I've had to hide the raisins.
In our old house, though Violet could get into the pantry any time she wanted to, she didn't. It didn't really occur to her that there was food in there, even if she'd seen me pull stuff out to cook or use. So, it stands to reason that I might think she wouldn't be interested in the pantry in the new house, right?
Wrong. First I had to move the Nilla Wafers to a higher shelf. Then the instant oatmeal (she would rip open packets and try to cook it in her play kitchen for her babies -- cute, but crazy messy). And now I've had to hide the raisins because Violet helped herself to four boxes while I was sorting and cleaning and vacuuming the bedrooms this past Sunday.
Do you realize four mini-boxes of raisins is about 3 cups of grapes in real life? Yeah... Poor sitter had to deal with those diapers yesterday -- so sorry!
Other interesting things about our new house? Our new TV can be heard in the kids bedroom, so when Scott's not looking, I adjust the volume from 28 to about 12. Of course, when the kids aren't bouncing around us, we don't really need the TV at 28 to hear over them, so it's not terribly noticeable.
The liquor cabinet is very conveniently located within an arms reach of the fridge. It was at our old house, too, but if you were standing in the fridge, it was behind your back. Now, if your standing in the fridge, it's completely in your line of sight. Which makes it all too easy to add some Jamaican rum to my egg nog. And that's a darn tasty treat! It is, however, not consumed if I am the only adult in the house. One must always be prepared to drive on gravel roads to get a kid to the hospital or something if an emergency pops up. And if I'm the only one in the house who can see over the dashboard, I'm also going to be sober. But When Scott's around? Let's just say it's making creating baby #3 more fun...
Also, the kids are finding the holes in the wooden floors fun and tantalizing and scary all at once. The house was originally outfitted with a boiler and radiators, but through the years it has been retrofitted with forced air heat. The most recent incarnation is the geo-thermal heating installed by the previous owner. So there are radiator-pipe sized holes in the floor, the most obvious is outside my bathroom on the main level. Both kids have peered down the hole and they regularly step around it, though it is too small for either of them to get a foot caught. They look at it and wonder where something would go if it were dropped down there. Answer: the basement, of course. So Violet dropped a small white ball from the Hungry, Hungry Hippos game down there.
Milo was instantly alight and wanted to run downstairs immediately to find the ball. Unfortunately for me, the kids had picked the moment I'd chosen for a bathroom break to engage in this experiment, so they were hopping around in front of the open bathroom door as I was sitting on the toilet, begging them to let me pee in peace. After flushing, I assented and Milo and I tromped down the basement stairs. Violet is still wary of the basement and attic, so she stayed on the landing at the top of the stairs, clutching the wall as she peered into the basement.
Milo and I head to the back corner of the basement, avoiding the damp areas of the floor. I turn on the light and point to the hole in the ceiling and say, "Hey! I can see my bathroom, so this must be the hole!"
We look on the floor nearby for the hippo food, but don't see it. We look around the room in the basement for the small ball and don't see it. I can't, for the life of me, imagine that it bounced too far elsewhere, but we simply cannot find it. Milo's eyes get big and he says, "Maybe things that go into that hole never get found..."
I think I might let him believe that for a while as I'm not interested in playing "let's go to the basement to find my _____" repeatedly. Neither child has tried dropping anything else down there since then. I'm going to put a tall-sided Rubbermaid tub underneath the hole, just in case.
But these are the incidents that live on in a child's fantasy for years to come. I remember being convinced that the house that I grew up in had been used for the Underground Railroad because there was a hidden door in our basement. To this day, I get the willies in my mom's basement because I swear I feel two-hundred-years of emancipated slave ghosts whispering when I go down there. I was pretty young when I came up with this story -- maybe only a year older than Milo. He might have a nagging feeling about that hole for a long time. Or he might decided to test the theory a couple of more times before we get the hole plugged -- he is a curious little fellow.
And Violet? I'm think she's convinced that there's a monster in the basement and one in the attic. But I'm pretty sure that the only monster in the house is the gas monster she created when she ate four boxes of raisins in 15 minutes...
