Boycotting Pajama Pants

Ian threw a tantrum last night at bedtime. While everyone was supposed to be winding down the night and preparing for a blissfully solid ten hours of sleep, he was rolling on the ground, screaming in agony. What threw him into a fit at a normally peaceful time? Footie pajamas.

Throughout Iowa’s balmy, baseball season nights, temperatures dipped below 70 on a cool night, and I dressed the kids accordingly. They wore short-sleeved, short-legged pajamas, the kind that could keep Ian cool as he sprawled across the carpet. Now that football is kicking off and temperatures drop below 60, the children need to be dressed accordingly. Either that, or I need to lie to my mother when she calls about if the kids are staying warm enough at night.

I dug through our storage bins to find their warmer pajamas, and discovered that my garage sale digging has been insufficient. They have nothing between short-legged pajamas, and footie pajamas. I shrugged, pulled out the two lightest sets of pajamas I could find, and dressed the boys.

Tory was lucky enough to get a foot-free pair of pajamas. He occasionally tugged at his oddly long sleeves, but was content to spend the rest of his night climbing on furniture as usual. Ian looked at his pajamas, realized that they covered his feet, and screamed.

Ian’s pajamas were a two-piece set with separate shirt and pants. He immediately rolled on his back and tugged his footies until his pants came off. I went back to the storage bin, and pulled out an alternate pair of pajamas. These were also a two-piece set, but the shirt and pants buttoned together, creating a one-piece look that’s so stylish that I don’t know why they don’t make similar pajamas in adult sizes.

I dressed him in the alternate pajamas, set him on the floor, and continued reading the bedtime books. I thought that eventually he’d eventually accept his pajamas, perhaps even appreciate the way they keep his feet toasty. After 15 minutes of him rolling on the floor and tugging vainly at his footies, I realized this might be a multi-night process.

I invented a pair of pajamas for him from a short-sleeved shirt and full-length pants. He tugged at his oddly long leggings, but was content to spend the rest of the night pushing Tory around the furniture as usual. I’ll try the warmer pajamas again as it cools, maybe around basketball season.

Back to the Library

We went to story time at the library yesterday. This is significant because it’s the first time we’d visited the library in a couple months. I used to take the kids to the library every week. That was back in the days when the boys were immobile, when I could sit them next to me, do a finger-play with Abbie to keep her from screaming, and still find the boys sitting next to me a minute later. When the boys gained the ability to run around the room, we slowed the library visits. When the kids gained the realization that I could only hold one of them next to me while the other two ran around the room, we stopped going to the library completely.

Now that Abbie is in preschool, the score is different. I have two children, and two hands to hold them. If I’m lucky, mommy will be available to visit the library with us, giving us a perfect one-adult-to-one-child ratio.

Mommy was home for this first re-entry to the library, so we walked into story time with one child for each parent. I started with Ian; she took Tory. Periodically they ran past each other, and we’d play a zone defense and switch charges.

The biggest surprise about the Abbie-free story time was how unresponsive the boys were. When the story leader announced a finger play around Abbie, she’d get excited and start making the Five Silly Monkeys motions. Yesterday, the boys stood silently during the finger plays, not remembering the monkeys bouncing, the bees buzzing, or even the spider climbing. They stared at us with a faint recollection that this was supposed to be interesting, possibly even more interesting than the storage closet at the back of the room. As soon as it was over, they resumed running. Fortunately, I could hold my child with both hands.

When mommy and me walked out of the library, exhausted from trying to keep up with her one child, she asked how I did it with all three. I had a faint recollection of children sitting contentedly by my side, and that we all found it interesting. Hopefully with a few more trips, we’ll all find it interesting again.

How Was Your Day?

Abbie hasn’t figured out how to answer questions yet. She can answer a few stock questions like “What’s your name?”* and “What number comes after 29?”**. I don’t expect her to answer complicated questions like “How much do you love your brothers?” and “Where did you leave your sippy cup after supper last Wednesday?”

I wish I could get a few answers to yes/no questions, though. Now that she’s in preschool, the only way for me to learn about her day is to ask her about it. Our conversations on the ride home are usually missing something.

Daddy: “Did you have fun in preschool today?”
Abbie: “I love preschool!”
Daddy: “What did you do today?”
Abbie: (Silence)
Daddy: “Did you read?”
Abbie: “I love reading!”
Daddy: “Did you color?”
Abbie: “I love coloring!”
Daddy: “Did you sing?”
Abbie: “I love singing!”
Daddy: “What did you sing?”
Abbie: (Unintelligible mumbling that may or may not be the lyrics to that day’s song, or possibly the words to that day’s book)

* “Abbie!”
** “20-10!”

