Entries Tagged 'Boys' ↓

I’m thinking we need a little cheer around here. A little holiday cheer, in fact. And as the wonderful Buddy the Elf would say:

“The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.”

And so, here are my boys singing loud for all to hear.

When they aren’t showing off, being silly and singing gibberish. Or saying their favorite word “stinky” or laughing about farts.

(Hey. Don’t judge me. When you throw two little boys in front of a camera, already frothed up on sugar cookies, candy canes and Christmas anticipation, you just never know what you’re going to get.)

Enjoy.

It has been one of those mornings. We have had absolutely nothing on our agenda and my boys are bored. Four walls, inside, too much TV, punching, wrestling, screaming… it just doesn’t work.

So I herded them outside with no idea what we’d do.

And then I found an old tube of bubbles I had bought months (years?) ago. And that was all we needed. Bubbles. We must have played with them for over a half hour.

Indulge me and enjoy this video of my boys playing together with bubbles. Sure, this video is hardly going to go viral anytime soon. It’s just two boys playing. But there is beauty in it. Ok ok, I’m know I am SO being their mom right now. But look carefully. It’s the simple stuff, people. Just brothers, playing.  Hanging out. On a Sunday morning. From the depths of my way-too-mommy-biased heart, I always cherish moments like these.

So, like many bloggers out there right now – I’m packing. But this doesn’t exactly look like the kinds of things most of us would be packing for BlogHer, does it? You know what I’m talking about: the cute dresses, shoes, cameras, computer paraphenalia and casual but confident conference outfits… Nope, these things look suspiciously “little boy-ish”. So why is that? Well, I’m actually not headed to BlogHer this year.

I almost was. My husband bought me a ticket for Christmas in fact. I was beyond thrilled. I couldn’t wait. Last year was phenomenal and now this year, having met so many more blogging bas-asses, I knew would be even better. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait!

But then we got a call. My wonderful sister in law announced that she’s getting married! And the date has been specially chosen to be on her grandparent’s anniversary. Friday, July 25th. We were thrilled for her. We love her and her husband to be. Plus this is the last family wedding for a long while, we all would be together and we all couldn’t wait.

Just. No BlogHer this year, that’s all.

I put the word out on Twitter I wasn’t going and I sold my ticket within days. But what we saved from that actually paid for my blog makeover awhile back. So it’s all good.

Anyhoo, I thought I would post here to explain my absence. If. Just in case. It’s at all. Noticed. Heh.

Anyway, while you all are lining up to get your creds, I’ll be lining up my two sons and husband in their crisp tuxes, readying them for a trip down the aisle to stand besides my sister in law and her husband to be.

And certainly, if you know my children at all by now, you are probably wondering how tuxes and slow, behaved walking down an aisle will work out. Yeah. I’ll keep you posted. No doubt, hilarity will ensue and I will be typing about their shenanigans in the coming week.

And if I don’t? It’s because I’m keeeerazy busy doing the family thing, the driving 12 hours one way thing, the keeping my kids from pushing their cousin into the pool thing, the general wacky uber exhausting vacation… thing.

But to all my blogging peeps heading to Chicago, ENJOY BLOGHER! I can’t wait to read your posts. And if I don’t see any of you at the Type A Mom Conference in September, I will certainly see you next year at BlogHer.

Happy travels everyone!

My six year old does not want his hair cut. No biggee, right? Well, here’s the kicker: we will be attending his aunt’s wedding in about a week’s time. And my child has been given the honorable job of ring bearer. He’s been measured for his tux and is expected to be there, cleaned up, looking dashingly camera ready and all set to bear some rings.

And while longer hair is kind of cool right now, and might clean up ok with a little gel and a comb, my wonderful 6 year old actually has a very, er, particular mop of hair. With this crazy, stick straight, rooster crowish nest growing straight up from the back of his head. Which won’t lay down no matter how much you wash it, slick it, comb it or gel it.

And he doesn’t want it cut. I think his exact words were “I like it like that mommy.”

Um. Ok.

There is no doubt about it, it’s his dad’s hair. I swear I am not doing the whole “blame your spouse for which ever gene pisses you off” kind of thing either. It’s a fact. His dad will be the first to fess up to this mess. This uber thick, mind of it’s own, never lays down mess of hair. Which is why my husband keeps his hair almost army cut short. Which is why we’ve always cut my 6 year old’s hair just like his father’s.

I suppose it’s a natural development. I suppose we should have seen it coming. I suppose we shouldn’t have expected that daddy’s cut would be cool forever. Still. That hair …and now he doesn’t want it cut.

So, being a “go with the flow” kind of mom (stop laughing), I have left it for now. Kids should have a say about how they look.

Huh. Well, you should have seen the look on my husband’s face when I agreed to letting it grow for now. Long hair on his kid? Long hair on his kid with THAT kind of hair? My poor spouse is minutes away from grabbing the clippers and shearing him like a sheep.

See, now, I think we can reach a compromise. Eventually. I think we might be able to coerce him into a cut before the wedding. Maybe. With a little mommy sweetness and a whole lot of… bribing… I think we can get it cut.

