What's New with You?

Being a parent is about prioritizing. I have to be a parent first, and let the things I want to do slide until I have free time. I’d love to spend ten solid hours a day playing on the Internet, but I have to take care of my kids. Due to meals, snacks, and the never-ending investigations of who’s crying now, I have to suffer through several short Internet sessions that total daily eight hours at best. Worse, chores cut into my free time, chores like cleaning the dishes and figuring out why the Internet isn’t working.

Such was the case last night when I missed a post. I try to write something every day, even if it’s just to write “no time to write today.” I’m learning to cram my chores A day of shuttling children to and from appointments left me shockingly behind on my chores at the end of the day.

I prefer to do chores while the kids are awake. Their naptime is my time to do what I want, such as nap or play on the Internet. It would be easier to work while the kids sleep, and more efficient since I wouldn’t have to take frequent breaks to pull someone from the oven. If I want to have any time for myself,* though, I have to work while the kids play. My parental oversight may suffer while I work, but it helps me keep an eye on them that they’re frequently playing in the dishwasher.

I didn’t have much chance to work while the kids were awake yesterday, though. We spent too much of their wake time outside the house, and by the time everyone else went to bed, I still had work to do. The dishes still needed washed. The trash needed carried out. The fish tank needed work. The kids’ screaming needed investigating.

The dishes always need washed and the kids are always screaming, so sacrificing free time for those is nothing unusual. The trash was more daunting than normal, though. A weekend of cleaning the garage left a pile of unwanted items in our living room. We had to sort things into piles of “keep,” “trash,” and “donate,” and then divide the “donate” pile into “donate,” “too embarrassingly filthy to donate,” and “it works, but they won’t accept it.”** With this morning being trash day, I had to shove everything into appropriate containers, affix the appropriate “extra bag” stickers to the extra bags, and haul everything plus the usual recycling bins to the appropriate bare patch of lawn by the curb. When I was their age, trash day was simple.

I walked back into the house exhausted and ready for bed. Unfortunately the aquarium needed my attention. We ordered a new stand to replace the one wrecked by water damage at our old home, and were waiting for it to arrive before setting up the tank again. It took three months for the magic elves to craft the wood and plastic before shipping to a store five miles away from us. It arrived today, and I wasn’t about to wait any longer before restarting the nitrogen cycle, so I stayed up late. I poured gravel into it. I poured 60-gallons of water into it five-gallons at a time. I turned on the filter. I wondered why the filter was making so much noise. I decided to ignore the filter until morning.

It was well past my bedtime by now. I stumbled to the bedroom and collapsed into bed. I fell asleep quickly, grateful that I wouldn’t have to tend to anyone until morning.

Around 4am, I had to wake up to let the cat out of the room.

* I do.
** Tip for the day: You can’t give away an air filter or microwave.

Abbie's Day by the Numbers

12: The number of times Abbie hit somebody, usually mommy.
7: The number of times we placed Abbie in time out.
2: The number of times we sent Abbie to her room not knowing what else to do.
1: “No hitting” is the #1 rule in our house.
159,873,513 The approximate number of times we made Abbie repeat our #1 rule.

PS: Extra special thanks to Patty for coming through on her offer to help us unpack. We can now walk through our living room again.

You'll Have That

The Good News: Our garage is clean. After a couple hours of deficient childcare over the past few days, almost every moving box has been carried out of the garage. We now have enough room to park both vehicles in shelter.

The Bad News: I can’t walk across my living room anymore.

What a Boy Wants

When Abbie couldn’t talk, I could only imagine the things we were missing. I wanted Abbie to tell me directly what she wanted, instead of placating her screams with a dozen sugary and/or fatty snacks before realizing she just had a poopy diaper.

Now that Tory is starting to talk, I get a window into the mind of a 20-month-old’s desires. His current top ten words are:

10. Book
9. Dora
8. Shhh
7. Airplane
6. Upside down (as in, “I’m being held upside down”)
5. Shoes and socks
4. Up
3. More
2. Juice
1. Outside

It turns out, I wasn’t too far off in my guesses on what a toddler wants. Ian’s speech is a little behind, so he gets whatever Tory asks for. As long as that’s juice or outside, he’s fine with it.

The Moving Show: Day 10,909

In our rush to move, we wound up with a giant collection of miscellanea stuffed into boxes. Toys. Clothes. Food. Diapers. Probably a few wads of cash. You know, miscellanea.

I knew that without a sense of urgency, this stuff would sit in their boxes for months, waiting for the day when a) we had nothing better to do than put it away, b) the kids were old enough to put it away for us, c) we threw it away en masse, or d) we moved again and threw all the boxes back on the trailer. To avoid this, I came up with the ingenious plan to stack the boxes in the garage. We couldn’t park in the garage until we’d cleared out the boxes, thus creating a sense of urgency.

Several weeks later, those boxes are still in the garage, and we’re getting used to parking in the driveway. I’m trying to recapture that urgency now, and spent much of the morning hauling boxes out of the garage. I can see definite progress, and the floor, as many of those boxes have disappeared from the garage and reappeared in a pile in the living room.

That’s progress, right?

Missing the Point

Dora: “You have to say, ‘Map!’”

Boots: “Say, ‘Map!’ Say, ‘Map!’”

Abbie: “Say, ‘Map!’”

A Near Entomologic Disaster

Our backyard’s sandlot is one of the biggest surprises with our new house, even bigger than the Match the Light Switch to the Light Fixture game. Not that we were surprised to find the lot when we moved in. It’s about 40 x 25 feet, and hard to miss. We knew it was there, we just didn’t know what to do with it.

The previous owners apparently enjoyed entertaining people. We entertain people too, but our entertainment generally involves chicken nuggets or bouncy houses. Their entertainment involved fancier food* and more sophisticated activities. The most outlandish bit of entertainment they added is a sand volleyball court in the backyard.

Since I’m not a volleyball player and our family rarely joins in groups large enough to field competing volleyball teams, I had no idea what we’d do with the giant sand pit in our backyard. Fortunately, the kids knew exactly what to do with it. I forgot that sand is a child magnet, rivaled only by sugary-snacks in its drawing power. In fact, a lot full of sugar granules might be the only thing more attractive to the children. They all love playing in the sand, and I’ve encouraged this get-them-out-of-the-house habit. We’ve given them various tools for digging, erected a playhouse on one end of the lot, and a swing set on the other end of the lot. What could possibly drive them off their sandlot? Besides the blistering hot sun radiating off the scalding grains of sand?


These could, at least at first. That is a sand wasp, and our sandlot is full of them. These inch-long creatures build nests in the sand, and emerge in the hot sun. Dozens of these things buzz around lot from sun up till late afternoon, usually staying inches above the surface. The buzzing can sound like an electric transformer.

Our family was initially concerned about these things, or at least the adults were. The kids usually didn’t notice them, and if they did, Abbie just pointed to them and yelled, “fly!” Ellie and I were terrified that our children were playing alongside these things that looked like wasps, and were actually called “wasps.” Then we realized our children were playing alongside these things, but not getting stung. A little Internet research revealed that sand wasps are almost harmless to humans. They stay away from people, and you’d have to actively try to pick one up before it would sting you. While picking up a wasp sounds like something our kids would do, they’re not nearly coordinated enough to succeed yet. Even in the worst-case scenario where one stung you, they’re solitary wasps so it’s not like an entire nest would come after you.

