For the longest time, when people would ask our youngest child his name, he’d look at them and say, in his matter-of-fact way, “I’m two and B.” Inevitably, I’d have to interpret. Now, since he’s had a birthday, he has seamlessly made the switch from “two” to “three”, and has even mastered the three-finger sign for the age, for which he has so eagerly been awaiting, for the last six months. “I’m three and B.”
Little Brisco is about as entertaining as they come. He has the voice of a Chihuahua, the personality of a cocker spaniel, and the tenacity of a bulldog. In human terms I guess that’d make him a little like a cross between Rainman, Jim Carey, and Scarlett O’Hara-in miniature form, of course. But he’s our baby, and he keeps us laughing, always guessing, and on our toes every moment of every day.
For example just this week, I went out back to check on the boys and I found him standing on the porch with his pants around his ankles, peeing into the back of his dump truck. After startling him into a wall-drenching frenzy, I managed to ask why on earth he had done such a thing. His answer was just what I expected, “Because I did.”
And that got me thinking. There’s really no mind like that of a child. So innocent, so literal, so maddening. So I wanted to be sure to catch an accurate glimpse of the mind of our “B” at the tender age of “three”. And this is what I gleaned.
Favorite Color: Red
Favorite Toy: Monster trucks
Favorite Song: Zacchaeus
Favorite Supper: I don’t like supper food.
Favorite Lunch: I don’t like lunch food.
Favorite Candy?: Red candy…and Green candy…and Black candy…and Brown candy…
Favorite Friend: Cooper
And if you could have one thing for your birthday, what would it be?: “I wish we could have a baby Sydnee.”
And that, my friends, marked the end of my questioning.
I beg myself, almost as often as I breathe, to savor every episode. And while we slip and sail through the daily insanity that is the life of a parent, I know that some day, it will all be worth it. We will be able to look back on all the moments of endless chattering, crazy-cartoon faces, and strong-willed defiance and feel relief at the gentleman he has become.
But in the meantime, as we risk life, limb and mental stability attempting to make this baby bulldog into a Supreme Grand Champion Show Dog, I’m taking notes. Because without a doubt, as “three and B” advances to “four” and “fourteen” and eventually “twenty-four”, I’m convinced the stories of his childhood will come in quite handy.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Let there be guns?
I’ve heard it said many ways. “Let there be light.” “Let there be peace on earth.” Even “Let there be rock.” But “Let there be guns?”
I don’t know everything there is to know about boys. I grew up in a house without any, so I learn something new almost every day. But I can’t help but wonder if our newest playtime activity is a universal endeavor of little boys in general, or if it is simply a sign of our times.
As sheltering children goes, I’d say we do a pretty good job. We pre-screen the movies that are “made for kids”, we have yet to engage in overnight sleepovers, and we have managed to steer clear of the Spike channel on TV. The closest our boys come to witnessing violent behavior is a clearing of the dugouts on ESPN or a wrestling match with dad on the living room floor. I think they did watch a rerun of Rocky, against my better judgment, but definitely nothing with guns.
So why is it that when boys get together, everything becomes a weapon? A fallen twig becomes a rifle; a building block becomes a pistola; and a few Legos, with little effort, can oddly come to resemble a revolver.
I’ve been wondering about this little-boy phenomenon that has so recently invaded our world. Running around the yard, hiding behind trees with the sounds of “pew pew” punching past their lips in a whisper that mimics every shot. Where did they learn such a game? Surely a four-second shot of a pirate’s pistol in Peter Pan couldn’t cause such an obsession.
As parents do when a new trend arises, I inspected our environment. Have we somehow inadvertently exposed these boys to the dangerous world of weaponry? Have we spoken of war or watched CNN or even told a gruesome hunting story in their presence?
Then it hit me. Maybe they have finally inferred how Uncle Toby managed to mount that deer head on his wall. Maybe they really do understand what happened to Bambi’s mother. Maybe they are no different than the generations of little boys who wrote letters to Santa asking for Red Rider BB guns, even though their overprotective mothers warned that inevitably, they’d put out an eye.
Maybe they aren’t bound to be gangsters or destined to be pirates. Maybe they are as normal as any other little boy playing cops and robbers in the front yard or cowboys and Indians in the back. Maybe we are doing just fine, raising good-hearted little boys in a world that can be tough for the strongest of men.
Let there be guns? Not if I have my druthers. But I suppose like so many others, they’ll turn out just fine in spite of it.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I don’t know everything there is to know about boys. I grew up in a house without any, so I learn something new almost every day. But I can’t help but wonder if our newest playtime activity is a universal endeavor of little boys in general, or if it is simply a sign of our times.
As sheltering children goes, I’d say we do a pretty good job. We pre-screen the movies that are “made for kids”, we have yet to engage in overnight sleepovers, and we have managed to steer clear of the Spike channel on TV. The closest our boys come to witnessing violent behavior is a clearing of the dugouts on ESPN or a wrestling match with dad on the living room floor. I think they did watch a rerun of Rocky, against my better judgment, but definitely nothing with guns.
