This Passes for Humor on a Busy Day

Mommy (to me): “Did you take a nap today.”
(I give her the “are you kidding?” look)
Mommy: "Darn. I was hoping one of us got to take one today.”

Play Ball

I dream of playing catch with my children. One day, years from now, we’ll stand in a square in the backyard tossing a baseball to each other. We’ll discuss our lives, from the mundane, such as how school was today, to the massive, such as how all those hours I forced them to play catch in the backyard honed their bodies, into lean, mean, athletic-scholarship-earning-so-daddy-doesn’t-have-to-pay-for-college machines.

My kids can’t really catch yet unless it’s a soft toss from short range after ample warning. They can’t really throw yet, either; the surest way to avoid being hit with a ball they throw is to stand directly in front of them because it’s going behind them or, at best, straight into the air. So we just play ball. I throw the ball; they track it down and return it to me at their leisure.

Ian brought me one of our many soft oversized outdoor balls tonight. These are perfect for toddlers to throw, catch, and bean their siblings with since they’re too soft to cause damage. I threw the ball for him. Ian obliged by running after it and retrieving it for me.

Tory quickly noticed the fun, and wanted to join. I tossed the ball to him, and he ran after it. About the time he caught up to it, Ian tackled him from behind and bit his back to steal the ball. I was very disappointed in Ian because he’ll need to be more discreet when stealing the ball if he’s going to earn a scholarship in any sport unless they start handing out rugby scholarships in the next 15 years. After a few more tosses, I determined how close I needed to throw the ball to Tory and how long I needed to detain his brother before he could retrieve the ball.

By this time Abbie wanted to join. I threw the ball to a neutral position so each child could have an equal chance to grab the ball and get bit first. Ian arrived a split-second before Abbie. Abbie responded by shoving him as he bent over to pick up the ball, giving her an open path to grab the ball.

When she brought it back to me, we had the 14,028,059th talk about not shoving her brothers. She repeated, “do not push brothers” to me as the boys gathered around. I again threw the ball to a neutral position. This time Abbie shoved Ian to the ground at the start, and chased after it. While I was disappointed in her insistence on shoving Ian, I was pleased to see her demonstrating solid fundamentals on jamming a wide receiver at the line of scrimmage. If colleges start handing out scholarships to women’s football players in the next 14 years, I may have a budding cornerback on a free ride in my house.

Too Busy to Blog

It's a too busy to blog kind of day. More tomorrow.

One Little Tory Bouncing on the Bed

Tory was bouncing on Abbie’s bed last night. This was in brazen defiance of our frequent warning songs about monkeys who bump their heads after bouncing and falling off the bed.

I let my kids do some dangerous things. They run with screwdrivers. They climb on countertops. They chew on artifacts excavated from our sandlot. I do my best to discourage such behavior, but if I’m busy with chores, and the only thing standing between us and a time consuming tantrum is a screwdriver, I’m going to let him have fun as long as he doesn’t try to ram the point into anything or anyone.

Tory was bouncing on the bed while bedtime neared. I had too much to clean before their rooms were habitable, he was having fun, and so I let him go. Mommy kept an eye on everyone while I deposited filthy dishes in the sink, leaving little to worry about.

When I heard a scream, I didn’t pay much attention. Someone is usually screaming in our house, usually over the deprivation of a basic right such as the right to be carried or the right to eat graham crackers. When mommy whisked him into the bathroom and told me she needed help, I paid a little more attention.

Tory had fallen and hit his head on the bed frame. Abbie has a wooden bed frame full of charm, whimsy, and hard corners. His forehead connected with one of the corners, and was bleeding profusely. When we slowed the bleeding, we could see a gash on his forehead about an inch long, and a quarter inch deep. Who knew that all those childhood warning I’d received about falling and splitting my head open were accurate?

The bleeding stopped thanks to pressure and a bandage. The screaming stopped thanks to songs and ibuprofen. Mommy, though, determined the cut was too deep to leave for the night. She strapped his pajama-laden body into the car and drove to the emergency room while I stayed with Ian and Abbie.

I thought that putting the kids through the bedtime routine minus one sibling would throw them off kilter, so I tried to keep them awake. That turned out to be no problem. Ian was happy to have both cow blankets to himself. Abbie hid in the closet reading, excited that I had forgotten to put her to bed.

Tory only needed some glue across the cut, and was back home quickly by ER standards. Everyone went to bed about 45 minutes later than usual, and nobody complained about the late bedtime until I shut the light off.

We took a close look at Tory’s wound this morning. It looks ugly, but it should heal fine. It will probably leave a scar, but hopefully it’ll be the kind you only notice after looking directly at it. Abbie has one of those, a reminder of our “how could something that makes them happy be dangerous” parenting style.

The Interveners

Some parents schedule play dates for their children. I schedule early intervention dates for my children.

