Category Archives: Parenting

The origin of the dingle pepper. 

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The other night, as I was prepping for dinner, Frances offered to help, as she often does these days. I asked her to get me some onions and garlic, which she did. We then had a lengthy and very deep conversation about why garlic skin was white and onion skin brown. I was essentially making things up for which I had no answer, or like my friend Bridget claims about her own mother, faking my way through parenting.

Following that, I took a red bell pepper from the fridge. I asked Frances if she knew what kind of vegetable it was.

“A pepper!” she exclaimed proudly. (This from a kid, who when I asked her last week what her favorite vegetable was, replied—chocolate cake.)

I then asked her if she knew what kind of pepper it was. Her triumphant smile faded into a look of true puzzlement. 

“Dingle?” she replied, not nearly as certain as before.

“Huh?” I said, trying to conceal the laughter that was threatening to erupt (our girls are very sensitive to any kind of perceived mockery).

“A dingle pepper?” she repeated again, sounding slightly more confident.

It should be noted here that dingle is a word I have used, and Liam has adopted simply because of my overuse of it, to describe one of the kids doing or saying something foolish. Kind of like the way in which one would use the word doofus. 

As in: “That shoe is on the wrong foot, ya dingle.” 

Yes, I know. It sounds dangerously short for dingleberry. And I admit, that might have been my intention in using the moniker in the first place. However, at no time has that word ever been used to refer to a species of pepper we use to cook with weekly.

“Hmmm. I’ve never heard of that kind of pepper before,” I said, still dying inside, waiting for any adult to come through the door so I could relay the then-present conversation taking place.

“You know,” she continued, trying to substantiate her claim. “The kind we grew in the garden this summer. The dingle peppers?” she said.

What was this girl talking about?! 

“Ummm, no. We grew jalapeño peppers in the garden, but no dingle peppers that I can recall. This one is called a bell pepper,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” Frances said, with a bashful little chuckle.

For the life of me, I cannot make the connection to explain her misunderstanding. And I’m usually pretty good at following those little kiddo lines of thought. Maybe bell pepper—which she couldn’t quite recall—made her think of Jingle Bells, and jingle rhymes with dingle?  That’s all I got.

In any case, it’s definitely sticking. Dingle pepper it is, from now on, folks. We just might even try to grow some in the garden this coming season.

Bedtime play.

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The girls were so tickled by my retelling of the events that led to their brother charging into their bedroom the other night, that I thought it best to capture the moment here before it’s soon forgotten. 

Typically, Rowan falls asleep nursing. Calmly and dependably usually. However, the past few days he’s been like a wild animal at bedtime. It could be due to the fact he’s overtired since we’ve been on vacation time. Or maybe it’s the opposite—he’s getting older and just doesn’t require as much sleep. Or maybe I can just blame it on my usual culprit—teething. Who really knows. 

Anyway, the other night, after Rowan had performed several acrobatic feats while somehow miraculously staying latched, he’d decided he was going to be finished with the nursing business, yet remain quite wide awake. 

We played a little game of turn-taking, with me asking him to put his head down and him saying a whiny ‘no.’ Then, he’d proceed to roll around on the bed. Following that, he crawled way down under the covers until he disappeared, popped his head out, and then crawled back in again. He also spun around in circles, breakdance style, stopping with his head at the opposite end of the bed and doing a few—nicely executed I might say—rounds of downward dog. 

Across the hall, he heard Liam begin reading bedtime stories to the girls and he stilled to listen. Then, he crawled backwards down off the bed and headed for the door, not wanting to miss out on any fun they might be having without him. 

“No,” I warned firmly. He disregarded me and walked to the door leading to the connecting bathroom. He jiggled the knob this way and that, unable to maneuver his small wrist the quarter turn necessary to pop open the door.

Not one to give up quickly, he tried the other bedroom door, which led to the hallway. Jiggle jiggle. Jiggle jiggle. No luck.

So, he climbed back into bed, which is generally a real struggle and fun to watch, with the joint effort of hands gripping the sheets and feet kick-climbing up the mattress.

