is a camel a mammal?

To help Kiddo stop sucking her thumb, we gave her many cat in the hat science books. They are interesting non-fiction books, and my thoughts on how children are supposed to distinguish between the fictional tall cat who speaks in rhyme and wears hats and the non-fictional information he shares (often about made up creatures) can wait for another day.

But recently the boy has been excited about these books, and we read them to him often. One book is about mammals, and the punch line of the book is that people are mammals too, which is just a little mind-blowing the first time you learn it.

A few days ago Babs asked the boy to help with taking out the recycling. "Yes sir!" he announced with joy.

"Don't call me a sir, I'm not a boy," Babs countered. "You call me ma'am."

"Oh yes! Because you are a mammal!"

losing... ceding... control of my universe

Despite the fact that my oldest is 9, I have always had control over their screen time. I have decided when, where, and what they will watch or play. The closest I've come to not deciding is when my husband chooses something.

So it came as a surprise today when suddenly the theme music to Octonauts came blaring from my basement. My three year old had decided to watch TV. In some ways I should have been expecting this. He's been studiously learning to use the remote controls for the last few weeks. But nevertheless, it was a surprise.

How is he my first child to do this? I wondered. Oh, because my oldest is very obedient, and would never dream of watching TV, which is a controlled substance after all, without permission. And my middle may be willing to flaunt the rules a bit, but is terrified of the basement, and will not go there by herself. Thus she would never turn on the TV independently.

My son has neither an obedient heart nor fear to keep him from the television. He is perfectly willing to go downstairs by himself, and he does not have any great need to obey the rules. It just goes against his generally sunny disposition to fight us very often. But if our rules get in the way of the life he wants to lead, then he can say no without a problem.

So for the first time I had to be explicit: you don't watch TV unless I tell you it's okay.

Ironically, had he not turned the volume up to 84 out of 100, it might have taken me much longer to figure it out.

my life companion

The boy gets to hang with me all day. And he is a great traveling companion. He is content to come along to "gro-shee shop-ping" or whatever else is on the agenda. He's also fairly content to stay home and play with his toys, or read books, or watch TV. He's a good soul.

In fact, the other day I prefaced a story for my husband with the question: Who do I talk to the most? Yup. The boy. Which is why I almost found myself saying "He does go" instead of "He goes." Oops.

He brings me joy by being such a good companion, even when our trip is just an hour in the car dropping things off at various places.

Babs didn't fight about her homework today, and requested that my good husband put her to bed. That was joyful.

And Kiddo is diligently working on the computer to write some introduction about pokemon. She is so very imaginative.

More joy for me :)

choosing joy, jan 31.

We've been talking a lot around the house about how we help the children: making food, clean clothes, fun toys, helping with homework, driving places, etc. This morning Babs asked me,

"So, all these things you do for me, helping me get ready, getting me a snack, I see what I get out of it, but what's in it for you?"

And given the morning we were having, I was truly stumped. I finally muttered something incomprehensible about how you obviously don't get parenting, or understand having a child, and spent the rest of the day pondering what's in it for me.

It's my job, seemed to cold. I'm just in the habit, seemed fairly honest, but not very inspiring. This is what I do, seemed the most correct, but still missing something.

I think the answer is actually, parenting isn't about what's in it for me, it's about helping you be the best you possible, and helping you with these things is how we're doing that right now.


It reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend. I was on a typical rift about how challenging Babs is at home, and how wonderful she is at school and church. My friend asked, "Would you have her switch behaviors? Be good at home and a pill at school?"

I immediately responded, "No. I love her so much, I will keep working with her no matter how challenging it gets. A teacher would just eventually say 'it's only a year' and suffer through."


And with that preface, I am trying to find joy in my children, every day. I am sure that some days that will be easier than others.

Kiddo got all A's on her report card, and was thrilled about it. We are too. She is a diligent worker and it shows. (It doesn't hurt that she's pretty smart too!)

Babs also had a wonderful report card, including praise from her teacher about being self-motivated, a good problem solver, willing to work hard, and always having a good attitude.

And the boy asks me for chocolate. The other day he told me he wanted candy, and I told him we didn't have any, which I thought was the truth. "No, you did buy some at the store," he contradicted me. What? "Chocolate." Oh yeah. My stash. So, I shared with him then, and today. My stash may be gone soon...

christmas in late january

Tonight it was Babs' turn to do the lesson for FHE. I talked to her on Saturday to tell her it was coming. I asked her on Sunday what she wanted to focus on. She decided the birth of Christ. Okay.