Once we started watching them, they turned out to be fascinating creatures. They constantly dig holes in the sand, and occasionally drag a victim insect inside. This is especially gratifying when that insect is a cricket.

About the time we started getting comfortable around the sand wasps, we noticed this creature hanging out to the side:



You can’t tell size from these pictures, but that wasp is easily twice the size of our friendly sand wasps. I’ve seen three of these sitting around the sandlot, buzzing each other, and taking to the air when someone walked close. These seemed threatening if for no other reason than their stingers must be the size of Ian’s pinky.

A little more Internet research revealed that these are cicada killer wasps. They’re essentially a super-sized version of the sand wasp, also enjoying heat and sand, also solitary, and also relatively harmless. These guys fly higher off the ground than sand wasps, and they hunt larger prey, such as cicadas.** Ellie wasn’t firmly opposed to their existence until I told her they kill cicadas; now she’ll give them a chance.

Our family and the wasps are now sharing the backyard. If they stay out of our way, I’ll pretend they don’t exist.


Our dog has the right idea.

* I’m guessing they served breaded chicken bites as hors d'oeuvres.
** Duh.

Worst Tantrum Ever

Yesterday, Ian threw the largest tantrum I have ever had the misfortune to witness. With naptime nearing, I was rushing to finish the naptime routine. The only remaining step was to read a few naptime books. Naptime books are infinitely more interesting than normal books because I announce, “this is the last book we’re book we’re going to read before naptime,” which makes everyone pay extra close attention lest I shut the book prematurely and send everyone to bed early.

Except Ian wasn’t paying attention. He was out in the hallway starting his tantrum. My tantrum strategy is to ignore the child while he screams. Every piece of Expert Advice says if you give in to a tantrum, the next one will be worse. I continued reading, confident that the dulcet tones of “A, B, C” would pique his interest and soothe him into the bedroom. Plus I wasn’t sure what I’d be giving into if I paid him attention, so I figured I’d best play it safe.

Ten minutes later, the scheduled naptime had passed and Ian was still in the hall screaming. I pulled him into the bedroom and continued reading under the assumption that his screams drown out the suspense of which letter follows “S.”

Ten minutes later, he was still screaming. His flailing was the alarming part, though. He was rolling wildly on the floor, slamming his appendages across anything they could contact. I picked him up to comfort him, and set him right back down when he continued flailing. He was thrashing so violently that I couldn’t hold him without gripping him tightly, a move that was likely to infuriate him more. Nothing I tried to do calmed him. His screaming broke every couple of minutes as he stopped cold to catch his breath; otherwise his tantrum was continuous.

I knew he was tired, so I finished the naptime routine, shut the door, and let him scream himself to sleep. Ten minutes of constant tantrum later, I pulled him out of the room to try soothing’s Big Guns. I offered him milk, Goldfish, and even ice cream to calm him, and he refused all of them. I was at least getting a response now, so that was progress, but I was worried something might be seriously wrong. I seriously considered calling 911 for his sake, or at least my sanity’s sake. I knew he needed to sleep, but was too worked up to calm down.

Unsure of what else to do, I carried him into the bathroom for a dose of acetaminophen. When I opened the cabinet, he grabbed for their contents. Pleased that I finally found something to interest him, I let him play with every bottle with a child-resistant cap while we listened to music.

Within a few minutes, he’d stopped screaming and opted to play with the hairbrush instead. I eased him toward his bedroom, and slipped back to the bathroom when the complaints returned. After a few more minutes of calming hair brushing, I eased him back to the bedroom without complaint. I set him down quietly so I didn’t wake Tory, shut the door, and listened to quiet as he finally slipped to sleep.

The total tantrum time was over 45 minutes. Everyone needed a nap after that marathon, especially me.

"Back to Square One," or "I Call the Little One 'Bitey.'"

A couple weeks ago, I swore off putting the boys on a one-nap-a-day schedule. While they didn’t like taking their morning nap, they weren’t ready to run the entire day with only one nap break. I wanted to wait until they were definitely mature enough to handle the long wake time period necessary in a single nap routine.

Apparently they’re mature enough now. After a few days of reinstating their morning nap, they started showing signs that they were ready to drop it again. Specifically, they screamed throughout the entire morning naptime instead of actually napping. I decided that if they weren’t going to sleep anyway, I might as well let them continue playing around the house. Maybe they’ll tire themselves out for a decent afternoon nap.

We’ve been on this single nap schedule for about a week now, and things are progressing smoothly. They seem to be read to handle one nap, though by the time naptime rolls around they’re occasionally crankier than a Harry Potter spoiler victim. They still have relapses where they fall asleep too soon, usually in the car, but they’re getting used to their new routine.

Yesterday I was swinging the kids in our backyard before naptime. I always try to give the kids some time outside before naptime. I read somewhere that several minutes of sunlight before naptime can help children sleep better. I have no idea if this is true, but I’ll try anything that can coax a few extra minutes out of naptime.

After deciding that our ashen skin had absorbed enough sunlight for one afternoon, I stopped the swings to bring everyone inside for the naptime routine. Abbie hopped down and ran away from the house, likely to delay naptime. When I walked around to the front to unbuckle the boys from their swings, I discovered that the gentle swaying front to back punctuated by occasional shoves in the back had already lulled them to sleep.

Abbie taught me long ago that a child falling asleep before naptime is a bad thing. When she’d fall asleep in the car, she’d often consider that little pre-nap a suitable replacement for the actual nap, and refuse to fall back asleep.

I unbuckled the boys, waking them, and whisked them inside. My only alternative was to let them sleep in the swings, but I couldn’t let that happen. Even if the elements and barking neighborhood dogs allowed them a full-length nap, we’d all regret the hot pink hue their skin would develop after an afternoon in the sun.

When I set everyone down for their nap, I could tell the boys weren’t tired. I closed their door anyway and hoped for the best.

Within minutes, Tory was screaming. Ian, desperate for something entertaining in their barren, dim, and quiet room, bit his brother on the back. I returned both to bed, soothed Tory, and closed the door again while hoping for the best.

I repeated this process a few minutes later, and a few minutes after that, and a few more minutes after that. Ian bit Tory four times rather than try to fall asleep. Ian was justified the one time Tory tried sleeping in his bed. I felt a little unsympathetic for Tory the two times Ian bit him while lying on the floor since he’s not supposed sleep on the floor anyway. I got a little upset at Ian the one time he climbed into Tory’s bed to bite him.

After the fourth bite, Ian got the message and quit biting. My firmness with him may have helped the message sink into his head like teeth into a back. When they awoke, I checked Tory’s back for damage. It was red and bruised in multiple locations. He may have been better off spending the afternoon baking outside in the swing.