But here’s the thing. As it grows out, I have come to realize that… actually? He’s is rocking one of the coolest hair looks out there right now.

(*cough* Um. I use the word “cool” loosely. I’m not a particular fan of this cut but it remains popular never the less.)

My sweet, baseball loving, soon to be ring bearing, six year old? Yeah, well it turns out he is currently rocking the Kate Gosselin “do”. For sure.

Tell me I’m wrong…

Holy crap. Where are those sheers.

The other day I bought finger paints for my children. For the first time. Ever.

Yes. I know. After six years of parenting, how have I managed to deprive my boys of one the most basic forms of art expression for children? HOW have they not had the opportunity to get their hands goopy and messy in paints and smear it all over paper? I love art, I love it when kids are given the green light to get messy. This is the perfect combo of both.

Honestly, Caroline. Six years of parenting and the idea of finger paints flickers to life in your mind only NOW? My head hangs in shame.

Well. Better late than never, right?

So I turned to my kids. “Hey!! Finger paints! That sounds like fun! Right? Should we get some?” My three year old stared at me. He had NO idea what finger paints were. My six year old looked at me cautiously. “I think I did those once. In school once. A long time ago. Like in 2006.”

*Blink* Well. That was that. Into the cart they went along with a big pad of special finger paint paper. This mother was going to right this wrong.

Later that afternoon, we sat down to do some arts and crafts. Of course, I covered the table with newspaper and they were smocked from head to toe. While cleanliness was not really part of my agenda, it was part of my 6 ear old’s. He refused to start without a smock. “What if my shirt gets dirty?” You’ve got to be kidding me. This kid reeeally needs a good old fashioned afternoon of finger painting. It’s time to get messy and be completely ok with it.

So off they went. Tentative at first – dabbing the pads of their finger tips only barely in a color and then wiping it on the paper. But eventually they relaxed and started to let their entire fingers and then hands get nice and painty. The smooth texture fascinated them. They played, they giggled, they smeared.

What I found most blogworthy, however, was the end result. I am not sure if you’ve got my kids figured out yet but let me sum up their personalities quickly.

My 3 year old: Passionate – big – loud – extraordinarily sweet, giggling, social highs – dark, tantruming, stubborn and screaming lows. Very chatty but usually talks too fast for most to understand.

My 6 year old: Cautious – thinking – slightly framed – watches and waits – listens but without giving you a clue he’s paying attention – smart – calculated – cautious, shy smiles – a rule follower – sometimes very moody.

So back to the end results of the finger painting. Check them out below. Can you tell whose is whose? Their personalities in paint. It honestly blew me away. We HAVE to do more art around here I think. I can’t wait to see what they do next.

Underpants. I want underpants. Dry ones specifically. I don’t ask for much, really. Just dry underpants ON my three year old.

We are in the midst of conquering another milestone here in the Morningside household (although, this one has been dragging on for awhile now): potty training. And we are really (I mean it this time) just about there. We’re rounding the last bend: all of us cheering wildly behind my three year old, toddling ahead with his potty in tow. At the end of the finish line, a wonderful prize awaits… dry – wonderfully dry – underpants.

Yup, my kid knows all about where to put his business when he needs to go. And he is certainly a pro when pants-less. But alas, we cannot go through life pants-less (much to the dismay of every boy in this household). However, as soon as I put him in underpants, his training switches off and his “diaper brain” switches on. He goes right in them with not a care in the world. Ho hum. Pee. Poop. Whatever.

So while we wait for him to piece it all together, those underpants are staying on. As “used” pairs are peeled off and new pairs are pulled on throughout the day, we bait him with special treats and put on one heck of a show when he happens to get it right.

I think we went through nine pairs yesterday. Today? We’re on our fourth pair. But I haven’t checked since I started typing this. We may be onto pair number five.

Yesterday my husband mentioned my last post. And while he is also feeling a little misty about our babies growing up, he got all “glass is half full” on me. He pointed out just how CLOSE we are to finally being diaper free. He makes a fantastic point. I am trying to picture life without the regular costs of pull ups, the mess of bodily functions and finding them just about… everywhere. The smells, the squishes, the sanitation issues, the “whoops mama I made a stake (mistake)!”

We are SO close. The end is in sight. I can see dry underpants flapping their reward in the breeze at the finish line. Until then, I will keep washing basket fulls of dirtied little boy skivvies that need a super soapy hot water cycle asap. But. I’m hopeful.

*Sigh*

…Dry underpants.

Oh but guess what? I just checked. Underpants pair #4 are good to go. No change needed. So close I tell you. SO CLOSE.

There are certain moments in a parent’s life when they realize they don’t have babies in their homes anymore. For example, when I stopped breastfeeding, or the day I packed away the bottles for the last time, or signed my youngest up for school in the fall – I had that heart stopping, panicked realization that my babies were grown. In those moments I moan “they were right” – these years do go by too fast. And I convince myself that maybe I never appreciated their pudgy, crawling, dimpled, mouthing, cooing, drooling, cuteness enough when I had the chance.

We had another one of those moments on Monday. My three year old has finally graduated from his crib to a big boy bed.

