I'm feeling kind of lost on this sibling rivalry thing. As an only child, I just don't get it. I don't know when it's healthy, how to steer it, when the flags of warning have been raised. It all sounds like blaring horns of warning to me, signs that my children are headed down some path to antisocialism or sociopathy or eventual addiction and homelessness. Okay, maybe not that bad, but still.
I have no examples to give right now. Or at least no energy for the tedium of the examples I do have.
Moving on.
Clark's third birthday party is tomorrow. I was going to order a cake, since it's been winter here for decades and we're just now entering into Rochester's most unpleasant season: gray sky and mud. (We have six seasons here; bet you didn't know that. They are: Summer - Fall - Winter - Ungodly Amounts of Snow - Gross Mud - Spring. Winter through Gross Mud takes up 9 months of the year.)
Then my helpful husband, teasing me, said something about how Clark is getting the cake shaft after the castle cake I made for Frances. Dammit. Now I had to go and make something ridiculously time consuming for Clark too. At first I was going to make a Rocket cake (it looked like the party was going in a Space/pirates/Diego combo theme direction) but it has turned out to be a Diego cake. Party theme simplified. I'm quite pleased with it, and it was lots of fun. Will post a picture here soon.
At first I hassled myself for putting on so much pressure to make a fancy shmansy cake. I thought about how we overdo things, buy too many toys, spend ridiculous amounts of energy on parties they won't remember. But, really, the cake is for me; it's a creative outlet, fills a space that I so desperately need to fill with regularity in my life. For now, it's the cakes. At least their birthdays aren't close together.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
finally
I'm well! Everyone's well at the same time! (knock knock knock on wood) School started back up this week after February break! Things can return to some semblance of normal routine! Oh the excitement! AND the sun is shining!
Really, how much more can you ask? I do have this fantasy about my whole house being clutter free and organized all at once. I also realize this is indeed fantasy and nowhere near the realm of possibility. I'm okay with that.
Right now the kids are both at school and I'm getting ready to sew. I've got a bunch of sewing projects stacked on the table, have had them stacked there for some time now. I keep thinking I'll sew in the middle of the day during down time, quiet time for the kids, while Frances draws beside me. (She draws all the time right now, digs the crayons or pencils out by herself.) I haven't been able to figure out why it isn't happening. I think I'm just so mentally wiped at 3pm that I can't think about creative things. Instead, I think about getting dinner together, I lie on the couch, I straighten up from the tornado that's run through in the morning. Or maybe it's just because I've been sick, and I certainly didn't have the energy then.
But I'm going to quit this post and go sew, get some creating done. I'm doing some placemats and napkins for the kids, and I'm going to do a bunting banner like this one. Plus the zillion things I need to mend.
Off I go!
Really, how much more can you ask? I do have this fantasy about my whole house being clutter free and organized all at once. I also realize this is indeed fantasy and nowhere near the realm of possibility. I'm okay with that.
Right now the kids are both at school and I'm getting ready to sew. I've got a bunch of sewing projects stacked on the table, have had them stacked there for some time now. I keep thinking I'll sew in the middle of the day during down time, quiet time for the kids, while Frances draws beside me. (She draws all the time right now, digs the crayons or pencils out by herself.) I haven't been able to figure out why it isn't happening. I think I'm just so mentally wiped at 3pm that I can't think about creative things. Instead, I think about getting dinner together, I lie on the couch, I straighten up from the tornado that's run through in the morning. Or maybe it's just because I've been sick, and I certainly didn't have the energy then.
But I'm going to quit this post and go sew, get some creating done. I'm doing some placemats and napkins for the kids, and I'm going to do a bunting banner like this one. Plus the zillion things I need to mend.
Off I go!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
picky picky picky
My son. My son is a lunatic. An adorable lunatic, but the screaming really undoes me. He'll be three in a week and I know it's typical for this to be an awful age, but - really. Come on.
He won't wear pajamas. Which is fine. He wears to bed whatever he's been wearing all day, which does make bedtime a little sideways because we don't have the ritual of putting on the pjs any more. But whatever.
