Last year, we carved pumpkins on Halloween Eve with the help of the Wilkersons. Apparently that was the beginning of a tradition, because Sam and Kate were invited to carve again last night.
After a yummy (messy) spaghetti dinner, the kids stayed and played pumpkin with the Wilkerson clan (Janet, Bill, Meaghan and boyfriend Matt). Matt, Sam and Bill created a storm trooper pumpkin that is really something to see! I’ll post a picture when we light it tonight and take one. Meaghan and Kate (and crew) worked on a bride/groom penguin pumpkin that was pretty cute too. I’m wondering if this is a reference to the Friends “penguins mate for life” which was really lobsters, but Janet got confused when she gave us Christmas penguins for our wedding all those years ago…
Apparently while they were there, Sam decided he needed to take off his shirt to carve pumpkins. I’m not sure why. So he did. Later he was fake playing the guitar hero guitar and singing, “I’m playing guitar hero. I’m shirtless. I’m playing guitar hero shirtless.” He’s a real hunk. When I asked him about taking his shirt off, I was told: “I was hot. And my shirt is too small.” Good to know.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
BMB: Enough growing already!
As a parent, I feel constantly torn between the two extremes of looking forward to my kids being older and keeping them young while I still can. I very firmly do not want to have any more babies. That is clearer and clearer all the time (and probably warrants a bad mom post of its own). But something about Kate’s 2nd birthday today makes me think about how quickly the time passes and how easily I forget the little moments that make little ones so special.
The parent mantra is all about helping your children grow up. Grow into better, complete, responsible individuals, contributors to society who remember their manners and have enough ambition to move out someday and live a life of their own. All of that is very good. My friends with school-aged children can take them to movies, on roller coasters, and drop them off at parties without batting an eye or taking an extra change of clothes.
Growing up means great things for Kate. She has friendships, sleepovers, catfights, good books, first kisses, and meaningful goodbyes ahead. She will grow bigger, stronger, smarter, and braver (heaven help me). She’ll have her own dreams to replace those I have for her, and she’ll impose her strong will on someone other than just me.
But being little had its moments too. Kate was a laid-back, happy baby who was not at all colicky or high maintenance. She survived a rough bout of stomach flu that put her in the hospital, but bonded mother and daughter like no bedtime ritual ever has. She competed valiantly with Sam—wanting to be just like her big brother and run as fast, build as tall, and sing as loud as he does. She wants to leave her own mark on things. Literally. She basically potty-trained herself (praise to God). She’s had a great first 2 years.
So this mama has to get over the growing and remember to embrace every day, every stage, for the joys that it brings. When Kate wants to rock a little longer, or Sam wants to crawl in my bed and cuddle, I want to remember that these days are short and take every snuggle I can get.
The parent mantra is all about helping your children grow up. Grow into better, complete, responsible individuals, contributors to society who remember their manners and have enough ambition to move out someday and live a life of their own. All of that is very good. My friends with school-aged children can take them to movies, on roller coasters, and drop them off at parties without batting an eye or taking an extra change of clothes.
Growing up means great things for Kate. She has friendships, sleepovers, catfights, good books, first kisses, and meaningful goodbyes ahead. She will grow bigger, stronger, smarter, and braver (heaven help me). She’ll have her own dreams to replace those I have for her, and she’ll impose her strong will on someone other than just me.
But being little had its moments too. Kate was a laid-back, happy baby who was not at all colicky or high maintenance. She survived a rough bout of stomach flu that put her in the hospital, but bonded mother and daughter like no bedtime ritual ever has. She competed valiantly with Sam—wanting to be just like her big brother and run as fast, build as tall, and sing as loud as he does. She wants to leave her own mark on things. Literally. She basically potty-trained herself (praise to God). She’s had a great first 2 years.
So this mama has to get over the growing and remember to embrace every day, every stage, for the joys that it brings. When Kate wants to rock a little longer, or Sam wants to crawl in my bed and cuddle, I want to remember that these days are short and take every snuggle I can get.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Wiggly (or Wiggling) Party
Sam had this super loose tooth. I mean, loose. It’s the bottom left center one, right next to the gaping hole left by the last tooth. Unfortunately, the big catch is that the permanent tooth (also known as the “big” tooth), is already coming in behind it. And it’s crooked. We’ve been watching it for about a week.
