All We Need is Love (and a Great Pedicure)

Zoe has a lovey. It has changed over time, but for the last year, it has been in the form of a small stuffed cat she got as a "little sister gift" during Noah's birthday party last year. "Meow Meow" is his name and he goes everywhere with us. I fear losing him somewhere in a store or parking lot because I have no idea where to find a replacement.

We have had many nights where we have discovered Meow Meow missing at bedtime. This results in frantic searches of the house, the outer perimeters of the house and the van. We always find him in some odd place where Zoe must have been distracted and set him down and forgot about him. But, we always find him.

The other day, we discovered Meow Meow missing. I looked everywhere and could not find him. My suspicion was that she might have left him at my friend's house earlier that day, but she was not home to call and ask. My child was heartbroken and sadly walking through the house calling, "Meow Meoooowwww? Meow Meow?" It broke her mother's heart too.

I thought about this for a bit. What is it that I need most when my heart is broken? I need someone who loves me to cheer me up by making me laugh, forget my troubles for a moment and of course, pampering is always nice.

So, we painted our toenails. It was Zoe's first pedicure and she giggled and laughed at her pink toes. She told everyone that would listen about her pink toes and I caught her admiring them on more than one occasion. She forgot about Meow Meow for a bit and just had fun.

What's better than a girlfriend, laughs, and a pedicure to fix what ails ya?

And in the end, Meow Meow came home. ( He was at my friend's house) And all was well.

Everybody on the Whole Cell Block...

... was dancin' to the jailhouse rock! (thought I would get that out of the way first)

My kids are full of mischief. And snark. And sass. And other things I won't mention since I try to keep the language clean on this blog. But mostly, they are full of a desire to squelch any hopes their mother has of ever getting a decent photograph of them.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I took the kids out this past weekend for a photo shoot. I honestly don't know why I do this to myself. My kids do not cooperate with photography. Period. Others have given me loads of suggestions and I am telling you, if you were watching me attempt these photos, you might think me insane. I jump around, make goofy noises, clap, offer bribes in the form of candy and ice cream and it just doesn't work. I even employ my husband to help and it still doesn't work. I am embarrassed to admit that this time I even stooped to my son's level and started randomly using words like "booger" and "fart" and "poopy head" to try and make him laugh. Nothing. All I came away with was 200 (yes, two HUNDRED) photos, most of which were deleted before even making it onto the computer, and me feeling humiliated having hopped around shouting potty words while dancing like a maniac and making goofy faces.

As always, I DID come away with some hilarious photos and a couple of good ones. But, God forbid, I ask that my children both look at the camera and smile. You can forget that. So, I bring you these three photos (with the promise of more after Mother's Day).

This first one was almost in the bundle that was deleted immediately. But something about it was so bad it made me laugh. It perfectly displayed my kids' attitude toward my photo shoots and how even with evidence of bribery in their hands, they could only be forced to stand in the same frame as one another but not the additional task of smiling. I couldn't help but think it looked like a mug shot. So, the wheels in my head started turning and I had a little fun with it:


I love the colors in the this one and it would have been awesome had they bothered to look at me. I think they may perhaps be contemplating what would happen if they just jumped over the ledge and made a break for it:

And this one, I love:

An Awesome Duet

I just thought this was cute and wanted to share.


I was practicing my music ( I play flute in a local community band) and Zoe suddenly appeared with her "flute" and music and set it right next to me at the table and started playing too. I don't know about you, but I think John Williams on a flute and London Bridge on a recorder make an awesome duet.

Because You Can't Miss the Recycle Truck on Earth Day

In my last post, I mentioned, jokingly, needing a book on negotiating with terrorists and/or small children in my arsenal of parenting tools. I'm rethinking that joke today, because nothing gives a two-year-old more power than holding an urgent situation over their parent's head. No, I'm not talking about anything dangerous, here. Let me explain.

While getting both children ready this morning- Noah for his bus at 8:45 and Zoe to leave for hourly care immediately after Noah's bus departed- I heard the rumbling diesel sound of the recycle truck progressing through our neighborhood. I went into a panic. You see, the recycle truck only comes every two weeks and because I am so awesome, I never remember which week that is (even though, in my defense, I have actually circled the recycle dates on my calendar that hangs in the kitchen). So, when I miss recycle day, as I often do, my stuff ends up piling up for a month or more before I finally need a backhoe to haul it all out to the curb for pickup. So, yes, I panicked.

I looked out the window and could see it inching slowly down the street toward my house. I tore out the back door, grabbed the bin with the cans and bottles along with a large box and got it to the curb. The truck was still at least three blocks away, so I was somewhat relieved that I would be able to get back inside, grab my paper bin and get it out there too. With the confidence of an arrogant idiot, I slowed my pace to a quick stride and rounded the back of the house, grabbed the back door knob, turned it and pushed. The door stopped. I looked in to see Zoe standing there in a fit of hysterical giggles. She had turned the dead bolt.