He agrees to wear a grand total of two pairs of shorts. Shorts. They are long shorts, the longest I could find in the bottom of the box of summer stuff in his closet. When we go outside I require snowboots and socks that he allows me to pull up under the legs of the shorts, and that he pushes down the instant his butt hits the carseat. He does, however, pull them up of his own accord before we get out of the van. As you can imagine, there being only two pairs, the shorts are often dirty. Today I washed one of the pairs out in the sink and dried them on the heater, and then the last bit with the hairdryer (oh what a sweet mama I am), so they'd be ready for bedtime.
And he found a pair of his now-too-small shoes in a stack of things I've been meaning to ebay, and he insists on wearing them all the time. Even to bed. (I've actually finally won that battle. Score one for mom! No shoes in bed anymore, but he does put them right beside the bed so they'll be there in the morning, or, I assume, if he wakes in the night and needs to glance down to reassure himself of the steadiness of the universe.) Although he wears his snowboots outside (spiderman, light up when walking, bought in desperation at Target months ago when he was refusing to wear his perfectly acceptable blue ones), I often have to carry the too small old shoes with me in my bag so he can change into them when he gets where we're going, like our friend Sophia's house or the kid area at the gym. And if dad's home, he can skip the snowboots all together, because he convinces dad to carry him to and from the car. Which his dad agrees to do. Again, whatever.
His puppy eyes are indeed convincing. He's not even three and he's already mastered throwing the sugary bone. Today he hollered "TV! TV!" while shrieking and flailing in my arms on the way to the car from Frances's ballet class. I told him absolutely not; boys who behave like this don't get to watch tv in the car. He stopped immediately and quietly said, "I not screaming any more." A little too late for that, little man. Five minutes later I said that no, boys who hit mom certainly don't get candy. He looked at me so sweetly and said, "I'm sorry I acted like that, Mama," in the most adorable little voice you've ever heard. "Why, thank you, Clark. I appreciate that apology," I said. "Now we can watch TV?" he asked with just as much sugar. Heh. His girlfriends are going to be in trouble.
Have I mentioned how stinkin cute he is?
I can't figure it out, really. I've tried several different approaches. My latest is to pretend he isn't screaming at all. I dig my earplugs out of my jeans pocket, where they are the minute I get up in the morning, and I just go about my dish-doing, my straightening, my sweet potato slicing for Yam Spinach Bacon soup. He follows me around the kitchen screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and after about three full screaming minutes, he swats me on the legs. I say, "You may not hit me, Clark," and I pick him up and carry him to the time out chair in the dining room. He continues to scream, which I ignore, and then he screams for his blankie blankie, which I scoop from under the kitchen table or up off the family room floor and throw to him. When the blankie hits his hands he quiets immediately, and spends the rest of time out lounging sideways in the chair and sucking his thumb.
(The blankie is fascinating, isn't it? Its like a drug, a deep inhale, the world's edges suddenly softer, life not such a strain, one foot at a time into a steaming hot bath. Ah. I could use a blankie, come to think of it.)
I have to keep reminding myself, keep reminding myself that this is a stage. One day he'll stop all this madness. He won't still be throwing fits like this when he's sixteen (they'll be a different variety of fit then...) I'll even be able to keep a crayon within his reach without fearing consequences.
But as a stay at home mom, dealing with this all day long, every day, several times a day, ad nauseum, it's hard to keep it in perspective. I feel like I'm forever going to live in a house with someone who screams for extended periods at a time. I really do think the noise level is what throws me off. I didn't realize I was noise sensitive, but on the extremely rare and random day when he doesn't scream, I'm a much happier and calmer and better parent. Cheers to that.
He won't wear pajamas. Which is fine. He wears to bed whatever he's been wearing all day, which does make bedtime a little sideways because we don't have the ritual of putting on the pjs any more. But whatever.
He agrees to wear a grand total of two pairs of shorts. Shorts. They are long shorts, the longest I could find in the bottom of the box of summer stuff in his closet. When we go outside I require snowboots and socks that he allows me to pull up under the legs of the shorts, and that he pushes down the instant his butt hits the carseat. He does, however, pull them up of his own accord before we get out of the van. As you can imagine, there being only two pairs, the shorts are often dirty. Today I washed one of the pairs out in the sink and dried them on the heater, and then the last bit with the hairdryer (oh what a sweet mama I am), so they'd be ready for bedtime.