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Lessons
It seems that, of late, this blog has been mostly about my clumsiness or our stress, so here's an entry about something heart-warming!
Last night, after bath and snack and teeth-brushing, we settled in for our nightly reading time. Milo had gotten his book order from school, and the books he most wanted to read were the Scooby-Do phonics books. He has flat-out said that he wants to learn to read, so this seemed like a good opportunity.
Book 1 from the Scooby set features short "a" and short "i". I decided to focus on the short a words, so I pointed to each word on the list inside the cover, telling Milo that a-t makes the "at" sound. I read each of the keywords (at, cat, mat, and sat), then we started in on the story.
As I read, I stopped at each of the keywords and let Milo fill in the word. Most of them were "cat" as the title of the reader was "The Cat Came Back." He correctly identified cat each time, paused for a moment for "mat", and needed to be asked, "What sound does S make?" before "sat". We triumphantly reached the end of the book.
Then I pointed to the keywords on the inside of the cover and Milo read at, cat, mat, and sat correctly. He was overjoyed! And a light went off in his little head. He looked at me and said, "Hat is h-a-t, right? And bat is b-a-t?"
I beamed and said, "Yes! That's right! How would you spell 'fat'?"
He thought for a second and said, "F-f-f... F says f. So F-a-t!"
By this point, he was so excited he was squeaking and his whole body was charged, ready to fly. He hopped off his bed, came around and hugged me tightly, his sweet round face barely able to contain his pride.
"I'm so proud of you, buddy! You just read four words! And then you spelled three more!" I squeezed him tightly and kissed his hair. Violet clapped and smiled.
"I'm so proud of you, mommy, for teaching me to read at, cat, mat and sat!"
My big-hearted little boy was sharing the spotlight I'd shone on his accomplishment. Without a second though, he was expressing his gratitude and love, unabashedly affectionate and sincere. I melted. Who wouldn't?
Violet was in awe. She held the book and turned the pages reverently. "Cat, cat, cat. Cat, cat, cat. My read, too, like Milo!"
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I hope that Milo has learned how to express gratitude and show love from us. I hope that he'll continue to show his generosity to the people he loves. he asked last night, during the kids' bath, "Mom, why does Violet always give me the Mickey Mouse when we take a bath?"
"When you love someone, you always give them the things they like!" He was thoughtful and digested that for a moment. It is true, Violet is a sharer by nature -- she always asks for two of everything and takes one to Milo. I can see that it makes her happy to give to him. He usually remembers to thank her, which tickles her, too.
I don't know if that lesson was in play when Milo so quickly shared his accomplishment with me. I'd like to think that he's learning good things from the people who love him the most -- I know that I'm always learning from him. I do know that this lesson is far more important in the long run than at, cat, mat and sat. He will learn to read when he learns to read. But learning to love is a lesson that is always being taught to any willing soul.
Last night, after bath and snack and teeth-brushing, we settled in for our nightly reading time. Milo had gotten his book order from school, and the books he most wanted to read were the Scooby-Do phonics books. He has flat-out said that he wants to learn to read, so this seemed like a good opportunity.
Book 1 from the Scooby set features short "a" and short "i". I decided to focus on the short a words, so I pointed to each word on the list inside the cover, telling Milo that a-t makes the "at" sound. I read each of the keywords (at, cat, mat, and sat), then we started in on the story.
As I read, I stopped at each of the keywords and let Milo fill in the word. Most of them were "cat" as the title of the reader was "The Cat Came Back." He correctly identified cat each time, paused for a moment for "mat", and needed to be asked, "What sound does S make?" before "sat". We triumphantly reached the end of the book.
Then I pointed to the keywords on the inside of the cover and Milo read at, cat, mat, and sat correctly. He was overjoyed! And a light went off in his little head. He looked at me and said, "Hat is h-a-t, right? And bat is b-a-t?"
I beamed and said, "Yes! That's right! How would you spell 'fat'?"
He thought for a second and said, "F-f-f... F says f. So F-a-t!"
By this point, he was so excited he was squeaking and his whole body was charged, ready to fly. He hopped off his bed, came around and hugged me tightly, his sweet round face barely able to contain his pride.
