Archive for the ‘The Kids’ Category
May 27 2011
When Buzz shattered the window last Friday, I assumed he kicked through it. He has a bad habit of kicking on the walls. I tell him to stop all the time, clearly without success. My first priority when it occurred was to make sure he wasn’t injured. I looked him over quickly without noticing even the tiniest of scratches, which then gave me the all clear to freak the hell out about the broken pane of glass.
“Oh good, I’m glad you’re OK because you’re going to need to be tip-top to WORK OFF HOW MUCH THAT WINDOW IS GOING TO COST, my GOD, kid.”
It wasn’t until later, when I had ceased hyperventilating, that he came up to me with blood on his finger. A small slice, but in need of attention. I cleaned it up, made sure there was no glass and put on an antibiotic, all the while assuring him that he would be OK. We would be OK. It’s OK. Things break. They get fixed. Breathe, it’s OK. I may have needed to hear it as much as he did.
Next and finally was the fix-all, a band-aid, which is the security blanket for any real or imaginary boo-boo. When my 5 year old Buzz looks to me, his finger securely wrapped, and says gratefully, “Thanks, Mom.”
I sent him on his way before it occurred to me what he had said. Mom? Where did that come from? When did he start calling me Mom?
Noticing my funny look, he repeated, “Thanks, Mom.”.
I exhaled in a small bout of laughter. Maybe I won’t have to sell him on Craigslist after all. This time. “You’re welcome, Buzz”, I said in turn. “But I still prefer Mommy.”
May 20 2011
“Would you like some chocolate milk?”, I asked Buzz, fully acknowledging it as a bribe.
He wasn’t taking the bait, however. “Go poopie!”
Here I am, running a mommyblog and posting about poop. Which I actually try to avoid. Though this isn’t about the act itself, but my son’s insistence that he must go when he clearly doesn’t have to. Because I’ve spent more time waiting at the bathroom door this past week than Arnold Schwarzenegger’s spent with his housekeeper. And we all know what happened there.
“How about a movie? Do you want to watch a movie?”, it’s an honest attempt, though not enough to alter his position.
“Go poopie!”
“We’ve just been in there for an hour. That’s a good boy going on the potty, but there’s no need to stay in there for so long. You do your thing, you come out. You do not go in, play for an hour, then go back in 5 minutes later. No one needs to spend that much time in the bathroom. Unless you’re Mommy and it’s the only chance you have for a break.”, I try my best to calmly explain.
“Go poopie! Go poopie! Go poooopie!”, morphing into an anthem.
Like every instance before, I oblige his need for the bathroom, just in case. After 20 minutes with nothing to show for it, I say enough, time to come out. I even offer up a pony. Buzz, however, is indignant.
“No! GO POOPIE!”
I thought having the kid out of diapers was supposed to be easier.
May 18 2011
What my 2.5 year old daughter, Abby, is currently into:
Playing Cards
Not for playing with, mind you. She carries 3 open decks of special Easter edition bunny cards with her everywhere. And they must be in a certain order, with a preferred rabbit sitting on top. It makes the 100 times a day that we play pickup all the more enjoyable.
Nutella
Nutella is a recent find in our house, though I’m not sure what took so long. We all love it. Maybe a little too much. Where my oldest will at least use pretzels to administer his like dip, my daughter dives in mouth first. I’m more prone to follow her lead.
Asking “What, Mommy?” or “What you doing, Mommy?”
Except it’s more like, “What you doing, Mommy? What, Mommy? What? What? What? What? What?”, until I’m worn down enough to answer. “I’m just going to the bathroom, Abby.” It makes me almost glad that Buzz skipped this step.
Temperature-inappropriate clothing
Abby is still stuck in winter and refuses to come out. I actually bribed her in a spring dress the other day, but only because I let her keep her favorite corduroy pants on under. She won’t wear a short-sleeve shirt unless it’s layered. I feel I’ve won if it’s 80 degrees and I can keep her out of a hoodie.
Ducks
We have the same duck couple that returns to our area of the neighborhood every spring. If we see them nearby, we’ll stand on our porch to toss a couple pieces of bread. Abby is charmed, of course. So now, every time I open the door, it’s “What, Mommy? Ducks? Duckies? Bread? What? What? What? What?”.
May 12 2011
“Do you play basketball a lot at school?”, I asked Jedi.
“Yeah, but I have to use the funnel basket, because I’m not very good.”, he replied.
“I guess we won’t be signing you up for basketball any time soon then, huh?”
“No, but what about baseball? Wait, is that ball hard?”
“Yes, the ball is hard.”
“No baseball, then. Unless I can just be the batter and run around the bases. What about softball? Is that ball hard?”, he wondered hopefully.
“That ball is bigger, and still hard.”
“How about golf? Oh, no! I couldn’t do golf! That ball is hard, too. When I hit it I’d have to yell FOUR! then duck like this and run away.” Jedi said while demonstrating his best crouch.
“You’d probably like soccer. That’s mostly kicking.”
“I could be a goalie!”, he exclaimed. “What does the goalie do again?”
Sensing a pattern here, I cut to the chase. “He blocks the ball. Which means he might get hit with the ball.”
“Oh, hmmm…”, he thought, our options dwindling.
“Well, there’s always track. That’s running. You like to run.”
“Yeah, I’m really good at running!”
May 10 2011
Buzz is a handful. This I know. I’ve said it before and it bears repeating because it’s true. I would never consider him easy unless he’s sick, then he’s just cranky and I’m not sure if that’s better. That kid can push buttons I never even knew existed before. I’ve pulled out so much hair over him that I’m amazed I have any left. He doesn’t stop. Ever. Never. Does. Not. Stop.
All of this I’ve said before. Here and in venting to others, particularly my own mother. She’s had to babysit quite often recently and has been privy to his antics. I can hear the frustration in her voice when I return. She tries to offer advice. None of which I want to absorb. I don’t want to hear how bad my kid is from someone else, even and maybe especially Grandma.
It’s OK for me to say, because I’m his mom. I call him a little shit in the moment after a long day, but I also say it with love. I love that kid fluently, though he pushes and pulls. I know where his behavior stems and how his actions move like only his mom can. If anyone else says the same, it feels like an attack. Like we’re doing something wrong. Like somehow, if I’m not the only one who can notice, my kid must be bad.
You don’t talk about my kid, even if he’s related and maybe possibly deserves it. I don’t care. I will cut you. A really mean look, anyway. On the other side of the telephone. Where you can’t see. Because this is my mom, after all. For anyone else, though, I will cut you.
Mama bear. Rawr.
Yes, I know Buzz is a handful. He’s also an incredibly cheery, bright, and playful little boy, even if his version of playing may be a little rough. He is not a bad kid. He doesn’t set out to be mean or angry. I don’t believe he has a mean-spirited bone in his body. He’s 5 with moods just like every other and some days he really is just too much, but he’s trying. I know he is. We all are.
