Paging Dr. Freud

This morning, Owen climbed into bed with me. He nestled his little head on my chest, flung an arm around, and immediately fell asleep.

This was very sweet, yes, but as I laid there, listening to his soft breaths, I wondered how much longer I could wait before my bladder ruptured. 

Eventually, I closed my eyes, and just when I was drifting off, I heard him whisper, "Mommy? I want some cottage cheese. And some money."

***

Later that morning, we were driving to a playgroup. Owen turned to his brother, then said, "Mommy, I'm going to marry Joel someday."

"You'll have to move to Vermont," I replied. I thought a little more, and realized that Vermont recognizes gay marriage, but hasn't warmed up to brother-brother partnerships. I reconsidered my response, "Make that West Virginia."

***
 I must confess, I've been very concerned that Owen learns how to cough in his elbow instead of in his hand, as directed by his teachers. Apparently, I'm not the only one. Today's Post reports that Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius gave the smack-down to one Chuck Todd (a journalist, and presumably, and adult) for coughing in his hand. She said, "We'll have to have Elmo give Chuck a special briefing...Elmo knows how to sneeze."

Nice.

Anyway, we've been working on proper sneezing and coughing practices, so Owen won't, if nothing else, be mocked by a member of cabinet someday.

You can imagine how delighted I was when we were at Wal-Mart, and we ran into Owen's teacher, Miss Speck. As she said "Hello," I needed to ask Owen to stop licking the shopping cart.

***

Owen was doing his usual half-hearted protests come naptime. "No, I'm  not taking a nap. I'm going to sleep in your bed, with Green Pillow and Big Teddy."

"Well, honey," I countered, "I sleep with Daddy."

Owen frowned. "No!" he protested, "Daddy can sleep outside in the playhouse. You sleep with me."

Paging Dr. Freud! My son has developed a disturbing Oedipus complex, and I'm not sure I want to be Jocasta.

***
While Owen and I were putting Joel down for his nap, Owen mused, "Joel sure is a special little guy."

He's not the only one.

Simpatico (Writing Wednesday)

When you're stuck as a writer, sometimes the best thing to do is ask a question. I'm a big fan of questions. I've found that they can clarify, encourage elaboration, and/or send the writer on a new, unexpected journey.

I recently asked people to ask questions about  this post. People could ask any question they wanted. And, as always, the questions did their job.

Barbara asked, "Why do you take out your contacts before finding your glasses?" This is a clarification question. If I decided to revise the original piece, I could go back and explain that I removed my contacts because I assumed my glasses would be where they always were, and I wasn't expecting a hunt. This addition, if worded more eloquently, could add to the humor and/or build tension.

Several people asked about the children's sermon. If you want to know the specifics about that, I addressed it in yesterday's post. This is an elaboration question. People specifically wanted to know more about that point. Clearly, it stuck out, since several people asked about it (or, perhaps, I have a holy readership.) As a reader, I need to weigh the purpose of my piece---would it add to the overall mood if I elaborated on the sermon, or would it bog the piece down? I felt that it would bog the piece down, since my focus was Joel's tomfoolery. My next question should be: Should I cut the reference all together? Elaboration questions help the writer see what needs more information, but it also reveals what information distracts from the "big picture."

I received all sorts of wonderful questions, but one from Coby really stayed with me: "What are your kids' endearing habits?" This is a journey question, because it's related to the piece, but it is open-ended, designed to send me a new direction. I carried this question around with me, and I wrote a snapshot from my observations. The result is below. 

Your prompt: 

1) Take something you have written and ask a person, or several people, to ask some questions related to the piece. Don't give the questioners too many parameters--just let them ask what they ask. (If you don't have something written, tell a story out loud and ask for questions).

2) Choose the question or questions that strike your fancy. If they are eloboration or clarification questions, blend them into your orignial piece to make a second draft. If they are journey questions, complete a freewrite or draft a snapshot based on that new question. See where the query takes you.

3) Review-Revise-Share

4) For inspiration, check out Paul, Corrie, and Coby's work from last week. (Join the party! It's fun, I swear.)

