Waiting on deck

The air is crisp. The night still creeps in on the early side of evening. The grass has yet to green up. Yet they are showing up on ball fields all over the place - young children clad in over sized jersey's and caps featuring Major League logos.

Logan's first outdoor t-ball practice was today. For the last 6 weeks, he's been playing in the indoor practice center our VERY serious Little League program boosts. (This town takes baseball seriously. It's almost comical.) A week from Saturday he will march with his team in the Little League parade complete with homemade banner to be judged. Later that afternoon he'll play in his first game.

We've been doing a lot of talking to set expectations. Oh you know, stuff like:

Me - Logan, do you know that the very best player in baseball today only hits .340-ish in his very best season? Do you know what means? That means for every 10 times he goes up to bat he's going to get a hit only 3 or 4 times. Even the very best players in the major leagues make an out more times than they get a hit.

Logan nods and takes a pretend swing with his make-believe bat at some imaginary ball.

Me - Ok, but let's think about this in terms of your t-ball game. If you go an entire game with just one hit what does that mean?

Logan (with a great burst of pride and enthusiasm) - It means I'm just as good as A-Rod!!


Look, if it prevents tears on the field, I'm ok with it. If he starts to call some super-powered, egotistical, monster agent to neogiate a contract with his t-ball team, then we'll reset his parameters of thought.

New Math

We play a lot of hide-and-seek in our house. It burns energy. It amuses them immensely and as a side-benefit, it helps hone their ability to count. All good stuff, right?

Yesterday they begin playing and my 3 year old decides to change up the rules. "Wogan," she says to her 5 year old brother, "Don't count to 10. Count to 20 so I have more time."

He starts to argue but the look on her face tells him it's only going to mean a long drawn out, game ending battle. He relents. He's 5, after all, he can work his way around her rule. With a nod he turns to face the wall and she starts to dash off giggling.

"2....4.....6...." he counts out loud.

She stops in her tracks. "Wogan!" she yells, "You're doing it wrong! Mom!! My brother is doing it wrong. Wogan you're missing numbers!"

Logan smiles at her sweetly, "No Megan, I'm counting right. I'm counting by twos. It's called skip counting. I'm going to skip count to 20."

She weighs this and then finally decides it's time to hide. She takes off running again and he returns to his count. He comes down the hall seeking - and he does so like a good big brother pretending not to know where she is even though she's been in the same spot the last 4 times. He inches closer to that very spot, looking everywhere BUT the space behind the recliner he knows she's wedged into. She leaps out and yells "BOO!"

He feigns surprise before calling out "Ok. My turn to hide!"

She, who usually remains in her spot to count, rises from behind the chair and starts to hop from foot to foot. "1" she says as the first foot fits the ground and her knee desperately tries to reach waist level. "2" she says as the opposite foot hits the floor. "3, 4, 5...." feet alternate as she hops out of the room towards the hall to seek her prey.

"Meg honey?" I ask my bopping and hopping child, "What are you doing?"

She looks at me like I've got those extra heads sprouting from my shoulders again. "Moooom!" she drags the word out to display her annoyance, "I'm SKIP counting! Geesh."

Reality check

It was sleepover weekend for the boy. He left the house Friday afternoon shortly after exiting his school bus and he returned around dinner Saturday. He came bounding out of his grandparent's car with a pillow-case safety pinned around his neck and a brightly colored "TA" emblazoned upon one side of it.

"And you are?" I said, curious about the identify of what was clearly the world's newest super hero.

He had named himself. His own imagination picking over potential word combinations until he could settle upon the one he thought the world was most sorely in need of.

"I am . . ." he bellowed, pausing slightly for the appropriate amount of dramatic impact, "Think Before You Act Boy!"

Ah..ok. Yes.

He leapt up the front steps like they were small stones upon his path and practically flew into the backyard where his father and sister waited to greet him. The grandparents and I followed him. We watched him leap up on the children's plastic picnic table - setting his feet apart just so and his arms held out before him about shoulder level.

"Logan, don't stand on the table. Get down," said Daddy, weary already of what he knew has been an ongoing battle.