Lost

I don’t know why we bothered moving our stuff when we moved to a new house. It would’ve been easier to throw it all away and buy new stuff. Too much of our stuff is still packed in boxes in the garage, and inaccessible if we need it. We may never get around to opening some of those boxes, but at least they’re already packed for the next time we move.

Some things were worth moving, things that are frequently used and large enough to be easily found in the garage. Our vehicles are good examples, although our truck is not currently in the garage due to all those boxes. Furniture was generally worth moving too, although we still have a cabinet stranded in the garage beneath the weight of allegedly valuable housewares.

We never should’ve bothered with some of our dog stuff, though. Somewhere in the garage is a box containing a dog brush. This is a useful tool for keeping our longhaired dog clean. It also picks up loose hair and helps keep our fabrics clean since she sheds her body weight in fur on a weekly basis. After a couple months of swearing I’d find it one of these days, I realized our dog’s fur was a matted mess that left a coat of white fuzz on everything she touched. I gave up, bought a new brush a couple weeks ago, and am slowly recovering the canine I once knew.

There’s a similar story with the dog’s leashes. She has two of them. I haven’t seen one since we moved, so maybe it’s stowed away with her brush. The other leash we used when we moved her, and we’ve used it to inflict her on the public several times since then. I know it’s in the house somewhere, but darned if I can find it underneath the dearth of allegedly valuable housewares that we’ve moved into the house, unpacked from boxes, but haven’t figured out where to store them yet.

Figuring a leash is too important to go without for long, I gave up and journeyed with the family to the big box store yesterday to buy a replacement. We found it quickly, decided we needed to do more to make the trip worthwhile, and wandered the store.

We mysteriously wandered into the toy section, and discovered many toys were clearanced. After a little browsing, we found cheap toys suitable for birthday or Christmas presents. We bought a train table minus any train paraphernalia, so we’ll be prepared when the kids are ready to drag us into the monetary black hole of toy trains. We bought an oversized racetrack with three cars, which leaves two for the kids to share while I play with the third one. We bought more play food toys whenever Abbie decides to play with her kitchen again instead of leaving the accessories scattered outside as lawnmower landmines.

Even though we don’t need any presents until the boys’ birthday in late November, we have a closet full of toys. We may be crazy* for buying them now, but there are advantages. The prices are lower. The kids are still young enough that we can buy presents right in front of them and they won’t realize what they are. There are fewer shoppers to compete with. Most importantly, we still have plenty of closet space left to store presents since we haven’t put most of our stuff away yet from the move.

* Sleep deprivation will do that to people.

Extra Duties

Abbie speech therapist helps Abbie learn more than the articulation she seems to have the most problems with. She teaches her how to grammatically form sentences. She teaches her how to answer questions. She teaches her that hitting is naughty. I also teach her that hitting is naughty, but I need all the help I can get.

Yesterday, he speech therapist helped her with something new: Potty training. Toward the end of the session, Abbie started hopping up and down like a Harry Potter fan waiting impatiently for the new book. I took this as a sign that she was bored and desperate for any activity that involved something besides speaking. Her speech therapist saw the potty dance in her movements, and asked if she could take her to the bathroom.

I gave them my blessing. I was getting frustrated watching her sit on the potty for minutes at a time, only to see her rise from a dry potty reservoir. If someone else wants to watch her sit on the potty without doing anything, they’re welcome to do so.

They returned several minutes later. I hoped to hear good news while expecting the same old news. It was the latter. The therapist swore that she had to potty, but she didn’t go. I told her that was the norm at our house, and to let us know if she had any further suggestions.

The therapist then asked what I wanted to do with the old diaper. It was a little wet, so she didn’t want to put it back on her. I looked at the diaper in her hand, looked at Abbie’s strangely svelte diaper region, and realized that the only thing between the floor and a puddle was the skort around Abbie’s waist.

I considered returning the diaper to its previous location, but choose otherwise. Since the session was over and the diaper bag was in the car, I decided to put a fresh diaper on her when we returned to the car. As I informed the therapist of my decision, I watched a pools form at Abbie’s feet. A skort, it turns out, is not absorbent.

The therapist fetched a towel for the floor, while I cleaned Abbie. Her skort came off, while the old diaper went back on. With no backup clothing, Abbie rode home with only a diaper covering her lower half, an experience she no doubt enjoyed based on her insistence of stripping naked at home.

I teach her about using the potty, but obviously, I need help.

I Pinch

I pinched Tory’s fingers in a door again. This is at least the second time I’ve pinched his fingers in a door in the past couple months. I’m hoping he learns to keep his fingers out of doorways soon. Considering that I haven’t yet learned to watch out for his fingers when shutting a door, maybe my hopes are too high.

I pinched them almost at the end of their day, right when they’re supposed to be winding down for a night of restful, whimper-free sleeping. After tooth brushings, I was trying to herd everyone out of the bathroom and into the bedroom for the remainder of the bedtime routine. Herding toddlers through the house when bedtime nears is a lot like herding cats toward the car when a veterinarian visit nears, the difference being cats are generally more appreciative of your good intentions.

To herd children out of the bathroom at night, I stand at the back of the group and walk forward as the slowest child moves toward the door. The kids can move at a variety of speeds, with each choosing a different velocity to impede bedtime. Sometimes children will run out the door into the farthest reaches of the house, playing sweetly and quietly to avoid detection and to encourage me to bask in their innocence when I discover them instead of rushing them to bed. Sometimes children will linger in the bathroom, giving their teeth an extra brush, their hands an extra wash, and their bedtime an extra minute’s reprieve. I encourage the stragglers to leave, giving the trailblazers time to roam the house unsupervised, content that I’ll be able to lock them in the bedroom in a minute.

The boys took their sweet time last night. Tory would take a step; I’d take a step. Ian would take a step; I’d take another step. Tory would take two steps; I’d stand still because I’m still waiting for Ian. Finally Ian took the requisite three steps to leave the room, and I slowly closed the door behind us, careful to watch Ian so I didn’t shut the door on his feet.

Unfortunately I wasn’t careful to watch Tory so I didn’t shut the door on his fingers. He was standing in the hallway, fingers wrapped around the doorframe for balance. When I shut the door, the hinge side pinched his fingers in the frame. Tory immediately screamed in pain, and I opened the door. When he continued howling, I knew exactly what to do: I handed him to mommy while I finished preparing everyone else for bed.

Several minutes later, mommy returned Tory to me, still screaming, but with assurances that nothing was broken. We gave him a dose of acetaminophen, and read their bedtime books while waiting for the medicine to kick in and Tory to calm down.

Many minutes and bedtime books later, Tory was still screaming. I could calm him with extra attention, but as soon as something else grabbed my attention, such as the sibling running out the bedroom door, he started screaming again. Ian didn’t help by continually trying to steal his cow blanket, his ultimate comfort item. Confident that he’d suffered no serious harm, I set him in bed, soothed him to a dull whimper, and turned out the lights.

I listened for his whimpering to fade to silence. It took about 15 minutes, but he eventually drifted to sleep. I was worried that he might have a restless night, tossing, turning, putting weight on his pinched fingers, and screaming every time. Instead he slept well, staying quiet until long after his wake time. I opened his door to find him still asleep. When I opened his door, I opened it carefully to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep with his fingers resting right next to the hinge. I like to think we’re both learning.

