...a little bit of this, and a little bit of that...
...a journey through my ups and downs...
A certain someone turned 3 today. Three!
He still loves anything superhero.
But boxes never cease to entertain.
I want to write one of those fabulous posts that mothers write their children, but I think I’ll have to wait until I’m more inspired. Or at least in a different hormonal state.
I was going to put something in the title about being a good mother, as I was ruminating over the fact that I committed myself to accompanying one very big boy and two small boys to the Monster Truck Jam next weekend. At which time, the girls are having a hair day at the salon. That is, all the girls except me. So I was feeling the sacrifice and having a moment of martyrdom. I would so much prefer getting chunky highlights and a fresh new do to sitting in an arena with thousands of people watching ridiculous behemoth vehicles and their antics. Grave Digger will be there. My nephew is VERY excited. I even got pit passes so we could go early and take pictures among the vehicles on display. And if they’re so inclined, they can stand in line for autographs. I do hope they are not so inclined. Hair day. Truck day. Hair day. Truck day. Such a martyr.
Then I heard those little feet making their way down the stairs, and I realized that those same little feet had been up the stairs for quite some time now, and very, very quiet. And the last time I’d seen those small feet, in fact, the small hands that accompany them were in possession of a tube of toothpaste. Albeit a child-friendly non-fluoridated Thomas the Train tube of toothpaste. But a tube of toothpaste all the same. A tube, I feared, the entire contents of which could well now be sloshing about in my son’s stomach. So. Awesome martyr-mom quickly replaced with lazy ignorant sorry excuse for a mother.
Did you brush your teeth?
Yes.
Is the toothpaste all gone?
No. (She masks a sigh of relief and continues the interrogation.)
Did you put the toothpaste back?
Yes.
What else were you doing?
I wash my hands.
Did you turn the water off?
Yes.
Did you make a big mess?
No.
Did you make a little mess?
Yes.
Okay. (I’m so proud of him for telling the truth.)
He’s going through a water obsession phase right now. Our fancy new fridge that we bought expressly for the child lock feature (okay, so we also got it with aesthetic considerations in mind as well) locks only the temperature control, but not the water and ice. So what’s the point in that? Now I have to keep a mindful eye on my child and teach him to leave it alone. It would be so much easier if it weren’t possible for him to get to the water until he’s smart enough to figure out how to override the lock, at which point in time he should well enough be able to obey when I say not to play with and waste water.
Child obedience. It’s a lofty goal. How does one actually get a child to obey? I think I might need to start recording Super Nanny again, for some pointers. Or am I just expecting too much from a three year old?
…Mostly at bed time…
What with all these twenty five things memes floating about, I thought I’d throw one in. I sort of like the TFTTSMTT idea, but don’t want to think too much about things of that nature while I’m riding the high on my wave of mood stabilization. I could quite likely compile a list based solely on commiserating items from others’ lists. But I’m too lazy even for that.
*Not from me
**From me. Oops.
Was it Seals and Crofts who said that?
Three years ago, around this time of year, my child swirled and rolled in my enormous belly. I would sit in my chair and watch the undulations, marveling at the wonder of it all.
I’ve been remembering, and missing, those fleeting moments from the fullest bloom of pregnancy, when I could feel my child moving inside me. It was a glorious experience, for which I am ever grateful. I try to hold on to the memories of those feelings, and to relive for a moment those experiences, but they are fading. I would so much like to have another chance. A healthy and stress-free pregnancy, and to savor each and every moment. But I know that if I were to pass that way again, I would still worry. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. But I like to think that I will savor each and every moment inasmuch as possible. I’m not giving up, just yet, but I have to accept that I may never pass that way again.
It’s nothing short of remarkable, what can happen in three years. Who knew that the child within me would grow to nearly ten and a half pounds before his arrival in this world? And in less than three years, grow into forty seven pounds of boisterous little boyhood.
