Guilty As Charged

One thing I've learned about being the mother of boys is that loyalty starts at birth.  Growing up as one of three girls, I witnessed a different  approach to sibling relations that centered mainly around well-held grudges and appearance-related insults.

But boys are different.

I'd heard before about boys defending each other, sticking up for one another, and experiencing a strong sense of camaraderie between brief bouts of roughing one another up.  This is the relationship I imagined for my children.

This is not the one we got.

They have managed, for as long as Graham could speak, to protect one another, but not in the traditional sense.  Instead, whenever a crime has been committed, they escape persecution by blaming each other, no matter the offense, so that the real perpetrator can't be revealed.  For years now, our daily conversations have gone this way.

"Who put my bra in the Christmas tree?" 

"He did it."

"No, he did it."

"Well that's helpful."

Since I knew I didn't put my own lingerie on display, I was pretty sure it was one of them.  If not, Joel had some explaining to do.  And this is how all investigations played out, until Tuesday when a sofa cushion and a smear of blue Sharpie marker caused me to pause and gather the evidence.

"Who did this?"

"He did it."

This could be tough.  Let's consider the suspects.

My neighbor boy that I watch was in the basement at the time and had no alibi.  But when I prompted him about the vandalism, he seemed genuinely innocent and preoccupied with his keys.

Cael's prior Sharpie-related conviction made him the obvious suspect, but the huge fort of blankets and pop-up tents he emerged from had clearly taken time to construct, and I was confident of his whereabouts.

The cat, while lacking the opposable thumbs necessary to hold a marker, was already on my list after wetting the guest bed, so I seriously considered detaining him in the laundry room for revenge, but decided against it.

Oscar is cute but not quite smart enough.

There was only one suspect left, but Graham assured me he wasn't there.  "I was going potty!" he exclaimed, and nearly naked appearance backed up his claim.  But there was something about his defense that left me feeling uneasy.  Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or the twinkle in his eye.

Or maybe it was the marker on his butt.

Case closed. 

Déjà Vu

It's true that when Graham was born, I had a strong sense of déjà vu because of his strong resemblance to Cael.

But as we ate dinner the other night, a "zip it" battle gave me a feeling that the sights and sounds were more than a bit familiar...



So a little computer digging uncovered the original event that I had also conveniently recorded, and I marveled at not only how identical the situation turned out to be, but also how much the boys have changed in a year.



But if I'm going to have a Groundhog Day moment, I guess this is as good as any.  It could definitely be worse.

Newsletter

"Mommy, what is that pink paper?  Or the other papers you take from my backpack?"

"That's your class newsletter.  Your teachers sends them home with you so that I can read about what you're doing in school and if there's anything you need."

"Where's my house newsletter?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If this is for school, where is the newsletter for our house?"

"We don't have one.  I don't think people need to know any more about what goes on in this house than they already do."

"But I want a newsletter for home!"

He asked for it.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Greetings, friends!  It's been a crazy week in the Foreman household.  The kids have been learning a lot lately about following directions, or more specifically, how NOT to follow directions by completely ignoring Mommy and Daddy and doing what they want instead!  You'd all be so proud of the progress they've made with lying and manipulating.  We also spent several hours constructing multiple forts and castles out of various materials.  This tactile project helps them learn about different materials and textures and also helped them understand that when Mommy takes a plastic magnet tile to the eye, it hurts more than one made of felt.  That's progress, folks!

Valentine's Day will soon be upon us, so preparations are already underway to create the best valentines possible.  As students are encouraged to make the valentines themselves without parent intervention, I would like to remind all parents not to make your handwriting or scissor work too perfect, or the cards you've made will not pass off as your preschooler's work.

Lastly, the weather lately has been frigid and cold and we've been trapped inside the house because the Foreman boys have no tolerance for cold temperatures.  Then today we awoke to a much more temperate climate above 50 degrees, and Cael promptly dropped his pants and requested to attend school in his underwear.  I would like to encourage each and every one of you to discuss the weather with your child and include them in the process of choosing weather-appropriate clothing, as it is yet another way that they interact with their environment.

I would also like to encourage you to look the other way if you see our family at the grocery store in our underpants.

Have a wonderful week!

Life Worse Than Art

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post about life imitating art, and how I should have known better than to tempt fate by mentioning a flood in my home.  And lo and behold, only a few days later, Graham and a disgruntled toilet made that fear a reality.

Unfortunately, I didn't learn my lesson.

In an unusually esoteric post on Thursday, I waxed poetic about how, despite all of the things that can and do go wrong, I can always count on my love for my children to get me through the day.  And then I, demonstrating a blatant disregard for fate, went on to list the many things that can add stress to my life.