We have two groups come into our home to work with the children. I take Abbie to a speech therapist, and she goes to preschool where she’s funneled into a weekly speech group. Then there’s library time, which may or may not benefit anyone. Abbie’s speech is a little behind, but it only rises to the level of “indistinct diction,” not to the “panicked parent” level that is used to hover. The boys also seem a little behind on their speech, but not alarmingly so.

Otherwise, everyone seems to be developing nicely, socializing like they’re supposed to do, running like they’re supposed to do, and climbing on furniture like they’re not supposed to do. I could probably cancel some of the intervention since they’re not behind, but the kids seem to enjoy the attention, they provide us with an activity during the day, and it’s all free to me, so why bother? Plus with the learning benefits they provide, my children should have a huge advantage in earning gold stars when they start kindergarten.

One of those groups came this afternoon to work with the boys. They’re mostly concerned with speech, but since the boys were NICU babies, they’re watchful for all the terrifying maladies that can strike their incubator brethren.

Two people come in this group, one for each boy. They split into separate rooms, one boy with each educator, and they switch halfway through. Mommy and I also split and follow one educator so we can offer insights into their life, such as how much they’re talking and where all those bite marks on their backs came from. Abbie goes to the educator with the best toys.

At the end, they gave us a progress report, and marveled at how interactive and interested the boys were in playing with them. That seemed logical since this one-to-one child-to-adult ratio was completely new to them. Usually they’re competing with at least two other children for an adult’s attention, so when they get one adult all to themselves, they milk it for all it’s worth.

On their way out, the educators scheduled the next visit. I found a gap between the other interveners, and wrote it on the calendar. Maybe the boys will progress to the “barely discernable” level of speech by then.

"When my father got out of the Navy, he cursed a blue streak. It nearly cost him his job as a baby photographer."

Today was picture day at Abbie’s preschool. We’ve had pictures of Abbie taken professionally several times, but this is her first set of school pictures. It will be the first time we get to open an envelope she brings home, look at the pictures inside, and wonder why nobody took a second to straighten her hair.

I believe picture days serve two purposes. They give parents the opportunity to take pictures of their children at least once a year, ensuring that years from now they’ll be able to enjoy the photographic progression of their children from year to year. Also, they give schools the chance to profit from their students’ cuteness.

Picture days are a big moneymaker for the schools. At least I hope they are, because if the school pulls my kid out of class to solely for the photographer’s profit, I’m going to be ticked.

The photo packages offered to us were pricey. I chose one of the cheaper ones, which provides more photos than I could ever use unless they’re part of some wallpaper or aluminum siding decor. We get a couple 5x7’s, which are nice to keep. We get a couple 3x5’s, which are okay for giving to relatives. We get a bunch of wallet size, which will work for giving to relatives we see no more than once a year. We get a ton of “exchange wallet” size, which would be great for trading with friends if she were old enough to have any, so we’ll probably end up giving them to people like her bus driver. Then we get a class photo so we can wonder who all her classmates are. We did not pay for extras, such as a colored background,* printing her name on the photo,** or the “retouching” feature.***

We sent her to school this morning in a cute, yet casual outfit. She was still wearing it when she stepped off the bus, so that’s a good sign. Whether or not her hair looked decent will be unknown until her pictures return.

* Grey works for us.
** We’ll remember who she is.
*** The order form warns us that retouching won’t fix scars, moles, or glass glare, which begs the question, what will it fix?

Great Day!

Abbie seems to enjoy preschool. That’s fair, since I enjoy her being at preschool. She usually comes home happy and, more importantly, a little worn out from her day.

She also seems to be doing well in preschool. I know this because her teachers usually send a note home with her that says “great day!” I’m guessing, though, that they have a generous definition of “great.” Sometimes they expound on her day with tidbits like “wouldn’t try her cottage cheese snack,” “didn’t want to sing today,” or “b.m. 9:15. Runny.” Those don’t sound like highlights from a “great” day, but the notes still proclaim her day as “great.” Occasionally the note says “good day,” and I can only imagine the misery my angel inflicts on the class on those days.

Some days I don’t need the note to know how her day went. When she stepped off the bus after returning home today, she was wearing her backup pants. Going to preschool is like sitting in the first five rows at SeaWorld’s dolphin tank; you will get wet. They told us on day one to send spare clothes with her in case she needs changed, and today she apparently needed them.

Wearing the backup pants isn’t automatically a bad sign. Once they sent a note with her saying she needed the backup pants because she spilled water on her primary pants. Since Abbie enjoys dumping cups full of liquid, I thought that might’ve happened again. When I opened her backpack, though, I found her original shorts encased in a plastic grocery sack.

The note they sent home didn’t say why her pants were wet; I can only assume the worst, but thankfully they were merely wet and not stained. The note did however explain that she had a “great day.”

The 800 AM Dash

I opened the door to Abbie’s room this morning. She was full of joy, happy to see me, and excited to start her day. She ran into her brothers’ room, anxious to greet them, and promptly shoved both to the floor.

