Out of Context

In a family that is as linguistic as mine, it should come as no surprise that my boys have certain words and phrases that make constant rotation in their speech.  For Graham, nothing is better than uttering, "Oh, great!", dripping with sarcasm, not only when things don't go his way, but also when they do, like when he gets his dessert, or I tell him we're going to pull out the Play Doh and he's free to sculpt poop out of the green dough.

Cael's language has always been questionable, but he hasn't used any particular phrases repetitively until this week, after a misunderstanding turned the word "crocodile" until "taco dial".  Almost immediately, tacos sprung up in every conversation and in multiple incarnations until he settled on one in particular that seems to have stuck... taco supreme.

In the words of Graham, oh great.

Credit to Taco Bell

Cael doesn't even know what taco supreme means.  Sure, he's had a taco, but the entire phrase is foreign to him save for the persistent and reliable laughter it brings him when he says it.  And boy, does he ever say it.

"Check out this huge tower I made with the magnet tiles, Mom.  Oh, yeah, taco supreme!!"

"It's really windy outside, Mom.  It's blowing taco supreme hard out there."

"Graham, give that back!  You are such a cheese weasel!"

(Okay, that last one wasn't about tacos.  But what the heck is a cheese weasel?)

I should probably knock on wood that I'm not dealing with profanity at this stage, although that has popped up time and again, thanks to new friends at school with new words to share.  But I do long for the simplicity of the days when Cael was little and his best means of expressing his frustration was to repeat Thomas the Train's locomotive-related outbursts.  Fizzling fireboxes!  Cinders and ashes!

Now times are more complicated and here I sit, with a sarcastic four year old, a six year old with an affinity for mexican food-related comments, and an ever-growing bump in my belly that still doesn't have a name.

"Hey, Mom.  You know what would be a good name for the baby?  Taco Supreme!"


"Oh, great, Cael..."

Ism of the Week

"Mom, I really like this picture of you and Daddy because he looks so young."

"Why is that?"

"He looks young because he doesn't have his beard and mustache in this picture."

"Yep, and ladies don't grow hair on their faces, do they?"

"No.  Well, not much."

"What are you talking about, Cael?"

"There's this old lady that works at my school and she's got a really hairy face.  I asked her if she wasn't shaving until summer like Daddy but I don't think she heard me."

"Oh, Cael, tell me you didn't."

"I didn't."

"Really?"

"No, I totally did."

That's Cael for you, always getting into a hairy situation.  My apologies to the mystery school employee.

X or Y?

As many of you may recall, Friday was the big day of our gender reveal ultrasound.  And...

...it's a boy!

So, this is where I provide the traditional pregnancy disclaimer where I say that I will love him no matter what, and I just want a healthy baby, yada yada yada, which I've always understood but found a little ridiculous.  I've never heard a mother prefer an unhealthy baby over a healthy one of the opposite gender, and of course I will love this baby the same if it were a boy, a girl or a ferret.

That being said, I am a little disappointed.  Not with the boy we'll have, but with the knowledge that I'll never get to experience having a daughter.  No pretty dresses or fake press-on nails, no Barbie dream house and no shopping for Prom.  And in my family, where this child will be my Dad's seventh consecutive grandson (with not one girl in sight), it feels like a let down for everyone. 

Give me a few days and I'll be over it, though, because I know how sweet it is to nuzzle a brand new baby boy.  But until then, here are a few key phrases to avoid when speaking to me on this subject: 


"Sorry he's not what you wanted." 
That's not true.

"Just dress him up like a girl anyway.  He'll never know."
Seriously?

"Just keep trying until you get that girl."
Ouchy.

"Trust me, you don't want a girl anyway."
Yeah, I did. 

But that's okay.  Now I don't need to buy much to prepare for his arrival, and I won't have to pay for anybody's wedding.  And let's face it, if I get another boy like the two I've already got, I'll be a pretty lucky woman.

Or I'll be in serious trouble.  It's too early to tell.

Pregnancy Brain

I'm kind of scatter-brained at times, and that is a frustrating admission for a Type-A person like myself.  So when I realized late last night that I had not posted anything on this here blog in two full days without as much as a thought about it, I knew what was to blame.

Pregnancy Brain.

If you've had a baby, you know how it is.  Your body is so busy constructing a human that some of the energy previous allotted for brain function gets diverted for creating microscopic toenails or signaling to your stomach that you can, in no way, eat grape jelly on anything.