So why is it that when boys get together, everything becomes a weapon? A fallen twig becomes a rifle; a building block becomes a pistola; and a few Legos, with little effort, can oddly come to resemble a revolver.
I’ve been wondering about this little-boy phenomenon that has so recently invaded our world. Running around the yard, hiding behind trees with the sounds of “pew pew” punching past their lips in a whisper that mimics every shot. Where did they learn such a game? Surely a four-second shot of a pirate’s pistol in Peter Pan couldn’t cause such an obsession.
As parents do when a new trend arises, I inspected our environment. Have we somehow inadvertently exposed these boys to the dangerous world of weaponry? Have we spoken of war or watched CNN or even told a gruesome hunting story in their presence?
Then it hit me. Maybe they have finally inferred how Uncle Toby managed to mount that deer head on his wall. Maybe they really do understand what happened to Bambi’s mother. Maybe they are no different than the generations of little boys who wrote letters to Santa asking for Red Rider BB guns, even though their overprotective mothers warned that inevitably, they’d put out an eye.
Maybe they aren’t bound to be gangsters or destined to be pirates. Maybe they are as normal as any other little boy playing cops and robbers in the front yard or cowboys and Indians in the back. Maybe we are doing just fine, raising good-hearted little boys in a world that can be tough for the strongest of men.
Let there be guns? Not if I have my druthers. But I suppose like so many others, they’ll turn out just fine in spite of it.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Nanny nanny boo boo
I’d like to find the child who invented this phrase. From every generation across all seven continents, it seems to be one of those elements of childhood that comes hardwired. Out-stuck tongues, thumbs in ears, eight fingers waving in the air, mocking my every word, and that annoying little axiom droned to the tune that is the same for children throughout time and place: “Nanny nanny boo boo”!
I don’t know who started it, or how they found my children, but like so many maddening phases of childhood, it seems to be living in and among us, forcing mom and dad to turn to the Tylenol, bring out the belts, or simply run for cover when it rears its ugly head within our children.
We don’t watch South Park. We’ve managed to avoid Sponge Bob. We haven’t even started public school for goodness sake. But regardless of our efforts, it seems someone who holds great influence or clout in they eyes of my children has introduced these angels to one of the most annoying and ridiculous sayings of all time.
Not only that, they’ve brought with it the ability to play the “last word” game like old pros. You know the one. It’s the game they play when we’re driving in the car, no viable means of escape, and they begin to argue back and forth-over nothing really-just to see who can get the “last word”.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t…”
Well, you get the gist.
Or on Sunday morning when the house is in chaos, and you’re trying not to be late, and you barely have time to brush everyone’s teeth, but somehow the children find time to stand at the bathroom sink and go at it.
“Stop it!”
(Pestering with a poke.)
“Stop it!”
(Poking again)
“Stop it!”
(You get the last word; I get the last poke.)
And on and on they go.
I’ve talked to the boys about what “the nanny” phrase means. About how it could be taken by another child, and could even hurt someone’s feelings. The both seemed to understand, and will even catch themselves “mid-nanny”, but at this point it’s a habit, like picking their nose, or heaven forbid, sucking their thumbs. It’s like a sewage that just comes gushing out in the middle of an otherwise pleasant day.
And when Brisco does his sumo-wrestler dance-arms outstretched, hopping from one foot to the other on every down beat of his insult-it’s almost enough to force a mother to hide her face in disbelief and humiliation…and yes, a little amusement.
I guess there will always be elements of raising children that can’t be avoided. Habits that seem to appear out of nowhere and are monsters to undo. Cooper told me the other day that in six years, he’d be 10. I can only imagine the challenges that will arise in that short amount of time.
I know being a parent is a job that never ends. These boys will be my babies years from now, when they are grown and have babies of their own. Babies who fuss and argue and irritate and amuse. And when they come to me with stories of their precious angels, I’ve prepared in my mind the perfect piece of motherly advice: “Nanny nanny boo boo!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I don’t know who started it, or how they found my children, but like so many maddening phases of childhood, it seems to be living in and among us, forcing mom and dad to turn to the Tylenol, bring out the belts, or simply run for cover when it rears its ugly head within our children.
We don’t watch South Park. We’ve managed to avoid Sponge Bob. We haven’t even started public school for goodness sake. But regardless of our efforts, it seems someone who holds great influence or clout in they eyes of my children has introduced these angels to one of the most annoying and ridiculous sayings of all time.
Not only that, they’ve brought with it the ability to play the “last word” game like old pros. You know the one. It’s the game they play when we’re driving in the car, no viable means of escape, and they begin to argue back and forth-over nothing really-just to see who can get the “last word”.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t…”
Well, you get the gist.
Or on Sunday morning when the house is in chaos, and you’re trying not to be late, and you barely have time to brush everyone’s teeth, but somehow the children find time to stand at the bathroom sink and go at it.
