Hello Spring

I love Spring.
Spring means warm days when we can finally play outside without coats, mittens, and hats. Spring means Easter. Spring means saying hello to new things...longer days, baby birds, daffodils, and butterflies.
But sometimes, Spring also means saying good bye to some things.
So today, in honor of Spring, I said good-bye.

Good-bye stuffed monkey. I have picked you up 47 times in the past week alone. I didn't mind so much when you were loved and I was picking you up to tuck you in bed next to someone, but now I just pick you up after you fly dangerously close to my head, because someone has used you as projectile. No offense, monkey, but it's not really about love anymore. They were only using you as a weapon. I can't let you be treated like that. I will miss you. But, at the same time, I'm glad you're gone. To be honest, I'm sick and tired of finding your stuffing all over the house. Huh. I guess that makes you a half stuffed monkey.

Good-bye broken car.  B insisted on hanging onto you in spite of the fact that you were missing wheels and you could no longer even drive. In fact, all you did lately was make some obnoxious sound like your battery was half dead. B will miss you when he eventually realizes that you're gone, and I will likely feel something that vaguely resembles guilt as I tell him that you must have gone to the broken car junk yard. But trust me when I tell you that I will get over. And so will he.

Good-bye stuffed...giraffe? At least I think you were a giraffe. See, I'm sorry, but since I couldn't even tell what kind of animal you were, I couldn't justify keeping you around. I mean, if I ever get that toy organizing thing down, I wouldn't even know where to put you. I wish you well, and hope you find a good therapist to help with your Animal Identity Disorder.

Good-bye various made in China pieces of crap that have been cluttering up my home. I have tripped over you more times than I can count, and I thought we should part ways before someone really got hurt. Oh, and don't think I didn't notice that you multiplied when I put you into the toy box. Maybe you can find some way back to your homeland. Here, this boat can take you. It goes way too slow now anyway. Bye-Bye boat.

Good-bye coloring books that we have had since 2005. No one uses you anyway. I have some guilt that my children no longer have coloring books, but I have evidence that they prefer to color on the walls, the doors, and the dishwasher, so you really didn't do your job all that well anyway, did you?

Good-bye Elmos. Yes, that is plural. I promise this has nothing to do with the fact that I hate Elmo. It's just, well--how many of you do we really need? If we had a couple more kids, then maybe I could justify keeping a few more of you, but as it is, I just can't justify keeping all twelve of you. And really, I have to remind you that, over the years, I've done a lot for you. I've brought you in out of the rain. I've saved you from certain death because someone thought you needed a bath. I've repeatedly put your clothes back on, and I've turned you off when not in use to preserve the few brain cells that I have left  your batteries. I've even tickled you, Elmo. But I'm not really feeling that we've gotten much in return. I mean, hello Potty Training Elmo, did you happen to notice that no one has actually been potty trained in the year and a half you've lived with us?  Maybe it's time you considered changing your name to What Have I Done for You Lately Elmo. But, please, don't consider yourself fired. Consider yourself laid off. I'm sure Sesame Street has an Unemployment office. Here, hitch a ride on this bus. Bye-bye bus.

While saying good-bye to all of this, I also found something I thought I'd lost. In fact, I was almost certain that I'd lost it, though I'm not sure exactly when. And while the part of it that I found was small--almost insignificant, perhaps--still, it was there. And just finding it gave me hope. There, under the Elmos, next to the coloring books, and between the broken car and the way too slow boat, was a very small bit of my sanity.

Now that I have that little piece back, I'm trying to hold onto it with all my might. I really don't want to lose it again. So if I know you in real life, I hope you'll come visit soon. Just be forewarned that if you show up with anything that can be used as projectile, has more than two pieces, or makes noise, I may suggest that you take a way too slow boat to China, in search of the elusive half stuffed flying monkey.

Sneak Attack

Someone in my house is a sneak. I probably shouldn't single this person out by name, because they are otherwise sweet, funny, and at times quite charming, so let's just say it's a three-year-old boy. I thought the sneakiness was strictly food related, as I recently noticed that this person had starting sitting in a new position when he is on the couch watching Elmo, which is also when I try to take a shower (because I need a shower, and because I hate Elmo). It dawned on me that it's odd for him to  a) be sitting on his side with his arms crossed in front of him and his legs pulled up to his chest like, well, like he's hiding something--imagine that, and b) be sitting.

 When I investigated, I found him with an entire jar of peanut butter. No spoon, just his fingers (I promise we no longer have that jar, so please don't be afraid to eat peanut butter at our house). Subsequent investigations have found evidence of crackers, leftover pizza, and half a bag of stale, year old marshmallows (sneaky, yes. picky, no). I promise I feed him.  Apparently this person has caught on quite well, and times his missions to begin when he hears the water start running and is usually sitting innocently, if uncomfortably, on the couch when I come out of the bathroom.

I have recently discovered that the sneakiness is not strictly food related, which makes me wonder if  he is, well, just sneaky. Or maybe he's just three. Unfortunately, he is also smart. I recently heard a certain three-year-old voice tell me they were going to smack me, and when I freaked out  explained that we don't talk that way, he informed me that "that's what you heard mom, but that's not what I said. I said I love you". Wow. He is not only sneaky. He's good. Just today, O somehow got a cup of water dumped over his head (poor youngest child) and a certain three-year-old boy said he "may have accidentally done it" and was going to hug him and apologize, until he saw just how wet O was, at which point he looked at me like I was a complete and total moron for even suggesting such a thing, and said "I can't hug him, mom. He's all wet. Someone dumped water all over him".