For me, pregnancy brain has generally manifested as forgetfulness, an excuse that I wield shamelessly each and every time I misplace something or forget something important. 

Forgetting "Pajama Day" at Graham's preschool last week?
Pregnancy Brain.
Sending Cael with two pieces of dry bread in his lunch because I forgot the peanut butter?
Pregnancy Brain. 

But no conversation about maternity-related foolishness would be complete without mentioning my experience while carrying Cael, and the holy grail of pregnancy brain atrocities.

When Cael was on the way, I had no other kids at home to blame for my stupidity, just a loosely house-trained puppy, a full time job, and a big pile of dirty laundry that was getting increasingly difficult to handle with my protruding belly.

I dumped the dark colored items into the washer, turned it on, and waited while it washed away the grime.  When it was time to move the clothing into the dryer, I hardly noticed that I couldn't detect the smell of detergent, and definitely didn't notice the wet, crumpled dryer sheets that were agitated with our shirts and pants. 

I did notice, however, when I pulled those same things from the dryer an hour later and found that everything was stiff and crusty from the baked-on detergent that coated the inside of the machine.

Yep, I put the dryer sheets in the washer, and the detergent in the dryer. 

Pregnancy Brain.

I can look back on it now with a chuckle and only a little embarrassment, realizing how ridiculous a mistake it really was.  So please forgive me for not posting earlier in the week, because I had a really good excuse.

Pregnancy Brain.  

That and also the fact that it took me three days to remember my Blogger login information.  Is it June yet?

What's In a Name?

I've thought a lot about baby names recently, for obvious reasons, and I think I am even farther from making a decision than I was when I got that first positive test result.  I shouldn't be surprised, then, by the dream I had last night that my baby was assigned a name by the hospital from a rotating list as if he or she were a hurricane about to make landfall.

And the name given to my baby?  Gertrude Wilbur.

Sure, you don't usually see a girl's name and a boy's name on the same birth certificate, but this is my overly hormonal subconscious talking, and this particular combination is probably not on my list.  But the even bigger dilemma is that I have no list.  I love the names we chose for our boys, and the way they suit their childhood personalities so well but would also sound sophisticated on the nameplate of a future architect or lawyer.  Cael Thomas... Graham Elliott...  Gertrude Wilbur?

There are so many odds stacked against us.  Our last name Foreman nearly eliminates any more modern choice ending in -an, -en, or -on, because they feel as though they rhyme.  We've exhausted boys' names and no longer find anything appealing, and as a teacher, Joel knows a girl with nearly every conceivable name and wants something new for our child that comes with no preconceived notions.

Maybe we need to take a step back and look to others for advice.  When Cael and Graham were asked, we were provided with the following suggestions:  

Chinateen

Catapult

Sweaty Balls

Hot Potato

Sweetie Pie

Pinkyboo

Hmm... not quite my style.  I do like names that are not frequently used, though, so maybe we should look to celebrity baby naming trends to choose something fresh and unique.  Perhaps something like:

South Wynd
Axl Rod

Oranje Julius

Moonbeam Sunshine

Yikes.  Sometimes it feels like we'll never come to a decision, so I am glad I still have until June to come up with a moniker that all of us enjoy.  

And if all else fails, we can always go with George Foreman.

Pushing the Point

One thing I really struggle with is how hard to stress a point with my boys.  For example, when a child grinds cereal into the carpet and pours milk on top because, naturally, "cereal needs milk, Mom", you can't laugh if off, or you'll inherit the cost of outfitting your home with vinyl flooring.  Similarly, if you throw the book at them (don't really throw a book, you know) they just might develop a food aversion to cereal and then you'd have make fresh scrambled eggs for breakfast each day, and who has the time?

It can be really hard to find that middle ground, and last night I went too far.  Considering that we had struggled through a very challenging day, I thought I was being charitable by letting the boys use their bathtub crayons to scribble their names and vandalize the shower walls with rudimentary rear ends.  I stepped out from time to time to flip my kale chips in the oven, and upon my return one of those times, I noticed that the water was a bit murky.  Quickly, my brain scanned through the possible causes.