It’s never a good sign when Abbie gets a timeout before breakfast.

Woo Woo

The kids witnessed the ultimate in free entertainment today: A fire truck. It was on display at a local fall festival. Thanks to Dora, Abbie knows all about the parts of a fire truck. The hose. The siren. The ladder. We did not get to tour the cab to see the azul and amarillo buttons that control the siren and wiper blades.

Sometimes I Ask Myself...

Why don’t I just dump this food on the floor right now? Dishes won’t get dirty. Their clothes stay clean. I won’t have to endure the pain of crushed hopes that this is the day they’ll eat nicely.

Personality Test

Supper preparations are a hectic time in our house. The kids wake at 5:30, and spend the next 15-20 minutes whining at my feet until I put supper on their trays. This is an improvement from a couple months ago when they’d scream at my feet until supper was on their trays.

Lately, though, I’ve pushed supper back toward 6:00 or later. Everyone seems to be napping a little later, their naptime is my only break time, so why wake them? If I can browse the Internet for a few extra minutes instead of getting a head start on cutting meat into pieces smaller than a toddler’s airway, then I’ll take the time to prepare a little more for this weekend’s pivotal football games.

I let the kids sleep in too long this afternoon. The parenting spark that propels me to meet my children’s needs and snatch a screwdriver from their hands before it enters an electrical socket wasn’t there, so I let the kids sleep until it returned.

When I ran out of Internet to read and the spark still hadn’t shown up, I drug myself to open their doors anyway. The kids stumbled from their rooms, whined for a minute, and quickly realized food they weren’t going to eat anything soon.

Abbie busied herself with books while the boys ran outside. That alone summarizes their personality differences. Abbie loves to read. The boys love to play outside. It’s an oversimplification since Abbie loves playing outside too, but it works. When she goes outside, she usually insists I come too so I can help her with swinging, inspecting the trees, and picking up her brothers so she can push them down again.

Several minutes later when supper was ready, I called the boys inside. They were busy playing in their playhouse, so it took a few hollers. Their playhouse is one of those toddler-sized houses that helps children build their imagination through pretend play, or helps build their coordination through climbing on and jumping off the roof. When the boys realized I was calling them to eat, they both moved to the actual house in unique ways. Ian ran out the door on the far side of the playhouse and walked around it, taking the longer path of least resistance. Tory climbed out the playhouse window that faces the real house, taking the shortest path.

Maybe this reveals the foundation of their personalities. Ian is the traditionalist. Tory won’t let anything stop him. Abbie waits until I’m around to do the work for her. If I could exploit this, I might get them to help me put food on the table a few minutes earlier.

Public Service

According to Yahoo, this post is one of the first things to appear when searching for “momma owie.” A few dozen people stumbled onto it while searching for this heartwarming story. I can only imagine what my kids would do in a similar situation. Seeing me unconscious, they’d probably grab the phone, and gleefully start mashing buttons knowing that I’m powerless to stop them. Then they’d break into the cereal cabinet.

Aldi Back

Taking care of young children is like sitting in a pot of water on the stove. The heat increases so slowly that you don’t notice things are too hot to tolerate until things boil over and the lid blows off because Tory is digging screwdrivers out of the junk drawer while Ian is playing in the fireplace and Abbie is dumping a formerly full box of cereal on the floor in search of the marshmallow pieces.

With Abbie’s preschool adventures, I suddenly have a giant hole in my morning schedule. Taking care of 33% fewer children for a few hours opens up a myriad of possibilities. I’m filling the schedule with new morning routines guaranteed to leave me overtaxed within a month as I add too many activities.

Our new Wednesday routine involves the library and groceries. Both of these activities are impossible with three young children, but are ideal with a child-to-hand ratio of one-to-one.

I only have an hour between library time and Abbie’s return from preschool, so I have to do a truncated grocery trip to ensure the front door is unlocked when she steps off the bus. I like to knock off my truncated grocery list at Aldi.

Aldi is a German grocery chain. Germans are known for many things. Efficiency. Disaffection. Disturbing music. A pleasing retail experience is not one of those things.

There is one reason to shop at Aldi, and that’s price. The milk is a good price, the cereal is cheap, and the produce is suspiciously inexpensive. Otherwise, the food is hit-or-miss quality, the selection usually involves their generic brand or nothing, and the stores are small and cramped. Oh, and they charge for grocery bags and require a deposit for a shopping cart.

This appeals to my cheapskate persona, and I know the store well enough to knock out my cereal/milk/scary produce grocery list in a few minutes. The cart gymnastics can be challenging, though. I usually have to leave the kids in the car while I take care of the cart deposit. They never leave my sight while I grab a cart, so they’re always safe, certainly safer than they’d be running around the parking lot until I finagle a free cart. I still feel like I’m abandoning them, though.