Logan, in all his five-year old-I-can-call-the-shots-myself glory, simply reset his feet into a new stance and smiled.

"Logan, down. Now," said Dad as he tacked on the coming consequence for the refusal to listen.

I walked over, quietly, lifted the superhero from his perch, holding him out horizontal to the ground and flew him to safety. I flipped over the small table and placed it in my dying vegetable garden.

"Clearly," I whispered to him as he glared at me, "Think-Before-You-Act-Boy has run into some kryptonite."

If it rains on your parade...splash in the puddles

We got a 1/2 inch of rain in a 1/2 hour. That's a lot of rain. In fact, after a lull in the downpour we're back up to about the same rate as it had been earlier. The ebb and flow of heavy precipitation hasn't slowed us down at all though. As the title says, if it rains on your parade, splash in the puddles:

Scratch and sniff skivvies?

Logan has been on a HUGE Transformer kick throughout the last year - and with the live action movie on it's way out (no he won't see it in theatres) that means loads of merchandise in the stores. Loads.

The two imps were both 'warned' before entering the big bulls-eye store - no toys. Mommy is not buying toys. Don't even ask. Don't even think of asking. No. They didn't ask. They asked to
"just look."

I can do "just look."

Luckily, look did not inspire wistfully staring and drooling primarily since the Transformer stretch of shelf was barren - totally and completely barren. It's been cleared of the older stock (the stuff Logan has been loading up on whenever he tucks away enough allowance or gift money). It's sitting dormant waiting for the movie related stuff to appear this weekend. So instead of staring wide-eyed at new toys, Logan read the shelf labels. He's got a birthday wish list formed on just that.

We found what we had really entered the big red bulls-eye shop for and started to make our way through the meandering carts to the check-out. I found, as we did so, a Transformer bathing suit. I was, being the softie I can sometimes be, willing to buy it for the kid. I mean really, his older suits are a tad snug. Except size saved me- the pair supposedly Logan's size would have slipped right off his hips and they had nothing smaller.

But the suit got me thinking - if that's out then maybe tshirts or PJs. I was willing to look. The kid really does need some wardrop replenishment as he's sitting nicely on the brink of a new size. Yet neither existed.

What DID exist?

Transformer Underwear.

Transformer underwear that glows in the dark.

I kid you not. (By the way, being the wonderful Mom I am, I have already pointed out that when Logan puts his shorts on over those lovely new underwear, it'll be dark under the pants and so he'll be glowing. I did feel the need to reinforce that we should not feel compelled to remove, lower, or look in said shorts just to check.)

When Logan gets a new toy or some trinket he likes to hold on to it in the car - preferably out of the package. Apparently glow-in-the-dark Transformer underwear is no different.

As I eased the van out of the lot and into the highway, Logan calls out in complete amazement:

"They DO smell like fruit!!"

"What does?" I said, already knowing and yet afraid to ask.

"My new underwear! It smells like fruit! It's like Megan's scratch and sniff pages in her book."

"Honey, I don't think your underwear is supposed to smell like fruit," I told him, trying hard not to laugh at him - too loud anyway.

"But then why are all these little pictures of fruit on my label?" he said.

I'm starting to think Fruit of the Loom was branded by someone that wanted to spread a little joy amongst mothers of the delightfully young and naive.

In a blink

We had one of those days that often leaves me threatening my husband to leave work on time or find me on our roof where the children can't find me. From time to time my sweet little cherubs become possessed by who knows what. I just know it ain't pretty.

And yet within a split second of wreaking havoc on my strained nerves they revert back to those sweet little cherubs that bring my heart peace with a simple little smile.

Tomorrow it could snow. No, really, it could. Today, it hit 72. (Don't ask me. I don't get it either.) In the midst of our on-again-off-again battle, we headed out to enjoy the weather tease - me, two kids and the dog we've borrowed.

