A Wolf In Girls' Clothing

This morning, after her bath, Shea was sitting on the bathroom floor toweling off and babbling to herself. After a minute or two I overheard her shouting (in a mock alarmed tone), "Security! Security!"

So I popped my head in to investigate.

Karin: "What are you saying, Shea?"

Shea: "Security! Security!" she replied, with an impish grin.

Karin: "Do you need help with something?"

Shea: "No."

Karin: "Well, that's kinda like calling for help. Do I need to remind you of the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf?"

Shea: "Huh?"

After telling her the story, which in my version ends spectacularly with the wolf chomping the boy whole after none of the villagers came to his lying-ass rescue, her face turned from concerned to cynical.

And then she shouted right past me, louder than before:

"Security! She's telling phony stories!"


.

Yin And Yang

Once again, my children remind me of their polar opposition on most topics:

Shea: "Mommy, ______ got a time out in school again today."

Karin: "Oh no. Have you ever gotten a time out in school, Shea?"

Shea: "No."

Finn: "Me neither!"

Karin: "Good for you guys. It's not cool to get in trouble in school; it's a waste of everyone's time. So remind me again: Why do we go to school?"

(Blurting out their answers at the exact same time:)

Finn: "To learn."

Shea: "So we won't go to jail."

No In-Flight Movie Shown On This Bird

Recently, a friend shared with me a funny story about how she had to leave work to pick up her son early from his after-kindergarten play program because he had been suspended after deciding it would be fun to show his butt -- or more specifically, his "brown star" -- to his classmates.

Although she and her husband punished their son later that day so he could learn a lesson about inappropriate behavior, she said they laughed about the incident behind closed doors.

"My little exhibitionist!" she chirped.

I totally understood the unique conflict -- that's so funny! that's so wrong! -- these parents faced because something similar happened at our dinner table a couple weeks ago -- an incident that forced John and I to wear our "Responsible Parents" hats while inside we were belly laughing on the floor, doubled over in pre-teen hysterics.

Let me first give you a little background.

Since we've been living in Hawaii I've, gratefully, been able to focus less on freelance writing deadlines and more on traditional, domestic responsibilities. As part of this reassignment of duties, something I call Motherhood 2.0 in my head, I've made a point to try out lots of new recipes.

I've cooked with lemongrass for the first time, sampled Korean marinades, replaced my old in-a-pinch Macaroni & Cheese standby with Udon and vegetables, and perfected a broiled Opah (moonfish) dish that will knock your sandals off.

And while I understand that some things will just fall flat on fickle young palettes, our typical house rule is "Try everything, just one bite; you never know what you might like." (It's not all annoying and sing-songy like that, though. That's just the spirit of the rule, Iago.)

This new experimentation is how we learned that Shea, the kid who eats about five food items total in the course of a typical week, loves lotus root and kidney beans. Go figure.

One night, in an attempt to put some Thanksgiving flavors on the table despite the fact that it was a balmy 82 degrees outside, I put together a pot of Creamy Sweet Potato Soup.

I'm not sure if it was the burnt orange color or odd texture that put him off, but Finn ate the rest of his dinner and left his soup completely untouched. It was only after some coaxing that we were able to get him to adhere to the One Bite rule.

This particular one bite, however, was not to his liking. Not at all.

So he jumped up and away from the table, ran to the other side of it so he was facing his empty chair and place setting, and threw up his middle finger at his soup bowl.

That's right, folks, the bird flew right across our dinner table.

"Finnegan!" we shouted, half wanting to laugh, half in shock. "What did you just do? And where did you learn that?!?"

"___ taught me in the cafeteria," he said, sheepishly.

"You're not supposed to do that," we explained while trying not to look at each other for fear of cracking up during our serious Parenting Lecture. "It's very naughty. And rude."

His response?

"But that's what you're supposed to do when you don't like something!"

