For All the Brave Ones

This is for all the Brave Ones...

The ones whose chicks have grown and flown
The ones whose chicks have only just hatched

The ones who are cautiously, fearfully trying again
The ones with the heartaches, large or small

The ones waking up hour after hour after hour at night
The ones who can't even fall asleep

The ones chasing a new dream
The ones rediscovering an old one

The ones who hold another mama's baby, if just for a little while
The ones who say "I will" to the older child and the hurting child

The ones who can't see a way through
The ones who hold another mom's hand, cook another mom's meal, listen to another mom's story

The ones washing the clothes, and the dishes, and more clothes, and more dishes
The ones changing the diapers and cleaning out the potties

The ones looking over a shoulder while a child writes
The ones sitting in a passenger seat while a child drives

The ones feeling a forehead, taking a temperature
The ones sitting next to a hospital bed

The ones who feel a little out of place right now
The ones who are in a really good place right now

The ones with one kid, five kids, no kids
The ones walking on a different road than the one on which they started

The ones who pack the diapers, check the backpacks, watch the clocks
The ones who do all the ordinary, extraordinary things every day

You are not alone.

We are not alone.

This is for all the Brave Ones.

That's A+ Parenting Today.

Little Red Driving Slippers: An A+ Parenting Fairy Tale

Two brothers. One pair of red Lightning McQueen slippers. The A+ Parenting Moment That Would Change Everything. 

One morning, the older brother was supposed to be eating the oatmeal he'd requested (which his mother had so lovingly prepared). Instead, he and his younger brother were standing on the couch, looking out the windows, and watching garbage trucks drive by on the street. (This happened to occur on the day of the weekly festival known colloquially as Garbage Truck Day.)

Suddenly, the mother heard a blood-curdling, shiver-inducing shriek, the cry of a maddened wolf spotting his prey. Half a moment later, she heard a rising crescendo, the answering scream of an innocent young creature in distress.

The mother sprang into action. Surely, some rabid animal has attacked!

Indeed, the younger brother had committed the most egregious of crimes: The putting on of the older brother's red Lightning McQueen slippers. The older brother had reacted with wild animal instincts, snatching the slippers off the offender's tiny feet, screaming maniacally, and flinging the slippers onto the floor across the room, where no one could reach them. The younger brother had cried out at the older brother's rapid ferocity and injustice.

And there, the mother found them: Two brothers, with no slippers, panting.

The mother intuitively recognized the opportunity for an A+ Parenting Moment. She knelt down on the floor, and gazed into the older brother's brown eyes - nay, his very soul.

"If you scream at your brother, then when he learns to talk, that is the way he will talk to you."

The older brother was silent, surely processing the deep wisdom that was piercing his heart.

"So you need to talk to your brother the way you want him to talk to you."

The mother watched as these life-changing words made their way into the essence of his being.

The forest suburban animals sang songs of rejoice! Invisible fairies danced in the air around mother and son!

And the mother knew: Her darling, gentle son would never, ever raise his voice to his younger brother again.

And that's A+ Parenting Today.

Let's Play "Cherry Kool-Aid... or Blood?"

A+ Parenting isn't all fun and games. I mean, there are diapers. Fun? No. Game? No. There is Candy Land. Fun? No. Game? Yes. And there is destruction. Fun? Sometimes (not for you). Game? Sometimes (also, not for you). 

Here's a little game we played at our house this week, called: "Cherry Kool-aid... or Blood?"

Set-Up:

1. Have a young friend over to the house. Call this friend "Sparky" to protect his or her identity. Sparky should be funny, impulsive, independent, and adventurous. Some of the best friends are, right? So anyway, you should have Sparky over to your house. Your kids will be excited, I promise.
2. Have three 5-pound packages of raw hamburger meat in the refrigerator for your upcoming freezer meal swap. Sam's Club or Costco memberships are optional, but recommended. 
3. Go upstairs. For optimum game play experience, Sparky should be left to his or her own devices for a short period of time.

