My friends often say that I speak in jingles, that my language is riddled with one liners.  So every once in a while I wonder if I missed my true calling in life.  Perhaps I should be working at Hallmark or writing for fortune cookie companies.  These places would be able to do something with my bits of wits and stuff that are lost on my current employers who prefer the verbal meanderings of “Boos Coos” and “Wachael Way”.

Then my internal critic pipes up:  “You don’t have any real wisdom to share.  Look at your life!  You speak of organization:  what if people saw the piles of stuff inside your closets?  What if they knew that your husband almost lost a toe this evening trying to extract a frying pan from the kitchen cupboard but had to try and pull it out over a grater, a ginormous pot, and four dining bowls that have *no* right being in a cupboard with the pots and pans?  Hmmm?”

To which I say, “Well, in my head, my closet is organized, and my kitchen is larger and doesn’t have massive amounts of unusable cupboard space.  Also, if you were a munchkin, you could dive into the cupboards to get out the frying pan:  for them, it’s a very practical layout.”

Then internal critic chimes in again:  “And all those blogs you read, you know, the ones about finance/crafts/cooking/playingwithkids/listeningotgoodmusic/emergingchurch/livinggreen/livingsimply/beingcreative/existingholistically/homeschooling/beingacoolandinterestingperson, do you do any of that stuff?”

To which I don’t respond, because I’m pretending I’m a munchkin and diving into my gargantuan and disorganized kitchen cupboards.

This weekend my mother, Wise Woman Extraordinaire who has learned to kick Internal Critics in the Tush, shared with me some words she heard from a friend many many years ago.  See, I was griping about how Daily Chores wear down my will to live.  Waking up each morning and knowing that there’s another load of laundry to do, another load of dishes to unload, another bout of scrubbing off little boy pee stains off the bathroom floor, well, it doesn’t make me look forward to my day (although it does make me look forward to watching Martha where things are pretty and clean and organized by her army of anal perfectionists and making a mental note to add Army of Anal Perfectionists to my Amazon wishlist - they carry them, right?).

And yet, having been raised in the church, I feel incredibly guilty about these feelings.  Internal Critic lectures on how blessed I am to have a closet full of stuff, and have pots and pans with which to systematically remove my husbands toes, and have small boys with functional schplinkies that miss the ginormous target known at the toilet bowl.  “People in third world countries don’t have this “problem”, you know.”  I know, oh, I know.  And deeper into the cupboard I climb where ooh!  I the popcorn popper I borrowed from my folks to make popcorn Christmas chains, you know, four years ago.

Mom said her friend told her:  “You have to do one thing each day that you won’t have to do the next day.  Otherwise you’ll lose it.”

Profound!  And it made so much sense!  The day before when I was feeling bogged down the with daily, I brushed the dog.  Before brushing him, I was all “blah.”  Afterwards I felt this strange sense of catharsis (it could also be a strange sense of my allergies shutting down all sinus function):  the dog was clean, I had gotten a bit of a workout - it was like a small mountain had been climbed.  And the momentum of “ooh, pretty dog and yay me!” kept me cleaning and organizing and coloring and explaining that yes, tomorrow we will go visit grandmomgranddaddyuncamatt “up at Wose Vahwee” for the umpteenth time until lunchtime.

“You have to do one thing each day that you won’t have to do the next day.  Otherwise you’ll lose it.”  See, that’s true wisdom:  a quality one liner.  Now if only those quality one liners only did stairs . . .

Daily Drivel | 1 Comment »

Dear Son A,

I was just talkin’ to your Granddaddy on the phone.  He called to talk to you, but you were rather confused by the melodious tones coming from my new phone (yes, we’re all getting adjusted to the slimness as well as the elective reception - Ma has bad phone karma - sigh), so he chatted with me instead.

“So are you going to write a Happy Birthday entry on your blog?”

“I’m uploading photos so that I can download photos and then link to photos.”

“Well, I always enjoy reading those entries.”

