There's nothing quite like a little boy in the tub at the end of the day.
Nothing quite like scraped and dirty knees in warm soapy water.
Nothing like fine little baby hair getting rubbed down with powdery-smelling shampoo.
Nothing like clean and glistening skin as all the grime of the day is washed off.
Nothing like a tiny face peeking out from underneath a fresh, soft towel.
Nothing like lotion on their bare legs and feet as they kick on the changing table.
Nothing like the last diaper of the day and a clean shirt and shorts for bed.
Nothing like still damp hair that wants to poke up in all directions.
Nothing like the just-washed scent as your press your nose against their sweet, soft little head.
And there's nothing like them vomiting three times all over you, your clothes, their clothes, the dry-clean only area rug, and the bathroom floor as soon as you've let the water out of the tub.
Showing posts with label Owen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Owen. Show all posts
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Friday, May 27, 2016
Guess We've Been Reading Moe Willems...
"Owen, what does a bear say?"
"GRR!!!"
"Good job! What does a lion say?"
"Roar!!"
"That's great! How about...a kitty-cat?"
"Meow! Meow!"
"What would...a doggy say?"
"Woof! Woof!"
"Mmhmm, and how about a cow?"
"Mooo!"
"That's right...what about a horse?"
"Neigh!!!"
"And what would a pig say?"
"Gerald!!!"
"GRR!!!"
"Good job! What does a lion say?"
"Roar!!"
"That's great! How about...a kitty-cat?"
"Meow! Meow!"
"What would...a doggy say?"
"Woof! Woof!"
"Mmhmm, and how about a cow?"
"Mooo!"
"That's right...what about a horse?"
"Neigh!!!"
"And what would a pig say?"
"Gerald!!!"
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Things Owen Is Not Allowed To Do
-Open the oven door while things are baking. (Or at all, really)
-Play with the stovetop dials
-Pull down an oiled pizza pan off of the kitchen island
-Drag around Daddy's trumpets while he is teaching
-Write on Daddy's student's music while they are being taught
-Climb into Daddy's student's lap
-Eat as many chocolate chip cookies as he wants
-Play in the husks from coffee roasting down in the basement
-Play bowling with Daddy's metal straight mutes
-Eat unroasted coffee beans off the basement floor
-Walk down the stairs without either going backwards or holding onto something
-Pull olive oil jugs off the kitchen island
It's a rough life
-Play with the stovetop dials
-Pull down an oiled pizza pan off of the kitchen island
-Drag around Daddy's trumpets while he is teaching
-Write on Daddy's student's music while they are being taught
-Climb into Daddy's student's lap
-Eat as many chocolate chip cookies as he wants
-Play in the husks from coffee roasting down in the basement
-Play bowling with Daddy's metal straight mutes
-Eat unroasted coffee beans off the basement floor
-Walk down the stairs without either going backwards or holding onto something
-Pull olive oil jugs off the kitchen island
It's a rough life
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Uh-Oh
Owen's vocabulary has regressed. He used to say Mama and Dada and make intelligible enough noises to convey "yes" and "no." But now he only says one very appropriate word.
"Uh-oh."
He's remarkably expressive with this one word. By his inflection, posture, pace, and cadence he's able to convey poetry in just those two little syllables. Granted, most of the poems are about dropping inappropriate objects into the toilet, but still...poetry. He says it languidly, and always at a slightly softer dynamic than his normal level of verbal noise. He makes no pretense of being genuinely surprised at whatever he's "uh-oh"--ing, but you really do believe it's an authentic expression of reaction. More than his older brother ever did at his age, Owen makes eye contact. If you're in the room with him, he'll turn his head towards you before he says it, and then with big blue eyes turned up towards yours his mouth opens and, "uh-oh."
As I said, it's become his only word. He says it, of course, whenever anybody drops something or knocks something over. Sometimes, as a precautionary measure, he'll say "uh-oh" BEFORE he drops an object out of his crib throws a handful of food out of his high chair. It's best not to take chances, after all, when you can avoid them. But "uh-oh" extends to so many other situations, as we've discovered. If he tips over while walking, it's "uh-oh." If he stands up from a sitting position, that's "uh-oh" as well. If anyone opens or closes a door or a cabinet, that's "uh-oh." Opening the oven door, opening a bag of apples, taking off or putting on one's shoes--all "uh-oh."
My entry into his room this morning was greeted with an "uh-oh," although this was probably merited, as he had his arm wedged between two of his crib slats and his leg between three others, effectively pinning himself in place. He also said "uh-oh" upon seeing J, although we couldn't determine the reason for this. (Was it the fact that she was wearing glasses? Did he think her hair was disorderly? Did he think his hair was disorderly?) He certainly does greet every sight of himself in the mirror with an "uh-oh," and anytime he sees a stranger or a dog passing by on the street. (This is also followed by furious waving.)
Any attempt by his parents to clean a room or prepare a meal is an occasion for "uh-oh." Disconcertingly, we often hear soft "uh-ohs" from the other room when we aren't present. We never know whether the boy is simply stuck on the threshold from the dining room to the library, or whether one of us left the bathroom door ajar and he's trying to drop his sippy cup into the potty. (Again.) We cannot tell whether his obnoxious walker is on low batteries again (the demise of this noisy machine would not merit an "uh-oh" from either of us) or whether he managed to crawl up a chair and is standing on the table. (Again.) He might have dropped a plastic tool behind the couch, or he might have just turned over a basket of freshly folded laundry. (For the third time today.)
Yes, Owen needs to expand his vocabulary. My personal goal is to teach him the phrase: "The catastrophe that I'm currently engaged in is______." If he could fill in the blanks for us we wouldn't need to hurry away from our coffee to determine whether or not his "uh-oh" is supposed to signify "I can no longer see the train on my sock" or "I have pulled down a cutting board and two sharp knives from the kitchen island."
Guess what he's saying out in the family room even as I hurry up and publish this blog.
"Uh-oh."
He's remarkably expressive with this one word. By his inflection, posture, pace, and cadence he's able to convey poetry in just those two little syllables. Granted, most of the poems are about dropping inappropriate objects into the toilet, but still...poetry. He says it languidly, and always at a slightly softer dynamic than his normal level of verbal noise. He makes no pretense of being genuinely surprised at whatever he's "uh-oh"--ing, but you really do believe it's an authentic expression of reaction. More than his older brother ever did at his age, Owen makes eye contact. If you're in the room with him, he'll turn his head towards you before he says it, and then with big blue eyes turned up towards yours his mouth opens and, "uh-oh."
As I said, it's become his only word. He says it, of course, whenever anybody drops something or knocks something over. Sometimes, as a precautionary measure, he'll say "uh-oh" BEFORE he drops an object out of his crib throws a handful of food out of his high chair. It's best not to take chances, after all, when you can avoid them. But "uh-oh" extends to so many other situations, as we've discovered. If he tips over while walking, it's "uh-oh." If he stands up from a sitting position, that's "uh-oh" as well. If anyone opens or closes a door or a cabinet, that's "uh-oh." Opening the oven door, opening a bag of apples, taking off or putting on one's shoes--all "uh-oh."
My entry into his room this morning was greeted with an "uh-oh," although this was probably merited, as he had his arm wedged between two of his crib slats and his leg between three others, effectively pinning himself in place. He also said "uh-oh" upon seeing J, although we couldn't determine the reason for this. (Was it the fact that she was wearing glasses? Did he think her hair was disorderly? Did he think his hair was disorderly?) He certainly does greet every sight of himself in the mirror with an "uh-oh," and anytime he sees a stranger or a dog passing by on the street. (This is also followed by furious waving.)
Any attempt by his parents to clean a room or prepare a meal is an occasion for "uh-oh." Disconcertingly, we often hear soft "uh-ohs" from the other room when we aren't present. We never know whether the boy is simply stuck on the threshold from the dining room to the library, or whether one of us left the bathroom door ajar and he's trying to drop his sippy cup into the potty. (Again.) We cannot tell whether his obnoxious walker is on low batteries again (the demise of this noisy machine would not merit an "uh-oh" from either of us) or whether he managed to crawl up a chair and is standing on the table. (Again.) He might have dropped a plastic tool behind the couch, or he might have just turned over a basket of freshly folded laundry. (For the third time today.)
Yes, Owen needs to expand his vocabulary. My personal goal is to teach him the phrase: "The catastrophe that I'm currently engaged in is______." If he could fill in the blanks for us we wouldn't need to hurry away from our coffee to determine whether or not his "uh-oh" is supposed to signify "I can no longer see the train on my sock" or "I have pulled down a cutting board and two sharp knives from the kitchen island."
Guess what he's saying out in the family room even as I hurry up and publish this blog.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
An Interview with James (Or, How Many People Do You Have In There?)
Me: Lightning, what's your favorite food?
James (as Lightning): Gas
Me: What's your favorite color?
James (as Lightning): Red
Me:Who is the fastest car?
James (as Lightning): Lightning
Me: Who is your best friend?
James (as Lightning): Lightning is his own best friend
Me: Who do you like to play with
James (as Lightning): Lightning
Me: Mater, what's your favorite food?
James (as Mater): Wus mah favorit' food? Gas is mah favorit' one. Ah like gas d'best. Cuz cars eat gas.
Me: Mater, what's your my favorite color?
James (as Mater): Mah favorit' color? Brown.
Me: Who is your best friend?
James (as Mater): Lahtnin'.
Me: Mater, do you like Curious George?
James (as Mater): Ah like Curyus George. Yes, gee.
Me: Sally, what's your favorite snack?
James (as Mater): She lahks gas d'best cuz cars eat gas. Her favorit' color is byu, okay? She lahks Lahtnin'.
Me: Is Lightning her boyfriend?
James (as himself): Weww...yes.
Me: George, what's your favorite food?
James (as George):What's my favorite food? My favorite food is bananas, because monkeys eat bananas. Did you know that, okay?
Me: Who's your best friend?
James (as George): James!
Me: George, what's your favorite color?
James (as George): Umm...brown!
Me: Do you like Lightning or Mater better?
James (as George):I like Mater the best.
Me: What do you think of Owen? Does George love Owen?
James (as Mater) Yeah, he does. Hey, Owen's favorite color is green, okay?
(as James) Hey Owen, what's your favorite food? Owen says (as Mater) I like green beans...and milk. (as James) That's what Owen says. What's your favorite friend, Owen? Hey, one more magformer, Daddy! Grab it as fast as you can. I got them, I did it. I got those two, Daddy. Here they are, here they are Daddy.
Me: Hey, you didn't tell me...who is Owen's favorite friend?
James (indistuinguishable voice): James
James (as Lightning): Gas
Me: What's your favorite color?
James (as Lightning): Red
Me:Who is the fastest car?
James (as Lightning): Lightning
Me: Who is your best friend?
James (as Lightning): Lightning is his own best friend
Me: Who do you like to play with
James (as Lightning): Lightning
Me: Mater, what's your favorite food?
James (as Mater): Wus mah favorit' food? Gas is mah favorit' one. Ah like gas d'best. Cuz cars eat gas.
Me: Mater, what's your my favorite color?
James (as Mater): Mah favorit' color? Brown.
Me: Who is your best friend?
James (as Mater): Lahtnin'.
Me: Mater, do you like Curious George?
James (as Mater): Ah like Curyus George. Yes, gee.
Me: Sally, what's your favorite snack?
James (as Mater): She lahks gas d'best cuz cars eat gas. Her favorit' color is byu, okay? She lahks Lahtnin'.
Me: Is Lightning her boyfriend?
James (as himself): Weww...yes.
Me: George, what's your favorite food?
James (as George):What's my favorite food? My favorite food is bananas, because monkeys eat bananas. Did you know that, okay?
Me: Who's your best friend?
James (as George): James!
