Archive for the ‘parenting’ Category

Who’s Your Momma?

Wednesday, March 10th, 2010

“Who is your momma, Momma?”  It takes me by surprise, his question.  With brows furrowed, Reichen peers at me through the rear view mirror waiting for an answer.  We’re in the minivan driving to Target.  I promised my potty training toddler he could pick out one toy from the super store if  he went #2 on the toilet.  A few minutes and a series of squeezes later, we had a winner.

“My momma is Nina,” I smile at him and say.  ‘Nina’ named herself after my brother gave her her first grandchild seven years ago.  I’m not sure why she didn’t want to be called ‘grandma’, but I have a sneaking suspicion it had a something to with her feeling too young to take the title.

Your momma is Nina,” he squints while questioning my reply.

“Yeah, buddy.  Nina is my momma,” I confirm.

Reichen mulls it a minute before asking, “Momma?  Who is Dadda’s momma?”

I see it.  It’s happening right in front of me.  He’s making connections, my first born.  He’s beginning to think outside himself.

“Dadda’s momma is Grandma,” I say.

“Dadda’s momma is Grandma,” he reiterates.

During the 10 minute trip to Target, we go through quite a few branches of our family tree.  Who are my brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas.  Who are daddy’s brothers, aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas.

And he gets it.  And it’s amazing. 

Almost as amazing as him going #2 on the toilet. 

Almost.

Don’t Let Me Float Away

Wednesday, March 3rd, 2010

young_nov09_22

 

You squeeze me tight and say, “Don’t let me float away.”

“Never,” I reply.  “You’re my baby now and for always.”

 

I realize it’s the wind that you’re worried about

“These are really big gusts,” you snuggle up and shout.

 

Your 3 year old self is convinced it will happen

You just know you’ll drift away unless you take action.

 

So you scamper up my leg and to my neck you cling

“Momma, hold me tight,” I hear you begging.

 

My world stops spinning and I will myself to remember

This moment with you, I will treasure it forever.

 

Your words, your embrace, your weight in my arms

Your smile, your giggle, your little boy charms.

 

You won’t fly away now, but one day you will

You’ll have lots of adventures with the dreams that you fill.

 

And when you’re soaring in the sky, I will remember this day

When the wind whipped and you worried you might float away.

Oops, I Did it Again.

Monday, March 1st, 2010

I left my van doors open when I went to Target today.  No, not unlocked.  Open.

minivan

And, here’s the cherry on top of my what’s wrong with me sundae:  it’s not the first time I’ve done it.

‘It’s Not My Problem’ Is The Problem.

Sunday, February 21st, 2010

What,”  she asked my husband as she shuffled out of her car.

“What do you mean ‘what?’  You just hit my car,” David growled through gritted teeth, while pointing to the spot on his passenger side door where the woman just smashed. 

Even David admits it was an accident.  He said the wind whipped the door from her hand as she was scurrying out of her car to get a sandwich.  And the thing that stopped it:  my husband’s door.  But that’s no excuse for what she said next.

“I didn’t hit it hard enough to leave a dent,” she shrugged.  And then,  she walked away. 

No, I’m sorry.  No, I can’t believe I just did that.  No, I didn’t mean to hit you.  Nothing.

Irritated, David repeated the story to me when he delivered my 6 inch tuna Saturday afternoon.  I asked him to drive to the subway shop across the street to get us grub since I didn’t feel like making lunch.

“How would she know she didn’t leave a dent,” he grumbled.  “She didn’t even look at it.”

I agreed.  I was stunned at the stranger’s reaction to the situation.  If it had happened to me, I would have been stumbling all over myself to say I’m sorry.

I would also hold the door for a struggling mother trying to maneuver in the mall with two toddlers in a stroller while holding the hand of her third child.  I was in the parking lot several yards behind her and knew the guy two steps in front of her would hold the door. 

He didn’t.  The door slammed a second before she could reach it. 