Game Play:

1. Sparky opens the refrigerator, probably to get out some milk.
2. Sparky calls out to your child, "Uh, Your Child's Name, we have a little problem here."
3. Assume the problem is some spilled milk. And there's no use crying. Keep doing what you're doing.
4. Your child goes downstairs to Sparky.
5. Your child says, "Um... I think that's blood."
6. Sparky says, "Well, I tasted it."
7. You go downstairs, quickly now.

How the Game Ends:

1. Check the floor. Observe several large red drops that look like Cherry Kool-Aid... or Blood. One has clearly been swiped at and tasted. 
2. Ask yourself: Cherry Kool-Aid... or Blood?"
3. If you:
1. Have no Cherry Kool-Aid, AND
2. Look in the refrigerator and clearly see that blood has leaked out of one of the 5-lb hamburger packages, THEN

Congratulations!!! You win! Or you lose!

That's "Cherry Kool-Aid... Or Blood?"

And that's A+ Parenting Today.

Peanuts and Pointing Fingers

One week ago, I walked into Target and walked out with 2 Epi-pens. (Also: 2 gallons of milk, 3 pairs of children's sunglasses, 1 bunch of bananas, 2 jars of applesauce, 1 bag of marshmallows... and so on. But back to the Epi-pens...)

I never planned on needing Epi-pens. Who does, right? 

I do read Nutrition Facts, and I slide my eyes down a list of Ingredients. I even check out the allergen statements now and then, if I'm preparing something for a friend who has a food allergy. I just didn't expect to be checking for peanuts, or to register a meaningful difference between "processed in a facility with" vs. "processed on equipment that". I didn't picture myself as a mom of a kid with a peanut allergy. 

That is, until about three weeks ago and a quick-forming red rash around my one-year-old's mouth. The bar I'd made (ironically for a friend whose kids can't eat gluten) only had three simple ingredients: Cheerios, honey, and peanut butter. 

Two weeks, one blood test, and one scratch test later... And now I know.

I know that my third child can have a peanut allergy even if my first two have no allergies at all.

I know how to recognize the signs of anaphylaxis.

I know that I would need to hold the Epi-pen in my 1-year-old's baby leg for ten. whole. seconds. that's. about. this. long. including. screaming. yikes.

I know that there are certain restaurants we should avoid, and that "going out for ice cream" won't be quite as straightforward.

And I know that I did nothing differently to cause this.

I've done this baby thing before with allergy-free results!

I let Isaac play in the dirt.

I didn't explicitly feed him peanut butter before age 1, but I also didn't shield him from all things peanuty. He'd certainly been "exposed."

He does not live in an anti-bacterial bubble. Definitely not.

It just happened. He ate peanuts. He reacted. The allergist did a test and confirmed it. End of chapter. Beginning of new one. This isn't life-changing, but it is lifestyle-changing. 

For the most part, other people's reactions have ranged from "how did you find out?" to "at least it's only one allergen" to "oh no! I'm sorry!" to (my personal favorite) "did you do this, or not do that, or did you do this, and is that why he has it?"

I want to assume that the last segment of question askers mean well. Maybe they want to know how to avoid doing whatever I did so that their kid can eat PB&J's and DQ Blizzards (sorry Isaac). Maybe they've read up on it and feel somewhat educated, and therefore immune. I get it. To an extent, so did I.  

But guys, that last reaction, no matter how well it is meant, is basically finger-pointing. Like the poor so-called "refrigerator mothers" of the 1950s after their kids were diagnosed with autism, or, later, the false study that assigned the blame to vaccinations. Like giving no end of advice to parents whose babies truly don't sleep well, as if they haven't tried everything in the book, as if they just don't want sleep badly enough! Like looking askew at parents with a severely picky eater, as if they always only planned for their kid to eat just beige foods. 

There are genes, and environment, and temperament, and goodness-of-fit, and the best of intentions. 

