Let Me Call Him Baby

Mommies have a lot of little jobs: wiping little bottoms, filling little cups, scraping little plastic-y puddles of cereal off of tile floors, kissing little boo-boos. Taken individually, the little jobs aren't so much. All at once, they're overwhelming. And if you add in the children that actually created the mommy position, those little things can be downright impossible. Other little things add up too. One little timeout, a little impatient sigh, and a little sharp word suddenly become one big meltdown--for mommy and little one. I've given up on being perfect. I've given up on being an "A" student. I aim for the little things. Recently, I made a little change with a big, surprising impact on my little man.

I've called my kids a lot of names (not the bad kind): RJ and GiGi for starters. And there are the baby nicknames like Yoda Baby, Boogie, Pooh, and Stinker. There are the ego boosts--Rockstar and Superstar. The "usuals"--Bubba, Sissy (I kind of live in the south, cut me some slack), Little Woman, Little Man, Brother Man, and Sister.  And, of course, the current terms of endearment: Sweet Bean and Baby Girl.

Someday Sweet Bean will swear he never answered to such ridiculousness. But he totally does.

One name, however, speaks more to RJ than any other. Simple, to the point, I call him Baby. It works like abracadabra on my little man. Ask to eat his supper, "RJ, eat some chicken," and he'll nibble a corner, stare me down, drop his fork, his cup, his napkin, and his plate all while sticking his fingers down his throat trying to gag himself. (Did I brag about this child's table manners last week? Erg.). But call him Baby, "Baby, eat some chicken," and he's eating nuggets with a fork, dabbing his chin with his napkin, offering to pass me the ketchup, and busing the table.

You catch more flies with honey I suppose.

I'm not particularly patient with RJ. He's four, and he's the kind of four that wants to know why he can't   eat goldfish for breakfast and why mommy's car is white and why there's carpet on the floor. He'll see an empty jar of apple juice, look me in the eye and ask, "Mommy, can I have apple juice?" It is exhausting. Add to that a propensity to want to knock his baby sister over and blow raspberries on her belly and a strong desire to poop his pants just so mommy will change him, and well, you've got RJ. He's the four year old whose biggest concern when moving was whether the change table was coming with us. It's pink. It is his sister's. He does not care. I try to be patient, but sometimes he gets the best of me. I've yelled. I've said things I shouldn't. Little disagreements have turned into tantrums leaving both mommy and RJ in timeout.

I have found the cure: just let me call him baby. RJ struggled when GiGi was born. He still does. "Am I your baby?" he asks me often. "Did you want a little boy just like me?"

And so, in recent weeks, I've taken to calling him Baby. It works. He gives me the word's biggest hug every morning when I leave for work. He gives me sugars. We're still in the midst of Lovefest 2012. And all because of a kind word. We all know we shouldn't lose patience with our children. Anyone who says they never  have is either lying or has access to much better pharmaceuticals than I do. Kids are kids. It's their job to make us crazy. It's our job to find their love language and use it.

Sweet Bean knows I love him. He also knows that I would prefer that he poop in the potty, learn to dress himself, and eat some chicken nuggets every once in a while without my begging. He knows it's his job to press my buttons. He also knows it's my job to love him unconditionally. And with one little change in our routine, I've found the key to his little man heart. "Just let me call you Baby," I tell him. "Let me take care of you." "Baby" fixed his skinned ankle and made him feel all better. "Baby" got us through church on Sunday with nearly no fits. And, "Baby" gets me out the door most mornings without tears.

One little change, and my screaming Rockstar becomes just RJ--a little boy who bites his finger nails and worries that he may have bit his daddy just a little too hard during their wrestling match (He did, but daddy will survive. And if it hurts too bad, I'll call him Baby too. I'm pretty sure the effects are universally applicable to little boys and their daddies.). Just that one term of endearment, and my Bubba is the best big brother in the whole world, watching that GiGi doesn't tumble into the fireplace wall or try to eat one more piece of lint off the carpet.

The little things are what matter so much in a little one's little world. I'm glad I've found RJ's abracadabra. He deserves that from his mommy. All kids do.

Cooking Up Something

I cooked! This is cause for celebration. The Crockpot has been on hiatus since February, and my skillet has nearly lost its seasoning. I used to cook about once a month. Well, I cooked nearly every day; family dinner is important to us. RJ is the rare four year old who eats with his napkin in his lap and asks us, "So, how was your day been?" "How was work?" and "How was [your boss]? Did he change his attitude?" ( I may or may not make comments that my boss needs an attitude adjustment on occasion). RJ is perceptive.