This afternoon I asked her what we were doing for the lesson. She reiterated the birth of Christ, and I agreed, but told her there was a lot there, so how what really were we doing. She decided we would act out the nativity. There ended up still being a lot of time before FHE, because my husband was out serving someone in the ward. This gave Babs' enough time to set up the manger scene (laundry basket with blankets and a baby doll), assign out parts, and lightly script both our actions and lines.

Once FHE started, before she got to directing our performance, I asked her why she chose the birth of Christ as her lesson.

"Well, reason #1 is I like babies. And whenever I get to see the statue of Christ, or talk about Christ, or his birth is when I feel the Spirit."


!!! This means we've managed to both provide her with opportunities to feel the Spirit, we've identified it so she can recognize it, and that she desires opportunities to feel it. She can even use the right language! This is for sure a parenting win.

not funny

Babs looked at me seriously last night and asked, "Have you ever laughed since you were a grown-up?"

Really? You can't ever remember me laughing?

I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

we are in the or-nge?

For Christmas, the boy got a world map. He actually got many things along with the map, but this map of the continents is really one of his favorites, and we pull it out to look at it often. They colored north america orange on the map, and so now he asks all the time "we are in the or-nge?" so he can locate us on the map. We are always on the orange. At first he wanted us to be all sorts of colors, but we don't have the money or time to be world travelers like that. He especially wanted us to be in Africa at the beginning. He is now resigned to the orange.

Two weeks ago, we were at the pharmacy dropping off a prescription. He was done with our activities, and was lying on the floor, talking to me.

"I was born here?" he asked.

"well, not here, at CVS, but you were born here in this area" (which he knows, because every time we pass the hospital he was born in he wants it to be identified for him).

"No." he replies, "I was born in Africa."

At this point, we have the full attention of the pharmacist, who was, in fact, born in Africa.

"What did you say?" the pharmacist asks the boy.

The boy is reluctant to talk to him, but the boy insisted again he was born in Africa.

The pharmacist then said something about what sort of TV shows is this boy watching to pick up something like that. Knowing what TV he watches, I know that is not the culprit. (Mighty Machines is not based in Africa.)

"I don't think it's TV," I say.

"Well, you have to pick up that idea somewhere," the pharmacist insists

"He has a map," I offered. He thought that was funny. But I think it's true. My boy loves his map.

what shape are you?

The boy and I were discussing what sort of cake to make for Kiddo's birthday. The question was whether she would prefer a heart cake or circle.

Me: "I think maybe Kiddo's a circle kind of girl."
Boy: "She is not a circle!"
Me: "You're right. She's not a circle. What shape is she?"
He pondered this question a moment, the announced, "Kiddo is a line." I laughed at his accurate perception, then he continued, "a big, fat line!"

Although the words big and fat are not good descriptors for Kiddo, if she were a line, they would be. I love three year old understandings.

apology not accepted

In the car last night, Babs said something fairly rude to the Boy. While the parents and Babs tried to settle whether she knew how rude she was, why she should have not said that and the like, he continued to babble and sing happily in his seat, obviously not bothered at all.

But we were bothered (and Babs was too, I don't think she realized how much we would not approve), so I told her to at least apologize. She got an "I'm sorry" out through her tears.

Despite his own conversation, the boy was obviously paying attention, because the minute she choked out her apology he yelled "BIG GIRL VOICE!" repeating a common refrain around the house, "stop talking like a baby and use your big girl/big boy voice."

Luckily it was dark, and the children couldn't see the parents almost cracking up in the front seat from his reply. We explained that she had used her big girl voice and tried to move on.

to care, or not to care

Tuesday morning was rough. I was trying to volunteer at a before-school reading program (chessie), which meant we needed to leave the house 10 minutes earlier than usual. I moved the routine up 10 minutes, but somehow, that was not enough.

One child in particular had her own agenda, and we did not leave on time. After I had dropped off the boy, we were driving to school. I told the girls this was "not okay." That if they wanted me to help sometimes in the morning (which they do), they needed to help us leave on time. They needed to get dressed quickly. They needed to do what I asked, and not continually say "let me do this first."

