LOST A SOCK

Two-step

I knew it would happen. 

We mamas have these teeny tiny helpless little babies who are squishy and squirmy and soft and delicate, and we swaddle them in gigantic blankets and dress them in itsy-bitsy pajamas and we sleep with them on our chests because they are very tiny and very snuggly, and they cannot get away.  And we tell them in the first few days of life that, please, we would like you to stay Exactly This Small forever, only please sleep through the night earlier than your older siblings did, if you don't mind. 

And the babies move their arms in such a way and they nod their little baby heads like they are in agreement with what we have just requested.

And then just ten months later we find out that previous infantile motions of agreement were all about the gas, and really they would have told us if they could at the time, that actually they will indeed sleep better than siblings who've brazen the path before, but also they will up and walk sooner, too.

I recently shared that early last month when I took Marin for her nine month well visit with our pediatrician, the doctor was a bit off-put by the complete lack of crawling that was going on.  A couple weeks later, the crawling, the pulling up, stair climbing, and more recently, cruising furniture like a doggone furniture cruising professional.  Then over the last two days she really began letting go to stand hands-free. 

So when we stopped at Sant & Leslie's house tonight for a visit, I plopped the baby on the floor to show them her new trick.  You know, the standing one. 

Then Sant reached out her hands and called my not-tiny not-squishy baby to her, and my not-tiny not-squishy baby walked right to her.

  

But the not crawling, and then the crawling-- just six weeks ago, remember? 

(Yeahhhhh baby!!)

Straight from the Idea Machine

For the first time in a good month or so, I kicked our air conditioning on this morning. 

I had just gotten Marin down for her first nap and was running from floor to floor with with laundry baskets, miscellaneous toys and the vacuum cleaner while the boys sprawled on various couches watching the 1990 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie I had tivo'd for them over the weekend (must supply culture, yes?)  I realized on my nineteenth pass through the living room that, holy shit, I was hot.  It must be...summer? 

I clicked on the air and the children dove for the pile of folded blankets beside the tv cabinet, teeth chattering.  What was I was trying to do to them, anyway?

They finished their movie and I shooed them to the back yard, where they peered in through the sliding glass door like two little pound puppies, mouthing something about H-O-T (not that I could actually hear them) as their lower extremeties melted into the patio pavers.  They generally looked sweaty and pitiful out there and I wondered with not being able to hear all the whining, why I hadn't thought to shut the door before. 

They have been playing in the garden hose every single day for two months now, practically. 

(God bless my water bill.)

Which is fine, when it is seventy-eight degrees. 

But eighty-five changes a whole lot, apparently.

I believed them about all of the H-O-T as I hiked out to the laundry lines with a four thousand pound basket of sopping wet clothes, and I offered that they might play in the water. 

But alas sixty straight days of taking turns spraying each other in the face with everything from Mist to Jet on the hose handle and then yelling at tops of lungs for that great offense which each one hath committed four minutes earlier...  They were bored with the hose, which I thought might have happened fifty nine days earlier.  (High-fives self for fifty-nine days of borrowed time.)

I have guilt this summer (ohhh what would motherhood be without the guilt?) that there is no large basin in our yard for Mister Almost Seven to swim in.  He is in real-life boyhood now, and we've got a whole bunch of baby going on here, save the Saturday morning swim lessons at our local YMCA.  

I sheepishly proposed that I could pull the blue plastic pool out of the shed.

And then KJ dove head-first into eye-rolling, foot-stomping, ear-piercing conniption fits, and mother guilt rose up through my cold black heart and into my throat, choking me for ways in which I have destroyed my children's would-be childhoods, and the two of us, right there in the late-July sun, had heart attacks and died in our back yard. 

Shut up.  You weren't there.

I don't know what came over me, but I quickly came up with an idea that a boy in his boyhood was actually elated to hear, as it involved equal parts dangerous with potential for mess and disaster.  I suggested, as if I arose from my bed at four o'clock this morning just waiting for the perfect moment to suggest this best suggestion ever, that they might fill the pool and arrange it at the bottom of our slide.

