Creature Bug

Week 216: Twirly Girl

Now that I have fortified myself with a Costco-sized bottle of Excedrin (I think I felt my kidneys twitch in horror at watching me buy a bottle of 300 pills), I am ready to tackle the task of writing once again. Although I think I might be just a little out of form, since after rereading that last sentence it makes it appear as though I've consumed a Costco-sized bottle of Excedrin, rather than having purchased it. In fact, I haven't even had one Excedrin today, which is a major success. It had not occurred to me that I should go see a doctor about all these migraines, until so many of you kindly mentioned it. I suppose I should. If I go I'd love to find out if I could get an MRI, not because I think I need it, but because seriously, how cool would that be to see a picture of inside my head? If I could get a copy of it, you know I would absolutely find a way to work that photo into one of my classroom lectures in the fall because that's the kind of crazy teacher I am.

Waking up without the familiar ache behind my left eye was so refreshing. Before I was fully awake, I listened as Jason helped the girls with breakfast, heard the running of the bath water, smiled to myself when Jules screamed "Bath!" the moment she realized she heard the tub filling. I stretched and got ready to get up, but not before I heard Sydney ask, "Where's my dress?"

Where's my dress? It's what she says nearly every morning, and by some amazing parenting magic, I almost always know which dress she's talking about. There's no trick to it really: it's just whatever dress she wore the day before. And unless the dress had an unfortunate meeting with yesterday's lunch, it will still be good to wear another day. Up until Sunday, there were only two choices--the heart dress, or the spinny dress. Don't let the labels deceive you. They're both spinny dresses. And now, thank heavens, we finally have added another spinny dress--dubbed "my new dress"--to the mix.

I have a child who loves to wear dresses that twirl. Loves them beyond measure. She will tell you, "I have a closet full of dresses! Full!" She holds up both her hands to show you just how many dresses she has. But ask her what dresses she'll wear? "Only the spinny ones. If it doesn't spin..." here she shakes her head sadly, "then I just. can't. wear. it." Oh honey. You don't need to explain to me how much drama a wardrobe can inspire. I have been known--in a fit of post-pregnancy angst--to ruthlessly donate nearly everything in my closet, so much so that I literally don't have a week's worth of clothes left to wear.

I will confess to you that I am thrilled to have a daughter who is all about dresses, and princesses, and pink, and ballet slippers. Although I would have been happy no matter what her favorite color, I was a bit nervous that I'd have a daughter who would more closely resemble my sister. Now, before my sister gets all up in arms about this statement, let me insist that I love my sister. However, I think she and I can agree that we didn't have much in common growing up. She was a definite tomboy who hated dresses, favored the color blue (she was excused from pink since she had red hair), and was much more in her element playing sports and actually being friends with guys instead of--like her older sister--flirting endlessly with them. She was cool, but she was different from me. And it wasn't until she went to college that we figured out we liked being around each other. And then in a twist of fate (mostly related to her living and working in SoCal), it ends up that she fixes her hair more often than I do, and has a wardrobe that has more skirts and bikini swimsuits than mine. It's so unfair. 

Even though I'm by no means a CoverGirl--I wear minimal make-up and if my hair is long enough to be in a ponytail that's how I'll wear it all the time--I'm still a big fan of dressing up and wearing heels. I knew I'd love Sydney no matter what, but there was a part of me hoping we'd be able to share a bond over dresses, and twirling, and teacups, and dolls, and fairies with pink and purple wings. Suffice to say, her love of dresses probably outpaces mine. Certainly her love of having her nails painted definitely outpaces mine. She and her cousin Clover were treated by Great-Grandma to their very first professional manicure last week, and boy oh boy, it was something else.

Sparkles! Pinks! Purples! It was like a little tiny piece of heaven had fallen into a display case, centered between a poster of toes in the sand and a poster of an exotic location in Thailand. Sydney picked out a lovely shade of purple for my pedicure (and, oh, I do love pedicures), and she and Clover jointly picked out the sparkly shake of pink that all of us were getting on our nails.

By the way, that dress she is wearing is the spinny dress. Important to know that.

Of course, for all my wishes of sugar and spice, I always wished for a girl who would be just as interested in puppy dog tails. If not puppy dog tails, then at least tadpoles and crawdads. Right after she got her nails done, she promptly headed down to the creek and got down to the business of playing.

Because if you're going to be living at the Farm, you can't be a pansy about getting dirty (although I can be a bit weak-willed about tolerating dirt).

Go on, Jules. All the girls are playing in the sand. You can do it too.

That's the beauty of my little girl. One moment she's spinning in a salon, singing a made-up song about having beautiful nails--to the tune of Sound of Music's "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" naturally--and the next moment she's digging in the sand, building a house for all the little periwinkles that crawl along the shore.

My girl. Already an expert at twirling.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 211: Mean Streak

I know instinctively that my children will be different from each other. After all, I grew up with three siblings, and we are different from each other in lots of ways. We're similar in plenty of ways too, like our facial expressions (furrowing of brows, sarcastic opening of mouth), our vocal intonations, our innate nature to incessantly tease our dad, our ability to collectively roll our eyes at our mom when she says something that begins with, "You promised..." But we don't respond to stress the same way, nor do we interact with other people the same way.

And yet, here I am, dumbstruck by Jules' propensity for toddler violence. She is, I dare say, got a mischievous mean streak so far removed from Sydney's personality that Jason and I sometimes don't even know what to do. When Sydney was frustrated as a toddler, rather than hit others, she would hit herself. She'd run headlong into the wall, or find a toy and whack herself over the head with it. It concerned me for awhile, but with lots of intervention she eventually outgrew it. Jules, however, has no inclination to punish herself when there are so many others just hanging around.

Just a few days ago, Jules was mad at Jason for picking her up to scold her, so she hit him in the face. He sternly told her "no," and grabbed her hand. She hit him in the face with her other hand. He grabbed her other hand and more sternly said "no." When she realized that she had no free arms with which to hit him, she head-butted him in the nose.

Ingenious, yes? Jules is such a terror of physical energy and mischief we can't even anticipate what her next move will be. She so often torments the dog that we weren't surprised when Daisy--after months of endurance--finally snapped at Jules last week, and nipped her in the hand. Of course, our old shi-tzu didn't do a bit of harm, so it was more the shock of it that hurt Jules' feelings. She was momentarily derailed from her tail-pulling escapades, but soon enough was back at it.

