Always Be Closing

It's been a while since I've seen the movie Glengarry Glen Ross, but I do remember one important piece of advice - Always Be Closing.

Our family is going to The Nutcracker this month and mom and dad are excited to share this holiday favorite with our kids. The Pacific Northwest Ballet's production is particularly exciting because the sets are done by Maurice Sendak. I haven't been in years, not since having kids, and I am giddy with excitement to see this Christmas tale again.

Not so much excitement for our boy Turbo. Emphasis on boy.

When we told Turbo we were going to The Nutcracker ballet, I think all he heard was blah-blah-blah ballet, because his only comment was, "Yuck. I don't like girl stuff." And he wrinkled his nose and sneered a little and looked at us like we were nuts.

Then Turbo got invited to a birthday party, which happened to be at the same time as The Nutcracker. When we told Turbo that he couldn't go to his pal's party because we were going to be at the ballet, he reminded us again about his strong dislike for this girl stuff. And he through in some frantic eyebrow maneuvers for good measure.

Last night I took a different approach. I put on my sales and marketing hat and went to work.

Me: "Turbo, we're getting our Christmas tree on Sunday."

Turbo: "Yeah!"

Me: "And then we're going to The Nutcracker in Seattle."

Turbo: "Mom, I already told you. I don't like that girl stuff."

Me: "You might be surprised. Did you know there are bad guys with swords? There is a Rat King who fights some soldiers and maybe some of them even die."

Intrigued eyebrows shot up.

Then Turbo and I watched a YouTube clip of the Rat King fighting with his swords. And Turbo saw what a ballet really was - he pretty much had the wrong idea, whatever that was. I boiled it down to this, "It's people dancing to music with no words and they tell a story. Some of the stories are for girls and some of the stories are something everybody could like."

Sold. Always Be Closing. ABC.

Here is how mom and dad are selling The Nutcracker to our very different children:

Selling ballet to a 5 year old boy

Selling ballet to a girl

Lipsie Returns

She's baaaack!

Last year we started doing the Elf on the Shelf thing with great success for our then 4 year old. This year both kids, now 3 and 5, are totally into the whole experience. Shrieks of delight pepper our quiet morning home each morning as Lipsie's new location is discovered.

Each morning they run downstairs to find Lipsie - still love this name that Turbo chose last year! - and Turbo usually finds he first and then wakes a bleary-eyed-but-smiling Smiley to "let" her find Lipsie too. Turbo is not great at secrets, but, then, what kid is?

Here is Lipsie on day one - with a healthy reminder to mom and dad to get rid of this old plant that decorates a high, forgotten shelf in the kitchen. Three days in and the plant is still there. Yeah, we have other priorities around these parts.

Hey, Lipsie, can your Christmas magic bring that plant back to life?

Cross-cross applesauce in a partially finished Lego toy

Reminding us to wear warm hats on this 20-degree days

Speed Goldbug

Richard Scarry, I love you, but your books are looooong.

When I was a kid, the book titled Cars and Trucks and Things That Go was referred to as "Where's Goldbug?" Because the point of the book was to find this little tiny gold bug on every single page. Sure, there were also fascinating vehicles like the pickle car and the alligator car and the lemon car, but also, cleverly hidden on each and every page, was Goldbug. Often his little eyes and antennae were the only bits of him peaking out of a hot dog or ambulance or train so it could take a while to find him.

Where's Goldbug?

I loved these Richard Scarry books as a kid. I used to spend a lot of time wondering what it would be like to grow up and live in a shoe, or drive a banana mobile, or visit zoos where the animals held balloons. Even today theses books are one of my favorite gifts to give kids, and yet, when my kids are allowed one more book before bed and they choose one of these lengthy tomes, I inwardly groan. To my kids I say, "OK, let's do this." But really I'm checking the clock to see if we even have enough time to get to the middle of the book.

Now don't get me wrong, I really do love the details in these stories and if it's the first book we choose I usually enjoy it as much as the kids. It's when we're done reading and it's truly time for bed and I let the kids talk me into another book (because I also secretly love bed time snuggles and books), that I hope and pray for a shorter read.

Turbo knows this. When he's on his last book, whether it's an extra one or just the last of his allotted 5 books, he seeks out the longest book he can find. In the light of day I'm flattered. He wants to spend extra time with me? Ahh, shucks! But I know what he's doing, cheeky fellow.