“Stop it!”
(Pestering with a poke.)
“Stop it!”
(Poking again)
“Stop it!”
(You get the last word; I get the last poke.)
And on and on they go.
I’ve talked to the boys about what “the nanny” phrase means. About how it could be taken by another child, and could even hurt someone’s feelings. The both seemed to understand, and will even catch themselves “mid-nanny”, but at this point it’s a habit, like picking their nose, or heaven forbid, sucking their thumbs. It’s like a sewage that just comes gushing out in the middle of an otherwise pleasant day.
And when Brisco does his sumo-wrestler dance-arms outstretched, hopping from one foot to the other on every down beat of his insult-it’s almost enough to force a mother to hide her face in disbelief and humiliation…and yes, a little amusement.
I guess there will always be elements of raising children that can’t be avoided. Habits that seem to appear out of nowhere and are monsters to undo. Cooper told me the other day that in six years, he’d be 10. I can only imagine the challenges that will arise in that short amount of time.
I know being a parent is a job that never ends. These boys will be my babies years from now, when they are grown and have babies of their own. Babies who fuss and argue and irritate and amuse. And when they come to me with stories of their precious angels, I’ve prepared in my mind the perfect piece of motherly advice: “Nanny nanny boo boo!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Life’s little moments: An adaptation
We have a satellite radio in our car, and I’ve recently found that I’ve become addicted to XM Comedy. There are six or seven stations that have nothing but stand up comedians playing back to back, doing their bit, and performing for a live audience of one escaping Mommy driving alone down the highway.
On one of my drives, I heard a spiel by George Carlin about life’s little moments. He talked about the things that happen in life that bring huge embarrassment, but simply cannot be helped. Things like finding yourself in a serious social situation when you suddenly realize you have to give your underwear a little tug. Or, while having a conversation with someone, you and laugh through your nose and blow snot on your shirt. Life’s little moments. That’s what he called them.
And I thought to myself, “Who has more of these uncomfortable moments than a mom?” So I decided to make a list.
1. Oldest child pulling down his pants in the middle of a crowd of people at a District Baseball Tournament.
2. Youngest child, after becoming intrigued with the female anatomy, goes around squeezing ladies’ “tummies”. Life’s little moments.
3. Oldest child discussing the shape of his poop in Bible class.
4. Youngest child playing with poop in the back yard.
5. Oldest child throwing a bawling fit because he got tagged out at first base.
6. Youngest child would rather hit the dog with his bat than worry about hitting a baseball. Life’s little moments.
7. Oldest child licking his food off the table at a greasy, Interstate McDonald’s.
8. Youngest child eating enough chicken and fries to feed an army and thirty minutes later…“I’m hungry.”
9. Oldest child finds something on the tree in the back yard that looks like a mushroom, so he eats it. “Cause I like mushrooms!”
10. Youngest child opens the classroom door into the auditorium during church and shouts, “Maahhmeee! I need to go poop!” Life’s little moments.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
On one of my drives, I heard a spiel by George Carlin about life’s little moments. He talked about the things that happen in life that bring huge embarrassment, but simply cannot be helped. Things like finding yourself in a serious social situation when you suddenly realize you have to give your underwear a little tug. Or, while having a conversation with someone, you and laugh through your nose and blow snot on your shirt. Life’s little moments. That’s what he called them.
And I thought to myself, “Who has more of these uncomfortable moments than a mom?” So I decided to make a list.
1. Oldest child pulling down his pants in the middle of a crowd of people at a District Baseball Tournament.
2. Youngest child, after becoming intrigued with the female anatomy, goes around squeezing ladies’ “tummies”. Life’s little moments.
3. Oldest child discussing the shape of his poop in Bible class.
4. Youngest child playing with poop in the back yard.
5. Oldest child throwing a bawling fit because he got tagged out at first base.
6. Youngest child would rather hit the dog with his bat than worry about hitting a baseball. Life’s little moments.
7. Oldest child licking his food off the table at a greasy, Interstate McDonald’s.
8. Youngest child eating enough chicken and fries to feed an army and thirty minutes later…“I’m hungry.”
9. Oldest child finds something on the tree in the back yard that looks like a mushroom, so he eats it. “Cause I like mushrooms!”
10. Youngest child opens the classroom door into the auditorium during church and shouts, “Maahhmeee! I need to go poop!” Life’s little moments.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Making the move
After several months of living in a new town, we have finally made the move to a new home. It has taken longer than any of us expected, but the time finally arrived to pack up, unload and unpack what we’ve been living without for the better part of the last year.
We’ve been very lucky, having a place to stay with family. It’s not every child these days who has the opportunity to grow up with their grandparents so close by. But we knew when the two year old started telling perfect strangers that “mommy doesn’t have a house anymore” it was time to do something different.
So with the help of a trio of volunteer movers, we spent Valentine’s Day cleaning and hauling and unloading the last 13 years of our lives, wondering how in the world two people could collect so much junk.
