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Mommy Talk
August 2008
Friday August 29, 2008
Posted by: mlaehr at 10:28AM CST on August 29, 2008
“Did you just see that skunk in our backyard, Mommy?” my 6-year-old asked. “No!” I said running to look out the patio door. “Where? You’re kidding, right?” “Nope. Me and Roman are going to catch him,” he said. “Do we have any tomato juice?” “What!? No we don’t have any tomato juice! You are not going in the backyard if there’s a skunk out there! Are you kidding me?” “Mom, we’re playing skunk hunting,” he said. Then I take a better look at him. He’s dressed in a checkered long sleeve shirt from the costume box, his black overall snowpants and his blue alligator rain boots. He’s armed with a Western-style toy pistol and a plastic firefighter’s ax. My 5-year-old walks into the room in a similar getup. I get it. There’s no skunk. “We’re going out to hunt skunks,” my younger son says in a pretend-grown up voice. “We might get a little stinky out there.” And so goes a day in the life of a mom blessed with children who have incredible imaginations. Last week we were invited to go with a group from our church’s summer program to the Betty Brinn Children’s Museum in Milwaukee. I’ve always wanted to take the boys, but could never work out a day that my husband and I were both off and the museum was open. So I jumped at the chance to go with them. WOW! It was so cool. Our group spent two hours looking, touching, playing and laughing. In our short time at the museum, my big pretenders got to dress up and be in a play on stage, drive an ambulance, be a doctor, dig for treasure, fix a car, load packages onto a conveyor belt with a crane, be TV news reporters and cameramen and shop for groceries. They loved it, and so did I. I love that my kids love to pretend. I admit it can be challenging to deal with when the sword fights get a little to intense, or the name they want to be called changes four times in one day. But those moments of irritation are overshadowed by the joy I get listening to them play. One day they are skunk hunters. The next day they are the captains of a ship surrounded by an ocean full of sharks. (Don’t get off the couch!) Sometimes one is Spider-Man, hanging upside down from a backyard swing, while the other drives his motorcycle (big wheel) in a race. Red faced and eyes wild, they become these characters. They live out their childish dreams through play. And I get a front row seat to their production. Wednesday August 27, 2008
Posted by: eyoung at 11:54AM CST on August 27, 2008
My house is blue. Blue blue blue. We returned yesterday from a 12-day vacation during which we went to places we've never been, did fabulously fun things, had wonderful and wild adventures, and saw dear family members we rarely get to see. It was a 12-day whirlwind of laughs and rides and waves and museums and crowds and hugs and loud family meals. And now we're home, and our house feels empty, and summer feels over, and we're blue. Blue blue blue. We've got the post-vacation blues. The end-of-summer blues. The missing-our-family blues. And this morning my children awoke with some serious back-to-school blues. I can already hear the refrain for the next five days: "I don't wanna go back to school. (Ba-dum-ba-dum.)" This summer, I gave my children their first real summer vacation, culminating in our first real family vacation. And now they're miserable. (Ba-dum-ba-dum). Plus, my 6-year-old has some serious reservations about starting first grade next week. How do you get your children excited about the new school year? How do you handle new-grade jitters? Thursday August 21, 2008
Posted by: mlaehr at 2:02PM CST on August 21, 2008
I HATE taking my kids to the doctor when it’s time for them to get shots. I hate that one minute my sweet baby girl is smiling and talking to me, and the next minute I’m helping to hold her down as the doctor pokes her. Last year, when my oldest had to get his kindergarten immunizations, I felt so bad when he started to cry. He’s this itty, bitty little skinny thing and he looked so helpless and wounded sitting up on the exam table. It hurt my heart. This year, I geared up for another devastating experience with my 5-year-old son. He had an appointment to get his kindergarten immunization shots Wednesday. What really made me feel bad about it is that my middle child has pretty much been a pincushion since he was 12 months old. At that time he was diagnosed with a condition that requires us to give him a shot (similar to an insulin shot with a very tiny needle) every single night. In addition, every four to six months he has to have his blood drawn to make sure all the medications he’s on are working properly. The thing that upsets me most — outside of the fact that he has to endure this at all — is that he doesn’t even cry anymore. A few weeks ago I took him to get his blood drawn. He barely flinched when the lab tech put the needle in. And Wednesday? No tears. Not one. The kid got three shots, including one that the doctor said would sting. My son even applied the alcohol wipes to his legs himself. I told my little boy I was proud of him for being so brave, but my heart wasn't in it. Do I cry when my children cry over shots, or do I cry when they have become so used to being hurt, they don't bother getting upset over it? How do you handle the dreaded trips to the doctor that involve shots? Do your kids still cry? Wednesday August 20, 2008
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 12:10PM CST on August 20, 2008
Having a baby's like having a time machine.
