Never feed your kid tuna salad for lunch, then put him on your shoulders and jump up and down. Especially if you're facing a mirror so he can see how much fun he is having.
He WILL barf in your hair, and you WILL see it happen, as if in slow motion.
And it is hard to rinse out.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Are Your Kids Really Eating?
Deception. It starts early.
Last night I barbecued some chicken thighs, cooked a sweet potato and steamed broccoli. That was the dinner I served to Big Boy, Little Boy and myself (MrDartt was not home).
The hot spot on the barbecue cooked one chicken thigh very quickly, so I lovingly and painstakingly cut up Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces and put three neat piles (the chicken, the sweet potato and the broccoli) on his tray.
The barbecue ran out of propane before the other thighs were done so I put them in the oven on broil. To do so, I had to get out a cookie sheet, cover it with foil, and then put a rack on top of those. Then I transferred the chicken from the barbecue.
During that time I noticed that Little Boy had finished almost all of his food. Even the broccoli, which he usually doesn't love.
So I put three more small piles on his tray.
I glanced over a few minutes later and he was using his left hand to casually drop a piece of chicken over his left shoulder -- a careless observer might think he was just feeling his left ear.
I took this as a signal that he was done so I picked him up. There were dozens of Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces (yes, the very same ones I'd cut up so lovingly and painstakingly) smashed between his back and the high chair seat!
When I went to change him into pajamas a little while later, I discovered dozens more pieces inside the back of his onesie.
I guess he didn't eat as well as I'd thought.
Little stinker.
Last night I barbecued some chicken thighs, cooked a sweet potato and steamed broccoli. That was the dinner I served to Big Boy, Little Boy and myself (MrDartt was not home).
The hot spot on the barbecue cooked one chicken thigh very quickly, so I lovingly and painstakingly cut up Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces and put three neat piles (the chicken, the sweet potato and the broccoli) on his tray.
The barbecue ran out of propane before the other thighs were done so I put them in the oven on broil. To do so, I had to get out a cookie sheet, cover it with foil, and then put a rack on top of those. Then I transferred the chicken from the barbecue.
During that time I noticed that Little Boy had finished almost all of his food. Even the broccoli, which he usually doesn't love.
So I put three more small piles on his tray.
I glanced over a few minutes later and he was using his left hand to casually drop a piece of chicken over his left shoulder -- a careless observer might think he was just feeling his left ear.
I took this as a signal that he was done so I picked him up. There were dozens of Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces (yes, the very same ones I'd cut up so lovingly and painstakingly) smashed between his back and the high chair seat!
When I went to change him into pajamas a little while later, I discovered dozens more pieces inside the back of his onesie.
I guess he didn't eat as well as I'd thought.
Little stinker.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The po po car
Don't tell this story to MrDartt.
The other day, my mom and I took the boys to Wal-Mart. We had to get a few follow-up birthday presents for Big Boy, who celebrated his third birthday.
During the trip, Big Boy saw one of those little cars kids can drive. It was a Dodge Charger with a Hemi engine. It was a police car. It was awesome. It had police emblems. It had lights.
If I haven't mentioned it, he's going to be a SWAT team member for Halloween. Ever since he got his costume (it is SO cute -- handcuffs, sunglasses, a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, a baton and a baseball cap), he's been talking about how he's a po po and he's chasing and catching bad guys. So of course the car was the answer to his dreams.
He really wanted to get that car. He made my mom take him back over to look at it again after we'd walked away. He talked about it all the way home -- "I drove my po po car and I got a bad guy and put him in the back and then he escaped and then I followed him and then I chased him up a hill and some other po pos helped me get him and we put him in the car and then I drove him to the jail and then he got out and then I chased him and then I drove my po po car home," and so on.
We got home and he talked about it all night. How he wants it for his next birthday (tomorrow, when I turn 4, he said).
I told him we'll have to save up for it. It costs a lot of money (the damn thing costs $300).
