My husband and I pondered the question a few nights ago, is irony really necessary when dealing with an infant?
Anyone who's ever had a baby knows it can take up to an hour (even longer if they have to poop) to gently rock and lull an infant to sleep before resting them gently down (like a live stick of dynamite) into their crib and running quietly from the room (like an escape convict from prison).
However, in a sick twist of what I consider terrorism against parents, it takes just seconds for a baby to drift off into a deep, peaceful slumber while strapped to Daddy in a Baby Bjorn with his four year old sister performing her own version of Stevie Nicks' "You Can Talk To Me" with her purple microphone and Tinkerbell sunglasses while dressed in a Little Mermaid bathing suit and gold sparkly princess shoes that sound like a galloping horse on a hardwood floor.
And naturally, this happened at 6:00, which is about the worst time for him to take a nap because it jeopardizes his (hopeful) 8:00 bedtime.
At the same time, I was burning grilled cheese sandwiches on the stove and opening every window on the first floor of our house. I told my husband to put Punkin in the bouncy on the kitchen table thinking the cool evening air would wake him up.
It didn't.
Nor did he wake up as we ate dinner around him at the same table while Peach's musical stylings switched from Stevie Nicks to Wang Chung's "Everybody Have Fun Tonight," and eventually Britney Spears' "Party in the USA."
As dinner drifted into bath time he finally stirred to Peach's excitement over some new bubble bath (the bath time coercion method of the evening) and complained about a wet diaper. After a quick change and the warm up of the evening's (first) bottle, my husband took him up to his room to coax him to sleep.
At 8:30, after tucking Peach into bed, I came downstairs to find both Babe (my husband) and Punkin on the couch (with a fresh evening bottle) watching Denzel Washington's "Man on Fire." I gently suggested that the sounds of rapid gunfire and explosions might not be the ideal way to lull a baby to sleep. Begrudgingly, Babe went back upstairs where he stayed for an hour trying to help Punkin drift into unconsciousness.
Which he did... eventually... the good news is he slept until 6:00 the next morning.
In another form of terrorism against parents, the following evening he woke up three times.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Nine years of marriage and a reflection on the times
Today is our 9th wedding anniversary and my mother (some of you may know her as the "Spa Bath Grandma") sent a note wishing us a happy anniversary. Such a great perspective on the way times have changed. Enjoy!
I actually remember our 5th anniversary in 1975. We had two kids. Your brother was 3and you were 1. I thought FIVE years was such a long time! It was a different time, for sure. Imagine a house without a computer or even a calculator that I can recall. Daddy had an adding machine that had to be plugged in (no battery powered objects). I didn't even have a desk!
We had one black and white TV with 5 channels and without a remote control. On-off-on-off. Those were the days! Life was easy. My washing machine was my friend instead of a mortal enemy that was over-engineered, over-tested and under-useful! Our refrigerator was still new at age 4 and it lasted another 30 years! Not one living refrigerator today will live to say that. Our dishwasher lasted until our room addition -- over 30 years later.
That was the year I got my FIRST VISA credit card. I didn't know how to use it. It had my full name and address on it.
My previous card was from Marshall Field's -- and only good at that store, of course.
No email. My dearest friend was in Australia and I had to send overseas mail on onion skin paper to reduce the weight and save pennies. Even our words had to be carefully chosen as the number of pages had to be limited. I waited up to 6 weeks and even longer at times for a reply. I didn't hear about the birth of her first child until he was 6 or 8 weeks old. I didn't see a photo for months.
I also was an at-home Mom for that short time, and I remember grabbing magazines by the handful and sitting in the back yard and reading them for hours. Life moved at a slower pace. I took your brother to the car wash for an outing. He was afraid of it, but dared to drive through it with me.
Friends came over for lunch and dinner, and I cooked actual recipes from scratch. We had no Panera, no fast food stores, except McDonalds, which was no where near our home. We had time to set the table every night.
Ahhh...things were not so tough. Life was gentler.
Happy anniversary -- I hope you are nurturing fond memories of happy times for a long time.
Love,
Mom
I actually remember our 5th anniversary in 1975. We had two kids. Your brother was 3and you were 1. I thought FIVE years was such a long time! It was a different time, for sure. Imagine a house without a computer or even a calculator that I can recall. Daddy had an adding machine that had to be plugged in (no battery powered objects). I didn't even have a desk!
