Invisible Friends

~

My daughter has a fairy.

Girlie told me so. When I asked what her fairy looked like, she drew me this picture:

According to Girlie, her fairy's name is Pinna, and you spell that Alcshpr.


Girlie demonstrated how big her fairy is by holding her fingers about half an inch a part. "It is a large fairy, like me Momma," she told me. "She has kinda blonde hair and she flew to me last night when I was a little baby and drove her fairy car. Brother's fairy has blonde hair. Brother and Baby's sister's fairies are this big [holding her finger and thumb together], but mine is big like me.


"Pinna is going to bring me a Tinkerbell bike to my Strawberry birthday in June," Girlie continued, quite pleased with herself as I swallowed my laughter.


"That's so awesome," I told Girlie. "But where are her wings?"


"Oh," Girlie said, thinking for a minute. "She took them off and is pretending to be a mermaid. See that? Those are seashells to hide her boobs."

I love her more every day - she's hilarious.

Wordless Wednesday: All I wanted was one stupid picture....

Raising a boy takes some getting used to... Part III (Sigh)

I know that I have blogged about my son's desire to climb on everything. I suppose that it's a miracle we haven't had to make an ER trip before last Thursday.

Boyo was determined to get in the bath by himself, which means he went running into the bathroom, slipped, and cracked his head on the side of the tub.

My husband, who was on bath duty, immediately began to swear, followed by a "He's BLEEDING!"

I took one look, threw a towel around him, and we headed to the ER.

We waited for 1 hour before they would see him. I guess a toddler dripping blood and screaming didn't phase them the way it freaked me out.

The nurse took one look at it and went, "Yup, we're going to have to stitch that up. Does he wear bandaids?"

I couldn't answer because I was too busy laughing at the thought of my son wearing a bandaid. Yeah, right.

So they put the numbing stuff on him, wrapped his head in gauze, and then sent us back out to the waiting room to wait for another hour.

At this point, Boyo was feeling better. He likes having Momma and Daddy to himself, after all. How does he show us that he's happy? He begins shrieking with laughter and racing around the ER waiting room. Oh, Lord. The people who were really suffering were glaring at me. I don't know what they expected me to do.

Finally, finally, finally, they take us back to stitch him up. The doc decides that since it's a straight cut, and he's an active little boy, that they would be better gluing it shut.

And thus the true nightmare began.

First they put my son's arms in a pillowcase. Then they wrapped a sheet around him from neck to knees. The poor kid looked like a mummy. Then my husband had to lie on top of him and two (yes, two) nurses had to hold his head still while I stood over him, stroked his cheek, whispered nonsense, and tried not to cry.

Boyo, during all of this, fought with the strength of an entire football team, screaming and sobbing, "I no want to!" at the top of his lungs.

The entire process took about ten thousand hours (or 10 minutes, but really, who is counting?), before they let my son up. He glared at us, shouted, "Leab me ALONE!" and fell asleep in his Daddy's arms.



He was still crying in his sleep three hours later.

And what did my son learn from this? Not a damn thing.

The next morning, he tried to use the step stool as a jungle gym. And that afternoon, I caught him trying to climb up the kitchen counters.



So I guess I should be lucky that we were able to go 2 years and 9 months before we had to make our first blood related ER trip with him.

We Still Have Some Work To Do

~
I've been trying to teach Boyo and Girlie to work out their differences without involving me. Why?

I'm busy with the baby and work. And I'm tired. And, most importantly, if I have to referee one more whiny, "S/He hi-iiit me!" I'm going to lose my ever-lovin' mind.

If you aren't bleeding, and there is not a body part I have to tape back on, I don't want to hear about it.

So I have convinced myself that this doesn't make me a sh#$%y mother; rather, I am teaching my children conflict resolution skills.

And yesterday, I was sitting outside in the rocker feeding the baby while the older two painted. Boyo, of course, smacked Girlie because he could.

"Hey," Girlie snapped. "Don't hit me. You have to apology!" And no, that is not a typo. She said apology. Not apologize. Apology. Instead of laughing, though, I was patting myself on the back for giving them the verbal cues to use.

Boyo, however, was having none of that. After all, his big sister is smaller than he is. Why should he listen to her? Besides, the ants crawling up the side of the picnic table were much more interesting. "What them doing Mom-mee?" he asked me.

Wisely, I chose to stay out of it.

"Brother," Girlie all but growled. "You. Hit. Me. That's not nice! Now say your apology."

Boyo looked at Girlie and then looked at me. I hid my self satisfied smile and tried to look stern.

"Sorry," he sang out to his sister.

"Wow, guys, that's really goo--" I began to praise before Girlie interrupted me.

"Now say it like you mean it," she yelled at her brother.

"No!" he yelled back.

"Fine!" Girlie yelled.

And smacked him in the arm.

Sigh..........

Wordless Wednesday: Soccer Time!

Hit Play.

~
I'm tempted to record myself yelling "Boyo, NO!" That way, instead of having to say it a million times a day, I could just hit play.

When my son takes the scooter up the jungle gym to ride it down the slide? Hit play.

When he decides his baby sister's swing isn't going fast enough and he needs to rock it? Hit play.

When he crawls up on the windowsill and shouts "Watch me jump Momma!"? Hit play.

When he strips himself naked and runs out the front door? Hit play.

When he tries to put his sister's toothbrush in the toilet? Hit play.