I should have added "my own stupidity" to the list.

After quickly typing out a line about my ever-failing appliances, I hit "post" and went about my life.  And less than 24 hours later, my washing machine gave up.  But fate couldn't make it quite that easy.  I didn't learn the lesson last time, remember?  So this time, fate would get its point across loud and clear.

I was two loads into a massive laundry session that I'd been avoiding for days when I heard the washing machine emit a very loud buzz as the nearly-clean clothes tumbled around inside.  But I didn't open the door for fear of flooding the laundry room with water (don't worry, my fingers are crossed) and let it complete its cycle.  When the time came to move the clothing to the dryer, however, I discovered that it was in lock-down mode and no matter what I did, the clothes inside were hopelessly trapped until Joel arrived home and unplugged the machine, turned it on its side and began performing mechanical surgery on the beast while water leaked everywhere.

Meanwhile, I was waiting for my friend Alissa to arrive so that we could have a much needed girls' weekend, so I ran the vacuum around in the guest room to tidy up.  As soon as I opened the door, it was clear that something foul had taken place in the bed since it was last used, and I pulled back the comforter to find that my adoring cat had peed in it to mark it multiple times as his own.

I ripped off the sheets in a panic, relieved that the issue hadn't soaked through to the mattress, but realized quickly that the situation was complicated further by the fact that I couldn't wash the sheets thanks to a malfunctioning washing machine. 

I dug around until I mercifully located another set of sheets that fit, tossed them on, and emerged from the bedroom to an even worse smell permeating the rest of the house.  As part of the attempted washing machine resuscitation, the tubing and pipes that connect to the sewer lines were exposed and a cloud of stink a collection of foul ooze joined the party.

You know, because things just weren't bad enough already.

But then, finally, a piece of good luck.  Joel and my Dad were able to extract a piece of wire from the innards of the machine that had jammed the pump.  When removed, things started back up normally, and when I returned from my movie that night, I was able to start in on the first of 14 loads of laundry, towels and pee-soaked sheets.

So maybe sharing my newly-learned lesson will invite more good luck.  Maybe it was my chastising that lead to this debacle in the first place.  So from now on I'll try to be more positive; Lord knows I could use the help.

Now if only the cat hadn't gone right back in and peed on the clean sheets...

Knowing Where You Rank

"Mommy, how come you and Daddy get the big bedroom?"

"Because we are the Mommy and Daddy.  We bought the house, so we get the big room."

"But I think Graham and I should have a room with a bathroom."

"Why is that?"

"Because then when Graham unrolls a roll of toilet paper, he could roll it into our room and then we could roll ourselves up like mummies."

"Yeah, I'm definitely not going to give your the big room so that you can do that." 

"Or maybe so that we could fill the bathtub up with lots and lots of soap.  Like so much soap that it would flood the house again.  And there would be soap coming through the ceiling like when Bampa was here!"

"That would be awful.  Let's hope that never happens!"

"And how come you and Daddy have a big bed and I have a tiny bed?"

"Because we're grown ups, and you're still a small person."

"But I think I need a great big bed too, so that when Graham and I are mummies and we're covered in soap, we can wrestle on the big bed and I can throw him off like he's falling off a mountain."

"And what if he got hurt?"

"It wouldn't hurt.  You'd have to sleep on the floor, so you'd catch him before he hit the ground."

At least I know where I rank.

Some Things Never Change

Do you ever feel like you're spinning?  Like no matter how hard you work on the house, or the children, or even yourself, that things never change?  And it's not even a bad thing-- just a very steady reminder of "the way things are". 

Sometimes I get really sick of that.  I dread the tedium of dishes and laundry and fielding complaints from the very ankle-biters that generate this nonstop cycle of stay-at-home-"momhood".  Just today, as I was driving to retrieve Cael from school, and cursing under my breath about having to bundle up Graham, yet again, to make the 45-second drive to the elementary, I got to thinking about the alternative. 

What if Cael wasn't around, and my mornings were freed up to do whatever meaningless thing I wanted to do?  What if Graham wasn't running, sans pants, around my house for me to chase?  What if the house was quiet and clean?  What if there were no hand-drawn paper lightsabers and broken crayons littering the floor?  What if there were no photographs of small feet in wet grass or cake-covered faces adorning my walls?

What kind of life would that be?

So I pulled myself out of my funk this morning and took inventory, accepting that some things will always stay the same. 

Cael will always find a way to wage a battle, no matter his resources.

The basement will always be a disaster.



The dog will always need a haircut.


Some appliance will always be on the fritz.

And Graham will always, always opt for no underpants.