"But I'll forget," Babs pointed out. "I have a terrible memory."

"That's not true," I countered. "You have an amazing memory for things you care about."

"Yeah, and I don't care about this," she replied.

Yeah, I know.

Ah Tuesdays...

Babs takes martial arts classes. She loves them. My husband takes martial arts classes. He loves them (and they are oh so good for him). Kiddo attends activity day events (in the evening). She loves it. And Tuesdays (luckily only twice a month) these all collide.

It's a complicated schedule. Dinner is precisely at 5, so Babs can eat and be settled and ready to go by 6. She and Daddy then leave. Around 6:15 I take Kiddo to a friend's house who will then take her to their activity a little later. Babs gets home just before 7, and we hang out until Daddy leaves for his class. Then we hang out a little more until just before 8 when we head off to pick up Kiddo, and her friend (and her brother), from their activity so everyone can come home.

It sounds benign, but here is the secret. The boy cannot stay up late. He gets tired, then oh so wired and hyper, and uncooperative. It is fairly miserable. But we all take turns sacrificing for each other in a family. So every other Tuesday, he sacrifices his bedtime.

Two activities ago, it was a week or two before Halloween, and as we drove home the older kids decided to entertain themselves by telling (not very) spooky stories. (But plenty spooky for them.) Ever observant, the boy felt the need to participate. And so he kept trying to tell a story after the other two kids were dropped off, and he could finally get a word in edgewise.

Babs decided it was too spooky, and kept asking him to stop telling it. He wouldn't stop. She asked, begged, pleaded, cried, and he kept doggedly starting again. Finally I snapped at him, "Stop scaring [Babs]! Don't tell the story!"

"I not scaring Babs!" he replied, "I scaring Kiddo!"


(Here is his story, or at least all that we heard, "This is a spooky story!")

in his nose

The boy has had a runny nose for days, which means sometimes we spend of a lot of time cleaning it out. After a particularly long session the other day, I finally announced that his nose way clean, and all his boogers were out!

"Now I can have grown-up boogers!" he announced with joy. Just like grown-up teeth, except not...

civic duty

My boy and I participated in early voting yesterday. We stood in line for about an hour to do it. That was pretty bad, but I figured it was better than standing in line for over an hour with three kids on Tuesday.

He was so patient. I held him some. He stood some. We were silly sometimes, and sometimes still. But he just patiently waited and waited.

Until we got inside the library (where early voting takes place) and he realized we were not going in, but heading off to some strange room. Then he was done. (I believe he thought the whole time we were waiting to go to the library, and it was worth the wait. That's impressive.)

"I not want to bote!" he complained. I assured him we were almost done, and then we would go into the library. When they told me I could finally start the check-in process I was thrilled, until I realized he had collapsed on the floor in protest of this further delay.

I scooped him up, then checked-in, then got my ballot, and found my booth. In my excitement to be finished, I almost marked the wrong candidate! But I didn't. I voted. I scanned my vote, and finally (!) we headed to the truck books.

yellow (a memory)

There are moments of my children's lives that are still with me years later, but I can't be sure they always will, so as I remember, I'm trying to write them down.

Babs was about two, and we were sitting in church. No two year old is easy to keep quiet-ish in sacrament meeting, and she was no exception. So anything that would buy us a few moments was fair game.

She had a yellow crayon, and started to color on my face. I figured that had to be fairly harmless, everyone knows you can't color on yourself. It kept her busy for quite a while.

When we sang the closing hymn I turned to my husband and asked, "Is my face yellow?" because, well, what if you could color your skin with a crayon? At first he shook his head, thinking my question didn't make sense (it didn't), then his eyes grew wide, and he said "Yes."

Apparently if your face is oily, as mine is, you can color on your skin.

I'm glad she chose yellow, and I'm equally glad it wiped right off.

gentlemen prefer blonds

This is my girl Babs. As you can see she has super long straight blond hair. Every one comments on it. Last year when someone said "your hair is so long!" she replied "Everybody tells me that." This year she has moved on to "I know." (But really, what is the right response to that comment?)

A few weeks ago, I was at a parents' meeting at the school, and figured out that the lady sitting next to me had a little boy in Babs' class. He actually sits across from her. (The conversation, always, goes something like this: me: "Oh, your child is in Ms. C's class? What is their name?" other: "blah-blah, and who is your child?" "Babs." "Oh! we hear so much about her." All the parents know of her.)

