Trust

I worry. I’m a worrier. I mean, I WORRY. To say I kind a fret about stuff is an understatement. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been tightly wound. Very anxious. Just pretty tense, for the bulk of my existence.

It’s a problem that has come to a real climax lately in my life, and I’ve finally reached out for some help, and some relief. It’s slow going. I mean, after white-knuckling it for 36 years, the habit can be hard to break.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have a new part-time job. As it goes with most part-time positions, the schedule varies. And with school being out and all, sometimes it’s hard to finagle the whole child care thing. Sometimes my husband can be around, sometimes my sister-in-law can watch them, sometimes a fellow school parent can have a playdate. But, there are those days I need a sitter. And I’m shopping around for a regular one that we can afford.

In the meantime, I’m using one of those online services to book a sitter when I need one. Generally this has worked out well. But I always get that familiar worried gut, heart palpitating, can’t breathe feeling when I sign on to bring a stranger into our home and trust them to keep my kids safe and alive while I’m away.

The old me would have just said, “F it. I’ll just quit my job.” But, the new me, embracing life, working through my anxiety, relying on other people for help, I now say, ok let’s think about the reality of this.

On the site, you can see how many families this sitter has worked for. And how many of them really liked him/her. How many of them rehired him/her. You can choose one in your price range. You can ask the sitter questions before hiring them for the job. There have been safeguards put in place for me, I don’t need to worry about this to the extent that I am.

The other day, the sweetest most amazing gal showed up right on time (early, actually), learned my boys’ names right away and even started breaking up their brotherly-love scuffles before I’d even left the house. She was perfect. I asked her if I could hire her on as our regular, which she declined (dammit). But, it was such a relief. I went to work that afternoon walking on air, I was just so relieved that I could leave them in her care and focus on my own stuff.

I still worry like crazy when I have to leave them with anyone. But these sitters are actually better for my kids than I am. I mean, I sit at the park on my smartphone and lose Ferris half of the time. Sometimes I forget to cook them lunch until they ask for it. Some days we laze around the house instead of going to the park or the beach and blowing off some of their inexplicable energy. Sitters are great for all of that. They’re getting paid to look after your littles, and look after them they shall.

What about you? Do you get nervous about it or are you totally chill? Are you one of the types that didn’t hire a sitter until your child was like, 5? Are you a full-time working mom that relies on a nanny? I’d love to hear your childcare experiences, and if you can relate to my worrying.

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Discard Pile

I’m reading this great book about tidying up your house. Her words seem a little hokey at first, and some of it feels impossible. But, we’ve managed to clear out a whole bunch of stuff already.

In the book, she has a system for the purging. You start with clothes and books, then tackle miscellaneous items, and then move on to the more sentimental stuff.

I’m having trouble getting started with the boys’ room. Because it walks the line between miscellaneous and sentimental. With each little t-shirt and toy I try to toss out, I get stuck in this sort of mom guilt nostalgic state. How can I throw away his very first toy that his Auntie brought to him in the hospital? How can I toss this shirt when he looked so gosh darn cute in it (when it still fit him)?

I know that they are growing, and will keep growing, but I guess I feel like if I keep this stuff around I can somehow delay the process. There are toys that both of them are much too old to play with. Though, those toys do tend to emerge every once in a while as their Toy of Choice for a day. So, then I start to think, will they miss it if it’s gone? Then what do I do? Your baby rattle went to live on a nice big farm with all the other baby rattles that little boys got to big for.

Or an item is tied to a specific event or a special day we had. How can I let go of the dragon stuffie we got on that trip to Portland when he was a baby?

And they have zillions upon zillions of Matchbox cars. I mean, possibly a full ton. I don’t know how to purge that pile. Some of those cars hardly get touched, while some of them remain very popular, and I have to wrestle them apart because a fight will erupt over it. And I don’t know which cars fall into which category.

There’s also a cache of toys I’ve handed down to them. A mish mash pile of old Fisher Price goodies and other such stuff that were still in perfectly good shape, so I handed them over. Those have double sentimental value. I remember fondly playing with those toys as a child, and watching them play with them. A new generation getting enjoyment out of them.

Don’t even get me started on the books. I love buying books for them. I feel like they are a good investment. I want them to enjoy reading. When I’m at a garage sale or thrift store I generally clear the shelf. But, truthfully, they’ve both outgrown some of the titles, and I really should just donate them so someone else can enjoy them. But then all the memories come flooding back of cuddling up and reading those books to them.

