Nightmare

Last night I went up to bed, and just as I crawled under the covers I heard screaming from the boy’s room.

I ran down the hall to find him quaking in his bed, half-awake.

I climbed into his bed and held him.  “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

His head just nodded, small movements and fast.

“What was the dream about?” I asked.

He shook his head from side to side, and covered his mouth with his hands.

“You couldn’t breathe? Oh, honey that’s–” I started, but then saw he was shaking his head “no.”

“What was it?” I asked again.  I was getting worried that it was something bad involving ME, and that’s why he couldn’t tell me.

“I couldn’t,” he began.  “I couldn’t…”

“You couldn’t what?”

“I….I couldn’t get all the cereal out of the cereal box.”

“Oh, honey, I think that’ll be okay.” I patted him on the back, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Another crisis averted.

Gratitude

To get an expression of gratitude from my son for ANY gift usually requires the obvious prompt of “What do you say?” After which a “Thank you” is uttered, with varying degrees of sincerity.  Even if he loves a present, it just doesn’t occur to him to say thanks.

Recently, I decided it was time to upgrade from the 13 year old smallish TV and get a flat panel.

The TV was delivered in the morning, but I was working the evening shift so I wasn’t home to see their reaction.

At the hospital, my pager buzzed and I looked down and saw my home number.

I called back.  The boy picked up, “Thank you Mommy. I love it,” he said in hushed tones. He then handed the phone back to Eric, who told me that the boy insisted on calling me, all on his own.

So that’s what I have to do to get some gratitude around here.

 

Special Daze

We just got home from a great night out with friends and were chatting with the babysitter, Alex.

As most of you know, the boy loves wearing his suits whenever he can, though he hasn’t worn them quite as frequently these days.

Alex told us that she’d noticed this and had a conversation with the boy about it.

Alex: “So, I’ve noticed that you haven’t been wearing your suits as much these days.”

Boy: “Yeah, I only wear them on special days.”

Alex: “Oh, okay.”

(after a pause)

Boy: “When I wake up, I can feel if it’s a special day or not.”

Click Beep Whirr

How do you make one VERY happy 5 year old?

It’s easy.

Just add hat.

 

Recognize R2D2? I have to say I think this is the coolest hat EVER.  I’m still missing a few details–the black dot in the large blue patch and a few white lights.  I wasn’t going to add the second projecting bit since I don’t like how it looks on the hat, but the boy is a stickler for details and noticed its absence immediately.   Here’s a shot of the left side, and then a closeup:

 

Pattern: R2D2 Hat

Yarn: Loops and Threads Impeccable Worsted

 

(Note to non-knitters who read this blog: Feel free to skip the next paragraph of knitting minutiae.) The hat is created as a basic striped hat and then the details are done in duplicate stitch.  I didn’t find this nearly as tedious as other knitters seemed to, though I used a bit of intarsia for the blue rectangle area and it really does look much better that way.  I also used cheapo acrylic yarn because I wanted something that can be easily washed and dried.  I could not get the red spot to look good in duplicate stitch, so I knitted a circle out of red Cascade 220 and then felted it before stitching it on, which is what I plan to do with the large black spot as well.  Also, the sizing of the hat as the pattern is written didn’t work–the first hat I made was HUGE, and thus gifted to a friend with a big-headed child.  I also added a few extra rows of gray for a deeper hat to cover the ears.

Of course, now the boy is asking for a matching C-3PO hat.

Decay

For a few weeks, it was this:

after this:

after this:

after this:

Then it got cooler and the aphids moved in, and things looked a little less happy.

The dahlias finally bloomed, though, adding a nice fall surprise.

I’ve tried to plant for a fall crop as well, radishes, spinach, mache, chard, broccoli, and brussels sprouts, with some sprouts coming up.  Other than the radishes, though, it’s all a bit small and I’m not sure if I’ll get much.

There’s still a few cucumbers holding on, so I haven’t pulled that out yet, but I with the freezing temperatures coming next week that’ll have to go, too.

I was hoping to leave the beans to dry on the vine, but I’m not sure how that’ll do with the freeze.  I may have to dry them in the oven instead.

All in all, I was pretty happy with how everything turned out considering that I have no real idea what I’m doing.