We had one black and white TV with 5 channels and without a remote control. On-off-on-off. Those were the days! Life was easy. My washing machine was my friend instead of a mortal enemy that was over-engineered, over-tested and under-useful! Our refrigerator was still new at age 4 and it lasted another 30 years! Not one living refrigerator today will live to say that. Our dishwasher lasted until our room addition -- over 30 years later.
That was the year I got my FIRST VISA credit card. I didn't know how to use it. It had my full name and address on it.
My previous card was from Marshall Field's -- and only good at that store, of course.
No email. My dearest friend was in Australia and I had to send overseas mail on onion skin paper to reduce the weight and save pennies. Even our words had to be carefully chosen as the number of pages had to be limited. I waited up to 6 weeks and even longer at times for a reply. I didn't hear about the birth of her first child until he was 6 or 8 weeks old. I didn't see a photo for months.
I also was an at-home Mom for that short time, and I remember grabbing magazines by the handful and sitting in the back yard and reading them for hours. Life moved at a slower pace. I took your brother to the car wash for an outing. He was afraid of it, but dared to drive through it with me.
Friends came over for lunch and dinner, and I cooked actual recipes from scratch. We had no Panera, no fast food stores, except McDonalds, which was no where near our home. We had time to set the table every night.
Ahhh...things were not so tough. Life was gentler.
Happy anniversary -- I hope you are nurturing fond memories of happy times for a long time.
Love,
Mom
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Soccer, as performed by preschool girls
The game of soccer, while the most popular team sport on the planet, is, without question, almost completely unrecognizable when played by a group of four year olds.
It seems simple enough: divide the group in two, give some of them red jerseys and the others green, drop a ball in the middle and watch as they instinctively drive towards one goal or another.
Doesn't actually come off that way. What happens instead is a little more complex than that.
The challenge begins when the girls with the red jerseys don't like the color red and would rather have pink, purple, or yellow. Inevitably, one player will reach such a level of disappointment with the color options that she'll run off the field in tears towards her mother, looking for comfort.
The color debate is eventually settled. By this I mean that the girls who refuse to wear red are switched to the team without jerseys, and the same number of girls are switched from that team onto the team with the red jerseys (another girl runs off the field crying because she didn't want to wear a jersey at all).
With the abominable red jerseys finally on the appropriate amount of girls, it's now time for a break. The players scatter to various ends of the playing field for their water bottles and spend a few minutes comparing one to the other ("she has a Hello Kitty bottle... can I get one, too?").
After the break (which ends when parents start physically directing their angels back to the field), the girls reconvene in the middle and complain about the jerseys again. The coach holds the pink soccer ball borrowed from one of the players (in this case, my little player) up in the air and drops it in the middle of the crowd.
There are about ten girls on the field (this is not an absolute number as it constantly changes based on how many spontaneously need their shin guards adjusted, are thirsty, want a snack, and are wondering when this will be over). They watch the ball drop, and this is where any resemblance of soccer disappears completely. Four girls stare at the ball as one picks it up with her hands and starts running towards the goal. Three chase the girl, screaming that she can't use her hands, one screams towards a parent to report the violation, and the final girl runs in the opposite direction of everyone else.
Once the girl with the ball throws it into the goal it's time for another break. This is when my daughter (owner of the game ball) returned to me, upset because she didn't want people fighting over her ball. I tried to give her a mini-synopsis of soccer by saying, "honey, they're not fighting, they're playing soccer. The idea is to get the ball into the goal." I pushed her back towards the field realizing I'd just confused her more. No biggie, I thought, watching one of her teammates trying to convince her father that she was too hot to wear the mesh red jersey.
The playing resumes. The ball is dropped in the direction of one girl who starts kicking it. All of the other girls slow down and patiently watch her kick it towards the goal, around the goal, back on to the field, and in the direction of the other goal. Her mother, meanwhile, pleads with her that she's going the wrong way. A few other girls mistake the directions of that mother and start running in the opposite direction they were going and end up running onto another field in the middle of a different game. They stay for long enough that someone in that game kicks the ball to one of them and they start moving that ball back to the field they came from.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes. The ball is dropped. Two kids collide. One (mine) is crying.
Peach is now upset because she has a grass stain on her sock and didn't know that playing soccer would turn her blood green.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes but of the ten original girls, two have quit due to exhaustion and two others have removed the red jerseys.
Break.
Playing resumes. There are now a total of five girls on the field and only one of them is wearing a red jersey (she happens to like the color red). The coach looks around for the rest of the players. Two are snacking and one is arguing with her mother over the red jersey.
