What Is the Opposite of "On Fleek?'

It's 10:09 p.m. and I'm writing my post for tomorrow because I'm going to be driving all day tomorrow and I want you to have a real post.*

You see what I do for you people? It's like I'm a slave to my art. **

No, seriously, thank you for reading and commenting here and on The Demon Facebook. It's been a lot of fun and (so far) the problem hasn't been finding something to say, it's shutting up. (My husband would probably agree. No, I know he would. Bless his heart.)

Today's post is on The Art of the Selfie. Specifically, that my selfie game is not strong, for in fact I have no selfie game. What can I say, I don't have quite the extra time that the under-twenty-five set does. And not as much interest in my own face.

Still, I persevered. I took these selfies last week, on the day of the OOTD.

Sidebar: I had on a cute outfit today, but I did not take a picture of it because as soon as I got home, I was too hot to wear the whole thing so I took off the hat, the denim jacket, and the ankle boots, leaving only the sleeveless polka-dot dress from this post. But trust me, it was cute until the dang Texas weather spoiled it.

Why did I take these close-up selfies? Well, I suppose I was on a roll, and I had tried something slightly (very slightly) different from my usual makeup routine. So I took these in the car, because there's no natural light in my bathroom.

Here goes. Brace yourself (I know I am).

I like this one the best because of the giant sunglasses covering half of my face.

Hellooo forehead wrinkles.

I cannot even with those eyebrows. Must get to the salon STAT.  At least I remembered to use lip color.

First of all, did you know that the selfie actually ends up the mirror image of what you saw in the (horrible) forward-facing camera? You did? How did I not get the memo on this? (When I mentioned my surprise, my almost-13-year-old reacted with mingled pity and scorn. "Old people!" you could almost hear her thinking.)

Well, how am I supposed to take a cute selfie when I am holding the camera in such a way to create a flattering picture on the other side of my face?

I erased quite a few unflattering side-eye pictures, is what I'm saying. Finally I came up with these three which I didn't hate. I quite like my smile in the last one, although my eyebrows are clearly out of control. [Shudder]

We are not even going to talk about my hair. Why did I think this was a good idea?

This has actually been good for me, to see myself in the cold hard light of day and the horrible forward-facing camera. For example, I didn't think I had wrinkles. I now know better.

Really, it's good for me to see these things. As Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living and all that jazz.

[Alison locks self into room with no natural light and curls into fetal position, whispering, "It's okay, you're still young..." over and over again.]

Anyway, when I took these pictures I was going to tell you about my makeup. I no longer think that matters. Fine, I'm wearing an e.l.f. $3.00 peach-colored blush which works as a sort of bronzer for me because I'm so pale. I think I used it as an eyeshadow, too. There. Beauty blogging done.

You know what is also great for your self-esteem? A teenage daughter.

C looked at these selfies on my phone (I didn't show them to her on purpose; I'm not that desperate for attention). Her eyebrows went up and she smiled in a weird way.

"What?" I said. "These are the best ones."

"I like the last one," she said. "The others..." She let the sentence trail off delicately so as not to trample more painfully upon my feelings, but the implication was clear: she would never post selfies like those.

Well, tough, kiddo. Also, you might want to be careful about raising your eyebrows like that. It causes wrinkles in about 25 years.


*"Real" is subject to interpretation and the author cannot be held accountable for failing to meet the reader's expectations. Kthanx.

**See the disclaimer above.

Timehopping

Yesterday, Bibliomama made a statement that resonated with me.

"With so much of parenting, when you lose something you almost always get something equally (but differently) awesome in return."

I found this extremely encouraging. And when I thought more about it, I found it to be true of my experience as well. Sure, I miss (some of) those baby, toddler, and preschool days. 

I started looking at the oldest posts on this blog and became verklempt. Talk among yourselves. (Sorry if you're too young to get that. Look it up on YouTube.)

I mean, who wouldn't miss this?

Or this?