Me: George, what's your favorite color?
James (as George): Umm...brown!
Me: Do you like Lightning or Mater better?
James (as George):I like Mater the best.
Me: What do you think of Owen? Does George love Owen?
James (as Mater) Yeah, he does. Hey, Owen's favorite color is green, okay?
(as James) Hey Owen, what's your favorite food? Owen says (as Mater) I like green beans...and milk. (as James) That's what Owen says. What's your favorite friend, Owen? Hey, one more magformer, Daddy! Grab it as fast as you can. I got them, I did it. I got those two, Daddy. Here they are, here they are Daddy.
Me: Hey, you didn't tell me...who is Owen's favorite friend?
James (indistuinguishable voice): James
Friday, December 25, 2015
The Difference Between My Sons
Taking James to choir rehearsal:
James sticks close by my side and avoids any unnecessary contact with strangers. If someone enters the room he doesn't make eye contact until he's checked in with me, and is usually shy about saying hello and explaining who his stuffed animal friends are.
Taking Owen to choir rehearsal:
Owen attempts to crawl out of the choir room and explore the church whenever I set him down. If he does get out the door and sees someone in the hall he rocks back onto his knees, grins, and waves madly at them, then gestures to be picked up.
Giving James my baton while I rehearse the choir:
James exactly mimics the motions that I was making with a look of intense concentration on his face. He attempts to match his movements to the texture of the music and to maintain a proper grip on the base of the baton.
Giving Owen my baton while I rehearse the choir:
Owen holds it like a club and repeatedly hits me over the head with it, smiles delightedly at the choir's reaction, and then continues to take swipes at me with a big grin on his face.
James interrupting the choir:
James waves his hands and stands up next to me, then says in a "rehearsal voice:" "Everybody, that was TOO loud. The music needs to be more quiet after rehearsal J--J is for James. That's what Mater says."
Owen interrupting the choir:
Owen blows raspberries and looks expectantly for a reaction.
Taking James into the Christmas Eve service:
James sits quietly by my side on the pew with George, Steven, and a stack of books. He thumbs through his books as the readings go by, and when we stand to sing a hymn he peers over at my hymnal and sings along if he knows the hymn.
Taking Owen into the Christmas Eve service:
Owen wiggles on my lap and applauds for any and everything that happens in the service--scripture readings, unison confessions, moments of silence, etc. He pretends to conduct during congregational singing, bounces in my arms, pretends to sneeze and bless himself if there is a quiet moment, and eventually wriggles down from my lap. He attempts to play my trumpet, then to get into the box of auxiliary percussion instruments by the organ. He almost knocks over a microphone, and then gets into James' stack of books. He loudly rips one of the pages, then holds it upside down and "reads to himself" out loud during the passage about the baby Jesus.
Conducting the anthem with James in the service:
James sits quietly and looks at his books while I conduct the choir. When I come back to my seat I find that James has shifted into it, He tells me that I need to find a new place to sit.
Conducting the anthem with Owen in the service:
I hand Owen to a responsible adult to be taken out of the service temporarily. He screams bloody murder from outside the sanctuary door in the silence before the music starts. When I cut off the final cadence, he is still audible, screaming bloody murder, albeit from further away. The pastor makes a comment about the line "no crying he makes" being rather unlikely.
James sticks close by my side and avoids any unnecessary contact with strangers. If someone enters the room he doesn't make eye contact until he's checked in with me, and is usually shy about saying hello and explaining who his stuffed animal friends are.
Taking Owen to choir rehearsal:
Owen attempts to crawl out of the choir room and explore the church whenever I set him down. If he does get out the door and sees someone in the hall he rocks back onto his knees, grins, and waves madly at them, then gestures to be picked up.
Giving James my baton while I rehearse the choir:
James exactly mimics the motions that I was making with a look of intense concentration on his face. He attempts to match his movements to the texture of the music and to maintain a proper grip on the base of the baton.
Giving Owen my baton while I rehearse the choir:
Owen holds it like a club and repeatedly hits me over the head with it, smiles delightedly at the choir's reaction, and then continues to take swipes at me with a big grin on his face.
James interrupting the choir:
James waves his hands and stands up next to me, then says in a "rehearsal voice:" "Everybody, that was TOO loud. The music needs to be more quiet after rehearsal J--J is for James. That's what Mater says."
Owen interrupting the choir:
Owen blows raspberries and looks expectantly for a reaction.
Taking James into the Christmas Eve service:
James sits quietly by my side on the pew with George, Steven, and a stack of books. He thumbs through his books as the readings go by, and when we stand to sing a hymn he peers over at my hymnal and sings along if he knows the hymn.
Taking Owen into the Christmas Eve service:
Owen wiggles on my lap and applauds for any and everything that happens in the service--scripture readings, unison confessions, moments of silence, etc. He pretends to conduct during congregational singing, bounces in my arms, pretends to sneeze and bless himself if there is a quiet moment, and eventually wriggles down from my lap. He attempts to play my trumpet, then to get into the box of auxiliary percussion instruments by the organ. He almost knocks over a microphone, and then gets into James' stack of books. He loudly rips one of the pages, then holds it upside down and "reads to himself" out loud during the passage about the baby Jesus.
Conducting the anthem with James in the service:
James sits quietly and looks at his books while I conduct the choir. When I come back to my seat I find that James has shifted into it, He tells me that I need to find a new place to sit.
Conducting the anthem with Owen in the service:
I hand Owen to a responsible adult to be taken out of the service temporarily. He screams bloody murder from outside the sanctuary door in the silence before the music starts. When I cut off the final cadence, he is still audible, screaming bloody murder, albeit from further away. The pastor makes a comment about the line "no crying he makes" being rather unlikely.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Windy Night Alone With the Boys
"Alright boys, shoes and coats on, we're going to the bank and to Wegmans and to the bank."
"Which Wegmans."
"The Pittsford Wegmans."
"Oh. Are we going to the wine store too?"
"Yeah, probably. Are you going to just stay in your pajamas?"
"Yep."
"Alright, well at least put your rain boots on."
"Owen, do you want to bring your George?"
<shakes head no>
"Okay, we're going to leave him here. Is that okay."
"Huh."
<Start to carry him out to car>
"WAAAHHH!!!!"
<Reaches for George>
"Daddy, we need to go to the wine store FIRST."
<Take James out of his carseat>
"AIEEEE! The wind blew my hood off! I'm cold, I'm cold!"
"Hey Daddy! Hey Daddy? Do you see that big wine glass filled with Christmas ornaments? We should get one of those for OUR house."
"Mmm...probably not. I think that's just for the wine store."
"Oh, Daddy, look! The Eiffel tower!"
"Oh, over by the Bordeaux! You're right! And there's a French flag too."
"Yeah, we should get an Eiffel tower for our house too."
"But why not?"
"Because if you open up an umbrella in the car then I won't be able to see out the back window."
"But I NEED to open up my umbrella."
"You can, just not in the car."
"But what if it rains in the car?"
"Uh. Uh-uh! UNNHHHhhh!"
<Owen points furiously>
"What is it? What do you see?"
<points again>
"Oh...the toothbrushes. I'm sorry Owen, we can't brush teeth in the store. With the store's toothbrushes. We'll brush teeth once we're home."
<pushes the cart away>
"AIEEE!!!!"
"We'll brush your teeth as soon as we get home."
"AIEEE!!!!"
<stops cart>
"Owen, do you know where we are?"
"I know where we are."
<Owen looks, points straight at tub of cookies, opens mouth expectantly>
<takes James out of steering wheel cart>
"AIEEE! The wind blew my hood onto my head! Now I am too warm!!!"
"So do you think we should take a bath when we get home? With our new bath colors?"
"No."
"Even if we didn't use soap and it was just a fun bath?"
"Are you going to wash my peeenis?"
"No, I won't wash your penis."
"Are you sure? No peenises?"
"No penises."
<silence for a minute>
"You're SURE I don't need to wash my peenis?"
<unlocks James' door with Owen in one arm and lets James into the car>
"James, wait, no NO DON'T LOCK me...out."
<James looks through the window of the car and grins>
"Owen, how'd you get your shoe off again?"
"Dah."
"Hey Daddy, the groceries are blowing away!"
"Wait, AHH! That has Mommy's prescription in it!"
"Oh, no, Mommy's rescription! We need to get it!"
<both chase grocery bag blowing into dark backyard with Owen still half strapped into carseat>
"Daddy I need my flashlight!!!"
"Okay, I'm going to take Owen's diaper off in his room, yes I see that you want to brush your teeth, Owen...just don't"
<click>
"...lock the bathroom door on me."
"I'll put a color in as soon as I can get the lid off, it's just sealed really tight."
"You need to let me do it. You don't hold, I hold it."
"You need to remember your manners if you're going to put the color drop in."
"Hey, what's Owen doing."
"Uh!! Dah!"
<smiles up happily>
"...looks like he's peeing on the bathroom floor."
"OH NO! Owen, don't pull on your penis! You'll hurt yourself!"
<Owen laughs maniacally>
"Which Wegmans."
"The Pittsford Wegmans."
"Oh. Are we going to the wine store too?"
"Yeah, probably. Are you going to just stay in your pajamas?"
"Yep."
"Alright, well at least put your rain boots on."
"Owen, do you want to bring your George?"
<shakes head no>
"Okay, we're going to leave him here. Is that okay."
"Huh."
<Start to carry him out to car>
"WAAAHHH!!!!"
<Reaches for George>
"Daddy, we need to go to the wine store FIRST."
<Take James out of his carseat>
"AIEEEE! The wind blew my hood off! I'm cold, I'm cold!"
"Hey Daddy! Hey Daddy? Do you see that big wine glass filled with Christmas ornaments? We should get one of those for OUR house."
"Mmm...probably not. I think that's just for the wine store."
"Oh, Daddy, look! The Eiffel tower!"
"Oh, over by the Bordeaux! You're right! And there's a French flag too."
"Yeah, we should get an Eiffel tower for our house too."
"But why not?"
"Because if you open up an umbrella in the car then I won't be able to see out the back window."
"But I NEED to open up my umbrella."
"You can, just not in the car."
"But what if it rains in the car?"
"Uh. Uh-uh! UNNHHHhhh!"
<Owen points furiously>
"What is it? What do you see?"
<points again>
"Oh...the toothbrushes. I'm sorry Owen, we can't brush teeth in the store. With the store's toothbrushes. We'll brush teeth once we're home."
<pushes the cart away>
"AIEEE!!!!"
"We'll brush your teeth as soon as we get home."
"AIEEE!!!!"
<stops cart>
"Owen, do you know where we are?"
"I know where we are."
<Owen looks, points straight at tub of cookies, opens mouth expectantly>
<takes James out of steering wheel cart>
"AIEEE! The wind blew my hood onto my head! Now I am too warm!!!"
"So do you think we should take a bath when we get home? With our new bath colors?"
"No."
"Even if we didn't use soap and it was just a fun bath?"
"Are you going to wash my peeenis?"
"No, I won't wash your penis."
"Are you sure? No peenises?"
"No penises."
<silence for a minute>
"You're SURE I don't need to wash my peenis?"
<unlocks James' door with Owen in one arm and lets James into the car>
"James, wait, no NO DON'T LOCK me...out."
<James looks through the window of the car and grins>
"Owen, how'd you get your shoe off again?"
"Dah."
"Hey Daddy, the groceries are blowing away!"
"Wait, AHH! That has Mommy's prescription in it!"
"Oh, no, Mommy's rescription! We need to get it!"
<both chase grocery bag blowing into dark backyard with Owen still half strapped into carseat>
"Daddy I need my flashlight!!!"
"Okay, I'm going to take Owen's diaper off in his room, yes I see that you want to brush your teeth, Owen...just don't"
<click>
"...lock the bathroom door on me."
