I'm Back, I Think

So I hadn't realized quite how long it had been since I had written anything.

Real life was pretty crummy for awhile, and I didn't have the heart to write happy sunshiny stories about random nonsense.

And then it had been so long since I had written, that I didn't know where to start again.

But today I read through some old posts and I realized that some of them were actually pretty funny.  And that I'd forgotten about them.  And now that life is actually pretty good, who knows how many awesome stories I will forget if I don't write them down?

So in theory, I'm back again.

Not that I can think of anything profound to say, because WeeBee is in the background counting snowflakes in a sing-song voice, and he's apparently determined to reach 500.  For some reason this involves making a banner to go on the door, pipe cleaners, and a picture of a snowman taking a nap, courtesy of Lowly.  Some days it's just better not to ask...

"Mommy, It Died."

No, not my blog.  A crayon.

I suppose you've been letting your two year old play with your phone too much when she walks over with a crayon that needs its wrapper removed and says, "Mommy, it died.  Charge?"

Now, I'm not sure that she could say, "Mommy, I need the crayon wrapper off" anyway.  But it's probably going to take some explaining when her pediatrician asks if she can speak in sentences and I say, "Sure.  She says, 'Mommy, it died.'"

Sigh.

New Year's Resolution, Part 1

So my New Year's Resolution, for what it's worth, was to get stuff done around the house.  Not just sweeping the floor and corralling Legos, although that needs to be done too.  I mean real stuff, like putting up blinds, painting, fixing cracks, and such.  No more waiting for my husband to have three days off in a row and my kids to sleep late and the weather to be nice and whatever other combination of events that, we all know, is never going to happen.  Each month I am picking a room and fixing everything in it that needs fixing.  And now, since I've told all 14 of you that follow this blog, I'll feel like I'm being held accountable.

Some days I'm more successful than others.  For example, I tried to take the Christmas tree out by myself today.  It ended up with more pine needles on the floor than on the tree, Lowly backing slowly away saying, "Help...help...help," in a tiny voice, and WeeBee asking, "Momma, is the tree hurting you?  Did it hurt you, Momma?"  I still say that Christmas tree putting up and taking down is a two person job, particularly if the tree is a foot taller than you, but I did get it to the curb.

So anyway, this month's goal is to fix the bathroom.  My poor sister has been listening to my plans to paint that room for a year.  The ceiling has needed to be painted for closer to four.  And the bathtub needed to be re-caulked for what has to be the third time this year.

I've never caulked a tub before.  To give you an idea of my home improvement skills, I feel accomplished when I hang a picture up on the wall.  But having watched every Youtube video on the subject and read more articles than I knew existed, I went to town with the utility knife, caulk gun, and masking tape.  (Thanks to my husband, who found the caulk gun in the shed.  And got the caulk and masking tape from Lowes.  Granted, he might have been trying to escape from the smell of bleach.  But he did save me a trip to the store, so I am grateful.)

What did I learn?

1) Removing caulk is boring.  Really boring.  Not so boring to your kids, who will pull up a potty and a step stool and keep a running commentary on your progress.  But to the person scraping the stuff away with a utility knife, it's boring.

2) If you don't dilute the bleach enough when you're trying to kill mildew, your house will smell like bleach for hours.  Even if you open the window and turn on the vent.

3)  If you still feel like you have no idea what you're doing, use the masking tape to make the caulk stay in pretty, straight lines.  Especially if you spent hours removing caulk and bleaching everything in sight.  What's another 15 minutes throwing masking tape around?

4) There are some projects best saved for when little ones are in bed.  Painting the ceiling is an excellent example of this.  But sometimes you've just got to jump in and get started and hope your kids are entertained by you hacking away at a wall with a knife.  Otherwise nothing will ever get done.

I have to say, it looks pretty good, in that it doesn't scream "confused homeowner DIY project."  I have no idea how it will look in a month, but for now, I'm quite pleased with myself.  When the whole room is finished I will post pictures.  :)

Happy New Year!

We've all got colds here.  It's been at least 5 years since I didn't have a cold after Christmas, but I suppose that's what happens when you cram a couple dozen people in a house and have a perpetually sniffly little brother.  It's ok; we still love you, Beans.  Just next year for Christmas you're getting a surgical mask.

WeeBee had an awesome Christmas.  He wore out the batteries in his Hess helicopter/truck in a day and a half.  The day after Christmas, I woke up to him crashing the truck into my new dresser and told him in no uncertain terms to get that thing out of my bedroom and not return with it.  I opened my eyes two minutes later to him tiptoeing into the room with a decidedly stinky grin, (think the Grinch) with the truck inside the helicopter, headed towards my curtains.  Curse you, Hess corporation...