Oh, wait, the dog. Let's back track a moment here shall we. A year ago we had a dog. She was old. She was sick. She had to be put down. Meg remembers Tasha enough to talk about her but has no concept of where she is other than she's not here. Logan completely understands the dog is dead. To him, that means the dog is laying on Heaven's floor refusing to play fetch with Jesus because you know, why should we change in the after life? No fetch on Earth. No fetch in Heaven.

Logan's preschool class has started a new "good deeds" program. Last time it was a chain of paper links. This time it's a plastic barrel. Get caught doing something nice and you get to put a dog treat in the barrel. Yum. When the barrel is full, the class is going to donate it to the local animal shelter. I knew this was coming, it was in the little month-in-review letter the teacher send home last month.

I saw the barrel on Monday. As is our custom, I asked Logan questions about his day that require him to contribute more than "yes," "no," or "nothing." You know, nice things like, "So, tell me about the dog shaped barrel in your class." So, he did. Tell me that is. Then he throws this curve ball:

"Do you know what the animal shelter is?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I will tell you anyway. It is where pets live when they haven't found a family that will love them and take them home," he says with conviction.

"That's right," I say and I attempt to change the subject but apparently not far enough off topic. I said something witty like "So did you get a biscuit to put in today?"

"We should get a friend from the shelter," he says. And with her impeccable timing Megan yells, "I WANT A DOG!"

"What?" I say, because if you've read this blog long enough you know I've got a gift for eloquence.

"Yes," said Logan. "I think it's time we get a new dog. It's ok if it's an older one. Some day it might die and then I'd have two dogs in heaven. They can be friends there."

Megan interjects again, "I want a dog. Please! Let's go get our dog."

"A dog," I say trying to force my brain to work better, "A dog. Well, I'm not sure we're quite ready for a dog again just yet. Let's just wait and talk to Daddy."

They still chattered about this new pet they expected to get. I felt my heart leap a little. I'd like another dog some day; I just don't think today is that day. Call me chicken, but potty training a strong-willed toddler, getting a pre-adolescent 4 1/2 year old cooperating (remember, bad day, loads of attitude), AND house training a puppy - ahh, yeah, no. And I know the husband person feels the same way. No way.

There is, however, Grandma's dog.

Grandma's dog gets this quasi-love-annoyance thing from the kids the two days a week I work. They love her, but she makes them insane. It's not the food stealing (although that does get to them) it's the herding. Syd is an Australian Shepard. They herd things. She, lacking sheep, herds children. Personally I find it an admirable quality.

And Grandma has a birthday this week so she and Papa are away for a few days. That leaves the dog in the care of my brother, who works long, long hours. Oh and then toss in the construction on a new addition that began this week. The back fence is down. Aussies, I'll have you know, run the first chance they get - open door, gone is the dog.

All this means *I* have had a part-time dog the last two days. Not all day. This dog gets horribly homesick if you keep her out past bedtime. The last time we tried it (years and years ago) I took her home at 1am lest I not sleep at all with her whining and pacing. The last two days she was, however, here several hours of each day.

We played with her. We took her for a walk. (I'm insane, by the way. Two kids and a dog that likes to run on a mile and a half walk. No strollers.) By the last part of this afternoon's romp in the yard we had one preschooler yelling, "SYDNEY GIVE ME BACK MY SOCCER BALL!" and one toddler crying, "SYD! NEE! GIVE! ME! DAT! FRISBEE!"

The yelling stopped long enough for Logan to softly whisper, "Ahh, Mommy. I'm trying to practice soccer and Syd pooped in the goal."

Great.

I smiled sweetly. I cupped the boy's chin in my hand and I whispered back, "This is why we're not getting a dog yet."*

When the three of them weren't fighting over toys or what belonged between the post of the goal net, we had moments like this:

And those led to moments like this:

And some how, it almost made the whole trip to the shelter seem worth it. Almost.

*Logan is not amused. I have told him we can talk dog when he can work the pooper-scooper.

Defiance

It finally snowed here. Ok, wait. I *think* it may have snowed while we were in Disney, but since I wasn't here, it does not count. At least the two little people in my house who have been longing for a good snowball fight did not count the missed snow as having fallen.

