As I’ve mentioned already, Drake turned five recently. We had a party with friends and family in PA a few days prior, and he requested a dinosaur cake. Here’s what I made. While not as pretty as the model I worked from, I was pleased with the result, especially the white gumdrop teeth and pale green frosting, which I made by mixing pureed fresh spinach into a vanilla buttercream.
As soon as he got home from work, my husband G. Grod, 5yo Drake, 2.5yo Guppy and I piled in the car and headed west of Minneapolis to where G and I first lived when we moved here ten years ago, St. Louis Park. First, we went to Half Price Books, and found a huge pile of delightful books and dvds, all an extra 20% off. Then we went to Noodles and Company for supper (I love the Mushroom Stroganoff with Sriracha sauce), and Ben & Jerry’s for ice cream (I never get anything else besides Chocolate Therapy). We took a walk around part of Lake Calhoun, then headed home to get the boys ready for bed, during which Guppy peed in the potty for the second time, ever. Then G. and I watched an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer from Season 2, “The Dark Age.”
It was a wonderful evening.
Coming downstairs in the morning, 5yo Drake announced, “Mom, I have BAD NEWS.”
I replied calmly, “Oh? What is it?”
“BOTH my nostrils are BLOODY.”
I did a quick check. He had a little bit of dried blood around his nose, on his face and his pajamas. It’s weed season for allergies, and he’s had a tough time. I dabbed gently at his face with a tissue. “Better?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” he grinned, and ran into the kitchen for breakfast.
Later that day, I awoke from a nap to find Drake standing in front of me, panting and sobbing.
“Mom, I’m in GREAT DANGER in the basement!”
I took him in my arms and asked, for the second time that day, “Oh? What is it?”
“A SPIDER!” he said, continuing to tremble. “It MOVED!”
“Would you like me to kill it?”
“Yes!”
And so I took a shoe to the basement and killed a mostly harmless brown house spider. “Better?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” he grinned, and settled back down on the couch to finish his show.
When we returned to MN from the east coast, 5yo Drake began to snuffle pathetically, and his eye itched and wept. I called my retired-allergist father and asked what had triggered these allergies. He said mid August was weed season, early evening was the worst time of day, and had a few recommendations:
Children’s Benadryl
Opcon A
Nasalcrom
Air conditioning rather than open windows.
He said weeding the yard wouldn’t make much of a difference, since week pollen travels quickly and for long distances. Which is good, because I’m no match for all the weeds in our tiny yard.
5yo Drake and I enjoy different things at the fair. He wants to ride rides, watch rides, and eat cotton candy and caramel apples. I want to watch the chef demonstrations and food panels, visit the Fine Arts and Creative Activities buildings, eat a fish taco, drink minty lemonade and get a mocha frappe. Fortunately, there were a few things we agreed on and shared:
Fresh peach and pluot
Cedar Summit cups milk
Tom Thumb mini donuts
Lingonberry sno cone
Tater Tots on a stick
Wild rice hamburger
Roasted corn on the cob
1919 root beer
Nitro ice-cream cone
Next year I think we’ll go once as a family, and I’ll get a sitter so I can go by myself on MN Cooks Day.
your kid is in the same class as the kid of the guy from the band [you used to worship], commented my friend A.
A friend with no kids has a high pressure, high stakes job. One 12-hour shift, she experienced non-stop need–people needing her care, attention, and help with administrative details.
“It was utterly exhausting,” she said. “And I realized, this is what mothers deal with, EVERY DAY.”
The mothers among us nodded, and smiled tiredly. Yep.
Or merely human? Pre-parenthood, I had no idea how much mess, noise, chaos, poop, and screaming was in store. I thought there would be unpleasantness balanced with joy. But I’ve found the joy to unpleasantness ratio discouragingly low up to now, with kids at 2.5 and 5yo.
Many mothers have told me that the 5 and 7 sibling age period is when things improve. I doubt it is a coincidence that those ages mean that both children are in school.
It has been a long summer. Beautiful weather, and many joys. But also much drudgery and frustration. I think we’ll all be happy to spend time with other people when preschool starts next week.
We have moved 5yo Drake and 2.5yo Guppy into the same room, with Guppy on the bottom bunk and out of his crib. Bedtimes have been unpleasant in the week or so since it happened. Boys up, running about the house, trying to sneak peeks of the television and movies that G. Grod and I watch at night. And from us, there are escalating threats about horrors like closing the top-of-stair gate, turning off the hall light, and closing the bedroom door.
But the boys are waking later in the morning. I get quiet time to myself. But no trifecta yet; Guppy is waking at least once a night after the transition, and I’m wondering if I need to break out the Ferber and Mindell books again.
2:20 am.
THUMP. “Waaah!”
