A Message to Clothing Buyers

Halloween is stressful.  I'm no good at costumes.  Costumes, telling jokes, remembering card games--my weaknesses.  I mean, there are others, but those are my learning disabilities.  I sent a text to Chris yesterday that said, "Our not watching tv [with kids] is great until Halloween and all the costumes are weird costumes or scary."

Elliott initially said he wanted to be a grasshopper, totally blaming it on the plague of grasshoppers at Glammy & Poppy's this summer.  All I could think was, a grasshopper?--because that's easy.  Then he said, he though maybe a cow would be good.  I felt good about this.  A cow.  I can do a cow.  That's not too hard, right?

Party City?  No cows.

Target?  COWS.  I knew it!  Only no.  The top size was a size 4.

You know the whole thing about limiting screen time for young kids?  Yeah.  There is no place that it is more apparent that the advice is not working than the Halloween costume aisle at any store.  Elliott is nearing 5 years old, which I can assume from the options means he either loves superheroes or would love to be a slightly less-scary monster/vampire than his 10-year old friends.

So costume developers, please take note:  there are still some sheltered four-year olds in the world.  My child has no idea who Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Captain America or the Incredible Hulk are.  No idea.  Super Mario Brothers?  Nope.  A vampire?  Nope.  Combine this with my commitment to avoid all items bearing a skull and the choices are SLIM.

My message to stores that provide clothing to children little boys (I'm not even touching on the issues with clothing for girls):

1.  A 5-year old is still a little boy.  Little.
2. Nearing 5 has not turned my child into a skate-boarding champ.  Really.  No skateboards.
3. Ninjas and vampires kill people.  Please refer back to #1--no killing machines here.
4. Superheroes are great, but I have to let you in on a secret--not all kids are aware of who they are. Elliott knows them by sight, but has no idea what they stand for or do.
5. I don't get the skull trend.  I don't.  I feel like I must not be alone in this, right?  I can't be the only one opposed to buying clothing items with skulls.  
6. There is plenty of childhood ahead of us, where we'll purchase the scary costumes.  I promise.  Maybe.  

Poopy. Say It.

Elliott had a fab day yesterday and Saturday, but the attitude was back in full-force today. He was repeating "poopy" over and over on the way home. And over.  And over.  I counted him, he quickly earned a time-out and we had to get off the phone with Glammy (the tragedy!). He still didn't stop--kept egging on Brooklyn to say it. Say it.  

I got stern and showed him how irked I was--major mistake; he laughed (the little shit--pun intended). This makes my head spin around, so it was a good thing that I had the rest of the drive to calm down. Had we not been in the car I'm afraid I would've spanked him, which is not what we want to do as parents although I was second-guessing that decision. I  acknowledged I couldn't make him stop saying it and told him not to worry about his consequence in my best Love and Logic attempt at parenting. It gave me time to plot with Chris via text at red lights. Because he couldn't make good choices around his brother and sister, he had to eat by himself in his room and then go straight to bed. He was quite devastated for the moment, crying, screaming & bargaining.  In turns I felt sad for him and glee at finding a consequence that meant something (momentarily).  I'm often consulted at work for how to treat children with  more challenging behaviors, so I'm convinced that this child has been sent to me for lessons in becoming humble.  

She's a Rebel.

It got real today.  The sweet child of mine who has peacefully slept without issue the majority of her short 10 months is rebelling.  Sleep is over-rated in Brooklyn's book.  Over-rated for the past three days.  My assumption is that she would much rather be pulling my ear, sharing her paci or just generally being held while sleeping rather than rest peacefully in her crib.  What's the harm, one might ask?

The result:

She's a delicate flower full of modesty, just like her mom.    And I don't know what it means that she looks more like me when she's crying.

Adventures in Poop, Vol. III

Today's adventure is brought to you by the concept of wiping.  Yes, wiping someone's arse, other than your own.  It's not my favorite job, but after 3 years of day in-day out wiping, I'm kind of used to it.  Enter in the Standing Wipe.  The Standing Wipe makes things challenging, but it can  be done.

After 3 years of the wiping, you would think the arse of the person being wiped would understand the concept. The answer to that assumption is no, a resounding NO.  How did we learn this, you may ask?  As my husband was on poop-patrol, it was by accident that I found out this horrific lesson.  It was as I heard,

No, Elliott!  We don't wipe our face after we've wiped our hineys.  