Absolute genious, they thought.  And they cheered for me, and showered me with kisses and double stuf oreo cookies. 

And this is why you keep coming back to me, yes?  For fantastic parenting schemes.

The boy climbed the clubhouse ladder as the yellow slide and icy cold plastic pool stood waiting.

And then he encouraged his younger, unknowing brother to go first so that he could watch what might become of him.

Which was a good call because the slide was hot and anything but slick as his three-year-old sticky sunblock-slathered belly squeaked down.

Then they sprayed the slide down and the boy of almost seven took his shot.

It was fast,

and everything dangerous and thrilling he'd hoped for,

and a little cold, also.

But a success.

They went on to play on The Best Summer Idea Ever for the entire afternoon, trying out various stunts and feats of extreme bravery.

And after four hours and with pruny fingers they filled the pool with grass clippings, mud and landscaping rocks, and they tested the buoyancy of their crocs. 

And everyone lived happily ever after.

The end.

BlogHer, BlogYou, BlogMe

Back when BlogHer '09 registration took place, I was barely past the hump of post-partum hormones and baby surgery, definitely still reeling from sleep deprivation.  I didn't even know if I would have a blog in July of 09 with the way things were going, I reasoned with my ticket-holding partner-in-crime, and besides, Kevin and I were in the thick of building an eight month emergency fund, what with three kids and two houses and it being about damn time already.  Unwilling to even renew our dearly loved zoo membership back then, there was no way I could dedicate several hundred dollars to a blog conference that I just attended two years prior.

And I was good with that for the moment, right up until the last several weeks when I began hearing about the fantasic people that would be there, and I realized that tickets were sold out.  (Is it just me, or once you can no longer get your hands on something, is that not always when you begin to want it the most?) 

I was bummed most of all when I learned that SJ and Amy would be flying in for the conference, having known them for so long and never before having the chance to meet.  

But as fate (and these fantastic friends) would have it, we arranged to meet for dinner on Friday night.  

They brought with them wonderful (and quite funny) Kelly and Jessie, and a whole bag loaded with conference swag for me! 

We had a great evening together.  Thanks girls!

Furthermore, Bree and I have tentatively planned ourselves for a mom's trip to New York next summer, for BlogHer 2010.  Since neither one of us have ever visited the Big Apple, we've found ourselves a great reason, and plan to take it on by storm.  ...In mom sweats.  And flip-flops.  Possibly a bit of foundation.  The East-Coasters won't know what hit 'em.

I can has summer?

I will never, never, neverevereverever complain about the lingering seventy-five degree summer we are having here in the Chicago area.  For two months now it has been just warm enough to enjoy the shorts, the popsicles and our multitude of day-trips, maybe even hot enough some afternoons to break a sweat while mowing the lawn, and perfect enough to sleep with the cool night breeze blowing in through the windows.  This is what Tahiti must feel like.  

...You know, if you take away the corn fields, steel mills, Willis Tower (wtf?) and traffic backups, adding in the crystal blue ocean and black sand beaches.  

Okay, nevermind.

  

We have run our air conditioning only four times this year, and that combined with my heavily utilized laundry lines, my checkbook too is dancing a little checkbook jig.

Who knew hanging laundry outdoors could be such a pleasant, even calming experience?  Not me, is who.  But I've learned. 

Of course, my cordial next door neighbors are now well versed in exactly which colors and brands of underwear we prefer, and probably will discuss over dinner tonight that the neighbor lady with all of the laundry?  Is really slipping.  I saw her taking pictures of sheets in her back yard today.

(Don't worry too much, though, I am well overshadowed by the cooky little boys who play in the hose each morning, often while still wearing their pajamas, and sometimes one of whom refuses to wear pants.)

This morning while Marin napped we erupted Mentos and Diet Coke in our back yard, and then moved on to a water balloon fight.  It was our first quiet morning at home in many, so we took advantage of that kind of fun, too.