"I'm so proud of you, buddy! You just read four words! And then you spelled three more!" I squeezed him tightly and kissed his hair. Violet clapped and smiled.
"I'm so proud of you, mommy, for teaching me to read at, cat, mat and sat!"
My big-hearted little boy was sharing the spotlight I'd shone on his accomplishment. Without a second though, he was expressing his gratitude and love, unabashedly affectionate and sincere. I melted. Who wouldn't?
Violet was in awe. She held the book and turned the pages reverently. "Cat, cat, cat. Cat, cat, cat. My read, too, like Milo!"
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I hope that Milo has learned how to express gratitude and show love from us. I hope that he'll continue to show his generosity to the people he loves. he asked last night, during the kids' bath, "Mom, why does Violet always give me the Mickey Mouse when we take a bath?"
"When you love someone, you always give them the things they like!" He was thoughtful and digested that for a moment. It is true, Violet is a sharer by nature -- she always asks for two of everything and takes one to Milo. I can see that it makes her happy to give to him. He usually remembers to thank her, which tickles her, too.
I don't know if that lesson was in play when Milo so quickly shared his accomplishment with me. I'd like to think that he's learning good things from the people who love him the most -- I know that I'm always learning from him. I do know that this lesson is far more important in the long run than at, cat, mat and sat. He will learn to read when he learns to read. But learning to love is a lesson that is always being taught to any willing soul.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Finger
I am not on speaking terms with my garage right now. On Saturday evening, I ran outside in my yoga capris, t-shirt, and "flop-flops" to move my car into the garage. It was in the driveway because I'd been out and about with the kids and had six gallons of paint in the trunk and didn't really want to haul them any further than necessary. It was about 45 degrees and, by the time I'd hustled to the garage to manually open the door, gotten into the car, started it, and parked it in said garage, my fingertips were more than a little cold and I had to pee. I hopped out of the car, locked it, and started to pull down the garage door.
It isn't a heavy door. It isn't an unusual door. It's your standard, run-of-the-mill garage door without an electric opener. I gave it a small tug with my right hand, my left one reached out to steady the door so that it didn't slam down.
And then it happened.
My fingers got stuck in between the panels of the door. Since they were cold, the intense burning as they were pinched between the door panels felt like fire. I yelped, tried to yank them out, then quickly reversed the direction of the door, sending it flying back up into the garage. Stunned, I pulled the door back down while looking at my throbbing fingers.
Like all pain, the throbbing was only a warning for the actual pain, which hit me as I scurried back towards the house, now crying. I get inside and look at the fingers. They are red, red, red and have what looks like peeled skin over the pads -- like I've tried to debride my fingerprints away. There is no blood yet, but I am certain that it will come.
I stumble through the house, past the kids. Milo tattles on his sister, saying, "Mom! Violet's eating Play-Doh!"
Gulping inbetween sobs, I manage to command, "V-v-v-violet! D-d-d-don't eat P-p-p-play-Doooooh!"
Bewildered, Milo looks at me. "Mom, it's just Play-Doh, don't cry over Play-Doh!"
"I'm not," I say. "Mommy, hurt her f-f-f-fingers very badly."
Both kids are stunned and silent. Violet stops eating the Play-Doh and I continue through the minefield of toys to my bathroom, where I turn the tap on hot and jam my fingers under the running water. I think, "If I can warm them up, maybe the nerves will stop jangling and I can figure out how injured I actually am..."
To my surprise, what I thought was layers of my scraped off skin washes away. Apparently, the joints in a garage door in the country get pretty dirty. If you get something stuck in there, the dirt comes away with whatever you've tried to smash.
The water trick is working and the pain goes from four-alarm to alarm clock. They still throb, but I'm no longer concerned that I'm going to pass out or need to drive to an ER to have my fingertips reattached. I sigh and relax. Actually, I was unaware that I needed to relax, but as I sighed, my shoulders stopped being my earmuffs and my back grew three inches. I'm going to make it.