But considering the alternative, I think I'll choose to welcome the constants in my life.  Because while some of them may give me gray hairs, others bring the sunshine.

Ism of the Week

"Hey Mom-- knock, knock!"

"Oh, man.  Okay, who's there?"

"A monkey."

"A monkey, who?"

"Just a monkey.  Wouldn't that be cool if there was a monkey at the door?  Ooh, with a flashlight?  Or a light saber!"

Ba-dum-chh...

Little Logic

Every parent knows that it is impossible to reason with a child under age four.  Toddlers do what they want to do when they want to do it, and we, as parents, are there to stand guard and keep them alive.  But once they are four or five, they can begin to understand logic.

Cael, for example, understood at age four that if he cleaned up the toys, he would get a treat.  If he didn't clean up the toys, Mommy would clean up the toys and within an hour she'd forget about the deal and give him a treat anyway. 

It wasn't until he was five that I trained myself. 

So, despite Cael's strong-willed nature, I can often use logic to explain situations and behaviors in a way that he can understand.  But every once in a while, that logic just doesn't sink in.

"Here is your pizza, Cael." 

"And here is yours, Graham.  I cut it in half for you so that it wouldn't be so hard to handle." 

"But Mom, he got two!"

"No, he didn't get two.  He got the same amount in two pieces." 

"That's not right. He has two pieces of pizza."

"Yes, but they are half as big."

"But that's twice as good!"

Sometimes being the only adult in the house means that the boys' bizarre logic starts to make sense after a while, and I find myself explaining to Joel that he can't use my towel because "I had it first!" or because it's my "most favoritest ever!", but this time I wasn't buying Cael's botched math.  Maybe what he needed was a different visual aid.

"Look at it with a cookie, okay?  One whole cookie is the same amount of cookie as two halves."

"Or even four pieces.  Because no matter how many pieces I have, it's still the same as one regular cookie."

"So if I have ten cookies, it's the same as one cookie?  Then I want ONE cookie in TEN cookie-sized cookie pieces, Mom!"

As much as I wish that were the case, and I could cheat my calorie-counter app with that sort of disjointed logic, my grown-up logic couldn't work it out.

But if I melted down a pint of ice cream, there'd be no way to know for sure, right?...

A Cut Above

As many mothers do, I feel as though my boys are something special.  They are creative and smart and never cease to amaze me with their boundless energy.  Graham is a really calming influence and always wants to snuggle.  "Mommy, come snuggle me.  This pillow is scratchy and your tummy is soft and squishy."

Even when I spend several days feeling under the weather and coughing nonstop, I can always count on Cael to boost me up by saying, "Mommy, quit being sick.  You've been sick too long and I want some cookies."

He's a motivator, that one.

But just as much as I have come to expect great things from them, I have also come to expect the unexpected.  My kids don't commit the cliché offenses, like drawing on the walls (except that one time) or flushing things down the toilet (well, not recently).  So when Cael reached another problematic childhood milestone, I didn't see it coming.

Out at lunch with Joel last week, we noticed a small lock of Cael's curls on his coat, which I assumed had been severed by his zipper.  But throughout the meal we saw another, and another.  When we left the restaurant and a gust of wind forced a large tuft of hair to take flight, we got concerned.  Joel tousled Cael's hair and began pulling handfuls of blonde curls out, effectively removing a few years from the end of Daddy's life as he thought it was all falling out at the root.  Even the restaurant owner came rushing outside, wondering if our clearly near-death son was okay.  But I knew better.

I'm exceptional too.

"Cael, did you cut your hair with those scissors you had earlier?"

First came the denial, but I've learned how to see through that.  When Cael is truly innocent, his repeated cries of, "It wasn't me!  It really wasn't me!" show me that he wasn't at fault.  But when he is lying, the response is always the same.  "Mommy, I would never do that."

Clearly, he would.  And he did.

Further inspection proved that he had not only cut his hair, but he had nearly scalped himself in three separate spots.  I tried my best to employ the balding man's favorite comb-over move, but his ringlets bounced back into place and nothing I did could cover up the holes.  So we went to the sink and I did my best to even out his disheveled mop. 

"Mommy, I'm going to look funny at school.  I don't look like me now."

"Well, then I hope you remember how you feel so that you won't do this again.  When it's time for a haircut, I will take care of it, okay?"

"Okay."

I think we both learned a lesson.  Cael learned that cutting his hair with safety scissors and an unsteady hand leads to goofy stares and sideways glances. 

And I learned that, when it comes to my boys, anything is possible.