A couple of weeks ago it snowed enough "wet" snow for us to launch a few snowballs in the evening. It was all melted by the time we woke up in the morning thanks to the rain that began to fall shortly after we went in.

This morning we had nothing. Kids got up. Kids got dressed. Boy kid went to school as the flurries started. Girl kid went to the doctor to ensure her cough was simply an annoying symptom of a mere cold. (It is.) Snow kept falling.

By the time we picked Logan up from preschool the secondary roads were becoming slick. I said at least two prayers or thanks for anti-lock brakes. It was nice to be back in our house - snug and warm. Slowly going stir-crazy.

I didn't intend to take them out. I mean after all, Logan is just getting over the cold. I sound like a 900-phone operator (no I will not call you, don't even ask) and Meg, as already noted, went to the doctor this morning. Something kept nagging at me though - this was our first, and likely last, accumulating snow this winter. Chances of us getting another day to give the ole sled a work-out were nil to none. And so we bundled up.

If the "first" snow could arrive in defiance of pending spring, then we could romp in defiance of flu and cold season's last start too. Granted I may live to regret this (after all, Megan has fallen asleep quite late in the afternoon while watching Thomas the Tank Engine. Drat!) but sometimes we've got to live in the moment.

I took the camera with us as we played. (Is there any other way?) I noticed we weren't the only things defying the weather today - there, poking out of the snow were the daffodil and tulip bulbs I had written off as goners for pushing up green stems and leaves late in December.

This is what we call counterproductive

I decided it was high time the imp's room got a good cleaning. We started with the bookcase, her and I, and made our way through the toys. The problem with cleaning a room with a two year old is that the "out of sight, out of mind" rule ceases to exist. Suddenly it's all in sight...and therefore all in mind.

That room was clean for about 45 seconds.

Need I explain why?

I think Bill Cosby had it right

Do you remember that show Bill Cosby had in the late 90's? The one with the cute kids spouting comic gems with no effort? Yes, "Kids say the Darndest Things."

Anyone sitting for more than a few moment with a young conversationalist knows this is true - Cosby (and Art Linkletter before him) simply had the good fortune of exploiting it on national television, while the rest of us get to enjoy the show (and possibly the humiliation) from front row seats in our day to day lives.

A few days ago, WordNerd explored the same topic (even referring to the same Linkletter show, which, by the way, is not something I had remembered until I went back to the site for the url to link.) Reading her thoughts reminded me that I had also slacked off from writing in the kids' respective blogs - the ones I like to use for future blackmail by preserving these comic gems for future reference. Then it occurred to me that some of those aforementioned topics (see yesterday's post) swirling 'round my brain were such prime examples.

Of course the tragedy is I have forgotten many of them already. Yet fret not. There are children involved here and they are apt to provide more fodder before I even realize I need it. For example there is Miss Independent Megan who likes to put her own shoes on yet does not always get the right foot and the right shoe matched up properly.

Grandma said, "Meg, honey, I think you have your shoes on the wrong feet."

Meg stopped running. She stared at her feet as she lifted her toes up and down a few times. Then she gave Grandma a puzzled look.

"No, Grandma, they're on my feet."

Or there's Mr. Romance Logan who sat at the table writing out his Valentine's Day cards for the preschool friends. I handed him a card and said, "Is this one ok for Sophie?"

And he said, "Mom! It's not like I'm going to marry her or anything. Geesh!"

Oh, lest we forget the joys potty training can bring. Megan, who knows darn well what to do on the potty and does so when the whim hits her, has developed that oh-so-charming-knack of discussing her (or anyone else's bathroom habits (or lack thereof) at any given moment. For example, kid-gym on Monday. She was lounging on mats waiting for her turn to tumble. She looked up with her eyes really wide and then started to giggle. "I peed and now my diaper is really hot," she informed me and every other mother in a 5 mile radius. Needless to say we took a quick break for a diaper change.