On Thursday I called the dentist’s office and asked about it. They said that it would be good for the baby tooth to come out so the lip and tongue movement could work on bringing the new tooth into alignment. (That sounds like a pipe dream to me, but whatever.) She said if it wasn’t out by sometime this next week, they could “help” (aka pull).
So Stuart and I told Sam on Friday that he needs to really get to work on wiggling that tooth. Really. Because it needs to come out by Sunday night.
Sunday night comes along, and of course the tooth is hanging in there. Stuart, being the benevolent and caring father that he is, told Sam that they would make a coordinated effort of wiggling and wiggling and wiggling the tooth all night until it “falls” out. So they did. For hours. At one point I was invited to take a turn and declined.
Sure enough, the tooth finally came out. Did you know that the tooth fairy often has extra money on Sunday night because it’s the beginning (or end?) of the week? Apparently, this is true, because Sam scored $2 from the tooth fairy on Monday morning. Sweet.
On Thursday I called the dentist’s office and asked about it. They said that it would be good for the baby tooth to come out so the lip and tongue movement could work on bringing the new tooth into alignment. (That sounds like a pipe dream to me, but whatever.) She said if it wasn’t out by sometime this next week, they could “help” (aka pull).
So Stuart and I told Sam on Friday that he needs to really get to work on wiggling that tooth. Really. Because it needs to come out by Sunday night.
Sunday night comes along, and of course the tooth is hanging in there. Stuart, being the benevolent and caring father that he is, told Sam that they would make a coordinated effort of wiggling and wiggling and wiggling the tooth all night until it “falls” out. So they did. For hours. At one point I was invited to take a turn and declined.
Sure enough, the tooth finally came out. Did you know that the tooth fairy often has extra money on Sunday night because it’s the beginning (or end?) of the week? Apparently, this is true, because Sam scored $2 from the tooth fairy on Monday morning. Sweet.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Second Chance
As you know, Kate has been working diligently on potty training. However, the end of last week was a little rough. I’m not sure if she just got tired of trying or what, but it was an accident-a-day type of weekend.
On Wednesday, we were making pumpkin bread together in the kitchen and Kate passed some gas. Loudly. Of course, she and Sam thought that was truly hysterical. Then it happened again. Of course, like a good mommy, I asked “Do you need to go potty?” each time.
“No. No potty,” she said adamantly.
So, I didn’t worry about it anymore and got back to the baking, while she and Sam went down the hall. The next thing I hear is a “Potty!” from Kate.
By the time I get down there, we’ve already got a bit of a mess on our hands, as she is trying to get her pants off, but there is already some evidence, if you know what I mean. So I rush in to help and think I’ve got it very well contained until something happens and it goes falling to the floor. Great.
So, I start my mom-lecture, a skill that I am perhaps a little too good at considering my kids are so young. “Kate, you have got to use the potty when you need to go to the bathroom. This is just yucky. Too yucky. Way yucky.”
From the stairs in the hall comes a little helpful voice, my own personal Jiminy Cricket: “Mom, I think she just kind of needs a second chance. I mean, that’s what I think.”
Darn. So I switched into love mode and agreed that she’d been very good to try so hard to get to the potty and that she was a big girl for wearing big girl panties. I just hate it when Sam’s right.
On Wednesday, we were making pumpkin bread together in the kitchen and Kate passed some gas. Loudly. Of course, she and Sam thought that was truly hysterical. Then it happened again. Of course, like a good mommy, I asked “Do you need to go potty?” each time.
“No. No potty,” she said adamantly.
So, I didn’t worry about it anymore and got back to the baking, while she and Sam went down the hall. The next thing I hear is a “Potty!” from Kate.
By the time I get down there, we’ve already got a bit of a mess on our hands, as she is trying to get her pants off, but there is already some evidence, if you know what I mean. So I rush in to help and think I’ve got it very well contained until something happens and it goes falling to the floor. Great.
So, I start my mom-lecture, a skill that I am perhaps a little too good at considering my kids are so young. “Kate, you have got to use the potty when you need to go to the bathroom. This is just yucky. Too yucky. Way yucky.”
From the stairs in the hall comes a little helpful voice, my own personal Jiminy Cricket: “Mom, I think she just kind of needs a second chance. I mean, that’s what I think.”
Darn. So I switched into love mode and agreed that she’d been very good to try so hard to get to the potty and that she was a big girl for wearing big girl panties. I just hate it when Sam’s right.