Cooking up something for supper is no small feat, working mom or not, kids or not. It's hard to hit the door at 5 or 6 or 7 and manage to get something on the table in any reasonable time.  For the past few months, I have relied entirely too much on the Schwan man and his happy little yellow truck. We've eaten more than our fair share of overpriced (but entirely delicious) casseroles. I need to get back in my freezer routine.

So, Saturday morning, RJ, GiGi and I embarked on a grocery mission. We shopped. RJ drove a "truck truck" cart (he loves the carts with a car on the front--his mother might be immature enough to race them in the parking lot while laughing hysterically. maybe.). GiGi charmed the senior set who were also shopping at 8 a.m. And then I cooked! And because I know that I always appreciate hearing what other working mommies manage to throw together, here is what I cooked (all easy, nearly all freezer friendly):

--Lasagna RJB style, otherwise known as jumbo cheese stuffed pasta shells topped with sauce and mozzerella. It's easy to divide into individual servings and freeze and cooks up nearly as well as the real deal.

--Sloppy joe's.  Freezer friendly, super quick, can be served on bread, tortillas, or chips, and sometimes, I just cook up the meat and throw it in the Crockpot while we run errands or head to church.

--Lots o' grilled chicken.  Pre-grilled chicken breasts to be used in chicken chili this week. New recipe, so I'll let you know how it goes. It will surely go well, as the recipe was handed down from several legal secretaries at my firm, and those ladies know how to cook.

--Bisquick sausage balls, Paula Deen style. I love Paula Deen, diabetes scandal and all. She cooks like I wish I could (and still maintain my figure). RJ is not a breakfast person, but breakfast is a new favorite with these. Super fast, super easy, and I made them with turkey sausage, so they're healthy. er. Healthi-er.

Banana Pudding--I hate banana pudding. But Hubbsie loves it, and so does GiGi apparently. The instant kind, because who has time to cook it?

Also on the agenda this week, The Pioneer Woman's tortilla roll-ups. Homemade herbed cream cheese is the key. Even RJ will eat veggies rolled up in one of these.

And, of course, the staple of my household--the bean burrito. Seriously. One can of beans. Shredded cheese. Tortillas. Fill, wrap, and freeze. They take a minute to heat up and are kind of sort of healthy. Better than a bucket of cheese balls anyway. (Note to self: Never, ever buy the big bucket of cheese balls again. RJB loses interest way before I do, and I have zero willpower when it comes to powdered cheeses).

I'm trying out a new recipe a week for a while. New adventures in cooking. Someday I'll learn to make my mom's fried chicken. But first up, pickles! I think it will be interesting.

On Turning 35

RJ's aunt gave him five dollars to go garage sale-ing this weekend. He was pretty proud. Friday night, he sobbed at bedtime. "Cats?" I asked. "You want your cats?" "No!" he wailed, "I want my cash to sleep with it!" Important stuff when you're four. So, he slept with it under his pillow (and spent it on Hot Wheels the next day.). But, he didn't spend it before he asked about the man pictured on the front. I told him, "He was the president. He was a good man." RJ responded, "Mom, someday, I gonna be president." He paused. "But, I gonna live with you."

I always knew I'd make it to the White House.

I turned 35 last week. I guess that means I can be president. I know being 35 means I can stay up as late as I want, and I can go see rated R movies too.  I had an awesome birthday. There were donuts and cake and my favorite burger from Flat Tire. (Being 35 also means that suddenly the dryer has started shrinking my shorts, particularly after donuts, cake, and my favorite burger. Darn dryer.).

I used to believe I could be president. Now I'm not so sure. Because if I were president, who would fold the first man's shorts or feed the first babies their supper? And if I were president, who would tuck the blankets under RJ's feet every night? And how would I do all of those video conferences with GiGi still nursing?

I'm starting to believe that maybe being president isn't the job for me. I'm still not comfortable at my job, but it's fitting better these days. I'm juggling foreclosures and exhibit lists, and sometimes I even find time for lunch with my ladies. I know there has been a big online discussion about women wanting to "have it all." Some commentators want the professional world to adjust and make it easier for women to have it all. Others want women to choose: family or career. The most well reasoned discussions I've seen have focused on the idea that we can't have it all--at once.

RJ's gymnastics cheer last year ended, "It's our time to shine!"  This isn't my time to bill 2000 hours a year. It's not my time take a case to jury trial. It's very obviously not my time to become a law partner--though this particular truth has been hard to swallow this year.

It is my time to have donuts and cake and burgers. It's my time to celebrate my family. It's my time to shine!

