it came time to draw or glue in pictures to go along with her answers. This is where things got ugly. I got the bright idea to go through magazines looking for pictures. But Snook got so excited when she saw certain pictures in the magazine that she didn't care if they matched her responses or not. After much back and forth, I finally just let her put whatever picture she wanted wherever she wanted, which is how we ended up with a shoe where a nurse should have gone, a 30-something-year-old woman where Snook's picture should have been, and a boat where an alligator should have gone.

The whole thing had me so flustered. On the one hand, the last thing I ever want is to do her work for her or to stifle her creativity. On the other hand, I want to help steer her in the right direction. I also didn't want her teacher thinking she (I) didn't care, or she didn't "get it," or the other kids laughing at her.

Of course, I angsted for nothing. When I handed the poster to Snook's teacher with a disclaimer about the pictures, she laughed and said, "Well, nurses wear shoes." So they do. I would have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd kept that axiom in mind from the start. I hope I never forget it.

Gulp

Snook voluntarily ate four forkfuls of peas the other night. This is huge because she's been on a self-imposed (of course) green strike for about the last 49 days. Could I possibly have The Gulps to thank? After reading this book the first time, I immediately regretted checking it out from the library because I found the portrayal of the plus-size Gulp family to be a bit offensive. Seriously, just because you don't wear a size 4 doesn't mean you let your kids drink soda and eat Cheetos for breakfast before a long day of channel-surfing. But the overarching message is to eat right, and if this is what Snook picked up on then, gulp, I guess it's okay sometimes to take the bad with the good.

I Sat On a Bench

It was a long time coming, but this morning I actually sat down on a park bench and watched while my kids played on a playground. Not for a super long time. I didn't get to read a book. But I did actually plop myself down on that bench, secure in the knowledge that both of my kids were clued in and coordinated enough not to plummet to their deaths or dismemberment at any given moment. It was such a nice change from having to constantly climb all over or run around a play structure, arms outstretched, like the tall, gangly cheerleader whose job it always is to spot the back of the pyramid (yeah, that was me). Can't remember another time when just sitting idly felt like such a breakthrough.

Photo credit: Morning frost on a park bench and nature reserve, Graeme Green

Sweet Somethings No. 8

Snook can be a little, shall we say, mouthy. I call her on it all the time. But lately when I call her on it, this is what happens:

S: (in response to some request) No!
Me: I don't like that voice.
S: I was talking to the door.

S: You mean mommy!
Me: That's not a nice thing to say.
S: I was talking to the ceiling fan.

S: Stop it or I will put you in a time out!
Me: Excuse me?
S: I was talking to the window.

S: I don't like you anymore!
Me: Use your nice words.
S: I was talking to the dollhouse.

The good thing is we both end up smiling, situation diffused. The bad thing is she isn't getting any less mouthy.

Deep Thoughts

Our family went to a memorial service for a loved one recently. Shortly thereafter, Snook had a really bad dream about another loved one (a non-surfer) dying in an awful surfing accident. Both of these events must still (understandably) be weighing heavily on her mind, because she bombarded me with these questions last night (most of which I was not at all prepared to answer):

I'm going to live forever, right?
No one who lives in my house, you, me, Dashy (aka Bubs), or Dada is ever going to die, right?
Who dies?
What does God look like?
But what does God look like?!?
What's under our house?
But that's not where we go when we die, right?
Bad dreams are the ones that don't come true and good dreams are the ones that do come true, right?
My bones are under my skin, right?
But if I got a really bad boo boo, I would see my bones, right?
I don't want to see my bones.

Heavy. Not sure that I'm up to this. It might be time for some churchin'.

Sweet Somethings No. 7

Bubs lost his last bite of chocolate-doughnut dessert last night as punishment for putting his feet back up on the dinner table after my parents and I told him not to. Snook was quick to take advantage of the situation. When Bubs saw her pick up his confiscated doughnut, he yelled out his new favorite word, "Mine!" To which Snook tauntingly retorted,

"Do you see your name written on it???"

Huh? Where did she hear that? When did she turn thirteen? Is she destined to be a "mean girl"? Questions I ask myself almost every day.

C-A-R-E-F-U-L

I don't think this happens as much with modern-day computer keyboards. But if you look at the keypads on an old typewriter, you can usually tell which letters got the most use by how faded they are. Sometimes when I'm with the kids, I imagine that if I was a retired, antique typewriter, these letters would be completely rubbed off: C-A-R-E-F-U-L. Because that's all I ever seem to say. Ever. Bubs is standing on the backyard swing. Careful. Snook is jumping precariously close to the edge of the bed. Careful. Bubs is running around the slippery hardwood floors, dripping wet from his bath. Careful. Snook is diving head first over the back of the couch. Careful. Bubs is laying on top of the cat. Careful. Snook is putting one of the H's belts around Bubs' neck. Careful. On and on and so it goes. I suppose a broken record would have worked just as well.