What Not to Wear

I’ve been forcing Abbie to pick out her clothes before breakfast for a couple weeks now. To recap, the first thing I tell Abbie in the morning is to pick out her clothes. Sometimes I slip a pleasantry like “good morning,” or “I love you,” before the clothing command, but I make sure to work the important stuff into the conversation early. I then dress the boys while Abbie stays in her room surrounded by clothes. When I walk by her room and see her sitting on the floor playing with toys while still in her pajamas, I remind her to pick out her clothes. I issue several more reminders until, a split-second after I snap the boys’ trays onto their chairs for breakfast, Abbie runs into the dining room with a shirt in hand.

I’ve learned a few things about her taste in these mornings. I’ve learned that her favorite shirt is a little disturbing. It’s a Halloween shirt, black with pink trim, featuring a smiling skull and crossbones printed across the front with doe eyes and a pretty pink bow. It’s a cute look in October when compared to the grotesques parading across the media and the shirts of others. It’s a creepy, toddler Goth look in the middle of summer. I usually let her wear whatever she picks out, but I try to discourage this shirt on days when we have to go out in public.

I’ve learned that Abbie isn’t great at making decisions. Often she’ll run up to me with several shirts in hand, one white, one black (usually the aforementioned shirt), and one colored shirt. I lay them in front of her, and ask her to pick one. She points to each one, telling me its color. At least she’s learning colors if not decisiveness.

I’ve learned that Abbie has good style. When she brings me a shirt and pants, they usually match.* She might bring a light green shirt with light green shorts, which I think looks spiffy. Or she might bring a dark shirt with khaki shorts, which shows that she’s absorbed my affinity for contrasting colors.

I’ve learned that she has no sense of weather. We’re still in summer, and while those residing in our southern, swampier states like Louisiana might laugh at Iowa summers, it’s still pretty hot. Abbie thinks nothing of picking out a long-sleeved shirt to wear on these roasting days. As long as it’s not too heavy or adorned with winter paraphernalia, I let her wear it. She’ll also bring me pants to wear instead of something shorter. She brought me pink sweatpants to wear on a couple of 90-degree days. I shrugged and steered her toward a sleeveless top.

Today, the temperature was in the 90’s, and she brought me a pair of khaki pants to wear to preschool. Her school is air-conditioned, and she brought a blue, sleeveless top to wear with it, so I let her wear her choice. Hopefully none of the teachers wondered why I dressed her so warmly on a sweltering day. At least she didn’t try to match the pants with her Goth shirt.

* Remember that I’m the one defining what matches, and I’ve been known to send her into public in comically mismatched outfits. I’ve happily dressed children in matching colors, only to be informed by mommy that a shirt with vertical stripes and shorts with horizontal stripes don’t work. Says her.

First Day of Preschool

Today was Abbie’s first day of preschool. It’s the first step in a long process to get her out of the house. This year, she’s out of the house ten hours a week. Maybe next year we can work up to 15 hours a week.

I expected a momentous change with this event. It’s Abbie’s first experience outside the home, and beyond the gaze of her loving and sometimes scolding parents. I thought she might have trouble saying goodbye, that maybe she’d cry uncontrollably as we tried to leave the room without her. Or maybe she’d feel uncomfortable in a new environment, surrounded by strange toys, forced to interact with peers that will fight back if she pushes or steals from them, unsure of what mischief she could get away with.

Mommy and I both dropped her off at preschool this morning. One of us could’ve done the job, but it felt like an event we should both witness. Mommy walked her into the classroom while I stood at the doorway with the boys in the stroller. While we prepared for the sobbing separation, Abbie toddled over to the toys and staked her claim to the cash register before anyone else could lay their grubby mitts on it. Mommy and I watched for a minute, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. Abbie stayed with the register, the boys were growing bored, and so we left.

Mommy drove to work, and I drove the boys back home. We had 90 minutes at home before needing to return for Abbie. We spent the time sitting around, waiting for the expected emergencies that never arose, and marveling at the sudden quiet.

I was anxious to pick her up and hear about her day. The teacher walked her to our car, shrugged, and said she did “pretty good.” That’s better than “never bring her back.” Her only problem was during group time. While everyone else gathered around for a story, Abbie went into a corner and cried. I’m guessing she was upset that she couldn’t choose the book, turn the pages, hold the book, and otherwise dominate story time as she does at home. Like I said, this is her first experience outside the home, so I imagine she’ll adjust to not being the constant center of attention.

Abbie spent much of the afternoon holed in her room. Preschool probably wore her out, and she needed time to recover. I drug her out a few times to play with her, and let her know that she’s still loved. Ian shoved her a few times to bait her into chasing him, which is probably his way of saying that she’s loved as well.

Meet the Teacher

We recently went to Meet the Teacher Day at Abbie’s preschool. Her first day is tomorrow. As the child transitions into the school years, often leaving home for the first time, these events help ease the tears and anxiety that accompany the occasion, and that’s just from the parents. I imagine it also helps the child.

My biggest fear in unleashing Abbie unto the world is that she’s horribly unprepared. Expectations are low for the deportment and mental dexterity of three-year-olds. That’s good, because I never expect her to listen to anything I say. I’m sure most parents feel the same. Every parent worries their child won’t keep up, but not every parent has a child with a documented speech delay.

