Two!

**SLAP** “Toughen up!”

“Leave me alone! I’m crying!”

“My hair’s so pretty!”

These are not the direct quotes of a grown woman, no. I’m not that self-deprecating. These are the quotes of a brand new two year old. (Honest to goodness, she slapped my six year old across the face when he was crying about getting sunscreen on an old scrape and demanded he “toughen up.” Where does she get this stuff? I’ve never slapped or hit anyone in the face in my entire life!)

If she were an adult doing and spouting off the hilarious/socially inappropriate things she does, I’d be tempted to quickly diagnose her as an extreme bipolar: Very high highs sprinkled with tantrum kicking lows, followed by long don’t-poke-the-bear-or-you’ll-be-sorry naps: A loose cannon in desperate need of psychiatric attention.

But this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve wrangled and wrestled with enough two year olds in my time to know a phase when I see one. For example, I’m pretty confident she’ll learn to buckle a seat belt without screaming and arching her back in defiant consternation by the time she goes to Kindergarten Round-up. She’ll stop flopping and writhing on the floors of public places by the time she notices boys. And I’m pretty sure she’ll stop telling everyone how pretty her hair is by the time she learns that she has to tame and style it herself or she’ll look like the poster girl for Les Miserables on a bad day.

But the greatest part about a two year old’s psyche is that with all this lack of inhibition and blatant disregard for social norms, comes a wonderland of strengths that tend to dull with age. A two year old has an ability to exhibit heart melting demonstrations of affection. She doesn’t care where you are or who is watching when she smashes her mother’s cheeks together between her pudgy palms and exclaims, “Come here, baby. I love you!”

The two year ego can allow for mind blowing acts of confidence against insurmountable odds. I know it seems as if my daughter’s long, swishy pig tails imbue her 30 pound frame with Samson-like courage–enough to slap a big brother right in the kisser or storm out of the room and then tell her would-be rescuer, “Leave me alone! I’m crying!” She can be relentless with her demands and show admirable resolution especially in the face of a possible after dinner popsicle.

The two year old mind is in constant self-discovery mode too. They are just starting to realize how charming, funny and cute they really are. Even better is when they realize that you realize the same things about them. I relish in my two year old’s coquettish glances, her silly faces, and her impressions of puppies, frogs and pirates pulled out for company. I adore her somersaults, her lavish “ta-dah’s!” and her twirling around in her Sunday frocks whilst giggling “Look at my pretty dress!”

I can’t even remember the last time I twirled like that. Let me think now….Jimmy Carter, I remember pink pleats and polka dots …Anyways, the point is, it’s an absolute blast having a two year old in the house who throws caution to the wind and twirls with reckless abandon and thinks her hair is pretty, who brims with self assurance and can hold her ground, popsicle or no. It reminds me of all the sugar and spice still left in these old bones. (I know I’m not that old, but pregnancy adds 40 years. Give or take).

I can not only handle this two year old in my life, I can enjoy her. Really enjoy her. I can enjoy her because she still can’t climb out of her crib. But once she figures that out…she’d better be really, really, really close to turning three.

Letting go is hard to do

I forbid them from going within 50 yards of any ATV. Skateboards? Those are just a cast and a long hot summer waiting to happen. Pogo sticks? I think I’ve watched enough America’s Funniest Home Videos and YouTube clips to draw that line in the sand without looking back. I’ve 86‘ed even thinking about boarding small airplanes. Motorcycles…I won’t even dignify that with a response. 

I don’t like trampolines without nets. In fact, I have thwarted would-be birthday party goers when I learn the party’s venue is one of those new trampoline arenas, or so-called “sports complexes.” I mean, really–a warehouse filled wall to wall with trampolines and sugar infused, hyper underaged guests? I would count myself lucky to leave with a fractured pelvic girdle. 

I immediately throw away those tiny super bouncy balls you find in goodie bags because they look like the perfect chocking hazard. I won’t let my children eat popcorn, grapes or nuts unless I am in the house for that same reason. I go to fairs and amusement parks but do not enjoy them. I’m too busy counting heads. I put up with balloons but secretly hate them. And I wish I had some sort of large, restaurant grade dish sanitizer I could use safely on grade-schoolers who come over to visit and coo at my newborns. (Remember that scene at the end of “Ratatouille” when Remi’s whole clan gets sanitized? Something like that.)