Henry's 9 months old, and I can't remember much of that time. It's in little flashes, confetti flicks of memory: Flick. There's an itty-bitty newborn cuddled on my chest in the hospital.Flick. He's sleeping in my arms, and when I pick him up to give him to someone else his little body stays curled up. Flick. He falls over because he's laughing so hard at friends' cats as they jump around. Flick. He drags whatever toy he can get his hands on with him as he scoots across the floor.
I don't really remember what happens between those flicks. My time with Henry is often taken up with the mundane tasks of mothering. Changing diapers. Feeding. Dressing. Undressing. Dressing again. Putting to bed. For his 9 months, I've been in fast-forward. At the same time, I've been in rewind.Never, since my own childhood, have the experiences of being young been so vivid. I can recall the songs my mom sang to me, the games my dad played, the trouble I got into with incredible clarity. Put those two things together, and I'm bouncing from past to present to future every single day. One moment I'm playing with Henry, making a stuffed monkey play patty-cake. The next I'm remembering my dad teaching me to cartwheel. Then I'm thinking about what things Henry will do as he grows. Will he play baseball? Golf? Will he want to be in football or wrestling? Will he like to swim? To fish? What will his favorite color be? His favorite food? The thing he hates to eat?
He's full of possibility. His whole life stretches out in front of us, a path leading into an unknown land. There's no map for this. No guarantees. He's learned to crawl. Soon, it'll be pulling himself up on the furniture. Then walking, talking, riding a bike, throwing a ball. Who knows where he'll be in five years, 10 or 15? He's my little time machine, and he'll take me along as he finds his way. Monday August 18, 2008
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 8:38AM CST on August 18, 2008
Jumping. Balls being thrown. The cats. Granddad. Peek-a-Boo. Nibbled toes. Birds flying. The breeze.
What makes your kiddo giggle? Friday August 15, 2008
Posted by: mlaehr at 5:03PM CST on August 15, 2008
I love a lot of things about my children’s school. My oldest attended kindergarten there last year and this year both my boys will be going there.
I love that it’s at our church, Christ Church United Methodist - a place my kids are very comfortable. I love that they are learning about our faith along with their ABCs and 123s. I love the kindergarten teacher, who brought my painfully shy oldest son out of his shell last year with pure kindness. I love the bright classroom with special cubbies for each child, cozy places to read, colorful art projects on the walls and the resident stuffed beaver (that’s a story for another day).
I also really, really like that the students have to wear uniforms.
In my own school days, I would have HATED wearing a uniform. Are you kidding? Looking back – specifically at my 10th grade photo in which I have a crew cut and am wearing blue mascara, multiple earrings in one ear, an oversized T-shirt and dog tags – I realize that personal expression isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
A uniform might have saved me from numerous morning fights with my mom over my ensembles, which also included pajama pants sometimes.
It’s a fight I never had with my oldest last year. He’s just six you say? Trust me, my kids will turn anything and everything into an argument. The 5-year-old already fights with me over the clothes I lay out for him to wear. On Wednesday he told me he wanted to wear jogging pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt to the babysitter because it was raining. In the summer heat no less!
With a uniform, there’s really a shortage of choices: no wiggle room on the khaki pants. And as for tops its: short sleeve shirt, long sleeve shirt or turtle neck and sweater. That’s it. Nothing to bicker about.
Not to mention, I’ve realized that the uniforms probably really saved us money on clothing.
Just before school started last year, I bought my oldest five pairs of khaki pants, five short sleeve uniform shirts, two long-sleeve uniform shirts and two navy sweaters. I’ll admit I had to buy another five pairs of pants later in the year, because he had worn the knees of the others to shreds. But other than that, the only money I spent on clothing was a Christmas outfit and a new pair of tennis shoes halfway through the year.
When a kid wears the same clothes to school five days a week for a year, what does he really need, other than a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a few dress shirts and underwear? And he already had those.
Another bonus: one stop shopping. A trip to JCPenney and our school shopping is done. In one less-than-an-hour trip.
