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Archive for March, 2010

Bob Dylan had it right about the times, man.  Those of you not directly involved in parenting young children in the 2010 era might be surprised to learn a few things.  For instance, did you know:

1) No more prizes in cereal boxes.  Oh, the injustice!  Prizes in cereal boxes were such a fabulous manufacturer idea.  My mother could talk me right into Oat Granola Barley Bits if it meant I was going to get a pink plastic sparkle ring when I reached the bottom.   Turns out the prizes choked a few small children and, poof, they were gone!  Unfair, I say.  How is one to talk a five-year old into grabbing some Raisin Bran™ when things like Eggo Waffle Crisp™ beckon them from the shelves with smiling yellow bears and images of warm syrup on the box front?   No self-respecting child will be lured in by a metal scoop with overflowing raisins.   Where’s the Silly Putty™ egg in the box?!

2) Speaking of Silly Putty.  I generally hate Silly Putty.  It’s along the same lines as Play-doh™ as far as its messiness to pleasure ratio.   The scales tip too far in the wrong direction.  Know what it’s made of?  Silicone and (originally) particles of boric acid.  They’re like little toxic balls of breasts — “Silly Slutty” (couldn’t resist).  Anyway, what do you recall as the coolest thing about Silly Putty?  The image lifting, right?  The fact that you could press it against a comic strip and then bend and pull the putty, morphing Snoopy into a wiener dog before your very eyes.  Well, since the invention of that pesky printing press you can’t do that anymore.  For some reason, according to the Silly Putty website, the Wall Street Journal still works, though.  Which is weird.

3) Tivo / DVR.  So, elder generation parents, do you know that we parents in the technology driven world of 2010 can record television shows without a Betamax (remember the Betamax)?  Without a VCR?  Without those clunky tapes?  Yup, we can.  Right there in our tv.  What this means, however, is that, once recorded, our children’s shows can be on at any time of day.  And they are wise to this.  If Big Brother can pad out of his room at 7 am and turn on Wow, Wow, Wubbzy so that Mom can catch another 15 minutes of sleep before Little Brother rises, you can bet he knows Wubbzy’s in there later in the day.   Remember the days of “Sorry, your shows aren’t on right now.  Mom and Dad are watching the news”?   Gone.   They’re onto us.  Live by the TiVo, die by the TiVo.

4) Car seats are a total pain in the a** now.  I really think it’s possible  that if my parents used a car seat at all they stopped using it once I was old enough to sit up unassisted.  (I’d like some clarification on this, Mom)   Today, you can regularly see kids walking over to their car, swinging opening the door of a gigantic Suburban and extending long, strong legs and arms to deftly climb aboard.  Then they climb into a booster seat and strap themselves in.  The law in Massachusetts states they need to be in a special seat until they reach 8 years of age.  In New Jersey they have to be eight and eighty-pounds which just seems crazy.  As the mother of a bean pole, I can tell you that if we lived in New Jersey (which we will not.  ever.) Big Brother might well be enjoying a roadie in his booster seat before he tops 80 lbs.  I wonder if my mother’s right arm shooting out from the driver’s seat over my chest in the passenger seat at any sign of trouble would have qualified as a make-shift seatbelt?  She still does this, by the way.

Revised pregnancy rules would be a chapter in itself.   We were expected to abstain from smoking, drinking alcohol or eating pretty much anything that actually tastes good while we were pregnant.   What a total buzz kill (kidding, of course).  But, still I’m pretty sure my Mom’s water broke over a vodka tonic and a couple of oysters.   And look how awesome I turned out.

Heh heh heh.

Video is a little loud, fyi…

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I wish I could remember which one of my fabulously smart Mommy friends recently heard me complain about the copious amounts of dog hair wafting around in my house and my resulting compulsion to vacuum every twenty-five seconds.  Whoever she was I do know that she, with a knowing smile, suggested I purchase a Dust Buster and turn it over to the small people.

Hallelujah.

I swear, they fight over the thing.  They like it so much I have to charge it nightly.  We have to set a timer so they can take turns every two minutes.  Wouldn’t want anyone to get robbed of their own precious cleaning time!

Gotta go.  Children approach.  Must lift my feet.

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Aw, Jeesh.

Oh, great.  Like Husband doesn’t already silently roll his eyes at the fact that I insist on my annual subscriptions to both US Magazine and People.  (“They’re different!  Really!”)  I can see it coming now.  This debacle just may not be going over so well tonight.


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Obsessed with this song right now.  Sharing it with you.   ‘Cause I’m all generous like that.