Sometimes I luck out and find someone close to “buy” a cart from when I arrive, or someone offers to “buy” ours as I load the kids in the car. The latter happened to us today. An older man with a thick Scandinavian accent* approached us as I threw cereal in the back of the car and said, “I’ll buy your wagon from you.” I smiled and was about to accept his offer when he added, “you can keep the kids.”

I laughed and quickly loaded everything and everyone into the car so he could “buy” my cart. After reducing my childcare load, taking care of just the two boys feels easy. I’m sure they’ll turn the heat up soon enough. They’ll literally turn the heat up because I can’t keep them away from the stove.

* I think it’s Scandinavian. I’m no expert on northern European dialects.

One More Time!

In June, I made plans for all of the exciting things we’d do during the summer. In July, we did a few things, but there was no sense in cramming things in since it was a long summer. In August, we mostly stayed inside because everyone was sick for much of it. Plus it was too hot for fun in the sun.

Now that it’s September, I’m panicking. Temperatures are dropping, and I only scratched our to-do list. We only visited the zoo a couple times. The local baseball season is over. Our swimming pool sat unused for almost the entire summer except for the occasional frighteningly large spider that turned up floating on the top.

The pool’s lack of use particularly bothered me. This monstrosity sits across half our backyard, depriving us of valuable real estate for tee-ball, and we hardly touched it. The kids would use it everyday from thaw to freeze if I let them, but we don’t have time to watch them. Since all three kids are too young to swim on their own, mommy and I must both be available to supervise them and protect them from unexpected deep patches and marauding siblings. Mommy works a lot, though, and life takes over when she’s home, so we just didn’t make enough time to swim. I probably could’ve taken the kids swimming one at a time while mommy worked; the child in the pool would’ve had fun, though the other two children would’ve been screaming at the fence.

I’d kept the pool running even though the temperatures were dropping and no one had used it for a month. When we had a couple of 60-degree days, I realized it was time to close the pool, but I was determined to not let that last month of pool filter usage go to waste. I wanted one last dip in the pool.

I checked the weather over the weekend, and discovered that Monday might be the hottest day until next May. The skies would be sunny. The temperatures would be in the mid-80s. The humidity would be disgusting. Perfect.

I checked the pool yesterday morning to make sure it was ready to go for our final swim. The cover was off. The leaves were deposited discreetly behind the shed. The scariest dead insects were skimmed off the top.

When mommy arrived home from work we sped through supper, determined to give the kids an evening swim in the waning daylight. As I finished with supper, mommy gave the pool her once-over, and walked back in the house declaring there was no way she was climbing in that pool.

I sat emotionless. I knew what the potential objections were, but I didn’t want to give her extra ammunition to keep us out of the pool. Was she protesting the chill of our unheated pool? Or was she aghast at the layer of algae that coated the sides of the pool while I wasn’t dumping chemicals in the water over the past month.

It was the cold water. The pool thermometer said it was 74-degrees. My body said it 33-degrees. I agreed that it was cold, but we owed Abbie one last swim. Mommy agreed that I owed her one last swim, but there was no way she or the boys would get in the water.

So Abbie and I hopped in the water last night. Actually, only Abbie hopped in the water. I slowly climbed down the ladder, letting the cold water gradually freeze my nerve endings into submission so my entire body wouldn’t be simultaneously screaming, “hypothermia!” I spent the evening carefully tiptoeing through waist-deep water so I didn’t splash anything on my upper body. Abbie spent the evening jumping into the pool and splashing water on my upper body.

Abbie had fun in spite of the chill. I had fun because Abbie had fun. When it was time to climb out, Abbie didn’t want to leave. She sensed that this was her final swim for the season, and wanted to extend the moment for a few more minutes. Either that, or her muscles had stiffened to the point where they couldn’t lift her out of the water.

I pulled her out of the water when she drifted close to the edge, and threw a towel over her. Even though the air temperature was still in the upper-70s, she was shivering fiercely. We pulled off her wet clothes, dried her, and gave her a warm shower. We capped the evening with a cup of hot chocolate. She enjoyed the toasty treat, so we’ll have put that on the list of things to do this winter.

Body Paste

This is a difficult time to parent. The kids, ages 3-years and 22-months (x2), are so active. Their inhibitions are non-existent. Their curiosity is boundless. And, most difficult for me to cope with, the sports offerings are irresistible.

Thanks to the proliferation of college sports, and our digital cable, we get about two dozen college football games piped into our home throughout the day. Following all of them is exhausting, especially when pivotal moments in multiple games are happening simultaneously. Last Saturday was particularly difficult since it was the day of the Big Game in Iowa, the Iowa-Iowa State match-up. The game is so huge that it sucks all media attention and alters the campaigns of the dozens of presidential candidates ambling across the state.* Of course I had to follow that game for fear of having nothing to talk about with my fellow Iowans for the next week, but other compelling events were happening at the same time. My beloved alma mater Drake was playing a football game. My beloved Cubs were playing a game critical to the pennant race. My beloved children were playing with something that I should’ve been paying attention to.

