When your babies begin to talk, really talk for the first time, it is always fascinating to listen to how they string syllables and grunts into words, sometimes creating entirely new ways to say things that have been said over and over again.
Some kids hang on to those creative dialects of their babyhood, as the mispronunciations become habit and hard to break. That's when it can get annoying for the parents, well, at least for my husband and myself. Because while I find it endearing and cute to hear a 2-year-old say something like "Can I have some poppa-sicle pwease?" it is not so cute when a 10-year-old says it.
One of Katie's little baby-talking hang-ups is saying "yet's" instead of "let's."
I am not advocating the employment of a speech therapist just yet, as she is only 3, but I know that in a few years, if she's still saying "yet's go daddy" it won't be nearly as effective as it is now. Hopefully she isn't using "yet's" during the teen years because I can just hear her, all sassy-like saying to her friends "yet's go to the mall."
The other evening, while enjoying the "new" deck, we were visiting with a certain family member who shall remain nameless because I do not want to embarrass her (although I know she could care less that I share this story).
She was telling us of a time, in the late 70's, when she and her friend vacationed in Hawaii. As she went on and on about how much fun the two women had terrorizing all of Waikiki with their bikini bods and permed hair-do's, she mentioned how her friend really wanted to ride in a "ricochet."
"A what?"
"A ricochet," she giggled, telling us about the little bicycles with the carts attached to the back that bring the tourists all around . . . like we didn't know what a "ricochet" was, jeez.
Then, she went on about the fact that she had passed up the opportunity to meet "Tom Seltzer," you know, that actor from that TV show . . . what was it? Oh yes, "Magnesium P.I."
After her Hawaii story was over, we somehow got on the subject of how we were growing a little tired of eating hot dogs, because of all the camping we'd been doing. Having been married to a butcher, she knows a lot about the meat.
"You know, if I'm going to have a hot dog," she began, "then I buy those Jewish ones."
I think Brett spit water out of his nose when she said that.
"They aren't Jewish hot dogs, they're kosher!" he said to her.
"I know," she said, "Highbrow National."
High brow indeed.
*Originally posted July 12, 2007. In honor of the holiday weekend, and since we will be spending most of it with great friends and family, I'd love to hear your funny family tales, if you have the time!
Friday, July 04, 2008
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Disappearing Act
Her head lifts momentarily from the crook of my elbow to adjust her position. Pieces of blonde hair stick to my arm like Velcro, slowly peeling away from my skin as if they were one with it.
I look down at her, asleep finally, and admit to myself that yet again, I have failed my kids in the going-to-bed-at-a-reasonable-hour department.
Wyatt is in a sleeping bag on the floor behind the couch, so he can be near me.
Katie is splayed out on top of me, sticky and sweaty and I did not wash her hands nor her face before sticking my time card in the slot marked "OUT" and calling it a night in the house of one parent. I can see the dirt under her fingernails from her late night bike riding and sidewalk chalking.
McRae, well, at least 1 out of 3 ain't bad. He's sacked out with the dog in his own room. Snoring. Just like his father. Sigh.
I remove her from my elbow, hoist her body up so that I can cradle all of her, and walk quietly up to her room where a haphazardly thrown Strawberry Shortcake blanket is waiting to cover her for the rest of the night.
It is 11:43.
I rustle the sleeping bag containing son #2, and with all my will and every last patient bone in my body, wake him and guide him back to his own room. "You will not be alone up here, your sister is in her room and I'll be up in a minute . . . after I do the dishes."
I know staying up to watch the lightening was a rare thing for us. The lightening part, not the staying up late part. It seems like the summer nights have suddenly sprung into overdrive and because of the heat, because we are all enjoying each other, because of a million different things - including the fact that I've grown lazy at looking at the clock - these kids of mine are staying up way too late.
And I wonder why someone has difficulty at bedtime. Could it be because bedtime has disappeared from our lives and instead in it's place is a 'whatever' attitude that simply does not work?
period.
I look down at her, asleep finally, and admit to myself that yet again, I have failed my kids in the going-to-bed-at-a-reasonable-hour department.
Wyatt is in a sleeping bag on the floor behind the couch, so he can be near me.
