A Love Letter

Dear Sausage from Meridian Grocery,

I love you. There, I said it. There's no reason to beat around the bush or play coy. Let's just get that out in the open and let it breath.

I must admit, I've never felt this way about a food before. Sure there have been mild lapses in judgment inspired by fetching foods. Ice cream binges. Macaroni and cheese gorgings. Pizza gluttonings. Candy corn fixations. Marshmallow Peep face-stuffings. But these were never more than flings--the basest kind of short-sighted and self-destructive whimsies or cavings to cravings.

Never before have I wanted to make a food part of me. Don't take this the wrong way, but I want you inside me. All the time. I want your hot, spicy tube. In. Side. Me. Now. Always.

Don't let anyone turn this into something disgusting. It's beautiful. You're beautiful. And perfect. You are a perfect food.

Shh. Don't talk. Just get in my belly.

Love,
Pat

My Napping Theory Is Shot to Hell

You know how I said Gabe was a complete mess on the days when he doesn't take a nap--and since he's not taking naps very often anymore, he's been more of a mess than not for awhile now. Yeah, turns out it wasn't the naps that were making him normaler.

Yesterday he took a good, long nap. Almost three hours. But from the time that he woke up until he went to bed he was non-stop spaz. We went outside to work on the playhouse some, and very little actual work got done because I spent most of my time unwedging him from things.

First, he decided that he needed to climb a tree.

This tree. A redbud. Maybe. I'm never very clear on tree names because, on the whole, they all do about the same thing in my world: provide an obstacle to mow around.

I have to admit that my feelings towards tree climbing are a bit dubious. On the one hand, tree climbing is a good, wholesome, traditional "boy" thing to do with an afternoon. Norman Rockwell would have approved of the activity. It also, I suppose, trains some coordination skills and teaches kids valuable lessons about planning ahead and gravity. On the other hand, Gabe is terrible at planning ahead and gravity has never been his friend. We've so far managed to avoid breaking any of his limbs (I say "we" but his role in the prevention has been on an unwilling participation level only), but we've also managed to keep him from being higher than a couple feet off the ground. Now that he's branching out . . . ha ha . . . it's probably only a matter of time before a trip to the hospital.

Especially if he keeps going after it like he did yesterday. He tackled this tree with gusto if not exactly prowess or skill.

Really, I have nobody to blame but myself because I'm the one that pointed the ideal climbing nature of that particular tree out to him. It seemed like an innocent enough move at the time, and I was doing it to protect another, smaller tree from Gabe's wrath. The tree he originally picked out is only about four feet tall and just a couple years old. He would have destroyed it. And when I spotted him trying to "climb" it (he wasn't able to do anything more than straddle one of the small branches that was close to the ground because the tree is only about an inch thick at its base), I pointed him to the far more substantial redbud. I thought, "No worries. That first fork is a few feet off the ground, still too high for him to get into."

So he asked me to put him up in the fork of the tree to start off. "Nope," I said. "Tree climbing isn't a team sport. If you're going to do it, you'll have to do it on your own." I thought this would buy me a few more months, anyway. Or, if nothing else, keep him discouraged enough that he would find something else to do and I could work on the playhouse.

Except he found a chair. So he used the chair to get into the fork of the tree. But that was as far as he was ever able to make it. And, obviously, it was too high for him to get down from--which he couldn't do anyway because as soon as he got in there he wedged either his crotch or his shoes into the fork in such a way that he couldn't move anymore. I have to give the kids props for trying, though, and sticking with it when it didn't work. Every time he got stuck, he yelled to me to get him down, and when I put him on the ground he declared that he "needed to try it again," always with the same result. So, every five minutes or so for a half an hour I was called over to free him up, and eventually he gave up.

After the tree, he decided to feed the chickens some "salad," one of his favorite things to do right now. He walked around the yard, picking grass and throwing it through the fence to the chickens. But this time it only kept him busy for a few minutes.