And even with all my worrying and rules, I feel I still have to carry a bottle of hand sanitizer and a tube of superglue in my purse at all times for when chins split open without the aid of a trampoline or a pogo stick. (Which I have had to apply more than once in a jam.) I am a fan of protective eyewear, helmets, seat belts, mouth guards and calling when you get someplace.

So is this clinical paranoia or does this kind of worry just come in the mail along with your first born’s birth certificate? When asked what his favorite part was of our recent romantic Hawaiian retreat, my husband answered, “Seeing you relaxed and carefree!”

It was an honest response. I mean, when was the last time I read a novel on the beach and fell asleep like that? Usually our beach vacations include my vigilant scan on the ocean waves for my boogie boarders, being within arms reach of my toddlers lest they get swept out to sea, and even with all my counting heads and forbidding them to eat the same food as the seagulls and pigeons, I still manage to frantically run up and down the sand searching for the one who wandered away for at least a few minutes every time.

But I am learning to let go little by little. This is why I am grateful to fathers during this mother’s day season. If it were up to me, my 11 year old would probably still be wearing floaties to the public pool. It was my husband who threw him in the deep end and made sure he came up swimming all those years ago. Now he’s practically part fish. 

This month that same wonderful husband of mine is taking that same handsome fish out of the country on a humanitarian aid mission. Just reading the CDC’s web page on west African diseases was enough to make me want to forbid the whole thing. They’ll only be gone one week, I know, but do you know how many malaria riddled mosquitos can bite you in just one week?

But this is part of letting go, right? Letting your child learn and experience and come to realize he or she can make a difference. He’ll be with his father and part of a large group. He’s had all his necessary shots. He’ll be slathered in DEET and wearing long sleeves. It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll fine. More than that, it’ll be amazing–a once in a life time experience! So why am I so filled with worry? It’s not like the region is dotted with trampoline arenas. 

Forget the lions, now that would be a real cause for concern.

 

We needed another hour

I have it all planned out. The next time a well-meaning stranger witnesses my struggle to wrangle several small children through a busy store/library and/or restaurant, complete with spills, tantrums and games of hide-and-seek I most certainly did not sign off on, and gives me that knowing smile and whispers, “Cherish these days, honey. The time simply FLIES by…” They just won a babysitting gig.

And as the little ones are hanging from the curtains and fighting over which color cup they get and who gets the last cheese stick while the toddler sloshes around purple grape juice into the carpeted area, I’ll slick on some lipstick, fluff my hair, glance over my shoulder and sigh, “Don’t worry. These next five hours will simply FLY by! Ta!”

I know what they mean, of course. Everything flies by in hindsight. When I look at my oldest’s baby pictures, I can hardly believe that used to be us. 

When my husband and I turn around from our minivan’s front seats and see every other seat occupied with little people who look a lot like us, we invariably gaze at each other in wonder and ask, “How’d that happen so fast?” We still feel like newlyweds. 

But truth be told, some days feel like years. Pregnancies do not “fly by.” Potty training alone seems to slow time down by more than tenfold. I can distinctly remember being very sick with the flu, a newborn in my arms and a two year old ripping something important to shreds behind a couch and thinking, “They all lied. This isn’t flying by.”

 But lately, one thing has been flying by, without fail, and that is our weekday afternoons. And not in a good, nostalgic way either. 

 You see, as soon as the big kids shrug off their backpacks in the foyer, it’s a very real race against the clock until bedtime. Music practice, homework, online typing assignments, group projects, scouts, got to get to practice on time, the game, the meet, what about dinner? I’m constantly clapping my loud hands together, trying to steer everyone toward their next task. I’m air traffic control AND the pilot. The kids always feel harried, by 6pm I’ve lost my loving tone, and angst and frustration over homework is inevitable after 8pm…Ugh!

 (And no, I’m not an over-scheduler. One sport, one instrument per kid. Combined with real life, it just adds up is all.)