I dry my hand and wipe my tears and rejoin the kids, where I confiscate the Play-Doh from Violet and ask her if she'd rather have some food, like string cheese. She decides that dairy will taste better than toy and agrees to a swap.
Two days later and my fingers are still sensitive, but I am able to use them. For all of that pain, they aren't even bruised under the nail, so I don't think I'm going to lose the fingernails, either. I have been extra careful while maneuvering the car into and out of the garage, lest the beast decide to try and take more than my fingertips.
I do think that the fleeting, yet consuming, pain I felt for those few minutes allowed me an emotional release that I've been needing -- it actually felt good to cry for a few minutes. The pain left me focused entirely on myself for a few minutes, activated some adrenaline and endorphins, and snapped me mostly out of the funk I've been in lately. It takes something like this for me to remember that my body will always find a way to get me back to me, even if the reason it jumps to my defense is caused by my own clumsiness and inattention.
OK. Enough for now, typing is one of the activities that makes my fingers hurt :) Oh, and I've flipped my garage off the last dozen or so times I've looked at it. So there :P
It isn't a heavy door. It isn't an unusual door. It's your standard, run-of-the-mill garage door without an electric opener. I gave it a small tug with my right hand, my left one reached out to steady the door so that it didn't slam down.
And then it happened.
My fingers got stuck in between the panels of the door. Since they were cold, the intense burning as they were pinched between the door panels felt like fire. I yelped, tried to yank them out, then quickly reversed the direction of the door, sending it flying back up into the garage. Stunned, I pulled the door back down while looking at my throbbing fingers.
Like all pain, the throbbing was only a warning for the actual pain, which hit me as I scurried back towards the house, now crying. I get inside and look at the fingers. They are red, red, red and have what looks like peeled skin over the pads -- like I've tried to debride my fingerprints away. There is no blood yet, but I am certain that it will come.
I stumble through the house, past the kids. Milo tattles on his sister, saying, "Mom! Violet's eating Play-Doh!"
Gulping inbetween sobs, I manage to command, "V-v-v-violet! D-d-d-don't eat P-p-p-play-Doooooh!"
Bewildered, Milo looks at me. "Mom, it's just Play-Doh, don't cry over Play-Doh!"
"I'm not," I say. "Mommy, hurt her f-f-f-fingers very badly."
Both kids are stunned and silent. Violet stops eating the Play-Doh and I continue through the minefield of toys to my bathroom, where I turn the tap on hot and jam my fingers under the running water. I think, "If I can warm them up, maybe the nerves will stop jangling and I can figure out how injured I actually am..."
To my surprise, what I thought was layers of my scraped off skin washes away. Apparently, the joints in a garage door in the country get pretty dirty. If you get something stuck in there, the dirt comes away with whatever you've tried to smash.
The water trick is working and the pain goes from four-alarm to alarm clock. They still throb, but I'm no longer concerned that I'm going to pass out or need to drive to an ER to have my fingertips reattached. I sigh and relax. Actually, I was unaware that I needed to relax, but as I sighed, my shoulders stopped being my earmuffs and my back grew three inches. I'm going to make it.
I dry my hand and wipe my tears and rejoin the kids, where I confiscate the Play-Doh from Violet and ask her if she'd rather have some food, like string cheese. She decides that dairy will taste better than toy and agrees to a swap.
Two days later and my fingers are still sensitive, but I am able to use them. For all of that pain, they aren't even bruised under the nail, so I don't think I'm going to lose the fingernails, either. I have been extra careful while maneuvering the car into and out of the garage, lest the beast decide to try and take more than my fingertips.
I do think that the fleeting, yet consuming, pain I felt for those few minutes allowed me an emotional release that I've been needing -- it actually felt good to cry for a few minutes. The pain left me focused entirely on myself for a few minutes, activated some adrenaline and endorphins, and snapped me mostly out of the funk I've been in lately. It takes something like this for me to remember that my body will always find a way to get me back to me, even if the reason it jumps to my defense is caused by my own clumsiness and inattention.
OK. Enough for now, typing is one of the activities that makes my fingers hurt :) Oh, and I've flipped my garage off the last dozen or so times I've looked at it. So there :P
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)