Someday, when the research is clearcut, then we can all look back with our 20/20 hindsight vision and say: 

Isaac got a peanut allergy because of his affinity for wearing mismatched shoes. 

Until then, I'll have my Epi-pens, and my 3-year-old's monochromatic rainbow of foods, and my ever-expanding supply of empathy for moms and the one-of-a-kind kids they are raising. 

Time According to a Three-Year-Old

Three-year-old Tucker's most pressing question these days has been, "And what we do after that?" 

"What we do after my nap, Mama?"

"Maisy will come home."

"What we do after that?"

"Play."

"What we do after we play?"

"Eat supper."

"What we do after supper?"

"It's bath night."

"What we do after that?"

"Go nigh-night."

"What we do after we wake up?"

And so the chain continues, for as long as I manage to keep it up. It's usually a pretty mundane list involving meals, potty breaks, naps, and playtime, occasionally peppered with slightly more interesting events like going to church, or Grandma and Grandpa's house, or ice skating lessons. 

Tucker doesn't seem to mind the ordinary nature of the list. He might cheer about going to Grandma's, or groan about bath night if he isn't in the mood. In general, though, he's just curious about the passage of time: What comes next? When will we be home? When will I start preschool?

Today in the car, we had a slightly different version of the "what next?" conversation.

"When will I be in high school, Mama?"

"In about eleven years."

"Whoa! After my go to preschool, my going to kindergarten, and then my be in high school!"

"Not quite, buddy."

And so came the list:

"After preschool, you'll be in kindergarten. First you'll be in elementary school, then middle school, then high school, and then comes college. And after that, you'll be a grown-up like Mommy and Daddy." (Let's be real, people. We weren't "grown-ups" in college.)

His eyes widened, and his mouth formed a little O. 

"Wow! That will be in 10 minutes!!"

I laughed to myself. But I also had this tiny flash go off in my brain, like "this is one of those moments." I couldn't help but think ahead to some time in the future, when the rest of Tucker's baby roundness is gone, and he has said "I" instead of "my" for so long we have forgotten it was his thing. When he doesn't need me to buckle his car seat straps because he is driving his own car. When it has been many years since we were together all day every day, checking away at an unwritten list of mundane daily activities.  

Will it feel like it has been just 10 minutes? 

In September, Tucker starts preschool. From that point on, he'll spend incrementally less and less time at home, and more and more time as his own person out in the big world. My sweet little boy. I don't dread the passing of time. I don't even really feel like I need to slow it down, or savor the moments, or any of that business.

I just kind of like sitting here while my toddler boys nap, typing a more sentimental blog post, and drinking in this bittersweet sensation of my children growing up, just as they should. 

After all, in 10 minutes their sister will be home from school, and I'll be frantically preparing her an early dinner and braiding her hair for her ice show dress rehearsal tonight. I'll be changing diapers, dumping plastic potties, refereeing fights, and, oh yes, I have to squeeze in a way to also pick up flowers from the school fundraiser between 3:30 and 5:30. In 10 minutes, I'll be going non-stop.

But according to my three-year-old, 10 minutes after that they'll be all grown up, just like Mommy and Daddy.

I guess that's A+ Parenting Today.

Alexander vs. The Highlight Reel

My morning kicked off in a way that even Alexander could relate to: It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Allow me to back up a moment. Because even though my head feels a bit pound-y and my conscience feels a bit bruise-y, I wouldn't have to share ANY of that with you. I have enough highlight-reel-worthy material just from this morning that I could post instead:

• Rick headed off to work (in good time!) with a dozen home-baked banana muffins for his co-worker's birthday. (See how real we are? Microwave is being replaced...)
  

• Maisy's friend was over this morning, and she ate waffles with my kiddos and made it to school on time (presumably!).

• I hand-delivered 1/3 of a decorated half-sheet baby shower cake, four paper bags full of gifts, and a Closet of Hope bag full of diapers to the home of one of my adult ESL students who had her fourth baby (first girl!) the day before her scheduled in-class baby shower. I got to hold this tiny, precious, beautiful baby girl. Oh the sweetness. 
  

