Trip and Fall

Finally! We got a nice, appropriately Fall day. So what did we do with it? We went to Harvest Farms in Wellington and Autmned until we were almost ready to Fall. (I ought to be arrested for that).

First, the girls got to pet goats, sheep and various other assorted farm animals. Jane was a bit unsure of the goats, who seemed especially interested in her shoes.

Then, we went through a toddler-sized corn maze. Maybe next year we'll tackle the biggie one. The girls played in corn, which is way more fun than sand... until we realized that small pieces of dried corn = irresistible choking hazard for babies. Don't worry. We got it out of her mouth just in time.

Chris then got so angry that he snapped and started shooting produce at innocent bystanders.
(It's a pumpkin cannon - sorry I lost track of his ammunition)

And then we topped off the trip with some kettle corn and a couple of farm fresh pumpkins.

In other news: baby Jane is army crawling now. Great news for her. Bad news for Emily's toys.

First Snow

Today we got our first snow (I'll try not to complain that it's only October 8th). Here's how the first snow (and pretty much every snow) affects our household.

Upon waking, Emily declares, "Mom! It snowed. I'm going to play and make snow angels and build a snowman!". She is too excited to eat more than a few bites of her breakfast before she demands I find her snowsuit and boots. Jane insists upon being held while I do all this. Finally, realizing that would be impossible, I set her down on a blanket with some toys and turn my attention to Emily.

Twenty minutes later, Emily is dressed for the snow. I'm still not wearing shoes. I race to my room to put my shoes on before Emily ventures out alone in the snow, then race downstairs to find that Jane has thieved a peppermint patty.
I wipe up Jane and put Emily's mittens on. Finally, after nearly half an hour of preparation, Emily is ready to go out.

She's not out for a full minute before she takes off the mittens.

Then she takes a few laps around the backyard.

And sits down in the snow.

And then starts crying because her hands are cold. Five minutes after she ventures out, she comes in for hot chocolate. And then she realizes that she's hungry because she hardly ate any breakfast.

Needless to say, I'm not too crazy about the snow.

Yet Another Broken Resolution of Motherhood

I always swore I would tell my children the truth. As a matter of fact (don't judge me) Emily already knows that Santa is pretend and that the Easter bunny (who could honestly think that was possible anyway) is faker than fake. But I have realized that sometimes you have to tell your children lies to prevent them from doing things that will be physically or emotionally damaging to themselves. I have already divulged the lie that I told Emily to keep her from cutting her hair, but a couple weeks ago I did it again. I lied to my trusting child.

First of all, you have to understand the desperation that comes with having a 3 year old that has had no success with potty training. For nine months, I have had two children in diapers. I have come to feel that my life exists only in tiny snippets between diaper changes. I knew Emily could understand the concepts. She would dig in her heels and argue with me about why she shouldn't use the toilet. She didn't just yell "no" and cry, she actually used well formed arguments in complete sentences. I was ready to try anything. I took all the advice I could get. We tried every type of reward under the sun. I tried setting her on the toilet every half hour. I even tried punishment. Nothing worked.

And that's when we made our preschool visit to get her on the waiting list. I didn't know a kid could get so excited about school, but after the visit, Emily was ready to sell her soul to go to preschool. Enter the big lie. I told her that they wouldn't accept her unless she was potty trained. I know that is true with some schools, but not this one. I needed a carrot to dangle and I was desperate. That was on a Thursday. The following Sunday, Emily discovered the will to succeed. No effort on my part. Now I am in trouble. Emily is quickly making her way towards being completely potty trained and yet the preschool waiting list refuses to budge. I am beginning to sense a relapse. Oh what a tangled web we weave!

Everybody Poops

I recently recalled a conversation I had with Chris years ago. It was in the golden age before children. We were spending time with some friends who possessed several small children. The wife (let's call her Jan) had just been shouting at the top of her lungs, "Who pooped? I can smell poop". And then, after finding the culprit, she became angry and announced to the pooper, "I don't have any diapers for you. You'll just have to wear some of your brother's".