It's as if she should have been born into a family where she might have an older sibling who'd pick on her and she's genetically wired to physically defend herself. Only, Sydney doesn't pick on Jules. On the contrary, Sydney's response towards Jules pulling her hair or stealing her glasses off her face is so passive that I complained to Jason last night, "I just wish Sydney would defend herself more actively," recalling an episode at the library a couple weeks ago where Jules pushed an older kid on the head, and he stopped her in her tracks when he gave her a hefty push back. She looked startled, and then decided that this kid wasn't to be messed with.

At my most exasperated point, I wish Sydney would push Jules away. I don't want Syd hitting Jules. I just would like her to do something a little more proactive than whine and complain when Jules uses Sydney's hair as a rope in order to climb up on the couch. "Maama! Jules is pulling my hair again!" Or when I see Syd watching tv without her glasses only to discover that Jules is running physical experiments on them behind the chair. "Sydney," I say with a tone that is unfortunately becoming a hallmark feature of my voice, "don't let Jules take your glasses." And Sydney sighs and shakes her head in response, "What am I supposed to do?"

Supposed to do, indeed. Already Jules has received plenty of time-outs, swats on the hand, and flicks on the mouth, because, oh did I not mention this earlier? She bites. She bites to be funny; she bites to be ornery; she bites when she's bored; she bites when she's mad. I'm not of the "bite them back to teach them a lesson" camp, so we persist in flicking her mouth and giving timeouts. Even still, Jules knows she doesn't actually have to bite Sydney in order to make her scream. All she has to do is slyly open up her mouth and lean all vampire-like towards her older sister to get a response.

"She's biting!" Sydney screams as Jules simultaneously shakes her head and points to her mouth. She knows the game too well, this one.

I know some of it is just a toddler phase that she'll grow out of, but I also know that younger siblings can sometimes be a thorn in their older sibling's side (speaking as the oldest sibling of my family). Even though Sydney adores Jules, she has a hard time playing with her when Jules is so persistent in being unkind. I know there's a part of Sydney always waiting for Jules' naptime so she can receive a reprieve from all the toddler torture. Honestly, we all kind of wait for Jules' naptime...Daisy included.

We are doing our best to curb her propensity for hitting, for teasing, for pinching, for biting, for head-butting. Of course, just as soon as I scoop her up to punish her, she's gently patting my face with her little hands and murmuring, "Den-dull." Yes, Jules, gentle. And she snuggles into my neck waiting for me to kiss her face and breathe in the scent that instantly calms me down. She still gets a time-out in her crib, but as I walk out of her room, I hear her laughing behind me, blowing me kisses on my way out.

She may be fierce, but she still has a whole lot of sweetness to hand out as well.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 209: Discovering Ballet

If you had ever visited my bedroom when I was a teenager, you would have thought I was a ballerina. Ballet posters adorned my walls, my closet doors, my bulletin board. I had teddy bears with tutus, pins with ballet slippers. I had seen every dance-themed movie, and secretly practiced the ballet moves behind the closed doors. I wanted with all my heart to be a ballerina, or at least some kind of dancer.

But I never took dance lessons.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure if I ever even asked my parents if I could have dance lessons. I had piano lessons, voice lessons, a short and unfortunate period of time as a soccer player. But I never danced, even though I really wanted to. I suppose I didn't ask my parents because I figured they would say no. Maybe if I had really been insistent on it they might have considered it. It didn't ever cross my mind that I actually could be a dancer, only that I wanted to be one.

So, last Christmas when Jason's mom--who had been a ballerina for 20 years--said she'd help pay for Sydney to attend a dance class, I was giddy with excitement. Just like pursuing my own dance aspirations years ago, it had honestly never occurred to me to put Sydney in ballet at a dance studio because I always figured it would be too expensive. As it turns out, it really was too expensive for us, so I don't know if we can manage her going back in the fall. However, I don't regret the money we spent. And if there's any way we can have Sydney in ballet again in the fall--especially because she clearly enjoys it so much--then we'll do it.

Every Monday morning since last January, Sydney would put on her red leotard, her white tights, her white dance skirt, and her pink ballet slippers. She'd spend 45 minutes in Miss Erin's class with nine other 3-year-old girls, and they would twirl, and leap, and stretch, and demi-plie. They also diligently practiced their routine that they were to perform for the recital. I was a little apprehensive that Sydney would be too shy, or not be able to follow the directions, but my fears were unfounded and Sydney thrived in her class. She loves to dance.

Last Friday was the dress rehearsal, where I took most of these pictures and the video. Saturday was the recital, and it was a big production, much bigger and much more professional than I thought it would be. Sydney's dance school had rented the Historic Elsinore Theatre, and all the preschool classes were part of the matinee performance (the school-agers and adults performed during the evening production), as well as the advanced ballet class. Sydney's grandmas and grandpas and cousins came to watch Sydney the Beautiful Ballerina. She with her hair pulled back in a bun, make-up sparingly applied, costume properly fluffed, tights brand new for the occasion.

There is something magical about little girls in tutus, their sweet voices reminding each other where to stand on stage. The music played, the tulle swirled and swished, and the little pink slippers tripped across the stage. Sydney knew where to go and swayed when she was supposed to. As I watched her, I was surprised by the tears in my eyes. Who knows what more she'll do in the world of dancing, but for that moment she was a beautiful dancer, on an amazing stage, curtsying before an applauding audience. Even afterwards, as she held her flower bouquet in her arms, I looked at her and beamed. Not because I had a secret wish for Sydney to fulfill my dreams of becoming a dancer; I was just so very proud of what she accomplished. On her own two pink slipper-clad feet.

 

Bravo, my sweet.

Here's the video...Sydney is the one without her crown (she had her crown on for the performance, but we couldn't find it for the dress rehearsal):

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Time With Dad

Even though we get to spend one-on-one time with Jules every Thursday night while Sydney stays at my parents' house, we don't often get time to just hang out with Syd. Which is a shame, because she is really just such a fabulous kid. She's funny, she's artistic, she's smart...traits that I don't always appreciate as we go through our regular daily routine.

When I made preparations for this weekend, Jason asked if Jules could stay with his parents and if he could have Sydney all weekend. Just the two of them. Hanging out. Playing outside. Going to the beach. Isn't he a brilliant Dad? Yes. Yes, he is.

Honestly, I am a little envious that he's the one who gets to spend all the time with her instead of me, but the envy is softened by the fact that my heart is filled to the brim with joy at knowing they're having a great weekend together. Plus, I'm hanging out here, in Pasadena, with my sister. I can't complain about that.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 207: Collecting

There is a woman
who never forgets anything
what people said,
what day of the week,
and what was on tv
from every day of her life
since she was a child.

Her memories make me thankful
for the grace of forgetfulness

like how many times
I raise my voice
or sigh in exasperation
or feel discouraged.

