tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8824859626945150022024-02-18T20:27:28.882-08:00This is Me Becoming MommyI started this blog to give myself a creative outlet for the chaos. Plus, some stuff is just funnier when you share it, you know, with strangers. Seriously, though, it's a coping mechanism, a chronicle and a comedy about "Me Becoming Mommy" and who I used to be.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-2495324425433649852014-04-02T11:48:00.000-07:002014-04-02T11:48:11.087-07:00The Last Five Minutes Anywhere FunI swear, the last five minutes we are anywhere fun, my kids lose their minds. It's not your typical "I don't want to go home" tantrums. No, it's mania. It's nonsense. It's impossible, except that it totally happens. <div>
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Take today. We joined some of Kaia's classmates at the park after school. There were 8 kids there or so. Everyone played nicely. Neither of my kids got hurt or cried. It was awesome. Slowly the moms and kids trickled back to their mini vans and headed home. I told mine it was time to go. Although they stalled and didn't want to leave, there were no tantrums. No one cried, no one screamed, and no one tantrumed.</div>
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Mikko asked if he could climb over the rock that bordered the parking lot. Sure, kid, knock yourself out. Kaia was walking toward us on the perimeter of the same rocks. Within thirty seconds, it was absolute chaos. I spent the last five minutes at the park trying to recover.</div>
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Mikko decided to go around the rocks instead of over. It would have been a reasonable, perhaps even wise, choice but for the six inch deep mud. As his shoes sunk into the mud, he tried to take a step forward. Unfortunately, his feet weren't moving where his upper body led. He went down, knees, chest and chin into the mud. Although he didn't cry, he was caked in mud. He literally had an inch of it on each hand, and it took me a while to pry his still stuck shoes from their place. </div>
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Kaia walked up as I was taking Mikko's mud pants off for the ride home. She sort of mumbled something about a fly. I was a little distracted and it sounded a little silly. She started to get panicky and I asked what she was trying to tell me. A fly was on her. Oy, child. Do you see this mud soaked maniac squirming in my arms? She was not overly concerned. She was, however, extremely concerned about said fly. I drop pantless Mikko into his car seat and turn to her. I see no fly.</div>
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So, I try to explain to her that there's no fly and she keeps insisting there is. She claims it flew into her jacket and she refused to move. So I took off the jacket. Sure enough a house fly flew out. Problem solved, right? Well, until the fly flew back and landed on her leg. You'd think the thing had shot her. She squealed like a teenage girl and started hysterical sobbing. (Funny side note, I remember stories of another little girl who screamed bloody murder over a lady bug in the back seat of a car on a road trip. Apple doesn't fall so far from the tree.) She screamed and sobbed the entire way home. </div>
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Somehow, always in the last five minutes, it becomes very clear that we've stayed ten minutes too long. It doesn't matter how long we stay, there is always some madness in the last five minutes. So we're huddled on the couch now where we are safe from flies and mostly clean from mud. Safe and sound and dreading the last five minutes of the next time we do anything fun.</div>
Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-78124082427485389302013-12-24T04:30:00.000-08:002013-12-24T04:30:00.319-08:00Christmas at the Cannadays....We have this bad habit of putting things that need to go down to the basement on the washer and dryer. It's lazy, it creates clutter, but Kev and I both do it frequently. Case in point, last night, after Kevin touched up the red paint (this is key....RED PAINT) in the kids' room, he put the paint can on the washer to bring downstairs. Now I have this bad habit of putting things that were previously piled on the washer and dryer onto the stairs to bring downstairs. At no point does it occur to either of us that it might just make sense to put shit away in the first place. <br />
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So last night, as I'm doing laundry, I put said red paint can on the top step. I considered that, if anyone knocked it down the stairs, namely my three year old tornado, it would be an epic disaster. Now, you know where this is going, but let me take you there....<br />
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We had neighborhood Christmas here last night. Four families, six children, mine with a strict 8:00 p.m. bedtime, gathered at 9:00 p.m. to exchange gifts and enjoy our other "family." I was drinking by 8:00 because I made the mistake of telling the kids at 6:00 that we were having company three hours later. They were driving me nuts. They were also tired, slap happy and maniacal. <br />
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So, as our company trickled in and more children arrived, my kids got SUPER nuts and the other kids weren't far behind. Kevin had the wise idea to send the hyper kids into the kid-friendly, leaving the upstairs adult-friendly, basement. And that's when it happened. Red. Paint.<br />
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One of the girls comes to find me and tells me. The paint had gone down the stairs, opened as it had in the nightmare scenario (perhaps vision?) I had considered when I put it down, and spilled all over the landing. I'm not sue who all walked through the paint on the floor, but there are tiny red footprints all over the basement. There were big red streaks all over the hallway until we captured the cat culprit and washed his paws (this is during a party, I remind you). There was a time when one could find all of the men of the party scrubbing red out of the upstairs carpet, where we cared more that there was paint and we had a chance in hell of getting it out of the carpet, unlike the basement landing....<br />
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Mad props to my husband for not murdering me on the spot. Ha! Actually, when he wasn't terribly angry at me for my bonehead move putting the paint on the floor in the first place, I made the joke that he probably wasn't going to murder me after everyone went home either, but that if he did, he'd probably do it at the bottom of the stairs where there was already a big red paint splatter.<br />
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At 12:30 a.m. I ran to Walgreens to replenish our supply of carpet cleaner while Kevin scrubbed diligently at the footprints. I can't imagine what the clerk thought of my red stained shirt, my raw, red hands and my four bottles of carpet cleaner, plus coffee. When he asked what I was up to, I explained what happened. "Sure, lady," I'm guessing he was thinking.<br />
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My wonderful neighbors took it in stride. They helped clean, they laughed at us, and we enjoyed our night nonetheless. Whoever is hosting our New Years party, though, should probably take note.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-33137804177153242582013-09-19T13:44:00.002-07:002013-09-19T14:20:31.010-07:00The Mommy StandoffLet me preface the following by saying that, I have a bunch of mommy friends that I love dearly. Generally, though, I find other moms terrifying. I imagine them scrutinizing my kids' appearances (why, yes, that IS snot running down my kid's nose!), their comparison of the kids' behaviors and my handling of it, and the totally understandable but completely contemptible "protect-my-own-above-all-else" instinct.<br />
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On runaround days, when we have an hour to kill here, forty-five minutes there, I like to try and find a fun non-car ride activity to entertain my little people. Today, we went to the McDonald's playland, which is kind of like Mecca for kids. Not surprisingly, it was packed with screaming kids that quickly absorbed my own. There was an employee patrolling the kids' area and insisting that the sockless tots sit down, as per the "you must wear socks" rule. Now, I'm so far from a germaphobe that I actually considered protesting the requirement that my four-year old and her eighteen classmates each bring TWO antibacterial hand gels as part of their school supplies, but I'll admit that a bunch of kids with bare feet, around food, and playing at a place like this kinda grosses me out. So I have a strict "you must wear socks" policy for my own kids, along with "no fighting/pushing/hitting/pinching/scratching/kicking/generallybeinganasshole" and "when I call for you, DO NOT make me come up there because contrary to perhaps many adults, I WILL fit" rules. <br />
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Because of the day's torrential rains, I happened to have two extra pairs of socks for my kids (see above rule re: socks), that two parents thoroughly appreciated after their little people were chastised and removed from the tubes, tunnels and slides of the Mecca. One mom in particular was very gracious, that is until Mikko's "pinchy fingers" emerged. We really should call them his scratchy fingers because that's what the gesture is used for. He flattens his little palm, curls his fingers menacingly and, I swear, magically grows much sharper nails than a nail-biter can possible boast.<br />
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So, it's mayhem in there, but all of the parents are pretty alert to their kid's cries, so imagine my surprise when I recognize my own son, usually an instigator, FREAKING OUT. Now, I'm not about to suggest that my Rapunzel-loving, sister's princess undies-wearing, snuggle bug sweetie pie is a tough guy, but he's not a big baby, nor is he really ever the one getting hurt because he's kind of a pain in the ass when it comes to other kids, sharing and, well, generallybeinganasshole. In fact, when one mom apologized earlier because her two-year old had hit him, I think I actually rolled my eyes and said it was probably a good lesson, then proceeded to explain to my son what a good lesson it was to my not-then-crying boy.<br />
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So, anyway, I get up to see to my sobbing child and he's crying so hard that I can't understand him. Finally, I get out of him that, "she [gulp] hit me [sniffle] and so I [sob, gulp, sob] so I [sniffle] so I [gulp] so I hit her next." I settled him down a bit and told him that when someone hits, he should find someone else to play with, that he does NOT hit back.<br />
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As I'm rounding the corner to sit him down at the table for a few minutes after the fray, the mom of the girl involved nearly runs into me with some serious fire in her eyes. I started to explain and she interrupts and says, "Oh, so HE was responsible?" I shrugged and repeated what Mikko had said and that I was sorry. Then the mom gets down on her knees, yanks her daughters hand away from her neck and said, "He CLAWED her up there." So, in all honesty, she did have a bright red scratch, a telltale sign that "pinchy fingers" made an appearance, and so I said, "Okay, I'm going to get him over here to apologize," because, face it, when your kid manages a cat scratch that might put your pet in trouble with whatever government agency "puts down" animals, he probably should apologize. And he did. Politely and sincerely.<br />
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The mom stormed off after making a scene to the rest of the people in her party about how she had to leave the room to calm down her poor precious child, with a tone that suggested that the devil himself made Mikko use his pinchy fingers, which frankly might be only slightly more unsettling than his generallybeinganasshole. And I'm pretty sure that lady hated me right then. She hated me for getting Surprise! pregnant, for growing a boy, for giving birth to him, for raising him with the absolute intention to hurt her baby some day...and generally for existing. I sure hope that little girl likes her new pair of socks, courtesy of her attacker (yeah, my son wears Rapunzel socks....so you're in HIS debt). <br />
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As the day has worn on, I have gone back to the "we don't ever hit back" moment. Sure, the scratches look nastier than a simple slap to the face might have looked, but Mikko has maintained over and over that this girl hit him first and he had the bright red cheekbone of someone who has been hit to show for it. <br />