How We Get to Sesame Street

I’ve been introducing the kids to “Sesame Street.” This show has a special place in mommy’s heart. Growing up in rural Iowa, she never had access to the high fallutin’ cable broadcasts that I grew up with, shows like “Pinwheel” and “Today’s Special.”* Ellie, at the mercy of broadcast television, grew up with “Sesame Street.” Not that she remembers much about watching the show; she quickly moved on to the more mature Muppets. She still adores the old Muppet episodes, no matter how dated their guests are today.

It took a few weeks for Abbie to accept Sesame. I kept showing it to her as an alternative to watching an identical episode of “Dora the Explorer” several times a day. She kept losing interest and verbally berating me turning off Dora. Eventually I realized that the first 15 minutes of the show couldn’t keep her interest. Never mind that that’s the part with the puppets and the story, I just fast forward through those initial, plot-driven minutes.

Now that she’s had a couple weeks to watch “Sesame Street,” she’s chosen a favorite segment. Is it the letter of the day segment where Cookie Monster always eats the letter of the day in a disturbing lack of self-control? Is it the Elmo’s World segment that has nothing to do with the rest of the show? Is it the Trash Gordon segment that alerts me it’s about time to get off my chair and do some real parenting?

No. Her favorite Sesame segment is the introductory song to the day’s game. It’s the rock song that starts with the lyrics, “Come on, come on, it’s time to play. This is the game we’ll play today.” When she hears this song start, which usually appears some time around lunch, she immediately shouts, “all done,” and demands to be released from her booster seat. She then finds a ball, and throws it while smiling, emulating the silhouettes dancing across the screen.

It’s an odd favorite, but it keeps her happy. I hope she chooses a more substantive favorite segment soon. Mommy hopes she chooses something with a Muppet.

* There’s a large break in typing activity here while I check the Internet for nostalgia on these two shows.

27, 28, 29 ...

The kids love playing outside. I love putting them outside. They get exercise and fresh air, and I enjoy a few minutes where they can’t empty the kitchen drawers. It’s a win-win.

Unfortunately, it’s been hot in Iowa the past few weeks. It’s not the insane type of hot you find south of here in, say, Missouri, but we’re still enduring temperatures well into the 90’s with high humidity. It’s not much fun to take the kids outside when we return to the house cranky, sweaty, and more likely to develop cancerous lesions. So we avoid the heat of the day and step outside only after the sun droops in the sky and the temperature slips to a more comfortable reading in the upper 80’s.

This leaves us about 15 minutes to spend outside before bedtime. The kids’ activity of choice is playing on their swing set. Since the slide is still scaldingly hot from the day of sunshine, and there’s not much point in climbing the ladder if you’re not going to slide down, we spend the time swinging. I set Abbie in the traditional banana swing, the boys in a couple of baby swings, and stand behind them pushing.

Abbie needs constant pushing. That’s a shame, because her momentum could keep her swinging long enough for me to do yard work a minute at a time. That’s enough time to remove some of the more evolved specimens choking out the vegetables in my garden a few feet from the swings.

In spite of this, I gave everyone a push last night, and left the equipment for a minute. The Cubs were playing a pivotal mid-July game, and I needed to turn on the radio to listen. Predictably, Abbie jettisoned off the swing and ran after me, screaming in anger that I abandoned her. With the radio blaring the play-by-play, I returned her to her swing and resumed pushing.

Ordinary swinging doesn’t benefit the child much mentally or physically. There’s a bit of a thrill as the child experiences slight changes in g-force, a little core body workout as the child maintains balance, but otherwise it’s as substantive as a Paris Hilton news story. We’ve added an educational component to the process by counting as we swing. Abbie usually takes the lead, shouting “one” at her designated starting point, and I repeat. Somewhere usually in the teens, she stops counting by herself, and I have to prod her before each number with “what’s next?”

We’ve ironed out a few gaps in her numerical sequences this way. She used to stop at 20, probably because few counting books go beyond 20. After drilling the number 21 into her head, she finally repeated “21” back to me. I encouraged her to keep counting, and was thrilled that she grasped counting fundamentals by continuing with 22, 23, etc. I was less thrilled when she arrived at “twenty-ten, “ but I give her credit for recognizing a pattern and sticking with it.

After I finally taught her that 30 follows 29, she had trouble continuing. She wanted to count by tens, saying “30, 40, etc.” This little bit of laziness is probably tied to my little bit of laziness when I counted to 100 by tens in the one counting book we own that has a 100 page.

After much drilling and encouragement, she’s learning her numbers. She can count fairly high with minimal corrections from me, usually limited only by her attention span. Last night she lost interest somewhere in the 50’s, as did I. I focused on pushing the kids for a minute, and was surprised to hear her pick up again at “56.” That was unusual since she normally starts at one, or at least somewhere in the single-digits to give her room before reaching that tricky 29-30 exchange. I went with it for a minute, but was confused when she didn’t count higher. I then realized that she was repeating what she heard on the radio. The announcers, desperate for something to fill time, were commenting that on this day in history, Joe DiMaggio’s streak of hits in consecutive games reached 56. So there’s another way that she’s learning while swinging.

Golden Bond

Our boys share a special bond. All brothers do, but their status as twins makes it more so. They’ve literally spent every day since conception next to each other, sharing experiences, and poking and prodding each other to discover what makes the other tick.

Seriously, they’re poking and prodding each other constantly. And hitting. And biting. I think they’re trying to find the other one’s weak points for easier stealing of food and toys.

Tory is transforming into a violent little man. Somewhere, probably from Abbie, he picked up the habit of hitting people. When he wants something such as crackers or Ian’s toy, he walks up to the target and starts smacking the person open-palmed. I’m sure he’s being vicious by 20-month-old standards, but it’s almost adorable when he hits me. The dog’s wagging tail hits harder than he does slapping my leg. I never know if he’s hitting me or just steadying himself as he toddles past. When he hits me, I take a second to compose myself so I don’t laugh, and firmly redirect him. Only after turning his head do I smirk at him.

When Tory hits Ian, that’s a different matter. Tory hits him once in the chest, waits to see if Ian gives up the toy, and hits again, repeating the process until Ian surrenders, or until I move him to another room. If I redirect him to a few steps away, he’ll turn around and go right back after Ian. Ian usually stands still, giving Tory repeated free shots. While I’m glad he doesn’t fight back lest the altercation escalate, I wish he’d parry, move away, or do something protective. I haven’t seen it on any developmental chart, but I’m hoping the “defends self from sibling attack” milestone pops up around 24 months. Maybe he’s also trying to figure out what Tory thinks he’s doing.

Tory doesn’t really attack Abbie. Perhaps he did in the past, and Abbie taught him a lesson far more efficiently than any time out could.

Ian’s aggression is more innocent, though he hurts more. He likes to sit on people. If I lie down, he’ll walk up to me with a giant grin, straddle his legs around my shoulders, and sit. Then he’ll stand back up, and sit again, bouncing repeatedly until I can muster the strength to make him stop crushing my airway. This is cute until I start losing consciousness from lack of oxygen.