And here is a post that made me tear up, from November 2007 :

We’re in the middle of a language explosion around here. Mr. Blue’s vocabulary is expanding--seemingly like the universe, at an ever-increasing rate. At night Justin and I recount the things the words he’s spoken for the first time: “He said ‘medicine,’ didn’t he?” “Well, actually it was more like ‘medsih,’ but yeah.” He says simple sentences now, like “I walk stairs,” or “Mamaw go bye-bye.” With each addition to his vocabulary, my heart swells with pride, like he’s the first kid who ever learned to talk. Now the words are coming out so fast, I find myself thinking, “When did he learn to say that?”
 

Like every kid, though, he has his own unique names for some things. He calls his toothbrush his “Nemo,” even though he has no idea that’s what the decorative fish on it is named. The blanket he sleeps with is, inexplicably, an “otay.” Anything heart-shaped is a “vah-vah,” and until this week he called a light that can be switched on a “dawdaw.” Monday night Justin told me Mr. Blue said “light” instead, as he turned off the one in his room. (It seems so strange that we can pin down the exact day he started calling it a light.) I felt the pang that I’m already familiar with from Miss Pink’s toddler years. You know they have to learn the real word, but the nonsense one is so cute, you hate to see it go. 

Mostly, though, I’m happy to be able to communicate with him the way I communicate best—with words. Of course I loved my children's first few months, but sometimes it was frustrating that the screaming bundle couldn’t just tell me what she or he wanted (and I’d have to haul my shirt up and see if that was it. Again.) Plus, I like newborns best when they aren’t doing anything; if they’re calm and still, it’s a good thing. Any communication from a tiny infant is an urgent call to action. Now Mr. Blue can run around pointing at things, identifying them, and having a conversation with me. “Oh! Pane! [pointing at sky]. Bird. Fower. Want swing, Mama. Where juice? Tank oo. Oh, poopy” (not always accurate, but still helpful). 

Then I chase him down (not an easy task), hold him tight, and whisper, “Stay like this. Stay just like this, and don’t ever change.”

Pease?

WEEP. Of course he didn't obey; no child except Peter Pan ever has. But now we have such fun conversations. Here's one we had this week:

L: Tuesday night is my least favorite night of the week.

Me: Oh, really? Why's that?

L: Well, Monday is Monday Night Football, and Wednesday night is church, so that's good. And then there's Thursday Night Football, I get to stay up later on Friday night, and there's more football on Saturday and Sunday. Tuesday night is the only night when nothing really happens.

Me: What a tragedy.

And I also find my daughter incredibly amusing. Tonight when we were watching "The Voice" she declared, "He killed it! It's so dead, it's already decaying!"

I remember when I was pregnant with C, Justin and I would talk about what his or her (we didn't find out the sex in advance) personality was going to be like. We were sure this baby would come into the world with some traits hardwired into the system. Sure enough, both kids brought their own personalities into the world, and although they have changed somewhat as they grew, I loved them then, and as they get older, I keep falling in love all over again with the people they are becoming. 

Why I'm Keeping a Gratitude Journal

Justin asked me the other day why I hadn’t been writing 750 words a day like I had been doing on a website called 750words.com, which is designed to help you write every day by giving you little checkmarks for every day you write in a row and also notifying you when you reach 750 words. It’s all private and is exactly like writing on your own computer except for the desire to keep those check marks uninterrupted and the fact that it costs $5.00 a month. For a couple of months I was meeting my goal most days. So why did I stop?

I stopped writing when my depression and anxiety overtook me a few months ago, and writing was not on my agenda at all, not even a little bit. I felt I shouldn’t spend even $5.00 a month when I wasn’t writing for the foreseeable future. In fact, at the time I felt I wouldn’t ever be able to write, or enjoy reading, or actually enjoy anything ever again, because that is the kind of lie that depression tells.

Then I saw my doctor and added a new medication. I got better, and I reveled in reading again. Every book seemed better than the last! I enjoyed the heck out of lots of things that had become meaningless while I was in the grip of the Black Dog, including shopping, eating, and social media. At first I only wrote comments on Facebook and Twitter because I still felt fragile and didn’t know what to write about, even in a private journal. A few weeks later, I decided to start and keep a gratitude journal, as the research is conclusive that keeping one does help stave off the grim demon called Depression. I’ve started several such records in the past, only to quit when things got so busy that I didn’t write anything for months. Sometimes life was good-busy and sometimes it was stressful-busy. That, I tell myself with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, is exactly when you need a gratitude journal.