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And dammit, I'm pretty sure I handled it all wrong. I feel like I should have stuck up for my boy with a polite apology to the mother, but reminding her that it went both ways. I might have won the mommy standoff when that mom tore around the corner and glared into the tear-stained face that was tucked against my shoulder. Or maybe someday that little girl will grow up to be a drama queen who badgers her boyfriend and makes a big deal out of everything and my boy will grow up to be the kind of guy who won't take that shit from his girlfriend and he'll take mommy's advice and go find someone else to play with. Sigh. Raising kids is hard. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-37280666972185129392013-03-27T14:51:00.001-07:002013-03-27T14:51:50.867-07:00Moving sucks when you have little kids...or just generallySo we've all had to move, right? First we move out of our parents' house, maybe into the dorms or our first crappy apartment. Then we move once a year for seven years, each and every year that we're in college and law school. Wait, what? That was just me? Don't tell me dad, who graciously moved me every time! But seriously, you all know how bad moving sucks. Now imagine it with kids. Now imagine it with two kids under the age of five. Now imagine trying to sell your current home, while searching for your future home and juggling all of the timing and financing and showings. And did I mention that you're also supposed to imagine it with two kids under five? And with a job. I'm about to drop dead from exhaustion.<br />
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I wish I were a Hollywood type so that I could hire someone to watch my kids, buy a house on my behalf, move my shit and sell my old house after I'm gone....also, so that I could take a hospital vacation and call it "suffering from exhaustion and dehydration." Come on, you know you've thought of how blissful it was/would be to have a second kid and be "stuck" in the hospital with someone to take care of said second kid for two days, while leaving First Kid at home. <br />
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So we're looking for a home we can stay in for a long time. While we're not too picky about school districts, they factor in. We want a yard, enough bedrooms, a basement rec room, etc. I started out just wanting a "house." It's gotten so much harder. So while I spent countless hours emailing my real estate agent or mortgage broker and perusing the Multiple Listing Service, I have spent less time enjoying the little beasts I'm trying to find more space for! I miss them. <br />
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Here are some choice moments over the past few days that I believe are directly related to my elsewhere attentions. Today, Kaia dressed herself sans supervision. She came out in a black and white knit skirt over jeggings, a short-sleeved yellow t-shirt and neon yellow socks. It was epic. Last night, as I finished cleaning and staging for today's showing, I literally chased the kids around for an hour, insisting that they only play with one toy and when they were done they had to put it back. That actually seems like something I should always do, but I sort of like the peace and quiet of letting my kids get their way. When my agent stopped by for a walkthrough yesterday and commented on the Easy Bake Oven, I quipped, "Yep, two bedrooms, five people and at least one of every toy known to man!" Today, we've got a 7:30 p.m. showing (and a 7:15 p.m. bedtime), and I'm not going to let them step one grimy little foot in that place! I'm treating the monkeys to a McDonald's trip, wherein they will be allowed to play as much as they want and eat as little as they want. I might even get them chocolate milk. And if we need to waste more time, I scoped out a nearby ice cream place. Because I wouldn't have gotten away with putting them in storage, I have two garbage bags of stuffed animals ("friends") in the trunk of my car. When Kaia gets home from our adventure tonight, she's probably going to flip out. Although we were out of milk and juice when Kevin asked about groceries yesterday, the only thing I asked him to pick up was alcohol. I am making mental plans to drink heavily as soon as this showing is over. <br />
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Some day, I will look back on this experience fondly, but mostly because I will never have to do it again with two children under the age of five. Kids, man, they make shit hard. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-15243918611184923782013-03-22T09:53:00.000-07:002013-03-22T09:53:43.904-07:00Reason #19: PUBLIC HUMILIATIONKaia is enrolled to start 4k in the fall of 2013. Like all mothers, I waffle between really excited and really sad about it. I can't believe how big she's getting, but I am so excited for her to start this next big phase of her life. She's articulate and bright and I'm excited for her to have someone who can sit down and teach her how to use her abilities. As a working mom, I don't feel like I adequately do. <br />
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So, I was really excited this morning for her 4k screening. She hadn't been in the school yet, but to drop off her registration in the office. She hadn't met her teacher yet. I was excited for her to do all of these new things! Unfortunately, she'd been saying she didn't want to go as I mentioned it here and there in the days before. Last night she told me she was a little scared and that she wasn't brave like Mikko. I figured this was all pretty normal kid anxiety. She's always with family, so I was prepared for the idea that a bunch of new teachers and kids would be a little daunting. I was not prepared for the actual event.<br />
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We walked in to school and stopped in the office. Obviously, I had failed to notice the three large, colorful signs directing us to the left. Sigh. So we went down the hall and met a staff person looking to take Kaia's picture. She refused to take off the coat that she had two minutes before refused to put on. She refused to put on the sunshine that bore her name in big bold letters. She refused to let me put her down (actually crumpled to the floor like a tantruming two year old when I set her down). Then, when the photographer relented and said I could stay in the picture, she wouldn't turn her head toward the camera. Step one: epic fail.<br />
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The room was set up in stations with five teachers. Each station had a "game" to help gauge readiness as to a number of things. The first teacher brought us over, picture failure aside, and sat us down. She complimented Kaia on her sparkley shoes. She asked about her bear. When she asked Kaia her name, Kaia said, "Mama do it." This kid never calls me Mama. In fact, as often as not lately, she calls me Ma or Mom. She was baby-talking. For a kid who says things like, "We have to hurry before the guests arrive" and "Mommy, it's polite to put our napkins on our lap at the restaurant," baby talk is a rarity. Even when she was a baby she was articulate. Although she came around and participated in two of the games, that's all she was willing to do. Table one: epic fail.<br />
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And then she was done. Everything was "Mama do it" or some unintelligible nonsense. The teacher suggested she take a break and go play with the toys, that we'd come back to it. I left her playing with the toys for a few minutes to get a cup of coffee. Of course, in all of my discomfort at how things were going, I accidentally slammed the door on my way out. And back in. Sigh. After that, her 4k teacher brought her over. She asked her about colors and body parts. Kaia said nothing and hit her face in my hair. Table two: epic fail.<br />
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Her teacher finally said that maybe we should try it on the retest day and that if she wasn't going to participate, she'd just get marked as unable to accomplish all the tasks. We had been dismissed. Can you get kicked out of kindergarten before you're even formally registered for school? Indeed you can, my friends. Tables three through five, unattempted: epic fail.<br />
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I took Kaia out in the hallway to give her a pep talk. Now, mind you, she was misbehaving a little in my mind, but she was also obviously uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to threaten punishment, but part of me was trying to be understanding. Frankly, with four or five moms standing in the hallway that suddenly went silent the minute Kaia started saying, "No. I won't do it. I don't want to talk to the teachers and I don't want to leave. I want to play," I wasn't about to embarrass myself any further by saying anything else that would be met with my child's new version of "discussion." <br />
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I made some awkward joke about how we were leaving, "kicking and screaming if that's absolutely necessary," for the benefit of the moms who were all watching me (read=judging me). Thankfully, she came willingly. I picked her up, turned my back on those moms and started crying. I hadn't even made it out of the damn building. I didn't yell. I'm not sure what good that would have done. I told her I was very disappointed and that I was very, very embarrassed. She sat pretty quietly for the remainder of the drive. <br />
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When we got back to Grandma's to pick up little brother, she was extra clingy. I didn't want to pick her up. That finally made her cry. "I just want to snuggle Mommy!" Ugh. On the one hand, I felt sickly satisfied that she felt bad. On the other hand, when I feel bad, all I want to do is to snuggle my babies, so I get what I was taking away. Eventually I relented and she apologized for being naughty. And here we are, at home, and I'm still thoroughly embarrassed both by her behavior, by our dismissal and the fact that today, my kid was <i>that kid </i>and that is why the number #19 reason it sucks to be a mom is public humiliation. <br />
<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-2763729305830603662013-03-21T12:59:00.000-07:002013-03-21T12:59:25.818-07:00Reason #478 that it sucks to be a momYeah, yeah, yeah, I know there are a lot of wonderful, sugary-sweet reasons that people love being Mommy. Although, honestly, a lot of my reasons relate to how funny my daughter thinks the word "butt" is. I mean, this kid regularly tells me that she wants to eat my butt in that weird voice kids do when they're trying to make sure you know they're telling a joke when they really don't know how to tell a joke. Anyway, back to why it sucks because that actually sort of rules....<br />
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If you've read before, you know I have an almost 3 year old and a just turned 4 year old. I insist on saying it that way because saying I have a 2.5 year old a 4 year old doesn't do justice to the chaos that is having two kids only fourteen months apart and most people don't assume I was stupid enough to have kids fourteen months apart. Instead, they give me too much credit and assume I waited the more socially acceptable eighteen to twenty-four months, which is mathematically possible if I say 2.5 and 4. See where I'm going with this?<br />
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One of the joys that comes from having two kids this age is that one is still hanging on to the terrible threes (don't let anyone fool you, the twos don't deserve the title of "terrible" when the threes are yet to come) and the other is just starting. So imagine your unbearable three year old. When they're at their worst, they give you like ten minutes of normal kid for every hour of monster, right? Well, when one of my monsters is giving me my ten minutes of "I better drink/eat/shower/breathe/work/etc. now because you're not going to let me later" time, the other picks up the slack. If someone is in a bad mood at my house, it's like a black cloud hanging over the entire block. Beware.<br />
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Well, Kaia was in monster mode the other night. Mikko recently picked out his very own frilly, pink Rapunzel nightgown. He calls it his "knit-gone," which cracks me up every time. Actually, maybe it's my bruiser son in a short pink nightgown with lace that makes me laugh, but it's hard to say. Kaia wanted that nightgown. Mind you, she's wearing Mikko's 2T Thomas and Friends jammies, so it's not like she's not stylin'. She just wants everything that anyone else has, especially if THEY like it. After telling her no about a dozen times, she says, "I'm taking those jammies from Mikko and I'm going to wear it and I'm going to take it away and I don't care." Frankly, I stayed pretty calm for that nonsense. I think she would struggle to take Mikko down at all, much less if he knows she is going to try and take away his precious 'Punzel. I think my reaction was probably to laugh and say, "Oh is that right?" while I watched her do exactly nothing to steal said jammies.<br />
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After that, though, we got into the "I'm not going to do anything you say." Need to go potty? "NO!" Come brush your teeth. "NO!" Fine, time to go to bed then, if you're not going to cooperate. "NO!" Then the pinchy fingers made an appearance. She sort of claws up her hand in a very mean and intense fashion and then claws at anyone in her path, usually Mikko. I guess I should probably call it the claw, but that conjures fun tickle fights with Jim Carry in <i>Liar, Liar</i>, rather than my kid behaving like a brat. <br />
