Tag Archives: parenting

Morning

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The last thing I remember was running through an airport with a group of friends trying to catch a flight to Paris.  We were late.  There was thunder and lightning and a shit ton of rain.  The airport was HUGE and one of my friends kept stopping to take pictures of herself to upload to Facebook, which was seriously annoying because we were going to miss our flight.  Then she sprawled out on the dirty airport floor and asked me to snap a couple shots of her because she neeeeeded a new profile pic, like, right that second.  She wouldn’t let it go and get up off the floor.  UGH!  Fine.

That’s when I heard the clicking sound.  It was happening every few seconds.  Click-click.  Pause.  Click-click.  I thought it was the shutter sound from the camera but then I slowly opened my eyes and registered the whole Paris-airport thing had been a dream.  But the clicking was still there.  I thought it was coming from outside my bedroom window.  Then I heard it again, followed by the unmistakable sound of my son’s quick yet heavy footsteps. Oh no.  I realized the clicking had been him fiddling with his doorknob, trying to open the door.  I looked at the alarm clock and it was 5:15 am.  It was still dark out.  And he was headed for his sister’s room to wake her up.  I shot up out of bed to stop him because I couldn’t fathom starting my day at 5:15 am.

I got to him in time and led him back into his own room.  I cut off all his protests about wanting to get up and go downstairs and put him back in bed,  saying that it was still dark out and everyone was sleeping and he had to go back to sleep for a little while.  I turned on his music box, put his blanket over him and left the room.  And (thank God) he stayed put and went back to sleep.

At 7:30 on the dot, he was back up and in my room. I knew there was no way he could be talked back into his bed so I dragged myself out of mine and followed him down the hall.  He woke his sister up and bounded down the stairs.  I went down, got them some juice and made myself a cup of coffee, listening to him run back and forth through the downstairs and wondering how he could possibly have the energy to go from sleeping to hyper that fast.  I gave them their juice and had a few sips of coffee.  My daughter was requesting a cheese stick, which I told her was not what she was having for breakfast and please, please, stop talking until Mommy has had her coffee.  But she kept going on about the cheese stick, so I just ignored it.  Then I looked over into the tv room at my son and he was curled up on the couch with his juice, eyes half shut, falling asleep.

Well that must be nice.  Hmph.

Spicy

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Eliza: I wanna go outside, Mama. I wanna go outside and play on the playground.

Me: No Eliza, it’s too hot outside today.

Eliza: Too hot?

Me: Yes, it’s too hot to play outside.

Eliza: It’s too hot to play outside. It’s too spicy!

Watching someone learn a language from scratch is amazing.

Toddler weirdness

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You know how they say toddler can be a bit…um…quirky?  Yeah.

Eliza must – must! – wear socks to bed.  Both for naps and actual bedtime.  It doesn’t matter if it’s 99 degrees outside.  Socks.  Always.

Jack finds some things inexplicably terrifying.  We cannot put on the Cuckoo Bears episode of Team Oomizoomi or the King episode of Little Einsteins.  And if there is a housefly buzzing around, the boy goes into hysterics.

Jack will only drink from a sippy with a blue or green lid.  If I hand him the wrong cup, he freaks.  If there are two cups, one with a yellow lid and one with an orange lid, he gets very confused and looks back and forth between the two of them for about three minutes, considering the choice.  I am afraid to let Eliza pick because if she picks the ‘wrong’ one, Jack will freak.  Today, he didn’t want the cup with the blue lid, but took the orange lid instead.  I really think he’s trying to drive me insane.

At 2.5, Eliza still puts everything in her mouth.  Everything.  Still.

When Jack goes down for bed or naps, he pulls the hair out of a teddy bear and makes fuzz balls.  He then sticks the fuzz between his lip and pacifier* so when he wakes up, it looks like he has a brown mustache.  Then when he pulls the fuzz off, he gags.

Eliza needs to take her shirt off to use the potty.**

If I change anything in Jack’s room – add a new lamp, move his bed a little to the left, put a new animal decal on the wall, add an window a/c unit – we don’t expect to get any sleep for a couple nights because he fears change.

They are drawn like magnets to my printer.  Anything can be shoved inside a printer.  The other day I cleared a paper jam that consisted of three matchbox cars, a crumpled up piece of junk mail, half a bowl of Chex cereal and some wet substance.  They cannot help themselves.

I am not allowed to sing along with anything on TV because Jack hates it.  Honestly, I can’t really blame him for that one.

*Yeah, they both still sleep with a pacifier.  Shoot me.

**But at least she’s trying to use the potty.  Jack won’t even sit on it – it’s another one of his fears.

Fruit flies and other f-words (be warned)

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Anyone remember that experiment in high school bio where you had to grow several generations of fruit flies and study their genetic, like, traits or whatever?  I don’t remember the specifics of the experiment but I remember the reason we used them.  According to my biology teacher, the lifespan of a fruit fly is only around a day or so and they breed every day.  So each day there is a new generation to study, until eventually, the whole science lab is full of fruit flies.