When we walked into her new school, I made sure to quiz her on things she knew. What color is that car? How many trees by the door? What’s her name? Bits of knowledge that would assure any eavesdropper that this girl is ready for preschool no matter the limits of her expressive speech and potty skills.

Another family walked behind us: Mother, preschool-age daughter, and younger brother. The mother and daughter were holding an interactive conversation, discussing the new building, wondering what might be inside, and using complete, grammatically correct, intelligible sentences. Abbie could’ve told me her shirt was blue.

Inside the room, I let Abbie roam. She pulled out the toys, rifled through the teacher’s papers, and climbed on the tables. Her expressive speech may be behind, but she’s climbing at a kindergarten level. I talked briefly with the teacher. She seems nice. She’s two years removed from college, and assisted by one aide in a room of at least a dozen three-year-olds. I wish her luck and hope she stays that nice all year.

I waited in the room for 20 minutes while Abbie grew increasingly antsy. I thought the teacher might address the room, but eventually realized that Meet the Teacher was a one-on-one event only. Apparently she wasn’t going to try to address a room of a dozen adults with a dozen toddlers running and screaming underfoot.

While I watched Abbie explore the room, I realized that she was similar to the other children. She played with the same things they did. She ignored me as much as anyone else did. She didn’t talk much, but neither did anybody else. That little girl holding an interactive conversation as I walked in? She was in the four-year-old class. Her younger brother, who barely spoke and screamed in terror when they tried to enter the building, is in Abbie’s class. I think Abbie will fit in okay, just as long as no one complains to much about Abbie not being potty trained.

Rewards

While I was changing Tory this afternoon, Abbie came running into the room. This is odd behavior for her. She obviously wanted something, but her usual tact for getting something is to stand next to it and whine. I’ve heard that some children will fetch their parents when they want something. I’ve also heard that parenting is life fulfilling, but I haven’t seen that yet, either.

My first thought was that she needs her diaper changed. I finished with Tory, walked to her, and saw that she had something in her mouth. Our housekeeping has fallen tragically behind, and I was afraid that she’d picked up something dangerous off the floor instead of something that’s simply disgusting.

I poked at her mouth, but she wouldn’t give it to me. I asked her to give it to me, but she refused. That meant that whatever she found, it was tasty. Possibly disgusting, but tasty nonetheless. I remembered I have a three-year-old capable of quasi-understandable speech, so I tried asking her what she was eating.

“Mmm, chocolate,” she replied.

I looked at her mouth, and recognized a heavily chewed chocolate Kiss. Abbie must have broken into the freezer and raided the chocolate stash that I keep not-so-hidden in there.

After I determined that she wasn’t ingesting anything more dangerous than saturated fat, I wondered why she ran into the room to get me. The optimist in me says she wanted to share with me the joy of the chocolate that she found. The pessimist says that she wanted to let me know that she raided the chocolate stash, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Maybe parenting is more rewarding if I always assume the best.

Signs

Sign that I’m feeling better: I could smell a poopy diaper.

Sign that I’m still sick: My phlegm coated throat made my rendition of their bedtime song even funnier than usual.

What Birthdays Mean to Me

Mommy (first thing this morning): “Abbie, can you tell your daddy ‘happy birthday?’”
Abbie: “Mmm, birthday cake.”


There’s a picture of the birthday cake mommy baked for me. It’s the world’s largest Hostess Cup Cake. She was ticked off when she discovered that the official version has seven squiggles instead of the dozen or so she wasted her time looping across the top.

Notice the glittery heart candles on top. Those were the only candles in the house. Such is a hazard of living with a toddler girl.

The cake was delicious, not that Abbie would know. After declaring “cake” to be the first thing she associates with “birthday,” she refused to eat any of it. Add that to pizza, hamburgers, and all the other childhood favorite foods that she refuses to eat.

Fun fact: I share my birthday with Kobe Bryant, Jay Mohr, Shelley Long, and Blogger.

System Check

Nose? Runny.
Throat? Sore.
Sinuses? Plugged.
Birthday? Tomorrow.

The Three Things I Meet In August

I know three things will happen in late August:

1. Football starts popping up.
2. My birthday arrives.
3. I get sick.

Independence Day

Some children are independent. Give them a task to do, like getting dressed, and they’ll insist on doing it by themselves. Try to help them, and they’ll scream in agony at the assistance, no matter how hopelessly they’ve entangled their neck in the shirt’s armhole.

Abbie is not independent. Give her a task to do, like getting dressed, and she’ll ignore me in hopes that I’ll forget. Try to help her, and she’ll work with me, putting her arms through the appropriate armholes, trying to force me out of her room in hopes that she can go back to reading or living her Ferris wheel fantasies vicariously through her Little People.

