carl in casimirland.

We've Multiplied.

2007-12-13T19:51:00.001-06:00

Taking over the world one child at a time!
I barely have time to blow my nose, but what the hell, you can post annually right? Sure.

Boys aren't into frilly stuff.

2007-04-12T22:32:00.000-05:00

Actually I just wish I could get a picture of him playing with his dumptrucks and all my jewelry. Or maybe decorating his trucks with my jewelry? Anyway. May as well blog bi-annually. I haven't had any work to put off, so blogger time has been limited.

Today is mid-April, so we did what you of course do in April. Stayed inside until I forced them to bundle up and go outside. Yesterday I dug the snowsuits back up and we went out and played in the snow and buried treasure (i.e. kids' shovels). I think summer went by so fast I missed it? I'll be sure to start relishing this weather and it will clear up and get toasty warm real soon.

Anyway, Casimir has been freaking us out a little lately. You never know with those three year-olds. The other day (before it snowed, it was Spring still, I think) Casimir and Paul were out clearing the patio of some old leaves and tidying up the garage. Casimir informed Paul very matter-of-factly that they had to take good care of the house for the people who used to live there. (That would be the elderly couple. The deceased ones. They built it and lived here for a few decades or centuries I think.) They told him so, he said. And they told him that he was to wash the patio and the grass with water. No, soapy water.

I think the soapy water bit kind of relieved us, because then it became more obvious how that little brain works. They say totally innocent things, stringing together all those little bits of information that they soak up like sponges, adding bits of nonsense, and then we get all wacky on them interpreting it. Actually, Paul and Casimir had just washed the car with soapy water, and Paul had to explain (because no activity comes without a hundred "Why?" and "How?" inquiries) why they used soap. Paul also later remembered explaining to Caz that someone had lived in this house before us. So Casimir was just making his fun, innocent little statements and commands and here we thought he was Sixth Sense boy, communicating with the dead. Who's the creepy one?

We're just hoping we won't find out that soapy water is some arcane remedy to keep rabbits off the grass or something. Then I might worry.

But what do they do in Duluth?

2007-02-11T21:50:00.000-06:00

I guess I've gotten a little sick of blogging. What can I say? It seemed like a fun idea years ago when he was 10 months old and I had hours to myself every night. And I thought that was hard! One ten-month old! Ha. I've kept a jounral more or less since fifth grade (boy were those exciting entries! All about fifth grade social politics and my desire to explore the school's secret passageways, i.e. boiler room and other mysterious doors) but something about typing and computers made using a pen become so laborious and painful that I gave them up, and now here goes this too. Oh no.

Anyway, I have been very exceedingly crabby about this freezing weather. I think I used to really like all seasons, and I'd go on about really relishing all the wool sweaters, hot chocolate, long underwear, brisk snowy walks, spiced apple cider, etc. etc. I mean I went voluntarily to Vermont, of all places (why not just North Dakota? Or Labrador?) to college. But I think that was before I had to stuff two little bundled up kids into carseats to go anywhere or come up with fun things to do for an endless string of frigid, homebound days without even any snow to play in. Subzero days are kinda fun and cozy when you can skip class and decide to hole up all day and read in bed with some hot beverage. All those rainy days I claimed to like too? Well, duh, it was because I could sit on my bottom in bed and read all day.

Funny how kids don't let you do that! Granted, on some chilly Sundays I've tried, with Paul's willing cooperation. But something about children banging on the closed door for mommy really makes it hard to relax. Which is why I'm kind of fantasizing about moving somehwere really warm, where there is no chance of earthquakes or hurricanes, no serious southern drawls and not Texas. I think that leaves Arizona. I used to hate it when it was sunny all the time (so tiresome for brooding youth) because I felt like I had to be outside all the time to appreciate it. Now I miss the endless sunny days in summer when you don't even feel bad if you waste half a gorgeous day playing inside, because, hey, it's August and the sun isn't going anywhere. I want to move where I can selfishly take some good, sunny, roasting days for granted because they are so plentiful. And then I can even waste some sun time inside reading in bed, because everyone will be outside playing.

I like to put them to work.

2007-01-14T20:11:00.000-06:00

You know, make them useful. Kisses aren't enough to pay your way around here. It's great how those wasteful swiffer things allow you to detach the middle part for the purposes of child labor.

2006-12-29T00:47:00.000-06:00

Hello, blog. Well. I'm only posting because it's 12:34 a.m. and I am procrastinating- my favorite hobby. This is how I do my work. If I get some especially boring something to fact-check, I surf, and I click and I read and I buy, and then, right at about 9:45, I start. But only for a little bit. Then I surf some more, til I really start to sweat, and get tired, and then with just one page or two left, I let it really get late. I just can't help myself! Why do it efficiently? What's the fun? This way I draaaag it out and then when it's finally done I feel like I've really completed this big project, because see how late I'm up? And now I'm done- but that requires walking to bed. So why not put that off?