I was cutting a piece of particle board for the wall and out of the corner of my eye I saw Gabe on the picnic table. He sort of seemed to be jumping up and down. Dancing maybe? Or just being weird. Who knew. Because being on top of furniture is pretty common for him, and I didn't see where he could really hurt the picnic table being up there, I instantly dismissed it and went back to my own business.

Not a minute later I heard, "Uh, Dad? Help?" in a not very loud voice--as if he knew he needed help but REALLY didn't want to face the lecture that was going to come attached.

This was another stuck-in-a-rocking-chair moment for Gabe as he was forced to remain stuck until I had time to go inside and get the camera (which I should have done anyway to get a picture of him wedged in the tree, but I figured I would have LOTS of opportunities for wedged-in-tree pictures as the years go by). Here's what I found:

For some reason, he refused to smile for the picture.

He didn't REALLY need my help, as he pulled it out this way on his own, but I'm glad he called me all the same because I wouldn't have gotten the picture of him if he hadn't. Really, he does a great job of letting us know when he's done something he knows he's not supposed to do. I guess that's the advantage of there not being huge, terrible consequences from me whenever he screws up. He knows the worst he'll get is an earful or maybe some time out, so he hasn't discovered that it's easier just to act like something didn't happen and then lie about it when I inevitably discover it. That's good, right?

And here's his explanation of what he was doing when he punched a hole through the picnic table.

Or maybe he just doesn't lie to cover things up yet because he's not very good at it. I'm reasonably sure that he was actually just stomping on this soft spot in our picnic table--which we've known for a couple years needs to be completely rebuilt, but who wants to take the time to pull apart and then put back together a picnic table when it can still SORT OF perform its function? Now, I guess, we're not going to have much choice.

And, no matter how much of a dork he is, I'm still going to keep trying to force naps on him until he's in school. It's just my way.

The Hits Just Keep on Comin'

Gabe has become a completely unreliable napper now. Two, maybe three times a week, I can either browbeat or guilt him into staying in bed long enough for him to accidentally do what his body really wants him to do and fall asleep. But most of the time he just hangs out in his room, making noise, and coming out every fifteen minutes or so to pee or poop or shout down the stairs to ask if it's "waking up time" yet.

At this point, it's worth noting that I recognize it would be easier--and there would be fewer problems with him waking Norah up--if I just abandoned his nap time altogether, let him play downstairs, and dealt with the fact that the only quiet time I will get for myself will come when I have a complete meltdown and lock myself in the bathroom. But I am loathe to give up my Me Time without a bitter, knock-down-drag-out fight. I have also maintained throughout that my kids are not going to grow up expecting the world to bend to their whims. It is vitally important--to my way of thinking, at least--that children learn to keep other people happy. It is, after all, what they're going to spend the majority of their working life doing every single day. Nobody gets to whine and cry and tell the boss they have to poop to get out of doing something they don't want to do. That's just not how the world works. That doesn't mean that my kids don't eventually erode away my resolve (sometimes quicker than normal if my tolerance for whining is particularly low that day) and get what they want, but they have to work a little to get it.

So, in my effort to at least make things more difficult for Gabe as he transitions into a napless world (which just seems preposterous to me--who wouldn't LOVE to take a nap every day and have the world resigned to take care of your every need and deal with all your problems so you can sleep carefree), we're doing "quiet time." In theory, quiet time starts when I put them both up in their rooms (Gabe sleeps in the extra bed because otherwise there's no chance Norah will go to sleep either) and it lasts until Norah wakes up. Since Norah can now nap about three hours, the odds that Gabe will be able to entertain himself quietly in his room for that long without major disturbance is about the same as of having your winning lottery ticket struck by lightning. It also doesn't help that he can't tell time, so I can't tell him to stay in his room until, say, 2:00 (there is a pretty good chance that he WILL be able to tell time before he gets to kindergarten, though, because I show him the clock and try to explain how it works with some regularity hoping to get him to recognize what two hours of quiet time looks like).