This lack of independence should be obvious to me from her potty training difficulties. She’d rather endure a diaper change than take the initiative to use the potty when needed. Instead of telling me she needs to go potty, she prefers sitting in a soaking wet diaper. She even prefers sitting in a poopy diaper until I notice rather than let me know; a sore bottom is a small price to pay to keep her dependent persona.

I’m trying to instill a sense of independence in Abbie. I’m mostly failing, but I’m trying. The secret is to properly motivate her, to give her a reward for completing her task. To motivate her through the getting dressed chore, I’m refusing to give her breakfast until she picks out an outfit. My goal is to get her used to picking out her clothes first thing in the morning, and maybe one day opening her door to find her fully dressed.

Currently she’s willing to wait for breakfast. I’ve found that if I push her for about a half-hour, nagging her every time I pass her door, she’ll eventually run into the kitchen shirt in hand about the time the boys finish their breakfast. Obviously, she feels my nagging her qualifies as sufficient to appear dependent on my help.

On the Road Again

I'm out of town this weekend, so no updates for a couple of days.

I Love PB Poofs, You Love PB Poofs, If We Didn't Eat PB Poofs We'd All Be Lame

The kids’ standard breakfast is cereal topped with raisins and a side of milk. The milk is in a sippy cup because it seems like cereal should be accompanied by milk, but cereal combined with milk is too bizarre for my children. The raisins top the cereal to increase their daily servings of fruit, and to counterbalance the macaroni and cheese and/or chicken nuggets they’re sure to eat later in the day. The cereal is the base of the meal, but we do it a little different since I can never do the easy parenting thing.

My kids get two types of cereal mixed together. They get one part sugary stuff, and one part healthy stuff. The healthy stuff is there to give them well-balanced nutrition. The sugary stuff is there to get them to eat their cereal, and hopefully sneak in a couple healthy nuggets in their glucosian feeding frenzy.

We have about a half-dozen boxes of their cereal open at all times. They like a variety of cereal, and by “variety” I mean “two different types every day.” On Monday, they get Crispy Hexagons and Fruit Rings. On Tuesday, they get Wheat Squares and Honey Grahams. On Wednesday, they get Lightly-Sweetened Corn Puffs and Heavily-Sugared Corn Shavings.

This rotation works for the boys, but Abbie tired of the variety in cereal mix weeks ago. While she used to eat all types of cereal, it seemed no combination of sugar and neon food coloring could convince her to eat breakfast regularly. Sometimes she’d eat most of her bowl. Too often she’d feed most of it to the dog. Sometimes she couldn’t even muster the contempt to throw it on the floor.

A couple weeks ago, I noticed a different cereal in my grocer’s aisle. I bought a box of Chocolate and Peanut Butter Puffs, which are little corn puffs that vaguely taste of peanut butter and chocolate. I poured her a bowl, she gave it her standard throw-it-to-the-dog treatment, and I kept it in the rotation until we emptied the box.

After a few turns in the rotation, she started asking for them. I’d sit her down with a bowl of iridescent sugar, and she’d shout “Peanut Butter Puffs, please.” I obliged, happy that she was eating breakfast. The process repeated the next day, and the next day, and every day since then. I’ve gotten to the point where I just give her Chocolate and Peanut Butter Puffs mixed with the healthy cereal du jour. She eats more than she gives to the dog, the kids get something approaching a balanced breakfast, and my life gets a little simpler. Not too simple, though, since I still top their cereal with raisins with milk on the side.

Spelling Bee

Matt: “You’re goofy!”
Abbie: “I’m goofy!”
Matt: “Goofy Abbie!”
Abbie: “Goofy Abbie!”
Matt: “G-O-O-F-Y, goofy!”
Abbie: “G-O-F-Y, goofy!”
Matt: “G-O-O-F-Y, goofy!”
Abbie: “G-O-F-Y, goofy!”
Matt: “G-O-O-F-Y, goofy!”
Abbie: “G-O … F-Y, goofy!”

The Clueless Stay-at-Home Dad's Guide to Home Repair

Owning a home can be exciting. Nothing short of the realm of extreme sports can match the thrill of walking into your bathroom and finding water all over the floor.

I’ve known about this problem for a few weeks now. I have a dangerous amount of home repair knowledge. I know enough to locate the source of the leak; in this case our toilet reservoir is overflowing. I don’t know enough to fix the leak, which can be problematic. I also don’t know enough about how much trouble I can get into if I try to fix it myself and fail.

After pulling the top off the reservoir and staring at it intently for several minutes, I determined that the float mechanism thingy wasn’t properly cutting the water flow, causing water to continuously leak into the reservoir until it started dripping out the flush handle. I reached deep into my plumbing knowledge, and devised a foolproof solution to the problem: I turned the water off to the toilet, turning it back on only when flushing. Repair complete.