The first day or so was not too bad. Aside from the whiney little one, still snotty from his cold, who just wanted “to hold you” most of the day, things went fairly smoothly. With the help of my mother, we were able to organize the kitchen and empty plenty of boxes in the process. I forced myself to downsize my wardrobe, feeling quite certain that if I hadn’t needed these clothes in the last eight months, I could probably live without them now…well, most of them anyway.
Our first meal in our new house was pizza. Cardboard box included. But pizza is always a hit for us, so it didn’t really matter that we were drowning in packing boxes and wadded up newspaper. We were sitting together around our own kitchen table, and as Someone far greater than I once said, “It was good.”
Our first real curve came at bedtime. The boys are quite used to going to bed alone, so this “sharing a room” thing really gave them a reason to act crazy. More than just sharing a room, they were sharing a twin sized bed, at least for the night. Grandmother got them both ready for bed, but it seemed pj’s and goodnight kisses weren’t going to do the trick on this night. After almost an hour of laughter and giggling and high pitched squeals, the oldest came out with his arm held high and a look of shock on his face. “Bisco just bit me!” he said with a whimper. I decided it was time to get serious. “That’s it. I’m getting your daddy.”
Within a few minutes, things had settled down, and the boys were off to sleepy town. When Randy and I finally called it a night, I looked in on the boys and although they were both sawing logs, I could see in the near future a four year old crying out in the night that he was hurt after falling off the bed. So we decided to put the two mattresses in the floor and move the boys down to safety. It didn’t do much good, however, since we woke up at 1:30 a.m. to the oldest climbing into our bed, and again about 3 when the baby came crawling in after.
After being sandwiched between the two little thumb suckers for most of the night, I wasn’t so sure how this new house thing was really going to pan out. But Dad solved our problem like the man of the house should: the next day we went to the store and ordered a bigger bed.
As day two came to a close, the idea of a night like the one just before was making us both a bit nervous. “We’ve got to get some sleep,” we both stumbled around saying, so we decided to try things a little differently. We put one kid in the bed and one on the floor and hoped this would manage our problem, at least until the new bed arrived. And after the initial “I don’t wanna go to bed” fiasco, they were both sleeping soundly when I turned out the light and climbed into my own bed around 11.
But after only a few hours of peace, perfect peace, I heard Cooper whispering on Dad’s side of the bed. I started to just roll over and let Daddy deal, but something about the words “Brisco”, “bed” and “stuck” caught my sleepy-eyed attention. Sure enough, my ears hadn’t deceived me, and I walked into the boys’ bedroom to find that Brisco was stuck under the bed.
I was too irritated to ask how it happened and too tired to care. All I could gather was that he had evidently fallen off the bed, and then somehow rolled underneath it, almost all the way against the wall, and he didn’t know how to get out. Heaven only knows how it happened, or how is gigantic head was able to fit under the bed frame, but he’d done it and there I was at 2 a.m. lifting the bed one-handed with my supermom strength and pulling my baby to freedom with the other. He was relatively calm despite his traumatizing mishap, but he did decide a night light was a good idea. After this little incident, I agreed.
So on the morn of day three, with two long days behind us, I’m wondering why we made this move at all? Things were rolling along smoothly, and Cooper had a bed partner, and there was none of this all night long madness.
And then I remembered the adjustments we make every time there is a big change in our family. It’s just part of life and raising kids, and let’s face it, they’ll adjust far sooner than we will. So I decided to stick it out one more day. What’s one more night with out sleep? They are my children, after all. Besides, if it gets too tough, I know a grandmother or two who would take them in a heartbeat…at least for a night or two.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
We’ve been very lucky, having a place to stay with family. It’s not every child these days who has the opportunity to grow up with their grandparents so close by. But we knew when the two year old started telling perfect strangers that “mommy doesn’t have a house anymore” it was time to do something different.
So with the help of a trio of volunteer movers, we spent Valentine’s Day cleaning and hauling and unloading the last 13 years of our lives, wondering how in the world two people could collect so much junk.
The first day or so was not too bad. Aside from the whiney little one, still snotty from his cold, who just wanted “to hold you” most of the day, things went fairly smoothly. With the help of my mother, we were able to organize the kitchen and empty plenty of boxes in the process. I forced myself to downsize my wardrobe, feeling quite certain that if I hadn’t needed these clothes in the last eight months, I could probably live without them now…well, most of them anyway.
Our first meal in our new house was pizza. Cardboard box included. But pizza is always a hit for us, so it didn’t really matter that we were drowning in packing boxes and wadded up newspaper. We were sitting together around our own kitchen table, and as Someone far greater than I once said, “It was good.”
Our first real curve came at bedtime. The boys are quite used to going to bed alone, so this “sharing a room” thing really gave them a reason to act crazy. More than just sharing a room, they were sharing a twin sized bed, at least for the night. Grandmother got them both ready for bed, but it seemed pj’s and goodnight kisses weren’t going to do the trick on this night. After almost an hour of laughter and giggling and high pitched squeals, the oldest came out with his arm held high and a look of shock on his face. “Bisco just bit me!” he said with a whimper. I decided it was time to get serious. “That’s it. I’m getting your daddy.”