We needed a change. What we needed was another hour. Another hour to get the work out of the way and let proverbial Jack play. Now I know this little epiphany of mine has occurred to young mothers who are wiser and smarter than I for centuries and I’m arriving a little late to the party, but since I felt like Michael J. Fox nestled there in his DeLorean when he finally figured out how to save Doc, I thought I’d share it with you.

 Everyone wakes up an hour earlier. That’s all. That’s our new hour. I’d been getting up early to exercise and get ready for the day for years now, but it never occurred to me to get the kids up as well. (The baby sleeps in.) Now piano practice, homework, typing assignments, etc…all get done efficiently and without tears early in the morning. 

 At first, I thought it would be a struggle to get them out of bed, but surprisingly, it hasn’t been! I turn on all the lights, sing a bar or two from “Singing in the Rain,” hop on the treadmill, and we are up and going. In fact, that first afternoon was so pleasant the kids asked us if we would please get them up early again the next day.

 It’s been a few weeks now since our first dawn patrol and the immediate benefits are real. Dinnertime is not rushed, there’s been a definite decrease in sibling squabbles, the kids aren’t tired because we are getting to bed earlier, and they are using their newfound free time in the afternoons to play with each other, create art projects, help with dinner! Why didn’t I think of this sooner??

 And no flux capacitor needed. The only downside is, of course, if these afternoons continue to be so relaxed and enjoyable and I’m not watching closely…

The time will fly by.

 

Cool Names

Proper nouns I will not be bestowing upon my unborn child:

Maverick

Turbo

Buck (short for Buck-a-roo)

Blaze

Bilbo

Vin (Not Diesel. From the Mistborn series.)

The funny part is, they’re dead serious too. My children are so thirsty to name something warm and cuddly, they forget their new baby brother will not be coming with fur (let’s hope not) or sleep in a cardboard box or stall (let’s really hope not.) This is what I get for being such a stick-in-the-mud in the pet department. Any of the above would be terribly fitting on a pony, puppy or even an SUV, but not on my little papoose. Come on guys.

I recently read an article about countries that include Iceland, Germany and Denmark who have and maintain a Personal Names Register, i.e., a long list of baby names which parents must choose from that fit their countries’ culture and grammar, complete with pronunciation rules, with the intent to “protect children from embarrassment.” 

I see where they’re coming from although this would never fly in the US. Who wants to be cursed with buck teeth in the fifth grade and have his name actually be Buck? Because you know how sensitive fifth grade boys can be…If he were a cowboy, I guess that’d be kinda cool, but we live in suburbia. Buck teeth are more likely.

Who wants to be socially awkward, uncoordinated and with Coke-bottle glasses too boot and have to live up to a name like Maverick all through Jr. High? If he eventually becomes a fighter pilot and wants that as his call sign…Again, totally different story.

Or worse, the pendulum could swing the other way. What if he is super cool? What if my child is, for whatever reason, born with that intangible “it.” Swagger. Bonafide Clint Eastwood, Paul Newman circa 1967, off-the-chart coolness. And we just named him Blaze?? How would I ever expect him to maintain a shred of humility? Understand the plight of the common man? Keep him from starring in a soap opera?

No, a name has to be stable. Sturdy. A little vanilla even, ready to take on the flavor of the wonderful personality who carries it. My only beef with a name like Bilbo is that it projects onto the child what he will become (short, large hairy feet) instead of letting the person himself control the connotation, what others will think when they hear that name. He decides whether his name is cool.

And on that note, I still have no idea what to write on that birth certificate. I’ve pored over the name books, stayed after the movie’s ended in order to scan the credits, and glanced at the social security registries from the 1950’s. What a decision! I think I’ll sleep on it some more before I Google “list of SUV names.”

 

A few words on pets

“Would you like to say a few words?”

It was drizzling rain, my daughter was wearing all black, the whole sha-bang.

“Of course. Ahem. K.G. II was a good little walker. He was very soft. He was easy to love. He loved leaves, oh how he loved those leaves…”

I wish I could say this afternoon was my first caterpillar funeral, but unfortunately, it was not. Caterpillars do not do well in captivity around here. And by captivity I mean placed in a shoe box peppered with leaves and lovingly relocated to an upper bunk next to a cluttered warren of stuffed animals.