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As I’ve mentioned before (ad nauseum?), I’m an only child.  Sibling dynamics (the rivalries, the camaraderie, the loyalty, the cruelty) are completely lost on me.  I am a reluctant work-in-progress as mother referee to the whole big brother versus little brother battles.  And the battles are endless.

More than anything, I’m floored by how desperately Little Brother wants to be loved by Big Brother.  His first words each day, standing in his crib at 7:15 in the morning, are a request to see his Big Brother.   After a change and some clothes, the worship begins.  He wanders down the hall in search of his brother and spends the rest of the day following him, asking questions, begging to be included in whatever (and I do mean whatever — it could be peeing, I swear) activity in which his brother is involved at the moment.   I, of course, think this behavior is the sweetest thing in the whole wide world.  What I would have given, I think to myself.  How I yearned for a constant playmate! Big Brother’s view on it?  Not quite as rosy.

And, if I look at it from his perspective?  Well, of course, it’s annoying.  A shadow.  No time alone.  Three years of solitude, all Mom and Dad’s attention and then…wham!…along comes this creature and now Big Brother is asked to constantly share and play nice and be gentle and…oh, man, the crying! If there’s one area in which Little Brother excels, it’s turning on the waterworks.  And, I’m sure much of the time it’s just drama.  Regardless, Big Brother gets the brunt of the chaos repercussions.  What happened?! I rant.  Did you push him?  Were you playing too rough?  He’s only two!  I need you to be the big kid, ok?! And, every time I’m just so shocked and sad to see that Big Brother, usually such a sweet kid, can actually be pretty mean sometimes when it comes to his brother.

My husband, a Big Brother himself, completely understands that side of the equation.  He’s all in favor of a “Let them work it out” philosophy.  But, to me?   When working it out involves a David and a Goliath, I just don’t think it’s a fair fight.

And David just wants to be loved.  And included.  And Goliath just, well…Goliath just stomps on the little sucker and walks away?  Nope.  Not in my house.

Sometimes I try to appeal to Big Brother’s not so finely developed sense of forethought.  For example, Just you wait!  Someday, Little Brother could be bigger than you.  And, then how would you like it if he just whacked you? Or, I try a different approach and go with You know, you’re lucky to have a brother.  And, someday Little Brother might just decide he doesn’t want to play with you anymore.  How would that feel? And, to that he answers honestly. That would be great!

Because Big Brother is no fool.  And, unfortunately, he’s learned that if he hurts his little brother a little bit (emotionally or physically), it really doesn’t seem to matter.  Because, Big Brother has discovered that Little Brother has absolutely no short-term memory.  None.  Little Brother cries, runs to Mom, Mom makes Big Brother go to his room for a bit.  And you know what happens the entire time that Big Brother is in his room?  Little Brother is crying to see him.  And, asking when he can come out.   Ultimately, Big Brother is released and asked to come out and apologize and it goes like this:

Sorry for doing that, Little Brother.

To which Little Brother replies “I sorry, too.  Play wit me now?”

Breaks my heart.  Partially because I know it will happen all over again in roughly 15 minutes.

This is my day.

I just hope Little Brother develops that short-term memory at some point.  You know, so he doesn’t wind up like this guy.

Saturday Night Live – Mr. Short Term Memory (click it)


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There’s a magical book out there called Bear of My Heart, by Joanne Ryder.   I’ve read it to Big Brother since he was a very little boy and we like to think of it as our own special story.  I read it to him with tears welling up in my eyes and take deep breaths to absorb the sobs that creep from the back of my throat.   It’s beautiful and I hereby recommend it to any of you out there with small cubs in the house.

However, reading it today – on my Husband’s birthday – I’m struck by how easily it translates to a story about marriage.  True love.  Partnership.

“Paw in paw, we will greet every morning,

Paw in paw, we will meet every day

For you are the bear of my heart, dear

And nothing can take that away.”

Paw in paw.  Hand in hand.   I’m so grateful for all that he’s given to me (to us) in the giving of his hand.

In marriage

A first dance

In Romance

In Unabashed Fatherly Love

With a Generous Heart

With a Steadying Touch

Offering Little Life Lessons

And reassurance that the next step, however unfamiliar, is safe.  Because he’s there.  He’s with us.

“There are so many bears in the world dear,

but there’s no other one that will do.

You are the bear of my heart, dear,

and I am the one who loves you.”


Happy Birthday, to my Husband.    Thank you for (more than seven years ago) asking for my hand.  And for, since then, holding us all so tightly in yours.

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How in the world do mothers of Olympians do it?  Standing on the sidelines, hearts in their throats, watching their precious children chase dreams, wanting more than anything (anything at all) for them to succeed and, if they fail, wanting even more desperately to take their disappointment and sadness away.  And, if they do succeed.  My goodness.  The tears.  The joy.  The pride.