Me, up, out of bed, and saying, “G, wake up, I need you” as I rush into Drake and Guppy’s room, home to the new bunk bed. (I wish there was a video of this to submit to the Mom Olympic committee: how many seconds from sleep to rescue of a hurt child.)
2.5yo Guppy had fallen out of bed. He was upset, but unhurt–cried for a while, asked for some water and settled down. G, still groggy, wondered why I’d woken (awakened?) him.
And, to show that, in so many ways, kids are so alike, here is the story of when Drake had trouble with his crib.
During my recent visit with family, my husband G. Grod disassembled 2.5 yo Guppy’s crib, and put up bunk beds in 5yo Drake’s room. Guppy finally has all his teeth, and he slept well in a bed, and in the same room as Drake, when we were away. The transition home has been less than smooth. Guppy can climb up to Drake’s bunk, but not down. Drake excels at winding Guppy up, and the four of us have been up and down our three floors about an hour after “bedtime” every night trying to get them to settle. Loud thumps from jumping shake the house.
I hope the novelty wears off soon.
Our little family of four went to the MN State Fair this morning, foregoing the double-wide stroller so we could park n ride. I found that the closest park n ride to us, Highcrest Park, isn’t ideal. The buses aren’t frequent to and from even though they’re listed as running every 15, they run less often. We’ve done better at the surface lots at the U of MN. They’re a bit farther to drive, but a much shorter bus ride, with much more frequent buses.
It’s very hard to keep the boys moving; they’re prone to stop and stare. While some might romanticize this–oh, look, they’re stopping to smell the “roses” of the fair!–it can be quite frustrating for G. Grod and me, who aren’t mesmerized by dirty water trickling into a drain, bumper cars, and watching the sky ride cars go ’round. These are ironic, too, in that 5yo Drake refused to visit supposedly kid-friendly things like the baby animal barn. The boys’ initially slow pace wound down as the morning wore on, but they LOVED the river raft ride, kidway rides and sky ride. We ate pork chop on a stick–LOVE!–french fries and a strawberry malt for breakfast. For lunch, a pronto pup, fried cheese curds, lefse with butter and brown sugar, jerk sausage on a stick, birch beer and a pickle pop, the latter of which was, not surprisingly, a mistake. And I was careless with my sunscreen–my nose is red.
I still haven’t been to fine arts building, or the little farm hands with Drake, and there are still some favorite foods I haven’t gotten too, like the mocha on a stick, corn, lingonberry ice cream, Sweet Martha’s cookies, and mini donuts. Plus the Nitro ice cream and handmade tater tots sound good.
Oh, so much food and so much to see. So not-enough money and time.
I’m watching the season premiere of Sesame Street with my kids. Murray seems to be the monster of the show. I wonder if they’ll feature other monsters in an alternating manner. No Cookie Monster? Wrong. Just wrong.
I wish I hadn’t watched the Feist “1, 2, 3, 4″ video before this. It’s delightful, and would have been a joy to be surprised by. Jack Black’s octagon enthusiasm was pretty fun to watch.
Sara Mosle of Slate writes about traveling with her kid, and doesn’t feel the love for the GoGo Kidz Travelmate, which has been a staple of our family travel for over a dozen trips in three years now. It’s not perfect, but we’ve never had to remove the wheels at security. They either send it through a larger machine or wand it. We’ve been able to forgo taking a stroller when we visit family, and the thing gets so much attention in airports you’d think we were rock stars, which can be a nice little esteem boost on a harried traveling day.
Link there from Game Theorist, where the author agrees with Mosle on two points: buy a seat for your under-2 kid, especially if you’re parenting solo; and pack as if for a desert island.
I’ve found it’s good to prepare for the worst, with ample food, toys, books, diapers and bribes, ahem, rewards for good behavior. But paying for the seat? I never paid for a seat for Drake before he was two, even when I traveled alone with him. I’d haul the infant seat up to the checkin desk, ask if there was an available seat, which there always was, get moved so I had the adjacent seat, and voila: seat without paying for it. I was given this advice by kind author Jennifer Weiner, who I’d emailed before a trip to her hometown, Philly.
For now-2yo Guppy’s first two or three roundtrips, I had him in my Maya Wrap sling, with older brother Drake in the seat next to me. The Maya Wrap made it easy for me to transport baby Guppy and nurse him on ascent and descent to protect his ears. It also encouraged him to sleep, which he did for all but one very screamy Maya-Wrapped flight.
Which brings me to my travel advice, which is really more emotional than what to stock in your diaper bag. Yes, there are a few things I do, like give my kids a prophylactic dose of Tylenol before they fly. (Many swear by Benadryl, but many also curse it because it can backfire and make the kid wired, instead.) I am also not afraid to ask for help from flight attendants and strangers.