"I think your daughter is the reason I have blond highlights," this mother (of middle eastern descent) tells me.

What?

Apparently her boy has told her all about Babs, and also begged her to get blond hair. He promised to not need anything else in life, no toys, no games, just he needed his mom to have blond hair. After explaining to him that her hair wouldn't do blond, and much more pleading, the father just told her to get highlights. And so now she's (partially) blond, because of my daughter.

(While this story cracks me up, I have not told my daughter. There is just too much she wouldn't understand. I'll tell her later. Much later.

bucket minus "k"

My boy loves trucks. My boy LOVES trucks.

He discovered his first car at around age 9 months, lurking in the bottom of the toy bins. We had some because I was an equal opportunity parent, girls can like cars too, except they didn't. My girls never touched the five or six small cars we had lying around the house. But when the boy showed interest, they tried to claim them: "That's my car!" And I quickly told them no, it's his, because he's the one who cares about it.

Fast forward two years, and he is patiently trying to explain to me as we head to the library that he needs books about trucks. So I ask the librarian, who guids us to the easy reading non-fiction selection, where there are short books about every type of truck you can imagine. Bucket trucks, skid steer loaders, snow plows, cranes, earth movers, etc. And our life has never been the same.

First, we never go to the library without checking out at least five books on trucks. Second, when we read one book about trucks, we read all of them. And third, we now know a lot about trucks. A lot.

Booms, dippers, tracks, wheels, front-loader, we've just all learned a lot about trucks.

When we are out in the car, when we see trucks, the boy will identify them for us.

Except he can't always use the "k" sound. If a word starts with "k" then he'll replace it with "t" (like "o-tay." But often in the middle of the word, he just leaves the sound out. (He can use it at the end of the word though, for words like "truck".)

So he shouts things like "look! that truck does have a bu-ut!" I try not to smile every time.

(And at least one of my girls has learned to play with trucks.)

should it stay or should it go

We were going to get rid of a bookcase, then I suggested to my husband that we move a bunch of unloved toys out of the girls room, and put the bookcase in instead. It would be perfect for paperbacks.

Except the bookcase doesn't have a back. He joked that we could staple some cardboard on it.

I seriously replied "Yes! And we could let the girls decorate it first, then we could feel like we were letting them be creative and involved!"

He replied, "You worry about things I have never even considered..." 

That's because men don't worry about this stuff, I thought.

that was long...

When we returned home from vacation in early August, we realized that we had a slow leak in a water pipe, which had destroyed a wall, and water was under all of our basement flooring. AUGHH!

Ten weeks later, after being gutted of our stuff and the flooring, our basement is finished. We actually changed the color of the room, the floor, and it is beautiful. I'm so grateful that it's done.

It looks so good I'm just a touch reluctant to fill it back up with my stuff...

potty success... sort of... mostly!

We're now at five days with no accidents. None.

Some how we finally found the right incentives (bribes) (youtube time and matchbox trucks taped to the wall to help him remember what he wants), and he uses the potty.

Interestingly enough, last week I was almost ready to put him back in diapers, because he just didn't seem to care, and was passively resisting all my efforts. ("Uh-oh! I did peepee on the floor. That is NOT awesome!" he would report.) My efforts were failing, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to fight. I prayed a lot to know if there was a correct answer, and what that might be. While we were failing, he was wearing pull-ups because he's right, peeing on the floor is not awesome (but it is super funny to hear him talk about).

But he was getting a rash. So one day I put him back in underwear. And I remembered, this is what I want. And sometimes its okay to do things according to a parents schedule. That day I was supervigilant about taking him, often, and we found the right bribes, and here we are, with everything working the way it should. It's a miracle. (A miracle that happens for almost all people, but every mom thinks its a miracle every time, I'm sure!)

He's still not good about using the potty outside of the house, but he can hold it for forever, so I'm sure that will come when it's time. I'm so relieved.

three versus seven

We were talking about our family at the dinner table. One of the kids asked if we would have any more kids, and we told them no, and discussed some reasons why, and how that would change their lives if we did.

Without giving any details, I mentioned that we wouldn't have any more babies, because we were being very careful not to have more babies.

Babs thought about that for a moment, then said "Grammy wasn't very careful."