One day recently, Luke threw me a curve ball of insane proportions. We were in the bathroom getting ready to brush his teeth when he started shimmying out of his pants and ripping off his diaper.
“I go peepee in the potty.”
I froze.
No.
This can’t be happening.
“You want to go PEEPEE in the POTTY?” I asked, inappropriately loudly as if addressing someone who was hard of hearing. (But how can he? He’s not but 2 and 4 months. Don’t I have months of blissful diapering ahead of me before having to deal with this biz? I’m tired. Potty training takes ENERGY. Energy does not grow on this mommy tree. In fact, I need a nap right now.)
He nodded, as if he had done this before.
My eyes narrowed. Who could be the traitor trying to subvert my world? Is it Grandma Jenny? Nana? Was it the babysitter? I never trusted her. (Read more…)
The somber yet celebratory strains of Pomp and Circumstance begin. Parents hold their collective breath. Kids line up, just off stage, wearing their caps, tassels rippling gently. And out march the graduates. Of preschool.
Just last week Belle took part in this ceremony, which, at first, seemed a little over the top. True, the caps were made of construction paper and the diplomas were posterboard certificates bordered by blocky, colorful ABCs. But, my husband and I wondered, Why the formalities? Milo had finished preschool with little more than a pat on the back.
Another reason we questioned the whole milestone marking is because, in the days leading up to “graduation”, Belle developed some serious anxiety.
She began throwing tantrums about things like unbuttered toast, not owning brown dress shoes, and missing barrettes. Things that, at the age of three, would’ve upset her mightily, but at five, mostly roll off her back.
The night before she was to “graduate” she had nightmares through which she twisted violently, writhing around in her sheets, calling “no, no”, and crying in staccato whimpers. (Read more…)
My youngest is teething, so he wants the boob all day, every day, all. the. time. He stomps, he growls, he leans in for the kill.
Just call him Boobisaurus Rex, and me? My name is Boobie McBooberson (nice to meet you). I’m DYING for a little personal space. I just want to be able to lounge on my couch and happily flip channels on my DVR without being mounted by him the second I sit. (By the way, is there an alarm on our butts that sounds as soon as we sit? I swear he’s like a heat-seeking missile, no matter what corner of the house he’s in, within ten seconds he’s climbing me like Mount Everest.) I would love a little breathing room for the twins, they’re being crazily overworked and exploited, much like Kate Gosselin’s children.
(Guess where he is right this second? Trying to climb into my lap. For more boob. Ugh!)
It’s hard to manhandle dinner with a ravenous child of this nature. Not but a day ago I was literally trying to shake Baby Dude off as he clutched my leg mercilessly as though he was hanging off a cliff, all while I was doing my best to stir sauce and cut vegetables. (Read more…)
Last Friday, I gave my boys a hug, wished them a happy day and sent them down the hill, across the street to Wolf Pack Elementary. I’ve done this every school day for the past four years, but that day was different. It was the last day of elementary school. I smiled at Clyde’s botched attempt to gel his hair and his too-short shorts. I filed away the image of Tanner’s not-quite-tied shoelaces, lopsided and touching ground, and the grayed knees of his jeans, worn thin from playing.
I’m going to miss these guys.
With the countdown to the first day of 6th grade, I know what’s coming. I’ve been through this once before. C&T are about to undergo a change that’s not subtle or slow. It’s a weird kind of magic: one minute they’re sleeping with stuffed Pokemon, and the next minute, the sleeping buddies are in the closet and the only remaining vestige of kid-ness is a Sponge Bob wallet, just quirkish enough to be cool, even in high school.
I’m going to miss their antics. C&T regularly try the sort of little-boy feats that story books are made of. Like trying to fly. Last fall, I got to the sliding glass door just in time to see the last two flaps of giant wings dropping off the far side of our backyard wall. (Read more…)
“Pick my nose, puddit onna couch!”
This delightful statement was recently uttered by my almost-two-year old daughter F. Hearing her put together this rather complicated sentence today made me feel both relief and fear: relief that she can talk, fear of what tiny, green treasures our sofa might harbor. (Everyone has their things; mine is mucus.) Obviously she does not have the language acquisition issues that her older, autistic brother H. does.
I could write a book called, “Why Doesn’t H. Talk?” – but it would contain only questions. I just don’t know. It’s a puzzle. But one piece might be this: he doesn’t imitate. Mirroring what he sees around him does not come naturally to him.
When he was about F.’s age, he had his first developmental assessment and I was asked, “Does he copy you?” I drew a blank. “Does he copy me? I don’t know…does he? Hm…maybe…he…nah, I don’t think so. Nope.” I didn’t understand how important this was – what a big clue to the fact that something in H.s’ development was far off track. (Read more…)