Ten bits and pieces

Ten things about the past week and a half:

1.  There is a growing movement among my friends to hate Tuesday. It's not a Monday. It's not closer to the weekend. It's not even the middle of the week. It's just there, taking up space in my week--one more day to get through. This whole month has been one big fat Tuesday. We've been sick--rounding out the month with a double ear infection and pneumonia for RJ, a sinus infection and upper respiratory infection for me, and a nasty snot-slinging cold for GiGi. We are exhausted. And what do we get? Another day in February. Of course, it's a leap year.

2.  We are getting better. RJ is back. He's eating. (Last Friday we reached a new low--throwing donut holes at RJ in the bed--our bed, not his--just to get him to eat).  GiGi is sleeping more than two hours at a time again. And, thank God for antibiotics and modern medicine.

3.  RJ was a biter when he was about 18 months old. Apparently, he's suffering a relapse. Tonight, I left him and his sister on the bed for five minutes while I went to get his 'jamas. GiGi screamed bloody murder. After convincing RJ I wasn't mad (I was furious) and promising him he's not in trouble (he was), he told me he bit his sister. On the belly. And broke the skin. And left a huge hickey. He spent some quality time in timeout. Naked. He still hadn't gotten his 'jamas after the bath. (Don't worry grandma. I did give him a towel.).

4.  RJ is not a boss. We tell him this frequently. I am a boss. I am reminded of this every night when RJ asks, "After supper, do I have time to play with dad?" Dad, on the other hand, is not part of the decision making process.

5.  We periodically fancy moving to a new house. This involves much daydreaming and internal panicking at the thought of packing my boxes. Not packing in boxes. Packing my boxes. I am not a hoarder. But I did get a really awesome Nordstrom gift box for Christmas. It's in the gift closet. It, by itself, is a gift.

6.  Hubbsie and I aren't particularly affectionate. But I know he loves me when we fancy moving to a new house, and he says, "You could just use the formal living room for the Christmas tree room." A whole room dedicated to the Christmas tree! Yes, it must be love.

7.  Sometimes RJ makes me laugh:

On Careers

Me:  "RJ, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

RJ:  "A bear. A papa bear. Oh! And I want to use really big scissors!"

RJ:  "I gonna be a fireman when I grow up. I gonna fire people. I say, you're in a heap of trouble and we'll put them in jail!" (Future HR director perhaps?)

On Holidays (He has a particular obsession with Christmas. Still. In February.)

Me:  "Where does Santa land his sled?"

RJ:  "At the airport."

RJ:  "When I sleep I never see Santa outside the curtains. Do he live on the highway?"

8.  Just completely gratuitous:

Why yes, yes he does have a velvet sport coat. He's very dashing.

Feet! I have feet! (And quite a little squeezable belly. It apparently makes a nice chew toy for a three year old too.)

I'm five months old! And yes, yes I do wear ruby red slippers (and so did my mom, these were hers).  Note: We actually considered naming GiGi "Sunny." It would have fit beautifully. 

9.  Recovering from the stomach flu isn't all bad. It makes a nice excuse for making sopapilla cheesecake. If you've never  had it, you should. It's kind of like Thanksgiving comfort food (croissant dough and butter) at a fiesta (cinnamon, sugar, and crispy goodness). That cheesecake helped put back the 8 pounds the stomach flu stole. 

10.  The Beatles had it right: 

I've got to admit it's getting better...It's a little better all the time...

It's almost Wednesday! February is almost over! It's getting better!

Sweet Potatoes, Jeggings, and Part Time

I made a tough decision recently. I agonized. I antagonized. I debated. I cried. I went part time at my job. Mommy track. A hard left turn off the beaten (and beating) path of an associate. I've been practicing law for about eight years. It wasn't an easy choice. But difficult choices are made easier by setting and remembering priorities. Mine are family, career, everything else. I thought going part time would make me a better mom. I would suddenly have time to make cupcakes, sculpt cheese pumpkins for class parties, and finally get the dregs of the laundry hamper washed and put away.

Part time means I have time for breakfast with my babies and an extra half hour every morning for impromptu story time. Some mornings I even have time to curl my hair. My evenings are no longer a sprint from the back door to the stove to the dinner table to the bath tub to the bed. Instead, I sit on the sofa with my babies. I feed GiGi and watch "Curious George" with RJ. (I currently have the episode where George flies on the space shuttle committed to memory--I used to have section 362 of the bankruptcy code committed to memory).

Part time means that every once in a while I get to take RJ to an indoor playground myself instead of just seeing pictures of the trip taken by our nanny.  Last Friday, we took just such a trip. RJ was tickled. I was tickled. GiGi was entertained and entertaining. She is a real life baby doll and is, I have learned, completely irresistible to little girls (and big girls too). They all want to pinch her cheeks and rub her fuzzy head. It was an awesome day.

After almost four years, I thought I had this mom thing down. Part time. Plenty of time to spend with my babies. GiGi is eating sweet potatoes and sweet peas now (and grabbing my spoon hand with her chunky paws to drag the spoon to her mouth faster).  RJ has finally (Finally) beaten the preschool crud.

