Potty Training, Ph.D.

It's no secret that potty training Hannah has thus far been a long and relatively unsuccessful journey. But I may have figured out why. Hannah doesn't want to simply use the potty, she wants a Ph.D. in the subject. She will now sit on the potty (every 10 minutes), but somehow still manage to only pee in her pull-up. She can hold it for an entire day if she wants, only to soak a diaper at night. She talks about using the potty, reads copious books on the subject, and is even helping to train Jacob. She has the lingo down. "Oh, my pull-up is wet because I just couldn't make it on time. It was an accident." Accident, right. She sat on the potty for 25 minutes before peeing immediately upon exiting the bathroom.

I am convinced that she is slowly learning everything she can about the potty before committing to it as a useful tool. She is gathering data, exploring the evidence, and eventually she will come to a conclusion. Favourable or not, she will at the very least be making an informed decision.

Snug in Their Beds

It's Christmas Day night, and I know the expression "snug in their beds" really belongs to Christmas Eve, but tonight it just feels so fitting. After a fun family day, and then an impromptu visit with friends, we came home for a late dinner and as a result, later bedtimes. Jacob went right to sleep and I always find the sound of his deep, even breathing so soothing over the monitor. Hannah just called me up to bring her a teddy bear, and after tucking her in again (and her teddy bear), I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. There was my little girl, all cozy under her blankets, hugging her bear, ready to drift off. And right next door, her baby brother was still sound asleep, most likely hugging his blanket tightly to his chest.

Obviously, this same scenario plays out night after night; yet for some reason tonight it gave me pause. It must be the season. I am in the mindset for "Silent Nights" and children "all snug in their beds". There really must be something magical about the holidays when something as ordinary as bedtimes seem like a blessing. That, or I put too much Baileys in my hot chocolate...

Hannah Makes a Simile

Tonight, as Hannah stepped out of the bath, she said, "Brrrr... I'm freezing. I'm like an ice cube!" Oh, the joy of figurative language. Similes today, metaphors tomorrow, and then she'll be using intentional parallel structures in her speech.

And why not? She has mastered onomatopoeia... not just the animal sounds either, she can say the word "whine" with just the right inflection and a certain irritating something that actually defines the essence of the term.

Still, her little simile gave me a little smilie :)

We Have a Cereal Offender

Jacob has a problem. He is addicted to cereal. Addicted in the kind of way that leads to withdrawal symptoms when denied the stuff. We had to move all our cereal to the top of the fridge so he couldn't have access to it. He's working on building a ladder. He can barely say "Dad", but pronounces "cereal" with astounding clarity.

His personality actually changes when he has cereal in front of him. He becomes happy, relaxed, less prone to angry outbursts. So, of course, I keep feeding his habit. He has a tray full of Shreddies in front of him right now. And looks positively blissful. But when those are gone - watch out!

On the surface, and all things considered, it might sound like a harmless little obsession. A benign craving. However, if you saw his reaction to being denied some cereal, you would be forced to reconsider. This is no ordinary infatuation. I just hope he doesn't progress to harder substances... like lifesavers.

All is Bright

Today while we were driving home in the near-dark, Hannah was oohing and aahing over all the Christmas lights. She does this regularly. Jacob, through close observation and thoughtful analysis, has figured out that the sound effects and pointing correspond to lights. So he joins in, with unabated enthusiasm. His "oohs" rival those often associated with fireworks.

As we were driving, Hannah temporarily stopped her sounds of appreciation due to the fact that no houses had lights on this particular section of road. Jacob, however, continued pointing and exclaiming with wonder. Just as I figured out what he was doing, Hannah burst out with what can only be described as a serious accusation: "Mom! Jacob thinks the street lights are Christmas lights!"

Bless his little heart. For him, the night was full of wonders. Forget plugging in the tree, all we have to do is turn on a lamp...

Reconstructing Reality

Yesterday there was a function at Scott's office that involved many fun things for kids: face painting, Santa, life-sized snowmen, Rudolph, fire trucks, etc. As soon as we arrived, Hannah saw Rudolph walking around and she went into panic mode. When Frosty appeared, her terror doubled. She wanted to be picked up and carried around, but settled instead for clinging to my leg and whimpering. She wouldn't go near Santa and wanted nothing to do with the face painters. Fine. We had some snacks, watched a bit of "Frosty" on the big screen and then got ready to leave in order to be home in time for lunch and naps.

Strangely, as soon as Hannah was safely buckled into her car seat, she "remembered" that she hadn't gone in the fire truck. And she wanted to. She also realized that we'd "forgotten" to get a star on her cheek. "Those girls" were painting pictures on cheeks and she wanted a star... how come she didn't get a star, mom?

By the time we got home, she was excitedly telling me all about Rudolph at Dad's office, like he was her favourite part of the day instead the frightening monstrosity that had reduced her to a puddle of despair.

So, in the end, through her distorted recollections, I guess she had a good time after all. (Strangely reminiscent of the time we stood in line for 30 min. to ride a pony and then she refused, but talked about her pony ride the whole way home...)

Pre-Christmas Cheer (in song)

God bless me, whiny children
Cause nothing but dismay
Remember, soon it's bedtime
And then will end this day
To save me from these crying kids
Before I go insane
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

The Vacuum Saga Continues

I know I seem a little obsessed with my Electrolux (or specifically its filter), but really, this piece of equipment plays a major role in my everyday life. When we "lost" the main filter (meaning, somebody threw it out), I nearly lost my mind trying to get a new one. See earlier post(s) on this subject. Somewhat stupidly, at least in hindsight, I kept using the vacuum with just the fine filter. Eventually it stopped working properly. The motor struggled. I had pretty much ruined it. And while I loathe to cast blame when my own actions are clearly at fault, I feel quite strongly that the store that tried for 6 months to order me the correct part before finally going out of business is also partially to blame. Really, they just suck. Which is probably why they went out of business. But I've already blogged about that. This post is the continuation.

After accepting the sad fact that my Electrolux was rendered useless by my inability to replace a $2.99 filter, I finally made the difficult decision to buy a new one for approximately $100. So I stopped at Canadian Tire, a little bit excited by the prospect of ending my days with a dust pan and broom, only to discover that they only carry a bright orange model. A slight setback, but I remained undeterred. I bought my original black model at Costco, and even though I didn't see any the last time I was there, I was confident they still had some hidden away somewhere in their giant warehouse. No. I was wrong. Okay... so this wasn't looking so good. Suddenly my beautiful and rare charcoal coloured Electrolux that was sitting with the garbage in the garage was acquiring new value.

In a fit of desperation I decided to call Customer Service a second time. The first time they had directed me to the now-defunct retailer to replace my filter. I looked up the number. It was toll-free, but apparently Customer Service was only available Monday - Thursday, and then Saturday and Sunday. It was, of course, Friday. I called anyway. (As I said, I was desperate.) To my shock and delight, someone answered. And after hearing my woeful tale, he offered to send me a free filter. Where was he 6 months ago? I realize a free filter is most likely too little, too late; but still. There's a slight chance it might work. There's a slight chance I can revive the Electrolux. After all, no one was supposed to answer the phone on a Thursday. And when I tried to turn the Electrolux on, it didn't make the same terrible whining noise it made the last time. Maybe, just maybe, the motor isn't ruined.

But I won't try using it until I have that new filter. And I won't get excited about the filter until I have it in my hands and know that it actually fits into my obviously unique model. And even then, I won't get excited until I successfully suck up a pile of spilled Cheerios...

I Think the Pen Did It

Today, Hannah was drawing on a piece of paper on the coffee table with a pen. I asked her to put the pad of paper under her piece so she wouldn't draw on the table. She then proceeded to point out some mysterious marks on the table saying, "Like this? Look what happened here."

"Did you do that?" Scott asked.

"I think the pen did it," Hannah replied. She then looked at the pen, as if to check its culpability.

"Were you holding it?" Scott prompted.

"Yes," Hannah admitted (with a trace of something resembling guilt). "But I think it was the pen."

Ah yes, the pen. With a will of its own. Hannah was holding it; but in the end, it was still the pen that did it.

Cereal Brawl

This morning there was a cereal brawl in the corner of the kitchen. Hannah opened the cupboard to get her cereal, and then Jacob, who has a small cereal infatuation, muscled his way in front of her. Despite the fact that she'd only woken up moments before, Hannah instantly moved into high-drama mode. "Help! Jacob's pushing me! He won't get out of my way. Help!"

Jacob, picking up on her hysteria, began to move into his own meltdown crisis. Hannah had her box of cereal, Jacob had his. Yet the tears were only beginning. Apparently Jacob scratched Hannah's hand during the altercation at the cupboard, and Hannah wanted a red flag on the play. Meanwhile, Jacob couldn't understand why his cereal wasn't already in a bowl ready for him to eat. He upped the volume hoping that would help.

Two kids sobbing, clutching their boxes of cereal to their chests in wounded misery. Who knew cereal was such a contentious food source?

Turtleneck Twin

People who know me are aware that I happen to wear a lot of turtlenecks; however, I think I've made some progress in this area, as I try not to wear them all the time now. My first indication that I might be overdoing it occurred a few years ago when a student in my class asked me why I wore them so much. I said I liked them and silently vowed to introduce some new tops into my wardrobe. And I thought I had really done a nice job of holding onto a few stylish turtlenecks, while ensuring that I regularly rotated other (less cozy) tops into the mix.

Yet... just the other day, while we were in line for the drive-thru at Tim Horton's, Hannah pointed out excitedly that there was a woman in the parking lot who looked "just like you, Mommy!" I glanced over, but the mystery woman was already hidden in her car. I imagined she had blonde hair or something to that effect. Then Hannah continued, "Yeah, she looked like you. Wearing a turtleneck."

For all I know, this woman had dark, long hair and was 7 ft. tall. But because she was wearing a turtleneck, she apparently looked just like me. Oh well, there are worse things in life to be associated with than an article of clothing (and a reliably cozy one, at that).