And surprisingly, they've been pretty good about sharing toys with each other.  (Possibly because they each got a Hess truck.)  Every afternoon, Lowly shares her tea set and they have a tea party and make spaghetti and meatballs in the new pots she got for her toy kitchen.  (Remember that?  It's still standing!)  WeeBee tolerates her playing his Sneaky Snacky Squirrel game, although it annoyed him to no end that she wasn't playing it "right."

Aaaand speaking of not doing things right, Lowly just shut a filing cabinet drawer on her finger, so I must go...

What Goes Up Must Come Down, Part II

Or the further adventures of WeeBee in the ER...

Yesterday evening, WeeBee learned that there is a reason that Mommy tells him not to run in the vestibule of our church.  Bad things happen when you don't listen to Mommy.  Like tripping over your own feet and faceplanting into a bench, and bashing up your nose so you're covered in blood and screaming at the top of your lungs just as a couple hundred people are leaving Mass to go to the Living Nativity and Christmas Tree lighting.

The good news is I'm never going to have any trouble getting documentation that I am a practicing Catholic at that parish.  Like I said, a couple hundred people now know me as "that mother with the screaming bloody kid."

(Thank you to the kind people who held Baby Lowly and gave her cookies and juice while I tried to calm down my hysterical son.  And to the lovely woman whose name I didn't actually catch who offered WeeBee one of her kid's toys, and walked me to the car.  And to everyone who got me towels and ice, and the priest who opened up one of the side rooms so I could sit with WeeBee without a small mob gawking at him.)

Numerous people offered to call an ambulance, but I figured that was a bit excessive (thank you for the thought, though!)  I belong to the "don't call an ambulance unless your bleeding, broken, or 90% dead" school.  And if you're bleeding, half your blood had better be on the floor, and if your broken, there had better be a bone sticking out somewhere.  WeeBee was so worked up that an ambulance would have done more harm than good at that point.

Eventually he calmed down enough that we were able to make a run for the car.  After some mac & cheese and an episode of Octonauts, all was right with the world.  Aside from the blood that he refused to let me wipe off his face, and his swollen nose.  Unfortunately my go-to medical experts (my sister and husband) were out of state, and had to make do with text messages and broken cell phone calls for consulting.  (Curse your cruddy Jersey Shore service, Sprint!)  I really didn't want to take him in to the ER (we really need more urgent care centers in this part of the world) but I also didn't want to be some sort of negligent parent who left their son with a broken nose.  Or have him ranting about it every time he wants to make a point when he's 13.  I'm sure there will be enough things for him to blame me for, without giving him ammunition.

So I put Lowly in her pjs, told WeeBee we were going to get him medicine, and went for a little ride to the hospital.  Thankfully, we got there at the perfect time on a Saturday night - right after all the sports injuries had left, but before the drunken hipster invasion.  I expected WeeBee to throw a fit as soon as he realized it was basically a glorified doctor's office, but he was intrigued.  And his nurse fell in love with him when he saw the stretcher and said, "But Momma, I have to take my shoes off first!  They are so dirty!"

Surprisingly, the child who throws a fit at the doctor's over having his height measured hopped right out of the stroller.  He stayed still for 3 out of the 4 x-rays.  He let me wipe off some of the blood, and even shared his picture book with Lowly.  And within an hour and a half we were out of there, with a badly bruised but apparently unbroken nose.

What can I say, my family has hard heads.  Poor survival instincts, but hard heads.

Rest In Peace

You think you have problems, and then something like the massacre in Connecticut happens, and you realize your life really isn't that bad after all.

Those poor babies.

If it's possible to find peace after something like this, I really hope that one day their family and friends find it.

To Believe or Not Believe

Growing up, I did not believe in Santa.

<cue gasps and looks of pity>

It had something to do with my mother not wanting to lie to us, although our apartment in Brooklyn wasn't exactly conducive to chimney travel anyway.

I don't think it scarred me for life, although I suppose I wouldn't know.  I've always vaguely wondered what it would be like to really believe that a fat man in a red suit travelled around in a sled pulled by reindeer and would bring you whatever you asked for.  Knowing that it was our dad doing the shopping, my sisters and I made an attempt to keep our Christmas lists reasonable.  A pony might have made its way on to there once or twice, but we didn't really expect to get one.  I guess we thought it was just good to clear up any doubt in my dad's mind, should a random pony become available.