And he found a pair of his now-too-small shoes in a stack of things I've been meaning to ebay, and he insists on wearing them all the time. Even to bed. (I've actually finally won that battle. Score one for mom! No shoes in bed anymore, but he does put them right beside the bed so they'll be there in the morning, or, I assume, if he wakes in the night and needs to glance down to reassure himself of the steadiness of the universe.) Although he wears his snowboots outside (spiderman, light up when walking, bought in desperation at Target months ago when he was refusing to wear his perfectly acceptable blue ones), I often have to carry the too small old shoes with me in my bag so he can change into them when he gets where we're going, like our friend Sophia's house or the kid area at the gym. And if dad's home, he can skip the snowboots all together, because he convinces dad to carry him to and from the car. Which his dad agrees to do. Again, whatever.
His puppy eyes are indeed convincing. He's not even three and he's already mastered throwing the sugary bone. Today he hollered "TV! TV!" while shrieking and flailing in my arms on the way to the car from Frances's ballet class. I told him absolutely not; boys who behave like this don't get to watch tv in the car. He stopped immediately and quietly said, "I not screaming any more." A little too late for that, little man. Five minutes later I said that no, boys who hit mom certainly don't get candy. He looked at me so sweetly and said, "I'm sorry I acted like that, Mama," in the most adorable little voice you've ever heard. "Why, thank you, Clark. I appreciate that apology," I said. "Now we can watch TV?" he asked with just as much sugar. Heh. His girlfriends are going to be in trouble.
I can't figure it out, really. I've tried several different approaches. My latest is to pretend he isn't screaming at all. I dig my earplugs out of my jeans pocket, where they are the minute I get up in the morning, and I just go about my dish-doing, my straightening, my sweet potato slicing for Yam Spinach Bacon soup. He follows me around the kitchen screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and after about three full screaming minutes, he swats me on the legs. I say, "You may not hit me, Clark," and I pick him up and carry him to the time out chair in the dining room. He continues to scream, which I ignore, and then he screams for his blankie blankie, which I scoop from under the kitchen table or up off the family room floor and throw to him. When the blankie hits his hands he quiets immediately, and spends the rest of time out lounging sideways in the chair and sucking his thumb.
(The blankie is fascinating, isn't it? Its like a drug, a deep inhale, the world's edges suddenly softer, life not such a strain, one foot at a time into a steaming hot bath. Ah. I could use a blankie, come to think of it.)
I have to keep reminding myself, keep reminding myself that this is a stage. One day he'll stop all this madness. He won't still be throwing fits like this when he's sixteen (they'll be a different variety of fit then...) I'll even be able to keep a crayon within his reach without fearing consequences.
But as a stay at home mom, dealing with this all day long, every day, several times a day, ad nauseum, it's hard to keep it in perspective. I feel like I'm forever going to live in a house with someone who screams for extended periods at a time. I really do think the noise level is what throws me off. I didn't realize I was noise sensitive, but on the extremely rare and random day when he doesn't scream, I'm a much happier and calmer and better parent. Cheers to that.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
dancing without rhythm = stumbling
Everything is falling apart over here. The kids were both terribly sick, high fevers, congestion, etc etc, and Frances missed school for a whole week. Which meant a week where everything got out of rhythm, a week with ridiculous amounts of TV. Then about the time they started to feel well, I got it too. And holy shit it's a killer of a flu. I now understand why Frances kept waking from her sweaty naps in tears. It just hurt, everywhere. Achiness and fever of 103 and bad bad bad headache and intense sinus pressure and congestion and awful awful. So though they were better, we were still house bound because I could barely drag my ass off the couch to pour them milk. And, again, lots of TV.
Over the weekend Mitch was a single parent because I spent the entirety of both days in bed. I think this was a major contributor to the fallingapartness because Mom was home, but they weren't allowed to see me. How odd that must seem. Once when I was barely awake I heard Frances open the door to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway a moment and watched me, and then quietly backed out and closed it behind her.
Then I discovered that this week is "February break". (What? Who has February break?! Those in the snowbelt, that's who; those in dire need of a trip to the tropics.) So off schedule again, everything askew.
To add to the pile, and in fact perhaps the biggest thing of all, Clark gave up his nap just days before they got sick. He would still like to be taking it, very much, and would gladly sleep 2 hours or more if I let him. But he was staying up until 10pm, which was simply not acceptable. So I cut the nap.