Then, we began again:

“Rowan, put your head down.”

“No.”

“It’s time for bed. You need to close your eyes.”

“No.”

Roll around. Under the covers and out again. Spin, spin. Crawl backwards down from the bed. Walk to bathroom door. Jiggle jiggle. Doesn’t budge. Walk to hallway door. Jiggle jiggle. No luck. Climb and scurry back into bed. Repeat, repeat.

After about five rounds of in and out of bed, he finally managed to jiggle jiggle one of the doors open. He took two seconds to look back at me as if asking permission. I gave him a stern look, although how I wasn’t cracking up, I don’t know. He took my lack of words as a go-ahead, and wasted no more time. He headed off in the direction of the girls’ room.

I heard them all squeal when they saw him: “Rowan?! What are you doing in here?”

He was pleased as punch to be there, and did not appreciate at all being removed a minute later. As I had had quite enough of his bedtime shenanigans, I let Liam take over. Of course, he had Rowan to bed in under ten minutes then. “It’s because you don’t walk him around,” he explained when I gave him a disdainful look.

No, I don’t. It’s not the mother’s job to walk the kid around. It’s the mother’s job to nurse if she chooses. And if that doesn’t work, well hell if I’m going to do anything extra. 

Anyway, I climbed into bed with the girls and told them all about how Rowan jiggle-jiggled the doors about a hundred times, climbing back into bed between rounds, before opening one and making his great escape. Their giggles were proof they were so genuinely delighted by the imagined actions of their little brother. I couldn’t help but laugh along with them.

When it comes to Mr. and Mrs., where have our manners gone?

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When I was a kid, my parents—my dad especially—insisted we use ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.’ when referring to grown-ups. Our older nextdoor neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Bechtold. My parents’ friends and co-workers went by names like Mr. Harris and Mr. Chalfant. 

If we ever slipped up and dared to be so bold as to refer to one of our parents’ friends as Ken, or Bill, or Dave, we’d simply get ‘the look’ from our father or else an incredulous ‘excuse me?’ followed again by ‘the look.’ In any case, we knew we needed to rectify our error.

Gulp. 

Looking back, I appreciate so much how we were expected to address grown-ups by their respectful titles. I love the notion of instilling that same ideal in my own children. However, the times have changed, and beyond that, we’re not off to the best start.

Many of the grown-ups in our kids’ inner circle insist on going by their first names. Babysitters of past and present went and still go by first names. All of our old neighbors introduced themselves to our children using first names. In fact, when we suggested otherwise, they scoffed at us. Call me Larry. Betty. Isabel, they said. In the end, we compromised a bit with names like Mr. Larry and Mrs. Betty. Miss Isabel. 

Nora’s first two teachers also went by first names Meghan and Eileen. No surnames. Something I know my dad disapproves of in general  (teachers going by first names) since I got to witness his reaction when I told him. Love that he’s so traditional. Old school. Stern and all about being reverent.

I don’t know. It just seems so weird to me to introduce our own friends as misters and missises (is that even a word?). We seem too young for all that. But my parents and their friends were our age when we were kids.

I still feel slightly uncomfortable referring to my in-laws by their first names because it’s so ingrained in me to use proper titles. It’s like I’m breaking the rules or seomthing.

And yet, I just can’t imagine referring to my friends in my kids’ company as anything other than their first name. If I even tried to, I think I’d bust out laughing at the formality of it all. But, I like the idea of it. What to do?

I’m thinking I might just keep everyone the kids know now grandfathered in just using first names. And then maybe everyone new we meet from this point on can become Mr. So-and-So and Mrs. Such-and-Such. 

In the future, the kids will remember everyone as belonging to either the pre-when-my-mom-was-hip-and-breezy era or the post-when-she-tried-to-be-all-formal-and-proper-and-whatnot era.

They won’t be confused at all. It will be fine. Trust me.

Saturday grouchies.