It All Started Out So Innocently...

This morning began so nicely. Both kids slept in (that means until about 7:15, which still counts) and then we had a leisurely breakfast. We had nowhere to go and for the first time in awhile, things weren't rushed. I made tea, and got to enjoy it while the kids played peacefully. We went downstairs where I snuck in a shower, cleaned off the desk (a long overdue job), and threw in two loads of laundry. It was hardly 9:00 and already I felt so productive!

Around 9:30, I put Jacob down for his nap. Or tried to. By 10:00, I decided we would run our errands since napping apparently wasn't going to happen. I thought I was salvaging our morning. When our kids miss naps, it's never pretty. So off we went to take our Electrolux stick vacuum to a new vacuum store after 6 months of failed attempts to replace a simple $3.00 filter from another store that conveniently went out of business shortly after finally ordering the "right" part for us. Moments before leaving, Hannah tripped and hurt her foot (actually re-hurt it, but that's a whole other story). It was sore enough that we couldn't put a shoe on. Fine, we left with her wearing one shoe, one sock. My hopes were dashed at the vacuum store as I discovered that since we had been operating the vacuum without one of the two filters, the motor was now blocked and it would cost about as much to fix as to replace. And the guy was not too nice about it. I pointed out that the missing filter was the big particle filter and that we still had the fine filter so one would think that big particles wouldn't get through it. He countered that I must be wrong and that we were actually missing the fine filter. I have an indepth knowledge of our filter situation. I have spent half a year trying to replace this filter. I know exactly which filter it is, right down to the part number. Needless to say, I wasn't impressed. Besides, I had two kids with me. One who was knocking down all the display vacuums, and another who was limping along in a sock. I had better things to do than argue about a filter when in the end I was going to have to buy a whole new vacuum anyway.

We left, me carrying a useless vacuum, a squirming toddler that I was about to drop, an instruction manual and my wallet. I had to push the door open with my backside and try to herd my other limping child out without dropping anything on her head. We ran one more errand and then, to my dismay, both kids feel asleep in the car about 5 minutes from home. I could sense impending disaster.

And now it has struck. Full force. Instead of an hour and a half of quiet naps, I have had an hour and a half of Jacob screaming. He won't sleep. Even though he already missed his morning nap, he is of the impression that his 5 minutes in the car is enough for the day. Hannah, thankfully, opted to have her nap. Right now, she's the good child. Jacob, who is currently pretending to vacuum (is he mocking me?), is about to be given a second chance to prove the day is not all but lost...

Mind Your Pees and Poos!

Today I was peed and pooed out. First, Hannah tells me, after peeing in a pull-up that she "just had an accident". Oh, really? This, from the kid who has never peed on a potty in her life. But now that she sits on one, she thinks she's potty trained, so any pee in the diaper clearly qualifies as an accident. Don't ask where she even picked up that lingo. It must be from one of the many stories we've read about every other child on the planet who is already potty trained. Then, after I distinctly smell something suspicious coming from someone's diaper, I ask if she's pooed her pants. Her reply: "No, mom. I don't do that. I poo in the potty now." And with a tone that suggests I'm partially insane for even suggesting she might have gone in her diaper. Don't I know she uses the potty? If she knew how, she would have rolled her eyes and dismissed me with a toss of her head. Great. She thinks she done with the training and she hasn't even really started.

Next, Jacob. After his bath tonight, he pulled off his towel, walked over to the door and peed on the floor. I cleaned it up and went to pick him up to put a diaper on. As I was reaching for him, I realized he was, at that very moment, pooing on the floor! I very awkwardly carred him to the change table with poo dangling precariously from his bottom. I cleaned him up and asked Hannah, half-jokingly, if there was any poo on the floor. Oh, yes. In her words, "Yup. He did an ice-cream cone poo." Just for the record, she also likes to describe certain poos as "snowmen poo", which they actually do sort of resemble.

Regardless of size, shape, or colour, I have had enough of pee and poo for one day. Whether in a diaper or not, none of it is happening where it should be!

I've Created a Monster!

I have to start this entry in confession mode. The beginning of the tale does not paint me in a good light. And I am not proud of what I did. Furthermore, as it was happening, I was painfully aware that my motives were all wrong. Yet, in the end... well, let's just say I subscribe (at least for today) to the theory that the ends justify the means.

I visited a friend and watched as her much smaller toddler happily climbed on her potty and did her best to "tinkle". I felt a fresh wave of frustration with my utter inability to potty train my 3 year-old. Forget the training part, I couldn't even get her near the potty. The mere mention of underwear was enough to send her into paroxysms of panic and hysteria. So when I got home and Hannah once again noticed her foaming soap in the cupboard (awaiting the glorious day she decided to use a potty in any way shape or form), I again reminded her that all she had to do was sit on the potty. She didn't even have to pull her pants down. Heck, I was willing to capitulate if she even looked at the potty! She, of course, coyly refused. I sat her 1 year-old brother on the potty to show her how easy it was. She still refused. And because I was convinced she was refusing just to spite me, I insisted she at least try it, like her brother. She started to cry. And here's where it starts to get ugly, so brace yourself...

I sat down, blocking the door, and told her we weren't leaving the bathroom until she sat on the potty. Jacob sat on it again. I sat on it. We smiled. Wasn't this fun? She kept crying and refusing in a manner that was growing increasingly irritating to me. What was this? A toilet phobia? I finally lifted her up and carried her to the potty, while she clung to me in terror. As I attempted to lower her onto the seat, she practically ripped my shirt she was holding it so tight. Her legs were wrapped around mine and you would have thought I was lowering her into a pit of vipers by the way she was acting. I had no sympathy. I was envisioning buying shares of Depends since apparently my daughter was physically incapable of being in any kind of proximity to a toilet. I forced her down and pinned her to the seat. No easy feat. And, obviously, not a pretty sight. Please see my disclaimer in the first paragraph.

I let go of her and she sprung from the toilet like it had burned her. I pretended nothing unusual had happened. "Good," I said, "Now, you get to use your soap." I lifted her whimpering and defeated soul onto the counter and pumped some foaming purple soap into her hands. She was intrigued. No, she was converted. Immediately after rinsing it off, she said she wanted to do it again. "Do what?" I asked. "Use the potty," she replied. What!!??!!????

And she spent the rest of the night sitting on the potty, sometimes getting off to wash her hands, but then happily climbing right back on. And she even took her pants off. She was so proud of herself. She got everything organized in the bathroom to her liking (some books, a diaper on stand-by, etc.). She came out for dinner, but then announced that she "had to go the bathroom" again. She probably spent a total of 3 hours on the toilet. Never peed once, but still...

It's now her favourite place. She even asked me to "get out of here now" so she could have some privacy. We've gone from one extreme to the other. So yes, I practically tortured my child - but, in doing so, I forced her to face her fear... or something like that. All I know is that she wore a pull-up willingly and actually resisted a diaper at bedtime. And she sat on the potty. Forever. But that's so much better than never!

Clunk, Clunk, Clunk...

Jacob has been perfecting his stair climbing - a welcome skill as he is very heavy to cart up and down long flights. Recently, we removed the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs to the bedrooms - another welcome change as climbing over it was becoming tiresome (and there were times when I swear I pulled a muscle in a strange place trying to hoist myself over it while simultaneously twisting to avoid the collection of toys that had been thrown over it). You can probably see where this is going...

So tonight, I went upstairs to get the bath ready and Jacob was following me. He has gone up and down those stairs many, many times without incident. I continued ahead and was in his room when I heard an awful "clunk". In the millisecond between that first clunk and the successive series of clunks, I already knew in my heart what was happening.

Clunk, clunk, clunk (oh, how many steps was he going to fall?), and finally a thunk. And then wails. My heart racing, I looked down that long flight of stairs to see my poor baby sprawled at the bottom. To make matters worse, he knew I was to blame because he didn't even want me to hold him. He just wanted his daddy. The innocent party. The non-negligent parent.

In the end, he was fine. And it turns out the only thing bruised was my heart.

Who Can Say Where the Mind Goes?

Forgive me for being confused. One night, Hannah ate all of her broccoli and most of mine. She couldn't get enough. Great. Tonight, I made her favourite standby: chicken fingers and sweet potato fries. I served it. I also made broccoli, but it wasn't quite ready at the same time. Moments after delivering the first part of her meal, I added some delicious broccoli smothered in CheezWhiz (just the way she likes it). Suddenly, she pushed her plate away and started to cry. "I don't want broccoli! Why did you put broccoli there? I don't want any dinner any more!"

Seriously?

"Fine," I told her. "Don't eat the broccoli."

But no, the whole meal was ruined. Because I had the audacity to think she might actually like some broccoli. Because I was trying to cater to the crazy whims of a 3-year-old. How foolish of me.

While the Neighbours Watched... Part II

Back to the shoes. She ended up wearing them, after some negotiating that resulted in no socks. Somewhat appeased, she returned to the great outdoors. But Jacob was riding his toy that she wanted. Another meltdown. More negotiating. She relocated to the sandbox and proceeded to toss bowls of sand onto the lawn. I asked (or commanded) her to stop. A meltdown or perhaps a tantrum, depending on whether you focussed on the crying or the stomping of feet. I brought her back inside. Clearly, the neighbours had seen enough. And they were trying to enjoy their own few minutes of peace on this lovely fall afternoon. That, and I really had to get dinner started. I can't even remember what caused the next series of meltdowns. All I know is that Hannah spent the next while in her room deciding whether or not she could behave in a way that would allow her to rejoin us on the main floor. Eventually she came down, but stayed in her time-out spot on the stairs. And then, at long last, she asked in a very quiet voice if I would lift her over the gate. We discussed her behaviour (meaning I highlighted its unattractiveness using language far too sophisticated for her, but she agreed to everything I said), she apologized and we began anew.

