Goldfish: Past and Present

I had goldfish as a little girl.  I remember when my Dad took me to Kmart and bought me a 10-gallon aquarium. He let me pick which rocks I wanted (azure blue) and which statue I wanted (a magenta and purple grotto) and finally which fish.  Out of the tank of 89-centers I picked my fave.  And named him Goldy.
When Goldy died, I got Goldy 2.
Followed by Goldy 3.
And then Goldy 4.
And the suffixed numbers in their name were pronounced.  If someone asked my fish's name I would tell them, "Goldy Three." 
After Goldy 4 my next fish was Neptune.  He was also a goldfish.  Maybe it was a break of the Goldy Curse but I had Neptune so long and he go so big I called and donated him to the Pittsburgh Zoo.  He needed a bigger habitat than I could provide.  As an adult, this story seems far-fetched.  I was 10.  I had a goldfish I thought was outgrowing it's aquarium so I called the zoo.  And with my altruistic heart, donated my .89 cent fish to the zoo.  What a philanthropist!

When we moved back to Idaho Falls, this past Thanksgiving, I took the boys over to see my neighbor Lee.  He and his wife are also from da Burgh and live right behind us.  In his basement he had 3 huge 'UGE aquariums.  The big 55 gallon monsters.  The boys were mezza-merized.   The next day Lee called and said he was gonna give the boys one of his aquariums for Christmas if I was okay with it.  Psht.  Hell Yeah!  Lee kept his fish and we got one gorgeous tank.  In time (after the proper bacteria had accumulated) we got three little fish of our own.  I named mine Ari Gold, Ken named him Gilligan, and Kole was at a loss on what to name his.  I started naming some names he liked; "Gordon," "Thomas," "Scotty," "Koley," "Charlie," "Tony,"
At which point Kole yelled, "Yeah!  PONY!"
So Tony became Pony and we had our fish named.
Now little Pony had some birth defects.  He looked like a hunchback goldfish.  His poor fin was stunted and he looked like he'd been picked on a lot.  I felt bad for Pony.  There goes that over-sized heart again.  I did my best to treat Pony well...nay.  I did my best to treat Pony way better than the other fish.
Which, I mean, is hard to do with fish.
But I'd put in extra food in where he was swimming and... well... that's it.
Come on.  What other ways are there?
I did always tell Kole and Joey to be nice to him and not talk about his funny fin.
He was our fish. And we were happy to have him. And we loved him no matter what.
I really felt good to have Pony safe in our tank.
Where no other fish could pick on him.
Or call him mean Fish Names behind his dorsal.  Or post rumors on their Fish Facebook pages.  Or unkindly mimic his crooked swimming.
He was safe from all the bullying in my tank.  Under my aquatic maternal wing.
Things were calm under the water.
But then one day, at dinner time, I noticed Pony chasing Ari and Gil away from the food.  He'd just swim real fast by them and kinda surprise them so they'd swim away.
I was shocked!
"Pony!  Be nice to them!"
Which probably sounded like "OOOnnnnnnN!  Ooouu gauoouuu mmmm!"
You know.  *clears throat* Under water sounds weird.
I tapped on the glass by him as a warning.  You know.  I'm in charge, Pony.  You listen up!
Needless to say my disciplining had no effect WHATsoever!
Pony just kept pestering the other fish. And not just at breakfast and dinner.  He was bullying them for pleasure.

 The drilling is Ken working on our shelving- but it kinda fits the scene.  Does it not?

When I discussed the issue with Ken- he was completely flippant.
"They're fish, babe."
"Yes.  They are.  And one fish is mistreating the other fish."
He didn't seem all too bothered by it.  Where's your heart, man!

I stayed up thinking about Pony:
He was probably bullied at some point in his life.
He looks weird.  He swims funny.  I bet he's been made fun of.
He's probably had a hard time making friends.  He's just passing it on.  He doesn't know any better.  This is how bullies are.
Maybe he comes from a single-parent home.  Maybe he's missed out on loving relationships.
Maybe he's suffering from depression or anxiety.  Maybe he misses the big tank at the pet store.
Maybe he views himself negatively and just needs steady positive reinforcement.

At this point I started dreaming up my business cards:
Patty Poulsen, PhD
Fish Psychologist

For 3 days I watched Pony bully my other two fish.
I watched Ari and Gilligan try to make themselves shrink and swim in smaller and smaller circles.
No amount of glass tapping and above-to-underwater scolding was reaching this dang fish!
One morning.  I woke up.  And Gil and Ari were hiding in the plant while Pony swam circles around them occasionally nosediving at them.
That was it!  I could justify his behavior...NO MORE!
I got a Mason jar.  Filled it up.  And scooped Pony into it.
"You're in Solitary Confinement today, Mister!  That's right The SHU!  Get used to it, Meanie!"


My next step was obvious.
Call the pet store.
They told me their policy for aquatic animals was 14 days for full refund.
So, after the kids went to bed, and after a full day in The Box for Pony I toted him back to Petco.
Their first question after realizing he wasn't dead was "Is he sick?"
I explained he was perfectly healthy and that he was just mean.
The two men just stared at me.
"What?," I said.
"You are returning him... because... he's mean?"
"Yeah." (I was not getting their surprise.)  "He's a bully.  And he's terrorizing my other fish and I don't want him in my aquarium.  He's too mean."
They just kept staring at me.  Mouths a-dropped.
So I continued, "Your return policy stipulates 14 days.  I'm under that mark.  I no longer want this aggressive fish.  I am returning him.  I have my receipt."
At which time I handed over Pony.  In the jar.  With my receipt.
And you bet your butt I got my dollar sixty-five back. Psht.  I also told the pet store people they should let prospective buyers know about Pony's past.  But I think they quit listening after they handed me my change and dumped Pony back in the tank with 35 other one-inch goldfish.