I should know better.

Last Friday was awesome. And someday, I will remember only the air hockey game that RJ and I played for an hour and the paintings he made for my office. Today, however, as I pour out the pitcher of Oxyclean, I remember one thing: sweet potatoes.

GiGi is a big girl. A chunkerella. Thunder thighs (just the way I want them to be). She wore jeggings on Friday. With an adorable white tunic top. (Of course it was white).  GiGi likes (loves) sweet potatoes. She eats a lot of them. And when you eat....well....at some point, it's going to come out. Chunkerella filled her Huggie. She filled her jeggings and her tunic top. She filled her car seat. I had two wipes. Two.

RJ and I found ourselves in the stall of a public bathroom (ick). The conversation went like this:

Me:  "RJ, get mommy some toilet paper."

Me:  "RJ,  mommy needs more than one square."

Me:  "RJ, sweetheart, don't separate each square, just bring mommy a handful."

Me:  "RJ, don't touch the wall."

Me:  "RJ, stop rubbing your hands on the potty."

RJ:  "Why?"

I took a picture of the incident. But I think it's too yuck to post.

I should have known better. I thought I was getting the hang of this mom thing. I had plenty of time to plan, so I can't use that excuse anymore.

And just when I want to remember an air hockey game and paintings, I remember that for lunch, I fed my son a turkey stick, a fruit roll up, and Chicken 'n' a Bisket (not to be confused with chicken on  a biscuit--which would actually be quite tasty and reasonable--Chicken 'n a Bisket). Nutritious. As RJ would say, "outstanding."

Part time does not mean that I am a better mom.  I haven't suddenly gained all the mommy skills I thought I was lacking due to the hours I spent at the office. But, someday, I will remember air hockey, paintings and afternoons with Curious George. And I think (I hope), it will be worth it.

Pink! Flowers! Ruffles! Love!

It's Valentine's Day! Pink! Flowers! Ruffles! Love! It is my holiday. I love Valentine's Day. But, this year, I almost let the world beat me down. While we certainly haven't had what qualifies as a bad year so far, we have had a trying year. I lost an old friend last week; he was 41.  Things like that make me question my faith. Coworkers are quitting by the busload leaving unanswered and unasked questions.  Things like that make me question my career.  One kid is hard work. Two are exponentially harder. Add in the stomach flu, uncertainty at work, and mix in a dose or two of self pity. Things like that make me question my life's pathways.  It has not been a bad year. But, it has been a trying year. So far.

But things are looking up.  Today I finally felt it again--that warm, sunshiney feeling you get when somebody loves you. Or when you love them. I felt it today when I watched GiGi burst into sympathy tears for RJ who  had fallen and hurt his boom-boom on his Kawasaki motorcycle. (They recovered). I felt it when I saw GiGi beat her feet together for cereal with apple juice (little woman likes her groceries). I felt the love when I squeezed the little jelly fat roll behind GiGi's knee and when I washed under her chin(s) to the sound of belly laughs and giggles. I felt the love when RJ finally got his Diesel 10 train and told me, "I love Balentine's Day." I felt it when RJ squeezed GiGi's apple cheeks in a hug of brotherly love. I felt the warm sunshiney feeling when RJ hugged me tight and licked my cheek. I would say he kissed my cheek, but no one likes a liar.

It's Valentine's Day!  No one has fever! No one is barfing! (well, except GiGi, but she always barfs--she's a little teapot--just tip her over and pour her out). The sun is out! The snow is melting! Pink! Flowers! Ruffles! Love!

Defining Words

There are words that define a moment: "I do." "It's a girl." "Welcome home."

There are words that tell us where we stand: "Motion granted." "Judgment denied." "The award goes to..."

And then, there are the words that defined my last week: "Where's the Febreeze?"

It started innocently enough with a little sore throat. Then there was the fever and chills. Then RJ woke up with bleeding fever blisters. And then I heard it. The defining moment: "Where's the Febreeze?" ("Don't go in there! Where's the Febreeze?")

Stomach flu.  In a matter of seven days our family had strep throat, stomach flu, reactions to immunizations, and a nasty head cold to round it out.

I lost about 8 pounds. RJ might blow away if we let him stand the wrong way in the wind, he's so tiny right now. GiGi--as proof of all things good about nursing a child (let's not talk about the bad)--has not had the flu. But she did react to her immunizations with a nasty fever and a night of screaming.

Someday I may look back on last week and laugh. Or maybe at least crack a smile. For now, I'm grateful for the Febreeze and looking forward to a better week.

A trip to the doctor

I have been blessed with healthy children. I can count the number of ear infections on one finger, and the stomach flu has only visited twice in nearly four years. But we do have our moments. Last Monday was one of them. RJ had a fever. He smelled pretty bad too. The smeller's the feller. He told me, "Mommy, something stinks. It smells like poop. Make it stop!" (After the Advil kicked in he told me he was the feller: "I stink. I have bad gas.").

So, off to the doctor we went. And, as it seems to be in a child's world, he was fine at the doctor's office. "I okay." "I don't needa shot." Once assured that there would be no shots, he opened up to the doctor: "I have snot. And gas."