Until she asked for some juice. Right now! And we hadn't even had supper yet... oh, the hours before bed can seem soooooo long.

However, as Gretchen Rubin says, and as I often find myself repeating, "The days are long, but the years are short."

While the Neighbours Watched... Part I

Today, as I was driving home with Hannah and Jacob, I thought, "What a beautiful day. We'll play outside and the kids will love it. Thank goodness for some sun, finally." (Or something along those lines.) We arrived home and went straight from the car to the backyard. Jacob was having a blast. Hannah was having issues. Serious issues. She started by taking off her shirt. I told her she needed to put it back on because it was too cold to be running around half-naked. She freaked out. I calmly offered 2 options: put on the shirt or go inside. She freaked out even more. And by freaking out, I mean running around the yard crying and screaming at the top of her lungs. People were out. They were watching (while pretending not to). I actually had to chase her (which made me both look and feel quite silly), and she kept getting away! She was dodging me left, right, and centre. Then when I finally caught her, she collapsed in a fit of hysterical sobs, thrashing wildly while I tried to carry her into the house.

Running around your yard after a half-naked toddler who is screaming, "No! No! No! Ouch! Owieee..." is slightly embarrassing. Not being able to catch her is demoralizing. I knew I couldn't give in - I had to win this battle. But did it have to be so public? I wanted so badly just to concede and let her play shirtless just to make the screaming stop. But I prevailed. And she sat sniffling on the couch until finally she decided she would wear her shirt. Victory. And then...

She refused to wear her shoes.

Thou Shalt Not Sleep

There are many "parent commandments", such as:

Thou shalt not have a moment's peace.
Thou shalt not ever be finished the laundry.

However, this weekend's feature was: Thou shalt not sleep.

Scott was away on his fishing trip and Hannah knew his side of the bed was empty. And she wanted in it. Desperately. Typically, she sleeps through the night and if we have to go in to anybody, it's Jacob. A quick drink of water and he's back to sleep. Then there was Friday night. Not a peep from Jacob. But Hannah woke up at 10:00 and rather strongly suggested that she should really be in bed with me. It took a bit of convincing, but I finally got her back to sleep in her own bed. Then she woke up again at midnight. I went in 5 or 6 times, each time rehashing the same argument about why she needed to sleep in her own bed. I was wearing down, but eventually she fell asleep and stayed asleep. Then came Saturday night. All was well until 2:00 in the morning. Hannah wasn't going to be swayed and I didn't have the energy to be in and out of bed like a jack-in-the-box, so I let her climb into bed with me. And instantly regretted it. She thought it was morning and wanted to go downstairs. She wanted to have bonding, mother-daughter conversations. She wanted to play with my hair. An hour and a half later, she was still whispering to herself, tossing and turning, while I made idle threats to send her back to her own room. Finally, she fell asleep. And as I drifted off, I entertained the foolish notion that perhaps Hannah would sleep in to compensate for the missing hours of sleep in the night. Sadly, yet also somewhat predictabally, she woke up early and began the routine all over again. "Mom, let's go downstairs. Mom, why aren't you getting up? Mom, is it time for breakfast? Mom, ..."

Sleep. I miss it.

When Did I Lose My Mind?

Somewhere between driving home from work, picking up the kids, and then feeding them dinner, I discovered that I had already lost my mind. I knew my frustration level was high, my patience level dangerously low, and that if I stepped on one more Cheerio I wasn't going to be held responsible for my actions; yet, I thought, or at least would have liked to believe, that I was still in some kind of possession, however precarious, of my mind. But as it happened, I was not. Because when I did step on one more Cheerio, and when Hannah began jumping off the couch onto the coffee table, and Jacob continued to whine and cling to my leg, I had no resources on which to draw. I might have even taken the Lord's name in vain, while talking to my mother (a sure sign of mental cognition being AWOL). I looked around my house. It was a miracle the only thing I had stepped on was a Cheerio - there were so many other likely candidates: pieces of cookie and cracker, toys, magnets, misplaced shoes, etc. The counters were covered with dirty dishes, food that really needed to go back in the fridge ASAP, books, and general flotsam from who-knows-what-or-where. Chaos. Physically, things were a disaster. Behaviour-wise, the kids were falling apart. Mentally, I was losing it (okay, had already lost it). And the only solution that I could think of was to pour myself a stiff rye and coke. Which I did, promptly. And it helped! A lot. Then I got out the Electrolux and vacuumed up all those Cheerios and cookie crumbs and pieces of cracker. I also fed the kids some Arrowroots to keep them quiet and happy while I attempted to restore some semblance of order to the mayhem around me. I'm not sure when my mind returned exactly, but it was somewhere between the drink and starting to clean up. I'd like to think that actively working toward a solution to the chaos was what led to the mental recovery, but deep down inside I credit that drink. Because as soon as I finished it, I poured another. And now... I feel fine!

Life Imitating... Well, Life

Hannah loves playing make believe and her imagination often leaves me dumbfounded. Generally, I am recruited to participate in her games as "just watching" is frowned upon. Today, we acted out a scenario where I was grandma. All I had to do was answer questions, but I was constantly called grandma. It made me feel old. Then again, there's another game where I'm the babysitter and she's the mom giving me all the instructions, so I guess it evens out in the end.

Tonight, while strategically trying to delay clean-up and bedtime, Hannah spent a lot of time "setting up her staff room". It was quite involved (meaning she pretty much emptied every toy/puzzle/piece of paper from every container to create this special space), but I have to admit, she could explain the relevance of every piece. And then how do you ask her to take it all apart when she just finished putting it together? The dismay in her eyes... it was enough to gain her an additional 10 minutes of playing.

I love watching her act out the most mundane scenes from our lives. After we spent a few minutes sorting some clothes, she then started bringing me clothes from her doll saying things like, "This is too small, it's size 500." And she's very serious about these re-enactments.

While I might not always relish the roles I'm given, I enjoy reliving our quotidian activities with a twist. A Twist of Hannah. Hmmm... might make for a better show than A Twist of Kate (albeit minus the pun).

I Wanna Get My Boogers Out!

A little nugget from Hannah:

Me: Don't pick your nose.
Hannah: But I wanna get my boogers out!
Me: Well, use a kleenex.
Hannah: No, I want to pick them out.
Me: That's gross.
Hannah: That's not gross. It's nice.

You Reap What You Sow

Often, when I talk to Hannah, I find myself saying things like:

"Stop being silly. Come and put your pajamas on right now."
or
"You're going to wake up your brother, stop screaming right now."

It sounds, to me, like a no-nonsense instruction. Assertive, if you will. Yet... when I hear those same types of statements echoed back at me, they have a whole new feel.

"I want a granola bar, right now."
or
"Get me a drink, right now."

Suddenly, what I hear is someone being downright rude. Demanding, even. Who taught my 3-year-old to talk to her mother that way? Oh, right. That would be me...

A Little Perspective

For the past year, I have been home looking after my 2 kids. And I will admit, at times I found it quite a handful. It felt busy, it made me tired, and often, it was frustrating. Then yesterday, I returned to work, or more accurately, to a classroom full of kids. The questions, the explanations, the demands, the reprimands (all familiar from home) but now multiplied by 30. I thought I was busy before? I thought I knew what it meant to be tired? Ha.

My first night home after a day at work, 2 kids seemed almost laughably easy. Especially when only one of them can talk! Strap Jacob in the highchair and give him a cookie and he's done for a bit. Let Hannah have a juice box and that's her happy for a while. Turn around to see who else needs something and... that's it? No one else lurking in the background? No crowds swarming in on me to ask the same question I just answered 15 times?

I knew this would happen. First I romanticized going back to work. Ahh, a break from the kids. Now I'm romanticizing being home with them. Just them. Just 2 of them. It seems so manageable.

The grass is always greener...

What Do You Mean "The Door is Locked?"

Today, I took my husband and 2 kids to my school to do some last minute preparations. I expected it to take no longer than 20 minutes. I had to re-do my hallway bulletin board because the teacher across from me not only copied mine, but made hers better. Scott was removing the old letters and staples from the cork, Hannah was collecting them, and Jacob was basically just running around. Then, as he likes to do, he pushed the door to my classroom shut.

"I hope that wasn't locked," Scott said.

"No, of course not," I replied. Why would it be locked? I had just unlocked it. In order for it to be locked I would have had to intentionally locked it again before removing my keys. And why would I have done that?

I reached over to open it and... it was locked. We were stuck in the hallway in a completely empty school with our car keys, purse, etc. all inside my locked classroom. Great. Jacob clapped his little hands in glee. Oh, wasn't he just a little cutie at that moment?

We made our sorry way to the staff room where I made the embarrassing call to a fellow colleague detailing our plight. Mercifully, she came to our rescue, despite the fact that she was on her way out the door for an evening out. While we were waiting for our rescuer to arrive, Jacob wreaked havoc in the staff room (all evidence since destroyed or put back to order).

The moral?

School is no place for kids.

Something's Not Right Here...

Okay, most readers are aware of the fact that Hannah, who is 3, is not potty trained. And she's not even close - meaning she won't go near the potty. I have (sort of) accepted the fact that I can't force the issue. I am waiting for her to "be ready". Apparently she's in no hurry to "be a big girl". Or so you would think...

Imagine my shock, then, upon hearing this little tidbit from her: "Look at my legs, mom. I have sharp hairs. I need to shave my legs."

Shave her legs!! She has no interest in wearing underwear, but she wants to shave her legs? I sense of complex evolving. Next thing I know, she's going to want to go out on dates... in a diaper.

Driving Me Crazy

I have often used the expression "driving me crazy" when referring to certain behaviours my offspring seem inclined to engage in; however, after a 4-hour trip in the car, the expression gained literal value.

Who knew a 3-year-old could talk for 4 hours straight? And that every single utterance would require some sort of acknowledgment or response from me? Grunts or noncommittal answers did not count. "What you say? I didn't hear you, mom!"