Once daddy takes Smiley to bed, Turbo and I have time for one more book with just us. Tonight when the final book selected was the Cars and Trucks, I told him we didn't have enough time to do the whole book.

Turbo: "When I choose a book, we have to read the whole thing."

Mom: "Um, no. But I'll tell you what. We can play Speed Goldbug and do as many pages as we can in five minutes. We won't read the book, but we will look for Goldbug on each page."

Game on. Turns out we both had so much fun finding Goldbug that we laughed our way through the novel and I didn't look at the clock. Nicely done, Mr. Scarry. Nicely done. Thank you for spanning generations and providing opportunities for more quality with my children.

Creating New Traditions

I love Christmas.

My childhood Christmases were filled with homemade ornaments, garlands of freshly made popcorn strung with cranberries, and cold boot-wearing treks through snow to chop down our own trees.

And, no, I did not grow up in a Normal Rockwell painting. But it was pretty great, if you ask me.

For the memories of Christmas that I love, I want to repeat all of these treasured details with my own kids and yet I also recognize the value of creating our own traditions.

We live in a neighborhood with lots and lots of houses decorated with lots and lots of Christmas lights. There is also a plethora of lit-up woodland creatures, various snowmen (and snow-women and snow-children), and countless Santas... Construction Santa, Chimney Santa, Sleigh Santa, Shovel Santa, Santa-and-His-Reindeer Santa, Climb-in-Your-Window Santa (erm, the non-creepy kind).

Driving home from the kids' school last night I look at left instead of a right. Turbo, ever my alert observer, said, "Hey. This isn't the way home." To which I quipped, "No s***, Sherlock."

Kidding! Sheesh, I hope you didn't believe me.

To which I replied, "That's right, honey. I thought we'd go see some Christmas light before we go home."

Both Turbo and Smiley squealed with delight at the first house, which, by design of my genius left-instead-of-right move, brought us to one of those thoroughly decorated homes where the owners probably need eye masks to block out the light while sleeping. And I squealed too. I love these crazy decorations. Or, as Smiley said, "Oh, mom! Yook at all dose decowations!"

Sample house. Not actual size or neighborhood. 

I told the kids that we'd go find new Christmas decowations every night after school. We shook hands to make it official.

One day later... on tonight's drive home I was feeling a bit tired from a long day at work and considered driving straight home. Maybe the kids won't remember, said the little voice in my head.

Turbo, "Mom, remember how you said we were going to look at Christmas lights every day? Take a left, mom."

And I took a right, just to show him who is boss, and drove around a few loops near our house and both Turbo and Smiley provided a play-by-play of the lights outside of their respective windows - ya know, in case I wasn't looking at the same set of lights.

I think I'm going to like this new tradition.

Deep Thoughts

by Turbo Handy*

Tonight when I picked up Turbo from school, there was a well-worn paperback in his cubby along with a note, reading, "Please repair or replace." And then an explanation that Turbo had torn the book three times today.

The first tear was an accident, as he was grabbing the book off of a refrigerator (no clarification as to why books are in such cold places), but apparently the next two times were out of 4-year-old curiosity, as in, "say, I wonder what happens when I go like this."

When I asked Turbo why he ripped the book he gave me the most unexpected answer. I have come to depend on the "I don't know" answer and am now proudly skilled at getting a real answer out of my I-don't-know child. I was ready for the "I don't know." I was not ready for the existential dialogue that ensued.

Me: "Turbo, why did you rip this book?"
Turbo: "Because...I don't know what is life."
Me: "What does that mean?"
Turbo, shrugging: "I don't know what it is to be."

Whoa. Wax on, little buddy, wax on.

I did ask him if he'd like me to explain what life is. He said yes, and then I was at a loss for words. I'm going to revisit this important topic tonight at bed time. I love my little philosopher!


*invoking the very funny Jack Handy of SNL fame.

Wishing Wells

Tonight I read a new library book to Turbo. In the book was a shooting star and the two adorable characters made wishes on the star.

Turbo closed his eyes, turned his head to the wall and wished, "I wish that I could live inside your heart."

And so you do, little one. And so you do.

Turning Three

This blog entry might also be titled, Pinkmond.

One of my favorite quips to ever so wisely share with other moms is, "I thought two was hard until I met three."  Well, I'm happy ready to report that this is still right on the money in our home.

