Don't Over-Think Things. And Don't Stick Your Hand In The Snow.

For the first time since I started this blog, I am at a loss of what to write. I have a lot of starts to posts, but they don’t go anywhere.

Take, for example:

Best Friend and lived kitty-corner to each other. That is, if the homes in our neighborhood were the 4 corner states of the United State, she’d be Colorado and I’d be Arizona, at least from my perspective.

We did this all the time.

The first winter we spent together she took off her mitten and stuck her hand in the snow. Then she cried, and we had to go inside. At the time I thought, “WTF are you doing?!”

Now, as a parent, I understand her thought process. The snow looked soft and pretty. If she touched it would it feel like a sparkly marshmallow? NO. It felt cold and wet. DAMMIT.

And then, how do I end it? Something about the innocence of youth? Something about how dorky Best Friend and I were?

Maybe, sometimes, a story doesn’t have a deeper meaning. It just ends. Sometimes things just happen, they are what they are, they don’t need complex analysis.

Sometimes, I need to stop over-thinking everything, and just go on with it. Or let it go. Whatever is more appropriate.

Also, I didn’t want to end the week with a post about a detachable penis.

Just When You Think Nothing Happens To You....

Disclaimer: Smut isn't my usual genre. But for the sake of this post, I have to use the word penis. It can't be helped. Fair warning.

I went to the grocery store today. Upon opening the car door, I was faced with a strange something lying on the cold, snowy pavement. I tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but all I got was this:

What do you mean you don’t know what this is?!

The mystery object was...some....thing.....

It looked something like a plantain, but there was no knobby bits at the end.

It wasn't this. Maybe...

It also looked something like a kielbasa, but it wasn’t ring shaped. Sometimes smoked sausages are packed more like traditional sausages. Either way, those suckers are vacuum-packed in my neck of the woods. So in order for one to hit the ground of a parking lot, some one had to ravenously gnaw at the vacuum seal until it tore open, so they could consume then-and-there the cold, raw meat.

Getting closer. Sort of...

No one is that desperate for sausage. Except maybe the homeless. Now I feel bad.

Anyhow, it was probably either a malformed plantain, or a sausage of unusual shape and/or destruction.

But I prefer to think it was this:

There Is No Wonderland. Just Winter. Also, Bah Humbug.

I tend to be a real hermit come winter.

Alas, it is snowing.

I avoid going outside. And, I avoid going outside. And then, I avoid going outside.

I don’t like snow. I don’t care that I grew up in Wisconsin. I don’t care that I spent 2 1/2 years living in colder Minnesota. I don’t care that I spent 3 1/2 years in milder (albeit still cold. Sort of. Sometimes.) Ohio.

I don’t like snow. I don’t like being cold.

But I do like an excuse to add hot cocoa and mochas to my hot beverage repertoire.

I like duping myself into making heart-attack inducing casseroles (hotdish to my friends in Minnesota) reasoning they'll stick to my bones.

You mean corn-dog casserole ISN’T good fore me? But it has corn in it!

I like being able to stay in my sweatpants all day, since I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I already do that, even when I have places to go. But now it’s LEGIT.

However, my hermit ways also manifest themselves when I’m depressed. I pine, not for the fjords, but for a deep, dark cave where I can go unnoticed and silent until the end of days. Like the prisoners of Plato’s cave, I see only the false shadows of my mind’s making.

Hermiting in the winter is ok, so long as it limits itself to things like sweaters and hot chocolate. It is not ok when it harbors solitude and sadness.

For me, at least, it’s a fine line.

Mama the Grouch

When I first started this stay-at-home gig, I could’ve been mistaken for the cheerful fairy. At the beginning it was all:

Time to put your shoes on!

Of course I’ll play princess puppy dance party with you!

Now it’s more like:

What are you doing? Come back here this instant!

If I catch you whining one more time, you'll get time out!
Also, I hate Jeeps!

I wonder if my children’s crabby moods are simply a product of my crabby moods, and we’re caught in some sort of ridiculous symbiotic relationship, where we all feed off of each other’s crabby-ness until we’ve all reached a point of crabby saturation.

That’s it, Jim. Take ‘er to shore.

Sometimes, I'm just so frustrated. I try to tell myself things like:

“They’re only 3 and 1. They don’t have any other ways to express their feelings.”

“Take a deep breath and assess - is this a fight worth having?”

But then I also tell myself things like:

“If you were happier, they’d be happier.”

“Why are you such a grouch to your own children?”

It’s hard to allow myself to be frustrated, without shaming myself for feeling frustrated. It’s hard to allow myself to be angry, without shaming myself for feeling angry.

I love my kids. I love that I can be at home with them while they’re still so little. So why am I so frustrated? So beat-down?

So grouchy?

Walker, Baby Ranger*

What, you don’t remember the hit Walker, Texas Ranger? Me either. Let’s move on, shall we?

Never forget...

Baby finally took her first steps. At 15 1/2 months.

Both my kids were late walkers. Preschooler didn’t learn until 16 1/2 months. Those 16 1/2 months were spent in anxious concern that because my daughter was a late bloomer in the walking department, she would probably have to roll and crab-crawl** to job interviews when she’s 23.

With Baby I had no compunction whatsoever. My kids were just late walkers. That’s just the way they rolled (or crab-crawled.) Whatever.

So screw developmental assessments!

There, I’ve said it.

At every baby well visit I’m handed a questionnaire and asked to tick off the items my baby is able to accomplish. The 12 month questionnaire went something like this:

Can your baby pick up a small object between his forefinger and thumb? Check.

Can your child speak at least one recognizable word besides mama and dada? Check.

Can your baby identify the area of an isosceles triangle. Uhhh....check?