Now he's exhausted and still two and a half, and we have no rhythm to our days. I didn't realize how completely the day hinged on his nap. Now what to do? How to organize? Frankly, I haven't been very good at figuring it out because I can't seem to get well and therefore have no energy for creative parenting.
We have instituted a midday storytime which is helping. But even with that, I'm having to turn on the TV for them so I can nap. I'm just so exhausted....
I've been reading parenting books again, a terrible thing for my morale, this time Waldorf books that insist rhythm is the key to the universe. And to some degree I believe it is, at least when dealing with young children, which is what makes our lack of it so frustrating. I do believe a rhythm to the day gives them a feeling of security and connectedness, and this feeling of security is what they seem to be lacking. Perhaps this is partly the reason for the clinging, for Clark saying, "Mommy, I want you," even as he is wrapped around my leg. Frances said to me yesterday, "Mama, I never want to go away from you ever." I will need to hold onto that 10 years from now when she wants me not at all...
I do have a plan, and it includes storytime and quiet time and a daily walk. I'm waiting for it to either get a little warmer, or for me to feel a teeny bit better before I implement the last. There was one spring day last week (50 balmy degrees!), and most of the snow melted off the yards and up came the mud. We took our trikes outside, and it was glorious. Like coming up from the depths after the bends. Then that night it snowed, and now we're back to our regular 20 degree high and 6 degree low with constant flurries. But for a moment it was spring! It allowed me to see what our lives will be like soon enough. With spring outside the door I think I can get our footing, get a rhythm.
Over the weekend Mitch was a single parent because I spent the entirety of both days in bed. I think this was a major contributor to the fallingapartness because Mom was home, but they weren't allowed to see me. How odd that must seem. Once when I was barely awake I heard Frances open the door to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway a moment and watched me, and then quietly backed out and closed it behind her.
Then I discovered that this week is "February break". (What? Who has February break?! Those in the snowbelt, that's who; those in dire need of a trip to the tropics.) So off schedule again, everything askew.
To add to the pile, and in fact perhaps the biggest thing of all, Clark gave up his nap just days before they got sick. He would still like to be taking it, very much, and would gladly sleep 2 hours or more if I let him. But he was staying up until 10pm, which was simply not acceptable. So I cut the nap.
Now he's exhausted and still two and a half, and we have no rhythm to our days. I didn't realize how completely the day hinged on his nap. Now what to do? How to organize? Frankly, I haven't been very good at figuring it out because I can't seem to get well and therefore have no energy for creative parenting.
We have instituted a midday storytime which is helping. But even with that, I'm having to turn on the TV for them so I can nap. I'm just so exhausted....
I've been reading parenting books again, a terrible thing for my morale, this time Waldorf books that insist rhythm is the key to the universe. And to some degree I believe it is, at least when dealing with young children, which is what makes our lack of it so frustrating. I do believe a rhythm to the day gives them a feeling of security and connectedness, and this feeling of security is what they seem to be lacking. Perhaps this is partly the reason for the clinging, for Clark saying, "Mommy, I want you," even as he is wrapped around my leg. Frances said to me yesterday, "Mama, I never want to go away from you ever." I will need to hold onto that 10 years from now when she wants me not at all...
I do have a plan, and it includes storytime and quiet time and a daily walk. I'm waiting for it to either get a little warmer, or for me to feel a teeny bit better before I implement the last. There was one spring day last week (50 balmy degrees!), and most of the snow melted off the yards and up came the mud. We took our trikes outside, and it was glorious. Like coming up from the depths after the bends. Then that night it snowed, and now we're back to our regular 20 degree high and 6 degree low with constant flurries. But for a moment it was spring! It allowed me to see what our lives will be like soon enough. With spring outside the door I think I can get our footing, get a rhythm.
Monday, February 21, 2011
spring please come.
My son took off his mittens and buried them in the snow and now we can't find them. I'm having trouble finding the humor in this, though I know it's there somewhere.
He also buried his Little People fireman, and he seems to think that loss is much more traumatic than his mittens.
He's going to be three in a few weeks, I really can't believe it. He's lengthened out recently, and suddenly he looks like a little boy, so tall and big and grown. He's not a toddler any more. He speaks so completely and well, except when he's screaming, of course; a thing we're still struggling with.