This is why I have a blog.  To remind my children, when I am old and grey and they sue me for Maternal Damages and demand therapy, that, actually, we had fun.

 

After the water balloons had all exploded (read: four point three seconds,) they moved immediately back to playing with the plastic pop bottle and the hose while I went inside to catch up on blogs work my fingers to the bone.  I had dumped most of the non-fountainous pop into the grass in fear of what the fallout might be once I had two highly-caffinated little boys on my hands, and so they created their own drink for me.  That they wanted me to enjoy before their eyes.     

It contained two ounces of diet pop, icy cold hose water, eight white, slimy Mentos, three of which were bitten by Jackson, two brown apple slices abandoned in the grass after yesterday's picnic lunch, and a handful of clovers picked from the yard. 

I politely declined. 

Jackson has since run into the house for eighty-seven pee breaks, so you can assume who enjoyed the spoils.
 

A Letter to Age Three-and-a-Half

Dear Age Three Point Five,

Because you are surely the most interesting age on any child I have ever raised before, I find it appropriate to give you a little stage time.  If I can catch you, that is. 

Now, 3.5, I call you the most interesting because you are not only the most fun and the most fun-ny, but in the same you are also the most creative, the most imaginative, the most trying and the most explosive.  You understand that this description of so many mosts can only be summarized by that very word, interesting, don't you?

Many mothers who bravely walked and some who perished on these trails before us, 3.5, sent back warnings of what was to come with Age Two.  Two would contain tempers and meltdowns and mine and noooo.  Two could be cute, but it would also rock our socks, they said.  And when 1.5 did that very thing in our household, and Two calmly came and went, I thought I'd made it through the high hurdles of toddler parenting (version 2.0) with only a few scratches.  I thought we were out of the woods, and only a smooth ride to the teenage years could be on the horizon. 

But then you arrived, 3.5, and you found a way to rock my socks in the very same way as your predecessor, 1.5.  The two of you were cut from the same mold.  Only you came equipped with extensive vocabulary.

You ham it up for the camera, when you are willing to look, and you no longer sing the correct words to songs.  Names for your loved ones end in brand new suffixes, such as Mamasmack and KJslap, and even your own identity has changed a few times in recent months, from Baby Chick (oh was that fun when you trained the other siblings on the Little League sidelines to call you Chick, and you'd Cheep! in response to them) to Princess Leah, to now, Baby Boy.  You've also created and continue to develop Optimus Prime's alter ego, Optimus Crime  (yeah, send the check this way, Hasbro) and you tell me every day that you will name your firstborn Son Of A Gun.  You also clean every surface of our house with an Accedor Wipe, which is any wet wash cloth, and I have absolutely no further information to the root of the term.  But it sticks.

You love your new swing set with a dedication only seen previously in The Notebook, and though I sometimes swear that trips outside to give you a push (again) (and again) (and again) on your yellow swing will be the death of me, I cannot tell you the happiness I feel to see you so...happy.  When you are happy, you are really, really happy. 

...And when you are angry, I am sorry to say, 3.5, that you are really, really angry.   

The temper tantrums of this age showed up out of nowhere, and they kept right on coming for days and weeks and months.  At first I was surprised with the frequency and the passion you would fight me on things like String Cheese With Blue Wrapper versus the now obvious preferred Red Wrapper, and I worked to ignore your kitchen floor meltdowns.  But that was of no use, having you scream and kick wherever it was you fell in the moment, so I attempted a strong-arm tactic, speaking to you in syllables through gritted teeth and furled eyebrows.  Surely you should be so impacted by upsetting your old pal Mama, no?  Heh, no.  That made things ten fifty ten-thousand times worse.  At last I found that sending you to sit on the stairs, from the very second I could see a meltdown coming on until the time you calmed yourself down to be the only answer.  I am glad you are passionate, 3.5, and I hope it really takes you somewhere someday.  You and Son Of A Gun, together.  On a father-son road trip, possibly.