Finally, although my two oldest are still somewhat small, and boys, I can’t help but hope that as they get older, the uniforms will be somewhat of an equalizer between the students at their school. No one can wear torn jeans and band T-shirts, hip hop gear and saggy pants, name brand polos and jeans that cost more than our minivan -- or oversized T-shirts and dog tags.
I know, I know, kids form their own caste system with or without a dress code. But I can’t help but hope that school uniforms at the very least minimize distractions. I don’t want my boys to fail math because they’re too busy drooling over the girl sitting next to them in a skimpy outfit, and don’t want my daughter to someday attempt to walk out of the house in one.
I think that it's great the Racine Unified is testing out the whole strict dress code thing. What are your thoughts on school uniforms?
Wednesday August 13, 2008
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 10:57AM CST on August 13, 2008
She reclines on the couch, waiting.
All day long, this is all she could think about. This moment. Now. Soon, soon, it would be time. The house is quiet. Nothing could keep them apart. Nothing, that is, except him. He doesn't mean to interfere, she thinks, but he does. Just when she's finally succumbed, body limp. He can't help it. 2 a.m. 3 a.m. 4 a.m. He interrupts. He butts in. He shatters silence. He pulls them apart. An hour later, after a diaper change, ibuprofen, warm milk and rocking, he releases her. Back, if she's lucky, to sleep. Tuesday August 12, 2008
Posted by: eyoung at 8:18AM CST on August 12, 2008
She did it! My daughter learned to ride a bike without training wheels! Forget the first day of kindergarten. Forget the first day of day care. Forget the day we first met, back at the old St. Luke’s hospital after a few hours of unpleasantry. THIS was the biggest deal yet. When I saw my 6-year-old balancing her way around our cul de sac — my hero of a husband running next to her in case she toppled — I was unbelievably, ridiculously, gloriously proud. I stood on the sidelines with our 4-year-old and we cheered like maniacs as she breezed by us. "Whoo-hoo!" we hollered. "You’re doing it!!!! Whoooo-hooooo!" For the umpteenth time in her life, I was ready to weep with pride. Teaching a kid to ride a bike without training wheels is no fun at all, as I whined in a Mommy Talk back in June. It’s frustrating and difficult and physically exhausting. Not to mention the fact that you’re basically letting go of your child knowing she has to fall. It’s an exercise in their independence, self esteem, courage, determination. And for us parents, it’s an exercise in letting them go. (It’s also, pant pant, just exercise.) Perhaps this task is what prepares us for the big hurts and falls to come. But back to the bike: We had pretty much given up for the summer. We tried back in June and she and I both got frustrated. She didn’t want anything to do with her bike for over a month. Then out of nowhere on Saturday, she suggested we try again. The whole family headed to a quieter street with a slight decline, where her dad and I took turns running as we held her up. She was close, but still not riding on her own. On Sunday, my husband took her back to that same street. At first, she was even worse than the day before, he said. She was incredibly frustrated with herself. Just when he was ready to pack it in for the day — and probably for the summer — she said to him, "I know I can do this. Let’s try one more time?" And she did it! When they arrived home, she was absolutely giddy. She talked a mile a minute as she recounted the last hour: "And-then-I-told-Daddy-I-wanted-to-try-one-more-time-and-I-even-fell-over-into-the-grass-and-I-was-even-bleeding-but-I-didn’t-give-up-I-just-said-to-keep-going-that-I-knew-I-could-do-it-and-I-did!!!" She did. She conquered her fears. She stuck with it. She fell down and got back up. And she took off — without us. She did it. WHOO-HOOOOO!! What wondrous thing has your kid learned to do lately? Monday August 11, 2008
Posted by: eyoung at 9:24AM CST on August 11, 2008