And he is all boy. Before I had kids I thought gender differentiations were more socially constructed than I now believe. Certainly much is, but so much is clearly instinct; it's weird to me. As Mitch and I were watching him toronado through the family room the other day, Mitch commented that Clark, as a little boy, has to practice for killing the big animal. So funny! And if one is indeed going to hunt big animals, he needs to be good at running and climbing and throwing things. Of course, the girls need to practice caring for the babies. I guess I believed until puberty hormones were absent in kids. Certainly and clearly not the case.
As for the caring of babies, Frances has now constructed a miniature house in our dining room, complete with kitchen, playroom, dining room, and bedroom (which is more like a dorm, baby beds lined up in a pretty row). She's never done this before, not to such lengths. And she's scared to death Clark is going to wreck it, not an unfounded fear.
Finally, I will say it: I'm ready for winter to be done. I'm ready for us to be able to step outside barefoot. I've been sick so long I don't remember what it's like to be well. And taking care of kids isn't the easiest thing when you've got no energy. Back to bed for me.
He also buried his Little People fireman, and he seems to think that loss is much more traumatic than his mittens.
He's going to be three in a few weeks, I really can't believe it. He's lengthened out recently, and suddenly he looks like a little boy, so tall and big and grown. He's not a toddler any more. He speaks so completely and well, except when he's screaming, of course; a thing we're still struggling with.
And he is all boy. Before I had kids I thought gender differentiations were more socially constructed than I now believe. Certainly much is, but so much is clearly instinct; it's weird to me. As Mitch and I were watching him toronado through the family room the other day, Mitch commented that Clark, as a little boy, has to practice for killing the big animal. So funny! And if one is indeed going to hunt big animals, he needs to be good at running and climbing and throwing things. Of course, the girls need to practice caring for the babies. I guess I believed until puberty hormones were absent in kids. Certainly and clearly not the case.
As for the caring of babies, Frances has now constructed a miniature house in our dining room, complete with kitchen, playroom, dining room, and bedroom (which is more like a dorm, baby beds lined up in a pretty row). She's never done this before, not to such lengths. And she's scared to death Clark is going to wreck it, not an unfounded fear.
Finally, I will say it: I'm ready for winter to be done. I'm ready for us to be able to step outside barefoot. I've been sick so long I don't remember what it's like to be well. And taking care of kids isn't the easiest thing when you've got no energy. Back to bed for me.
Friday, February 11, 2011
me the mama, the salve.
For the past week I've been nursing sick kids--quite sick, with high fevers and empty eyes and no appetite. Everybody's been home from school. Today, however, I had one half-sick kid and one nearly-well kid with buckets of energy. Aaaaannd now I've got the fever. The last two days I've been achy and exhausted and completely unable to do anything more than chop cubes of cheese and pour cheerios into a bowl. Since it's February and we live in upstate NY, the temp and wind have been such that the only time I even opened the door today was to let the dog out then back in.
So today when Mitch got home, I collapsed on the couch and begged to be released from bedtime duties. It mostly went well, until the end. I thought the kids would be ready for bed early, both of them still somewhat sick, but I probably didn't factor in the fact that we hadn't left the house since Tuesday. Poor Clark wailed and howled. Mama Mama Mama Mama! I listened from downstairs, wondered if I should let Mitch handle it, thought maybe it would be good for Clark to have someone else comfort him. But since he was specific in his request for me, after a few minutes up I went.
Mitch was working on his laptop outside Clark's room, and as I passed him he said, "Are you sure Clark's ready for bed?" The minute I appeared Clark got quiet and wiped his wet face with his palms. Poor guy. It's true that he seemed awake. Not strung-out-and-over-tired awake, just awake. He talked about his stuffed pony. He told me about the cricket on his shirt. I wondered if I should just bring him back downstairs and try again later. I thought I'd sing to him first, however.
Mitch was working on his laptop outside Clark's room, and as I passed him he said, "Are you sure Clark's ready for bed?" The minute I appeared Clark got quiet and wiped his wet face with his palms. Poor guy. It's true that he seemed awake. Not strung-out-and-over-tired awake, just awake. He talked about his stuffed pony. He told me about the cricket on his shirt. I wondered if I should just bring him back downstairs and try again later. I thought I'd sing to him first, however.
