watch out over in that general area

Last night after I put my boys to bed, I felt something squishy on my foot. I wasn’t sure what it was but it certainly didn’t belong there so I got a washcloth and sat down in the chair. As I was washing my foot, Wesley came back into the living room to ask me something very important, like “What is the main ingredient in mayonnaise?”

Then he noticed that I was washing my foot and asked what I was doing. I told him, “There is something that looks like a booger on my foot and I wanted to wash it off before bed.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked, “Have you been walking over there?” as he gestured towards the half of the living room beyond the coffee table. I didn’t like where this was going…

“Yes, Wesley, I have. Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Well,” he explained, “sometimes I get a little disappointed and can’t remember where the Kleenexes are, so I just have to wipe my boogers on the floor.”

I just about threw up. Clearly we need to discuss a couple of things: what the word disappointed means, and acceptable places to put our boogers.

Abstract, schmabstract

Conversation heard today in our minivan:

Wesley: Mommy, what does “disease” mean?

Me: Well, it’s when someone gets sick. And it’s hard to get rid of.

Wesley: Do diseases have names?

Me: Yes, most of them have names.

Wesley: If I ever get a disease, I want to name it Sparky. And keep it forever.

It must be nice to be four sometimes.

there's a long line of cars...

I worry. I am a worrier. I don’t deny it – I worry that people would see right through it if I denied it. I worry that the ceiling fan will come dislodged from the ceiling and fall on my head while I am sleeping. I worry that if I play Frisbee, it will hit me in the mouth and knock out my front teeth. I worry that the world will run out of instant mashed potato buds and that the wheel will come off my car while I am driving and that my husband will have the cable turned off without giving me fair warning. Phew!

So this year Wesley started preschool. And as you can imagine, it gives me a few more things to worry about. But not the kind of stuff I should be worried about - like will my son pick his nose during circle time? I think I know the answer to that one already.

The preschool he goes to is a great one with a genius setup for pick up and drop off time. Parents form a line around the block and one at a time, we drive through the preschool driveway where the director gets the child out/puts the child back in. This eliminates all that pesky crying time that would normally happen at drop off. The line of cars goes halfway around the block– and therein lies the problem for me.

Flashback to Laura’s past: (this works best if you darken the room and turn off all background noise…) I am in high school. I have just taken a month-long trip to Germany. The other high school students and I had a great time but are more than ready to get home, see our families, and sleep off our jetlag. Our trip ends with a school bus ride from Chicago to our hometown, Metamora, IL. After the comfy two hour school bus ride, we all step off the bus to be greeted by our adoring families. And everyone is – except that my adoring family is missing. This is the time of life before everyone has a cell phone so I try the high school’s pay phone to call home.

Getting no answer at home, I stand there with the German teacher who was the trip’s chaperone and wait for anyone I know to drive by. Eventually all the other kids are gone and the teacher asks me if I want him to drive me home. And just as I am about to take him up on this, my mother drives up.

I don’t remember what the reason for her tardiness was but I’m sure there was a very good one – like that she had been hijacked by an albino three-legged clown who forced her to drive in circles around a Wal-mart parking lot and wouldn’t let her leave until he was sure she would be at least half hour late to pick up her sweet daughter. But even with such a good excuse, it was a little embarrassing to be “the kid whose parents forgot”.

The thing is, I don’t know when to pick Wesley up for preschool. I can’t be the first parent in line because that says “I’m a helicopter parent who hovers over my child and has no life of my own.” But if I am the last one in line, it says, “I am a crappy parent” or possibly, “I was hijacked by an albino three-legged clown on my way here.”

So I need to be in the middle somewhere. Right? Because that doesn’t really say anything. But how do I time getting there in the middle of the line? Do I park across the street and wait until some cars have gotten in line and then get in line myself? I don’t know.

All I know is that I never want Wesley to be telling his therapist how his mommy was the last car in the pick up line in preschool.

Lied to him about Santa Claus giving his pacifier to newborn babies? Fine. But last car in the pick up line? Not if I can help it.

time for a little cold turkey

I’m embarrassed to admit that Wesley, who just turned three, still has a pacifier. We try to only let him have it at night time and at nap time but he would prefer to have it all day long. I know, I know, we should have taken it away a long time ago. I tried, believe me. For a while we were doing really well. I think we also tried to convince ourselves that eventually he would just give it up on his own. Which was about as realistic as expecting a car to change its own oil.