Up All Night

I'm sorry for my absence yesterday, friends, but by Tuesday night it was clear that this cold and cough I've been sporting for a while now had no intention of leaving.  In protest, I decided to take the day off to rest up, which was a good idea because by the time I visited my doctor I was coughing nonstop and feeling generally awful.

Mercifully, along with the chest infection diagnosis I got, I received a prescription for Codeine cough syrup to help me get to sleep, stay asleep, and not cough so violently during the night as to wake up Joel. 

After nearly eight years of listening to him snore, I think the man has it coming, but in my weakened state I'll let that slide.

So last night, about 30 minutes before I wanted to be asleep, I took my cough medicine, made the same sour holy-crap-this-tastes-like-death face that I've made since childhood while ingesting cough syrup, and went to bed to finish watching my DVRed coverage of Mariah Carey and Nicki Minaj battling for the title of "Biggest Diva".  And right on cue, I closed my eyes.

I fell asleep.

I did not cough.

But unfortunately, I did not stay asleep.  Four hours later I woke up in an apparent attempt to dislodge one of my lungs, and discovered that while the medicine's cough-reducing power had timed out, the Codeine's near-hallucinogenic properties were still fully functional.  I coughed my way into the kitchen to get a glass of ice water, and stumbled back to my room and turned on the TV, and for an hour, fell down a rabbit-hole of Codeine-laced infomercials.

I think I tasted colors.

Sure, it might have been the fact that it was 2:30 in the morning.  It might have been the fact that my achy head and chest clouded my judgment.  But one thing is for certain...

I must have a leopard-print Snuggie.  And a matching one for the dog.

And just maybe, a few milliliters of Codeine cough syrup for Joel, just in case that snoring comes back.

Discrection Session

There are a lot of tough parts of parenting.  But beyond bandaging scrapes and soothing hurt feelings, the toughest part for me has been teaching the boys discretion. 

Especially if your husband is my husband.

And if your husband is my husband, then your children are exactly like your husband, inheriting an appreciation for bathroom humor and a unique ability to tell it like it is.  What Joel has that Cael and Graham don't, however, is an understanding of the line between goofy curiosity and just plain rude.

Knowing this about my kids, I am always nervous when we find ourselves in the presence of a person whose appearance is confusing or unfamiliar to my children.  As if it wasn't bad enough when a three year-old  Cael told an obese woman that she had a huge belly, or as if I wasn't sufficiently mortified when he informed an African-American man that "all black mans are bad drivers" (referring to the color of the man's shirt), my boys will take every opportunity to confront people who look different.

Since those incidents, I have drilled into my kids' heads that it is okay to ask questions, and that the best course of action is to wait until we are alone to ask me about them and I that I would do my best to explain.  And while Graham didn't absorb that advice, recently asking me in a very loud voice if a man with one leg forgot the other in his car, Cael demonstrated discretion for the very first time this week.

While out to dinner with my Dad, we found ourselves in line to pay directly behind a "little person", who bantered back and forth with Cael while I dug my fingernails into my palms, terrified that Cael would break character at any time and ask the guy, "How come you're little like me but your face is old?"

But miraculously, Cael smiled and chatted until we were in the safety of our car before having me explain that some people are born different than others.  Some are different because they have a different look, while others are different because of an illness or an injury, but that it is most important to be kind to everyone, no matter what you see.

I was so proud of my boy.  He really got it.

I thought he really got it.

"Mommy, I think I was born different too."

"How were you born different?"

"There was something wrong with me when I was in your belly, and when I came out, I had curly hair."

So close.

iPost

"Mommy, why is it called an 'iPad'?"

"Well, it's shaped like a pad, and the company that makes them likes to put a little "i" in front of the things they make, like the iPhone, or an iPod."

"So any machine has an "i" in front of it?"

"Not all machines, just certain ones."

"Like an iRefrigerator?"

"No, not a fridge." 

"Or an iLight?"

"Nope, not a light either." 

"What about an iCar?"

"It sounds like something that Apple would make, but no, that's not what we call it."

"I know one!  An iDog?"

"Dude, you know that's not right."
 

"But there aren't very many, Mom."

"I guess not."

"Hey, you thought of one!  But what's an iGuessNot?"

Interior Design

My husband, the proverbial Craigslist killer, struck again yesterday.

"Mommy, I'm sad that the pool table is gone."

"I'm sorry you're sad.  But we weren't using it. Now we can put something in here that we will use."

"Like a pool table?"

"No, we didn't use the old one, so I don't think we should get another."

"Or like a boat?"

"Do you think a boat goes inside the house?"

"No.  Well then maybe a really tall side?  Or a swing set?"

"Those would probably get used a lot.  But they're also things that shouldn't be inside the house.  They belong outside."