There are two songs I recently reintroduced into our nighttime playlist, both tunes that I sang to him when he was a baby, when I walked the floor to get him to sleep. It's been interesting: one of the two he wants over and over now, every night, and the other makes his eyes heavy in the first few notes. It's like a muscle memory. So tonight, though he seemed so very awake, I started the first song, assuming he would break in with a request for different lighting or some pretzels.
You can guess where this is going. I wasn't halfway through the first song when his eyes started to droop. By the end of the second round he was so asleep that his thumb had already fallen from his mouth. It took all of three minutes.
When I emerged from the room Mitch said, "He needed his mama. I wasn't going to do, that's for sure." Apparently Mitch had tried to comfort him, tried to hold him; Clark wouldn't even look at his daddy, just pushed him away. And Clark is crazy about his daddy.
He's in a mommy stage, there's no question. I knew that already. (So is Frances, by the way, and the two of them together can sometimes be a little more love than I can handle.) But it's interesting to me that he calmed so quickly when I arrived, that he gave in to the deep rest of sleep so immediately. It's true; he needed me. I don't know why, but it seems odd to me that these little creatures need me so deeply, and not just for the safety and regularity of routine (I get that. I am the one home with him all the time, the one making meals and bandaiding scrapes, the one helping him navigate conflicts with his sister and his fear of the monster upstairs), but for something more intrinsic.
I'm not explaining well. I guess I mean that I'm so focused on providing the physical stuff-- cooking, and keeping the house straight, and organizing craft activities, and ushering folks into snowpants and the minivan--that I don't realize how much emotional stuff I provide too. Yet as I'm writing this I'm aware that much of the physical stuff is the emotional stuff. I keep them on regular sleep schedules and pack snacks and watch for overtiredness. I try to protect them from the bombardment of the world, while also show them what that world is. It shouldn't surprise me that he needs just me the way he does, should it? I could see it more easily if I were the only caregiver, if his daddy weren't such an amazing father... Am I still shortchanging my role in this? Do I not see with perspective who I am to my son? I think I don't.
Frances has lately taken to calling me the "best mama in the world." Every time she does it I hear a little disclaimer in my head. But then, the other day I flipped open the book The Emotional Life of the Toddler to a random page and read that, though the parent's job is to protect the child from emotional stress, no parent can do this all the time because the perfect parent doesn't exist. And it's important to remember that children are resilient enough that they bounce back from emotional strain pretty well.
Why can't I remember that the perfect parent doesn't exist? Why do I (and so many of the women I know) pressure ourselves to be the perfect parent? Feel we've failed when we fall short of perfection? (Why do I hear in my head, when my sweet daughter tells me I'm the best mama in the world, that no, I'm not. Why don't I just hear the love?) Why is perfection, rather than very good solid parenting, the yardstick?
Can't be. Doesn't exist.
Can't be. Doesn't exist.
I feel like I'm rambling, like I'm circling the core of the thing. Like, if I could say it right, this post would be half as long.
Okay, jumping ship. We'll attribute the ramblingness of this post to the fever, whadayasay? I've got to get some sleep.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Hello Again! (and) Toddler Fashion.
Hellllooooo virtual world! My computer is back from the dead, all clean and shiny. It's been back for several days, in fact, but I've been having trouble rustling up a post. This minute, however, I need to vent about the insistence of an almost three year old.
He'll be three in a month, and his twos in general have been dominated by his focus on clothes. I've written about this before (see this post). He doesn't change his clothes so often during the day any more, but he is completely obsessed with short sleeved t-shirts and shorts.
Let's review. We live in Rochester, NY. It's February. The high on good days is 26 degrees. This minute it's 11. I assume there is grass beneath the snow but I haven't seen it in months. Everything in the world is frozen and still except the frigid and uncompromising wind. And Clark wants to wear summer clothes. For a while we just told him this wasn't a choice, that it was winter and he had to have his arms and legs covered. Then somehow the battle became too much to fight and we slid on the t-shirts. Now he's allowed to wear short sleeves as long as he has his wool undershirt on too. (Which means, by the way, that all the long-sleeved shirts he owns are going to go completely unworn. Whatever.) What is driving me nuts currently is that very few of the short sleeved t-shirts now meet his requirements.