Our ability to forget,
especially for mothers,
is what keeps us sane
and helps us heal from
the guilt of every mistake
the imperfections of parenting
playing unceasingly in our mind
like an intolerable YouTube video.

We want to look back
at the difficult years
and remember the joys
not the sorrows
the sweetness
not the bitter.

But I wonder

If I could take memories
from this week
and store them on a shelf
in my mind
like teacups, or spoons,
or salt and pepper shakers

What would I choose?

The walk to the park,
the lunch with friends,
the afternoon sitting on the floor
with the girls
who made fish faces on the window.

 

The dash of light across Julianne's hair
The silly smiles from Sydney

I'd collect the sound of her voice when she says,
What a beautiful day it is!
Or the screech of delight when the littlest she
figures out the answer to,
How old are you?

The shelf would hold the feeling
of little hands, and big,
of precious kisses on baby soft skin,
and late night loving ones before bedtime.
Next to these
the feeling of curly hair wrapped around my finger
and the intangible sense of comfort.

All this I would keep,
hide,
horde away
in memory's closet.

My wish

May I be a woman
who collects
cups of sweet memories,
bowls of grace,
and
plates of joy

not the woman
who stores the sorrows
in a box
under my bed with ugly shoes
and unforgiving mistakes.

The woman who never forgets
helped me remember

the beauty of memories

both kept
and lost.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Braving the Fears

Sydney had a nightmare last week.

She woke up screaming for her daddy, refusing to leave her room without him carrying her out. Normally when she wakes up in the middle of the night, she wanders into our room, gets one of us to help her into the playpen, and then falls back asleep. Not this time.

The next morning, she wandered out to the kitchen and said, "My room is on fire." I made a move from my chair to rush to Sydney's room before she stopped me: "In my dreams. My room is on fire in my dreams. The door was burning, and I was calling and calling for Daddy and he couldn't get me because my night light burned the door." She started crying again as she told me the story, and I scooped her up in my arms and reassured her that it was just a dream, not real.

She has been terrified of going to sleep every night since then, insisting that we leave the door open and her night light off, when before she always wanted the door closed and night light on. She trembles with fear every night as she wakes up with the same nightmare: her room on fire.

We showed her the smoke alarm, and how it worked. We talked to her about us being right next door. We prayed with her for Jesus to keep her safe at night.

She is still afraid, although she was less fearful tonight.

I am at a loss for what to do. Teaching my children courage has never exactly been my strong suit, although I think I fake it pretty well at times. There are certain phobias I have that I work hard not to convey to Sydney because I don't want her to inherit my irrational fears.

No need to be afraid of the dark. See! It's okay!

Isn't swimming fun? Isn't water fun? Ooh, look at your pretty swimsuit!

It's just a tiny bug. It won't hurt you at all.

I may be afraid of the dark, terrified of water, and phobic of bugs, but I try to put on a brave, smiley face, just for my kids. Except, of course, whenever I encounter spiders, for which I have no false reservoir of bravery. I can't fathom a situation in which I could calmly react to a spider. Hmm...maybe if I were in a movie opposite Matthew Macfadyen, being paid $10 million dollars?

Nope. I just ran the image through my mind, and not even money and Mr. Darcy could get me to share screen time with a spider. This fear--this internal shaking that causes me to break out in a cold sweat--is what Sydney must be feeling each night when she approaches her room at bedtime. And the most I can do is hold her, rock her back and forth and say, "You're okay, baby. You're safe."

I want her grow up brave, grow up strong and confident; I don't want her to grow up saddled with all my fears. It's, of course, what every parent wants...that our children will inherit the best of us, rather than the worst. I want to give my girls my confidence in public speaking, my ability to communicate through writing, my strength in finding humor. Or at least, perhaps not these specific traits, but the act of boldness to do something. I work hard to overcome my eating disorders, my depression, and my manic anxiety not for my own benefit (because I have after all these years learned a few coping techniques) but for the benefit of my children. My real fear is that these are the fires that will burn in their adult doorways, and all my words of bravado will be too little, too late.

Fortunately, I keep growing, learning, maturing, and yes, facing my own fears. I find that practicing to be brave for my girls actually does make me feel a little less afraid. My words echo back to me in Sydney's voice as she gives herself a pep talk before taking medicine, "It's okay, Momma. I'll very be brave."

Right now, I'm hoping her nightmares are just a phase that will soon pass. We continually monitor what she watches, and encourage her in every way imaginable that she doesn't have to be afraid. I don't know what to do beyond that...Except try to practice what I preach and tell myself when I'm in a room full of my own fears, I'll very be brave.

As a parent, I think it's the only choice I have.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Saving the Littlest Bums

Alrighty now, I still want to give away these two jars of Diaper Goop.

So...let's try this again, shall we?

Leave a comment indicating you're interested in trying out Diaper Goop, and I'll choose two random winners on Wednesday, April 9th. In the contest already are the previous comments from Margaret, Amy, Rachel, and Jen so you four are already entered.

The following post (linked below) is from Thursday, which I had removed because of all the negative energy it was bringing to my blog and also my computer. I have clarified some particular elements of the previous posting because clearly the way I wrote it before was giving people--people who don't actually know me or my blog, but people nonetheless--the wrong impression of life in the Creature Bug household. I will chalk up the whole experience of...whatever that was...as a small bump on the road of an otherwise wonderful blogging journey.

*****

When Strangers Judge You

I had an unfortunate incident happen to me today. One of those things that I suppose happens to people every day, although rarely to me. One of those things that at first seems like a practical joke, but then you realize that it isn't. One of those things that makes you laugh, makes you mad, makes you confused, and above all else, makes you wonder what on earth is going on.

I had a post up today that tried to come up with a clever way to talk about the miracle properties of Diaper Goop (that I received from the ever fabulous Parent Bloggers Network). In this post (which no doubt is still in your Google Reader if you haven't read it yet), I talked about how Jules cries in her crib, even with a messy diaper. While this is true, I haven't ever knowingly allowed her to cry in her crib with a messy diaper. My story was meant to illustrate how Diaper Goop keeps Jules rash-free even when I sleep through her cries. (BTW: It's a great product, and the whole family has loved using it.) Also, the story was meant to be humorously self-deprecating--me, the lazy mom. Ha ha. Of course, as anyone who knows me will tell you, it couldn't be farther from the truth. I do everything in my power to keep my kids healthy, safe, and happy. My friends know that. People who regularly read this blog know that. And yet, one story, taken out of context gave someone the right to call me a bad mom.