It’s cuter when he goes after Tory, at least at first. He bounces on him, and they both laugh. He bounces again, and Tory starts getting concerned. He continues bouncing, and Tory starts screaming. I’ve had to walk into their bedroom several times right after setting them down for a nap to pull a giggling Ian off his screaming brother.

Ian will also sit on Abbie, which is cutest of all. Abbie can take it, laughing with him. If he gets too much, she’s strong enough to dump him on the floor, and everybody laughs. If he’s quick, Tory might then get revenge by hopping on top of him while he’s vulnerable.

So far, they can make each other laugh, and make each other scream. Does that qualify as a bond?

Just Curious...

How much sleep does the human body need? I think I'm bumping against the limit the past couple days.

Topsy Turvy

Language development is an amazing process. You can almost see the tiny hamster wheel spinning inside a child’s head as he wraps his mind around words. Something clicks, possibly the wheel’s hinge loosening a bit as the hamster jostles it free, and the child realizes that this sound followed by that sound form a word representing something. The child then endlessly repeats the word, trying to perfect it, in the hope that each utterance will bring him a special treat, especially attention. At least, that’s how I hope it goes. I’d never seen this in action until Tory gave me such an experience tonight, and I’m hoping that’s what normal children do as they develop speech.

As I prepared everyone for bed, Tory ran away. Nothing unusual there; all three kids quickly learned that the easiest way to delay the inevitable bedtime is to run away and make it difficult for me to finish the bedtime routine. Tory crawled down the hall as I chased him for maximum speed over a short distance. There’s no time to waste standing up when daddy is hot on your tail.

When I caught him, I could’ve grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him onto my hip. I assumed, though, that Tory would be unhappy that bedtime was gaining on him almost as fast as I did, and would thrash wildly in my arms when I lifted him off the floor. Instead, I grabbed him around the waist, and brought his midsection to my shoulder, face pointing out, head pointing down. My objective was to startle him, give him something to think about besides lights out, and maybe reduce his squirming. Plus, if I give him the sensation that daddy barely has hold of him, maybe he’ll fight me less.

I heard a new benefit after I told him he was upside down. Tory immediately repeated “upside down.” This three-syllable, two-word phrase is a huge step in his language development. He’s trying to make more complex sounds. He’s searching for new terms. He’s actually paying attention when I talk.

His “upside down” combines three sounds he can make. He already says “up” and “down.” He can say “sss” and “I,” so it was good to hear him put the sounds together to make a new sound. His speech was imperfect as he strung the three sounds together. His phrase was “up … sssii … dow.”

It became as exciting as the bedtime routine gets when we started repeating the term back to each other. I’d say “upside down,” and he’d respond. He focused on a different sound each time, trying to perfect the “p,” or nail that “n.” I could see the incredible concentration on his face as he willed his mouth to form each sound, trying to make each one and occasionally skipping one of them. He always remembered “up,” but sometimes he’d say “upside,” or even “up down.” I kept repeating our magic phrase to him, and he kept working.

I know he wasn’t repeating the phrase to encourage me to flip him upside down. He hates dangling, which is why I flipped him in the first place. He was simply basking in the attention, and reveling in the newfound skill. He may have also been delaying bedtime, which honestly worked a little.

Watching My Mouth

Now that Abbie can utter vaguely intelligible words, I have to watch my mouth. Abbie reminds me of this fact every time she incants “dammit” over a mess of spilled books.

I need to watch more than just curse words around her. Now that she’s processing language, I need to watch the ideas I infuse in her head. On the innocuous end of language, I need to be careful about speaking words that conjure things she might enjoy. If I need to work on the pool tonight, I tell mommy that I need to work on the “p-o-o-l”, painstakingly spelling out the word with all the difficulties of someone who hasn’t had to audibly spell since grade school. If Abbie hears the word “pool,” she’ll strip down to her diaper and grab her swim vest in anticipation of spending the next several hours swimming. When informed that we’re not going swimming, she instead spends the next several hours throwing a tantrum. We have to be similarly careful when discussing dining options lest Abbie catch the idea that she’s about to eat n-u-g-g-e-t-s.

At the other end of the spectrum, I have to watch the hurtful things I say. Not that I’m verbally abusive, bigoted, racist, Mel Gibson-emulating kind of guy, but I can say some things that in the spirit of humor that a 3-year-old won’t understand. For example, if mommy asks Abbie what she did today, I might answer for her “I watched my brothers be jerks.” That’s high comedy after you’ve spent the day surrounded by toddlers hitting, biting, and refusing to share, but I’ll be mortified if any of them decide that’s an appropriate answer to the question. They need to learn the correct response: “Nothing.”

I also need to watch what I say to the pets, whom I am comically verbally abusive towards, but it’s okay because they’re pets. I call our large cat names. Lardo. Super Chunk. Fatty Fat Fat Fat. Tubby McEatsalot. It’s all in good fun, especially since he doesn’t realize I’m mocking him. I don’t want the kids picking up those words to use around animals, though, or, heaven help us, other people.

Yesterday I encountered a new level of concepts I don’t want my children to learn. We were leaving the doctor’s room, which involves strapping the boys into the stroller while hoping Abbie doesn’t wander into any rooms with sensitive equipment or patients. While I tended to the boys, Abbie ran into the waiting room and started out the front doors. When I heard another mom telling her to come back, I rushed after her, catching her several feet outside the office. As I drug her back to the doctor’s room so I could finish strapping in the boys, I exchanged pleasantries with the waiting mother. She apologized for not stopping her, and said she told her to stop. I told her not to worry about it, that if Abbie wouldn’t listen to me, a stranger wouldn’t have much chance.

Maybe that was damaging to Abbie’s psyche, exposing her to the idea that she’s a bad listener. I don’t think that was over any line, though, I was merely telling her that she needs to listen better, and as subtly as possible with a 3-year-old.

Next, the mother commented on how cute she is. When she called Abbie a “sweetheart,” I responded, “That’s one way to put it.”

Maybe that was a little hurtful, implying that I don’t think she’s a “sweetheart,” but I hope it went over her head. If not, it was just a little nudge toward behaving better.

After hearing my subtle disagreement, the mother asked, “want to trade?” In front of her 12-year-old son.

I’m guessing that was a little hurtful, especially since the boy looked like he wanted to retort but didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say either. I didn’t want to agree with her, but I didn’t want to show up this woman, spending our 10-second encounter proving I love my kids more than she does.

I chuckled “not now,” and hurried back to the boys. That seemed the strongest rebuff possible without turning the situation into some droll love-off.* It worked to keep the atmosphere light while still effectively saying “no.” I use the same tactic when Abbie decides she wants j-u-i-c-e.

* In retrospect, saying “I wouldn’t trade her for anything” with a smile would’ve worked as well. I’ll keep that in mind if I find a time machine.

You Can't Go Back

I enjoy taking the kids to library story time. I view it as an important developmental activity. They learn about the joy of books, the value of interacting with other children, and the importance of sitting still until daddy says it’s time to leave. Sometimes I have to rush the kids out of the house in the morning to arrive before the doors close, but I’m always glad we went.

