Sympathy Tears

Tonight, the boys took their second ride in the new bathtub. As the most exciting piece of the new master bathroom, it's really a grown-up tub, equipped with "chromatherapy" lights that change color and 46 tiny, but powerful, jets. But since we stole the space for the tub from the formerly pink bathroom in the hall, the boys now get to bathe in our master bathroom until they are ready for daily showers. The punk skipped to the bathroom and the basher ran as fast as his skinny little legs could carry him; we love tub time! As the punk did his business on the other end of the bathroom, I disrobed the basher and set him gently into the warm water. Since the boys so enjoyed the colored lights last time, I thought I would turn them on again. I grabbed the remote control (I know, it's ridiculous, right? A waterproof, floating remote control) and pressed the power button. Suddenly, the bathtub was a tempest of raging waves and giant bubbles! I didn't realize that I couldn't turn on the control panel without immediately starting the jets. The poor basher boy screamed bloody murder and pulled himself up to cling to the side of the tub. With the frequency level of his shrieks, he must have been sure of his eminent demise. Then I heard a yell and a frightened cry from the punk on the toilet. Sympathy tears. I reached over the tub and pressed the power button on the control panel on the wall above the tub. (Yes, I know. Ridiculous.) Then I pulled the basher out of the death trap and wrapped him in a towel to comfort him, then comforted his big brother too.

Finally, with the tears stanched, the jets off, and the colored lights set to scan slowly and therapeutically through the colors of the rainbow, I placed both boys into the luxuriously warm water. The basher was still a bit touchy though, and before I could wash his hair, he was scrambling to get out again. I told the punk that I would be back in 2 minutes, and took the basher to his room to get dressed into his adorable tight-fitting pajamas that make his diapered bum look like an apple with two toothpicks sticking down as legs. As soon as I got him zipped up, I heard the loud whoosh! of the jets and a terrified scream from the punk. I hurriedly followed the shrieks of "Mama! Mama!" to find the punk crying in the middle of what looked like a witch's cauldron of clear, bubbling liquid. As I again grabbed the remote control, the basher joined his brother in a return of very loud sympathy tears.

Oh, the perils of modern technology.

Bwudduhs

It is a pleasure to be a witness to their blossoming relationship. The punk can make the basher laugh just by looking at him. He knows all of his brother's tickle spots. He sings to him when the basher is crying. He shares bites of food with him and stands ready to catch him if he falls out of the dishwasher. (Did I really just write that?)

They wrestle on the ground together, and it's not only the punk throwing down. The basher is getting quick! He'll crawl all over his big brother and slobber him into submission. It is my hope for them that they will always be close. As the punk says, "He is my bwudduh. He needs me!" It really is remarkable to watch their relationship develop, independent of me. I love it.

Spaceships and Pirates

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. BLASTOFF! With floor mat puzzle pieces as our spaceships, we zoom into outer space with one objective: the moon. I can see the earth shrinking away from us out of the round window of the ship, but when I point it out to the punk, he just looks puzzled. As we land on the moon, I ask him what he can see. He looks around. "Trees," he says. When we descend from our spaceships, he announces to Pirate Mama that we are going to hunt for some treasure. "Aye, Pirate Calvin!" And a-hunting we go. Rocks, pine cones, and weeds fill our treasure wheelbarrow.

When negative thoughts creep in about early mornings, muffin tops, whiny demands, and piles of laundry, I try to push them away with musings of my pirate astronaut punk and his little brother who happily comes along for the ride.

Another Decade

A couple years ago, when I was so very young... like, 28 or something... I looked ahead at the big 3-0 and thought, what's the big deal? I didn't understand why anyone had a hard time with this age. It's not old. However, in the weeks approaching my birthday, I did find myself looking forward to June 10th with some emotion. It's the end of my 20s. The beginning of the end of young-looking skin, great metabolism, and perky boobs (although that's more the fault of my two hungry babies). I am now called "Ma'am" instead of "Miss." But you know what? I am looking forward to this decade as a time of confidence, comfort, and family. 30 is my year! Here's how I celebrated this momentous occasion.

Uncle Davey came over for a couple hours in the morning to sit with the boys...

So I could do this...

And this...

And this...

Then my man flew home from his business trip to sit with the boys so I could go out for sushi with my ladies.

When I got home, I spent some quality time with the basher boy...

Then I spent some quality time with myself.

Then with my family.

My friend Amy and her 3 beauties came over with a beautiful little one-person cake and candle, and a handmade card, written by my two piano students. They knew I had already celebrated with a surprise party that my man threw for me last week, so they decided I needed to have something to stick a candle in to make a wish on my actual birthday. I also had visits from my beautiful mother in-law and my lovely cousin/best friend Brooke.