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So Mikko got cut. I think she lunged at his jugular and while her pinchy fingers weren't sharp enough to do any damage to his neck, they sure did a number on my patience. I yelled. She dissolved into tears and sheepishly climbed into bed. I caved and snuggled her until she settled down, telling her that while it's not okay to scratch her brother, she doesn't need to cry, blah blah blah, confusing, emotional mother stuff, blah blah blah.<br />
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So, finally, all is quiet and I've sung some Miss Saigon and Les Mis, using a perhaps too broad interpretation of the word "lullaby," and I get up to turn out the lights when Miss K says, "Mommy, you don't like me anymore, you only like Mikko." Stab. Me. In. The. F-ing. Heart. So of course I talked to her about why I yelled at her and why I was defending Mikko and why it's not okay to scratch, but that I'll never stop loving her or liking her, no matter what. Sadly, I will never unhear those words. And because I have a daughter and I was once a teenage girl, I know that this is just a toe dipped into the ocean of horrible things my child will say to me one day that I will never unhear. And this is why being Mommy sucks really, really bad. <br />
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<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-40611820958156579332013-03-10T15:36:00.000-07:002013-03-10T15:36:20.547-07:00Sock FightMy daughter loves to go places. It doesn't really matter where. She's just about as happy with the grocery store as a trip to the zoo. So, after a rainy day stuck inside, I decided to take her shopping. Shopping alone with Kaia is a treat for me, as I normally take both kids just about everywhere. Imagine, if you will, pulling up to Target at any time of any day of the week, because around here, there are so many stay-at-home moms hitting Target in their yoga pants that it might make your head spin. It's winter here, so if it isn't snowing, it's sloppy. My kids refuse to wear jackets. R.E.F.U.S.E. They're not supposed to wear the big puffy ones anyway because, apparently, they're unsafe in carseats because the compression (of the puffy jacket) that would occur in an accident could render the carseat straps too loose. Anyway, back to the kids. Regardless of whether we get shoes on before we leave, they'll be off by the time we arrive. I get jacketless Kaia's shoes back on, pull her out of the car, after asking four times whether she's going to bring her "friend" in with her or leave him in the car. Usually stuffed animals come in, but she doesn't like it when they get snow on them, so this can be quite a discussion. By the time we're over by Mikko, his shoes are off and I'm dragging Kaia because for some reason all small children think it's really inconvenient to hold hands in the parking lot, despite the risk of certain death by car...or so we moms believe. We get Mikko out, I am still dragging Kaia from behind while trying to lift Mikko up over the puddles he so desperately needs to jump in. By the time we get into the store, the discussion f who will sit where has already dissolved into arguments and I dump them wherever I want because they'll bitch no matter what we decide. And that's just getting inside! You get the point. One-on-one Target time is peaceful. <br />
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We strolled through the aisles of Target. I let her pick out some "black and white" trail mix. By the way, chocolate or yogurt covered raisins and peanuts are AWESOME! I complained that I should have gotten a cart because my basket was heavy and she immediately dropped her trail mix into the basket and tried to take it from me. She dropped it, of course, but we laughed. She asked permission to hide and then squealed when I found her. She was so good. There was no fighting with her brother to sit in the front of the cart (or the back...whichever he'd want, that's what she'd fight for). She had my full attention, so there was no shouting, no whining and no fussing. We were having fun. Despite it being late afternoon, and prime time for meltdowns and Jekyll/Hyde situations, I decided to stop at another store. <br />
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I've been practicing more yoga and needed at least one more pair of pants...for yoga, not for Target. I recognize the irony that I had been shopping at Target in my yoga pants, but I had really been at yoga earlier that day. I swear. As soon as we had parked, she said she had to go to the bathroom. Gauging whether we should go to Starbucks, where I <i>know</i> they'll have a bathroom or chance it at Sports Authority where they <i>might</i> have a bathroom, I promised Kaia I needed only one thing and asked if she wanted to go potty first. Because it was raining, I was really hoping we didn't need to make the extra stop. Wrong choice. She said she could wait, so into Sports Authority we went.<br />
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I picked out five things before Kaia reminded me that I said I was only getting one. She was hopping around in the universal potty dance, so I set my purchases down and we went to find the bathroom. Back in the yoga section, I picked up my things and we went to check out. I was feeling pretty smart right about now because I'd picked up two shirts that Kaia really liked, one yellow. I told her she could wear it as soon as we get home. If you've ever shopped with a preschooler (at least mine), you'l know that every time you go somewhere, they have to ask for something. Probably ten somethings. Usually, the something is colorful. Almost always, it's something they already have four of. Definitely always, it's something they Do. Not. Need. It's like a rule or something. So with my yellow shirt in hand, I was feeling pretty clever, having killed two birds with one stone.<br />
<br />I was feeling smart until we walked past the socks, that is. Yes, socks. There they were, seven pair of socks in rainbow colors, Roy G Biv, himself. She was awestruck. Then she was a puppy, begging for a treat. Then she was a lawyer, justifying her position. Then she was obstinate and there she stayed. Even the teenage boy working the counter commented. You know the type, the kid who blushes when girls talk to him, who would rather be playing video games in his basement, the guy who only says "Did you find everything alright" only because he's expected to and not because he wants to have any further conversation with you at all. Even he said, "Wow, she really likes socks, hey?" I laughed and said, "Yeah, she's a marketer's dream...just make it bright and colorful." We completed our transaction, during which time checkout boy answered a call, took my information down for an I'm-sure-super-valuable-frequent-purchasers-reward program (which I am not), rang up all five of my "just one" things and the kid was still talking about the socks. I had long since explained that she has about 30 socks and that these were adult socks. I "fireman carry" throw her over my shoulder and try to make a game out of leaving the store so that I am not further embarrassed by her new, and growing louder, obsession with socks.<br />
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We get out to the car, where it's now raining, and she decides it's hissy fit time. She would not let me belt her in. I'm feeling pretty calm, so I say, "Fine, when you're ready, I'll strap you in and we'll head home." Talk about underestimation. I hop on my phone, text Kevin and let him know the scoops, FB about the nonsense, respond to the comments I get and mostly ignore that she's blabbering on and on and on and on and on and on and on about those socks. I explain again and wait politely. I wait some more. Then I firmly say, "We are not getting socks today. The sooner you are ready to get strapped in, the sooner we can head home." She continues with some form of , "Socks, socks, socks, blah blah blah, socks, blah blah socks...., etc." We sat there for no less than 20 minutes and I was sincerely regretting not having gotten some tasty caffeine before the sock fight. <br />
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Finally, she accepts that I have had too many years to cultivate my stubbornness for her to win this one and she stops talking about those freakin' socks. Instead, she decides she needs Noodles. Oy. She argued that one until she pouted herself to sleep...securely strapped in by her seatbelt. Mommy 1, Kaia 0.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-49382490801032871332013-02-10T09:26:00.000-08:002013-02-10T09:26:35.880-08:00Winner of the Mean Mommy awardMy daughter is obsessed with stuffed animals. I know you're thinking, "Yeah? So is every kid." Oh yeah? Check this out:<br />
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<img height="300" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/539036_10152107897950473_142178215_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
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This isn't all of them because I can't seem to find the subject of this blog post. Ironically, that's what got me the award in the first place, a missing "friend." <br />
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About a year ago, I started squirreling away stuffed animals that I didn't see getting a lot of action. I amassed a half a closet full of wayward friends. Scout and Violet were some of the first victims of Operation Pare Down the Ridiculous Number of Stuffed Animals Laying on the Floor by Kaia's Bed. My kids had a My Pal Scout and a My Pal Violet. For those of you who don't know, they're interactive dogs in green and purple. They can be programmed to say your child's name, put it in a song, share their favorite food and play with your kid. When they were super little, they kind of played with them, but hardly ever despite my confidence that they were awesome toys. <br />
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I am not exaggerating when I say the NEVER asked for those freaking dogs. So after about six months in isolation, I put together a box of friends to take to Goodwill. A few months ago, Kaia randomly asked me for "that purple friend that says Kaia and sings." I played dumb and said, "Huh, I have no idea where Violet is." That was satisfactory until about a week ago.<br />
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We're in the car, on the way to Grandma's, when Kaia asks again about the purple friend. I play dumb long enough to realize I wasn't going to get away with it this time. So I say, "Kaia, Mommy gave Scout and Violet to some kids who don't have as many friends as you and Mikko do. You didn't play with it much, so I thought someone else might really love it and you wouldn't miss it since you have so many other friends you really love. I'm sure we've made another child really, really happy." Read: guilt, justification, excuse, plea. <br />
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She wanted to know who had it, when she would get it back, what they were doing with it, where it was.... Then she wanted to know WHY her Mommy would give away her toys. She really loved Violet, you know? That first fifteen minutes of honesty was brutal. She pouted the rest of the ride and wouldn't tell Grandma what was wrong when we arrived. I explained, feeling awful. After that, although she's talked about it a few times since, it has really died down. I thought maybe she'd forgiven me or at least forgotten.<br />
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That is, I thought she'd forgiven me until last night. Grandma and Grandpa were here babysitting and Kaia went to look for her favorite Dora jammies at bedtime (in the hamper because that's just what she does) and couldn't find them. Guess what she told Grandma Tiny? "Mommy probably gave them to some other kid!"<br />
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Sigh. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-54617023723308814492013-02-05T20:37:00.000-08:002013-02-06T09:48:27.432-08:00Why mothers drink wine and how, even after a girls' night out, our children still manage to kill the buzzIt sounds like the title to a Fall Out Boy song, right? Unlike many FOB titles, though, this song, ahem blog, is actually about boozing and buzz-kills. Kinda.<br />
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See, I went out tonight with a dear friend of mine, someone I see far too little of. We went to a restaurant catering to stereotypical women who drink wine. Neither this friend nor I are that stereotypical....well, at least when it comes to wine. She opted for a sangria. Okay, so I had wine in an oh-so-cliche move, but I did decide on a flight, so I didn't just have a glass of wine. I had four. I'm still grinning to myself about it.<br />
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As women do, we moaned a little about our lives, fretted about the impossible balance between our personal (motherhood) and our professional personas, and talked about those things we all catch up on when we haven't seen each other in too long. Then we moved on to the real stuff. We talked about our feelings on motherhood, our children's less-than-perfectness, and the decisions that have brought us to these places in life that encourage us to drink four glasses of wine (me) or one, modest glass of sangria (her). <br />
