For some inexplicable reason, toys are equated with their geographical space. We keep our quiet toys, our intelligence-increasing toys, our creative juices toys up in the playroom. The loud and banging, althletic, jump-around, burn energy toys all go in the basement. And despite the fact that our house could be a satellite store for Toys R Us, my boys still get bored with all that they have. They whine they have nothing to play with, I pull toy after toy off the shelves, and they just dismiss me with a wave.
But something strange happened when we put up our Christmas tree in the playroom. There was no longer room for the toybox, so we brought it downstairs for the Christmas season. Suddenly my boys thought it was a brand new present, and they opened up the top and began playing with toys as if they had never seen them before. They were entirely entertained while we decorated the tree.
Thus began the thought process. Fast forward to just a few days after Christmas. Together the boys have now accumulated an ungodly amount of new toys and play items. Our shelves now explode with old and new toys combined. There's so much to play with, they don't even know where to start. But I, a wise mother beyond my youthful years, know that a time is coming sometime in February/March when Old Man Winter is refusing to leave, when he doesn't allow us to safely leave the house, and when we all have cabin fever so bad we are afraid we might just kill each other (or at least mame or seriously injur).
Hence the Great Toy Shift of 2009. Together the boys and I spent an entire morning moving toys from floor to floor: from the playroom to their bedrooms, from their bedrooms to the basement, from the basement to the playroom. Actually, I should say that the boys and I battled an entire morning. As I attempted to remove the toys that currently don't capture their desire, they suddenly found a new interest in those same toys. Finally, with a little distraction, I was able to sneak the overflowing laundry basket full of toys up to the attic. Maybe I will, in pure desperation, seek their fun and frivolity in the bleak mid-winter. Or maybe we will come to the grand realization that we have more than enough toys and can get rid of the extras in the attic.
Except for the baby toys. Who KNOWS what I will need to do with them. But that's a whole other topic for an entirely different day...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
P-Day
We've been using the nativity countdown calendar to talk about this day for weeks. Potty training. Not that my 3 1/2 year old is ready, mind you...but his mother is. She's tired of changing two sets of diapers for 18 months now and is believing her son is the last on the face of the entire earth to potty train. She looks longingly and jealously at other kids her son's age with the attractive underwear band sticking out just above their pants. Whether he's ready or not, she is. December 17, game on.
Why December 17? you might ask. It's the start of my Christmas vacation, where I feel I can provide some consistency and devote attention to this collosal undertaking. I have relegated myself to the fact that I will not for any reason (short of death, a raging virus or a broken limb) leave the house. Last night I purchased potty treats of licorice and peanut M&Ms for him, and a few drinks for me...
7:15. Caden comes into my room. I excitedly proclaim this is the day we've been talking about and waiting for weeks now. He responds "no!" and collapses onto the floor in tears. Not the start I had hoped for.
7:30. We have compromised that he will sit on the potty as long as he can watch part of his new favorite movie "Bolt." He doesn't know this, and I will never tell him, but I am the Monty Hall of wheeling and dealing today. If that boy agrees to create water in the potty, I will give him the world. In this case, we are both successful. He pees in the potty. We throw a New Year's Eve-type bash with cheering and dancing and for a moment, we party like it's 1999.
7:45. Frantically trying to call Daddy to tell him the good news. Daddy is not answering (apparently he was filling up the car with gas. How dare he? Doesn't he know today is P-Day?) Daddy lavishes on the praises of his oldest son as if he won the Nobel Prize or the Heisman Trophy. Caden is all smiles on the other end of the line. Really? Will it be THIS easy?
8:15. Apparently not. I find him squatting and pee running, nay, gushing down his leg. The few drops he had squeezed out earlier were nothing in comparison to the volumes of water. I quickly rush him over to the potty in order to catch what is remaining. He looks down and proclaims "Look! I'm going in the potty! I get a treat!" I will have to clarify the need to remove underwear BEFORE going on the potty as a prequesite for earning a treat.
8:30. New underwear on. Accident explained and forgiven. Encouragement lavished in hopes of next time. Little brother Evan has been talking in his crib for almost an hour now. I have no idea how this will go with little brother gets up and joins in the mix as well. Will see.
8:45. Low point of the morning thus far. I could no longer ignore the call myself, and went upstairs to use the adult potty. Upon coming down, I found Caden squatting over the toilet (peeing through his underwear, mind you) and Evan screaming as he is trying to wrestle away the pee-filled potty. Yellow water is sloshing everywhere. Sigh.
9:00. Potty training notes to self: place the toilet high up so that Evan cannot play with it. Bring carpet cleaner and Clorox wipes downstairs. Begin running load of laundry.
