Tag Archives: Jr

August 6, 2015 · 4:23 pm

The only two songs my kid will listen to.

Jr looks a lot like The Mr.

Like, A LOT A LOT.

When they handed his burrito-swaddled brand-new little self to me in the hospital, I literally gasped because it looked like someone had thrown my husband into the hot cycle of the dryer, shrunk him down, and stuck a tiny snow hat on him. He is a total Mini Mr.

Watching them sometimes, being all twinny-looking and laughing at the same jokes (because a boy is a boy is a boy, no matter how old… so burps and made up words are mega funny,) and just generally matching each other, I feel a little left out.

Where is the part of him that is from mommy? What of me reflects through him?

It isn’t much, but there is one thing. Music.

My kid is straight up mine when it comes to musical taste right now – he doesn’t go in for any “Grateful Deadful” junk that daddy tries to lay on us in his car. NO NO – he is all in for the mom jamz.

And mom has some wiggity wack taste in tunes, so him sharing that with me (for now) is kind of everything.  (We’ve already determined I am kind of all over the place… It is my birthright as a Gemini)

HOWEVER – since he is 4, he is smack in the center of the “if I love something I will play/read/listen to/watch it over and over until everyone near me kind of wants to kill whatever it is dead” phase.

So with that in mind I present to you, the only two songs my kid will listen to:

This honky tonk lament, which takes a second to get actually going, that he refers to as “The Fibble Song” (Fiddle)

And this little piece of punk perfection which he requests by commanding “PLAY OK, PLAY OK” from the back seat of the MUV.

That he loves these two so fiercely and so equally fills me with parental pride.

Yep… he’s just like mom.

(Treasure the thoughts of your shared fart jokes while you listen to your crunchy jam-bands alone, husband – Jr’s on board the momma music train.)

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April 28, 2015 · 2:47 pm

Counting Stars

These are Jr’s glow-in-the-dark wall stars.  He earned them after 2 weeks straight of awesomely pleasant and peaceful bedtimes.
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He lovey loves them so, and helped me stick them up around his Spider Man poster on the wall where he can best see them as he drifts off to sleep.

That was exactly 3 nights ago.

Then last night, in a blaze of mortifying pre-school tantrum glory that I still haven’t been able to pin-point a reason for, he lost them all in a bedroom cage match of parent/child wills that will live in infamy in the annals of our family.

With all the screaming, bed-stripping, arm flailing, insult and stuffed buddy hurling gusto he could muster going on for a surreal amount of time, there is no doubt it was  NOT his best moment.

I can also say it wasn’t mine.

I saw things beginning to escalate when he started wrestling a bit with his Superman sleeping bag and reminded him that he could lose the stars if bedtime went bad (right to a threat?  REALLY KERI!?  REALLY!?)

Then I whipped the sleeping bag out of his bed, and went right down the check list of stuff I could take away if he didn’t cool it.

What happened to the “Yoga poses to help your child calm down” article I had read over and over recently, trying to prepare for just such an occasion?  What happened to me staying calm so he would?   WHAT HAPPENED KERI!?

We had two weeks of great bedtimes under our belts, so what hellish moon were we now under to be guiding us both down such a crummy path so quickly?  How were we suddenly there in the near-darkness of his bedroom, him jumping up and down on his bare mattress in his button-up santa jammies next to a pile of ripped off bedding and yelling; and me furiously plucking stars of the wall while stating “now you have to start all over friend, isn’t that sad!!!?”

Consequences?  I am 100% down with consequences.  But this?  I think if I search deep down in my hurt-mommy-heart, this was more just me being hurt and turning it back on him.

This was so far from my finest moment in mommydom that my view of those moments faded away faster than the baggie of glowing stars I chucked angrily into the hallway.  This was a low.

After the dust settled and Jr was asleep in a tantrum-exhausted heap in his bed, I put one star back up, near a leg at the head of his bed where he won’t see it.  But I will.

And I hope it reminds me to just try the damn yoga poses next time.

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April 3, 2015 · 1:16 pm

The Age of the Questionable Decision

So Junior turned 4 last weekend.

In a blaze of Grandparent-spoiling, cupcake hogging, Superhero party glory.

Now I don’t want to jump the gun on my assumptions – we are only a week in to this whole “being 4” situation. But can I just say that week number one has been a freaking whopper.

It appears to me, in my snap judgement brain, that 4 should be known as “The Age of the Questionable Decision.”

We have had more diving off of things than I can remember him desiring to do in his whole life combined, (back yard play set, couches, stairs, footstools, beds, TOILETS…) you name it, he wants to climb it and dive off. As of this week, quite suddenly.

WHY GOD – WHY THE DIVING?

WHY!?

I had congratulated myself on a job well done with his superhero party – attendees of all ages seemed to have a great time, and Jr was surrounded with all kinds of awesome gifts to explore while we cleaned up the aftermath. All was well, right?