Today a stranger judged me. Not just one stranger, although the first one I suspect encouraged the rest of the group to follow along, leaving a string of mean comments in their wake. Today people who don't know me judged me on the basis of one half-factual story. These are people who have never met me, never been to my blog before, never read my posts before, never seen my pictures of my girls or been witness to my love for my children. These are people who tried to shame me into thinking I was a bad mom, although there are no words that will make me feel that way.

If it made them feel better to get their scolding words off their chest and say it to me, well, all right then. If they felt like they were making the world a better place--teaching one more bad mommy a lesson and hoping she changes her meth smoking, whip cracking, martini-before-noon drinking ways--okay. There is a place for outrage, this I know. Unfortunately, it was completely misguided being directed at me. Who, I guess it needs to be noted, does not smoke meth, crack whips, or drink martinis.

Clearly they don't know me otherwise they would have known that I am the mom you want on your side, in your corner, fighting for justice and safety. I am the mom you want teaching your children in the classroom. I am the mom who is raising children to be compassionate and loving, not, as you too quickly surmised, someone else. If there's anything you can learn from this mistake it's this: it's very difficult for a stranger to adequately judge someone else. Especially if you're judging through the printed word. Especially if your directive to judge came at the prodding of an annoyed friend. There is no happy ending to that story.

I have my failings as much as anyone, but when it comes down to it I know I'm a great mom. I don't need to list everything I do for and with my children because who the heck cares about that? My kids, that's who, and they aren't reading yet. But when they get old enough to read this post, they'll be the first to rise up and call me blessed. Of that I am convinced.

My story does have a happy ending, however. And it is this:

xoxo

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Where 33 inches* and 22 pounds will get you

 

Last week, I took the girls in to get their immunizations. For Jules, it was her 12 month well baby check, for which she was, you may note, 3 months late. I just couldn't bring myself to make her get shots in the dead of winter because I pretty much felt like January isn't a time to tempt fate by visiting the doctor's office, and February is absolutely the worst month ever (aside from My Birthday, Groundhog's Day, and Valentine's Day) so why make it even more miserable with 3 pokes in the leg? Therefore, I waited until the first day of spring was within our sights, and then took them in.

Jules still ended up picking up some cold germ (no doubt because she kept putting her hands in her mouth after touching every possible surface), but oh well. I just can't bother myself to worry that much about colds. This was a baby born in December after all, and suffered through bronchitis for the first three months of her life (although it didn't really seem to bother her since she still smiled through it all).

The official measurements: height at 33 inches* and weight at 22 pounds. That puts her 7 inches and 10 pounds smaller than Sydney. I admit I'm a bit amazed she doesn't weigh more. Jules is a very good eater. Give her a box of raisins, and 60 seconds later she'll ask you for more (but please don't give her more because she doesn't digest those raisins...ever seen a diaper full of raisins? not pretty). She eats meat. She eats vegetables. She eats fruit. She eats Sydney's leftovers. She eats our leftovers. I'm amazed by it, especially considering Sydney's main food groups are cereal, toast, and fruit. She is the quintessential picky eater.

Not Jules.

Yet, she's still on the petite side. I asked our pediatrician about it, wondering if maybe she should weigh more. He said, "It's not surprising considering you're tall and thin." Okay, let's give it up for the pediatrician. Love him.

He also pointed to the fact that Jules has been walking since 9 months, so she's just burning those calories off. I don't deny that. This girl is a mover, a shaker, a mom-just-cleaned-the-house heart breaker. Out of exasperation, I finally had Jason install another child lock on a kitchen cabinet because she insists on pulling things out. Of course, all the dangerous stuff is locked up; I'm just locking up even more stuff for the safety of my sanity.

This girl. Nothing is safe from her.

She rips up magazines,
rips up books,
rips of any shred of paper she can find,
(usually with her teeth, and then spits out the paper all over the house, so I'm constantly scraping up dried spitballs from the walls/floor/furniture),
scatters Sydney's hair ties all over the house,
pulls Daisy's tail,
empties the dog dish,
pulls my hair,
pulls Sydney's hair,
turns the computer off.

And the big trick lately is to climb. Find a chair, a stool, a bench, a pillow, and climb it has high as it will take her.

Like this week, when I hear her yelling for me as I'm back in my room folding clothes.

"Mama!" she screeches. "Maaamaaaa!"

Ever at her beck and call, I wander out to the dining room to see that she has taken possession of a container...

from the floor,
up to Sydney's craft table,
onto the chair,
onto the table,
into the box,
and gotten stuck.

Being 33 inches can get you into all sorts of trouble. Heck, it gets me into all sorts of trouble. Thank goodness she sleeps through the night because we all need our rest to keep up with this girl.

*Edited to add: I noticed this morning that Jules was just under 29 inches on her birthday, and so thinking it would be quite amazing for her to have grown 3 inches in 3 months, I re-measured her. When she's standing, she's just under 31 inches. Evidently, Jules still falls under the "baby" category where she's being measured head to toe (rather than head to heel). So, she's 9 inches shorter than Sydney, not seven. Nonetheless, that 2 inches isn't holding Jules back from anything. 

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 198: Hypotheticals

Tonight we met with Todd (designer for our new house) to go over some changes in the plans. The big changes involved the master bedroom, the garage, and one particular wall in the dining room/living room. We had a good brainstorming session, and I feel good that Todd will come up with something that draws from our collective design sensibilities.

The other smaller change involved reconfiguring the upstairs bathroom--the one that the kids will use. Well, smaller change for him. But really the whole reconfiguration is based on one big hypothetical: having another child.

Which isn't to say that I am having another child, only that I might. And if that other child is a boy then I want the bathroom to function well as the siblings share the space. If we have a boy. Which we might not. If we have another child. Which is more probable than even having a boy.

It's a conversation I've been having with myself (and Jason) for the last couple months, and even though it's not something I lose sleep over (at least, not too much), it's something I toss around in my mind as I look at house plans and we wonder exactly how to divide up room space. The whole conversation with myself goes something along these lines. Are we having more kids? If we are, then when would be a good time to consider having this other child (though I realize, of course, that this isn't totally in my control, but hypothetically speaking...)? Should I get pregnant while we are assured of Jason's job and therefore awesome health insurance? How will this affect my teaching load? How will we afford a new car since we don't have one that could seat three carseats? How far apart do we ideally want the kids do be in age? Do I really want to be moving into a new house pregnant? Wouldn't it be easier to be pregnant next year so that Rebekah the Amazing Nanny can help out? Am I even suited to parent three children?

On the other hand, the conversation sometimes goes like this. Please dear Lord, we are not having any more kids. That easily answers all those other questions.

I realize that I am blessed to be even in the position to be having this conversation with myself, knowing that there are some people who would give the sun, moon, and stars to be in my spot. I also realize there is a lot that's not in my control regarding the whole thing. But still. It crosses my mind. More than occasionally.

