Putting Crib Issues to Bed

I'm finally willing to admit it: Jane isn't a baby anymore. She hasn't been for quite some time. She plays, eats and throws tantrums like a full-fledged toddler. Yet there was a part of me that wasn't ready to let go of her crib. Maybe it was because I didn't want to accept the fact that Jane had outgrown it - a first step that leads only to school then boyfriends then moving away. Maybe it was because I had grown accustomed to the convenient cage-like qualities of the crib that make Jane's plentiful time-outs easy on me. Either way, we were getting dangerously close to putting a three-year-old to bed in a crib.

This weekend we finally got a bed for Jane. I dreaded the transition. It turns out that a 34 month old adjusts pretty smoothly to a bed. Who knew? No bed rail required. And we will be able to get it off the ground in a few days when the frame arrives. And we will be able to use Jane's old crib as the head and foot board. That will help me say goodbye to the crib more easily.

Now if we could just keep big sister out of Jane's room after lights out... but that's another issue entirely.

Promoting Innovation

Many of you aren't aware of this, but I just so happened to marry Mike Holmes slightly better looking and significantly more innovative American twin. That innovation really came in handy yesterday when the caulk on our outdoor lighting fixture experienced an epic fail after an epic snowstorm. A lot of melting meant a lot of water... travelling through the light fixture hole and dripping down the wires. 

Chris fixed the caulk problem in no time, but the the slow drip was going to take some time to dry itself out. You may not know this, but water and electricity tend to form an unholy union when they get together. We needed to dry out that light switch... and quick... with something extra absorbent... something that wouldn't leave a drop of moisture. Holmes Jr. to the rescue!

You can't contain genius like this. Chris' bosses agree. That's why they gave him a promotion. He is the newest squad leader at WYDOT.

So, if you see Chris, congratulate him. All feminine product related humor aside, he really deserves this promotion and I know he'll do an amazing job. I'm sure of this because I know him better than anyone and this guy has some serious skilz.

A Conversation

Emily: "Mom, will you open my sucker? I can't do it."

Mom: "No. If Jane can open hers with one hand you can open yours with two."

Silence.

Next time I look over Jane is handing Emily an unwrapped sucker.

Mom: "Why does Jane have your sucker?"

Emily: "I asked her to unwrap it for me."

Maybe next time I'll be more specific when I'm trying to tell Emily to do something for herself.

Workin' for the Weekend

Since Emily started school, I seem to get questioned a lot about how Jane is doing. Mostly I say it's been a rough adjustment for her.

The truth is that these two are the best friends in the world.

Emily is great with coming up with weird (and sometimes destructive) games and Jane is always up for going along. For Jane's entire life, Emily has been leading Jane on adventure after adventure. Jane's never known any different with the tiny exception of 5 hours of preschool per week last year.

Now, all of the sudden, Emily has become a big kid, while Jane is still a little kid. Emily is gone all day, she talks about school friends and goes to dance class. Jane is feeling left behind and left out.

All this has triggered regression back into the terrible two's (which Jane was just beginning to grow out of). I hope Jane will adjust soon and we will once again be able to leave the house without a feeling of dread. I keep telling myself that Jane will learn to appreciate my full attention. But for now, this kid lives for the weekend, when the real ringleader returns.

Couching My Emotions in Cowhide

We all make bad decisions. Some of them, like the choice to eat too much fiber on any given day can make us very uncomfortable for a few hours. Other choices, like the decision to get a giant liger tattoo, can haunt us until the day we die.

Ten years ago I made a bad decision that plagued me until today. I was a newlywed with a real job for the first time. We were moving into a new apartment that had two (count them, two!) bedrooms in addition to a kitchen I couldn't span with my arms, a fabulous yellow bathroom, a window unit air conditioner and a second floor location that made us all but oblivious to the drug deals taking place in the parking lot. I needed some furnishings worthy of this palace. We left behind our spraypainted coffee table  and couch (which had been left for us by the previous occupant) in our college apartment and we went on a furniture shopping adventure. At the end of the day, we had a coffee table, two end tables and a sofa and loveseat.

Once the loot was in our apartment, I immediately began to feel buyer's remorse. I told myself that this is what happens when engineers try to decorate and that our choices would grow on me. Years passed and the only thing that grew was my hatred for my furniture. But for nothing did I feel more hatred than for this blue couch.