A few days later, after Ari and Gil felt comfortable swimming in the open water again we got 3 more fish to complete our aquarium.

And, thank heaven, they all seem to be getting along swimmingly.

Harvey

Gilligan (Gil)

CiCi

Shelby

Ari Gold

A Mom Smell

If there's one thing I pride myself on as a mother...
Hold up yo.

There's a list 10 miles long of things I pride myself on as a mother.  Let's put a few in the display case 'ere:

1. Killer dance parties.  I teach them all the right moves. (They're as excited for a little Blurred Lines or Daft Punk as they are for Bob the Builder.)
2. I do Mommy Snuggle Time RIGHT!  Blankets.  Cookies.  Dim Lighting.  Stack of books.  BOOM.
3.  They know who Frank Sinatra is.
4.  I know how to naturally drug them to sleep: Play outside (when it's chilly), Big Hot Lunch, Bubble Bath
5.  I do voices for everyone in their books.
6.  We talk about Christmas everyday.
7.  We've had Family Home Evening every Monday the last 5 weeks.  Holla! And they've improved from our first shot at it.
8.  Kole is officially potty trained.  Even at night.  Take THAT last 6 months of cleaning poop!
9.  I know the characters from Thomas the Tank Engine.  Like know know them.
10.  I taught Joey how to growl like a bear.
11. I taught Joey how to say "Beep!  Beep!"  (He can't say Mom or Dad but he can say 'Beep! Beep!' when we are in his way.)
12.  I've rigged a contraption so Kole can ride his tractor and pull Joey along on his own tractor.
13.  I can build train tracks like you've never seen.  (I want to start photographing them and make a coffee table book.  Yeah.  That good.)
14.  I get in the pool with them.
15.  I know what all of Joey's cries mean and I know that making a sound like that of passing gas will make him stop crying.
16.  I'm a Love and Logic Master.  (and so is Koley.)


But if I had to choose one above allllll the others it would be my ability to not yell when I am mad.

Having a 3 year old and a 1 year old is frustrating.  And to all you mudders who are past this phase- who will tell me that they're precious and lovely and they'll grow up too fast and savor every second and they're God's children... let me say...

Yeah.
Thanks.
I got that.

But they also scream a lot.  And cry when there's too much sauce on their noodles. Or because the book ended.  Or because it stopped snowing.  And they hit each other.  And throw things (<-- socks, food, toys, drinks, trains, clothes, books, rocks, dirt, stuffed animals).  And they cry like 8 or 9 times an hour. Each.  So it's pretty constant since they switch off. And everything in life takes 40 times longer.  And they're sticky and hate getting cleaned up.  And...deep short sigh... enough.  It's a lot.

So- things are Ker-AAAA-zee with little guys this age and I do get frustrated des temps en temps.

Things That Frustrate Me The Most:
 1.  Being bad and laughing about it.
2.  Not understanding the give-take of Mom played outside all morning and came up with all these fun ideas and gave 100% of her attention to you, little cubbies, and now its nap time. And they don't take a stinking nap.
3.  When I get head bonked or bit.
4.  Fighting a diaper change.
5.  Crying because they're so hungry and then crying because they don't like what I cooked and then crying because someone got more and then not eating anything and having a messy kitchen.
6.  "No, You're not listening to ME! You're a dumb Mom!"
7.  When Kole asks a question (Why is it snowing?) and I give a truthful informative answer (Insert Full Water Cycle here.) and he says, "Actually, you're wrong.  It's snowing because Christmas is here."  Sure it's cute.  But I'm wrong. All. Thetime.  Even when I'm right.
8.  Getting punched and kicked and getting my hair pulled when I'm hauling Kole to his room for time-out.

But during these times of trouble I hone in on Cora from Downton and breathe deeply and nod slowly.  I call them "Darling" and "My Dear" and stroke their little hands and calm them down.  We quietly and peacefully work through the day.

Inside, or course, I'm Carmela from The Sopranos.  I'm swearing.  I'm throwing things through the window.  My forehead and neck are all vein-y.  My chest is tight.  I'm my head I'm making fists.  I'm throwing back a scotch. I'm filled with rage.

But I keep it in.  I grit my teeth and grind them until my jaw hurts.  I purse my lips white tight. My eyebrows are up and my neck is long.  And I am fuming mad.  But I take that angry ball of Carmela Anger and push it inside of me.  As far down as I need to so it doesn't come out.

 +

 =

 Now.  My psychology courses (and Life) have taught me that this isn't healthy.  One day, inevitably, it will all come out- on the wrong person.  Or the little people.  Supposedly.

But I have a different theory.

You see, at the end of the day, especially those "trying" days- I have a weird smell about me. It's way worse than B.O.  It smells funky and wild.  Kinda animal-ly  And I'm a clean person! I wear deodorant.  I brush my teeth. But nothing masks this wretched smell at the end of my day.
I've taken notice of this smell for the past month.  And I've noticed that sometimes its just a normal, bad, stink smell.  When the day was just a normal, problem-here-and-there day.  But when the day was monstrous... the stink on me is also monstrous.  My hair is extra greasy.  And I have those radiation stink waves coming off of me.  I can't breathe it's that strong and horrendous.  I reek. And the angrier I was during the day- the stinkier I am.