My little brother, on the other hand, believes in Santa - basically because he can't be trusted not to tell his entire class that Santa isn't real.

Which brings me to my current predicament - what to tell WeeBee.

This is the first year that he has really paid attention to Christmas.  While I didn't believe in Santa, people assume that any kid under the age of 8 or so does.  He's seen Santa decorations and cartoons, but I wasn't sure whether he already thought this was an actual person.  I mean, it's not like every time we watch tv I say, "Ok, WeeBee, we're going to watch Octonauts now, but Captain Barnacles isn't a real polar bear."  Once you start that, where does it end?  At a certain point you have to just hope your kid has some sort of grasp on reality.  I kind of doubt he'd never trust me again if I told him Santa was real, but I also don't buy into the idea that telling him Santa isn't real will ruin the wonder and magic of Christmas.  I was probably more in awe of my dad getting everything on my Christmas list than I would have been of Santa and his elvish posse getting the job done.  I mean, it's Santa's job.  The guy has nothing better to do for 363 days a year, and money is no object.

Too bad my dad never had a sleigh with reindeer, though.  That would have been cool.

Anyway, I figured I'd just treat Santa like a character in a story, and go from there.  So, I tried to explain the story of Saint Nicholas.  Apparently I did a pretty bad job, because WeeBee's version was that Saint Nicholas brought toys to poor children whose mommies and daddies didn't have money for toys, but it was ok that WeeBee's Mommy and Daddy didn't have any money because Santa would bring him toys.  Totally not where I was going with that.

Which lead us to the following conversation:

Mommy:  So on Christmas Eve, Daddy and I will take the presents and put them under the Christmas tree, and they'll be there when you wake up in the morning!
WeeBee:  NO!  NO, MOMMY, NO!  (Jumps up and down and waves arms) SANTA WILL PUT THE PRESENTS THERE!  SANTA WILL DO IT!  I WANT SANTA TO!
Mommy:  Umm...yeah...fine...ok, ok!

That totally caught me off guard.  All along he's been fine with the idea of Mommy and Daddy getting him presents.  He knows, for instance, that Daddy is going to try to get him a toy helicopter for Christmas, and that Mommy is going to try to make him an Octonauts toy.  Somewhere along the line, Santa became a glorified UPS driver or something.

I tried bringing it up again today, and things got even more muddled.

Mommy:  So...Mommy and Daddy are getting you presents for Christmas, but you want Santa to put them under the tree?
WeeBee:  Nooo, Santa is going to bring me presents!  He makes presents!  Santa has a workshop, Mommy!
Mommy:  What?
WeeBee:  Santa has a workshop, and he makes presents!
Mommy:  Well...it's kind of just a story...but...well...since when do you know Santa has a workshop?

You try looking into the eyes of an overly excited three year old and tell him there is no Santa.  I'm pretty jaded, but even I couldn't do it.

So now, as best as I can understand it, he is trying to cover all his bases, and get presents from Mommy, Daddy, and Santa, all of which are being delivered by Santa.

He also wants me to make a chimney out of cardboard and glue it to our house.  I tried to explain that wasn't quite how that worked either, but you can imagine how that went.

And this, my friends, is where I wash my hands of this entire situation.  I tried.  When he's eight and comes home from school in tears because Junior said there is no Santa, I can tell him I told him that five years ago, but he wouldn't believe me.  I am so not getting blamed for this.

At least we agree that Christmas is Baby Jesus' birthday.

Hello Again!

I think my New Year's Resolution should be to update this blog more often.  :/

Anyway, hello there!

We survived Hurricane Sandy.  So did our house.  Our side fence is a bit dented from a tree limb, but when your town tells you to get out because they don't expect the sand berm to hold and that now would be an excellent time to exercise your freedom of religion, and the only damage you end up with is a dented fence, it's really not even worth mentioning.  Especially when the towns on either side of you are gone.

So what did we learn from this experience?

1.  WeeBee has complete trust that I will keep him safe.  The day before we evacuated, I was trying to bring as many things upstairs as I could, and pack our bags.  WeeBee kept bringing all his toys, blankets, and paraphernalia back downstairs.  I finally sat him down and told him that a terrible storm was coming and the water might come and take away all our things, so he had to stop bringing full sized blankets and 17 toy cars downstairs.  Harsh?  Perhaps, but, "WeeBee, stop bringing your things downstairs" wasn't phasing him.  He listened to my description of the apocalpyse, blinked, and then said, "But Mommy, you will protect me!  You will keep me safe!"  Totally not the point I was trying to make, but probably exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.  Also, it's nice to know that at least one person thinks you have your act together.