When we moved to our first house, it looked even worse. When Chris replaced our carpet with bamboo, the couch became even more unbearably ugly. I used the couch as a reminder that I made the decision to stay at home with my kids for now and I had plans to replace it as soon as I returned to work next year. I thought I was the only one bothered by this upholstered monstrosity.

This was not so. Last month an anonymous benefactor let me know that my couch was hideous to all involved and expressed a desire to never see it again. This expression was no doubt a sincere one because it was accompanied by a donation to be used towards a new sofa.

And that is why, as I am writing this post, I am enjoying the smell of beautiful leather and why my peripheral vision is no longer picking up a blue blob.

Isn't it fabulous?

Now my only problem is that everything else in the room was purchased to make the blue couch look less hideous. Most of it does nothing to highlight this piece of sittable art. I am particularly sad about the throw pillows, which don't work as well as I had hoped, but which I love. Oh well! I could throw out everything else and just live with this couch. I would be happy.

The First Day of the Rest of Her Life

Yesterday, Emily progressed from "little kid" to just plain "kid" as she crashed party that is elementary school.

Somehow it seemed wrong to be walking to school in the oppressive heat (don't the Berenstein Bears always know it's time to go to school when the leaves turn yellow and the breeze turns cold?), but Emily made the arduous four-block journey with admirable stamina.

(daddy took a bit of time off so he could walk Emily to school the first day)

She wasn't exactly chomping at the bit when we arrived at the playground and she became even more nervous once she was seated at her table. Yes, there were tears on both sides. But she started it. When things didn't get better, I knew it was time to leave. A kind aide assured me she would be smiling at the end of the day.

And she was.

After braving the walk  home, her first concern was for her sister, who had missed her all day. They discussed the day over the remains of Emily's lunch (which were considerable. I hope by the end of the year she'll learn to eat her lunch a little more quickly).

Today she told me she forgot to miss me because she was too busy. She also told me she needed to wear tennis shoes tomorrow. She says she thinks it's because they might play tennis in gym class. One thing's for sure: when she comes home, she probably won't remember what they did in gym class. Or anything else about school. At least that's how it's been the last two days. I'm expecting this trend to continue for the next 13 years. In the meantime, she's happy and that makes me happy.

Those Crazy Kids

Recently I was having a conversation with a group of ladies, many of whom had teenaged kids that had been left at home. I, on the other hand, couldn't get a complete thought out because my kids needed something every 5 minutes. I commented that I would be happy when my kids were able to become self sufficient to any degree. To this comment, I got the response I always get when I mention that having small children sucks the life out of me can be trying at times.

"Good luck. That never changes. My teenager still can't do anything for himself."

That set me to thinking. And mostly I think I feel sorry for people who can make this claim. I would like to take this opportunity to express my sympathy for those with toddler-like teenagers.

I'm sorry that your teenager poops his pants every time you leave the house.

I feel unspeakable sorrow when I realize that your teenager has to wear a bib at mealtime, that she spills her milk at least once a day, that the second she finishes eating, she throws her plate and demands a cookie. It must be so difficult to carry her to time-out during every meal. I can't imagine the indignity of having to wipe applesauce off of her screaming face before you have to pluck her out of her chair.

It must be terrible to have to go to a restaurant with a 16 year-old who can't sit still for five minutes and shortly after ordering starts pounding his fists on the table screaming,"I want my chicken nuggets NOW!" causing you to have to exit the restaurant with him and take laps around the building while the rest of the family eats.

I'm sorry that you can't even shop for groceries without your teenager bawling because you won't buy Oreos, causing every eye in the store to glare at you, silently demanding that you get that kid out of here now as they pass judgement on you for being a bad parent.

I don't even want to imagine what it must be like to not be able to close the door when you go to the bathroom because if you do, your high schooler will take the opportunity of being unsupervised to eat diaper rash cream, empty a bag of powdered sugar on your kitchen floor, completely undress, unlock the door and run out into the street.

How embarrassing it must be that when your child gets on the school bus without his blanket, he starts screaming,"Bwanket! I want my bwanket!" at the top of his lungs. You must get some really interesting calls from the school office.

Your child's date must be horrified when she learns that before he picked her up, you had to bathe him and scold him for having dried poop on his bum, leading to yet another conversation about proper wiping technique.

But all this pales in comparison to the pity I feel for you as I think that when your teenager is acting like a naughty toddler, they don't look nearly as cute as this.

Really, your life must be unbearable. You have my sympathies.