DoodyPantsStinkyButtFartHeadDiaperNose

That, my friends, is -- according to my four-and-a-half year-old son -- a string of the world's funniest words.

Pure comedy joy. In fact, peals of hysterical brainwaves are emanating from the top of his sleeping little head right now, merely through the osmotic energy of my having just typed them here.

Oh My God: the potty talk.

We've been battling pretty regularly here in Casa DDD to keep the potty talk to a low simmer; to that end, we have employed a number of mostly unsuccessful deterrents.

First, a little back story: For about a year or so, Finn got in the initially adorable habit of addressing his father as Johnny -- not Dad, or the preferred Papa. After a while, John came to miss hearing the word Papa come from his son's lips but we just couldn't find a way to reverse the trend.

Enter Grandma Emely (who should write a damn book about child psychology, by the way, or at least about creatively administered methods of bribery), and began rewarding him with coins -- a penny here, a nickel there -- whenever he used the paternal address instead of the familiar. Moreover, there was a promise of a trip to the Big Toy Store once he had accrued enough coinage.

Within a week he was completely broken of his Johnny rap; within two, he was berating me for addressing my husband by his first name.

Yeah, the kid responded to the money.

Last week, after an hour strolling Toys-R-Us with Grandma, he brought this home. And Johnny don't live here anymore.

Anyway, back to the potty talk. My Mom's solution for this recent trouble is the same one she employed with my brother when he went through this normal but totally annoying developmental curve: have Finney get all potty talk out of his little system while in the bathroom.

You know, potty talk stays in the potty.

Seems simple enough. In fact, it's no holds barred in there most days -- a butt here, a fart there, a doody this, and a stinky diaper that. Every now and then he'll slip at the dinner table or playground, but for the most part he's reserving his best and brightest for the bathtub and toilet environment. Fun times.

So I nearly swallowed my tongue when I overheard Finn, standing in the hallway while talking through the closed bathroom door to Grandma Emely as she was inside using the restroom:

"Grandma, make sure you say lots and lots of potty words while you're in there, ok?!?"

The Future Is Now

Much of parenthood has been much more intense--both good and bad--than I ever imagined it to be.

And I'm not just talking about the whole intensity of labor and delivery, although, WOW! That was some pretty life- (and body-) changing stuff.

I'm talking about sustained intensity.

The long nights with infants, for example, were longer and more trying than I could have ever imagined, while the constant messes are more constant than I would prefer and the temper tantrums more maddening than I thought possible.

By the same token, the depth of my love and devotion to my children -- step in front of an approaching wild animal to protect them? No problem. Is that all you got? -- is in reality more profound than I ever could have anticipated. Sometimes it takes me by surprise just how full they've made my life, and how eerily different -- even two-dimensional by comparison -- it now seems before they arrived.

Some of the things about parenthood I've looked forward to since I was a child myself, being parented by others. Specific things, like taking them to the beach, watching baseball games, and hearing them tell me about school, have been just what I thought they would be: magical in their momentousness.

And school pageants.

I'm one of those people who just LOVES watching kids perform in school singalongs, plays, talent shows, chorus recitals, etc. You name it. What sounds to many like a front-row, folding-chair seat in Hell is a high point of spectator joy for me. And the more flubs and mistakes the better, I say. I adore the earnest attempt at showmanship, regardless of the results.

Something about the sound of small children singing in unison makes me think of hope.

So you can probably understand why I was a little frustrated last year when my firstborn child passed on the opportunity to perform in his Very First School Holiday Performance.

And you'll be able to understand how fulfilling it was to watch him, a year older and more confident, join his classmates at the front of the chapel to perform a nativity scene and sing holiday carols this year.

It was just as good as I always knew it would be.

Admit It

If you were going to be kicked, you'd want it to be done by someone wearing these shoes:

And if you were going to be hit about the face and chest with tiny fists of fury, you'd want it to be by someone who can pull this look off with ease:

And if you were going to be bitten on the soft, fleshy part of your underarm, you'd want it to be done by someone who has this smile:

Right?!?!?