“Yeah, since they’re like the *only* thing I write on this blog?”

“Well, yes.” 

Yes, one year ago today I was sitting in a really comfy bed watching the Food Network staring out at my nice view and glancing down at my slumbering bundle of cuddliness.

No longer wondering if you were going to be a ginormous baby or like those creatures from the “Alien” movies (cause, man, you did flips), but pondering who this small bebe bundle named Abel Anders would be.  I had some inklings:  you seemed to dig showers, responded to your brother’s voice (but really, who doesn’t), loved your dad’s touch, and would not come out (even though my body was letting you know that your lease was up) until you were darn good and ready.

That dark hair, boy:  where did you hide it?  Some babies lose all their hair and it comes in another color.  You shiftily shed it so that none of us noticed until one day - hey, he’s blonde!

So today marks your first trip around the sun:  how did you enjoy it?  Was it everything you hoped for and more?  I know it was for me.

Except for today.  Today I had Grand Plans.  Plans that entailed us having a wonderful family outing to a great family-fun type place and enjoying each other’s company and sunshine and rainbows and fuzzy little bunnies trailing behind us.

But y’all didn’t seem to get that message that everyone should be in the Best Of Shape.  Your pappy popped an ear drum.  Your brother seems to be exploring the deeper realms of his emotional range focusing mostly on the melancholy side.  And you, well, you picked up a lovely little stomach bug that likes to help you return the edible funds we deposit in your belly (i.e. you’ve been spewing).  Finally the bug has moved out, but not before convincing you that solid food is bad, nursing is GREAT, and losing weight before your Well Child appointment is a fantastic idea.  Dad weighed you last night, and dude, we’re not gonna be able to turn your carseat around until you start packing on the pounds.  Don’t make me start whipping you up raw egg high calorie weight lifter shakes:  I prefer to use my blender for the fruits cause they’re so much prettier.

Instead today we all went to the DMV.  Wee!  To get tags for Mama’s new-to-her car so that people won’t keep staring at her with the “stupid Washington driver” stare - mean Oregonians.  So you and your brother could be well behaved until our number was called and then we had to fill out a form and then the person helping us decided to go on break but not tell us so that you and your brother could start falling apart while your father stood and stood and stood until finally someone mentioned that she went on break and maybe she could help us in a bit.  Let’s just say it’s amazing how many teeny tiny pieces a Kashi granola bar can be broken into when trying to distract small people for the longest period of time.

And then we went to the phone store.  Wee!  To pick Ma up a phone that had not been banged into oblivion as well as a phone that might hold a signal longer than it takes to say “hold on, I gotta go plug in the phone before it di. . . ” click.  And graciously you and your brother decided Ma needed to get her workout in, so you took on the role as personal trainer, grabbing the bluetooth headsets off the wall while your brother tackled the higher perched phones.  Expensive phones.  Like Iphones.  Which one of them now contains pictures of my butt because Ma didn’t turn around when someone yelled, “Say cheese!”

And then we went to a good place.  A happy place.  A place full of your friend:  carbs.  Your Pappy said, “You really want to go there?” to which I exclaimed, “BREAD!  They have BREAD!  Little A Loves Bread!”  One of the foods you deem acceptable to eat this week.  We went to the new Great Harvest Bread Company store.  Oh, walking in was simply heaven, but then to receive a free piece of warm-from-the-oven bread.  For all the troops.  As well as getting a coloring sheet for your brother to color to get a free giant cookie.  And then to come home with two loaves - one of cinnamon chip, one of whole wheat apple crunch - ?!!!?  Well, that *is* pure goodness.

We came home.  You napped.  Not well.  You pooped.  And leaked.  And screamed.  And woke your brother up.  So we all loaded back into the car to go to your other home, a.k.a. Freddies, so that JJ could pick out a toy for you to have, a.k.a. he can play with while you play with the packaging.