"Well, you save money when you buy groceries," he said. "You and daddy just need to buy a lot of groceries and then you'll save a lot of money and then you can buy the po po car."
He called me down to his bedroom four times after I put him to bed, so he could tell me how much he wants that po po car and how he likes it.
This has NEVER happened. There's been stuff at the store, like toys, where he'll say, "Can I get that ball?" and I'll say, "not today," and he'll say, "okay," and we'll never talk about it again.
But all night, he talked about that car.
"I REALLY want that car."
"I need that car."
"We can go back to the store tomorrow and buy groceries and pick up that car."
"Are there more of those cars? What if somebody buys that car?"
Finally he fell asleep. The next morning, he called me down (his customary morning greeting) and I went down to get him.
Here's what he said: "Mommy, I don't want that po po car any more. I want the Barbie car."
The other day, my mom and I took the boys to Wal-Mart. We had to get a few follow-up birthday presents for Big Boy, who celebrated his third birthday.
During the trip, Big Boy saw one of those little cars kids can drive. It was a Dodge Charger with a Hemi engine. It was a police car. It was awesome. It had police emblems. It had lights.
If I haven't mentioned it, he's going to be a SWAT team member for Halloween. Ever since he got his costume (it is SO cute -- handcuffs, sunglasses, a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, a baton and a baseball cap), he's been talking about how he's a po po and he's chasing and catching bad guys. So of course the car was the answer to his dreams.
He really wanted to get that car. He made my mom take him back over to look at it again after we'd walked away. He talked about it all the way home -- "I drove my po po car and I got a bad guy and put him in the back and then he escaped and then I followed him and then I chased him up a hill and some other po pos helped me get him and we put him in the car and then I drove him to the jail and then he got out and then I chased him and then I drove my po po car home," and so on.
We got home and he talked about it all night. How he wants it for his next birthday (tomorrow, when I turn 4, he said).
I told him we'll have to save up for it. It costs a lot of money (the damn thing costs $300).
"Well, you save money when you buy groceries," he said. "You and daddy just need to buy a lot of groceries and then you'll save a lot of money and then you can buy the po po car."
He called me down to his bedroom four times after I put him to bed, so he could tell me how much he wants that po po car and how he likes it.
This has NEVER happened. There's been stuff at the store, like toys, where he'll say, "Can I get that ball?" and I'll say, "not today," and he'll say, "okay," and we'll never talk about it again.
But all night, he talked about that car.
"I REALLY want that car."
"I need that car."
"We can go back to the store tomorrow and buy groceries and pick up that car."
"Are there more of those cars? What if somebody buys that car?"
Finally he fell asleep. The next morning, he called me down (his customary morning greeting) and I went down to get him.
Here's what he said: "Mommy, I don't want that po po car any more. I want the Barbie car."
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Just Another Word?
Warning: this post contains profanity. If you're sensitive to that, you should probably stop reading.
Last night, Big Boy was using his kid-sized Spiderman couch as a tee for the indoor baseball game he was playing. It fell over, and he said, "Fuck!"
"What did you say?" I asked.
"Fuck!" he said.
My mom (who was there for our weekly Wednesday night dinner) and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh.
"That's a grown-up word," I said. "It's not a very nice grown-up word, so let's not say it."
Guilty. The other morning, I was trying to put away the carton of eggs, and I was balancing a few other things on top of it, holding the whole pile with one hand. As I opened the refrigerator door, the whole pile toppled over, sending the egg carton crashing to the floor. Sure enough, about 18 eggs came out of the 12-egg carton, and ALL of them broke on the kitchen floor.
"Fuck!" I said.
"Why'd you say fuck?" Big Boy asked.
Because I'm an idiot and I should not say fuck in front of you, I thought, immediately realizing my mistake.
"Because I dropped this whole carton of eggs on the floor," I answered.
