Smashing Bubble Guns on Valentine’s

Usually I buy books as presents.  I love books – especially new ones.  (Reading “Dump Trucks and Diggers” one more time will definitely test the limits of my sanity).  However, this Valentine’s day, I bought bubble guns instead.

The inspiration came from a recent Superbowl party, where the kids had the best time with the family’s bubble gun.  I shopped our local Target and couldn’t believe what I found – an entire aisle devoted to bubbles, bubble blowers, bubble guns, and bubble machines.

I took a stab at comparing styles and prices, but Kiki kept spilling her popcorn on the floor (on purpose) and Bunder kept screaming, “MOMMY!  Kiki spilt her popcorn!  LOOK, MOMMY!  Kiki made a mess!”

Of course, this made Kiki laugh and repeat the procedure, which in turn made Bunder yell louder and with more intensity.

I grabbed the $4 guns, thinking, “Can the $8 guns really be that much better?”  All the packages read something similar – spill proof, drip proof, extreme bubble fun, etc.

The night of February 13^th, I laid out what was left of the kids Valentine’s gifts: bubble guns and miniature tin hearts.  (Kiki found the big stuffed dogs in the back of our walk-in closet a week ago).  I double-checked the seal on the tin hearts to make certain the dog couldn’t open them and eat the chocolates like she did the chocolate bunnies out of the Easter baskets.

At 5:30 the next morning, the kids squealed with delight at the sight of the new presents on the living room floor.  The squeals turned to screams when they couldn’t open the packages.  I tried to tear open the bubble guns, but had to race into the kitchen for scissors.  Back in the living room, I opened the packages causing two AA batteries to fall out – choking hazards for Kiki. Quickly, I whisked the bubble guns and batteries back to the kitchen with two whining toddlers following me.  I searched the cabinet for the miniature screwdriver I use to install batteries but couldn’t find it.  Luckily, I found it in the second place I checked, Mister’s desk drawer.  Carefully, so as not to lose the tiny screws, I unscrewed the back of the bubble guns and fitted the batteries.  I waited to attach the bottles of bubbles.

Bunder seemed content to blow things with the bubble gun as it produced a soft fanning of air.  Kiki couldn’t care less about the bubble gun; she wanted chocolate.  I promised as soon as the sun came up, we’d test out their bubble guns in the backyard with the bubbles.  Oh joy!

An hour later, I began changing the kids into warmer clothes (it was barely 40 degrees out).  I found their coats, hats, mittens, socks, and shoes and attempted to dress them.  Kiki cried and tried to escape.  Bunder threw fits not wanting to wear his coat, hat, or gloves.  “It’s not cold out, Mommy!  It’s hot out!”  He yelled.

Finally with much sweat and tears, we made it outside.  Kiki wandered off to play in the sandbox.  Bunder and I attempted to use the bubble guns.  “Attempted” is the key word.

I don’t know what kind of crack head created the descriptions on the package, but my idea of “extreme bubble fun” is not waving around the bubble toy, shaking it, rinsing it under water, blowing on it, and feeling cold bubble fluid drip down my arm and pool near my elbow.

Drawn by the outrageous Mommy dances and the wild screams of Bunder, Kiki ran over to whimper at my feet and watch the action.  I felt crazy inside – how could a sweet Valentine’s present turn into such a nightmare?  I imagined smashing the bubble guns on the concrete patio, stomping on them, breaking the cheap, stupid plastic toys into a billion bits, all while shrieking like a banshee and waving my arms like a monkey.  I wonder where Bunder gets his temper?

After much trial and error, I was able to get one bubble gun to blow a few intermittent bubbles out by pulsing the trigger and holding it at a distinct 45-degree angle to the ground.  Much to Bunder’s dismay, he couldn’t repeat the process exactly, so he never did get to blow bubbles with his gun.

Next year, I’m buying books.

The Case of the Mystery Poop

I returned from a run yesterday, and Mister, who was watching the kids, tells me he found a piece of poop on the carpet and can’t figure out where it came from. “Did you check Kiki’s diaper?”  I ask.

“Yes, and it was fine.  I asked Bunder if he pooped his pants and he said no.  I checked and his underwear were clean,” Mister continues, “I have no idea where the poop came from.”

The case of the mystery poop … one of many little anecdotes I hear upon returning home from a run.

