Entries Tagged 'Boys' ↓

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.

It was almost the perfect storm of sorts. And I blame myself. What was I thinking dragging my two year old to Walmart  right before his nap? And I haven’t been feeling so great recently, so I made this outing tired and my guard was down. To top it off, my usual barter snacks and water cup weren’t packed. But I just needed a few things. I wouldn’t be long. A half hour. Tops.

Well. I don’t know what started it all. Something set him off. I think he wanted to go down one aisle when I had decided to go another way.

(Silly me – I still had it in my head that this would be a quick trip.)

So it was one of those moments. Do I cave? Do I do what he wants so he doesn’t spin out and explode into million pieces right here? Do I dig in and refuse to let him get his way?

Well, I let him have this one. I let him go down the aisle he wanted to. But it was too late. He was mad by then. And starting to stomp a bit. Not good. The downward spiral into tantrum hell had begun.

Let me stop for a minute here. It doesn’t matter what kind of song and dance I do sometimes. If my kid is going to go ape-shit, he’s going to go ape-shit. Its like stopping a full alert, gale force wind hurricane. You can’t convince it not to blow, no matter how hard you try.

And that’s about when the strawberry incident happened. HE wanted to put them in the cart. Ok. We can do that. Unfortunately,  he picked the nastiest package of strawberries there. Usually I am sneaky and let him put them in and – if it is not a “choice” grocery pick – I switch them out when he’s not looking. But he decided to willfully toss the strawberries into the cart. And so, the plastic container popped open and strawberries rolled out all over the groceries.

You have got to be kidding me.

So, on the verge of losing my temper, I cleaned them up and swapped them out quickly and quietly. However. I was not undercover about any of it. Could you blame me? I just wanted this trip to the store over with already…

That’s when the storm hit and my two year old simply blew. Like his personal tip of the hat to the start of hurricane season, my son’s gusty breezes cranked into screaming gale force winds with booming thunder and crashing lightening – you know, its the kind of two year old weather that snaps tress and crushes small homes. It was on like Donkey Kong.

In a full red faced, squealing rage, he tossed strawberries and rattled the cart. He grabbed at our groceries and managed to whip a frozen pizza across the floor. That’s when he turned to the produce stands. While hefting a mango and winding it back with every intention of hurling it, I tackled him.

Kicking, screaming, thrashing and frothing at the mouth, I wrestled him into my arms and scrambled over to the closest corner I could find. It happened to be the frozen shrimp section next to the bakery. There was a corner there, and it was out of the way.

It was time to do what I was supposed to do in situations such as this one: we were going to have a time out.

So, channeling every bit of Jo Frost I could, I firmly declared he was going to stay in this corner for throwing things and losing his temper. We would stay there until he was calm and ready to apologize. My arms were crossed. It was my turn to dig in.

(Come on Jo, please be right about this, I am doing exactly what you would do on the show. I know this is the right thing to do. I know it is.)

Uh huh.

He made a break for it. Madly flailing his arms and screaming towards the stand of freshly made cupcakes.

Aw hell no.

I raced after him and got him. I dragged him back to the shrimp section. I put him down firmly. And gently (well, I am pretty sure I was gentle about it…) pinned him there against the refrigerator. He would stay here with me until he was calm. While one leg gently pinned him into place, I stood up, turned my back to him and waited.

That’s when I looked around me. Mothers, Walmart staff, so many people were watching us. Blatantly. Just staring.

What? Was I doing something wrong?

He kept on screaming, he kept on thrashing.

My pinned leg was starting to loose its grip. Plus I didn’t want to stare back at these faces – watching, wondering and judging.

So I turned around, kneeled down and put both arms on the freezer, locking him into a little mommy jail. “Hon, if you calm down and say sorry for throwing, we can be all done. Do you want to help mommy find some yogurt?”

“BAAAAAAHHHWAAAAAAAAHHHH”

“Show me you can be a big boy and calm down. I need to you to say sorry for throwing. Then you can be my big helper. Show me a good job.”

“NOOOOOOOWWWAAAAAAAAHHHHBAAAAAAAAHHHHH”

“Excuse me miss?”

Huh?

I turned around. An older lady was standing there. She had a bag of crackers opened in her cart and was munching away on them – like popcorn in a movie theater. Clearly, I was putting on a good show.

“I just want to say that you are a good mom. MOST MOMS would be really embarrassed to do a time out RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF WALMART. With EVERYONE watching. But I think its great you’re doing it. He has to learn. You’re doing a good job, mom. Really.”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!”

