Thankful

Me: “I taught him how to put on his shoes today.”

Hubby: “He’s getting so big … he’ll be four soon.”

Me: “If we were in Ireland he’d be starting school in September.”

H: “I’m not ready for that.”

Thank goodness!

I’m not ready either.

Honestly, I think if we were in Ireland, I would be so ready. But we’re lucky enough to live in a place where it’s sunny 98% of the time. There are loads of things for us to do. And we’re members of almost everything, the zoo, aquariums, museums, state parks, everything. It’s cheaper than preschool

Still, it’s awesome that we’re on the same page. About this and so many other parenting things. (Even if it is as I suspect and it’s merely a matter of me having strongly held opinions about things that he hasn’t thought about and him gamely jumping on board my crazy ship.)

 

So, the Turtle still comes into our bed at night. Almost every night. On the nights that he doesn’t, this is what happens:

Me, (around 5am) eyes pop open, something feels wrong. Whisper: “Where is he?”

H: “He must be still sleeping … Will I go and check if he’s ok?”

Me: “No, that’s ok.” (Phew, I’m not a weirdo for considering the very same thing!)

 

And the new addition? There is no question that s/he will be in our room for at least a year. And I won’t be the only one staring at a sleeping baby at ridiculous o’clock, watching them breathe.

 

Yep, I’m thankful. Thankful for the shared madness.

Some gems

Out of nowhere:

“I’m is going to have to share my toys with the baby … mainly my baby toys. And us is going to bring the baby to the shops and to the place with the flower on the top (the children’s museum) and I’m is going to show the baby all the things.”

**************

He had a bit of a cough.

Me: “How are you feeling?”

T: “I’m is fine. You is give me milk and that is make me feel better….” (To the Hubby) “You is give me kisses and that is make my heart feel better … it’s make my heart grow bigger and bigger like this” (waves hands around wildly).

*************

Shoves bacon in my face.

“Here, eat this. The baby needs bacon.”

*************

“I’m is wanting to hear the baby.”

I dutifully lie down. He puts his head to my belly for a second, hops up and hands me a book.

“Read this to the baby …. and me.”

*************

“Would you like a brother or a sister?”

“Um, no. Just a baby.”

************

P.S. I’m pregnant. Baby turtle is due mid June. There’s a fair bit of excitement.

The playdough badge

Two years after buying cream of tartar (yes, it made the move with us) I finally made my own playdough. Did I use the cream of tartar? No. I found a “recipe” that didn’t require cooking. And it was simple. Not to mention satisfying. Plus, we only made one colour (blue), so there will be no melt downs when the colours get all mixed up. Not only that, I feel less stressed now when he eats it (yes, at 3 and a half, he STILL eats the playdough – it stops me getting big-headed when people say he’s smart).

So, I made a monumental mess making playdough. He played with it for 20 minutes.

Parenting success!!!

Is there a badge?

There should be a badge.

School

The Turtle has never been to school, or any kind of formal education. Well, swimming lessons, but they were a disaster. Yet, he has taken to playing “school”. It seems to involve gathering a rather large pile of books. Sometimes the books are abandoned. Sometimes he “reads” them, while shushing the imaginary kids in his class. “School is a quiet place Momma.” Indeed it is son, indeed it is.

At three and a half I think he’s too young for formal education. But, sneakily enough I have been taking advantage of this school obsession to get him sit down for a few minutes and hold a pencil so that it doesn’t look like he’s trying to stab someone with it. Progress has been minimal. But he has reached that delightful stage where he freaks out if he goes outside the lines. Blank pages are my friends. Until he colours a hole in them. Maybe I should send him to preschool, for my own sanity.

The thing is, if we lived in Ireland I KNOW I would be sending him. Our delightful trip in August, when it rained every single day for a month confirmed that. Plus, it would be free. And they wouldn’t really “teach” him anything besides playing nicely and the social skills it would be nice for him to learn. I have no real desire for my three year old to be able too read and write. Or to produce crafts that look like an adult did them. The wonky looking things he produces, that are 11,000,000 miles away from the thing I was actually trying to get him to make, are a joy to behold. And he knows what they are, and can explain them to the doubters, what more could you want?

Right now, I’m enjoying the time I get to spend with him. We go to parks, children’s museums, the zoo, the aquarium, the natural history museum, state parks and nearby beaches. His world is wider than it would be in preschool. He may not be able to identify the letters of the alphabet on demand (even though I am sure he knows them), but he can tell the difference between a whale and a shark (the tails and fins apparently) and name more dinosaurs than I even knew existed. And he may only be able to count to eleven, but he is the most confident child I have ever encountered (sometimes I drive to the out of the way parks, so that I don’t have to talk to the strangers he befriends).