The ball is dropped, and all five girls run towards it together, graciously allowing a pre-determined girl to kick the ball into the goal.
The game is over.
Peach can't wait for next week's game. She has, however, resolved that if the jerseys are still red, she'll play on the team that doesn't have to wear them.
It seems simple enough: divide the group in two, give some of them red jerseys and the others green, drop a ball in the middle and watch as they instinctively drive towards one goal or another.
Doesn't actually come off that way. What happens instead is a little more complex than that.
The challenge begins when the girls with the red jerseys don't like the color red and would rather have pink, purple, or yellow. Inevitably, one player will reach such a level of disappointment with the color options that she'll run off the field in tears towards her mother, looking for comfort.
The color debate is eventually settled. By this I mean that the girls who refuse to wear red are switched to the team without jerseys, and the same number of girls are switched from that team onto the team with the red jerseys (another girl runs off the field crying because she didn't want to wear a jersey at all).
With the abominable red jerseys finally on the appropriate amount of girls, it's now time for a break. The players scatter to various ends of the playing field for their water bottles and spend a few minutes comparing one to the other ("she has a Hello Kitty bottle... can I get one, too?").
After the break (which ends when parents start physically directing their angels back to the field), the girls reconvene in the middle and complain about the jerseys again. The coach holds the pink soccer ball borrowed from one of the players (in this case, my little player) up in the air and drops it in the middle of the crowd.
There are about ten girls on the field (this is not an absolute number as it constantly changes based on how many spontaneously need their shin guards adjusted, are thirsty, want a snack, and are wondering when this will be over). They watch the ball drop, and this is where any resemblance of soccer disappears completely. Four girls stare at the ball as one picks it up with her hands and starts running towards the goal. Three chase the girl, screaming that she can't use her hands, one screams towards a parent to report the violation, and the final girl runs in the opposite direction of everyone else.
Once the girl with the ball throws it into the goal it's time for another break. This is when my daughter (owner of the game ball) returned to me, upset because she didn't want people fighting over her ball. I tried to give her a mini-synopsis of soccer by saying, "honey, they're not fighting, they're playing soccer. The idea is to get the ball into the goal." I pushed her back towards the field realizing I'd just confused her more. No biggie, I thought, watching one of her teammates trying to convince her father that she was too hot to wear the mesh red jersey.
The playing resumes. The ball is dropped in the direction of one girl who starts kicking it. All of the other girls slow down and patiently watch her kick it towards the goal, around the goal, back on to the field, and in the direction of the other goal. Her mother, meanwhile, pleads with her that she's going the wrong way. A few other girls mistake the directions of that mother and start running in the opposite direction they were going and end up running onto another field in the middle of a different game. They stay for long enough that someone in that game kicks the ball to one of them and they start moving that ball back to the field they came from.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes. The ball is dropped. Two kids collide. One (mine) is crying.
Peach is now upset because she has a grass stain on her sock and didn't know that playing soccer would turn her blood green.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes but of the ten original girls, two have quit due to exhaustion and two others have removed the red jerseys.
Break.
Playing resumes. There are now a total of five girls on the field and only one of them is wearing a red jersey (she happens to like the color red). The coach looks around for the rest of the players. Two are snacking and one is arguing with her mother over the red jersey.
The ball is dropped, and all five girls run towards it together, graciously allowing a pre-determined girl to kick the ball into the goal.
The game is over.
Peach can't wait for next week's game. She has, however, resolved that if the jerseys are still red, she'll play on the team that doesn't have to wear them.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The question of the week... and of a lifetime...
A question from the peanut gallery:
Do you feel as crazed and stressed as I do with work, two kids and all of these activities going on?
I remember, before I had kids, how people with kids would say, "I have no idea what I did all day without kids..." I never understood what they meant.
Now I do.
Between the morning routine of getting them to two different day cares, then picking them up in the evening, I am constantly on the move. Drop one off, pick one up, trade one for the other, take one with to pick up the other one, get a babysitter for one while going with the other, enforce man-to-man defense when a babysitter isn't available, grab the Baby Bjorn to so the whole family can go, trade off who carries the baby, take turns eating dinner, bathe one without running out of hot water to bathe the second, get them both to sleep...