He also discussed his blankie. " 'Dis is fuffy. It's a nice blanket." His doctor told him she as a blanket too. "You do? Where? Where's your house?" (I'd like to know too given that GiGi's two month immunizations were billed at nearly 700 dollars to insurance).

I imagine his pediatrician remembered his appointment that day. He has apparently read all of the articles about taking control of his own  health and his appointment. Asked to hop up on the table, he told the doctor: "No, that's okay. You can doctor me in the chair." And she did.

He made sure he got his sticker too. Even though there was no shot.

The diagnosis? A cold.

We have been blessed with healthy children. So, every fever warrants a trip to the doctor--even a common cold apparently. Another day in the life. Another appointment in the book. Another RJ conversation I didn't want to forget. These are the days I want to remember.

I kind of sort of hate basketball (but I love the Thunder)

I kind sort of really hate basketball. It's loud. The shoes are squeaky. The game moves too fast, and I always forget which color I'm supposed to be cheering for. And don't they switch ends of the court sometimes?

But, last night, I ate dinner with James Harden.  If James Harden were three years old, three feet tall, and had no hope whatsoever of ever scoring a three pointer. (I do know there's some curvy line that, if you stand behind it and hit the basket, it's three points rather than two.).

You see, nearly every night, RJ becomes James Harden, and his playmate (be it mommy, daddy, grandma or Boo Kitty) becomes Kevin Durant: "I gonna be James Harden. You gonna be Kevin Durant. We gonna shoot hoops." And the game is on. The hoop isn't regulation--it hangs from the closet door. The ball isn't regulation either, but it is yellow and blue with a fancy Thunder logo.

Which brings me to my point. I kind of sort of really hate basketball. But, I love the Oklahoma City Thunder. For once, there is a team that we all like. There are no familial allegiances. There is no history. It's a new team, so there seems to be very little for us to dispute.

The players strike me as decent role models. I've watched a lot of games, and I've yet to see ugly sportsmanship, ugly attitudes or even ugly tattoos. I hear Kevin Durant drives a van (and I'm secretly jealous). I've seen players at the mall, and they actually talk to little kids. And take cell phone pictures. And sign autographs. In fact, they seem like big kids themselves--not quite believing their fame just yet.

My three year old James Harden wears his Thunder colors with pride. He watches games with his daddy, and they talk about rules of the game--an important concept when you're just learning that there are rules everywhere.  He finds confidence in his own three pointers. He talks about Rumble like they're old friends: "You remember last week (everything is last week in his memory) when we saw Rumble? He's a really hairy guy." Somewhere in there, I found a team to cheer for--even though I kind of sort of really hate basketball.

Siblings

Before GiGi was born, I worried that RJ would hate her. I'm an only child, so I'm not familiar with the sibling concept. I don't understand the boundaries of the sibling relationship--or the lack thereof.

Tonight, I watched RJ show GiGi see-food. (Chew food, open mouth, "see, food?!").  I was horrified. Grossed out. I mean, ick. GiGi, on the other hand, laughed. She sits in the middle of her table in her Bumbo seat during supper time--we felt too guilty when she was laying in her bouncy seat next to the table. She is a person after all. She likes to feel involved. Now she's involved with a purpose: center piece.

She's a communicator. I hadn't realized how much could be discussed through coos and goos. She tells me "I'm good" at least once a day. (It might actually be more like "ahgoooo," but I'm her mommy, and I know she's telling me she's good.). She talks a lot. So does her brother. They chat about their days, and sometimes I find out more about what's going on in RJ's world through his conversations with his baby sis than I do through my conversations with him.

Two nights ago, I bathed GiGi in the tub with RJ. He's observant, so I got the inevitable, "Hey, where her junk?!" But, I forged ahead, answered as best I can. And, sibling tub time was born. RJ blew bubbles while GiGi floated on her back. (Her thighs give her lots of floatation).  Sibling tub time gave way to GiGi's first ever belly laugh. I've tried to get that belly laugh from her. I've danced. I've sang. I've shaken my boom boom. The best I can get is a coo, a goo, and a smile. Big brother, on the hand, gets belly laughs.

Every morning RJ waits impatiently for GiGi to wake up. Sometimes he helps her along. One morning I discovered him poking between the rails of her crib with his toddler broom.  "What are you doing?" I hollered.  "I want her to wake up," he responded, matter of fact. Of course mom. He just wants her to wake up.  Once she's awake, they begin their morning routine. She lays in the floor, and he lays beside her. And on top of her. He "sniggles" her--his version of snuggling. An inch from her face, he asks her, "How your day been?" He pokes his fingers in her nose, and every now and then I catch him licking her cheeks. (They are pretty irresistible.).

I'm GiGi's mom, so it's my obligation to defend her from sticky fingers and brotherly licks. But, I'm learning that in their sibling world, I can't defend against brotherly love. RJ doesn't hate GiGi. He loves her, and I'm learning that in sibling world, the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior are blurred--or non-existent. And, for this only child, it's a joy to watch.