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Usually, the weekend grouchies don’t set in for me until about 3:00 on Sunday afternoon. This is the time I start feeling the pressure of the upcoming week and the heavy weight that comes with the realization that all of the weekend chores I hoped to accomplish are just not going to get done.

Then, it’s like a mad rush to go grocery shopping, throw in as many loads of laundry as I can before bed, tidy up the various toy-littered surfaces of the house, and make a quick plan for dinner which always ends up being a fiasco because there was no plan to begin with, and the kitchen is once again going to get destroyed, and be in need of some major clean-up for which there is Just. No. Time.

So I tend to get a bit grouchy. So does Liam. We need to be better about planning for the grouchies so we can plan to avoid them by having a better plan. Does that make sense?

Saturdays, for the most part, are bliss-filled. Today, however, was an exception to that rule. We had lots going on. And the busy-ness—I think—made it easy for the grouchies to creep in a day too early. Well, that, and having a low tolerance for likewise cranky kids.

We began the day’s events with a trip to a local farm to buy some plant starts for the garden. Liam and I were busy on the drive trying to have an important conversation about all of the things we need to do before and after our upcoming move. Have I mentioned we are buying a house? No? I’ll save it for another post.

Anyway, we were trying to take advantage of precious time spent in the same place at the same time during daylight hours. Only—we were being constantly interrupted by our chatty little girls. They were whining about being hungry, despite the fact they’d just finished eating breakfast within the past thirty minutes. They wanted the volume turned up. Turned down. Song changed. And, of course, to ask a million questions about a million different things. This was the start of the irritation that seemed to grow as the day went on. 

At the farm, Nora entertained herself with a roll poly she found. But Frances insisted on being held (she’s very shy, and so crowds often overwhelm her). Juggling plants and wallets and keys and Frances was a bit of a challenge. So was maintaining my patience.

After the farm, we drove to a farmer’s market. The girls whined the entire trip about how long the drive was taking. Also, they reminded us about how they were STILL HUNGRY. The ride was made longer by the fact that Liam and I were so engaged in our conversation, that we missed our exit and added another ten minutes onto our already long-ish trip. Irritation grew a little more, like Pinnochio’s nose after his first lie.

I had high hopes for the farmer’s market. I was just saying to Liam this week that I’d like to start finding some markets since growing season has begun. It seems silly to be buying all of our produce from the grocery store when there’s much better stuff to be had. However, upon walking around the market, I soon discovered—that although there was lots of great looking produce and a variety of available items—the prices were a bit too steep. Nothing like the Lancaster market we left behind. Boo! 😩

I ended up buying three small heads of different lettuces for $9, just because we had made the trip, knowing full well that the giant box of organic salad greens from Stop and Shop are $3 cheaper and last all week long for lunches for both me and Liam, whereas the three small heads of lettuce might be able to stretch for three days. Bummer! At least the kids got a cookie snack from a kind stand owner who took pity on their frail frames. Not. 

And then back in the car, post cookie, they were back at it, proclaiming they were starving again. Next up, Liam dropped us off downtown an hour before the girls and I were scheduled to take in a show at the local theater. We grabbed some lunch, which the girls just picked at, despite their self-proclaimed hunger and deprivation. 

We made it to the theater on time to catch the Pinkalicious musical, which both girls were SO excited to see. However, as soon as the show began and the lights dimmed, and the extra, EXTRA loud volume of the cast members’ voices began talking and singing, Frances freaked, and jumped into my lap. 

She spent the first part of the show with her head tucked into my chest, body clenched and hands covering her eyes, cowering into me from fear of all the sensory input around her. I think the energy with which she was resisting her environment caused her to pass out, because she fell asleep for the second half of the show, even though the noise was at decibel level ninety. (I should google fact-check decibel levels now to see if ninety is what I’m going for, but ain’t nobody got time for that). Nora loved the production.

After the show, we had to hang out downtown for a bit on account of the fact that we needed a lift back, and Rowan had fallen asleep at home with Liam. So, we walked to get ice cream. And then wine. And then to the library.

So pink-a-licious!