In a perfect parenting world, no one would be allowed to purchase bunk beds without first attempting to change the sheets. I’m not saying such a test-drive would have prevented us from purchasing bunks for our daughters last spring, but it would have been nice to know exactly what we were getting ourselves into. According to the Consumer Product Safety Commission, thousands of children are injured every year by bunk beds. (This, of course, is no laughing matter. For bunk safety guidelines, click here.) I want to know how many parents are injured every year by bunk beds. Because I have yet to change the sheets without banging my back, wrenching my neck and painfully pulling at least three different muscles in my upper body. Anyone with bunks in their house will agree with me: The top bunk is the worst of the two. I can’t reach it without scaffolding created by the bunk’s ladder and two kiddie chairs. And I have to get IN the bed in order to change the fitted sheet. This means lifting the mattress even as I’m sprawled on top of it. Now that just goes against physics. My daughters like to stand below the bunks as I do this — usually jumping in the pile of dirty sheets and duvet covers — laughing as I huff and puff and try not to swear. This is my bed-changing chant: "I can’t (huff) believe (huff) we bought (huff puff) these stupid (huff puff) bunk beds (groan)." This is my children’s chorus: "Mommy’s going to fall, Mommy’s going to fall." It’s all very fun and adventurous. I’m sure I’m giving them a lifetime of memories. Yet I change the sheets myself for three reasons: 1) I worry that they actually would fall if they tried to change the sheets. 2) It’s just easier if I do it myself. And 3) There’s still a part of me that believes that if the fitted sheet isn’t completely on the bed securely, it will snap off the corner of the mattress, trap my child and suffocate her. This is a fear I’ve had since I read a warning in a baby book: "The crib’s fitted sheet should be securely in place so it doesn’t snap off a corner, trap your child and suffocate her." The bright side There are pros to the bunk beds, too, of course. For one thing, my daughters love them. My 6-year-old likes to escape "upstairs," as we call the top bunk, where she reaches her toes for the ceiling or flops onto her stomach to write misspelled words in a spiral notebook. My 4-year-old daughter likes to pull shut a curtain hung from the bunk above her, creating a cozy cave in which to sleep, perchance to dream of waterparks and Disney princesses. ... (more)Friday August 8, 2008
Posted by: mlaehr at 2:08PM CST on August 8, 2008
A fight was brewing. My super-Spidey senses could feel it. Both the little villians wanted to transform our family minivan into the Batmobile so we could respond to the current mission. “I’m Batman,” my 5-year-old said from the seat behind me. “No, I’m Batman!” my 6-year-old replied from the seat behind him. “I’M BATMAN,” I said loudly. “No you’re not. You’re Batgirl,” my younger son said. I looked up at both of them in the rearview mirror, put on my serious Mommy-face and said, “Don’t you know my real name is Bruce Parker Kent Grayson Wayne. I am ALL superheroes.” “Moommmm,” the oldest said. (For those of you who aren’t up on superhero aliases: Bruce Wayne is Batman, Peter Parker is Spider-Man, Clark Kent is Superman and Dick Grayson is Robin.) And like that, I received two reflected smiles instead of the argumentative shouts that surely would have followed the back-and-forth on who was REALLY Batman. Because you see, by day I am a mild mannered reporter. But after 3 p.m., I turn into Mom, the most feared and celebrated superhero of modern times. Raise your Green Lantern ring if you’ve ever swooped in to the save the day! Aren’t we all just trying to bring a little peace and justice to Gotham City, aka our homes? I have the superhero strength of Wonder Woman. I have carried a 50-pound baby carrier, diaper bag, purse, birthday present, car keys and cupcakes for the party all at once. At night, I stalk the Batcave (the kitchen) waiting for a cry in the night from above (the kids’ bedrooms). If there is trouble, I race in and soothe with hugs and kisses, deliver glasses of water or retrieve dropped pacifiers. I also use my Superman-like X-ray vision to see bad deeds going on in other rooms. I have often flown in to save an innocent victim from his evil brother’s smacks, stealing of toys or smashing of cake pieces. And man-oh-man you don’t want to see my Hulk. When I reach the boiling point, I can feel my muscles bulge, my mouth forms a sneer, my eyes bug out and my fists ball up. My children watch the transformation in horror and run! But I also rescue my children from naughty bicycles that won’t stay up without training wheels, evil bathroom doors that pinch fingers and criminal sidewalks that grab their legs, push them down and skin their knees. Because for all our parental superpower, we must remember the lesson taught to Spider-Man by his Uncle Ben. “With great power, comes great responsibility.” Are you sure Uncle Ben never had any kids of his own? Wednesday August 6, 2008
Posted by: Janine Anderson at 11:42AM CST on August 6, 2008
Henry's babbling constantly.