Waiting in line at the store this evening to buy groceries, I watched as the man in front of me hefted 6 or 7 frozen pizzas from the bottom of his cart onto the conveyor belt.  Those pizzas were the last of a lot of food.  He bought so much, he filled an entire 2 carts.  I don’t even want to know how much this man paid for all those groceries. 

It was probably 10 minutes later when I was paying for my food that I realized the man’s pizzas were still in the store and he wasn’t.

“Are those that guy’s pizzas,” I asked the teenager who bagged them.

“Yeah,” he casually replied.  “I saw him leave them.  He’ll be back.”

“That guy bought 2 carts of groceries,” I said,  “He won’t even know he’s missing them until he gets home.”

“Oh.  I guess that’s his problem,” he said.

That statement just about sums it up, doesn’t it?  There’s an ‘it’s not my problem’ mentality that’s infecting our society. 

It’s not my problem you forgot your food.  It’s not my problem the door slammed in your face.  It’s not my problem the wind dinged your door.

It’s. Not. My. Problem.

Here’s the thing:  it is a problem.

It’s a problem empathy for others is fading.  It’s a problem consideration for others is waning.  It’s a problem compassion for others is dissolving.

‘It’s not my problem,’ is a problem.  A serious one.

Finally. You Sleep.

Tuesday, February 16th, 2010

Finally.

You sleep. 

But your slumber isn’t sound. 

It’s smothered in sickness.

So you barricade yourself  in a ball.

 The only weapon you have in this battle.

And you sleep.

Finally. 

lathamball

We’re Not Really a TV Family. And By We, I Mean My Boys, Not Me.

Sunday, February 14th, 2010

We’re not really a TV family.  And by we, I mean my boys, not me.  I am totally a TV person.  In fact, my DVR and I are best friends.  I know this because not only have we exchanged BFF necklaces where she wears one half of the gold heart charm and I wear the other, we also spend all of our free time together watching Project Runway, The Housewives of Orange County, and The Bachelor.  It’s awesome.

What’s also awesome:  the power the one program I allow Reichen to watch every night before bed wields over him.  Have you seen The Wonder Pets on NickJr?  It chronicles the adventures of three singing classroom pets:  Linny the Guinea Pig, Ming-Ming Duckling and Turtle Tuck, who travel the world and use teamwork to save baby animals in distress.

wonderPets

I don’t know who makes this stuff up, but who ever it is, commands more control over my son than I do.  No matter how many times I tell Reichen his baby brother doesn’t really like being gagged, tackled, and whipped to the floor,  nothing stops my kid quicker than me threatening him with The Wonder Pets.

Me: “Don’t tackle your brother.  It’s not nice.”

Reichen:“I like to tackle Latham.  He likes it.”

Me:“If you tackle Latham again, you have to sit in time out.”

Reichen:“Okay, Momma.  I’m going to tackle Latham and sit in time out.”

Me:“If you tackle Latham, you have to give me your cars.”

Reichen: “Okay, Momma.”

Me:“If you tackle Latham, you can’t watch The Wonder Pets tonight.”

Reichen: “I can’t watch The Wonder Pets?  Okay, Momma.  I won’t tackle him.”

The  Wonder Pets threat works for everything:  eating veggies, taking a nap, not touching toys at Target.  Everything.  I’m even thinking about writing a book about it as a new technique to parent toddlers.  At play dates, it’ll be the talk of all the moms.

Mom #1: “My toddler is throwing tantrums every time I ask him to eat his peas.”

Mom #2: “Have you read that book about The Wonder Pets technique?”

Mom #1: “No, I haven’t.  Does it really work?”

Mom #2: “It really works.  You should read it.”

Yup, I think it would be a best seller. Maybe I’ll even get on Oprah.  I’m totally going to write it, but first I have to watch Project Runway with my BFF.   Until then, here’s Reichen singing The Wonder Pets theme song. He busted it out on us tonight.  We didn’t even know he knew it.