We missed the last few story times, though. In fact, we haven’t attended since moving a month ago. I have my excuses. At the top of my list is we no longer live near my old library. Our commute time has tripled from five minutes to 15 minutes. While ten minutes, or just under half an episode of Dora, may not seem like a lot of time, when trying to rush the kids out the door in the morning, that can be the difference between arriving fresh and smiling, and arriving barefoot and cranky, and possibly poopy.

Next on my list is the fact that we now live in the suburbs, not the city of Des Moines proper where my old library resides. I can still visit Des Moines’s libraries and suckle on their amenities without problem, but I feel I should patronize my suburb’s library. It also helps that my suburban library is a mile from my suburban home.

I like the people at my old library. The story time leader is a wonderful woman who reads stories with enthusiasm and views rambunctiousness with a blind eye. I had just enrolled the kids in their summer reading program, and had earned free t-shirts for all of them. It was time to make the change to my new library, though. A few days ago, I called them to register for their story time.

Registering for story time is a formality. You call, tell them you’re coming, and someone at the library may or may not write down anything while sending you wishes to see you soon. I’ve registered for a few story times, and I always hear the same thing from the other end. Sometimes they even sound confused that someone bothered to register. I assume most people just show up for story time, enjoy the merriment, and leave as anonymously as they arrived.

My suburban library does things differently. When I called to register, they told me this session was full, and I should call back to register for the next session in a few weeks.

Full? They refuse to share the joy of books with my children? How can they be full? Just find a bigger room.

Indignant at the pretentiousness of my new hometown, I made plans to return to my old library. It would be fun to read with their story time leader again, to see the anonymous faces of the other patrons I barely recognize from week-to-week, and to collect our free t-shirts.

When we arrived yesterday morning, the first thing I saw was the substitute story time leader. The regular leader was on vacation, replaced by the woman who reads without enthusiasm or vocal volume. The kids responded to the lack of excitement by creating their own. Abbie ran around the room, showing a newfound eagerness to open the doors and exit the room. Tory streaked for the room’s storage closet, the one filled with tables, chairs, and other heavy object for him to knock on top of himself. I did my best to round them up and hold them close, but Ian responded to the rescinding of freedom by devolving into a newborn, complete with full meltdown and floppiness. With both hands focused on keeping Ian from collapsing into a pretzel, the other two children were free to scramble to opposite ends of the room, or in Abbie’s case, opposite end of the library.

I gave up on story time halfway through. I never give up on story time, but this was unbearable, and unfair to the other attendees. It takes talent for misbehavior to stand out in a room full of toddlers, but my children were up to the task. On our way out the door, I stopped at the summer reading desk to pick up our free t-shirts, just so the visit wasn’t a total waste of time. They had one size: Youth medium. They’ll grow into them in a few years as long as no one questions why their new shirt brags about their accomplishments in the summer of 2007.

Maybe the kids will like their new library better. We only have to wait a few more weeks to find out.

Intervention

Parenting a NICU graduate can be scary. A child who begins life in the NICU by definition had something wrong at birth. Sometimes the abnormality is life-long. Sometimes the abnormality disappears during the NICU stay. Sometimes the abnormality is undetectable at birth, and only becomes evident when the parent notices that his 3-year-old communicates mostly by screaming.

Parenting a 3-year-old who communicates mostly by screaming can be scary. Every mangled sound emanating from her mouth is a reminder of her speech delay, and that her speech is falling farther behind.

Parenting a pair of NICU graduates in the shadow of a 3-year-old who communicates mostly by screaming can be pants-filling scary. After spending months fretting over Abbie’s speech, wondering if I could’ve done anything differently when she was younger to help her catch up, I get to put my fretting into action with the boys and their speech delay.

The boys’ NICU stay was as uneventful as possible; they only needed a little help breathing and eating until all their plumbing matured. Still, there’s this little voice that occasionally pops up, worrying that their prematurity will manifest itself as they age in a developmental delay. If I correct the mistakes I made with Abbie, I could encourage their mental growth in spite of any hurdles that probably don’t exist. With proper attention I could have them speaking, potty-trained, and ready for preschool by age 3, something I obviously missed out on with Abbie.

Determining the mistakes I made with Abbie is the tricky part. Maybe I listened to the radio too much around Abbie, limiting her exposure to speech. Maybe I should’ve sung more to Abbie. Maybe I should’ve exposed her to developmental experts soon to give her the earliest professional intervention possible.

Correcting mistakes those mistakes is even trickier. I’m not giving up the Cub games on the radio, heartbreak be damned. I barely have time to change everyone’s diapers, let alone sing to them. I could give them earlier access to developmental experts, though, especially when they work with the kids in the home, giving me time for essential activities with the other children like singing and diaper changes.

That was on my mind when I took the boys to their 18-month NICU follow-up visit. The developmental specialist noticed that their speech development was lagging. That delay could be related to their prematurity, the same genes that slowed Abbie’s speech, and/or head traumas resulting from Abbie shoving them to the ground several times every day. The developmental specialist asked if I wanted a referral to the same early intervention program that worked with Abbie, and I agreed.

They came to our home yesterday to evaluate the boys. They needed to assess all aspects of their development, but the boys’ ability to climb onto the countertops to snitch snacks quickly assured them that their motor skills were up to par. When they handed me the verbal questionnaire, I was certain they were hopelessly behind in speech, much like their sister was. As I moved down the list, I realized they’re speaking better than Abbie did at the same age. They have more words, more sounds, and are more likely to imitate actions. Their speech is still behind normal, but it’s not hopelessly behind. It’s more like depressingly delayed.

After seeing Tory had a ten-word repertoire with Ian’s slightly smaller, I was worried that they might not qualify for intervention; that’s borderline normal. They assured me that their prematurity alone was enough to qualify for intervention, no matter how many words they can speak, or how high a countertop they can climb.

Since they weren’t too far behind, we had a choice to make. We could obviously do no intervention, we could have bi-weekly meetings with a speech therapist, or we could drop back to monthly meetings and see how they did. I looked at my beautiful boys searching for a stepstool, listened to my lovely daughter whining unintelligibly, and chose maximum intervention. The more people work with them, the sooner they might master speech and tell me what they want. That could free me to do luxurious activities around the house, like leisurely listening to the radio.

Leaving Lincoln

When I was growing up, my family took one weeklong vacation a year. This was to some grand location and involved at least 1000 miles roundtrip. From Iowa, we took summer trips to the Grand Canyon, Detroit, and the Colorado mountains. Those are the trips burned into my memory, as those are the places where our van’s muffler disintegrated, we hit a deer at 2am driving home, and my father ran over my foot, respectively. Ahh, memories.

Someday I hope to instill such lifelong traumas into my children. For now, we’re taking shorter trips that involve hundreds of miles, the kind of drive we can complete between meals. We stay with relatives who are excited to see the children, and leave quickly, before their novelty wears off.

Such was our recent trip. We visited Elle’s aunt and uncle in Lincoln, Nebraska. Lincoln is the home of the University of Nebraska, but it also has some redeeming qualities, such as easy access to the world-class zoo in Omaha. It also has some nice amenities within its city limits.