After Liam came to get us, we stopped at the local food co-op to pick up some meat to grill for dinner. While we were there, an employee told us about an event they were having for members that evening that involved free food. Of course, we headed back into town to take advantage of that!

The girls wanted nothing to do with the delicious falafel and chicken schwarma that was being served. Rowan enjoyed it as much as Liam and I did. That kid will eat anything. And he did too. After the free dinner, he tried to indulge in some dirt dessert. And then he was off to play in the stones and mosaic glass that was all over the ground. Because that seems like a safe idea for an art park where kids play.

After recognizing Frances’s embarrassing saggy diaper, and her imminent meltdown, we decided to head home. We were delayed a bit when Frances decided she did not want to come with us if we were not going to carry her, and then promptly parked her saggy bottom in the sidewalk, refusing to budge.

When we were nearly out of sight, Frances panicked and caught up to us. But not before a handful of parents probably judged us for threatening to leave her behind. I want to be a mindful parent. I do. But sometimes it’s just so hard.

When we finally got home and fed the girls, I poured a glass of wine and sat down in the reclining chair to read a food magazine and relax for the first time since my morning  cup of coffee.

And then, the baby—who up until that point had been content and busy—decided to crawl over to me, whine until I picked him up, and then tug at my shirt repeatedly, communicating his desire to nurse.

At least if he nurses, I can relax and read, I thought. Wrong again. No matter where I moved the magazine, the baby swatted at it. If he wasn’t using his hands, he was flailing his feet at its pages. I sighed a deep, frustrated sigh, and then looked across the room to catch Liam chuckling heartily at me. Then I burst into laughter too. Apparently, it just wasn’t meant to be.

We will have to try again tomorrow. Slow down and not have so many plans. Hey! At least we have a dinner plan—meat on the grill that was meant for tonight, but never eaten on account of the change in our dinner plans. Things are looking up already!

Oops.

A post a day in May, did you say?
I did. I did say that. And then last night, I fell asleep promptly at 7:30 pm with the girls, and did not rise again until midnight (thank you, Rowan, for sleeping so long without wanting to nurse). It was the kind of night where teeth did NOT get brushed, contacts got ripped out and thrown on the floor (I should be embarrassed to admit this, but strangely, am not), and daytime clothes were slept in for far too long than was comfortable. I hadn’t anticipated falling asleep. And I fell asleep HARD.

Needless to say, I was not waking up from THAT kind of sleep to write a blog post. So, oops.

                  ————

This evening I’ve been filling out paperwork to register a certain little five-year-old for kindergarten. How can this be?! I can’t believe I have a school-age child. And, I’ve been just AGONIZING about where to send her.

In our town we have several magnet schools. So families have to apply and get accepted through a lottery. We’ve been accepted to one school and Liam wants us to consider the parochial school he went to as a kid.

I’m sure my parents never thought twice about school choice—not that it was even an option for us then. But I’m also sure they didn’t worry too much about us being successful or fitting in. Or being challenged appropriately vs. feeling bored. 

Mothers of my generation tend to worry about this stuff too much. And, well—I worry about fifteen times as much as the most worrisome mothers of my generation. So yeah, it’s been a struggle.

Anyway. I’m sure Nora will do fine wherever she goes. And if not, we’ve got options. And options are always good, right?

I told Liam earlier that I just want to homeschool. He gently reminded me that I only like the idea of homeschooling and not the reality. There’s a reason I married this man.

Teachable moment: You should marry the one you love.

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Nora asked me tonight as we were driving whether I thought she ought to marry a boy or a girl when she grows up. I told her she should marry whomever she loves. 

“But who mommy? A boy or a girl?” She really wanted me to give her a definitive answer.

“I can’t tell you that,” I said. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

I’ll admit, it was really hard for me to just leave it at that. To not say something like: Well, most girls marry boys. I didn’t want to color my thinking—and therefore, her developing worldview—one way or the other. 

Most of the married couples close to Nora are ones who are involved in heterosexual relationships. However, we’ve spoken briefly about the many kinds of relationships that exist between people, both romantic and platonic. It’s natural she’d ask since we haven’t conditioned her to think one way or another.