Don’t worry; I’m not going to talk about running – not here anyway.  I started a new blog specifically for that topic.  Mister says, those who want to read about Mommy-world, don’t care about Marathon-world and vice versa.

I’ve pointed out to him, I do have a small following of mostly family who will read everything I write –God love ‘em!  I don’t even care if they chat about me behind my back – isn’t that the crux of blogging – giving people something to discuss.

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  I was talking about how I’m not going to talk about running.  Except to say, these past five months of marathon training have been wonderful for our family.  The kids have grown more attached to Mister.  They’re less dependent on Mommy.  I’ve made new friends through Rogue, the running group I joined.  And I’ve found a much-needed balance to my life in the Mother-world.

Let’s face it, we, stay-at-home-moms, are with our kids day-in and day-out.  We have certain ways of doing things, and we might just think those certain ways are the right ways.  This can be frustrating for the other caregivers in the household (so I’m told).  My running schedule provides quality time for Mister and the kids to play without my interference (as if I interfere – “Don’t throw her in the air – that’s bad for her brain!  Don’t swing him like that!  You’ll dislocate his shoulder!”)

Now, Bunder often says to me, “It’s time for you to go running, Mommy.  Bye-bye!”

When I wasn’t working toward a goal, the marathon, I found numerous excuses to stay home and not get out of the house.  In turn, I denied myself a much-needed break.  Doesn’t everyone perform better with regular time to reflect and recharge?

My advice to you, stay-at-home-moms, is find something – anything you’re passionate about that doesn’t directly relate to your family and foster that interest.  Sometimes, in order to be great at something, you have to take a step-back.  Thomas Merton said, “Happiness is not a matter of intensity, but of balance, order, rhythm, and harmony.”

Running has helped me find order within my family, but I’m not talking about running on this blog, so you tell me.  What gives you balance?  What do you like to do outside of raising your children to bring harmony to your world?

Mad Gab, the Toddler Version

Oh, what are the games that Baby plays

With those who love his baby ways? 

I’ve read these lines many times over to Bunder and Kiki as the first page in the story, Play with Me by Esther Wilkin.  Somehow, these stanzas kept playing in my head as I returned to bed at 12:47 a.m.

At 12:39 a.m., I awake with a start to Bunder screaming from his bed.  Groggily, I make my way across the house to his bedroom.  The house feels cold compared to my soft, warm spot under the goose-down comforter next to Mister.

As soon as Bunder sees me, he begins yelling something unintelligible through sobs.

“It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It was just a bad dream,” I try to soothe.

“NOOO!!! “  He shrieks louder, “I wanna blah, blah, blee!”

I have no idea what he’s saying.  Therefore, I attempt to use logical reason based on experiences to construct my best hypothesis.  All of which is very difficult to do in the middle of the night with a two-year old bawling in my ear.  The game of Mad Gab –Toddler Version begins…

“You have to go pee?”

“NOOOOO!!!  More screeching and crying, “I wanna blah, blah, blee!”

“You want to brush your teeth?”

“NOOOOO!!!  Blah, blah, blah, blee!”

“You bit your cheek?”

“NOOOOO!!!  Blah, blah, blah, blee!”

“You want some cheese?”

“NOOOOO!!!  Blah, blah, blah, blee!”

Clearly, Bunder is winning this round.  I can barely make out the last word ending in a long e sound.   I throw in the towel, offer him a sippy cup of water, and pray he goes back to sleep.

Oh, what are the games that Baby plays

With those who love his baby ways? 

Kiki has a fun game.  It goes something like this…

Look what I found lying on the ground.  Is it an acorn, a berry, or dog poop?

Now you see it!

Now you don’t!

Oh, what are the games that Baby plays

With those who love his baby ways? 

A Black Fireman

“Look Mommy, it’s a black fireman!”  “Mommy, look!  A BLACK FIREMAN!” Bunder’s yelling this from the second seat of our double stroller as he points to the Fire Station Lego set he’s holding in his lap.  Kiki’s strapped in front of him.  I’m pushing the rig through the busy aisles of our local Target.