I think The Stink is how The Anger gets out. 

It's unbearable right after the kids fall asleep.  It's just..blech.  Icky.  And gross.  But, I shower, go to bed, and wake up fresh and new in the morning.  No anger is left.  It's not pent up.  It's gone.

I believe my anger is coming out through the pores in my skin in the form of The Stink.

I really put some time and thought into this and when I shared it with Ken he said:
You smell worse because you sweat more wrestling the kids.

*blushing*

I mean... logically... that makes sense.
But...

The Baby Hummingbird.

A few weeks ago I found a baby hummingbird in our yard.
He was the size of a quarter.
But couldn't have been as heavy.
Small.  Fuzzy.
I thought he was a big bug at first.
But when me and Kole went out to see what was hopping around and making all that fuss...
It was a baby hummingbird.
I didn't touch him.
I watched him try to fly.
He was stuck under a blade of grass.
I wanted his Mom to be able to find him.
So I moved the grass.

Me and Kole went back inside and watched him flitter from the window.

I worried about that little hummingbird.
How did he end up in our lawn?
Did he fall and get hurt?
How will he eat anything?
Should I feed him something?
Like what?
Can he fly?
Is he old enough to take care of himself?
Does his Mom know where he is?
Does he know where his home is?
Is he scared?
Is he making a noise his Mom can hear that I can't?

His Mom flew down and hovered over him.
And I quit worrying as much.

I watched the Mom fly down and hover around him.
She'd wait until he looked up at her, and saw her.
She'd feed him.
She'd hover.
She'd feed him.
She'd hover.
Then.
She stopped flying.
And she rested next to him.
With her head on his body it was like she was saying Don't worry, little guy.  I'm gonna get you home.

Then.
She'd fly away.

In 10 minutes or so she'd be back.
Feeding, hovering, feeding, hovering, and resting.
She reassured her little hummingbird that he would be okay.

After the visits the baby would beat his wings.
Trying tremendously to follow her.
But he couldn't get lifted off the ground.
He'd beat himself into a tired tizzy.
And the Mom would come back and rest by him.

When Ken got home I showed him our little baby hummingbird.
I told him how the Mom had been coming to take care of him all day.
I told him I worried that it was getting dark.
Our yard has a lot of animals.  Something is going to get him.
Ken showed me the baby hummingbird had a bent wing.
Ken built a nest out of a blueberry box and nailed it to the tree.
We placed the baby hummingbird into his new safe home.
I smiled.
He was safe.

But.
After dinner, I was watching out the window.
And..
that Mom came back.
She fluttered right down to the spot in the grass where she left her little baby.
He wasn't there anymore.
We put him in a nest.
I told her.
He's safe!
Fly higher.
You'll find him.
Fly higher.
He's safe.

But that Mom just kept flying down to the same spot.
Right where she had last cared for him.
At first she flew down.
Circled.
And flew off.
Within 10 minutes she was back.
But she landed on the ground.
Then, she flew off.
Her visits became more frequent.
She'd fly in and float.
Then fly off.

On one visit, she flew in and
She just hovered in one spot.
The spot where she left him.
Panicky.
Frantic.
Searching.
She couldn't see him.
5 feet away.
She couldn't see him.
Where is he?
He needs food.
It's getting dark.
It'll get cold.
He's hurt.
Where is he?
This is where he has been all afternoon.
Maybe he is flying.
Maybe he is ok.
Where is he?
He needs food.
It's getting dark.
It'll get cold.
He's hurt.
Where is he?
 
Up until dark (when I couldn't see anymore), every time I looked out the window, that Mom was drifting in the spot where she left her baby bird.


And.
And.
That little baby hummingbird in the dumb new safe nest I made for him.
Was probably terrified.

Where am I?
Where is my Mom?
Why isn't she here anymore?
I'm getting hungry.
And tired.
Everything hurts.
Where is my Mom?
She was coming to take me home...
Where did she go?
She'll come back.
I need her.
She'll come back.
I'm hungry.
I'm tired.
I hurt.
Where is she?

She was 5 feet away and he couldn't see her.
He didn't know how hard she was trying to find him.
How she wasn't giving up.
How she flew and hovered with urgency.
And soon, with desperation.
He didn't know that she quit flying away.
And that she just stayed there.
Floating.
Hoping to see him again. 
And take care of him.
He just...
...didn't know.



It's been nearly a month.
I haven't seen any hummingbirds in my yard since that day.

Me and the Kids..and Strangers

I feel constant pressure, constant gazes, constant spoken and unspoken opinions about what I'm doing as a mother.  There's news articles, entire magazines, blogs, and forums all about how to be the best mom.  How to throw the best party.  How to "do it all."  How to cook gourmet with toddlers.  How to paint murals with the help of your kids.
They'll tell you what to put it your diaper bag.  What NOT to put in your diaper bag.  The optimum speed to drive for kids to sleep in the car.  The perfect age for potty training.  The best time to start play dates.  The minimum and maximum time limits for sleep, reading, TV, and learning.
How long meals should last.  How to effectively use time-out. How to decorate dinner to make it look like a clown face.  How to make your own Halloween costume and host a neighborhood costume party for 300+ people.  
Then there are humans with their advices. "You're so smart for bringing toys to the sandbox."  "Oooo, you should have brought more water."  "Oh, you let your kids pick their own outfits?"  "If he were my kid I wouldn't let him use markers yet."  "Trust me, counting to 3 never works."  "Your kids are so well behaved."  "Church is really hard with little ones, you are so brave."  "You can let him play with your iPhone, you know."  "You need to read more to them."  "They should be outside more."  "You need to spend more time teaching." "Take more time for yourself."  "You're playing with them too much.  Make them play alone." "You should put his shoes on him if he's going to play outside."