"I'll put a color in as soon as I can get the lid off, it's just sealed really tight."
"You need to let me do it. You don't hold, I hold it."
"You need to remember your manners if you're going to put the color drop in."
"Hey, what's Owen doing."
"Uh!! Dah!"
<smiles up happily>
"...looks like he's peeing on the bathroom floor."
"OH NO! Owen, don't pull on your penis! You'll hurt yourself!"
<Owen laughs maniacally>
Monday, August 24, 2015
Monday, August 10, 2015
How to Paint Tile
forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit-Virgil
The true tests of marriage are setting up a tent together and painting a room together-Darryl Smith
It had been a great week.
I was home all day long, and we'd really done a great job of cleaning the house from top to bottom. Sure, there were a couple odds and ends that we hadn't managed to take care of--J had never gotten around to pulling out the bin of Owen's 9 to 12 months clothing, and I hadn't ever swept and mopped the floor in Owen's room--but on the whole, we were feeling pretty good about how the week went. We switched the library and the family room, we scrubbed the whole downstairs, we kept up with the dishes and the laundry, we ate healthy, we took long runs as a family, and we kept faithful to our goals for August--no meals out and no unnecessary shopping expenses. In short, we were feeling happy, healthy, and clean.
Saturday was going to be the day that I repainted the tile in the tub.
We knew from the day we moved in that the bathroom was going to need some work. I think, the next time we buy a house, we're going to make sure that the previous owner's take care of all the "little things" before we move in. The threshold to the bathroom is still in sad shape, and although I'd refinished and painted the bathtub a few weeks earlier, I wasn't sure how the tile would go. I went to Lowe's to ask for help picking out the right type of paint, and they sent me to Sherwin-Williams. At Sherwin-Williams I was handed a spray-on acrylic. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I used a brush in a kit to do the tub, and that worked really well." "It will be fine. Just make sure the surface is thoroughly prepped and cleaned, and give it three days to cure."
The three days to cure would be the hard part. We'd timed the tub refinishing with our departure for Csehy a few weeks earlier. I shut down the bathroom on the Saturday afternoon before, worked all day getting the tub cleaned and painted, and then no one was allowed to use the shower or bath until we returned from camp. The only sensible day to do the tile was Saturday, the day before we all left for Pennsylvania. Everyone took their last shower/bath that morning, and then as soon as J returned home from Melissa's bridal fitting, I went to work masking the tile upstairs. "I'll work as quickly as I can." I told her. "You know that I have to be at church early today, and that I have a wedding to play afterwards, right? Do you know what you'll do with the boys if they wake up?" "I think they'll get to watch some TV. We'll figure something out."
Let it be stated publicly that I did all my research for this project. I watched Youtube tutorials, carefully reread instructions multiple times, and looked up information on brush and spray techniques. The cleaning and preparation part all went according to plan, although admittedly taking longer than I'd hoped. "That's alright," I told myself "Once I start using the spray-paint I'll be at the easy part." I was a sweaty mess (so much for that last shower) sitting in a plastic-sheeted bathtub filled with old yellow paint flecks, bits of steel wool, and dirty sponges. But the tub was ready to go.
The result of the spray-paint was this: It smelled so vile that it woke both boys and J up from their naps, and it looked terrible. The paint sagged and dripped, the film hardly covered any of the discoloration, and I looked horror-struck at a painty mess that was clearly worse than the mess I had just started with.
J came upstairs and asked what that awful smell was. With my head spinning and my heart sinking, I told her that I was going to need to go to Lowe's again and figure out how to take care of the spray mess before it dried and cured on the tub. She reminded me that she needed to leave for church in a half an hour. We heard both boys making noise in their rooms. Still feeling woozy from the paint fumes, I asked her to set James up with a movie in our room and to put Owen in the pack and play. I would figure out what to do with them after I managed to get a coat of paint on.
While I drove to Lowe's and tried to clear my head with some fresh air, J changed both boys and brought them into our bedroom. We pride ourselves on limiting their screen diet, but sometimes this works against us. For example, in a bona fide emergency situation, when you need to leave for work in twenty minutes and both boys are insisting on being held and have only one very specific movie they want to watch (VeggieTales: The Toy that Saved Christmas) it isn't very easy to remember how to set up the unhooked and unplugged DVD player to the TV in your bedroom.
There were tears, and by the time J finally managed to get the DVD player turned on and properly displaying on the TV screen, Owen was wailing from the pack and play, I was back in the bathtub sanding and re-painting, and she was already fifteen minutes past when she wanted to leave for work. Stepping back in triumph from the working TV, she grabbed the VeggieTales DVD case and opened it up. Inside, of course, was the DVD to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
"I've gotta go," she yelled "and I think Owen just pooped in his diaper."
"Okay, I can break in a second." I yelled back. "Just go, and I'll look after them."
James: "Hey, George wants to watch VeggieTales. Where are the VeggieTales? George wants to watch the Toy the Saved Christmas!"
Owen: WAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I finished painting over the last potential disaster spot, and set down the brush long enough to go and attempt to sort out the boys, only stopping for a moment to grumble about how they should both be sleeping. I stepped out of the tub, and immediately left a big white painty footprint on the floor. I took off my shoes and made a note to also clean THAT up before it dried. Apparently I'd spilled some paint on the dropcloth.
Owen was in a sad state. He'd managed to untuck the sheet from the bottom of the pack and play and wrap it around both his hand and his head, which was pinned down by his flailing hand with his butt stuck up in the air. The poopy diaper wasn't even remotely contained. In fact, it was visibly dripping down his back and up to his shoulders as he struggled and flailed in the crib. Meanwhile, James kept blearily asking about watching a movie.
I picked up Owen and brought him into his room, trying not to touch him or let him drop onto the floor. As soon as I set him down he began oozing out onto the changing pad, and I peeled his onesie off and tossed it, with the changing pad, onto the floor, making a mental note to come back with a plastic bag before anybody stepped in them. The child was absolutely covered in...well, you know. "Owen," I said "you've just gotta go right into the tub."
I think I actually took a step towards the door before I remembered what was going on in the bathroom. Owen looked at me helplessly as I held him up by his armpits and tried to figure out where to set him down. I glanced back at the changing table, still covered in his explosion, and then he grinned at me and shook his head "no." (This is his newest trick.) He's very proud of it. I set him down naked on the floor just long enough to grab a handful of wipes. And in the second that I wasn't holding him, he immediately rolled onto his back, his stomach, and began to crawl away.
"AAHHH!! Why didn't I clean your floor!" Now he was not only covered in poop, but there was a poop streak on the floor and little bits of dirt and lint and dust bunnies were stuck all over his unbatheable body. I wet-wiped his wriggling body, wet-wiped the floor, and set a squirming naked boy (much happier now that he was out of that diaper) into his crib. Knowing he wasn't remotely sanitized but would need to be put back into some clothes, I struggled in vain to get some 6 to 9 month clothing over his enormous head and then put him back in the pack and play with the too-small snaps left unsnapped. James had continued asking for TV for that entire time, and was finally quiet when I unplugged the DVD player, plugged the Wii back in, and put on a George.
"Okay, George will watch himself."
J, meanwhile, had been routed by a traffic detour onto 490 E instead of 490 W and then spat out into Henrietta when she took the wrong exit onto 390 once she got turned around. She ended up being 45 minutes late to her rehearsal for church.
I finished up the first coat of paint (which looked much better than the spray job) just as James finished his George, and I texted J "I'm pulling the emergency parachute on a Wegmans pizza." With another coat to do in three (but no more than four) hours and being already exhausted, I gave up on the resolution about eating out to make sure I could get some sort of dinner on the table. I loaded the boys into the car and picked up some frozen pepperoni pizzas and a case of beer. They shared a steering wheel cart and Owen shouted in excitement most of the time we were in the store.
As soon as we got packed, Owen had another blowout up to his shoulders. I changed him again into another too-small onesie, then laid down on the floor with all the downstairs windows open while both boys crawled on me and James sang Sunday school songs. I was covered in paint chips, tub grime, and sweat. At some point the pizza was done, and I cut James' into tiny pieces. I gave Owen a bowl full of peas and corn with torn up ham and cheese, and he mostly spread them around his tray. J came into the house shortly after 6:30, and I unlatched Owen's tray so I could hand him to her. James got up and ran circles around the table, and promptly knocked down Owen's tray, spilling peas, corn, ham and cheese bits all over the freshly mopped and swept floor.
It was good, when I went back upstairs to work on the second coat, that I'd brought back some beer.
J had some too.
The true tests of marriage are setting up a tent together and painting a room together-Darryl Smith
It had been a great week.
I was home all day long, and we'd really done a great job of cleaning the house from top to bottom. Sure, there were a couple odds and ends that we hadn't managed to take care of--J had never gotten around to pulling out the bin of Owen's 9 to 12 months clothing, and I hadn't ever swept and mopped the floor in Owen's room--but on the whole, we were feeling pretty good about how the week went. We switched the library and the family room, we scrubbed the whole downstairs, we kept up with the dishes and the laundry, we ate healthy, we took long runs as a family, and we kept faithful to our goals for August--no meals out and no unnecessary shopping expenses. In short, we were feeling happy, healthy, and clean.
Saturday was going to be the day that I repainted the tile in the tub.
We knew from the day we moved in that the bathroom was going to need some work. I think, the next time we buy a house, we're going to make sure that the previous owner's take care of all the "little things" before we move in. The threshold to the bathroom is still in sad shape, and although I'd refinished and painted the bathtub a few weeks earlier, I wasn't sure how the tile would go. I went to Lowe's to ask for help picking out the right type of paint, and they sent me to Sherwin-Williams. At Sherwin-Williams I was handed a spray-on acrylic. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I used a brush in a kit to do the tub, and that worked really well." "It will be fine. Just make sure the surface is thoroughly prepped and cleaned, and give it three days to cure."
The three days to cure would be the hard part. We'd timed the tub refinishing with our departure for Csehy a few weeks earlier. I shut down the bathroom on the Saturday afternoon before, worked all day getting the tub cleaned and painted, and then no one was allowed to use the shower or bath until we returned from camp. The only sensible day to do the tile was Saturday, the day before we all left for Pennsylvania. Everyone took their last shower/bath that morning, and then as soon as J returned home from Melissa's bridal fitting, I went to work masking the tile upstairs. "I'll work as quickly as I can." I told her. "You know that I have to be at church early today, and that I have a wedding to play afterwards, right? Do you know what you'll do with the boys if they wake up?" "I think they'll get to watch some TV. We'll figure something out."
Let it be stated publicly that I did all my research for this project. I watched Youtube tutorials, carefully reread instructions multiple times, and looked up information on brush and spray techniques. The cleaning and preparation part all went according to plan, although admittedly taking longer than I'd hoped. "That's alright," I told myself "Once I start using the spray-paint I'll be at the easy part." I was a sweaty mess (so much for that last shower) sitting in a plastic-sheeted bathtub filled with old yellow paint flecks, bits of steel wool, and dirty sponges. But the tub was ready to go.
The result of the spray-paint was this: It smelled so vile that it woke both boys and J up from their naps, and it looked terrible. The paint sagged and dripped, the film hardly covered any of the discoloration, and I looked horror-struck at a painty mess that was clearly worse than the mess I had just started with.
J came upstairs and asked what that awful smell was. With my head spinning and my heart sinking, I told her that I was going to need to go to Lowe's again and figure out how to take care of the spray mess before it dried and cured on the tub. She reminded me that she needed to leave for church in a half an hour. We heard both boys making noise in their rooms. Still feeling woozy from the paint fumes, I asked her to set James up with a movie in our room and to put Owen in the pack and play. I would figure out what to do with them after I managed to get a coat of paint on.