• I dropped off a pan full of seriously delicious homemade chocolate chip cookies for Maisy's parent-teacher conferences.

• Isaac has learned to go downstairs backwards on his own, and I snapped a funny picture of him on his tummy this morning, scooching backwards, perpendicular to the stairs, unable to figure out why he wasn't going down. 
  

All of these things are true. They are good stuff. They would be perfectly acceptable Facebook posts that could get "liked" and "hearted" and commented upon.

But it wouldn't be the whole story, would it? They would be funny, sweet, cute, or impressive posts to share, and they might make me feel proud, or warm and fuzzy, or whatever the case may be. However, there's an Alexander side to this morning.

There's the frantic rush out the door after a last-minute poopy diaper. There I am, raising my voice at Maisy because when she was supposed to be putting her shoes and coat on, she went searching for her new "tie shoes" to wear instead. There's Maisy, her friend, Tucker, Isaac, and I making it across the street just as the first bell rings. There's Maisy and her friend rushing down the sidewalk. 

There I am again, calling to Maisy that her mittens flew off. There's Maisy frantically running back for her mittens, crying because she thought she'd lost her hat. Panicking, not because she was in true danger of being late, but because she felt my frantic mood and owned it herself. 

And then, there's the icing on the Ugly Morning cake: There I am, holding Isaac, telling my 3-year old to stay in the driveway, re-crossing the street, and calming Maisy. There I am, watching Tucker waiting patiently in the driveway as I knew he would do, but seeing the last-minute-drop-off cars slowing as they see this 3-year-old boy standing alone in a driveway. 

I crossed the street to him again, not 30 seconds later. Maisy and her friend made their way (suddenly unhurried) down the sidewalk, hopefully to make it to their desks before the second bell. Tucker was waiting. He was obedient. He was unconcerned. Just as I'd expected. But my heart sunk because I knew I should have dragged him with me when I crossed to calm Maisy. I could only imagine the disapproval of the parents in the slowing cars, because I felt my own disapproval. It was fine. I wouldn't do it again, but he was perfectly fine. Maisy was fine. We were all fine. 

Here's the thing, though. I had all of this highlight-reel-worthy material going on this morning, but it didn't matter. My raised voice was stuck in my throat and ears. The image of my 3-year-old waiting on the other side of the street is seared into my mind. My mistakes weigh so much heavier than my highlight reel! The mistakes could so easily go un-shared. No one would know that I felt like Alexander this morning, stuck in the middle seat and whining.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

It was also a great day. A good friend watched my little boys while I went to my ESL student's home. I got to see my student open present after generous present from students and tutors. I got to receive her thanks on behalf of the whole class. I got to hold her amazing, sweet, angel-baby. 

My friend assured me that I didn't need to rush, so I listened to her, and I typed this up after my visit. Peacefully. Without interruptions. (Thank you, Friend!)

Here's my point, dedicated to all of you out there who are Doing The Best You Can and Learning As You Go:

It would be so easy to judge. So easy to judge yourself when you see the mom with the cute kids and the cute boots (I wore my cute boots today.) Baking banana muffins. And homemade chocolate chip cookies. Delivering baby gifts to her student. So easy to judge yourself and find yourself guilty of Being Less Than. You're not. That's not the whole story.

It would be so easy to judge. So easy to judge the mom with the messy ponytail frantically bringing a passel of kids across the street, calling out to her tiny kindergartner with too much to carry, leaving her 3-year-old alone in a driveway across the street. It would be so easy to judge that mom as Being Less Than. I'm not. That's not my whole story.

Maybe you are having a beautiful, highlight-reel-worthy day. Maybe you - like Alexander - are having a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." Or maybe you, like I am, are having both days wrapped up in one. Whatever the case may be, I want you to remember this:

"Some days are like that. Even in Australia."