Maybe it’s the dry air, the sudden change in temperature, or the dusty nature of old shoe boxes, but we’ve yet to see a caterpillar spin it’s cocoon and emerge a butterfly indoors. 

Like the three little pigs, my kids have tried a variety of house building materials, from mason jars to old cottage cheese containers, from raspberry clamshells to musty shoeboxes, but no matter how many times I try to  convince them that the outdoors is the animal’s natural habitat and they would do well to keep them there, a cozy image of a cricket on the hearth breathing out a sigh of relief as he warms his cold limbs by the flames is all they envision when they bring home creatures with six or more legs.

They may die of starvation, stress, or seasonal allergies-who knows, but it is never from a lack of love. Hence, all the funerals. 

I know where this is all coming from, believe me. The meticulous care and nurture of all the rollie-pollies, caterpillars, worms and carnival feeder fish who have darken our doorway stems from the fact that their cold hearted mother won’t allow them to keep anything cold blooded or warm blooded, bigger than say a strawberry, to call their own. 

You have to understand, I have a strict, no pets while a family member is still in diapers policy which thwarts their schemes for something furry or scaly, they don’t care which, every time. They turn on the puppy eyes, the crocodile tears, the works. How much longer can I hold them off?

They even got me inside a pet store once. Tried to convince me how fuss-free turtles can be.

“Look how cute they are when the swim and then come up on their little log to sunbathe!” they squealed. I saw the cute turtle, really I did, with his wrinkled neck all stretched out, feet kicking… awww….but he quickly blurred out of focus when I saw all gear that he required.

A huge aquarium, filter, heating lamp, food, veterinary care, a new piece of furniture upon which to put said new 30 gallon aquarium, and what does this sign read? A friend to go with him or else turtles get too lonely? I not only saw dollar signs beyond a one time purchase, but worse yet, clear visions of who would be changing the water, tending to burn victims from that heating lamp, getting peed on, and ultimately making the funeral arrangements. 

I walked back to the car “the meanest mom in the world” but not a day goes by when I’m elbow deep in diaper blow-outs and somebody throwing up red gatorade, that I am not thankful for saying no to those turtles. And the stray cat, and the hamster babies.

I wish the best for those animals, truly I do, but I also know my limits. Another baby is on his way (did I tell you all it’s a boy?) and I need to bite off only what I can chew.

So I’ve taken a new approach. “What can a pet offer us that our 22 month old baby can’t?” Think about it, I encourage them. She’s soft, she’s cuddly, she does and says things we all find out-of-this-world adorable. We feed her and change her. And sometimes she even bites, just like a real pet! But the best part about her is that one day she will grow up and help shoulder the burden of taking care of me and Dad in our old age. No pet would ever do that for you.

And ironically, inevitable, she’ll even help with the funeral arrangements.

 

Call Me Maybe

Okay, pop quiz.

When Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver travels to the land of the Lilliputians, which of Gulliver’s personal effects do the Lilliputians conclude is “the god that he worships?”

Answer: his pocket watch. Gulliver described it to them as his oracle because he consulted with it before he did anything.

I wonder what my little Lilliputians consider my iPhone to be?

It is my watch, my book, my daily planner, my email manager, the remote control for the TV, my own personal pint-sized TV, my music shuffler, my scriptures and the way I answer my children’s endless stream of trivia questions like how long can a rhino’s horn grow?

I’ll admit, it’s nice to be able to say, “Rhino’s horn, eh? I’m not sure,” reach into my back pocket and then seconds later say with authority, “The longest rhino horn ever recorded was a 59 inch white rhino horn. Hey, that’s taller than you!” 

But what about when when we’re all at the park, lounging by the pool, or just sitting in our own living room and I’m trying to conduct business on my phone via email and text, or worse, knee deep in a Words with Friends competition, and my children say “Mom, watch this!” and I barely look up…well, all of a sudden, my phone has gone from “pocket watch” to “the god that I worship.”

Which is why I’ve made up a few Mommy iPhone rules as part of my New Year’s resolution that stretch beyond no texting while driving. That’s a given, right?

1.) Headphones are for when I am alone, the children are asleep, and/or passing time on an airplane. Otherwise music, scriptures and audiobooks are played on our loud speaker for all to hear.