While I drove to Lowe's and tried to clear my head with some fresh air, J changed both boys and brought them into our bedroom. We pride ourselves on limiting their screen diet, but sometimes this works against us. For example, in a bona fide emergency situation, when you need to leave for work in twenty minutes and both boys are insisting on being held and have only one very specific movie they want to watch (VeggieTales: The Toy that Saved Christmas) it isn't very easy to remember how to set up the unhooked and unplugged DVD player to the TV in your bedroom.
There were tears, and by the time J finally managed to get the DVD player turned on and properly displaying on the TV screen, Owen was wailing from the pack and play, I was back in the bathtub sanding and re-painting, and she was already fifteen minutes past when she wanted to leave for work. Stepping back in triumph from the working TV, she grabbed the VeggieTales DVD case and opened it up. Inside, of course, was the DVD to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
"I've gotta go," she yelled "and I think Owen just pooped in his diaper."
"Okay, I can break in a second." I yelled back. "Just go, and I'll look after them."
James: "Hey, George wants to watch VeggieTales. Where are the VeggieTales? George wants to watch the Toy the Saved Christmas!"
Owen: WAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I finished painting over the last potential disaster spot, and set down the brush long enough to go and attempt to sort out the boys, only stopping for a moment to grumble about how they should both be sleeping. I stepped out of the tub, and immediately left a big white painty footprint on the floor. I took off my shoes and made a note to also clean THAT up before it dried. Apparently I'd spilled some paint on the dropcloth.
Owen was in a sad state. He'd managed to untuck the sheet from the bottom of the pack and play and wrap it around both his hand and his head, which was pinned down by his flailing hand with his butt stuck up in the air. The poopy diaper wasn't even remotely contained. In fact, it was visibly dripping down his back and up to his shoulders as he struggled and flailed in the crib. Meanwhile, James kept blearily asking about watching a movie.
I picked up Owen and brought him into his room, trying not to touch him or let him drop onto the floor. As soon as I set him down he began oozing out onto the changing pad, and I peeled his onesie off and tossed it, with the changing pad, onto the floor, making a mental note to come back with a plastic bag before anybody stepped in them. The child was absolutely covered in...well, you know. "Owen," I said "you've just gotta go right into the tub."
I think I actually took a step towards the door before I remembered what was going on in the bathroom. Owen looked at me helplessly as I held him up by his armpits and tried to figure out where to set him down. I glanced back at the changing table, still covered in his explosion, and then he grinned at me and shook his head "no." (This is his newest trick.) He's very proud of it. I set him down naked on the floor just long enough to grab a handful of wipes. And in the second that I wasn't holding him, he immediately rolled onto his back, his stomach, and began to crawl away.
"AAHHH!! Why didn't I clean your floor!" Now he was not only covered in poop, but there was a poop streak on the floor and little bits of dirt and lint and dust bunnies were stuck all over his unbatheable body. I wet-wiped his wriggling body, wet-wiped the floor, and set a squirming naked boy (much happier now that he was out of that diaper) into his crib. Knowing he wasn't remotely sanitized but would need to be put back into some clothes, I struggled in vain to get some 6 to 9 month clothing over his enormous head and then put him back in the pack and play with the too-small snaps left unsnapped. James had continued asking for TV for that entire time, and was finally quiet when I unplugged the DVD player, plugged the Wii back in, and put on a George.
"Okay, George will watch himself."
J, meanwhile, had been routed by a traffic detour onto 490 E instead of 490 W and then spat out into Henrietta when she took the wrong exit onto 390 once she got turned around. She ended up being 45 minutes late to her rehearsal for church.
I finished up the first coat of paint (which looked much better than the spray job) just as James finished his George, and I texted J "I'm pulling the emergency parachute on a Wegmans pizza." With another coat to do in three (but no more than four) hours and being already exhausted, I gave up on the resolution about eating out to make sure I could get some sort of dinner on the table. I loaded the boys into the car and picked up some frozen pepperoni pizzas and a case of beer. They shared a steering wheel cart and Owen shouted in excitement most of the time we were in the store.
As soon as we got packed, Owen had another blowout up to his shoulders. I changed him again into another too-small onesie, then laid down on the floor with all the downstairs windows open while both boys crawled on me and James sang Sunday school songs. I was covered in paint chips, tub grime, and sweat. At some point the pizza was done, and I cut James' into tiny pieces. I gave Owen a bowl full of peas and corn with torn up ham and cheese, and he mostly spread them around his tray. J came into the house shortly after 6:30, and I unlatched Owen's tray so I could hand him to her. James got up and ran circles around the table, and promptly knocked down Owen's tray, spilling peas, corn, ham and cheese bits all over the freshly mopped and swept floor.
It was good, when I went back upstairs to work on the second coat, that I'd brought back some beer.
J had some too.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
James' Day
I used to be the cute one,
Little and round and sweet.
Now it's my blonde-haired brother
Smiling and kicking bare feet.
I used to be the cute one,
Who girls would kiss and coo
Now I'm covered in scratches and mud
(The creek will do that to you)
I used to be the baby
Patted and coddled when crying
Now I get a stern look and rebuke
When I make a sound like I'm dying
I used to be the baby
And helping was volunteer stuff
Now I've chores to keep up with
And I can't seem to do quite enough
I used to stay out of trouble
'Cause trouble was out of my reach
But when I said "Daddy, what's this"
And suddenly there sounded a screech,
I stood staring shocked and I knew
by the look on his face I did do
Something awful which soon I would rue
Although the red gadget was new
And in four white letters P-U-L-L was written...
...well, "WE DON'T PULL FIRE ALARMS"
I used to be the cute one,
But now I'm headed to jail
Like George, who fooled the Fire Department
Maybe I'll get a cell with my pal.
I used to be the cute one,
So Owen, I'll spare you some harm:
Don't ever grow up
Don't learn how to talk
And don't pull the Fire Alarm.
Little and round and sweet.
Now it's my blonde-haired brother
Smiling and kicking bare feet.
I used to be the cute one,
Who girls would kiss and coo
Now I'm covered in scratches and mud
(The creek will do that to you)
I used to be the baby
Patted and coddled when crying
Now I get a stern look and rebuke
When I make a sound like I'm dying
I used to be the baby
And helping was volunteer stuff
Now I've chores to keep up with
And I can't seem to do quite enough
I used to stay out of trouble
'Cause trouble was out of my reach
But when I said "Daddy, what's this"
And suddenly there sounded a screech,
I stood staring shocked and I knew
by the look on his face I did do
Something awful which soon I would rue
Although the red gadget was new
And in four white letters P-U-L-L was written...
...well, "WE DON'T PULL FIRE ALARMS"
I used to be the cute one,
But now I'm headed to jail
Like George, who fooled the Fire Department
Maybe I'll get a cell with my pal.
I used to be the cute one,
So Owen, I'll spare you some harm:
Don't ever grow up
Don't learn how to talk
And don't pull the Fire Alarm.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Boys at Camp
Owen has become a grabber.
This afternoon when I brought him out from his nap I had set up shop on the kitchen counter in front of a big box fan overlooking the back field behind the flats. I brought him over to where I'd stacked my books and papers, hoping to finish the last few lines I had in my chapter before I changed him and got down to play.
He immediately started grabbing for the book. I held the book further away, but this made it hard to hold him and the book, so I leaned up against the counter. He grabbed the wireless mouse to the computer and threw it down on the ground. One of the plastic covers broke off and skidded across the floor. As I reached down to grab the mouse, he grabbed a pen on the counter, and through that on the floor. So I reached down to grab the pen after I'd put the mouse back up on the counter, and on the way down he grabbed the power cord to the laptop and tried to put it in his mouth. I took the power cord away, and went to retrieve the missing plastic piece to the mouse. He knocked down two of James' hot wheels cars as I was leaning past that section of counter, and I shifted him into my other hand. When I stood up again he was holding one set of index cards in one hand and he had my phone in his mouth with the other.
There's lots to explore as an eight-month old.
Especially now that we're at camp!
We're here (mostly) for the next two weeks and my only responsibilities (mostly) are to watch the boys and practice, so that should be favorable news to those of you who like reading blogs. Our apartment (or, capartment, as James calls it) is sweltering hot, as usual, but the people are lovely and the campus is beautiful.
So far James has taken the task of teaching Owen about camp life very seriously. "Owen, this is a big rock. And it used to be purple, but now it is sparkly. And Owen, these are swings. You've never seen swings before, but I'm gonna swing on the swings with George and then we're gonna go frow rocks in the water."
There's ice cream available at every meal, and that's a nice little bargaining chip. More importantly, we don't have to do the cleanup or the preparation for any of the meals.
Today we puttered around the flats in the morning, then took a long walk over to the stream for rock-throwing. James found a huge spider under one of the rocks he picked up, and he's been very careful to examine each rock thoroughly before picking it up and throwing it ever since. Owen sat in the stroller for most of the morning and only occasionally lurched forward in an attempt to break his bonds.
Since we don't want to attempt sleeping the boys together, J and I have set up our mattresses in the middle of our big "living room." This makes for a big bounce pad, and James and Owen spent most of the hour before their naps laughing at each other jumping and falling off the mattresses.
One of these nights we'll let them stay up for singtime, but tonight they were both tuckered out from lots of exploring and in need of baths.
And it isn't even too hot here in the flats, as I sit beside a big stack of books and scratch off bits of reading I was hoping to do. Plus, it's a lot easier now that Owen isn't trying to eat my book.
This afternoon when I brought him out from his nap I had set up shop on the kitchen counter in front of a big box fan overlooking the back field behind the flats. I brought him over to where I'd stacked my books and papers, hoping to finish the last few lines I had in my chapter before I changed him and got down to play.
He immediately started grabbing for the book. I held the book further away, but this made it hard to hold him and the book, so I leaned up against the counter. He grabbed the wireless mouse to the computer and threw it down on the ground. One of the plastic covers broke off and skidded across the floor. As I reached down to grab the mouse, he grabbed a pen on the counter, and through that on the floor. So I reached down to grab the pen after I'd put the mouse back up on the counter, and on the way down he grabbed the power cord to the laptop and tried to put it in his mouth. I took the power cord away, and went to retrieve the missing plastic piece to the mouse. He knocked down two of James' hot wheels cars as I was leaning past that section of counter, and I shifted him into my other hand. When I stood up again he was holding one set of index cards in one hand and he had my phone in his mouth with the other.
There's lots to explore as an eight-month old.
Especially now that we're at camp!
We're here (mostly) for the next two weeks and my only responsibilities (mostly) are to watch the boys and practice, so that should be favorable news to those of you who like reading blogs. Our apartment (or, capartment, as James calls it) is sweltering hot, as usual, but the people are lovely and the campus is beautiful.
So far James has taken the task of teaching Owen about camp life very seriously. "Owen, this is a big rock. And it used to be purple, but now it is sparkly. And Owen, these are swings. You've never seen swings before, but I'm gonna swing on the swings with George and then we're gonna go frow rocks in the water."
There's ice cream available at every meal, and that's a nice little bargaining chip. More importantly, we don't have to do the cleanup or the preparation for any of the meals.
Today we puttered around the flats in the morning, then took a long walk over to the stream for rock-throwing. James found a huge spider under one of the rocks he picked up, and he's been very careful to examine each rock thoroughly before picking it up and throwing it ever since. Owen sat in the stroller for most of the morning and only occasionally lurched forward in an attempt to break his bonds.
Since we don't want to attempt sleeping the boys together, J and I have set up our mattresses in the middle of our big "living room." This makes for a big bounce pad, and James and Owen spent most of the hour before their naps laughing at each other jumping and falling off the mattresses.
One of these nights we'll let them stay up for singtime, but tonight they were both tuckered out from lots of exploring and in need of baths.