“Um, he just… I just need to get my groceries…”

By then she had wheeled away. By then I was ready to cry.

So I looked past my child (turned rabid, mad dog) and stared into the freezer behind him. Shrimp for $3.00? That seems too cheap. I wonder if its even real shrimp. But what would you make imitation shrimp out of? …Ew.

“Hi there…”

“BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!”

I turned. This time it was someone from the bakery.

“I just wanted to say that I really feel for you.” She turned to the rabid dog. ” Hi hon! Look what I have!”

She extended her plastic gloved hand. There was a small ring. You know, the kind that goes on top of cupcakes. It was a “Wonder Pets” ring.

He reeled and screamed with rage and lunged to hit it out of her hands. She jumped back a bit.

“Oh. Well. When he’s ready, maybe he’d like this…”

“Thanks.” I threw the ring into the cart. And turned back to my child. No. The storm was not abating. At all. He was maintaining a level of “100% bat-shit”. I glanced over to a woman getting some shrimp out of the case next to me. And there was no denying it. I saw zero sympathy in her eyes. I saw disgust.

(What? Because a two year old was having a tantrum? Because he had been thrashing about on the Walmart floor? I know thats gross but… does this woman even know what children are capable of??)

That’s it. I stood up. I grabbed his hand and my bag and stormed out. Nothing was getting accomplished in the shrimp freezer section. I marched outside and looked for a shady spot to sit. I found a curb around a tree to sit on. Right next to the Walmart staff smoking section. Beggars were hardly choosers in that moment.

So we sat. And he screamed. I considered bailing on the entire trip. But I really needed bread and yogurt and milk and it took enough energy to even get here in the first place. No. We weren’t leaving without what I came here for.

And then. I heard the crying slow. He was watching them push the carts into the store.

“Like a choo-choo train” I heard him hiccup through sobs. He slowed some more. He watched. Finally I turned to him.

“Baby. Come here.” He stood up and looked at me.

“Why are you in a time out?”

Shuddering sigh. “Thwowing.”

“Right for throwing groceries. What do you say to me?”

“Sowwee for thwowing gwoah-swees.”

And that was that. He wiped his eyes and started babbling at me about the shopping cart choo choo train. He gladly held my hand and walked back into Walmart with me. He sat in amongst the strawberries and frozen pizza and yogurt chatting about his “Wonder Pets” plastic ring. He was a dream the rest of the trip.

An hour and a half after we left our home, we were back. And I survived another trip to walmart with a two year old.

Because that’s all it is. Just another typical day. There are no awards for managing tantrums like those. This is nothing all that special. No one (except for everyone in Walmart) was even there to witness it. (Like a tree falling in the woods, if no one heard it, did it make any noise?) Hopefully some small part of that experience is retained in his mind. He did actually do what he needed to do. But other than managing his behavior, it doesn’t honestly mean that much.

This is what parenting is about. This stuff happens. And its really hard. But we deal, we move on and we wait for the next round. On and on it goes.

But maybe next time, I will make that “quick” trip to Walmart after naptime.

Birthday parties. There’s so much build up, you know? For the birthday kid AND for the parents.

My obsession? The cake. I consider it my funny “mom” way to get some bastardized version of art out of my system. A sort of sculpture.

Snort.

Its just a cake! And yet I hem and haw and sketch it out and plan and shop for the right candy and cookie bits for detail. Such silliness. Just buy a sheet cake and be done with it, right? I know, I know. Anyway.

So, my SIX year old asked for a baseball diamond cake. Baseball. Of COURSE. Nevertheless. Ask – and my boy shall receive.

But then he got worked up about the party too. He was so excited. The day seemed to drag for him as he waited for departure time. And finally it was time. He spent the afternoon bowling with his friends. He had a blast. He ate tons of pizza. And cake.

Then we tried to get a picture with him. Nice, right? Pleased as punch. Maybe it was us.

But this morning we’re wondering if maybe it was the pizza. (Oh God. What if it was my cake?) Nothing like waking up to the sound of heaving and splattering vomit over the monitor. Poor kid.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy. Get better.

My husband graduated this weekend. That fact alone is blogworthy. Over the past two years, he managed to plug through one grad class at a time while balancing a waaaay more than full time work schedule which already fills up his days, nights and weekends. I’m not sure how he did it, but he did. My husband rocked it and is now the proud owner of an MBA diploma.