If I could just get him to stop bopping the people who frustrate him, we would be golden. “Him is annoying me Momma.” Yes son, I see that. But you still can’t hit him. That is the rule.

9 to 5

On Friday we left the house at 9:30am and didn’t get back until 5:30. Just the two of us. Adventuring. God, but it was exhausting. Fun, but exhausting.

Our first port of  call was the mall, to pick up my contacts. Of course there was a potty emergency and he didn’t quite make it to the loo. Not to worry. I had an emergency set of clothes. “Now would be a good time to get his hair cut”, I thought. There’s a kids’ hair salon in there. And his hair was starting to get into one of those knotty messes that are embarrassing and may or may not signify a “bad mother”. Negotiations were entered into. Fifteen minutes outside the salon. He was insistent that he did not want/need a hair cut. Waaahhh! Despair. Time to carry him in. He became comfortable in his surroundings within seconds. And the entire thing was painless. Bribes, in the form of lollipops are the way to go, if you’re wondering. He did baulk a bit when the clippers yoke came out, but I hugged his head and he was grand. He wouldn’t let the stylist blow the hair off him with the blow dryer, so he was covered, completely covered in hairs.

Emergency pants had already been dispatched. What to do? To the shop. To buy some shorts. Now, I don’t know about your child, but I don’t bring mine to the shop when I need to buy things. We generally hang out in the toy section, making a nuisance of ourselves pressing buttons and whatnot when it’s raining. “We” are incapable of going into a shop, buying xyz and leaving without some kind of madness. This time though? Success! Three pairs of shorts at $2 each. Score! And no one got lost. No fixtures and fittings were damaged. Whoop!

 

Kitted out with hair-free shorts and we were off. Let the adventuring begin! To the farm! Of course he fell asleep on the way there. But I had a book and sat in the car for a half an hour and let him rest. He woke up delighted. We had some lunch and headed to the maze. It was as hot as hell in there. Thankfully, I have the most outgoing kid on the planet. He found a 7yo boy and said “Will you help us get out of here? Us is lost. Look, my Mom is here to keep me safe.” (I laughed inside at that). So following the two of them at the speed of light, I made it out. Of course, he wanted to go back in. I did not. “My boy will mind me” he said and ran like the wind. I was torn between following him in (and getting lost myself) and staying out, heart in my mouth.   It was over 6 feet tall and very confusing in there. He was in and out in minutes. Three or four times. He started to turn a bit pink. Thankfully, the tractor appeared. Pumpkin time!!

We picked out the one he deemed “perfect” and toted it back to the farmstand where we picked out a lot of random fruit and berries. The phrase “kid in a candy store” comes to mind. I have never met anyone to get as excited over fruit. We lugged our haul to the car and headed back for an apple cider (not the kind with alcohol). Things started to get a bit mad and crowded then, so we headed to the park.

There’s one just down the road, just off the beach. He had great fun for a little while. Some older kids showed up though, and started picking on him a bit. He was trying to play “Superheroes” with them, but for some reason they started throwing sand at him. And the poor fella, he has a very strong sense of right and wrong, so he was indignant more than anything. I thought it best for us to go. He had taken “agin” those boys, so anything they did was “bold” as far as he was concerned.

Homeward bound, it’s just past 4 and traffic is mental. A mere five or so miles down the road and I hear “I need to wee”. Off the highway I go. Looking for somewhere to stop. We had passed a park about a mile back, so I head in that direction and wee make it to the loo in time!! (It’s the small things). And we can’t stop at the park without actually playing, so play we did.

Then it was really time to head home. And we missed the traffic! Bonus!

Luckily, dinner had been cooking away in the crockpot all day and was practically ready for us, as soon as we got home. Because everyone knows you can’t haul home a pumpkin from a farm without decorating it within the hour.  Which is what we did.

Soccer camp

I was super excited to learn that there was a soccer camp for ages 3 and up this summer. And it started this week, the week after the Turtle turned 3. So he could go! Now, this excitement was not because I dreamed of him becoming the next (insert famous soccer player of choice here). It was because he loves being outside with other kids and kicking balls. Or throwing them. Or sitting on them.So it was right up his alley, I thought.

Day 1: he had a 1 hour nap. Like an eejit I woke him up to go. He cried the entire time.

Day 2: no nap. Powered through on juice and jelly sweets (the ones that pretend they are fruit). He was super excited. “Us is going to play soccer ball!” But we got there 15 minutes early, and by the time the thing had started his attention had waned and he had kicked the ball as much as he was going to. My job for the next hour was to keep him out of the goal (where he was sitting, pretending to be a lion in a cage) so that the other kids could play.

Day 3: he went with Daddy. And apparently did nothing. Nothing to do with soccer anyway.

There are 5 more days left.

We’ll probably still go. It’s a good way to pass the evening while the Hubby works late. It’s in a park, so he can always play on the slide or something. But if he says he doesn’t want to go, we won’t.