Simpatico (My Example)
Inspiration Question: "What are your kids' endearing habits?" (I decided to focus just on Owen)


Joel is still a painting in process. There are certainly splashes of color on his canvas, and the strokes are bold and confident. There is lots of manic orange and vibrant splashes of yellow. He's happy. He's fearless. He makes me smile. But because of his age, he is more of a Jackson Pollack at this point---you have to look hard, and guess at the images.

Now, Owen's painting is incomplete at this point as well, but it like an Impressionist piece---up close, it's a lot of beautiful dots, but stepping back, a stunning image comes into view. Owen is coming into his own, and I could not be more delighted.

Looking at Owen, I'm looking at myself. He and I are simpatico. It might be a first-born thing. We're both bossy, convinced of the virtue of our worldviews. When I asked Owen for one of his chicken nuggets, he thought about it, and finally made his decree: "No, Mommy. Too much sugar."

He doesn't limit his micromanaging to his mother. I was getting dressed, while both boys were playing in the adjoining bathroom. I heard Owen say, "Joel! Enough with the tampons! Put them away." The pieces fell together, for Owen had specifically asked me all about tampons just two days earlier.

Owen likes to know what's coming. Today, at the park, he asked me to play on the spider web (a collection of ropes) with him. He then asked me to sit next to him, on a particular rope, sitting with my hands folded in a certain way. I've known dictators with more flexibility than this boy of mine.

While on the spider web, I started making monkey noises, scratching my head and my armpits. HILARIOUS. He frowned and said, "You're not a monkey, you're just Mommy."

I pressed on, "Am I allowed to dance?"

"No."

"Sing songs?"

"No."

I sighed. "What am I allowed to do then, Owen?"

His answer was quick, "You're allowed to hug me."

Oh, could I love this kid any more? Of course, I relate to his control issues---I lose my mind if naps end at 3:30, when I really want them to last until 4:00, at a minimum. If my coffee-paper-puttering routine is cut short, I'm breathing fire. So, I can relate to a kid who wants his family to run with the predictability of a Timex.

And, I relate to his need to get and give love. When I sat on a yellow jacket at the same playground, it stung me on the butt. It still hurts as I write this, sitting on an ice pack, over two hours later. Owen immediately walked over when he heard me yelp, held my hand and said, "It's okay, Mommy. Do you want me to kiss it?"

I considered it, an opportunity for my son to literally kiss my butt, but I just kissed him and said, "It's okay, sweetie." He nestled his head against me, kissed me on each (facial) cheek, and said, "I love you so much."

On the way home, Joel was saying "Da-Da," and Owen leaned over and said, "Joely? Can you say Owen instead?" This is Owen in a nutshell--wanting to control, yet looking for new ways to show his love.

He's a pleaser, like me. The start of preschool is bringing out my perfectionist tendencies. I already made my monthly play dough, and asked the teacher for more projects. I want her to know that I'm on-top-of-things, a helpful, resourceful mother in this educational team. I haven't quite figured out that she cares about Owen, and I'm not getting a grade. It's hard to accept this.

Owen is also trying to impress the teacher. He coughed in his elbow, like his teacher taught him. He smiled, eyes bright, and said, "Miss Speck (not her real name, but that's her blog name, as of now) will be so happy!"

Things are not always sunrises and roses. Two strong personalities are bound to butt heads. Just an hour ago, Owen declared, "Don't ruin my fun!" I'll try not to, Buddy, but it's bound to happen.

I look at my son--the leader, the thinker, the dreamer, the snugglebunny---and, like a painting, appreciate his beauty with each gaze, each perspective, each shifting of the light.

Don't Panic

Ever since the playhouse got its final coat of paint and we ceremoniously crashed the sippy cup of apple juice against its doorway, (Note to self: perhaps this has something to do with our ant problem), a dark cloud has moved in above my head.

What if, after all of my father's hard work, and all of the expense, the kids don't like it?