Katie is splayed out on top of me, sticky and sweaty and I did not wash her hands nor her face before sticking my time card in the slot marked "OUT" and calling it a night in the house of one parent. I can see the dirt under her fingernails from her late night bike riding and sidewalk chalking.
McRae, well, at least 1 out of 3 ain't bad. He's sacked out with the dog in his own room. Snoring. Just like his father. Sigh.
I remove her from my elbow, hoist her body up so that I can cradle all of her, and walk quietly up to her room where a haphazardly thrown Strawberry Shortcake blanket is waiting to cover her for the rest of the night.
It is 11:43.
I rustle the sleeping bag containing son #2, and with all my will and every last patient bone in my body, wake him and guide him back to his own room. "You will not be alone up here, your sister is in her room and I'll be up in a minute . . . after I do the dishes."
I know staying up to watch the lightening was a rare thing for us. The lightening part, not the staying up late part. It seems like the summer nights have suddenly sprung into overdrive and because of the heat, because we are all enjoying each other, because of a million different things - including the fact that I've grown lazy at looking at the clock - these kids of mine are staying up way too late.
And I wonder why someone has difficulty at bedtime. Could it be because bedtime has disappeared from our lives and instead in it's place is a 'whatever' attitude that simply does not work?
period.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Soar Baby Soar
The tears started just after bedtime, well what was as close to bedtime as we could get in this heat that we aren't used to and don't know how to deal with.
First there were tears because he "just felt weird." I asked if it was his stomach, if it was his head, if he felt like he had a stuffed up nose. I ruffled his mop of boy hair, patted him on the back and said to go give it another try, to remember to breathe and try to fall asleep.
Ten minutes later, more sobs.
Ten minutes after coaxing it out of him, he tells me he got in trouble too much today and he feels bad about it. I assure him that no matter how much trouble he got in, his dad and I love him just as much as we did the day before, probably more. I remind him of the importance of talking about things that are bothering him, that I can't help if he won't talk to me, that I am always here for him and will listen whenever he needs someone to talk to. I tell him that it isn't good to keep things bottled up inside . . . like a volcano.
Because we all know what happens when we bottle things up inside - one day they'll explode all over the place leaving us sobbing well past bedtime, unable to articulate what exactly it is that is giving us so much anxiety because we've been bottling it up inside for so long now that we've forgotten what it began with in the first place.
I am sure this is what has happened. So I offer my lap, the only thing I have left to give.
Finally his breaths grow deeper and more purposeful. I relax the hand that has been slowly moving across his scalp and just let it rest on the top of his head. I remember a time when he was a baby and it seems like it was yesterday, but it couldn't be - as I look at the boy lying in my lap who has feet the same size as mine now.
Thing is, I know he worries. I know he cares deeply. I know things bother him more than they should. But how do I fix it? How do I make him understand that he gives more power to his worries by thinking about them so much? How do I get him to quiet his mind and think about the good (oh, there is so much good) in his life instead of thinking about the possibility of bad things happening?
His life is good. He plays, he enjoys living, he is a good kid and we're a good family.
Why does he have so much trouble some days, some nights, stricken with worry and sadness over nothing that he is able to speak of? Nothing. Just sad.
He should go to sleep with a smile on his freckled face every night. I try to make his days such that it would be easy for him, easy to live, easy to be happy, just plain easy.
But it isn't, it is so hard.
And I don't know what else to do to give him the wings to soar as he should, each and every day.
First there were tears because he "just felt weird." I asked if it was his stomach, if it was his head, if he felt like he had a stuffed up nose. I ruffled his mop of boy hair, patted him on the back and said to go give it another try, to remember to breathe and try to fall asleep.
Ten minutes later, more sobs.
Ten minutes after coaxing it out of him, he tells me he got in trouble too much today and he feels bad about it. I assure him that no matter how much trouble he got in, his dad and I love him just as much as we did the day before, probably more. I remind him of the importance of talking about things that are bothering him, that I can't help if he won't talk to me, that I am always here for him and will listen whenever he needs someone to talk to. I tell him that it isn't good to keep things bottled up inside . . . like a volcano.
Because we all know what happens when we bottle things up inside - one day they'll explode all over the place leaving us sobbing well past bedtime, unable to articulate what exactly it is that is giving us so much anxiety because we've been bottling it up inside for so long now that we've forgotten what it began with in the first place.