That's A+ Parenting Today.

DB2 Pushes Our Buttons

Check out this retro alarm system on this old school wallpaper. No way this thing still works, right?

Isaac, our dear Danger Baby 2.0 (hence DB2), is a big time button pusher. As I am the fourth child of five, I can safely predict that his button pushing days are far from over, though his motivation and delivery may change.

If DB2 suddenly perks up and makes a beeline across the room, you can be sure he's spotted an iPhone and is on his way to push its button for a little chat with Siri.

Similarly, DB2 can spot a functioning remote control anytime, anywhere. Think you can fool him with an old VCR remote? Think again. Think you can hide one from him? He can find a remote control hidden in a jacket pocket under a couch cushion on a different floor of the house. I kid you not! Well not really. But he finds them.

Dishwasher? Full or not full, soap or no soap, this kid doesn't discriminate. Button pushed, dishes clean... or are they?

But Ike really knocked one out of the park last Tuesday evening. I tutored until about 5:30, but we had $30 worth of expiring Snuffy's gift cards to use, so we were determined to bundle the kids up for some stellar burgers and malts. It took waaaaay too long, but we were finally ready. 

The big kids were waiting by the door to the garage. I was heading downstairs to meet them. Rick was holding Isaac and heading down the stairs behind me. On the wall of our garage entry stairwell is this "amazing" wallpaper, and the off-white old school alarm system pictured above. To our knowledge, it hadn't ever been used by our house's previous owners, and it was not functional.

To our knowledge.

Of course, as DB2 made his way downstairs in Rick's arms, he leaned over and pushed a button. There was a beep. And then a little word showed up on the screen:

Armed.

Rick, ever optimistic, attempted to disarm the alarm. Obviously if alarm systems could be disarmed without knowing a code, they wouldn't be very useful. But he tried anyway, to no avail.

We were chuckling a little, because what were the odds DB2 would hit just the right button on his first try? Then, Tucker cracked open the door to the garage, and the system erupted in a crazy loud alarm both upstairs and down!

Maisy was terrified. Tucker was frozen. Rick and I were pushing more buttons, as if that would help. Isaac was taking mental notes. 

The alarm wailed on.

Maisy started to cry. Tucker put his hands over his ears. Isaac continued to take note.

It took a useless phone call (me) to the company on the alarm box, and some work in the fuse box (Rick), as well as a text to the previous owners (who had never used it), but we got the alarm to stop.

In the end, we laughed our way out the door to Snuffy's with the knowledge that we own a highly effective localized alarm system should we choose to use it. 

And an equally effective little button pusher we call DB2.

That's A+ Parenting (Last Week).

An Ode to Little Friends (and the germs they carry)

Been texting with my mama friends

Earaches, coughs, it never ends

January brought the cold

And the sickness, new and old

Since we got together just last weekend

Suddenly the fevers are peakin'

Cost of friendship isn't in bills

It's in aching, coughing, chills

Stomach flu? We're puking too! 

Kids achoo? That's how we do!

Sneezing child? Wheezing child? 

In his bedroom heaving child?

New school terms? Walking germs.

A get-together? Then under the weather.

Quarantined? Ain't no thing:

We'll share this illness wirelessly, virusly, up all hours - tirelessly.

Wash those hands! Sanitize! 

Cut these epidemics down to size! 

(We can always fantasize.)

If we'd known we'd have stayed home. 

Kept brewing germies on their own. 

Honestly I can't predict 

When these kids are almost sick 

Playing-smiling-running-

CRASH!

Fever spike, puke in trash.

Send a text.

Disinfect.

Sympathize.

No surprise:

Too late now, damage done.

Watch them go down one by one!

Then the mamas join the "fun".

Given time the sicknesses pass,

And the kiddos get back to class,

But these growing little friendships last.

Could keep healthy-seeming friends away. 

Or we can just... let 'em play.

Kids will get sick anyway.