I mean, it wouldn't be the first time. In fact, I would say more often than not, my toy selections are humongous duds. For example, when I was in Charlotte, I bought these cool can stilts:



I thought Owen would be all over it. It's slightly reckless, noisy, and Joel-free. These are the ingredients for success, or so I thought.

Of course, Owen uses them as large purses to carry his toy cars around and about. When I demonstrated the coolness: I'm tall! I'm a stompy, noisy monster! He looked at me with pity and said, "Mommy, don't panic."

It's hard not to panic when you see cool toys serve the same purposes as grocery bags, time and time again.

So, back to the playhouse. For awhile, Owen was content to fill it with scrap pieces of wood, piling them perilously in the corner. This made it not only Kaczynski-esque in its creepiness, but completely non-functional because nobody could sit in the thing.

One evening, the extra wood mysteriously "disappeared." Possibly, the wood escaped to the Island of Annoying Misfit Toys. This is the final resting home of many of the boys' especially loud, violent, or choketastic playthings.

Once the playhouse was clear, and the weather dipped below preposterous levels, we ventured outside once again. Thankfully, Owen has found games to play. I'm not sure what these games suggest about my daily activities--feel free to share your ideas.

Game #1: Grooming

Owen will first "cut" my hair, complete with a clippers and a close hot shave. Clearly, he thinks that everybody gets his or her hair cut at places that start with Great and end with Clips.

Next, Owen will tend to my eyebrows. He'll have me sit down, and he'll pretend to put the wax on my brows, and then will "tear" off the strips, saying "shhhpt" to indicate the hair removal. He'll "tweeze" the errant hairs and then say, "That's much better."

Thank God he's never witnessed a bikini wax.

Game #2: Nourishment

I'll stand by the window and say, "I would like a ______(fill in the blank foodstuff)."

Owen will make it, with sound effects like "boink!" and "hee-haw" before saying, "Here you go!" and handing me an imaginary something.

He'll then say, "That will be twenty-five dollars!"

"What?" I respond, "That's highway robbery!"

He'll pretend to think about it and say, after great thought, "Okay...twenty-FOUR dollars."

He drives a hard bargain. But for air this good, it's hard to argue.

Game #3: Health care

Owen will pretend to be all sorts of health care professionals, including:

Dentist: "Let me count your teeth. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, sixty!"

Eye Doctor: Since the only eye doctor he has ever seen is Joel's pediatric ophthalmologist, this game primarily involves him looking at my eyes and making clicking and whistling sounds. My eyes are always fine, but I wonder if there is a dolphin out by the Atlantic, feeling strangely drawn towards the Chesapeake Bay...as if a small child is speaking its language.

Beware of those dolphins, Owen.

Ear-Nose-and-Throat-Doctor: He looks in one ear, "No potatoes." He then looks in the other ear, "Just a little bit of potato."

Pediatrician: "You look sick. You need to drink some snow-flavored medicine."

Although these games are, admittedly tedious after awhile, I am happy that the playhouse is getting some use. After all, it's awfully big to be a purse.

Q and A

Owen has entered the "Why?" stage of his toddlerhood, which makes each day a bit more....thought-provoking.

"Mommy, why are you putting lipstick on?'

Why indeed? I heard on a biological/unconscious level, women paint their lips because it simulates the sex organs. It' s similar to the baboons with the red bottoms. It's our way of signaling, "I'm in heat." (Thank you, PBS, for that ewwwwwww tidbit).

I decided not to share this with Owen. Why do I wear lipstick? I wear lipstick because its an easy thing to do that makes me feel more polished, more va-va-voom, even if I'm wearing yoga pants and a shirt that proclaims that I gave blood. I wear lipstick because I buy the type that stays on all day, so it's a low maintenance version of happy. And finally, I wear lipstick because, as the only woman in this house, I need to maintain a feminine presence or else Joel will remain prettier than me.

I also decided not to share this with Owen. I answered, instead, "Because I want to."

"Mommy, why do you have a big bag of poop?"

Owen was referring to the bag of compost manure that I was lugging to the backyard. He knew that it was poop because the nursery worker helpfully told him, "I'm putting stinky poop in your car." Thanks so much, Wentworths employee.