I see you struggle, sometimes, to find your niche in our family now that you are no longer the baby, but not the biggest boy.  You are easily best buddies with your big brother, who consumes nearly all of your time, and you have bonded tightly with your little sister in recent months.  As soon as she wakes in her crib, you rush to climb in with her, and always request that I leave her in there with you for a little longer so that you can be babies together.  Then you ask me to pull you out at the same time as I lift her, so that I can hold both of you in my arms and call you two babies.

At other times you pretend to be a girl, like Princess Leah, and you request that I buy you a Tinkerbell in the Michigan Avenue Disney Store.  In small ways I try to help you figure things out, by offering you stories of yourself from when you were a baby, and talking up all of the wonderful things that a big boy can do.  Last week I put together a picture book for you, covering your tiny baby days through now, 3.5, to give you a little continuity, and a bit of concrete perspective that, really, you don't have to be anyone but perfectly wonderful you.  And so exists the reason that you will venture out to preschool twice-weekly, beginning next month.  I think you will really benefit from having something that is all your own, standing in-between no big brother and little sister, just time for you to be you, with your own friends and your own stories.

When we met with your teacher on registration day last month, you attempted to explain that you will both homeschool and attend preschool this year, calling me your first teacher.  She agreed that a mommy is every child's first teacher, and I saw you write off the misunderstanding, almost with an eye roll.  And then you climbed on a chair and turned off the lights throughout the school office.  Way to get yourself remembered, 3.5.

You really will approach and speak to any person, child or grown-up.  This is something that bothers your brother, 6.5, to no end now that he has familiarized himself with a handful of social rules, such as less gabbing with the strangers.  At the zoo last month, as fifty or maybe a hundred people stood in the underwater dolphin viewing area, you watched at the glass for as long as a 3.5 attention span would allow.  And without a second thought you were sure that someone, something, must break the silence of the underground room, and you called the attention of everyone there.  "Hey everybody, look at me!" you exclaimed as your little body tried to block the porpoises behind, "I'm an animal -- a rhinocibiter!  I've got a creeeepy faaaace!" and then you made a scary face for all to see, just before your reddened face brother dragged you up the steps so we could escape. 

This is the sort of thing I hope to keep around through 4.5 and 5.5 and 6.5 and forever.

Lastly, 3.5, I most definitely could not publish a letter to you without giving a nod to the bat fever that has recently consumed you.  It began earlier this summer with two sets of pajamas that were passed down from your brother, which were originally purchased for a quarter apiece at a yard sale, worn before the two of you by who knows how many other little boys.  These Batman Pajamas instantly became your most favorite thing in life, even though you barely knew the character's name before Pajama Night One.  You refused to take them off in the morning, so I let you play in them.  Later you played outside in the sprinkler while wearing them, and when you came in you immediately changed into Batman Pajamas The Second.  Days and even baths later, I did put my foot down when you yelled screamed stomped asked to wear them to the playground and to Dairy Queen, and eventually you agreed to change only for the cause of more swings and chocolate ice cream.  Then for three lifetimes you continued to live in those pajamas, agreeing to take them off only for the occasional wash and visit to the clothesline, happily returning to them as soon as possible, even while they are still a bit damp. 

Later on I met you half way, and I drove you all over creation in search of a size 4T Batman shirt.  We found one, and you call it your Day Shirt.  You have a Day Shirt and two Night Shirts, now, all of which display your character. 

Your new preschool backpack?  Also your character.

Your new action figure (also unearthed from deep in the toybox, hand-me-down yard-sale-ville)?  Your character.

And your face paint colors at the zoo this afternoon?

Who'd have guessed it?