I wasn't locked out of my house. I learned that lesson a long time ago, when Noah was small. My front door has a keypad with a numerical code, so I can always get in that door. BUT, if I ran around to the front of the house, entered the code, opened the front door, ran through the house out to the sun room where the paper bin was now sitting (within my eyesight while standing at the back door), grabbed the bin and ran out either door, I would miss the truck.

My mind filled with clouded panic. I could hear the truck inching closer and closer while I stared through the back door at my daughter laughing at me and the bin I desperately needed to be on MY side of the door. For the smallest of moments, I had the urge to exclaim, "Accio, recycle bin!" - stupid Harry Potter books- but then remembered I am not a witch or a wizard living in Britain and oh my freaking holy COW, Jennifer, WHY are you worrying about Harry Potter books when you need to be problem- solving. So, I conjured Winnie the Pooh...... "Think, think, think, think..."

I could hear the rumble getting closer and closer and watched with horror as Zoe turned around to go back into the kitchen and shut that door too! Noooooooooo!

I was on the verge of shouting, " ZOE, IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW YOU WILL NEVER SEE THE OUTSIDE OF THE HOUSE AGAIN!" (which is unrealistic) or " OPEN THE DOOR BEFORE I MAIM YOU!" ( which she wouldn't understand). So, I took a deep breath, and calmly said, " Zoe, if you unlock the door, Mommy will give you some jelly beans."

"O-tay, Mommy." CLICK

And I opened the door, grabbed the bin, went sprinting around the side of the house, placed the bin on the curb just as the truck reached the stop sign in front of my house. I straightened up, casually waved at the recycle men as if I were all cool, organized and meant to time the placing of my recyclables just so.

And then, from around the side of the house, came Zoe... running and frantically shouting, "HEY! Don't see jajjy bean!"

And I sauntered back in the house, paid the piper and revelled in my crisis averted.

And all before nine a.m.

The Sweet Life

There are days when I wake up, the sun is shining and it is just gorgeous outside. I take a deep breath, think to myself, "Today is going to be a wonderful day" and before I can exhale, I am bombarded by screams, yells, accusations, tears, requests and demands.

Suddenly, the peaceful serene day outside seems a distant view from a small window in the storm brewing inside my house. I am suddenly sucked into the vortex of my life. It turns out, life with small children is very volatile. It should come with a hazardous materials sticker- WARNING: EVEN THE BLINK OF AN EYE PERFORMED IN THE WRONG MANOR MAY CAUSE AN EXPLOSION. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

I am convinced I should start every day armed with a haz-mat suit, chemical spill clean-up kit ( what IS that congealed substance stuck to the kitchen floor under Zoe's chair?) and a copy of The Idiot's Guide to Negotiating with Terrorists and/or Small Children. You know, just in case. It also helps to have a bleach pen, Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, stash of snacks and some baby wipes within arm's reach at all times.

The truth is, there are days I wish I could walk away from it all. Noah is six, Zoe is two and apparently that is the prime age to trigger twenty-four hour scuffles. When both of them are home, they spend 98.9% of the time fighting. Frankly, it's exhausting and I have grown weary of playing referee. It's constant, relentless and seemingly never-ending. I long for the days before children.

Once upon a time, I was a twenty-six-year-old woman. Thin, with a board-flat stomach, perky breasts, newly-married and living in England. My time was my own, spent at my leisure, reading, writing, lazily watching a movie, going on weekend jaunts to Paris and week-long tours of Italy. We took impromptu trips that didn't require planning and packing supplies, toys, food, diapers and numerous changes of clothing. Our money was ours and we both worked. There was always money in the savings account and my house was spotless. Our Friday and Saturday nights began at 10pm and we could stay out all night and sleep in the next day. I was smart and witty and knowledgeable of world events with educated opinions on them.

And now, here sits a thirty-seven-year-old woman, thicker around the middle, a saggy tummy with stretch marks from my second pregnancy, breasts- well I still have them anyway but their conditions is unspeakable, living in a house that is rarely clean for longer than five minutes with time that is never my own, weekend jaunts to the laundry room and sometimes as far as the mailbox, very little money in savings, Saturday nights that end with me not entirely sure if I fell asleep or passed out from exhaustion at 9pm, not even sure I can remember how to spell my name most days and quite certain that I just heard someone yell they were hungry, hurt, bored or angry.

So I sit, in my own little fantasy world- a small moment stolen for myself where the kids cannot penetrate- and I remember what it was like to be me, Jennifer, not me, Mommy. I was hip, young and cool. I was cute and funny and smart. I was clean and neurotically organized. Ahh... yes.... I inhale deeply and remember the sweet life before children.