2.) No phone whatsoever during bedtime routines including rocking my baby to sleep.

3.) Use phone as a phone only while on outings and on errands with the kids and keep those conversations brief. Tip: You have the right to hit decline on any incoming phone call.

4.) A la the 4 hour Work Week, I only need to check my email twice, maybe three times a day. 

5.) Limit my other iPhone time to the same number of minutes I’m willing to let my children watch Dora the Explorer. (Which in my case is 24 minutes. Okay, sometimes 48.)

5.) Keep a password-lock on my phone and change it often. It’s the only way to keep that thing from becoming my 4 year old’s oracle too.

With these simple rules I not only hope to more present and engaged with the real-life scenes being played out before me, but when it’s time for them to get their own oracles, I mean cell phones, they will use them wisely, in moderation. 

Sigh…kids with their own cell phones…now that’s a whole other post. Which, of course, I don’t have time for because Dora just ended.

 

 

Improve the Shining Moments

This is the first time in years I’ve attempted to write an article while all my children are at home and still awake, (not even a napping baby at that,) so you’ll have to excuse me if the flow seems a tad interrupted. Hold on.

Look in the top drawer next to the table. There should be plenty.

As I was saying, my creative hours usually peak around 11pm when the house is quiet, the dishwasher is humming soothingly, and it’s still too early for anyone to rub their little eyes and stumble into my bedroom to regale me with tales about a nightmare, or inform me of a tummy ache or a burning fever.

Inspiration for my columns comes to me in the still of those dark hours easily enough, however…

Oh no! Don’t let her have that! She’ll make a huge mess! Quick! Someone get a wet wipe!

Where was I? Oh yes, the problem with the late, still dark hours when it’s just me, my keyboard and a blank Word Document, is it’s just that: Late. My pregnant, tired, and let’s face it–older body reaches bleary eyed status starting at 9:30pm. 10:00pm if I’m lucky, just enough gas in the tank to start a dishwasher. And when I wake up to a computer monitor trailing a page and a half of the same letterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr……It’s time to start writing while the sun is still

I don’t know why. That decision was up to your father. Why don’t you go and ask him the same question?

Shining. Yes, it’s not even 1pm, and here I am clicking away, excited to finish my piece before I need to figure out dinner. I’ll have this article reworked and edited before our board game night begins, before we raid the pantry to solve our lack of dessert situation, before baths and bedtime stories, and if I really manage my time right,

It’s due tomorrow?! How long does it have to be? And you’re just telling me about it now?!

So I guess my guilty pleasure of streaming episode 5 of Downton Abbey from pbs.org tonight will have to wait yet another night…

Doesn’t anybody else hear her crying? Will someone please just hold her? I’m trying to get something done on the computer!

Sometimes toddlers just want their mommies and nobody else will do. I’m flattered really, having her nestled here on my lap, her breathing nice and even now, it makes it all worth it, even if I do have to type with one hand.

So he just took the toy right out of your hand? You sure sound furious. Have him come in here, let’s work something out.

I never before equated the special role of motherhood with with the word “referee”, but at this rate I’m seriously considering stashing little yellow flags in my pockets and developing my own hand signal system to indicate which type of foul play just

Of course I can read you this book! (I’m such a sucker.) You just come right up here on my lap and let’s see what happens when we give a moose a muffin!

In case a moose ever does solicit us for muffins, we are well prepared seeing as we just read it twice over for the upteenth time. That silly moose. Now, what was I saying before all this referee and muffin business?

You fell off the bed and scratched up your side on the nightstand? Let me see how bad. No, I’m not going to touch it, I just want to look. Ooooh, ya, it’s a little red. Why don’t you go lie down on my bed for a minute?

Right, so in the long run, it’s better if I write in the daytime, while I still have enough energy to

Here, play with my phone.

Get things done.

You have to take a bath right now?

I just need ten more minutes and then I will help you with your paper, I promise!

You’ll only eat eat quesadillas for dinner? What if I’m making something else?

Yes, I can do anything while the sun is out and the day is long. You see, it makes for luxurious, peaceful, restful nights. That is, if no one has a nightmare, a tummy ache or a fever.

(Sigh.) Now I’m craving muffins. Think I’ll have time to whip up a batch?