I have no qualms about tossing broken toys, or cheap Happy Meal goods, or the little nonsensical items that come in birthday party goodie bags. But, even those I wonder, do they still play with these? Will they miss them?

If you’re an overall tidy type of person, and often toss things out, please tell me how you handle your kids’ items. Is it harder for you? How do you decide what goes and what stays? Am I just being a sentimental weenie about the whole thing?

toys

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Seven

It’s so hard to believe Bowie is turning 7. Last year I thought the same thing about 6. Six seemed like such a big number for such a little boy. And now 7. Each year older a kid gets is like moving one point on the Richter scale. It’s just one more, but exponentially more different than the last.

His birthday always seems to fall right around the time the school year is wrapping up, which makes it all feel very formal and official. And so I hereby decree that he shall now pass on to the next year of his life.

He asked me to tell him a funny story about the day he was born. So, I said, “the first thing I ever said to you was, ‘thank God you’re finally out.” Which I thought was funnier than he did. But then I told him about how he didn’t cry, he just looked at me very intently, and I said little things to him and he held my finger tightly. And he said, “That’s ’cause I’ve always loved you, mama.”

This year has been a positive one, despite having a teacher that was very unwilling to help us with his SPD issues in the classroom. He is excelling in math and reading, and is making friends (that’s kinda hard for him to do). He’s still acting out, but the incidents are fewer and further in between.

At home he’s become more agreeable, more helpful and more loving toward us. He’s finding lots of new hobbies and interests. He cannot get enough Minecraft these days. He plays the game on all of the electronic devices in our house, he watches YouTube videos of people playing Minecraft, he has Minecraft figurines, Minecraft Legos, Minecraft books, book marks, pencils, clothing…so much Minecraft.

But, I figure it’s a safe game for him to be playing. We limit his time sitting in front of a screen. But, what I mean is, he’s learning while he plays, and it allows him to explore his creativity. He comes up with, and then builds, some pretty impressive stuff. It’s also something that gives him a great sense of pride, in a world that gives him few opportunities for that.

Seven is walking the two blocks to Auntie’s house all by himself. Seven is no more training wheels. Seven is showing signs of growing out of the worst of the SPD. Seven is helping out around the house. Seven is learning to tell time, count money and tell mom what kind of clouds those are in the sky. Seven is less fanfare around a lost tooth. Seven is wearing boxer shorts, not little boy underpants. Seven is getting kissed by a girl on the playground.

It’s hard to believe he’s turning 7, because you’d think after 7 years of parenting, I’d have more of a handle on all of this. But, the truth is, they are always changing, growing, evolving into the adult they are going to become. Every day is a new set of challenges, and I’m sure I’ll feel as clueless at 17 as I do at 7.

Seven is traditionally a lucky number, and I have high hopes for him this year to come.

bowie's 7th

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Working Mom

I recently got a job.

It’s a simple job, cashiering part-time at an adorable local produce market. Here’s me posing in front of my new workplace.

at work

We could use the money, I have child-free hours in my days now, and it keeps my anxious mind occupied. And psst…it’s a little bit fun. My boss is one of the dads from preschool, I love the market and have been a faithful shopper for years, my coworkers all rock, and I cashiered for 10 years in high school and college, so it came back to me like riding a bike.

I haven’t worked outside the home since I became a mom, seven years ago this month. So, I’ve never had to balance a job with kids. Right now, we’re using minimal childcare so as to maximize what my actual take-home pay is.

Before when I would get the “your kid is sick, come get him” call, which by the way has only happened to me twice before, ever, I could just, you know, go get him.

On Monday morning, I was working a simple 9-12 shift, my second week working there, and of course I get THE CALL at about 10:30. Ferris was at preschool, running a fever and refusing to eat.

Now, LUCKILY, the manager totally understood, the shift was half over, there was another cashier there, it was slow. So, I was able to leave and go get him. But, I started thinking, damn. What if this starts happening all the time? What if it happens with the other kid during my next shift?

But mostly, how do working moms do this????!!!! What do you do if you have a much less understanding manager and boss? Do most companies give parents enough time off in a year to deal with this kind of stuff?

I have a few people I can call upon in such times, but they were all busy. I guess I need a few more people. And maybe I just need to break down and find me another good, cheap babysitter. (All the good ones move away. Boo.)

So, I guess I’m just saying, tip o’ the hat to you, “real” working moms. I don’t know how you balance everything. It’s amazing. I hope I can get it all figured out.