BMB: Who's the Boss
Remember that show in the 80s-- Who's the Boss? Where Angela, a divorced mom raising a somewhat confused and off son hires Tony the ultimate housekeeper to live in with her family. Who's the boss? Well, at home it was really Tony. That's the catch-- she hired him, but he's in charge. Get it?
Well, I'm wondering where you go to order one of these so-called bosses for your home. Not the pint-sized, teenaged ones who think they know so much, but the Tony Macelli, vacuum the plaid curtains, fix dinner and slip in a little "How you doin?" every once in a while kind. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like being the boss at home is really less desireable a job than it's made up to be.
It first occurred to me a couple of years ago, when every day I would look down at the leaves that my dog was tracking in and think, "Man, that's annoying." "Oh, it's still there." "Isn't anyone going to pick that up?!!" That's when it hit me: no. No one is going to pick that up except for little old me.
Since then, it's been a down-hill slope of responsibility and multi-tasking. Picking up the groceries, the dirty socks, the kids from preschool. A lot of picking up involved. Who else but a mom can handle walking on a treadmill, reading the book-club novel, overseeing computer time and watching Dancing with the Stars at the same time? Not to mention the fact that the dryer and dishwasher are probably all running at upstairs at the same time. It makes me tired just thinking about it.
As a teenager, you fight for control over your life. Control is seen as supreme-- eat what you want, stay out as long as you want, go out with whomever you want. But we forget about the other side of the control coin-- responsibility. With control means responsibility for consequences, good and bad. It's not so much the good ones that bother us--getting paid for working is nice, and children are a nice byproduct of marriage-- it's the negative ones that are hard. Owning my home means raking the leaves. Eating and making what I want for dinner means washing dishes. Buying the clothes, car, furniture I want means making more money or eliminating that trip to the spa next week.
It occurs to me that the American Dream is not necessarily the responsibility, but the control. Lots of resources (time, money, stuff), and limited consequences. The problem is, other than during campaign season, those two things are rarely said to co-exist.
So, if you can think of a Tony who would be willing to come take all the responsibility at my house, I'd happily keep the control.
Well, I'm wondering where you go to order one of these so-called bosses for your home. Not the pint-sized, teenaged ones who think they know so much, but the Tony Macelli, vacuum the plaid curtains, fix dinner and slip in a little "How you doin?" every once in a while kind. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like being the boss at home is really less desireable a job than it's made up to be.
It first occurred to me a couple of years ago, when every day I would look down at the leaves that my dog was tracking in and think, "Man, that's annoying." "Oh, it's still there." "Isn't anyone going to pick that up?!!" That's when it hit me: no. No one is going to pick that up except for little old me.
Since then, it's been a down-hill slope of responsibility and multi-tasking. Picking up the groceries, the dirty socks, the kids from preschool. A lot of picking up involved. Who else but a mom can handle walking on a treadmill, reading the book-club novel, overseeing computer time and watching Dancing with the Stars at the same time? Not to mention the fact that the dryer and dishwasher are probably all running at upstairs at the same time. It makes me tired just thinking about it.
As a teenager, you fight for control over your life. Control is seen as supreme-- eat what you want, stay out as long as you want, go out with whomever you want. But we forget about the other side of the control coin-- responsibility. With control means responsibility for consequences, good and bad. It's not so much the good ones that bother us--getting paid for working is nice, and children are a nice byproduct of marriage-- it's the negative ones that are hard. Owning my home means raking the leaves. Eating and making what I want for dinner means washing dishes. Buying the clothes, car, furniture I want means making more money or eliminating that trip to the spa next week.
It occurs to me that the American Dream is not necessarily the responsibility, but the control. Lots of resources (time, money, stuff), and limited consequences. The problem is, other than during campaign season, those two things are rarely said to co-exist.
So, if you can think of a Tony who would be willing to come take all the responsibility at my house, I'd happily keep the control.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
A Quiet Night. Really.
The kids and I stayed in last night, which is a rare feat. On the way home, Sam asked, "Who's coming over tonight?" When I said no one, you'd have thought he had just lost the national championship.
But as we were sitting at the dinner table, Kate did something funny (who can remember it all!). Sam said, "I sure am glad I decided to have her."
"You are?" I asked.
"Yeah." and then he added some superlative-- she's a good girl or she's funny or something like that.