But the thing that’s held me in best stead over flights both good and terrible is to know that flying with kids is largely about luck. Sometimes it’s good–weather’s good, kid is good, all is well. Sometimes it’s bad–flight delayed, long time on plane without moving, blowout diaper, peed-in pants, inconsolable screaming. And I won’t know what kind of luck I’ll get till the trip is done. So I tell myself to enjoy it if it’s good, and try not to flip out if it’s bad. I try to remain calm, apologize within reason to those around me (many of whom have told me not to worry; they had umpteen kids at home and they know what it’s like and can they give me a hand?), and put on the best parenting behavior that I can, even when (note, not “if”) I’ve felt like screaming and crying, or running to the restroom to hide.
This week’s 2.5 hour flight with the kids was a dream. The flight left on time, arrived early, and the kids never fussed. They were happy with books the whole time. I enjoyed it. And I can only hope that we’ll have such a good experience on the return flight. But I know, too, what to do when (note, not “if”) it doesn’t go as well.
And so is his geek initiation. Last night was a pretty typical night in our house. We put the boys in bed by 8:30pm, then my husband G. Grod and I repaired to the basement to watch television, which is about all we feel up to after wrangling the boys (2 and 4) into bed. Earlier this week, SciFi reran a few Doctor Who episodes from Season 1 that introduced Captain Jack Harkness (not yet of Torchwood), as well as references to the phrase that ended last Friday’s US airing of “Turn Left.”
It is not unusual while we’re watching to hear the pitter patter of little feet overhead on our creaky hardwood floors. G. Grod and I take turns to go up and tell 4yo Drake to go back to bed. He’s usually grabbing some toy cars to take upstairs. He calls them his “contestants,” a la PBS’ Fetch with Ruff Ruffman. I’ve learned to search his bed after he’s asleep to remove the cars. More times than I care to count, G. Grod and I have been startled awake in the wee small hours by the sound of a Matchbox car falling out of Drake’s bed onto the hardwood floor.
Last night, though, all was quiet. We watched the two-episodes that ended Season 1 of Dr. Who, and that had some pretty dramatic events. G. and I were discussing them afterwards, when Drake appeared in the hallway of our basement, with a please-don’t-yell-at-me-for-being-awake-because-look-how-cute-I-am! smile on his face. We admonished him for still being awake, when he got a grumpy look on his face, crossed his arms in front and moved them up and down, as if he were in a hip-hop video.
“What,” he enunciated slowly, “was that city flying across the sky?”
G. Grod and I exchanged a look. Drake clarified.
“That building, I mean.”
“How long have you been watching, there?” G. Grod asked with some concern.
A quick interrogation proved he’d watched the entirety of the last, pretty scary episode, and he had many questions.
“What were those things? With bumps?”
“Daleks, Drake.”
“And that thing with one eye, it said it couldn’t die. Hey, I made a rhyme! But, what did it mean?”
“Um, that it thought it would live forever.”
We shooed him up to bed. He fell asleep quickly, I removed the cars from his bed.
I think we’re going to have to get a motion detector in our basement. Dr. Who is one thing, but I’m thinking of renting Apocalypse Now sometime soon. Yikes.
2yo Guppy, screaming. I stumble in, give him water, which usually appeases him. He continues to moan. I return to bed, hoping he’ll settle. He doesn’t, and his cries increase in volume. I return, pat his back, and ask what’s wrong. I ask if he wants a hug. He nods and stands up, then quiets down.
I tell him to lay back down with his friends Snake and Baby Elmo. Guppy suddenly is in a rage.
“I DON’T _WANT_ BABY ELMO!” he yells, picking up the toy and flinging it across the room, and beginning to cry again. I am at a loss.
“More water?” I ask, and am surprised when he agrees. He finishes the cup, and asks for more. I get some from the bathroom, then return, and his screams rise in pitch.
“BUT _I_ WANTED TO GET WATER!”
It is too dark for him to see me roll my eyes. “OK, Guppy, I’ll take you out of the crib, we’ll go into the bathroom, dump out this water, and you can fill the glass again.” My sarcastic tone and sigh were to make me feel better; I knew he wouldn’t get it.
“O-TAY,” he says, petulantly. But we do exactly that, and I return him to the crib. He has quieted, and I ask him if it’s all right if I go. He says yes, and I beat a hasty retreat before he changes his mind.