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The Manual for Motherhood

That’s a misleading title, and I’m sorry if I tricked you into clicking on it. There happens to be NO manual for motherhood. UNENDING shelves of books out there, written by “experts” and books written from one particular mom’s experience, but no full-on manual where you can look up all the crazy situations you’ll find yourself in.

I have an “older” kid (almost 7) and a preschooler. Some of the new moms at preschool will ask me, “How did you handle that with Bowie?”, “Was Bowie like that?”, “Did you ever do xyz with Bowie?”

And based on my replies, sometimes I get very flattering responses. “Wow, you’re so good at that!” “What an amazing idea!” “How do you find the time to do that?” “Wow, I wish I was as patient as you!”

But, I take these responses with a grain of salt. I’m just another mom, doing the best with what she has where she is (to refer to a Teddy Roosevelt quote). And we all are. That’s the thing.

When they hand you that tiny, pink, wiggly-wriggly, screaming and (in Bowie’s case) poop-covered thing, you’re like, what the heck am I supposed to do with this? And if you have a hospital birth, that day they kick you out you’re like, “Seriously?! You’re going to trust me to take this home and actually be responsible for its survival?!?”

But you get it. Somewhere along the line, it clicks. You’re in mom gear now. And you always know what to do. Even when “what to do” means consulting Dr. Spock, calling the pediatrician or handing the baby to your husband and saying “take this.” You still did it, you still figured it out.

You do also make mistakes. It’s completely inevitable. But also survivable. That’s how you learn. Those questions that the newer moms ask me? Most of my answers were not innate, they were learned. It’s a process. Sometimes you just plain improvise. It might work, it might not. But, you had a problem, and you came up with a possible solution.

Also, and this is probably the most important thing, you DO NOT have to be perfect. Not one of us is. None of us. Not even the impeccably dressed mother at the park sipping her Starbucks, brushing her clean, tangle-free hair from her perfectly made-up face, browsing NPR on her expensive smart phone while her children stay near and play amicably with one another, and all the kids. Not even she is perfect. Really.

We all have the mornings where school lunch is pizza and fruit snacks (but they were organic, dammit).

We all get to the public restroom changing table only to realize this session involves poop and we have no wipes. So we use some wet paper towels and move on with it.

We’ve all done a spit shine to the kid’s face on picture day to remove the ketchup stain that’s been on his face for three days.

We’ve all hidden in our bedroom closet to enjoy a Snickers bar, because the same child that doesn’t respond when you yell his name 2 feet from him can hear a cellophane wrapper from 6 miles away.

We’ve all used a baby wipe to mop the sticky spots up off the floor before company comes over.

We’ve all been at Walgreens on February 13 digging through the reject pile of Valentines for the kid’s class.

We’ve all told the landlord the hole in the wall was there when we moved in. (That one rarely works, but we try it anyway.)

We’ve all told the pediatrician about the gallons of water they drink every day, even though it’s mostly milk with a little Capri Sun mixed in.

We’ve all been in an in-depth phone conversation about “what Sally did this time” when our kid falls 5 feet off the slide, and only find out when a very judgy other mom brings him to us.

I say, “we all”, but I guess some of you really haven’t done this stuff. Kudos to you! But the day may come. And I’m sure you’ve got a list of your own.

The point is, sometimes we’re Claire Huxtable. Sometimes we’re more like a clueless hobo that’s been left in charge of feral animals. But, we love our kids, and we figure it out. Every damn time. Pat yourself on the back more. And stop worrying if you’re a “good enough” mom. You’re the best!

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Things it’s a Good Idea for Moms With Boys to Get Familiar With

In honor of my good friend M who just had her first child, a gorgeous baby boy. I hope I don’t scare her too much! Just know you can handle it all, mama, that’s the magic of motherhood.

1. Poop. And the fascination thereof. The questions. You’re at the grocery store innocently swiping your credit card, and suddenly he asks you very loudly so the cashier and bag boy and fellow shoppers can ALL hear, “Mama, why was my poop green today, but brown yesterday? And sometimes it has corn in it.” Oh, and skidmarks. Not the road-meets-tire kind. Go to the store, get a bar of Fels-Naptha, (also on Amazon) it’s a miracle worker with the skidmarks, for realz.

2. Pee. There’s so much pee. They don’t get the “aiming” thing for quite a while. In the beginning, you can guarantee yourself a good, spa-quality face wash if you don’t cover that thing. In the mornings now, I completely disrobe Ferris before putting him on the potty, that way he can just rinse off before breakfast. Bowie still goes sitting down. Because, well, why rush that mess. I’ll be dealing with it soon enough.