A dislike of organised sport may be in his genes. Mine was passed down to me from my Father. It’s not the sports I don’t like, it’s peoples’ insistence on taking them so seriously. Take this camp, which is a bunch of little kids in oversized T-shirts learning how to kick a ball. None of them are older than 3. And you have the parents coaching them form the sidelines “The SIDE of your foot”, “NO hands on the ball” etc. As if their kids are going to go out tomorrow and win the World Cup single handedly.

If my fella kicks the ball once during the whole hour I’m happy enough. Although I think I must be annoying to the other parents too, because I don’t take it seriously enough. And I could care less if he spends the entire time sitting on the ball, trying to hatch it because it’s a dragon’s egg. I know that I don’t have the child who is going to stand quietly in line, waiting for his turn to kick the ball. Right now he won’t even stand in the line, but when he does he’ll be the one twirling in circles or singing or something. And that’s fine with me.

Surely having fun is the most important thing?  Why would he even want to kick the ball when the other kids who are doing it are just getting shouted at for doing it wrong??

Look at you

You’re three now. I look at you some days and wonder where the time went. One minute you were helpless in my arms. Now you’re ordering me about. A lot. I’m only listening because your flights of fancy are much more interesting than mine: “I need to sing with the whales Mammy.” “Umm, ok.” “Hold my legs. I’m is need to be upside down.” “Oh, right. Do whales sing upside down?” “Yep.” How do you know this stuff?

You’re like a little sponge. Soaking up information and spurting it out when you need it. And your imagination seems to need a lot of information. I love to watch you process things. I may not tell you this until after you leave home, but you are smarter than I am. I am learning with you though. I mean I now know a lot more about dinosaurs than I even thought there was to know. I’m pretty sure that when I was a kid that there were only about 6 dinosaurs. Apatosaurus? No. Giganotosaurus? Definitely not.

Marine biology is another thing I never knew anything about. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know how soft anemones are. Or that they tickle. Or that starfish are fairly solid. And can regenerate their legs. You love the ocean and aquariums. I had visited maybe one aquarium before I had you, now I have visited almost every one we have passed. I know that I didn’t touch anything. No one could convince me that I had to, in the way that you can. “But you hafta Mama. It’s soft, see. It tickles, heeeeeeeeee!”

You’re persuasive. And bossy. You’re funny. Although, you seem to think you’re funnier than you actually are, which does make you funnier, so work away with your cheesy grin and your fake laugh. You’re smart. And oh so lovable. Sometimes you run up to me, especially for a hug. And now and again you declare “I luff you Mama”. I’m saving these moments up for when you become a sullen teenager. At the rate time is flying by, well, that could be any minute.

You have taken to telling me when you’re sad and cross. And what to do to make you feel better. At the moment it’s usually “Sing a song and me feel better Mama.” If you’re hurt though, a kiss is all that will do. And if you’re tired? “Snuggles Mama.”

You’re getting tall now too. But now that you’re potty trained your little bum is too small to hold up your pants. You’re constantly hitching them up. I sometimes worry that you’ll end up with some kind of tick. So I have unearthed your 18m pants, although they sometimes require hitching up too. “I’m is biggered enough.” Yes you are. Too big.

But you’re still my baby. You always will be.

Diaper-free before 3

11 days to go, before that magic birthday and I have a small boy who uses the potty. Consistently. During the day. Ahem. Yes, we’re not entirely diaper free. He still has one at night. Because, well, sleep is THE most important thing. And he still comes into our bed at night. So…

Dear God, but this has been a long journey (don’t judge the smugness). There was no setting the timer and peeing every 10 minutes. I don’t actually know what the key was. I have no idea how we went from wiping up pee three times a day to him going to the potty when he needed to. I just know that one morning I followed him into the bathroom and there he was sitting on the potty, shouting at me to get out. Not exactly a heart melting moment, but up there on the motherhood top ten, regardless.

My mother said (ages ago) that he wouldn’t go until he was ready. I said “Blah, blah he WILL go”. There may or may not have been gritted teeth. But it turns out she was right. I have the kind of child who won’t really do things until he can actually do them. Take the balance bike, for example. Santa brought it.He tried it on Christmas day, wobbled a bit and wouldn’t get back on it for SIX months!! The key there was putting an obnoxious horn on it. I thought I was going to go insane for the three days I left it on. Insane!! Thankfully the bike retained its allure when I took the horn off and yesterday he “cycled” almost a mile to play group and another mile back! (Let’s not mention that I had to carry it for the other two miles, while he was in the buggy). So he’s one of those children. Maybe this means I won’t be drawing pictures on demand forever either. One of these days he’ll decide he can draw and I’ll be able to surf the internet do the dishes in peace while he occupies himself drawing masterpieces of varying degrees.