P.S. Just as they did with her brother, Shea's "terrible twos," tantrums and all, have started early--at 18 months.

Ding Ding Ding Went The Bell*

When Finn was young and first learning to speak, we somehow began to identify his primary boypart as his ding ding.

The phrase seemed cute enough at the time--especially because Finn was actually able to say it himself--and I've never really understood the need for very young children to know the clinical names of their body parts. Piggies are adorably interchangable with toes; nobody really needs to know at that stage in the game that they have phalanges. (Plus, it's always a little strange and to hear a two year old scream out in the grocery store about her wagina.)

So, now that he's "four and a quarter," John and I decided that now may be the time to introduce the formal names of his anatomical bits and pieces so he's not left standing aghast and aflutter should the word penis be introduced on the playground. (Oh, you and I both know that day's coming. And soon.)

Finn's nightly bathtime was chosen as the easiest and most convenient place to open the discussion, and John stepped up to the parenting plate with characteristic aplomb.

J: "So, Finney, did you know your ding ding is also called your penis?"

F, lying flat in the bathtub with his ears and head semi-submerged underwater: "Did you say PANTS?"

J, laughing: "No, Finn. I said penis."

F: "Is that Spanish, or something?"

* This, by the way, cracked me up something fierce.

Preparing For Her Big Dismount While Giving Me Even More Grey Hair

Glad That's Finally Over

Some people complain that the Christmas season goes on just a little too long, overstaying its welcome and becoming a bit of a burden on the spirit.

For me, that happened with Halloween this year.

It just seemed the parties and parades and pumpkin patches and pandering went on and on and on. Don't get me wrong; each of the events in and of itself was delightful, and the kids had tons of fun celebrating the season. It was just cumulatively exhausting for me ushering the kids from one costumed event to the next, especially when Finn changed his mind every twelve minutes about his costume choice.

I know, I'm a party poop.

But I'm genuinely glad it's November. Thanksgiving is just the right low-key holiday to bridge the energy required to traverse from Halloween mayhem to Christmas bedlam. Bring on the stuffing.

That said, here's the recap of what we did and where we went:

At Brian and Geri's annual Halloween party, Reilly and Finney were once again each other's constant shadows. It's always good times with those guys, and this year was no exception. They hired a large, inflatable bouncy contraption for the backyard, and the kids--Brian included--jumped their hearts out for most of the night and much of the next morning.


Then, of course, there was the pumpkin patch--the highlights of which I already posted here.

Then came the Halloween Haunt at Doheny State Beach, which had one of those black-light haunted houses lined with creepy fish and nautical motifs.

Followed by the Halloween parties and parades at Finn's preschool, which went on for TWO days (hence the plurals). The upshot was that I was able to capture the image below, which has become one of my favorites of the entire year for its dizzying range of blank four-year-old male expressions and focal points.


I mean, c'mon--that's priceless.

On Halloween night we trick or treated in our neighborhood, more to show off the kids to the neighbors than to collect candy. Since Shea was a bundle in our arms last year, this was really her first taste of toddling from door to door and she just rocked Finn's old tiger costume. Unsure of how to handle the whole treat bag thing, though, she would give her candy to her brother or me as often as she would place it in her bag for safekeeping. The instinctual protectiveness over her confectionary booty will surely develop in the coming years.


Afterwards, we visited Cari and family, where Finn and Daisy (aka Spidergirl) had a chance to play and trade lollipops.

To top the season off, baseball ended for the year and the clocks got turned back--two events that always send me into a bit of a psychic tailspin.

Finally, to see a slideshow of all the Halloweenerie and visual proof of why October kicked our butts, click here.