I’m sure we learned a lot about genes from that experiment.  Here’s what we did not learn:  How the fuck do you get rid of them?

I’ve been fighting a war in my kitchen.  A war against fruit flies.  They are disgusting.  They smell.  They come out of nowhere and breed and breed and breed.  They are driving my fucking nuts.  There is one buzzing around my hand as I type this.

I’ve tried all the methods I’ve heard about and nothing works.  Nothing.  I’ve been maniacally cleaning my kitchen surfaces and have reluctantly started refrigerating my tomatoes and bananas.  I have bowls of wine laying out, in hope they’ll drown themselves.  I’ve even started doing the dishes a little more frequently in order to keep them from having any kind of food source.  It’s not working.

I can smell them in certain spots in my kitchen but it’s usually in a weird spot where there is no concentration of them.  Maybe I’m just going a little insane…

I remember my very first apartment on my own.  First I should tell you I was a total slob.  I had no dishwasher and I’d just let the dishes pile up in the sink until I had nothing to eat on or drink out of.  Once the pile of dishes got so huge and intimidating that the idea of washing them was too overwhelming, I bought some paper plates and left them for another few days.  They smelled awful though, like rot, and something had to be done.  I finally decided I’d put the dishes in a laundry basket and take them to my mom’s house and run them through the dishwasher.  When I pulled a dish off the pile, hundreds of fruit flies swarmed around my face.  Generations and generations of them.  It was like a disgusting fucking fruit fly family reunion!  And when I looked at the underside of the plate I’d just pealed off the pile, it was covered in some gross and very smelly black substance.  Eggs, maybe?  I wasn’t sure, but I knew it had to be fruit fly-related.

That story does not portray me in a positive light, which is why I lead off with the bio thing.  I know, it’s not the fruit flies’ fault that I’m still kind of a slob and I like to leave food out.  I’m not as bad as I used to be, but I’ve never been accused of being a neat freak.  Or even of being somewhat tidy.  But still, I don’t want bugs in the house, landing on my food and doing God-knows-what.  We’ve all heard what flies do every time they land, right?  They PUKE.  That may or may not be true (and it may or may not apply to fruit flies), but I’m not taking chances, so out comes the fly swatter as soon as I see one, since my cats are now too fat and lazy to go after them anymore.

Anyway, the damn fruit flies.  I just killed one with my bare hands a second ago because I’m that fucking powerful.  Actually I’d been swatting at it for the better part of an hour and it kept slipping through my fingers.  I finally got it and it and it’s blood got on my hand (Hey, didya know fruit flies bleed?  I had no idea…).  Guess what happened next.  Just fucking guess.  I was feeling really self-congratulatory about my kill when in my periphery, I saw another fucking fruit fly buzz over and take the place of the one I killed just like nothing happened!  These little fuckers are evil!

I need some ideas.  Anyone?!

Maturity

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My kids’ vocabulary improves, like every single day.  They speak in sentences, which I find amazing.  I mean, how is it that these little people were able to learn a language in such a short time?  Six months ago, they barely spoke at all.  And now?  Eliza adds as many words into her sentences to make them as long as possible.  And she sings!  She makes up songs with the names of everyone she knows.  It’s usually to the tune of  ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ but sometimes, not.

Two nights ago, I got them corn on the cob to go with their dinner.  It’s their favorite and their eyes (Especially Eliza’s eyes) positively lit up when they saw it on their plates.

(This is where it gets a little gross, just so you know)

The next morning, Eliza told me she ‘poopted’ and as I was changing her diaper, I was all like, “Gross!  There’s corn in your poop!”

She looked all confused, so I showed her.  Then I taught her to say, “I poopted and there’s corn in my poop.”  She practiced over and over and then we called everyone she knows so she could say it over the phone.  I could not stop laughing.  It just sounded so funny when she said it.  We called her Nana and her Babci and her uncle and her Daddy and she said it to all of them.  They were like, “Um, Ohh, okay.”

Can you see where the title of this post comes in?  My sense of humor hasn’t really matured from fifth grade.  And actually, it is more the sense of humor of a fifth grade boy.

So later, the husband and I dragged the kids to Lowe’s because our air conditioning busted and we were trying to find fuses for the compressor, which, according to my husband, someone stole right out of the box since last year.  So we’re in line, waiting to pay and Eliza was talking to the old man in line behind us.  I hear her talking about how her brother is a “bad, bad boy!”  And “that’s Mommy” and ‘Daddy went to the car.”  And next?

Next she says, “I poopted and there was corn in my poop!”  Halfway though that sentence (which I heard in slow motion), the little voice inside my head was going, “Nooooooo…”  as if it were trying to prevent a stack of expensive china from crashing to the floor.

The man looked horrified.

Luckily, she went from that to the next non-sequitur without missing a beat, though the man was in the process of backing away from her by then.