Anyway. We are in the Why phase around here, which I let get to me way more than it should. I know I should shrug it off with a harmless, knowing roll of the eyes, because this is what three year-olds do. But it's more like it makes my eyes bug out and roll right out of my head in acute irritation. Sometimes I don't want to say things like, "Oh it's nice out today" because I know it will be met with "Why? Why is it nice out" and I'll say that it's sunny, and of course will hear, "Why it's sunny?" Sometimes I just keep answering and playing along until I end up saying things like, "I don't know why I don't have eyes on top of my head. I should though. Good question."

But this is following closely on the heels of our special What phase, so I am somewhat used to it. For the longest time he would follow anything you said with "What." Not "What?" but just What. It was sort of like an: I got it, I'm processing, okay. But before I figured this out I would repeat it, and hear what, and repeat it again, and ask if he heard me, which of course he did. I finally realized one day when he was talking and I heard myself say it flatly: what. Some days he talks and talks, and talks! and has so much to say even while I'm driving or cooking that I inevitably miss some of it (apparently a lot) and say (apparently a lot) what. For the record I also say "yes, Casimir? " sometimes, but that hasn't rubbed off yet.

I also take a little secret pleasure in making people uncomfortable because I let Carl just sit there and cup my boobie under my shirt while I hold or sling him in public. It's like his little safety grip. I hold the boobie and it's all OK. We should all have such a crutch.

2006-11-16T20:23:00.000-06:00

Looks like it's time for my semi-annual blog. The last couple times I tried I was unable to post pics for whatever reason, so, I mean, why bother then? Anyway I'm knee deep in surfing for playmobil on the net because Casimir has his little three year-old-heart set on a street sweeper for Christmas. He wanted a DHL truck more- every time he'd see a real one cruising the streets, he'd look all downcast and say that he really, really wanted a DHL truck of his very own. To my suprise, I found one rather easily. And let me just tell you, that in case you are exceedingly stupid, like me, do not say anything along the lines of, "oh hey the UPS man brought your Christmas present! But you can't open it for weeks!" Or at least do not so if you have a three-year-old and you possess the will of gumby. All he had to do was say it could be a "winter present" and voila, now I'm looking for a streetsweeper for Christmas. And I had forgotton since my last playdate at Eric's house in around 1982 that playmobil is strangely appealing. Should I also get him this one? Or maybe something like the axeman playmobil figurine like on this page? Playmobil just rocks way more than the Fisher Price Little People, so I'm glad we're moving on up.

Stop, Drop, and Roll.

2006-10-02T21:26:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Pre-K, Casimir now knows what to do should he catch on fire, and knows that he need not be afraid should a firefighter with a gas mask appear in his smoking bedroom. To think I had been so remiss as to have left these teachings out of our daily activities. What was I thinking? Now I'm sure the next time we set off the smoke detector while cooking, he will capably and efficiently dial 9-1-1 and say "We have an emergency. My name is Casimir."

And Preschool! I'm not sure if you can really call it preschool, actually, if I'm still there every day, looming in the background at Casimir's emotional behest. Yes I don't leave him alone there yet. Despite the entire universe's finger-wagging that "he has to do it someday" and "he'll stop crying as soon as you're gone" and that "it's all a show for you," I still stay until he's ready for me to go. It's just that I make enough bad parenting moves rather effortlessly, while going about my day. Intentionally and purposefully going against my gut instinct and common sense and just shaking his clinging self off of my leg and marching out seemed like it would be overkill. Why be kind of harsh on purpose when I sometimes manage to do it without even thinking after a poor night's sleep or bad day?

Thing is you have to really shop around to find a Pre-K that accepts this radically insurgent approach though. We had a rather distasteful experience before we found our Preschool Jesus in the form of Miss Laurie, the savior who encourages Mommy to stay. At our first preschool, the free one two blocks away with the big room and all the new wooden toys, things did not go so smoothly. Every question I asked about this impending moment of separation was brushed off with Don't worry, Mom! as if my apprehension was really about my own complete inability to leave him at preschool all alone. Yes I know moms are inherently bags of stupid nostalgia and rush home from pre-K to scrapbook, but mostly I knew he wouldn't take well to the whole Mommy-leaves-idea because I take care of him every day. You know, it kinda comes with the territory. You get to know them while wiping their bottom and playing cars and what not for three years. And I knew he was not big on being left alone with anyone but us and grandmas. We've been through this at the YMCA daycare and this is the reason I use for why I'm not working out daily.

I'll never forget our second and last day at the bad preschool though. Poor little Caz sniffed the whole way there: "I'm not big enough." Once we got there he just refused to budge from me and refused to part with his backpack, sunglasses, or anything that he'd need when he got the hell out of there. The teacher came over chirping "Okay, Mom!" which I understood to mean : Leave, Dumbass. I knew there was no way I was going to repeat the first day, in which I brainlessly did as told and left him crying and went home feeling like a pile of misery. So this time when I left, I took Casimir with me. Hell if I couldn't stay, why should he? I know some kids fuss and whine and then are fine, but some are not so fine. And wet their pants later. And so we marched right on out of Pre-K feeling very deliciously defiant.

We stuck it to the man! In the form of the nursery school teacher!