Or last but not least, there was the fine skill of peer-to-peer tutoring. As we left preschool the other day Logan's friend D came running over to a giant bear hug good bye. Logan's pretty particular about who is allowed to hug him. Mom/dad/grandparents/sister? Yes. Rest of world? Not so much. He pulled away, clearly not thrilled with the affectionate display. Seeing the boy was about to attack again, I jumped in with "Oh! Logan, can you high five him good bye?"

Both boys loved the idea. Logan held out his hand. His friend held his high, "Slap me high!"

And Logan did.

"In the middle," said the friend as he moved his hand slightly lower. And Logan did.

"Down low. . ." said the friend who moved his hand quickly away when Logan tried to catch it. "You're too slow!" the boy yelled in a familiar refrain*.

Logan laughed and patted his friend's shoulder. We left the class and as we did, Logan shook his head a little and smiled really wide. "I taught him that you know," he said in the prideful way any master might display when his prodigy excels.

*Damn those cousins in the far away place. It's so nice the things they teach.

Another Perspective

I don't even remember how the conversation began. I do, however, remember very clearly how it went.

Logan said, "Some day I will grow up and be a man like Daddy."

I said "Yup" because I know that if you fail to give Logan at least some sort of verbal nod at minimum he will repeat himself until he's convinced you heard him.

He added, "A big man. Tall."

I changed subject slightly, "And when you're a big grown-up man, what will you do? What kind of job?"

He thought a moment and I expected his usual litany of career options to begin it's march from his aspiring lips. Instead he smiled big and said, "I'm going to sit at my desk all day until it's time to eat. Then I'll get up."

And to think, he's not actually *seen* Daddy at his desk job in at least two years. I figured I'd press a little, "Ok, but what will do at that desk?"

"Work," Logan said in that familiar tone that speaks volumes. As in: Geez, Mom!

He nodded. "Yup, I'm going to do work at my desk until it's time to eat. But before that I'm going to be a Daddy."

"Oh, well, honey, it might be easier if you get your job at the desk first and THEN become a Daddy. That way you can buy food for the baby and live some place that's not my house," I told him for all the obvious reasons.

"Why?" he asked.

"It is just better that way," I told him, wondering when it was time to give him the "Honey, girls prefer employed men" speech. He's 4. I figured it wasn't time yet.

"Why?" he asked.

"It just is," I told him.

--
And yet another work-related laugh:

I'm related to a chef. Not one that ever cooks for us, mind you, but a real, honest to goodness, trained at one of the top culinary schools in the world chef. One with a job as a head chef/general manager.

He's getting married and ends up dragged along to a lot of bridal shows. (And as a good big sister I laugh at him much for going. I've been to those - loaded with grooms they are not.) His favorite thing to do at these shows is sample the food and fill out all those little slips you're supposed to fill out if you wish to win things.

Last one he went to he won.

A personal chef is coming over tomorrow night to cook him and his future wife a dinner.

I know. It's sick.

Kid at heart

Some people spend their "Friday after" knee deep in crazed shoppers trying to get the best price on whatever hits their must-have lists for the holidays. Not me. At least not this year. (I do confess to storming the doors of a particular craft store at 5am one year so I could use a 60% off coupon on a particular wooden train set only to return two hours later to use the 50% off coupon on smiley faced trains for said set.)

No, this year I spent "Black Friday" at a children's museum in upstate NY near the in-laws. We spent last year much the same way and with good cause. The moment we mentioned a potential return visit my now four-year old began to shot off a long list of questions relating to whether the things he remembered (quite accurately) from last year would still be there. Luckily the answer was yes, plus a whole lot more.

I'm not sure which of us enjoyed the visit most - it's a toss up between me and the two people under 4 feet tall that are in my charge. I do know that Logan did not enjoy my favorite excitement as much as Meg and I did. He had this notion that butterflies actually LANDING on you was quite horrific and not nearly as much as fun as knocking over giant chess pieces in the Giant's (of Jack and the Beantalk fame) playroom.

I (as well as the two other adults and the two-year old) found the butterfly garden to be nothing short of amazing. My only disappointment is that those two beautiful bright blue insects did not stay still long enough for a photo. And that's fine. Perhaps I'm just a glutton. I did get photos like this (click to view larger image):