But I try anyway. And when he comes down every fifteen minutes, I inform him that he needs to go back upstairs until Norah wakes up. And I repeat that mantra every fifteen minutes until I get bored with it and let him stay up.

Yes, I realize that my Me Time is already non-existent because I'm spending all of it coaxing him back to bed. Yes, I know I'm just wasting all of our time in a futile effort to establish myself as the alpha in our household. But, so far, I haven't given up the pipe dream that I'm the one in charge around here.

But that is beside the point of my post today. One sort of advantage of Gabe not napping is that his mildly sleep deprived brain comes up with some pretty amusing stuff from time to time.

Today, for instance, he was sitting at his computer . . . .

Did I mention that we found an old lap top and gave it to Gabe for the express purpose that he could play games on an online educational site called abcmouse.com? I have to admit, the notion of letting my four year old play computer games sounded like a TERRIBLE idea when I first heard it. I already feel bad enough that my kids are borderline TV junkies (OK, probably no "borderline" about Norah's relationship to TV programming). The last thing I needed was to feel even guiltier that my kid was also addicted to video games before he can even read.

But, I tell you what, we've seen some pretty astounding results from him playing this game. Put aside the basic computer skills he already has (he can work a mouse and perform any of a number of drag/click functions, he's becoming quite familiar with the setup of the keyboard, and he's starting to come to terms with the reality of having to deal with ten year old technology being completely obsolete for doing something as basic as playing a pre-K game on the internet). He's made HUGE strides in learning his alphabet and numbers. Considering just a couple months ago we couldn't even tell if he recognized half the letters of the alphabet, now he not only recognizes them, he can identify most of their sounds, can find them on the keyboard, and he's beginning to grasp basic economic concepts (he wins tickets for playing the games on there then can buy items to decorate his "house" in the game). I'm still not saying that it's the best method out there, and it's almost guaranteed that he's going to be a video game nerd when he gets older, but so far I think the positives outweigh the negatives.

Anyway, sitting at his computer. He had a little sheet of paper that he'd stuck several different stickers on. He peeled one of the stickers off and put it above his lip like a mustache, and then he started to make up and sing a song to me. I grabbed the camera and coaxed him into doing it a few more times (he had to keep using different stickers and moving them around, too, I guess to find the perfect costume). Here's what I got.

I can't understand what he's singing about half the time, but that kind of lyrical styling is perfectly acceptable in most forms of popular music, so I think I'm going to nurture this phase.

Boys Are Weird

By now everyone should be aware that my kids are weird. Funny weird, not creepy weird. Well, maybe a LITTLE creepy weird:

I have no idea what prompted him to think this was a good idea, but, then, the male brain prior to about age 25 is full of bad ideas that seem good.

Oh, and at soccer practice the other day, Libby taught Norah how to do this:


It started off innocently enough. Norah had a boo boo on the finger and was showing it to everyone. She's actually got pretty good form already--she's a natural bird flipper, if you will. She doesn't have to hold down her other fingers or anything, just BAM, the finger. Fortunately, she wasn't grasping what she was doing, so I won't have to worry for a little while longer that she's giving me the finger when I tell her to clean her plate or go to bed. My only hope is that I can convince her that she can only flip off the devil and she'll sit down here flipping off the heat registers some day (for relevant context, go here). Then the circle will be complete.

Misconceptions

Things are rarely as they seem, and kids only complicate that old adage. Many and varied are the times that accurately seeing what's going on in our house has taken a double or triple take. Almost always the vision in question revolves around a "mess," which can be loosely defined as "everything children do with things," and how that mess catches my eye at first and then changes the tone of everything upon closer inspection.