He's got pretty much a full range of vowels (no long e, yet) and three consonants down pat. There's B, as in ba ba ba ba ba. G, as in ga ga ga ga ga. And there's M, as in mom mom mom mom mom. With that M sound, which came out in full force on our vacation last week, I'm getting excited. But, he's got no clue that it means anything. He says mom mom mom mom mom when I'm in front of him. He says mom mom mom mom mom when he's looking at a flower. He says mom mom mom mom mom when he's eating peaches. I love listening to him discover his voice. He's fascinated with the new sounds, and repeats the newest consonant endlessly for a day or two before starting to mix things up. Instead of the steady stream of one baby sound, we've got full on babbling. Oh ba ba ba ga ma goy baaaah. It cracks me up every time. He sounds so serious sometimes, like he's giving us a little lecture. Other times, it's pure joy. In his little baby babbling is the first sprout of his little boy voice. I can hear it sometimes, hiding in there, the syllables that one day will be a shout of excitement, the exasperated whine of mo-om, an elaborate story or a sweet good night. Monday August 4, 2008
Posted by: eyoung at 8:35AM CST on August 4, 2008
Serious. I can describe my older daughter in five words — the same five words I used to describe her at 2, 3 and 4. I described her that way in an e-mail to a faraway friend shortly before her second birthday. Now she’s 6, and they describe her still. Serious. Selective. Imaginative. Dramatic. Sensitive. My younger daughter is 4 years old, and I recently realized I did not have adjectives for her. I never summed her up in the same neat package that I could her older sister. And I wondered (moms with not enough to worry about end up wondering, don’t we?): How well do I know her, really know her? Her baby book is mostly empty, except for a few pages I filled out during a streak of motherish ambition. Our video collection of her early days is scant. We were kept so busy by the daily tasks of caring for an infant and toddler that we spent less time simply learning who she was. Even now, moments when it’s just the two of us are few. She’s the Second Child. So often, she lets her sister lead the games, steer the conversations, set the rules. She’s more agreeable by nature; does that make her personality more malleable? I wonder. How well do I know thee, my fair Isabel? The last few weeks, I’ve been watching her closely. Paying her extra attention as I ponder my lack of adjectives to sum up her little self. I’m a writer and a lover of word games. So I tackled this one. Here’s what I observed: On a glorious day — Friday August 1, 2008
Posted by: mlaehr at 9:29AM CST on August 1, 2008
It used to be a joke between my husband and I. I’d tell him, “We’re going to keep having children until I get to paint a bedroom in this house pink.” My husband is one of five boys, so the possibility that we would only produce male children was strong. But when I had an ultrasound during my third and last pregnancy, we were told we could expect a little girl. I was excited. My husband was ecstatic. We painted the nursery pink. Bought pink bedding and pink sleepers. We bought a neutral car seat - just in case - and brought two coming home outfits to the hospital, one that was gender-neutral and another that was covered in bright pink polka dots. I told myself I wouldn’t be disappointed if we had a third boy, but I really, really, really, wanted to bring home a sweet baby girl. I dreamed of the chance to buy dresses and bonnets instead of overalls and truck tees. I wanted to paint fingernails and put in ponytails. I hoped for the chance to play with baby dolls and Barbies instead of Batmobiles and rubber snakes. It has been my experience that little boys (or maybe it’s just mine) are WILD. They run, jump, shout, fight, like loud toys, and just plain wear this Mommy out. Little girls on the other hand (I have nine nieces), can get demanding and emotional, but are calmer overall. They don’t seem to be in 20 things at once, don’t usually get into fist fights with each other and don’t throw big heavy toys at the TV. I was looking forward to having a sweet little girl I could read books to, take to dance lessons and teach to blow kisses. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids with personality. I was hoping my baby girl - like my boys - would be silly, sweet, fun-loving, and just enough of a stinker to show me she had gumption. But I also prayed she would be a little less wild and a little less naughty than her older brothers. Since my baby girl is now almost 15-months-old, she's starting to show her little personality. She hugs her baby dolls and pats their backs, she giggles like crazy when we play peek-a-boo, and she calms down immediately when I sing to her. She showed off her toes like a pro the other day at my parents’ house, because my mom and dad had painted her tootsies for her for the first time. She’s full of sugar, but she’s also got spice. On Wednesday when I went to pick my children up from the babysitter, I walked in to find my little girl sitting on the couch in the time-out spot. She looked up at me with her little ponytails and then looked away. “She’s in time-out,” the babysitter said. “She was pinching. Hard.” I sat down on the couch by my baby. “Josie,” I said. “You have to be gentle. No pinching. That’s naughty.” My Josephine looked up at me with big brown eyes and smiled sweetly. She knew exactly what I was saying, but fully did not intend to listen. Is there really any difference between little boys and little girls? |
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