And we had the most jubilant afternoon, playing cars on the front lawn for hours while Carl slept. So now we head off to preschool together- me, Casimir, and Carl. I've had dreams in the past about restarting grammar school, but never thought I'd really get the opportunity! And now after just four classes I think he is almost ready for me to leave the room. To take a bathroom break anyway. He went from clinging to practically ignoring me today as he learned about catching on fire and gas masks. And all without trauma! Unless you count the gas mask lesson.

Come on over for coffee.

2006-09-21T20:16:00.000-05:00

We can sit at the coffee table in the living room and chat. And play cars.

Howcome the Pottery Barn Kids catalogue doesn't look like this?

Casimir tells me they're building a Costco there. Hopefully traffic will let up and they'll build a good liquor section there.

Can't think. Wiggles ate my brain.

2006-08-28T20:22:00.000-05:00

Someone should totally buy this.
Don't think I haven't blogged because I'm all productive and responsibly staying away from the internet. I've just been exploring other avenues of time-wasting on the net.

And all this time away and I can't think of what fun topic to explore, except for the alarming, fucked-up desire I've been having to possibly contemplate maybe thinking about having a third child. I know! The idiocy. I used to inwardly scoff at women who would talk about how they couldn't wait to have another while they held practically newborn babies. They're not cats, for crying out loud, I thought. The first one still needs you for like, another 18 years! How old-fashioned. How Focus on the Family. I really prided myself on my small-family plan. And here I am.

And I lose it a few times a day, in between climbing out from under all the dishes and laundry (so stay-at-home-mommy cliche). But I guess I think I don't deserve to be sane, because there goes my brain again, pitching it's little 3rd baby presentations to me. It's just that I'm pushing 34 and all of a sudden Carl is so big he's practically ready to go off to college (well, almost. He is one already). And so I think there's some sort of finality thing going on that is making me have wistful thoughts that do not contain any logic.

And then every time I think it's stupid and stop configuring how we'd all fit in the same house, we'll go to the park or the children's museum or some other child-infested area and I'll see young moms casually arriving with seriously high numbers of young children in tow. Today at the Exploratorium there were two young moms with five and then six kids. I didn't quite think it would be appropriate to ask if they were all theirs and what sort of reasons they had for having six, or what drugs they did to hold it all together, but after careful study of ages and interactions, I'm pretty sure that they indeed were all theirs. And yet there she was, casually lounging and keeping an eye on all of them, as if having six kids under eight really was no big deal, if you think about it. And here I think it's hard if I can't change Carl's diaper and keep up a conversation about excavators with Casimir at the same time. Silly me.

2006-07-26T22:49:00.000-05:00

Wow that was a lot of run-on sentences in that last entry. I blame the Nescafe. Anyway, I so wish I could actually afford something like this Stokke thing, because I would get it even if I could only kind of afford it just a little bit. We have this hand-me-down Peg Perego we've used for both kids, and while it looks kinda cute (if you're into blue checks. me neither), it's that lots-of-cracks-and-crevices-for-food-to-get-stuck model, and it's driving me bananas. Let me just say, that I hate cleaning off the high chair. Really, I HATE CLEANING FOOD OFF THE HIGH CHAIR. It's just one of my least favorite things ever. And yet I have this persistent desire to keep feeding the child who sits in it, not just for three meals a day, but sometimes also snacks. And so I fantasize about dumping the Perego thing and only having to take the damp dish rag and just gliiiiding it right along the nice, smooth surfaces of that gorgeous Scandinavian creation. I have the Stokke Kinderzeat which I got for much less on ebay, and it's fabulous. I have to somehow get another for Carl soon. It's not only easier to clean, but it means each meal isn't ended with Casimir pushing his chair away and tipping over. And while I'm going on about baby gear (so mommy blog cliche), I think I would quite like this for Carl as well. Only I think the pusher of that should wear a space suit or something.

Today I actually had two kids sleeping at the same time, which pretty much never happens since they try to keep up some sort of constant vigil to keep me awake- probably to make sure I don't run away. Paul was home, and we both had some work to do, but I discovered that I'm incapable of working next to him. I just couldn't shut up. I'm one of those people who will be like, "So it got nice out now after all" and then I'll mention what we could make for dinner. And then I'll ask how his work is going, and then I'll sharpen my pencil and start eating chips until he finally just tells me to leave, and I say "Okaaay, jeez" and then I talk some more.

I'm dark. and pink and purple.

2006-07-13T18:17:00.000-05:00

Someone please explain to me why becoming a mother suddenly makes me so susceptible to staining all my clothing, constantly and mysteriously, because I really thought that was an annoying stereotype about having baby food stuck to your sweat pants. But I'll bathe and put clean clothes on (well, sometimes) and go about my business and at some point after normal daily activity that didn't involve any bicycle-gear cleaning or second-base sliding, I'll realize that I look like I've traipsed through sprinklers of olive oil.