There goes that breaking news alert scrolling across the bottom of my heart: You don’t have babies any more. You don’t have babies anymore. You don’t have babies anymore.

But it was time. It was beyond time. I have always stood by the idea that you keep your toddler in his crib until you absolutely MUST move them. Call it baby jail and I am the mommy warden but keeping my child from wandering at bedtime simply meant an extra serving of sanity for me. Thanks. I’ll take that. With a twist of lemon.

And since he never climbed, he stayed put.

Well, he never climbed until last week when I found him (after a particularly long nap time battle) perched large and squawking, like a toddler sized bird, on the railing of his crib. He was holding on for dear life and, as I lunged for him, I won’t forget the crazed look of both beaming pride and sheer panic on his face.

So that was it. No matter how much I knew his fading nap time would be put at risk with an escapable big boy bed, the crib had to go. And as we dismantled it, we saw where the joints had weakened, where 40 lbs of jumping child had just about brought that crib to its knees.

But as we dismantled it, as we unscrewed bolts, pulled out the baby mattress, untied the bumper and folded up the crib skirt, I could not believe that we had come to a time where this crib would not be needed in our household any longer. I remember, as very green soon to be parents, when we pulled it out of it’s box for the first time and pieced it together. I remember my husband grumbling about the uselessness of an Alan wrench while I sat by his side, pregnant and ready to bust. And this past Monday, my husband gave the same speech about the Alan wrenches while I slid each crib piece out into the hallway. It’s the end of an era.

Next came piecing together the big boy bed – which is the top bunk version of my six year old’s bed. We unwrapped the brand new mattress (which just seemed FAR too big for my youngest). I pulled the load of  twin bed sheets out of the dryer and stared at them. They were good for a little boy’s bed: basic blue stripes. Certainly not the cutely patterned baby sheets of the past.

Once we were done (and had resigned ourselves to all that comes with having a big boy bed), we let our three year old have at it. He climbed up with glee, he whooped and hollered. He celebrated with some good old fashioned jumping while my 6 year old joined him across the room on his bed. Then he insisted that we tuck him in, the blankets right on up to his chin, with all of his favorite animals surrounding him. And he just lay there – smiling and satisfied. He knew he had arrived. He knew what a big moment this was for him.

And so bedtimes and nap times have been happening with success. He is sleeping well enough and enjoying the great expanse of a twin bed. Being a big boy, in a big bed, having just turned three, on the verge of potty training and starting school in the fall is still such a novelty for all of us. But like the novelty of this bed, we will grow accustomed to it all and move forward into the adventures that await us as a family of bright and engaged little boys – rather than a just a young family of babies. Onward.

I was thinking this morning how much I would like it when my kids could get their own cereal or make their own lunches.

No more: “Mommy, I hungee”. Instead, they could just saunter on into the kitchen and make what they needed. With the right amount of milk. In the right colored bowl. With the spoon of their choice. (“Not that one, THAT one!!!!”) No fuss, no haggling, everyone would be happy.

But then I realized what that would mean. If they could get their own cereal or reach for the bread, it meant they were taller. If they could get the milk out of the frig door with no spills threatening, it meant they were stronger. If they could use a sharp knife to cut their sandwiches, it would mean they were old enough to actually use a knife.

If they were that tall, that strong, THAT old enough, they could probably use the phone, call a friend and disappear off into the neighborhood on a skateboard (he BETTER be wearing a helmet). And then (maybe, hopefully, please God) return home that evening on a wing and a prayer with no broken bones, safe and sound, back under my roof again.

Or they might even be old enough to grab the car keys and say they were just driving over to Ryan’s house to check out his new video game. Driving. Out into the world. My children.

Um no.

My youngest is turning three years old  today. Did you hear the key phrase there? My youngest is now three years old. I don’t have any babies in my home anymore. My youngest actually told me not to forget the sunscreen on the way to the pool this morning. *Blink* He is a far far cry from the wee baby I was clutching to my chest in a haze of Percocet three years ago today.

And this is a critical milestone year. Soon, he will be out of diapers. Soon, he won’t be needing naps. Soon, (in fact, it should have already happened) he will be in a big boy bed. Soon, he will be going to preschool.

Me. A mother of two napless, school going children with clean pants. I just want to weep. When was I ever old enough to have babies – I mean – boys who could both wipes their own asses?

Already, they do attempt to wrestle the milk out of the frig door and heft it over to the counter, heave it up and precariously push it on to safe ground while I sprint in there (always in slow motion it seems), repressing a yell: “OHMYGOD be careful! That milk will spill! It’s too heavy for you, baby!”

Annoyed stare. “No, no mommy. I DO it.”

My baby. *sigh* No. My big boy. Just trying to get his own milk. Exactly like I had been wishing for a half hour earlier.

My sweet little three year old. Happy birthday today. To me, you still look exactly like the baby you were three years ago. Except, now you walk and remind me about sunscreen and dump mounds of cereal into your own bowl and pee in the potty. Happy birthday. I am so very proud of you.

…What’s that? You’re thirsty? Ok. No, I’LL get the milk. I swear you do still need me for that.