Although marriage is a long way away, it’s important to me that Nora be aware of and accepting of all healthy and loving relationships, no matter the gender of couples involved. Most importantly, I want her to learn from an early age that she can express her feelings freely—always—without worrying she will be judged by me. 

I did put my foot down, though, when Nora next told me that she was going to marry forty people when she grows up.

“Oh no, dear,” I said. “The rule is, you only get to choose one.”

Why is ‘food as medicine’ such a hard pill to swallow? 

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Last year, we visited an ENT several times with our oldest. Nora seemed to have a cold or be congested for much of the late fall through early spring. When the rest of the family caught a virus and then got well, Nora remained snotty and stuffy.

During one fall illness, we noticed she was saying, “What?” after everything we said. It began to drive us crazy.

And so we started the first of several trips to the audiologist for hearing tests, followed by ENT appointments to check Nora’s ears.

Everyone concluded that she was getting fluid trapped in her ears again and again, and that this was causing the temporary hearing loss. The ENT recommended tubes.

“Of course they did,” said Liam. “That’s their job. If they don’t do surgeries, they don’t make money.”

Good point, I thought. It’s not like I was concerned about Nora’s hearing interfering with her speech or development. It was just really annoying to have to repeat myself. Eventually, things cleared up on their own. We ended up not scheduling the surgery.

For better or worse—yes, I’m that kind of mom—I hopped on the Internet to investigate tubes anyway. I admit I did read some stuff that said tubes really helped children. Like kids who hadn’t been speaking suddenly started making language gains. Or stopped having painful recurrent ear infections. But this was not Nora. Her speech was very much developed, and she wasn’t suffering from ear infections, just fluid buildup.

However, I read far more that said tubes didn’t help children. That kids continued to get infections. Or the tubes fell out, and kids needed multiple surgeries. There were even recent scientific studies suggesting that tubes might not be the way to go anymore. 

Fast forward to this past late fall season. We started having the same issues. During one long cold, Nora began having hearing difficulties again. We took her to a new pediatrician in Connecticut and she suggested we try to alleviate allergies by using a nasal spray and hypoallergenic bedding. While I do think this made some improvement, I started to wonder about food intolerances, as this was about the same time I was trying to help self-diagnose some food-related symptoms I was experiencing.

We saw the audiologist again and an ENT twice. At her second follow-up with the  Connecticut ENT, the doctor declared the fluid gone and ears clear in one breath, followed by “I think her adenoids are enlarged, though, and should come out” in the very next.

What?!

This was the first I was hearing about adenoids. The ENT said they were likely enlarged and causing the constant congestion and fluid. They were also likely responsible for her nighttime snoring and mouth breathing, something I mentioned at the last visit.

The doctor then—rather abruptly—handed me a form to sign to give permission for the surgery, and then ushered me and the kids into a room to schedule said surgery.

Whoa! Slow your roll, doc. I’m sorry, but this felt so rushed to me. Surgery is not something I’m opposed to if it means my kid isn’t going to have to suffer unnecessarily. But the rate at which we went from “your ears look great” to “you’re going to need your adenoids removed” was too speedy for my comfort. 

I smiled at the receptionist, took down some possible dates, told her I was going to discuss things with my husband, and then nearly ran from the office. I’ve yet to call back.

I followed up with my pediatrician, who giggled about the incident. Apparently ENTs are known to get down to the business of scheduling these kinds of things. Makes sense, given—like the hubs reminded me—this is how they make the big bucks.

It just didn’t jive with me. I’m the kind of person who is far more interested in discovering the root cause of chronic illness and dealing with that, than just trying to medicate or rely on surgery.

I talked to my naturopath a little at my last visit. And, I might end up taking Nora there to see her yet. But in the meantime, we discussed trying to remove dairy from Nora’s diet. For a lot of folks, both young and old, dairy can cause congestion and allergy-like symptoms, and even—yup—enlarged adenoids.