This solution worked for a few weeks until the shutoff valve, intended to be turned maybe a dozen times in its life, gave out under constant turning and started leaking as well. The sensible thing for a clueless homeowner to do at this point would be to call a plumber and admit defeat. I, on the other hand, picked up a new float mechanism thingy and attempted the repair myself. The thingy included instructions, so it couldn’t be that hard to install. Plus it cost $7 for me to do it myself, as opposed to maybe $100 to call someone who knows what he’s doing.

I gazed at the instructions, hoping to find a zipper or ejector button or some kind of attachment method that looks remotely recognizable. The instructions say everything screws together like a cap on a bottle; I can handle that. I gathered my tools, turned off water to the house, and tore apart the old thingy.

Luckily, the new thingy was nearly identical to the old thingy. I could use all of the existing connectors. It was merely a matter of unscrewing the old thingy and screwing in the new thingy; I could handle that.

With everything screwed in and lightly wrench tightened while hopefully still adhering to the “do not over tighten” warnings, I turned the water back on. After staring at it for several minutes to ensure the thingy was working properly and nothing was leaking, I went back to the family room. Mommy had been watching the kids while I cussed at the toilet. I gave mommy the good news that all plumbing was working, and she gave me the bad news that a wasp had snuck in the house and was buzzing about the family room.

Wasp catching could be its own extreme sport, one that I know little about.

"Whoa! Baloney! Bread!"

We took the kids to brunch yesterday. The restaurant offered a dizzying* array of temptations: Bacon, sausage, ham, and basically any other meat that can be formed from a pig.

The exciting part about taking the kids out to eat is discovering which foods they’ll eat. Abbie loves blueberries. She loves whipped cream. Therefore, it follows that she’d love a waffle topped with blueberries and whipped cream. She refused my carb-loaded fork, though. Even after I brushed off the vaguely healthy waffle, leaving only the sugary blueberry topping and rich whipped cream, she refused to eat.

We kept the boys busy with biscuits from the biscuits ‘N gravy section. We can always count on them to occupy themselves by stuffing bread in their mouths. Abbie was trickier. She ate a few pieces of bacon before deciding she’d rather practice the javelin throw with the strips. I snuck in a few bits of ham before she wised up. I thought I hit pay dirt when she saw some strawberries and announced, “I want strawberries, please.” I walked up to the fruit bar, loaded a dish with all manner of fruit, and watched her ignore the entire plate save one strawberry.

Everyone enjoyed milk for a while, but when they filled up on that, they became fussy. By now they were full and ready to leave. I, however, had spent more time trying to feed them than feeding myself, and still had several empty chambers in my stomach and a little room left in my leg. I searched the diaper bag for toys to keep them occupied. Abbie tore through the toys, spending just enough time with each to determine that it was insufficient, and started fussing again. I finally found something to keep her busy when I pulled out the animal crackers. She had no room left for the delicious, freshly prepared foods in front of her, but she had plenty of room for half a bag of stale animal crackers.

I managed to fill up enough to feel I ate my money’s worth. Back home, nobody ate much the rest of the day. That includes the kids, so they must’ve scavenged enough to eat somehow.

* Some might say “nauseating.”

A Cup of Sunshine

After breakfast yesterday morning, Abbie walked up to the refrigerator.

“I want juice, please,” she said.

I always give her orange juice in the morning. I try to limit my children’s juice intake, but I give in with orange juice. I always drink a glass too, and it’s easier to let her drink some instead of chugging my glass while she screams at my feet.

We’ve been working on drinking from normal glasses, so I pulled one from the cupboard and started filling it. Abbie protested, shook her head violently, and finally intoned “I want a sippy cup, please.”

While I’m pleased with the development of her language and manners, her drinking skills need work.

That's a Good Post

Abbie likes to point out objects she recognizes. “That’s a sock,” she might say, or “That’s a ceiling fan.” She says it all so matter of factly, lacking surprise or emotion in her voice, simply observing the obviousness of an object’s existence. I imagine most 3-year-olds enjoy pointing out things like this, but Abbie is inherently cuter than most other kids because she’s my kid. You may apply whatever cuteness criteria you find appropriate.

She learns many of her labels from real life. I point out the wildlife in our backyard as we swing. “That’s a bird,” she’ll say as a sparrow flutters past. “That’s a butterfly,” she’ll declare as a monarch flits by, although it could be a moth or grasshopper. We’ll iron out her field identification skills next summer.

She learns a lot of her words from books, too. We have a book filled with pictures of everyday words, imaginatively titled “Everyday Words.” We’ll flip through the pages together, and she’ll point out the things she knows. When she doesn’t recognize an object, she’ll ask for its name by asking, “Zat?” I know she’s learned the word “compact disc” from this book. When she spots a disc, she holds it up and announces “com-pac-ac-ac isc.” She’ll even do this with DVD’s, so she needs to work on her identification skills as well as eliminating unnecessary syllables.

Her favorite section to scan in “Everyday Words” is titled “Things to Eat.” It has pictures of about 200 foods organized in neat rows across two pages. She’ll go down each row, announcing a name or asking “Zat?” at every food. She’s learning about foods like salami, bread, tomatoes, and declaring “mmm” after every name in recognition that they’re tasty. She won’t eat any of those in real life, but at least she recognizes them as theoretically fit for human consumption.

