Thursday, July 30, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Also, I wanted to show Jim & Steph how Sydney was able to rock the "gender-neutral" Nike shirt they gave her.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, was the first day that Carson dressed himself, COMPLETELY by himself, from head to toe. I didn't help choose a single piece, nor did I help him put anything on. Notice the shoes are even on the right feet! He got the sunglasses from the diaper bag for the icing on the independent cake. He came in to show me his success and said "Mom, do I look like a rock star now?!"
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The original post was written when Carson was a little older than Sydney is now, and much stronger in will and physical strength. However, sweet little Bird has been showing her own STRONG dislike for diaper changes lately, making the experience an exercise in frustration for all involved. WHICH reminded me of this explicit description I concocted for your reading enjoyment. Sidenote...I had an "aha" moment recently when I realized that girls like to reach their hands down into the diaper region during changes. I guess they're all curious about what is keeping me rapt with attention.
I've often heard the phrase "I need another hand" or something along those lines when someone refers to a specific task. Well, I've thought that before, but never truly, TRULY ached with the feeling until recently in my life. I've run it by a few other moms of toddlers, and they too feel my pain. Imagine first, if you will, a toddler who is so lacking in reason and logic that he is worse that the most annoying and clueless reality show contestants ever. You know the ones. You yell at them through your TV set because they are beyond the touch of reality and common sense. Also, aforementioned toddler is freakishly strong with an attitude to rival the most rebellious teens. Now imagine the RANKEST smelling poopy diaper, which makes up in QUANTITY what it lacks in pleasant odor. To continue painting this pretty picture, you need to know that said toddler fights diaper changes like I'm about to pull a Jack Bauer and torture the living daylights out of him. And one more thing, I'm sorry, but if you are really walking in my shoes you need to know: this is no solid poop. I have lots of fun sentences to describe the consistency made more horrifying by its mere mass, but I will spare you my fancy wording this time. You get the idea. OH. And one more thing. This is a BOY toddler, whose favorite new pastime is innocently--yet comprehensively--exploring his newly discovered body part between his legs. Now, when you dive into a battle situation like this, it's not like you haven't pulled out all the stops. Bribes. Promises. Threats. Tears. But it's like putting out a fire with a squirt gun. It just continues to rage. So, you buck up, camper, and just do it. (Holla to my Nike boys.) First, pants and shoes off. (His, not mine.) I've learned from past experience that trying to save time by keeping those on just backfires, and who needs poo on their Nikes? Next, hold toddler down with left arm, and unfasten diaper with right hand. Then while toddler is squirming, no: writhing, no: FLAILING with shocking strength, I am trying to hold his ankles with my left hand (you have no idea how strong my left fingers have become in the last year) and keep his twisting to a minimum with my left elbow. I am holding those little legs so tight that I'm praying there are no bruises. My friend Diane works for CPS. Please don't turn me in! With the right hand, I take the actual diaper, which seems to weigh as much as this child did when he came out of me, and try to use the small, untainted portion of the front of the diaper to wipe as much of the offending substance off the bum as possible.
This is PRECISELY when screaming, thrashing toddler decides to explore--DOWN THERE. "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!" I scream, dropping the diaper on the changing table in my hurry, smearing fecal matter on at least the following: changing pad, clean diaper waiting to be worn, the wall, child's leg, container of wipes, baby powder, cute little basket holding clean diapers, AND MY OWN ARM. My frustration is quickly evident and transferred to my offspring, because he resumes his physical protest of the current situation. (Like I WANT to be here?) I'm in the middle of a sumo wrestling match, and all I can concentrate on are his hands, because his expedition is in a land that is UNCLEAN, people. I abandon all hope of doing something remotely resembling the initial objective with my right hand (although left hand still has death grip on kicking ankles in the air) and dive for the wipes. New objective: must. clean. little. hands. before. going. in. mouth.
And then it happens. Well, actually, one of three things happen. A) and most common: one wipe comes out of the little container, and the rest fall down to the very bottom, and can only be retrieved by pressing a clasp and unfolding the wipes, which I don't have to tell you requires both hands. B) While trying to take one wipe, I get about ten, and they are all connected to each other in a long line, like old school dot-matrix printer paper. Again--need both hands to separate. or C) NO wipes left. At this point "I need another hand" is an understatement like when I read that contractions are like a "slight tightening" in my abdomen. Doesn't. Quite. Cover it. Forget another hand, I need ten hands, a new diaper, new clothes for both of us, a stiff drink and a nanny. My frustration and anxiety completely errupts, but by the grace of God (and I'm truly not using that term flippantly) I decide that a room covered in caca is better than an abused child or an acoholic mother. I let go of my death grip, thus getting poopy bottom over changing pad, shirt, me and everything else. I let the child squirm, smearing even more poop, and I do whatever necessary to get those golden tickets: a handful of clean wipes. Or, as has occasionally happened, I ditch the room altogether in whatever state it is in and head for the shower to hose this kid off. (BTW--multiply this horror by 10 if you are on the floor of a changing-table-less bathroom in a fast food restaurant.) As maddening as scenes like this are, there's usually a very sweet one to follow later so I don't completely lose my marbles. Like the other day when I was absent-mindedly singing a song in the car, and when I stopped singing, Carson erupted in applause, yelling, "Yeah, Mommy!" And it's moments like that when I remember another phrase like "I love you" that is also a tremendous understatement and inadequate to convey my true feelings for this precious life.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Usually at night I lay down with Carson & sing him a couple songs. Tonight when I started singing some tune, he sleepily said:
"No, Mom. I want the one about how the mommy's gonna buy me some toys and a horse."