I don't know if it's because I'm young.  (Not that young peeps.)  Or because I look like I need advice on rearing children minute by minute.  Or if people just know I'm polite and am good at making them feel good about themselves at the cost of my own feelings being hurt.  But this is alllllll the time.  And I just want to say, "It's my OWN backyard!  I know where all the broken glass and used needles are!  He doesn't need shoes!  Lee-me-alone!"


Ugh.
*sigh*
I've had enough of it.

My kids are well-loved.  They feel love all day and all night.  They like being close to me.  They like being held and snuggled.  Kole will pick 15 books, snuggle on my lap, and not move until all 15 are read.  Joey smiles every time we make eye contact.  He rubs his head against my leg like a little puppy when he wants picked up.  I know when their cries means hungry, tired, there's been an injustice, or finger stuck in drawer, respond quickly.  I know that Koley needs physical touch, lots of hugs and smooches, and chuggy chuggies and cuddles to feel loved.  I know Joey needs one on one play time to feel loved.  Well, ha, that and applause.  He's such a lime-light lover. 

And you know what I just figured out?

Kole and Joey love me.  That's why they are always smiling at me and laughing at me when I fall off of my chair on purpose.  That's why they want to be as close to me as they can be.  That's why they are always handing me things... trains, trucks, things they broke, garbage they found, crusty old food pieces.  They are sharing with me because they love me.  They copy my dance moves out of love.  Kole corrects me when I call a backhoe an excavator because he loves me. 

That's what matters.

I don't care what your opinion is of how I raise my children.  I'll listen to it because you'll say it loudly and to my face (and because I am a moral giant).  But it's not going to sink in.

My boys love me. 
They think I am the best Mom ever.
And they are what matters to me.

Night Swimming

Night swims are the coolest.
Even when "night" is 7:00.

 

Joey loves to Belly Flop.

 

The splashed as big as they could,  laughed  as hard as they could, and swam until they were purple.
They acted like it was their last 30 minutes of life.
Last night I was the coolest mom.

Julie and Andi- night swims?  Eh? Eh?

Bad Moms at the Fair

This was Kole's first time riding rides.  He wanted to ride the cars.  No surprise.  At all.  He was really excited to give the man his tickets.  Really excited to pick his own car.  Really excited to get buckled in.  Really excited to honk the horn.  Really excited when the ride started moving.

Then some bratty girl started crying.
The ride went three-quarters of a time around before the girl was screaming so badly she had nearly slid off her seat.  The ride got stopped.  Her dad pulled her off.  The crowd gave some nods and shrugs and courtesy smiles.
The ride went the last quarter of a turn before...

...the girl's mom was climbing over the fence to put her BACK on the ride.

I raise my hands to Ken (who is across the ride ready to wave to Koley), gently shake my head, and mouth, What the heck?

This girl was still screaming.  Red in the face.  Real tears.  Not wanting on.  And her mom was screaming.  Red in the face.  Thong doing the whale tail thing as she wrestled her daughter back onto the ride.  Over the screams of her tot the mom says, "Just keep going!  I know she'll like it!  Just keep it going!  I wanna get a picture!"


So the ride goes.
The crying and screaming really amp up.

Soon, none of the kids are smiling.
They aren't sure if they are having fun or not.
We're on a ride... that's fun.
It's sunny and warm... that's fun.
Our moms and dads are here... that's fun.
We just ate funnel cake... that's fun.
Yet, there is this crazy girl.  And she is screaming that this is not fun....Hmm. That's puzzling.

The man stops the ride and tells the mom to get her daughter.
Kole yells, "Come on!  I want to ride, man!"

My thoughts exactly, kiddo.
I'm so glad I have a three year old to say the tactless things I am thinking.
The girl's mom straddles the fence yet again (use the gate, lady),scoops down (really letting that white-trash cleavage get a good jiggle),yanks her daughter off the ride, and storms off.  Like it's her daughter's fault.

In my head I was saying:
 Finally!  Geez! Put your kid first!  Gosh.  Forget about the picture already.  She obviously was hating it.  Some mom YOU are!  Ugh.  I hate moms like you.  Anything for that picture.  This is real life.  Not Instagram-ville or -town.  Quit thinking of yourself, put your camera away, and care for your child!  I sure hope you buy her a cotton candy and say sorry.  GOSH!  And pull your pants up for crying out loud.  You're not 19 anymore.  No one wants to see your thong.  "Keep it going?"  Pa-lease.

I really let her have it.  In my head.  For the record:  I apologized in my head shortly after.  Guilt just eats me up.  Even when it's imaginary.

The ride started up again... things were looking good.

 Then he started getting a little worried...

 and then a little more....

.

and then... it was that little crying girl all over. 
Except it was my kid begging to get off.  Screaming that he didn't like it.  And yelling for me to come save him.