I answered, fearing the possible implications of the sentence, "Because poop helps the plants grow."

"Why does poop make the plants grow?"

I wish I knew such things. It would be a fantastic learning experience, which is the whole reason that I was planting a garden in the first place. I don't have a clue, though. Something about chemicals, probably, perhaps a bit of voodoo. It's just magic as far as I'm concerned.

Thankfully, I know science people. I told Owen, "We'll have to call Miss Melissa (a former AP biology teacher) to find that out."

"Will my poop make the plants grow?"

With no hesitation, I said, "No. Owen poop is ouchy for plants." Even if if Owen shit pure organic compost, it belongs in one place, and one place only: the toilet.

I'm sure the questions will continue. My challenge will be to think about what he's asking, and answer his questions thoughtfully. This may be easier said and done, because today, for I'm sure the first of many times, I answered one of his questions with this:

"Because I said so."

Somewhere, I hear my mother corking a bottle of champagne. The circle is complete.

Yes, it's time for another edition of...random thoughts!

Owenisms:

1. Owen's says to his grandfather, as Rich walks into the house: "Hi Grandpa! Grandpa, this is Mommy. Mommy, this is Grandpa." Thank God he finally introduced me to that guy. I had been wondering, "Who the hell this man, and why is he in my house?"

2. Yes, this is mushy, but mothers get to be mushy. I was tucking Owen in last night. He kisses my forehead and says, "Mommy, you're my best friend." Those of you reading on the West Coast--it wasn't an earthquake, just me, swooning.

3. Owen has taken a new formality with us. Whenever he does not want to do something, he ends his sentences with "sir," as in "I don't like green beans, sir." Yes, we live south of the Mason-Dixon line, and custom encourages the use of "sir" and "ma'am." However, I don't think Owen has it down yet.

Things I didn't expect to say in this lifetime:

1. "Owen, please stop standing on the waffle iron."

2. "We're not going to buy a recycling center today."

3. "As soon as you get in the bath, you can see Mommy's dried blood."

Fleeting thoughts:

1. I gave blood yesterday. While the technician was typing my information into his computer, he asked me if I was a nurse, because it looked like I was wearing scrubs in my license picture. I was actually wearing a v-neck tee shirt, but that's not the point. I considered saying, "Yes," just because it would be fun to pretend to be a nurse for a few minutes. This guy wouldn't know the difference, and I have plenty of respect for nurses.

I started to make up a story in my head. I would tell him that I worked in orthopedics for a few years, but I now work at a dialysis center on weekends for extra money. I would complain about the long hours and talk about how I considered being a nurse practitioner. I had this whole story worked out.

Then, I chickened out. Since I was talking to an actual medical person, all he would have to do is say one bit of medical jargon to expose my web of bullshit.

For now, Nancy Campbell, R.N., will remain a figment of my imagination. This is probably a very good thing.

2. I was holding Joel, and I thought to myself, "He's an actual person, with itty-bitty lungs, and a teeny-tiny heart. He has all these complicated systems working perfectly in that little body." I'm not sure why this idea surprised me. I mean, I know he's not a doll....

3. I bought new glasses today, and I thought, "It would be fun to wear these to the library." Why? Do I wear a "smart costume" for certain occasions? Truly, I have moments of breathtaking dumbness. Even when I'm wearing my glasses.

Questions and Answers

Me: Owen, why did you throw that hard plastic ball at your baby brother's head?
Owen: I don't know.

Owen: Mommy, what are teeth for?
Me: Teeth are for chewing, and smiling, and eating, and---
Owen: For biting Baby Joel!

Me: (Feeling some 1996-era nostalgia, and singing Dave Matthews in my kitchen.) "I'm the king of the castle, you're the little rascal/Crash into me..." (Yes, I know the song is an extended innuendo, but Owen isn't one for metaphor and nuance, yet).
Owen: What are you making that noise for?
Me: Because it makes me happy.
Owen: It makes my tummy hurt.