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By the end, I had decided several things. 1. I should really drink more. Not just at home, but out in public! A glass of wine (or four) really loosens me up to the shit that I really want to talk about. It also allows me to throw my head back and laugh at my nonsense life in a way I haven't been able to do since I had kids. 2. We. Are. All. The. Same. I don't mean that in a non-PC, we can't give special people special allowances kind of way, but when it comes right down to it, our problems are different, our circumstances vary, but we moms really all deal with the same frustrations and the same real desire to sit at home in sweatpants instead of skinny jeans. Admit it. You know you want to. 3. Good friends are too good to see too little of. <br />
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Oh, and 4. No matter how much fun you have out with your girlfriends, you WILL have to go home and reality WILL kick you in the throat. No, seriously. I got home and went in to give each of my sleeping angels a kiss. I left before bedtime, something that I very rarely do and always feel incredibly guilty about. So I covered my little man up and brushed his forehead with a kiss and moved on to my girl. I pulled the covers up ever so gently to her chin. She blinked a little and I smiled down at her. I imagine this moment in my head now, now that my four-glasses-of wine-buzz is gone, like it would be filmed for a movie - I'm too close, so my features are distorted. My grin is all crazy and clown-like (ie, buzzy and scary). I smile down at her and say "I love you," but she probably only notices my thick tongue and, in her sleepy stupor, is really just plain creeped out by me hovering over her face trying to kiss her. And she FREAKS out. She sobbed for 10 minutes about wanting mommy while I held her and tried to convince her that despite my two hours of blissfully adult conversation, palatal indulgence (because let's be fair, when the kids come out to dinner, I don't get to order seared Ahi tuna), and a limited moments to pretend I am the woman I was before I became "Mommy," that I was, indeed, Mommy and I was right here. <br />
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And I am. Becoming Mommy really always brings us back around to just that. And while wine and good, honest conversation will always be too seldom had and too short-lived, it is always with good reason that we moms stay home to rush in every time our little ones whimper for us. It's because we're good at being moms, despite missing the women we were sometimes. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-44437843014035595362013-01-13T11:45:00.000-08:002013-01-13T11:45:18.304-08:00The things I learned on my first solo trip (with kids) to Costco1. If my head weren't screwed on tight, I'd surely lose it.<br />
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Yesterday, my mother-in-law treated my husband and me to a Costco membership, as part of our Christmas gifts. I have been looking forward to having free reign inside this store since the first time I visited. So much Coca-cola! As a mom trying to feed my family in a healthy but not organic expensive way, I can't beat the bulk frozens and Cheerios. <br />
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Yesterday, after I signed up and had my membership card photo taken, I promptly lost said membership card. I'm fairly confident that the checker didn't give it back to me, but who am I kidding? That's just as likely as a number of other alternatives, like it's in one of the bankers boxes full of files in my trunk or in my kids' hamper. Stuff happens when you have littles. <br />
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I called this morning and was advised that they immediately shred any lost cards they locate, so I decided to brave it on a Sunday morning to get a new card and take a little more time to wander. Bad idea. <br />
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2. Falling on your ass in public is still pretty embarrassing, even when you're a "grown up" with two kids in tow. <br />
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I was pretty sure that being an adult would make me impervious to embarrassment. I mean, not all kinds, of course, but the kind where my teenage self would have reddened, looked around to see who saw, and come up with something witty to say within 3 seconds to deflect from my gaffe. Untrue, in case you haven't had the pleasure of the experience! <br />
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My little guys are 2.5 and 3.5. They're both willing to be held as often as not and, assuming they won't always think I'm the greatest thing since Elmo, they won't always want me to hold them either. So when they ask, I'm more than happy to oblige. Unfortunately, there are two of them and one of me, a fact they are keenly aware of! Mikko kind of requires holding at big stores where I have to stand still in line, otherwise I will lose him. He was also a little sleepy, so wanted some snuggles. Kaia was feeling a little cuddly too and more than a tiny bit annoyed that Mikko was being held and she was not. I tried taking turns until Mikko started running off. So I sucked it up, leaned down instructed them to hang on tight and dragged them both up, one on each hip. That lasted for about 3 minutes before I was exhausted and I went to squat down and let them each sit on my respective knees. Somebody moved, my feet slipped on the water from the snow melting from my boots (did I mention this line-waiting lasted about 10 minutes) and I was on my ass. Perhaps mercifully, no one ran to my rescue. So I laughed and went back to making the kids take turns. I think they decided to give me a break at that point. It didn't last. <br />
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3. No matter how many samples there are, two kids will not last an hour at the store when they're sitting next to each other in the cart.<br />
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This really doesn't require much explanation. Kids hit and push each other in close proximity, especially when that lasts a long time. My little beasts are no exception. I'll let you use your imagination. Unless you have two kids 14 months apart, I assure you that the reality was worse.<br />
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4. They will be DONE about three minutes before you're done, and that will extend the whole process at least another five.<br />
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Costco has this hyper-efficient system wherein you go to the left and your cart goes to the right, so the checker can put your purchases right back in it. My kids aren't awesomely behaved, so I wasn't about to let them put an entire grocery belt between us. So I pulled them both out of the cart after emptying it of all of our items. By the time I had Kaia out, Mikko was already climbing over the side. I had both of their hands and shuffled them slowly forward. Then I realized we were in front of the card reader and the lady in front of us hadn't paid yet, so I shuffled them back. Kaia stumbled (although she didn't fall) and started sobbing. Like my-mommy-just-yanked-my-arm-out-of-the-socket sobbing. Oy. I hadn't pulled her at all, just walked backward while holding her hand, but she did stumble and I wasn't sure if she had hurt herself. When she finally settled down enough to answer me between sobs she said, "I wasn't ready to move backward." Tantrum over, cheeks awash with tears and, as always with a kid who refuses to wear barrettes, hair matted to hear wet face, I promised her she could ride on the back of the cart if she would please just cooperate until we got out to the car. We finally made it out of there alive. Once we were in the car and the kids were finally quiet, munching on some Pirates Booty, I decided that...<br />
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5. Once you have kids, you really only enjoy doing things when you're completely alone.<br />
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<br />Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-47272065713344873732012-12-14T18:54:00.000-08:002012-12-14T18:54:00.846-08:00MourningLike so many people, mothers, out there, I am mourning today. The day started like many others. I was on the phone with another attorney when my two and a half year-old, whom I am trying to potty train, stood up on my nightstand and peed. Oy. That's about right. I rolled my eyes, I picked him up and carried him to the bathroom without skipping a beat on my telephone conference.<br />
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Shortly after 10:00 a.m., I saw the first mention of <i>another</i> school shooting. At that time, there was absolutely no information other than it was being reported. We got busy. Kaia refused to get dressed, then got dressed, then put her jammies back on and refused to get dressed again. Mikko did well on the potty. We watched some cartoons, we played some Thomas the Train on Mommy's phone, and we probably wrestled and tickled a little. We went to the craft store to pick up the fixings for some projects the littles are making for their grandparents. We came home and the kids played with stickers while I made them some lunch.<br />
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As they ate, I happened to scan the news again and I haven't been able to stop since. 20 children lost. 20 sets of parents who have holiday gifts that will go unopened. 20 moms who will wonder if the last thing they said to their child conveyed enough love for them to truly know. 20 broken families. And those are my thoughts of the living. When I try to wrap my incapable head around the terror these tiny people must have felt, what my children might have felt had I been less fortunate, I can scarcely breathe. <br />
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I sobbed into my children's chests as I pulled them away from their lunches. Kaia asked what was the matter. I only told her that I'd read a very sad story. Mikko patted my back and said, "It's okay, Mommy." When they came home from a visit at Grandma's this afternoon, the simple weight of their bodies in my arms, a feeling which is so familiar, soothed me. The thought that I might never again fit their tiny bodies into the perfect contours of our hugs is more than I can bear. <br />
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And that last is the thought I imagine the victims' own mothers lamenting. I know there will be a last time that my daughter sits on my lap, that my son needs my help on the potty, that my kids will want to be with me more than anyone else in the world. I have faith that those lasts are far, far away from now, but my heart goes out to those mothers, those family members, whose lasts came far too soon. Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-41177408101816863692012-07-10T20:08:00.000-07:002012-07-10T20:08:52.482-07:00Milestones can suck itAs parents, we look forward to all those amazing moments when our child accomplishes something new . We snap photos of the first smiles, document rolling over, first steps, and first words. We make charts and give rewards for learning to use the potty and following the rules. We cry over first days at school and first kisses. Frankly, we're downright nuts about milestones. <br />
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You know what milestone this Mama could live without? Toddler bed. The toddler bed, and all associated milestones, can suck it. Mikko first climbed (read: fell) out of his crib at about 15 months old. I was NOT ready to move him to a safer, yet more escape-able toddler bed at that time. I counted myself lucky when he stayed put for another 10 months. But judgment day was a coming. <br />
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A few weeks ago, Mikko decided to try again. Man, was he successful. He climbed out and climbed out and climbed out and climbed out again. I gave up and converted the stupid crib to a toddler bed. At least if it's a bed, he might climb back in, right? Not so much.<br />
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In fact, not so much that half of Mikko's sleeps have ended with me retraining the kid. Like for real. Here's a little taste for you: Mommy brings both kids to bed. The method of transportation is often a horsey back ride (sometimes a dually, which frankly this old body can hardly manage with the combined 55 pounds of small people up there). I plop both kids in one of the two beds and sing lullabies until they screw around so much that I separate them. Upon separation, I sing loudly from the middle of the room...you know, to keep things fair. I sing one last Broadway show tune, after I've said "this is the last song" three times, and I kiss them goodnight. Kaia says, "Mommy, now say, 'Mikko don't get out of bed." Alright, little mama. "Mikko, don't get out of bed." Mikko says, "Okay, Mommy." Sweet, right?<br />
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Here ends all sweetness about nighttime at my house. <br />
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Act I. Minutes after I've been lulled into thinking that maybe the little beasts have just gone to bed without a fight tonight, I hear giggling. I let it ride for a few minutes, but eventually go in to find all of the lights on. I forgot to turn the lamp off with the knob instead of the wall switch. Dammit. Kaia startles, still sitting in her bed (she's the good one in this tale) and lays down immediately. Mikko turns and runs into the attached playroom (closet), which is also bathed in light. I see that the three thousand stuffed animals that Kaia must have next to her bed on the floor are piled in Mikko's bed. The kid couldn't lay down there if he wanted to. I toss animals back into their corner, get suckered into one more song, kiss both kids and tell Mikko to stay in bed. "Okay, Mommy."<br />