Of my two kids, Turbo has been the most challenging. Have you picked up on that? I mean, his nickname is Turbo. This kid loves to push the boundaries and seems to ask with each clever maneuver, "Is this the edge?" "How about this, is this the edge?" Repeat. He's also turning five soon and mellowing considerably. I can take him to movie theaters now (rejoice!), he's easily engaged in the latest Ninjago-Lego-sheriff role-playing games he's excitedly dreamed up, and I can look him squarely in the eye and tell him, "I know what you're up to." And he gets it and smiles back at me.

Smiley, on the other hand, has always been "my easy one." I have tried to avoid this phrase for worry it would creep into my spoken words at home and I would never want Turbo to think he's "the challenging one." Smiley from day one has been textbook on sleeping, eating, everything, and is, almost always, smiling. She is sweet, sweet, sweet.

Oh how the tables have turned. Smiley will be three soon and has found her scream. She startled herself to tears a couple of times by the intensity of her own screams, and looked around in panic for comfort from her mama. I remember asking her on one vociferous occasion, "Did that scream scare you?" "Yes," she nodded and sobbed and held me tight around the neck. Still cute. Still sweet, and now with an edge. A pink, wears-only-dresses, edge.

Earlier today our family was outside enjoying this extended stretch of sunny weather (thank you, weather gods), and my husband and I talked about options for replacing our deck, or at least the boards that are showing ground beneath them and thus creating alarms in my head every time I send the kids outside to play. It's time to get serious about deck repairs. Before long my husband had his tape measure out and both kids showed enthusiasm in their own unquie styles.

Turbo: "Dad, that's my tape measure. Give it to me."
Smiley: "I want a pink tape measure."

Say, they actually make pink tape measures. Can you say, birthday present?

The girl loves pink. And dresses. And sandals. And with her curly hair, one cannot help but conjure up the old nursery rhyme, "there once was a girl, who had a little curl..." Oh, Smiley, please never tip the scales to horrid.

One of my very favorite things about Smiley is that she has so much to say. Before she had the muscles for real words, she would wake each morning as a smiley, happy chatterbox. When she really started talking, probably at the precise moment she turned 2.5, she surprised me with her thoughtful reflections. Had I not been so busy these past 12 months, I probably would have recorded each and every one of them. I've got a lot of time to make up, so here is one fantastic kidlogical-kid logic moment that happened about 60 minutes ago.

INT.  Family Car - Evening
Smiley: "What town are we in?"
Me: "Redmond."
Smiley, with utmost certainty: "No, Pinkmond."

Kid Logic, Kidlogical

They say it takes two to three weeks to either break a bad habit or start a new (presumably) good one.

Well, darn it, I got out of practice with blogging again and I sorely miss it. I like to tell myself you've missed me too. Time to get writing again, even if just to remember how grand it feels to hear the clicks and clacks of my keyboard and how magical it can feel when the words pour from my mind onto these pages.

My darling son Turbo has an inquisitive mind. I love that about him. Or, in Internet-speak, I <3 that about him.

With fresh fruit more abundant at grocery stores these days, my husband and I have started introducing the idea of dessert after a few meals each week. So far, we've had strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries. Somehow, even though we are far far away from summer, the blackberries have been the overwhelming favorite as they were oh-so-juicy and not even a little bit tart. These kids are in for a rude awakening the first time we come across them growing on the local walking paths. "Sure you may eat those." "Mom, ew, these are terrible!" Or at least those are my memories when I ate them too soon in the season as a kid.

Tonight dessert was strawberries and before I describe the hilarious and beautiful kidlogical moment, I want to take a moment to pat myself on the back for introducing the concept of dessert without it having to mean piles of chocolate chip cookies or mounds of vanilla ice cream smothered in buttery caramel sauce... mmm, is anyone else hungry?

I am quite sure I do plenty of things the 'wrong' way (even though I swear there is no right or wrong in parenting), but this one feels right. Fruit is so naturally sweet and delicious and also full of fiber and other goodies. And I'm sure we'll have our chocolate nights too, but only after fruit is well-established as the norm.

All hail the strawberry!

Kidlogical moment #1
Turbo: "Mom, why are they called strawberries when they aren't made out of straws?"

Kidlogical moment #2

Turbo: "Mom, why are they called walkie-talkies when we don't walk on them?"

Keep the questions coming, kid.

Date Night

The best thing about a date night is that someone else puts your kids to bed.

The worst thing about a date night is that someone else puts your kids to bed.