But there’s one assessment question that has always screwed both my children over.

Does your baby walk yet, or at least cruise? NO.

Our pediatrician in Ohio responded to this with:

It’s probably nothing. BUT...

And that “but” would drive my new-parent anxiety off a cliff and into a ravine filled with thorn bushes, and probably bears.

OMNOMOMNOMNOM...

By the time Baby came into our lives, I was no longer concerned with her pokey gross motor development. And neither was her new pediatrician, who basically said, “Who cares? See you in 3 months.”

Lots of things are more difficult with 2 children. Time management. Shopping. Sanity.

But some things, like diaper-changing and expectations, are easier.

* I owe the entire concept of this title to my best friend's cat.

** Crab-crawl refers to this funky way of mobilization, where my kids scoot around on their butts using both hands and one knee in front of them. It's not to be confused with traditional crab-crawling.

Faster, my minions, faster!

Yes Preschooler, There Is a Santa Claus. Sorta. I think.

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat. Actually, there is no goose. I’m filling the void by getting fat(ter).

I’m spending my time stringing cranberry garland that may rot on our live Christmas tree that may loose all its needles before Christmas actually begins.

This may be the cleanest part of my home by the time Santa comes.

I’ve also spent my time in a futile effort to keep my living room clean so we don’t have to use a complicated rope-and-pulley system to suspend the tree over the pile of dirty laundry. In my living room. I know, I don’t know how that happened either.

There is only so much that will keep my children occupied during this time.

For Baby it’s pens (mercifully capped), my sharp scissors, exposed electrical outlets, and anything else that will result in her immanent demise.

For Preschooler it’s glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. She has always enjoyed art projects, so I keep an assortment of paint, crayons, colored paper, and, yes, glitter around for her to use. I did this with the good intentions of letting her express her creativity, and to keep her out of my hair for 5 minutes. Unfortunately, though it keeps her busy, it results in a heart-attack inducing mess.

At least the glitter on my carpet is festive, right? Right?

Explaining Santa thing has also proven difficult. I honestly believe the sex talk would be easier.

Now about this Santa thing...

But I find myself tripping over my tongue trying to explain the lie of the jolly fat man.

Part of me wants to to tell her it is TRUE. Because that’s what makes it fun. And so she won’t be the kid on the playground who ruins it for every one else.

But I can’t do it. Because it’s not true.

I’d much rather put it in the context of myth. That it’s a really fun thing to do. That since the beginning of time people have found ways to celebrate that even though winter is dark and bleak, there is still hope.

But what kind of 3 year old can appreciate myth?

And then there’s the whole Jesus thing. It would be so easy if I could explain that Jesus was a real man sent to earth by God to spread the message of peace and love, and that since he saved us from sin we celebrate the day of his birth. It’s not to say this isn’t true. It very well could be. But as I’m still looking for spiritual faith and guidance myself, I’m not sure how to approach this issue with my children.

The funny thing about all this is I LOVE Christmas.

I love decorating my house with lights and evergreens.

I love being with my family, so we can celebrate (or at least appreciate) our love for each other. I love giving presents to my family, in part because I love to shop and it’s more fun to shop for others rather than myself.

I love giving to my community in the form of charity and volunteering.

I LOVE Christmas. Even if I don’t understand it.

And now I have to go. Baby is trying to eat my lipstick. With her eyeball.

Getting Schooled

Warning: I am way over-thinking things. I should probably stop thinking. And brathing.

What, you breathe instead of brathe? Heathen.

Preschooler (who is not in preschool) turned 3 this autumn. This means that she’d start conventional preschool next fall, in order to complete 2 years of preschool and enter kindergarten at age 5.

And I’m a bit freaked out.

Preschooler is smart, and I’m not just saying that because she’s my child and I’m biased and believe everything she does is brilliant (although this is true.) She could identify all the letters of the alphabet by 18 months. She knew all the letter sounds by 2 1/2. She counts to 30, understands the concept of zero, and can do very simple arithmetic, i.e. addition and subtraction with numbers 10 and under.

The thing is, I don’t think she’s doing all this by rote. Because one day she’ll just reveal these concepts in conversation with us, and I’ll ask Husband:

Me: Did you teach her this?

Husband: No, did you?

Me: No. OMG what do we do? We have to encourage this somehow! All this talent will go to waste if I don’t encourage this right now, and she’ll end up homeless on the street begging for change in exchange for sounding out 3-letter words and adding 4 + 3, and it will be all my fault!

Husband: No way. She’s a genius! Let’s notify the media!

Me: She’s not a genius! She’s just too smart for her own good. Or my own good. Whatever. Anyhow, we need to get her in some sort of program where she can continue working on these skills.

Preschooler: I like ham!

Husband and I and those close to us believe she needs to be in some sort of preschool program now, to help her further develop these talents until she can start “real” preschool. Problem is, we can’t afford it.

So, I’ve started teaching her at home a bit. For the past week or so, we sit at the kitchen table about 10-15 minutes a day, and I work with her on basic reading and math skills. I’ve checked out books from the library about teaching math with manipulatives and teaching phonics skills. We sing a song or two. We read a lot throughout the day. I try to get her to a playground or other activity where she can run amuck with other kids a few times a week. We continually work on things like manners and self-help skills.

Hopefully, by the time she enters a conventional preschool program next year, she’ll be equipped academically to focus her attentions on social skills. Because, as I’ll explain later, this is what she needs to work on the most.

So, she’s getting schooled in ... school. And I’m getting schooled in ... school. And hopefully, if this works out, she won’t be the kid in kindergarten who eats paste.

The secret to eating delicious paste is to do it in full view of others.
That way, your peers will be fraught with envy as you wallow in your sticky gluttony.