Within a few minutes, things had settled down, and the boys were off to sleepy town. When Randy and I finally called it a night, I looked in on the boys and although they were both sawing logs, I could see in the near future a four year old crying out in the night that he was hurt after falling off the bed. So we decided to put the two mattresses in the floor and move the boys down to safety. It didn’t do much good, however, since we woke up at 1:30 a.m. to the oldest climbing into our bed, and again about 3 when the baby came crawling in after.
After being sandwiched between the two little thumb suckers for most of the night, I wasn’t so sure how this new house thing was really going to pan out. But Dad solved our problem like the man of the house should: the next day we went to the store and ordered a bigger bed.
As day two came to a close, the idea of a night like the one just before was making us both a bit nervous. “We’ve got to get some sleep,” we both stumbled around saying, so we decided to try things a little differently. We put one kid in the bed and one on the floor and hoped this would manage our problem, at least until the new bed arrived. And after the initial “I don’t wanna go to bed” fiasco, they were both sleeping soundly when I turned out the light and climbed into my own bed around 11.
But after only a few hours of peace, perfect peace, I heard Cooper whispering on Dad’s side of the bed. I started to just roll over and let Daddy deal, but something about the words “Brisco”, “bed” and “stuck” caught my sleepy-eyed attention. Sure enough, my ears hadn’t deceived me, and I walked into the boys’ bedroom to find that Brisco was stuck under the bed.
I was too irritated to ask how it happened and too tired to care. All I could gather was that he had evidently fallen off the bed, and then somehow rolled underneath it, almost all the way against the wall, and he didn’t know how to get out. Heaven only knows how it happened, or how is gigantic head was able to fit under the bed frame, but he’d done it and there I was at 2 a.m. lifting the bed one-handed with my supermom strength and pulling my baby to freedom with the other. He was relatively calm despite his traumatizing mishap, but he did decide a night light was a good idea. After this little incident, I agreed.
So on the morn of day three, with two long days behind us, I’m wondering why we made this move at all? Things were rolling along smoothly, and Cooper had a bed partner, and there was none of this all night long madness.
And then I remembered the adjustments we make every time there is a big change in our family. It’s just part of life and raising kids, and let’s face it, they’ll adjust far sooner than we will. So I decided to stick it out one more day. What’s one more night with out sleep? They are my children, after all. Besides, if it gets too tough, I know a grandmother or two who would take them in a heartbeat…at least for a night or two.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sicko
For a family with two little kids and a school teacher, we stay relatively healthy. Aside from the occasional cough or seasonal sniffle, I’d say we’ve been pretty lucky. But it seems our luck may have finally come to an end. The last seven days at the Smith house have been…well, sick.
It started last Thursday, with a couple sick days with Dad. “Daddy never stays in bed all day,” the oldest boy observed. So we did our best to nurse him to health while maintaining a safe, sterile distance. But long about Saturday, after a four hour drive to our Aunt Rhonda’s for the weekend, Cooper came down with a fever.
Motrin is a miracle worker, at least when it comes to lowering a kid’s temp. But it eventually wears off, and by supper time, his fever was over 102, and Brisco was not far behind. We decided to cut our weekend short and make the long, agonizing drive twice the same day.
We arrived home around midnight on Saturday, and it seemed Dad had only gotten worse while we were away. By the time I got both babies in my bed and Dad tucked into his own, I was ready to medicate myself to ensure a good night’s sleep, but I knew being drowsy on top of exhausted would not serve me well in the dozens of middle of the night wakings that lay in store before dawn. So I sandwiched myself in between the two smallest sickos and prayed they slept till morning.
2:32 a.m.: Prayer Denied. Brisco sat up in bed, burning with fever. “Take off my cwose, Mommy,” he said in a sweet, soft little voice I’d never heard him use before. So I stripped off his PJ bottoms and made a trip downstairs for the meds. After a teaspoon of Tylenol and a kiss on the forehead, we laid back down to try this sleeping thing again. Just as I was about to drift back to sleep, I heard that same, small little voice singing, “Zacchaeus was a wee little man…” with perfect pitch and precise enunciation. He didn’t stop until he got to the end as which time he rolled over and whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I just sang Zacchaeus.” What great timing.
As the singing quelled, I found myself dreaming fondly of warm days and ocean waves and nights of sleep uninterrupted. But about that time, I heard Dad coughing and hacking and fumbling for the light. So up I got, and down the stairs I went for more medicine to give to the sickly.
I’m sure this night would have continued in due course had the sun not been already on the horizon. So at 6 a.m., when the oldest was wide eyed, the hair twirling began and the questions of when we could get out of bed were not far behind. About an hour of this was all I could tolerate, so we were up by seven and ready for a dreary day indoors. That is, until Daddy came downstairs.