The other week when I ran screaming from the house for a break, I found myself shopping for a swimming suit on sale at Field's. And in between realizing that they only had about 8 one-piece swimsuits available among hundreds of racks of bikinis, and that all of the one-pieces were ugly and only available in rather large sizes, I saw that my pants were stained, almost as much as my t-shirt. (you don't say!). I felt so slovenly and pathetic among all the darling teenagers who had nothing better to do but go shopping after the pool and before seeing a movie that I marched right on over to the athletic section to get some new yoga pants --unstained-- and even hemorrhaged a bit of money for some adorable green puma pants in a fit of insanity and irresponsiblity. And now. They're stained! With something oily! For god's sake. Am I really desined to just completely deterioriate to the laundry detergent commercial mommies who gleem and smile as they work their magic on those stained baseball uniforms with all those chemicals? Although actually that might not be bad, because they're always so skinny and have such giant, sunny laundry rooms.

After reading something online about young children remembering their birth (I know), I decided in a quiet moment of cuddling and stories to ask Casimir, with some forced nonchalance, if he remembered when he was in my tummy. We had been talking about Carl's upcoming birthday anyway, and what that meant, so I figured why not. I felt rather new agey and moronic, but then he answered: Hm mm. It was dark. It was real dark, except for a little bit of pink, and (with a squint and a point) a little bit of purple. But it was dark and I didn't like it and I wanted to come out to see you and daddy.

I asked him if it was noisy and he said it was calm and he slept a lot. Seeing as I've never told him that it might be dark in a womb, should one decide to be in one, it freaked me out and I half epected him to go on about his other life before he died and a light and how he sometimes talks to great-great grandpa in his sleep or some such. Could he really remember that? I'm not sure. But then I kind of pressed him and asked what happened when he came out and if he remembered and he went on about monsters in the tummy and cars racing out and what not. So his credibility might be hampered a bit there, but I'm not sure. I think I still might believe that he remembers part of it. The part about the cars racing out.

2006-06-25T00:47:00.000-05:00

While mommy still had her way:

Daddy gets his way:

Daddy wins.

Keep on Strollin'

2006-06-25T00:13:00.000-05:00

Taking care of these kids is really cutting into my baby bloggin' time. Of course that's why I started it, b/c I was so involved, enmeshed, and just plain overwhelmed with childcare. And now I'm too enmeshed to even vent about it.

Anyway, I know we've all stumbled while holding a baby at times (even if "we" would not usually try walking in giant wedges with a baby in one arm and a drink in another...) but could someone please just give Britney Spears a baby carrier? Or at least show her how to use all those free ones people are probably sending her? Because 100 million dollars could buy a lot of slings and mei tais. Almost as many as I'd like to have. I find them indispensible just cruising through the Jewel, so I can't imagine how useful they'd be while globetrotting with photogs hot on your heels.

I think Casimir is finally exiting one of his many stages, namely the balloon/popping stage. I don't know how or why he becamse so obsessed with balloons and popping to the extent that "I'm going to pop you" became the biggest taunt his little three-year-old mind could imagine. But it stopped getting on my nerves and icking me out slightly when he pretended to bite Carl's foot so that he could pop him. That ranks right up there with "send Carl back to the hospital!" as far as three-year-old humorous upsets go. It must be hard to get pissed and have people think it's cute.

Poo-rama.

2006-05-27T22:26:00.000-05:00

Carl, who didn't quite get that pneumonia should make you look and feel crappy.

Hey, what do you know, it's still here! Well, I been busy. I began to write a blog entry a few days ago about my lovely Mother's day, which began with Carl dissolving into a little pile of fussy, suffering misery, and ended with my calling his doctor and being asked to mimic his wheezing while he wailed in the background. And it wasn't so hot in between. It wasn't a very exciting entry as I told the tale of how we wound up in the ER and how it was My First Emergency Room Visit Ever, and hopefully my last. So I deleted it.

Poor little pumpkin Carl had a mild case of pneumonia, which is all better now, but not without some adventure first. The following day involved the doctor saying dramatic things like "We're gonna break him up!" (I guess meaning, shake up the stuff in the lungs, with this breathing thing, or something...), heading on over to the ER in his vomited-on clothes, and basically spending the day in the doctor's office and then the hospital from 8am to 2. Fun! But 5 doctors, 3 opinions (He's all better. No, he needs to stay overnight. Well, he's on the fence, it's really up to you.), and five hours later (I guess they were busy, cuz "lotsa people dyin' here today" according to the nurse), we were allowed to go home with our drugs and a baby drunk with spastic overtiredness. And now we're better! Yay.

Then there were some days that God decided to make "leaky diaper day" and I'd clean up the sheets from Carl's random, overnight disposable leakage, and then Casimir would decide to wear training pants because he apparently tries to potty train about every other day, maybe, if he feels like it, and he'd pee in the training pants, and did you know those things hold a lot of pee but don't actually really absorb it? And then I'd clean that up while Carl fussed and then Casimir would poop a giant poop in the cloth diaper with no flushable liner, until I felt like giving up and just smearing the house in poo myself. And then when I actually have fun I don't feel like blogging. I think I used to like to write, anyway. Back when I used to be fun.