(That's A+ Parenting Today.)

Perks of Being a Sick House

You may want to put on a mask before reading this. I doubt that germs can travel wirelessly, but if I were you, I wouldn't risk it. Mask on?

We're currently going on the third day of Sickies in the Sick House. We managed to power through Illness #1: Stomach Flu, with a ratio of 3 Sickies: 2 Healthies. Not great; could be worse. We've merged seamlessly into Illness #2: Fever and Sore Throat, with a current ratio of 1 Sickie: 1 Maybe: 3 Doomed. 

Yes, it's been rough. I can almost feel my mind at work trying to erase the memories of Illness #1. Perhaps soon, all that will remain is the dread. Because with 3 kiddos within 5 years of each other, this certainly won't be our last at-bat.

But yesterday was my Day of Recovery (Lucky mom got it worst of all), and so today was going to be my Day of Re-emergence. Even though Maisy's pop-up fever has prevented that, I'm feeling pretty good! I started thinking about how I could blog about this. I decided that you already know how horrible it is. You can easily imagine the Midnight Changes-of-Sheets, and the Surprise! The 3-Year-Old-Has-It-Too-All-Over-the-Bathroom-Floor. You can empathize with the Sick Spouse and the Last Spouse Standing. So I decided I'd take a different approach and write about...

The Perks of Being a Sick House

Perk #1: Guilt-free screen time. Because throwing up is a free pass, no matter who is doing the throwing.

Perk #2: An opportunity to disinfect those rarely disinfected places. Like hallways. And the knobs on the vanity. And down the side of the toddler bed. This house is so CLEAN now. Ha!

Perk #3: Renewed thankfulness for my husband (Last Spouse Standing). Because while caring for both Sickies and Healthies, he also was the one doing the vast majority of the sheet-changing and floor-scrubbing and vanity-knob-disinfecting. Super romantic stuff. He's pretty darn amazing. And sorry, he's taken.

Perk #4: Getting to the bottom of the pile of hand towels in the linen closet. What a nice, fluffy green one! And look how well this kitchen dish towel operates as a hand towel? Who knew?

 <----Perk #4

Perk #5: New toothbrushes! Who doesn't like a new toothbrush? Tucker, for one, goes nuts over a new toothbrush. And you're welcome, Tucker.

Perk #6: Get up, change into different pajamas, wear all day, take an evening shower, and put on another set of pajamas! Triple pajama day!

Perk #7: An unrepentant morning nap. And afternoon nap. See how necessary those pajamas were? I was ready for a nap at any moment.

Perk #8: Creative uses for household furniture. Danger Baby + Stomach Flu = Piano Buckets

 <------ Piano buckets 

Perk #8: That Just-Back-To-Healthy Feeling. Nothing like it, amiright? Except maybe that second trimester energy burst. But no, this is even better. It's the energy burst (I can make up songs about Isaac's toys while I change his poopy diaper! I can play not one, but TWO board games with my older kiddos while the youngest has his morning nap! I can clear the table! I can start on The Laundry Alps! I can do anything!). It's the appetite (What's this? A bowl of cereal?! Jackpot!). It is, in all seriousness, deep thankfulness for my own health. So. Very. Thankful. 

Now I am off to go scale Mount Laundry yet again, with Guilt-free Screen Time and That Just-Back-To-Healthy Feeling in my back pocket. 

That's A+ Parenting Today.

You should probably go wash your hands. Because wireless viruses. Because we are walking, talking germs over here. 

Danger Baby 2.0

I can't take the credit for Isaac's earned title of Danger Baby 2.0. Isaac's older (by 2 months) cousin Dean is the Original Danger Baby, probably because he basically came out of the womb crawling. (I was going to say "he came crawling out of the womb", but somehow this alternate phrasing seemed a bit too graphic.) Anyway, Isaac has earned his distinction of Danger Baby 2.0 through many, many months of consistently finding trouble... and food.