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Act II. This time a crash brings me into the room. Entire collection of Cat in the Hat books lay on the floor. I pick those up. I kiss Kaia and remove the books Mikko has tossed in her bed, on her head. (Now I'm contemplating trying to rhyme this whole blog post a la Dr. Seuss, but I don't have the vocabulary.) Anyway, Mikko dashes back to the closet. I put him back in bed, turn off the light, and tell him to stay in bed. "Okay, Mommy." <br />
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Act III. Big sister upstairs says she just heard Mikko turn on the closet light. This time he hadn't had a chance to do any damage. I say, "No. Mikko, in bed. NOW!" By say, by the way, I mean roar. I notice Kaia's sleeping and shut my yap. I kiss the boy, tell him not so nicely to keep his butt in bed and get up to leave. "Okay, Mommy."<br />
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Act IV. I promise this can't go on much longer.... Repetitive banging, so I go in. Mikko has both tricycles out of the closet and next to Kaia's bed (not sure how he managed that without a sound). Apparently, he wanted her to join him on his nighttime ride. Amazingly, she slept through his offer, despite the noise of him ramming the front tire into the bed frame over and over. I remove the bikes from the bedroom. Mikko whines for his bike. I whine for my sanity. I tuck him in and can't remember if I told him to stay in bed or not. He probably said, "Okay, Mommy."<br />
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Act V. Okay, seriously, I'm done. Light's on, I go in, and put the child back in bed. He will NOT lay still. Seriously, it starts with kicking his feet, walking them up the wall next to the bed, running them back and forth across the crib sides, bouncing them on the mattress...and that's just the kid's feet. I lay my right arm across his lower body. Feet cease moving, thank god. Then he starts with his arms. He rubs his eyes, he runs his hands through his hair, he pokes his finger in his ear, he puts his thumb in his mouth and pulls it out with a popping sound, he throws them up above his had, he swings them back down by his sides, he flails them around. I take both of his arms and hold them still with my left arm. Then the freakin' hands start. He went as far as to wiggle his fingers to keep himself awake. I had to literally stretch my fingers over the top of his fingers to make him be STILL. And the little dude starts blinking his eyes!!!!! I swear to god, this might have gone on forever if it wasn't 10:00 at night. Thankfully, the blinking led to the droopsies. Those eyes drooped for about 90 seconds before he drifted off to sleep. <br />
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Why does my kid hate me and why would anyone want to give their kid the ability to freely get out of their bed? My darling husband suggested that maybe Mikko will sleep in tomorrow. I laughed in that way that lets someone know how utterly stupid that thing that they just said is. Now I have to go to sleep because Mikko's brand of "sleeping in" will include a 6:15 a.m. wake up call, at best.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-39257199478515522142012-05-27T18:34:00.001-07:002012-05-27T18:34:29.345-07:00Yes...this actually happenedSo, it's taken me a long time to blog about this. You know how there are those experiences in life that are so unbelievably bad, but that you know will be funny later? They are moments that you can hardly believe didn't result in the death, or at least serious injury, of somebody or perhaps the maiming of really expensive electronic equipment? They're the stories that you almost don't call your best friend about because it was really that bad and you don't want to admit it, but you just KNOW she'll think it's hilarious? <br />
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Welcome to my Thursday afternoon. See, my mother-in-law graciously watches my 2 and 3 year olds on Thursday afternoons for me. I bring them over, put them down for their naps and when she comes home, I'm free to go to work, pick up our teenager or just have a few hours to think clearly. On the Thursday in question, we arrived early because I had some things to arrange in the kids' rooms. I set them up in the living room with an episode of Caillou. I knew I'd be up and down the stairs a few times and since my 2 year old was going through a "Mikko do it" phase, I thought it best to gate them in the living room lest I come back to the top of the stairs to a tumbling toddler with broken limbs.<br />
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I had some things to get out of my car, so I snuck out through the garage door we had come in. Bare foot and empty-handed, I ran out to my car, got the things I needed, and came back to the garage door. As contained as my kids might be in the living room, that wouldn't stop them from trying climb the stone fireplace, crying because they couldn't see me or any number of other things I hadn't wrapped my head around before I decided to go back outside. I got back to the door, turned the handle and found that it's locked. No, seriously. I locked my two toddlers inside a house that I couldn't get into. Let that sink in for a moment or two. Yup, two toddlers. In a house. Alone. <br />
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I only panicked for like 3 seconds before I started trying to figure out how the eff I was going to get back into that house. I pretty quickly set aside smashing a window because I thought my in-laws would frown on that approach. I frantically dug around for the spare key that had been moved since the last time I used it. Finally, I gave up and ran around the house to the window where I could at least see the kids. <br />
<br />I didn't want them to get scared, so I tried not to sound as freaked as I was. Although my cell phone was locked in the house with my kids, I had my work phone in the car. And I used to think it was a bit frivolous to have two cellular telephones to keep my personal and professional life separated! I grabbed that and called Kaia over to the window, through which she could just barely hear me. She came when I knocked, thankfully. I had her go get my phone and come back. There was an amusing exchange where I tried to call her while shouting through the window explanations as to how to answer the iPhone. She finally answered, while looking at me outside from her spot at the window, and I asked her to try and push the gate over. I figured if there was a way to get them to the garage door, I'd talk her through opening the garage door and letting me back in. It was an ingenious plan until she replied, "Not right now, Mommy. I'm watching Caillou," and just like that she put the phone down on the window sill and turned back to her show. By this time, my 2 year old had realized I was outside. He thought it was a super game of peek-a-boo. Unfortunately, every time he went to hide, I frantically knocked at the window trying to get his attention back. That kid is a tornado and I couldn't imagine the damage he might be doing. Thankfully, he liked peek-a-boo enough that nothing was broken or colored on. I did have to coax him down from the entertainment center at one point, but he hadn't knocked down the tv yet. After Kaia's show ended, and I wasn't there to start a new one, she came back to the mommy-at-the-window show. She wanted me to put a movie in. She kept bringing DVDs to the window and asking to watch them. I kept telling her I couldn't put them on . She got bored with that and decided to stack them in front of the window until my view was blocked. I had to pound on the window to knock them down so that I could see what I had no control over and she just kept putting them back up. Awesome.<br />
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About 25 minutes after I managed the ridiculous, my mother-in-law came home to save the day. I rushed in and hugged them both. They were, of course, oblivious. They went down for their naps like normal and I opened a bottle of wine before 4:00 p.m. I called my mom and she said very helpful things like, "You know, this is probably the worst thing you'll ever do as a parent" and "At least you will probably never do it again." I should hope so...and not. My sister laughed. My husband pointed out that I should carry a purse (I don't)...because normal, not paranoid people, carry their purses from the house to the car every time they have to run out for something silly? Oy. <br />
<br />It was a rough one with a happy ending. So, today's lesson is that no matter what bumble-headed idiocy you might have committed today, I bet you managed to avoid locking yourself out of a house that you've locked your children into. Take some solace in that. You've got me beat.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-82614176494713106152012-02-09T11:19:00.000-08:002012-02-09T11:19:35.663-08:00My kids own me so badSo I might have been FB venting about how difficult my kids have been the last 24 hours. I like to think I'm one of those who 'rarely posts this kind of thing,' but who am I kidding? FB is really only good for complaining about shit, bragging about shit and spewing political shit. So, back to my complaint. A wise friend of mine joked (?) that, "Your kids own you so bad." OMG, she's so right.<br />
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It really hit me on the way home from the gardens today, when my daughter cried for twenty. five. minutes. Over what injustice, you ask? I wouldn't turn off the radio. See, I started to get wise last night. It starts out with petty little bribes, like "Oh, you don't want to put your jammies on? Let's turn on your favorite show while we change you!" "Oh, you don't want to listen to this song? Let's find something you like!" "Want one of those things that Mikko has? Let's see if he'll share (he always will)?" I woke up some time last week and realized that despite my de facto ban on princesses, somehow, one slipped through and she's inhabiting my preschooler. DAMN!<br />
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Another wise friend of mine recently said something to the effect that life is much easier when we figure out that EVERYONE is winging it. It's true. I don't have a clue what I'm doing! I have a sweet happy kid one week, even if bribes are to thank, and this week I have a Gorgon! And, apparently, bribes are to blame! <br />
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So what do I do now? Apparently I just make her cry. I might take my kids to the liquor store later and make them buy me wine. Lots and lots of wine.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-22631213521667634272011-12-29T18:15:00.000-08:002011-12-29T18:15:05.544-08:00Motherhood really should be classified as a mental illnessWikipedia, wealth of completely accurate information that it is, characterizes a "mental illness," in part, as "a psychological or behavioral pattern that is generally associated with distress or disability, and which is not considered part of normal development or a person's culture." And while <i>that mom</i> certainly seems commonplace nowadays, my madness tonight certainly seems outside of MY normal development or culture.<br />
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I'm a pretty rational creature. In fact, recently, when speaking with the wife of a male client of mine about VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean, for my male readers or those of you moms who have been lucky enough not to have a c-section before your last child or 14 months before you're about to have your second, unexpected although delightful child), he remarked, "I wouldn't have expected you to have an interest in that." That's right. I'm like a dude. I do the stuff that I have to, I try to remain logical and unemotional about things that are outside of my control and I only really admit to being a freak on the internet. I assume that babies come from storks, or at least that it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as tv depicts labor and delivery and that a c-section is a cake walk. Okay, that's not the point of this post, but I'm a closet hippie (and apparent emotional basket case), it's not what I lead with, you know?<br />
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So I surprised not only my husband, but also myself when I skulked back to my room after Kaia's bedtime in tears. See, she's been in this phase lately. Her official language is "I Don't Want To," and most of the natives speak "No." So, like the circus clown that I am, I make everything a game, give her options and make lots of silly faces to keep her from the doldrums of "No, I don't want to." <br />
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We did our usual routine - we got our jammy balls on (yes, I said "jammy balls" - it refers to the jammies with basket/base/foot balls on them that she HAD TO HAVE because baby brother got some....and, for what it's worth, I handed these over a month early as a bribe because she wouldn't get her pajamas on one night), we brushed our teeth singing, counting and letting her play in the water so she'd give us 8 uninterrupted seconds to brush all the cookies we bribed her with earlier off her teeth and we climbed into my bed to watch Caillou and Kipper. Thankfully she watches reasonably bearable television. <br />