9:15. I am still in my pajamas and realize that I have no intention of improving myself today. Caden is wearing a sweatshirt, socks, and underwear. I am planning that he spend the day sans pants. Evan is the only one who is "normally" dressed, although he is running around with a pair of underwear and I believe he is asking me to put them on him. I just might put them on over his pants.
9:30. Decided to set the timer. Forget Caden telling me when he has to go potty. I will tell him. Reminder of treats. He requests to watch a few more minutes of "Bolt." I compromise--2 times successful on the potty, 10 minutes of Bolt. We shake on it.
9:45. I resort to a favorite TV show of his in which the main character, Oso, learns how to do everything in 3 steps. I try this approach. Step 1: tell Mommy you have to go potty. Step 2: remove underwear (this is key). Step 3: go on the potty! He likes it and repeats the jingle himself as he plays.
10:30. 2 successful trips to the potty. 2 wonderful opportunities to flush. 2 chocolate M&M treats. 10 minutes of Bolt. 1 phone call to Nana. Am making a mental list to see who we can call during the day with updated news.
10:45. We are continuing the deal of 2 successful trips to the potty=10 minutes of watching Bolt. In 7 minutes, he made two trips, squeezing out 3 drops each, and calling it successful. I'm torn between seeing success (if only measured in drops) and realizing that we can't keep this up all day, let alone for the next 15 years of his life. Besides, it feels like we're watching A LOT of T.V. Is it okay to make this exception for one day?
11:00. Gave in. Took off pajamas, put on a jogging suit (didn't feel like putting on anything nicer...why?). Even brushed my teeth, put on deoderant, face cream and chap stick. Feeling somwhat proud of my accomplishment. I would no longer need to slam the door on Ed McMahon's face if he came to offer me a million dollars. However, I still haven't done my hair and intentionally decided not to wear earrings--too flashy, so I still might slam the door in your face if you decide to visit today.
12:30. Finished watching the entire movie Bolt. Both children are lazily mesmerized at the television, and I now understand why they tell you to limit television time with small children. Alas, this is the price to pay for potty success (may there be success!). Fed the kids some lunch, during which time Caden complained of feeling wet. We ran to the potty and he successfully went. I considered it enough for the morning, put his diaper on, and at 1:00 sent both boys up to their rooms for nap time (or at least quiet time). I. was. exhausted.
2:00. Went to get Caden up from his "quiet time" (which ironically is anything but quiet). I could smell it immediately. I realize it was too much for him to do both #1 AND #2 in the potty on the first day, but the #2 was the part I was really tired of changing. Sigh. Reminding myself this is a long, slow marathon, not a sprint. Gave myself a chocolate M&M after changing his dirty diaper.
5:00. All is well in potty-land. He's been dry since about 10:00. We're on our 4th pair of underwear today (is that good? bad? typical?) I haven't resorted to ANY of the drinks I purchased for myself last night. The potty/flush/treat/movie clip routine is working well. Now we'll just see what happens when we start all over again tomorrow. But please, Caden--no more Bolt.
Why December 17? you might ask. It's the start of my Christmas vacation, where I feel I can provide some consistency and devote attention to this collosal undertaking. I have relegated myself to the fact that I will not for any reason (short of death, a raging virus or a broken limb) leave the house. Last night I purchased potty treats of licorice and peanut M&Ms for him, and a few drinks for me...
7:15. Caden comes into my room. I excitedly proclaim this is the day we've been talking about and waiting for weeks now. He responds "no!" and collapses onto the floor in tears. Not the start I had hoped for.
7:30. We have compromised that he will sit on the potty as long as he can watch part of his new favorite movie "Bolt." He doesn't know this, and I will never tell him, but I am the Monty Hall of wheeling and dealing today. If that boy agrees to create water in the potty, I will give him the world. In this case, we are both successful. He pees in the potty. We throw a New Year's Eve-type bash with cheering and dancing and for a moment, we party like it's 1999.
7:45. Frantically trying to call Daddy to tell him the good news. Daddy is not answering (apparently he was filling up the car with gas. How dare he? Doesn't he know today is P-Day?) Daddy lavishes on the praises of his oldest son as if he won the Nobel Prize or the Heisman Trophy. Caden is all smiles on the other end of the line. Really? Will it be THIS easy?
8:15. Apparently not. I find him squatting and pee running, nay, gushing down his leg. The few drops he had squeezed out earlier were nothing in comparison to the volumes of water. I quickly rush him over to the potty in order to catch what is remaining. He looks down and proclaims "Look! I'm going in the potty! I get a treat!" I will have to clarify the need to remove underwear BEFORE going on the potty as a prequesite for earning a treat.
8:30. New underwear on. Accident explained and forgiven. Encouragement lavished in hopes of next time. Little brother Evan has been talking in his crib for almost an hour now. I have no idea how this will go with little brother gets up and joins in the mix as well. Will see.