So then. What can I say. Much to my dismay, Carl is not remaining a 6 month-old forever and is nearly 11 months, which really shocks me despite my grasp of the idea that time keeps moving. And Casimir I think I could leave in the house alone for a few days and he'd be fine on his own, except for the toilet part. He's really good at dressing himself now too, although that means Mommy has to practice forgoing some control as he leaves the house with his Dockers on backwards, or really, really "matching" with his kelly green shorts, army green top, and green shirt over that. It's so hard to let go sometimes. Sometimes he stops what he's doing and says Mommy, I love you. Even when I'm mad at you, I love you. (I wonder where he got that?) and other times, well. If you hear a loud shrieking in the distance, guess what? That's him! Really.

Okay then.

2006-04-24T19:11:00.000-05:00

Well. I haven't been blogging so much lately, as you can see readership, because I've been extremely busy. And also because lately parenthood has been making me want to cleave my own head in two with Casimir's dull Fisher Price saw. And who wants to read such stress. I do actually quite like to vent, which is probably rather apparent here, but venting about one's own children and parenting skills is always a risky pursuit. It leaves me feeling guilty that I'm not appreciating what wonderful, healthy children I've been given, and it also makes me worry that the person still reading this may think I don't appreciate or love the wonderful, healthy children I've been given.

It's just that all this three year-old stuff is causing me to send daily emails to my husband at work with subjects lines like: THEY'RE DRIVING ME CRAZY. (But I do love my children!) And then there's the tantrums, and the nap resistance. And my continual forgetfulness with how reverse psychology works. Today I actually forgot that "Oh do you need a kleenex? We shouldn't stick our fingers in our noses" really means "Stick your finger all the way up to your brain, if you can." And this type of stuff just makes me apeshit if I've had only one and not two iced coffees (but I love my children!).

So anyway. I also keep forgetting that the shitassness usually peaks by 9am for some reason, and then begins to receed when we begin some activity or outdoor venture. So if 9am finds me trying to go to the bathroom with a fussing 9 month-old on my lap and a 3 year-old rolling on the floor, thinking I'll never make it til noon, I try to remember it will get better before I get to the point of truly wanting to sell at least the older one (I love my children!). A few times though, I've even resorted to the 1-2-3 counting and threatening to take certain toys away plan, which I was always against on the grounds that it was not very nice, effective, or logical. As in: On the count of 1, I will stop being your mother if you don't pick up the food you threw. (Not really! I love my children!) On many a day lately, I think, "omigod, what have I done? Why is this so difficult today and do many parents want to run away screaming?" And then every night I think, "Well that wasn't so bad. I love them so much. I should really lighten up. " The change in thinking might have something to do with the fact that they're sleeping. But I don't know. I think that's all for now.

I think humpty dumpty was drunk.

2006-04-06T13:10:00.000-05:00

Hyuk Hyuk!
Something about that picture makes me think of some sort of down home, countryish knee slap and exclamation.

Well. Haven't I been too busy to blog. Wiping cute butts for a living is time consuming, after all. Anyway, let's see, yesterday I dragged Casimir to our little Pre pre-K class. It's basically a short class for tots (potty training optional) where moms drop them off so they (the kids or the moms, whichever applies) can get used to being on their own before the big preschool transition. Which means that yesterday was week 5 of this class and I still haven't been able to leave the room. When we get there I see some other moms stepping into their SUVs, hotfooting it out of there already, but Casimir tells me that he'll "let" me stay.
Okay.
Anyway, I'm kind of glad I've witnessed some of it, so I can be properly apprehensive about this preschool. I had formerly been pretty impressed with what I'd observed there, but this class is too big. And then the helping mom brought Twinkies for a snack, which I'm guessing they don't serve up at the local Montessori school. You don't have to get all organic and whole grain on me for snack, but I thought twinkies sort of went away sometime in the 1970s? No? And after the twinkies every damn little thing was annoying me. Little Fatima (no I can't spell it) began to cry inconsolably, and after being unable to comfort her, the otherwise likable instructor said that she doesn't speak English, and isn't that a shame? Isn't that a shame? Totally! I mean my god. You're three! Fricking learn our language already or go back to your country. Jeezus. Learning two languages is no excuse, because if you haven't got both down by three, well what then? How are you going to follow instructions about painting your easter bunny cut out? Really. And then I keep going back to the twinkies. Lord knows I could never handle 20 three year-olds, but then doesn't mean I'm not going to be persnickety about how other people do. I don't know.

And I know I talk way too much about children's television so that one would think we sit and watch hours a day, which we never have even gotten close to (please note that, because that makes me a good mother you know) but Casimir has gotten over his fear of clowns and has taken to the Doodlebops, the most dumb ass show ever to come out of Canada. Someone producing this show thought it was a good idea to have these head puppets, which are basically like heads on a stick. Talking heads on a stick. But they're talking heads with powdered faces and big white powdered wigs piled up high on their head. You know, sort of Marie Antoinette-ish. Very French Revolutionish. But for kids! Brilliant! Who needs to shield them from CSI previews when you have the Doodlebops? The hippies are onto something. I'm giving up TV. Someday.