Sometimes she’ll surprise me by labeling something I didn’t know was nearby. While I’m working in the kitchen, she might say, “That’s a fork,” reminding me that I forgot to clean up someone’s lunch utensil. Or she could say, “That’s a knife,” thus pointing out serious deficiencies in my child proofing. Or she could say, as she did this afternoon, “That’s a wasp,” thus displaying her knowledge of backyard wildlife and letting me know something followed us in from the swing set.

"I don't want to have to wash any dishes, so from now on, drink straight from the faucet or milk carton."

I’m amazed at how much stuff I have to teach the kids. “Sleep in your bed, not on the floor” seems like an obvious bit of knowledge to me, but Ian has trouble mastering this concept. “Don’t eat dog food” is another bit of obviousness that eludes the boys.

I’m currently teaching Abbie that dirty dishes go in the sink. Her old standard place to leave dirty dishes is on the floor. She typically throws her plate, uneaten food and all, off her tray and into the air in a stunning display of “all done” that’s replete with bravado. I appreciate her enthusiasm, but I’d rather she didn’t dump her food on the floor and make me clean up after her, and by “me,” I mean “the dog.”

I’ve always cleaned my dirty dishes. Even in my earliest memories, I knew enough to carry my dirty dishes to the kitchen, or at least leave them on the table so my parents could easily take care of them while I watched television. Maybe I’m just odd.* Maybe my brain is over-exaggerating my dish cleaning efficiency. Maybe my parents drilled into me from birth the importance of carrying used dishes to the sink so they don’t freak out when they find a moldy two-week-old plate under the couch. Either way, I’ve got work to do.

We’re starting simple with cups. If I can convince her to always dispose of her empty cups in the sink I could save hours every week in time spent searching for lost cups. I’m learning their hiding places, but the kids are constantly finding new places to drop their cups after they’ve drained them.

A couple mornings ago, I gave her orange juice only after explaining the importance of putting her empty cup in the sink with a gravitas usually associated with news of assassinations. Abbie quickly sucked it dry as usual, and dropped it where she stood as usual. I reminded her that it needs to go in the sink, and she proceeded to drop it in the sink after only a half-dozen more reminders.

Yesterday morning I again gave her juice, and again told her to put her empty cup in the sink. This time Abbie took a few sips from her cup, walked to the sink, and dumped the juice in the sink before dumping the cup in as well.

Add “finish your cup’s contents before leaving it in the sink” to the list of obvious yet evasive knowledge.

* More so than I originally thought.

In a Clear and Concise Essay...

Q: What is the worst possible substance for your kids to dump on a freshly mopped floor?

A: I’m going with a package of Jell-O. All that powder on a damp floor turns into a sticky, stainy goo that’s impossible to keep from spreading to the rest of the house. I don’t know if the regular or sugar-free stuff is worse, but the kids dumped a box of each on the floor today just to be sure.

Adventures in Potty-Sitting

Abbie’s potty training is going poorly. She doesn’t seem interested. We keep making her sit on the potty, and she keeps sitting for 10-15 minutes without doing anything more exciting than singing.

All that sitting and singing takes a lot of time, and the boys need something to do during that time that doesn’t involve pulling things out of kitchen drawers. When Tory walked in the bathroom yesterday morning while mommy had Abbie on the potty, he climbed onto another potty.* Mommy noted his eagerness, stripped off his diaper, and let him sit alongside sister.

While Abbie hasn’t peed in the potty in weeks, Tory peed in the potty almost immediately. Surprised and not knowing what else, Ellie yelled for me to bring him a treat. I pulled out a bag of chocolate chips, which he readily accepted.

Abbie and Ian recognized the chocolate chips, and the injustice that Tory got some and nobody else. They both threw a fit, not understanding that they needed to pee before getting a reward. Tory, though, understood that peeing leads to chocolate chips, and happily peed on the floor.

I’m starting to think that 18 years of diapers is easier than this.

* We have three potties. I’d like to say we bought one potty for each child in a well-thought out plan to potty train all three. We bought all three for Abbie, though. They’re three different styles, each bought with the hope that it’ll be the kind that magically appeals to her. We’re oh-for-three in that department.

Will That Stain?

About half of my days are laundry days. I like to do one load every other day. That pace allows me to keep clean clothes rotating through the closets, and creates a little work to do each day without overwhelming me with wrinkled shirts and mismatched socks.

Yesterday was not laundry day. I’d done laundry the day before, and the day before that, so the drawers were full and my sacks of dirty laundry were mostly empty.

Right before lunchtime, Abbie was hungry and took matters into her own teeth. While I cleaned trays to ready them for lunch, Abbie reached into the spice drawer. When I noticed her, she had a tube of blue food-coloring in her mouth. Fortunately, food-coloring bottles are designed to dispense slowly, but she still had a few blue patches on her shirt. Of course she was wearing a white shirt.