Kole was red in the face.  Real tears.  Not wanting on.  At all.

And I was screaming.  Red in the face. Swinging one hand at the ride operator, "Keep it going!  I know he'll like it! Keep it going!  Keep it going!" while my other hand was trying to snap the perfect picture.

This stinks.

I don't think what I am doing with Kole should be called Potty Training.  It should be called Poop-Whereever-The-Hell-You-Want-And-Mom-Will-Clean-It-Up.  Or use can use the acronym: PWTHYWAMWCIU.
I'm on Day 3.  So for three full days I've been scraping poop out of underwear and scrubbing pee out of clothes and telling myself, "He's not ready."  And then giving myself a little boost and saying, "Ohhh.  Hang in there, babe.  He'll get it.  You're a good Mom.  And you're smart.  You got this."   And then the stench of a low funded nursing home takes over my house.

Kole's loving it.  I think he loves the prospect of receiving an M&M.  I filled a jar with them and set it where he can see it and I've told him over and over, "If you go in the toilet you get an M&M!"  Oh the sparkles in his eyes.  The jar should still be full (instead of mostly empty) because Kole has yet to earn an M&M....but...I've been helping myself.  What?  Quit judging.  After the 30th time walking to the bathroom at 15 minute intervals I think I deserve one peanut M&M when Kole's not looking. Wert.

I thought we were so set up.  Fancy underwear.  (Lightning McQueen)  Special cushy toilet seat. Sturdy step stool.  I was told to have them drink lots of liquid so they remember what to do and get the hang of it.  We're an anti-juice anti-pop family.  (Well... for the tots.) So I put food coloring in Kole's water and told him it was juice.  The gullible chap believed me and wanted me to taste how good it was.

He's drinking a ton of "juice," sitting there every 15 minutes, we're singing songs about pee and poop and all kinds of words that make me uncomfortable, I have been bribing him with the promise of treats, we put fizzy pellets in the toilet water, when those ran out, I put food coloring in the toilet water.  You know- Wow!  Fun!  The water's blue!  Not buying it.  It kinda upset him.  (Mom Bomb #7584)
He seemed a little tense... so we did some breathing exercises.
I let him watch a video on my phone.
And we sit there and sit there and sit there.

 Joey remains helpful, toodling around doing his thing.  Which is climbing in the tub, opening cabinets, getting into my makeup, spreading vaseline on things, trying to put his hand in the toilet water behind Kole's bum, eating all the toilet paper he's spun off the roll.  You'd think that in a bathroom that's like 10 square feet... there wouldn't be that much to get into.  Wrong, Patty-Mom, wrong.

What's killing me is, Kole knows how to do use the bathroom.  He's so proud that he can pull his own pants down and then pull his underwear down and sit on the toilet and be "big." He seems to be stubborn about it.  Because, he'd not go on the toilet and instead wait until he was in the warmth and protection of his new undies and then release. It's been an emotional roller-coaster for the Koley.  Long days of interrupted play-time and sitting on the toilet with no success...

After 15 or so loads of itty bitty McQueen underpants being washed I told Kole he just has to be naked from the belly button down.  The child was humiliated.  "But my pants," he cried to me, "I have to wear them.  They cover me where it's private."
A proud Mom moment there.
I assured him his argument was sound and meaningful and we wouldn't go anywhere.  We would just stay home while his pants were off.  No one was going to see him naked. To this, he agreed.

(Aaaaaand... as a P.S. .... he's totally comfortable in our yard sans pants so- yeah that was Koley pushing his lawnmower this morning wearing just a shirt and sandals.)

This is where I had success.  Normally when the urge hits him he runs and hides and does his thing and then tells me he peed his pants.  Without pants he was at a loss.  He ran up to me and said, "I have to pee but where will it go?"
"In the toilet, m' good boy!," I announced as I grabbed his shoulder!
And so we ran in the house, got all situated on the toilet, and sat there while nothing happened.  I knew it was in there.  So we waited.... over 5 minutes...close to 10 minutes.  And then a little drop hit the water.  And then another.  And then, finally.... a steady stream. 

"I'm doing it, Mom!"

Mom Bomb Part 2

Before Joey was able to eat grown-up food, Kole wanted to eat just like me and Ken.  He sat calmly at the table, used his silverware, and politely asked for seconds.  It was just a few young adults having dinner at home discussing their days.
And then... Joey got into eating what we're eating.
And, bless Joey's heart for doing that because feeding a baby spoonful by spoonful takes so long.

With Joey now scooching his highchair up to the table and giving eating his best shot- Kole's eating efforts have doubled!
In the wrong direction.
Instead of wanting to show Joey a fine example of courteous and correct eating- they both act like heathen piggies.

When Joey throws his food on the floor because he's uncoordinated, Koley joins the throngs!  Laughing as he litters the floor with spaghetti noodles or rice or mashed potatoes.

If Joey, unknowingly, rubs his little noggin chuck full of marinara- Kole laughs and does the same.  "Look at me!," he chirps.

Hahahaha.

That'snotcute.

So, I've started putting forth an enormous effort to pull Koley back to propriety.  
We've been reading books on manners.
Acting British.  You know, they're prim and things 
Sometimes at lunch or dinner I tell Kole he can be the Mommy and he has to sit like Mommy and act like Mommy and talk like Mommy.
That one sometimes works... sometimes backfires... and I hear him say things like, "You absolutely can NOT do that right now" or "Are you kidding me?"  or "We need some moooooooore MUSIC!"