Owen: What are you talking for?
Me:

Me: What kind of cake should Mommy have for her birthday?
Owen: A Diego Cake! (well, duh...)

Owen: Is Mommy going to use the breast pump today?
Me: No.
Owen: Oh. Is Daddy going to use the breast pump today?

Owen (peering into the toilet): What's that?
Me: You know what that is.
Owen: (laughing hysterically) That's my yummy lunch! Now it's poo-poo!

Me: (to myself) What am I unleashing onto the world?
Owen: O-W-E-N, that's OWEN!

Mistaken Identity

I truly wonder how Owen's mind works. The logic is...astonishing.

To wit: Looking over my shoulder while I was looking at my Yahoo page, Owen saw a picture of Bruce Springsteen:

He said, "Look Mommy, it's Ironman."





Yes, the resemblance is striking. Owen has not seen Ironman, and Paul and I do not spend a lot of time discussing the various Marvel characters. Yet, he knows all about Ironman. HOW???




This, I suppose, is better than the last time he looked over my shoulder. He saw a picture of Plaxico Burress, a football player:



He then said, "It's Daddy!"

No, Owen. This is your daddy. Holding you. In a lighthouse, of course.

Clear?

Speaking of football, we realized that we needed to toughen our son up, football-wise, since we plan on living in Redskins-Mad Maryland for a little bit longer. For months, Owen would call footballs, "acorns."




I guess I can see that one. Maybe. While cute now, this could result in playground poundings in a few years.



Owen's mind is creative, to say the least, and it is never boring. That makes me as happy as Ironman, as he passes the acorn to Plaxico Burress, while humming to himself, in the words of the Boss, " These are...Glory Days!"

Second, but not second best

What a difference a day makes.

My friend's son is home, and appears to have turned a corner. I realize that I didn't specify that he was admitted to Calvert Memorial, not a NICU, thank goodness. So, yay for that. And double yay that he's home and on the mend.

Also, at this time yesterday, I was thinking of my sons, so grateful, so anxious that they stay safe in my cocoon of love and neurosis. Today, they're back to being fun, but a real cramp on my style.

For the longest time, I had Owen and Joel on identical napping schedules. It was heaven. I would have an uninterrupted period of at least two hours every day to recharge and indulge in my important work, such as Facebook, reading the Style section of the Post, and this blog. All good things must come to an end.

Joel now wakes up earlier in the morning (like 5:30 in the freaking AM), thus naps earlier. To rub salt in the wound, he often starts stirring from his nap just as I leave Owen's room after tucking him in for his. Bru-tal. So, having mentally prepared myself for downtime, I find myself beginning the second shift, looking at Joel's sweet, beautiful face, and thinking "Damnit kid, you should be asleep."

I know that I should see this as a positive, an opportunity to spend quality time alone with Joel. And, to an extent, I do. I'll tickle his belly, sing him songs, read stories, whisper hopes and dreams into his ear, listen to his belly laugh. That takes about fifteen minutes. Then, he and I stare at each other, thinking, "Now what?"

True Confession: I don't feel like I hit my stride as a mother until Owen started talking. All the baby books preached the importance of talking to your baby, but I would feel like a big, fat idiot, talking to six month old Owen: "These are Daddy's boxers. They are blue and white. This is Mommy's shirt. It is yellow. She got it at a 10K." All the while, Owen was attempting to suck on his big toe. It was like I was mentally ill, except that the voices in my head were a lot less interesting, and only talked about laundry.

Once Owen started talking, it became so much fun, because he constantly surprises me and makes me see things in a new way. For example, here's a few Owen comments I jotted down on sticky pads:

#1: We're in the car. Owen says to me, "Good, driving, Mommy!" I thank him. He then turns to his brother and says, "Good sleeping, Baby Joel!"

#2: Owen toddles downstairs after not taking his nap, and announces, "Well, it looks like I'm going to bed early tonight."

#3: When I was impatiently telling Owen that he needed to get his shoes on or I was leaving without him (an idle threat, repeated almost daily), he replied, "Mommy, I'll do what you want when you ask nicely." Gee, where did he hear that?