This is a brain after the person has been keeping a gratitude journal. The highlighted area shows increased dopamine, which is a "reward" neurotransmitter that feels goooood.

So now I keep it on my nightstand beside my bed. A few days may go between recording something, but at least a couple of times a week I take a few minutes to count my blessings--not just general ones, like family, friends, and a roof over my head. Specific things, like this entry from July 13:

• I had more energy today & I felt so much happier. Thankful.
• Went through the school uniforms . Also decluttered closets, which inspired Justin to get a bunch of his clothes ready to donate.
• Fun conversations playing 94% [an iPhone trivia app] and just talking with L.

Probably my favorite entry so far, though, is this one from July 18:

• Great talk with L about angels (good and evil) and Minecraft. Longish car rides are perfect to get kids to open up.

[And if you are wondering what angels have to do with Minecraft--well, I am right there with you. I think there’s really no connection, except that my 9 yo son is currently incapable of talking for more than 45 seconds before he says, “Well, in Minecraft…” And that’s when I nod and say “Uh-huh” and “Wow” while he talks about things I do not understand at all. Unlike angels. This preacher’s daughter can expound on heavenly beings.]

I want to remember those little moments that are going on in my life right now, at this specific stage. I wish I had done this all through my kids’ babyhood so I wouldn’t be wondering, “Which one of them insisted that a stuffed Chihuahua Beanie Baby was a cat, and in the middle of an argument about it, I had an epiphany that it wasn’t worth arguing with a toddler about?” If I’d recorded that epiphany, I’d know.

Oh well, I can always start now. And there’s always Facebook.

As far as keeping up with the fragmented yet continuous record of our lives: it helps that the little notebook I’m writing in is small and pretty, but not so fancy that I feel my words have to live up to its binding. I love beautiful journals, but I’ve faltered about 25% of the way through so many gorgeous leather-bound blank books. This one has a cardstock cover, mint green, with Chapter 1 printed on the front in gold. It came in a pack of 3 from Target; the other two are white and pink, and (you guessed it) say Chapter 2 and Chapter 3. Cost: about $6.00 at Target. I bought them for some other reason but they are perfect for this.

For some reason the lighting in my bedroom didn't make it look green!

Besides this fragmented journaling, which admittedly seeks out the good at the expense of the very real irritations and sorrows of life (mind you, I don’t need reminding to dwell on the negative), I do intend to write at least 750 words a day. My job gives me plenty of time in which to do so, and it’s a much better use of my time than endlessly refreshing Facebook and watching cute animal videos. Even if I don’t have time at work, I no longer have to spend my evenings grading papers, and my husband and offspring often vanish after dinner to spend time with their electronic devices; I might as well do the same with mine.

All that to say, I have hope that out of 750 words a day, a few of them will be worth putting on this here blog. And that is going to be the first sentence in tonight’s gratitude journal entry.

No Fair

Sometimes it is very trying to have an adolescent, but I don’t mean trying in the way you’re thinking.

Here is this...person who inhabits a body 27 years younger than mine, which functions perfectly with no everyday aches and pains and not a hint of cellulite. Plus, she works out just because.

If I hadn’t been present for her birth, I’d say there’s no way she’s my child.

The other day, I mentioned that at the gym, I had done some of those walking lunges. We were walking down the hall toward the living room, and she was behind me.

“How many?” she asked, interested.

“I didn’t count. I only did the length of the track once. I’m really sore now.”

“You only did one straight side? One time I did 100 of those in my room just because I was bored.”

A second later she was laughing hysterically. “Right after I said that, I fell down!” (We have a sunken living room and she missed the step.)

“Serves you right!” I said. “Making your mother feel old and decrepit goeth before a fall!”

She was gracious enough to understand my reference and laugh at herself.