Case in point, a few days ago, I approached our bathtub to start a bath for the kids. While standing over the tub, I looked down and saw a black spot. Like this:

At first blush, I had no idea what this was. Because I've had small children in my house for four years now, I automatically assumed that it was poop. Someone had left a floater in the tub the night before and we had missed it. I should note, this has NEVER happened, but that's still the first assumption I make. It's a sad place to be in, where I automatically assume a new, awful occurrence with poop has happened instead of something more innocuous, but there you have it. However, there was still a slim chance that I wouldn't need to get a kleenex to clean it up, so I bent in a little to get a better look.

Huh. That's not poop. That's . . . huh.

A head. Stuck to the bottom of our tub. Peter Parker's head, to be specific. From Gabe's Spiderman sticker book. Even he had no idea why it was there. Just one of those things.

Norah also came up with my favorite misnomer to date (well, of hers, anyway--Libby and I decided that our favorite one from either kid so far is still Gabe's "resternaut"). Wal-Mart had a bunch of summer toys on clearance last week and we bought her a pair of Dora walkie-talkies for $5. She has no concept of how to use them properly, but she loves the fact that they make ceaseless noise. And she calls them her "walkie tacos."

Yeah, I don't know. That one might be better than resternaut. I mean, sending a place to eat into outer space is funny and all, but whatever circumstance that would call for a walkie taco might trump it.

I Really Need to Be Better About Updating

So, on a whim, I put the card in the reader to see if I had anything on there for a random update. Turns out I've got a mess of things on there rather worth sharing. So . . . yeah, you're going to be here for awhile.

I can't believe it's already been three weeks since school started back up. And I'm just now getting around to posting pictures. Sheesh. But here's the traditional first-day-of-school-on-the-front-porch picture.

And here's a traditional first-day-of-school-on-the-little-bench-in-front-of-the-school picture.

And here's the traditional me-carrying-a-screaming-Norah-away-from-something-that-she-insists-she-should-be-doing-instead-of-what-needs-to-be-done picture. I'm getting quite a collection of these. Norah has not been pleased about not getting to go to school with Gabe. Last year, we always went in with Gabe and she got to play around for a few minutes before we left. This year, we've had to stick to just dropping Gabe off at the front door while Norah waits in the car because, if I let her out, she throws a fit when we have to go in a few minutes. All the same, she's been screaming and crying the entire way home every day after we drop Gabe off. Once we're home, she kind of likes it, though. I've explained to her that, while Gabe is at school, she can watch whatever show she wants--instead of having to take turns with Gabe--and play with all of Gabe's toys without having to ask or share. She likes not asking and not sharing. Then we've made a habit of going to school fifteen or twenty minutes before it ends so she can play in the playground there. This is a habit I'm going to quickly start regretting when it gets too cold to be outside, but that's a problem to deal with another week.

Norah's first camp-out. The last two weekends, Libby and Gabe have been spending at least one night out in the tent. The first night, they tried it with Norah, too. They went out around 8:00, but after two hours of them screwing around and not sleeping, Libby had to give up and bring them inside. The other nights they've spent out there, Gabe has to go up to bed with Norah (because she doesn't like it when he's not in the room at night) and stay in there until she falls asleep. Then he comes back down and goes outside with Libby. Probably that's a little sneaky and underhanded, but what can you do? That's kind of the place we're at with Norah right now--we have to figure out sneaky ways to convince her that what she's doing is the funnest thing possible.

Gabe with a bubble beard. Nothing particularly special about this picture, but I figured I would share anyway.

Norah making faces. It's fun to have her go through her repertoire of emotion faces--sad, happy, scared, surprised, mad, whatever. But I fear that what I'm really doing is teaching her to create emotions. And, as manipulative as she already is, I can't imagine that she won't use her ability to create emotions to her advantage. I mean, she's already doing that, but right now all she's mastered is Screaming and Crying and Say No. When she masters the subtler emotions, we're going to be in trouble.

No idea what this emotion is. I'm going to call it Nixon.

I think she's trying to wink and smile at the same time. Not sure. Actually, the other night, Libby took five or ten minutes to teach her to tilt her head to one side, say "Please," and bat her big brown eyes at us. I REALLY dread the day she masters that one because I don't think there will be many people who will be able to say no to her when she does it.