While supervising the kids, I bounced between the television, the radio, and the Internet, following multiple games on each platform. I had so many questions to divine. Will Iowa State win a game this year?** Will Iowa settle for an awful bowl this year, or will they sneak into one that’s merely bad?*** When will the Cubs choke?**** Why are my kids being so quiet in the other room?

Exhausted from chasing the kids and commercials all afternoon, I sat down to watch television for five minutes before putting them down for a nap. When I stood back up 15 minutes later, I discovered why Abbie was so quiet. She was in her room, had stripped naked, and was smearing butt paste all over her body.

I immediately threw her in the shower, which turned out to be not such a great idea. Apparently salves that are designed to repel water are difficult to remove in the bathtub, especially when present in an inch-thick layer throughout the body. Plus the boys, who are drawn to the sound of running water almost as strongly as the sound of Goldfish poured into a cup, demanded a bath as well. I gave everyone a full bath, complete with a thorough shampoo. The result: A film of butt paste covered everyone from head to toe, including the hair where it made an excellent styling aid.

I pulled everyone out of the bath, dried them off, and looked in dismay as everyone’s hair adopted the greaser look. I rushed the kids off to nap, a mere hour late, and took time to regroup while basking in the glory of a Cub win, a Drake victory, and a near perpetual television lineup of college football.

Mommy, who had to work Saturday, suggested we try using dish soap to clean them. At least that was her suggestion after she stopped laughing at their hair. We popped them in the bathtub the next day, lathered them up with dish soap, and watched them emerge mostly paste-free. The soap left them with dishpan hair, but at least they were lemony fresh.

We dried them, dressed them, and turned them loose in the house. I made sure to throw away the remnants of the butt paste first; pro football was on all day, so there was a good chance I wouldn’t be supervising them closely most of the day.

* Notice that Hillary Clinton unveiled her new health care plan on the Monday after the game. Unveiling it the week before the game would’ve ensured that it landed somewhere the back of the newspaper next to the tire ads.
** Yes.
*** Awful bowl.
**** Never…

Abbie's World

We spent part of tonight outside, enjoying the last vestiges of warmish summer evenings. The boys were running around in search of potentially dangerous things to ingest. Abbie was playing her favorite game, Shove a Brother, perhaps baited by the boys’ joyously unobstructed movement. Over my objections, she pushed Tory to the ground. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at first, but quickly settled on “cry.” Abbie bent down to his level, and innocently asked his tear-streaked face, “What’s wrong, Tory?”

+++

We read “The Cat in the Hat” tonight. This is still one of her favorites, perhaps setting a personal record for Most Consecutive Nights Choosing the Same Bedtime Book. One of the pages reads “And then something went bump. How that bump made us jump.” Abbie has started acting out this page in recent days, jumping several times upon hearing “jump.” Tonight she wanted to act it out in greater detail, and decided we needed a “bump” before the “jump.” She walked to her closet, established position against the door, and gave it a solid head butt. I have to admit that the sound of two hollow objects colliding makes an effective “bump.”

You Don't Bring Me to the Playground Anymore

I used to take Abbie to the mall playground regularly, even making special stops at the mall solely to let Abbie play. It let Abbie run around and be a toddler without the possibility that she could break or ingest anything. It provided her a rare social opportunity with her peers. It gave me an excuse to leave the house, something I could always use.

I stopped taking Abbie to the playground about the time her brothers came home.* Much like every other group activity, it was too hard to drag the kids out of the house, supervise them, and return home in time for naps. I just quit going, opting instead for quality time in the backyard. If she ever remembers life before the twins, she’ll be pretty ticked off when she realizes all the fun she has to miss because of them.

Yesterday was one of our rare visits to the mall playground in the past two years. Mommy had the day off, we were in the area anyway, so we decided to stop. The kids could have fun playing, mommy could look at a few stores, and daddy could pick up a couple slices of cheesecake on the way out. What could go wrong?

Seconds after I sent mommy off to the nearest store, Tory filled his diaper, so there’s one thing to go wrong. Their guts are still making them poop several times a day, so I should know that poop is always eminent. I should also ensure that my children eat a healthy, well-balanced diet instead of giving them a bag of chips to fight over when I need a break, but I don’t do that either. Without mommy nearby to tag team on the childcare, I couldn’t sneak off to the bathroom to change him. Instead I just supervised everyone, hoping his diaper didn’t leak. I also hoped the smell didn’t waft to any parents who might think me inadequate, or to any of his peers who might therefore ostracize him for life for pooping his pants that one day.

I immediately handed Tory to mommy when she returned. She changed his diaper, and brought him back to us smelling considerably better. We bid her goodbye again as she walked to the next store, with Ian pooping on cue as soon as she disappeared from view.

