A day in the life in December

The plan was to go to an indoor playground on a rainy day…

L had an eye doctor appointment, and the good news is that his weak eye has improved significantly. Afterwards he declares that he LIKES his patch. The bad news is that he still is going to need surgery to straighten the eye.
As a reward, we head to the mall with the awesome indoor playground. We are not accustomed to malls. I’m so out-of-touch, I have forgotten that malls are nightmares in December. I’m thinking we’ll spend an hour, and be home by 3.
We park. L wants to listen to the end of the song before disembarking. Despite the rain, D wages a standoff trying to get me to lift him onto a wall outside the mall entrance. Then he realizes he can walk up the stairs to climb on the wall that is 5 feet tall at the bottom of the stairs, but only 1 foot tall at the top. The wall is a path that must be followed by both of them around and around, while I stand in the rain nearer the entrance. I keep thinking they will hop off at the 1-foot part, so I don’t race back over and down the stairs to spot them across the 5-foot part. They each cross it 3 times.
We head inside. D must walk the mall by stepping in each square of the floor tile.

We find a photo booth. I can’t resist getting pics with my boys. They (with no influence) choose the background theme, “Mommy loves me.”
They are distracted by every gadget and game, every flashing light, and anything shiny. There are an assortment of cars for kids, the ones that used to be a nickel, that lurch slowly for a minute after you put money in. The boys are transfixed. I refuse the exorbitant 75 cents. I resist while they run from car to car, sitting, driving, exploring, oo-ing and ah-ing. A Race car! A Firetruck! LOOK!!! ITS A TROLLEY!! I resist when they can’t be lured away, even by the bright and moving indoor playground 10 feet away. I finally give in when I discover I actually do have a dollar, and there is a change machine. The trolley ride is totally anti-climatic.
By now, they are too hungry to go play. We turn around, and trek to the food court where I can’t find anything bearable to eat. They are in heaven. D finishes first, and takes off, saying, “I’ll be right back.” As if! We’re in the middle of a busy food court! Back at the table, I ask him if he knows why we need to stick together, and he says, “So we don’t get eaten?” I ask what would eat them. He says, “Coyotes.”
Sufficiently wired because I’m certain cups of sugar are added to all mall food, we head back to the playground, which is a pretty awesome place. Everything is padded. There is a room full of balloons with netted walls up a flight of padded stairs. A fan keeps the balloons blowing around like the inside of a bingo ball selector. Kids run through the balloons with frenzied abandon. My kids collided at least three times. They made a new friend, Chase, and spend a good hour racing around like reckless puppies. Mission accomplished. Time to go. It’s 3:15.
Outside, there is another (free) kids play area, and they are off before I can body-block them. A car slide! A tunnel! I give them 2 MINUTES!! 10 Minutes later, I pull them away, and we head to the “family” bathroom. Both demand the right to lock and unlock the door, so when all are ready, I leave with one while the other exercises his right. The man waiting for the bathroom is totally confused when he tries to go in the bathroom as I am leaving with one kid, and I have to tell him no, I’m leaving a 4-year-old in there. The door must close all the way, the lock must engage, then disengage. The door opens, and a proud kid emerges. Now, dear sir, you may go in.
We are standing in front of Target. I remember we need glue and a light bulb for the refrigerator. I think we will run into Target for a minute. Hahahaha, what am I thinking? Bringing the kids to Target???? AT CHRISTMAS? What a fool. I try to find my Drishti – that’s yoga speak for focus. I explain to the kids that this is an exercise in tuning out advertising, which is designed to make you want things, and will rot your brain. Its like putting popcorn in a hot pan and telling it not to pop.
So I make mental notes for Christmas presents: they love holiday lights, the airbrush painting kit, everything rainbow, and… HELLO KITTY?! (“Mom!! Have you ever seen a Hello Kitty like THIS ONE before?! It’s SOOOO BIG!”) D really wants rolls of tape. Then we have to pass by Electronics to get to the bulbs. CARS! TRUCKS! HELICOPTERS! …WITH REMOTE CONTROLS!! They run from sparkly new thing to sparkly new thing, and I am starting to feel like I’ve wandered into a Bermuda Triangle. We are never, ever getting out. Finally, while the boys test all the flashlights, I find my bulb. I see Housewares, and remember they need a hamper for their room. We start searching. We finally settle on a small wire basket- but L wants yellow and D wants silver. We negotiate for a long, long time. Nobody will give. I think of a number between 1 and 10. L picks 10 and D picks 4. My number was 7, and I can’t lie about it. L finally wins a contest, but D is so heartbroken, I give in and buy both baskets.
Finally, it’s time to go home. I am insistent that the Oreos (with bright red centers) and M&Ms lining the checkout line are NOT FOOD. D says innocently and loudly, “Is it sugar, Mama?” like that is a very bad thing. People grin at us.
As the realization sinks in that we have a long walk to the car, both boys sprawl on the Target floor and tell me they are too tired and hungry to get up. As shoppers walk around us, I feed them bits of Satsuma Tangerine like they are little, dying fish. That Bermuda Triangle feeling is overwhelming. I would do anything right now for a stroller.
We rally. Back in the mall, there is a hot dog shop, and I suddenly see a means to get home. They totally perk up for hot dogs. I promise they can have a hot dog once we get back to the car. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Then we pass Santa. It’s the kind you pay for pictures with. They stare, but there isn’t a line of kids waiting for a visit, so I think they’re not sure what it’s all about. I tell them that it’s a fake Santa, that the real one is far too busy to be just sitting there. He waves at them, and they giggle.
Every time they veer off course, I say, “Hotdogs!” with a voice grown hoarse from wrangling.
People stare.
It’s dark and misting outside. We finally get to the car, and the boys rub against it, getting soaked, because its fun to see the water drops disappear.
The snap of their carseat buckles is like Pavlov’s bell, and I relax for the first time. As soon as I am buckled in, I hand them back their still-hot dogs. 5 minutes later, they are both asleep, clutching them unopened.
They eat the hotdogs for dinner, and I’m sure they are packed with sugar because the boys can’t sleep. From their dark room, D sings at the top of his lungs, “…and I said, HEY-EY-EY-EY-EY, HEY-EY-EY, I said HEY, WHATS GOING ON?” Then he yells, “HEY LUKA! I SANG THE ‘HEY’ SONG!” As I write, they are discussing whether or not grownups have birthdays. It’s 10 PM.