Since you’ve been on an odd fast (you really should read the resources from our faith gathering, because your fasting is a bit on the wonky, and not-so-spiritual-but-rather-moody, side), I wasn’t quite sure what to give you as celebratory fodder (i.e. cake).  Your brother had carrot cake muffins with cream cheese frosting that powered him on through to the next year:  sugar.high.  I didn’t feel like dealing with that if you weren’t going to keep my birthday offering to you, so instead I thought of things you like:  bananas.  oatmeal.  cookies.  Why not put them all together?  I did.  And you enjoyed.

Then we had to give the toy a test drive.  And boy howdy, you still dig the water, Little Man.

Really.

I’m not kidding.

Thanks for sharing the bath and the laughts with us, Half Pint.

Thanks for sharing your laughter and your joy and your love with us.  Most mornings your brother greets you with, “GMornin, Sunshine!  Nice to see you!  Have sweet dweams?”  You are my sunshine.  It’s truly been delightful to see you.  And I hope your sweet dreams continue on during your next trip around the sun.

I love you, son.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

Dear Son A,

Congrats:  you are officially 11 months old.  Past two hands.  On your way to a year.  (Only one more month of the jubblies:  woot!).  And man, kid:  you are a hoot.

I’ve always heard parents sharing how they pushed their first kids into things:  into eating solids, into crawling and walking quicker, into going to school sooner, into becoming the president of a country.  But the second kid?  Not so much.  Still wanna eat pureed sweet potatoes and wear your pull ups until you’re ten?  Enh:  it’s your choice.

I don’t think we had that choice with your older brother:  he kinda took off running and drags us along.  I think he might be yelling “Catch up!” if we could hear him, but he’s run so far ahead, and my ears are plugged into listening to Lynn Rossetto Kasper croon about caramelizing pears, so I’m in a bit of a daze.

I just forget.  The other day I realized that at this age your brother was toddling/walking/sliding down stairs.  You:  not so much.  But it doesn’t seem abnormal:  it seems like to see a person your size running around would just be odd.

You’ve started balancing, and it’s hilarious, to you and everyone around you.  Today you crawled up to me while I was sitting on the floor, sucked into my stinkin’ book (literary meth, I tell you:  why must it have come in from the library with only a two week checkout while the hubby is gone for one of those weeks?!!?) waiting to go pick your brother up from school (although if I had known that he’d come home covered in pink marker from having decorated the table with his most quiet compatriot Master Sears, and then proceed to dump his water bottle in his room, and tear his calendar off the wall, and play on the computer without permission, and watch tv without permission, and scatter both UNO and dominoes all over the floor, and throw tantrum after tantrum when told he had to pick them up, and take a tub of clothes in the garage and dump them all over the floor, and take you out into the garage, and strip off all his clothes, and then put a pair of pants and a pair of underwear in front of him saying that he was indeed dressed and try to go outside to pee, all between the time of 11:45 and 2:15, I might have just kept reading my book), you pulled yourself up on me, let go, stood, laughing and clapping.  Which made you fall over.  But then you threw your hands into the air and spun in a circle:  because hey - it’s great to be able to stand.

We have yet to find a carb you don’t like.  Correction:  we have yet to find a fruit and/or grain you don’t like.  Green items are usually met with a firm shake of the head back and forth.  And then turning red.  And then yelling.  But after watching your multimedia show, you submit to the greens.  Most of the time.  With the hopes that a multigrain piece of toast or a little swedish pancake may be lurking at the bottom of the bowl.

And you like toys.  You play with toys.  And finger games.  And peekaboo.  This is such a foreign concept to me.  For years I’ve wondered why I was supposed to know all the verses to the farmer and the dell:  was it just a trick to see how doofy parents will make themselves look?  But you like those songs.  They make you happy.  You have a favorite book of baby faces showing different emotions, and when we show you a certain face (known as “your friend”), you throw your arms up and spin.  Or you giggle.  Or you grab the book and flip it back and forth looking for the ever elusive friend.  Who is showing the emotion:  happy.

