Party Prep

Yesterday was a big day.  At 9:00am, I carted the kids to fellow blogger Shawna's house for a Valentine party for 12 precocious children.

(Well, they're not all precocious, but Cael and Graham have such a surplus of attitude that, when averaged out, it makes for one rowdy bunch.)

When Cael marched into my room yesterday morning, he was already on high alert.

"Mommy, is today the day that we go do that thing?  The fun thing that we're gonna do with those things we made?"

"Yep."

That's more specific than he's been in weeks.

The "things" he was referring to were the treats and valentines we'd assembled the day before.  While Graham napped, I got busy labeling and filling the tiny envelopes.  Originally I had planned on making our own valentines after receiving a dose of motivation from Pinterest.  A few shots with my nice camera later, I'd design, print, assemble and label the cutest, most custom valentines one had ever seen. 

Instead, I played Bejeweled.  And then I went to Walmart to buy valentines.  I figured that the next best thing would be a Thomas the Train boxed set, or maybe Toy Story, but when we arrived in the seasonal aisle, I found that the valentine selection was even more pathetic than the Halloween costume section days before Halloween.

If only they had "garden gnome" valentines as well.

As I rifled through boxes with boyish skulls and Justin Bieber's face emblazoned on the covers, I spotted it.  Different.  Unique.  Just strange enough that it was still endearing.

Just like Cael.

The valentines we selected were called  "I Love Sliderz", and were covered in images of hamburgers and french fries.  While I do know a number of people that would use the words "burger" and "love" in the same sentence, I'm still not sure the two relate.  But something about the quirky pictures and tiny enclosed hamburger erasers told me it was the right choice for us.


Once home and with Graham tucked in bed, I began labeling the cards, leaving the "from" box blank for Cael to make his mark. 

"Cael, can you come over here and write your name in this box for me?"

"Why?"

"For your valentines.  It would be neat if you wrote your own name."

"That's okay.  You can do it, Mommy."

"Gee thanks, Cael, but I would like you to do it."

With a huff, he managed to pull himself from eating Kleenexes, or whatever activity he was doing.  He took the pen from my hand and began to write. 

"Wait, wait.  Let's practice on this paper first."

Cael has been writing more lately, but he does occasionally choose not to line up the letters or write them in random order.  But this time, he scribbled a strange object and walked away.

"What is that?"

"My name."

"No it's not.  I don't see any of the letters.  Can you try again?"

"Ugggghhhh.... fine."

When did Cael turn thirteen?

This time he drew a small circle with a line through it and laughed at his handiwork.  But I still couldn't identify it as a C, A, E or L. 

"What was that?"

"A hamburger."

"Why did you draw a burger?"

"Because it's Valentine's Day, Mommy!  Ugh!"

I filled out the valentines myself.  If one letter of his name led to that much premature angst, it simply wasn't worth it.  Maybe we'd have better luck with some treats.


Some of Cael's favorite treats are the instant fudge squares I will occasionally make and decorate seasonally or simple let Cael vandalize with sprinkles and cat hair.  The idea, while customizable, was originally adorned with brightly colored conversation hearts for Valentines Day, so I knew it would be a fun choice for the party.

"Okay, Cael.  I need your help with these candies.  I need you to stick the candy on the top, okay?  Just pick out the ones that have clear letters."

"Okay.  But what do they say?"

"All sorts of stuff about love."

"What does this one say?"

"It says 'be mine'.  Can you hand me some candies?"

 Not being able to read the phrases on his own, Cael decided to ad lib.

"This one says 'snuggle'!"  (It didn't.)  "And this one says 'sharing'!"  (Nope, not so much.)  "And this one is a picture of me shooting Graham with a pretend gun!"

Where is the "God, please pray for the unwitting children we will traumatize tomorrow" candy when you need it?

Everything I Know I Learned on Super Bowl Sunday

1.  It takes six people, twelve hours and a team of horses to make a batch of cake pops.

2.  There is no such thing as too many appetizers for four adults. 

3.  There is no such thing as too many sippy cup lids for one dog. 

4.  If you are sent to the store for any variety of liquor, it is a virtual certainty that only the jug-sized bottle will remain on the shelves.

5.  It is also certain that two unopened bottles of the same liquor lay hiding somewhere in the house. 

Cocktail, anyone?

6. The kids are totally capable of staying awake until 10:30pm.

(6B.  I shouldn't have house guests again until I clean the microwave.)

7.  I am NOT capable of waking up at 6:00am. 

8.  Anything requiring great effort will spontaneously self-destruct.

9.  I will never know the players' names. 

10.  It's not about the game.  It's about friendship and family. 

I'm sure the Patriots would agree.



(I'm late posting today because we've been very busy.  Check back to find out what we've been doing!)

Practical Purchases

Home ownership is a full-time job.  Anyone who owns their own home can relate to the feeling of being a slave to every unreliable appliance and leaky pipe.  But for some reason, our not-that-old house of only 15 years has done more than enslave us- it has chained us up and brainwashed us like characters in a trashy soap opera. 