3. Snot. Boogers. They usually end up smeared on you, or the nearest surface. No matter where they are. Public bathroom stalls, the dinner table, the Starbucks counter, the shopping cart, the back of their brother’s shirt, the art museum wall.

4. Dirt. It’ll be on them about 2.5 seconds after you get them dressed in the morning. Just get used to it. Don’t send them to school in anything white. ANYTHING. Dirt just becomes a way of life. What’s that saying? Boy: noise with dirt on it. ‘Bout sums it up.

5. So that brings up the next one: noise. It’s loud. And I don’t know how they can sustain it for the hours that they do. Even their general dinner table chatter is just LOUD. And, sorry to say, they do not come with a volume button. Between the rocket ship blast offs, lightning-speed car races, screaming fights with each other, throwing heavy objects around the house (not through a window if you’re on of the lucky ones) and the overall just bumping and crashing into things, and the the wailing and crying that ensues. And in elementary school, life becomes a walking commentary. “Did you see that rock? It was shaped just like this tool I have in Minecraft. Hey, can I play Minecraft at home? Because there’s this [minecraft type building/weapon/person/what have you] that I just HAVE to make. I’ll do my homework super fast. Madeline said it wasn’t a lot of homework. Maybe we can go to the park. Hey, are we going to the beach this weekend? Maybe Cal can come.”  Just go out and get the biggest, fattest jar of ibuprofen the Costco guy can legally sell you.

6. Sand. Take off their shoes outside, before entering the house. TRUST.

7. Matchbox and Hot Wheels. They multiply overnight when no one’s looking. They’re often left in a precarious place where a 6 a.m. bleary-eyed mom or dad will slip on them. And you’re required to know where The Red One is at all times. Not just a red one, THE red one, the chosen one, the Messiah of their 1,000 piece car collection. (Which changes daily, of course.) And until you have guessed which one it is found it, you’re the worst parent ever.

8. Legos. This I know is a multi-gender issue, along with the little cars. But, when you’ve got two kids of the same gender, they tend to get the same presents, only slightly modified. One gets a rocket ship lego building kit, one gets a race car building kit. And when they are inevitably destroyed, and the pieces get mixed up, let the fist fights and lego hurling begin. (And that’s how it happens that you step on one in the middle of the night and the pain makes you wish you were in hell instead.) I know I’m the no-sharing mom and everything, but I do bend the rules for this one. I try so hard to stick to the plan. “You can have that one very special orange piece which is essential to the integrity of the structure you’re building, when you’re brother is done with it.” But every once in a while frustration kicks in and I just say, “Give it to your brother. Do it. Give it now. Just do it.” Forced sharing, shame on me.

9. Penises. Now, I know you have to be semi-familiar with them to have landed yourself in this boat. But, just get used to hearing the word a lot. And having questions asked that you can’t answer. And watching them twist and bend and stretch in ways you never knew they could. There will be questions too about where’s mommy’s penis? What happened to it? Did you do something to lose it? Did you just never grow one? Any Puritan attitudes you had toward genitalia in general goes out the window completely.

10. The phrase, “Wow, you sure do you have your hands full!” They’ll say this when you’ve got one boy, but when you’ve got more than one, whoo boy. You laugh sheepishly and say, “yep, I sure do.” When what you really want to do is scream in their face, “Good, I’m so glad you can see that! Now would you mind cleaning up that pasta the one just spilled, and grabbing that gallon of  milk the other one is about to throw while I just try to GRAB A GODDAMNED BAG OF FROZEN CORN, FOR F#$%’s SAKE?!” And sometimes you might get that ballsy person that asks, “So, are you going to try for a girl?” Go ahead and slap them right across the face.

11. Milk, bread, cheese, milk, Goldfsh, yogurt, milk, cereal, did I already say milk? Have your job directly deposit your paycheck to the grocery store’s account. Though they be little, they eat like they’ve been starved for a week. Five times a day. And then ask for more.

12. But, the love. Oh, nothing I can say here will prepare you for the love you’ll have for them, despite all that stuff above. Like your heart is just split right open, and their little hearts are nestled inside. When they hug you and kiss you and tell you they love you, you are a puddle on the floor. Every damn time. Never gets old. Thank goodness for sons. Thank goodness for daughters. Thank goodness for parenthood.

bear in sink

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Reason #4954 Parenting is Just the Best

Over the past week or two, we have slowly ventured into the parenting minefield known as potty training with Ferris. He usually goes on the potty in the morning and before bed, and maybe once in between. I was afraid we were heading into “waited too long” territory, but it finally started happening.