2.  That flood gate that I always thought was kind of ugly and ruined the view when I went on a walk?  Yeah, that's basically the reason I still have a house.  Thank you, Army Corp of Engineers and whatever people agreed to that 25 years ago.

3.  I have to say, the whole mess has given me a new appreciation for this little house.  It's not perfect.  This whole yearly evacuation thing is getting old.  If I wanted to leave every fall, I would have bought a house with an ocean view in North Carolina.  I'd love another closet and I'm not really a fan of stacked washer/dryers.  A basement would be nice.  But it's survived an earthquake and two hurricanes without any damage, and there are plenty of "nicer" homes in the towns around here that can't say that.  It's a bit surreal to drive down the road and see a deck on the highway, or a two story house knocked off its foundation and left in the middle of a side street.  I mean, you expect to see trees down, and some crushed cars and garages.  The whole house-in-street thing I always associated with tornadoes.  And when you've spent the night obsessively checking Facebook for updates and see that places that you wandered with your kids are gone, seeing your house is still there makes it look like the most gorgeous thing in the world.

4.  Supermarkets after a week with spotty power and limited deliveries look like something out of Soviet Russia.  We take our supermarkets seriously in this part of Jersey.  Used to six different types of quinoa to choose from and eight kinds of tomatoes?  Ha.  Try a crate of butternut squash, a couple of cartons of orange juice, and some unidentified green vegetable that you vaguely remember seeing on the Food Network.  And this was a week after the storm.  I was seriously half expecting people to be selling things on the black market in the parking lot.

5.  While there will always be people running around looting and scamming after something like this, there are also lovely people who will come from all over to help out.  And even if you don't directly need that help as much as others, it's nice to know that when the Mayan apocalypse comes, maybe it won't turn into an episode of Extreme Preppers, with everyone shooting each other on sight, just because you think they're after the stash of canned yams hidden under the back steps that you announced on national tv.  So, if any of you lovely people ever stumble upon this blog by accident, thank you.

I will try to update more often.  I actually caught up with laundry the other day.  For all of 15 minutes, because then WeeBee started dunking toilet paper in the toilet and splashing water all around the bathroom, which required towels, but for 15 glorious minutes I could say, "HAH!  THERE IS NO LAUNDRY TO BE DONE!"  So there is always hope that I could actually post more than once every three months.  :)

The Search for a Little Red Sweatshirt

Last week I realized that WeeBee had grown 3 or 4 inches since last September, and none of his pants fit him anymore.  Well, I guess I had subconsciously realized that awhile ago, but it's much less noticeable when he wears shorts.  The other day he tried on a pair of pants, and they turned into capris.  Clearly something had to be done.

So, Saturday morning, we went on an adventure to Target.  Now, the adorable thing about shopping with WeeBee, when he's not screaming that his sister is looking at him, or poking him, or thinking about touching his hair ten minutes from now, is that he is incredibly grateful and excited whenever you buy him something.  And by that I mean grateful to the point where I almost feel like it sounds like the kid never gets anything and is fed once a week.  Anyway, we found him a couple of pants and shirts, and because he was being so good, he even got a robot t-shirt that wasn't strictly Fall-clothes-related.  (He's on a robot kick.  More on that next time I post.)

Then we came to the sweatshirts.  All I wanted was a boring little solid color hoodie.  He could pick the color, but I was not having my three year old decked out in some garish thing looking like the spawn of a punk rock pirate and the anti-Christ.  Yes, they do make stuff like that for preschoolers, and no, I'm not exaggerating...much.  The point is, we're still on the trucks and dinosaurs level here.

Anyway, I found the boring hoodie rack.  He told me he wanted a red sweatshirt.  Sure enough, they had a whole bunch of beautiful, bright red ones.  I picked one up, and noticed a sticker on it that said, "Check out my faux hawk!"  Or words to that effect.

Confused, I opened the sweatshirt up a bit, and realized that it had this weird black fake fur mohawk thing going down the top of the hood.  It was on all the red sweatshirts, and only the red sweatshirts.

Now, aside from the fact that this was totally not what I had in mind, my son would have looked absurd.  It was one of the stupidest looking things I'd seen in a long time.  It's so absurd that they apparently do not sell it on their website, otherwise I would include a link to show you all.  I don't mind fake fur fuzzies around the front of a hood on a coat.   Personally I think it's a bit girly, but I can live.  This, however, looked like an animal crawled up on the hood, died, and then bled out.  Bad choice of color, people.