At first, I felt awful thinking about telling Nora she wouldn’t be able to drink milk, eat cheese or have ice cream. She loves these foods. Turns out a lot of the foods we love and feel addicted to may be the ones causing our bodies the most harm.

I posed it to Nora as a trial. I told her we were going to experiment. If removing dairy helped her to breathe better, kept the fluid at bay, and cured her bad breath (something else I’d read about co-existing with enlarged adenoids), we would likely stick to it. And if I saw no difference, we would go back to normal.

Within two days of removing dairy (we’re almost two weeks in), the bad breath was gone, and hasn’t come back. She hasn’t been congested, and she’s closing her mouth to breathe more at night than I’ve ever noticed before. 

And, the part I thought would be difficult—keeping her from food she loves—hasn’t been too bad. We took the cheese off pizza one night. She has almond milk in her cereal and French toast. And, we found a delicious chocolate coconut ice cream we all love.

I just don’t understand why, with so much scientific and anecdotal evidence from families, that the least invasive remedies—like removing a suspected food or food group—aren’t offered as a first possible solution, or at all. 

Instead, it’s: “Let’s schedule this major surgery. Put your kid under. Remove part or her body which is said to fight infection and which may prevent illness. And after it’s over she’ll bleed down her throat a little and be on a liquid diet for about a week. Oh, and it may work at solving her problems. Or not.”

Like I said, I’m not opposed to the surgery if it’s medically necessary. But I’d rather try my little experiment first, which will have no adverse reactions, except maybe a little disappointment, and potentially huge payoffs.

Money for doctors and procedures and pharmaceutical companies should not be the guiding force behind the decisions we are making about our kids and their health. 

It’s just wrong. ☹️

Frances and her books.

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The main intention of this blog was and is to create a space for me to have a consistent writing practice. Although the past year has seen its ups and downs in terms of writing for me, I’ll admit I’m pleased with the overall effort given my prior attempts at journaling.

A secondary purpose of the blog is a means to record moments as memories, to be read over and over again as the months and years speed on by.

I remember reading the following quote in graduate school years ago by the Cuban American author Anaïs Nin, and I always, always come back to it when someone asks me why I write.

It goes like this:

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospect.”

“Yes!” I thought when I read it. This is why I write. 

Tonight’s memory will be one I share with Frances as she gets older and can appreciate my mockery.
                 ————

When she was a baby, I couldn’t get Frances to sit still and listen to a book. Not for anything. Unlike her older sister, Nora, who was practically reading right out of the womb, Frances crawled immediately away once settled in my lap in front of a book, or else delighted in swatting away the pages and covers with all her infant might.

Although I was concerned she’d grow up to be a simpleton, I continued the practice of diligently reading aloud to Nora in the hopes that Frances might soak up some of it through her periphery. 

After she turned a year old, I had a little success engaging Frances with books that had texture and other sensory materials. Lift-the-flap books like Where’s Spot? were a big hit. Still, I found myself just accepting Frances was going to be a jock or a comedian instead of a Harvard grad when she hightailed it outta my lap anytime an ordinary board book or picture book came her way. (I jest you know—there’s nothing wrong with being a jock. Both Liam and I were three-sport athletes and humor is one of my more redeeming qualities. I only label and judge my children to get a laugh. Besides, just today my Harvard grad, Nora, told me she wanted to be a recycling man—yes, man—when she grows up, so she can ride on the side of the truck. I will love them however and whatever my children turn out to be.)

Anyway, back to Frances. Around eighteen months, or maybe a little thereafter, she finally, FINALLY, started to show an interest in listening to stories read aloud. She began to sit still and delight in looking at pictures and hearing the written word.

Several months later, a little before she turned two, Frances’s vocabulary just exploded. Again, prior to this happening, I was concerned that my girl of few words might have to rely on looks alone, not brains, in order to get ahead in this world. (KIDDING!)

I needn’t have worried. These days, the girl has more words than she knows what to do with. And watch out, because when she gets talking about something she’s excited about, there’s no stopping her.