Sometimes I wish to bottle you up and keep you this way forever, 3.5.  Mostly those times when you willingly give me long, snuggly hugs, and when you announce yourself the rhinocibiter.  Not quite so much when you're visiting the stairs for the eleventh time in a day and I am beating my head against the fridge, breathing deeply through my nose and kissing goodbye my very last threads of patience.  I know you will grow very quickly, though, as school influences rush into your life in a few weeks, and your siblings and I (and your pajamas) are no longer your sole influences.  Just try to stay away from light switches there, and now that I think about it, steer yourself clear of the office altogether, ok?

Love,

Mamasmack

Babe in my recycle cans

A couple years back I stumbled on a blog (which no longer exists) authored by a God-fearing wife who wanted to instruct the world on how to be a faithful servant to her husband, and perfect mother (whatever that means) to her children. 

It was one of those instances where you grind your teeth and roll your eyes, but find yourself terribly curious and therefore sit reading her archives until you're simultaneously goofy with laughter and weeping over putting children to bed with ketchup faces when there are women! in the world! who remember to clean their children! every night! and then you realize, hey idiot, it's three a.m. and you're delirious.  Also, they were covered in mustard, not ketchup.

The only thing I read that really stuck with me all this time was how she would sit at the table and sew during the day and her babe would sit and play at her feet.  The image was burned into my head forever, of her three children delighted with what mommy could be crafting next (!), never arguing over lego wheels, whining or tattling on each other-- only standing by to witness the next great creation-- one that could possibly please daddy, even.  And there under the table, the babe.  Chewing on thread happily, defying all of human instinct to explore and be mobile, simply waiting as a patient little cherub should.

I tried to make it work, but hot damn, my babe won't comply.  I put her at my feet and she takes off for the recycle cans immediately, jonesing for her next cardboard fix.  And then she plays cheerfully in the germy dog dishes right after she scans the floor for any runaway choking hazards.  That babe, she.

So every time I find the opportunity to sit down and sew (read: at times located between hardly and never) I think of the woman and the babe and the feet.  And I wonder if her husband still gets giddy over crock pot pork roast and ironed Fruit of the Looms.

I think all that is to say I've not had much time to sew lately, as it, heh, like blogging, requires a solid chunk of time where the boys can entertain themselves while Marin naps, and we have no plans. 

Then when that oddity in time does show itself, I must quickly unearth my machine, fabric, thread and all of the other necessities junk from the back of my closet (ideal storage, right?) and then figure out where in the kitchen to store it all until I finish whatever project I begin.

I hate having unfinished projects in existence lying around.

Just as much as I dislike a potential stack of sewing materials on my buffett.

I think the last thing I made was Jackson's quilt, and it drove me so batty to be Not Quick and Long In-Progress that I've been stuck on pillows for a while. 

One can happily re-cover a pillow in twenty-two minutes flat and feel like the Martha Stewart of her personal domain for the rest of the day.  And her husband smiles and nods his head because he neither cares about pillow fabrics, nor Martha Stewart, nor ironed, nor folded underwear.

Today I attempted a bag, also.  Full of flaws, but the fabrics were begging to be together forever and I had to comply.  Also, every time I attempt something like this without a pattern (I've yet to ever use one) I think that I should try a pattern.

...

Must run now. 

Babe no longer waiting at my feet as I type.

Babe executing her escape.

Which was the only thing we could do after the teaser

Taking an afternoon drive alongside the beach, practically all by yourself and without so much as touching the sand with your toes, is like having only a single forkful of double decker, fresh banana-filled, buttercream frosting, perfectly moist and spongy birthday cake at a party. 

You just have to go back, and quick, for more. 

So we loaded up the troops at our earliest convenience this weekend and headed to our favorite spot in Southwest Michigan. 

We dined at our favorite restaurant there, and we enjoyed the shops and the art fair in charming downtown.

And we strolled along the beach, and played in the sand.

We played in the sand and in the water, and we watched the sun set.

Oh yes!  Sunset is good! (Sand is baaaaad.)

Each time we do this, at least a handful of times each summer, I snap eight thousand pictures as the sun sets.  Just over six hundred last night, actually. 