Mom voice

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I’ve been doing a lot of yelling lately.  It’s so constant that I’m afraid my kids are going to start hating me.  My throat actually hurts from it.  I could list all the things my kids do to make me yell but anyone with kids probably knows all the things a two year old (or two) can get into.  Let’s just say that my two year old twins seem to have a death wish.  Or a wish that their mother go completely insane.  I don’t know which.

Before I had kids, I used to picture myself as the mother of twins (yeah, I really did).  The twins in my fantasy were toddlers, only slightly older than my kids are now.  We would be on outside on the lawn, dancing around and laughing and we’d all sort of fall into a big heap, still laughing.  And neighbors would walk by or look out their windows and think what a fun mom I was.  You know why that would never happen?  There are a few reasons, actually.

Number one, unless my house was surrounded by an electric fence and/or a moat, Jack would have darted far, far away before any such lawn dancing started.  I would pick up Eliza and go chasing after him, screaming, Stop Right Now!  Do you want to go back in the house?  Get back here! and he’d keep running like he didn’t hear me.  I would eventually catch up and grab his arm and he’d fall and cry.  I’d be out of breath and sweating from sprinting after a toddler while carrying another toddler (because if I left her there, she would be gone when I got back).  Then I’d try to get them both to walk back and they’d fall lifeless to the ground in protest.  I’d drag them a few feet and yell some more to get (the f*ck) up or we will go back in the house!!!

At that point, my mood would have deteriorated and I would more or less drag them back to the lawn and insist they play like normal children, while I sit on the ground and try to ignore them.  Kids are like cats when it comes to being ignored.  They want nothing to do with you when you want a hug or a snuggle, but the second you feel like if you’re touched just one more time you’re going to FREAK, they decide you’re a jungle gym and while they’re climbing you, hey, wouldn’t it be fun to tangle their sticky fingers in your hair?  Then Eliza would probably start one of her repetetive requests (I’na cheese stick, Mommy.  I’na cheese stick.  I’na cheese stick, Mommy.  Cheese stick.  In the kitchen.  I’na cheese stick.  Cheese Stick!) and Jack would run away again.  Sigh.

So the mom voice.  It’s loud.  It’s obnoxious.  The kids hate it.  I hate it.  I don’t know how else to say things though because they don’t listen.  They do things like put the end of a plug in their mouth or try to play frog on the stairs or rip the blinds right off the windows.

I truly miss the days when I could put them in a jumperoo and leave the room for a minute.  I can’t leave the room at all now, because it takes them all of 15 seconds to get into trouble.  It feels a lot like the inmates are taking over the asylum.

Don’t get me wrong, some days with them are great, lots of fun even.  Today is just not one of those days. :/

Potty Training is Making Me Fat

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I have dreaded potty training (or potty learning, if you prefer) since, pretty much, the day the twins were born.  Here’s the thing.  I’m pretty sure PTing one child would be a gigantic pain.  That’s what I’ve heard anyway.  But two children?  At the same time?  And they aren’t even same gender.  AND, we only have one bathroom, inconveniently located on the second floor.  Yeah, yeah, I know, First World Problem, I should stop whining.  But still, I think the odds of this ever working are very slim.  Hey, are kids allowed in kindergarten if they still wear diapers?

I’m just not sure how to go about it.  Maybe I should have bought a book.  Instead, I sort of paid a little bit of attention to friends who have gone through this recently and picked out little things to try.

We actually started putting them on the big potty when they were 18 months old.  They never did anything besides read.  They actually learned the whole alphabet during potty time!  But pee?  No.  Poop?  No way.  Once, Eliza pooped by accident and the look on her face was priceless.  She was beyond mortified.  And it hasn’t happened since.

Our latest strategy is to keep a little jar of M&Ms on the shelf behind the toilet and if they pee they get an M&M.  We are on our second big bag of M&Ms, which sounds great except for one tiny detail.  Between the two of them, there have only been 4 pees on the potty.  Yeah, that’s 4 M&Ms between my two kids.  Guess who ate the other bag and a half M&Ms.  Uh.  Yeah.

I’ve been sneaking in there and grabbing handfuls!  It’s my favorite candy.  Yesterday, S was leaving to run an errand and he kissed me goodbye.  He was all, “You smell like an M&M.  Stop eating the kids candy.”  Caught!  Maybe I should have picked something I don’t like as much.  But to be completely honest, I’d probably eat whatever we picked, whether I like it or not.  I have such an enormous sweet tooth, I will eat anything sugary, ANYTHING.

UGH.

My only incentive to get them out of diapers is to free my house of M&Ms.  I need help.  I wish there was a service I could call to come in and at least get me started.  I’ve toyed with the idea of taking away the diapers and hoping they don’t like the feeling of wet pants enough to start letting me know when they have to go.  But I haven’t been able to psyche myself into dealing with that level of mess.  We also have the plastic potty seats but they treat those more like little chairs – sometimes they pull them in front of the tv and watch Dora from the comfort of their own personal potty seat.  Nice.

Okay, so I don’t even know the point of this except that I’m a little lost.  And I’m getting fat.  And I’m thinking about the M&Ms that are upstairs right now…