A couple nights ago we were having meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, and brown gravy.  I love love love brown gravy.  I had gravy for dinner with the other stuff as sides.  Anyway- Kole was screwing off.  Not eating anything.  Being a goof. Mimicking Joey. 
And then, I had a brilliant idea.  Peas and mashed potatoes.  How could I have missed it?

Me:  Hey!  Koley!
Kole:  What.
Me:  Try your peas.
Kole:  No Jose. (smirking)
Me:  Try your mashed potatoes.
Kole:  No Jose!  (starting to giggle.  He so knows when he's being bad.)
Me:  I know a fun way to eat them that you'll reallllllllly  like.
Kole: What.
Me: I don't know.  It might be too fun for you.
Kole:  What?  What is it?
Me:  Are you sure you want to know?
Kole:  Yeah, Mom!  Yeah!
Me: Like this!  You get your fork (picking fork up and talking in really sugary syrupy voice) and you get a big old glob of mashed potatoes (scooping up tremendous forkful) and then you flip them up-slide-down and dunk 'em in your peas!  (flipped potatoes upside down into peas.)  And then see?  The peas!  Stick!  To the mashed potatoes! Isn't that crazy!  And so cool, huh?
Kole:  Just stares.  Says nothing.  No smile.  No happiness is his eyes.
Me:  See?  (talking through a mouthful of potatoes and peas)  It's so much fun!  You get some potatoes!  You get some peas. And just chomp 'em up. Cray Cray!
Kole: Still staring.  Now looking a little disgusted.
Ken:  You're bombing here, Mom.
Me:  I am not!  Kole you've got to try it.  It's so much fun and you get to eat!  I love it!

I was really going overboard with the deliciousness of this combination and the fun one could have making it.  Rubbing my belly, looking at the ceiling and saying some Mmm!  Mmmm!  MMMMMM!s  I think I did like 4 demonstrations.  All equally over the top.
Kole just sat.  Pan faced.  Until finally he let me off the hook and said:

That's a bad idea, Mom.  You shouldn't talk about it anymore.

PsszzzzzzzuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuBCHU!!!

^
That's the Mom Bomb going off.

V and W...Very Wrong

As a parent... I do some things... very wrong.

It started last Christmas.  At my mom's.  We were eating these chocolates and Kole came up all dewey eyed and asked, "What are those?"  I didn't want him to eat one and didn't want to fight him about it.  So I said...

"Dog treats."

Psht.  No argument there!  That was easy! *smacks hands up and down*  I told myself- that was your freebie because it's Christmas.  But- I've fallen into a bit of a habit here.

Kole catches me sneaking some jelly beans.
"What's that?"
"Medicine."

"Can I sleep with an engine tonight?"
"Ohh.... they are all sleeping in Tidmouth Shed already.  Sorry bro.  No engines."

"Can we watch that Wonder Pets again?"
"Sure! Oh!  Dang it!  Netflix isn't working anymore.  Rats."

"I can't find my truck!  You find it!"
"I think it got towed away for illegal parking. Bummer dude."

It's for everything. And it comes so so easily.
Bad Mom Certification is in the mail.
And- I'm trying to think of a lie to keep him in bed at night and make him go to sleep without terrifying him.

Could you lie to this face?
Uh.  Yeah.  ALL THE TIME!

Last Year's A to Z:  V is for Vices.  If you thought I didn't have any faults, you were right.
W is for Wasted Time.  One of my favorite posts ever.

T is for Taking Charge

This is how bed time used to be with Kole:
Bath.
Lotion and dress.
Prayer.
Kiss.
Lights off.
Sleep.
Total time elapsed?  Ehhhh.... 15 minutes?

This is how bed time is now (<---- since he moved to a big bed 10 months ago.)
Bath.
Stalling in the tub.
I want to push the button.  This water was a little too warm let's start over.  Wrong towel!
Wrestle into clothes.  Well... at least the pants amid complaints of:
This is too small.  Wah. Too tight. Wah. Wrong jammies!  Wah.  I don't like those!  Wah.
Kole runs out of the room without a shirt on.
I get him.
Happy screaming from Koley.
Angry screaming in my head.
Get shirt on Kole.
Do burrito swing.
Prayer time.  I don't think I should really be able to call it prayer time.  Because I am saying a prayer.  Ken is watching Kole and Kole is doing whatever the "H" he feels like.
Normally rolling on the floor squeaking about Thomas the Tank Engine.
Lights off.
Lights back on because Kole wants to do it.
Lights off.
Kiss.
Chompy Dovey.
Snuggle.
Special Talk.
Kiss from Daddy.
Chompy Dovey from Daddy.
Chuggy Chuggy from Daddy.
Special Talk from Daddy.
We leave.

Quiet for 35 seconds.

Knocking on the door.
Mom?
Mom?
Mom?
Mom?  Mom?  Mom?
Mawwwwww-meeeeeeeee!
Mawwwwww-meeeeeeeee.
Books start getting slid under the door.
Dad?
Daddy?
Daddy?
Goes for 5 minutes.

Crying starts.
Door kicking.
Crying.
I go in there.
"I need something, Mom?"
 It's terrible.  And all my fault.