It seems another sleepless night was all this tough guy could take, so the plan for the day was to get him to a doctor…which we don’t personally have…and it was Sunday…in Western Oklahoma. This task seemed daunting enough, but when I discovered the closest weekend clinic was in Yukon, the thought of four more hours in the car with three sniffing, hacking, whiners was almost more than I could take on four hours sleep. And yet, we drove on.
The second night was definitely worse than the first. The baby was allowed medicine only once, but that didn’t stop him from waking up. I’m pretty sure he was delirious at times since I woke up once with him grabbing my nose and once again with him squeezing my lips together. It was either “bwo my nose,” or “I need a dwink,” at least one time per hour all night long. And just about the time I thought maybe we’d settled in a bit, Cooper started his sniffing. He refuses to “bwo” his nose, but he has no problem sniveling and snorting with the force of a hurricane in the gulf. So from 5 a.m. on, I was serenaded to the tune of my four year old’s sniffing…on every single breath he took in.
As we head into day seven, I’ve got high hopes that things are getting better. Randy is contemplating going to work tomorrow. Cooper has been fever-free since Monday, and Brisco actually took a nap in his own bed this afternoon. This morning boys played outside, Randy took a walk this afternoon, and I snuck out of the house for a late night at the office. I’d say things are starting to get back to normal. And I’m certainly ready.
Yes, we are definitely a pretty lucky bunch; although, I have a feeling my turn to have the winter bug is just around the corner. But one thing’s for sure, no matter how long it takes for my three sickos to recover, I’ll be there like a good mom should, poking down pills and wiping snotty noses and “hode-ing” little babies just because they feel yucky. I’ll endure washing sheets, sleepless nights and piles of wadded tissues.
And then, when it’s my turn, I’ll recover with five-star, round the clock pampering and care that an exhausted and over-extended mom deserves. (Well…I can dream, can’t I?)
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It started last Thursday, with a couple sick days with Dad. “Daddy never stays in bed all day,” the oldest boy observed. So we did our best to nurse him to health while maintaining a safe, sterile distance. But long about Saturday, after a four hour drive to our Aunt Rhonda’s for the weekend, Cooper came down with a fever.
Motrin is a miracle worker, at least when it comes to lowering a kid’s temp. But it eventually wears off, and by supper time, his fever was over 102, and Brisco was not far behind. We decided to cut our weekend short and make the long, agonizing drive twice the same day.
We arrived home around midnight on Saturday, and it seemed Dad had only gotten worse while we were away. By the time I got both babies in my bed and Dad tucked into his own, I was ready to medicate myself to ensure a good night’s sleep, but I knew being drowsy on top of exhausted would not serve me well in the dozens of middle of the night wakings that lay in store before dawn. So I sandwiched myself in between the two smallest sickos and prayed they slept till morning.
2:32 a.m.: Prayer Denied. Brisco sat up in bed, burning with fever. “Take off my cwose, Mommy,” he said in a sweet, soft little voice I’d never heard him use before. So I stripped off his PJ bottoms and made a trip downstairs for the meds. After a teaspoon of Tylenol and a kiss on the forehead, we laid back down to try this sleeping thing again. Just as I was about to drift back to sleep, I heard that same, small little voice singing, “Zacchaeus was a wee little man…” with perfect pitch and precise enunciation. He didn’t stop until he got to the end as which time he rolled over and whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I just sang Zacchaeus.” What great timing.
As the singing quelled, I found myself dreaming fondly of warm days and ocean waves and nights of sleep uninterrupted. But about that time, I heard Dad coughing and hacking and fumbling for the light. So up I got, and down the stairs I went for more medicine to give to the sickly.
I’m sure this night would have continued in due course had the sun not been already on the horizon. So at 6 a.m., when the oldest was wide eyed, the hair twirling began and the questions of when we could get out of bed were not far behind. About an hour of this was all I could tolerate, so we were up by seven and ready for a dreary day indoors. That is, until Daddy came downstairs.
It seems another sleepless night was all this tough guy could take, so the plan for the day was to get him to a doctor…which we don’t personally have…and it was Sunday…in Western Oklahoma. This task seemed daunting enough, but when I discovered the closest weekend clinic was in Yukon, the thought of four more hours in the car with three sniffing, hacking, whiners was almost more than I could take on four hours sleep. And yet, we drove on.
The second night was definitely worse than the first. The baby was allowed medicine only once, but that didn’t stop him from waking up. I’m pretty sure he was delirious at times since I woke up once with him grabbing my nose and once again with him squeezing my lips together. It was either “bwo my nose,” or “I need a dwink,” at least one time per hour all night long. And just about the time I thought maybe we’d settled in a bit, Cooper started his sniffing. He refuses to “bwo” his nose, but he has no problem sniveling and snorting with the force of a hurricane in the gulf. So from 5 a.m. on, I was serenaded to the tune of my four year old’s sniffing…on every single breath he took in.