It wouldn't really be a difficult choice if I was excited about the prospect of having another baby. Jason and I have always kind of thought we'd have three kids. It's a nice compromise between our two families. There were two kids in his family, and he always wished there were more. There were four kids in my family, and I always felt like my mom was on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the stress we caused her. Three is good. A nice prime number. I don't care about the middle child syndrome because I figure once you have more than two, there are always middle children. Maybe you have one middle kid, maybe you have two or three. As my sister says, "Tyler and I are the middle kids in our family," and she's right. Oldest, youngest, and middles. You deal with whatever you get, and you parent accordingly.

The idea of a three-child family is more more appealing to me than actually having three kids. I'm not even dreading being pregnant anymore, which was the bigger concern last time around. It's the fact that most days I feel like I'm just treading water, trying not to drown in a sea of sippy cups, tiny socks, and play-dough. The thought of adding another child to the mix? Really? Me? The one taking Zoloft every day just to keep my head together?

I don't know. My gut says, "Wait a few years. It'll make it easier." My significant other (who also has an important say in the whole thing) says, "I'd really like to be out of the baby stage in a couple years instead of starting it all over again."

Seriously. I don't know.

It's not a decision I have to make right now, at this instant. It's not even a decision I have to make in the next couple months. It might be a decision we have to make this summer, if we're factoring in health insurance. I'm just thinking aloud here, not really expecting some sort of revelation. The only one who really knows the answer to the question "Are we having any more kids?" is God and my ovaries. Whatever my decision ultimately is, it's still not completely up to me.

Last week Sydney said to me, "I want a baby brother."

I smirked. "Did Daddy tell you to say that?"

"No. I just want one. I have one baby sister, and I want one baby brother."

"We'll see," I say.

She looked at me, smiled, and agreed. "We'll see."

*****

Just for spite, I'm giving away the pregnancy book I reviewed last July, Body, Soul, and Baby. If you're interested in winning it, leave a comment at that old post, and I'll choose a randomly lucky winner Wednesday at 8 pm PST.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 195: In the blink of an eye

Every six months, Sydney and I take a drive up to Portland to see our dear ophthalmologist Dr. Landon for an eye appointment. That first appointment was kind of traumatic for us, just in learning that Sydney needed glasses, that she was far-sighted, that her eye crossing inward wasn't a temporary phase. Since then, however, Sydney wearing glasses has become pretty normal for us. Each time we have an appointment, we go in with fewer fears and worries. Sydney wears glasses. No big deal.

Although for as much as it's "no big deal," it has certainly had no small effect on her personality. We're pretty sure that she was born with poor vision, which explains a lot of the kinds of personality quirks she had as a baby. She always cried if we were very far away from her...probably because she couldn't see us. She never wandered away from us in public places...probably because she didn't know where to go. She rarely smiled at strangers...probably because she couldn't recognize the expressions on their face. I'm sure plenty of kids are like this--even with perfectly good vision--but it makes sense why she was like this, considering.

Although she is a typical kid at home--silly, energetic, smiling, ready to laugh at anything--out in public she can be very shy, reserved, even sullen at times. I'm guessing those first twenty months of not being able to see very well are responsible for this. I used to worry about this because sullenness is, well, not endearing. She's gotten better though, through a lot of role playing and coaching at home.

"What do you say if someone says you have pretty hair?" (the comment she receives the most)

"Thank you."

"And why do you say thank you?"

"Because it's polite." Yes, indeed, good manners matter.

Even at random intervals during the day I'll say, "What pretty hair you have, little girl." To which she smiles and says, "Thank you, Momma." Nevermind that we might be creating pint-sized vanity; she has to learn to be polite.

On the upside, having glasses has given her opportunities to develop positive character traits. She's learned responsibility through taking care of her glasses. She's learned to be careful, knowing not to put her glasses away with the lenses down, or to call for help if someone (including her sister) grabs for her glasses (which resulted in the only time I have publicly scolded a kid in Spanish for taking Sydney's glasses). She's very detailed oriented with a keen eye for puzzles, a trait she's learned from having to memorize where things are when she doesn't have her glasses on to see.

I have to keep all these positive things in mind as I process the newest development in Sydney's vision. Last Sunday, I had planned to write about how we've adjusted so well since the initial diagnosis. I remember reading through the first post and thinking, "Wow. We don't even worry anymore about Sydney's eyes." I recalled with understanding Gretchen's comment about how glasses are just part of who her son is. I didn't think I'd ever get to that point, but I did. I am. Sydney wear glasses, and for the most part the only thing we worry about is Jules breaking them (again) or when we'll be able to teach Sydney to clean her glasses without our aid.

Then I heard Dr. Landon say, "Since her eyes are still crossing, then I think she should wear bifocals." She went on to explain how this would work, and I nodded and kept my face free from emotion. "Of course," I said when she was done. "We'll get the prescription filled this week." I haven't filled it yet.

Truthfully, I'm doubting myself a little, knowing that Dr. Landon made the prescription based on my comment that Sydney's eyes still cross when she's looking at something up close. It's a true observation, but maybe I've overreacted.

I don't know why I'm feeling the way I am. In a matter of seconds, I went from patting myself on the back for my fabulous adjustment, to wishing that Jason was there to hold my hand on the drive back from Portland. Jess's comment last week helped me realize that bifocals aren't the end of the world; Sarah's comment has me considering getting a second opinion, which I had been thinking about anyway. Both comments helped me take a deep breath and clear my head a little.

So, here, a week later, I'm feeling a little less bravado. And here, a week later, I'm feeling a little less worried.

Welcome to this marvelous world we call parenting.

*****

(c) 2008 Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

Love in my heart

This morning I watched my neighbor go outside in the early morning and start up her husband's truck. While it warmed she went around and scraped off the ice on the windshield and other windows. Although I've never her seen her do this before--I always see him doing it--I was curious to watch how it played out. She went back inside the house, and when her husband walked out the door and smiled at his warm, ice-free truck, I smiled too.

That's love, I thought. I know my neighbor well enough to know she was doing something sweet, something romantic. Tomorrow is one of the most lovely days of the year. Sure, Christmas and Thanksgiving are great. But the one that's just sweet and thoughtful and reminds us to celebrate love? Valentine's Day wins. It's why I send out Valentine's Day cards instead of Christmas cards. I'm really not all that romantic, but Valentine's Day isn't just about romance, it's about telling people you love them.

As I watch Jules learn how to give us kisses, and see Sydney's attempts at teaching Jules how to hug, I am reminded that children aren't born knowing how to love.