Abbie to her credit was never poopy except in her attitude. She had fun playing on the equipment for a few minutes. Then she had fun shoving her brothers for a few minutes.* Finally, she had fun trying to run out of the playground.

She obviously wanted to leave, and I wanted to take her home. We needed to wait for mommy’s return, though, and my promises that she was almost here wore thin after a few minutes. She started throwing a fit to convey her point, complete with screaming and removal of her pants for added emphasis.

When mommy returned, Abbie was in tears. I wasn’t quite in tears yet. Ian had hit the point of trying to run out of the playground. Tory was having fun on the equipment, so good for him.

I bought cheesecake while mommy loaded the car. Nothing could go wrong there, except I accidentally bought mommy the wrong flavor of cheesecake. While I ate my cheesecake laced with guilt, it further reminded me of why we don’t do this anymore.

* I was proud of the anonymous 4-year-old boy who shoved her back in retaliation for her shoving a brother.

Extending the Season

The wish: Taking the kids for one last swim before closing the pool for the season.

The reality: Widespread frost warnings for the area tonight.

I feel bad that we haven’t used our pool for about a month. Not as bad as Abbie feels about being constantly taunted by the unused pool, but bad nonetheless. Life gets busy, people get sick, and the cover stays on the pool. Temperatures are supposed to be in the 80’s next week, so maybe we can squeeze in one last swim before the pipes freeze.

Putting the "Fund" in "Preschool Fundamentals"

Yesterday, Abbie celebrated another first thanks to preschool: First fundraiser!

Her school sent her home with an ominously large sealed envelope. Inside was a giant book filled with hundreds of coupons for local businesses. This book costs $20 if we keep it, which sounds like a good deal since it’s filled with coupons for restaurants and entertainment venues that I’d regularly visit anyway. At least, I imagine I’d patronize these establishments if I didn’t have to let a preschooler tag along with me.

I’m sure we’ll write a check and keep the book. Doing otherwise would violate the spirit of the fundraiser, which is to generate much needed revenue for the school and the book’s publisher.

Abbie is supposed to try selling books to other people, but I don’t think she’ll be doing that. None of our family lives in the area, and our friends might stop talking to us completely if they know “fundraising” might pop up in conversation. A helpful note on the envelope reminds kids to “sell only to people you know.” That’s good advice; I can think of better ways to meet the neighbors than by hitting them up for a fundraiser for a preschool a couple miles away.

I wish schools would send a letter detailing the child’s sales goal, or a suggested donation the family could make instead of selling. I’d gladly write a check in lieu of alienating friends and family. Fundraisers have apparently evolved from candy bars and gift wrap in my childhood, to coupon books today. Maybe they’ll grasp the “suggested donation” concept before Abbie reaches marching band age.

Poopy Post

A bug has taken residence in our family’s guts. Whatever it is, it’s persistently attacking the male members of the household. Mommy and Abbie were off for about a day, but otherwise seem unscathed. Contrast that with my stomach, which has been upset for at least a week now and has forced me to compromise my oath to never throw away food. The boys can’t tell me how they feel, but their frequently poopy diapers* tell me they don’t feel great.

The boys have pooped at least three times a day for the past week. Those later-in-the-day poops have had some substance to them, but the right-after-breakfast poop is the dangerous one. Every night I go to bed thinking maybe they’re finally firming up a little bit, and every morning I’m greeted by a giant, watery, brewed-overnight deposit in their diapers.

Things may be finally flowing in the right direction. The post-breakfast poops were huge, but not so much that they were threatening to overflow the diapers. There was no post-lunch poop, and the post-supper poop was a manageable size. That was all their gut movement for the day. They haven’t pooped twice in a day since Labor Day. Maybe tomorrow they can try for one poop.

As for me, my stomach is still upset, which is one reason why I’m rooting for a single-poop day. Some supper went to waste tonight, but that’s what I get for cooking eggplant.

* And occasionally poopy pants.

"They share and love and share! Love love love! Share share share!"

Abbie is the Super Star in preschool this week. That means the class spends the week learning about Abbie, while Abbie spends the week oblivious to the lessons shared.

One of the major pillars of the Super Star week involves share bear.* Share bear, a curly haired red teddy bear, is the class bear. The next week’s Super Star takes share bear home for the weekend. The Super Star’s job is to keep share bear safe and entertained over the weekend. The parent’s job is to write about what they did for fun in a journal. The bear’s job is to survive until next weekend, which probably explains why they have a class stuffed bear instead of a class live hamster.

I hate the way the share bear concept coerces the parent into doing homework. Part of the assignment’s objective is clearly to help strengthen the child-parent relationship, but I’m busy, and I’m already deeply involved in my child’s life. How can I be expected to keep a daily journal, a log if you will, about my child?

Abbie was first in her class to be the Super Star, thought, and we weren’t going to start the assignment with abject failure on our part. We invented enthusiasm when Abbie brought share bear home last week, determined to be the best Super Star we could be.