The hospitality of our hosts was wonderful. They fed us, provided sleeping rooms for everyone, and had an extra bed for me to nap on when Abbie commandeered our bed during naptime. They had toys for the kids to use inside, a sandbox and wading pool for the kids to use outside, and numerous non-breakable pretties scattered throughout the house to distract them when they tried to run in opposite directions. The only thing missing was a fenced-in yard, so Abbie and I spent some quality time walking about the neighborhood.* Overall the stay was wonderful and I can’t thank our hosts enough.

We spent one day enjoying Lincoln’s finest cultural establishments that appealed to the 3-and-under crowd. Specifically, that means their children’s zoo, and children’s museum. Too often, when the prefix “children’s” is attached to an attraction, it means it’s an inferior attraction. The exhibits aren’t as exciting, but they throw out a few brightly colored, simply worded signs that supposedly appeal to children. That’s the Lincoln Children’s Zoo. The animals were lethargic, the exhibits were mundane, and little kids were running and screaming everywhere.

The Lincoln Children’s Museum was the opposite. I had low expectations after the kids trudged through the zoo, propped up on sugary snacks, and screamed through their nap. When we walked in, I thought I’d find stuffy exhibits hidden behind Plexiglas, filled with objects not-quite-exotic enough to interest adults. Instead, we found three open floors of stuff for kids to play with. They had a water exhibit where kids could shoot water guns at targets. They had a pint-sized lunar rover that the boys played inside for a half-hour. They had a couple bubble stations on a balcony to occupy Abbie when she grew tired of watching her brothers in the lunar rover. They had a room filled with thousands of building blocks, er, planks called Keva Planks for me to play with. I was so smitten, I bought a set on our way through the gift shop, and hope to share them with my children some day. Despite the rapidly encroaching naptime, our children nary complained until we drug them away to return them to bed. I highly recommend the Lincoln Children’s Museum to anyone passing through town with young children.

We drove home the next day, sticking to our short trip ideals. We stopped at the Omaha Zoo on the way through. As I said, the Omaha Zoo is world class, filled with animals and exhibits you might expect to see only in much larger metropolitan areas. They have an indoor desert, an indoor aquarium, and separate indoor facilities for apes and monkeys. We spurned all of these indoor facilities upon arrival to visit the outdoor exhibits. It was 95 degrees that day, and we wanted to see the outdoor exhibits before the outdoor sun could bake our family to a cherry red. This proved to be our downfall, since instead of cramming in animal fun before the heat hit, we were walking around in sweltering heat with cranky children. The kids’ patience was spent by the time we reached the air-conditioned exhibits. We sprinted through the buildings, hoping the children would stop screaming long enough to appreciate the scarcity of the animals around them, and eventually gave up halfway through the aquarium.

When we left, our hosts walked us to the zoo gate, and returned to see the animals. We loaded into the car, and drove home, thankful that our hosts were still pleasant to us as they said goodbye. We were also thankful that the kids fell asleep a half-hour down the road. Maybe next year we can stay longer, let the kids soak in a little more of a new town, enjoy a little finer dining than convenience store and concession stand food, and give the car time to catastrophically break in a way the kids will remember for years.

* On one such journey, Abbie ran ahead of me singing, “Where are we going? (clap, clap, clap) Big hill!”

Because You Gotta Have Goals

Long-term goal: Preparing our children to take their place as productive members of society.

Mid-range goal: Give our children a great start heading into kindergarten.

Short-term goal: Get Abbie potty-trained, and get the boys talking.

Tonight’s goal: Going to bed before midnight.

"I just want your extra time, and your ... kiss."

Abbie earned three chocolate kisses last night.

What did she do to earn three chocolate kisses?

She peed on the potty. Three times.

It has begun.

I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map...

After having watched every episode of “Dora the Explorer” at least thrice, and that includes the new beach episode that aired last week and we’ve watched several times on the DVR since then, I can now declare The Map to be the biggest jerk on children’s television, at least among the ranks of Good Guys.

The Map can do much good in the world. Whenever Dora et al need to know which way to go, he knows the way. When the cast is lost, he could simply tell them the three landmarks they’re looking for, and disappear into Backpack until they need his benevolence again. Instead, he has to turn the focus away from the kitten in trouble, the locked musical instruments, or whatever emergency the gang is trying to fix, and shine the spotlight on himself.

He only appears after everyone says his name, usually at least twice, and very loud.

Before he’ll help anyone, he has to interrupt the journey to sing his theme song, which praises him repeatedly and prominently features his name sung by himself and backup singers about ten times.

He always rubs it in that he’s the only one who knows where to go. “Well, I know where the Big Hill is…”

That little prima donna is gonna get beat up in high school a lot if he doesn’t tone it down.

Shh, Ellie Thinks I'm Packing While I Write This

We'll be out of town for a few days, so no updates until Sunday probably.

55 Days and Counting

I received Abbie’s preschool registration papers yesterday. The first thing I read after opening the envelope was her start date. In seven weeks, she begins attending preschool four mornings a week.* The enormity of this change started to hit me as I pored through the dozen pages to read. It’s a bittersweet time: It’s good for Abbie that she gets to leave my side and explore the world outside our house, but it’s bitter for me knowing that I still have two years before I can send the boys out the door too.

I’d like to draw on my experiences as a child to help Abbie’s transition, but I don’t think I attended preschool. I do remember spending my early years in a daycare 25 years ago. Obviously my memories are a bit hazy from that age, even though I swear I can clearly remember our family vacation to Mt Rushmore when I was 23-months-old. The highlight of the trip was getting a new inflatable animal raft for me to use in the hotel pool. I also asked my father if we were in Russia at one point. I’m sure he was as confused by that question at the time as I am now looking back on it.

Anyway, I attended a daycare run from the local community college that entertained maybe 40 kids. My grandmother was one of the teachers at the daycare, which afforded me extra privileges, such as a sympathetic shoulder to cry on when one of the jerks bit me. I remember watching movies, reading, singing, playing outside, eating snacks, and doing everything in my toddler power to avoid falling asleep at naptime. Oh, and they let us play with real hammers, nails, and wood, which doesn’t seem so smart in retrospect.

I imagine Abbie’s preschool will be similar, except for the sharp and blunt metal toys of course. Kids still love to sing and snack. I can tell a few things will be different just from the paperwork they sent, though.

Privacy seems to be a big concern. I have to give my consent for the school to share Abbie’s name, picture, address, and phone number with the other parents. In my daycare days, everyone just showed up on the phone list. We were essentially required to attend everyone else’s birthday parties, and to invite everyone to ours. The only option for parents who didn’t want to keep buying gifts for other children was to regift everything from their child’s birthday party.

Medical issues are a big concern. I’m sure they were 25 years ago, but some new things have popped up. The form has a box to check if my child suffers from ADD/ADHD. I can’t imagine any preschooler already having such a diagnosis.