You also love to play peekaboo.  Today at the store, which is being torn up because the deli is getting a makeover, which for some reason meant that they had to move all the shelves in the health food section to line up against the deli as well as put other shelves in areas that were relatively empty and a nice breather from the constant barrage of “buy our product!   you know you want to!  be american!  CONSUME!”), you would see people, mostly in hard hats, and you would bury your face in your hands.  And then drop them.  And grin.  Of course, not every one *knew* that you were playing peekaboo and that their proper response was to drop everything and put on a dopey grin and exclaim very excitedly “There’s Little A!”, but if they noticed, they thought you were cute nonetheless.

Now, I have to let you know:  your lease on the jubblies is about to run out.  I think you have an inkling that something’s in the works, because all of a sudden you’ve decided you neeeeeeeed them.  Like your dad has fed you and I come home and pick you up and experience a face plant in my clavicle.  Or you just decide to confirm that there is something inside my shirt.  In a public place.  So everyone else can confirm as well:  I guess Hebrew law does say you need to have at least two witnesses.  Sorry, bub:  all good things must come to an end, as well as things that are really annoying (like experiencing clogged ducts, which I am right now, because see above for how pappy is out of town and brother is on a rampage and I am the Mother Martyr Supreme of All Christendom).

So please.  Keep balancing.  And reminding me that it’s so stinkin cool that you can balance.  And that sometimes that’s all we need to do.

That, and run to Dairy Queen for some sugar free Dilly Bars.  Yes, there’s two in the fridge, but me thinks that’s not going to be enough.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

When I was a small tyke, I remember enjoying going to church.  My parents may tell you differently:  I’m not sure how easy it was wrangling me into frilly dresses and tights that I seemed to manage to bust on a frequent basis (ugh:  I hated tights.  And yet I wear long johns 10 months out of the year . . . ).  Part of me like playing with friends, another enjoyed hearing Bible stories, and yet another singing songs (or rather screaming “hallelu” and “praiseyethelord” at the top of my petite, ladylike lungs).  But a big reason methinks that I enjoyed congregating to be in the presence of God revolved around communion.

But Dren, what kind of wacky Friends church did you go to?  Quakers don’t practice the bodily act of communion at their worship gatherings!

Well, my communion was more put on by the kitchen crew.  And it wasn’t so much the body and blood of Christ being remembered as much as the praise of the processed food industry of America.  Instead of bread and wine, we had:

• Sandwich cookies
• Red Koolaid

Ah, sweet crack to a sugar “sensitive” kid.  My own private Babylon.

My husband as a tyke took a different angle and tried to prove Christ wrong:  that it is possible to live on bread alone.

Unfortunately, it’s true that the sins of the fathers (and mothers) get passed down to the sons.  As seen by one’s excitement for pancakes:

Which, technically, they’re pletter (insert some funky symbol over an “e” that I don’t know how to do on an American (a.k.a. Colbert-approved) keyboard).  And they’re being eaten in honor of the Swedish nature of JJ’s Nana - it was her birthday, so Swedishness should be appreciated on that day.

Then there’s this one:

Who got a hold of his brother’s bagel.  The brother was none to happy about that, but Little A certainly was.

If you think that looks faintly familiar, it could be because of this:

Our blessed carbo-loading family.

Daily Drivel | 7 Comments »

I wrote a kinda heavy post on my other blogs, so to balance it out, I’m going to blog random funniness on this one.

Tonight while brushing his teeth, JJ was babbling about Yoyo and Steve taking a nap.  I called to the other room.  "Hubby, who’s ‘Yoyo’?"  "Yoda!"  "Oh. . . . Well, who’s Steve?"  "Steve Fawver !"  "Why are they taking a nap together?"  "I dunno."  And JJ just kept brushing his teeth.

Little A has added a new means of expression to his repertoire.