Maybe it's because he's my third child - I'm more laidback out of necessity, I can't watch him as closely because I have two other little people running around, baby-proofing is trickier with older siblings - but I suspect there's another answer at play. The kid has guts! I love it. This. kid. has. guts. But also, he's my third of three kids 5 & under and I'm tired... That's A+ Parenting Today.

How this particular post was born: 

Yesterday it was negative-too-many degrees outside, so I wanted to start the car before heading out with the boys. Very foward-thinking of me, I thought. Tucker was on the potty, Isaac was playing quietly in the living room, and so I ducked out for less than a minute.  Less than 60 seconds later, I reentered the house and heard frantic, loud crying, so I ran up the stairs to find this:

on top of this:

who was shrieking, I suspect because a lamp falling on top of you is loud and surprising, and also because he was stuck between two of the tripod legs and couldn't go anywhere. Bummer.

I'm sorry I didn't snap a picture for ya'll (it briefly flashed through my mind), but I decided that making sure the shrieking child was unharmed should probably be my first course of action. He was fine. I wish I had a picture.

After the Tripod Lamp Incident, I thought it would be fun to revisit the photo album on my phone for visual evidence of Danger Baby 2.0. Here's what I found:

Mitten-hand after Danger Baby 2.0 slashed his finger open on a vent.

Danger Baby 2.0 continuing to seek out vents.

Danger Baby 2.0 branching out from just vents to also seek out outlets. Note that this outlet had both covers on. Go me!

Danger Baby 2.0 playing with electrical cords plugged into the previously pictured outlets.

Danger Baby 2.0 scavenging for broom-food.

Danger Baby 2.0 almost making it to the broom-food. (Not pictured: DB2 screeching when I picked him up and moved him before he could actually get any broom-food in his mouth. Good.parenting.move.)

Danger Baby 2.0 STILL searching for vents.

DB2 with a sock-hand after losing a battle with a different vent at a different house.

Danger Baby 2.0 finding food here...

and here...

and here...

and here...

and here.

Danger Baby 2.0 in search of  new ways of injuring his fingers: Cabinets and drawers!

Also fun... 

Sneaking away to climb steps...

Clanking dishes in the dishwasher...

Knives, of course...

And just climbing on in.

DB2 also enjoys using a rhythm stick to whack at the TV.

(Not pictured: Crawling with a rhythm stick hanging out of his mouth. I opted to remove the rhythm stick instead of photographing it. High five!)

Danger Baby joy ride

And just one more lamp...

Boy, I can't wait until he learns to walk!

All of this Danger Babying can be exhausting, so I'll leave you with this:

And that's A+ Parenting Today!

Wooted

My family went to camp this weekend, to our church's winter retreat. It's a totally rational thing to do in Minnesota in the height of an Arctic blast: Travel north. We packed up 4 tons of winter gear, plus bedding, diapers, and ice skates, and off we went. It turns out the ice skates were optimistic, because when the temps were still below zero in the warmest part of the day, strapping my 3 and 5-year-old into skates just didn't happen. 

In spite of the lack of outdoor winter sports (unless you count pulling the kids by sled from one building to another at camp), it was a great weekend. Of course, for this mom, any amount of packing and bundling up is worth it if every meal is prepared for me and I don't have to do any of the dishes after! My kids were just thrilled to sleep on bunk beds and run around with other kids from church all weekend. My mom got her kicks by placing 4th in the annual ping pong tournament, beating one of the usual top contenders along the way. Side note: Who knew my mom was so good at ping pong? It's been many, many years since we had a table in our basement, which leads me to wonder if she is in some kind of underground ping pong league that I am unaware of. More likely, her competitive streak just kicked into high gear (the French is strong with this one).  And my dad? I think he just liked watching my mom's ping-pong-fueled adrenaline rush. As did I. As for Rick, he got to do his own thing too when he and about a dozen others hit the ice for a 2-hour game of broomball. Outside. Brrrr. 

