Little E and the Whales

In honor of Little E's birthday.

We went to the beach yesterday. Goose was in heaven, diving right in, teaching herself to swim, being called back from going out too far; Little E, on the other hand, was a little stressed. He would not go near the water without me. He's fine in the pool, so the fear of the beach, while partially understandable, was a little excessive and definitely unexpected....until he started talking about sharks and whales eating him.

The kids have been asking for Bible bedtime stories lately. Jonah is a favorite. Perhaps I had been a little too vivid in my storytelling.

Anyway, Little E got more acclimated to the beach as the day went on (and after repeated assurances he would not get eaten) and eventually let me take him in - provided I was holding him the entire time.

That night in bed Little E initiated a what I thought was a rather amusing conversation. Maybe it is only funny to a mom, but I love to see how these little minds work and Little E is finally verbal enough to make things really entertaining.

Little E: Mom, I will take all the little fishes in my hands and save them from the sharks and whales so they not can eat them. (The "not can" inversion is one of my favorite little kid mistakes of Little E's.)

Me: Oh, you are? Well then what are the sharks and whales going to eat?

Little E: Goldfish.

Me: Goldfish crackers?

Little E: Yes.

Goose: You can't do that Ethan, they will get all soggy in water.

Little E: Oh. I will get in a boat and wait until the sharks and come to the top and then I will feed them food.

Me: What food will you feed them instead of goldfish?

Little E: Peanut butter sandwiches and smoosh-mallows and bananas and raisins and....(the list went on for several minutes.)

Me: Because you don't want them to eat the little fish anymore?

Little E: Yeah, yeah, I will save them. And I will feed the sharks and whales from my boat so that they will have food.

My son, the marine philanthropist.

Chocolate Milk Tuesdays

I totally admit that I use food as a coping device. In particular, sugary foods. (Mmm...just typing this I had to jump up and go get a handful of JellyBellies. ) As long as I remember, I've had this tendency. In fact, I remember being warned by a friend's mother, whilst I stuffed my fifth brownie down my throat, I would encounter weight issues in adulthood. My 110 lb, 5'9" frame shook with laughter at the idea.

She was right. I had kids, turned 30 and now I go jean shopping every 6 months.

But this post isn't about weight-gain. It's all about chocolate milk.

Chocolate. My first true love. (Sorry Jimmy-John, Chocolate and I were long time lovers before you came along. You do hold a solid second place, though.) Nothing chocolate in my house lasts for long.

There is one exception, though: chocolate milk. I've never quite understood it. It's relatives, chocolate ice cream and hot chocolate are longtime staples of my diet. But, I never am tempted by the mid-temperature variety of chocolate flavored dairy products.

And then I started home milk delivery from a local creamery. Every Tuesday morning I get freshly bottled organic milk dropped on my doorstep. On a whim, and mostly for the co-inhabitants of my home, I ordered a quart of chocolate (whole) milk. I wasn't planning to have any, but tried some "just to see".

Mmmmm, boy. Tuesday is my new favorite day of the week. Creamy, rich, the perfect amount of cacao bean. But at $2.75 a quart, it's definitely a luxury item.

Jimmy-John is lucky if he gets to lick the bottle when he gets home. I'd order a bigger bottle, but I don't think that would help JJ at all. I'd just be fatter and he would be poorer.

Is This What They Call a Midlife Crisis

There is a girl that lives inside my head who I really admire. She's compassionate, talented, gracious, witty, confident and capable. She looks a lot like me, but she towers over me in strength of character. She's one of those people you'd like to hate, but who is so charming you can't help but love her. I spend a lot of my time and energy trying to mold myself into some reasonable representation of her.

Perhaps that is why I love making New Year's resolutions. I feel inspired and excited about the changes I plan to make in my life. I like to pretend that this year will be the year when I get a little closer to the mirage of my perfect self.

As I pondered what items to add to my to-do list this year, a strange thing happened. Instead of bringing the of the happy buzz of encouragement I expected, the thought of adding one more unrealized expectation to my seemingly unending catalogue of failures weighed heavily on me. And more keenly, I felt the investment of time was one that I could not afford as I am already operating on a severe deficit.

This time shortage is really an enigma to me. I don't feel like I do anything terribly important or productive during a typical day. I don't have a high-powered job. I'm not really what one would call a Super-Mom (you know, the type that has fun, enriching activities for their children all day long while somehow managing to keep a perfectly neat home, make a 3 course dinner, volunteer at the local homeless shelter, and read the NY Times from cover to cover each day). Mostly, I (hardly) manage to maintain a steady baseline of quasi-productivity.

I decided to spell out all the amorphous expectations I have for myself. I won't bore you with the banality of the items on the list, but to give you an idea, after reviewing the list my husband asked me if I had inadvertently omitted restroom trips. Were these mundane tasks really causing so much stress in my life? Could so much boredom really cause my stomach to churn by its incompletion?

I considered the list. Not much could be excised with out great sacrifice on the part of family members (grocery shopping really is essential, they all assure me), and some of the listed items are deceivingly time-consuming (i.e. physically caring for the children: one must also consider this includes providing an impromptu bathing when yogurt mysteriously splatters across the dining room). But most alarmingly, the few things on the list that I actually like doing were at the bottom of the priority list and often are the first casualties when time gets tight.

I finally came up with a few ideas that hint at making things better...you know: enhance efficiency on the most boring and routine tasks so as to free up more time for the more enjoyable options, wasting less time procrastinating undesirable activities (read: not signing into facebook or searching craiglist just "one more time" in case someone listed the serger of my dreams during the past 10 minutes), etc. But really, those strategies just seem like a diversion from the real problem: my life is dull. So dull I couldn't even bring myself to write Christmas cards this year.

It's true. I've become a typical boring thirty-something looking for a little pizzazz in life. (And not the type of pizzazz that comes from your two-year-old pooping on the kitchen floor. Side note: Jimmy-John wanted me to blog that story and entitle it: "Goose didn't lay THIS golden egg!" I laughed so hard, I almost regressed on my own potty-training.) I need something to get my heart racing. I need an interesting response to the question "So, what have you been up to lately?"

So, this leads me to my big question: Does any have a motorcycle for sale?

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

Of late, I've been telling scripture stories to the children as I lay them down to bed. Because Goose has been having nightmares recently and scripture stories almost always have a violent element to them, I try to edit the stories to make them a little more G-rated. Occasionally, I make mistakes and include something I probably shouldn't have. Goose always locks in on it. A couple of nights ago I mentioned earthquakes in the Americas accompanying the death of Christ.

She immediately interrupted me with a barrage of questions. What is a earthquake? Where do they happen? Why do they happen? What does a fault line look like? Why do the plates rub against each other?

Goose has a hyper-analytical mind. She fires question after question at me all day, everyday. I try to be exact and matter-of-fact in my answers, trying to avoid the "because that's the way it is" answer but eventually she wears me down and I can't come up with any more explanations. I've thought about adopting the approach instituted by Calvin's dad from the famous comic strip: making up ridiculous answers in an attempt to avoid further interrogation, but 1) I can't bear to lie to my kids (I even have trouble with the Santa Claus deal) and 2) it wouldn't work with her anyway. She would still press until I answered with "because" or "I don't know". Sometimes I think this is her entire objective: to she how long it takes to wear me down.

But, I digress. Relatively speaking, the questions regarding earthquakes ended fairly early that night. But, I learned the next night they had made a significant impression. We were talking about something else completely and she started asking me about some strange subject: "sorry lines".

After a series of my own questions I realized "sorry lines" were "fault lines". (A cute insight into a 4-yr old's word association, in my opinion.) Goose wanted to know all about earthquakes. More specifically, she wanted to know all about the danger and destruction of earthquakes.

Uh-oh, my gut said. We've just barely gotten to the point where she can be alone in a dark room. What have I done? I assured her that we lived in an area where earthquakes really didn't happen and that she shouldn't worry about it, etc. She wasn't interested in my reassurances. She still wanted to know all about the dangers. I told her in the morning I'd show her some movies of earthquakes on the computer.

Still anxious about inciting a new irrational fear in my daughter, I set about screening youtube videos. I chose the most mild, non-threatening, earthquake videos I could find. A bridge (without cars or people) shaking visibly. Water in a pool rocking from side to side. And of course the dry films from 8th grade earth science with the maps of tectonic plates and fault lines. We wanted to stay as far away as possible from Lois Lane out of gas with a cracking San Andreas faultline in the rearview mirror.

Goose was unimpressed with my selection. "But, where are the things falling on people? I want to see the dangerous ones." Sigh...

I brought out a few of the more violent ones; the kind of videos one would expect to find on youtube. The messy, dramatic ones. I watched Goose carefully while we watched people hysterically run from falling objects. No fear crossed her brow, in fact, they were exactly what she wanted and she has since shown no signs of burgeoning anxiety - just more cold, analytical questions.

Still unsure about her emotional state, I asked her why she was asking me so many questions about earthquakes. She looked at me like I was the dumbest person in existence and said "Because I want to learn about earthquakes." My incredulity continued, but I humored her and tried patiently answer questions all day. We watched more videos, we talked, and we looked at maps.

Tonight as we were snuggling in for bed, we affectionately rubbed our noses together, a sign of love we've shared since her infancy. This time, however, it's meaning changed. "HEY MOM! " Goose exclaimed. "Our noses are like an earthquake!" Wow. She got it all. I laughed. We rubbed our noses again, and this time followed the gesture by shaking violently under her covers. We laughed until tears filled our eyes: she with the satisfaction of new-found knowledge and I with the rediscovery of wonder.

Thanks for reminding me.

Goose: Ewww. Mom, this pasta sauce tastes like rotten applesauce.

Me: Goose, you like this sauce. It's yummy.

Goose: Oh. Did I eat this before and I liked it?

Me: Yes.

Goose: Oh! I like it! (continues to eat the entire bowl of pasta)

Guilty

I was in the basement doing some much needed reorganizing when I heard a thunk. Little E cried, the cry quickly turned to into a whimper and then quieted. I considered going up to investigate, but Jimmy-John was upstairs with the kids and Little E wasn’t crying anymore, there was no need for me to interject myself in the situation.