So, when it came time for his graduation ceremony, we rolled out the red carpet for him. His mother flew down, my brother and his family drove over, we planned a party and I bought excessive amounts of ribs and beer. It was time to party like it was 1999 2009.

And with the best intentions, the entire family marched all three kids (ages five, two and two) into the University’s auditorium for graduation on Saturday. Yes, with the best intentions we climbed up the stairs of the stadium seating and managed to find seven seats at the very top, far from any sort of “easy out” exit, and right next to rows and rows of esteemed faculty, gowned and seated immediately to our right. Faculty who actually wanted to hear every word said during the ceremony.

Three boys, my boys and their third amigo/cousin, were lined up on their fold out chairs. Hair slicked down, button down shirts smoothed into place, khaki shorts snapped up and sneakered shoes sticking straight out in front of them in their seats. Eyes wide and halos in check, there was no way they could cause any fuss on such an important day. Right? No way. Not our boys.

Cue the pomp and circumstance. I don’t think it took much more than the first few graduates to stride proudly into the auditorium for the chaos to begin.

Whining. Loud declarations of: “I hungee. I wanna food.” One dropped to the ground and started crawling under legs.  They scrambled over our laps.  They squirmed. “He’s pulling me! He hit me!” We passed them back and forth. We tried iphone downloads of Little Einsteins. We played “I spy”. No matter. They kicked backs of seats. They threw crackers. They ripped at the programs. They slammed the squeaky seats up and down and up and down. They climbed. They dug through purses. Game on. And it was on like Donkey Kong.

Can I stop here and blame myself? It’s about time for a little mommy guilt anyway. I had the gall to bring three young boys to a two hour graduation ceremony and expect them to be still after having packed only a mere sleeve of crackers. What. Was I. Thinking!?!? Ok ok, cut me some slack though, I was very distracted this weekend. But for real. I got what I had coming to me. I should have been much better prepared with crayons, paper, toys, magna doodles, and endless unhealthy snacks. One lowly sleeve of dry crackers? Cha right. Nice try.

Oh and did I mention that my husband also happened to be a commencement speaker? So as expected, it was during his introduction that the actual screaming started. Should I escape loudly down all those steps and across the auditorium with the kids to spare those around us? Should I gag them with every disintegrated cracker at the bottom of my purse? Should I sit on them and just hope my cute flowy spring wrap dress muffles their yelps a bit? My husband did an amazing job. Or at least it looked like he did. I never heard a word of it.

By that point, most of those sitting around us had fled for other, further, more peaceful seating options. But the esteemed faculty to our right? They were stuck. In their pizza box shaped hats and colorful regalia, they never heard a word of that ceremony. My apologies to all the smart-looking faculty folk. But I can guarantee that they did in fact hear: “Is it over? When’s it over? Is it done yet? Is it over? Is it over? All done? Is it over? Is it over? Now mommy? Now mommy? Now mommy? Now? Now? How bout NOW?

At one point I’m pretty sure I made a 15 year old boy’s day. While one two year old ran behind me and I “gracefully” leapt/charged over my fold up seat to catch him, I am quite positive that my flowy wrap dress hitched way up. That 15 year old kid saw my Hanes her Way. I am sure of it. His eyes got kinda buggy and his acned cheeks flushed. I consider it payment for the chaos he endured. There ya go kid. Hope you enjoyed the show. But he eventually fled the scene too. Promises of further glimpses of my Hanes her Way were simply not enough.

While the graduates walked up to the stage, the crowd finally joined in with the hooting and hollering. And as our kids ran rough shot over the seats in our section of the stadium, my brother and I leaned back and got to laughing. We dreamt of tequila shots and threatened to moon the graduates. If you can’t beat them, you know? I give up.

But that is what these sorts of events are really about. While the University President reminded the graduates of all the support their families gave them during their studies, my husband beamed up at us. From where he sat, he loved the craziness he was witnessing. He was proud his family was there to, er, “represent” in their own special way. At these sorts of events, it’s family that makes an achievement like this so worth while.

So as he walked across the stage, his family yelled out. When his name was called, he heard us loud and clear. My husband graduated and he knew, throughout the ceremony, that his family was joyfully, playfully, loudly and entirely there for him.

Congrats huz-o-mine, you rock my world.

Somehow, in the midst of a time when people can barely scrape together enough for their mortgage payments, I raised money for the March of Dimes. When I set up my account (being the optimist that I am), I got a little nutty and aimed for a $1000. Hey, why not? But I really only expected about $100. But reality and the pure goodness of people have met me right in the middle.

