Meatballs

Tuesday night was dinner with the in-laws. They have cleverly moved it to basketball night, because basketball practice is all of 2 blocks from their house. Mary's helping me eat healthier, so she had some whole wheat spaghetti and meatballs for us. The kids LOVE spaghetti, though they are into spaghetti with butter and cheese, instead of sauce. I'm pretty sure sauce would be healthier, though messier. No matter, the meatballs were in a red sauce, and both kids like the meatballs, so Kate ended up with an orange face anyway.

Turns out, she loves the meatballs. They were little ones (frozen, I think, instead of Mary's larger homemade ones). I think she started with two or three, but she just kept asking for more and more and more. So I started rationing them to one at a time. It was really funny how many she was eating anyway, but then she said, "Hey! Something's missing!"

We all asked what was missing.

"Meatballs! There are no meatballs right there!" and she pointed to her plate.

It was so funny at the time. What a funny way for a two-year-old to ask for meatballs. Sam and I were cracking up. What can I say? She wants what she wants.

BMB: Mommy's Car or Toys 'R Us Boutique

I am no neat freak, just ask my mother. However, a new trend has started among my children that is turning my car from the grocery getter to a traveling toy chest.

I’m not sure how this kind of thing starts. I think it’s a compromise made in an effort to take less than 10 minutes from door to driving. “Can I take a Wii game?” “No.” “Can I take this very small lego man that I will cry after losing?” “No.” “MOM, can I please take Moosee?” “Sure, whatever it takes to get out of this door and into the car.”

So, now my car has become the resting place of many past-favorite toys. Past, because once they are lost in the pit of the car, they are out of sight and out of mind. There seems to be a necessity among my children to bring a bit of home with them into the car. Perhaps it’s a transitional item that helps them as they step into the great big world. Perhaps it’s a desire to have something that brother or sister doesn’t. Perhaps it’s a new way to stall the ever-impending reverse down the driveway.

Whatever it is, it’s a mess. So at least once a week, I demand that each child, particularly Sam, take his backpack, McDonald’s puppy, dirty socks, crayon drawing, and empty cup out of the car and into the house. “But Mommmmm,” I hear in the distance, “I can’t carry all of these things by myself.”

“Well, you carried it all out here, so figure it out. Maybe it will take more than one trip.”

Despite the messy process of cleaning up the mess, they are no less motivated to eliminate the carriage of extra items into the car. I think the only possible remedy is removal of all toys from their possession or the removal of their hands. Neither seems acceptable, so I’ll just start budgeting that additional 15 minutes on Thursday nights to clean it out. Again.

Now, I’m not sure who I can blame for the mess outside of the car….

My aging two-year-old

Kate has developed a new excuse for not doing whatever it is we're asking her to do… put on her coat, wear clothes, brush teeth, go to the potty, brush hair. Her new response is: "I can't hear you…" in a sing-songy voice. Sometimes it's preceded by a "WHAT?" "WHAT???!!!" We're looking into hearing aids.

We’re so busy

Kate's finally picked up on the family mantra. I remember Sam having the same discussion at about this age. It started Saturday morning. She got up and went to the bathroom, and when we stood to wash her hands, she said, "No brush teeth, mama. I'm too busy."

Later that morning, she claimed that she couldn't put on her pants because she was "too busy."

It's a pretty busy day when you're two-year-old is too busy for pants.

BMB: Me and My Big Mouth

I was feeling pretty sure of myself last week, however, when we had a special speaker talk to us about discipline. The speaker had read a book called Don’t Make Me Count to Three, and was sharing her experiences trying it out. We all laughed and lamented the joys of being the lead enforcer around the house, but all in all I was feeling pretty good about myself. My kids, though strong-willed (Kate) and sometimes a little too smart for their own good, are generally such good kids. So in control. I even told an example about how I just talked to Sam about how we handled an argument a few months ago, and he took it all in and we decided to make some changes. Problem solved.


I went home that night and thought about how to incorporate some of the ideas she had, like working on the root issue instead of reacting only to the specific event. For example, instead of only teaching kids to take turns with the Wii remote that just got thrown across the room, you use scripture to talk about how people are more important than the things that we have and how God wants us to love each other. Good stuff.

As the aura from the evening’s good discussion was just beginning to fade, my son lit into a huge tantrum about bedtime. Huge. Not only did he cry and throw a fit and say he didn’t want to go, he flat out REFUSED to go to bed. After a few minutes, my patience went out the window and I banished myself to my room mid-sentence to cool down before my yelling awoke Kate. I could tell you the blow-by-blow, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the textbook example that was given at our session.