2006-03-20T14:51:00.000-06:00

Three. It's such a funky age. Well he's not three yet, but almost. When I'm patient, I just love all the craziness that three is. They can do so much compared to before, but it's bumpy and such a learning process, and a lot of frustration ensues. A lot of plastic water glasses and milk gets spilled. He MUST not.be.helped as he struggles to spread the mayo on his own sandwhich, globbing it on there in inedible quantities and then breaking up the cheese in little pieces, sprinkling it on (mmmm...) Shoes proudly get put on the wrong feet, and endearing but not quite workable suggestions get made. Sometimes he ends up rolling on the floor because I threw the rest of his uneaten bagel away and sometimes he completely surprises me with long, thoughtful soliloquies about how sometimes he's happy, and sometimes he's not, and sometimes he gets so upset and frustrated ("fustrated") and then he finishes with a nod and an "oh yes! I know all about that!"

And someone asked Casimir if he had a best friend. He said "oh yes, Baby Carl." Which is sweet, considering he still sometimes takes to trying to pummel him in between helping to wipe his butt and asking if he can breastfeed him. I'm envisioning about twenty years down the road, when they'll both be like 6'2" and 190 pounds, drinking together at college, and Casimir will say, "Hey Baby Carl, get me another Guinness" and big bad blonde Baby Carl will pound his drink and get him another. He'll just be Baby Carl into old age.

Go to Sleep, Baby.

2006-02-22T09:46:00.000-06:00

V is for vent.
Stay-at-home-mom is kind of a dumb term. Full-time mom is even more problematic. Primary caregiver is a little stilted. But the next time some antiquated, moronic soul refers to me as a housewife, I'm going to correct them and instead just suggest housebitch. I think the latter is kind of less offensive actually, because at least it's got some sarcasm and irony going on. I'm also just tired of questions I can't even afford to answer. Would I take my kids on a vacation? Don't I need one? Are we going to finish the basement? Why not get a massage? Well, no, I would never, ever take my kids on one of them dangerous airplanes just so we can go to the beach, I like our basement with cement floors, and massages are creepy. Someone touches you! That's why I don't. Really.

2006-02-18T19:37:00.000-06:00

This is a picture of my shrink. Sort of.
Well, not a whole lot has moved me to blog-blather lately. I must not be drinking strong enough coffee. Plus I've spent the last few days playing Pokey, which is a game Casimir invented. This basically involves me playing the Fisher Price Little People mechanic who Casimir renamed Pokey, putting him on the coffee table/matchbox car freeway, and asking Casimir if I can cross the road. Then Casimir says "No!" and continues to move the cars and tells me to ask again. Even Carl gets bored of it. Who says spending time with young children isn't intellectually stimulating?

And you know what, lately I've just sort of given up on the intellectually stimulating part. I'm so mentally frazzled sometimes trying to simultaneously let it all go and keep it together, that I find I am kind of conforming to this stereotype of stay-at-home-moms being intellectually stimulated by Dr. Seuss. It's because they're too damn tired to read the paper for at least a year. That's why. I was hoping that I'm still more informed on worldly affairs than the average American moron. But lately I've gotten most of my news headlines from the Yahoo homepage which usually reports on stuff like two-headed snakes and the world's biggest pillow fights. I also am no longer embarassed to admit that I adore America's Next Top Model and American Idol. And read tabloids sometimes. Next thing you know I'll be bragging about bargains. Oh, wait. I do that too.

I'm getting really good at letting things go though. I feel like it's all about the expectations. I constantly have to readjust my expectations and just let go, or I'd go postal. Oh I thought I was going to have a couple hours to read after I got them both to bed? Wrong, dumbass. Babies rebel, wake, and plans change. I feel like my 12-step program toward mental success right now is 1. let it go 2. don't worry about it 3. let it go 4. forget it 5. shut up and move on and you get the idea. I suppose in a grown up relationship, continually lowering your expectations and giving in all day would make you kind of a sorry ass. But unlike grown ups, kids actually do change, and most funky stuff is temporary. It's not that I don't need my (cue mommy speak) "time to myself." I do, and I have to pencil it in, announce it, and then just leave (with a grown up there, duh), or it won't happen. But in between those points of escape, frustration serves no purpose. Giving in seems to give me more peace of mind, and I'm even reading those inspirational sayings on the sides of my herbal tea boxes, so god knows something in me is giving.

Having children is like ongoing therapy if you ask me. Because nothing brings out your issues, shortcomings, or general fucked-upness like shifting your life focus onto raising dependent, helpless little people. My brain continually forces me to think so much about my own childhood, about what is hard for me to handle, and why, and I haven't even had to pay anything. I'm coming up with new inner resources for coping that I didn't think I had, and without Prozac and all those frustrating sexual side effects. It's not a bad deal, considering you get kids out of it too.

Did you know that overtired children act like belligerent drunks?