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She snatched my iPhone from me, where I was quietly ignoring the cartoons and reading a book, and opened the Dora app. I let her until Kipper was over, but being that I'm a sleep Nazi, it was time to go night night. Believe it or not, she did not want to go to night night. I always remind her we still have to go potty. No reason to bother trying to rush the master procrastinator. I offered options, a little circus trick I learned over the last year or so. I said, "You have two choices to make. You can either go on the big potty or the little potty AND you can either go with Mommy or Daddy." I was pretty confident that she'd pick me. She LOVES me. "I wanna go all by myself." Smugly, I said, "Okay, go ahead." No shit, the kid took herself to the bathroom, turned on the light, managed out of her feety pajamas, went potty only in the toilet, wiped and jammied herself. WTF. I was a little flustered by her ability and at how dispensable I suddenly became. Being that I'm not a completely selfish human and hoping I could win back her favor, I congratulated her and told her how proud I was. Much more timidly, I asked, "Do you want Mommy or Daddy to take you to bed?" She said, "I want to walk." I'd had it. Tears. Walk? She's NEVER not been carried to bed. Ever. And unless I'm not in the house, she's only been carried by anyone other than me, like 5 times. She always picks me and she always lets me carry her. She hopped off the bed, walked to her room, opened the door (leaving it open for me groveling behind her) and waited by her bedside. I came back to let Kevin know he could go in and say goodnight and when I went back in, I asked if she wanted her lullaby. She nodded. As soon as I started to sing, she said, "No Mommy, I want to sing it." WHAAAAAT?! She sang the entire thing. I cried quietly enough not to be heard and hugged both Kaia little Mikko extra tight because I'm pretty sure they'll be starting college in a few weeks. <br />
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I came back sobbing. I'm not sure if Kevin was more amused or surprised, but he definitely did NOT know what to say. He reminded me that she still can't make her own lunch, so it was probably no big deal. But I do, in fact, feel like a crazy person who is developing outside of my normal. The whole point of raising children is to create independent human beings out of them, right? So why am I so Spaz about this? It's because despite how easy things get as they get independent, we're all masochists and want to be our children's circus clowns. Or something like that. Perhaps tomorrow I'll show her the trailer for <i>It</i> and tell her a thing or two about circus clowns. I bet that alone would have her clinging to me for another 5 years. Okay, maybe not.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-70620666876930312242011-12-20T18:33:00.000-08:002011-12-20T18:33:16.406-08:00Before I was mommy, I was stepmommyIn an uncharacteristically sappy moment, I must share. My dear, sweet teenage stepdaughter turns 16 years old today. No seriously, "dear" and "sweet" are not euphemisms for "miserable" and "rotten," nor are they code for "find a way not to let your own child reach his or her teens." She really is an absolutely wonderful girl. I had no idea that this (a not miserable female teenager) could exist. <br />
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Years before I had children of my own to push around, I found myself meandering through a situation that even the most centered of actual adults struggle to handle. Yet somehow, between a rocky beginning (because how could it be anything else?) and my internet declaration of joy at her reaching such a milestone, we have forged what I dare say is a pretty incredible bond. <br />
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I remember K completely ignoring me the first time I saw her. She knew who I was and she knew why I was there, but I don't think she was ready yet. She walked right past me, skipped up the stairs and she was gone. Just like that. It was hours before she sat me down and schooled me in Sudoku. I have been learning from this child ever since. Two years later, when I married her dad, I promised some things that I wish I could remember and she wishes she had understood through my crying, but I meant every word of it, I'm sure. A year after that <i>my</i> first child was born and while it was a HUGE adjustment for all of us, it has done the most amazing thing for K and I. It has brought us closer and changed us in ways I couldn't have expected and wouldn't have dared hope for. If my daughter follows in her big sister's footsteps, I will be one proud mama bear.<br />
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K, you are, without a doubt, the most wonderful 16 year old I have ever known (and when I was 16, I knew a lot of 16 year olds). You have brought a depth to my life that I can't imagine living without. No matter where life leads us both, I know that we will always share something that is special and reserved only for us. I look forward to sharing all of your milestones with you - graduation, college, wedding and marriage, and someday your own children, perhaps. I hope you have a magical year and a magical life. I can't wait to be there with you.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-45876883549591450862011-12-14T10:31:00.000-08:002011-12-14T10:31:39.913-08:00I blame it on sleep deprivationI do. I blame all of my problems on sleep deprivation, which I suffer from depending on the day (and the blunder). Plus, claiming sleep deprivation is the only thing that makes this must-be-told-in-blog-because-it's-hilarious story mommy-blog-related...so there's that.<br />
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I've had a busy work week. I was out of the office and playing stay-at-home mommy last week because my sitters were all out of town. Enjoying themselves. While I panicked about spending 7 uninterrupted days with my own children. <br />
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This makes coming back to the office with 20 voice mails, 100 emails, and who knows how many annoyed sighs at calls that didn't result in voicemails, not to mention the response to my "out of office" email auto-reply, rather less than pleasant. I trudged through Monday in preparation for 3 hearings between Tuesday and Wednesday. To a non-lawyer, this may not seem overwhelming. To a lawyer, 3 hearings a week is a good clip to work at, not 3 hearings in two days. Perhaps look at it this way - I have 7 hearings all month and 3 of those were in 24 hours. I'm really busy and important, dammit!<br />
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Monday night, I woke up after a terrible nightmare. In my dream, I was sleeping in the middle of the day for some reason (sleep deprivation, probably) and woke up. I started getting ready to go to my first of these three hearings and realized that it was 5:00! The hearing was scheduled at 3:15 (in my dream) and I was late! I turned to Kevin, "Shit! I missed it! I missed the hearing! I'm not even late, like I completely missed it! What the [bleep] am I going to do? Should I call the court and just lie?" (Disclaimer: I would NEVER lie to a court official, just in case anyone comes across this and questions my impeccable, although sleep deprived, character.) I woke up heart racing and in a cold sweat at 4:00 a.m. Not an awesome way to start a day I'm already anxious about. See part of the issue was that I had papers to prepare before both hearings that I needed to prepare before the first hearing (8:15) because I wasn't sure I'd have time in between to get prepped for the second hearing, which was in another county and only 2.5 hours later.<br />
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So, I'm all frantic all morning. I get what I need to get done and I get on the road worried I'm going to arrive to court late. I arrive to court late. :/ Thankfully, so did everyone else party to the matter, so that was a win. I started to feel good. I had 5 minutes to sit and breathe before anyone else wanted to even talk to me! My client arrives, meeting goes well, we head into court. Commissioner was in a great mood, cracking jokes, enjoying his morning. Parties were actually working together, instead of against one another which is the norm in this business. It was a glorious first appearance of the three! I'm feeling good. We part ways. I step onto the elevator. <br />
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What happens next has already become legend, you know, to me. So, I was in a hurry because while my first hearing went more smoothly and therefore more quickly than expected, I could really have used some extra time going through the file for the next case. No one can ever be too prepared for court. I'm waiting patiently as the elevator crawls from the 7th floor to the 1st. I distract myself by playing peek-a-boo with the little girl next to me. Sadly, she got off on the 1st floor and I've got to get through the Ground Floor to the Basement where my car awaits me. The door opens and I start to step through. In anticipation of a speedy exit and return to my office, I pull my keys out of my briefcase. I bobbled them ever so slightly and they slipped out of my hands. RIGHT. DOWN. THE. ELEVATOR. SHAFT. <br />
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Even the other attorney in the elevator exclaimed, "NO WAY!" like a 15 year old boy watching a friend perform Jackass-style stunts in a living room. I would have thought that dropping ones keys down the elevator shaft, you know down that little crack between the moving box and solid ground, would be nearly impossible. Apparently not. Or I'm just oh so awesome that it could only happen to me. As they were falling from my hands I thought, "Wow, it looks like those could fall right down that little crack between this moving box and solid ground." Then I thought, "Holy &*!%sing shit!" Then I thought, "I'm never going to be able to get home again because my car keys and my office keys and my house keys and my Mickey Mouse keychain were on there." Then I thought, "No, seriously, how the hell am I going to get home." Then I thought, "How the HELL am I going to get to my next court appearance." This all lasted about 8 seconds. <br />
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I calmly walked over to the bailiff doing security checks and said, "Um, I just dropped my keys down the elevator shaft." Dude just puts down his beepy wand and looks at me. "Like you dropped them and they fell into the crack between the moving box and solid ground?" Okay, he didn't say exactly that, but you get my point....it WAS pretty unbelievable. "Yes." "Well, that's not going to be easy to fix." Little did he know that Mike, the maintenance guy, is actually a super hero and had them in my hands in less than 10 minutes. So Mike? Here's a shout out to you, wherever you are. THANK YOU! You proved both beepy wand bailiff and all unionized-county-worker-haters wrong when you ever so promptly returned my lost keys. (Thanks for that Joey.)<br />
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If dropping your keys down the elevator shaft is akin to seeing 666, Mike was definitely the image of the Virgin Mary on my grilled cheese sandwich. I'm pleased to say that while Tuesday did NOT get better, today has been glorious, thus I've taken the time out of my day to ignore my work and update my blog. Oh, and I was really tired when this happened, which is probably because I have two kids, which causes sleep deprivation, which is why this story is appropriate for my mommy-blog. Whatevs. I'm done defending. It's just a priceless story that deserves to be shared as many times as someone can stand to hear it and laugh at me.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-65014158679570733832011-12-05T12:08:00.000-08:002011-12-05T12:08:10.861-08:00An ode to the stay-at-home momLike most mothers, I love my children with a fierce devotion that borders on psychosis. I can imagine myself into crying spells over possible some day tragedies like my daughter being cut from the dance team or my son being teased for his love of shoes. I actually have panic attacks when my son cries when I put him down for bed. I kiss my daughter a thousand times a day and tell her I love her...<br />
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I, however, freely admit that I could never be a stay-at-home mom. I think I'm able to adore my children so much because my time with them is limited. I work full-time and there's nothing better than coming home to squeals of glee from my littlest loves, but those squeals quickly sound like screams when you're stuck inside with two under three all day. So, when I learned that both my daytime care givers were going to be out of town the same week, I did what every loving mom would do. I freaking panicked. I don't "do" crafts. I have limited patience with Dora, and while I am a master fort-builder, my 18 month old doesn't get not to pull the blankets down.<br />