And it isn't even too hot here in the flats, as I sit beside a big stack of books and scratch off bits of reading I was hoping to do. Plus, it's a lot easier now that Owen isn't trying to eat my book.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Sleep-Deprived
Our boys are usually pretty good to us, sleep-wise. James was sleeping through the night practically from the night he was born. (Okay, not really) Owen has been a pretty consistent once-a-nighter, with an occasional all-night for a few months now. (And yes, I don't get up with him, so I don't really have grounds for thinking this is a good or a bad thing.)
Last night he blew it all up. He was up at 11, he was up at 1 in the morning, he was up again at 3 (I rocked him back to sleep that time) and then he was up at 5, at which point he just came to our bed and slept with us. I was supposed to get up at 5:30 for reading and exercise, and that didn't happen. When Owen popped awake with an eager smile at 6:30, I offered to take him off of J's hands so she could catch up on some more rest.
"Okay," I whispered to him as I made my coffee "you can get up impossibly early with Daddy if you want to, but you're going to do Daddy things. We're going to read quietly and sip coffee, and we're going to do it for a long, boring time. Got it?"
He smiled and tried to eat my bathrobe. The first part of the morning went okay. He gnawed on my highlighter (I think he likes the color yellow) while I read, and then got progressively whinier as I tried to continue reading. Some paternalistic instinct eventually reminded me to change his diaper, and when I took him upstairs I heard that James was also up an hour earlier than usual today.
When I brought Owen into James' room his feet began to kick and his whole body bucked with excitement. "Hey Owen, you're awake!!" shouted James at the top of his lungs. Owen was equally excited and wrapped his arms around James' neck when I held him up. And then they started yelling at each other.
"Boys, shhh, Mommy's trying to sleep!"
"Owen is yelling!!! AHHHHH!!!"
"AHHHHHH!!!!"
"I know, but Mommy is trying to sleep, let's yell with inside voices, okay?"
"OWEN, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE!"
"AHHHH!!!!!!"
And so we went screaming down the stairs (J later told me she heard none of this) only to turn around a minute later because James needed to put on his rain boots before we went to the breakfast table. He absolutely refused to wear his rain boots for the first year he owned them, and just last weekend he finally took me up on my longstanding offer to let him splash in puddles if he wore the rain boots. He had a grand time and got his soaks socked despite the boots, and has wanted to wear them all the time since. Except, of course, when he's going to the potty, so I had to take them off again as soon we got downstairs "for good" and then put them back on again.
At that point James remembered that he had left something upstairs. I didn't pick up on exactly what he needed to get, so he went clomping up the stairs in his rainboots shouting back to Owen about how "I'LL BE RIGHT BACK AFTER I GET MY BUZZ-SAW LOUIE CAR THAT RACES WITH LIGHTNING MCQUEEN BUT DON'T BE TOO NOISY CAUSE MOMMY IS STILL SLEEPING!"
"AHHHH!!!!"
(J didn't remember this either.)
Owen looked around with a disappointed sort of expression until James came back. Apparently chewing on a highlighter while I read my books is not very interesting compared to James.
Once James came back and got out all of Owen's toys, he decided he wanted breakfast. I poured out some cheerios for Owen, and then set James up with his bowl of cereal. I even gave him some strawberries. I worked on cleaning up the last of the dishes until I heard James declaring "you DO like strawberries, Owen!"
When J came down they were both sitting in the living room hitting each other with sticks and laughing uproariously.
But she said it was her alarm that woke her up.
Last night he blew it all up. He was up at 11, he was up at 1 in the morning, he was up again at 3 (I rocked him back to sleep that time) and then he was up at 5, at which point he just came to our bed and slept with us. I was supposed to get up at 5:30 for reading and exercise, and that didn't happen. When Owen popped awake with an eager smile at 6:30, I offered to take him off of J's hands so she could catch up on some more rest.
"Okay," I whispered to him as I made my coffee "you can get up impossibly early with Daddy if you want to, but you're going to do Daddy things. We're going to read quietly and sip coffee, and we're going to do it for a long, boring time. Got it?"
He smiled and tried to eat my bathrobe. The first part of the morning went okay. He gnawed on my highlighter (I think he likes the color yellow) while I read, and then got progressively whinier as I tried to continue reading. Some paternalistic instinct eventually reminded me to change his diaper, and when I took him upstairs I heard that James was also up an hour earlier than usual today.
When I brought Owen into James' room his feet began to kick and his whole body bucked with excitement. "Hey Owen, you're awake!!" shouted James at the top of his lungs. Owen was equally excited and wrapped his arms around James' neck when I held him up. And then they started yelling at each other.
"Boys, shhh, Mommy's trying to sleep!"
"Owen is yelling!!! AHHHHH!!!"
"AHHHHHH!!!!"
"I know, but Mommy is trying to sleep, let's yell with inside voices, okay?"
"OWEN, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE!"
"AHHHH!!!!!!"
And so we went screaming down the stairs (J later told me she heard none of this) only to turn around a minute later because James needed to put on his rain boots before we went to the breakfast table. He absolutely refused to wear his rain boots for the first year he owned them, and just last weekend he finally took me up on my longstanding offer to let him splash in puddles if he wore the rain boots. He had a grand time and got his soaks socked despite the boots, and has wanted to wear them all the time since. Except, of course, when he's going to the potty, so I had to take them off again as soon we got downstairs "for good" and then put them back on again.
At that point James remembered that he had left something upstairs. I didn't pick up on exactly what he needed to get, so he went clomping up the stairs in his rainboots shouting back to Owen about how "I'LL BE RIGHT BACK AFTER I GET MY BUZZ-SAW LOUIE CAR THAT RACES WITH LIGHTNING MCQUEEN BUT DON'T BE TOO NOISY CAUSE MOMMY IS STILL SLEEPING!"
"AHHHH!!!!"
(J didn't remember this either.)
Owen looked around with a disappointed sort of expression until James came back. Apparently chewing on a highlighter while I read my books is not very interesting compared to James.
Once James came back and got out all of Owen's toys, he decided he wanted breakfast. I poured out some cheerios for Owen, and then set James up with his bowl of cereal. I even gave him some strawberries. I worked on cleaning up the last of the dishes until I heard James declaring "you DO like strawberries, Owen!"
When J came down they were both sitting in the living room hitting each other with sticks and laughing uproariously.
But she said it was her alarm that woke her up.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Messy Boys
We decided to cook over the fire pit tonight. Food tastes better outdoors, especially when you're eating hot dogs. J had picked up some good brats from Wegmans, and we ate them alongside a fresh fruit salad and some zuchinni, squash, onions, and mushrooms roasted up in basting oil over the fire as well. Finish that off with a s'more, and you can imagine what both of the boys looked like.
James' face was completely covered from cheek to cheek in marshmallow goop, bits of graham cracker, blueberry stains, and ketchup. At one point he had dropped the hot dog out of his bun and into his lap, so he had big globs of ketchup sticking to his shirt and his shorts as well. All the mess on his face didn't bother him a bit, but he's rather particular about keeping his hands clean. Any time he sensed he was getting some marshmallow or ketchup on his hands, he'd get up and rinse them off in the five gallon bucket under the leaky spigot, tracking through a mud puddle in the process. But at least he had clean hands.
Owen, on the other hand, had been continually dribbling peach juice down his front for the entire time we were outside. At various points he made a grab for my hot dog and my blueberries, achieving some success each time. He dived into the grass and managed to get some of that in his mouth whenever anyone wasn't looking, and he finished off the evening by eating oatmeal cereal in his high chair which he spread all over his face and hands.
It was bath time.
I stripped James off of everything but his socks and underwear, and tried to help J get Owen cleaned up enough to carry up to the tub. James reappeared a moment later, declaring that he had the hockey puck in his pocket.
The bath was run, Owen was put in, and then James climbed in after him. Almost immediately, he declared that he was going to pee in the tub.
"Don't pee in the tub James."
"But I need to pee in the tub."
"Can you wait until you're out of the bath?"
"No, I need to pee now."
I lifted him up, dripping everywhere, out of the bath, and set him on the toilet seat just as J cautioned me that he was probably slippery. Sure enough, he fell into the toilet with two little legs sticking up out of the bowl. He was retrieved, did his business, and then deposited back in the tub.
The actual bath part went smoothly. Owen laughed at everything James did, and James found the one remaining bath letter (the letter B) and held it in his mouth for the entire length of the bath. ("I'm just biting the letter B.") J asked him if he could think of any words that started with the letter B, and after thinking it over he decided that the letter M was a word that started with the letter B. We played the Imperial March, per his request, as he got out, and here he is looking like a Sith Lord. You can't see it, but the B is still in his mouth.
Afterwards we dressed them both in basketball shirts. We tried to get a photo of both of them smiling at the camera, and....well...this is what happened...
James' face was completely covered from cheek to cheek in marshmallow goop, bits of graham cracker, blueberry stains, and ketchup. At one point he had dropped the hot dog out of his bun and into his lap, so he had big globs of ketchup sticking to his shirt and his shorts as well. All the mess on his face didn't bother him a bit, but he's rather particular about keeping his hands clean. Any time he sensed he was getting some marshmallow or ketchup on his hands, he'd get up and rinse them off in the five gallon bucket under the leaky spigot, tracking through a mud puddle in the process. But at least he had clean hands.
Owen, on the other hand, had been continually dribbling peach juice down his front for the entire time we were outside. At various points he made a grab for my hot dog and my blueberries, achieving some success each time. He dived into the grass and managed to get some of that in his mouth whenever anyone wasn't looking, and he finished off the evening by eating oatmeal cereal in his high chair which he spread all over his face and hands.
It was bath time.
I stripped James off of everything but his socks and underwear, and tried to help J get Owen cleaned up enough to carry up to the tub. James reappeared a moment later, declaring that he had the hockey puck in his pocket.
The bath was run, Owen was put in, and then James climbed in after him. Almost immediately, he declared that he was going to pee in the tub.
"Don't pee in the tub James."
"But I need to pee in the tub."
"Can you wait until you're out of the bath?"
"No, I need to pee now."
I lifted him up, dripping everywhere, out of the bath, and set him on the toilet seat just as J cautioned me that he was probably slippery. Sure enough, he fell into the toilet with two little legs sticking up out of the bowl. He was retrieved, did his business, and then deposited back in the tub.
The actual bath part went smoothly. Owen laughed at everything James did, and James found the one remaining bath letter (the letter B) and held it in his mouth for the entire length of the bath. ("I'm just biting the letter B.") J asked him if he could think of any words that started with the letter B, and after thinking it over he decided that the letter M was a word that started with the letter B. We played the Imperial March, per his request, as he got out, and here he is looking like a Sith Lord. You can't see it, but the B is still in his mouth.
Afterwards we dressed them both in basketball shirts. We tried to get a photo of both of them smiling at the camera, and....well...this is what happened...
Saturday, June 20, 2015
in tempore illo
How do you convince a three year old to listen attentively to 18th century lute music? Why, the answer is quite simple. Just tell him that the composer is none other than the obscure Italian musician, Giovanni Zamboni. (He is a real person)
Also, for those of you who have interest in watching videos of the boys, the most recent purging of photos data (we're both running out of space on our phones) led to a bunch of new uploads on the youtube page. Here's the link, if you don't have it:
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChtZIIZmDIgdzKo3LG9CoxQ/videos
Also, for those of you who have interest in watching videos of the boys, the most recent purging of photos data (we're both running out of space on our phones) led to a bunch of new uploads on the youtube page. Here's the link, if you don't have it:
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UChtZIIZmDIgdzKo3LG9CoxQ/videos
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Camping Out
It's going to rain tonight. I could have told you that even without looking at the forecast, because James and I are going to camp out in the backyard. But I looked at the forecast too, and my weather app says it's going to rain. J says camping out isn't a great idea.