Unfortunately, this left me explaining to WeeBee that he would not, in fact, be getting a red sweatshirt. His face looked a bit disappointed, but thankfully he didn't make a scene.  I suggested a grey one instead, and he approved.

Fast-forward to this morning.  Baby Lowly was taking a nap, and he had crawled up onto my lap to watch Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood.  For those of you who haven't made this a regular part of your morning routine, it's essentially a reboot of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, only without Mister Rogers, and it's all computer animated.  Daniel Tiger's son (also named Daniel) is the main character.  It's really cute, and WeeBee loves it.

Anyway, as we're sitting there, WeeBee told me, in a very soft voice, that the reason he wanted a little red sweatshirt was that little Daniel Tiger has a little red sweatshirt too.  He wasn't being whiney, or demanding, or even asking for me to get him one.  It was just like it was this little secret he'd been carrying around for the last two days, and he wanted me to know, in a teeny tiny voice.

And here I was thinking there was no thought behind his color choice beyond "Oooh, red is a bright color!"

So I asked, just this once, if he would like me to see if Kohl's had any red sweatshirts.  After all, he's a little boy.  Little boys get dirty.  It's not like a second sweatshirt is going to go to waste around here.  The next thing I know I'm getting a giant hug and a kiss and he's saying, "Oh, thank you, Mommy!  Thank you!"

I have a feeling this is going to be the best $5 I've spent in awhile.

That's Impossible!

I like keeping the kids' smaller toys in baskets on their bookshelves.  I think it looks cute, and it's easier for WeeBee to put his toys away when he knows all dinosaurs go in one basket, and all cars in another.

Unfortunately, it's also easier for them to dump everything out.

Like the contents of 5+ baskets down the stairs.

And while Mommy chases one little hoodlum, the other can dump another basket down the stairs, and run off giggling.  Then when Mommy chases hoodlum #2, the first one can go right back to causing mayhem.

Somewhere between threatening to throw all the toys in a garbage bag and never letting them see the light of day again, and having hysterics over the mess, I told WeeBee he was being naughty.

WeeBee:  (truly, deeply shocked)  I not naughty, Mommy!  That's impossible!

I see.  Clearly, I should not have read "Click, Clack, Moo - Cow's That Type" to this child, because now everything is "impossible."

It's not that they have an obscene amount of toys.  But when you're standing at the top of the stairs looking down at 50 alphabet blocks, half a dozen toy cars, 6 duplo blocks, and 2 dozen crayons that you swear are multiplying underneath the front doormat, what will take 15 minutes to clean up looks like it will take 2 hours.

And sometimes you just have to go have a cup of tea, write the day off as a disaster, and try to face the world again tomorrow.

That Is the Answer

Around 6:30 Sunday morning, WeeBee weaseled his way into my bed.  Well, a more accurate description would be that he scrambled up, climbed on my back, and then hung his head upside-down over my shoulder, so that when I opened my eyes, he was three inches away, grinning maniacally, upside-down.

WeeBee:  Look, Mommy!  It's a beautiful day!
Mommy:  Uh huh.
WeeBee:  Mommy, 1 + 1 is 2.
Mommy:  Uh huh.  Wait, what?

Every once in awhile, WeeBee comes out with something and I have absolutely no idea where it came from.  Besides questioning what sort of child does math problems at 6:30 on a Sunday morning, he didn't learn this from me.  I thought maybe he saw a math show on Nick Jr. at Paka's house, but my husband is convinced the only thing he watched was Blue's Clues and Pound Puppies (whatever that is.)  I questioned WeeBee on it again later, and he was even more insistent.

Mommy:  So, this morning, you told me 1 + 1 is 2.
WeeBee:  Yes!  1 + 1 is 2.  That is the answer.

Right.

Sadly, I must go, because my little tyrant has just questioned why the laundry hasn't been put away.  I believe his exact words were, "Mommy, why is the basket on Daddy's chair?  It's impossible!"  (With the implication clearly being that I'm the impossible one, because the laundry basket is preventing him from bouncing on the chair and throwing mini beach balls behind it.)

Puppies, Kittens, and Vladimir the Hedgehog

Or how to keep Lowly entertained when you are too tired to think...