Suddenly it was laundry day. I imaginatively threw variously colored items into a load, and started the washing machine. Fortunately I caught the stain in time, and Abbie’s shirt came out sparkling white. Abbie’s neck is still not quite as pearly white.

How to Make a Ham Sandwich

Recipe for an Abbie Sandwich

This is Abbie’s current favorite recipe. She asks for it frequently. It only makes one serving, but it’s easy enough to make again and again until everyone is satisfied.

INGREDIENTS
2 parents
1 Abbie
1 or 2 brothers (optional)

DIRECTIONS
1. Upon request from Abbie, daddy lifts Abbie to his chest.

2. Daddy and mommy hug. They take their arms off Abbie, using their bodies to hold Abbie off the ground. They can add brothers here if they wish.

3. While keeping tight contact to keep children suspended, shake vigorously while saying, “Abbie sandwich!”

4. Repeat until the giggling stops.

5. For extra spice, mommy and daddy can kiss between shakes. Abbie usually demands this step, shoving faces together. It’s good to know she doesn’t shy from public displays of affection.

Word of the Day: Comprehension

I’ve been worried that Abbie doesn’t know The Rules. I keep reciting them to her every time she misbehaves.

“Do not push.”

“Do not hit.”

“Do not scratch.”

“Do not bite.”

Nothing sinks in, though. She keeps pushing, hitting, scratching, and biting. I’ve tried redirection, time outs, and vague threats, all followed by repetition of The Rules, but nothing works.

Yesterday, as I saw her chasing her brothers through the house and pushing them to the floor, I realized that she does know The Rules. Every time a brother hit the ground, she said, “Do not push.” She then hunted down the other brother, shoved and spoke.

She knows The Rules. She may even be intentionally pushing/hitting/scratching/biting to create the opportunity to demonstrate her knowledge of The Rules. She just doesn’t understand what they mean.

I guess that’s progress.

Happy Sales Tax Holiday

This weekend is a sales tax holiday in Iowa. This annual event means that thousands of families across Iowa, eager to save on their back-to-school supplies, will travel to the malls, fill their carts with apparel that is tax exempt this weekend only. They’ll then abandon their carts when they see the lines for checkout extend deep into the store, and realize there’s no way they’ll navigate to the front of the line to pay for said apparel before the weekend ends.

I usually avoid the stores on these holidays for many reasons. The aforementioned lines are a good reason. The only thing toddlers find more boring than shopping for clothes is standing in line to purchase said clothes. Combining a lengthy shopping expedition with a lengthy wait in line is a good way to induce screaming children, and although that may compel those ahead of me to trade places in line, I’d rather pay the sales tax on another weekend and get in and out quickly.

More importantly, I avoid the stores because the event feels like a gimmick. Sales tax in our area is 7%. While I’ll happily clip a coupon for $.25 off a $6 bottle of laundry detergent, saving 7% off a clothing bill isn’t enough to draw me to a store, especially since much of that 7% supports the school in “back-to-school.”

The event amounts to a state-subsidized sale for the retail industry. Stores might offer deeper discounts on top of the sales tax cut, or they might not; they certainly don’t have to cut prices to draw shoppers. If I want to save money,* I’ll wait until after the sales and buy things off the clearance racks, or better yet, buy things used.

It infuriates me to see what is and isn’t on the list of tax-exempt items. Clothing under $100 is exempt. That’s great, but Minnesota exempts those items year-round, and if those Canucks can figure out how to do that, surely Iowa can. Beyond that, certain things that would seem necessary for going to school are still taxed, while some less necessary items are exempt. Pens and pencils are taxed. Shoes are exempt. Shoes with cleats are taxed. Lingerie is exempt. Crayons are taxed. Gloves for work, garden, or warmth are exempt. Gloves for sports are taxed. Uniforms for school, work, or scouting are exempt. Uniforms for sports are taxed. Golf clothing is exempt, except of course the gloves.

A couple days ago, I noticed a new exempt item: Diapers. This struck me as silly. School-age children don’t use diapers. Clearly this is pandering to a public who simply wants to tack one more illogical item on the list of tax-exempt back-to-school goods.

Naturally, we bought diapers yesterday. We stocked up on four boxes from the big box store where nothing ever goes on sale so I know I saved money. I grabbed a package of socks for myself while I was there. The best part was there was no line at the registers because everyone was at the malls.

* I do.

Super Matt Bros.

As I alluded to in an earlier post, we had a plumbing emergency the other day. It wasn’t a full-blast emergency complete with water spraying uncontrollably throughout the house. For starters, the spraying water was confined to the kitchen. Plus it was only spraying uncontrollably for a few seconds before I could reach the shut-off valve, so everything was in hand. We simply didn’t have a kitchen faucet for a couple days.