Except then I got a call from my life-long friend letting me know that her husband had Jr in his sights as he was riding AWAY FROM THE HOUSE and off around the corner at full pre-schooler-strength speed on his trike, with no knowledge of the parents and at least one set of grandparents all inside the house assuming he was with someone else.

(I still can’t talk about it without shaking my head… how could that happen? HOW!? I keep having flashbacks and randomly grabbing him into hugs that I am sure are stunting his growth or something.)

Guess who learned to unhook the back gate? Yep.

Guess whose daddy put a lock on said gate an hour later? Yep.

BTW – Jr stated for the record that he was “going to Texas to see his cousin.”  On a trike.  I mean adorable, yes… but scary as shit and only one of at least 4 times I have been hysterical thus far into his very short time as a 4-year-old.   Again, Keri nails the mom thing. I should write a manual, I am sure.

But we are not alone in the Age Of the Questionable Decision.

OH NO NO NO, my friends.

There’s Jr’s little friend down the street, whose father recently shared the story of his offspring running FULL THROTTLE across the park, through the cul-de-sac, and over to a neighbor’s trash can before LICKING IT, for no reason at all. Running through the street to lick a trash can like it was a giant ice cream cone = Questionable Decision.

Or one of Jr’s preschool chums who tapped me on the shoulder when I was picking him up from school this week and pointed to what was left of a bent curtain rod, held up over a window with some tape, and said proudly “ I CLIMBED THE CURTAINS TODAY!! TWICE!” Evidently after his time out from round one, he decided to give it another go. (God bless Jr’s teacher. I bet she buys her wine by the case.) Curtains as climbing wall = Questionable Decision.

I have found myself, in the small time that we have spent beginning to wade out into the deeper waters of 4 years old, leaving the wading pool of toddlerhood behind us, looking deep into Jr’s eyes, trying with no success to do some sort of Mommy Vulcan Mind Meld in an attempt to crack the nut that is 4-year-old decision-making logic.

No dice…. The kid is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in a “Captain Ca’Merica” costume, laughing his head off as he careens off the porch toward the concrete.

Sigh.

Does Crazy 8s make suits out of bubble wrap?

Can you lo-jack your kid?

Do band-aids come in mega bulk?

 

Give me strength. (And eyes in the back of my head.)

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January 12, 2015 · 10:36 am

It’s all too much. Just Sayin’.

So, hypothetically, you maybe  handled your small child’s last (very recent) independence milestone with bacon and weeping a scouch less grace than you perhaps could’ve .
If said small child decides just 2 short days later that he wants to, say, give up his beloved “bubbie” (pacifier) by stuffing it into the back of a Build-a-Bear and letting the nice lady operating the fluff pumper (heh heh) sew that bear up while he looks on proudly?
Make any excuse you have to, just get yourself a cushion of time between those events.
Otherwise you WILL cry in the Build-a-Bear and buy that Bubbie Bear every damn superhero costume the store offers, and then walk down the mall to the California Pizza Kitchen to day drink Chardonnay at “lunch” while Jr gives an impromptu Bear Justice League fashion show waiting for his chicken fingers.

Hypothetically.

Just Sayin’.

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January 9, 2015 · 9:56 am

2015.

My Christmas tree is still up, and today Jr went to school in big boy underpants.

These two things are actually totally related – so stay with me here.

2015 is going to be a biggie for us.  It will be the year that the diaper pail leaves our house, and the year the big boy bed comes into it.   The year that sees the end of trips into the baby product aisle, and me carrying a diaper bag….  the year the bubbie (pacifier) finally truly exits our lives forever.  The year scribbling turns to coloring, forks get used more than fingers, and the year that feetie jammies get traded for two-piece (easy bathroom access) models.  A year of so many changes I haven’t even had time to think up and obsess about yet.

Jr LOVES Christmas stuff.  He loves the lights, loves the decorations, the special toys and books that come out of storage, loves Hopscotch (the family Elf on A Shelf.)

With all of the changes coming with the new year, I have been in no hurry to get everything stored away this go-around. I still happily comply with his giddy requests to drive down every side street and cul-de-sac on the way home each night to see what holiday light displays still linger in neighbors’ lawns.   As I box up Elmo Christmas books and the Little People Nativity and North Pole sets, I wonder if he will be as excited to see them next year.  I know that sooner or later he won’t.

It was just last year at this time that he was still calling Frosty “Prosty” and Santa “Ho Ho” – try as I might, I can’t get his older, wiser self to go back to that – so I know that next Christmas can’t be the same as this one.

This was his last Christmas as any sort of a baby.  Now he is a little boy in tiny Batman briefs playing on the “big kid” equipment in the gym at school that he used to be too little for.   And I am a crazy woman clutching his cushy elephant rattle while crying and eating a whole plate of bacon.

Yep.  So far I am KILLING the “well-balanced parent” thing in 2015.

If anyone needs me, I will be trying to teach Potter how to use a bubbie and ride in the stroller.

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