But, I can't shake the feeling that something is missing in the fantasy. I take inventory. It's all there, just like it used to be. The quiet is nice. For a little while, anyway, and then it's too quiet. I still can't quite find what is missing, but then I am jolted back to reality by two small arms wrapping around my leg and the sensation of a tiny kiss on my hip followed by a quiet, small, "Doot Doo, Mommy!" ( Love you, Mommy) and then I know.

The Princess and the Pee

I'm having a flashback.

A flashback to how your entire life seems to revolve around pee and poo when you have a two-year-old. In the grand scheme of my life, I will look back one day and these will be just small snippets of time, but right now ( and four years ago when I was going through this with Noah) it seems all-encompassing. Like I will NEVER know life without diapers and smelly, messy accidents. I know I will, I just can't quite catch a glimpse of that light at the end of the tunnel yet. And, after all, it IS that light that keeps us going.

When Noah was two, some of his little friends started potty training. He was not in the least bit interested. I let him be, trusting the advice of the experts that when he was ready, he would let me know. That day never came.

The summer he was turning three arrived and shortly after his birthday, he would be starting preschool. My goal was that he would be starting preschool in big boy underwear. It didn't happen. I'm such an underachiever.

I cannot take credit for teaching my son to use the toilet. Why? Because his preschool teachers did it. It happened just like all the books and quotes and people-who-know-things said. One day he decided to use the toilet and other than a few minor accidents, he never looked back.

I held on to the promise that "boys are hard to potty train" and was elated when the birth of my second child proved to be a girl. The first thing I thought upon her arrival was, "This one's going to be out of diapers at two." Ok, that wasn't REALLY my first thought... you know, " She's so beautiful!" ... " I'm glad she's finally here!"... " Wait a minute, she isn't really all that good-looking, have I given birth to a troll?" Oh, is that just me? Sorry, color me embarrassed. I digress.

So after displaying all the appropriate and expected social and emotional responses that accompany the birth of a child, I thought, "This one's gettin' outta diapers next month!"

I mean, I had been told that BOYS were the hard ones to train. Girls are easy. Even better, that younger children often learn more quickly than their older siblings because they want to be a big kid too like their tiny role models. I had TWO things on my side! Woohoo. I had it made.

Except, not so much.

I failed to take personality into consideration. Pure, stubborn, I do things my way and on my time when I feel like it, red-headed personality. And so it has been. For two and a half years.

Since Zoe turned two, the little potty has been sitting in the bathroom collecting dust. I put it there to generate interest. The only time she so much as glances at it, is when she likes to taunt me passive aggressively by putting her treasured stuffed cat on it and saying, " Look, Mommy! Meow Meow pee pee!" And we all clap for Meow Meow and I silently curse her future children with this same stubborn affliction.

Now, Zoe loves princesses. So, I had a stroke of brilliance- an outright moment of enlightenment in the holy temple of Target one day- I bought princess panties. And Zoe rejoiced and promised to use the potty so she could wear her " Ya-yel" ( Ariel) underwear. It didn't work. The panties are now perched nicely on top of her wardrobe where she takes them down every once in awhile, admires them, brings them to me and reminds me that she has to pee pee in the potty to wear them and then puts them back where they came from.

Which brings us to... For the last month, Zoe's diaper has been completely dry when she gets up in the mornings. That's one of the many signs of toilet-readiness. So I got all stealth and decided to try something new. I just put the panties on her hoping that when she wet herself, she would be uncomfortable and start to understand the concept.

I'm sure you will be astounded to know that didn't work either. After about twenty minutes, I went to check on her and she was happily playing- in wet underwear, with wet pants and wet socks. It didn't bother her in the least.

So, alas, I've thrown in the proverbial towel, packed the panties away and quit trying to coax her out of diapers. The days pass lazily by with a summer of diapers looming in my future. My light at the end of the tunnel? Zoe starts preschool in September and her teachers can teach her to use the potty then. That's my tax dollars at work and money well-spent.

** I'm linking up to Dumb Mom's ( her words, not mine) Thank Me Later posts where you can link up with your tips. And this is my tip on how NOT to potty train your two-year-old!

The Designer

While the kids played happily at the neighbor's house for a good portion of the day yesterday, DJ and I painted our house. DJ did the tedious work of using a brush and getting in the grooves and trimming around the edges, windows and doors. I took the roller and covered the entire house.

When we finished up for the day, we were both pretty exhausted. I was finishing up and DJ went across the street to get the kids. A few minutes later, Noah came skipping back across the street. I craned my very sore and stiff neck to look up at him and said, " Well, what do you think of the new color of the house?"

He curled his lip, gave me the stink eye and said, "Well, it doesn't really go with the color of the roof."

**SIGH**