It started when I installed a reverse osmosis filter under our kitchen sink. A reverse osmosis filter removes impurities in a water supply by osmosifying it in reverse. The purified water can then be used for several uses, such as drinking or pouring into an aquarium. We intended to use it for the latter. One of Ellie’s former co-workers gave us this filter when he moved across the country. We assumed that he didn’t want to bother moving it, although I now wonder if he just never wanted to see it again.

This particular filter looked like a quality piece of equipment. It has a faucet running off five separate stages of filtration for drinking water. It also has a spigot running off seven stages of filtration for aquarium water. Those two extra stages proudly announce the priorities of aquarists. It has a five-gallon tank to store water, a shut-off valve on the main water line to shut off water, and an adapter that attaches to a kitchen faucet for easy installation.

Except the adapter didn’t attach to our faucet. It only fits the most common faucet size, not our faucet size. No problem; I can tap directly into the water line beneath the sink. So what if my entire life’s plumbing experience involves screwing adapters onto the end of faucets and furrowing my brow quizzically when they don’t fit? I know enough to turn the house water off before opening anything up, and that’s all I need.

I pulled piping apart to install the adapter directly under the faucet. With everything reattached, I turned the water back on and watched water drip out of every seam I just created. No problem, I turned the water back off and tightened everything. To my surprise, I could give the main tubing another three or four rotations. I must’ve left that one loose. I turned the water back on, and watched it shoot from directly under the faucet. My many rotations stripped the tube running directly into the faucet.

While I put the kids down, Ellie went out that night to buy a new faucet, along with the connectors needed to install the filter directly above the shut-off valve, farther down the water line and away from anything I might break on our new faucet. When Ellie returned, I installed the faucet, and looked at our new connectors. Sadly, they only fit the most common pipe size, not our pipe size.

The next morning, yesterday, I took the kids to the hardware store to buy the correct connectors. Few parenting experiences are as fulfilling as taking three small children to a hardware store while you search foreign aisles for a tiny part that may or may not exist. After steering my screaming children to what I felt was the correct quadrant of the store, I found a helpful employee to help. After a couple minutes of searching, he helpfully informed me that the part I wanted didn’t exist. They did, however, have an adapter that would attach to the connector. Of course I’d need an adapter for my adapter, and another adapter for that adapter…

When all I needed was one correct adapter, I walked out with five pieces of pipe. Happy that I could at least complete my project, I went back home to on work connecting my connectors. With everything attached and tightened as far as I could twist it without breaking anything else, I turned the water back on, and watched water drip out of the seams on all five pieces I just attached.

I shrugged, unhooked everything, and reattached the sink faucet. At least that bit of plumbing works. While wondering what to do with the filter I couldn’t correctly install, I cleaned my mess, starting with the towels laid under the sink to catch the uncontrollably spraying water.

I Hit

Abbie’s latest trick is hitting. This is her latest in a series of aggressive moves including biting, scratching, and crying with that “how could you hurt me so?” expression every time I deny her Goldfish.

Abbie has hit people for months now. She opened her hand and shoved it forward, utilizing a style commonly known as “hitting like a girl.” This past weekend, she discovered the power of the techniques “rearing back,” and “following through.” Now she hits like a baseball player teeing off on a, um, tee. She hits like a good baseball player, too, such the July version of the Cubs, not like a bad baseball player, such as the April version of the Cubs.

I know that when disciplining a child, it’s important to remain calm, and firmly yet coolly explain to the child what she did wrong, and what sort of punishment she must endure. I also know that it’s hard to stay calm when your daughter just slapped you across the face.

I thought I discovered the perfect way to discuss the consequences of hitting. I started a series of rules, starting with the number one rule: Do not hit.* Every time Abbie hit somebody, which has been several times an hour over the past few days, I’d give her a warning. I’d say, “Abbie, what’s the number one rule?” At first I had to supply the “do not hit” part, but she delighted me by quickly learning to respond with “do not hit.” After the warning, if she hit someone again within the next couple minutes, I set her in timeout. It was brilliant.

We practiced this rule during bath time. Abbie slapped her leg, and said “Abbie, what’s the number one rule? Do not hit.” I repeated the rule with her, happy to see the rule sinking into her psyche.

As bath time progressed and she slapped her leg a few dozen more times, it turned a little creepy. Something was sinking into her psyche, but I don’t think it was my rule. Hitting seems to be a game with her, and this little rule I started adds a new dimension to this game. When she hits, it starts an exciting chain of events: Grabbing her attention, explaining the rule, throbbing vein in my forehead.

Abbie loves triggering this sequence. Somehow I have to break it. Maybe I could try yelling more. No. Straight to timeout? Maybe. Deny Goldfish? Couldn’t hurt.

* Rule #2: Do not push. Rule #3: Do not bite. Rule #4: Do not scratch.

Speaking of Not Having Enough Time to Write

Due to a plumbing emergency, I have no time to write today. When they say, “do not over tighten,” they mean it. On a related note, there’s no way I’ll make the playgroup, Patty.