I start to panic.  I remember reading in NurtureShock, if I shush Bunder, he’ll think he said something wrong – or worse yet – he’ll think I have something against black people – which I don’t.  I love black people!  Well, I don’t mean anymore than I love white people or Asians or Hispanics.  I’m not saying I love them more – like their race is superior or like I have some weird racial preference.  Oh, my, I’m sweating.  This is all so not p.c.

The book said not to react in a negative way when children notice racial or ethnic differences.  It’s natural for them to notice these differences.   As parents, we should not pretend to be color blind, because our kids are definitely not!  I know what not to do, but what should I do?

People passing by start to do double takes.  As I rush past them, I see them turn to others and start to say, “Did he just say …?”

“A BLACK FIREMAN!  LOOK!  LOOK!  A BLACK FIREMAN!”  Bunder’s now singing it as if he’s just created the latest chart-topping hit.

I laugh nervously and pull into a vacant aisle.  Squatting next to the stroller, I say, “Yes, yes, I see the black firefighter.  You’re right – it is a black firefighter.  Do you see the dog?  What kind of dog is it?  It’s a Dalmatian.  See.  It has black and white spots.  And, OOOOH LOOK!  This Lego set comes with a fire hydrant and hose.  Oh, that’ll be so much fun to play with when we get home.”

Bunder studies the box and I race to the front of the store hoping to catch an empty checkout lane.  Just as we reach the shortest line, three carts deep, Bunder starts singing again, “A BLACK FIREMAN!  I SEE A BLACK FIREMAN!  A BLACK FIREMAN!”

I smile and nod to the crowd of gawkers as they start to whisper God only knows what.  I daydream about being a less conscientious parent – you know – someone who doesn’t try to read about doing everything right in every single parenting moment.  If that were the case, I could shush him, tell him to be quiet and threaten to take the Lego set away.  Instead, I listen to

“A BLACK FIREMAN!  A BLACK FIREMAN!  LOOK!  A BLACK FIREMAN!”

linking up with Just Write

Don’t Pee Where You Play

Photo of Bunder as taken by Ruth of http://hammerandthread.blogspot.com/

I’m sitting at a picnic table at an outside eatery looking over an enclosed playground.  I take another sip of my Fireman’s 4 and the last bite of my cheeseburger as I check for Bunder.  (Only in Austin, can you enjoy a beer at 11 a.m. at a mom’s meetup and be a part of the norm).

Bunder’s climbing the rock wall to the top of the playscape.  Kiki’s nestled in my lap nibbling on the forgotten french fries in front of her.  Six or seven other moms gather round the table: some sitting, some standing, some bouncing babies in their arms.  All moms and kids seem to be enjoying themselves.

I can’t even remember the conversation – I just remember thinking, “I love moments like this – total bliss – the kids are playing and the moms are connecting.”

Suddenly, another mom is startled, “Oh no!  Someone has his pants down!  I see little boy parts!”

Everyone jumps, “Who is it?  Who is it?”

Who do you think it is?  I’ll give you one guess.

I race across the artificial turf still holding Kiki.  I reach Bunder just as the flow begins.  “What do I do?”  I ask another mom close to me.

“Just let him go and use it as a teachable moment– ‘don’t pee where you play.”

I laugh, “Don’t pee where you play!  Love it!”

I look around for other parents – parents I don’t know who might be disgusted.  Everyone seems to be looking away, not paying attention.

“Look Mommy!  I peed on the woodchips!”  Bunder announces with pride.

“Yes, yes.  I see.  I’m glad you peed,” I whisper as I quickly use my foot to cover his urine spot with additional wood chips.

“Just like kitty litter,” the mom close-by comments.

I laugh nervous and slightly mortified that my child just exposed himself in public and urinated smack-dab in the middle of the playground.

Then, I crouch down to Bunder’s level (still holding Kiki) and say, “I’m so glad you knew you had to go pee.  And what a big boy to pull down your pants and pee all by yourself, but next time we’re out and about you need to let Mommy know before you pee.  We shouldn’t pee where we play.  Other kids might think it’s gross.”

“Mommy, I peed on the woodchips!”

“You sure did!  Next time, let’s remember we don’t pee where we play.”

“Mommy, I peed on the woodchips!”

“Yes, yes!  That’s great!”  I concede.  And in many ways, it is great: 1) he didn’t pee in his pants, 2) he pulled down his pants by himself, and 3) he executed the pee perfectly by sticking out his hips and not dribbling on his pants.  All in all – a potty training success story.