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I have some ideas. We're going to bake Christmas cookies one day, and I have resigned myself to cleaning during the two hour nap time to follow. We're going to go for a freezing winter hike one day. I'm sure that will waste all of 30 minutes. It's too cold to spend hours at the zoo and Kaia has decided that she's deathly afraid of the museum. She reminds me every day. Today we did some shopping, just to get out of the house. <br />
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And this is why I could never be a stay-at-home mom. We stopped at three stores. The grocery store let them each take a balloon home. Sure glad we stopped there first because you can imagine two children in car seats with helium balloons in and out of the car five times. Oy. I avoided all but three aisles at Target because I wasn't willing to have the "Santa's coming in a few weeks, so we're not getting anything" conversation today. We got our groceries at the store, but I forgot two things I really wanted. We enjoyed the pet store (and the cats are enjoying their catnip), but Kaia did not enjoy when we left twenty minutes after picking up said catnip. <br />
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So we got home, I threw some lunch on the stove and I sneaked off to the bathroom while the kids watched some Dora. It was then that I realized that I was wearing a shirt with a hole in it, my underwear inside out and I had managed to leave my zipper undone. Classy. Thank goodness they're too little to be embarrassed by me.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-37667663209394627732011-11-19T18:29:00.000-08:002011-11-19T18:29:07.148-08:00The shit that happens at my house (when we're stuck inside all day)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The day started out rough. Mikko was up before 5:00 a.m. for the second day in a row and he was C-R-A-N-K-Y. When Mikko gets attention for whining, Kaia catches on quickly. She's even taken to mimicking his non-word sounds to try and get her way. It didn't take long before Mommy and Daddy were overwhelmed and feeling beaten by their greater (spastic) energy. I'm not gonna lie, we pretty much let them do whatever kept them from crying all day....and so, our day in pictures, entitled "The Shit that Happens at My House (when we're stuck inside all day)"...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvJazjhvB1idO9Y0wrC7A9MDsSuggkVv8My-2ekVQBZNBM7a2ocI2NdkUzX8yXTuzRLl1s92NE7_UGzOj_2uEb3CnlBjv3S6kX5Czuhm7nw_TN3JZn7K18hBS08_sCMW7noQqCSorLMY/s1600/IMG_6089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTvJazjhvB1idO9Y0wrC7A9MDsSuggkVv8My-2ekVQBZNBM7a2ocI2NdkUzX8yXTuzRLl1s92NE7_UGzOj_2uEb3CnlBjv3S6kX5Czuhm7nw_TN3JZn7K18hBS08_sCMW7noQqCSorLMY/s320/IMG_6089.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While I'm not huge into routine, I'm kind of a stickler for healthy eating and generally require that my children wear daytime clothes during the daytime. Some day they'll wonder how my yoga pants qualify as "daytime clothes," but by then, I'm sure I'll come up with some explanation....probably "Because I said so." So at some point I noticed that they were in their matching jammies (Kaia insists on having all the same feety pajamas as Mikko has) playing in Kaia's bed with a pumpkin bucket from Halloween that found its way back up from the garage recently and eating Reese's Pieces. And, for what it's worth, it wasn't that early, but no doubt probably not an appropriate time for candy, like after they've at least had a meal.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0bGFBmVk67FZ_i_vdbsRilOuoKsXCk4Ih8YhMly54MFhB2AWOTu1tNMJDx4GoS_R-QFk7xCMPvj3hblCUFLZVcEgAVPlKD_i2u7KZVb_DRRUX04f9yVznjMi-X1V4UsRgMoxxqDDPi8/s1600/IMG_6130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0bGFBmVk67FZ_i_vdbsRilOuoKsXCk4Ih8YhMly54MFhB2AWOTu1tNMJDx4GoS_R-QFk7xCMPvj3hblCUFLZVcEgAVPlKD_i2u7KZVb_DRRUX04f9yVznjMi-X1V4UsRgMoxxqDDPi8/s320/IMG_6130.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There's really only one way to watch tv in this house....</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iNPaR_gzQ53pJFzFEpqbA-Swalwn0Ikcf8meO_UDXINSg5KQvSgvyIst6TwqxpTSDM02rBwL96ZWQGvzJXq5RWiRw2iILzuotUTEJhf9yTR-LQeP7dAGtzOLL5ysyjo2Up9CHSPXnrM/s1600/IMG_6137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iNPaR_gzQ53pJFzFEpqbA-Swalwn0Ikcf8meO_UDXINSg5KQvSgvyIst6TwqxpTSDM02rBwL96ZWQGvzJXq5RWiRw2iILzuotUTEJhf9yTR-LQeP7dAGtzOLL5ysyjo2Up9CHSPXnrM/s200/IMG_6137.JPG" width="200" /></a></div> Well, alright, there are two ways, but both clearly involve laundry baskets. And no, I don't get credit for my house being chaos because I was busy doing chores, like laundry, because I was not. I was busy taking pictures of my nutjob kids, a most time-consuming hobby.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRaCBEj2JT9RsA0O4Z_ANVehXXUDy1QTzuye47ZQclL8Vmn7DiyC1xuHvMDnFmXRgdl1Um6E7_DTRXxDzoxF45nw7JO3urTOyi8wmx-kLm7wPfqcUDIPraZjntrN5KzRtkMYsr1MPTN8/s1600/IMG_6147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRaCBEj2JT9RsA0O4Z_ANVehXXUDy1QTzuye47ZQclL8Vmn7DiyC1xuHvMDnFmXRgdl1Um6E7_DTRXxDzoxF45nw7JO3urTOyi8wmx-kLm7wPfqcUDIPraZjntrN5KzRtkMYsr1MPTN8/s400/IMG_6147.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>This was the highlight of my night, probably because I had already started drinking wine at this point. The kids pulled out every stored grocery bag we had in the house. Kaia starts throwing them over her head yelling, "Snowing! Snowing!" Kevin does NOT enjoy this game. I LOVE it. While I realize it's a pain in the ass and there's probably a choking hazard we should consider, they will play like this, uninterrupted and nicely for like 20 minutes. Note that Kaia is wearing her Dorothy costume while Mikko is sporting the one-leg-up sweatpants thing. My kids are COOL.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTroQsH2D26izoB7qOErfc8L0143_EiOw5Ey8vuZJ_2PsRwT_sYlUtMMUdlOA-XbmTyCyKMtBYVERyLKDuygsEig3Ega5QbVM13Y9PBnLU08bBbyy_raWuZBV2_MG-1_p8PChg9cQ_iEU/s1600/IMG_6153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTroQsH2D26izoB7qOErfc8L0143_EiOw5Ey8vuZJ_2PsRwT_sYlUtMMUdlOA-XbmTyCyKMtBYVERyLKDuygsEig3Ega5QbVM13Y9PBnLU08bBbyy_raWuZBV2_MG-1_p8PChg9cQ_iEU/s320/IMG_6153.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>And just so there's no misunderstanding, this was about 15 minutes before Mikko's bedtime and, yes, they're eating cake. There's no doubt these little rockstars are my kids. They love cake. <br />
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So here's what I missed with my camera today. Can you believe that with all this mayhem there's more that went uncaptured? Not long after my grocery trip with Kaia that was cut short just after the produce section because someone decided to have a hissy fit and someone's mommy was NOT into dealing with it, I found the two of them spinning in circles in the living room. They were giggling their tiny butts off when I realized that Mikko had a balloon string wrapped around his neck...twice....and when Kaia, who was holding the weight, spun, Mikko had to too. I put a stop to that game and no one was happy about it. Poor Mikko looks like a strangulation survivor. <br />
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I also managed to miss Mikko refusing to take his Tylenol, and by refusing, I mean getting all of it in his mouth and hanging his lower lip so that it all went running down his chin, neck and jammies. It was like a horror flick in my living room. <br />
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And, last but not least, during her bath tonight, Kaia decided to test the faucet pressure with her tongue. Imagine that first snowfall of the year and, like a child, you stick your tongue out with your eyes facing expectantly upward. Now instead of a weightless snowflake landing on your tongue, picture a faucet running at full pressure down your throat. There was much sputtering, eye watering and laughing. <br />
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I should start drinking at 4:30 every day. Everything is so much more funny.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-80933033920007504082011-11-09T07:18:00.000-08:002011-11-09T10:40:56.776-08:00A quiet momentI have a big trial today. I'm not looking forward to it. I've been at the office in the evenings or on weekends more in the last month than I have in probably my entire career put together. I'm CRABBY! Thankfully, it's all over after today (at least until the next big thing comes) and I'm looking forward to that. In the meantime, I'm CRABBY!<br />
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</div><div>This morning as I was getting my mini monsters ready, they were taking full advantage of their energy and my lack thereof. I was at the office until 11:00 p.m. and up at 5:30 a.m. It's going to be a long day and the games weren't nearly as funny this morning as they sometimes are...you know, on Saturdays when I have nothing to do. So I finally get the kids dressed, pick up the oatmeal they refused to eat (much of which was on the floor when I came back into the room), wrangle them to put on shoes and jackets and strap them into their car seats. Kev comes down to say goodbye and we took a moment next to the car. He kissed me, I leaned into him, thankful that this day will be over soon and that he's remained patient with my obligations recently. Both kids are looking at us curiously and I remarked, "Little monsters. They're so cute when they're strapped into a car that I haven't gotten into yet."</div><div><br />
They proceeded to scream and pout the entire way to Grandma's house. At least, as like most things they do, they were playing. </div>Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-26647892992943381642011-11-07T19:11:00.000-08:002011-11-07T19:11:11.584-08:00The playground and my blood pressureThe park. This place is a child's dream and a parent's nightmare. The super duper playground by our house has both a slide (yay) and an opening straight to the ground (damn) at every platform. All. Six. Platforms.<br />
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I'm not particularly religious, but places like this make me believe that there is someone out there pointing and laughing at me. See, I was blessed with a very cautious little girl. She's dainty, unless she's throwing shit, but for the most part, she's very careful. I didn't make her that way. In fact, I was a tree-climbing kind of kid and hope that mine will be too...you know, when they're older, won't fall and I don't have to watch. Then I was <i>blessed </i>with a son who is, well, a boy. <br />
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So, picture this. Kaia climbs up the low stairs with Mikko close behind. Kaia climbs up the short ladder to the tunnel. Mikko follows. They stop in the center of the tunnel, I bang on the clear walls and get them good and riled up. Then Kaia goes left and Mikko goes right. Uh oh. So I let Kaia be because she's less likely to walk off the edge of a platform without at least an attempt at holding on to the fireman's pole or monkey bars. I duck beneath the second tunnel to get to the platform between them before Mikko makes it to the edge. Phew, I caught him before he dove and instead he dives into the second tunnel. Meanwhile, Kaia is calling me because she wants me to catch her at the bottom of the slide. I turn around to realize that she's at the top of a VERY high platform, the tallest at the park, and is literally so high that I'm a little sick to my stomach over it. I imagine her terror (undoubtedly, delight) and rush over to where she's climbing into a gigantic tube slide. I rush her because I have literally no idea where her brother is. She finally comes down, her skinny little butt isn't heavy enough to propel her down and she has to scoot from about half way. I see Mikko's head pop up out of the tunnel and, when he sees me, he turns and runs. I run through the cedar chips, ducking to avoid, unsuccessfully, bumping my head on metal bars of various shapes, sizes and configurations. I get to the opening where I last saw my little boy's floppy hair and big grin and he's no where to be seen. Just then I hear banging on the clear plastic walls of one first tunnel that I had just run underneath. Both little monkeys are inside, giggling their insane little heads off.<br />
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The kids love the playground, but Mommy's blood pressure can't handle it. The only day I ever took them to the park by myself, when I finally got them safely strapped into their carseats, I sat in the front seat, turned the Disney CD up really, really loud, and balled my eyes out. Being a mom is really hard.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-56180372420048749382011-08-11T19:03:00.000-07:002011-08-11T19:03:11.650-07:00Storms and suchI live in Wisconsin. We don't generally play host to tropical storms or the dreaded hurricane. We do get the occasional tornado, but since they're not named, they don't apply to this RANT. This week, my house has been overtaken by Tropical Storm Kaia and Hurricane Mikko. Not surprisingly, neither has been officially recorded, but I can attest to their existence.<br />