He was referring to "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird" etc. Greedy little buggers, aren't they?
The other day we were in the restroom of a restaurant. Carson was pulling his pants down in the large stall to pee in the toilet. I mentioned that I had to go too, so I'd go after him. Drawers down at his ankles, he shuffled to the side of the toilet and seriously--and generously--offered to scoot over so we could both pee at the same time like him and daddy. Knowing there were other customers in adjoining stalls, I brought my head down to his level and quietly reminded him of a previously discussed plumbing lesson, the natural result of which is that mommies always sit down to pee. He tilted his head back, a big, knowing smile on his face, and as he was nodding (and peeing), said loudly, "Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh! I GET IT!"
This one isn't funny, just interesting.
Carson: Daddy, today we saw a man at the store who only had ONE LEG!
Trent: You know, Daddy works with a lot of people at his work who only have one leg.
C: You DO?!
T: Yeah, I help them learn to use a pretend leg or learn to walk on crutches.
C: A PRETEND leg?!
C: Why do they still have one foot left?
T: Because the other foot got hurt really bad or got really sick and they had to take it off.
C: Long, thoughtful pause. Well, where is that leg now?
T: Well, uh, it's...buried in the ground. [He looked and me and kind of shrugged and I nodded my approval of this abridged version.]
C: WHY do they bury it?
T: Because if a leg is not attached to a body, then it just turns into a bone and it doesn't work like a normal leg.
C: Huh.....Can I have another popsicle?
Carson: Mom, I know what God is thinking about.
Mom: You do? What is He thinking?
Carson: He's thinking that we're gonna have 3 kids in our family and that we're gonna have a dog.
M: [chuckling] Oh really?
C: Yes, and we're gonna name the baby Max and the dog Shasta.
M:Well, I think you have a better chance of having another baby than getting a dog. But we'll just have to wait and see if God puts another baby in my tummy. And, you know, buddy, that takes a really, really long time.
C: Oh, I KNOW, Mom. First your tummy has to grow big, then you go to the hospital, then I have to go stay at Mimi's, then I go camping and THEN we can have a new baby.
Carson is experimenting with knock-knock jokes. This is the one he tells over and over, all day long, in its many jibberish incarnations:
Me: Who's there?
C: Mucka-baka-booka-zonk. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
But then, tonight, Daddy tried to start dishing back and forth with Carson on the knock-knock jokes. First, he messed up one of the oldest ones, about banana, banana, orange you glad I didn't say banana. (He started with orange.) Then he told this classic:
Carson: Who's there?
C: Dwayne who?
T: Somebody let out the...wait...the water is...wait, how does it go again?
His tragic attempt, and horrible butchering, of a simple knock-knock joke, just sent me into a fit of giggles. And I mean, a FIT. I couldn't gain my composure, and I'm not going to lie, I peed my pants a little. My homework assignment after this blog post is to look up some knock-knock jokes that Carson could try. And then? I'll try to find some even easier ones for Trent.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Don't they look delish?!
And just for a little Bird-fix, here she is exploring her musical heritage. Unfortunately, she seems hesitant about my influence. Am I pushing her too hard?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
These pictures are kind of misleading. Although it looks like Carson just got so plumb-tuckered out after I made him do the sweeping that he crashed on the couch, that isn't what took place.
Friday, July 10, 2009
He didn't follow them this time, though, when they found a dirty little tunnel in a stump.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Here's a bit of the frenzy when they were allowed to try a "game." Not only did the kids miss the fact that there were supposed to be 2 teams, no one had any idea which way they were "supposed" to kick the ball, some kids just wandered off the field, others decided they were tired of not kicking the ball, so they went and got their own and threw it onto the field, some got bored and left, etc. It was quite amusing! This is a few seconds of Carson getting into it with some stinkin' cute twins who are older and more coordinated. He is quite taken with them and wants to stand next to them on all the drills and give them high-fives. LOTS of high-fives for the twins.
You can see he looks back at me after the goal is scored--even though he mainly watched and then ran into the goal post. But he was focused and running and we loved it! BTW, in case anyone was getting concerned, it is Trent that gives him a little toosh-smack on his way back into the melee. Not some weirdo.
This was only week 2, so I'd better warn you now that I'm sure more pictures/videos are coming. :)