Not having spent much time around small children, I was horrified. I told Chris I never wanted to have children because it would make me lose my dignity. Chris reassured me, saying, "Jan and you are very different people. You would never be like her in a million years. I'm sure she wasn't dignified before she had children. You, on the other hand, ooze dignity. She is one kind of mom and you will be another kind of mom. You can still keep your identity and be a mother".

Well, Chris, several years later I can tell you that you were unqualifiedly WRONG! I have not a shred of dignity to my name. I lost most of it during Emily's infant months - dealing with public blowouts, trying to nurse in a crowd and going everywhere with a baby that screamed at the top of her lungs all the time. I can actually mark the moment when the last bit of dignity left me. As I puked into a jar in front of a roomful of people during my labor with Jane, I realized it was gone for good. All my dreams of being a sophisticated woman who is known for her grace and clever remarks in intelligent company went into that jar on that cold December morning.

So what triggered that distant memory of my dignified days? While engaged in a conversation with my hairstylist (whom I knew before either she or I were mothers) I realized we had been talking for at least fifteen minutes about our children's poop. Neither of us were embarrassed and the conversation was interesting to both of us. What had happened to those days in college when she would cut my hair and we would discuss world events and concerts and rumors of which new restaurants were coming to town? I'll tell you what happened. This happened:



And then this happened:

At least I got something in return for my dignity.

Someday My Prince Will Come

Okay, so I'm not usually one to be like, "Here, blogfans, watch this video of my kid that you will in no way find as amusing as I do. As a matter of fact, you'll probably find it a bit grating". But this was so funny that I had to share it. After lunch, Emily ran for her blanket and pillow (before I could wipe the beef-a-roni off her face) and announced to me, "Mommy, all my dreams are going to come true". That's when I grabbed the camera, hoping she would repeat it. She didn't, but this is what went down.

For those of you that don't own a 3 year old and require a translation, let me know.

Lacking in Horse Sense

I couldn't believe it when I saw what Emily had been up to. For once, the silence didn't mean that she was destroying our very way of life. She had never done a puzzle before, so I was ready to burst with pride when I saw she had completed four puzzles without any assistance, the most complex of which contained 12 pieces.



"My daughter is a genius!", I said to myself and immediately began thinking about how I would compose my letter to Mensa. I thought carefully about my stating my case as to why they should let a 3 year-old join.

And then Emily pointed at this puzzle:



and said, "Look mommy! It's a fish". In my mind, I heard the sound of ripping paper as I destroyed my imaginary letter.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

It's one of those things that every kid does at one time, but we all secretly hope our children never will. I had hoped my turn would never come, but but my number was up yesterday. I was getting ready to walk out the door for a Relief Society presidency meeting when I noticed the telltale signs. The bathroom light was on. Emily was upstairs alone. And it all went downhill from there. As I ran upstairs, Emily came into full view - scissors in hand.

I only noticed a few strands of hair on her shirt. Not so bad. Until I looked in the drawer and saw a pile of silky blond hair. The majority had been taken out of the front and side of her hair. I could have just kept it up in a ponytail until it grew out, but I didn't want to mess around with it, so I decided to make a fresh start.





Should I have told Emily that all princesses have beautiful long hair and that she couldn't be a princess since she cut her hair? Maybe not. But I did. Because with Emily it doesn't work to gently reinforce principles and because she's running out of hair to cut.

That's one more rite of passage down. We've already covered several calls to poison control, ripping wallpaper off her walls, picking up baby sister by the head, writing on baby sister's face and cutting holes in a brand new pair of pants. We've still got a broken bone, stitches, getting lost at an amusement park and eating a bug to go. For now I'm going to pretend those things won't happen. Because right now my ability to ignore the inevitable is the only thing stopping me from purchasing a large cage and shutting Emily in until she goes to kindergarten.