I just knew it would come back to haunt me. I can't wait until he says it in line at the grocery store, at playgroup, or at church (actually, we don't go to church, but you get the picture).
Last night, Big Boy was using his kid-sized Spiderman couch as a tee for the indoor baseball game he was playing. It fell over, and he said, "Fuck!"
"What did you say?" I asked.
"Fuck!" he said.
My mom (who was there for our weekly Wednesday night dinner) and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh.
"That's a grown-up word," I said. "It's not a very nice grown-up word, so let's not say it."
Guilty. The other morning, I was trying to put away the carton of eggs, and I was balancing a few other things on top of it, holding the whole pile with one hand. As I opened the refrigerator door, the whole pile toppled over, sending the egg carton crashing to the floor. Sure enough, about 18 eggs came out of the 12-egg carton, and ALL of them broke on the kitchen floor.
"Fuck!" I said.
"Why'd you say fuck?" Big Boy asked.
Because I'm an idiot and I should not say fuck in front of you, I thought, immediately realizing my mistake.
"Because I dropped this whole carton of eggs on the floor," I answered.
I just knew it would come back to haunt me. I can't wait until he says it in line at the grocery store, at playgroup, or at church (actually, we don't go to church, but you get the picture).
Sunday, September 27, 2009
My Stay-at-Home Mom Idol
There's a girl in my MOMS Club who is just amazing.
She can craft like there's no tomorrow. Every time she bakes cookies, they're perfectly uniform, super soft and VERY delicious. When I had Little Boy she made me a little door hanger that said, "Shhh, Little Boy is Sleeping." She also made a onesie with "I love MOMS Club" on it. When I ended my term as secretary on the MOMS Club board, she made each board member a little embroidered, personalized handkerchief. Her kids' bedrooms are decorated beautifully, with color-coordinated paints, furniture and accessories. She always makes just the right amount of food for each potluck (for my first MOMS Club potluck function, she hosted and said to make enough for 20 people. Well, I made about 10 gallons of potato salad. More than half of the 20 people were kids 2 and younger so they did not need as much potato salad. MrDartt and I were eating potato salad for weeks. Too bad you can't can potato salad).
Anyway, one time she told me how she hopes her neighbors don't ever hear her screaming at her kids. I just couldn't imagine this sweet woman screaming at her kids.
Then I had my second son.
Now I know why she screams.
Here she is, baking beautifully shaped, perfectly soft, delicious cookies, or hand-stitching a handkerchief.
And one of her kids is on timeout for hitting and he's throwing himself on the floor over and over again. Her other kid is putting his feet in the dog water bowl, splashing around (okay, these are things my kids do while I am baking over-cooked, hard, misshapen cookies, but you get the idea).
And so she's screaming.
She can craft like there's no tomorrow. Every time she bakes cookies, they're perfectly uniform, super soft and VERY delicious. When I had Little Boy she made me a little door hanger that said, "Shhh, Little Boy is Sleeping." She also made a onesie with "I love MOMS Club" on it. When I ended my term as secretary on the MOMS Club board, she made each board member a little embroidered, personalized handkerchief. Her kids' bedrooms are decorated beautifully, with color-coordinated paints, furniture and accessories. She always makes just the right amount of food for each potluck (for my first MOMS Club potluck function, she hosted and said to make enough for 20 people. Well, I made about 10 gallons of potato salad. More than half of the 20 people were kids 2 and younger so they did not need as much potato salad. MrDartt and I were eating potato salad for weeks. Too bad you can't can potato salad).
Anyway, one time she told me how she hopes her neighbors don't ever hear her screaming at her kids. I just couldn't imagine this sweet woman screaming at her kids.
Then I had my second son.
Now I know why she screams.
Here she is, baking beautifully shaped, perfectly soft, delicious cookies, or hand-stitching a handkerchief.