2006-02-08T20:45:00.000-06:00

Paul took the two in the house who holler the most over to visit his parents so I can get some work done. But something about peace and quiet and children removed from the equation does not make me want to work, believe it or not. I was so thrilled, in fact, to be able to get something (anything!) done, I got all energetic and excited and even started cleaning and picking up in a big whirlwind, which is just, I don't know, DISTURBING. So I'm settling down to read some blogs and email, though I should probably really relax and sit down with a book and my friend Guinness. And I can't figure out what is with my old friends who live far away and are apparently email-impaired. We talk on the phone every so often and they're all effusive and all "we have to talk more often!" and then I email them and they respond like "Hello. I'm fine. How are you?" and that's it. I know everyone is not as gifted at typing fast as I am, but I wish they were more into daily emailing so I could at least feel like I'm communicating with grown ups during weekdays. Calling doesn't work really, because something about my talking on the phone makes Casimir dance in front of me shouting Mommy! and while I'm used to it and while it's appropriate for telemarketers, my friends probably wouldn't like it while at the office. Anyway.

I see so many glimpses of Casimir's baby self in Carl. Carl will be lying on the changing table with his butt in the air and his feet in his mouth, Casimir's old shirt on, and he looks just like a picture of Casimir doing that. I have so many pictures of each, I keep vainly leafing through them to find a couple similar pictures at similar ages, so that I could compare them, but I can't find any. I enjoy likening them to butter and margarine- alike but just different enough to tell the difference. And full of buttery, fattening goodness.

mommymommymommy!

2006-01-27T22:30:00.000-06:00

Totally living up to that moniker of Bad Mommy today. I was thinking that maybe Casimir has a fairy godmother who just whispered to him that I suck sometimes and he should call me on it, even if for the wrong things. Maybe.

Anyway, big bad Carl is getting a little hard to get to sleep and keep asleep, especially with a singing, hollering toddler in the house. Sometimes I've worked so damn hard singing baa baa fricking black sheep to get him to sleep, and I set him down successfully and then there's some whining and then some hollering and then Carl is up and I'm stressed out. After Casimir's babyhood I have PTSD with the whole sleep issue, so I'm a leeeetle jittery and crazy on this topic when Carl gives me trouble going to sleep. It makes those times that he is just totally out that much more enjoyable. I just love it when he's so konked out in his pack and play in our room that I know I can saunter in, flip on the light, even open and close some dresser drawers, get dressed, hell- organize the closet, and still hear his rythmic breathing as he slumbers away. It's somewhat empowering in a warped way. I wish he always slept like that.

I took these herbal drops that someone recommended, and I'm not usually one for herbal drops, but boy, they rocked my sinuses and I was able to stop mouthbreathing within two days. I love health.

YES, YOU CAN TAKE SUDAFED WHILE PREGNANT.

2006-01-24T19:37:00.000-06:00

There. That should settle that for the three trillion hits I get a week from the google inquiry "can you take sudafed while pregnant?" Not that you should click on a BLOG to get an answer to that internet query. But anyway. You can. Pop away!

Bad Mommy.

2006-01-21T17:30:00.000-06:00

WELL, I awoke this morning with an itch in my throat and the feeling of a whole box of kleenex stuffed in my head and sinuses, so THANK GOD FOR THAT, because otherwise I would have been healthy for a whole month straight! Now I'm right back to where I was, clutching my Sudafed by the humidifier, and I can only hope this one sputters out quickly. I used to just adore four seasons. I loved the fall and the leaves and the snow and the brisk cold and rosy cheeks and hot chocolate and sweaters and blahfreezingblah. Now I'm like retired people and I think I require a milder climate for my fragile physical disposition. I just want to move to Arizona and live on a golf course and wear white pants. Thankfully we have Carl the Insomniac (this week at least) to cheer us up with his pudgy smiles and squeals. When he's not busy trying to pull my hair out with exploratory grabbing exercises, he's all excitement and joy, and everything! is! so! fun! I love happy babies. I'll bet I used to be like that, too. For about two weeks, and then I probably got gas and stayed mildly grumpy ever since.

Casimir has taken to calling me Bad Mommy if I commit an offense as egregious as tidying up his matchbox cars or something similar. I don't especially like being called Bad Mommy, considering that I do everything for him and would essentially give him my kidneys or liver or whatever he needed and even schedule the surgery at night so I could take him to the Children's Museum that day. I tell him that it's not nice. Yet, there's something slightly endearing about such grandiose anger coming from such a little person, and when they first start to use words to express that. It's hard not to secretly find it cute, in that condescending grown up way. I don't know where he learned it, considering that I don't run around calling people bad or good (that's Santa's job). But I do have memories of slamming doors when I was little and shouting "I hate you!" so I'm going to appreciate his expressions of anger while they're still cute.

Put Mom in the Zoo.

2006-01-04T22:54:00.000-06:00

I had forgotton what it's like to try and dress someone who is trying to shove their hands, your hands, and the clothing all in their mouth at once. Or what it's like to have someone grab your cheeks with their little hands, squeeze, and then slowly twi-i-i-iiiist while squealing so closely to your face that they begin to blur.