Things I learned this year:

1) I am the major consumer of tomatoes in this household.  The girl only eats the small ones fresh off the plant.  The boy only eats the “big juuuuuicy red” ones.  Eric hates tomatoes.  There were days I ate a LOT of tomatoes. I never had enough to can, and, let’s be real here–I’ll never can anything.  (I did find them useful to barter.  I got a few delicious acorn squash for a bag of tomatoes–I clearly got the better end of that deal.) So next year, maybe not 3 tomato plants and definitely not the grape yellows.  Those were blah. Oh! There was what I’m calling a Darwin tomato in the backyard that sprouted from seed dropped from last year’s plant.  No water, fertilizer, anything, and it still grew.  I’m planting those seeds next year.

2)  I need new topsoil.  Next year, we are borrowing a truck and getting better dirt. This is one of the reasons I’m not planting a cover crop since I’m hoping to get largely new dirt next year anyway.

3)Peas.  I’m planting a LOT more peas.  They were very tasty.

4)I might give squash another year, but if I plant squash one more year to yield 2 tiny little fruits, it’s sayonara.

5)Who knew that the boy would love swiss chard so much?

6)Sad, but true: the pesto from Costco tastes better than the fresh pesto made from homegrown basil.

Anyway.  We’ll see if we get any fall/winter veggies, but I doubt it.

And now, for a few cute pictures of the girl because it’s been a while.

CSI: Denver

Time: Last week

Scene: The boy’s bedroom

Crime: Deep scratch marks on the dresser.

Suspect #1: The boy.

After what had been an EXTREMELY trying afternoon with the boy, he’d been sent to his room to calm down. (Apologies to any parents who witnessed the spectacular meltdown at the local school playground, involving hitting, screaming, kicking, and running away.)

Eric and I went up to get him dressed as he was going out to dinner with his grandparents.  In his room, I glanced at his dresser and saw that there were deep grooves carved into the bottom drawer.

“Did you do this?” I asked the boy.

“No….” he replied, with his lips doing funny twisting things.  He’s such a terrible liar.

“Well then, who did it?”

“My sister.”

I called for the girl, who was in her room, and asked, “Did you do this?” while pointing to the dresser.

“No.” She said definitively.  “Brudda do it.”

I look back at the boy. “This would be a good time for you to choose to tell the truth.  Who scratched your dresser?”

“I…I…she did it! I know she did!”

“How did she do it?”

“Ummm…I don’t know…a sharp pen…or something…” By now he’s shifting uncomfortably from side to side and still doing the funny lip twisting thing.

“Where’s the pen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, then how did she do it?”

“Well, maybe like this.” He proceed to pick up a ruler nearby with a sharp corner, sit next to the dresser and start to carve another deep line into the bottom drawer, at the exact same height as the others.

I then hand the ruler to the girl and tell her to use it on the dresser like she did before.  She lays the ruler flat on top of a half-open drawer and slides it around for a second before losing interest.

I look at the boy again.  I’m really trying  hard to get that badass Mom look down, you know, the one where kids eventually talk about  “The Look” that sent shivers down their spine.  I don’t think I’m there yet, but this was a good try.

Eventually, the boy sort of fesses up.  He loses a variety of perks, including desserts and TV watching, and gets a good talking to.

I think the worst thing about it is how angry it makes ME.  Like, I feel I’ve somehow failed as a parent because my kid is lying.

Some consults to the parenting expert, Mr. Google, have yielded a few thoughts about how to handle stuff like this in the future.  First of all, I shouldn’t have asked IF he had scratched the dresser since it gives him an opportunity to lie–I should have just said all the stuff I did at the end of the whole affair–about how even if we’re angry we don’t destroy things, etc.  The other tidbit I gleaned was that all 4-6 year olds lie as part of their normal development.

How do you deal with it when your kid lies? (Or have you done a better job than me and they simply never do?)

Coda: While making his bed today, I turn over a pillow to find his name written on it.  In black Sharpie.  Here we go again.

Parenting ideals

While not an original idea by any means, I was definitely a better parent before I had children.

I’d see a child misbehaving in public and watch how his awful parent handled it, knowing that my child would NEVER act that way and if they did I’d handle it SO much better than his terrible mother.   There was a whole list of things of things I definitely would or wouldn’t do as a parent.  Among them, my child would never wear anything with a character on it, would never order off the children’s menu, and would never misbehave in public.  Cut to a few years later when I’m ordering mac and cheese for my screaming toddler who’s wearing a “Toy Story” shirt.