Having a little freedom from daily tasks is an important part of feeding one's own needs, as well as showing your kids that mom and dad are people who love each other and need time alone, away from all the fabulous Lego-building and paint-cleanup.

It's also sometimes impossible for me to accept that I missed a single moment in my kids' lives. I know it's good for both mom and babies, but it's also hard to step away.

I am in love with my kids. I will enjoy time outside the house with my darling spouse, and I will continue to look for fun outings without the kids. And yet, my heart still tugs to bring me back to the moments I leave behind, the PJ's that Smiley willingly, or regrettably, got dressed into, and the books that someone else read to Turbo.

Necessary conflicts, these.

Following Directions

Me: "Turbo, you may place one toy on that shelf. One."

Turbo: "OK, mom."

That's a stretchy frog with a stretchy tongue (on the right)

Food of Heroes

I'm not the kind of mama who cuts the crusts off her kids' sandwiches. When Turbo first starting eating full sandwiches he would eat the whole thing, crust and all. Now he'll eat the middle bits, but not the crusts. I continue to try to convince him that the crust is the best part and I most certainly continue to give him sandwiches with crusts on. I do, at least, spread the PB&J all the way to the edges so that when mommy or daddy inevitably finishes the meal at least we have something more tasty than plain bread crusts.

It occurred to me recently that the only sandwiches we offer the kids is PB&J. Hmm, something wrong with this picture if you ask me. Personally, I love a good non-grilled cheese sandwich, but the couple of times I've offered it up, both kids seem not to know what to do with it and often pick the cheese out of the sandwich and ask for more... cheese, that is.

I'm on a slow-paced acceleration in my mission to get Turbo to eat more varieties of foods. Smiley will eat pretty much anything, as was shown to me recently when she ate most of the salad from my plate and ignored the mac & cheese in her own bowl. Turbo, that's another story.

The four food groups according to Turbo are: pizza, mac & cheese, chips, and milk, with the runner-up being candy. Not that we get a lot of candy around here, but it is an animated discussion whenever the topic comes up.

I do keep trying, keep offering Turbo more choices on his plate and not taking 'no' for an answer. This usually ends up in him skipping dinner, but at least I'm not giving in - I don't really count this as a win, as a true win would end in him eating the new food.

So last weekend I thought maybe if I made these cheese sandwiches into fun shapes that would appeal more to the kids. It works in the movies, right?

I put these on the table for the kids' lunch and both kids were a little confused. Smiley warmed up more quickly and exclaimed, "Stars, mommy!" I smiled, proud of my little creative invention.

Star sandwiches = yum, right?

Turbo, however, was less impressed.

Me: "Turbo, I don't know if you know this, but star sandwiches are Sheriff Woody's favorite lunch."

Turbo, eyebrows raised: "Really?"

Me: "Yes. Woody called me on the phone the other day and told me that he really likes sandwiches that are in the shape of a star."

Turbo eyed both me and the sandwiches a little skeptically. I turned my back on the kids and started cleaning up the lunch prep area and then heard the kind of comment that makes me laugh out loud every time I remember it.

Turbo: "What does Buzz like to eat?"

Turbo 1, Mama 0.

A Lesson in Anatomy

It's important that I mention here that I've had countless conversations with Turbo about who does and doesn't have a penis. I feel the need to make that known before sharing the following story.

Turbo is a funny, playful kid. I love his mischievousness and I continue to learn and practice being patient when his level of mischievousness rises a little too high on the trouble scale at less than perfect times. Like when I'm trying to get him into bed.

Turbo sleeps like a rock all night long, which wasn't always the case (thank you, God, for the passing of that phase), but sometimes it's an uphill battle to get the kid into bed. There are plenty of nights when he's more than willing to climb into bed, cuddle, read four books, cuddle some more, and then drop promptly off into slumber-slumber land.

But tonight I made the brilliant choice to feed our family pancakes for dinner. I put ground flax seed in the batter (good goin', mama!), but pancakes also means maple syrup and that means hyper before-bedtime-kids. But whatever, today had snowflakes coming out of the sky and it was cold all day and I didn't want to cook real food. I was willing to pay the price.

I have to admit the kids weren't all that hopped up, so my gamble mostly paid off. Until it was time for bed and then Turbo could not settle quickly. He jumped into my bed (which is where we read his books each night), but he was fully clothed and quickly realized he was overdressed for the book party and instead of going right to the bathroom door in our bedroom, which is conveniently located right-next-to-the-laundry-basket, Turbo walked all the way around to the other door just to waste a little more time. I should put a pedometer on this kid.