They are born needy. They are born hungry. They are born crying. They aren't born loving you.

That's my job. To teach my girls how to love. We taught Sydney to say, "I love you," by saying it her to every day over and over. I taught Sydney to give me kisses, to snuggle next to me, to kiss my cheeks with her eyelashes. Now, on her own, she gives me unprompted hugs. She kisses me in the morning when she climbs into bed with me, throws her leg across my stomach, wraps her arms around my neck, tucks her head into my shoulder and whispers, "I love you, Mommy," before going back to sleep. It's one of the best parts of my day.

I love my children, and love teaching them how to love me back.

And I love my husband, who knows how to love me better and more than anyone. I don't have to prompt him to say "I love you." Don't have to ask for kisses. Occasionally have to hint for foot rubs. Still. He's nearly perfect.

Even a month and a half after our trip to Maine, my heart still warms at those memories. The Monday morning we drove from Camden to Logan Int'l Airport in Boston, it snowed and snowed and snowed. The roads were quiet, and Alicia Keyes' new album played in the CD player. I took out my camera, and captured a video of it just so that I could always watch it and remember that moment: my favorite song, with my favorite guy, giving me a smile as we drove away from one of the best weekends of my life.

(video 1:32)

I doubt anyone else will find the video as perfect as I do, shaky footage and all. On the surface it just looks like a trip down a snowy road, with music in the background. But to me, I watch it and smile because it looks and sounds like love might look. Yes. Just exactly like that.

Have a lovely Valentine's Day.

*****

(c) 2008 Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

the odd sneeze

If your one-year-old child happens to sneeze a long noodle out her nose, it's probably better to assume that it was the spaghetti she had for dinner the night before rather than part of her brain.

Because the advice nurse might think you were a bit crazy if you called to ask about the dangers of sneezing noodles.

I'm just saying.

One flu over the cuckoo's nest

It was bad enough that Jason had the flu.

But then Sydney got it.

And then Jules got it last night. Boy did she ever get. She got it all over me, many times. Even though I had my mind determined not to get the flu, even though I mentally said, "No flu! I'm stronger than this bug! My tummy is no place for a little bug. Go away! GO AWAY!" and then I drank some hot water and ate some carrots just to prove that I was healthy...I still got the flu. Maybe it was cleaning up all those germs (I washed my hands a million times, but I think it must have been airborne). Maybe I shouldn't have eaten those chocolate chips for lunch. That was probably the invitation that the flu bug was waiting for (because who can pass up chocolate?). Plus, I neglected to get a flu shot this year, even though I have been getting it for the past several years and it has kept me healthy. No reason for me not getting the flu shot, just didn't go in and have it done. I am a hearty believer in them despite the perilous warnings by some who say something along the lines that it's just a governmental scheme to insert tracking devices into our bloodstream and then when the time is right they'll allow the alien forces to invade.

Err...I guess maybe nobody says that. Except old reruns of X-Files.

So, yes, Jules and I are in recovery. Jason is mostly better. And Sydney's bout with the flu was only for a few hours. Today she was healthy enough to take care of her poor mama. She got me Sprite. She turned the lights off, pulled the curtains, and put a soft blanket on my pillow. She said, "I'll just watch a movie, Mama. And I'll be quiet while Jules is sleeping." She was. Sure, she did end up having a BOZ marathon, watching almost five hours worth (the teacher in me cringes), but we were in survival mode. Plus, she totally deserved a veg-out day considering that she wasn't feeling 100% anyway. We do what we have to do to make it through.

We have to because there's just TOO MUCH to do this week. Tomorrow we're meeting with our general contractor and designer for the new house we're building (far far into the future). Friday is Jules' birthday. Saturday a party. Sunday...surely something...oh yes, I'll have to go Christmas shopping because of course I haven't even started that. Too busy to be kept down with the flu. I'll even eat carrots for breakfast tomorrow if I have to.

On the upside, I suppose I am officially a 'mom' now that I've had to clean up after flu-infested children. I had a streak of three-and-a-half very good years, but all good things must come to an end. And all bad things must come to an end too.

As sweet Julianne would say to the flu bug: Bye bye!

(video: 27 seconds)

Week 185: Imaginative Play

I saw an article in the newspaper last week about kids and imaginative play. Some researchers were alarmed that kids weren't learning how to play on their own, watching too much tv and listening to their iPods too much, and consequently....well, I don't know. I didn't finish reading the article, but I suspected the findings would include something like 'let kids play more on their own, powering toys with their imagination instead of remote controls and high-powered batteries.'

I didn't finish reading it because, truthfully, I don't worry about Sydney and imaginative play. Once upon a time I did. I worried that she'd never play on her own and that I'd have to entertain her for the rest. of. my. life. Which isn't to say that I don't love playing with Sydney, I do. But I also wanted her to be able to play on her own and entertain herself. After we had her vision checked and got her glasses, she became much more willing to play away from us (maybe because she could finally see!). She even had her own posse of imaginary friends that she would pull from the mirror and "line up" on the floor. Her "friend" Dawby first visited us a year ago, and comes and goes at random times. And as for Jules, she is more than willing to wander away from us and play on her own. I'm sure it helps that she has a sister around.

Even though I don't think kids need fancy toys to encourage imaginative play, a certain selection of well-made toys can go a long way. I love blocks (even though they end up all over the place) and I love the little play kitchen that both girls are so enamored with (even though the plastic foods find their way to every place but back to the little kitchen). Several weeks ago we added another well-made toy to our collection, courtesy Parent Bloggers Network: Discovery Channel's Ready Set Learn! Lift-Off Rocket.

The timing for getting the rocket couldn't have been better. Sydney had been introduced to Little Einstein's Rocketship, and our library had just converted the Discovery Room into a science fiction exploration center. We were totally spaced out...in a good way.

As soon as we got the Lift-Off Rocket, Sydney was clamoring for me to get it out the box. She recognized right away what it was, and was "flying" it around the house in no time. The four little space critters were shuttled through the living room, zooming through the hallway, and having adventures in Sydney's room. In Sydney's imagination, the little animal astronauts would have breakfast in one of the rocket's compartments and take a nap on the fold-down bed in the other. Maybe while Commander Bunny Astronaut was talking to Houston, Commander Lamby-kins was rolling along on the space buggy exploring the little moon crater (all included with the Rocket).

It's a toy that does take a couple batteries in order to power its blast-off sounds, but it is mostly powered by imagination. My favorite kind of toy.