I think everyone has certain ideas of what is most important to them as a parent.  I’m not talking about big things like religion–more the little weird things that we think will make us exceptional parents, not just average ones.  Things we get to be all sanctimommious about.  Some people refuse to feed their child anything jarred.  Some insist on their kid listening only to Mozart. I’ve heard of one woman who is so anti-processed food that she even makes her own ketchup.  Her own KETCHUP, people.  In the end, I don’t think most of these make the huge difference that we like to think they do.

I’m not without my own set of parenting  idiosyncrasies, though I’d never go so far as to make ketchup. (Now I’m curious. Wow, this sounds delicious.  I might have to backtrack on that ketchup comment.)

One of my big things before I had kids was TV.  Surely, when I had kids, my precious puppykins would never watch any TV until they were at least 3 years old.  For the boy, we held out until he was a bit closer to 2 years old before he was watching anything on a regular basis, and even then never saw a full length movie until he was closer to 3.  The only way that we made it this long is because I’m not a stay-at-home mom.  If I was, the kids would have had their daily TV hour starting in infancy to provide me with some sanity. The girl was corrupted much younger and already runs around asking, “Watch teebee? Nemo? Shaaks? Scaow me!” (Translation: “Can I watch ‘Finding Nemo’ in its entirety? Those sharks are somewhat frightening but brilliant representations of how we all face our own demons.” God, she’s bright.)

Still, I never quite understood the need for having a television in the car.  I HATE televisions in cars.  I don’t understand why children need constant entertainment, and electronic at that.  What’s wrong with talking to other people in the car, looking out the window, reading books or even (gasp!) being bored for a few moments and letting your mind wander?  Usually my kids grab a book to read in the car or we have some nice chats.

Recently, though, my ideal was tested.  I drove from Denver to Moab by myself with both children.  I’d rented a minivan so that my parents, who were vacationing there, could ride back with us.

It’s one thing to be able to go for short car ride with small kids without resorting to television, but would I make it for 7 hours?

My first plan was to not even let on that there was any TV capability in the car.  This lasted all of two minutes before the boy checked out the car and started pushing on panels and yelped, “There’s a TV!! Can we watch TV?!”

Sigh.  I said that we don’t watch TV in the car–we look around, we talk to each other, we read books, we listen to music. Disappointed, the boy strapped himself into his carseat and we took off.  Truthfully, I fully expected to play a movie, but wanted to see how long they’d make it first.  Or how long I’d make it.

The first hour and a half was fine–they read books, played with a few toys, and looked for bighorn sheep on the side of the highway.  We stopped in Vail for food, which ended unceremoniously with us racing through Vail village to get back to our car while holding the girl away from me as far as I could. In a moment of great parenting brilliance I’d decided not to bring a spare diaper. She pooped once and I figured she could go commando because surely, she wouldn’t poop a second time.  I was wrong.  Considering how different we look, I half expect some people thought I was kidnapping a little blond girl and was waiting for someone to call the cops.

The rest of the trip was dotted with a few stops for bathroom breaks and gas.  Glenwood springs is beautiful to drive through.  Then we crossed into Utah and hit 2 hours of the most boring drive I’ve seen.  It almost rivals Kansas in lack of interest.

I kept waiting for the inevitable, “Can we watch TV now?” from the back seat.

But it never came–we made the entire way there (and later the entire way back) without once popping in a video.

Unbelieveable.  And you know what? The ride was actually fun. We listened to a few science podcasts, sang along to Dan Zanes and the Dino5, and had some good conversations.  (As my Facebook friends know, my favorite one began with the boy asking me, “Hey, Mom, could we get a dead body sometime to make a mummy out of it?”)

More importantly, I now have one pre-parenting ideal that I’ve been able to carry through with, which clearly makes me an exceptional parent.

And now I have to go watch TV.  30 Rock is on!

Jiffy Jaffy Smiley

Knitting takes a bit of a backseat over the summer, what with gardening, hiking, the triathlon, and the fact that it just seems so warm.  Still, I don’t think I could stop entirely and did manage to get a few things done over the summer.

Meet the newest member of the family, Jiffy Jaffy Smiley, or just Jaffy for short.

This little giraffe has a lot of personality and is very popular.  He gets chair rides, gets read to, and goes swinging.