He looks so grown up. It’s hard to believe that he came from me. I love how he’s grown, that he’s learned so much, that he has so much to say, and such imagination. Tonight he was telling me, “I’m wukking,” “at da offiss, on the pooter,” “because I have a badge.” (Some mornings he pleads with me to take him to my office instead of daycare, and I tell him that he can’t come to my office because he doesn’t have a badge.)
I’m looking forward to introducing him to the magic of Christmas. He loves the lights. And of course he loves buttons. His special job is to turn the Christmas tree lights on when we get home, and off before we go to bed.
This journey called motherhood is the joy of my life. As I knew it would be. I am so blessed.
Making gingerbread houses is one of those childhood memories that Mr. Gadget wanted to share with our little gadget guy. It wasn’t such a big deal when I was growing up. I don’t think a gingerbread house could survive construction in the home and surroundings of my youth, what with nine of us storming the castle on a constant basis. I do remember wonderful smells and treats around Christmas time. I especially remember a decadent Christmas in which my mother made cookies AND peanut brittle, and set it OUT, in dishes. I think we could even HAVE some. It was a magical memory.
So. A gingerbread house. I bought a kit. The first and last. If ever we do this again, I’ll make my own icing and gingerbread, or just use graham crackers. At least then it would taste good. That commercially packaged stuff was just gross. Blech. Not that anybody really eats gingerbread houses. Do they? Everything will be long stale and hard by the time Christmas comes. I think the young gadget, oh wait, we now call him Harry*. I think Harry had a good time.
*Harry Osborn, Peter Parker’s best friend, and son of Mr. Osborn who became the Green Goblin.
He tells me, “I’m Harry. I’m not <real name>, Silly.” <pause> “Just kidding!” <pause> “No, I’m Harry. I yam Harry.” <giggles> <eyes twinkle>
I love this age. I’m excited about making Christmas magical for him. Next year we’ll bake cookies and decorate them. We will all enjoy that, and this time, they’ll taste good too.
A certain young man was about to crawl behind a rocking chair, which happens to be a place where a tantalizing (especially to a nearly three year old boy) tangle of various and sundry power cords make their home (take a deep breath, I just love these long and impossible sentences, and there’s oh, so much more coming), when his mother barks in her most stern and commanding voice, “Don’t you go there…”
In a mere blink of an eye, a flash, he twists his body to face her, extends his arm, and webs her. WEBS her.
Oh to have captured the expression on his face (this picture captures the gesture, but not the expression). That picture would paint a thousand words.
Oh to fully grasp the depth of the Spiderman obsession. With that flick of the wrist and glint in his eye, he cast forth his invisible web, using his mighty toddler powers to make his mother stop telling him what not to do. Priceless.
I turned to Mr. Gadget. “Did you see what your son just did? He webbed me.”
If only I could have managed not to laugh, and be visibly impressed by my child’s intelligence, dexterity, and imagination, I might have been able to convey the message that “Mommy means business and no means no and you’d jolly well better listen when I’m talking to you, young man.”
Instead, he was obviously pleased with himself, and amused. And even though he didn’t obey me, I was at least able to distract him away from the nest of cords.
Mondays are sometimes difficult for my little guy. Especially after a weekend loaded with fun and frolic. We had my 7 year old nephew over this weekend, while his sisters and mother spent the weekend unpacking and moving in to their new place. We’re all so happy to have them back in our neck of the woods. Now we can resume our fabulous Sunday family dinner get-togethers, and better yet, the boys can have some boy time together. We shall be having many play dates in the months ahead.
Superman is the hero of the season around these parts. My little man’s super hero senses can detect anything with the Superman emblem from yards and yards away. To don the emblem is to become the superhero. So when I insist that it’s time to put on a clean shirt, in order to wash the Superman shirt that has been worn a full day and night (why not sleep in it, if it’s soft and warm, and works just fine for jammies, and yes, that means he didn’t have a bath last night) –let’s just say there are tears of dissension.