"Okay, how about a really, really, huge couch that's so big that I look tiny, like a really tiny thing!"

"How would we get that in the room, Cael?"

"You could build it!"

"Have you ever seen me build something like that?"

"Yes."

Crap.  Memories of cardboard trains and airplanes flooded my subconscious.

"Well, I think that's a little above my skill level, Cael.  Plus, cardboard cushions wouldn't feel too great."

"Okay, then, I know what to do.  This is it!  I've got it.  Ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready."

"You can use all of the cardboard to build a big table.  Like one that has four legs and that you can put stuff on.  And we can roll balls on it and they can go under the top if you roll them right.  And would could even hit them with a stick!"

"So you want me to build a pool table to replace our pool table?"

"Great idea, Mommy.  You're very smart."

Ism of the Week

"Mommy, I made a card for you."

"Cool, Cael!  And you wrote, 'Mom' on it for me!  But what is this green part?"

"It's a worm."

"Oh, okay... but why did you draw a worm?"

"Because I love you.  And because I know you really love worms."

Mommy also loves Starbucks, but she loves Cael more.  Worms it is.

The Mommy Haze

If you've ever been pregnant, you may have heard of a little something called "Pregnancy Brain".  Pregnancy Brain is an unexpected and debilitating disorder that causes pregnant women to say and do stupid things that, before being "with child", would have seemed ridiculous and alarming.

This ailment is no laughing matter.  Few diseases can force an otherwise healthy 24 year-old woman to attempt washing a load of laundry by putting dryer sheets in the washing machine and, even worse, detergent in the dryer.  

 

These mothers should have your sympathies. 

I certainly wasn't proud of myself when I pulled the clothing from the dryer, hot and crusted with soap and likely not very clean.  But at the time, I was amid a tumultuous pregnancy with Cael and simply grateful to be capable of ruining my own laundry and not stuck on bed rest.  I was very frustrated by the way I couldn't do math in my head or remember where I had put my keys and purse, but I knew that in a few addition months I'd have a beautiful baby boy, and I'd get my brain back.

Unfortunately, WebMD failed to tell me about a little thing known as "The Mommy Haze".  This condition is a secondary, more severe form of Pregnancy Brain brought on by exhaustion, poor nutrition and Cheerios stuck in one's hair.  Although it can cause anything from addressing a child by the wrong name to wearing your shirts on backward all day, Mommy Haze gone one step further to anoint me, "The Most Absent-Minded Mommy In All The Land".

When winter vacation was over I struggled a bit to get back into the routine, but when I dropped him off at school last Thursday I felt confident that he was prepared for the day.  Then I picked him up and was reminded not once but twice that my son needed snowpants "EVERYDAY", and I felt as though I was one step away from remedial parenting courses.

I wouldn't make the same mistake on Friday.  I crammed the snowpants into a bag with Cael's other winter gear and headed to school, remembering only feet from the school's front door that it was "Fresh Vegetable Friday", and Cael had no fresh vegetable.  He didn't even have a canned vegetable.   

 

Thanks, Mommy Haze.

So when Monday morning rolled around, I resolved to handle the new week with a cool head and a fresh approach.  And that probably would have worked if not for the four children I was watching and the mere 25 minutes I had to get them all fed, dressed and to the car so that my son actually arrived at school before the doors locked.  Unfortunately for Cael, however, the perfect storm brewed and when I reached in his bag to pull out his gloves, I discovered that, while I remembered the snowpants, Cael's hat and gloves were nestled warmly in our coat closet at home.  

 

The hat that made me look like an absent parent.

 

I called Papa, who generously offered to stay with the car while I checked in at the school office so that I could deliver Cael's gear and prevent my neglectfulness from leading to a case of frostbite.  When I retrieved my son later in the morning and the teachers assumed that any number of mismatched and unidentified gloves and boots must belong to us (because I had brazenly forgotten to label our gloves and boots), I knew that my case of Mommy Haze had gone from suspected to confirmed. 

 

Forgetting his backpack on Tuesday was just insulting. 

 

There is one hour left before preschool is over for today, and I am afraid to learn what way the Mommy Haze has clouded my day and my parenting skills.  And while, at this point, I hope I remember to pick him up at all, I will be a little embarrassed if he went "commando" to school again.

 

I'm done beating myself up about it, though.  If anyone interprets my absent-minded omissions as neglect or signs of a parent that has officially checked out, they simply need to look at the smile on Cael's face or the hug he gives me when he runs to my side.

 

And hopefully, they won't look at the crusted detergent on his clothes or Cheerios in his hair.  

 

It's been a long week.