With Bowie, we were new parents and we started right when he turned 2, thinking that’s just when you started, that’s just how it worked. We’d put him on the potty every few hours, like a puppy, and give him a little treat when he went, and then in a few weeks he’d be all potty trained, just like that. Over and out.

Any seasoned parent reading this knows that’s not entirely how it goes. And with Bowie, it ended up being as easy and enjoyable as giving a dental exam to a hungry lion. And the journey that began when he turned 2 didn’t end until he was about to turn 4. There were many a day spent at home with him running around completely naked from the waist down so he could make a mad dash to the potty when he felt that urge. We gave more than one UPS guy the most interesting day of his career.

So, when it came to Ferris, we took a much more relaxed stance on the issue. We encouraged it, of course, but never forced it. Some days he was excited about it, some days not so much. But, it’s starting to work. He’s getting self-aware, knowing when he has to go, though he generally just tells us as he’s going, or shortly after. But, we’ll get there, slowly but surely. And then we wait for our good friend, regression.

But, it’s also been a good 3 years since we’ve really had to worry about the issue at all, and so much of it has been blocked out and tucked away in my subconscious to protect my sanity. I feel like we’re totally new at it again. I hesitate to use a reward system, because we have been showering him with praise whenever he’s successful, which he hates (a trait no doubt inherited from his mama).

So, what were your experiences like? Any pointers for anyone out there doing this for the first time? Any tried and true methods? What motivates a kid who hates praise?

As you can see, he’s having a blast with it, and giving us all that toddler respect for elders.

ferris on the throne

 

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Growing Up

Yesterday the director of Ferris’ preschool announced that there were 6 weeks left in the school year. And it triggered that familiar twinge I get each year at this time. Another school year in the books. My babies are another year older.

To add insult to injury, Bowie’s birthday always falls right around the last day of the school year. So he truly does turn a year older.

I know if you’re a parent and you’re reading this that I’m preaching to the choir. It’s tough to see the wee ones grow up into big ones. And then bigger ones. And it’s hard to think about the day they will leave the nest.

I will be just innocently going about my day, relishing in how little my children still are, and then I will see a picture of them from one year ago, and realize just how big they have gotten. And then I say, “Stop growing up so fast!” And I’m only like, half kidding.

But, when they do something completely amazing, like form their first full sentence, or read their first full sentence, or use the bathroom all by themselves, or help their friend up after they fall. Then you’re so proud. You puff out your chest and smile ear to ear, and think to yourself, “I made that. Me. I did.”

I remember when Bowie was little I would think, “Two is just the best age. I don’t want this to end.” But then three was awesome. “Three is just the best age. I don’t want this to end.” And then four was awesome too. And so on, and so forth.

Every new step comes with its own challenges and new horizons. And you look back on the previous years as being so easy. Why didn’t I just slow down and enjoy that more? Why did I think that was so hard?

But, every new step also comes with its own really amazing stuff. Suddenly your kid is capable of things you never even thought of waiting for them to do. And you can have conversations with them. And you can enjoy just hanging out with them. It’s much more relaxing at 6 that it is at 2, for sure.

I know the teen years are hard. Even if only because I was so terrible myself as a teen. But, I know that it will also be great for so many new reasons. And then when they are grown, yes they will leave me, but then I get to watch them go out into the world and become something.

I’ll sit back and watch and think, “I made that. Me. I did.”

boys at the park

 

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Thirty Six

Yesterday I crossed over into my “Late Thirties.” So far, I feel mostly the same. Except that a few nights ago, as I lay in bed unable to sleep, I realized that people born in 1990 are turning 25 this year. And then I felt ANCIENT.

I spent my birthday taking care of my fevery 2 year old, making a trip to Costco with my husband, visiting the Japanese Tea Garden with the 6 year old, talking on the phone with a few extended family members. Quiet, a teeny bit middle-aged-mundane, but I went to bed last night feeling content. Which is all that really matters, right?

At some point along the way, I stopped really caring about my birthday. That’s not the same as not caring about my age. I completely fulfill the stereotype of a woman who cares about her age. Even though nobody else really cares. Even though aging can’t be stopped. I still care. But, I stopped caring about birthdays.