Vomit?  No, no one is sick.
Poop?  Not enough laughter.
Cereal and milk?  Sounds like something they'd do, but I was in the kitchen and saw no such heist.
Then, using my mothering detective abilities, I scanned the room and zoned in on the roll of suspiciously low and crumpled toilet paper, and it all clicked.  When Cael had stepped out quickly to use the toilet, he'd returned with a souvenir from his trip, and he and Graham spent the duration of their bath swimming with millions of shreds of floating paper.

I found myself in the same dilemma as before.  If I drained the tub and filled it up again, giving them another chance at a bath and not teaching them the reasons why it is disgusting to bathe in what I can only hope was clean toilet paper, they'd surely graduate to napkins or cardboard boxes within the month.  So I quickly pulled them from the tub, dried and dressed them, and sat them down to explain what a poor decision they'd made.  Putting toilet paper in the water is unclean.  The pipes could clog.  And as a result, the basement could flood.  Again.

They had to sit quietly and think about it, had a few minutes to clean up, and after I read them a story, tucked them into bed.  Before I could leave the room, however, it began.

"Do you have enough money to pay a plumber to fix the toilet?"

"Mom, will we wake up underwater tomorrow?"

"Will we ever get to take a bath again?"

"If the basement floods, will we die?"

I couldn't send them to bed thinking they'd drown during the night, so I had to concede a bit.

"No, guys.  If the bathtub clogs, which it didn't seem to do, it would just mean that I couldn't drain it next time.  There's no way the house will flood as long as the water isn't turned on.  You can go to sleep now... I promise you will be fine."

I gave them an extra kiss for good measure and shut the door, frustrated that I'd scared them so badly but glad they had at least considered the consequences and sure it wouldn't happen again. 

"Psst, Graham.  If the bathtub is fine, next time we should swim with your underpants!"

So close.

Potty Mouth

I got pretty lucky with my boys.  We never went through the aggravating biting or hitting stages, and despite a uniquely intense desire to trash our home, Cael and Graham's behavior is pretty typical of children their age.

Along with that typical behavior, I understand, is a love for all things inappropriate.  Body parts, things that stink, bottoms, diapers, belches and armpits.  These things and more are like catnip-laced crack for four and six year-olds.  But as time has passed, their interest in bathroom humor has grown exponentially, just like their ability to produce gas (and laughs) on command.

At first, my husband (a former boy) reassured me that this activity falls under that rhetorical list of What Boys Do that mothers will never understand.  I have also placed "beating each other senseless and coming back for more" on the list, right behind "eating sandwiches into the shape of a weapon".  He urged me to let it go, and know that this too, as many say, will pass.

Expect it didn't.  It hasn't, that is, and now it bothers him as much as it does me.

Their bone-deep need to be inappropriate is like a terrible itch that, if they had any semblance of control I would likely let them scratch from time to time just to get it out of their system.  But that itch has become an obsession and I can barely speak without triggering a vicious cycle of bathroom humor hatred.  I speak some innocuous word that causes laughter; laughter leads to lack of control; lack of control leads to forced farts; and forced farts cause laughter again.

And let me just say that you don't want to be trapped in a car with them when this laughter > loose bowel > fart cycle hits.

It goes something like this.

"Okay, boys, who wants to go with me into Target?"

"We just want to go home."

"Okay, but if I don't--"

"Hahaha!  Graham, Mommy said 'butt'!"

"I did not, I was just saying that--"

"Butt!  Butts and poop!  Poop stinks, Cael!  Your butt is stinky too, when you poop!"

"Graham, that's enough.  I was just saying that if I don't run into Target I can't get noodles and peas for--" 

"Pee!  Like peeing in a toilet or in a diaper like a baby!  Mommy pees in a diaper!  I have to tell my teacher that Mom pees her pants into a diaper!  I bet my teacher pees her pants, too.  I'll tell her that and she'll think it's funny."

"It's not funny, Cael.  Neither your teacher or I pee our pants.  We are far past the point where stuff like that is funny." 

"Point, Cael!  Like pointing a toot at you.  Excuse me!  Excuse me!"

And then the air turns green and my hair goes straight.

It seems like too ridiculous an offense to escalate to timeouts and loss of privileges, but we are far beyond the point of ignoring the constant, never-ending, mind-grating bathroom banter.

So what is a Mom to do?  (Do, not doody.)  I just hope to nip this in the bud (the BUD!) before I expel a little potty talk of my own. 

"Mom said potty!"

%*(&$!