8:45. Low point of the morning thus far. I could no longer ignore the call myself, and went upstairs to use the adult potty. Upon coming down, I found Caden squatting over the toilet (peeing through his underwear, mind you) and Evan screaming as he is trying to wrestle away the pee-filled potty. Yellow water is sloshing everywhere. Sigh.
9:00. Potty training notes to self: place the toilet high up so that Evan cannot play with it. Bring carpet cleaner and Clorox wipes downstairs. Begin running load of laundry.
9:15. I am still in my pajamas and realize that I have no intention of improving myself today. Caden is wearing a sweatshirt, socks, and underwear. I am planning that he spend the day sans pants. Evan is the only one who is "normally" dressed, although he is running around with a pair of underwear and I believe he is asking me to put them on him. I just might put them on over his pants.
9:30. Decided to set the timer. Forget Caden telling me when he has to go potty. I will tell him. Reminder of treats. He requests to watch a few more minutes of "Bolt." I compromise--2 times successful on the potty, 10 minutes of Bolt. We shake on it.
9:45. I resort to a favorite TV show of his in which the main character, Oso, learns how to do everything in 3 steps. I try this approach. Step 1: tell Mommy you have to go potty. Step 2: remove underwear (this is key). Step 3: go on the potty! He likes it and repeats the jingle himself as he plays.
10:30. 2 successful trips to the potty. 2 wonderful opportunities to flush. 2 chocolate M&M treats. 10 minutes of Bolt. 1 phone call to Nana. Am making a mental list to see who we can call during the day with updated news.
10:45. We are continuing the deal of 2 successful trips to the potty=10 minutes of watching Bolt. In 7 minutes, he made two trips, squeezing out 3 drops each, and calling it successful. I'm torn between seeing success (if only measured in drops) and realizing that we can't keep this up all day, let alone for the next 15 years of his life. Besides, it feels like we're watching A LOT of T.V. Is it okay to make this exception for one day?
11:00. Gave in. Took off pajamas, put on a jogging suit (didn't feel like putting on anything nicer...why?). Even brushed my teeth, put on deoderant, face cream and chap stick. Feeling somwhat proud of my accomplishment. I would no longer need to slam the door on Ed McMahon's face if he came to offer me a million dollars. However, I still haven't done my hair and intentionally decided not to wear earrings--too flashy, so I still might slam the door in your face if you decide to visit today.
12:30. Finished watching the entire movie Bolt. Both children are lazily mesmerized at the television, and I now understand why they tell you to limit television time with small children. Alas, this is the price to pay for potty success (may there be success!). Fed the kids some lunch, during which time Caden complained of feeling wet. We ran to the potty and he successfully went. I considered it enough for the morning, put his diaper on, and at 1:00 sent both boys up to their rooms for nap time (or at least quiet time). I. was. exhausted.
2:00. Went to get Caden up from his "quiet time" (which ironically is anything but quiet). I could smell it immediately. I realize it was too much for him to do both #1 AND #2 in the potty on the first day, but the #2 was the part I was really tired of changing. Sigh. Reminding myself this is a long, slow marathon, not a sprint. Gave myself a chocolate M&M after changing his dirty diaper.
5:00. All is well in potty-land. He's been dry since about 10:00. We're on our 4th pair of underwear today (is that good? bad? typical?) I haven't resorted to ANY of the drinks I purchased for myself last night. The potty/flush/treat/movie clip routine is working well. Now we'll just see what happens when we start all over again tomorrow. But please, Caden--no more Bolt.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Rush to the nativity
I find myself often correcting Caden during the day. He means well, but I'm such a Type-A perfectionist I can't help myself. He'll do a fantastic job cleaning up, and after he leaves the room, I'll make the final small adjustments so things are just the way I want them. It's a sickness, I know.
I spent an entire day decorating my house for Christmas. I wish I could say I did it merrily with my children, but alas it was not the case. I tried to get it done in spite of them, trying to keep them otherwise occupied so I could complete this task. Caden was around the decorations only long enough to break an angel from my nativity set.
My nativity set. I have spent years collecting pieces to it, having all of the major characters and even including some others. The inn keeper, a cow, two angels (now one lone winged messenger). I spent time selecting the perfect place in our new house to spread out all of the pieces, giving each proper display space, all angling in toward the stable where a properly distanced Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus all have room.
After breaking a piece of my nativity, I quickly found the Little People nativity set so the kids could have something with which to play. Evan frustrated me because he was always walking around with a few of the pieces, too often the baby Jesus, and then leaving them somewhere in our house. I would find a stray camel, wiseman, or Joseph and bring them back to the stable. Then, in my obsessive-compulsive way, I would spread all of the characters out and neatly display them like my nativity. This is the way it should be.