Lowly has an ambivalent relationship with TV, with the exception of watching Gumby.  (She can hear that theme song from across the house, will drop everything, and run into the living room to dance.  It's awesome.)  The rest of the time, she doesn't really acknowledge its existence.

Apparently, videos of baby animals on Youtube are more her speed.

Yesterday afternoon I took a nap to escape from the teething baby of doom who is getting 4 vampire teeth at once.  (Incisors?  The pointy ones in the front?  I should just google this, right?)  Anyway, my husband had the brilliant idea that Lowly might like to watch a video of baby puppies on Youtube.  She went nuts.  She would have spent the entire afternoon squealing at the computer screen if we had let her.  Sadly, Daddy had to run errands eventually, so I found my delirious self camped out on the bed watching videos on my phone, and getting attacked by a drooling toddler who was hell-bent on kissing every adorable furry kitten that couldn't figure out how to climb out of a basket.

I think my husband might have regretted the whole thing when he heard me announce that I wanted a baby hedgehog, though.

Stinky, Smelly, Mushy Bananas

WeeBee takes a long time to unwind at the end of the day.  There are days I wish I could put a trampoline in his bedroom and just let him go at it until he fell asleep.  One of his favorite routines, aside from using his bed as a diving board, is telling me about his day.  Then I have to tell him about his day.  Then he tells me about his day, again.

Last night he started in on this while I was downstairs loading up the dishwasher.  I admit I wasn't quite giving him my full attention until I heard this...

WeeBee:  And I took the stinky, smelly...
Mommy:  (thinking he's referring to the lentil soup I made for dinner that he refused to touch, that I'm still rather ticked off about) WeeBee, we don't speak about our food that way!
WeeBee:  And I took the stinky, smelly banana, and I gave it to Lowly.
Mommy:  What?
WeeBee:  (pleased with self) I took the stinky, smelly, mushy banana, and I gave it to Lowly.  Then I only had two slices of banana.
Mommy:  (trying to figure out how grounded in reality this conversation is)  You gave mushy bananas to Lowly?
WeeBee:  Yes!  And then I had two!
Mommy:  You mean you took apart your sandwich?
WeeBee:  Yes!  And gave the stinky, smelly, mushy banana to Lowly!  And she ate it!

So, as far as I can uncover, WeeBee did not approve of the quality of all of the banana slices on his peanut butter and jelly and banana sandwich at lunchtime.  He then took the offending pieces of banana, and gave them to his sister, who has less discriminating tastes, leaving him with two slices of banana on his sandwich.  All of which took place silently, within twenty feet of me, while I was unloading the dishwasher in the morning.  He was quite gleeful, although whether it was because he tricked his silly little sister into eating subpar bananas or his problem solving skills, I couldn't actually tell.

I don't even know where to begin.

Security Items 2, Mommy 0

So, according to those parenting books, it is relatively normal for children to have security items.  You know the type - teddy bears, fuzzy blankets, a dog with one eye that you aren't allowed to wash but you can smell from 10 feet away.  My son has a full sized quilt that he drags around the house with him.  How he has not killed himself going down the stairs with the thing, I will never know.  Lowly has now decided to one-up him in the weirdness factor, and is demanding a pair of shoes.

When we were on vacation, Daddy picked out a cute little pair of denim shoes for Lowly.  The other day she wore them for the first time for about 20 minutes.  She spent the whole time running back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, staring at her feet.  When she inevitably fell, she would sit for a few moments and poke at the bows on top of the shoes, then hop up and keep running.

That evening I noticed she had little blisters on her feet.  Nothing terrible, and nothing a pair of socks wouldn't prevent, but still, I felt bad.  One year olds should not have blisters, even if they clearly aren't bothered by them.  I put the shoes away under her bed, made a mental note to make sure she wore socks with them, even if she's just puttering around the house, and I decided to continue letting her run barefoot for a few days.

Last night, Lowly noticed the shoes under the bed, dragged them out and brought them to me.  I informed her that it was bedtime, and handed them back.  She then threw them at my feet, and for the next five minutes stood there yelling at me and stabbing her little feet into the shoes.  (She couldn't quite figure out how to get them past the elastic strap on top.)  I tried picking her up to rock her, but she arched her back, went all rigid, and screamed all the louder.  All this coming from the child who will not wear sandals and likes to fling her socks around the car.

Finally, I gave in.  It was late, I still had to get her brother to bed, and it sounded like he was trying to sneak himself a bowl of Cheerios downstairs.  Figuring that she wouldn't get blisters from just wearing them (as opposed to walking in them) I put the shoes on her, picked her up, and rocked her again.  This time, all was well.  She absentmindedly played with the bows, and within 10 minutes, she was asleep.  I'm not sure how I got the shoes back off without waking her up.

