Does anyone really own some of those cute juice glasses?

I spent my Mommy night reading books on toddler behavior and handling. Turns out there are lots of "experts" who give you their "technique" for the "bargain price" of $14.99. I was looking for a way to make the Monkey understand that she is not allowed to touch the buttons on the stereo/tv/cable equipment, and for ideas of things to do that would make me feel less like I'm raising a tv addict. I got an answer for the latter one so far, and bought the advice of the Baby Whisperer to read in my down time to get an answer for the former. Apprently I am to establish a daily routine, and they all make it sound so easy. Of course, for them it probably is easy because the best indicator of expert-dom is making it look easy. Of course, I now have an image in my head of Monkey and I dressed in non-stained/flattering clothes respectively, playing educational but entertaining games and making little crafts involving popsicle sticks, and eating nutritious meals which include that cute little glass of orange juice at breakfast and perfectly ripened and sliced piece of fruit at lunch, going on stress-free outings and lunchdates and playdates, and generally existing in a world of warm hazy lighting and neatly creased Khaki Capri-pants. HA. That's all I gots to say about that.

My mommy guilt is in full swing this week about the regularity of chicken nuggets in Monkey's diet, and the everpresent tv noise in the background, and the abundance of clothespins in that not-yet-unpacked box in the kitchen, which Monkey loves to play with but pinches her little fingers in at least once a week, if not once a day. So I spent my Mommy night thinkng about my Monkey, and how bad a mommy I am some days, and blahblahblah guilt! I suppose that's the joy of motherhood, and also why you appreciate your own mom more than words once you have kids of your own. (Although I never want to experience the "joys" of four children! Mom, you are a saint!)

So I will attempt to establish a routine starting tomorrow which includes "Roomtime" and "Structured Play" and "Family Time" as suggested- but I have a feeling it'll end up more like less TV and Chicken nuggets and more story-time and vegetables and hey-man-at-least it-ain't-spoiled-yet fruit.

It's okay Monkey, I thought my parents were weird too...

lylas,
The I.O.

El Slakeroo

We haven't been too witty or irreverrent lately, eh? Sorry 'bout that. Right now I am writing this instead of taking a shower. My hair is moisturizing itself, and for curly hair that's actually really helpful. I've been productive this week, though, getting shots done for the Monkey (Red-Faced Screaming...lots, in case you wondered how it went) and then post office and yesterday design meeting. Now those of you who are familiar with the Family Tradition of "never-going-to-the-post-office" are gasping, I'm sure. Well, let me just say that I have not bucked tradition- this package was supposed to have left my hands by the 1st of september but it took me until the 12th. Needless to say it went priority mail. My mom is possibly one of the bigggest customers at Amazon.com because they pack it up and ship it to the recipient, thereby bypassing the house where care packages wait for thier owner to come and pick them up. Usually, it is a good idea to leave some space in your luggage so that you have room to take home all the stuff that Mom meant to send you but just didn't get to the post office. It's okay, Mom, we all inherited it, so I mock you with LUV, okay?

I have another package due out by the 1st of October, so maybe if I put it together today, I'll get it out within 7 days of the deadline. Maybe.

The I.O.

This Just In

Authentic conversation from my house just now:

Setting: Computer room. Mom is checking e-mail. Distant bedroom door opens, sound of small feet running follows. Two small boys run in, with Younger Boy being pursued by Older Boy. They are clearly in the middle of a dispute.

Older Boy: Give it BACK! (sniffling) Mom, he snatched the sword from me!
Mom: No crying over silly things. Calm down. Now you have a lightsaber already. You need to have a sword AND a lightsaber?
Older Boy: Well, that's what I was selling, for pretend.
Mom: Well then maybe you have to let somebody pretend BUY it. But okay; hey, {Younger Boy}, did you snatch that sword?
Younger Boy: (a little breathless, and pleased with self) Yeah.
Mom: Then, { Younger Boy}, first, why aren't you wearing any pants? And second, we don't snatch. Give the sword back. And {Older Boy}, you can't just hoard all the swords; be fair and let others have some if they want.

Younger Boy gives sword back.

Older Boy: Okay, Mom. (runs out)
Mom: (to retreating half-naked Younger Boy) And what happened to your pants? Come back and bring me your pants ... and your underwear!

Bedroom door closes. Satisfied chatter indicates Older Boy has resumed pretend-selling weaponry to naked-butt Younger Boy wanna-be guerrilla. Mom, shaking her head, posts to blog. It's gonna be a breezy mock battle. The pants will have to wait.

A Little Yellow Rain for Your Parade?

So you should know that this is one of those cute child sayings posts. I can't help it; I am a parent. The urge to relate such things far and wide must be either instinctive (alongside 'bare teeth and growl when kid in sandbox snatches offspring's shovel') or hormonal (part of the helpful team of chemicals that sends the brain a message to tear up at otherwise moronic commercials if they involve children running to/hugging parents). You have been warned: stay and read, or run screaming to another waystation on the Web, at your own peril.

So we're driving along and my newly-potty-trained 2.5 year old (the one who likes to go commando) is reciting the latest addition to the Big Boy Potty Rules: No peeing in the car. First, imagine why we might now have instituted this rule. (Big kid car seat covers are no fun to remove, I must say.) Okay, so he is saying it over and over and I figure, to put a stop to it, I'll reinforce the Order of Things by saying, "That's RIGHT, we don't pee in the car, we pee on the POTTY, right?!" in that annoyingly bright, cheerful way I've heard other moms use to, subtly as a trainwreck, steer their young ones away from undesirable behavior. Imagine my surprise when my young one responds, "No, Mommy." Me, surprised, "What, honey? We don't pee on the potty?"

"No," he confirms, "we pee on the PARTY."

So there you are. Given the vagaries of toddler pronunciation, perhaps he's been saying this all along (i.e., since 'party' with his imperfect 'r' becomes 'pawty' and thus, very similar to 'potty'). I suppose this is what he thought we were saying, but then again he corrected me today when I said 'potty.' I guess I'll never know. In the meantime, I'm glad we haven't been invited to any birthdays in the near future.

Back to the Salad days

Well, my reason for junk-food overload is gone, so now it's back to being good. I guess it was time anyway, or we'd be eating m&m's and wine coolers for lunch soon. Have to go get shots for the kid tomorrow- her first Chicken pox vaccine... Do they make a scrapbook stamp for that? I forget.

Yes, It's true. I got a phone call from my mother-in-law last night asking me how much of my new scrpabooking materials I want her to send now (the rest to be trickled into holiday presents between the new pieces of our dishware and silverware for years to come). I never thought I'd get into scrpabooking- just looking at the how-to books with all the special hole-punches and die-cuts and stamps and inks and buttons and grommets and .... well, you get the idea- My head just starts to pound. But I have been informed that even if I never scrapbook, I have my own starter kit on the way with love from "Ma." I imagine I'll try it once, not finish a page, and then have to put it away- and never get it out until Sam and any siblings to follow leave for college. At which point I'll be dripping empty nest tears onto it and then it'll just be a mascara-caked mess. At least I can say I didn't have to pay for it!?!

Die cuts and ribbons and stamps, OH MY!!!


lylas,
The I.O.