I was aware of Helen Oxenbury’s work before I had children, because I oversaw the kids’ section at a large used-book store. But I didn’t own any of her books till after I had my own child. The first thing that raised my interest was an article I can no longer find*, I think from the Guardian or Times, about best books for children that included at least one of Oxenbury’s quartet, Say Goodnight, All Fall Down, Clap Hands and Tickle, Tickle. The second was a post by kidlit/librarian blogger Book Moot about Farmer Duck, whose author is Martin Waddell. We owned, and both Drake and I loved, Owl Babies, by the same author. It had humor, and a wonderful almost-rhyming text that was a joy to read. Farmer Duck, a Parent’s Choice award winner about a lazy farmer who takes advantage of his hard-working duck, delighted us as well. Finally, a comment from a reader (was that you, Loretta?) about the Tom and Pippo series made me seek those out. After Guppy was born, we bought all four of Oxenbury’s baby books that were recommended in that first article, Michael Rosen’s We’re Going on a Bear Hunt, and the four “I” books: See, Hear, Can, and Touch. He adored all of them, and they were his favorites for a long time. Now that Drake is nearly 5, I’ve added the Helen Oxenbury Nursery Collection and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and both these are often off the shelf.
Many of Oxenbury’s books, such as the Tom and Pippo series, and the charming It’s My Birthday, are out of print. But they’re still in circulation at many libraries, and on the shelves at used bookstores. I highly recommend Oxenbury’s illustration. She captures something that clearly speaks to my children, and draws them into the books. Her style is distinctive and accessible, yet not saccharine.
I highly recommend the books I mention above. Seek out those in print so that they stay in print. Perhaps we’ll be fortunate to see others come back.
(For anyone who wants to have a go at finding it, here’s what I recall. It was an English best-of list, probably from 2005. It included work by Oxenbury, Shirley Hughes (Alfie’s 1 2 3 or A B C) Julia Donaldson’s The Gruffalo, and Baby Brains. But I may be conflating two lists. I think it was a part of a series of many best-ofs, like novels, or non-fiction, and not just confined to the previous year.)
Day before yesterday, 4yo Drake woke at 2:30 am crying.
“I dreamed bugs were all over my feet, Mom!” he wailed.
I checked the bed, and assured him that they were in his dream, not in real life. “And Daisy and Duckie are ducks (referring to some of his loveys), and they eat bugs, so they’ll protect you.”
“BUT THEY’RE NOT REAL, MOM!”
I pause, think. “But neither are the bugs in your dream, honey.”
He pauses, thinks. “Oh, OK.” Turns over and shuts his eyes.
This morning, 3am, 2yo Guppy started to yell. I stumbled into his room.
“Drake’s being really mean to me, Mom!”
I, figuring this need not be dignified with an answer, placated him with a drink of water, and returned to my bed. What, it’s not enough that I have to endure their fights all day, but I have to deal with bad-dream versions, too? Oy. And poor Guppy doesn’t even get a break from his younger-sibling torment in his dreams.
I took 4yo Drake to Wall E last weekend. I told him if he got scared we could leave; last year we left Ratatouille early on. This year things went much better. He got scared toward the end, but agreed to stay when I promised him Wall E would be OK. He thought Eve the robot was really cute, and he laughed aloud (as I did) many times, during both the short movie about the magician and the feature film.
I loved this film. The visuals and wordless story were so transporting that I often forgot I was in a theater, much less watching an animated film. The two lead robots are charming; the plot about fat/wasteful humans is on the obvious side, but not obnoxiously so.
We saw an afternoon show. There were many families there, and part of what made the experience enjoyable was listening to the kid commentary along the way. One girl summed it up well as the credits began to roll, “That was a GOOD movie!”
Discovered later, from link at The Morning News, a very sweet story about Pixar and Wall E. (Note: link fixed; thanks Becca!)
Joshua Gans at Game Theorist (”Musings on economics and child rearing”) blogging about disciplining his youngest child:
When it comes down to it, this blog is a censored version of my parenting life. It is not and I do not claim it to be a full record. And when it comes to Child No.3, who is soon to turn 4, the terrible twos have seemed to lasted well beyond what one would have hoped.
Same here at Girl Detective. I try not to gripe about the daily grind; if I do I try to make it humorous. But my husband G. Grod and I have struggled with discipline issues, too. Gans’ post is long, but I found it worthwhile itself, and for the Slate article it linked to on timeouts. Both are matter-of-fact about dealing with kids. Gans candidly calls his struggles “the war” and the Slate piece mentioned, more than once, the desire of a parent to hit a child when things escalate.
Before I had kids, I didn’t believe I ever would, or even would want to, hit a child. (All you parents of multiple kids may now take a break to laugh your heads off.) As with most (all?) of my pre-parenting “I nevers,” this got proved wrong pretty quickly. Parenting books say things like “model the behavior you want” and “don’t lose your temper.” Good ideas in theory, but much harder in practice. And frequently not effective, even if done “correctly.”
Both the Gans entry and the Slate piece are refreshing in their realism. The Slate piece points out that most people misunderstand the purpose of timeouts, and offers these useful guidelines:
1. brief
2. immediate
3. done in isolation from others,
4. administered calmly…and without repeated warnings