And then there are the activities: soccer, gymnastics, doctor appointments, the dentist, Dad needs a haircut, birthday parties, shopping for birthday parties, the grocery store, nap schedules, bottle warming, diaper changing, dinner at the Grandparents', dinner at a restaurant because the grocery store didn't happen, riding scooters, laundry, and, of course, the final season of LOST.
I have a vague memory of my pre-parent life: the biggest thing I remember is having no immediate need for a DVR.
Could be worse, I suppose... we could be in the position of desperately wanting children and just not being able to make it happen.
Do you feel as crazed and stressed as I do with work, two kids and all of these activities going on?
I remember, before I had kids, how people with kids would say, "I have no idea what I did all day without kids..." I never understood what they meant.
Now I do.
Between the morning routine of getting them to two different day cares, then picking them up in the evening, I am constantly on the move. Drop one off, pick one up, trade one for the other, take one with to pick up the other one, get a babysitter for one while going with the other, enforce man-to-man defense when a babysitter isn't available, grab the Baby Bjorn to so the whole family can go, trade off who carries the baby, take turns eating dinner, bathe one without running out of hot water to bathe the second, get them both to sleep...
And then there are the activities: soccer, gymnastics, doctor appointments, the dentist, Dad needs a haircut, birthday parties, shopping for birthday parties, the grocery store, nap schedules, bottle warming, diaper changing, dinner at the Grandparents', dinner at a restaurant because the grocery store didn't happen, riding scooters, laundry, and, of course, the final season of LOST.
I have a vague memory of my pre-parent life: the biggest thing I remember is having no immediate need for a DVR.
Could be worse, I suppose... we could be in the position of desperately wanting children and just not being able to make it happen.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I'm sorry.... you said she ate... what?
So, I got a call from the director of Peach's school earlier this week. Here's how it went:
"Hi Meredith, everything's fine... just wanted you to know we're keeping an eye on Peach."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, well, is seems she uh, well, she ate a worm."
I laughed.
"Yeah," continued the director, "we're giving her water and making sure she's not sick... are you there?"
More laughter.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're laughing at this. She said she wasn't dared by anyone and nobody told her to do it. It was her own idea..."
The director continued on as I laughed so hard I could barely respond. About an hour later, I picked her up. The conversation went like this:
"So, Peach... heard you had an extra snack today."
Deer caught in headlights.
"A worm?" I made a funny grossed out face so she would know I wasn't mad. "Really?"
Her expression turned to one of excitement.
"Yeah! I ate a worm! It was small one, but I ate it!"
"Hmm..." I responded, smiling in disbelief. "So, what'd you think?"
"It was gross."
"Out of curiosity, was it alive?"
Her eyes rolled dismissively.
"Oh, no. I didn't want it to wiggle around in my mouth. I ate a dead one."
I've been pondering her choice for a few days now. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer: the live, fresh one, or the dead one which no doubt came equipped with the markings of the bottom of a Stride Rite shoe on it.
But I have to admire the girl. At least she applied logic to her actions.
"Hi Meredith, everything's fine... just wanted you to know we're keeping an eye on Peach."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, well, is seems she uh, well, she ate a worm."
I laughed.
"Yeah," continued the director, "we're giving her water and making sure she's not sick... are you there?"
More laughter.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're laughing at this. She said she wasn't dared by anyone and nobody told her to do it. It was her own idea..."
The director continued on as I laughed so hard I could barely respond. About an hour later, I picked her up. The conversation went like this:
"So, Peach... heard you had an extra snack today."
Deer caught in headlights.
"A worm?" I made a funny grossed out face so she would know I wasn't mad. "Really?"
Her expression turned to one of excitement.
"Yeah! I ate a worm! It was small one, but I ate it!"
"Hmm..." I responded, smiling in disbelief. "So, what'd you think?"
"It was gross."
"Out of curiosity, was it alive?"
Her eyes rolled dismissively.
"Oh, no. I didn't want it to wiggle around in my mouth. I ate a dead one."
I've been pondering her choice for a few days now. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer: the live, fresh one, or the dead one which no doubt came equipped with the markings of the bottom of a Stride Rite shoe on it.
But I have to admire the girl. At least she applied logic to her actions.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The morning routine
There was a time in my life when I struggled to get no one but myself out the door to work before 8:00 am. My alarm started bugging me at around 6:30 and I'd hit snooze twelve or thirteen hundred times before finally mustering up the energy to slide out of bed, into the shower, and would eventually find my way to my car and on my way to work.