Back then, though, I suddenly found myself pleasantly surprised when  Frances—not Nora—was finishing sentences aloud when I intentionally left a word or two hanging off the end. Unbeknownst to me, she HAD been soaking things up through osmosis! She had memorized parts of the books we’d been reading. It was all very exciting for me. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be Harvard-bound after all! (BTW, I’m not even a big fan of Harvard, although it’s campus is very beautiful.)

These days Frances is never far from a book. She likes to ask me or her dad to read her a book, and then—once we finish—she’ll ask for another story, but will insist on taking back the first book so she can hold it and flip through the pages as she listens to the second story. She alternates between flipping and looking at one book and listening to the other. It’s very funny. Almost OCD in the way she does it EVERY time we sit down to read.

Frances is also fond of taking books to bed with her so she can look at their pages before she falls asleep. I’ve found many-a-book under the covers where she sleeps when making the bed in the morning.

Her latest thing is to walk around the house with a chapter book, and then sit somewhere and pretend to read. Today I noticed her carrying both Trumpet of the Swan and Island of the Blue Dolphins. Only, she was pretend reading something about a mama and a baby bear and how they had to clean up the house before dinnertime.

I’ve so enjoyed watching Frances’s love affair with books blossom the way it has. I have high hopes now for Rowan, child number three, who just turned one, and who might’ve just been introduced to a book by his mother a couple of weeks ago. 

Come on! Cut me some slack. Child number three, I said. Not to worry. If he’s anything like Frances, he’ll be toting around James Joyce novels before too long and babbling on about ocean characters who meet monsters at a picnic he “reads” in their pages.

Kids playing at trickery. And failing hilariously.

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Liam has been trying to teach the girls some jokes lately. I think Nora kind of gets the humor, but not really. She has a good memory, though, so she’s able to retell them flawlessly. Frances, on the other hand, has just about no clue, but realizes I will laugh at whatever she says regardless, so she just throws it all on the table. 

From earlier today…

Nora: “Mom. Wanna hear a joke?”

Me: “Sure do!”

Nora: “Where did the pencil go on vacation?”

Me: “I don’t know. Where?”

Nora: “Pencil-vania!”

Me: “Hahahaha! That’s a good one!”

Frances: (not to be outdone-ever) “I’ve got a joke.”

Me: “OK. Let’s hear it.”

Frances: (looks at ground for inspiration and—apparently—finds it) “Where did the dirt go on vacation?”

Me: (looks at Nora and winks because recognizes this is going nowhere fast) “I don’t know. Where?”

Frances: “To Pennsylvania! And Mr. Dirt was driving!”

Me: (erupts into genuine laughter)

The fact that she felt the need to add that last bit about Mr. Dirt driving is hysterical. Just brilliant.

Then later, trying on the knock-knock joke for size.

Frances: “Mama—knock-knock.”

Me: “Who’s there?”

Frances: “Don’t worry. Papa Bear is here to give you a hug.”

Me: Okaaaay. “Hahahaha!”

Frances: (smiles proudly)

I wasn’t worried. But perhaps I should be!

                   ————-

We’ve gotten into a routine of doing a nightly talent show after dinner, thanks to my sister-in-law, Clare. She had the kids and their cousins performing in the living room a few weeks ago and it just stuck.

Usually, the kids choose to dance or sing. Liam, however, has been performing rusty magic tricks for the kids (think marble behind the ear type stuff). 

Tonight Nora decided to perform a trick. She vanished into the playroom for a time and then reappeared wearing a red Melissa and Doug dress up fire hat. Also, she had a metal play kitchen ladle that was doubling as a wand.

She told us she was going to make some magic things come out of her hat. Only—the second she removed the red plastic hat from her head, everything she planned on making magically appear fell out onto the carpet. 

The next few seconds were priceless. She was embarrassed and humiliated—at least asuch as any near five-year-old might be. She wasn’t sure how to proceed, or even if she could still perform, having given away her trick. Liam and I were dying trying to control our hysterics. Dying.

Luckily Liam jumped right in saying, “We didn’t see anything. Quick! Start over! Start over!”