I have never in my life so keenly felt the need for peace and quiet. I just wanted to be able to form a complete thought in my head without being interrupted to explain why I didn't see whatever that was out the window. Or to answer a string of loosely related questions that all began with WHY? Or to sing another song. "Why you stop, mom? Is that the end? Let's start again!" A personal favourite with the singing is the request for a song I've never heard of.

"Can you sing the mouse water song?"
"I don't know that one."
"The mouse water one. Sing it!"
"How does it go?"
"The mouse in the water... okay? Sing it now."
"I still don't know it. You sing it."
"No! I want you to sing it. Sing the mouse water song. (pause) Mom? Why aren't you singing?"

I asked for a brief reprieve. I pretended my mouth was tired and needed to stop talking for a bit. That didn't work. I said I needed to concentrate so we didn't get lost. That prompted a whole new line of questioning about whether or not we were going the right way. I thought she might sleep, but no. So I continued to answer questions, then explain my answers in excrutiating detail, repeat myself over and over, sing songs, pretend to see things out the window, and generally keep up a non-stop form of chatter all the way home, and like the little pig, at times, I too, felt like crying.

A Nifty Little Trick

Jacob learned a nifty little trick the other day. It's called stuff-your-face-full-of-food-until-you-choke. Prior to learning this trick, he would eat snack foods at a normal, intelligent pace. A few in the mouth, chew, swallow, repeat. Placing a bowl of dry Cheerios in front of him was not a dangerous proposition.

However, while visiting friends at their cottage, Jacob observed their son performing the afore-mentioned trick with gusto. He seemed to like what he saw for he imitated it at the next opportunity. We were outside on the deck and I had given him a bowl with Bear Paw crackers and one Arrowroot cookie. A few minutes later, he was gagging and crying. His mouth was stuffed to the point where he couldn't even close it (or breathe, really). As I desperately scooped the gooey and disgusting half-chewed mess from his mouth, I couldn't help but be a little impressed by the sheer volume he had managed to cram in there. When it became clear that he could breathe again (and thus, so could I) I was amazed to see him immediately reach for another handful to shovel in. He was undeterred, to say the least.

If it had been a one-time incident, I would think of it no more. But, alas, this morning, while I was unpacking the last of our bags I heard a familiar gagging sound. I turned to see Jacob with an open sleeve of Arrowroot cookies in his hands, a few piles of regurgitated cookie on the floor, and bulging cheeks. His mouth was open because he was in the process of trying to cram another cookie in even while he was choking on and spitting out what was already in his mouth.

I'm so glad his eating habits have taken this new and exciting turn...

Trees and Treasures

The other day we went for a family walk to find 2 geocaches near our house. The first one was easy (Scott already knew where it was) , but it still required some searching through a "forest" of trees. Hannah helped me find it and thought the trees were "just like camping". The next one was much harder to find, and involved a long, and at times frustrating, search through a small row of trees. Hannah, who had no idea what we were looking for, was very diligent in looking for something. Then, on the way home, as we passed some trees on someone's front lawn, she said, "Maybe there's a treasure hunt in those trees!"

She's going to be just like Scott, who now looks for geocaches everywhere.

D 9 1 8

Today in the car Hannah was pretending to spell things. She started to spell her name (and she really only knows that it starts with an H), when I interrupted to help her. "No mom," she said. "I'm telling you!" And thus, the following ensued:

Hannah: My name has 2 Ds.

Me: No, it doesn't.

Hannah: Yes, it does. I usually start with D. Like Daddy. Okay, it just has one. It's D 9 1 8.

Me: That's how you spell it?

Hannah: Yes. It has numbers. It used to have numbers, but then I took them out because I didn't like numbers in it. I pressed a button and then they fell off. That's how you get rid of the numbers. But sometimes there's tape and they're stuck. Like a sticker.

There was more. And I wish I could remember it. I wish I had tape recorded the whole conversation because I'm not doing it justice at all. Regardless, it was highly entertaining - her logic and her imagination always intrigue me!

Does This Make Me a Bad Mom?

This weekend we went camping again with the kids. Unlike our last camping trip, the weather was quite cool, especially in the evenings. I put Jacob to bed in the tent wearing a cozy sleeper with his favourite blanket and then a warm, fleecy blanket as well. He struggled a bit to get to sleep, par for the course when camping. Eventually, he fell asleep and the rest of us huddled around the fire for warmth. By the time we crawled into our tent it was really cold. In fact, I slept in my pants and socks under 2 sleeping bags and still felt a bit chilled. Hannah was next to me and I kept checking to make sure she was still under the sleeping bags; however, I guess because he was sleeping, I didn't worry about poor Jacob. I knew that Scott, who is normally a furnace at night, was cold and you would think that alone would have set off an alarm bell - but no.

So back to poor Jacob. At one point, he woke up crying and when Scott picked him up to comfort him he realized he had peed through his sleeper (incidentally, Hannah had also peed through her pajamas at the same time). It was only then that we realized how cold Jacob was. He was actually shivering and his little hands were ice cubes. He had long ago wiggled out from his blanket (which probably wasn't warm enough anyway) so while we were shivering under our heavy layers of sleeping bags, Jacob was lying in his cold Pack-n-Play wearing nothing but a sleeper. Pretty much exposed to the elements. Suffering quietly. I think he might have peed just for the warmth.

Needless to say, he spent the rest of the night tucked up against me where he slept quite peacefully. My guilt forced me to accommodate his preferred snuggling positions, which resulted in almost falling off the mattress, with my back exposed to the cold (I deserved that), and my head cocked at an unnatural and extremely uncomfortable angle. I deserved that, too.

Jacob, for his part, appears no worse for wear. And we're done with camping for this year. By next summer, he'll be old enough to sleep in his own sleeping bag. All tucked in nice and warm. And by then, I will have done something else to earn the mother-of-the-year award!

Hannah's First "Real" Joke

Hannah heard a few "Knock Knock" jokes at the babysitter's house and when she got home, she tried to make some of her own over dinner. Most didn't work, or even make sense; however, at a point where she was more or less talking to herself, she actually came up with one that I thought was quite clever. Okay, she wasn't really talking to herself, she was talking to her food - which provided the material for her little witticism.

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

(Answering herself) My applesauce! Oh, come in, Applesauce.

I can't! I don't have any feet.

And then followed a sort of maniacal laughter which is new for her and not nearly as funny as her little joke. It's especially not funny when you hear it 16 times a day... actually, it's a little bit creepy.

Shiny, Happy People...

Hannah likes to put Vaseline on her imaginary cuts (just a tiny bit, okay, mom?) and usually demonstrates enormous self-restraint when applying it. Until the other day when she emerged from the bathroom looking like... well, just look at the photo. She attempted to justify the obvious overkill by claiming she had little cuts all over. I was partly dismayed, partly amused, but mostly grossed out.

Her skin is really soft now, though.

Oh, and the picture doesn't even do it justice. Her whole neck was covered, and the stuff on her face was layered on thick!

What the Boy Will Eat

In an earlier post, I bemoaned the fact that Jacob, who is over one year, is not really jumping at the chance to eat finger foods. He prefers to be spoon-fed pureed food and usually spits out anything with chunks. He was progressing a bit, however, by eating jarred food with whole peas in it. Whole peas! Imagine!

Very recently, he has started to express an interest in food from my plate. And lo and behold, the child can actually chew. He will eat toast (his first successful toast experience included chocolate sprinkles - it's a Dutch thing, not just an unhealthy thing). And he will eat macaroni salad, if it's from my plate. If it's not, he will spit it out and then spit out anything to follow that has any type of chunk in it whatsoever (including the peas in his jarred food that he's been eating for awhile). Which is proof that his unwillingness to eat real solids has more to do with his mindset than any actual issues, say, chewing or swallowing chunks.

He will also eat pretzels and Crispers. And chips. Oh, and popcorn. Not exactly ideal finger foods, but I'm willing to experiment if he is. Now if only I could get him to eat cheese, or ham, or grapes, or blueberries, or veggies. Then we'd be onto something!

What is With the Whining?

Why do little kids whine so much? Can't they see it irritates their parents (not to mention anyone else within hearing distance)? Don't they realize it is not the best approach to getting what they want? Are they unaware of the correlation between whining and being sent to another room (preferably floor) of the house?

Hannah can start making preliminary whining noises in anticipation of events. For example: if she's playing with something and Jacob (on the other side of the room) moves even one muscle, she immediately switches to "whine" mode. "No, Jacob. Don't! Jacob's coming over! He's going to wreck my (whatever she's doing)." In his defense, Jacob might only have blinked in her direction. In Hannah's defense, Jacob does often come over and destroy whatever she's trying to set up, play, etc.

Still, is the whining really necessary? I don't know how to make it stop. It's as if it's a default setting, pre-programmed to initiate at the slightest provocation. And then I have my own default setting that seems to engage at the repeated sound of whining. It's called: Mom is getting really annoyed!

Potty Training - Success!

The other day, while playing "babysitter", a game which involves me being the babysitter and Hannah being the mother giving me instructions (some verbatim from actual interactions with the babysitter and some straight out of the mind of a three year-old), Hannah informed me that her baby was wearing underwear because she could use the potty. She further informed me that when this baby used the potty I was to give her Smarties, purple foaming soap, and stickers for her special potty paper. She allowed that the baby might still pee through the bed and provided a specific blanket I was to use to put under her if that occurred.

So there you have it: Hannah has successfully potty trained one of her dolls. This is the same child who refuses to wear a pull-up, let alone underwear. And actually sitting on the potty? No way in you-know-where. Perhaps I should ask Hannah for some tips, since she seems to gave a good strategy in place (and whatever I'm doing obviously isn't working). After all, the baby she potty trained isn't even walking yet!

A Cute Conversation

At dinner, I was telling Scott what Hannah had told me she was going to buy when she was bigger. He turned to her and asked, "How are you going to make money?"