As we head into day seven, I’ve got high hopes that things are getting better. Randy is contemplating going to work tomorrow. Cooper has been fever-free since Monday, and Brisco actually took a nap in his own bed this afternoon. This morning boys played outside, Randy took a walk this afternoon, and I snuck out of the house for a late night at the office. I’d say things are starting to get back to normal. And I’m certainly ready.
Yes, we are definitely a pretty lucky bunch; although, I have a feeling my turn to have the winter bug is just around the corner. But one thing’s for sure, no matter how long it takes for my three sickos to recover, I’ll be there like a good mom should, poking down pills and wiping snotty noses and “hode-ing” little babies just because they feel yucky. I’ll endure washing sheets, sleepless nights and piles of wadded tissues.
And then, when it’s my turn, I’ll recover with five-star, round the clock pampering and care that an exhausted and over-extended mom deserves. (Well…I can dream, can’t I?)
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Potty time
As I walked in the door from work on Tuesday, I was greeted by two tired little boys and a temporary, stay-at-home pop. Seems a snow day with dad (and mom at the office) really had them all tuckered out. But they’d had fun, and they were glad to see me, so it seemed all was right in our world.
As we sat down for supper, we were met with some fun, mealtime conversation from our own little live-in comedian. At Dad’s prompting, it seems Brisco couldn’t wait to tell me that he had been using the potty all day. I looked at Dad for confirmation, and sure enough, for whatever reason, the child had decided it was potty time.
For a moment as I sat there, I was torn. Of course these words were music to my ears. I’d been waiting almost three years to hear them. What with the rising cost of diapers, cold wipes on hot buns in the middle of winter, and those embarrassing moments when someone else notices my child has messed his pants--these are all moments of childhood I’m happy to see go. But I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy at the timing.
I can’t count the hours or days I’ve spent with this child on the topic of “going” in the potty. Shouldn’t I be the one who is up close and personal-to bear witness to that “halleluiah” moment first hand? But I put on a smile and gave the kid a high five and looked closely at my husband, who I was certain had no idea how I was feeling. “We’ll see how long it lasts,” I thought silently.
Tomorrow came, and with it more snow, ensuring one more day of daddy daycare. I gave it little thought as I was out the door early, but as I slid into Wal-Mart to stock up on diapers, I wondered how things were progressing at home. I decided to buy the large box of Huggies just in case.
I guess I wasn’t very confident in the youngest of our clan; I mean let’s face it, I’d been witness to one day without diapers. So when I bought the package of little boy undies-the same exact kind that Daddy wears-I figured my biggest little Randy would just be thrilled, and I couldn’t wait to get home and surprise him. But the biggest surprise of the day was for me.
Upon my return, I was met by my little boy B. who was simply teeming with pride. The child was two for two.
I was certainly glad, and somewhat in shock, so I decided to ask Dad how he did it. “Well…he’s been getting a few treats when he goes.” And I knew exactly what that meant. CHOCOLATE! But what is a mom to say? It seemed to be getting the job done.
Later that evening, I gave Cooper his new underwear. He couldn’t have been more excited if it was Christmas! And when the littlest of my two little Randy’s saw what was inside, he stripped down to nothing and danced around naked until, exhausted, he begged to put them on.
After all the excitement, we tried to settle in for a good night’s rest, knowing that tomorrow the pressure would really be on . Dad would return to work, and I would have to keep the ball rolling on this perfect-potty operation.
The first few hours of the following day, I was really on top of my game. I’d remind the boy every few minutes that he wasn’t wearing a diaper so he’d have to go pee in his potty. He loved this game and would simply smile and say, “OK, Mommy!” As the day wore on, I began to feel like the one being trained. I was completely certain that Dad didn’t do it this way, so I left him alone and kept watch from afar to see how he progressed on his own.
Out of the blue and to my surprise, the boy began making repeated trips to the toilet. He’d run through the house letting everyone know, “I’m going to sit on the potty!” He’d duplicate this procedure every few minutes, and of course I thought he had lost it. But I let it go, glad he was still interested and thankful that we were yet to have a full-frontal soaking at some off-the-wall, embarrass-your-mommy moment.
By lunchtime on the third day, the boy was batting a thousand; shooting for the triple crown; a cool, one hundred percent. I was suddenly very thankful. Thankful for cold weather. For snow and sleet and ice. For 20 below wind chills, slick roads and school closings. I was thankful for chocolate and the power of persuasion it held over my child. And I was thankful that we could finally save the whales, sail around the world, and buy a condo in France with all the money we’d be saving on diapers. And just as I was about to say thanks for fairies and unicorns and Puff the Magic Dragon, Cooper ran in the house, yelling, “Mommy! Brisco just pooped in the yard!”
Startled back to the reality that is my life, I ran outside to find the apple of my eye crouched under a tree, in 30 degree temperatures, with his pants down around his ankles. I heard through my shock and horror the voice of the little one pleading, “Cooper, you pick it up and throw it in Caitlyn’s yard.” My only comfort was in the fact that our four-year old refused to scoop the poop. Consequently, I covered the culprit’s bottom and decided it was time for a talk.