#4: He told me, during lunch, "Carrots taste good when you eat them like rabbits." Indeed.

See what I mean? So, I struggle. I love Joel, and I don't want to rush through his babyhood, especially since it's so fleeting and precious, and we don't plan on having any more children. But, I'm just not a natural with babies. Even my own.

I hesitate to even write this, because I don't ever want Joel to read this and think that he was second best. He's not. I dreamed of him before he was conceived, hoped for him, prayed for him, and I love him with an intensity that I know of only because I feel that same fierce love for Owen.

But, I'm really looking forward to the day when he and I can have coffee and apple juice together, discussing the world, building memories together. I can't wait to discover him, each year a new introduction, and new dimension, a new reason to be grateful.

Even though I would be okay with him napping at this moment in time.

More Owenisms

Owen was in the bathroom, taking care of business, as they say, when he called me in with a charming, "Mooommmy, wipe me please!"

I came in, did my unseemly duty, then stood with Owen to admire his work. He said, pointing, "That one looks like a snowman."

Later on, we were doing the same thing, and this time, Owen said, "That one looks like a cow pretending to be a fish."

Why look at the clouds when there's such amazing things to be seen closer to Earth?

This is why I have a blog. It seems just wrong to record such moments in the pretty Hallmark baby book (not that I've blown the dust off of that any time in the last six months), but such things must be recorded for posterity.

With that, I'm off. Paul's not coming home until late tonight, and I need to: shower, cook a meal for a friend, inquire about a job, read the paper, and clean up the squalor before Joel gets up. Wish me luck.

Owenisms

This is Owen's uninterrupted narration while I am sitting here, attempting to write:

"Mommy's being a pirate. I put hat on you. I put pirate hat on you. Arrgh, mateys. Now, you're done being a pirate. Now you're going to be a pirate some more. I'm making a pirate ship. Mommy, hop in the pirate ship. We're driving the pirate ship home. I'm driving the pirate ship. Yo, ho ho! I got to the lighthouse at the bottom of the jungle. Yo, ho ho. I have a treasure chest! The lighthouse at the bottom of the jungle has treasure. Yup. Okay. I got to drive the boat some more. I'm driving the pirate ship home. There's the water that will go in the pirate ship. Mommy's a pirate. I'm not a pirate. I drive an ambulance to the pirates. I say, "Owen, look at all these pirates." A vacumn will drive to the pirates. Look at all these pirates! These are nice pirates. They're pirates. They do go on the pirate ship. This gotta go on the pirate ship. V is for violin. Van is for yo-yo. Vacumn is a ja-ja-jah sound. Yo-ho-ho. To the pirate ship on the lighthouse under the jungle! You're done with the pirate hat! You have the pirate hat on your head. I'm taking the pirate ship to Danielle's house."

Got all that? I'm cashing in my chips; no writing is happening today. Owen has treasure to take to Danielle's house, and I have to drive our ship to the lighthouse at the bottom of the jungle.

Argh!

Toddler Theology

Owen and I were talking about Christmas while driving home today.

I said, "Are you excited about Christmas?"

Owen said, "Yes. Santa comes at Christmas!"

"That's right!" I said. "What else happens at Christmas?"

"I get lots and lots of presents!"

Oh dear, I think. He's two and already a little consumer. Trying to get the Christ back in Christmas, I say, "Who has a birthday on Christmas?"

Owen thinks long and hard, "Baby Joel!"

"No," I say, attempting to cram some spiritual training into Owen's day, "Baby Jesus."

"Who's that guy?"

"You know who Baby Jesus is. He made the world. And Christmas is his birthday. We say, 'Happy Birthday Jesus' on Christmas." As I say this out loud, I realize that it's such an odd thing to say and an odder thing for a toddler to understand.

Owen is silent for a few minutes. "Baby Joel's birthday?"

"No honey, Baby Jesus. You know, God's son." After all, throwing the trinity into the mix should clear everything right up for Owen. Maybe I'll explain how Lutherans believe that communion is both the actual body and blood and a symbol of it while I'm at it...