It’s just too bad another kid might walk or play in his urine.  Let’s try not to think about it.

linking up with 

No Good, Lousy, Sick Day

A big soft, fuzzy blanket.  You know the kind, one that covers your whole body comfortably without being too weighty or too warm, just snuggly and oh so soft.

My favorite pillow.

A good book.  Something easy and light, maybe Philippa Gregory – no, definitely Philippa Gregory.  She has just the right combination of intrigue and scandal.

A bowl of chicken noodle soup.

A large mug of tea and honey.

Lounging on the couch or in bed enjoying all the above – that’s what I’d be doing on this no good, lousy, sick day …

IF (and that’s a mighty BIG IF) I didn’t have two sick children to care for as well.

That’s right, three out of the four people in our house are sick and on antibiotics.  That’s seventy-five percent.  That’s three quarters – only one-quarter away from a dollar.  That’s more than majority.  (Can you tell I used to teach elementary school math?)

Why can’t I just lie around, watching soap operas, eating bon bons all day?  Isn’t that what stay-at-home-moms do?  (For more on that topic, you should seriously read Her Bad Mother’s blog.  She had someone “unfriend” her on Facebook for being such a huge disappointment, a stay-at-home-mom.)

As much as I would’ve loved to hide under the covers and not think about the twenty miles I’m scheduled to run in the morning, my children had other plans.

They went something like this

And then something like this

Just now, at the end of a very, long day I stood in the kitchen taking a drink of water.  Bunder looked over to me from his prime Mickey Mouse Clubhouse spot on the couch and said, “Mommy, I love you with all a your hearts.”

Is Forever Enough?

Bunder spills his bowl of cereal on himself, the chair, and the floor only after I’ve asked him three times to stop playing and eat.

“A shower!  A shower!  Mommy, I need a shower!” Bunder cries as he stands on the floor in the midst of Rice Krispies and milk.

“You don’t need a shower.  You just need a change of clothes.”

I strip him down, grab a clean shirt from the laundry basket of not-yet-folded clothes, and start to clean the mess.  I hand Bunder a paper towel with instructions to help.

We work together to pick up stray cereal bits and pools of milk.  With Bunder’s booster seat in the kitchen sink, I sit down to finish my breakfast noticing my toast and coffee are both cold.  Two bites and one swallow later I hear, “Mommy, I have to go poop!  Turn the light on, Mommy!”

“Yea!  It’s time to go poop!” I feign excitement as I race Bunder to the bathroom.

Minutes later, I finish cleaning the breakfast dishes and check on Kiki and Bunder playing in her room.  As I approach, a gnarly stench emits from the room, “Oh, boy!  Kiki, you’ve got a stinky diaper!”

She hurries behind the big rocker trying to hide, whining to let me know she wants no part of a diaper change.  “I’m sorry, honey, but we’ve got to clean you up!”

I groan as I see the diaper blowout: up her back, down both legs, through three layers of clothes.  “Looks like we need a bath, little lovey,” I comment to Kiki as I clean her as best I can with wipes before carting her to the bathroom.

As I bathe her, I think about yesterday’s peaceful, serene drive to church.  Mister stayed home with Bunder and his cough, so Kiki and I had a girls’ date to St. John.  She fell asleep in the car, as we listened to the lullaby playlist I made for Bunder when he was still in utero.

I start to sing one of the songs, Lullaby by the Dixie Chicks:

They didn’t have you where I come from      

Never knew the best was yet to come

Life began when I saw your face

And I hear your laugh like a serenade.

 

How long do you want to be loved?

Is forever enough?  Is forever enough? 

How long do you want to be loved?

Is forever enough?

Cause I’m never, never giving you up.

Kiki asleep in the car on our way to church

 

A Special Stamp and a Talking Goat

Have you ever experienced unfair treatment for no apparent reason?  Say, a store clerk is overly rude or a police officer busts you for going six miles over the speed limit or another driver cuts you off as your lanes merge?  Perhaps, you’re angry for a while or maybe you give her the benefit of the doubt and think, “She must be having a rough day.”

These unpleasant encounters happen all the time for all sorts of reasons.  As frustrating as it can be, we’re somewhat accustom to these offenses in the adult world.

But has it ever happened to your child … in front of you?