• When being fed green food
• When attempting to pass him off to a person who’s first name does not start with "ma" and end with "ma"
• When trying to put on his bib, when removing clothes
• When seeing his friendly ten-days-older buddy who loves Little A’s pacifier as much as Little A does

he now takes his head and shakes it violently back and forth.  I.E.  the little tyke is saying ‘no’.  At ten months.  Does it really have to start this early?  Really?

This morning in church the Young Friends singers performed.  In my head I was reliving the Young Friends singers days of my youth.  Except that I didn’t attend my current worship gathering until I was in high school.  But my high school friends had been YFS, and they videotaped their performances, and they liked to show them to those of us who hadn’t been present (special treat!).  But it was awfully cute to watch one little boy get stuck in his sweatshirt - poor guy couldn’t find the hole to save his life (they were doing a song about goosebumps and put on coats for dramatic effect), another one sporting what must be her mama or pappy ’s coat because the sleeves almost his the floor so she looked like she was a very young streaker with very pretty flowered tights, and then later watching them try to wave triangle flags about without poking each other in the eye.  Because nothing says "God loves me and you" than a missing appendage.  Precious moments.

My friend was apologizing for her dinner offering tonight:  she sent her hubby to the store for bread, and he came back with Freddie’s french bread.  "White bread!  I’m so sorry!"  "Are you kidding?!!" I exclaimed.  "My roommates and I lived off of this stuff!  Throw in a rotisserie chicken, and when we had graduated, a bottle of . . . oh man, crappy girly wine."  Ash:  "Arbor Mist?"  "Yes!"  Ash:  "Aw, I knew we had too much in common." 

Yup:  random.

Random Remarks | 2 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Congrats: you are now two full hands of months - 10! That means you’ve been out of the womb room longer than you were in it - nice work. Some days I’ve wondered if you would make it this far, what with your brother’s enjoyment of playing steamroller and all. Really, how do younger siblings make it without incurring significant damage before they can fight back? I wonder if God uses a little stronger material for version 2.0s and beyond, or if He simply doubles the number of guardian angels on duty. Which, if they outnumber the ones alloted to your brother, means we have about a legion in this household alone.

If you will note in the above picture, you are not sleeping. Nope: the place of slumber has turned into a romper room for you and your brother. Which, honestly, I don’t mind when your naptime ends just as my need-to-lay-on-the-couch-and-watch-Rachael-Ray-be-productive-cause-I-got-nuthin-left time begins. But then you do things like this:

Aw, aren’t you sweet.

And your brother does things like this:

Yes, he’s sleeping. In a bed. In *MY* bed. On your pappy’s side. And no, that’s not JJ’s bunny. Or your bunny. Or hubby’s bunny. We’ll just leave it at that.

OR he’s doing this:

Let’s get a close up for those who have fuzzy eyeballs:

Yes, your brother is sleeping with his favorite thing in the world: LegoTableTVStarWarsGame. Huh? So one day I went to the mailbox, and two packages from amazon were sitting in our package slot. Two packages for me! I was shocked! And then bothered: did I accidentally order stuff that I put in my cart with the intention of holding off and ordering later but usually forgetting about it until it’s not on sale anymore and so I don’t need to buy it? Nope: your uncle Bubba sent us goodies - a pretty for the mama, and a pretty for the rest of y’all.

It has transformed our lives.

No longer do I hear the hum of "the wheels on the bus": I hear "the death march". Calls for "R2, where are you? I can’t hold on! I can’t hold on!" echo throughout the house. All objects can and should be used with "swoosh" noises. Which includes the legs of a lego table that JJ received from Gran and Granddaddy at Christmas (note the sleepless crib picture: they’re there).

So we have a lego table. And we have lego Star Wars. And it’s played on the TV. So now it’s LegoTableTVStarWarsGame. Easy peasy, eh? [Okay, so Star Wars isn't the only infectious thing in our household].

The other day it was sunny. Big deal, you might say. But oh, how it’s been gray and blecky outside. We haven’t been smoted like the rest of the country with high temps and the snow and high temps and snow, but the ceaseless gray does begin to wear one’s spirit down like in the swamps of sadness .