"Baby Evan's birthday?" Maybe he's linking the fact that Evan's dad is a pastor, therefore, perhaps a little more acquainted with Jesus? Am I stretching a bit here?

"No, Baby Jesus."

"Baby Austin? Baby Cara? Baby Ryan? Baby Joel? Baby Hippo?" At this point, he breaks up laughing at his own hilarity.

"No, Owen. Baby Jesus. It's his birthday on Christmas."

"Oh." He's silent for a moment. I have a new appreciation for anybody who teaches preschool Sunday School. It's really, really hard to make something that I'm still puzzling over make sense to a toddler. Owen speaks up, "Mommy?"

"Yes dear?"

"Can we have rainbow cake for Baby Jesus's birthday?"

Maybe it's just that easy. "Sure, honey."

Dibs and Drabs

Update Curious minds have wanted to know...did Owen eventually poo? (See post from a few days back for all the putrid details...) Yes, yes he did. In his pull-up. Then slept in it. Most unpleasant.

Owen Getting Dressed, Part I
Owen gets a great deal of mileage out of getting dressed (or, more accurately, avoiding getting dressed). Today, during a typical stall, he said, "Daddy's not dressed!"

I said, "He's not?"

Owen replies "No, he's at work---Naked!"

So that's what government workers do all day...

Doggone Baby Weight
The other day, when on a walk, I struck up conversation with a guy walking his Rottweiler. He volunteered that the dog weighed 141 pounds. I said, "That dog weighs more than me!" I weighed myself this morning. I could so take that dog on. I've got at least three pounds on him.

Owen Getting Dressed, Part II
You're supposed to provide choices for toddlers, at least so sayeth the claptrap in parenting books. So, Owen and I are standing in front of his bureau drawer, trying to decide which big-boy underwear to wear (until he pees it out thirty minutes later). He agonizes over the choices...Tow Mater or Elmo? Or should I shake things up a bit with T-Rex? He finally decides on a white sock. Visions of the Red Hot Chili Peppers swim through my mind. I say, "Owen, you're vastly overestimating yourself here."

Let's Pretend
Owen is pretending to make a smoothie with an empty blender (blade removed, thank you) and plastic fruit. He's given me two or three "glasses" to sample. He hands me another glass. I drink the air and tell him it's delicious. He looks at me like I'm an idiot and says, "That glass is empty, Mommy."

All this on a Monday.

There's no such thing as too much information

A dangerous thing about writing/blogging is that it's easy to forget that real people that you see and interact with read it. I'll share things in cyberspace that I would possibly think twice about saying out loud. You would think it would be the opposite, but I've always been more confident with a keyboard than with my own vocal cords. I guess I'm just one of those bloggers dressed in pajamas in their parent's basement, right Sarah Palin?

In the spirit of that, read on if you want to learn about a mom, a boy, and poo....

As a former educator, I know that one of the most powerful tools for learning is modeling. In other words, don't tell me, show me.

So. Owen hasn't had a BM yet today, and we're still on the same pair of big-boy pants, now at 1:30 in the afternoon. He's a walking time bomb. I've been asking, approximately every fifteen minutes, "Do you need to go pee-pee or poo-poo?"

The answer: "No! Not yet." The not yet part makes me nervous. Later on, he says, "Mommy, it hurts, kiss it!"

He's pointing to his anus.

Even I have standards, so I kiss my hand and touch a butt cheek. I say, "Does your bottom hurt because you need to go poo-poo?"

Owen quietly says, "Yeahhh." We scurry to the potty and he hops on, then says, "No, I don't want to!"

I'm guessing we're dealing with a blockage issue. I ask, "Are you afraid it will hurt?"

"Yeahhh."

What to do, what to do. Damn. Damn. Damn. Don't tell me, show me. I say, "Mommy has to go poo-poo. It doesn't hurt. Do you want to watch?"

Wearing a big (dare I say, shit-eating) grin, he says, "Yeahhh."