But what I really want to share here are a couple of videos of my kiddos. Our theme for the weekend was Rooted, based on Ephesians 3:17-18: And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord's holy people, to grasp how wide, and long, and high, and deep is the love of Christ.

SpongeMaisy SnowPants memorized the verse and pluckily shared it in front of the group at chapel on Sunday morning:

Maisy video

When we got home on Sunday evening, I also asked Tucker to tell me the Bible verse.

You guys, my Tucker says the most ridiculous things. He told me just last week, "When my finish my water, my going to pee on you." and then laughed like he had just told a hilarious joke. Hi-la-ri-ous. Because for a potty training boy, what is funnier than a potty mouth? 

And just today at nap time, after reading a wonderful piece of literature about Podracing, and tucking him in, and handing him his beloved Elmo doll, and brushing back his hair, and telling him I loved him, he looked sweetly up at me and said, "Elmo say he not like you." (I didn't believe Elmo, especially since Elmo asked for a goodnight kiss just 30 seconds later.) 

Tucker is silly and impulsive and says all these ridiculous things with his sparkly brown eyes and not even the slightest hint of meanness. But he still says them! 

Then yesterday evening, he bounces around, and he looks at my phone and says the words:

"My pway... dat be wooted... da deep... wuv... Jesus." 

And I smile, and I watch the video about 10 more times, and I show it to other people, and I share it with you, and I seriously pray that he and all my kids would be "wooted in the deep wuv of Jesus."

Fresh Year, Fresh Blog: Making Baby Friends

It's been over two years since my last post as TutorMommy.  I couldn't figure out how to make a smooth transition from the happiness, the brokenness, and the randomness contained in my other blog, so I've decided to start fresh.  Welcome, friends.  It's A+ Parenting Today... 

Making Baby Friends

I took my 3-year-old and 1-year-old boys to the library today. I have to confess, I didn't really pack snacks. Living dangerously, I know. And after storytime, we may have hung around looking for books just a wee bit too long. So, with a couple of empty tummies and a full bag of books, we made our way to the checkout computers.  

At the computer next to ours, there was a mom with a single, exceptionally well-dressed little blond baby, probably about 18-months-old.  Adorable, sparkly silver boots. Matching sparkly tights. Sweet baby skirt. A faux fur vest over a cute long-sleeved shirt. Silver headband that she would never dream of pulling off of her head, since it complemented her outfit so well. 

"Hi baby," Well-Dressed Baby said sweetly to my 1-year-old Isaac, who pulled himself up on the stool next to her.  She softly patted his head and smiled.  Her mom reminded her to be gentle. I smiled and said, "He's the youngest of three. He's pretty tough." Famous last words.

Apparently, Isaac was listening. And needed to prove himself as the Tough Guy. 

Tucker arrived on the scene.  He began to climb up on the stool to help check out books, so I diligently reminded him not to step on Tough Guy's fingers. Because clearly, Tough Guy was at risk here, right?

Wrong. Tucker did not step on Tough Guy's fingers. And Tough Guy probably wouldn't have cared if he did. But Tucker. Poor Tucker. His rear end was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tough Guy sunk his 5 sharpened baby teeth right into Tucker's rear end, and Tucker sucked in air, and then screeeeaaaaammmed, his wails echoing throughout the quiet library. 

"No biting," I scolded Tough Guy quietly and ineffectually. Tucker screeeeeaaaammmed. I held him, trying to soothe and quiet him down (he's usually my real tough guy, so clearly this hurt.)  I tapped Tough Guy very gently on the mouth. "No biting," I repeated, as if he both a) understood and b) cared.  

Meanwhile, Well-Dressed Baby was whisked away by her mommy, away from the Biter and the Screamer, and their Scolder and Soother. Probably to tell her well-dressed husband about the Biter and the Screamer, and about Well-Dressed Baby's almost demise. 

That's A+ Parenting Today, folks. That's how we make baby friends in our family. That's just how we do it.