Near-death gas leak and eight floods aside, there are countless tasks that need to be accomplished and home-improvement related purchases that need to be made.  For example, our dishwasher and heartless captor is dropping plastic wheels and attachments like a leper with no will to live.  While I'm busy stealing parts from the dog's mouth and snapping them back in place, I'm trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid making eye contact with the creeping cement-like sludge that has encrusted the door and prevents the soap compartment from closing.  The residue is yet another reminder to get off the couch and refill the water softener, no doubt the source of the grime. 

With these conflicts in mind, Joel and I contemplated how best to spend this month's "miscellaneous" budget as we sat on the 2.5 stools that remain of the original four at our counter.

And what was the verdict?  New stools?  Master bathroom mini-remodel?  Brushed nickel knobs? 

Nope... a Playstation 3.

Someday my sons will thank me for the shining example of maturity Joel and I set for them.
I have to admit that it wouldn't have been my choice.  I have serious spending anxiety, and I envisioned those dollars being ground to a pulp, compressed into a wood-like product, and covered with a light cherry stain to adorn our stool-less kitchen.

"But the Playstation will let us get Netflix upstairs.  And the boys could play too, and give you a break every once in awhile."

Nice try.

"But if you don't see any games you like, then I don't want to get it.  We should all enjoy it."

Joel did earn some major brownie points for considering me.  But if there is one thing I am not, it is a "gamer".  Sure, I have the pasty complexion and spare tire that say otherwise, but I've never been able to find any video games that piqued my interest. 

I don't want to assassinate anyone.  I don't want to battle any sort of robot/villain/monster/alien for points/money/weapons/interstellar domination.  But sadly, the video game industry doesn't cater to overworked housewives.... even though they really should.

There are millions of women just like me out there, representing an untapped market of people who are quick, smart, and so mentally overworked that five minutes of mind-numbing virtual gaming might just be the answer to happiness.  But what games would interest these women?

Picture it with me.  (The graphics in my game would be unreal.). The mother character has just assembled the dinner casserole and is preparing to put it in the oven.  Our heroine's nemesis, the two evil toddlers, will stop at nothing to keep the casserole from baking so that they can eat hot dogs and French fries instead.  Armed with a spatula, an iPhone and a glass of wine, the mother must ward off the evil toddlers to get food on the table before the clock runs out.

Can't relate to that one?  I have countless other ideas... try this one on for size.

The game opens on the screen of a mother changing her baby's diaper.  She lovingly cleans the child, patting him with powder and delivers a kiss on his nose right as she sets the used diaper on the floor.  Just then, a small white dog runs into the picture and snatches the dirty diaper in his mouth.  Your new objective is to find the dog and stop him before he has time to devour the diaper.  Extra points available for getting the baby's pants on before completing your mission.

No, this diaper does NOT have poop in it.  Even I have standards.

How's that for suspenseful?

Sadly, these games exist only in my mind.  And until Nintendo calls with a job offer in their new "housewife/stay-at-home-mom" department, I'll have to be satisfied with my 2.5 stools.

That and Bejeweled.

Caelism of the Day

"Mommy, why do you sound funny?"

"My voice is almost gone." 

"Why is your voice almost gone?"

"I think I'm getting a cold.  Sometimes that happens." 

"Your voice is almost gone, but mine is already here!  I guess I win!"

"Oh, okay." 

"And guess what else, Mommy?"

"What?" 

"That means you lose." 

Touche.

Come On, Ride the Potty Train

Potty training your second child is supposed to be easier, right?  You've been the through the process and know the signs.  And better still, your second-born can look to their older sibling as a shining example of mature behavior and desirable bathroom etiquette.

But what if your older sibling does stuff like this?

As many of you know, I watch my neighbor's son three days a week, and we have been working hard to master his potty skills.  Seeing the fruit snack/M&M/Teddy Graham payout that his friend was receiving, Graham decided that he wanted to take a ride on the "potty train".

"I want treat!"

"You want a treat, too?  Well, then you have to go potty on the potty chair!"

"Otay."

So I depantsed him, aligned him properly on the potty so that all parts pointed in the appropriate direction, and, when he wanted me to shut the door for privacy, assured him that I would be back to check on him shortly.

I was so excited for the potential of a diaper-free household that I neglected to consider the possible repercussions of a two- year-old loose in the bathroom.  Naked.

The first time I checked on him I found him standing wet-footed in a puddle of his own making.  I sopped it up with a hand towel and centered him, once again, on the round, blue cushion.

What more could go wrong?

Clunk.  Tap, tap, tap.  It had only been three minutes, so he couldn't have gotten into too much trouble.  Maybe that tapping was his tiny knock at the door to let me know that he had laid a nice, robust log in his white and green potty.  Or maybe he had just lined up some of the bathtub toys and was systematically launching them at the bathroom door.

Yep, that sounds more like it.

I put him back into position, dangled a sack of fruit snacks in front of his face and begged him to stay on the chair or I would put his diaper back on and he would lose his opportunity to rot his teeth with tiny blue and green Toy Story characters. 