We head to the bathroom again, and this time I pony up to the potty. Owen says, "Mommy, move over." I scoot up to the rim of the potty, so he can look into the bowl and see the action, so to speak.

Plop. Splash. I hear a delightful squeal, and my son say, "Again!"

I comply. "Again!"

Once more. "Again!"

"Mommy's all done," I say. "It didn't hurt."

Owen helpfully tells me that I need to wipe and wash my hands, which I do, under his careful gaze. I turn to him and say, "Now, do you need to go potty?"

"Not yet."

Now, it's his naptime. He's in a pull-up, and I imagine when he wakes up, his belly will have distended to his knees, or I'll have another mess on my hands.

Feed Him, Little Cat

When Joel is acting fussy, Owen has started to say, "Feed Him, Little Cat." Your guess is as good as mine...

Owen has been toying with my emotions come naptime. He napped every day last week, after not napping for a good three weeks prior. Now he's back to not napping. It's the inconsistency that kills me. The other day, Owen said, "I took a nap." Outraged, I replied, "No, you did NOT take a nap, and if you had any consideration, you would take one and give Mommy the time she needs." As you can imagine, this came across to Owen as "Blah Blah Mommy Blah," as his attention was already diverted by a piece of lint on the ground.

When we voted yesterday, I introduced him to the words "McCain" and "Obama." He finds "Obama" to be hilarious and great fun to say. Then, at story time today, the librarian read a book, Llama Llama Red Pajama. She asked, "What rhymes with Llama?" Owen said, "Obama!" The two year old next to him said, "Osama!" And that, my friends, passes for political discourse in my life these days...

Owen, Joel, be grateful Mommy has this blog.

Because I'm feeling very frustrated today, I'm going to list some of the things I love about my boys, because if I don't think more positively, it could be an ugly afternoon.

Owen's Roll Call: Sitting on the couch, Owen looks around the room and says, "One Mommy, One Daddy, One BabyJoel, and One Owen! I love Mommy, I love Daddy, I love BabyJoel, and I love Owen!"

Owen and Nature: I'm not sure if this is imagination, or, more likely, too much television watching, but Owen has all sorts of classifications regarding trees/plants.

Weeping willows are "Naughty Trees," and Maples are "Smiley Face Trees," Any tree that is sharp or spiky is a Cactus (this includes roses and all trees once they lose their leaves).

When he can't find Daddy, and Paul's not either working or in Wisconsin (which, as far as Owen is concerned, are the only places that people ever are), then Daddy must be "hiding in the bushes." That Daddy!

Owen is always talking about how he's going to climb the "very big tree very very high," when in fact, the only tree he's attempted to scale is the three foot sapling in front of the church. Speaking of church, on a drive home from Sunday School, Owen explained that Jesus loves to climb up very high in trees, then go pee-pee. That Jesus!

Joel the muscleman
When awake, Joel wants nothing more than to practice standing, with a parent holding each of his hands. He will pull himself up, go down, breathe deeply, and repeat the process until his head starts wobbling around like Dwight Schrute's bobblehead. Let me be clear: Joel is far cuter than Dwight Schrute.

Joel the hair man
Yesterday, I leaned over Joel, and he touched my hair, rubbing it gently in his hands, cooing.

I'm truly very blessed.

Starting the blog

People tell me that I need to "write all this down" so my boys can learn about their early life. So, here goes...

I have two boys. Owen is 2 1/2 and Never. Stops. Talking. Joel is 3 months old and Never. Stops. Nursing. So, much of my day involves sitting in the glider, listening to Owen while Joel chows down.

Typical conversation:
Owen: Mommy wants to feed Baby Joel the belly buttons. (Owen's word for nipples)
Me: Yup.
Owen: Owen wants to eat belly buttons.
Me: Nope.
Owen: Owen wants to eat Daddy's belly buttons.
Me: Go for it.
Owen: Daddy wants to eat Mommy's belly buttons.
Me: (silent)
Owen: (changing the subject). Diego uses the potty like a big boy.
Me: Yes, yes he does.

And on it goes...