I am sure this is what has happened. So I offer my lap, the only thing I have left to give.
Finally his breaths grow deeper and more purposeful. I relax the hand that has been slowly moving across his scalp and just let it rest on the top of his head. I remember a time when he was a baby and it seems like it was yesterday, but it couldn't be - as I look at the boy lying in my lap who has feet the same size as mine now.
Thing is, I know he worries. I know he cares deeply. I know things bother him more than they should. But how do I fix it? How do I make him understand that he gives more power to his worries by thinking about them so much? How do I get him to quiet his mind and think about the good (oh, there is so much good) in his life instead of thinking about the possibility of bad things happening?
His life is good. He plays, he enjoys living, he is a good kid and we're a good family.
Why does he have so much trouble some days, some nights, stricken with worry and sadness over nothing that he is able to speak of? Nothing. Just sad.
He should go to sleep with a smile on his freckled face every night. I try to make his days such that it would be easy for him, easy to live, easy to be happy, just plain easy.
But it isn't, it is so hard.
And I don't know what else to do to give him the wings to soar as he should, each and every day.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Why Can't We Be Friends?
Time to clean house and address those dust bunnies that have been gathering at my feet when I try to read all of my favorite blogs.
For a few weeks I've been thinking about my little 'ol place here in the great blogosphere (I know, totally NOT an original thought, but it's mine, so oh well). I've been thinking about my writing, what I like about it, what I don't. I've been thinking about my reading, what I like about it, what I don't. I've been thinking about how much time I should spend doing my "hobby," and how much time I should truly devote to folding laundry (which would be so much easier with an Electrolux set . . . just sayin').
Basically, I've been doing a lot of thinking.
What I've come up with is this.
None of us are original.
None of us are unique.
None of us have all the answers.
There, I said it. I learned a long time ago that it is nearly impossible to have an original thought when it comes to writing about mothering. What? It is.
No matter what story we tell, there is and always will be someone else who has "been there, done that," or who had it ten times worse or better than we did. It's a fact. Don't believe me? Try writing about potty training or sleep issues and see how many people tell you their own stories.
That being said, I think it is okay. Yes, it is okay. All of it. All of the shared experiences are what bind us together, give us common ground, link our arms in a chain of solidarity that represents the struggle of parenting.
And it isn't a bad thing. How could it be a bad thing?
If written well, I will read ten thousand posts about potty training. Why? Because it is entertaining and it binds us together in a shared experience (be it the inferno of potty training, or something else). And who cares? Why all this anger and blog bashing over things like originality and copying and names?
I remember a long time ago reading a post that was basically the same thing I'd written the day before. I thought, "Hm, that's weird - I just wrote that! How could it be that she wrote that too?"
And then I pulled my head out of la-la land and realized that what I'd written was neither a) original or b) unique.
Guess what? That was fine. It was fine because that is not why I blog.
I blog to tell my stories. I blog to scratch my writing bug. I blog to make a written record for my family. I blog to read about other people who may or may not be going through something similar. I blog to learn. I blog to belong to something that brings me great joy and a sense of belonging to another kind of community. I blog in hopes of someday being a real writer. I blog to laugh. I blog to cry. I blog for you and I blog for me.
Do I like that I get a check from BlogHer on occasion? Of course.
Do I care that there is an ad on my sidebar? Not really.
Do I read all kinds of posts where I've been there and done that? Yes, and I'm fine with it.
Have I ever posted on a topic that someone else has addressed? It would be stupid to think that I hadn't.
And it's fine, all of it. Because that is why I blog.
Why do you blog?
*stay tuned tomorrow for a unoriginal and totally not unique post about sleep issues!
For a few weeks I've been thinking about my little 'ol place here in the great blogosphere (I know, totally NOT an original thought, but it's mine, so oh well). I've been thinking about my writing, what I like about it, what I don't. I've been thinking about my reading, what I like about it, what I don't. I've been thinking about how much time I should spend doing my "hobby," and how much time I should truly devote to folding laundry (which would be so much easier with an Electrolux set . . . just sayin').
Basically, I've been doing a lot of thinking.
What I've come up with is this.
None of us are original.
None of us are unique.
None of us have all the answers.
There, I said it. I learned a long time ago that it is nearly impossible to have an original thought when it comes to writing about mothering. What? It is.