Grammy and Grandpa sent a couple new outfits for them a week ago or so, too. But more than sharing the pictures of the outfits, I wanted to comment on Gabe's faces for these pictures.

He wasn't in a bad mood or anything. He just thought this look was what he wanted to do for these pictures. And when I look at these pictures, I can't help but have a haunting premonition of all of the pictures he'll be in from adolescence until he's probably out of college where he's too indifferent or too cool or too fed up or too angsty or too whatever to smile and admit that he's having a good time. But, then, as much as he likes to see himself in pictures and on video, maybe he'll just save that attitude for special occasions, because looking at pictures of yourself being a tool isn't nearly as much fun as looking at pictures of yourself being silly.

Last night, Libby decided to get Gabe his Halloween costume. The Red Power Ranger. Ugh. He's left Transformers and G.I. Joe in the past now and focused his entire being on the Power Rangers. I couldn't be more disappointed and can only hope that this phase just lasts as long as all those before it have. Because Power Rangers have actually managed to get worse in the past twenty years. And, considering they started off as terrible and unwatchable, where they are now is beyond painful. He kept the costume on all last night (even while he was at the store for the reception that we had for the artist we'll be displaying for the next month or two) and had to put it back on first thing this morning.

Norah with her popcorn. She has a thing for popcorn. Well, let's not fool ourselves, she has a thing for food in general. But she is VERY protective of her popcorn and she can eat a lot of it. She ate this entire bowl, which was the better part of a bag. That's perfectly normal for a two year old, though, right?

Norah playing catch. It really is weird how much better she is at it than Gabe was at that age. Actually, she's about as good at it as Gabe is now. He just doesn't have the patience to throw and catch a ball. He's good with throwing it if it's going to hit something and make it explode or fall down, otherwise, meh. I can sympathize, somewhat. I have never been much for ball throwing either. Just never came up with any practical application for the skill. I mean, if I lived in a ninja infested region and I could hone a skill for catching and returning throwing stars, sure, that's useful. Or if I was being divebombed by bats all the time and I wanted to be able to catch them and throw them in someone else's hair, that makes sense. As it is, I don't often need to catch and throw things. Just not something that I need to do.

And I saved the best for last. Take a moment to soak this picture in.

McDonalds Happy Meals have Power Ranger toys this month. One of them is a little plastic gun thing that shoots these paper disks out. For reasons that could only be clear to Gabe, he poked one of them between his but cheeks and started running around like this before his bath the other night. Libby tried to get a video, but he wasn't really cooperating by that point and it has full front nudity on it, so I'll be saving that one for the special movie viewings with his high school girlfriend. This picture will be popping up at inopportune times in his future, too, I'm sure.

Gabe Has an Idea

I am doing my best not to be a helicopter parent. How well I'm doing, I suppose, probably depends on what your definition is. I've heard that term used to describe parents who swoop in whenever anything dangerous presents itself, grabbing up the child and cuddling after the smallest of bumps and bruises. I've also heard the term used to describe parents who hover over their children, constantly ruling over their lives and micromanaging them.

Let me tackle the second definition first--begging the question, why didn't I make it the first definition instead of the second, which is a valid question that points to an obvious lack of clarity and forethought on my part. Suck it.

In social situations, I have to admit that I am a helicopter parent. Well, maybe not in the micromanaging sense, as such, but I certainly hover around my kids, eager to keep them out of everyone else's hair as best I can. I know that I overdo it somewhat in this sense, but, being someone who is not overly fond of other people's kids, I naturally assume that other people don't want my kids yelling at each other and jumping all over everything and everyone. I grew up in a "kids should be seen and not heard" world, and that world seems more and more perfect in its serenity and calm each additional year that I have small children. So, yeah, I helicopter around them in social situations.