It ended up in a game of, go in one bathroom door, take off one piece of clothing... go all the way back around to the other entrance, take off another piece of clothing, etc. etc. etc. It was funny, I laughed, and didn't mind him working off a little more sugar before reading time. At one point I realized I needed to pee, and I entered the bathroom, apparently through the wrong door.

Turbo, scowling: "No, mom! Go through the other door."

Me: "I need to go to the bathroom. I guess I'll wait."

Turbo: "Hold your penis."

Me: "Why should I hold my penis?"

Turbo: "Cuz. When you don't want to go, you hold your penis and it keeps it inside."

Mmkay. Good to know. Thanks for the lesson, Turbo.

Lipsie the Elf

Here's a question: have you ever heard of the Elf on the Shelf? Yeah, me neither... at least not before about five weeks ago.

In late November I was chatting with some friends on Facebook about Christmas traditions and one women mentioned this elf thing and being curious I googled it and low and behold this thing is everywhere. I had never heard of it before and now I see, hear, and spot these little elves all over the place. It's very, very Shrodinger - maybe we should have named the elf Shr odinger. Or cat. Cat would have been a nice name too.

I'm nursing the end of a terrible cold and it's getting late so I'll cut to the chase. The kids get to name the elf, and I love, love, love the name that Turbo came up with for this little lady: Lipsie. When I told Turbo that it was our job to name our elf, he didn't hesitate. It was like, it was her name, not that he gave the name to her. I'm famous amongst my friends for naming things, so it fills my heart with pride that the apple didn't fall far from this tree. :)

It is the job of the parents to move Lipsie into a new location each evening, or at least before the kids get up (more on that later) - under the guise that the elf flies back to Santa each night to report on the good and bad choices made by our children. If she can fly, it would, of course, make complete sense that she would settle her little elf butt in a new place each night. Let me just note here that moving the elf has not been an easy task to track.

It's December and we're busy and there have been mornings when I mutter obscenities under my breath and stumble downstairs just ahead of my kids to move the elf. Thank goodness no tiny Lego pieces have been in my path or the obscenities would have been loud enough for all to hear, including my kids, and including Lipsie, who undoubtedly would have made a special day-time flight up to the North Pole to tattle on this new member of the Naughty List. But, so far so good, and I have my husband to thank for that.

In fact, my husband is way, waaaay into this. I have come downstairs some mornings and can't find the darn elf and wonder if she fell to the floor in the middle of the night and as my blurry morning brain takes in the room, my eagle-eyed son shrieks, "There's Lipsie! I see her!" as he points to some new location that I clearly couldn't reach, being five-foot-two-ish... or maybe she can fly!

So to give you an idea of the creative locales, here is a comparison. I hope to post more photos of all the locations, but here, at least, is a starter set:

Lipsie, day one: mom places her atop stereo. Rather dull, really.

Lipsie, day 20: dad has her riding Bullseye (only because she wouldn't fit on a giant dinosaur, but I bet he gets the dinosaur to work tomorrow night)

I told Turbo the other night that Lipsie will go to live with Santa at the North Pole again on Christmas Eve and that we won't see her again for awhile. He was visibly upset. Good thing Santa is bringing him a Spider-Man action figure. That'll push the memories of a little girl elf to the very bottom of his 'things to worry about' shelf.

Merry (almost) Christmas!

Mourning

The phrase 'not in my backyard' has been ringing through my head since noon when I learned that there had been another school shooting today. But this isn't another anything - these were little babies, six years old many of them, and things like this are not supposed to happen, not in real life. No. No!

I pray for you, families of Newtown, CT

My eyes nearly swollen shut, my heart heavy, my legs leaden as I walked to my car to get home to my own family. I was finally brave enough at 10 PM tonight to watch some news footage and the first thing I heard was "this kind of thing doesn't happen here."

Where? You mean on earth? Because that is where it shouldn't happen. This is not OK and my thoughts are still very scattered and difficult to summarize except that I know one thing: I will hug my kids too tight tonight and tomorrow and for every day of their lives. I will look them in the eyes and tell them they are loved and that I see them and that they are beautiful.

I love you, Turbo, and all your wickedly delicious four-year-old smarts. You are my first born, the one who made me a mother, and I am fiercely in love with you.