The Debutoddler Ball

I’m still not over it, that feeling of Who Are These Boys, and Where Are My Babies? Somewhere between the ages of 4 and 5, a huge transition happens. The first years are all about love and connection, about basic skills, communication and cuddles. Your kids are fully yours. Then they master skills like capturing their waste in the potty and getting dressed. They start to not need you every moment of the day. They make friends, and start adopting things they learn at school and from the stupid shows you let them watch because you really need another hour of sleep. They start challenging you in ways that can out-will or outsmart you. They start talking to strangers. You start having to think about public school and what expensive activities they should do to enrich their growth, about influences and exposure. You see them get hurt by other kids. You watch them get over it. They are becoming part of a much bigger world, and there is nothing you can (reasonably) do about it. I mean, its a good thing. Your job is to introduce them to the world and the world to them.

We need to have a Debutoddler Ball. We’d serve corndogs and cake, and of course there would be a bouncy house. I won’t eat corndogs, but this isn’t about me. D would get up and sing either the ABCs or maybe “Let It Go.” (He told me yesterday that he sounds like a girl when he sings. I honestly don’t know if he meant it as a good or bad thing. I told him everyone sounds like a girl when they’re little.) L would rock a smashing highwater tux with his Ladybug Converse. He might be persuaded to perform Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock And Roll.” That is, if we could pull him away from eating the frosting off of all the cupcakes.

Sugar. Wanting things like a remote-controlled helicopter. Liking kids that don’t like them back, or not liking the kids that like them. So busy with their joint narrative involving Legos and all the other Little Things that they totally ignore me. Media. Their narrative has evolved to reflect the shows they watch. My phone has PBS Kids on it, which has better quality shows. They reject my phone for their Maddy’s, which has Disney Jr.. They watch high-action cartoons with shockingly stupid parents or adults, kids who act immortal, and villains that are buffoons. The adults can’t think their way across the street, so of course the kids must save them. No wonder they grow up thinking they know it all.