Several minutes later, Goose came to the top of the stairs.

“Mom?”

“Yes Goose.”

“Um, I was hugging Little E and I let go and he bonked his head on the corner of the bench and he cried and cried. But I helped him and he’s ok now.”

“Is Daddy upstairs”

“Yes”

“Did he help Little E?”

“No, I did.”

“Where is Daddy?”

“In here.” (she pointed at the bathroom door, the shower was running)

“Where’s Little E?”

“Upstairs in our room.”

I followed her up and found Little E cuddled up in his bed, sucking his thumb and surrounded with all of the most coveted toys.

“See, I helped him stop crying.”

Little E was reluctant to show me the wound, but when I finally got to it, this is what I found:

Two outta Three Ain't Bad

Three public experiences this week with my kids. We’re finally getting to the place where the good outweighs the bad. (You can read about a typical past excursion here.)

Number 1: Lunch at Ikea

As a reward for going to sleep without me in the bed with them, I took my kids to lunch at Ikea. Ikea is always a big excursion for us; it’s just far enough away to be a troublesome outing. The long drive plus the intense stimulation it provides the kiddos tends to provoke at least one meltdown.

This trip had all the earmarks of disaster. It was occurring after preschool (read: kids already overstimulated) and would delve deep into prime nap time. We were also taking friends, Tarheel and Charlie. Or rather, the friends were taking us in their souped up minivan complete with built-in DVD player. The kids were bursting with excitement.

The 4 year old girls, having known each other since birth, were fighting like sisters: Tarheel was bossing Goose, and Goosie was either yelling back or passive-aggressively ignoring any attempt Tarheel made at conversation. Little E and Charlie just wanted to sleep.

Once in Ikea, the kids perked up and nothing of note occurred during lunch. (We did have two spills and a little bit of refusal to keep shoes on, but nothing out of the ordinary.) As we were cleaning up and letting the kids go off to play in the toy area an older man came up to my friend and me and proceed to compliment us on our “patience and good humor” with the kids and that watching us had been enjoyable.

Woah. What? Did that really just happen? I mean, I’ve had people stare. I’ve had people look away in embarrassment. I’ve even had people angrily call my children unruly monkeys. But, I have NEVER had someone compliment me with regard to my children in a public setting. I’m still floating. Now, I realize that the man was not really complimenting my children’s behavior, rather our reactions to it, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

Number 2: Cows at the Grocery

At 3:30 pm, I realized that I was missing the last few ingredients for dinner. Unwilling to change the menu, I loaded the kids up and headed to the grocery. Little E, freshly napped and still a little grumpy, insisted on wearing a large Christmas bell around his neck. Goose, who had taken a mid-afternoon bath, had selected strawberry jammies and rainboots for her attire. I’ve learned to just go with the flow.

My kids rank pretty high on the curiosity scale and everything in the grocery store apparently begs to be investigated. Staying in or near the cart is a constant challenge for my children, so I alternately use bribes, threats and time-outs. Honestly, I’ll use anything that works. I even regularly open grocery items for my children to consume before checking-out. (It shocks me how often I do this when I think how opposed I was to it just 18 months ago.)

This particular trip I was trying to get trough with frequent reminders of appropriate behavior: “Stay by Mommy”, “Don’t touch that”, “Don’t climb on that cart, it’s not ours”, you know, the typical stuff. Goose has figured out that it is easier to just load things into the cart than to ask permission for it and was shopping accordingly. I put the non-dairy creamer back. I put the chocolate soy milk back. But when the mini Nillas landed in the cart it was as if the heavens opened and angels sang.

I opened up the box and told the children they could have them if they stayed close. I doled them out one at a time while the kids jingled behind. The individual cookies were so quickly consumed that a child could not wander far between bites. And if Little E did stray, his ringing bell (and his accompanying moos) betrayed him before any “fun” could be had.

I made it out in record time.

Number 3: Park Play Date

This one still perplexes me. Goose was rested, fed, getting exercise and outside time, and playing well with friends. The friends started leaving, nap time was nearing and I gave Goose and Little E the standard 5 minute warning. 3 minutes. 2 minutes. No friends left. (One stranger still enjoyed the swings.) 1 minute. Blast off.

Goose was still defiantly playing. I tried the patient method. I picked up Little E and started walking. “Good-bye, we’re leaving.” Oh ,why did I park so far away from the playground? I hid behind a tree; Goose hid inside the slide. She won the stand-off. I stomped onto the mulch, fuming. “GOOSE! We’re Leaving!” She chose her best weapon – speed. This 4 year old can almost outrun me. She screamed as the chase closed. I picked her up. She flailed her arms and legs, she smacked me in the face. She wailed like she was enduring some medieval torture.

I cannot say I keep my cool. I blew my lid. I yelled back; I ranted; I flipped her over my shoulder and carried her sack-of-potato style. In the end she endured a time-out and was grounded from the park for a week (it’s up to two weeks now because she snuck out of time-out).

Sigh. So, we’re not there yet. But, two outta three ain’t bad.