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Tropical Storm Kaia has been brewing for a while now. She hasn't been sleeping well. She's teething. She's two... It was inevitable. This morning she told me, "Mommy, when I talk, you have to LISTEN TO ME!" Um, okay, kid. All day it was "No, Mommy" this and "No, Mommy" that. She freaked when I took her jammies shirt off to change her into her clothes, then she freaked again when I took off her regular shirt to put back on her jammies shirt. WTF is that!? The swirling winds really picked up when mean mommy made homemade pizzas and tried to make her EAT IT! I decided that I was boss and sat her in her chair despite her protests. She screamed and cried for five minutes before I gave in and let her get down without even a bite. Then she cried bloody murder because I wouldn't get up from the table. After I finished eating, she cried for a sticker. Then she got the sticker stuck on her play kitchen and cried for a new sticker. She didn't want the new sticker because I cut it out instead of giving her the sticky side, trying to avoid a repeat of the original sticker's demise. Seriously, child. I got her juice, brushed her teeth, read her a story and had her in bed by a merciful 7:05 p.m. She was crying again within 5 minutes. I went in her room where she was still laying down and she said, "I want Dora." I said, "Sweetie, you have Dora right here." "I DON'T want Dora," she clarifies. Alright, Kaia, I'll take Dora with me, but could you please sleep off whatever this attitude this is so that I don't lose my mind??<br />
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Ah, Hurricane Mikko. I considered letting Mikko be the mild tropical storm and giving Kaia the title of "hurricane." She kind of seems to deserve it. Yet Mikko gave me his own version of crazy and it was quite a bit more destructive and stressful, so Hurricane Mikko it is. So Mikko likes to be on the couch now. He's a big boy, you know. I watch him pretty carefully because he likes to stand and he's already taken a header off the couch. Because I watch him so closely, I was a mere 12 inches from him when he bounced himself backward which propelled him forward. Right. Into. The. Corner. The arm of the couch is padded, but not on the very very very edge. Instead, it's a wooden edge covered by suede fabric. Little dude had a knot so big and blue that it made my stomach turn a little. This morning he woke up with a broken blood vessel in his eye. This afternoon I ran to find him crying because he had pinched his fingers in a drawer (and was holding the drawer closed on them with his other hand). I rescued him from that and sent him on his way. Not 30 seconds later, he was chewing on a screw he pulled from the wall. Later, he went tearing up the stairs at Grandma's house and when she blocked those off with a gate, he started to climb the side of the stairs that is an open banister. Hurricane Mikko.<br />
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So I'm taking the day off tomorrow and I wouldn't mind getting a mommy break, but as it happens, I'll be spending the day with my little loves. If it's awful, I'll just consider it research. Or normal.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-5266087773981347442011-07-21T13:51:00.000-07:002011-07-21T13:51:53.396-07:00Being THAT momNo, <i>I'm</i> not <i>that</i> mom....but apparently my kid is <i>that</i> kid and she did it to a kid with <i>that</i> mom. So Kaia and I are doing tots gymnastics this summer. First, let me clear a few things up about tots gymnastics. It is NOT the fast track to the US Olympic team, although I get the impression that the "big girls" who do handstands for the first 40 minutes we are there are probably in training. It is NOT cartwheels, kips and Kasamatsus (I didn't make that last one up, that's actually a thing). It is also NOT fun for Mommy. <br />
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See, in my head, everything Kaia and I do is fun because we do it together. I really dig my kid. She's funny. In reality, though, lots of things we do also involve other people and I think a lot of other people suck. I don't really have a sanctimommy routine, so bear with me as I sort out my judgment. (I didn't make that up either, "sanctimommy" has graced the pages of both the New York and Washington Times! Google it, I bet you know one.) <br />
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Some of the parents hover around their kids saying things like, "You gotta suck it up, <i>honey</i>, you're a big boy/girl," and "If you don't listen to teacher and follow the circuit, we'll go home," and "Why do I pay for this if you refuse to participate?" Now, all these kids are 18-36 months, and while she's a pretty smart cookie, I suspect Kaia doesn't know what a "circuit" is, nor does she understand the concept of paying for something, but whatevs. Perhaps some of the 36-monthers do. My kid usually cooperates because she's glued to my side and I think it's fun to walk across the beam and hop hop hop across the numbered floor. In their defense, it would be hard for some of the mothers to hop in their high heels and skirts (no joke) and the one nanny always seems pretty tired. These mommies are not having fun.<br />
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Then there are the two boys. The two sweet little 18 month boys who are both too young and far too rambunctious to really do what they're "supposed" to do. The boys' mommies aren't having fun because they're never there. In fact, both boys come with their dads, which I think is AWESOME! Those poor dads always look terrified of the other moms and I think they should be. So am I.<br />
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Finally, there are the kids. See, this entry isn't all about judging moms. I judge kids too. There is, in particular, one kid, <i>the</i> kid, who continuously messes with the blocks. The kids are given blocks to carry across the beam (to encourage them not to hold mommy or daddy's hand, I assume) and stack at the end. This kid lurks at the end of the beam and knocks down the tower the other kids make or grabs the blocks out of their hands as they pick one to carry across. I've never noticed her mom before (because she never attempts to stop her at the end of the beam). Until Friday.<br />
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So last class, like at the end of every class, the kids are allowed to jump on the trampoline. This time, though, they got to bounce down the tumble tramp. It's a long, somewhat narrow trampoline used for mastering skills in a floor tumbling pass. So, the little kids usually just run down it. The big kids bounce down it with their feet together. Kaia usually bounces down it on her butt. I taught her that. Nice, right? It was a good idea when they were jumping on the regular trampoline and not expected to make forward progress. Oh well. Live and learn right? Lesson: No butt drops until you KNOW they're not going to be going on the tumble tramp during this session... <br />
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So Kaia is bouncing her little butt down the tramp and Block Girl comes tearing up behind her. Kaia stands up and BOOM! knocks right into the little girl. I say "boom," but for real, it was like she stood up and they bumped heads. There was no skull cracking, no hysteria. In fact, I think the other little girl was still standing and Kaia landed back on her butt, which was probably just fine as far as she was concerned. Oh, but the hysteria came. <br />
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Block Girl goes nuts crying. Block Mom says she's sorry and makes Block Girl say she's sorry. I also apologize and a few seconds later Kaia said, "I'm sorry," to her and followed that up with, "It's okay, Mommy. She'll be happy soon." But she was not. In fact, she was so tremendously upset over the incident that they left before class was over, which is a big deal because you get a stamp on your hand AND a coloring page.<br />
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Okay, so the 3 year old overreacted, what's my beef, right? Block Mom must have said, at least three times to no one at all, "Oh, she's going to have a black eye now." "Look at that. It's going to be a black eye, I'm sure of it." "Yep, that's definitely going to be a black eye." Seriously, Block Mom? No wonder your kid just went bonkers because she bumped her head. You're lucky my kid didn't intentionally knock your kid down, like your kid knocks down the block tower, when your kid stole my kid's block at the end of the balance beam. BOOM.<br />
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So, no, I'm not <i>that</i> mom. I genuinely felt bad that they had a collision. I made sure my kid said sorry too. It wasn't anyone's fault. Kids fall down sometimes. Kids bump heads sometimes. Shit, kids in gymnastics tear callouses, break bones and tear ligaments sometimes. Unfortunately, my butt bouncing goofball managed to bump into a kid who has a crazy mom, <i>that</i> mom. <br />
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Sadly, we don't have class this week, so I don't get to gloat when the kid comes to class without that dreaded black eye. Bummer.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-19480345404467618052011-07-09T20:37:00.000-07:002011-07-09T20:37:39.176-07:00How many times can you say "Mommy" today?Today I challenged Kaia to say "Mommy" 1000 times. I'm pretty sure she met and exceeded that figure. No, I am not a tiger mom attempting to give my child goals to achieve in preparation for the grueling future I have planned for her. Instead, since she had already "mommied" me a few hundred times in the car that morning, I figured I'd find some positive spin. Give the kid an achievable goal, right? <br />
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Jesus. I swear to you she said "Mommy" a hundred times in 30 minutes. "Mommy, look." "Mommy, call Kaia." "No, Mommy, no!" "Mommy, what are you doing?" "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy...." The latest is that I am not allowed to speak to anyone else in the car. She says, "Mommy, no calling Poppy. Call Kaia." "Mommy, no calling Daddy. Mommy wants to call Kaia." I don't know how she decided that speaking in the car was considered "calling," but that's her thing. I'm not allowed to call anyone but her. She wants me to look at everything she's doing (and everything she puts in her mouth, incidentally). She just likes to hear herself say "Mommy."<br />
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I'm pretty sure she drained the ever-living-mommy out of me today. Thank goodness for grandparents, baseball and beer. Hopefully I can find my mommy pants tomorrow morning because I think there'll be some "Mommy" in my future.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-882485962694515002.post-67338283911052168172011-06-06T07:46:00.000-07:002011-06-06T07:46:31.440-07:00Rainbows, boo boos and COPS(?)! Oh my....Remember when I said most of my blogs come on the heels of some sort of chaos? How's about an emergency 911 call? That counts, right? Totally. My sweet baby girl, Kaia, recently turned 2. While we have been fairly lucky to avoid the "terrible twos," she has her moments of absolute monstrousness. Last night was "one of those days." It was a little chaotic at bedtime. We had been gone all day, so we came home and nearly tossed Mikko straight into bed, where he was still displaying his immense displeasure. Kaia was playing with my locked blackberry, an attempt to keep her occupied and not yelling for 15 minutes so her brother can fall asleep. It's a work phone, so I keep it locked at all times rather than let my two-year old call clients and courts. Suddenly it beeped. It was a beep I'd never heard before, which to be fair, is not that uncommon when a two-year old is playing with an electronic that she's too young for...happens with my laptop all the time. So I walk over and notice that a call had been placed and quickly hit the "end" button as I realize, slowly, that the disconnected call was "EMERGENCY SERVICES." Great. <br />
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So a few minutes later, a nice lady calls and confirms that we're having an emergency. We are not. She takes my information and says she'll advise the officer that we do not need him to stop by. He does anyway. I apologize. She laughs and says, "It happens all the time." Officer comes. I made Kaia apologize ("Sorry Offdider") and tell her that he has real work to do. He did tell her he liked her Dora jammies, which didn't really strike the fear of dialing 911 into her as I had hoped talking to a strange man with a gun would. She spent the rest of the night alternating between "Sorry Offdider" and "He has to go to work. He has real work." So that was a SWEET end to a busy weekend full of tantrums and madness. <br />
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This morning I woke up to my sweet, yet strange, little girl again. I bumped my elbow (expletive) and Kaia asked me if I had a boo boo. Now where the hell did she hear that nonsense? "Boo boo?" I can handle "owie," but "boo boo?" I'm sure I rolled my eyes and said, "Yes, Kaia. Mommy has a boo boo," while I gagged a little. Then she asked if she could help and offered to kiss it. Aw, melt. Boo boo it is, kid, and candy for dinner. So a little later, we're outside and I see a rainbow. Well, if she's all boo boos and kissies, maybe she'll love rainbows and unicorns too. So I pointed it out and she said, "I see it! I see the car, Mommy." Me: "No Kaia, rainbow. See it up there in the sky (pointing)?" Kaia: "I see it! I see the bird, Mommy." Me: "Nevermind." We came inside to play pirates.Erika Cannadayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15792878252597632768noreply@blogger.com0