Sensing that it might not last, I quickly threw you into some Happy Sunny Day clothes and whipped y’all outside to document that winter may indeed come to an end.

Note the placement of the dog toy in your hand. And somehow Jacks lets you keep it, simply licking your face as if to say, "Please, puppy, gimme gimme gimme?"

You complied and decided instead to take your incredibly dexterous fingers and pick up teeny tiny, almost unnoticeable except to the naked eye of the 10-month old who could easily choke on things rocks.

Maybe you’ll grow up to be a rock biter (you have to go to about 4.00).

Okay, so here you might notice that you’re a bit drippy and that there’s a bonk on your noggin (apparently the guardian angel was taking an angelic fair trade organic coffee break). Your Gran might not have noticed this, but here - you’re flapping. Just like your mama did when she was your age.

Because on sunny days, you just have to flap.

You are my Sunshine Boy.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

So a while ago there was this great band called “Blame It on John”, and they had a lovely ditty that probably was requested too many times by bawdy BIOJ junkies, but it was just so darn catchy.  It was called “The Stalker Song” and had a chorus that went something along these lines:

“Called to say hi.

No answer.

Time passes by.

No answer.

Called you again.

No answer.

Called all your friends.

No answer.”

I often find it running through my head when the options I’m weighing, or rather the options that are having an epic Star Wars “light saver” (thank you, JJ) rip-roaring battle-to-the-death extravaganza in my head, don’t seem to have a clear winner (ala current Democratic presidential ticket):  No Answer.

My current “no answer” situation is in regards to food.  Ah, food:  that thing that we kinda sorta need to live, but according to current reports is making us sick or moody or fat or something other than svelte and healthy and functional.

For instance, when I look at a bunch of bananas, do I see a bunch of yellow, potentially ripe yummy sweet food?  Nope:  I see a scale weighing the cost of regular versus organic - can we afford the organic?  But if we don’t eat the organic, am I willingly poisoning my children?  And now not only is there organic, but there’s also Fair Trade.  So, I can either be cheap and support both poisoning my children as well as corporations that are supporting oppressive totalitarian regimes, or I can buy Fair Trade Organic Bananas.  Which I have to get into my SUV and drive a considerable distance to find, thereby increasing the cost *and* my carbon footprint.

No Answer.  Unless the answer is we don’t eat bananas.

Which would be fine, if I didn’t live with a picky preschoolers.  The poor monkey comes from a genetic pool of picky eaters - it’s not his fault that he’s a SuperTaster (Hubby tried to prove history wrong - that man *can* live on bread alone, and my brother used to order pepperoni pizza and pick the pepperonis off).  But I have a hard enough time feeding him as it is.

Breakfast:  peanut butter and jam sandwich.  Although the bread is whole white wheat, it has preservatives.  Peanut butter:  all natural, but not organic, Adams.  Jam:  sugar-free, but not organic.

Lunch:  Bread (see above) and cheddar cheese which apparently not only needs to be organic, but also needs to come from grass-fed cows because grain-fed cows have all sorts of bad things in their system from eating grain.  Which apparently humans aren’t supposed to be eating either.  Followed up with fruit (see above above).

Dinner:  Chicken Nugget Dinosaurs from Foster Farms which say that their whole grain, but we all know it’s just to ease the consciences of mamas like me.  And then there’s the stigma from all the moms who are marching to the “Don’t Feed Your Children Chicken Nuggets You’re A Horrible Parent For Not Getting Them To Like Eating Vegan Pad Thai” drum.  I hate hearing that drum:  I want to kick it.  Fruit (again, look up).  Crackers - oh, the transfats!  Oh, the wheat!

Snack:  Yogurt - a mixture of plain and fruit-sweetened-with-Splenda.  Again, grain-fed cows; artificial sweeteners.

And then there’s the packaging that’s leaching contaminants into our food and cluttering our landfills.  NO ANSWER.  Sigh.