Actually, my weather app says there's a 40% chance of rain. I'm willing to take that bet, so we're going to set up the tent once we get back tonight. If Pax were coming over, then the rain would be a sure thing. I saw Abby today briefly and she was in the throes of cutting teeth, so he might actually prefer sleeping out in the rain with James and me to getting up with a fevery one year old all night.
I'm sure George and Steven will be coming, and I told James that we were each going to bring an enormous stack of books out to the tent. I told him that we'd set up the lantern, and then we would stay up late reading together. I'm hoping that this means he'll read his books and I'll read mine, but I'd guess that there's a greater than 40% chance that he's interpreting that promise to mean, "Daddy will read my books out loud to me while George and Steven sit on his pile of books."
I've felt sort of trapped indoors for the past few days, because our neighbors moved out and the owner of the house has been gutting the place ever since. They've hauled away countless loads of scrap, two dumpsters worth of trash, and a dump truck worth of brush and bushes. It's nearly been enough to persuade me never to attempt landlording.
It will be good for James and I to spend the night out in the tent. I think he's a little less happy, overall, when I'm home for extended periods of time. I don't exactly know why, but there's something about having both parents in the house that bothers him.
It doesn't bother Owen at all. Owen laughs uproariously whenever anyone looks at him, so two adults means twice the fun. He's working on some teeth as well, but mostly he's just being sweet and trying to outgrow the perfect age. (The perfect age is when the baby is big enough to sit up safely on their own, but not big enough to crawl away and get into trouble.)
J is also doing well, aside from experiencing foreboding that her husband and three-year old are going to come trudging into the house cold and soaked at one in the morning. (Really, there's only a 40% chance of this.) She just bought some new summery clothes, so every time she comes around a corner she lights up the room in a new, completely unfaded, summery color. We're in the middle of a heated battle about taking her passport photo, and it's hard to stay angry at her when she looks so nice. I've had our passport applications completed for over two weeks, and all that remains to do is to take a photo of her according to the government guidelines (here, if you were curious) and to print out a 2X2. I put "photoshoot" on my to-do list two weeks ago, and she declined every time I offered to take her picture with my super-expensive, high-priced iPhone camera. Then I planned a whole evening around the theme of a photoshoot, which she brushed off. Then I started downright nagging her. Recently we've started giving James some daily chores in the form of post it notes on a chart that reads "James' Jobs." Today one of James' Jobs was to bug Mommy about getting her photo taken. She still got off to work before I was able to snap her picture. I'll get it eventually though. Well, maybe.
I'd say I have at least a 40% chance.
Actually, my weather app says there's a 40% chance of rain. I'm willing to take that bet, so we're going to set up the tent once we get back tonight. If Pax were coming over, then the rain would be a sure thing. I saw Abby today briefly and she was in the throes of cutting teeth, so he might actually prefer sleeping out in the rain with James and me to getting up with a fevery one year old all night.
I'm sure George and Steven will be coming, and I told James that we were each going to bring an enormous stack of books out to the tent. I told him that we'd set up the lantern, and then we would stay up late reading together. I'm hoping that this means he'll read his books and I'll read mine, but I'd guess that there's a greater than 40% chance that he's interpreting that promise to mean, "Daddy will read my books out loud to me while George and Steven sit on his pile of books."
I've felt sort of trapped indoors for the past few days, because our neighbors moved out and the owner of the house has been gutting the place ever since. They've hauled away countless loads of scrap, two dumpsters worth of trash, and a dump truck worth of brush and bushes. It's nearly been enough to persuade me never to attempt landlording.
It will be good for James and I to spend the night out in the tent. I think he's a little less happy, overall, when I'm home for extended periods of time. I don't exactly know why, but there's something about having both parents in the house that bothers him.
It doesn't bother Owen at all. Owen laughs uproariously whenever anyone looks at him, so two adults means twice the fun. He's working on some teeth as well, but mostly he's just being sweet and trying to outgrow the perfect age. (The perfect age is when the baby is big enough to sit up safely on their own, but not big enough to crawl away and get into trouble.)
J is also doing well, aside from experiencing foreboding that her husband and three-year old are going to come trudging into the house cold and soaked at one in the morning. (Really, there's only a 40% chance of this.) She just bought some new summery clothes, so every time she comes around a corner she lights up the room in a new, completely unfaded, summery color. We're in the middle of a heated battle about taking her passport photo, and it's hard to stay angry at her when she looks so nice. I've had our passport applications completed for over two weeks, and all that remains to do is to take a photo of her according to the government guidelines (here, if you were curious) and to print out a 2X2. I put "photoshoot" on my to-do list two weeks ago, and she declined every time I offered to take her picture with my super-expensive, high-priced iPhone camera. Then I planned a whole evening around the theme of a photoshoot, which she brushed off. Then I started downright nagging her. Recently we've started giving James some daily chores in the form of post it notes on a chart that reads "James' Jobs." Today one of James' Jobs was to bug Mommy about getting her photo taken. She still got off to work before I was able to snap her picture. I'll get it eventually though. Well, maybe.
I'd say I have at least a 40% chance.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Ice Cream
Is there anything better than an ice cream cone from the local stand at the end of a hot summer day?
There isn't, which is why we decided to get an ice cream cone from the local stand at the end of a cold summer day.
I had a meeting at church last night. Google maps is awfully helpful around rush hour, and I knew that I shouldn't attempt to take the highway through the city. Instead, I thought I would "save time" by going around the city on the outer loop. Long story short, now James asks J "did Daddy go the right way this time?" every time we make a turn at a stoplight. Google maps is awfully helpful.
The meeting was fine. I found J and the boys watching the church softball game out behind the parking lot. James was paying close attention and asking important questions like "Why is home plate dirty?" and "Is home plate facing the right way?" and "Is home plate white or black?" Owen was smiling at any old lady who walked by him and trying to bend backwards out of the carrier to make faces at them.
I asked J whether she'd told James. She said she hadn't.
"We need to get back in the car now."
"I wanna watch the baseball game."
"It's time to go."
"Why it's time to go?"
"We have a surprise."
"Oh! What's the surprise?"
"We can't tell you. Otherwise it won't be a surprise."
James thought for a minute.
"Hey Daddy, can you tell me?"
This kept up as we pulled out of the parking lot. We'd been to Lugia's the previous week after a picnic with O&K. James had ordered dark chocolate ice cream and a cone and had eaten with all the intense seriousness of a little boy who is blind to everything in the world except his ice cream cone, including the fact that his ice cream cone is dripping enormous black streaks down the front of his shirt. He finished last of course, and would hardly say a word to anybody until he had finished the final bites of the cone, clearly uncomfortably full and covered from head to foot in the sticky black goo. We'd stripped him out of his shirt, napkined him off as best we could, and he immediately fell asleep when we were driving back.
Last night he kept on asking what the surprise was. Finally he spotted the cow on top of the Lugia's building.
"Hey, is this the ice cream place?"
"It sure is."
"Are we going to get some ice cream?"
"We are! That's the surprise!"
He suddenly took on a serious and thoughtful expression.
"Oh...I hope I don't spill ice cream all over my SHIRT again."
He then turned to his baby brother in the backseat.
"Hey Owen, we're at the ice cream place? Do you remember? George remembers!"
(George wasn't in the car, and he hadn't been in the car for the previous week's visit either. But it's important that George remembers all the things that James likes to remember.)
The lines were short, since it was so cold. I tried a cherry pie ice cream, J ordered cake batter, and James got another type of dark chocolate, this time with raspberry dark chocolate pieces mixed in. We shivered on the bench as we ate, and J and I finished long before him again. He asked to eat the rest of his in the car, which we vetoed. We decided to walk to a sunnier spot to keep warm, and J held his ice cream as we made our way. She tried a bite, and then she gave me a bite, and then she took another. We both agreed that his ice cream was better than either of ours.
"Hey, what happened to all my ice cream?"
It turns out that a three year old DOES notice when three bites of his ice cream go missing.
"Umm...Mommy had a bite."
"But...where it go?"
"I ate it James...I'm sorry."
"But what happened to my ice cream?"
To his credit, he didn't cry or whine. He ate the rest of the ice cream and even said thank (when prompted) for the treat out. But I think we may owe him another trip to the ice cream stand.
Oh, darn.
There isn't, which is why we decided to get an ice cream cone from the local stand at the end of a cold summer day.
I had a meeting at church last night. Google maps is awfully helpful around rush hour, and I knew that I shouldn't attempt to take the highway through the city. Instead, I thought I would "save time" by going around the city on the outer loop. Long story short, now James asks J "did Daddy go the right way this time?" every time we make a turn at a stoplight. Google maps is awfully helpful.
The meeting was fine. I found J and the boys watching the church softball game out behind the parking lot. James was paying close attention and asking important questions like "Why is home plate dirty?" and "Is home plate facing the right way?" and "Is home plate white or black?" Owen was smiling at any old lady who walked by him and trying to bend backwards out of the carrier to make faces at them.
I asked J whether she'd told James. She said she hadn't.
"We need to get back in the car now."
"I wanna watch the baseball game."
"It's time to go."
"Why it's time to go?"
"We have a surprise."
"Oh! What's the surprise?"
"We can't tell you. Otherwise it won't be a surprise."
James thought for a minute.
"Hey Daddy, can you tell me?"
This kept up as we pulled out of the parking lot. We'd been to Lugia's the previous week after a picnic with O&K. James had ordered dark chocolate ice cream and a cone and had eaten with all the intense seriousness of a little boy who is blind to everything in the world except his ice cream cone, including the fact that his ice cream cone is dripping enormous black streaks down the front of his shirt. He finished last of course, and would hardly say a word to anybody until he had finished the final bites of the cone, clearly uncomfortably full and covered from head to foot in the sticky black goo. We'd stripped him out of his shirt, napkined him off as best we could, and he immediately fell asleep when we were driving back.
Last night he kept on asking what the surprise was. Finally he spotted the cow on top of the Lugia's building.
"Hey, is this the ice cream place?"
"It sure is."
"Are we going to get some ice cream?"
"We are! That's the surprise!"
He suddenly took on a serious and thoughtful expression.
"Oh...I hope I don't spill ice cream all over my SHIRT again."
He then turned to his baby brother in the backseat.
"Hey Owen, we're at the ice cream place? Do you remember? George remembers!"
(George wasn't in the car, and he hadn't been in the car for the previous week's visit either. But it's important that George remembers all the things that James likes to remember.)
The lines were short, since it was so cold. I tried a cherry pie ice cream, J ordered cake batter, and James got another type of dark chocolate, this time with raspberry dark chocolate pieces mixed in. We shivered on the bench as we ate, and J and I finished long before him again. He asked to eat the rest of his in the car, which we vetoed. We decided to walk to a sunnier spot to keep warm, and J held his ice cream as we made our way. She tried a bite, and then she gave me a bite, and then she took another. We both agreed that his ice cream was better than either of ours.
"Hey, what happened to all my ice cream?"
It turns out that a three year old DOES notice when three bites of his ice cream go missing.
"Umm...Mommy had a bite."
"But...where it go?"
"I ate it James...I'm sorry."
"But what happened to my ice cream?"
To his credit, he didn't cry or whine. He ate the rest of the ice cream and even said thank (when prompted) for the treat out. But I think we may owe him another trip to the ice cream stand.
Oh, darn.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Teeth and Pencils
I've decided to start flossing more. I even put a reminder in my phone for 10 PM, in case I happen to forget when I'm brushing my teeth for bed. I'm realizing that I only have one set of teeth, and as someone who will be turning thirty very shortly I perhaps ought to do a slightly better job taking care of them. I even thought about buying some antiseptic mouthwash the other day when I was checking out at Wegmans. I looked at it and thought, "Who do I know that uses mouthwash? I don't think anyone in my family keeps it in their bathrooms, and I'm pretty sure J's family doesn't use it either...hmm. What are the benefits?" And then I felt old, and decided that I should definitely start flossing more regularly.