They are in their room building fliers, spaceship-airplane-hovercraft things that they use to reenact a terrifying search and rescue. I give the kids 2 minutes until bath time. They ignore me. I start a long soliloquy about the lovely warm bath as I put down the mat and turn on the water. No response. I tell them 3 or 4 times to come take a bath. I tell them to quit ignoring me. L says, “But I don’t want to take a bath.” (That’s a first, actually.) D says, “I’m busy working.” I try a few more times  before resorting to a threat. “Come take your bath, or I’ll put the Legos out of reach.” I have to count to 5. They wait until 4, then race to the bathroom. L says he’s hungry. Then he demands, “Get me a banana, or I won’t wash my hair!” Ugh, the mirror!

I’m contemplating how to be in this new era with grace. At the Debutoddler Ball, I’d probably get up with a glass of wine, and tearfully sing from the book, “I’ll Love You Forever.”

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always.

As long as I’m living,

My baby you’ll be.

(Disclosure – the cover pic was taken at age 3, not yet 4. Obviously, as they are both holding Thomas.)

On Toddlers Who Hoard Little Things

Love is teaching my boys to pick up after themselves. This is so much easier said than done. It’s way more fun to watch them explore and discover, and way easier to let them cruise their world without me hovering over them, making sure they clean up each mess before they make another. I would have to be on them every minute or two. Maybe I should be. Oh, but when would I do all the housework, cook dinner, or wander in a daze? I don’t hover. They do their thing, and I try to find balance.

My first Facebook post about the boys was this, “The boys fed their magnetic blocks into an antique copper watering can whose opening is long and narrow. The blocks are stuck to each other in the can body. Any ideas how to get them out??” There have been many, many dramas around the boys and their stashing of little things. When he still 1, D took an entire bunch of grapes off their stems, and organized them, one-by-one into a bowl. L then took the grapes, and stuffed them into a 8-ounce bottle. Then, D put them into his dump-truck. They never moved all the grapes from one place to another. I found them stuffed in my shoes. For days, I stepped on random grapes. It hasn’t stopped. Grapes are way better to step on than Legos. I have a funny video of D around the grape time trying to hide about 12 wrapped snack bars under his seat like a chicken sitting on her eggs, but they won’t fit. He sits, they slide, he shoves them back under, they slide out the other side… The whole time he thinks he’s hiding them. When they were 4, we planted a beautiful cherry tomato plant that grew and grew, then sprouted at least a hundred promising little green tomatoes. I couldn’t quite see the garden-box from the back door, and thus the boys were able to pick ALL of the green tomatoes, and shove them through a little hole into the cavernous base of a free-standing basketball hoop, a space meant for water or sand to anchor the hoop. I think I cried.

I share my home with little hoarders. My disinclination to throw anything away because they might use it someday doesn’t help. On the plus side, they love shelling peas. A whole bowl of little things! Now they have little purses, treasure boxes, tins, tool-boxes, bags, buckets and baskets that they fill with random little things: dice, dominoes, Legos, wood blocks, foam blocks, Brillo blocks, magnetic blocks, puzzle pieces, rocks, buttons, tools, an array of totally random toys, trains, planes, trucks, helicopters, and lots and lots of matchbox cars. Any board game we had has been decimated, it’s pieces lost in the chaos of little things. I feel a rendition coming on, a’ la Miss Hannigan, entitled, “Little Things.” I’ve looked it up, toddler hoarding is normal. Not that I was worried, but someone else might be. When I talk about the house looking like a tornado hit, it’s generally because little things are literally spread all over as though a huge Lego-rock-truck-tool-Transformer projectile vomited profusely. Recently, D has developed a penchant for cutting paper into little bits or shredding the wrappers off crayons as he wanders the house. L stashes his treasures in piles. I’ve heard it said that your house reflects the inner state of your mind. Whoever said that obviously wasn’t living with young children without a housekeeper. Or maybe its true, if you think of it as they do. My mind must be full of little treasures to be forgotten and discovered again and again. My kids will have excellent stashing and organizing skills one day, which I’m sure will bode well for them, unless, of course, they actually become hoarders.

I fully appreciate the need to have them pick up after themselves more. I do make them. It really does take more energy to make them pick up one little mess than it does to just clean the whole house by myself. They can spend an entire afternoon picking up one set of building blocks. Modeling cleaning up doesn’t seem to have any impact at all.  L asked me why I want their room clean, and then declared, as though I was mentally incompetent, that it’s better messy. God forbid the feminist lesbian raises boys who don’t pick up after themselves.