Needless to say, our streak has been broken. We are no longer batting 1000, but I’m told that’s a goal which is beyond reach in any game, occupation or stage of life. But we are making progress. And I guess we’ve learned a few things along the way.
1. It doesn’t matter who does it, as long as you get the job done.
2. No guideline, detail or specific instruction should be omitted, regardless of how ridiculous it may seem.
3. It's all about the timing. Perfect, potty timing…that and a little bit of chocolate.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
As we sat down for supper, we were met with some fun, mealtime conversation from our own little live-in comedian. At Dad’s prompting, it seems Brisco couldn’t wait to tell me that he had been using the potty all day. I looked at Dad for confirmation, and sure enough, for whatever reason, the child had decided it was potty time.
For a moment as I sat there, I was torn. Of course these words were music to my ears. I’d been waiting almost three years to hear them. What with the rising cost of diapers, cold wipes on hot buns in the middle of winter, and those embarrassing moments when someone else notices my child has messed his pants--these are all moments of childhood I’m happy to see go. But I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy at the timing.
I can’t count the hours or days I’ve spent with this child on the topic of “going” in the potty. Shouldn’t I be the one who is up close and personal-to bear witness to that “halleluiah” moment first hand? But I put on a smile and gave the kid a high five and looked closely at my husband, who I was certain had no idea how I was feeling. “We’ll see how long it lasts,” I thought silently.
Tomorrow came, and with it more snow, ensuring one more day of daddy daycare. I gave it little thought as I was out the door early, but as I slid into Wal-Mart to stock up on diapers, I wondered how things were progressing at home. I decided to buy the large box of Huggies just in case.
I guess I wasn’t very confident in the youngest of our clan; I mean let’s face it, I’d been witness to one day without diapers. So when I bought the package of little boy undies-the same exact kind that Daddy wears-I figured my biggest little Randy would just be thrilled, and I couldn’t wait to get home and surprise him. But the biggest surprise of the day was for me.
Upon my return, I was met by my little boy B. who was simply teeming with pride. The child was two for two.
I was certainly glad, and somewhat in shock, so I decided to ask Dad how he did it. “Well…he’s been getting a few treats when he goes.” And I knew exactly what that meant. CHOCOLATE! But what is a mom to say? It seemed to be getting the job done.
Later that evening, I gave Cooper his new underwear. He couldn’t have been more excited if it was Christmas! And when the littlest of my two little Randy’s saw what was inside, he stripped down to nothing and danced around naked until, exhausted, he begged to put them on.
After all the excitement, we tried to settle in for a good night’s rest, knowing that tomorrow the pressure would really be on . Dad would return to work, and I would have to keep the ball rolling on this perfect-potty operation.
The first few hours of the following day, I was really on top of my game. I’d remind the boy every few minutes that he wasn’t wearing a diaper so he’d have to go pee in his potty. He loved this game and would simply smile and say, “OK, Mommy!” As the day wore on, I began to feel like the one being trained. I was completely certain that Dad didn’t do it this way, so I left him alone and kept watch from afar to see how he progressed on his own.
Out of the blue and to my surprise, the boy began making repeated trips to the toilet. He’d run through the house letting everyone know, “I’m going to sit on the potty!” He’d duplicate this procedure every few minutes, and of course I thought he had lost it. But I let it go, glad he was still interested and thankful that we were yet to have a full-frontal soaking at some off-the-wall, embarrass-your-mommy moment.
By lunchtime on the third day, the boy was batting a thousand; shooting for the triple crown; a cool, one hundred percent. I was suddenly very thankful. Thankful for cold weather. For snow and sleet and ice. For 20 below wind chills, slick roads and school closings. I was thankful for chocolate and the power of persuasion it held over my child. And I was thankful that we could finally save the whales, sail around the world, and buy a condo in France with all the money we’d be saving on diapers. And just as I was about to say thanks for fairies and unicorns and Puff the Magic Dragon, Cooper ran in the house, yelling, “Mommy! Brisco just pooped in the yard!”
Startled back to the reality that is my life, I ran outside to find the apple of my eye crouched under a tree, in 30 degree temperatures, with his pants down around his ankles. I heard through my shock and horror the voice of the little one pleading, “Cooper, you pick it up and throw it in Caitlyn’s yard.” My only comfort was in the fact that our four-year old refused to scoop the poop. Consequently, I covered the culprit’s bottom and decided it was time for a talk.
Needless to say, our streak has been broken. We are no longer batting 1000, but I’m told that’s a goal which is beyond reach in any game, occupation or stage of life. But we are making progress. And I guess we’ve learned a few things along the way.
1. It doesn’t matter who does it, as long as you get the job done.
2. No guideline, detail or specific instruction should be omitted, regardless of how ridiculous it may seem.
3. It's all about the timing. Perfect, potty timing…that and a little bit of chocolate.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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