Yep.  You got it.  Post-hiney wipe on.the.face.

Boys are Gross.

It's a lot of Dark

My almost-three-year-old makes me laugh.  Some of his phrases that may forever be in our vernacular:

"It's a wot of dark."  Yes, he does specify between 'a wittle dark' and a lot.

and

"It's bewwy gwass." (It's very glass)  Used to indicate that something is breakable.

We also had to ask him today what his sister's name is.  He said, "Brook-Brook."  Hrm.  Suppose we should call her by her full name more?

Privacy?

Our house has no privacy.  None.  It's a good thing that my husband still loves me after witnessing me birthing two darling children, because there are horrific moments when he's seen me pee.  On the toilet.  Which makes me think our marriage is doomed just like Janene Garafolo's character proclaims her parents' to be in the ultimate 90s movie, Reality Bites.

All of this is to say that my. . . ahem. . .you know. . .my period is back.  Shh.  This makes me blush like an 8th grader.  I promise that I only share this news for the purpose of humor.  My child is the epitome of curiosity.  For the first time in what I am sure will be a long, long tradition--I stumbled over the answers to his questions.  Stuttered.  Sputtered.

"What dat, Mommy?  What dat?  Dat for me?"

"Uh. . . it's for mommies.  It's just. . .a. . .thing."

"What for, Mommy?"

Silence.

"What for, Mommy?"

Now I know why my mom used to say things like, "I just want to poop in peace."  No 2 1/2 year old BOY is ready for the truth about tampons.

My Child Might be Smarter Than Me

I am typically not comfortable discussing issues of my intellect.  I'm reasonably smart, but I am fairly certain it is all a result of my freakish, savant-like memory.  It's ridic.  I have no idea why some of the things that stick in my head are there. . . like the start date of a therapist that works for me and has since 2008.  Weird.  I could give you a million more examples, but suffice it to say that anyone who engages in an argument with me has a serious amount of loathing for the memory.

So back to Monkey. He has a good memory.  I mostly attribute that to 1. genetics and 2. a speech pathologist for a mom.  Reasonable, right?

Well tonight he seriously put that theory to the test and has convinced me that I have, indeed, given birth to a wee one smarter than me.  This happened twice.  In one night.  Not. Normal.

1.  Chris and I were again questioning if Monkey's ear hurt.  Double ear infections last week have left us paranoid, especially with the random dramatic hand to the ear and statement, "My ear hurt."  We delicately explained to him that we want to make sure his ear doesn't hurt again and he calmly stated, "You need call Dr. Palmer."  Let's get this straight.  Dr. Palmer is the ENT we have seen exactly 4 times, the most recent being in May.

2.  Tonight we indulged Monkey's request to "go to walk."  Along with cooler temps (finally), it is semi-dark at this time.  Monkey looked up at me as we moseyed down the sidewalk and said, "We see noo-nick (music) and Santa."  I stopped in awe and looked back at Chris.  You see, he was referring to the home, three doors down, opposite side of the street, that had one of those fascinating and slightly tacky blow-up Christmas decorations synced to music last year.  Each evening in December, we would walk down to see the "pip--eee" lights.  He wasn't. even. two.  Not two!  Weird.

And that is how, in the course of one night, I became convinced, finally, that my son is smarter than me.  Imagine what his wife/husband/domestic partner will suffer in arguments?

Sometimes I wonder. . .

how the heck I am responsible enough to raise a child and live in a grown-up house? Seriously, I can't remember to schedule a haircut for my dog, I regularly kill potted plants and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch because I don't cook.

Yet I have been gifted with an amazing child who blossoms in spite of two parents who work full time and more often than not have a hellish drive home (For real, sometimes it is heinous--over an hour for about 12 miles. Bleh.). And blossom he does! This walking-thing is realllly catching on with E, and while he still looks a bit like the alien played by Vincent D'Onofrio from "Men in Black," the speed sure is increasing. He has started predicting my animal noises in his two favorite books, Moo,Baa,LaLaLa and Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb.

Chris asked me last night how I though E was doing in regard to developmental milestones. My answer is that he is delightfully, wonderfully average. I long thought that I would not be satisfied with a child in the 'average' category, but seeing many families raise children with devastating disabilities makes me think 'average' looks pretty darn good.