Jaffy was well loved and fought over by both children.  I intended him for the girl (hence the pink/purple), but the boy LOVES him.  He carries him around and took him on our recent trip to Moab.  On the way home, the boy uttered those dreaded words, “Mommy, I have to throw up.  NOW.”  I’m going about 75 mph on I-70.  I try to pull over as fast as possible, but as I’m swinging the car over, I feel a few splatters of vomit on my neck.  I get out of the car and look at my poor boy, covered in peanut-butter scented disgustingness.  Awesome.  I stand there for a moment, not sure what to do, and then a 16-wheeler rolls by me and I realize that I’m standing in a really, really dumb spot.  I quickly get back in the car and we get off at the next exit, thankfully only a quarter mile ahead.  In the parking lot of the gas station, we do our best to clean up the floor of the rental car and change the boy’s clothes.  My parents are in the car with me, so I have help.

That’s when the boy sees Jaffy.  He’d been holding Jaffy and the poor giraffe had taken the brunt of the projectile.

You know those scenes in war movies, where there’s two buddy soldiers, and they get through a firefight?  At the end, one of them looks forward and says to the other something like, “Jimmy? Man, I didn’t think we were going to make it through that one.” He then turns to look at Jimmy, and sees that his head’s been blown off. “Jimmy?! Jimmy?! Nooooo!!!!!”

That’s what it was like when the boy saw Jaffy, soaking wet in slimy goo.  Up until that point, he’d only seen the clothes and the book that he’d gotten wet. “Jafffffyyyyy!!!” he cried. I did my best to rinse the toy off in the gas station bathroom, stuck him in a plastic bag and tied the top.  I tried not to cry as I thought about the months of work that could be lost in one fell swoop.  Worst case, I supposed, I could take him apart and restuff him.

Back at home, I hosed him off in the utility sink and then stuck him in the washing machine.  I love Lion Brand Cotton-Ease for this exact reason–you can just toss it in the washer and it looks brand new when it comes out.  He’s stuffed with a synthetic fill so that was okay in the wash, too.

After 45 minutes, out he came, smelling clean and fresh and ready for more play.  I think of it as the resurrection of Jaffy.

I’m delighted that he survived and is so well loved.  It’s really fun making toys, like you’re creating this new being, though it felt weird to be sewing into him, like it hurt or something.

Or maybe I’ve watched Toy Story one too many times.

Speech Therapy

The boy has always had amazing language skills.  I remember when we’d go to his well child visits and would receive a sheet of paper with his expected language milestones, all of which he had achieved months prior.  I thought, rather uncharitably, that the milestones were for the dumb kids.

Things were a bit different with the girl.  We’d go to the same well child visits, look at the sheets, and she’d have maybe one or two of them achieved, and just barely at that.  I know you’re not supposed to compare children, but it’s sort of hard not to.

Denver has a city program for early evaluation and intervention for any delay, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to have the girl evaluated.  We sat on the ground with a bunch of toys, books, and puzzles, and two delightful women engaged the girl in a series of tasks.  During each one, the women would nod vigorously and beam at the girl, who was at her charming best.  At the end of it, they looked at me and said, “She’s not behind at all! She’s actually about 15% ahead of her age.”

Um..okay…I’ll just…walk away now…I’m not an overacheiving parent…no…not at all…

The funny thing is, I just went to find a video of the boy speaking at her age and you know what I found? They use exactly the same number of words.  The only difference is that the boy’s speech was much clearer.

The therapists did note this, especially that the girl tends to skip letters and drop the end off of words.   They encouraged me to enunciate and repeat sounds back to the girl to improve her pronunciation.  For example, if I show her a picture of a dog, and she says, “Daw!” I’m supposed to say, “Right! Dog! Do-Guh-Guh-Guh,” emphasizing the “g” sound.

I went over this at dinner that night, and the boy listened to every word.

This morning at breakfast, Eric asked the boy what music he wanted to listen to.

“Wilco!” he replied.

“Wacko!” parroted the girl.

The boy turned to his sister, “Wuh-Wuh-Wuh-il-il-il-ko-ko-ko.”

“Wacko!” said the girl.

He kept repeating the appropriate diction of “Wilco” until she more or less got it right. “Wuhlco!” she finally blurted out.

With such a talented speech therapist in the house, I’m sure she’ll be speaking clearly in no time!