I would like to turn in my badge of being the Manager of Consumption in this household until the world is perfect and safe and we can all live in Bubbleland - because there’s never ever any trouble here in Bubbleland.

And it really makes having some Ritz crackers topped with summer sausage and squeeze cheese with a side of fully-sugared grape koolaid sound REALLY good (a staple on the backpacking trips of my childhood when all I had to think about was what doll I could take with me in my backpack and which tree I got to pee behind).  Yum.

Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 9 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Congrats! You are now nine months (and one day) old. Soon you will have spent more time out of the womb than in the womb: kinda crazy to think about. Today at your nine month well child appointment we noticed a growth on our beloved nurse Kim: yep, she’s having one of your kind - in June!! A little girl. She told us we should have another one, to try for a girl. I scoffed and said that’s no reason to have kids: it doesn’t look like it necessarily worked for the Osmonds (seriously: that many boys, and the last one a girl who now has a career pushing scary looking dolls - not healthy).

Yep, you had your nine month well child appointment today. And Beloved Dr. Tami says you are well, despite my feelings that you might be otherwise. Because kid: you’re little. Back down to the 10th percentile. A whole seventeen pounds and six ounces. Your cousin weighed more at his four month appointment! Dr. Tami says it’s due to your incessant bouncing. And we all know, you do tend to bounce. This past weekend I could’ve hired you out as a personal trainer: you had people bouncing you with their arms and their legs, running you around in circles, tossing you in the air or dropping you — all in an attempt to keep you happy. Because, man, nothing lights up the room like that grin of yours.

Which Beloved Dr. Tami noted immediately. “This kid cracks me up! He’s going to be so much trouble: he’s just going to flash that grin and get out of anything! He needs to be a middle child - that way he’ll lose some of that clout. Middle children are notorious for getting into trouble.” Hmmm, now who was a middle child, doctor?

So we’re working on feeding you more. Because apparently, even though you aren’t a fan of the pooing process, you need solids. This week JJ and I whipped up some tasty green peas for you, followed by blueberries and bananas. When you see the brightly colored IKEA bowl coming towards you, your mouth starts warming up for the swallowing process - you wouldn’t want to be caught unprepared.

You also have become somewhat of a food snob. I broke into the camp’s kitchen this weekend to raid their cereal bar stash for some cheerios (which is why they probably don’t dig having Quakes at the camp all that much: we tend to think we own the place). I fed you one, and your face scrunched up. You kept eating, but with each O, you let it be known that you recognized they were not Cascadian Farms Organic Whole Grain Purely Os. Soon you’ll be telling me the reason you didn’t drink out of bottles or sippy cups is because you were uncertain of the BPA levels in the plastics. Stay away from those parenting safety blogs, I tell you!

Since the recent posts have been full of you paparazzi experiences, I’ll sign off with some video of you. The first one is of your sleeping on the floor before you had dinner: I like how your first reaction is to reach for the pacifier - my little junkie. The second video occurred while I was aquajogging my little brains out and your pappy was trying to get through the evening. And yes, those are your regular organic o’s, oh consumer of the finest of foods.

Thanks for being my daily sunshine, Cheerio-boy.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

This weekend I went to the coast. I packed up my suitcase, filled a bag with edible goodies (well, edible for others - molasses cookies, choco/butterscotch cookies, peanut-butter filled pretzels — I went wild on my whole wheat tortillas and string cheese - par-tay!), unearthed my sleeping bag, and loaded up into my friend’s mini (van) for a time of laughter, fellowship, worship, and aloneness.

As alone as one can be when one also brings along one’s wiggly-worm with suction-cup-appendages son.

I took Little A.

This is his second trip to the coast. Last time I also brought our personal assistant (a.k.a. Hubby), but he couldn’t come this time because he doesn’t have the right bits and pieces for a Women’s Retreat (thank HEAVENS - for the bits and pieces part, not the not being able to come part). My friends all swore it would be okay: in fact, they threatened never to speak to me again if I didn’t come, which would mean the only verbal interaction I would get forever and ever would be with my children, and that’s just not a thought that sounds appealing at the moment.