Soon (well,  not too soon) we’ll try underwear. And maybe even night time. I may also have to address the urge he seems to have to pee outside. Not that I really have a problem with him peeing outside. But when he is outside he can’t decide where to pee. He was mithering around the park last week FOR AN HOUR, trying to decide where to pee. And never peed. He decided instead that we had to go home so he could pee. It may have been the only time during this process where I wanted to scream, as I pulled my hair out “JUST PEE!!!”

And there have been moments when I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We brought him out without a nappy for the first time about two weeks ago.
Picture the scene: beautiful park, in a local “Dutch” town. Lots of little houses and windmills and things for kids to play in. The structure itself is wooden, so when you’re short (like me) you can’t really see where your child is.
The Hubby (who is rather tall) spots that he has stopped moving and is bracing himself in “poo position” and clambers up after him as fast as he can. Scoops him up and an enormous poop escapes the leg of his shorts (no knickers on). Honestly, a big ball of poop. Bigger than a baseball. The Hubby panics. Turns a bright shade of purple. (I may or may not have laughed). A quick but (hopefully) discrete clean up operation and a mad dash to the loo and we were sorted.
We don’t now go anywhere unless he has pooped first. Luckily, he’s a once a day, in the morning man.
Big ball of warm poop in your hand. One of motherhood’s finer moments.

But that’s all behind me now. Isn’t it? ISN’T IT??!?

Yes day

We had a “Yes day” the other day. Because sometimes I get sick of saying “No”, “Not now”, “Maybe later” and “Sorry but the (highly attractive place) is closed”. So, when the Turtle asked to do activities we did them, as they popped into his head. It turns out that the things he wants to do aren’t entirely outlandish at all really and he has some better ideas than I do.

A day led by an almost 3 year old goes like this:

• wake up and spend an hour in bed reading all of the Dr. Seuss books he can carry (coffee would have been nice! ahem)
• have breakfast while talking to Granny on the phone (“I NEED to tell Granny about breffast”)
• crafty shennanigans – I subscribed to the Thomas magazine for him and the one issue we have gotten had a “How to make a Bertie moneybox out of a cardboard box” thing in it. The Turtle has been asking me to make one with him for almost 2 weeks. I had been fobbing him off with the fact that we didn’t have a box, but on a “yes day” you make do with a little box  that is a bit unsuitable and carry on regardless. And your heart melts when you hear “Bertie! I’m so glad you’re here” at the end of what is a quite rigorous process.
• he asked for his squirty bottle to be filled so he could drink it. Spray bottles from the Dollar store may be THE best thing ever, but that doesn’t stop you thinking about the 7,000,000 cups you have in the cupboard. Still, you give it a quick rinse and fill it up for him and send him outside with it. You even open your mouth when he insists you need a drink. Then you distract him by getting him to help you plant seeds in an egg carton. He gives the seeds a drink then wanders off to squirt the flowers.
• lunch is hot dogs and spaghetti. You know, where you stick the spaghetti into the bits of hot dog, so they look like aliens or spiders or something. “Us is making craft food” (accompanied by a little dance).
• “Let’s play Sea World Mammy” What? My mind boggles. It turns out playing Sea World involves nothing more than turning on the hose and running about screaming. Pretty cool. That boy can aim.
• he brings all of the things he “needs” on a walk to the shop. Usually he can only bring one or two things because of space restrictions in the buggy. And he conks. Naps for over three hours.

The evening was spent having a family barbeque. Quality time and all that. “Stop cooking Daddy. I NEED to eat the shrimp NOW” had to be a no, because it wasn’t cooked.

Then we went to a local fair and he rode only on the rides he wanted to. And ate funnel cake.

All in all, a good day. Filled to the brim. A day that needs to be relived (in spirit) at least once a week.

Limited

The Hubby was away last week. TDY. That’s military speak for business trip.

He took the laptop.

It was touch and go for the first couple of days. I thought I might lose my mind. Cut off, as I was, from the outside world. Yes, I did have a computer, a cell phone, a land line, a television and all of the other trappings of modern life. But I felt a bit lost.

It would seem that I am addicted to the internet. Or the laptop or something.

It goes on in the morning. And stays on for most of the day. And I’m fiddle faddling about on it. Doing lord knows what. Because if you ask me I have no idea. None.

And I only realised when it was gone.

Do you know how many things I got done when I had no computer???

And not boring, housework-y things either.

There was proper playing with the Turtle. And reading books. And general slobbering.

There was crocheting. And crafting. And reading. Of proper books. Without pictures.

So I am limiting myself. The laptop now lives upstairs in the craft room. It comes down at nap time (now) and goes back up again when I am done. No more magical mystery tours of the internet. It’s a wonderful tool. But how/ when did I let it become my life? (How many hours do you spend on it?)