I love you, Smiley, you beautiful creature full of charm and personality and the kind of hugs that I can still feel late in my work day. You meld into me and we are one.

Precisely Six

Turbo: "Mom, my watch is a six!"

Me: "Hey, that's cool. It does look just like a six."

Turbo: "No, mom, it is a six."

You may notice that I put a lot of exclamation points at the end of Turbo's sentences. Do not think this is accidental or inaccurate. He is fond of exclaiming this discoveries with much ado and I would not want to misrepresent him with a lowly period.

Where Milk Comes From

Oh, it's begun it has. I have such fond memories of my parents asking my sister and I questions that made us ponder and guess and struggle to serve up the right answer. Questions like, "Where does beef come from?" When our parents finally admitted that meat comes from animals, I think the first guess when asked again about the beef was a tentative, "Giraffe?"

Sometimes I think I had kids just to hear the funny things they say.

Tonight at dinner Turbo declared, "Cows give us milk."

Ooh, goodie! A perfect opportunity to see where his kid logic would lead...

Me: "How do cows give us milk?"

Turbo, matter-of-fact-ly: "It comes from their bodies. They give it to us from their bodies."

Me: "Where in their bodies does milk come from?"

Turbo: "In their bottoms... where the babies are also."

Me: "The babies are in there too?"

Turbo: "Yes and the babies will never, never, never come out of there."

Me: "Why won't the babies come out?"

Turbo, shrugging: "Cuz they don't."

Sponge Nap

Kid logic at its finest:

One evening last week I couldn't convince a dusty-bodied Turbo that he needed a bath. We don't do baths every night in this house, but this was a night when a bath was unquestionably needed and, for whatever reason, my darling boy had no interest.

Thus began the negotiations. I got it down to the minimum requirements of feet washing and bum washing. The rest... who cares, right?

Me: "Turbo, you don't have to take a full bath, but we need to take a small bath. You don't have to sit down. It's called a sponge bath."

Turbo: "OK." [sure wish he could be this agreeable when broccoli is on the table.]

To be fair, I didn't use an actual sponge so in hindsight I can see how the following conclusion was incorrectly made.

On Sunday, when it was time for Turbo's nap, I heard Turbo coin a new term called "sponge nap."

We're in a lovely transition period around here where Turbo doesn't always take a nap. I call this transition "a taste of purgatory," as Turbo gets increasingly nutso as the day and evening wear on and it's not always tea and roses and I'm convinced I must be paying for sins of my adolescence.

I told Turbo it was nap time.

Turbo: "I don't want to take a nap. I want to play."

Me, stifling a sigh: "You don't have to sleep, but you do have to lay in your bed quietly."

Turbo: "I don't want to take a long nap. I want to take a sponge nap. And then I want to play."

It took me a minute to realize that, in Turbo math, short = sponge.

Kid logic = Kidlogical = love it!

What is This Sadness?

Hi. I'm a mom.

There are some moments when I feel like I have no other identity than being a mom, and please don't think I'm complaining, as I usually mean this as a good thing. Right now is one of those moments.

This past month has had a lot of new challenges for our family. My husband hurt his knee and so most of the parenting and house work and school drop-offs and pick-ups, etc. has fallen on my shoulders. The first week I felt like Super Mom (look at me go, world!), the second week I was exhausted and, guiltily admitting, a little resentful of this imbalance, but by the third, fourth, and now fifth week I've adjusted to my new normal.

I'm calm and happy most of the time. I do hit my limits and need breaks, but mostly it's OK. I'm more confident with spending a great deal of time with two very busy kids, and I can even go to public parks and calmly handle them running in different directions (hint: bribes work).

My job is one thing that has been a little trickier. I've been able to stay on top of my projects and yet it's also been feeling like this juggling act might result in a ball or two smashing to the floor. So, I've hired some help. I beg you not to assume I have a ton of money. I do not. But time is a resource just like money and right now I'm trading one for the other.

Tonight I am working in our office - at home - while our helper/teacher/friend is downstairs with my adorable children.

And I miss them. I miss Turbo and Smiley and all their turbo-ness and smiles and too-much splashing in the bath and I-don't-wanna's streaming from their lips - yes, both kids are loving the word "no" these days, although Turbo still whines when he utters it and Smiley simply says it with a smile, naturally.