I recently saw these books at Borders Put Me in the Zoo and Are You My Mother? as well as Snow, that I absolutely had to get because as soon as I saw the covers I felt like I was six and being read to in my old yellow bedroom with the divine yellow shag carpeting. If you had asked me if I had heard of that cute kids' book, Put Me in the Zoo, I would have said no and asked if it was tied into Disney or PBS. But it's weird how one look and you can instantly remember and be transported back. I started to wonder, if I had been abducted by aliens or molestors and then, years later, recovered and escaped but never found my parents again and couldn't remember anything...and then saw these books? Then it would all come back to me! And that would be neat.
I guess it was just weird to have Put Me in the Zoo become such a powerful and suprising memory tool.

I think I may have to give up TV again, just to mitigate that occasional spasm of guilt I experience that our minimal time plugged in is rewiring and smouldering his brain. Last time we did it for a week and he begged, pleaded, and cried for it exactly zero times. It was harder on me. And now the show we watch is Balamory, which I'm not quite sure I can give up. It takes place in Scotland, and I'm thinking if I limit our TV watching to that, then I can weave a nice little lilt into Casimir's developing English. Plus, I'm just waiting until some fundamentalist protests against Archie, the kilt-wearing, pink-sweatered fellow who lives in a pink castle. He's my favorite.

Do you want me to help you blow your nose?

2005-12-22T14:02:00.000-06:00

We're sick. Runny nose, coughing, congested, and grumpy sick. Except for Paul, with the immunity of steel, we've all been sick for what feels like forever. I always take it as a personal affront when I or my kids get sick, as if we somehow weren't rested or taken care of properly to protect us against all those bad germs and viruses floating around, because don't you know that mothers thrive on guilt? I've just read too many anecdotes about how someone breastfed their kid for five years and they're seven and they've still never been sick.

And boy is it hard to get ready for the holidays when you can't stop wiping noses. First there was the attempt at taking a Christmas photo for our cheery holiday cards, which I see as obligatory because I'm a mom and I'm kinda cheesy now. For various reasons, however, I have issues with professional pictures and posed kids in holiday sweaters standing next to big, pretend candycanes. So I usually opt for my own brilliant "photography" skills. Plus, I'm free. But getting bobblehead Carl to sit still long enough for our ancient digital camera to actually take a picture proved nearly impossible. It was just Casimir and Baby Blur. I finally got one where they are both complying and posing like obedient children are supposed to do at holiday time, but it's kind of grainy looking, Casimir is looking to the side, and Carl just looks plump. Which means that it's a good picture, considering. I was going to keep trying, but then they got sick and started looking all red-nosed and bleary eyed, so the crappy grainy one was just going to have to do. Now when the cards start coming in, some of those professional pictures aren't looking so bad to me.

Then I was trying to finish our Christmas cards, but I kept having to stop to help Casimir blow his nose or calm a fussing Carl, or blow my own nose or the mailman's nose or change a diaper or get myself a cough drop or shot of coffee or something. Writing the cards at night wasn't any easier, because some of the nights around here have been, uh, trying to say the least. Let's just say a couple have involved some sleeplessness, crying, and throwing of pacifiers. So I was letting Casimir watch more Caillou than I normally would because when you feel crappy, play-do, cars, and fingerpaints really lose their appeal, and I wanted to finish these damn cards. I kept telling myself that I should just forget it. I wasn't trying to be all Perfect Mommy, who gets the baked goods to the neighbors by Christmas Eve and sends cards to everyone with pictures of her kids in their holiday sweaters. I didn't really care if I sent Christmas cards or not!
But telling myself that didn't make me stop.
I didn't so much care if I didn't get cards out to anyone, but I cared if I couldn't stamp and sign and stuff a mere 25 holiday cards while housebound all day. It was kind of the principle of the thing. I was determined and annoyed, and I was going to finish those goddamned Christmas cards if it killed me and win that battle. About half way through I realized that I had addressed and stamped half of the envelopes upside down, and gluesticked the grainy picture of Casimir and Carl right over the proclamation of JOY on some cards. I probably asked about Jackson when I was writing Cy's parents or vice versa, but who cares? Because I finished my Christmas cards! All done. And if you get one, don't open it, because someone probably coughed on it.
I hate to think what's going to happen to the fudge.

AND Casimir has stopped attacking Carl, which means I can go to the bathroom without major stress, bringing a baby along and locking the door or holding an arm out in defense. I guess if you help your two year-old express how much it truly sucks having a new baby crash the scene, he slowly feels validated and eventually calms down about it a little. It seems a little counterintuitive, but that and our little Mommy and Me times out to the Children's Museum and for bribery hamburgers helped him feel secure again on his #1 throne. My dad was the one who came over one day and diverted Casimir with a big hug and the catchphrase "Hugs not Hits!" Sometimes gentle discipline comes from the people you least expect it from. What happened to threatening to get out the belt? Turns out he had been reading some Dr. Spock, as in their 1965 copy that advised them through all four of their children. I thought they just taught obedience and spanking in the old days, but maybe old Spock wasn't as bad as I thought.