She replied, "It's already made, dad."

Alright, good point. "But how will you get the money?" he persisted.

"I'll open the thing in the bottom of my piggy bank and pour it into my hand," she answered.

"Okay, but how will it get into your piggy bank?"

"There's a place you put it in the top."

"And where do you get the money to put there?"

"I take it from the thing on your nightstand."

So literal. So innocent. If only life stayed that simple...

Car Seat Craziness

Whoever designed car seats that have to be taken completely apart to be cleaned obviously never had kids who got car sick. A long time ago, when Hannah was about 1, we were driving home from up North. Suddenly, I could smell bananas. "Do you smell bananas?" I asked Scott (for it seemed quite strange). I turned around to see if Hannah had somehow unearthed a banana from somewhere and, lo and behold, she had puked all over herself. And yes, she had bananas for dinner. So began my intimate acquaintance with car seat disassembly and reassembly. After removing the entire harness system and all the associated clips and buckles, I always feel a slight amount of trepidation when putting it all back together. Did I do it right? Should I really be allowed to assemble a car seat and all it's multiple component parts?

Then one night, literally 5 minutes from our destination, Jacob threw up. Great. Apparently, he gets car sick too. Hannah was very excited. "Look, Jacob puked! I didn't know he did that like me!" However, unlike Hannah, Jacob is not old enough for Gravol.

Tonight, after a long drive I pulled up to the house and turned the car off. It had been a good drive. I actually remembered to give Hannah her Gravol and Jacob slept most of the way. I let Hannah out and went around to Jacob's side. He looked up at me, opened his mouth, and projectile vomited. Three times. I was so close to having him out of the car! And trust me, I would rather he had been sick all over me than all over his car seat.

You would think with all of my experience taking apart the car seat I could do it with my eyes closed. At the very least, you would think it would be painless and quick. But no. Those stupid plastic harness guides are next to impossible to get out. I have never not broken a sweat removing them. Not to mention, the lovely sensation of having one hand feeling blindly through sticky puke while the other hand tries to pinch the plastic lips together from the bottom. While attempting this feat, the actual car seat has to be held in an awkward angled position allowing exposure to both the bottom and the top, which doesn't really help since you can't see what you're doing anyway because the harness guides are recessed and hidden behind other parts of the car seat. Incredible design. Then for the cleaning, most of the parts are "surface clean only with a damp cloth". A damp cloth? That's just not going to cut it. Scott wanted to take the whole thing to the car wash and pressure wash it, but we compromised on using the garden hose to blast off most of the mess. It worked a lot better than a damp cloth! Now I just have to wait for everything to dry and then I have the joy of trying to put it all together again. I can hardly wait.

Tents and Toddlers

We are back from a week of camping at Elora Gorge, where I learned that while sleeping in a tent is exciting to a toddler, it does not mean that said sleeping will occur when it should. Several factors contributed to the "there's no such thing as bedtime" phenomenon I had the joy of experiencing night after night.

1. Tents do not get dark until after 10:00
2. Tents are very hot, requiring all window coverings to remain open, allowing tired toddlers to see you and all the exciting things they are missing by being "put to bed"
3. Tent zippers are easy to open

At home, my kids go to bed at 6:00 and 7:00. I am used to having my evenings to myself. I like to relax. I had visions of drinks around the campfire, talking with adults, while my children slept peacefully nearby after an exhausting day spent entirely outdoors with relatively no naps to speak of. I was open to extended bedtimes. I am not a shrew. Heck, we were still at the beach at 8:00 (long past regular bedtimes). Returning from the beach, I had both kids in pajamas and so tired it was all they could do to keep their eyes open on the drive back to the campsite. Yet... they would not go to sleep!

Approaching 10:00, I was so uptight (not to mention, bewildered) that I stopped enjoying myself temporarily. Having my kids awake at that hour was unheard of. At home, when routines are disturbed the consequences are almost always disastrous. I was afraid to contemplate what the morning would bring. Tiny, terrible monsters, I was sure. But they woke up early (very early) and seemed to be fine. In fact, they were fine all day. Until bedtime. And one would think that I would have learned to accept the fact that they would be up late and that was okay. But no. I had another near-meltdown. And in the morning, they were fine again. I guess being in a novel environment (not to mention having all other routines thrown out the window) curtailed the usual outcome of an extremely short night's sleep.

The kids were having a great time. They were no worse for wear for staying up so late. I was the only one suffering, and at my own insistence. But now, the power of hindsight has allowed me to recognize I just needed to go with the flow. So that's what I plan to do on our next camping trip - a few short weeks away.

Although I'm also secretly hoping that their experience and comfort with sleeping in a tent will aid them in sleeping earlier! Oh, and for the record, Jacob is still weaned.

While I Was Camping

As per previous posts, Jacob, at 13 months, was still not completely weaned - as in, he was still nursing in the middle of the night. We joked about the idea of going away for a weekend and leaving the kids with grandparents, all the while pretending he was weaned so that he would be by the time we returned. We never did that, but this past weekend was close to the same idea. I went camping. Without the kids. Scott stayed home, knowing that he would be "weaning" Jacob while I was away.

I returned. And here's what happened while I was gone. On Friday night Jacob woke up at around 10:30pm. Scott gave him water. He went back to sleep and didn't wake up until 7:00 in the morning. Repeat for Saturday. He has never done that in his life. And I was actually feeling a little bit bad for Scott and the terrible nights I was sure he was having. When I came home Sunday my baby boy was done nursing. And it all happened without incident. It was too easy.

Fast forward to Sunday night. Jacob wakes up around 10:30. Scott gives him water. I'm looking forward to my first night in a LONG time without having to get up in the night. Ahh, it feels great. Then it's midnight and I'm jolted out of a deep sleep by a crying Jacob. More water. More crying. It seems he knows I'm home and water just isn't going to cut it. So I give him Tylenol. A brief reprieve. But around 2:00, he wakes up again! And again around 3:30. And then again sometime just before 5:00. Can he sense me in the next room? Why did he do so well while I was gone? And the bigger question: what's he going to do over the next 4 days when I go camping again, this time with him, and he's sleeping a few feet away from me in the tent?

I shudder to think of the implications.

Don't Cry Over Spilled Juice

I was pouring Hannah a nice cup of fruit/hidden veggie juice at lunch today. Her cup and the juice container were on the fold-out leaf of the island. Hannah leaned on it to look and the whole leaf collapsed. The full juice container and her cup (no lid yet) started pouring out onto the floor. Hannah started crying in terror. Jacob, safely in his high chair, looked from me to Hannah with an I'm-about-to-cry expression. He let out a few whimpers and then decided it wasn't really worth it. Hannah, however, was in full-blown hysterics. I was frantically wiping up juice with paper towels that are not nearly as absorbent as they appear on commercials. When the main pool was soaked up, I switched to tea towels. I noticed that the juice had also splattered all over the oven door and the lower cupboards. Wonderful. Jacob was patiently waiting for me to finish feeding him his lunch, while Hannah wailed, and I kept on wiping and wiping and wiping.

After all the juice was cleaned up, the floor was disgustingly sticky. Perfect job for the steam mop! Some hot steam, a little vinegar, and I wouldn't have to come into any more close-up contact with the floor... except my steam mop isn't working. Again. So, out came a bucket and some Pine Sol. I got on my hands and knees, right in the middle of the sticky mess, and started scrubbing (and I actually had a shower today, too - so much for being clean). Hannah had now recovered and was busy eating my grilled cheese. I sat down to salvage some of my lunch and looked over to discover that the juice had actually splattered on the ceiling! And not just a little bit.

Alright. I had to clean the ceiling, but I knew from past experience that the California-style finish does not respond well to being tampered with in any way, shape, or form. I got out the Mr. Clean sponge and started wiping the juice off very lightly. With every tender touch, the finish on the ceiling smeared. So now there's an orange, smudged, somewhat-ruined section on the kitchen ceiling.

Meanwhile, Hannah had been badgering me for a new cup of juice. After the floor had dried, I rinsed her cup and re-filled it. Juice poured out the bottom all over the counter. Are you kidding me? Her Tupperware cup (with a lifetime guarantee) was cracked. This prompted a whole new round of tears. I got her a new cup (that she did not want, and was quite emphatic on this point) and filled it with what was left of the juice.

My floor is still a bit sticky. The ceiling is wrecked. I wish we were talking about spilled milk here, because at least the cats would have helped lick that up (and it would have matched the ceiling). And I know it's gross, but Hannah has also been known, on occasion, to get down on her tummy and lick up any milk the cats have missed. It's true. And it's happened more than once. The kind of moments that make you proud.

A Dangerous Game

I know just as well as the next parent the folly of comparing one's child to other people's. But it's really hard not to do! Last night I was at book club with a group of women who all have children around the same ages as mine. Inevitably, we talked about our kids. Someone's son, a few months younger than Jacob, said his first word on the weekend. It was: "everybody". Everybody? Four syllables, maybe five, depending on how you pronounce it. Jacob's first word was "uh oh". Not even really a word... more of a sound effect. This same boy (who is not yet one) eats steak. Steak! Jacob is still struggling to progress beyond the mush stage. He's just not interested in solids, which means that on this very hot morning, I am steaming carrots, and have some sweet potato and a butternut squash in the oven. Ughh.

Another child, born a few short weeks ago, is sleeping through the night. Jacob is not. And never has. I need not elaborate.

However, I'm not the only one comparing and sizing up. We discussed head sizes at length... and determined that although some kids' heads were "off the charts" they did not appear to be bobble-heads. Reassuring, no? It was for them. I don't believe we're judging our kids when we contrast and compare, we're just - okay, I don't know what we're doing, but it's almost therapeutic.

I'll know it's a problem when I break out the flash cards to start teaching Jacob multi-syllabic words before he's quite mastered "mama" (which is two syllables, for the record, and also French).