I wish to live in those moments when the summer air cools and the colors of the sky- and everything the light touches changes.  The breeze heightens in a subtle way, and each five minutes is both slightly and incredibly different from the last.

I want to digest that over and over, and hold it so fresh in my mind so that I can access the quiet and the stillness, and the changes, always.  I want to watch this like it's my job to see this, so often. 

Most nights I look outside and notice that it is simply getting dark.  I glance at the clock as I clean up the kitchen and know that I must next orchestrate baths and stories, snacks and drinks, teeth brushing and one last bottle for the baby.  There are houses and trees and fences and buildings that block my view of this, and I forget that my favorite part is coming up, because I cannot see it, and then I forget. 

And then it happens- my favorite part.  Where the sun is there, burning in plain view, and then that one tiny moment passes, and it slips beyond the horizon, turning the sky a myriad of new reds and purples. 

I need to pack my family and move to the beach. 

At least that's settled.

The logical Next, following baby puke in the eyes

I went to the beach yesterday.

I went to the beach not at all in the normal way where you grab a towel, a bathing suit, a cooler and three overstuffed bags of crap if you have kids, but in a different way. 

After a drawn out trip to the grocery store, which required infinitely more energy devoted to keeping my children from becoming lost, stolen, and poisoned from licking the myriad of germs off the shopping cart handle than to thinking through what I actually needed to buy, I treated myself to a drive-thru, fully-iced, bubbly Diet Coke as we exited the parking lot. 

I took a deep breath and appreciated my treat. 

It has been well over a month, maybe even two, since the kids and I have been apart.  It has been more than a month, other than those hours when I am asleep at night, that I have not been on constant call and constantly needed.  The best part to being a stay-at-home-mom, of course, is that I do not have to leave my kids every day.  I do not miss a moment of their young lives.  The worst part is that I don't get to leave them any day, giving me never the chance to miss them and so rarely the chance to be anything other than mommy.  And I think I could be an even better mommy if I could just find five minutes to not be found.  And maybe even something else completely my own, sometimes.  My battery is in dire need of recharge.

I noticed fairly quickly after we pulled away from the grocery store parking lot that the entire crowd of people in my back seat had fallen asleep simultaneously. 

I practically leapt from my seat (soundlessly, of course,) and quickly decided to stretch this miracle for as many blissful minutes as I could get out of it, frozen groceries be damned.  I didn't even care that I sort of had to pee.  Then I drove North and East until I reached our favorite quiet road that borders Lake Michigan. 

The wind blew noisily through all of the open windows and the late-afternoon waves rythmically splashed the shore.  I wondered why I had never done this before, on a random weekday afternoon of just the kids and I, being as how the water is right there, so close to home.  I drove up and down the miles-long road twice, and then all the way home and into the driveway, for more than an hour, before anyone woke up. 

And then as I unpacked my frozen thawed salmon and crushed package of blueberries my daughter figured out how to climb the stairs for the first time, and made it all the way to the top in record time for a baby who had never gone so much as a single step before, and my three-year-old had diarrhea and missed the potty.

I considered going back to the beach.  Maybe we could move there.

SpongeTen SquareMonths

Before I had children, and then when I had only one child, I planned to be fabulous at childhood documenting.  I condemned every too-busy mother who ever lived as I wrote detailed letters in KJ's baby book every four to six weeks for the entire first year of his life, outlining exactly how many times he made poopies that month and which words he learned with proper genius pronunciation.  His first blonde little curl of hair lives there, as do pictures of his first Disney vacation, and even grocery store receipts should he ever wonder what the going price for a brick of Imperial Margerine was back in '02.  Jack has pictures in his book, and a handful of words, as well.  I can't remember if his hair is in there or not, and his book still boasts blank slots for baby's first birthday.  Or, wait, did I fill that in one other time when a bout of guilt struck?  And also, it seems to me that I've also blogged this before but cannot remember that either.  Maybe I just talked about it with a friend?  Am fabulous at parenting.  Usually remember to bring all children along when leaving the house.  Score!