It's been 10 months in forming the worst habit ever.  A habit that's there every night.  For 2 and a half hours.  And I'm sick-of-it!I get so fuming mad at him for not going to bed and really.... he's 2.  So, it's my fault he doesn't do it right. It's my fault for going in there over and over and over.  Me and Super Nanny give me a lot of crap after I've given into 768 requests from what should be a sleeping Koley.
The Bad Sloppy Unable to Discipline Mom groupies came over and asked me to be their President.
That's when I knew it was way worse than I thought.  AND!  I start looking forward to bedtime at like 3:30 in the afternoon.  So when it's supposed to be at 7 and it happens at 9:30... I'm not saying anything nice in my head.  And I'm normally not talking at all.  I am walking silently and rigidly around the house with my jaw clenched and one eyebrow up.  It's my angry stance.

So, to end the humiliation and bad feelings towards a genuinely sweet kid, I'm taking charge!  I am 14 times his age... and way more times smarter than him.  Although my sentence structure and grammar proves otherwise.  I've created a chart with Sleep Rules.  And we are going to have a lesson about going to bed the right way.  And there's a reward system.  And if he gets up and pounds on the door- I'll walk in and not talk and put him right back in bed.  No sympathies.  No coddling.  The buck stops here, Koler-roosk. 
And so does the bowls of crackers, refills on water, extra snuggles, late night readings from Who Put The Pepper In The Pot, checking under the bed, looking out the window for train engines, and getting your stuffed animals dressed for bed. 


Last year's A to Z: T is for T is for Thirty-Two.  A little post to commemorate 32 weeks of pregnancy.

P is for Pushy Parenting

Kole's friend, Triston, spent the afternoon with us on Monday and I was shocked by how bossy and authoritative Kole became around his friend.  It was... out of Kole's character.

They'd be pushing their trains on the little wooden track and Kole would stop Triston and say:
Actually, THIS is how you push your train.  And then give a demonstration.

I'd tell Kole there were lots of ways to push a train and let Triston push his however he wants.

We were cuddling up to read a book under the blankets and Kole stops the group.
"Actually, THIS is how you get under the blankets."  Demonstration followed.  "See?  You try."

I explained there is no right or wrong way to be cozy.  People just do what feels good.
It continued all day.

Snack time.
Actually, THIS is how you eat a Oreo.

Actually, THIS is how you act like a puppy.

Actually, THIS is how you color your page.

Actually, THIS is how you look out the window.

Actually, THIS is how you drive a truck backwards.

Actually, THIS is how a cow sounds.

He was getting under my skin, I can't imagine how poor Triston felt.  When his mom came to get him I relayed the story and told her my fear that Kole would never make friends... because who wants to be with someone who constantly corrects you?  Ugh.  Annoying.  When I told Ken I added,  "Where does he get that?"  Ken shrugged.  Kids have lots of unsolved mysteries.

That night I was giving Joey his bath and Kole came in and said, "Look Mom!  I got some pepperoni from the bakery!"
To which I responded:
"Actually, you get pepperoni from the deli."

My mouth went dry.  My face burned.
Mystery solved.
Whoops.






Last year's A to Z: P is for Perm.  I got my hair permed right before I entered 4th grade.  And I was a hottie!

O is for Obviously

 Very obviously blessed these days.
Strong boys.
Strong willed, bodied, and spirited.
Strong singing voices too.

They are happy.
Happy hearts, minds, and faces.
Super happy at cookie time.

They love to cuddle.
Cuddle me,  Ken, or one another.
Really love blanket cuddle time with all stuffed animals in attendance.

I'm blessed.
And it's obvious.

K is for Koler-roosk

The kid is 2 and talks like (and thinks) he is 28.  He looks like Ken but acts like me.  His favorite things to say right now are:

1.  You're a bossy Mom.
2.  Uhhh... let me think about that one sec.
3.  Check it out.
4.  I'm a sad snake.
5.  I need something.
6.  Hmmm. It's hard to say.  (uses this when I give two choice for breakfast/clothes/trains/games)
7.  I gotcha.  IIIIIIII gotcha.
8.  It's such a beautiful day out.  I should play in the dirt today.
9.  I'll be very careful.
10.  I could use a little treat.
and...my favorite.
11.  Let's put Joey down for a nap and chit chat.

Worth pointing out:  Kole doesn't know what bossy means.  At first I thought he knew what it meant because he used it in context.  I'd ask him to eat his cereal- "You're being bossy."  Put your shoes on.  "You're a bossy Mom."  Picture gotten.  Then he'd be playing and say, "Hold on, I gotta get my bossy engine."  ???  Or "Joey is crying because he is bossy. ???  And "I don't want to take a nap, I'm too bossy."  Yeah.  He's in left field kicking the grass on "bossy."
Also: He thinks "something" is an object.  Like a pen is a pen.  Something is a thing he can hold.  Not a pronoun.  So, a few times a day I russle with Koley saying, "I need something."  And I ask, "What thing?" "Something!"  "Yeah- but what?"  "SOMETHING MOM!"  Tears.  Crumbling to the floor.  Becomes a sad snake. <-- Origin unknown.

He's a happy boy with a happy heart.

   Last year's A to Z:  K is for Knockout.  All about pretty Andi Girl.  Spreading some sisterly love.

J Is For Joey. Poor Second-hand Joey.