I remember when my niece was his age. She had the most awful pink synthetic nightie with a Cinderella decal ironed on the front. She wore that nightie until it was nothing but tatters, because when she wore it, she was a princess. It’s marketing genius on Disney’s part, but why can’t they make these things less tacky? It could be the coldest winter day, but she’d insist on wearing that whisper of a nightie.
The act of being. To don the emblem is to become the hero or the princess. Maybe becoming a first time mother at the tender age of forty (shy two months, but who’s counting) gave me a bit more wisdom, because we have both heavyweight and lightweight superhero-emblazoned pajamas in this house. We’re prepared for all seasons.
It’s so heart-wrenching, on a rainy Monday as today, to explain through his tears that his cousin is at his own house now. To explain that it’s time for me to go to work, and time for him to go to daycare. And again, once we arrive at the daycare, through a new flood of tears, that it’s time to say goodbye.
Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.
Inside Mr. Gadget’s desk. In the bachelor pad.
I wanted my own office, so he turned one of the spare bedrooms into his own office –and now I call that the bachelor pad. It’s the place, besides the garage, where all things that I don’t want to see must be stored. Remote control vehicles, electronics, gadgets, and whatnot.
It’s one of those corner hutch style computer desks with a few shelves and cubbyholes.
They were tucked neatly towards the back of one of the shelves.
Mystery solved.
One pair red suede shoes.
Last seen Tuesday.
I am a creature of habit. I take my shoes off, generally in the same place. We have a shoe rack, also. Which we use. And my house, although cluttered, what with a young and very energetic boy on premise, is not that cluttered. I mean, it could be worse.
So where are my red suede shoes?
Red, Red, Red Suede Shoes…
There is a certain young man in the house who likes to wear his mother’s shoes and stomp about the house. He also likes to hide things. I’m not saying that he has anything to do with it…
…but they are nowhere to be found. Not in the closet. Or the other closet. Or any closet. Not on the shoe rack. Not in the washing machine (I just checked). Not under the sofa. Not under the bed. Not in the dryer. Not in the trash bin. Not in the recycle bins. Not under my desk. Not under the table. Not under the rocking chair. Not in the cedar chest. Not in the file cabinet. Not in the laundry baskets. Not in the toy box. Not in the pantry. Not in the oven. Not in the armoire. Not on the porch. Not behind the sofa. Not in the bathtub. Not in the garage. Not in the fridge (yes, I looked). Not in the sand box. Not in the garden box.
I LOOKED! I can’t find them anywhere.
Not under the sink. The place where I keep the little compost bin. The one that I keep forgetting to diligently empty outside. The one that is an impressive breeding ground for fruit flies and mold. The one that is now in the garbage bin. Because I can’t bring myself to wash it in all it’s ickiness, and recycle it properly (although I did first empty it in the outside compost bin). And I’m tired of stalking fruit flies with my inhumane airborne insect electrocution device (compliments of Mr. Gadget). It’s them or me, and I must prevail, humane or not. War is waged.
But where are my shoes? They are my favorite shoes. It remains a mystery.
If you were, oh, say, a two and three fourths year old boy who has had some scary nights now and again, and you came home to find this in your room, what would you think?
You might think that your mother was a magical genie who could, in the span of a lunch break, and with the help of Craig’s List, a fortuitous recent trip to the ATM, and a gallon of gas in the minivan, manage to find, buy, load, unload, sanitize, and assemble THIS!
Yes, it’s plastic. Which means it’s easy to clean. I know, I know. Carbon footprint, and all that. But it’s recycled. There’s no telling how many parents have encouraged their little ones to make it through the night in their own room with this particular bait. When the novelty fades or he outgrows it, whichever comes first, this item will find its way to another home, to hopefully make another child’s life just a wee bit more magical.
And my precious little boy child will have to manage some impressive somnolent contortions to fall out of this contraption. I’m only a bit concerned that he’s already too big for it. Nevertheless, I think he will be delighted, if only for a moment.