Regardless, my daughter Marin shall inherit a spiffy clean baby book, and this blog. It turns out I am just like every other mother of multiple children and simply cannot find the time for documenting (or, fine, yes, I possibly could while my daughter makes busy rummaging through the front closet on a mission to lick the soles of each person's shoes, but that is normally the time of day I run the vacuum and change the bags in the kitchen recycle cans, ensuring that at least she can later gnaw on mostly clean garbage while I prepare lunch.)  (And hence, bare baby book.)

I've been thinking for a couple weeks now that this month needed to be documented.  It was so busy, and so packed with milestones that one day my daughter might wonder about. 

You know, like at what point in her little life we made a forced pit stop at Burger King, her vegetarian father's personal favorite, where she donned Baby's First Jonas Brothers Cardboard Crown and consumed baby's first french fry.  (It was nine months, baby.)

Admitting to the blogosphere that I fed my nine-month-old baby french fries, by default or not, is sort of like begging for the condemning glare I received when my six year old ratted me out to another mother in the Osh Kosh Outlet Store earlier this week as he proudly announced that his baby sister loves a good peanut butter sandwich.  Hey Lady, our three year old gave her a peanut and then we were all Woo-hoo! No Peanut Allergy! just after we were all Woo-hoo!  Didn't choke to death! 

Hang on.  I'm getting way out there.  Back to the milestones.

No she hasn't toppled down the stairs while eating honey and playing with matches yet. Why do you ask?

At Marin's nine month doctor visit our pediatrician was a bit surprised that she wasn't crawling yet, and told me to give her a call if she wasn't on the move by ten.  I continued to thank my lucky stars that I had a late crawler on my hands, and went on my merry way (people, I've had two crawlers before this one- I KNEW what I was in for.)  So two weeks later, she crawled.  Then two days later she became a pro at pulling things over on herself pulling up, and days after that she figured out that she could actually move along the furniture.  During this handful of days she also mastered her own versions of the words This, Kitty, and Danny (our canine) and has learned to very sternly exclaim NONONO! when she suddenly declares meal time to be over, just before she attempts a solo exit from the high chair. This week I have also witnessed her let go of the couch at least a dozen times and stand for a brief second before plopping to the floor, and tomorrow she has Olympic Hurdles penciled in on her baby calendar. 

See?  Milestones, yes?

As if that wasn't enough, we are also cutting teeth numbers two and three as we speak, and have summer colds.  And if I hadn't previously stressed the constant pulling up, may I now encourage you to put together the trifecta of teeth, snot-fest and standability for the mighty result where No One Here Is Getting Any Sleep. 

Two nights ago, only one hour past the sweaty battle that has become Marin's bedtime routine, little Miss was standing in her crib wailing yet again.  Having just fallen asleep myself, still in that angry-bear-unconscious-zone-of-the-dead, I shoved my snoring husband out of bed, Garfield and Odie-Style, directing him to bring back the baby and the baby Tylenol.

So while the now-happy-as-pie baby and I waited in bed for Kevin to return with meds, I rested back down on my pillow and my daughter pulled up on my head.  She was having a great time tearing my hair out by the roots when I began to ask her who the happy baby was.  It was her, of course, but I never quite got that question out, as my daughter quickly interrupted by throwing up in my eyes and nose.

Ohhhh Lordy indeed that's one for the baby book.  If I kept up with that sort of thing.

My immediate reaction was to shut my eyes and feel around for the burp cloth I'd been wiping her snotty nose with (oh the concepts that no longer seem so gross and so I Would Never, like using a mucus-laden cloth to wipe your face when you find your eyeballs swimming in half-digested carrots and cottage cheese.)  That's when Kevin entered the room, still half-asleep with the Tylenol in hand.  While studying my face suspiciously he asked, What the hell happened to you? 

This all while Marin is still atop my head and baby vomit is pooling in my eye sockets and nasal cavities.