One form asked what kind of discipline works best with my child. I’m guessing that 25 years ago, they just assumed that a swat in the pants works well with everyone. I’m going to have to hurry up and find an effective form of discipline for her, or I might have to leave that spot blank, or wish them good luck. Threats and/or revoking privileges won’t deter her. She refuses to stay put for timeouts. Yelling loud enough will at least startle her long enough to stop misbehaving for a second, so maybe I’ll write that.

There’s a question asking if my child is potty trained. I imagine my day care teachers didn’t want to deal with diapers either. I’m glad that they asked instead of simply telling me she must be potty trained, as that offers a glimmer of hope that they might still take her if she’s in diapers. We need to get her potty trained, though, because I don’t want to know what the school will do if she’s still in diapers. My sanity needs those four mornings a week.

* Coincidentally, the Meet the Teacher day is my birthday. Happy birthday to me.

One Becomes Two

I give up. The boys beat me. Not that parenting is a competition with your children or anything. I simply lost. The boys can have their nap back.

Recall that a week ago I moved the boys down to one nap a day. This was a decision based on weeks of observation fueling a complete guess on my end. They seemed ready to drop a nap since they were having trouble falling asleep twice a day, and weren’t staying asleep for very long when they did fall asleep. Therefore, I cut the morning nap, consolidated everyone’s nap into one late afternoon session, and promised to never look back.

I knew things would be difficult as the boys adapted to their new routine. Screams would be shouted and tears would be shed to deal with the stress, and that’s just from the adults in the house. I resolved to stand firm and not let them nap in the morning, confident that the boys would learn their new schedule and adjust their bodies accordingly.

I thought the boys would rearrange their sleep patterns, learning to take their needed sleep in the appointed times. They’d sleep later in the morning, a welcome change for me as I’m growing tired of rolling out of bed every morning at the crack of 8am. They’d nap longer in the afternoon, giving me more time to prepare supper, and to prepare my nerves for the evening’s childcare onslaught.

The funny thing is they never changed their sleeping habits, though. They continued to bounce around their room in the morning while the clock still showed a “7.” They still napped for about two hours in the afternoon, refusing to push their total up by a half-hour. After a few days, I noticed that they were sleeping as much as Abbie was. After accounting for all the time they spent fighting falling asleep, they probably slept less than their sister who’s 18 months their senior. They never slept later as I’d hoped. It was as if they had a supernatural connection to their sister telling them when she was awake and capable of pulling food off the shelves for them. Plus, Abbie would bang on their bedroom door while screaming their names on the rare occasion that she would exit her room before they woke up, which didn’t help.

I gave up on the one nap schedule a couple days ago. The time leading up to the afternoon nap was especially rough. Tory screamed uncontrollably for most of the afternoon, calming down only when naptime neared and he knew his only chance to stay up longer was angelic behavior. Ian collapsed in Abbie’s room, falling asleep on her floor right after lunch while I was busy consoling Tory. His mood matched Tory’s after Abbie and I joined forces to wake him. I set them down for their nap with only one nerve left in my mind, and even that was hanging on by a single axon. I listened to them bounce around their room for a half-hour, enjoyed the silence of my break time, and listened to them wake up a half hour earlier than usual. That evening went as well as the afternoon.

I’ve reinstated their morning nap in the aftermath of their multiple meltdowns. The morning nap is now a mere 30 minutes, giving them a chance to recharge while still nudging them toward the realization that they need to catch their sleep elsewhere. Their afternoon nap remains at the same time, ready to transform into their sole nap whenever they’re ready to drop the morning nap.

Really, I haven’t lost the battle to drop them down to one nap a day; I’m just taking a timeout.

Warning: Disgustingly Cute Photos Ahead

Last night was another visit to the ice cream shop. Ellie stayed in the car with the kids while I walked up to the shop’s window to fetch the ice cream. When I returned and handed a baby cone to each of the three children, Ellie asked if I wanted to stay at the shop and eat, or if I wanted to drive back home five minutes away and let the kids run around the yard while they ate. I think I made the right choice.


Tory


Ian


Abbie, who’s supposed to be the neat one.


Whenever I brought the camera up to take a picture, the kids kept running toward the lens to get a better look. I kept recoiling in fear.


Not content to stay in our yard, the kids kept running down the driveway, looking for things in the neighbors’ yards to touch.


Ian is as close as he came to finishing his ice cream cone before giving up. Ellie was happy that, for once, someone was eating ice cream slower than she was. Notice Ellie is rounding up Abbie in the background. Notice also that Ian has a blade of grass dangling off his chin, a relic from one of the multiple times his cone hit the ground. If grass is good enough for our cats to munch, it’s good enough for our children.

SpeakingUpdate, July Edition

There’s a magical event in a child’s development called the “language explosion.” This usually happens between 18- and 24-months, and is marked by a flood of new words from the child. Building on the handful of words learned earlier in life, the child will begin spouting new words at a dizzying clip, possibly demonstrating one or two new words every day for weeks. Almost overnight, the child transforms from a bystander, able to communicate only in rudimentary words, grunts, and gestures, into a tiny human capable of carrying on basic conversation.

At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’m still waiting on 3-year-old Abbie’s verbiage to progress to the point of conversation, unless her demanding “animal crackers” qualifies as “conversation.” While her expressive language lags behind, at least her receptive language is on target. She understands most of what I say, or at least enough of it to sort out what she wants to pay attention to, and what she wants to ignore.

I’m afraid the boys are traveling on the same path. Something in Ellie and I apparently brings out the “late-talker” gene, much to the chagrin of my mother, who swears I was talking by 9-months. The gene must be recessive in me. The boys’ language is moving agonizingly slow, but at least I can see some progress.

Tory in particular is making some progress in speaking. He may be going through a language explosion as best as his crummy genes allow. “More” has been in his vocabulary since he discovered there are more Tasteeos. He says “sock,” and/or possibly “shoe” (it sounds like “ssssssssss-ahhh”), every time he sees his shoes. He’s been saying “outside” (“ot-sssssside”) for a few weeks now. Yesterday I swear I heard a few new words from him. When we finished an episode of “Dora,” he said “Dora” (“Dahh-ah). While we were outside, he saw our cat run past* and said, “cat.” As I carried the cat back into the house, he looked at me and said “da,” which is heartwarming as long as I don’t think about how he was supposed to be calling me something nine months ago, and the fact that he said “Dora” before “da.”

Ian’s speech seems to be lagging behind. He can say some of Tory’s words, like “more” and “sock/shoe.” When we read pages of books that are supposed to be quiet, he’s great at putting his index finger to his lips and announcing “shhhhhhh.” Otherwise, I don’t hear as much from him, although Ellie swears he asked for “juice” tonight. Even when I ask the boys to make a sound, I have trouble getting a response from Ian. Tory pipes up immediately, but Ian takes some coaxing. With enough working, I can usually at least get something from Ian, though, which makes me think that part of his problem is shyness. Unfortunately, that is definitely something in my genes, so he’ll have to work on that, perhaps with some sort of blog to communicate to the world. Luckily for Abbie and Tory, the shyness gene seems recessive in them.

* Our lousy cat’s adventures in running away from our new home may become a post some day when I run out of child-related things to say, or possibly after a day when they make me so frustrated I don’t want to think about them.