And one of her kids is on timeout for hitting and he's throwing himself on the floor over and over again. Her other kid is putting his feet in the dog water bowl, splashing around (okay, these are things my kids do while I am baking over-cooked, hard, misshapen cookies, but you get the idea).
And so she's screaming.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Beautiful Space
I don't know what we were thinking when we bought two acres of land.
Okay, I do know what we were thinking. We were thinking, "Gosh, look at all this space. This will be so much nicer than living in our little tiny condo with two shared walls and a little tiny fenced yard."
Or maybe we were thinking, "Gosh, this will be a great way to destroy our marriage and/or live in squalor in just three short years."
Just more than four years ago, we were living in my teeny tiny, 1000-square-foot condo, which I'd bought when I first moved here. It was small and cozy. We were about to get married so we thought we'd buy some land and build a nice spacious house and then, several years down the road, we'd have a kid or two (well, I wanted three or four, but that is still up for discussion).
Well, right after we got married, I got pregnant. Surprise!
So throughout my pregnancy, we were building the house. It went fine, and we moved in when Big Boy was 2 months old. It was the dead of winter and our entire lot was full of dirt. And big rocks. And a few scrub oak plants.
Little did we know that when spring rolled around, we'd be surrounded by wasps the size of hummingbirds and weeds the size of redwoods. Have you ever been to Northern California? Redwoods are very, very big. So are our weeds.
We have spent tens of thousands of dollars on landscaping. I am not exaggerating. We have some very nice trees (12 trees), some very nice plants (at least 13 or so), a big lawn (and a sprikler system that waters the lawn about 8 times per day, even though it's set to run only once) and lots and lots of crushed granite. Oh, and a beautiful patio MrDartt built (I've mentioned it before -- it almost caused a divorce but looks very nice). And we have a HUGE, GIGANTIC hill in front of our house. It has six trees on it. And some plants. But it's mostly dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. There are weeds everywhere. Weeds, weeds, weeds. The weeds behind our house look like trees. It's like a prickly, spiky forest back there. Seriously.
We have decided that although we love our house and we put a lot of work into it during the actual building and since we moved in, we want to move somewhere that has a little tiny yard, which is already landscaped.
MrDartt just asked if, in my writing, I've come up with something to do with our two acres. No I have not. He said, "Besides winning the lottery and having somebody come in and lanscape the whole thing?"
There's the ticket. Any other ideas?
Okay, I do know what we were thinking. We were thinking, "Gosh, look at all this space. This will be so much nicer than living in our little tiny condo with two shared walls and a little tiny fenced yard."
Or maybe we were thinking, "Gosh, this will be a great way to destroy our marriage and/or live in squalor in just three short years."
Just more than four years ago, we were living in my teeny tiny, 1000-square-foot condo, which I'd bought when I first moved here. It was small and cozy. We were about to get married so we thought we'd buy some land and build a nice spacious house and then, several years down the road, we'd have a kid or two (well, I wanted three or four, but that is still up for discussion).
Well, right after we got married, I got pregnant. Surprise!
So throughout my pregnancy, we were building the house. It went fine, and we moved in when Big Boy was 2 months old. It was the dead of winter and our entire lot was full of dirt. And big rocks. And a few scrub oak plants.
Little did we know that when spring rolled around, we'd be surrounded by wasps the size of hummingbirds and weeds the size of redwoods. Have you ever been to Northern California? Redwoods are very, very big. So are our weeds.
We have spent tens of thousands of dollars on landscaping. I am not exaggerating. We have some very nice trees (12 trees), some very nice plants (at least 13 or so), a big lawn (and a sprikler system that waters the lawn about 8 times per day, even though it's set to run only once) and lots and lots of crushed granite. Oh, and a beautiful patio MrDartt built (I've mentioned it before -- it almost caused a divorce but looks very nice). And we have a HUGE, GIGANTIC hill in front of our house. It has six trees on it. And some plants. But it's mostly dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. There are weeds everywhere. Weeds, weeds, weeds. The weeds behind our house look like trees. It's like a prickly, spiky forest back there. Seriously.