(And the oh-so-graceful falling? Yeah, she is my daughter after all.)

I Probably Should Have Put This on Twitter But Didn't Feel Like Being Concise

Now for every mommyblogger's favorite type of post: Mildly Amusing Things My Kids Did/Said!

(I am imagining my readers cheering wildly. Please don't crush my dream. I have so few left.)

The other night we were driving home after church and the moon looked large, full-or-nearly-so, and Miss Pink exclaimed, "I can see the craters on the moon and I can even see the footprints where the astronauts walked there!"

Justin and I exchanged amused glances and I said dryly, "Wow, we'll have to tell the eye doctor that those glasses really improved your vision."

We chuckled and Mr. Blue piped up, "What are aster-snots?"

The other three of us laughed until I realized he was getting embarrassed and I quickly answered his question. I love it when my kids mispronounce big words and I'm always sad when they start pronouncing them correctly.

* * *

The other day I wanted to be comfortable (wait, when don't I want to be comfortable?) so I was wearing a loose-fitting top and knit skirt as I took Miss Pink to school. She looked me up and down and said firmly but kindly, "Mom, that just looks saggy. You should put on a beautiful belt."

Schooled in fashion by a six-year-old! She was right, though.

* * *

That reminds me, Miss Pink and I often have conversations about which of her clothes look good together. I have always let her wear what she likes, within reason, but sometimes her choices are unreasonable and rather than just lay down the law, now that she is older, I try to explain why something does or doesn't work. She likes What Not to Wear and has been known to say she is "adding a POP of color."

The other Sunday, she picked out a denim dress a friend had given us. It has a full skirt with belt loops so she put a silver belt with it. I complimented her and told her she was wearing all neutrals. (She had recently learned that silver is a neutral.) Then a few days later she spoke up in the car and said, "Mom, is pink a neutral?"

"No," I said.

"But--I LIKE pink," she argued.

"That's great, honey, but it really isn't a neutral. You can wear it with a lot of things, but not everything." This obviously wasn't the answer she wanted, so I kept trying. "Not every color you like has to be a neutral."

She made dissenting noises and kept repeating her vote for pink as a neutral until I said, "Okay, honey. I guess for a six-year-old girl, pink IS a neutral."

And on that fashion-forward note, I am going to stop and go watch TV with my husband.

Homework, Part 1

I was in school for so long--both as a student and a teacher--that I find it hard to believe I don't have homework anymore.

Oh, I know what's coming. Miss Pink doesn't have homework yet--her school doesn't believe in giving the little ones homework, a stance with which I heartily agree, and not just because it makes my life easier. But at some point she and Mr. Blue will have homework on a regular basis, and although I refuse to do it for them, it will be my job to carve out time for them to finish it. Because apparently the role of Mom includes the job description of "keeps the family schedule," which I am not that great at but at least I know to write things on a calendar. So that is part of my homework, I guess: all the paperwork and scheduling. Field trip forms, money to school, doctor's appointments (didn't she JUST have her eyes checked?), class parties. Et cetera.

When the day is done and Justin and I sit down to stare lovingly in each other's eyes watch TV, the DVR has recorded our favorite shows which we only watch when the kids are asleep--mostly CSI-type or cop shows which are too graphic for kids. Plus can you imagine the nightmares Miss Pink would have if she watched a show about a kidnapping or a murder? This is a child who cried for two hours because the mama meerkat saved her babies by sacrificing herself to a cobra. (That WAS a sad episode. Justin should have KNOWN not to let her watch it.) Of course, you never know what will set Miss P off. For about two months she couldn't go to sleep right away because she was worried that an asteroid would hit the earth. (And I swear we hadn't let her watch the movie Armageddon.) Our conversations would go something like this.

MP: Mama, I'm worried that it's going to be the end of the world.

Me: Honey, that's not going to happen.

MP, beginning to realize that her mother is not in fact omniscient: But how do you know?

Me, realizing that I don't in fact know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the world won't end tonight: I just...don't believe God will end the world like that. But no matter what happens, we will be with Jesus in heaven.