I just thought it was nice of him to decide to have a baby (ha!) and to mention that he was enjoying her. What a good night!
But as we were sitting at the dinner table, Kate did something funny (who can remember it all!). Sam said, "I sure am glad I decided to have her."
"You are?" I asked.
"Yeah." and then he added some superlative-- she's a good girl or she's funny or something like that.
I just thought it was nice of him to decide to have a baby (ha!) and to mention that he was enjoying her. What a good night!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Fall fun
I think someday it will be fall here. We had a little glimpse of it this week, but I hear the temp is headed up this upcoming weekend. Sunday afternoon was a perfect day-- about 78 degrees outside, sunny, not too windy. You just never know how many Sundays will be like that, so we headed to the park. We had a great time and took a few pics, below:
My big boy on his swing
Scary climbing accomplished!
Look at our big helper! We're so lucky that they enjoy playing together. 
Daddy's Girl 
Kate's a big girl!
What a big week it's been for Kate. She's potty training now and has been pretty successful in her pretty panties for the last week. Trained by the grace of God and sheer determination by my nearly-two-year-old.
Due to the potty-training, we moved her to a big girl bed too. (That really just means changing crib to toddler bed, but still, it's a big move.) She's done pretty well. She cries when I put her to bed now, but otherwise, has been great. She hasn't figured out to come out, and doesn't tear things off of her shelves or anything (yet). So far, so good.
As if that isn't enough, she got a new, big girl haircut. Since Miss Kate is against having her hair brushed, let alone pulled up or back or heaven-forbid with a barrette, I asked Rebecca to layer the back and not worry about the length. It's really very cute-- makes her eyes look so big. I don't have a good photograph yet, but you can see it in the pictures below.
Where did my baby go?!
BMB: Earned Potty Average
I told my husband last night that I think motherhood stress can be judged by a new statistic: Earned Potty Average. Its a count of the average number of times you go to the potty (there's that word again) in one hour. Use the following scale to determine daily craziness:
Less than 1: Big deal. I mean, my co-worker goes more than that on his own. You either have kids in diapers, which require entirely different statistics, or you've graduated to having potty soloists.
1-2: Average average. Maybe you have a preschooler that needs help wiping or a short daughter that can't reach the paper towels, but you're time committed is minimal. You're on your way to graduation!
2-3: Potty training is in season. You're definitely in there often enough to get to know the full lay of the land. Do you have to sing or read a book? Bonus points for that. You're probably even making a couple of unnecessary trips a day. Maybe a separate ratio should be tallyed for successful to unsuccessful trips. The lower the ratio, the more likely it is that we're eating out for dinner tonight. And don't ask why.
3-4: So sorry. At this level, you either have multiple potty trainers (twins, close-in-age children), or need to consult a doctor about potential bladder problems. I can't even imagine this level of potty trips, much less gather enough patience, encouraging words, or books to make those trips enjoyable. You probably need to consider investing in one of those blow-up portable potty seats a stranger told me about yesterday-- then little joey can go anywhere anytime! (As long as he can hold it long enough for you to blow up the seat, add the liner, and find a hidden place to put it.)
Oh, the drama.
Less than 1: Big deal. I mean, my co-worker goes more than that on his own. You either have kids in diapers, which require entirely different statistics, or you've graduated to having potty soloists.
1-2: Average average. Maybe you have a preschooler that needs help wiping or a short daughter that can't reach the paper towels, but you're time committed is minimal. You're on your way to graduation!
2-3: Potty training is in season. You're definitely in there often enough to get to know the full lay of the land. Do you have to sing or read a book? Bonus points for that. You're probably even making a couple of unnecessary trips a day. Maybe a separate ratio should be tallyed for successful to unsuccessful trips. The lower the ratio, the more likely it is that we're eating out for dinner tonight. And don't ask why.
3-4: So sorry. At this level, you either have multiple potty trainers (twins, close-in-age children), or need to consult a doctor about potential bladder problems. I can't even imagine this level of potty trips, much less gather enough patience, encouraging words, or books to make those trips enjoyable. You probably need to consider investing in one of those blow-up portable potty seats a stranger told me about yesterday-- then little joey can go anywhere anytime! (As long as he can hold it long enough for you to blow up the seat, add the liner, and find a hidden place to put it.)
Oh, the drama.
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