Turns out, the library has the exact same Rocketship in the Discovery Room, except instead of animal astronauts, they have people astronauts. Sydney was delighted to see that she could play with the Lift-Off Rocket at the library as well as at home. Because I adore our library and our children's librarians (Hooray for Ms. Karen and Ms. Connie!!), I see their endorsement of the Rocket as a good sign. True, spending nearly $40 on a toy is kind of out of our price range; however, I will say it is well-built and one of those toys whose pieces are not so small that I worry about Julianne playing with it. Jules is big on sucking on the little astronauts (I can hear them now: "Slobber monster straight ahead, Captain!"), and they have held up quite well. Also, I must mention that the product is made in China, but that Discovery Channel hasn't had any product recalls so I'm believing that it's safe. I haven't yet moved to the point of refusing to buy any toys from China, although I'm close.

I can't leave you with just a recommendation of a toy without giving you my favorite resource that will assist your kiddos in developing that imagination of theirs: BOOKS!

Some of our favorite space books:

• Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me, by Eric Carle. Monica's father fulfills her request for the moon by taking it down after it is small enough to carry, but it still changes. Very sweet.
• Beegu, by Alexis Deacon. A small, yellow creature from space finds no welcome on earth until visiting a children's playground. Good for teaching about acceptance.
• Mooncakes, by Frank Asch. We love Asch's Moonbear books--they're wonderful stories about a little bear and his love of the moon. The illustrations are simple, yet creative enough to capture a child's imagination.

Imagination, prepare for lift-off...5...4...3...2...1...Blast off!

Week 183: Finding her own

One of the most mysterious things about parenting is seeing your child develop a personality. Obviously, there are certain things that we do as parents that help shape their personality, but we can't control it all. This is a good thing, I'm sure, since my first inclination would be to wish for children who were always polite and ate their vegetables and slept through the night and never whined about the color of their breakfast spoon.

No, I'm not one to look for adventure, but quite clearly I have found it in the soul of Julianne. Whereas Sydney rarely opened up cupboards and drawers, Jules always does. This frustrates me more than it ought to, but I refuse to put locks on every cotton pickin' drawer and cupboard in our house. The cleaning fluids are locked up, but beyond that I hate door locks. It serves me right, then, that I'm running around all day swatting at Jules' hand, but she needs to learn to live in a house without destroying it. Seems like a reasonable request to me, yes?

Also, Sydney wouldn't wander far from us (and still won't), but I'm often looking up from doing the dishes to discover Jules is nowhere to be seen. I wander through the house, calling for her as if she'll call back like Sydney does, "Here I am, Mama." Eventually, I discover her off in Sydney's room, playing with the toys. She's not a big fan of me leaving, that's for sure. But she doesn't seem to mind going off on her own. It's so funny to me, because she has been like this since she could crawl. I'm sure it's because she follows Sydney around the house and so feels comfortable going wherever she pleases, but I'm not quite used to a child who appears to be more independent than I am.

Now, as Jules is fast approaching her first birthday, she is showing signs of her opinions. She likes the remote controls; she doesn't like it when we're sitting on the couch without her. She likes you to be on the floor so she can bring you books and sit in your lap; she doesn't like to sit in your lap for more than 5 seconds at a time. Julianne and books is still something she is working out. She knows she should like them. She sees Sydney sitting in Jason's lap at bedtime listening to stories, and Jules wants to be part of it in some way. She stands next to the chair, whining, begging to be picked up, hoping to be part of the bedtime routine with Daddy and Sydney. The thing is, though (and you might find this rather unfair), she just can't. She rips the pages of the books. She doesn't really want to sit there, she wants to pull the glasses off Sydney's face and stick them in her mouth. She wants to stand up and have Jason catch her as attempts to jump out of the chair. It's charming...in it's own way. But it's not very relaxing, which is what we need to get Sydney to go to sleep. Someday she'll get to be part of the bedtime routine, but not yet. For now she'll have to be happy sitting with me.

Fortunately, being happy is something she is pretty good at. She's the smiley, outgoing one--an opposite personality from Sydney. Sydney is not outgoing, which isn't to say she can't be friendly, but she's not very comfortable around strangers. Part of me thinks that God gave her this personality trait so that I wouldn't be tempted to take her to a modeling agency. Not that I find the idea attractive, but I've had strangers tell me on more than one occasion I should have Sydney model. At $75 an hour, it's not a bad gig, but Sydney would hate it. I probably would too.

Jules, on the other hand, is all smiles. She's even started the look-over-the-shrugging-shoulder thing that is quite charming. But take a toy away from her and the smile stops, the head shakes, the voice becomes insistent that we give it back right now.

Oh, our sweet little Jules. She who we call Juju, Jubee, Jujubee, Jujubee Jones, Julsie, and Jingle Bells. She's a joy, and a handful, and personality all her own.

The Sigh

Finally, I'm here to finish up the sounds of the Creature Bug household. Need to review? Well, there's The Howl, courtesy of Julianne. There's The Whine, courtesy of Sydney.

And there's The Sigh, courtesy of me.

When I'm working with actors, I often tell them that they get one sigh per show. "You get one! Make it a good one!" That's not to say that they can't really have more than one sigh, but I get annoyed with over-sighing actors. When I'm teaching my speech students, I tell them to avoid vocalized pauses. Words such as "um," "uh," "so," "like," fall into this category of vocalized pauses. "Just pause," I say. "Don't say anything."

It's a hard thing to learn. Keeping quiet. In fact, it's a lot easier for me to teach this concept than to follow it myself. Certainly, when delivering speeches you would be hard pressed to catch me saying "uh" or "um." Or, even on the rare occasion that I do any acting, I manage to keep those sighs at a minimum. But in life, in my daily go-about-my-existence routine? I fill my vocalized pauses with sighs, and not in a dreamy birds fly over the rainbow kind of way.

When I find Jules ripping up yet another book, I sigh with exasperation. "Jules! No ripping up books!"

When Sydney squirrels out of getting into her clothes and wants to jump on the bed instead, I sigh with impatience. "Sydney! Put on your clothes."

When Daisy leaves muddy footprints on the kitchen floor, I sigh with irritation. "Daisy! Get in your bed!"

When Jason patiently explains that we can't spend thousands and thousands of dollars on the backyard, I sigh with discontent. "I just want to be able to go outside."

When I see the pile of laundry (albeit clean and unfolded at this moment), I sigh with frustration. "Why can't I find the time to do this during the day when I have the most energy?"

This list could go on and on. Unfortunately, most of the time I sigh it is directed at the girls. Whether it's because I just changed Jules' diaper and now it's poopy again, or I'm being asked to help with a task I know Sydney can do on her own, I have to constantly keep myself in check that I don't become the mom who is always frustrated. The one who scolds too often or disapproves too quickly. It's no way to go about parenting, or living for that matter.