"You stay right here.  Don't get up until I come back, okay?"

"Otay."

"If you get up you won't get a snack."

"Otay."

While he was plotting his next move, I gathered up the various articles of urine-soaked clothing that both boys accumulated and carried it to the laundry room to wash.  While standing in the laundry room, a room that shares a wall with the bathroom, I could hear Graham grunting and huffing from his bathroom perch.

I considered the possibilities. 
1.  He's pooping.  (Hallelujah!)
2.  He's training for the Strang Man competition.
3.  He filled the bathub with A&D Ointment and is mud wrestling the cat.

Please let it be the cat.

When I went to check on him, I found Graham, stationed safely on his potty, as he fought fiercely to remove his shirt via an arm hole, with his socks up to his elbows on his arms.  And no poop in the potty.


My first mistake was believing that potty-training Graham might be easy.  My second mistake was trusting that Graham, no matter how sweet, could resist his instinctive drive to vandalize.  Whether it be the kitchen, the bathroom or his own diaper, a two-year old is built to destroy, and no amount of fruit snacks or M&Ms will stand in his way.

For now I'll keep hoping that a new technological breakthrough will train him in a single afternoon.  Is there an app for that?

A Real Can of Worms

My kids are smart.  And I don't mean that in a my-kids'-behavior-is-not-desirable-so-I-have-to-try-to-make-up-for-it-somehow kind of way.  I really mean it... they are smart.

Graham's early start with reading- Feb 2010

Graham is a reading and counting whiz.  He seems to be my little overachiever; already striving to impress me with each new scholastic conquest.  Cael, on the other hand, is a social vulture.  I say vulture rather than butterfly because he would not be satisfied to flutter about, chatting and interacting with multiple acquaintances.  Rather, Cael prefers to socially anihilate his friends with his in-your-face attitude and nonstop appetite for "play".  But one thing Cael isn't excited about-- just can't get drawn into-- is reading.

"Cael, do you want to read that Curious George book with me?  Or would you like to try to read your "Bob" books all by yourself?"

"No."

"Why not?  Don't you want to read?" 

"You can read it later."

"But wouldn't you like to read yourself, like a big boy?"

"No."

Enter Graham, eight books in hand and one trailing behind him from a piece of blanket string he'd unwoven in record time.

"See, Graham wants to read.  He's such a bookworm."

Ah, there it was.  I recognized the look of interest and focus as Cael finally met my eyes. 

"What did you call Graham?"  He asked with a smile.

"A bookworm.  Someone who really likes to read books." 

"That's funny, Mommy."

"Don't you want to be a bookworm?"

I kinda figured the answer was "no", but I was surprised by the incredibly ridiculous but logical process he used to formulate his answer. 

"No.  Graham really likes books, so he is a bookworm.  I really like trains, so I guess I'm a train-worm."

"Oh really... a trainworm?"

"Yep.  And I'm a baseball-worm.  And a Play-Doh-worm."

Creepy image.

"Are you a bookworm, Mommy?"

"I do really like to read, so I guess so." 

"And you really like to cook, so you're a food-worm!"

"That sounds kind of yucky, but you're right."

"We're all worms!"

"You're funny, Cael." 

"You know what I think is funny?"

Not really, because I'm afraid I already know.

"What is that?" 

"Poop!  I guess I'm a poop-worm!" 

And I'm calling an exterminator.

Caelism of the Day

I could barely keep Cael strapped down in his car seat yesterday as I drove him to preschool.  And while he always enjoys preschool, this occasion was more special and highly anticipated than any other...

Pajama Day.

I knew he was excited, but let's face it-- the traditional uniform of the four-year old, a t-shirt and some form of brightly colored pants adorned with the likeness of a favorite cartoon character, is hardly restrictive and could probably pass for pajamas most of the time anyway.  But with his best buddy Bloose at his side and wearing his ridiculously too-small Toy Story slippers, Cael was ready for a party fit for his dreams.

He was so excited, in fact, that he couldn't quite wrap his head around what was to come.

"Mommy, are all of the kids going to wear their peejees?"

"If they all remember, they will."

"What about my teachers?"

"I don't know if they will.  You'll have to wait and see what they're wearing when you get there."

"I'm sure they will.  Maybe they have guitar peejees like me."

"Cael, grown-ups don't usually wear pajamas like yours.  Actually, a lot of grown-ups just wear t-shirts and shorts or sweat pants to bed, like me."

"Does Daddy wear guitar peejees?"

"Nope.  Daddy just usually sleeps in his underpants."

"WHAT?  In only his underpants?"

"Yep.  He's under the covers so he doesn't get cold."

"I think I should just wear my underpants to school today!"

"No, that's not a great idea.  You'd get cold."

"But I'll have my slippers so that my toes stay warm."

"I think you should stick with what you're wearing."

"Okay.  I'll wear my guitar peejees and my teachers can wear their underpants!  Yea!  My teachers in their underpants!!" 

Perhaps I should find some black and white striped pajamas so he can get used to a different kind of uniform...