I’m So Losing My Mom Membership

Tuesday, February 9th, 2010

Did I tell you I am a failure as a mother signed Reichen and Latham up for a Valentine sticker exchange?  I thought it would be so fun to peel stickers off my walls for my two toddlers, so when the local moms club I joined this summer offered to pair off all the kids in the group for a Valentine and sticker exchange I was all, why would I ever do that we’re so in!

I bundled up the boys and drove them to Target last week where they begged for every toy in the store searched for their Valentine selection.  After yelling ‘I WANT THAT ONE!’ so loudly my eardrums are now permanently scarred a collective collaboration, the boys picked this cheap sweet box of Nemo cards.

nemo

Reichen and Latham also whined for me to buy them selected these stickers from the movie Cars to mail their friends.

carstickers

Since there were two sheets of stickers in one package, I thought I’d be cheap split them.  A day later, I mailed each of the boys on our exchange list one Valentine and one sheet of stickers and I admit,  I was feeling frickin fabulous relieved about completing my task on time, that is, until Latham received this:

songbook

IT’S A HOMEMADE VALENTINE SONG AND FINGERPLAY BOOK!!!

book

WITH PAGES AND PAGES AND PAGES…

book1

OF SONGS AND FINGERPLAYS!!!  BUT THAT’S NOT ALL…

lathamname

THE MOM WHO MADE IT ALSO STAMPED LATHAM’S NAME IN SESAME STREET LETTERS!!!  AND…

heart

SHE MELTED CRAYONS INTO THE SHAPE OF A HEART AND ATTATCHED IT TO THE FRONT OF THE BOOKLET!!!  AND…

elmostickers

SHE DIDN’T EVEN SPLIT THE TWO SHEET PACKAGE OF ELMO STICKERS!  SHE GAVE LATHAM BOTH SHEETS!!!

Sigh.  I didn’t even know you could melt crayons into the shape of heart.  I’m so going to lose my membership in the moms club for this one.

David Just Knows. And Reichen Does, too.

Sunday, January 31st, 2010

David was out of town the first time he really freaked me out. We had just moved in together after dating about 8 months and while I knew him pretty well, I didn’t know anything about his most intriguing trait. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Even now, he’s wary of me to writing about it. He says if I do, it might go away. But it never does. And we’ve talked about it a lot over the years because he keeps doing it. And now, it appears, my 3 year old does it too.

All I wanted to do when I pulled into our drive way that night nearly a decade ago was eat dinner and go to bed. It had been a long day at work and with David out of town, I wanted it to be over. But when I grabbed my purse and shut the door of my Ford, Explorer, I just stopped and stared. I immediately jumped back in my SUV, locked the doors, and with my heart racing, I dialed David.

I told him something really strange was happening in the house and before I said another word he interrupted, “Every light in the house is on.”

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. How could he know? He had been out of town two days. I’m the one who turned off the lights and locked the house that morning. Not to mention I never turn on every light in the house.

“How do you know that,” I stammered.

“I just know things,” he said simply.

Since that day, I have heard that phrase more times than I can count. David just knows things. And I’m not sure how he knows them. He just does.

He knows what strangers at the table next to us at are going to order before they do. He knows the exact score of a football, baseball, or basketball game before they’re played. He knows exactly how many pieces of candy are in a bag of m&ms.

David just knows things.

I agree, it sounds odd. It is odd. I wouldn’t believe it myself, if I didn’t witness David doing it day and in and day out over and over and over again through the years.

What’s even more odd: Reichen now knows things, too.

Reichen is passionate about music. When we’re in the car, he begs me to turn on the radio and from my rear view mirror I see my son dancing and singing to the songs. He wants to know the name of every tune and he wants to know who sings it.

I never thought much of it, until the boys and I were driving to get my daily dose of diet vanilla coke a few days ago, that’s when Reichen spouted off One Republic would be the band to play the next song.

“We’ll see,” I said.

My eyes bugged when the band’s latest hit began to blare through my minivan speakers. Reichen jammed a bit before making his next prediction.

“Momma, Fireflies is next,” he smiled.

“All right, Doodle Bug. Let’s listen for it,” I replied.