MP, face crumpling up: I don't want to be in heaven. I want to be here on earth. And I'm afraid the world is going to explode...

Me: You know, if an asteroid was going to hit the earth the scientists would have already predicted it. If it ever looks like it's going to happen, they will know way in advance.

MP, brightening: And they will do something to stop it from hitting the earth. Like maybe make a rocket that can hit it.

Maybe she saw Deep Impact instead of Armageddon.

And I was going to tell you about TV homework, and I've run out of time. I'll finish later.

I have a favor to ask

If you've noticed that I haven't been commenting as much on blogs, you might be right--I'm not sure. I'm not sure because I am still reading but I haven't been spending as much time commenting this week. I set myself a deadline for a story and I have to finish it by Sunday night. I'm pretending I'm back in college and it's due Monday morning. It's the first fiction I've written since Miss Pink was born. I have to force myself to work on it every day, but gradually the pieces have started to come together and every day I find out what happens next, and I find myself happy to be writing again.

I wasn't going to ask this until the story was done, but what the heck. Email me if you would like to read it and I'll email you a copy next week. I don't want to post it here for the whole world to see, but I could use some readers to give me constructive criticism. By which I mean, you can criticize anything in the story as long as you don't tell me it stinks like warm cat puke. By which I mean, as long as you are reasonably nice, I can take criticism.

On the other hand, if you read it, you have to PROMISE to give me more detailed feedback than "I liked it." Please tell me what worked and didn't work for you, anything that distracted you or made you lose interest, ways to make the main character more likable, potential changes in the plot. Those kinds of things.

To give you a taste of what it's about: it's about a stay-at-home mom who finds herself attracted to her best friend's husband. (I always feel I should add a disclaimer that it is FICTION and in no way based on my life. Especially if you are my best friend.)

I'll leave you with a Mr. Blue anecdote which totally sums up a two-year-old boy's relationship with his mother.
Me: You're so sweet.
Him: No. (smiling)
Me: Well, I think you are. (kissing him on his neck)
Him: No, I don't want to be sweet.

Speaking of Art...

Mr. Blue has been drawing a lot lately. He is mostly an abstract artist. Here's a case in point: yesterday he drew a blob on his paper and said in a VERY excited voice, "Mommy! I made a...Mommy! I made a..."

Then he stopped, looked at his paper and asked, "Mommy, what I made?"

You got me, buddy. But it can be anything you want it to be as far as I'm concerned.

Gender Bender

The strangest thing I've uttered so far today:

"No, I'm not going to buy you a bow for your hair. I bought you a monster truck yesterday."

Also, I keep meaning to mention that they have switched colors. Miss Pink now likes everything blue (because of Blue's Clues) and Mr. Blue wants all the pink stuff (plates, forks, etc.) I suppose I am doing a good job of raising modern children. But I am going to keep the same blog names for them in case things change again!

Mr. Blue, Stand-Up Comedian

So often it seems I’m jotting down something funny Miss Pink has said so I can blog about it. Now Mr. Blue is starting to make more jokes and tease us—he knows what he’s doing and it makes me and Justin just lose it, even when we’re trying to tell him no. When Mr. Blue knows something’s funny, he says, “Dat funny--I wanna laugh!” And then he does—even his eyes laugh.

At my parent’s house around lunchtime:

Mr. Blue: Mama, I want a cookie.

Me: No, you need to eat lunch first.

Mr. B, without pausing even one second: Doughnuts?

My dad, who gives all little children money: Here’s something for you! (He gives them each a five dollar bill.)

Justin: Wow, Miss Pink, that’s five dollars! (Miss Pink is appropriately impressed.)

Mr. Blue, holding his money in one hand and reaching for Papa’s billfold with the other: I want it all!

Justin and Mr. Blue are roughhousing on our bed. This game consists of Mr. Blue standing on his dad and purposely falling off and landing flat on his stomach—or his head.

Justin: You’re a rough tough boy! Are you a rough tough boy?