I did put Smiley to bed tonight as I couldn't stand not to have that last snuggle and hear her say, "Ni-night, mommy," as I walked out of the room. Sweet contentment. Now it's Turbo's turn and while this sometimes drags on and can be challenging for me to remain sweet the entire time, I still miss it. I'm sitting in this office, and I closed my work laptop to write about my kids. As soon as he's asleep and our wonderful sitter leaves, I'm sprinting down there to snuggle with my baby-who-is-almost-four.

I love being a mom.

Miracle of Miracles

Let me get right to the point: Both kids are asleep before 8 PM. Did you hear that? Both kids. Before 8. Have pigs flown? Is there ice in Hades?

This has pretty much never happened in our home and I almost don't know what to do with myself. Scratch that... I know exactly what to do with myself:

• Remove contacts, wash daily grime off face - alone, and moving as slowly as I'd like
• Look my husband in the eye - and linger without being interrupted
• Read in bed - something other than Horton Hears A Who (Girl With a Dragon Tattoo!)
• Sleep - and set the alarm for an interval greater than 8 hours

I've mentioned in previous posts that there is a story to tell about my husband. Let me give you the highlight reel. He does this for recreation: 

Amazing, right? And he was performing this amazing skill a couple of weekends ago and hurt his knee. When I say 'hurt' his knee, what I really mean is he broke and tore the ever-lovin' crap out of it and now is on crutches and requires surgery and some lengthy physical therapy. Ouch. Sweetie, I am so very sorry this happened to you. :(

This event has required our whole family to adjust to a new routine, and while I think we're getting the hang of things, I haven't had 8 hours of nightly sleep for two weeks. I've been lucky to get 6. In this house I don't always get 8 hours, but I can usually squeeze in a few of those nights each week and I really miss that guarantee.

Dear Smiley and Turbo, please sleep through the night. I wish you peaceful dreams of lollipops and gumballs and bouncy balls and trampolines and all the things that would make you want to linger in your beds come morning.

Thank you and good night. My book is waiting.

The Nap Resister

I was lucky enough today to go out to breakfast with two of my sisters and together our group consisted of seven humans, only three of whom were paying for their own meals. So you could say it was a bit busy with non-stop entertainment and wiggling and spilled milk and requests for bacon and... Let me just say that we had one of the most understanding waitresses I have ever personally encountered since becoming a mom. I tipped her well.

The downside to this fabulous breakfast was that I hardly looked my sisters in the eyes... maybe a quick glance in between, "please stop that" and "yes, your bacon will come soon." I'm pretty sure none of us achieved a complete thought, at least not out loud, but as my sister so aptly put it, "distracted meals come with the territory."

The restaurant was the Brown Bag Cafe, a local favorite for its huge and delicious portions and its kid-friendly dining, and I got a reminder of how popular it was when I arrived at 9:30 AM and tried to park. In the end it only took 5 minutes, but that is only because I found a spot that no one else had noticed because the parking lines had faded into near oblivion. Lucky!

My sisters weren't so lucky as it took them 15 minutes to find a spot. Turbo and Smiley were really well behaved inside the waiting area, and that is quite something as we ended up waiting for over 25 minutes for our party of seven. They were on the verge of turning to the dark side when our name was finally called. Phew.

The meal was wonderful and long overdue and the story I really want to tell here is one that took place on the ride home. We left around 11:30 AM - two hours; sheesh! - and that threw off my plans to make a quick stop at Target before rushing home to put Smiley down for a nap. At this point I knew Smiley would fall asleep in the car, and she did, bless her little heart.

Turbo was another story. As Smiley was drifting off to sleep, Turbo asked me, "Mom, can I watch a movie when we get home?"

Me: "Sure. First you need to take a short nap, though, and then you can watch a movie."

Turbo: "That's not gonna work."

Me: "What's not gonna work?"

Turbo: "That thing you just told me."

Me: "Which part?"

Turbo: "The part about me sleeping."

That kid slays me. In the end, though, he fell asleep in the car too and it was Turbo who kept on sleeping as I put him into bed and it was Smiley who bounced and jumped and laughed in her crib post-car-sleep. I got her up and took her to Target while Turbo slept a good, long, nap. After which he watched The Polar Express. Nothin' says summer like a good Christmas story.



*Notice there is no mention of my darling husband in this post. He is semi-unable to help with the kids these days and that is a story I need to tell too. But not tonight. Tonight I need to get to bed and sleep so that I can greet my adorable children for breakfast.