It’s been really bothering me lately. I hate the daily fights when I try to take it away from him repeatedly. I don’t like waking up in the night because someone lost their pacifier and needs help finding it in the dark. And I probably spend, on average, 20 minutes a day looking for someone’s paci (pronounced passy) – 20 minutes that I want to reclaim and spend doing something more useful – like watching Dr. Phil. I know that the easy solution is to just take it away and go “cold turkey” for him and for Wyatt. If we don’t do something soon, Bryan will have to teach Wesley to shave with a pacifier in his mouth. It is going to be painful for all of us but I think in the end, will be so much easier.

So last night I was trying to think of some psychological trick to use and make Wesley want to give up his pacifiers. I want it to be his idea. I just don’t think the “pacifier fairy” is going to work at our house. I was watching him be nice to his baby brother and it hit me.

“Wesley, maybe it’s time to gather up all your pacifiers and Wyatt’s pacifiers and take them to the hospital. That way the nurses can give them to the brand new babies since you and Wyatt are getting to be such big boys,” I said, sure that I could convince him that tiny newborn babies in need were worthy of his pacifiers. And for a second, I can see that he is thinking about this.

Then, from the kitchen I hear Bryan shout, “Are you kidding? There is no way the nurses are going to give their old pacifiers to new babies.”

Sometimes Bryan and I are so in sync that it feels like we share a brain. And sometimes not. Perhaps we’d better discuss our stance on Santa Clause before Christmas comes along.

for sale: one half of king sized bed - barely used

I have a mom-related complaint that I would like to file with anyone who will listen. Are you ready? (collective nod, please.)

I am tired of not getting sleep. After three years of someone waking me up almost every single night (there were possibly a dozen nights in the last three years where I was in such a heavy coma that the house could have collapsed and it wouldn’t have disturbed my slumber) I am tired. Tired. Tired. My boys are three and one and this business of needing something in the middle of the night is getting old.

Wyatt is still up at least once a night. I’ve tried to just let him cry it out but it’s hard to ignore his cry. He only has one cry – it’s the same whether he means “I am one half a degree too warm” or “A bear is mauling me and just ripped my arm off.” Same exact cry. Plus, we put him in the same room as Wesley so now when he cries he is waking up Wesley, too. And he seems to like this new leverage.

Wesley, on the other hand, wakes up in the middle of the night needing something probably every other night. Sometimes I am sleeping and I awaken to feel someone breathing on my arm. And when I peel my eyes open, he tells me, “My leg hurts. Can I have some Zyrtec?” which means he most likely doesn’t have a future in pharmacology. But sometimes he doesn’t come into my room, he lays in his bed and screams, “Mom-may!!!” until I wake up and stumble into his room. Then after I get in there and break my baby toe or my kneecap on the train table next to his bed, I see what the problem is – that he has fallen out of bed. And I use the word “fallen” loosely. Because his bed is a toddler bed which is very low to the ground. So he has basically rolled out of bed and descended a maximum of six inches in elevation. And instead of just getting himself back into bed he feels the need to make me come in and roll him back over. Never yells for Dad-day, always Mom-may. It’s a popularity contest I would like to lose every once in a while.

I’ve read that being a mom is a pursuit which requires selflessness and patience but I’m running all out of those two things. I’m thinking of going on strike. Anyone have any witty ideas for my picket signs?

touchdown!

Bryan and I are not sports fans. We don’t keep up with any teams or sports and we don’t really like to play organized sports, either. In fact, that was one of the things I really liked about him when we met – I knew I would never have to worry about what kind of mood he was going to be in if his favorite team lost. And he knew that I would never run off and leave him for an NFL quarterback, no matter how good-lookin’ he was or how much money he had or how many luxurious trips he would take me on….(on second thought…)

Wesley has never been interested in sports, either, which is no surprise. I think no matter how much you want your kids to be their own people, some of who you are as parents rubs off on them. So yesterday Wesley walked into the kitchen and demanded, “Look at my underpants, Mommy! Aren’t they cute?” I moved closer to inspect the underpants, not sure what he was talking about. His underwear was printed with little blue football helmets all over which was a little strange since we aren’t big sports people, but cute? So I asked him why he thought they were cute and he looked at me like, you idiot and told me, “Those little whales are so cute!”

I don’t know - maybe we should watch a little less Discovery channel and a little more ESPN.