Mr. Blue: No, I not. I just wanna hurt myself! (falls off)

You know, I just noticed that every one of these anecdotes involves my son expressing in no uncertain terms something he wants. We’ll have to teach him subtlety and manners (not to mention nutrition) but there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want and going for it. Well, except for hurting yourself on purpose.

Question of the Day

From Miss Pink, while we were driving:

"What if it rained fish?"

I shivered and put my hand up as if to protect myself from a torrent of goldfish. How do kids think of these things?

Someday She'll Make Her Husband a Happy Man

Besides the kids' shows on Noggin and nature documentaries, Miss Pink has a couple of other shows she loves to watch with her daddy: Trick My Truck and Ninja Warrior. That last one involves young Asian guys attempting to do physical feats of strength in a timed competition.

For a girly girl, she's got some unusual interests.

Her comment: "You just never know what grownup shows I'm going to like!"

Vegetarians Avert Your Eyes

Yesterday Miss Pink was singing in the car, to the tune of “The Farmer in the Dell”:

The cows give us milk, the cows give us milk
Hi ho the derry-o, the cows give us milk

She went on to sing about chickens giving us eggs, then a thought came to her: “Mom, what do pigs give us?”

I said, “Bacon.” Then immediately wondered if I would have to explain exactly how that happens. It’s not like the pig just donates the bacon and goes on its merry way.

She then said without skipping a beat, “Oh! Then I guess I need to sing the cows give us beef, too.”

She ate her chopped steak with gravy at dinner without any complaints.

You're Thankful for WHAT?

Justin and I don’t tend to be all stuffy and formal in the way we teach our children about God. Mostly because that’s not how we experience our relationship with God. We want our kids to think of God and church as a natural, interesting part of our lives rather than something Serious that is No Fun at All for Kids. So I’m not very rigid about the way we pray: do their eyes really have to be closed? Not at this age, for sure, but they like folding their hands, and chubby toddler hands folded in prayer are adorable. Also, Miss Pink’s bedtime prayers usually sound more like we’re talking on the phone to a friend. “Excuse us, Lord,” she’ll pipe up in the middle of my prayer if she wants to tell me something. “Okay, Lord, we’re back,” I’ll say when she’s done.

But the other night she went too far.

She was sitting on the bed talking to the Creator, thanking him for…farts.

“Thank you, Lord, that we can toot,” she said. “Thank you for the smell.”

The SMELL? She’s thankful for that? I’ve always thought God could’ve spared us that.

Justin told her that was enough, that she was being silly and we don’t need to bring up farts in our prayers. Even if we’re appreciating them.

Then he went into another room and had a good laugh. I’m sure God did the same.

Because our God is not stuffy at all. I know He has a sense of humor. If He didn’t, He couldn’t have created this daughter of mine.

5 Going On 15

Miss Pink has decided she wants to be just like her mommy. This is not entirely new, but her desire to look exactly like me at all times is. It’s sweet of her, and I will wax nostalgic about it someday when she scorns my mildest fashion suggestions, but it can pose problems when we’re getting dressed. For one thing, she has a lot more pink clothes than I do. Today I had to wear a green T-shirt because that was the theme of today’s clothing. She was sad that I didn’t have green pants like hers. I was not sad about that. Thank goodness she can be persuaded that certain colors go together even if they don’t exactly match. (Thank you, Clinton and Stacy.)

It's part of wanting to be grown up. I get that. To her it seems like grown-ups have all the fun. She doesn't know there are days I'd trade places with her in a heartbeat, if it weren't for having to grow up all over again.

She even wants to shave her legs like Mommy. I don’t give her an actual razor. It’s a bladeless plastic razor that came with some depilatory foam. She lathers up her tiny leg and goes to town scraping the foam off. It cracks me up, thinking that someday this is going to be a chore she hates and now she thinks it is just the coolest thing.

She also talks like a teenager sometimes. (This is one of the things that surprised me most about preschool-age girls: I thought all the flouncing and eye-rolling and sarcasm came later. But no.) Her little brother (like most two-year-olds) has a favorite saying: “My do it!” He will back up this assertion with temper tantrums if he doesn’t get to do whatever it is (like, say, pour his own milk). This weekend Miss P said with world-weary scorn, “He says ‘My do it’ for everything.” Like, whatever.