Confession

Now that Shea's fitting into her 18-24 month/24-month/2T clothing, I just spent the better part of two hours packing her baby clothes into a giant plastic bucket that's now neatly stowed away in the garage. And while they brought back lots of snuggly memories and made me realize just how much she's grown, I didn't ONCE get even a single whimsical longing for another baby.

If anything, they made me hope that whatever newborn gets to use them next -- whether a friend, family member or stranger -- tries to take it easy on his or her exhausted mother and father as they find their way through the thick forest of new parenthood.

Drugstore Cowgirl

So, did you know you could get strep on your butt?

Hmmmm, me neither.

Turns out Shea's butt knew this, and managed to be first in line to sign up for a scorching case of Perianal Streptococcal Dermatitis--or Strep-da-Booty, which we affectionately call it around the campfire--that her pediatrician quickly diagnosed after taking a look at her adorable but very angry little bottom.

He also said it's easy to catch--probably from one of her vector parents, both of whom suffered a case of strep throat at least once this summer--and, fortunately, easy to cure.

Unfortunately, this marks the fourth case of the dreaded "strep" in the house this summer; despite our best efforts to scour the house of all germs and triple launder the linens, we just keep volleying the yuck back and forth.

I feel like we should paint a big AMOXICILLIN DISTRIBUTED LIBERALLY HERE warning on the front door--partly to warn visitors of our ongoing bacterial challenges, and partly to scare away any new strep bugs that are plotting their next attack.

I'm pretty sure the pharmacists at SavOn think I'm stalking them at this point.

Slumber Party

Before I had children I used to think it was mean when parents would say their favorite time of day was after the kids went to bed.

I so understand that now.

Things I Never Really Thought I'd Hear Myself Say

• What do caterpillars smell like?
• Please don't eat the plants.
• How's my good pooper doing today?
• But you won't have big boobies because only women get big boobies. [pause] Yes, they were full of milk. [pause] No, you can't have any because they're empty now. And, besides, they're only for babies. [pause] Yes, that's true. You are my baby, but the answer's still no.
• Please don't eat his shoes.
• No, honey, I don't think you understand. It's pajama day at school, so you don't HAVE to get dressed today.
• I haven't read a book in more than a year.
• Please don't eat the remote control.
• Because I said so.

Charlie And Lola

Here in Parentville, "Charlie and Lola" is one of our favorite animated shows. Favourite family programmes, I suppose I should say, since it comes from England and, unfortunately, only lasts 15 minutes at a time, rather than the standard 30.

It's the charming story of an older brother and younger sister and the fun adventures they find themselves in, all rendered in a simple yet whimsical line-drawing style and filled in with broad markers and scraps of fabric/paper that look like something unearthed from your grandmother's attic. (It always reminds me of what poet Stevie Smith's drawings would look like if they came to life and weren't so suicidal and depressive.)

John especially loves the program because I think it reminds him of what Finn and Shea will (hopefully) be like in a few years. He loves it so much, in fact, that he's been in a funk since the PBS syndicate here in Southern California changed its regular air time a couple weeks ago and he's now unable to watch it with Shea during their early morning father-and-daughter bonding session before work each day. "Bear in the Big Blue House totally sucks," he recently vented, in response to the show that took C&L's former slot. Priorities, people; we've certainly got 'em.

As siblings, Charlie and Lola occasionally spat, of course, but it's always in a kind, respectful, very British and articulate kind of way. Charlie, the infinitely patient older brother, is continually charmed by his silly and funny little sister, while Lola, the feisty sparkplug of a little sister, adores her older brother and wants to be part of everything he does. Idyllic? Yes. Realistic? Probably not. Heartwarming nevertheless? You betcha.

In the morass of insipid children's programming and uninspired, flat animation, C&L is a viewing highlight. Its visuals are dear without being saccharine, its music playful without delving into Muzak, and its message sweet without being preachy. Well done, Charlie and Lola. May our children one day love you as much as their parents do.