Or so I thought. Until I walked in on Caden playing with the nativity pieces one afternoon. He was telling the story as accurately as any three-year-old could do, even using voices for all of the different characters (including the animals). I ran to get my camera. I had to capture what he had done.
He had jam-packed all of the characters as close to the stable as possible. And why wouldn't he? Weren't all of these people and animals so interested to see the baby Jesus that they would rush to the stable and elbow each other in a Walmart-Black-Friday sort of way? My nativity was so peaceful and patient, more like an old yawning story than a new exciting reality. But shepherds were disrupted in the middle of the night by angels--why wouldn't they rush? Why wouldn't they stand on their toes to get a glimpse of what is possibly the most important person they will ever meet?
I was moved. Not enough to change the look of my nativity. I still didn't like the crowded look of his stable, and besides, I couldn't show off each individual piece that way. But that doesn't mean mine was in any way better. In fact, if I had to, I would admit defeat to my three-year-old. And if he felt the need to change my nativity after I left the room, I couldn't blame him.
As long as he didn't break any more of my pieces. It's not fair when his are plastic.
Starting...in the middle
Blogging. Yikes.
Not sure if I ever saw myself a blogging sort of mom. Nothing against those who do, but like cooking or scrapbooking or knitting, it seems to be something of a personal interest. It's for moms who have families scattered across the United States; their worlds most likely include Skype as well. All of my Dutch family has plunked right here in good ole' West Michigan.
So who would want to read this?
Apparently I have one friend who does. She lives in bustling, rat-raced New York City; she is not married and has no children, and yet for some reason she wants to read about mine.
Mine? Are you serious? They're my kids, so they're special to me, but I can't imagine their daily ins-and-outs being anything interesting to others. So if you find yourself here, reading this, I pray I do not bore you to tears.
It's not that I don't have an interest in blogging. Writing has always been a passion for me (despite my sophomore creative writing teacher's evil desire to kill it out of me). I also thought when I began having children that along with keeping a picture scrapbook of what they looked like growing up, I would also create a writing scrapbook of their moments to capture who they were as they grew from infancy through toddler-dom into little people.
My oldest is 3 1/2 and my youngest is 18 months. How am I doing on that?
So maybe this is my way to keep up on their lives and try to become the mother I want to be. And maybe if this blog goes well I'll start up on gourmet cooking and sewing, or at least knitting.
I only fear (and therefore hope) that I can do a better job of staying on top of my children's lives and write about the important, the special moments in their lives. And I hope that you find it a worthwhile read. But I also hope that some of it is humorous to you, because if we don't laugh through parenting we are left with nothing else but tears. I hope you can chuckle at my mistakes and know that none of us are perfect parents, but we're all just trying the best we can. And I hope, after all of that, I can still put a warm meal on the table, count the number of dust bunnies on one hand, and never ask my children to wear their underwear inside out so we can survive one more day without doing laundry.
Organized chaos. It's the best way to describe my parenting. Please laugh with me and hold off on calling Social Services until you have built a really strong complaint.
Kim
Not sure if I ever saw myself a blogging sort of mom. Nothing against those who do, but like cooking or scrapbooking or knitting, it seems to be something of a personal interest. It's for moms who have families scattered across the United States; their worlds most likely include Skype as well. All of my Dutch family has plunked right here in good ole' West Michigan.
So who would want to read this?
Apparently I have one friend who does. She lives in bustling, rat-raced New York City; she is not married and has no children, and yet for some reason she wants to read about mine.
Mine? Are you serious? They're my kids, so they're special to me, but I can't imagine their daily ins-and-outs being anything interesting to others. So if you find yourself here, reading this, I pray I do not bore you to tears.
It's not that I don't have an interest in blogging. Writing has always been a passion for me (despite my sophomore creative writing teacher's evil desire to kill it out of me). I also thought when I began having children that along with keeping a picture scrapbook of what they looked like growing up, I would also create a writing scrapbook of their moments to capture who they were as they grew from infancy through toddler-dom into little people.
My oldest is 3 1/2 and my youngest is 18 months. How am I doing on that?
So maybe this is my way to keep up on their lives and try to become the mother I want to be. And maybe if this blog goes well I'll start up on gourmet cooking and sewing, or at least knitting.
I only fear (and therefore hope) that I can do a better job of staying on top of my children's lives and write about the important, the special moments in their lives. And I hope that you find it a worthwhile read. But I also hope that some of it is humorous to you, because if we don't laugh through parenting we are left with nothing else but tears. I hope you can chuckle at my mistakes and know that none of us are perfect parents, but we're all just trying the best we can. And I hope, after all of that, I can still put a warm meal on the table, count the number of dust bunnies on one hand, and never ask my children to wear their underwear inside out so we can survive one more day without doing laundry.
Organized chaos. It's the best way to describe my parenting. Please laugh with me and hold off on calling Social Services until you have built a really strong complaint.
Kim
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