We pulled the bear from her bag and gave it to her to begin their weekend of sharing experiences. She immediately threw the bear on the ground. Periodically, we picked the bear off the floor and gave it back to her, hoping to rekindle the relationship that’s supposed to exist, and she promptly pushed it away every time. Share bear spent the weekend underneath the dining room table, which indeed kept it safe, although its only entertainment for the weekend was the thrown food that landed nearby.

With Abbie refusing to share her life with share bear, we were forced to imagine the bear tagging along with everything she did. When we, and by “we” I thankfully mean “mommy,” sat down to journal the weekend, we realized how boring our lives are. I imagine other families spent the weekend shopping at the downtown farmer’s market, patronizing the nearby Latino festival, and filling the rest of the time with play dates and craft projects. The highlight of our weekend was visiting McDonalds before shopping for groceries. The restaurant at least had a playground, but still…

Mommy did her best to punch up the weekend. We played outside. We read. We napped.

Mommy felt horrible as soon as she finished the journal. She wrote it without Abbie’s input after she went to bed. Ideally, the child is supposed to help write the journal, offering suggestions about her favorite part of each day. Realistically, Abbie doesn’t answer questions, and has never told Dora her favorite part of the previous 20-minute adventure. I told her not to worry about it, that Abbie never responds to these questions, but the guilt didn’t subside. This was Abbie’s first homework assignment, and we just did it for her.

We agreed to never do her homework for her. For all future assignments, the target child must be in the room and awake while we work on it if the child is unable to do it alone. Maybe that’s the lesson the parent is supposed to take from the week.

* No relation to Share Bear

I Ride the Little Yellow Bus

When I registered Abbie for preschool, I had to make many decisions.

How many days per week do I want her in preschool? As many as possible.

Do I want her in the morning or afternoon class? Morning. In our house, morning is for learning, afternoon is for napping.

Do I want her to take the bus? The what?

I never expected to have Abbie take the bus. I expected to drop her off and pick her up at the school. Judging from the lines of running cars parked outside every elementary school in town around 2:40, that’s what every other parent of children age 15 and under does. I never even considered the bus as an option since I’d never seen a preschooler take a bus.

When the administrators offered the bus service, they likely recognized the confused look on my face, and explained the process. They would pick her up and drop her off at my driveway, so she wouldn’t have to walk to a bus stop. She’ll be strapped into a bus seat like a child car seat, so she wouldn’t be roaming the aisles and bouncing from seat to seat like I remember doing in my bus riding days. They use a chaperone in addition to the driver to watch the kids, so they’ll be closely supervised and won’t be subjected to any of the horrors I witnessed in my bus riding days.

I was unconvinced. If she hates the bus, she’ll scream the whole way to preschool. That will put her in a bad mood for preschool. Then she’ll scream the whole way back to our house. This pattern will repeat until they send her home with a note asking to never put her on the bus again and/or never bring her to preschool again.

The administrators noticed the boys running roughshod under my feet, and encouraged me to try the bus. I compromised and said I’d drive her for the first week. If she’s doing well adjusting to preschool, I’ll add the trauma of a bus ride to her life.

At the end of the first week, it was obvious that she was comfortable in preschool. They serve snacks, which helps. So I arranged her busing.

Her first day on the bus was last Monday. When the bus came down our block, I started Abbie down our driveway. I narrated the action using exciting phrases such as “oh boy, the bus!” and “you get to ride the school bus!” My hope was to make the bus sound like a good thing, and hopefully Abbie wouldn’t wise up until she was long out of my earshot.

The bus stopped, the door opened, and I walked her to the steps. I expected some hesitation, but she bounded up the stairs. Obviously my exciting phrases worked. She was just as happy when she returned home to me.

As the week progressed, I expected the excitement to wear off. Eventually she’d discover that the bus meant leaving home, and would start screaming as I walked her to the bus. She remained as excited for the bus every day, eventually screaming, “It’s the school bus!” with delight as we walked to its door. The teachers even sent a note home about how great she does with the bus. She doesn’t even do that well for snack time, where things like cottage cheese and toast thwart her happiness.

After spending the weekend at home, she hesitated a little getting on the bus this morning. She quickly relaxed, and seemed happy when I picked her up this morning. I’m going to keep loading her on the bus and hoping she stays happy. She’d better stay happy, because I think she’s going to be taking the bus until she’s old enough to drive.

Superstar

Abbie is the Super Star in preschool this week. If time and illness allow, I’ll go into more detail about this later in the week, but basically it means the entire class spends the week learning about her. Each child in the class takes a turn as the Super Star, ensuring every child will be profiled in hastily written statements from their parents.