Recently, this otherwise sweet, funny, and at times quite charming little boy has been targeting his sister, with frequent reports of "N hit me!" which N vehemently denies. N has an unbelievable amount of patience for her brothers, but at times, she has had enough and retaliates (don't judge her--you try living with them). I can usually tell when N  is not being entirely forthcoming, but if I'm locked in my bedroom in another room for the actual alleged episode, I often have no way of knowing who's lying their @$$ off  not being entirely truthful.

Today while I was in the shower, I heard familiar screaming outside the bathroom door, and a certain three-year-old boy yelling "N! Stop hitting me! Ow!" A moment later, it changed to "O! Get off me! Stop O!" Now I was confused, as I was quite sure I had left O in his pack and play, and to my knowledge, he is not yet climbing out (Dear God, please don't let this be one of those of those times when you show your sense of humor and make me regret that I said that. It might be the thing that sends me over the edge). So I quietly opened the bathroom door, to find a certain three-year-old boy screaming at his "attackers" while he stood in the hall....all by himself. He looked up, clearly surprised to see me, since this time, I may have accidentally left the water in the shower running. Yup, it's confirmed. He's a sneak. I don't know where he gets it.




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What am I teaching these children?

When N was three, a typical conversation in the car went something like this:
N: Look mom! A stop sign! S-T-O-P. That spells stop. A stop sign is an octagon. Why are stop signs octagons and yield signs are triangles? Why do some roads have stop signs, and other roads have yield signs? Why do some roads have stop signs, and other signs have red lights? Why don't they have go signs?Who made the roads? Did God make the roads?

B is now three, and a typical conversation in the car goes something like this:
B: Mom! Watch where you're going! You're going to hit another trash can! (I plead the fifth). O, I'm going to smack you.

Children, obviously, are all different, and we shouldn't compare them. I am totally, 100% ok with that. But I have also been thinking about how our family's circumstances have impacted each of our children. With N, it was the three of us for three years. I didn't even work part time for most of that time. She didn't watch TV until she was two. She had my undivided attention pretty much all day, and Jimmy's pretty much all evening. Since she's been three, however, we've had B, we've had O, I started working part time, and Jimmy started his own business.

Things are different now, and while I would like to give B and O the same undivided attention I gave N, it just isn't always there to give. I know the benefits of siblings (hopefully) outweigh what may be lacking in parental attention, and I am incredibly glad they have each other. At times, though, I think back to how N was reciting poetry and performing George Thorogood songs at 3 (no, it was not I Drink Alone--we've taught her never to do that), and while I don't think either of these things are necessary (ok, and maybe not even healthy) for pre-schoolers,  I do sometimes wonder if I am teaching B, at this same age, as much as I can or should be. I'm not comparing them. I'm comparing what I am doing for each of them, and sometimes I ask myself "What am I really teaching them?" After all, isn't that my job?

I thought of this recently when I was playing Candy Land with B. At three, N loved Candy Land. A game typically went something like this:
N: Oh, good, two reds. One. Two. Oh, I'm getting closer to the lollipops. Your turn, mommy.

Candy Land with B goes something like this:
B: Move over gingerbread man. There's a train coming.
Me: Ok, B, pick a card.
B: No, mom. This is a train track.
Me:B, please don't throw the cards on the floor.
B: Can I have a snack?

Part of me knows this is an issue of personality and gender differences, and is not a result of anything I did or didn't do. Not to mention, who cares if he won't sit and play Candy Land. Another part of me, though--the mommy guilt part--wonders if I am teaching him everything I should be. I picture him being kicked out of preschool for throwing toys and not following directions. Of course, for that to happen, he would actually need to get out of diapers--something else I haven't yet been able to teach him--and be allowed into a pre-school.

At least he learns a lot from his siblings. N, for example, has taught him that, if he smacks her, she will throw a shoe at his head. Cause and effect, right? O has taught him that little brothers grow and become strong and will tackle you repeatedly at a very young age, to make up for all the times you tackled them before they could even roll over. Human growth and development, yes?

I am thinking about all of us this as we're driving the other day. I try to get him to sing along with the CD that's playing. "I don't like that song, mom". Ok, so much for that. I picture one of his future teachers looking at me with pity at a parent-teacher conference and saying, "If only he had learned "The Wheels on the Bus..."

"Hey, B! Let's say Humpty Dumpty!"  I wonder if I have taught him Humpty Dumpty. I know it's in a book we read. I know N knew it at this age.
"Humpty Dumpty Sat on the Wall. Humpty Dumpty Had a great Fall. All the kings horses......"
He says the whole thing. By himself. Yay! At least I have taught him Humpty Dumpty. Maybe I am doing ok.
"Mom?" he says
"Yes, B?" I am waiting for him to tell me something else I have taught him, or to ask about another nursery rhyme.
"Elmo taught me that. Elmo says Humpty Dumpty, too."
Oh.
I want to cry. Mommy guilt kicks in and I think that I have failed him somehow.
And then I think, I hate Elmo.

I am changing B's diaper that night (for the 6, 247th time, not that I'm counting) and he looks at me and says "Mom, I really love you. And I love Daddy, and I love N and O, too".
"You are such a nice boy," I tell him.
"That's why we're here, mom. God put us here to love each other".

I am amazed that he has actually picked something up in Church, especially considering that he is usually busy scratching his bum (our dog Bella taught him that) or offering pretend beer to those around us (Jimmy taught him that. At least he was sharing). Wow. He's actually been listening.

He is staring at me, and apparently reading my mind.
"You taught me that, mom. You said that God put us here to love each other."
Oh.
Of course I did.
That's my job.

Elmo's got nothin on me.

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