A State of Disarray

Those who know me are familiar with my never-ending attempts to achieve total organization in my house. For the record, I've never even come close! But I continue to dream about the day it finally happens. Whenever I organize one small piece (say, a closet), I get a little thrill every time I see it in all its ordered glory. I am cursed with craving organization and order while lacking the energy and motivation to actually get there.

I've read articles about people who embrace their disorder and clutter. They rationalize it by saying they'd rather play with their kids than do the dishes, read a story instead of vacuum, etc. And I get it. When my kids are both napping, I would rather nap myself or read a book over doing any kind of housework. Which is, in fact, exactly what I do... which is why my house never looks the way I would like it to. Still, I can't embrace the mess. Here's why. I have friends who have kids (same ages as mine) and their houses are always tidy and clean. And they play with their kids. They do crafts, go to the park, read stories. They make baby food and prepare lunches and dinners that are magazine worthy.

If I compared myself to them (and I do, because I wish I could be as "together" as they are) I would feel inadequate. I don't want a perfect house. I just want a tidy house. I want someone to come over unannounced and not have to "explain" the mess. I want to invite someone over for tea and not run around trying to make the main floor presentable while hoping they don't have to go upstairs for any reason. Is that too much to ask?

As I write this my dishwasher is waiting to be emptied and my dirty breakfast dishes are cluttering up the counter. Jacob is in bed, so it's the perfect time to tidy the kitchen (he likes to "help" by climbing into the dishwasher or taking out the dirty dishes as you put them in). Yet, I feel absolutely no incentive to get in there and actually do it. I hate how messy the kitchen looks right now, I know how much I love looking having clear counters, it's just the in-between part that appears to be my stumbling block.

I need to strengthen my resolve and take action! I must seize the moment while Jacob sleeps (because it really might only be a moment or two) and tackle the kitchen! I am counting on all of these exclamation points to inspire me... and so, fresh from typing them, I am off create one small area of order within the larger state of disarray.

Patience: Ill-Rewarded

Today was a rough day for Jacob. He's not feeling well, skipped his morning nap entirely, and then had a short afternoon nap. Hannah had a long afternoon nap and woke up with some extra energy (which made her very silly, or annoying, depending on your mood). Scott had to leave right at dinner time to set up the fireworks in New Hamburg, so I was on my own with two somewhat high-maintenance kids. No problem. Been there a hundred times.

We finished dinner and I took both kids up for their bath. I was planning on a nice, relaxing way to end the night. A soothing antidote for Jacob's crankiness. A calming influence on Hannah's hyper state. A stress-reducer, if you will. Ahhh, warm water, bubbles... sleepy children...

Instead:
Hannah wanted the spot Jacob was sitting in. So I moved him. Then I went to wash her hair and she FREAKED out. "I don't want my hair washed! Stop it! Don't, mom! Jacob's touching my toys! No Jacob!" Tears. Thrashing. I tried to explain that I needed to wash her hair so that I could take Jacob out and leave her to play. Then she could have all the toys. Then Jacob wouldn't be in her way. But she wasn't listening, because she was screaming. Did I mention the thrashing? I do not enjoy thrashing in any environment, but in the tub it's not only extremely aggravating, it's dangerous. And poor Jacob was trying to resolve his crankiness issues in a relaxing bath, while his sister created chaos and hazards all around him. My blood pressure had already been rising steadily, my temper slowly steaming. I didn't realize it was possible to take such deep breaths through your nose. And then, I am sad to admit, I lost it. I meant to use a stern voice, but it came out more as a frustrated shriek: "Hannah Banana!" (I know, not exactly what I expected either.) And then I continued with some vague, mostly incoherent threats about taking her out the tub right now, etc. etc. and it all sounded a lot meaner and out-of-control than it does now. I promptly removed the innocent Jacob from the tub and took him away to get ready for bed. I then returned to Hannah and tried to talk calmly and rationally about her behaviour. She apologized. We moved on.

Except I didn't move on, because I tend to obsess about things. And I was obsessing about my temper explosion. Not because of what I did or said, but because of what I wanted to do and say. It wasn't good. I felt guilty for being so quick to snap. So I resolved to be more patient. To keep my temper in check. And how did that work out, you ask?

Like this:
Hannah took advantage of my patient demeanor. She asked to go outside 5 dozen times. She ignored me. She wouldn't go to bed. She brushed her teeth for 20 minutes. She woke her brother up with her antics. She wanted more stories. And through it all, I waited calmly. I spoke softly. I smiled. And then I came downstairs to write this long post about it so I can "let it go" while patiently waiting for my blood pressure to return to normal.

Feel My Feet

Yesterday Hannah was playing outside in her crocs. When she came in, she took her shoes off, almost slipped on the floor and said, "Oh, my feet are all sweaty." Then, with genuine enthusiasm, she added, "Feel my feet, mom! They're all sweaty!"

Ummm, no thanks?

Yet, she so expected me to jump at the opportunity. Her little foot proffered in the air. Face alight with this exciting discovery.

Really, her innocence is endearing. Her sweaty feet... not so much.

The Affirmative Why

I understand that with toddlers, the inevitable "why" stage must occur. And it makes sense that as they try to understand the world around them, they ask questions - lots and lots of questions. It also goes to follow that many of those questions are simply expressed as "why?", with each successive answer followed by yet another round of "why?"s. It also makes perfect sense to me, that when something is denied (say, another cookie) an explanation is demanded. However, what I find strange, is the affirmative "why". See examples below:

Hannah: Can I have a cookie, please? (notice how I make her sound so polite?)
Me: Sure. (I am very generous and kind)
Hannah: Why?
Me: Because you asked for one!

Hannah: Can I put this blanket on the chair?
Me: Sure.
Hannah: Why?

Hannah: Am I being really loud?
Me: Yes.
Hannah: Why?

It just seems odd to me. It's like she's pre-programmed to ask "why" in any interaction, whether applicable or not. And what I want to know is...

WHY?

Can We Have a Do-Over, Please?

It's 8:30am and I've been up for 2 hours. Two of the longest hours of my life, it seems. I'm not sure quite what happened, but somehow both kids woke up in terrible moods. Mine quickly disintegrated to match theirs. I started taking a deep breath each time I went to speak to avoid snapping. Soon I was taking a deep breath, counting to ten, closing my eyes, plugging my ears... didn't help. Jacob wouldn't leave me alone and Hannah was having her own personal crises every few seconds. Somehow in all the chaos, I managed to get a load of laundry in and the dishwasher emptied (and then filled again, tells you something about the state of my kitchen). As I finally carried Jacob up for his morning nap, I could hear Hannah crying that she wanted a pretzel. Not just crying - a really annoying combination of whining/crying/panicking that she has perfected and employs regularly.

Now Jacob is in bed and blessedly quiet. Hannah is badgering me to "touch the H" on the computer, now she's fallen on the floor in a fit of despair, saying "Owie, owie" (her way of seeking sympathy when she's in trouble or upset for any reason), oh, she's up again and asking for a balloon that blew away yesterday. Is it just me or is she practically seeking out disappointments to support her current mood?

My only hope is that when my family arrives (they are on their way as I type - or they'd better be), their arrival will alter the dispositions my kids acquired over night. And since Jacob is in bed and not hanging off me right now, I'm going to have a cup of tea that I trust will alter mine...

A Few of My Least Favourite Things

Teardrops on faces and whining from kiddies,
strange shrieking noises and cups missing liddies,
tangled up pony tails twisted with strings,
these are a few of my least favorite things.

Cream colored spit-up and random weird stains,
door bells that ring while I'm napping in vain.
A three-year-old's tantrum in grocery store wings,
these are a few of my least favorite things.

Girls in white dresses who push down their brothers,
then blame all the crying on invisible others,
tired young babies that nap for mere minutes,
these are a few of my least favorite things.

When the kids cry, then the phone rings,
when I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my least favorite things,
and then I still feel quite bad ;)

Aiding and Abetting

Today Hannah worked really hard to get her brother in trouble. He was down the hall and I asked him (rhetorically, of course) if he was climbing the baby gate (again). Then I went to check and saw that he was merely playing with the hose from the vacuum cleaner. No sooner was I back in the kitchen when Hannah said, "Now he's climbing the gate!" And he was, because mysteriously the vacuum hose had been placed on the other side. And this was only one of many efforts to "bribe" poor, unsuspecting Jacob into the land of forbidden behaviour, where mom gets you "in big trouble".

But really, I can't fault her too much. After all, when I was her age, actually a bit older, I used to watch my younger sister get in trouble for taking off her clothes and diaper in her crib. Then one night, when my mom had had enough and warned her that she would get a spanking if she did it again, I got out of bed and helped her undress. I even undid the pins on her diaper and tried to throw them like she would. I then jumped back in bed and called out, "Mom, Sharlene's stripping again!"

Like mother, like daughter. Ingenuity, perhaps? Definitely a sign of a well-developed intellect...

If you're tired, why don't you SLEEP?

Okay, I've talked previously about Jacob's lack of good sleep habits, but seriously, the child is killing me. Today, yet again, he was nice and tired right around afternoon nap time... eye rubs, the whole nine yards. Went down like a dream. And then woke up 30 min. later bright eyed and bushy-tailed. No chance of getting him to sleep a bit longer. Fine. We got up, we played. And then he started rubbing his eyes again. And getting whiny. And becoming increasingly high maintenance. Clearly, he needed more sleep. But bringing him anywhere near his room resulted in the kind of resistance usually associated with cornered animals... or crazy animals. Remember, his sister is trying to sleep right next door (she is, in fact, having a blissful 2 1/2 hour nap, like she always does, because she enjoys sleeping). So we struggle through the afternoon, and then when it's finally time for bed in the evening, he snuggles into his blanket and goes right to sleep. For maybe an hour. And then the bedtime battle begins... (which, incidentally, is why whenever we get a babysitter for a night out, I have to have some bonus money on hand, just in case Jacob decides to be - well, Jacob).