The order of the Super Star is determined alphabetically by last name. Abbie, with our “B” surname, is the head of her class alphabetically, giving her the honor of the first Super Star. I remember earning many early-rotation privileges in grade school by virtue of my “B” last name. Leading the pledge of allegiance. Standing at the front of the lunch line. Artwork hung at the top of the board. Abbie is first in the morning class, but would only be second in the afternoon class after being topped by a member of our long-time nemesis, the Andersons.

Part of the Super Star homework is an “All About Me” questionnaire. Abbie is supposed to answer the questions for me, but since she hasn’t hit the “answers questions” and “has favorites” milestones, I had to guess on a few of these. Our questions and answers are below. Also included is a bonus, not included on the questionnaire, writer’s commentary.

My Name: Abbie B (duh)

My Birthday: May 30 (I can have problems keeping the kids’ birthdays straight. I know their birth months, but sometimes switch the dates. 21 and 30 are too similar. I can also have trouble remembering their birth year because there’s no way they could’ve been born that long ago already.)

My Favorite Book: The Cat in the Hat (I know it’s a cliché and it sounds like we’re just making something up, but it’s true. She plucked this book off the shelf a couple days ago, and insists on it before every bedtime. Her favorite book changes almost weekly. A couple days ago she insisted on “Green Eggs and Ham” at bedtime, which would’ve been another true cliché to use.)

My Favorite Movie: Finding Nemo (We don’t let her watch many movies, and she won’t sit through many movies, but this one has fish and seems to hold her interest the longest on car rides.)

My Favorite Food: French Fries (Also in the running: Chicken nuggets, ice cream, and soda pop.)

My Favorite Preschool Subject: Snack time (Sad, but true.)

My Favorite Color: All of them (I’ve never seen her select a favorite, and this at least sounds like I used her input.)

My Favorite Music: Sesame Street music (She still loves that old standby that’s been stuck in my car CD player for over two years now.)

My Favorite Pet: Charlie and Cleo, the cats (I could’ve gone with the dog, but she seems to like the cats a bit more, possibly because they play hard to get. I thought about listing Stumpy, our chinchilla, as the favorite since he’s the pet that likes her the best. I didn’t want to reveal to the world that we named our chinchilla “Stumpy.” At least I didn’t want her preschool class to be introduced to a child from a family that would name its chinchilla “Stumpy.”

My Little Man Grows Up

I swear the boys are feeling better. The boys keep filling their diapers to prove me otherwise.

Ian climbed into his high chair this morning. That’s a new trick. His high chair’s height has repeatedly thwarted him throughout his life. He would step on the bottom rung, grab the sides of the chair, and lift. Every time he would fail at his pull-up, making him frustrated every time. He could climb into Abbie’s booster set, which made him happy, but left Abbie frustrated, and then made Ian frustrated when she slammed him onto the floor.

I noticed this morning that he’d finally hoisted himself into the chair while I washed dishes. I knew he was unable to get back down, so I lifted him back to the floor and returned to the dishes. Several minutes later I found him back in his seat. He wasn’t complaining, I had dishes to wash and football to watch, so I left him.

A half-hour later, I realized that I didn’t know where Ian was. Usually that means he wandered outside into our completely safe fenced-in backyard, or possibly found something to snack on and is enjoying it in privacy in his room. After ruling out those possibilities, I remembered the chair, and found him still sitting there. He was hunched over to the side, sleeping, with a football game on the television in front of him.

I know the illness is making him sleepy, and I’m sure the television was irrelevant to him, but I still like to think of this as the first time he fell asleep sitting in the chair watching the game.

SicknessUpdate

Diapers: Less poopy.
Dispositions: More poopy.

The boys had some extended screaming fits today. Tory especially had some violent, flailing, “don’t you dare set me down or I’ll shriek at the pitch that causes a sympathetic vibration inside your ear” fits. That just means they’re feeling good enough to express their displeasure. Right?

Better...

We’re doing better. Everyone seems to be firming up and evacuating less. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll feel good enough to eat an actual meal, and maybe even write an actual blog post.

Tonight, Abbie ran around the house right before bedtime. While I put the boys down, she usually does this to prolong the inevitable trip to bed. Tonight she busied herself by slipping her shoes and socks over her feet. I didn’t realize she could put her shoes and socks on by herself. I can add that to the list of Things Abbie Can Do When She Wants.*

When I found Abbie, she announced, “I love shoes and socks!”

“I love Abbie going to bed,” I replied. “Guess which one is going to happen.”

“Shoes and socks!” she said.

* Using the potty and drinking from a regular cup are also on that list.

Parental Observation #6312

A parent with nausea and a child with frequent, liquid, extra stinky poos is a bad combination.

The boys leaked on two pairs of shorts today. Each. None of that leakage happened this evening, so maybe they’re improving.

Happy Labor Day

Tory has soft stools. Ian has liquid stools. Abbie is gassier than an oil tanker. Mommy and daddy’s stomachs don’t feel right. These are the days that I’ll remember forever, no matter how hard I try to forget them.

On the Road Again

We're out of town, so no updates for a few days.