If I were to self-analyze--which I tend to do fairly regularly--I would say it's because for some crazy reason I feel rushed all the time. Even when there's nowhere to go. Even when there's nothing to do. Who cares if we're all showered and fed and in respectable clothes by 10 am? Isn't that why I stay home, so I can enjoy the day in my jammies? I write that sentence and immediately hear a familiar voice that says, "How productive is that?" (it's not Jason's voice, he's far too kind for that). Obviously, my days are productive. I feed my girls; I bathe them; I clothe them; I read stories to them. But I can't forget the other stuff--like grocery shopping, or doing laundry, or washing the dishes--because that's all part of parenting too. Not quite as fun, but still a necessity. When did these things because my measuring stick of accomplishment? When did I forget the peacefulness of staying calm?

When Sydney was born, I actually did slow down a lot. I found reserves of patience and kindness and humor that I didn't even know I had. Part of motherhood was embracing the new slower pace that I found myself living. Even after Julianne was born I kept my cool most of the time. I had heard that having two kids was an easier transition than having one, and believed it for a few months.

But that sage piece of wisdom hasn't turned out to be so true for me.

To use a basketball metaphor: I'm still figuring out how to transition from man-to-man defense to zone defense. I haven't quite mastered the art of zone defense, hence the sighing. The exasperated, impatient, irritated, discontent, frustrated sighing that only makes things worse rather than better. When September melted into October, I became aware of my incessant sighing. Partly because I could hear Sydney using it in her conversations, partly because of the book that I'm reading (oh so slowly, but I am still reading it). And so I've been working on changing the kind of parent I am.

I need to remember my advice I give to my students: Don't vocalize all those pauses, but even still, I get one sigh. One. And maybe it would be better to use it looking out the window when Sydney says, "Look! The sun is finally coming out to play!" That'd be a good way to use it.

If only I could get Jules to stop ripping up books. *sigh*

The Whine

(Part Two of Three)

I think some of you weren't brave enough to listen to The Howl, so I'll spare you the sound that makes my blood pressure climb, gives me tension headaches, and puts me a foul mood faster than an episode of Wife Swap. I suppose I should be thankful that we got off relatively easy for Sydney's Terrible Twos. She really wasn't so terrible. Rather delightful actually. Sure, we had the occasional meltdown, we definitely had the throw-self-to-the-floor-and-cry routine (but rarely in public), and we had what we now have discovered was the warm-up period for what has become a daily routine: whining.

Oh, I know. Kids whine. What's new. But oh my goodness gracious, it drives me nuts. Now that Syd's vocabulary has increased substantially than it was over a year ago, her ability to transform any word into a whine is a marvel.

Me: We're having spaghetti for dinner. Yay! Just what you asked for.
Syd: I don't waaaaaaaaaaaaaaant spaghetti. I want toast.
Me: We're having spaghetti.
Syd: *serious frowning* I don't liiiiiiike spaghettiiiiiiiiiiiii.
Me: Sorry.
Syd: But whyyyyyy? Whyyyyyy? Whyyyyy not?

It's lovely.

To her credit (and ours, because you know I'll take it), she doesn't throw herself on the floor as much as she used to. She has tempered the flailing of arms, the kicking of legs, the banshee screaming. But she has replaced it with the tiniest of moves that disproportionately irritates me. She hangs her head and frowns. Huge frown. Forget the little birdy landing on the lip, let's get a Canada goose to nest there.

Other than the technique of redirecting her attention, we have yet to discover an effective way to combat whining. The whole, "I can't hear you when you're whining" doesn't work because she just interprets that to mean we actually can't hear her and so whines louder. I'm onto her semantic games and say, "I can't understand you when you're whining," which prompts her to yell, resulting in time-outs. We also try, "You need to ask in a polite tone," which only works if we're planning on saying yes to whatever her request is, otherwise she gets quite upset if she goes to the trouble of changing her tone only to be met with a "no." I should insert here that if we say "yes" to everything she wants, then she is a fabulously well-behaved kid. "Can I play with my race cars?" Sure. "Can I give Daisy a bone?" Good idea! "Can I have a piece of gum?" Let's wait until after lunch.

"But whyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

Because.

I try to be a good parent about it. Certainly, me getting agitated and snappish at her doesn't model the kind of behavior we want from her. Yet I have my limits. My ears just get tired.

When I was reading this book, I came across the story of a mom who felt like a failure every time her kids cried during the day. I chuckled to myself (and did feel sorry for the mom, too) because the idea of getting through a day without a crying, whining child seems ridiculously impossible. So much so that I don't feel even a tiny bit guilty about my parenting skills when my kids cry. Seriously. Kids cry. I can control that as much as I can control the leaves falling. But my response? Sometimes I feel like I can't control that either, even though I'm the big kid and need to exercise patience and kindness and all good things that I seem to have so little of at times.

I want to do better. I want to be patient, I do. And if it was just a phase, maybe I could work through it. But I taught high schoolers for five years, and been teaching college students for two years, and let me tell you: whining is not a phase. It's a character trait. In some respects, maybe this whole post is just me whining. I'm not stamping my feet over it, but I could be persuaded to after a car ride in which there is copious amounts of whining because I turned I took a left turn instead of a right turn.

Nevermind my whining though. Let's focus on my parenting techniques. There's got to be a better way to deal with kids whining. Please, somebody, help me out here. That can be your Halloween treat for me--a piece of parenting candy that will be both a trick and a treat.

Not a good sign...

...when you try a new cookie recipe
that's supposed to be more healthy
than other chocolate chip cookie recipes,
and after working hard
at dumping in the brown sugar,
the chocolate chips,
the chickpeas
(that's the healthy part)
and assorted other ingredients,
after standing in front of the oven,
watching the seconds tick down
from the microwave timer
until she could finally exclaim,
"They're done!"
(with such joy that you wonder
why you don't bake cookies with her more often),
she takes a bite,
says,
"Ack! Ew! Get it out of my mouth! I Don't Like It!"
spits out the bite of cookie into your hand,
and runs out of the kitchen as if you had forced her to eat kidney pie.

And you realize,
at that moment,
cookies ought not to be healthy for you.
Lesson learned.
Momma will do better next time.

Week 176: Pity me...

...my children aren't taking naps anymore.

It's all for the best that Sydney doesn't nap. On her new no-nap schedule she goes to bed between 8 and 8:30 and then doesn't wake up until 8 in the morning. I'm all about sleeping in, so I'm glad to see I've won her over to my side (which is to say, not the side that Jason is on, the side that wakes up before the sun comes up to go play basketball or run or bike half a marathon or something).

Sweet little Julianne, however, needs to take a nap. I