We have decided that although we love our house and we put a lot of work into it during the actual building and since we moved in, we want to move somewhere that has a little tiny yard, which is already landscaped.
MrDartt just asked if, in my writing, I've come up with something to do with our two acres. No I have not. He said, "Besides winning the lottery and having somebody come in and lanscape the whole thing?"
There's the ticket. Any other ideas?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Worst Mom In America -- or Possibly the Whole World
Little Boy suffered his first injury during our camping trip. And it was all my fault.
Sunday morning, we cooked breakfast on the campfire. A few hours later, one of my MOMS Club friends came over to talk to us. MrDartt was in our little cabin helping Big Boy change his clothes, and I was talking to my friend and watching Little Boy crawl around the campsite. He was happily walking along the stroller, pushing Big Boy's bike. I looked away for probably 45 seconds, and he crawled over to the fire pit. He burst into tears and I looked over to see him sitting down right next to the fire pit.
I went over to get him and I checked his hands. They didn't even look red. He stopped crying immediately when I picked him up. I didn't think anything of it.
The next day, he had a slight fever (100.7 under his armpit). I gave him some Tylenol, his fever went down, and I didn't think anything of it.
THEN, the next morning, I noticed a HUGE blister on his hand. HUGE. It was right on the crease. It was already open, and very deep. I inspected it and realized that it was a blister from the burn he got when he put his hand on the fire pit. When I wasn't watching him!
That big blister was open, and there was a trail of smaller blisters all the way across the crease.
Of course I immediately packed him up and took him to the doctor.
She inspected the burn with a little light.
"He has a pretty good burn there," she said. Yep. I know.
She gave us some cream to put on it and told me to bandage it.
"That probably hurts, so you should give him some Motrin," she said. Good thinking.
As she was leaving, she said, "Be careful around those fire pits!" Thanks. Got that one figured out.
My mom and some of my friends have told me not to beat myself up but I feel so BAD! My Little Boy and his huge burn! He just keeps pulling off the bandage and picking at the loose skin, and then crying.
Other than that, he's recovering just fine. We go back to the doctor tomorrow.
I think he'll live.
Sunday morning, we cooked breakfast on the campfire. A few hours later, one of my MOMS Club friends came over to talk to us. MrDartt was in our little cabin helping Big Boy change his clothes, and I was talking to my friend and watching Little Boy crawl around the campsite. He was happily walking along the stroller, pushing Big Boy's bike. I looked away for probably 45 seconds, and he crawled over to the fire pit. He burst into tears and I looked over to see him sitting down right next to the fire pit.
I went over to get him and I checked his hands. They didn't even look red. He stopped crying immediately when I picked him up. I didn't think anything of it.
The next day, he had a slight fever (100.7 under his armpit). I gave him some Tylenol, his fever went down, and I didn't think anything of it.
THEN, the next morning, I noticed a HUGE blister on his hand. HUGE. It was right on the crease. It was already open, and very deep. I inspected it and realized that it was a blister from the burn he got when he put his hand on the fire pit. When I wasn't watching him!
That big blister was open, and there was a trail of smaller blisters all the way across the crease.
Of course I immediately packed him up and took him to the doctor.
She inspected the burn with a little light.
"He has a pretty good burn there," she said. Yep. I know.
She gave us some cream to put on it and told me to bandage it.
"That probably hurts, so you should give him some Motrin," she said. Good thinking.
As she was leaving, she said, "Be careful around those fire pits!" Thanks. Got that one figured out.
My mom and some of my friends have told me not to beat myself up but I feel so BAD! My Little Boy and his huge burn! He just keeps pulling off the bandage and picking at the loose skin, and then crying.
Other than that, he's recovering just fine. We go back to the doctor tomorrow.
I think he'll live.
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