A few Fridays ago, I took Bunder and Kiki to a toddler, open-gym time at a local Capital Gymnastics.  Bunder loves the place.  They have a pit with blue, foam blocks, trampolines, low balance beams, a trampoline track, monkey bars, and many different shaped mats to climb.

At the start of the open gym time, the coach asks everyone to sit in a circle for stretches and a review of the rules.  (This is crazy!  Can’t she see we have toddlers – not teenagers?)  Bunder of course screams bloody- murder every time I stop him from running to the blue foam pit – which happens about every ten seconds.  COME ON!  He’s two!  All he wants to do is run and play.  Doesn’t the coach know two-year olds have a problem with delayed gratification?

“Let’s sit and look at all the fun and pretty equipment while we talk and point to it and explain with many words what you can’t do on it.  Oh, look at that trampoline!  Doesn’t that look fun?  Don’t you want to run and jump on it?  First, I need to tell you to jump with your feet and only one at a time.  What’s that?  You don’t know what ‘one at a time means?’  Well here, let me show you.  Look at me bouncing on the trampoline!  See isn’t it fun?  No one else is bouncing on it?  Right?  That’s ‘one at a time.’  What’s that?  I can’t hear you over the screaming children.”

Maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but no lie – the coach did try to sit everyone in a circle and explain the rules while demonstrating stretches.

During the next hour, Bunder runs around like crazy, and I bounce and carry and haul Kiki every which way trying to keep up with him.  (One of the rules is parents must be within arm’s length of their children at all times).

Well, wouldn’t you know it – Bunder runs onto the trampoline while another child is on it.  Two steps behind, breathing heavily, carrying Kiki, I catch up to him to pull him off, but not before the coach can pounce on him and sternly reprimand him for breaking the rules.  She goes on at length about how important it is to have only one person on the trampoline at a time and wait your turn and blah, blah, blah.  Bunder stares at her as if she has a talking goat coming out of her head.  I say, “Don’t worry.  I’ve got him.  I was just catching up!”

This event strikes me as odd, because I haven’t seen the coach rebuke any other children even though, as you can imagine, plenty of toddlers are having trouble remembering the rules.  I don’t have time to ponder this for long, because Bunder’s about to run down the trampoline track in the wrong direction.  “Oh, no!  Not again!”

Before I can reach poor Bunder, the coach grabs him once more and commences another lecture.  If I wasn’t so disturbed by the coach’s apparent prejudice against my son, I might find it funny – an adult attempting to lecture a two-year old.

After several more incidences similar to this, I realize I’m not imagining things.  This coach has it out for my baby.  I stick to Bunder like white on rice, preventing the coach from coming anywhere near him.

Five minutes before the hour is up, the coach turns off the music and calls all kids over for their special stamps.  All across the gym, parents round up, plead, beg, bride their kids toward the door for their stamps.  Bunder, Kiki, and I arrive in the midst of the crowd and I instruct Bunder to sit and wait for his turn.

Of course, with two and three-year olds a line doesn’t form.  They gather in a conglomerate mess edging for the coach’s stamp.  I watch as Bunder sits in the middle waiting.  The coach works left to right sweeping back and forth stamping the kids hands.  Just when it looks like Bunder’s turn, she skips over him and moves onto the other children.  Bunder sits and waits and waits and waits.

Pretty soon all the children have stamps and are leaving the gym.  Bunder (bless his heart) remains in the same spot on the floor waiting for his stamp.  This is when it gets interesting.

Up until this point, I have TRIED to give the coach the benefit of the doubt, “Oh, she must be jealous of Bunder’s exuberance for life – something she clearly lacks.”

But now – do you know what she does?  With poor little Bunder sitting all alone on the gym floor waiting ever so good-naturedly for his stamp?  She turns her back to him and starts talking to a parent.

I’m infuriated.  Clearly, she has issues.  What woman does this to a toddler?  What did he ever do to her?

I reassure Bunder, “It’s okay.  Just wait a little longer.  You’ll get a stamp in just a minute.”

We wait … and wait …

I feel like the last person at the airline baggage claim.  All the other passengers have long since picked up their bags and I remain – knowing the inevitable– not wanting to admit to myself my bag is lost.  No matter how long I sit and watch the carousel go round and round, my bags are not coming.  The dread.  The doom.  The misery.