Moments ago he threw a complete fit because the sleeves of the shirts in his drawer were not the right length. Meaning, they are still short sleeved, but apparently they have to have a specific length of sleeve, and I have no idea what that is exactly. I know he's two-almost-three, but the compete unreasonableness of it all makes me nuts. And when I throw up my hands and walk away from him he comes completely unglued.
And it's not about sensory issues, by the way. The desire for short sleeves is not because he has issues with having things around his wrist or anything like that. It's a fashion statement.
I'm having trouble taking his plight seriously.
Poor guy.
Enough about that. I have, of course, a zillion other issues I want to raise here on the blog, things I've been thinking about since my computer's been gone. Hopefully I now will be posting with regularity again. I do have some questions about whether this blog has run its course, especially now that the kids aren't babies anymore. It's something I'll explore a bit here with you. The mom blogs are an interesting phenomena, and its curious to think about the purpose they serve. But for now, hello again! Can't wait to get moving.
He'll be three in a month, and his twos in general have been dominated by his focus on clothes. I've written about this before (see this post). He doesn't change his clothes so often during the day any more, but he is completely obsessed with short sleeved t-shirts and shorts.
Let's review. We live in Rochester, NY. It's February. The high on good days is 26 degrees. This minute it's 11. I assume there is grass beneath the snow but I haven't seen it in months. Everything in the world is frozen and still except the frigid and uncompromising wind. And Clark wants to wear summer clothes. For a while we just told him this wasn't a choice, that it was winter and he had to have his arms and legs covered. Then somehow the battle became too much to fight and we slid on the t-shirts. Now he's allowed to wear short sleeves as long as he has his wool undershirt on too. (Which means, by the way, that all the long-sleeved shirts he owns are going to go completely unworn. Whatever.) What is driving me nuts currently is that very few of the short sleeved t-shirts now meet his requirements.
Moments ago he threw a complete fit because the sleeves of the shirts in his drawer were not the right length. Meaning, they are still short sleeved, but apparently they have to have a specific length of sleeve, and I have no idea what that is exactly. I know he's two-almost-three, but the compete unreasonableness of it all makes me nuts. And when I throw up my hands and walk away from him he comes completely unglued.
And it's not about sensory issues, by the way. The desire for short sleeves is not because he has issues with having things around his wrist or anything like that. It's a fashion statement.
I'm having trouble taking his plight seriously.
Poor guy.
Enough about that. I have, of course, a zillion other issues I want to raise here on the blog, things I've been thinking about since my computer's been gone. Hopefully I now will be posting with regularity again. I do have some questions about whether this blog has run its course, especially now that the kids aren't babies anymore. It's something I'll explore a bit here with you. The mom blogs are an interesting phenomena, and its curious to think about the purpose they serve. But for now, hello again! Can't wait to get moving.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
whatchagonnado
My computer has been in the shop for eight days now, though they told me it would be 5-7, which is why I've been so absent. I'm on Mitch's laptop now, writing these words, but I can only sneak his computer away in stolen clandestine moments. During the week he takes it to work with him so I've been without email and facebook and general knowledge of the outside world for some time. It turns out a missing computer is very good for getting projects and dishes done. It's rather astounding to me how many meals I've made for the freezer.
And the snow! I do love living up here for the snow. My mood is noticeably different lately, which is perhaps due to the hormonal output of my IUD but could also simply be the snow. It's coming down this minute, another couple of inches today on top of what we already have. And since it never gets above freezing, the snow just stays and stays and stays. Everyone contracts folks to plow their driveway for the season, and those trucks build big piles at the end of the driveway by the road. The piles grow and grow, and they're lovely for climbing, or digging tunnels through, or sledding. Now we don't have to go far for sledding; it's at the edge of our very own yard.
Things are good. I'm using this computerless time to enjoy that things are indeed good. Frances is sweet and helpful and charming; Clark (he'll be three in March, canyoubelieve?) is screaming less, and instead speaking in bizarrely structurally correct sentences with oddly precise diction (he likes to enunciate); I'm reading. Everyday I lie on the couch for at least 20 minutes (sometimes an hour...) and I read or doze or listen with my eyes closed to Frances's solo-play chatter, which is pretty much the most charming thing of a nearly-four-and-a-half-year-old. And this age has plenty of charm. (Except during the uncharming moments, but that's not this post.)