But in the first sense, the swooping in to keep them out of danger sense, not so much. In addition to not really liking kids all that much, I'm also not a fan of crying (who was it that put me in charge of kids again? Sounds like I'm about the worst person in the world for the job). I don't cry. Ever. I did growing up. Then one day I guess I just stopped, and I haven't been able to start again ever since. Not that I really WANT to cry--I don't. Crying is a messy waste of time. All that wet and snot and slobber and noise and blurred vision and vulnerability? No thanks. But I rather feel like I OUGHT to cry. It's what the sensitive guys do these days, right? But, try as I might, I can squeeze sweat out of my eye holes. It makes me sad. Just not sad enough to cry.

And, to my way of thinking, the best way to reduce the amount of crying that goes on in our house is to not encourage it. Big ouchies, sure. Those should be cried over. But anything minor--and I consider anything that isn't bleeding or includes a body part pointing in the wrong direction as a major symptom to be minor--is met with a "Can you still use it? Is blood getting on the carpet? Then shake it off." Most of the time, this borderline callous approach is met with even more furious crying and an insistence that I attend to the perceived injury with haste, sympathy, and care. But, from time to time, they actually DO shake it off and go about their business.

Well, Norah sometimes does, anyway. Gabe almost always does now, unless he's really tired. I can usually tell when Gabe needs a nap or to go to bed by how much he whines when he hurts himself. When a bonk that didn't bother him the least when he did it or throughout the day all of a sudden becomes a major issue, then it's time for bed. Otherwise, he's developing into quite the indestructible little guy, and I'd like to think that my shake-it-off attitude has helped make him that way.

But he might just BE that way, because I'm sure not having a lot of luck with Norah. Maybe it's because she's a girl and girls are just . . . well . . . pussies. EVERYTHING is an ordeal with her. Or maybe it's just because she's two and wants my undivided attention all the time no matter what else is going on around us. The kitchen is on fire, ninjas are jumping in through the shattered windows, and a tornado that giant robots created is savaging the entire town. Norah catches a foot on the edge of the carpet and falls on her knee, and THAT, to her mind, is the lead story. Kids and their priorities, I swear.

Anyway, part of the whole shaking it off philosophy is to actually let them get some banging up in the process. It's tough to teach them to deal with their own minor discomforts if they never suffer any minor discomforts. So I try to take a measured approach to my interventions when they are playing. Crawling head first down the stairs? Yeah, that's not going to fly (I'm pretty sure my kids will be permanently and irrevocably terrified of stairs their entire lives with how often I tell them to "take the stairs seriously" and "never play on them or you'll fall down, break your neck, and never be able to walk again"). Messing around near my power tools? Huh uh. Testing the boundaries to see if you can sneak into the front yard and play by the road? Inside, suckers!

However, if the possible damage that could be done is relatively minor, and the chance of success is low, many times I will just give a warning/prediction and see where nature and gravity take them.

And, every once in awhile, I let something that is truly a bad idea slide, just to see where it goes.

Today was one of those days.

Well, really, it wasn't that I let it slide so much as I didn't see it happening during the brainstorming session and decided not to step in once it had reached the point of implementation. Gabe had gotten to the point where he was trying out his bright idea anyway, so I grabbed the camera and prepared for the outcome.

Which, I should mention, never came, so I guess I was justified in letting him play it out since nothing bad came of it. Not that I need to justify my bad parenting. Bad parenting is my right as an American, dammit!

As I said, I missed his preparation as I was pulling the nails out of a piece of recycled lumber to use in their playhouse. But they had been quiet for a few minutes, which invariably means that trouble is soon to follow. And, when I went to check on them, this is what I found. A rocking horse on a porch swing. I'm pretty sure Norah just wanted to stay close so she could participate in the aftermath. She hates it when Gabe hurts himself, but I think she also likes it because she gets to use it as an excuse to scream and cry in response to him screaming and crying.

Nothing bad came of it. However, I did still get to say, "Shake it off" to Norah right after I turned off the camera. And, really, how is it that we live to adulthood? Especially boys. Defies all explanation.