Good thing we were stopped at Sonic waiting for the drink I ordered, because I was stunned when the top 40 song started playing.

Since that day, Reichen has made other mind boggling predictions, ones impossible for him to predict.

Ever since Reichen was born, he has been the spitting image of his father.  And it’s not just me who says it. Complete strangers stop me on the street, at airports, and restaurants and confirm it.  But it appears he’s inherited more than his father’s looks.

Reichen, just like his dad, now just knows things, too.

ReichenandDavid

Chugga Chugga Poo Poo

Tuesday, January 26th, 2010

pottytraining

 

I hear it coming, it’s on the way

In fact, it’s here and it’s here to stay.

 

The potty train is at your front door

And I’m the conductor yelling, ”All Aboard!”

 

You get mad and say it’s not for you

To that, I reply “Chugga Chugga Poo Poo!”

 

You think it’s funny and laugh a little bit

Until you’re on the stool and then you start to kick.

 

You’re filled full of  fluids and I know you have to go

But when I ask you if you’re ready, you say ’No! No! No!!”

 

So we continue to sit and wait several minutes

We read, play games, and I try every gimmick.

 

I tell you there’s candy, it’s your favorite reward

You just have to potty and every piece can be yours.

 

We wait and we wait and get really bored

But suddenly you’re ready and both of us are floored.

 

You did it! I knew it! I’m so full of elation!

Reichen’s train has finally left the potty station.

I’m Totally Talking To You. But Not in French.

Sunday, January 24th, 2010

Parlez vous Francais?  Non?  Me, neither.  And that’s pretty pathetic considering I took 2 years of the foreign language in high school and 2 more in college.   You don’t have to be a math major to know 2 plus 2 equals 4.  And to study a subject that many years and remember nothing is um… weird.  It’s weird I don’t remember a word of vocabulary.  It’s weird I don’t remember how to conjugate  verbs.  And It’s weird I can’t even remember a single french phrases. 

You:  “Whatever.”

(I literally hear you interrupting me in my mind while I’m writing, so I just want you to know I’m going to have a little conversation with you right here, right now.  And I totally know we didn’t talk in real life.)

(I think.)

Me:  “What do you mean, ‘whatever?’ “

You:  “You so know a few french words.  I mean, you at least know one french phrase.  You wrote ‘do you speak French,’ in French, at the beginning of the blog.”

Me:  “Oh, that.  I looked it up on Wikipedia and copied it into the post.”

You:  “That’s weird.”

Me:  “Totally.”

I don’t remember much about the middle aged woman who taught the high school subject, either.  Who spends an hour a day, every day for 2 years with someone and can’t even remember her name?  Me, that’s who.  But I do remember one thing:  I did not like her.  Not one little bit.  And she didn’t like me. 

I hated French class and Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name knew it.  I would sit in my seat and chew gum and she would tell me to spit it out.  She would ask me to conjugate a verb and I would say no, thank you very much.  She would roll her eyes and I would roll mine.  Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name was really annoyed and so was I.  But, c’mon.  I was a 13 or 14 year old hormonal kid.  What was her excuse?  I have not thought about Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name since the day I skipped out of her classroom for the last time nearly 2 decades ago.  That is, until last night. 

I guess the pepperoni and hamburger, cheese stuffed crust pizza we ordered from Pizza Hut really did a number on me because I had the most bizzare dream about Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name.  It went a little like this:  I was in France and I started to panic a bit because I didn’t know the language.  And you’ll never guess who stopped on the street to help – Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name.  

Here’s the part of the dream that gets a little gummy and blurry and doesn’t make a lick of sense whatsoever, so please indulge.  Over the course of the dream, Madame I Can’t Remember Her Name and I became really, really, really good friends.  She was funny and clever.  She showed me where to eat and how to order.  She even had a sense of humor and we laughed and laughed and laughed.

But then I woke up.  And thought that was weird.  Really weird. 

But perhaps not nearly as weird as me sharing this really weird dream with you.

Sorry about that.