Btw, I don't feel guilty about my quiet time on the couch. I see it only as lovely. I wish I could give it to every mom (I bet my friend in Utah who just had her fifth would take some of that). It's the kind of thing I used to beat myself up about when Frances was a baby. (We are crazy people as first time moms. Were you? Why is it so hard to see the forest for the trees?) Good grief, we all need little breaks. How many of you do it regularly?
Anyway, today the nice fella at the Apple store told me they're keeping the computer another week. I'll choose to focus on the upside of that situation and fill my freezer completely, though being without email is a serious hindrance to my social and organizational life. Alas, dear readers, I'll be back. Eventually.
And the snow! I do love living up here for the snow. My mood is noticeably different lately, which is perhaps due to the hormonal output of my IUD but could also simply be the snow. It's coming down this minute, another couple of inches today on top of what we already have. And since it never gets above freezing, the snow just stays and stays and stays. Everyone contracts folks to plow their driveway for the season, and those trucks build big piles at the end of the driveway by the road. The piles grow and grow, and they're lovely for climbing, or digging tunnels through, or sledding. Now we don't have to go far for sledding; it's at the edge of our very own yard.
Things are good. I'm using this computerless time to enjoy that things are indeed good. Frances is sweet and helpful and charming; Clark (he'll be three in March, canyoubelieve?) is screaming less, and instead speaking in bizarrely structurally correct sentences with oddly precise diction (he likes to enunciate); I'm reading. Everyday I lie on the couch for at least 20 minutes (sometimes an hour...) and I read or doze or listen with my eyes closed to Frances's solo-play chatter, which is pretty much the most charming thing of a nearly-four-and-a-half-year-old. And this age has plenty of charm. (Except during the uncharming moments, but that's not this post.)
Btw, I don't feel guilty about my quiet time on the couch. I see it only as lovely. I wish I could give it to every mom (I bet my friend in Utah who just had her fifth would take some of that). It's the kind of thing I used to beat myself up about when Frances was a baby. (We are crazy people as first time moms. Were you? Why is it so hard to see the forest for the trees?) Good grief, we all need little breaks. How many of you do it regularly?
Anyway, today the nice fella at the Apple store told me they're keeping the computer another week. I'll choose to focus on the upside of that situation and fill my freezer completely, though being without email is a serious hindrance to my social and organizational life. Alas, dear readers, I'll be back. Eventually.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
things they say. Clark, age 2.5, and Frances, age 4.
"No!" Clark says. "No kisses."
"No kisses? That's what Mommies are for," I say.
A shake of the head.
"No? Mommies are not for kisses? Then what are they for?"
"Dishes."
"I'm making pancakes," I tell Frances. "Do you want to help?"
"Will you put chocolate chips in some of them?"
"I will."
"And will you put plain in some of them too?"
It's night, and in bed Frances hugs the new babydoll Santa brought her.
"I don't have to hug you, Mommy, because I have this baby to hug."
Then later, when I go in one last time, the baby is on the far side of her, not being hugged at all.
"She'll be fine by herself," she tells me. "Babies are a lot of work. It's better when they're three."
Which is true.
"No kisses? That's what Mommies are for," I say.
A shake of the head.
"No? Mommies are not for kisses? Then what are they for?"
"Dishes."
"I'm making pancakes," I tell Frances. "Do you want to help?"
"Will you put chocolate chips in some of them?"
"I will."
"And will you put plain in some of them too?"
It's night, and in bed Frances hugs the new babydoll Santa brought her.
"I don't have to hug you, Mommy, because I have this baby to hug."
Then later, when I go in one last time, the baby is on the far side of her, not being hugged at all.
"She'll be fine by herself," she tells me. "Babies are a lot of work. It's better when they're three."
Which is true.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
a year in 4 minutes
Finally got the christmas packages in the mail today. Really. The fella at the post office said with a smile that I wasn't the only one. And I finally got our electronic (and ohsogreen!) holiday card finished. It's a video, and it's pretty interesting to watch Clark go from a toddler to a little boy. Here it is. (And if you have the stomach for it, at the end you get the opportunity to view last year's holiday ecard too. Woohoo.) Happy Holidays!
happy holidays 2010 from cali lovett on Vimeo.
happy holidays 2010 from cali lovett on Vimeo.
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