I was scolded pretty severely the last time I went in for a dental cleaning. (And they wonder why I don't come in more often.) The hygienist (who spoke in a discomfortingly thick Russian accent) also made snide remarks about how badly I needed orthodontic work, and I pleaded "professional trumpet player" to quiet her. She made me promise to floss more regularly, and I made a concerted effort for about a month, two houses ago. Then I was back on the maybe-once-a-month schedule for two years, until last Saturday. As of Saturday, I've been flossing every day, except for last night, because I was already really comfortable in bed and it was kind of cold out when the alarm went off in my phone and reminded me.
I scheduled James' first ever trip to the dentist for next week, and he sounded genuinely excited when I told him where he was going. (This will be the only time we ever get that reaction.) On the upside, though, he might get a cool prize. I remember getting a certain type of mechanical pencil that I'm not even quite sure how to describe out of the dentist's prize box. It came pre-loaded with individual leaded tops that you screwed in from the top (or bottom) end of the pencil, which you used to write. Then you would use the pencil until the lead ran out, unscrew the used-up tip, and screw a new one in.
Mechanical pencils were a great source of moral trial to me as a young child. I never was tempted to steal anything so badly as a nice-looking mechanical pencil. They were infinitely more satisfying to write with than the standard yellow number two pencils that required constant resharpening and tended to smudge all over the papers. I don't know if anyone else thought of them this way, but I regarded them as a status symbol of wealth and advantage as well. I treasured a mechanical pencil whenever I managed to acquire one, and if I thought I had an opportunity to pick one up off a desk or in the hallway that wouldn't be missed it was always an enormous struggle of will to leave it where it lay and be content with the smudgy yellow pencil in my pocket.
Nowadays I am morally. When my trumpet students come and forget their mechanical pencils on my stand, I don't even think about tossing them in my case and requisitioning them for myself. The same goes for pencils found at rehearsal, at church, and at school. I've ceased to respect them as private property and will stop at nothing to acquire them for my own gain. Part of this is J's fault.
I love my wife and hold her in enormous personal respect. In addition to being smart and beautiful, I think she's one of the most fair-minded and wise people I know. But she is a dirty thief when it comes to my mechanical pencils. If I leave a pencil out on my desk and she needs one for teaching or making a list, she doesn't even think about taking it. And then it disappears into her flute bag or purse, and it's never seen again. I've tried to hide my pencils behind books or in the secret crevasses of my desk, but she either finds them there or I hide them so well that I no longer know where they are either. If we're at Target and I try to toss a new package of mechanical pencils in the cart she'll look at me and say, "Didn't you just buy a bunch of those?" And the answer is that I did, but that someone who I dearly love has stolen them all and I only have one left.
I've confronted her about this in the past, including this morning. Her answers vary, and this morning it was "don't you usually write with a pen anyway?" This is true, and it's another luxury of adult life, that I can buy myself gel pens. But I use pencils to write in my books, and especially to mark up my music. I just ordered a big new pack of mechanical pencils from Amazon, and already several of them are gone. J took two this morning, and James was eagerly expressing how much he'd like to draw with them. I need to find some way to protect them before they've all disappeared. I've even attempted to develop a conscious habit of walking around with the pencils in my mouth, holding them between my well-flossed teeth, as a deterrent for those who would attempt to steal them from me.
But it doesn't work. Even my youngest is stealing my pencils. I don't begrudge them to him, though. He also is having teeth problems, in the form of a little white nub that's keeping him awake and sitting up with me instead of taking his nap.
I was scolded pretty severely the last time I went in for a dental cleaning. (And they wonder why I don't come in more often.) The hygienist (who spoke in a discomfortingly thick Russian accent) also made snide remarks about how badly I needed orthodontic work, and I pleaded "professional trumpet player" to quiet her. She made me promise to floss more regularly, and I made a concerted effort for about a month, two houses ago. Then I was back on the maybe-once-a-month schedule for two years, until last Saturday. As of Saturday, I've been flossing every day, except for last night, because I was already really comfortable in bed and it was kind of cold out when the alarm went off in my phone and reminded me.
I scheduled James' first ever trip to the dentist for next week, and he sounded genuinely excited when I told him where he was going. (This will be the only time we ever get that reaction.) On the upside, though, he might get a cool prize. I remember getting a certain type of mechanical pencil that I'm not even quite sure how to describe out of the dentist's prize box. It came pre-loaded with individual leaded tops that you screwed in from the top (or bottom) end of the pencil, which you used to write. Then you would use the pencil until the lead ran out, unscrew the used-up tip, and screw a new one in.
Mechanical pencils were a great source of moral trial to me as a young child. I never was tempted to steal anything so badly as a nice-looking mechanical pencil. They were infinitely more satisfying to write with than the standard yellow number two pencils that required constant resharpening and tended to smudge all over the papers. I don't know if anyone else thought of them this way, but I regarded them as a status symbol of wealth and advantage as well. I treasured a mechanical pencil whenever I managed to acquire one, and if I thought I had an opportunity to pick one up off a desk or in the hallway that wouldn't be missed it was always an enormous struggle of will to leave it where it lay and be content with the smudgy yellow pencil in my pocket.
Nowadays I am morally. When my trumpet students come and forget their mechanical pencils on my stand, I don't even think about tossing them in my case and requisitioning them for myself. The same goes for pencils found at rehearsal, at church, and at school. I've ceased to respect them as private property and will stop at nothing to acquire them for my own gain. Part of this is J's fault.
I love my wife and hold her in enormous personal respect. In addition to being smart and beautiful, I think she's one of the most fair-minded and wise people I know. But she is a dirty thief when it comes to my mechanical pencils. If I leave a pencil out on my desk and she needs one for teaching or making a list, she doesn't even think about taking it. And then it disappears into her flute bag or purse, and it's never seen again. I've tried to hide my pencils behind books or in the secret crevasses of my desk, but she either finds them there or I hide them so well that I no longer know where they are either. If we're at Target and I try to toss a new package of mechanical pencils in the cart she'll look at me and say, "Didn't you just buy a bunch of those?" And the answer is that I did, but that someone who I dearly love has stolen them all and I only have one left.
I've confronted her about this in the past, including this morning. Her answers vary, and this morning it was "don't you usually write with a pen anyway?" This is true, and it's another luxury of adult life, that I can buy myself gel pens. But I use pencils to write in my books, and especially to mark up my music. I just ordered a big new pack of mechanical pencils from Amazon, and already several of them are gone. J took two this morning, and James was eagerly expressing how much he'd like to draw with them. I need to find some way to protect them before they've all disappeared. I've even attempted to develop a conscious habit of walking around with the pencils in my mouth, holding them between my well-flossed teeth, as a deterrent for those who would attempt to steal them from me.
But it doesn't work. Even my youngest is stealing my pencils. I don't begrudge them to him, though. He also is having teeth problems, in the form of a little white nub that's keeping him awake and sitting up with me instead of taking his nap.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
The Family
James:
-wanted more than anything else in the world to buy a watermelon at the Public Market. Not sure why, or even if he enjoyed it once it was purchased. But he sure was excited
-is playing kickball in the backyard at every opportunity. Still playing baseball and hockey regularly as well, but I think he knows that we're more likely to play along with him if we do a game (like kickball) that can be played while holding Owen
-has discovered s'mores toasted over the fire pit
-regularly loses one or both of his shoes without meaning to
-stands at the door and waves now whenever a parent needs to leave. (Also, clings to their leg and begs them not to go as soon as he detects that they're getting ready to depart.)
-as of tomorrow, is halfway to being 4 (!) years old
Owen:
-weighs 17 lbs, took his shot like a champ, and attempted to eat all of the sanitary paper that was laid out at the doctor's office
-communicates that he'd like more solid food by banging on his tray repeatedly
-is making rudimentary attempts at talking by shouting a single pitch in the face of whoever is holding him, or in James' case, leaning over him and shouting back
-is quite near sleeping through the night consistently, but making both ends of the night more difficult by staying up later before he falls asleep and getting up before 6 AM with no prospect of returning to sleep unless he can get in bed with J
-has no interest in formula from a bottle, except to play with the bottle and spit it out
J:
-is making lots of smoothies with exotic ingredients like coconut water and chia seeds
-played the Hindemith sonata on Monday and the LCS concert on Tuesday, during which she ran back and forth between the flute, piccolo, and piano
-has temporarily given up coffee in the hopes of avoiding the caffeine/sugar crashes mid-afternoon
-entered James' room yesterday and by some act of trickery convinced him to help clean it
-couldn't be more thrilled with the hot weather
-will take the boys to PA this weekend
Me:
-attempting to practice all sorts of fundamentals and back-burner technique projects now that I have no big concerts or auditions for the next few months
-have struggled to get up early and do my morning routine the last few weeks because of odd late nights and travel
-finished the annual LCS concert
-am less than thrilled with the hot weather and consequent sweaty, grimy, sticky, lethargic afternoons
-spilled birdseed all over the garage when the bottom of the bag ripped open
-need to figure out how to trim the odd bits around the house that the lawn mower can't reach and where exactly the water in the northern wall of the basement is coming from
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Owen's Habits
Poor Owen gets the short end of the stick.
He doesn't talk or crawl yet, so when I sit down to write about the interesting things that happened in the Smith house at the end of the day, he often doesn't have many interesting accomplishments that are worth contrasting to James. He can't, for instance, run a toy John Deere tractor through the entire length of the downstairs for the purpose of "cleaning the ice" before the teams come back on. He also doesn't have any cute backwards turns of phrase, like calling hot things "too cold" or little things "too big."
But he is growing into an adorable, healthy, very happy little baby boy, and it's been fun to watch some bits of personality emerge in him. He's a little surprising to look at almost every time I see him, because his eyes are SO blue and his hair is SO blonde, and there's a little shock of it that sticks up in the back no matter where his head has been for the last hour.
When I get him up in the morning he always greets me with a grin as soon as he recognizes me, and when I take him to his mother he gets so excited that he nearly bounces out of my arms with delight before he reaches for her. (And, getting into her arms, immediately begins attempting to nurse from the side of her arm or whatever other body part he manages to get into his mouth.)
He is slowly getting more mobile, mostly by rolling over on his side repeatedly until he's crossed the room and usually made some sort of diagonal motion as well. He lifts his head up periodically to check his progress and will making climbing motions while on his stomach, which look to me like the rudimentary first elements of crawling. He tends to spit up when he's on his stomach, so whoever's with him usually needs to follow close behind with a burp cloth when he's busy making his travels.
He's just as content, however, to be put in any number of bouncy seats that we have around the house and there to exercise his legs as hard as he can to at least his own amusement and to even greater joy if he notices that someone is watching him. (James is particularly good at giving him encouragement.)
The defining motion of his little life so far is the big, sweeping, both-legged kick downwards that bounces him up in his bouncy chair and also soaks the bathroom while he's in the tub. He and James are in the bath together most nights now, and Owen will begin to kick excitedly as soon as he hears the tap running. He smiles broadly when you begin to strip his clothes off, and then once he's placed naked in the tub with his brother he assumes a look of deep concentration before beginning twenty continuous minutes of kicking and splashing. He doesn't even stop kicking to have his legs washed. If you are holding one leg and attempting to soak it off, the other will keep going with mechanical accuracy in exactly the tempo that he had set earlier, and then the soaped leg will resume in time as soon as you release it to soap the other. James mostly amuses himself by giving Owen instructions and attempting to wash him off with cupfuls of water, but I don't think Owen even notices him. He's too busy doing his job, which is kicking.