As of today, I have raised $430 $5o5 $515 $565.

To me? That’s a LOT.

And who do I have to thank for this? Blogging friends, Twitter friends, online friends (some whom I’ve never meet “in real life”), then “in real life” friends (some whom I haven’t seen in years) and family (some whom I haven’t seen in years).

Also, after a round of “shot in the dark” emails to companies I shop at in my neighborhood to see if they would sponsor me, I heard back from one company right away. Who was it? Stride Rite. They said they would donate a pair of Robeez to a donor if I wanted to set up a contest. So I did on Twitter that very day. Whoever made the first donation, got a pair of Robeez. Within a half hour, I had a couple donors and the first donor won the pair. The Stride Rite representative was surprised by the quick response. But I wasn’t. Maddie’s story and this March of Dimes walk had the ear of mothers all over the Internet. But still, how appropriate that Stride Rite “stepped up” to help donate to a walk for the March of Dimes? Thanks to Stride Rite for caring about this cause.

So, I am gearing up for Saturday. I am hauling the whole Morningside family along. We will be there to meet up with the rest of the “Friends of Maddie” donning what purple I can scrape up for the boys (jeez, do I even have any purple for my boys?) and hoping that the combined 80+lbs of my kids on our stroller won’t be the end of my husband and I after 5 miles.

But while I gripe about pushing all that boy through the streets of Tampa, I have to remember that I have big, healthy, strong boys. When I was lifting my monster sized 40 lb two year old the other day, this thought crossed my mind: “Maddie never even had the chance to get this big.” So. 80lbs on stroller? I’ll relish it. I’ll push them (and all of their guaranteed fussing about “when is this gonna be over?”) and I will do it proudly. I honestly can’t wait.

So thank you to all of my donors. From the bottom of my heart.

(Oh, and it isn’t too late to donate. Just click on the banner above. I’m just saying…)

It was a balmy, temperate, pretty much perfect Florida evening tonight. And so, after dinner, I let my boys run around in the backyard. I may have mentioned before that I am in the throes of potty training (still ), so my youngest spends most of his time pantsless while at home – and with his pot by his side. So while they chased and screamed and expelled the final breaths of their boy crazies into the evening air, my two year old’s potty was set by the backdoor, waiting for him.

While I was inside, I heard their screams and laughter die down and switch to more serious conversation. I peeked out. And luckily, I had my camera right there to catch the moment. This is what I caught almost word for word.

“Ok so. You have to sit on the potty when you gotta go. You know. When you gotta go pee or poop. You gotta put it in there, not on the floor or anything.”

“OH-TAY! On da poddy!!!”

(My two year old does a killer Buckwheat impression, let me tell you…)

“And then you gotta like PUSH it out. Ok? Like sit like this and really puuuuuuush!” (Insert illustrative grunt here. Note the red face. Academy award material, let me TELL you.)

“OH-TAAAY!!!!”

Some may argue that brothers develop very dynamic and complex relationships. Sure. Ok. Maybe. But there is one very simple fact about my sons’ relationship so far: whatever my 5 year old says, goes. Literally. Go get my light saber, go jump off that chair, go stick your finger in that red ant pile – if my five year old demands it, my two year old obeys.  And so, after his well thought out potty training lesson had concluded, the wise, 3 years experienced at managing his own bodily waste, older one stepped back to observe. He nodded encouragingly – but with authority. And my two-year took direction very well.

“TAH DAH!!! I did it! See!?!!?!!! See??? Oh-tay!! Yay! I did it!!!! HOOORRAAAAYYYY!!!”

At this point my 5 year old peered in to observe his brother’s work. He nodded his head in approval.

“Ok. Cool.

………..MOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!! HE MADE A REALLY STINKY GROSS POOP THATS SHAPED LIKE A BANANA SO YOU BETTER COME GET IT AND FLUSH IT CAUSE ITS REALLY STINKY AND GROSS!!!!”

I set my camera down (I’m sure you are relieved to hear that I never had any intention of taking any further pictures of this process) and went out back. But before I rid that little potty of said stinky gross banana shaped poop, I stopped to gather my boys up in a big “squeeze the life out of them” (but hopefully nothing else) hug. Maybe its only a moment a mother would appreciate, but I was filled with pride and boatloads of love for both of my wonderful boys. The trained leading the trainee through life. Isn’t this what having a sibling is all about? Well, kind of anyway? I love my boys.