We tried to make the basher laugh. He managed a tiny giggle. (His first laugh was elicited by his grandpa on his 61st birthday, earlier in the week.)

My man and the punk and I enjoyed some $5 pizza for dinner.

After the kids went to bed, I practiced my violin for a few minutes in preparation for a string quartet gig the next day.

Then I took a moment to make a wish and blow out my candle.

30 years old? Bring it!

Love in My Lungs

There are times when, as a mama, I look at my boys and suddenly I can't breathe. My chest tightens, the air leaves me, and I have to consciously open my lungs and take a breath. I guess you could say they take my breath away. Usually this happens during an otherwise unremarkable event, like while playing in the backyard or finger painting at the kitchen table. I look at the little boy in front of me and am overwhelmed by his goodness. His creativity, his innate joy, his potential.

[He is hiding, not seeking. Can you find him?]

Another Tuesday

"Is it worth it?"

This is the thought that repeatedly came to mind as I was preparing to get the two boys and me out of the house this morning. Yes, our outing to Barnes & Noble was going to be worth it. It would distract all of us for at least an hour and give us something to look at besides each others' faces.

We parked in front of the store and I made the necessary preparations:

• I took my wallet, phone, and keys out of the diaper bag,
• hid the bag under a blanket on the floor of the back seat (because I didn't want to lug that thing around with me; it's like having to keep track of a third child),
• unbuckled a sleeping basher, stuffed him into the Snugli, and strapped him onto my front like a marsupial, and
• went around to the other door to unbuckle the punk.

This is when he decided to tell me that he "has a poop." So I:

• uncovered the diaper bag,
• retrieved a diaper and the wipes,
• laid a crying baby on the floor of the front seat in his Snugli,
• reclined said front seat, and
• changed the punk's diaper right there in the parking lot.
• Then I sanitized my hands and the punk's (at his request),
• strapped the baby to my person,
• grabbed my wallet, phone and keys,
• locked the car,
• threw away the messy diaper, and
• went into the book store.

I read a couple books to the punk and otherwise let him wander in the children's section. The basher made it known that he did not appreciate when I stopped moving, so I told my tired body to keep walking even though all I wanted to do was lie down on the floor and take a nap. A very long nap. A "wake me up in a few months" kind of nap. But since that wasn't an option today, I just walked.

The basher did fall asleep for a few minutes, so I sat on a bench while the punk made a mess (which we cleaned up before we left - my mild sleep deprivation hasn't left me completely devoid of manners). After a very short rest, I stood up to get the punk started on the tidying process, and a fellow parent noticed the bundle on my chest. "Wow, a brand new one!"

"Yes," I said as I started heading toward the punk.

"Don't forget your wallet," he said. So I turned around to see my zebra wallet sitting on the bench, waiting to be abandoned.

"Oh, thanks," I sighed.

"Don't worry," he smiled. "You'll sleep in about 9 months."

"Ha! Yes, I'm looking forward to it!"

Living Up To His Nickname

When we left for the hospital a week and a half ago, we were parents to a sweet, cute, pleasant little boy. Now we are parents to a sweet, cute, pleasant infant and a bossy, angry, disobedient two year-old.

The punk took some time off of being a little tyrant to hang out with his mama in the bathroom during her beautifying routine this morning. The difference between little girls and little boys? A little girl might play with her mom's makeup. A little boy uses his mom's makeup... to build towers on the toilet.

22 No More

It is now hitting me that I am a changed woman. Motherhood has done a number on me.

One of the instances that brought this into sharp focus is the "nipple" conversation my man had with the punk the other day (referenced in my last blog post). When I was first married, I could not say this word. I had probably never said it in my life before the age of 22. As Sarah mentioned in my comments, this word is gross. Yes indeed. I have an aversion to the word "nipple" like my man has to the words "panties" and "moist." But apparently, one can't be a mom - especially a breastfeeding mom - without acknowledging this gross word as part of her anatomy.

You may wonder why the 2 year-old punk even knows this word. I certainly never say it to him, not even in reference to his little brother's eating habits. No, he learned this word months ago from his dad, who thought it important (rather, entertaining) to teach him where his own nipples are. And not only their location, but their sound. Cows say "mooo," pigs say "oink," and the punk's nipples say "wikki-wikki." Incidentally, his belly button says "wooba-wooba." Bet you didn't know body parts could talk!

Actually, if you're a mother of boys, or married to a man, or have ever lived with brothers, you know that body parts make plenty of noises. And that when this happens, these noises must be acknowledged. And celebrated. And that's the unfortunate topic for another day.