Yes, I know, I know I've created a monster.  But she can scream until she's blue in the face - she's never walking out of the house with shorts with "juicy" written across the back.

Hail, Vacations, and General Mayhem

I was all set to finally write a post last night when we were hit with some sort of apocalyptic hail storm which turned into torrential rain.  (Seriously, I saw less rain when Hurricane Irene hit.)  That in turn caused the gutters to back up, pour in through my bathroom window, and back up around our water heater.  Six towels, one cookie sheet, and a shop vac later, we're more or less back to normal.

Last week we went on our first family vacation, to the Poconos.  The kids had a great time, and WeeBee was fascinated by the concept of being on vacation.  They had a great time at the pool and the historical farm that we visited, where WeeBee decided he wanted to take home a sheep.  He was less impressed with the rooster that bit his finger, but that's what you get when you insist on poking your little fingers through the cage.  Besides, everyone needs a good "I was attacked by a bird" story.  Almost twenty five years later, I still remember the nasty goose that stole my peanut butter and jelly sandwich when we were on vacation in New England.

In the "what mayhem have my children caused" category, Lowly is walking/running.  She's still not one to babble for the sake of babbling, like WeeBee was.  She has about 10 words she uses to get what she wants, and the rest of the time she's perfectly content to watch whatever chaos is surrounding her, and then give you the raised eyebrow.  This kid's sense of timing is unreal.

WeeBee's 3rd birthday was a few weeks back.  I guess that makes him a preschooler, not a toddler?  Either way, he's shot up another six inches or something, and I'm starting to feel short standing next to him.  I was really hoping to postpone the "stand next to Mom and see who's taller" contests until he was a teenager.  He still likes to climb up in my lap and give me hugs, though, so it's all good.  :)

I Can Do Crafty Things Too!

You know all those gorgeous nurseries that you see in baby magazines?  Yeah, well, my kids' rooms don't look like that.  They had cute little crib sets, but the walls are plain, and I didn't spell their names out in 12inch high wooden letters.  I feel slightly guilty about WeeBee's room, since it was due purely to my lack of organization.  Lowly's room was pretty bare because there were a whole bunch of real life problems at the time that were a lot more urgent than what shade of paint to go pick out.

But I'm working on it!  The good thing about holding off on decorating is now WeeBee can tell me what he likes.  After I talked him out of painting the room black, his answer to everything is, "I want blue, like Thomas!"  (The Tank Engine)  So I've invested in a $2 glue gun and now I'm going to take over the world!  :)  Look what I made!

It's one of those photo/memory board things, for WeeBee's room!  The only things I had to buy were the bulletin board and the quilt batting that went underneath the blue fabric - everything else I had around the house.  (Well, not counting the glue gun.  But I needed that anyway.)  The blue fabric is from the curtains in his room which were about 2 feet too long.  I have no idea why I had that much white ribbon lying around, but I'm glad that I did.  The buttons were all from Nonna's button box, which I thought made it a little more special.  :)

If you don't have small children running around correcting you on the use of glue guns and ribbons, you could probably make it in 45 minutes (a little less if you're using a staple gun, I suppose.)  As you can guess, it took me quite a bit longer.  Still, by that afternoon, my husband was able to hang it up over WeeBee's bed.  Yay!

I'm way too excited about this...

I'm Still Here!

No, I don't have a good excuse for not writing for a month.  Unless not feeling like it is a good excuse, which it probably isn't.  Not that I don't love all my loyal readers!  Sometimes things are just blah, though, and I don't feel like writing about it.

Anyways...

Baby Lowly can now stand all by herself.  She can also bite her brother.  By that I mean she's discovered it's an option when your brother is being bossy and takes your toys, not that it's an option we encourage in this establishment.

They are starting to play with each other, as opposed to next to each other, which alternates between adorable and chaotic.  The other afternoon, WeeBee informed Lowly that she was no longer his sister.  He was in complete shock when I then informed him that it didn't work that way.  Then he tried to convince me that she could be my sister instead.  The whole thing ended with him in a foul mood and Lowly laughing at him.  Still, that afternoon they were rolling around on the living room floor together, giggling.  I couldn't believe the boy who screams bloody murder when she looks at him at the wrong moment was the same one who was letting her pin him to the floor, but there you go.

Which isn't to say he can't still be a stinker, as we see from this morning...