Mother's Day Arrived A Week Early

I treated myself to a haircut yesterday--a nice one, at a salon where they offered me freshly brewed French roast coffee and white chocolate Macadamia nut cookies as I devoured celebrity gossip magazines on the plush, oversized ottoman lounge chair in the lobby.

I realized it had been about 14 months since my last cut--I was about seven months' pregnant with Shea at the time, who managed to kick my insides through most of the appointment, making it hard to STAY STILL to make sure the cut turned out straight--and my hair was looking a bit scraggly, to say the least.

Funny thing about having kids: most of your attention gets focused on making sure they're fed, cleaned, clothed, color coordinated, etc. I, however, find myself most days in a black or (mostly) white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and my Rainbow sandals. It's my standard uniform--not one that I love, but one that works.

And my hair? Although I take a sliver of pride in the fact that it gets washed every single day, that's where the love stops. It usually gets thrown up into a ponytail or clip, up and out of the way of grabby baby hands. More than once I've taken it out of the clip at bedtime to find that it's even still a little wet, since I didn't ever get around to drying it. But BY GOD, it's clean. (The 16-year-old me just rolled her eyes and took a step back out of embarrassment.)

How some women manage to look great while mothering small children just eludes me. I feel like there's a reason doctors wear scrubs, not Prada, during surgery: it's a messy job, one filled with exposure to random bodily fluids, and casual, loose-fitting clothing (which, when it gets inevitably stained, can be easily washed, thrown away or even burned in a HazMat incinerator) seems to fit the bill best.

Ferragamo heels? Seven Jeans? Juicy Couture? Really?

(Quick aside: I ran into Pete Sampras and his model/actress wife, Bridgette, and their son at Legoland a couple years ago. And the thing that struck me most from the encounter wasn't that one of the greatest athletes to play the game of tennis and I were chasing our toddler sons around the playground together, but rather just how put together--well rested, well sculpted, well dressed, and well coifed--Mommy Sampras looked. I noticed her waaaaaaaayyyyy before I noticed Pete and his urgent need for a pedicure. And, although she kind of grunted at me when I apologized for accidentally stepping on her toe while I was trying to take Finn's picture as he played on a toy next to their son, I tipped my wrinkled and erratically stained hat to her. Yes, she probably had plenty of hired help to take care of her son so she could take care of herself, but she was still a mom of a young boy. A somewhat humorless one, granted, but still a mom. And she was lookin' good.)

Anyway, it was high time to make a hair appointment. I ended up getting about four inches taken off, as I'm still not ready to fully commit to the "Mom haircut" just yet. (The 16-year-old me just sighed with a little relief before bailing on my boring litany of maternal pablum to go buy another bottle of peroxide and some frosty pink lipstick.) It was nice to get pampered. To discuss local events and town history with a fun stylist. To wear a skirt and some kitten-heeled sandals just for the occasion. And, for a few hours at least, to wear my hair down and feel like a grownup.

Almost within minutes of being back home, though, I found myself instinctually piling my hair back up into my fail-safe clip--up and out of the way--in order to prepare dinner, unload the washer and dryer, and comfort a cranky Shea as she emerged from her afternoon nap. But before I did, I snapped a few shots for posterity. Who knows when the next visit to the salon will be.

Below are the results, which really don't look that much different than my hair a year ago, but make me feel much lighter. Don't you love my adorable lap accessory? I couldn't think of a cuter way of showing off the new 'do.

Parental Protest

While watching the news coverage of the various protests around the country this morning I saw a protester holding a sign that said, "Don't Bite The Hand That Wipes Your Ass!"

John and I have since decided to employ this philosophy with Finn and Shea when they're being particularly unruly.

Woulda Coulda Shoulda

I woulda had a doozie of a photo for you today--a real gem of a shot that showed Finn fast asleep while on the potty, his head propped up on the toilet paper holder with Puppy Baby as a cushioning pillow--had I not killed the camera.