Get herrrr offff of me, I rather loudly suggested to the clearly naive man. 

Once I was cleaned up and the baby was fed (again) and ready to fuss herself to sleep, our subdivision's power randomly went out for an hour, the house temperature reached a fan-less one hundred and ten degrees, KJ immediately went bananas that no night lights were working and the moon was not! bright! enough! and Jack slept through all of it because God is at least Merciful, and also sooo funny.

So happy ten month birthday (several days ago) to my fantastic daughter.  May we slow down into this new phase of fun now that it has begun.

And may she get at least one chance to ride her new pony.

Because there's not a page in his baby book for the milestone where he pronounces his parents old for the first time

So the five of us are sitting around the dinner table together, and I mention to Kevin our next door neighbor boy, who had by then been setting off bottle rockets and other small explosives for a solid six hours. 

"I think he's a little young to be lighting fireworks with no supervision, don't you?"  I ask my husband.

"Heck yeah I do," he says, "I didn't get to blow off fireworks by myself until I started high school."  (Because this is how we lay out future rules for our own children, you know.)

And then our oldest child, all of six, chimes in, "Well that was the old days, dad.  These are the new times."

And I realized that for the very first time my child has dated us, and possibly expressed his belief that our rules are mildly archaic.  Something tells me it is only the beginning.

Happy Independance Day (from one patriotic little monkey who will always think her mother is cool, yes?)

(Or not.)

Don't judge me today

As I write this post late on a summer afternoon, I sit in as much darkness as can be offered to me.  It has been an incredibly noisy day, and now as I shamelessly utilize my Forty-Two Inch Flatscreen Nanny for the boys while my baby daughter naps, I find myself pulling the blinds in the window nearby, and turning off the desk lamp.  Even the light was too loud at this point in the day.

So let's talk about child noise for a moment, okay?  Because I need to know... 

Are your kids loud?

I mean, some days, are they really, really crazy freaking loud?  And in this loudness they seem to jump at you, and wave their hands at you for attention, and need more drinks, have more stories, demand more butt wipes, create bigger messes than ever before and generally bounce off the damn walls?

I have two boys, ages six-and-a-half and three-and-a-half.  My six year old, who I previously believed to be the more mild of the two boys, has recently taken to climbing.  Climbing the furniture, climbing the non-child intended parts of the swing set, climbing trees, scaling the counter at Dairy Queen, happily climbing his sister's baby gates just because he can, as well as other various safety gates, bars and contraptions along our nearby lake, to name a few.  All the world has become his gymnasium and he has Deep-Seated Robot Instincts that drive him to conquer all that is large or horrendously dangerous.  (Case and point?  This is the kid who just now exclaimed, "Mom, look at this!" while balancing the baby's upside down Leap Frog table on one hand high above his head.  If it's not worth climbing, find another mildly dangerous use for it.  Quick!)  His smaller brother, while not the avid climber just yet, has reverted back to those all-too-familiar temper tantrums that we dealt with at age one, and thus has found his own plan of attack for Taking Down The Parental Unit.  Add to this the noise levels of previous mention, plus one recently crawling and standing toddler and surely you want to comfort me in your arms while stroking my hair and buying me nice coffee, yes?

Will you please listen?  What were my directions?  Focus. Don't karate chop your brother.  Don't kick your brother.  Stop picking up your sister.  Your sister is not a toy.  Marin what are you eating now?  Who brought legos to the baby?  Don't sit upside down on the couch.  Get your hands out of your pants!

Is this familiar to anyone? 

The ten year old next door has been lighting off bottle rockets and fire crackers all afternoon and today instead of passing judgement I shall simply deduce that he, too, was driving his mother absolutely crazy, and sending him outside with a flame and explosives was her last option.  He is no longer mesmerized by the new Star Wars cartoons on tv, God help me her.

I have learned, by now, that childhood runs through one phase after the next.  Someone tell me that my children will discover a deep love for quiet, and rest, next, right?