Except I’m not watching a baggage carousel in some airport.  I’m watching my own flesh and blood, my sweet, sweet child, sit and wait miserably for his stamp.

I say very loudly to Bunder, “Thank you for waiting so patiently.  I’m sure your stamp is coming.”

The conversation ends.  The coach turns toward me and says …

Are you ready for this?  I’m not exaggerating.  She says….

“It’s the first time he’s been patient ALL day.”

The nerve.  The audacity.

I say, “What is your problem?  Does it make you feel BIG to insult a two-year old?  Are you sure you’re in the right line of work, because it’s not developmentally appropriate for two-year olds to control their impulsiveness.  Perhaps you should get a job at the DMV where they make use of crabby, rule-loving witches.”

Okay.  I don’t say any of that.  I would have loved to but I didn’t.  Quite frankly, I was so taken aback I didn’t say anything.  I just glared at her giving her the worst evil eye I could muster.

In conclusion, Bunder got his stamp.  We left never to return.  I found anther Capital Gymnastics a little farther from our house but much nicer.  Nothing in the gym is off limits, and they have a blow-up, bouncy train – which Bunder loves.  The coach only explains rules when we have new visitors and she does so in the lobby – not in the gym.  Every interaction she’s had with Bunder and Kiki is positive, upbeat and fun.

The bouncy train

So, I realize Bunder’s only two, and certainly more experiences like this will follow.  As much as I’d love to believe my children are perfect angels, I know they are not.  I’m not naive enough to think they won’t rub other adults the wrong way in the future.  This miserable taste of reality leaves a pit in my stomach.  As a parent, I want to protect my children from these cruel happenings.  Don’t we all?  Don’t we, as parents, want to see our children happy, healthy, and well liked?

Have you ever experienced your child treated poorly by another adult?  What did you do?

Bunder and Kiki at Capital Gymnastics waiting for their stamps

Winter Wonderland

It’s 75 degrees in January.  What to do?

Take a walk to the mailbox.

Climb a fire hydrant.

Pick up dog poop, “Ball!”  Kiki says as she holds it in the air.  (At least it’s the dry, hard kind and not the wet, squishy kind.)

D for Delayed

A few things I just don’t get:

1) why Bunder calls white items “vanilla” (yesterday he said, “Mommy, I’ll go potty on my froggy potty and you go potty on your vanilla potty.”  Yummm… a vanilla potty),

2)  Kim Kardashian’s 72 day marriage (this one I’m researching by watching Kim and Khloe take New York on the E channel),

3)  Antimatter Retrocausality,

4)  why parents of third graders are dissatisfied with “B’s” on their children’s report cards.

Several times b.c. (before children), I remember hearing, “when you have children of your own someday, you’ll understand.”

Well, now it is someday a.c. (after children), and I still don’t understand number four.

As a third grade teacher, I was amazed at parents expecting nothing less than perfect performance from their eight or nine year old child.  In those situations, I always stressed the areas the child was demonstrating exemplary work and reminded parents a “B” translates to “above average.”

I remember one mom telling me, “’B’s’ are NOT acceptable in our house.”

I thought she must have misunderstood me.  I said, “a ‘B’ as in ball not a ‘D’ as in doll.”

She said, “I know you said ‘B”, and anything less than an ‘A’ is not good enough.”

Well, if Kiki was assigned a letter grade for walking, she’d get a ‘D’ as in delayed, deferred, dawdled.  Do you think I’m disappointed, depressed, or dissatisfied?  Absolutely not!  I love her unconditionally.  As much as I would have liked her to walk at an earlier age – say around a year like her brother, I love her no matter what.  My love isn’t based on her abilities or her performance, and I swear I will never send such a message to my children by chastising them over a “B” on their report cards.  (If you disagree with me, please see “Unconditional Parenting” by Alfie Kohn).

For the longest time, Kiki’s been taking two or three steps here or there, between pieces of furniture, what have you.  But she hasn’t seemed interested in walking any farther – until Christmas Eve.  She just turned away from the couch and walked across the room like no biggie.  As if to say, “Yeah.  I knew I could walk all along.  I just liked the suspense of making you wait.”

She’s been walking ever since.  And IT IS GLORIOUS.  I love watching her.  Maybe you will too.