Owen spends a lot of time in the Ergo carrier as well, when out on walks, when parents need to get dishes done, and when he needs a nap while his older brother wants to play baseball. Because he's a good and easy little baby, he can be relied upon to fall asleep within a few minutes of being strapped into the carrier, so long as the parent holds up their end by staying in constant motion. The surrounding noise and weather don't matter a bit, so long as he's strapped in tight.
He's looked happy out in the grass so far while we've spread out blankets for picnics or tossed a baseball in the backyard with James. I remember the first summer that I was home to be with James after months and months of busy season, and I felt like I was able to make up for a lot of long days on the road and away during those leisurely months.
This is going to be a good summer with Owen.
He doesn't talk or crawl yet, so when I sit down to write about the interesting things that happened in the Smith house at the end of the day, he often doesn't have many interesting accomplishments that are worth contrasting to James. He can't, for instance, run a toy John Deere tractor through the entire length of the downstairs for the purpose of "cleaning the ice" before the teams come back on. He also doesn't have any cute backwards turns of phrase, like calling hot things "too cold" or little things "too big."
But he is growing into an adorable, healthy, very happy little baby boy, and it's been fun to watch some bits of personality emerge in him. He's a little surprising to look at almost every time I see him, because his eyes are SO blue and his hair is SO blonde, and there's a little shock of it that sticks up in the back no matter where his head has been for the last hour.
When I get him up in the morning he always greets me with a grin as soon as he recognizes me, and when I take him to his mother he gets so excited that he nearly bounces out of my arms with delight before he reaches for her. (And, getting into her arms, immediately begins attempting to nurse from the side of her arm or whatever other body part he manages to get into his mouth.)
He is slowly getting more mobile, mostly by rolling over on his side repeatedly until he's crossed the room and usually made some sort of diagonal motion as well. He lifts his head up periodically to check his progress and will making climbing motions while on his stomach, which look to me like the rudimentary first elements of crawling. He tends to spit up when he's on his stomach, so whoever's with him usually needs to follow close behind with a burp cloth when he's busy making his travels.
He's just as content, however, to be put in any number of bouncy seats that we have around the house and there to exercise his legs as hard as he can to at least his own amusement and to even greater joy if he notices that someone is watching him. (James is particularly good at giving him encouragement.)
The defining motion of his little life so far is the big, sweeping, both-legged kick downwards that bounces him up in his bouncy chair and also soaks the bathroom while he's in the tub. He and James are in the bath together most nights now, and Owen will begin to kick excitedly as soon as he hears the tap running. He smiles broadly when you begin to strip his clothes off, and then once he's placed naked in the tub with his brother he assumes a look of deep concentration before beginning twenty continuous minutes of kicking and splashing. He doesn't even stop kicking to have his legs washed. If you are holding one leg and attempting to soak it off, the other will keep going with mechanical accuracy in exactly the tempo that he had set earlier, and then the soaped leg will resume in time as soon as you release it to soap the other. James mostly amuses himself by giving Owen instructions and attempting to wash him off with cupfuls of water, but I don't think Owen even notices him. He's too busy doing his job, which is kicking.
Owen spends a lot of time in the Ergo carrier as well, when out on walks, when parents need to get dishes done, and when he needs a nap while his older brother wants to play baseball. Because he's a good and easy little baby, he can be relied upon to fall asleep within a few minutes of being strapped into the carrier, so long as the parent holds up their end by staying in constant motion. The surrounding noise and weather don't matter a bit, so long as he's strapped in tight.
He's looked happy out in the grass so far while we've spread out blankets for picnics or tossed a baseball in the backyard with James. I remember the first summer that I was home to be with James after months and months of busy season, and I felt like I was able to make up for a lot of long days on the road and away during those leisurely months.
This is going to be a good summer with Owen.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Thanks to L
We owe a thank you to Lux and Melissa, who were kind enough to come to our house last night and put James and Owen to bed while J and I went out for no other purpose then to have a nice evening out. In fact, James didn't even believe us. As he was whacking randomly on his drum pad at the top of the stairs last night and shouting new improvised words to the tune of "Veggie Tales" he sang about how he "hoped Mommy and Daddy would have fun at their concert." I shouted back to him that we weren't actually going to a concert, but he didn't pay any attention, mostly because he was singing about baseball at that point. But still, the point did not escape me that he has no other conception in his young life to this point of why an adult would leave the house in the evening dressed reasonably nicely other than to attend (and probably perform in) a concert.
I'm not sure that the evening went great for them. Owen went down fine, apparently, but James has a bit of a cold, and he woke up crying inconsolably about an hour after he went down to sleep. When we arrived home we found him passed out on Uncle Lux's lap, George and Steven clutched in hand. Lux said that he'd lulled him to sleep by talking about Hayden, the thought of which apparently makes everyone tired.
We had a great time, though. As we ate our cheesecake and sipped our martinis, I thought about what it would have been like to bring the boys along on our date.
For one thing, we wouldn't have been able to drive eastward on Empire without James asking whether we were going to visit Alexa, and then expressing his indignation at our rudeness if it turned out that wasn't in the plans. ("We will need to visit her tomorrow. We will eat lunch there")
We went to Old Navy and to Kohl's looking for spring jackets. (We didn't get any.) Owen would have needed to be held in his carseat, which would have been a massive pain to lug around either store. James would have insisted that he walk from the car to the entrance, but then he would have been terrified by the mannequins at the entrance of Old Navy and begged to be held. Once held by whichever parent was not holding Owen, he would have periodically requested "can we go home?" until he became so heavy that it was necessary to set him down, and then he would have started crying loudly in the middle of the store. There would have been no trying on clothes in dressing rooms.
In Kohl's James might have done a little better, but this would have been about the end of Owen's patience with the carseat. I would have attempted to put James into one of the small Kohl's shopping carts, but he would have insisted on a real shopping cart. "I need a real cart. I want a steering wheel cart. We should go to Wegman's and get a cookie."
There would have been no hunting through clearance racks or trying clothes on in Kohl's either. We would have left early with both boys crying. From there, we'd have been back in the car, and if we attempted to stop at the bank to make an ATM deposit (as we did) we wouldn't have been able to escape without the traditional liturgy of:
"Hey Daddy, do you know where we are?"
"I do know where we are. We're at the bank."
"Do you remember the bounce house that's by here?"
"I do. I don't think we're going to the bounce house tonight though."
"Maybe...maybe we could go to the bounce house yesterday?"
"That won't work for a number of reasons."
"Maybe George would want to go to the bounce house in the morning. George, you want to go to the bounce house in the morning?"
(He nods George's head and makes an uh-huh monkey noise.)
"George says we DO go to the bounce house in the morning!"
There would have been no chance of martinis and cheesecake at a fancy restaurant either. We would have been well past both boys' bedtime, Owen would have been unwilling to sit in his carseat, and if we'd taken him out he would have tried to bounce up and down on the lap of whoever was holding him until he caught the attention of a passerby or fellow diner. James would have gradually flopped around the table until he was lying under it alternately asking to watch a George or if he could order a peanut butter and jelly.
So clearly, it worked out best for everyone to have Lux and Melissa come to our place and stay with the boys while we went out and bought a shirt and fancy drinks.
"Ingratitude appears to me to be a dire evil; a dire evil indeed, yea, the direst of evils. For when one has received some benefit, his failing to attempt to make any return by at least the verbal expression of thanks, where aught else is beyond his power, marks him out either as an utterly irrational person, or as one devoid of the sense of obligations conferred, or as a man without any memory. And, again, though one is possessed naturally and at once by the sense and the knowledge of benefits received, yet, unless he also carries the memory of these obligations to future days, and offers some evidence of gratitude to the author of the boon, such a person is a dull, and ungrateful, and impious fellow; and he commits an offence which can be excused neither in the case of the great nor in that of the small."---Gregory Thaumaturgus
So, to Lux and Melissa, thank you..
Also, does anyone have a resource they'd recommend about the practice of patronage in the Roman empire? I think that this whole sections of Gregory Thaumaturgus (a panegyric to Origen) would read more interestingly if you could place it within the category of a patron-client relationship?
I'm not sure that the evening went great for them. Owen went down fine, apparently, but James has a bit of a cold, and he woke up crying inconsolably about an hour after he went down to sleep. When we arrived home we found him passed out on Uncle Lux's lap, George and Steven clutched in hand. Lux said that he'd lulled him to sleep by talking about Hayden, the thought of which apparently makes everyone tired.
We had a great time, though. As we ate our cheesecake and sipped our martinis, I thought about what it would have been like to bring the boys along on our date.
For one thing, we wouldn't have been able to drive eastward on Empire without James asking whether we were going to visit Alexa, and then expressing his indignation at our rudeness if it turned out that wasn't in the plans. ("We will need to visit her tomorrow. We will eat lunch there")
We went to Old Navy and to Kohl's looking for spring jackets. (We didn't get any.) Owen would have needed to be held in his carseat, which would have been a massive pain to lug around either store. James would have insisted that he walk from the car to the entrance, but then he would have been terrified by the mannequins at the entrance of Old Navy and begged to be held. Once held by whichever parent was not holding Owen, he would have periodically requested "can we go home?" until he became so heavy that it was necessary to set him down, and then he would have started crying loudly in the middle of the store. There would have been no trying on clothes in dressing rooms.
In Kohl's James might have done a little better, but this would have been about the end of Owen's patience with the carseat. I would have attempted to put James into one of the small Kohl's shopping carts, but he would have insisted on a real shopping cart. "I need a real cart. I want a steering wheel cart. We should go to Wegman's and get a cookie."
There would have been no hunting through clearance racks or trying clothes on in Kohl's either. We would have left early with both boys crying. From there, we'd have been back in the car, and if we attempted to stop at the bank to make an ATM deposit (as we did) we wouldn't have been able to escape without the traditional liturgy of:
"Hey Daddy, do you know where we are?"
"I do know where we are. We're at the bank."
"Do you remember the bounce house that's by here?"
"I do. I don't think we're going to the bounce house tonight though."
"Maybe...maybe we could go to the bounce house yesterday?"
"That won't work for a number of reasons."
"Maybe George would want to go to the bounce house in the morning. George, you want to go to the bounce house in the morning?"
(He nods George's head and makes an uh-huh monkey noise.)
"George says we DO go to the bounce house in the morning!"
There would have been no chance of martinis and cheesecake at a fancy restaurant either. We would have been well past both boys' bedtime, Owen would have been unwilling to sit in his carseat, and if we'd taken him out he would have tried to bounce up and down on the lap of whoever was holding him until he caught the attention of a passerby or fellow diner. James would have gradually flopped around the table until he was lying under it alternately asking to watch a George or if he could order a peanut butter and jelly.
So clearly, it worked out best for everyone to have Lux and Melissa come to our place and stay with the boys while we went out and bought a shirt and fancy drinks.
"Ingratitude appears to me to be a dire evil; a dire evil indeed, yea, the direst of evils. For when one has received some benefit, his failing to attempt to make any return by at least the verbal expression of thanks, where aught else is beyond his power, marks him out either as an utterly irrational person, or as one devoid of the sense of obligations conferred, or as a man without any memory. And, again, though one is possessed naturally and at once by the sense and the knowledge of benefits received, yet, unless he also carries the memory of these obligations to future days, and offers some evidence of gratitude to the author of the boon, such a person is a dull, and ungrateful, and impious fellow; and he commits an offence which can be excused neither in the case of the great nor in that of the small."---Gregory Thaumaturgus
So, to Lux and Melissa, thank you..
Also, does anyone have a resource they'd recommend about the practice of patronage in the Roman empire? I think that this whole sections of Gregory Thaumaturgus (a panegyric to Origen) would read more interestingly if you could place it within the category of a patron-client relationship?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)