These days, I launch myself out of bed at about 5:30am (after having already been up at 2:00ish for Punkin's middle of the night snack), brush my teeth and throw my hair in a ponytail before my husband gets in the shower. I spend the next few hours directing my children through the paces of our morning routine before leaving the house starving, tired, and trying to remember if I'm wearing the clothes I slept in the night before or if what I have on was slept in two nights ago.
The morning routine is, at best, a circus. Punkin is up at 5:30 for no reason other than he's bored of sleeping. I play with him in our bedroom until around 6:30, when Peach comes in demanding her morning shows. She narrates the Mickey Mouse episode of the morning while I gently remind her that it's about time to brush teeth and get dressed.
Sometime around 7:00 I manage to coax her into her bathroom where she brushes her teeth by herself, without help from me, because she knows how to do everything better than I ever could (if this is a preview of her teen years, we're in big trouble). Then the three of us go into her bedroom where I gently suggest that she puts on the outfit she picked out the night before (my time saving idea). That outfit is rejected about 50% of the time. It's place is usually taken by her interpretation of fashion (this morning it was a pair of leggings with pastel flowers printed on it, an orange shirt, pink socks with purple and white stripes, and silver party shoes).
The breakfast negotiations begin while I silently come to terms with the fact that she's going to leave the house in that outfit. Today she wanted blueberry muffins and Peeps. I counter-offered whole grain pancakes and pears. We finally landed on muffins, yogurt, and mandarin oranges.
Breakfast is eaten at a snail's pace while I threaten to turn the tv off. I beg her for ten minutes to put her socks and shoes on (I'm unable to do it while she watches tv because I'm holding the baby and she clearly recognizes the weakness), tell her to say goodbye to Handy Manny, wiggle her into her jacket, and strap Punkin into his car seat at about 8:00.
That's usually when he poops.
Peach's jacket immediately comes off and we say hello to Handy Manny again. I run to change Punkin' diaper and, on morning's like today, return to the kitchen to find Peach happily finishing off the Peeps.
As I rinse the pink sugar from her fingers it occurs to me that my husband gets in the shower ta 6:00 and is out the door 30 minutes later.
My routine is almost a 3 hour process.
At least her teachers will be the ones to suffer the consequences of the Peeps instead of me.
These days, I launch myself out of bed at about 5:30am (after having already been up at 2:00ish for Punkin's middle of the night snack), brush my teeth and throw my hair in a ponytail before my husband gets in the shower. I spend the next few hours directing my children through the paces of our morning routine before leaving the house starving, tired, and trying to remember if I'm wearing the clothes I slept in the night before or if what I have on was slept in two nights ago.
The morning routine is, at best, a circus. Punkin is up at 5:30 for no reason other than he's bored of sleeping. I play with him in our bedroom until around 6:30, when Peach comes in demanding her morning shows. She narrates the Mickey Mouse episode of the morning while I gently remind her that it's about time to brush teeth and get dressed.
Sometime around 7:00 I manage to coax her into her bathroom where she brushes her teeth by herself, without help from me, because she knows how to do everything better than I ever could (if this is a preview of her teen years, we're in big trouble). Then the three of us go into her bedroom where I gently suggest that she puts on the outfit she picked out the night before (my time saving idea). That outfit is rejected about 50% of the time. It's place is usually taken by her interpretation of fashion (this morning it was a pair of leggings with pastel flowers printed on it, an orange shirt, pink socks with purple and white stripes, and silver party shoes).
The breakfast negotiations begin while I silently come to terms with the fact that she's going to leave the house in that outfit. Today she wanted blueberry muffins and Peeps. I counter-offered whole grain pancakes and pears. We finally landed on muffins, yogurt, and mandarin oranges.
Breakfast is eaten at a snail's pace while I threaten to turn the tv off. I beg her for ten minutes to put her socks and shoes on (I'm unable to do it while she watches tv because I'm holding the baby and she clearly recognizes the weakness), tell her to say goodbye to Handy Manny, wiggle her into her jacket, and strap Punkin into his car seat at about 8:00.
That's usually when he poops.
Peach's jacket immediately comes off and we say hello to Handy Manny again. I run to change Punkin' diaper and, on morning's like today, return to the kitchen to find Peach happily finishing off the Peeps.
As I rinse the pink sugar from her fingers it occurs to me that my husband gets in the shower ta 6:00 and is out the door 30 minutes later.
My routine is almost a 3 hour process.
At least her teachers will be the ones to suffer the consequences of the Peeps instead of me.
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