In a little 8-child weekly Rock Climbing class at the YMCA today.  The fourth week of class.  The fourth of week of “do you really think I can do it, Mommy?  Really?”  The fourth week of “Yes.  You can.  I know you can.”

Well, today.  He did.  Big Brother rang the bell.

And, I was a hooting, hollering lunatic behind the rock wall chains.  I didn’t even realize I was doing it until it was over and suddenly the area around me was, well, not filled with the sound of me yelling anymore.  If he was any older he would have been so completely mortified by my behavior.

Instead, he’s just so proud of himself he could burst.    And he can’t wait for Dad to come home so he can bask in sharing his big news.

Way to go, sweetie.  The first of many big things.

Here’s hoping your ole Mom’s heart can take it.

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One of the little benefits of having children is that they can eventually start to do things that you don’t really want to do anymore.  When I was growing up in Vermont, I proved to be a very handy lawnmower, wood stacker and dog food pourer.  So now, my time has come.  Big Brother is finally at an age when he’s actually starting to be useful.  And, while he’s still too young to mow our lawn or stack wood, you can bet he feeds that dog.   And he loves fetching things around the house for me — a diaper for Little Brother, a pair of shoes, Dad’s dry cleaning bag and other such tasks.  I’d say, though, that I have found him to be most useful in the area of reminders.  As my Mommy brain goes a little more J-e-l-l-o each day, his five-year old brain is sharpening.  So, we often leave the house with a recited list of errands.  Or enter the grocery store with a little chant of critical items.   And, it’s very, very helpful.  He’s saved me from near disaster many times.  “Mom!  You forgot to pick up the dry cleaning!”   or  “Mom!  Did you forget the taco sauce?”

A couple nights ago, the boys and I enjoyed a sunny late afternoon playdate with my wonderful college friend J. and her three kids.   We met at her house, ran the kids around outside and then, as the sun started going down, we all headed back into town for dinner at a local pizza place and ice cream across the street.   For the most part, the kids were stellar.   All five of them well-behaved at the restaurant — eating their dinners, sitting in their chairs, having fun but not to the detriment of other diners.   We were hard to miss with our piles of children but, thankfully, (luckily) we were also the picture of two functional Mommies enjoying a meal with our kids.  Until…

Packing up to leave, throwing away various paper plates, stacking trays and returning the ketchup to the counter.  Big Brother shouts to me from across the restaurant.

Oh!  Mommy!

Shhhh.  What?

Mommy! Racing across the restaurant now, undoubtedly attracting attention of many diners.   Jumping up and down in front of me now.

Mommy! VODKA!  VODKA!  We need VODKA!

(Oh. my.  goodness.)

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I love the park.  In fact, our house (in a town of nearly 21,000 people in about 4 1/2 square miles) backs right up to one of the largest parks in town.  It’s got a wonderful age-appropriate playground no more than 100 yards from our back deck.  And, we bought this house (in a land of postage stamp yards) in large part because of that park.   But, you know what’s driving me nuts?

The swings.

Because we head to the park all geared up for the guys to run around and play and exercise and slide and romp and chase and tag and work out all that little boy energy.  And we get there and you know what they want to do?  Swing.  And swing.  And swing some more.

And you know who’s getting all the exercise when they swing?   Me.

WTF?

So, lately I’ve resorted to actually telling them that I’ll take them to the park on the one condition that there will absolutely be no swinging.

I am such an awesome Mom.   No?

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Sometime in the beginning of January, I bought a little bit of garlic.  A medium-sized plastic tin full of pre-peeled cloves.  Very practical, I thought to myself as I loaded them into that week’s grocery cart.   Well done.   And, for just $1.44?  A steal, no doubt.  Yay, me.  Ever the thrifty one, yup, that’s me.

Husband arrived home that night and noticed my new purchase in the refrigerator.

Wow. He calls out to me, as I sit in the adjoining room.  That’s a LOT of garlic!

Truly surprised that a) he would even notice but also that b) he thought it too much, I answered,

Well, not really.  I cook with garlic all the time!  I’m sure I’ll get right through it.  You just don’t know how much I actually need garlic.  You’ll see.

Alright. But, I can just tell in his voice that he doubts me.  That he thinks I’m being wasteful…again.

I’ll show him, I thought to myself.   I will.

So, today (two months later), when I went to make a baked ziti and reached for a little garlic powder before I remembered that…oh, yeeeeah.  I’ve got that real garlic somewhere in here and…

Sigh.  Oh, go ahead.  Mark the date and time.  I hereby admit, he was right.

Nuts.  Hate when that happens.

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