Watching her grow up and getting to fix her hair just like Mommy's every day is one of the best things about my life.

Two Strange Utterances

• Strangest thing I have heard a kid say in a long time: “I only want to eat spinach ever again!” –Miss Pink, last night.

(Guess I need to make that casserole again.)

• Strangest thing I have said recently: “No, you can’t climb up Daddy’s package!” –in reference to a tall box that came in the mail for Justin (he often has things for work sent here), which Miss Pink had the bright idea to climb like her own personal Everest. I wish he'd been here to hear that.

The Egg Doesn't Fall Far from the (Overdramatic) Chicken

Proof that Miss Pink is developing more sophisticated tastes than her simple family of origin?

"I can't eat these chicken nuggets. They taste...overcooked."

After I tasted them and determined that they did not in fact taste any different than nuggets usually do, she claimed that they left a bad taste in her mouth after she swallowed and that she should eat some sour gummy worms instead. Her parents did not agree and politely told her that it was up to her whether or not she ate her nuggets, but she would not get any candy until they were eaten.*

Weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth followed. At one point in the drama she offered this insight into her emotions:

"I just...feel like a...ROTTEN EGG!"

Have you ever tried to disguise laughter at an inappropriate time as choking? Because I do it ALL THE TIME.


*Yes, I am aware of the irony at denying a child junk food until she eats her OTHER junk food. But at least nuggets have protein and it was ALL I HAD TO WORK WITH. Plus she had already eaten an orange. Thus endeth my parental justification.

Maybe someone should get me a Sephora gift card for Christmas

Miss Pink, upon seeing my freshly-moisturized but makeup-free face this morning: "Mommy the red-nosed reindeer..."

Language Explosion Alert: Proceed at Your Own Risk

We’re in the middle of a language explosion around here. Mr. Blue’s vocabulary is expanding--seemingly like the universe, at an ever-increasing rate. At night Justin and I recount the things the words he’s spoken for the first time: “He said ‘medicine,’ didn’t he?” “Well, actually it was more like ‘medsih,’ but yeah.” He says simple sentences now, like “I walk stairs,” or “Mamaw go bye-bye.” With each addition to his vocabulary, my heart swells with pride, like he’s the first kid who ever learned to talk. Now the words are coming out so fast, I find myself thinking, “When did he learn to say that?”

Like every kid, though, he has his own unique names for some things. He calls his toothbrush his “Nemo,” even though he has no idea that’s what the decorative fish on it is named. The blanket he sleeps with is, inexplicably, an “otay.” Anything heart-shaped is a “vah-vah,” and until this week he called a light that can be switched on a “dawdaw.” Monday night Justin told me Mr. Blue said “light” instead, as he turned off the one in his room. (It seems so strange that we can pin down the exact day he started calling it a light.) I felt the pang that I’m already familiar with from Miss Pink’s toddler years. You know they have to learn the real word, but the nonsense one is so cute, you hate to see it go.

Mostly, though, I’m happy to be able to communicate with him the way I communicate best—with words. Of course I loved my children's first few months, but sometimes it was frustrating that the screaming bundle couldn’t just tell me what she or he wanted (and I’d have to haul my shirt up and see if that was it. Again.) Plus, I like newborns best when they aren’t doing anything; if they’re calm and still, it’s a good thing. Any communication from a tiny infant is an urgent call to action. Now Mr. Blue can run around pointing at things, identifying them, and having a conversation with me. “Oh! Pane! [pointing at sky]. Bird. Fower. Want swing, Mama. Where juice? Tank oo. Oh, poopy” (not always accurate, but still helpful).

Then I chase him down (not an easy task), hold him tight, and whisper, “Stay like this. Stay just like this, and don’t ever change.”

Pease?

Somebody's Got My Number

My son is very observant for a toddler. Case in point: last night while a commercial was on, he studied the woman with long brown hair sighing ecstatically while savoring her Dove chocolate.

Then he pointed at me and said plainly: "Mama chocklik."

Does the kid know me or what?