When he fills a bucket full of water, places it on the picnic table, and tries to climb in it? Hit play.

When he wants to ride his bike in the house? Hit play.

When he wants to ride the dog? Hit play.

As it is, I have lost my voice.

Wordless Wednesday: BABIES!

My Little Mommy - or my Bossy Little Girl.

I took the kids to a bounce house last week, as it was hot as the blazes and I was not sitting at a park.

There was another little boy there -- too old not to be in school, so I don't know what he was doing at a bounce house on a school day.

And this little boy was being a snot to my son.

I watched and waited. I wanted to see how Boyo would handle it. I was prepared to intervene if Boyo started to hit or bite, but I know I can't fight all of Boyo's battles for him. A controlled environment seemed like a good place to let him learn how to deal with difficulty.

I watched as this little boy bossed my son around, took his toys, and ordered Boyo not to play with the air hockey table. I was getting more and more irritated but I managed to keep my mouth shut, although I was glaring daggers at the mom who wasn't doing anything.

Boyo wasn't doing anything when the other kid was being a brat; he would just shrug and move on. The other boy would follow him and continue to boss him around or take his toys. Finally, I had enough; I had to say something.

"HEY!" I snapped at the kid. "There is no reason to be rude. He's not bothering you."

At this point the mom looked up. "Oh, is my son being difficult?" She asked innocently. "I'm sure your boy did nothing wrong; it was probably mine. He's a rude little boy."

I was stunned. I'm not one to judge another mother, but I couldn't help to judge this one. I truly didn't know how to respond.

Luckily, Girlie did. "If he's being rude, you should tell him not to be," she instructed the other mom.

The mom blinked at my daughter and looked at me for what I can only assume was guidance.

I shrugged and replied: "She's right."

Don't. Touch. My. Baby.

~
Not that it's a great loss, but I think I've been banned from Walmart.

Why?

I may have lost my temper at a sales clerk who tried to stick a binky in my 8 week old's mouth.

See, I was chasing Boyo away from the twirling bags of death that Walmart uses to bag your purchases. And when I turn back around the sales clerk is leaning over the shopping cart, with her hand over my daughter's mouth.

"Oh," I said startled. "Please don't touch her; I can take care of it."

"Well, you had your hands full," she said.

Look, lady, I don't give a damn if my boy is swinging from the ceiling fan. If I don't know you, my hands are not "full enough" for you to put your hands (which handle money, bags, cleaning products, merchandise and God knows what else) near my daughter's mouth. Or on her binky. That she sucks on.

EWWWWWWWWWW!

"It's fine," I said with a tight smile. "I don't like strangers touching her."

"I was just trying to help," she said defensively.

Seriously? She needed to apologize and move on. What was she waiting for - a thank you? It wasn't happening.

"I understand," I told her. "But I don't like strangers touching my daughter's face or hands."

I don't know why I was explaining myself. I really don't. I should have grabbed my kids, left what I wanted to purchase, and gone to Target.

"There's no reason to get upset," the clerk informed me, her hands on her hips. I'm not making that up. She put her hands on her hips.

"Actually, there's every reason for me to be upset," I snapped.

The manager, who was ringing me up, was looking back and forth at us like she was watching a tennis game. And while I wasn't yelling, I had my full on, don't-f@#%-with-me-or you-will-rue-the-day-(that's-right,-I-said-RUE-THE-DAY!)-teacher voice going on. Even Boyo was behaving himself. He knows what that voice means.

The clerk, however, was dumber than a two year old because she kept pressing the issue.

"Well, you don't need to yell at me," she sniffed.

"I'm not yelling," I said tightly. "But I am about to."

At that point, the manager finally decided to step in. And she sided with the clerk. After she handed me back my credit card, she told me, "Perhaps you should go home until you calm down."

Don't worry, Lady. I don't plan on calming down enough to set foot in your store again.

Wordless Wednesday: My Sweet Nephew

Loving Your Babies

A few of my friends are pregnant. And The Inevitable Question has come up: "Do you want a girl or boy?" Some of my friends are adamant about one or the other. Others don't care. But The Inevitable Question has raised some interesting conversations - among them, how can you love your children the same?

You can't.

I love all three of my children equally, but I do not love them the same.

I can't.

They are different people and have different needs, different personalities, different mannerisms.

I love Baby Girl with the wonder of newness - since she is only 7 weeks old, everything about her is wonderful and new, everything is to be marveled at.

I love Boyo with a fierce intensity - the same intensity that he greets his life every day. He is constantly going, running, talking, thinking, loving. He sets a fast pace every day, and my love for him races to keep up.

But Girlie... I love her with a zealous passion that I think you can only feel for your first born.

Not that I love her more than her brother and sister, but there is a deeper bond that I don't have with my other two. Why?

She was my first.

She was the first child I carried under my heart and in my arms. She carved out the groove in my arms that the other two nestled in. She was the first baby to rest her head against my heart, in the exact same spot that her brother and sister would later easily find.

She was the first one to keep my up all night, the first one to smile at me with a look of total adoration, the first one that I worried for, the first one that I paced over, the first one that I bathed and fed, the first one that I dressed and snuggled. (It's not all hearts and flowers, though. She was also the first one to make me want to slam my head into a wall or scream at the top of my lungs.)

Girlie completed a part of me that I didn't know was empty - she made me a better person, a better woman.

My daughter made me a mom.