Gratefully, Nora settled her shaking lip, took the bait to save face, and shoved everything back inside the hat. Meanwhile, we were still trying so hard to keep a straight face.

Then she said: “For my first trick, I am going to pull a robe out of my hat. Abracadabra!”

We oohed and ahhed for effect.

However, as she was struggling to apparently separate the clothing she’d shoved inside the hat, Nora pulled out the wrong item. “Oops!” she muttered aloud, looking up to see if we’d noticed. We played it off like we hadn’t. Again—dying!

She recovered nicely and pulled out the robe. We erupted into applause and oohed and ahhed some more. She then proceeded to pull out all the correct clothing—thanks be—and ended with a bow.

When she left to return her ‘props ‘ to the playroom, Liam and I finally allowed ourselves the freedom to crack up. What a moment. A talent show performance for the ages, really. I only wish we had thought to get it on video.

These kids playing at being older than they actually are—it’s just so dang FUNNY.

Talent show performance circa last week.

How dressing and diapering my son is akin to wrestling with and roping a wild hog.

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Why does my child HATE having his clothing and diaper changed? 

For a little guy who’s super peaceful and pleasant much of the time, the frequent changes—filled with fitful movement, and at times, rage—bring out a very different side of his little personhood.

I suppose it doesn’t help that we’ve developed a habit of playing a game of chase on all of the beds—the sites of many a changing—whereupon the moment he’s placed on the bed, Rowan takes off crawling in the opposite direction with a playful, devilish look in his eye, avoiding capture as much as possible.

It’s all fun and games when Mommy’s yelling: “I’m gonna get you!” 

Except for when it’s not. 

Like when it’s diaper-changing time. Or PJ-putting-on time. Then it’s a real drag to be chasing down a wriggly worm. Trying to hold him in place to fasten sticky tabs, making sure excrement doesn’t get flung to the far corners of the room, and trying to button at least one of the three snaps on any given onesie.

Tonight, when I brought the little dude upstairs, he lunged out of my arms once he spotted the bed, fully aware of the fun he imagined was soon to be had. I don’t suppose it’s worth mentioning I nearly dropped him on his head in the process.

Then, as predicted, he took off like a shot to the middle of the mattress, just out of reach. I played a few obligatory rounds of “I’m gonna get you!” And then I tried to rein him in.

“Come here,” I said sternly. The boy just smiled, like I was some kind of clown, and proceeded to do downward dog type roly-poly flippy-dos on the bed covers. 

Once I wrangled him in and managed to get his daytime clothes off, I held him firmly in place to change his diaper. He wriggled this way and that—made worse by his tired state—and eluded my hold. 

I grabbed hold of his feet with one hand and the diaper with the other, and placed it just so, under his bottom. When I went to fasten the straps, Rowan pushed down hard with his feet on the bed, shifting his body backward and causing the diaper to fall out of alignment. This happened no less than five times, at which point I nearly called in the hubs to offer reinforcement. 

Usually, during times such as these, I can be heard muttering aloud through gritted teeth my oft-quoted phrase: “What are you doing? This is not rocket science!”

I mean, man-child has been having his diaper changed since the dawn of time. Or at the very least, since the dawn of—well, diapers.

I finally applied enough pressure to hold the child in place (I may have used forearms, elbows and knees), and the diaper was on. That left the jammies. Which was like trying to shove a bunch of crumbled up sausage back inside the casing. No easy task. Needless to say, I was sweating when all was said and done. And to think, this is a multi-daily ritual. 

The boy just cannot be bothered to deal with trivial matters such as these. He has lots of busy and wild work that needs doing.

If anyone has any advice to make diaper-changing less like a rodeo event and more like the docile chore it should be, I’m all ears. Please post your success stories in the comments.

Oh, and just a heads up: distraction with a toy? It’s a nice suggestion. Really. But…it doesn’t work. Rowan usually drops objects straightaway or chucks them someplace hard just so he can focus on the task of resuming the struggle, as usual. 

Who would’ve thought wrestling skills would come in handy with a near one-year-old? Not this mom!