No matter what story we tell, there is and always will be someone else who has "been there, done that," or who had it ten times worse or better than we did. It's a fact. Don't believe me? Try writing about potty training or sleep issues and see how many people tell you their own stories.
That being said, I think it is okay. Yes, it is okay. All of it. All of the shared experiences are what bind us together, give us common ground, link our arms in a chain of solidarity that represents the struggle of parenting.
And it isn't a bad thing. How could it be a bad thing?
If written well, I will read ten thousand posts about potty training. Why? Because it is entertaining and it binds us together in a shared experience (be it the inferno of potty training, or something else). And who cares? Why all this anger and blog bashing over things like originality and copying and names?
I remember a long time ago reading a post that was basically the same thing I'd written the day before. I thought, "Hm, that's weird - I just wrote that! How could it be that she wrote that too?"
And then I pulled my head out of la-la land and realized that what I'd written was neither a) original or b) unique.
Guess what? That was fine. It was fine because that is not why I blog.
I blog to tell my stories. I blog to scratch my writing bug. I blog to make a written record for my family. I blog to read about other people who may or may not be going through something similar. I blog to learn. I blog to belong to something that brings me great joy and a sense of belonging to another kind of community. I blog in hopes of someday being a real writer. I blog to laugh. I blog to cry. I blog for you and I blog for me.
Do I like that I get a check from BlogHer on occasion? Of course.
Do I care that there is an ad on my sidebar? Not really.
Do I read all kinds of posts where I've been there and done that? Yes, and I'm fine with it.
Have I ever posted on a topic that someone else has addressed? It would be stupid to think that I hadn't.
And it's fine, all of it. Because that is why I blog.
Why do you blog?
*stay tuned tomorrow for a unoriginal and totally not unique post about sleep issues!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Self Inflicted
What could be more fun that bringing your three children bra shopping?
Taking your husband swimming suit shopping, that's what!
Today marked an important milestone in the evolution of our almost 12-year marriage and even longer pairing. Today was the day my husband suggested, while we were at the mall picking up some much-needed summer essentials for our kids, that it might be a good idea if I get a new swimming suit too (he'd obviously heard me complaining about my MiracleSuit being not such a miracle after all).
I guess he knows what side his bread is buttered on.
So there we were at Macy's, thumbing through rack upon rack (no pun intended, unless you are my husband in the ladies swim section, surrounded by racks) of tops, bottoms and one-pieces. I would hold up something I thought might possibly be acceptable and he'd give me a thumbs up or a thumbs down and then I'd add it to the heavy load of hanging swimwear that was permanently taking up residence on my right arm.
Note to husband: the next time your wife takes you swimming suit shopping (or any other kind of shopping, for that matter), OFFER TO HOLD HER ITEMS!
After I'd compiled enough suits to equal a worthwhile trip to the dressing room, I grabbed his arm and headed toward the first open door I saw. I'd already scoped out the one single dressing room and decided that it would be much better to have him sit on the little bench inside rather than have me parade out in front of total strangers to model the suits.
Plus, I am not fond of people gasping and holding their hands over their mouths and then running in the other direction when they see me at Macy's, under the fluorescent lighting, in a swimsuit that would make my grandmother cry.
Also, I don't like to let my bare feet touch the floor of such places, but that is neither here nor there.
The first suit was cute. I was actually surprised, as I was not thinking that buying swimwear in 2008 would be a very good time for me.
"That's good, but try the next one," Brett said as I flung the suit at him and told him that it is always the job of the person not trying on the clothes to put whatever has just been tried on back on it's hanger. Right?
I grabbed the next suit in line, a simple black tank with a pink trim on the bust and pink straps.
Brett muttered something about how he has never really been into the whole pink and black color combination and I ignored him as I tugged and pulled at the fabric and tried to slide it over my rear.
Hmmm, not gliding on as easy as the first, I thought.
Yeah, this is not working AT ALL! I thought.
"What size is this suit anyway?" I finally said out loud.
To which my lovely husband replied, "Not YOUR size."
I grabbed the suit, ripped it off and searched for the tag, which was now rolled up in the lycra/spandex/rubber material that the suit was made of.