Hannah-isms

The mind of a 3-year-old...

Dad: "Hannah, don't stand on your bed."
Hannah: "I'm not. I'm standing on my pillow."

When the toast popped up:
Me: "Pop goes the weasel!"
Hannah: "No, pop goes the toaster."

Me: "Hannah, don't jump on the couch."
Hannah: "I'm not. I'm just stepping high."

Me: "Hannah, did you pooh your pants?"
Hannah: "I'm not wearing pants! I'm wearing shorts."

Hannah to Jacob: "Don't be such a loudy boy."

Hannah after passing some road construction: "Mom, I want to see more tractors and dirt and men."

Of course you do.

To Bed or Not to Bed

Bed times around here are fairly consistent. Jacob goes to bed around 6:00 and Hannah around 7:00. Jacob doesn't always stay asleep, but it usually only takes a few minutes to settle him again, and then a kid-free evening awaits.

The other night, with Scott being out, I had lovely plans for my evening. I was going to finish Jacob's baby book and then work on my novel, with a steaming cup of tea at my side. Instead this is what I got:

Jacob went to bed at 6:00. Before Hannah was in bed, I'd had to settle him at least 3 times. Then Hannah went to bed at 7:00. Jacob woke up again. I was calming him down and I could hear Hannah calling to me from her room. I finished with Jacob and went to see what she wanted. Got her back into bed and went downstairs. Then had to go right back up to Jacob. And then back to Hannah who had decided she didn't like her P.J.s and was trying to change them. Back downstairs. Up again. Now Hannah had lost the letter "O" under her bed. You can see the pattern here. Back to Jacob, then to Hannah who was scared of the flamingo that had come to visit her through the window.

So, while I didn't ever get to sit down, I did get some fabulous exercise. Sprinting down the hall, leaping over the baby gate, flying up the stairs, all the while hearing a strange internal voice in slow-motion shouting, "Nooooooooooooo..." as I raced against time to prevent one child from waking up the other (normally not a huge concern for me, but I'd been putting in a Herculean effort to get these kids to sleep). By 9:00, my dreams of a productive evening had been dashed. I decided to cut my losses and take a book to bed for an early night instead. That way I wouldn't have to climb any more stairs in the inevitable event of another wake-up.

Oh well, tomorrow is another night...

What's in a Name?

My niece, who is 4, has known for a while how to write her name. One day she was practising writing JORDYN over and over again on a piece of paper. She filled a whole page. Then she started writing JOTIDPEY. She filled another page and informed her mother that it still spelled Jordyn, only with the letters she liked best. Those were the letters she wished were in her name.

Same name. Same pronunciation. Just new letters. Better letters. JOTIDPEY. Why not?

Where, oh where, has my patience all gone?

This morning, a dismal, rainy morning, both kids slept in until 8:00. That, in and of itself, is a luxury. And logically, that luxury should have resulted in two well-rested children and a grateful, happy mother. Instead, after changing Hannah's pee-soaked pajamas and sheets, while listening to Jacob cry in the next room, I found myself already getting frustrated. Then Hannah didn't want to get dressed. And I immediately went into completely irritated, had-it-to-here mode. Where did that come from? That kind of attitude should be reserved for the end of the day, when one more whiny comment is enough to send you over the edge.

Alas, by 10:00 when Jacob was fighting his nap and Hannah was still whining about the strangest things, I thought we might all have to go back to bed and start over. Instead, I gave Jacob an "emergency nurse" (yeah, how's that weaning thing going?) and I let Hannah "clean" the windows with a diaper wipe (one of her favourite things to do, though it leaves disgusting streaks that I have clean later). So, now all is peaceful and quiet and well with the world again.

But I'm a little worried. Do I really have that short a fuse? I mean, they slept in! That alone should have shored up some goodwill in my heart. Where has my patience gone and how do I get more?

How's Your Self-Esteem?

The other day, due to a rare and unprecedented backlog in laundry, none of my regular stay-at-home outfits (read comfy, yet ugly clothes) were available. So I pulled out a pair of casual dress pants. Nicely tailored, clean lines. I felt quite... put together.

Just before dinner, Hannah looked at me and said, half laughing, "You look like you're wearing pajamas on the bottom and clothes on top." More laughter. "You look silly."

Really? Pajamas on the bottom? I used to wear these pants to work and think that I looked good. Now, that pajama comment will forever be in the back of my mind. Granted, Hannah is 3, and her style choices often leave something to be desired; still, it hurt. Those were good pants... I thought.

So my wounded pride limped upstairs to get ready for bed. No need to change.

Training for Tantrums

Are all kids born with the innate knowledge that in order to throw a proper tantrum one must hurl oneself on the ground? If so, Jacob might be in training for these future theatrics. Lately, when he's upset, he ever-so-gently lowers himself to the ground and puts one cheek on the floor. Then he cries a little bit. After that, he lifts himself up and crawls away, whatever upset him long forgotten. It looks suspiciously like a mild attempt at a tantrum. At the very least, he's assuming the flat-out-on-the-floor position.

Or maybe, just maybe - due to his inability to master sleeping through the night or taking naps that his mother deems an appropriate length of time - he's just tired.

More Mush, Please!

Jacob is a big fan of being spoon-fed. He still loves his purees or mashed-up food and is not very interested in feeding himself or trying finger foods. I'm pretty sure that by the time Hannah was one, she was eating little bowls filled with ham and cheese pieces. Jacob gags on the ham and gums the cheese like it's made of glue. He will eat whole blueberries in his yogurt, but try giving him one by itself and he looks at it as if it's a piece of glass.

I know it's wrong to "compare" your children to others, but I'm going to do it anyway. My friend's son, who is a bit younger than Jacob, eats anything he can grab off your plate. That includes things like peppers. Just grabs a slice and starts taking little bites. Then again, his older sister's first crayon drawings resembled actual Japanese characters.

Jacob doesn't just snub his nose at bit-sized fruit and veggies, he wouldn't even eat his chocolate birthday cake until his dad fed it to him on a spoon! So, bring on the baby mush (and then a few nursings through the night as a night cap, or two, or three).

Don't Talk

Lately Hannah has a new way of letting me know when she a)doesn't like what I have to say, or b)doesn't want to get in trouble. It works like this:

Me: Hannah, please stop (insert any unacceptable behaviour).

Hannah: Mom, don't (in a somewhat whiny voice).

Me: Don't what?

Hannah: Don't talk (often with giving me "the hand"). Just don't talk.

OR

Me: It's time to go home now.

Hannah: Stop talking.

OR

Me: (not talking, but giving what I hope is a "don't even think about it" look)

Hannah: Mom, don't (again, with the whiny voice).

Me: Don't what? (I mean, I'm not talking...)

Hannah: Don't make that face.

I wonder, how would this approach work on a police officer issuing a speeding ticket? She might be onto something...

Ooohh... The Underwear Fake

Today I was fooled by a three-year-old. In a lift-my-heart-up-and-then-smash-it kind of way. We were out shopping and she saw a rack of kids underwear. Then these magical words: "Let's get these, mom. We need these."
I hesitated, wary, and replied, "Who's going to wear them?"
"I am."
"You are? When?"
"Today."
"Really? You're going to wear underwear today?"
"Yes, can we buy them?"

If you've read the very first post in this blog, you'll know that potty training is well... not happening. I was trying to reign in my excitement and prevent the hope that was welling up inside of me from overflowing.

"You want to wear them when we get home?" I asked.
"No, later." Uh oh, my hope was already fading.
"Later as in when?"
"Later today."
"After your nap?"
"No, later."
"You're not going to wear them, are you?"
"No..." Big smile. "I tricked you!"

I am not exaggerating when I say that I was almost as excited as the moment I realized my husband was about to propose. You can imagine the disappointment, not to mention the chagrin, at being taken in by a tiny trickster. The underwear fake. That's a good one.

The Party, The Decision, and The Aftermath: Jacob's Revenge

On Friday afternoon/evening I attended my school's family-friendly staff party. All was going well until around 6:00. This is when Jacob normally goes to bed. He seemed fine though and Hannah was definitely enjoying herself (huge yard, swings, other kids, etc.). More importantly, the food wasn't ready, and I came to eat! So, despite past experiences suggesting that it's never a good idea to push Jacob too far past his bedtime, I decided to stay "just a bit longer".

Very soon, Jacob was yawning and was no longer content anywhere other than my arms. I began to question my decision. But the food was almost ready. I tried to fake him out by pretending we were getting ready to leave. I put him in his car seat and loaded the rest of our gear into the trunk. Then I sat down to eat my hamburger. So far so good.

I had about 3 bites left when Jacob started crying. Okay, it was time to go. Now all I had to do was collect Hannah and we'd we on our way. Home, baths, bed. Hannah, however, had other ideas. So in an embarrassing display of "look at my wonderful parenting abilities", I chased her around the yard. When I finally caught her, I had to carry her kicking and screaming past all the people politely pretending not to notice what could have passed for an abduction-in-process.

Fast forward to the middle of the night. Also known as "The Aftermath". Just to remind me that he doesn't like being late for bedtime, regardless of how soon somebody's hamburger will be ready, Jacob proceeded to wake up at least every hour and a half. The kind of wake-up that requires attention. Even nursing him back to sleep had no effect on the length of time between wake-ups. (I know, he's a bit old to be nursed back to sleep - please see "The Opposite of Weaning" post.)

Needless to say, in the future, there will be no hemming and hawing about whether or not to leave any event, no matter how exciting, if there's a chance it will interfere with Jacob's bedtime. Better yet, in the future, Jacob will actually be weaned and will no longer accompany me to events that conflict with his evidently inflexible schedule!

Steam Mop Joy... Revived!

Okay, so this really has nothing to do with kids, unless you consider that they make most of the mess.

Lately I had become quite disenfranchised with my Steam Mop. It seemed like it wasn't doing a very good job, I had to go over the same areas repeatedly, and it felt like work. There was a point, I recall, when I LOVED the Steam Mop. I thought it was the best thing ever, and practically did infomercials to everyone who came over. So what happened? Was the honeymoon period simply over? Had I really tired of the Steam Mop already?

To make matters worse, one day it wouldn't produce steam at all! Now I pretty much hated the Steam Mop... where was my receipt? I called Customer Service to complain and the helpful young man suggested I put some vinegar in the tank. So I did. Absolute magic! There was so much steam even my furniture feels cleaner. My floors are shining. The scary thing is, how long have I been "cleaning" my floors with a Steam Mop that wasn't really cleaning at all? I guess I never noticed the gradual decline in steam. Or that I was working harder to get spots off. That can happen when the intervals between cleaning are really long...

Ah, to have my beloved Steam Mop back again. And floors that shine in a matter of minutes. I really should be getting paid for my endorsement of this product. I might send this link to Shark headquarters.

Check the Toaster!

A while back, I warned Scott that it was important to check the toaster before using it because it's stored on a low, open shelf where Jacob often plays "rock band" with the pots and pans. A few days later, forgetting my warning, Scott put some bread in the toaster and within seconds the smell of burning "something" filled the air. It turned out Jacob had dropped a wooden cylinder into the toaster, which came out looking a bit like a BBQ'd hotdog.

Tonight, months after this mishap had time to leave my mind, I went to make some toast. It wouldn't pop down, but I kept trying, pushing the lever harder and harder. Finally, I looked inside. Lo and behold, a small wooden spoon was hiding in there. And a plastic fork was wedged on the other side, just in case I found the first one too easily. As if it's not already exciting enough discovering strange objects hidden inside a pot every time I take off a lid...

Time-outs and Hosting Mishaps

Today was a special day that we'd all been looking forward to: Jacob's 1st birthday party. Hannah has been talking about balloons and cake for days. Last night she helped clean up for the party. Despite the forecast for rain, all signs pointed to a lovely celebration.

Then we woke up. Somebody apparently woke up on the wrong side of her big-girl bed. Before breakfast, Hannah had already been sent to time-out. Now, she normally balks at the mere mention of time-out and quickly complies with whatever request has been made. Not today. Not even close. So, not only did she go to time-out kicking and screaming, but she refused to comply with the rules for leaving time-out. All she had to do was say sorry. Instead, she continued to tell me, "No way, Mom!" every time she was asked. Then when Scott went to talk to her, she ran away up the stairs! Now she was not only carried back to time-out, but she had TWO apologies to make. Over and over, we went to ask her if she was ready to say sorry. Over and over she declined, and not very nicely either. In the end, she spent a good chunk of the morning in time-out. Ah, what a great start to the day...

After naps, the guests began to trickle in. We were keeping things simple. Hamburgers, hot dogs, chips, and macaroni salad. Pop, beer, juice, water. Easy. No fuss. And no condiments, apparently. My ketchup was wheezing splatters of nothing, and the mustard was altogether empty. One set of guests, thankfully also neighbours, rescued us by running home to grab their own ketchup and mustard. It's not like we didn't have a specialty item - I mean, ketchup is pretty standard for a BBQ. Then, to top things off, I began offering beer. It was in the cold room instead of the fridge. Ooops. Not cold, and made obvious by being the "Cold Certified" type with the mountains that turn blue. No ketchup, no mustard, and warm beer.

Wow, do we ever know how to throw a party!

P.S. A few hours later and I just realized I bought drinking boxes for all the kids. Forgot to serve them! Had lots of thirsty kids...

How Early is Too Early?

This morning Jacob got up at 5:00. He used to get up at around 7:00, then started moving more toward 6:30, and on bad days he sometimes gets up at 6:00. So, in my head, wake-up time is still 7:00 (because that sounds like a reasonable time to me). On those days when he gets up closer to 6:00, I tell myself, "Well, it's only an hour early." Today, I knew it was WAY too early, but if 6:00 is acceptable because it's an hour before 7:00, then isn't 5:00 okay because it's only an hour earlier than what I've already deemed an acceptable wake-up time? You see the dilemma.

Not that it mattered what I thought. Jacob had no intentions of going back to sleep. Despite my feeble attempts at weaning, my first line of defense was to try to nurse him back to sleep. When that failed, I immediately tried to nurse him again. I thought I could trick him. Get him all sleepy and relaxed, kind of like hitting the re-set button. No luck. Then I brought him into bed with me to snuggle (yeah, right). He loved it - he kept crawling to the edges of the bed, playing with the idea of attempting a free fall. I tried barricading him in with pillows, but they became mountains to climb. I gave him a flashlight, which entertained him for about 3 seconds, and then he smacked me in the face with it.

So up we got. And of course, at around 7:30 (a perfect wake-up time) he was ready for his nap. Sure, now he sleeps!

P.S. I should mention we're not at home. He was in the room with me, otherwise I would have left him in his crib (and probably still had to get up - who am I kidding?)

I Don't Like You Talking

I was sitting at the kitchen table with Hannah, talking to Scott who was in the living room. Suddenly Hannah said, "I don't like you talking."

"You don't like me talking?" I repeated, unsure whether I'd heard her correctly.

"No, I don't like you talking. It's too loud." Then she turned to Scott and said, "I like you talking. It's nicer."

Ouch.

Poo and Rabbit

It almost sounds like I'm talking about two characters from Winnie the Pooh. Instead, I'm referring to what I found in Hannah's bed the other morning. I walked into her room and was immediately hit with the powerful scent of eau-de-somebody-pooed-her-pants. As my eyes adjusted to the small figure talking away to me from the bed, I realized she was wearing a much-too-small pink bunny costume. Little paws sprouted from above her ankles and wrists. Ears and a bunny nose hung down from a hood behind her head. A fluffy cotton-ball tail hovered dangerously close to her now-toxic diaper.

"I found my Halloween costume," she announced proudly. "I put it on to be warm."

Did she wear that thing all night? All I know is that I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland encountering this strange and smelly creature before I had quite woken up.

The Opposite of Weaning

Jacob is a few days away from turning one. I like the idea of having my kids weaned from nursing by about a year, so that would suggest that by the end of this month, he should we weaned. By this time with Hannah, we were down to one nursing a day, and it was nothing at all to cut that one out, too. Simple. Easy.

Now, Jacob hardly nurses during the day. Just twice, once before each nap. Which you will see is part of the pattern that makes me fear I will never be able to stop. Ever. During the night, I seem to feed him more than I did when he was a newborn. Because he keeps waking up, and if I feed him he goes right back to sleep and then so does everyone else. And it's no fun having both kids awake and a husband secretly planning to make an appointment for a vasectomy.

I know I shouldn't nurse him to sleep. I know he doesn't need to eat during the night. But it's like he has two modes: "Feed me and all will be peaceful and well" or "Try anything else to get me back to sleep and I will scream so loud and for so long that you will regret ever considering not just feeding me in the first place".

I think the only solution might be to pretend he's weaned and ship him off to stay with someone (say, the grandparents) for a weekend. Then when we pick him up, I can feign innocence. "What? He cried ALL night? That's strange. He usually sleeps right through..."

P.B. - The New Vaseline

For reasons I'll never fully understand, Hannah loves having Vaseline put on her face. This started when she was very small and we put some on her chapped cheeks. She sat so still as if we were performing some essential and delicate operation. Now that she is older, she often pretends she has "a little cut" on her nose and needs some Vaseline on it. "See mom? Do you see it? It's just tiny."

Well, lately she has started a new habit that is amusing, but also a tad disturbing. She uses peanut butter from her sandwiches as Vaseline. I looked over at her one day during lunch and there was a smear of P.B. under her nose and on both cheeks. And it has become a regular thing. She opens her sandwich, dips her finger in, and says, "this is my Vaseline", and then applies it with precision. Is it just me, or is this quite gross?

On a similar note, today she told me Jacob had a tiny cut on his nose and she wanted to put Vaseline on him to "make it all better". I've actually had to hide the Vaseline!

Losing the Battles and the War

This is an old email I sent out a few weeks ago, but it was the spark to starting this blog.

My first attempt at potty training was a dismal failure. No worries... we'll try again later. Well, later has arrived. After weeks of talking about "running out of diapers" and switching to underwear, the day finally arrived. Hannah was wearing her last diaper. She knew the drill. Underwear, foaming soap, smarties - oh, the joys of being a big girl! She'd seen it coming. She'd smiled when we talked about what would happen. And then...

Tears. Tantrums. An unhealthy attachment to a completely soaked diaper that was NOT coming off at any cost. Time went by. She settled down. I finally got the diaper off with a minimum of fuss as we prepared to get dressed. But then the tears and tantrums started again. She hid in her closet. She would not let be put those underwear on her. I know potty training is supposed to be a positive experience and this was anything but, yet how could I just give up after all the prep work I'd done? I mean, this day was a long time coming. However, as I pinned Hannah down and tried to put those underwear on, while she pulled them off and thrashed her legs, (it was a scene right out of Hellen Keller) I realized I was losing the battle. No, not the battle - I was losing the war. Jacob needed his nap. I needed a strong drink. Hannah needed to stop with the screaming, the writhing, the tears. She really, really needed to stop.

Bear in mind, this child has also refused to even sit on the potty. So assuming I did get the underwear to stay on (not looking likely) how on earth was I going to convince her to not only sit on the potty, but also actually pee on it? Alas, I "remembered" we might still have some diapers in her back pack so we found one and put it on. She's almost three. I know people say, "Don't worry. No kid ever goes to kindergarten in diapers!" Yeah, well, they haven't met Hannah.

Right now, she's sitting on the couch reading a book. Her face is swollen from crying. She's still sniffling. And I'm getting ready to unload the box of diapers from Costco that I've had in the trunk of the car all along.