But see, they don’t understand. They don’t know how Little A jumps faster and faster in his jumperoo when he thinks I’m going to pick them up, and then pounds and wails when I walk by. They don’t know how I have to hide in the kitchen from him at night while he’s with Hubby, because if I pass by and he glimpses me, he wails just like the local firefighter alarm call. And they’re not familiar with a) my children’s imperative need for naps and 2) their seemingly inability to sleep unless they are in Lock Down mode (i.e. limbs pinned within an inch of their lives).

They know now.

Actually, it was a wonderful weekend. I enjoyed hanging out with folks I don’t see on a regular basis. I cracked up watching friends throw around marshmellows while blindfolded. I inwardly laughed seeing my friends, after a long talk about natural foods and picking on certain things that contained too many transfats or high fructose corn syrup or not truly organic enough elements, eat oreos and gushers and gummi bears.

And Little A and I bonded. Folks held him, of course. They needed baby fixes: he was helpful in that their baby needs soon passed as he squirmed and craned to see me and jumped and jumped and jumped in their arms. But people stepped in despite his cuddlylessness and offered to take him he believed that if he were to stop pounding on me that the world would cease to function. And I feel a little more confident in my ability to handle him without Hubby (plus my arms got a lovely workout) — but boy howdy, was I glad to see Hubby when I got home, for many reasons.

Checking my email Monday morning I received a delightful message titled “no doubt written just for you” from a friend who seems to know me and my little ones so well. And so I’ll share this blessing with you, even if you can’t relate at the moment, because my oh my: how my children really enable my heart to walk (or jump) about on a different set of legs.

“Day Bath” by Debra Spencer from Pomegranate. © Hummingbird Press, 2004.
Reprinted with permission.

Day Bath
for my son

Last night I walked him back and forth,
his small head heavy against my chest,
round eyes watching me in the dark,
his body a sandbag in my arms.
I longed for sleep but couldn’t bear his crying
so bore him back and forth until the sun rose
and he slept. Now the doors are open,
noon sunlight coming in,
and I can see fuchsias opening.
Now we bathe. I hold him, the soap
makes our skins glide past each other.
I lay him wet on my thighs, his head on my knees,
his feet dancing against my chest,
and I rinse him, pouring water
from my cupped hand.
No matter how I feel, he’s the same,
eyes expectant, mouth ready,
with his fat legs and arms,
his belly, his small solid back.
Last night I wanted nothing more
than to get him out of my arms.
Today he fits neatly
along the hollow my thighs make,
and with his fragrant skin against mine
I feel brash, like a sunflower.

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

When JJ was little, we took pictures:  lots of pictures.  Because, like all new parents, we thought, “How unique!  How quaint!  Our baby does things that *no* other baby does.  And we will document every minute little bit and then share it with others, because they will care.”  Now, we know better.

One time we sat taking pictures of JJ making faces, which actually turned out quite amusing, because he made about as many faces as Jim Carrey and his elastico-visage.  So the other day, feeling a little guilty that Little A hasn’t had quite the photog treatment, I flashed him till his little eyeballs should’ve fallen out.  The results:

Followed by:

And then we have:

Not to be outdone by:

Oh, and this one cracked me up:

Because it was so different from this one:

And then we thought we’d shake it up a bit:

This one, aw man, so crazy:

Wait for it, wait for it:

I know it’s a bit edgy, but:

And Tyra told us this one is fierce:

He was really starting to feel the burn:

But after much coaxing and affirmations that he’s gorgeous and his profile is just like Twiggy’s:

Whew:  that was exhausting.  I don’t know how he does it.  He finally sped away in his SUV, managed to run over my toe, and made his way to Starbucks for some puffs.

A day in the life:  I tell ya.

Little A Adventures | 6 Comments »