Duh. It was a single digit size. A really small single digit size that has not seen itself on any of my clothes since 1993. No wonder I couldn't pull it up.
But at least I had my husband there, for moral support, pointing out the obvious!
Taking your husband swimming suit shopping, that's what!
Today marked an important milestone in the evolution of our almost 12-year marriage and even longer pairing. Today was the day my husband suggested, while we were at the mall picking up some much-needed summer essentials for our kids, that it might be a good idea if I get a new swimming suit too (he'd obviously heard me complaining about my MiracleSuit being not such a miracle after all).
I guess he knows what side his bread is buttered on.
So there we were at Macy's, thumbing through rack upon rack (no pun intended, unless you are my husband in the ladies swim section, surrounded by racks) of tops, bottoms and one-pieces. I would hold up something I thought might possibly be acceptable and he'd give me a thumbs up or a thumbs down and then I'd add it to the heavy load of hanging swimwear that was permanently taking up residence on my right arm.
Note to husband: the next time your wife takes you swimming suit shopping (or any other kind of shopping, for that matter), OFFER TO HOLD HER ITEMS!
After I'd compiled enough suits to equal a worthwhile trip to the dressing room, I grabbed his arm and headed toward the first open door I saw. I'd already scoped out the one single dressing room and decided that it would be much better to have him sit on the little bench inside rather than have me parade out in front of total strangers to model the suits.
Plus, I am not fond of people gasping and holding their hands over their mouths and then running in the other direction when they see me at Macy's, under the fluorescent lighting, in a swimsuit that would make my grandmother cry.
Also, I don't like to let my bare feet touch the floor of such places, but that is neither here nor there.
The first suit was cute. I was actually surprised, as I was not thinking that buying swimwear in 2008 would be a very good time for me.
"That's good, but try the next one," Brett said as I flung the suit at him and told him that it is always the job of the person not trying on the clothes to put whatever has just been tried on back on it's hanger. Right?
I grabbed the next suit in line, a simple black tank with a pink trim on the bust and pink straps.
Brett muttered something about how he has never really been into the whole pink and black color combination and I ignored him as I tugged and pulled at the fabric and tried to slide it over my rear.
Hmmm, not gliding on as easy as the first, I thought.
Yeah, this is not working AT ALL! I thought.
"What size is this suit anyway?" I finally said out loud.
To which my lovely husband replied, "Not YOUR size."
I grabbed the suit, ripped it off and searched for the tag, which was now rolled up in the lycra/spandex/rubber material that the suit was made of.
Duh. It was a single digit size. A really small single digit size that has not seen itself on any of my clothes since 1993. No wonder I couldn't pull it up.
But at least I had my husband there, for moral support, pointing out the obvious!
Friday, June 27, 2008
When Moms Don't Pay Attention
We all know that mothering is risky business, unfortunately not the kind that involves a pre-lunatic Tom Cruise running around in our living rooms in his tighty whiteys and a pair of sunglasses.
Alas, it is the little things that happen when we've got our backs turned and our back of the head eyeballs closed, that teach us those valuable parenting lessons and keep us on our toes.
For instance, once my kids decided to help themselves to each and every single fruit snack in the pantry . . . while I was in the shower. They have also played outside in their underwear and eaten peanut butter straight from the jar when I wasn't looking.
And miraculously, they have survived. Although, I am none the wiser for it. I still expect them to follow a few basic rules when I'm otherwise unavailable (okay, I'll say it, when I'm trying to use the bathroom alone!).
Still, they continue to amaze me with the things they come up with while left unsupervised for these brief, even though necessary, periods of time.
Alas, it is the little things that happen when we've got our backs turned and our back of the head eyeballs closed, that teach us those valuable parenting lessons and keep us on our toes.
For instance, once my kids decided to help themselves to each and every single fruit snack in the pantry . . . while I was in the shower. They have also played outside in their underwear and eaten peanut butter straight from the jar when I wasn't looking.
And miraculously, they have survived. Although, I am none the wiser for it. I still expect them to follow a few basic rules when I'm otherwise unavailable (okay, I'll say it, when I'm trying to use the bathroom alone!).
Still, they continue to amaze me with the things they come up with while left unsupervised for these brief, even though necessary, periods of time.
Well, there you have it.
This is what happens when mom has her back turned.
Any questions?
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