Because Joey was not only my second child but my second son he's got a lot second hand.  Typical mom move.  Joey doesn't know anyway.
But as the last nine months have passed, I think Joey has gotten about 9 new outfits.  All the rest have been Koley hand me downs.  He's using Koley's old crib, drinking from Koley's old bottles, and bathing in Koley's old baby tub.  Joey bounces in Koley's old blue horse, get his diaper changed on Koley's old changing table, and takes walks with me in Koley's old stroller.
Sometimes I think Joey even gets second-hand parenting.  First class... but second hand.  Like with Kole I was so strict about bed time and naps and the duration thereof.  There was a strict schedule and there was no wavering.  When it was time for Koley to sleep through the night.... I quit going in there.  Kole never had anything sweet or sugary until he tasted cake on his first birthday... and then there was that 12 months in between his 1st and 2nd birthday that was pretty void of sweets also.  Wert.
With Joey... eh!  I nibble off a piece of my Oreo for him here and there.  I'll let him take a bite of cheese even though he's not one.  I'll take him out of his crib and let him watch The Wonder Years with me if he's gonna cry about.  It's a looser ship.  And when Ken gives me a sideways look that says Abnormal Patty Parenting Happening, I raise my fake glass and say with a smile, "It's 5:00 somewhere!"  Cheers!
With the parenting Joey has kinda lucked out with the second-hand stuff... but in all other ways... he seriously gets the shaft.  For instance:
If Kole takes something from Joe he has to replace it with something else.  If Kole takes a train from Joey he should give him another one.  I thought this was working pretty well.  I'd always hear Joey cry and then Kole chirp, "Here you go!" and the crying would stop.  So I figured all was well.  But Monday I heard Joey cry, looked in on the situation, saw Koley had taken a light up toy that played music from Joey.  I said, "Hey.  What do you need to do now?"  Koley, ne'er missing a beat, chirped, "Here you go, Joe!"  and threw a sock in Joey's general direction.  A sock.  Not a comparable toy.  Not a toy at all!  A sock that Ken took off after work and tucked under the couch.  Here you go Joey!  Sorry you were born second.  Sucks for you!
Yesterday, I saw Joey's tide had the opportunity to change.  He had outgrown Koley's old carrier car seat and it was time for his very own new one.  Mint condition.  Never before used.  Complete with leather trim and cup holder.  All his own to carry him through 3 levels of automobile safety.  During nap time I hauled it out to the Subaru and started reading through the Installation directions.  In case you've never had a modern day car seat... there's a reason it's called Installation.  It's a process.  And a bear.
As I read the new manual I found out Joey's seat can not be used as a rear-facing.  Only forward.  And all children under one have to be rear-facing. Sad turn of events.  My arms dropped, my heart dropped, and my head dropped... to see Koley's old stained car seat strapped into the car.  It was covered with Goldfish crumbs and mud from Kole's shoes.  It was wet from where he spilled his water that morning on the way to the store.  It just looked beat up.  But- it could face backwards. It took an hour and a half but I got both car seats in, attached, and facing the right way.
Koley, us usual, got something new and shiny and never before used.
And Joey got a worn out piece of Koley memorabelia.
But on the positive side, I kept Joey's streak of second-hand hand me downs in tact.
Go Joey!

Here's Joseph sporting Kole's old Boise State sleeper.

Last Year's A to Z:  J Is For Justified.  I was entering my third trimester of pregnancy and had some happy and unhappy things to say about it.

E is for Every Time

Today.  Well recently.  The last 2 years and 9 months it has seemed like every time I have something planned or something I need to do... the kids interfere or find a way to meddle.  Every thing.  Every time.

Say we have to get to church at 9:00 AM.  I purposely set the clock for a half hour before they get up so I can shower and start getting ready before they are up and at 'em.  But, wouldn't you know it, they both wake up early that day.  So it's all the regular frenetics just an extra half hour of it.
Say one of them has a doctor appointment.  We're all set to leave on time, everyone is strapped into their car seat, and.... hmm.  Suddenly it's very smelly.  And Kole is smiling.  I change him in the trunk so we don't have to go back inside and as soon as he's strapped in again- Joey is giggling.  And smelly.  Every time.
Say I get a Redbox and plan for an evening in with a special snack and a horrible romantic comedy (because really the worse those are... the better they seem).  I get dinner and baths done a little early, put them into bed, take a long shower, slip into my Soma jammas, set up the movie, turn off the lights... and as soon as the previews are over... Kole is knocking on his door needing something.  Anything!  Anything he can think of.  Fresh water, another train engine in bed, different pajamas.  After settling him (and myself) down I head back to the movie.  Push play and....Joey is crying.  Every time.
Say I have plans to meet a friend... one of them will be sick.  Every time.
Say I finished cleaning the kitchen... there will be an unexpected spill/sticky mess/mud exhibit.  Every time.
Say I am making an important phone call... someone will get hurt and scream.  Every time.
Say I get dressed and do my hair and get everyone's shoes on to go to the store... Joey will puke on me.  Right on my head.  Gross and smelly and warm in my hair.  Every time.
Say I want to go to the bathroom... there will be little attendees in there with questions and questions and questions.  Every time.
Say I buy a Coke... it gets spilled... or shaken.  And then spilled.   Every time. 
Say I want to _________.  The kids will  interfere, spoil, or wreck.

I know they're cute.
But you can save all your "You're gonna miss this" and "they are blessings" and "have patience" comments today.  I'm mopey and frustrated and deprived of personal time.  I'd rather just have a commiseration party. 

Last year's A to Z: E is for Everything As It Should Be.  I was apparently also in a grouchy mood this day one year ago.  Yoiks.