And so, I celebrated. I celebrated little things that make me smile:

RJ wanted me to have this Barbie fishing stick. His words, not mine. 

And we celebrated my 35th by fishing in our backyard. There is no pond, but we have our imaginations. I imagined we caught 100 fish--and someone else took them off the hook every time.

Later, we celebrated my 35th with my folks. It was Poppy's birthday too, after all. RJ celebrated as a four year old boy should--by dancing in the Oklahoma summer version of rain, the sprinkler!

And, we fished. (No hook. No bait. Loads of fun.).

He's figuring it out.

And he's figuring out that fishing is kind of yucky. 

Actually, it's a lot of yucky. 

But he loved every minute. 

By the end of the day, he had casting down. 

And GiGi, well, GiGi is GiGi. She celebrates being her. 

And someday, she'll be 35 too. I hope she can be president. 

And that I can live with her and do her laundry while she tucks her babies in bed. 

Mind Clutter and a Few Confessions

Until I can put together my thoughts (and put together my house and laundry and the kids' playroom and a whole lot of other little things), I have things I don't want to forget. Things that are cluttering my mind and keeping me up at night.  And a few things I should probably confess, because those things keep me up at night too:

• RJ tries my patience. It is his job. He's four. So, he hears "no" a lot. And he spends a lot of time in time out. But the other morning, he told me, "Mom, you're the boss of me. But you're still my favorite girl." I love being his favorite girl. (Sometimes he tells me I'm his bestie, but I like being his favorite girl the best.).  

• A confession: If you ride in my car, you'll probably find a Ziploc bag with a pair of little man panties in it. I will tell you they're clean. I will tell you they're "just in case." I will also tell you they're clean. I am a liar. They're not clean. (I discovered this when we had a "just in case" moment and I was desperately searching for little man panties in my car. Note to self: Don't open the Ziploc and sniff. Just don't.). 

• RJ still thinks he's Lutheran Skywalker, and he's hunting Dark Vader. But lately he's into other adventure games too. Like bounty hunting. Except that RJ isn't a bounty hunter, he's a "brownie hunter." Which probably explains why he's my bestie. I do love some brownies. 

• GiGi is starting to crawl and cruise. Last night, the cutest thing I've seen in a long time was a chubby thighed baby in a skirted swim suit staring at me upside down between her legs with a big baby booty in the air. My camera was in the case, and I missed the picture. Here's hoping she does it again soon. 

• I read a lot about how to find happiness. Most everyone gives me a lot of good, ethereal advice like "focus on the positive" or "see the glass half full." I've found the more practical road to happiness involves gummy Coke bottles, good quality shampoo, putting apple scented lotion on RJ at night so he smells a lot better when he sleeps beside me, and always, always making sure GiGi wears ruffle butt pants. Ruffle butts make me smile inside and out. 

• We're teaching RJ about being grateful and in doing so, we're having to teach him about little boys who don't have enough to eat or cozy places to sleep. It's a lesson for me too. 

• A confession: I didn't know Luke Skywalker had a sister. And I really didn't now his sister was Princess Leia. I'm still wrapping my brain around the whole twins thing. (I still haven't seen "The Shawshank Redemption" either.  Judge away. I deserve it.). 

• We celebrated the Fourth of July this week. I'm still grateful that hubbsie came home from Iraq ten years ago. A confession: I'd post his homecoming photo again, but I can't find it in my electronic files right now. I also can't find the kids' puppet theater or my adorable red knit top. Which would have been perfect for the Fourth of July. I have faith in the two boxes that are still packed in the garage. 

• And once again, just completely gratuitous: 

GiGi turned 9 months old. I had a rainbow dress when I was six, and it made me feel really pretty. I hope rainbows make her feel pretty too, because she's going to be wearing a lot of this look. 

My babies love to ride. 

She pinches. Hard. 

And she thinks her brother is outrageously funny. He barks like a dog, and she'll belly laugh for days. I hope they're always like this. Because someday they'll need each other more than they need me. 

She really pinches hard. And pulls hair. 

Always, always keep GiGi in ruffles. I dare you not to smile and feel just a little happier. 

My bestie loves parades. He comes by it honest. I still love parades too. I think the marching bands are my fave. 

My goal is to keep her this comfortable with her body. 

I hope she always feels this good about herself. And I hope she always finds a little happiness in graham crackers. 

And because it was the Fourth of July, we remembered that we're really, really happy he came home ten years ago. (Even when he leaves the cupboard doors open and makes fun of my "Star Wars" family tree. I swear I really did think Luke Skywalker was Princess Leia's boyfriend. Ew.).