I will give myself credit for ending fights well, and we always apologize and hug and talk about how to do better next time. So I went to bed feeling silly about my professed successful discipline methods, but no less secure in my parenting.

Queue the rest of the week: Sam has gone into a complete testing period where he wants to see just exactly where the boundaries are and see how far back he can move them. He has tried every technique in his arsenal, and I’ve used all of mine. The result? Frustration, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Who was I to think that I was some sort of parenting success story? I was blessed with good kids. I am blessed with a God who cares about them and cares about me, and who I believe can undo any of the damage I happen to do to them. Am I the success, or is God?

After a week of enforced bedtime, time spent in the “safe spot” at school, and a little help from Dad, Sam is starting to morph back into the well-behaved child I know. I am glad to know that he’s unleashing some of his craziness on his teacher as well, and it’s not solely for my benefit. (I told Stuart that Sam’s “not listening” trait was inherited from HIS side of the family.) I think I’ll live to fight another day.

One of the “experienced” mothers in the group asked last Wednesday, “Isn’t this all kind of exhausting?” Oh yeah.

It’s Not Your Fault…

This morning, Kate said something very funny. As if to confirm it in my head, she said it twice. The first time, I was just waking her up "from her nap" (everything is a nap to her, even overnight sleeping). Somehow, she hurt her finger. She said she bumped it on my arm. Who knows. Anyway, I said, "I'm sorry that my arm hurt your finger."

"It's okay, mommy. It's not your fault, it's my fault."

How funny. Usually kids are blaming other people, and here is mine trying to reassure me that I didn't do anything wrong. Now, she's two. So I know she's mimicking someone, but it's a nice thing to say anyway, and it made me think twice about becoming exasperated with the ongoing problems that mommy needs to solve.

In the middle of nowhere

Friday night, I met some friends for dinner up in Independence. I don't generally think of Independence as being far away, nor really entirely separate from the region I'd consider 'home world.' But I loaded the kids in the car and we headed off to dinner.

We were about halfway into the 15 minute trip to Red Robin, and Sam said, "I hate going to Red Robin. It's in the middle of nowhere!"

"WHAT? What do you mean "the middle of nowhere"? It's right by Costco!" was my response.

"I know, mom, but there aren't any houses by it. So that's the middle of nowhere."

We debated this for some time, but he was totally convinced that the corner of 40 Hwy and 291 was the middle of nowhere.

"Look at all those lights! How could this possibly be the middle of nowhere?!!"

I finally told him that if he thought this was the middle of nowhere, he needed to think back to when we went to Great-Grandma Sullivan's house and had to drive 45 minutes just to get to a movie theater. That's the middle of nowhere.

Somebody’s Missing Me

I think maybe I've mentioned it before, but Kate has the cutest bedtime ritual. I know that habits are unique to each child, because I think we approach it basically the same way we did with Sam, but she's modified it to suit her needs. After getting pjs on (We call them jammer pants. I don't know why.), we head to her room and sometimes read a story. Sam often sits with us on her bed to read the story, and I let each one pick one. Then Sam says good night, and we head to her rocking chair to rock. "Let's rock, Mommy," she says. When we rock, we sing. Not just me, we. She likes to sing "Jesus Loves Me," "Twinkle Twinkle," and "Hush Little Baby," which I do not know the end of but make up to rhyme, so she'll never know the difference. She sings full voice, and for Christmas we added "Away in the Manager," which she still likes to sing and often acts out. (She points to the sky for "stars in the sky" and looks down at the ground for "down where he lay"). We say prayers, and she's a very prolific prayer. She likes to thank God for Daddy and Mommy and my Sammy and Mamaw and Papaw and GrandmaGranddad, and Maddie and Kate! Oh, and now she says, "Thank you for all my family. Thank you for all my friends," when she's in the mood. It's all very cute.

I think the best part, and the saddest, is when she realizes that bedtime has arrived. She pulls up her blanket and says, "Somebody's missing me" in the saddest little voice you've ever heard. I'm not sure if she's missing someone, or if she thinks she's missing out on the fun, or what she means exactly. I always say, "I'm missing you, but I'll see you in the morning." She usually cries a little bit as I leave, but stops within about 30 seconds and goes off to sleep. It's a really sweet bedtime habit, and it's the same almost every night. "Somebody's missing me…"