I stopped caring about the fanfare, the attention, the gifts. Which is different from not being grateful for all of it, of course I was and still am. But these days, when the day comes around, there’s always that first person that says, “happy birthday!” (usually it’s my husband) and my response is, “Oh yeah. That. Thanks!”

March is historically a hard month for me, even though it hosts my birthday. It’s a month when, for some reason, the big stuff happens. This year was absolutely no different. Right up there with the “best” years. Generally, I’m pretty glad to see March go. It’s tough to be simultaneously so fed up with life, and also excited that it’s your birthday. Again. 

I think that in general, my life is mostly in a good place. Right now, in this moment, I am in the best place I’ve been in probably 4 years. They were a rough 4 years. But I am finally through to the other side. Or I can at least see very clearly the light at the end of the tunnel. For 4 years now, I have a birthday, and I look back at the past year and think, “How the hell did I survive that?”

I am REALLY hoping that next year the thought is, “Wow, that was a great year. Let’s do that again.”

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Two Point Five

It’s handy that Ferris’ half birthday falls on St. Patrick’s Day, because it makes it so easy to remember. And I want to document it all, because at this age, they change so much and so quickly, you might as well give an update every hour.

I’ve noticed so many things about him lately. I think this year, between ages 2 and 3, is one of the most exciting times to watch your child grow. They come out of the baby phase and learn to really communicate and socialize, and they become a real “kid.”

The thing that’s really striking to me, and just interesting, is that Ferris seems to be the kind of kid that can pick up an activity, pretty much any activity, and instantly be good at it. He’s not very self-conscious, so he’s willing to try just about anything. He’s not afraid to admit when he’s scared and he wants to give something up. And he’s not very clumsy, compared to some kids. (Including his big brother, who was very clumsy, awkward, shy and unwilling to try anything new without some major encouragement.)

He’s so proud of his accomplishments too. When he succeeds at a new task, like climbing a steep ladder to a slide for instance, he jumps and dances around and says, “I did it!!!!” over and over again. And he’ll make sure everyone in earshot knows he did it.

He’s making friends in preschool, real friends, and he’s turning out to be pretty loyal. He asks about his friends when they aren’t at school. And he can recall events from his day at school, and even from days before. He’s getting more articulate and starting to use whole sentences, so he will recount his day for me on the way home, and it’s crazy cute.

He shows empathy and concern really well for his age. When another child is crying, he wants to investigate, and he asks, “Aw, what’s wrong?” When he sees a crack in the street or  some damage to a car or a house, he gasps and says very dramatically, “Broken.” And he wants to fix it. The other day, my husband was home sick from work and had a depressing (but good) documentary on. Ferris had no idea what the subject matter of the movie was, nor could he fully understand what was being said, but he got enough of a vibe from people’s expressions to know it was sad, and every couple of minutes he’d say, “Awwww.”

He’s not really a big fan of sweets. Of course, he likes sweet things, like any other kid, but he doesn’t like to have a lot of it in one sitting. And he usually won’t eat anything cakey or cookie-like. Even his tolerance for sweet cereal is limited. We give the boys Honey Nut Cheerios for general daily breakfast, but we have some goodies on hand like Cocoa Krispies, Apple Jacks, etc. that we allow on the weekends or the occasional after-school snack. But, he will choose the Cheerios over those almost every time. I think he’s like his mama this way.

Now that he’s big enough to defend himself, we’ve reached the era of Brother Fist Fights. It would be hilarious if not for that whole getting hurt thing. I’m breaking up no less than a dozen fights a day. Do girls fight this way? So physical and rough? Anyone got any great tips on getting it to stop? Or will they still be giving each other noogies at Thanksgiving dinner in 20 years?

Favorite things: Gogurt, milk, hummus, gum, “Blankie” and “Monkey”, Thomas, Caillou, Bob the Builder, running, jumping, going on walks outside the stroller, the beach, the park, anything and everything that Big Brother is doing, eating, saying, wearing or feeling.

Least favorite things: Holding hands to cross the street, being stuck in a stroller, someone helping him go up/down stairs or opening/closing doors or getting in/out of the car, not being allowed to fully subsist on Gogurt and milk alone, the post-school pre-brother-gets-home early-afternoon slump where he’s tired enough to nap, but refuses to actually nap.

Why oh why do they have to grow up so much and so quickly?

Here’s an action “I did it!” shot. Remember this play structure? He tackled it. Like a boss.

 

i did it

Posted in For the Baby Book, My Boys, This Crazy Ride Called Parenthood | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment