Impulse Control...Age Appropriate or Genetic Trait?

I woke up this morning thinking about impulse control. 

My husband and I battle daily with our son's developing frontal lobe and the likelihood that he'll dart into traffic or set our house on fire.  One day he'll be thirty and lack the desire to write on the walls, or swing on the refrigerator handle.  Hopefully.

Now our daughter is a full blown wad of impulsive toddler.  Her little brain is changing direction so quickly that she will literally walk into the wall.  If you pay attention closely I swear you can watch her wheels turning.  Of course it's a good idea to dump out the dog water. Sure that half of a strawberry in the trash is delicious.  It's hilarious.

My husband is no stranger to impulse either.  If he or anyone else were to question this, I'd present:

     Exhibit A:  the 55" flat screen TV 

     Exhibit B:  a very fine set of impala horns

     Exhibit C:  the partially decomposed snapping turtle at the top of the driveway.

Oh yeah, and all of this in the last 6 months!

Of course, maybe lack of control is contagious.  In the last 6 weeks I've managed to acquire a job, a puppy, a college schedule, and bangs. 

It's going to be a long strange summer.

Super Son part 3

We fulfilled James's dreams last night.  Clad in his Spiderman pajama shirt, khaki's and boots (no socks) he hopped in the minivan ready to see The Avengers.  He'd spent the earlier part of his weekend watching double plays of Captain America and was completely ready to see his idols all together on screen.  True to family form, we were running late.  The six thirty showing was sold out and the only remaining option was the seven o'clock 3-D option.  Whatever, if you're treating yourself, why not go big right? 

To kill time and feed Dad before the show, we sat down at a nearby hibachi restaurant.  Over chicken and rice, James starts to scan the room.  He did this a few times and we continued to eat.  Finally, he announces "Mom, I'm the only superhero in here.  If anything happens, I'll have to save everyone."  Now, what do you say to that?

The movie was great.  James felt like it would've gone better if he (Spiderman) could have participated.  I enjoyed the sight of my mini-miracle in pint-sized 3-D glasses sitting on the edge of his seat.  Sure, he wasn't the quietest patron in the house nor was he still for two hours, but it was pretty super!

Super Son part 2

As the commercials for the upcoming movie "The Avengers" reach fever pitch on TV, the superhero drama at our house continues.  My son achieved his goal on Saturday by having another human call him Spiderman.  I addressed him at the park by his name and was quickly corrected by a grinning little girl who said "No, his name is Spiderman!".  The look on his face was priceless.  He's spent much of the last week alternating between being Superman and Spiderman, with most time spent as Spiderman.  He's taking credit for the webs on the front porch (note: husband, if you're reading this...please clean those.  They gross me out), contorting his body into various Spiderman inspired poses.  Perhaps one of the more disturbing things was his "Mary Kiss."  He asked me for a Mary kiss.  A Mary kiss?  He then gave me a slow (closed mouth) sweet kiss while tilting his head back and forth.  "You know mom, like Mary Jane kisses Spiderman."  Uh-oh.  My parenting choice at the moment is to completely ignore this.  Perhaps the cutest moments lately have involved Superman.  He informed me a few nights ago that "cristo-night couldn't take away his strings".  I had to work with him for a few moments before I interpreted that "kryptonite couldn't take away his strength."  Now this is just cute. 

The Superman and Spiderman shirts were being washed on Sunday.  This led to his dressing in all green and announcing that he's the Green Lantern.  This just keeps getting better and better!

Girl Time

I always dreamed of having a daughter.  I wanted a mini-me to dress in bishop dresses and party shoes.  I wanted hours of hair brushing, nail painting and baby doll playing.  Well, now I have her and it's AWESOME!  This little girl is perhaps the sweetest, most beautiful, charming,  fiesty little mama on the planet. 

No colicky crying.  She slept through the night her first day home from the hospital.  I woke up in an engorged panic to find her peacefully sleeping in the bassinet.  We took her to the doctor, worried, only to find out that this is what newborns were supposed to do.  Wow, that colic during round one scarred us.  My beautiful sweet girl looked like a baby owl.  She had these huge eyes that were, and are, almost too large for her dainty little face.  She's my real life baby doll.

I could tell you a million adorable stories about this engaging child.  The little girl crawled "side saddle" for Pete's sake, but I have to share our new routine.  I've been working outside of the home for a few weeks now.  I come home and my delicious little girl is as filthy as her brother.  Her hair is caked with whatever treats dad's given her, and she looks, well, like her dad (well meaning of course) dressed her. 

After our dinner, I run a nice bath in the garden tub in mommy's bathroom.  We add a little lavender and whatever other essential oils I have on hand.  She starts dancing as soon as I turn the water on.  I wash my hair while she parrots the motions back on her own soapy head.  I wash my makeup off.  She oh so gently uses face wash to wash her cherubic cheeks.  She washes my toes, I wash hers.  She reaches for my razor and points at her legs.  I say no.  Then we get out and dry off, put on our lotion and brush our hair together.  This is magic time.  Last Friday night we even stayed up late.  She let me roll her hair.  I let her try to roll mine.  Then we snuggled on her bed and read books. 

Mornings are pretty great too.  Her dad would prefer that I quietly slip out of the house and just go to work.  But, every morning I listen to see if there are giggles coming from her room.  Most of the time there are.  I get her up, change her diaper, fix her a drink and we have more nice girl time.  She likes to help me with my makeup.  She sits perfectly still on the bathroom counter and swirls makeup brushes all over her face.  She's learned that small brushes are for eyes and larger ones are for face.  True to toddler form, she tries her best to lick the lipstick.  This morning I left for work painted and coiffed.  I left my eighteen month old at home with mascara in her eyebrows, Bare Minerals on her pajamas, lipstick everywhere and drinking juice next to her groggy dad.

I hate to be gone from my children, but finding the time to have sweet moments like these every day almost makes it worth it.  I love both of my children equally but for different reasons.  I love this little girl because she's the living embodiment of everything I ever wanted.  She loves dresses, really loves shoes, and doesn't care if she's dirty.  She's as rough and tumble as a boy, but looks like a china doll.  Sometimes I wonder, what did I do to deserve these children?

Super Son

We've entered the age of the super hero at our house.  I thought I had a few years before this kicked in.  Most of the time it's cute.  He tends to latch on to one for a while, watch the movie over and over, repeat some one-liners, and practice "moves" on the trampoline and that's about the extent of it. 

For a while it was Ironman.  Good for me, I love that movie.  Then he moved to Superman.  It was a little too romantic for the little guy.  Then he got hung up Green Lantern for a few weeks.  The monsters were a little freaky for him, but he toughed it out.  The Green Lantern phase led to one of my favorite conversations ever.  James:  Mom, if kryptonite takes away Superman's powers and nothing takes away Green Lantern's powers, is Superman still the most powerful man in the universe? Me:  That's a great question for Dad.  I enjoyed our conversations about superheros for the most part.

Until we saw Spiderman at our local downtown festival.  I'll admit, the costume was good.  To my son, it was amazing.  He was almost fearful he was so awed.  This has changed our home and I'm not sure it's for the better.  Now we have to figure out whether James is James or "Peter Porker" (yes, I said porker) or the REAL Spiderman.  Emphasis on REAL.  There are imaginary villains roaming my house at all hours.  As a matter of fact the "Green Gobbler" (and once again this is not a misspelling) was present during my bath last night.  As I attempted to wash the longest day ever off and heavens forbid shave my legs, my son sat on the side of the tub shooting web at the invisible intruders.  I am wearing pants today.  His little sister was serenaded to sleep by a nice sweet Spiderman themed lullaby last night.

Once I read the REAL Spiderman a book and convinced him that yes, superheros sleep, I thought I was in the clear.  He shot me with web.  he got out of the bed looking for villains and encountered the original villain, Dad.  Dad ordered him back to bed and was rewarded for his efforts with some web. 

This morning wasn't much different.  Dad was in charge of the school route and was unable to wrestle the REAL Spiderman pajama shirt off of the child.  My son therefor went to school in his pajama shirt.  He proceeded to announce to the teacher that James was not at school today and Spiderman was.  In her infinite wisdom (I swear this dear woman is some sort of child-whispering sorceress) she told my son that James was welcome in the classroom, but Spiderman was not.  I wonder if she's been webbed yet?

I can't wait to hear about my son's day at school.

NOTE:  I arrived home from work to find James wearing yet another pair of Spiderman pajamas.  He said that Trish (his teacher) told him that Spiderman had to stay outside.  I still have no information as to whether or not he shot her with web.

Kill the TV!!

I prided myself on keeping our home television free for the first two years of my childrens' lives.  I made myself a vow that as a stay at home Mom I would NOT watch TV in the daytime.  At night, I'm usually too tired to care.  I grew up in a home where the TV was always on and I've always found it distracting.  I hate hearing the background noise of television or having to see another person in the throws of a slack-jawed TV induced coma.  Throw in a possible link with early exposure to television and ADD and I knew it had no part in my home.  The television will NEVER babysit my children.

Well, that's one of those "not my kids" statements that I can toss out of the window.  I can't explain why  I let my three year old became addicted to the television.  I started to notice the trend when I was fat, tired, hot and very pregnant with my second child.  My then two year old LOVED to watch videos on the VCR in the cool of our basement.  I saw no reason to argue.  I could catch a quasi nap while he was locked into the screen.  Then he learned that the buttons on the front of the VCR did something.  The machine lasted about a week.  Then we graduated to DVDs on the computer (said DVDs previously lived in the minivan and were life-savers on car trips).  Then a funny thing started happening.

We learned that our son has an incredible memory for one liners from movies.  He's also pretty good with commercials.  This can be hilarious or horrible depending on the context.  I overheard an interesting conversation between my husband and son.  He sang Nationwide is on your siiiiide! His father said, "no son.  The insurance company is never really on your side."  As entertaining as commercials can be when sung at maximum volume in the car, its the movie lines that crack me up.  He's been stuck on "don't stand so close, I can smell your breath" for about a week now.  It makes me want to pinch him every time he says it. I much preferred his saying to anyone who'd listen "you have no sense of humor!"  Now that I'm working out of the home and the kids are with Dad, I have no control over the TV any more.  I'm assuming that its on during the day as I heard a new one Saturday night.  I was enjoying a quiet moment in the kitchen with the husband when a giggly three year old burst into the room and announced "what in THE HELL is going on in here?!?!" 

My kid was never going to say that.  Is it too late to kill theTV?

Poop On That!

When the babies were little the subject of poop was one that came up frequently.  What was the consistency, frequency, yada yada yada.  Fast forward a few years and my life is still full of, well, crap.  The 18 month old gets a free pass.  Though smelly, she still plays the cute card by announcing "hiney, poo-poo, shoo!"  I change her, and send her on her way silently counting down the days until the potty process clicks and we're diaper free.

My three year old...what can I say about this??...  The current situation ranges from explosive ill timed volcanic eruptions to last minute shivering races to the nearest potty.  Of course, if he's outside nature just takes over and when he's got to go, he goes.  This was the case after a delicious church pot-luck dinner on a recent Wednesday night.

My husband and were saying our goodbyes to friends and loading dishes and children into the minivan.  We were caught up in a conversation with another parent about another child's horrifying church performance when one of the teenagers says "James is naked."  Now, James is naked every chance he can find so that's never surprising.  James being naked after ingesting mass quantities of unfamiliar food, caffienated soda and dessert while hiding behind the van made me want to run for the hills.  I knew what I was in for before I rounded the corner.  There was my son, minus his shorts, standing above a still steaming pile. In my haste to get his shorts back on him, he must have stepped in it.  This I didn't know until it showed up electric green on the black carpet of my van.   Needless to say, we made a speedy, red-faced exit from church that night.  We had James hose himself off in the front yard (which he loved) and wash out his skid marked underwear and poop shoes (this he didn't love). I cleaned the poop out of the car seat and carpet myself.

When I was a nanny and gagging at the diapers I changed, I remember the mom saying to me that it would be different when it was my own kids' poop.  Fast forward ten years, and I'm still grossed out.  I was as horrified as can be when I entered my infant daughter's room to find that she'd smeared poop all over herself (there was a line around her pacifier that sent me gagging!) and was happy to be playing in it.  My reaction had nothing to do with who birthed her.  It was just straight up gross.  Now I'm ready to be done with the waste management portion of my career.  As a mother, is it really necessary that I have to say things like "don't poop in the yard" or better yet to the dog "oh God don't eat that!"?  Is it?  Will there be a day when a naked 18 month old doesn't hop out of the tub all squeaky clean and drop a deuce on the kitchen floor?  Will my three year old EVER learn to stop what he's doing and head for the potty before he explodes in the hallway?  How many years will I be cleaning someone else's poop off of my hard wood floors.  Will there ever be a day I'm nostalgic about touching someone else's poop?  I doubt it. 

Speechless

Those that know me would never call me quiet.  Those who know my son, would never call him quiet either.  We're talkers.  We never meet a stranger and we love striking up conversations with people at the grocery store, park, and well, anywhere.  That said, there have only been  a few moments in my life when I have truly been rendered speechless.  When the man I love fell to his knees with a diamond ring I was speechless.  When two pink lines popped up on an EPT (twice) I was speechless.  Now that my son is three years old, I find myself speechless more than I care to admit.  This is perhaps one of my favorite examples.

In his attempt to exert control, my son has turned bedtime into an opportunity to lobby.  Our once smooth routine of bath, brush teeth, books then bed has been replaced by chaos.  The bed covers have to be just right.  "The Reall Pillow Cudd" has to be in position.  This is his much beloved puppy pillow pet with one eye.  Do NOT confuse it with the identical puppy pillow pet purchased when a neighborhood dog dragged the original into a ditch.  (Side note:  Thanks to the amazing Papa for combing the neighborhood in search of Pillow Cudd and rescuing the muddy member of our family!). 

Once we have the real pillow and covers in place we move to the daily dilemma of ceiling fan on or off.  That takes a few minutes to sort out.  Once the speed and light intensity have satisfied his three year old brain we move on to books.  The usual numbe is two.  James, however, prefers tweny-seven.  He'd be content to read until the sun came up.  Now he's figured out that he gets more book time if he waits until I'm half done with a book to change his mind.  This happens a few times before I have to lay down the law and set a limit. 

My favorite part of bedtime is saying prayers.  I love the creativity and passion that comes from this child.  Depending on how long he wants to stall, or how thankful he is, prayers can take a while. We pray for children with no mommies or mean mommies.  We pray for unfortunate giraffes who get their heads stuck in trees.  We pray for elephants stuck in the mud and for God'd protection over all of our household pets.  Now he's added forgiveness to his prayers.  He's asked God to forgive Mommy for yelling, and to forgive him for biting his friend Harry at school.  He's asked God to forgive his Dad for being grumpy and to forgive him for not being kind to his sister.  I hate to rush prayers, but some nights I have to drop an Amen for the sake of sleep.

After prayers we argue for a few minutes on whether or not to shut the bedroom door.  Mommy says closed.  I've always insisted on closed.  Why he feels I might budge on this I'm not sure.  I never do.  He gets points for trying though, my sweet little controlling boy.

Once all of this has been settled with hugs, kisses and good nights.  I close his door and collapse, exhausted into my own bed.  He used to stay in his room.  These days, not so much. He has to go potty about ten times.  He has to come give Mom and Dad a hug.  He'd prefer to climb in my bed and play "Angry Birds" on my cell phone.  We shoo him back to his room.  We re-tuck him in.  We threaten.  Sometimes we yell. 

One particularly rough night he'd been up and down about fifty times.  We were satisfied that he'd been thoroughly tucked, read to, pottied out and prayed over.  It was time for bed, and yet there he stood adorable in his mis-matched jammies begging to stay in our room.  Daddy had to intervene and sternly told him "Son, it's time for bed."  He began to walk back towards his room.  Before he slammed our door, he
turned to us and said, "you are COMPLETELY inadequate!"

Speechless at the hands of a three year old.

The Good

Before I recount all of the stories that make me (and likely some Social Services Workers) cringe, I feel it necessary to share some of my  better memories of the last few years.  These are a few of the things that I will carry in my heart forever. 

1) Nature's Paternity Test-  Both of my children emerged from me looking just like their father.  Yep.  Two red-faced screaming miniatures of the man I love.  Seeing the little clones just made me love him more.  Hearing that they looked nothing like me may have contributed to postpartem depression.

2)  The weight of a newborn-  Is there anything better really than the floppy seven or so pounds that molds to your arms as you cradle?  The floppy little person that folds over your hand to be burped is the future president, playground bully, music sensation or circus clown.  The tiny being nuzzling at the breast and gazing with googly eyes is yours.  They were mine, and that desire to hold and love must be the baby fever I've been warned about.

3)  Hiccups-  There's a moment that comes to many pregnant moms.  The rhythmic jumping in your belly.  Once the initial alarm passes, you realize that you're feeling your baby hiccup in the womb.  Aww.  How cute right?  These same hiccups infuriate these babies a few weeks later. We learned the hard way at my house that you CAN NOT SCARE AWAY A NEWBORN"S HICCUPS!  James was fussing through a bout of hiccups while his dad was holding him and gazing at him, powerless to help.  The next thing I knew Dustin had  yelled "agh!" and James was squalling.  The hiccups didn't go away and I may or may not have threatened divorce over that one.

4) Baby Hair-  First of all, if it were possible to pray to curls onto your children I would have done so.  I asked.  Repeatedly.  The downy soft hair that children are born with is truly an incredible substance.  When mine were little, I loved to just rub it all over my face.  The tickling, fine, soft as goose-down hair does go away.  Now my children have hair just like their Daddy.  Course, straight, blond big-kid hair.  It's better for ponytails and such, but man I miss the soft stuff. 

5)  Fingers, Feet and Baby Butts!-  The sum of the parts is an adorable baby.  The parts themselves are wicked cute!  I remember trying my best to memorize the wrinkles on the little hands and feet and the way their remarkable nails were so perfectly formed in miniature.  The way the tiny hiney fit in my hand, and the scary stump of a belly button are things I just don't want to forget.  Ever. 

I could write on and on about the things I want to remember.  The heartbreaking reality is that I'm sure there is so much that I've forgotten already.  The calmness of gazing at a new baby lying between my husband and I has fast been replaced by a toddler and a preschooler that are anything but calm.  There are, however, little moments when they are asleep that there is a trace of the babies that were and that makes me wonder.  Will I always look at my children and see those downy-haired, cherub-cheeked, googly-eyed infants?  Will I remember them curled up in my bed when they smell like hormones and slam their bedroom doors?  I sure hope so. 

Raising Kids Is Like Being Pecked to Death By a Chicken

Growing up, my mother had a sign hanging in her kitchen.  It was a simply painted tile sized sign that read Raising Kids Is Like Being Pecked to Death by a Chicken.  I was so offended.  I wasn't a terrible child.  We could argue that my brothers were, but still...pecked?  My vision of motherhood as an adolescent was of  baby powder scented nurseries, cherub cheeked toddlers and smiling perfect blond childen who would respect me for no other reason than my unconditional love.  In these visions of motherhood we snuggled into an overstuffed chair and read books, held hands at the playground and sat down nightly to balanced meals lovingly prepared and served on wedding china.

Well, it didn't work out that way for me.  There was no wedding china for starters.  The chicken came before the egg so to speak.  The wedding came before the baby, but only by a few weeks.  My visions of perfection were shattered by a colicky squalling newborn that never slept.  Fastforward a few years and now there are two kids.  My house smells like urine, there's a minivan where the jeep used to be, my sanity is arguable, and I'm as happy and proud as any mom can be.

Welcome to my blog.  I'm going to share some of the parenting moments that have made me laugh, cry and want to hide under a rock.