Me:  Did you just tell Lowly you were sharing?  And eat all her Cheerios?
WeeBee:  But we arrrreeee sharing!  We just...we ate...Mommy, I take the bowl and put it in the sink?

One of these days I'm going to crack up in front of him.

I'm So Not A Morning Person

I put fish food in my coffee this morning, instead of in the fishbowl.

Yes, I realized before I drank the coffee.  But I have a feeling it's just going to be one of those days.  :(

Happy Birthday, Baby Lowly!

Can you believe it?  Baby Lowly is 1 already!

Actually, I can.  I have more trouble believing she's only 1.  Then again, I have a weird sense of time.  But that's a problem for another day.

Back to birthdays!  Lowly had a lovely tea party at Paka's house yesterday.  WeeBee restrained himself and only hijacked a few of her presents.  He's not really buying into the whole, "It's Lowly's birthday, so you should be extra nice to her" thing, though.  This morning he tried to convince her that it was a fair trade if she gave him the Matchbox car that she was playing with, and he gave her a shoe.

Anyway, remember how I had said I've been working on super secret craft projects?  Well here's one of them!

Isn't it brilliant?  It was one of those things that had been making the rounds on Pinterest awhile back, and as far as I can tell originated here.  I'm rubbish at coming up with things like this on my own, but once I see an idea, I'm not too bad at adapting it.  (At least, I think so.)

Basically, you take the Ikea Bekvam step stool, which is about $15, and then decorate it with odds and ends to make it look like a stove.  I used Panna coasters from Ikea for the burners, and my husband came up with the brilliant idea to cut down old corks for stove knobs.  I got little measuring cups and spoons from the dollar store to use as pots and spoons, and then wedged a wire basket in the middle to store everything.  Then I used some old scraps of yarn to crochet little pot holders.  After a little paint and Gorilla glue, you've got yourself a stove.

A few notes, in case you're inspired to do something similar:

1.  The Bekvam step stool was a major pain to put together.  I've put together my share of Ikea furniture (table & chairs, beds, bookcases, nightstands, dressers) and it was by far the worst.  The instructions weren't terrible, as these things go, but it was extremely difficult to get the screws to fit properly.  I suppose it could have just been a fluke (one never knows with Ikea) but I'm inclined to think they were a bit overzealous in their attempts to get the thing to be sturdy, and drilled extra small holes for the screws.

2. Olive oil and nail files work reasonably well for removing Gorilla glue.  Or you could just wear gloves in the first place.

3.  All in all, it's a fairly sturdy piece, but keep your kid's particular idiosyncrasies in mind.  If you think your child will be hell bent on gnawing off the stove knobs, draw them on or something.  Yes, I suppose in theory your kid could try to climb between the first and second step and get stuck.  Yes, your kid could fall off it if they climb it.  It's a step stool.  You can fall off anything if you try hard enough.  My point is, I am not responsible if your kid is determined to live dangerously.

Anyways, here's hoping Lowly enjoys this as much as I did making it.  Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

No, WeeBee, St. Brendan Was Not A Pirate

This afternoon the kids and I were cleaning upstairs.  That is to say, I was putting things away, and they were taking them out again.  That's how we roll.  WeeBee popped out from underneath the blanket on his bed, and had the following conversation:

WeeBee:  Um...excuse me, Mommy.
Mommy:  Yes?
WeeBee:  I'm a pirate!
Mommy:  Umm...really?
WeeBee:  (bouncing up and down)  Yes!
Mommy:  That's nice.
WeeBee:  I have a pirate broakt.
Mommy:  What?
WeeBee:  I have a pirate broakt.
Mommy:  A boat?
WeeBee:  Noooo.  A book!
Mommy:  Ahh.  What book?
WeeBee:  You knowwwww.
Mommy:  WeeBee, what are you talking about?  You don't have a pirate book.
WeeBee:  (hops off bed and pulls a picture book about St. Brendan off the bookshelf)  See!  This book!
Mommy:  Ohh.  WeeBee, St. Brendan wasn't a pirate.
WeeBee:  Yes!
Mommy:  No, sweetie, he wasn't.
WeeBee:  He had a boat.
Mommy:  Yes.
WeeBee:  It went in the water.
Mommy:  Well, yes.
WeeBee:  Up and down?
Mommy:  Well, yeah, I guess so.
WeeBee:  He was a pirate!

Eventually he let the matter drop.  The implication was clearly, "Yeah, Mom, you believe what you want.  He was a pirate."