Well, actually, it was Shea's leaky bottle that squirted out all its milky goodness into the basin of my purse, saturating a number of important items, but none that will be missed so acutely as the digital camera.

I'm all twitchy about it, like a smoker aware with every cell and fiber that his/her cigarette supply has just run dry. John's doing his best to conduct emergency repairs but I fear the worst.

I shoulda never put the bottle in my purse, yes. I coulda saved myself a lot of hassle if I only had eight arms to carry the babies/toys/bottles/purses/backpacks/etc. that I seem to have attached to me at any given point of day or night.

Add to this latest inconvenience the fact that Shea's cutting three teeth at once and running a fever, making this week four of tending to sick children. (We went from an ear infection and conjunctivitis for Finn, to conjunctivitis for Shea, to conjunctivitis for Shea again, to fever and tonsilitis for Finn, and now this mystery ailment for Shea that I'm insisting is "just teething" because I don't know if I can stomach one more trip to the pediatrician and pharmacist.)

Sour grapes make bad whine.

Still On The Mend

Just as I predicted, it's been a long week of recovery, with lots of time indoors together. We've done every last puzzle, read the same books a dozen times over, and watched all our favorite DVDs an embarrassing number of times.

(Quick aside: Have you ever had to answer this question every week: "But why did Anakin turn into Darth Vader?"* It's an answer as loaded and complex as Truman Capote, one filled with subtle shades of giving in to the dark side, embracing his anger and hatred instead of following the nobility and honor of the Jedi order, and not finish his vegetables at dinner, by the way, depending on the mood I'm in when asked.)

To make matters worse, the sun came out yesterday in a full springtime blaze, beckoning us to walk to the park. Within minutes of Finn scaling the jungle gym I knew we weren't quite ready, as his still sickly lungs caused his little body to convulse in coughing-fit spasms. We quickly retreated, defeated, back to the loft, where we settled back into Day 6 of Getting Better.

Needless to say, I'm looking forward to the weekend.

* Finn asks this question repeatedly because, 1) he's three, and the three-year-old rule book clearly states that all questions directed to your mother must be posed a number of times equal to the number of minutes she was in labor with you, and 2) although we've allowed him to see, with a parental chaperone with him on the couch at all times, the original Star Wars (Part IV) in its totality and parts of V, VI, I, and even II (he tells us to forward past the scary parts, like when Darth Maul fights with his double-sided light saber or when Hayden Christiansen, bless his pouty lips, tries to act too much), we've deemed part III to be much too violent and graphic and will probably hold off on letting him view it until he's about 26.

What this means, unfortunately, is that his narrative cycle is completely fractured because he's never seen for himself how/why Anakin becomes Darth Vader. We keep hoping our descriptions of the metamorphosis from dark to light, from good to evil, will suffice, but his curiosity keeps this subject close enough that we discuss it constantly. He also wants to know if Darth Vader gets sick, which makes me giggle because I imagine Mommy Vader leaning over her boy, feeling his masked forehead for a fever, then trying to somehow fit the dropper full of bubblegum-flavored antibiotics through his sleek mask into his pie hole.

Not Enough Energy To Fight Over Who Gets Mommy's Lap

Sick And Tired

Bleeccccccccchhhh! Both kids have been sick since Saturday. Finn was his worst so far on Monday, just before his pediatrician officially identified his ongoing misery as Bacterial Conjunctivitis and Otitis Media. (He's got a nasty, runny case of Pink Eye and an ear infection.)

Baby Shea's coughing like a barking seal and sleeping like a newborn, in maddening little two/three-hour stretches.

The top shelf of the fridge is filled with prescription meds and plunger droppers, while Finn's magic eye drops are nearby on the countertop. John and I have been gathering everything within Finn's reach to be laundered in extra hot water or wiped down with antibacterial solution. He's extremely contagious and won't be back to school for many days.

It's gonna be a loooooooooonnnnnngggggggggg week.