Close encounters

A few weeks ago I took my two children on a walk. We live right by the Arkansas River - in fact, if I were to go running, I could run in a straight line and cross the Arkansas or the Little Arkansas River 3 times before I ran a mile. It's cool. However, there are some not so cool things about living so close to a river and the wilder side of nature.





On this particular walk, I was headed to the tennis club.


1. No, I do not play tennis. If you saw me play, it would give you absolutely no evidence that I am actually fairly athletic. But, they have really fun stairs and small stone walls and stray tennis balls by the tennis club and Warrick really enjoys hopping around and discovering things. This day, as I stopped my stroller at the top of the stairs and began to unbuckle the wiggling little man, I caught some movement VERY near us. Literally three feet from Warrick's feet was a raccoon. A small one, and we would find out, a not very healthy one either. Hence, the mid day rendezvous.


A quick strap back in, a wide passing, and on to the next set of not-quite-as-cool stairs. I repeated several times,"No, Sonny, that is not a kitty cat." in efforts of curbing his curiousity and to counter his "TOUCH IT!" We stayed far enough away to be safe, but close enough to watch, as we ate our crackers, his dragging and staggering. It was actually quite sad. Combination drunk and very top heavy. It wasn't top heavy, but it's movements would make you think that it's head was 80% of it's weight and kept tipping it over. Yuck. It had not even made it across the sidewalk when we left 15 minutes later.


2. But again, last week at dusk I went out to lock the car. The clicker doesn't work and the driver's side door locker button doesn't work either and so that's why I often forget to lock it. I was carrying Vera in a wrap and as I walked back up to the house, I was met by yet another raccoon who appeared to be making it's way to our recycling bin. On our porch, in the light, and not afraid of me. Stare down. Seriously. You need to leave. This is my house. This is too close.


3. And yet again, Brett was enjoying his quiet moments in the wee hours and had the privilege of listening to Ranger Rick the Third rummage around in our recycling bin. I have made great strides in cleaning the recyclables since I caught Warrick eating a black bean from a can on the porch. My only comfort was that it could not be more than 2 weeks old and he didn't cut himself on the can. Regardless, the raccoons seem to be able to make a meal of it.

4. Several of you have asked about our ant problem. They are gone. All of them. I'm not sure what happened, heavy rains perhaps, but they altogether disappeared. It was truly nothing we did or didn't do because we had given up entirely. If you are prone to gagging, do not read this next sentence. Here is how entirely we had given up: One morning as I was pouring my soy milk into the food processor to make my habitual morning smoothie I saw three ants float to the surface. Without one iota of hesitation, I poured in the blueberries and threw my pinch of spinach in over them and pushed 'on'. This is how you three will meet your end. You will become part of my sustenance for today. For probably 30 seconds you will fuel me.

Okay, you sensitivos . . . that's over.

5. Walking my children down our stairs (errr, ladder) in the morning and released the air that was causing my discomfort half way down. Warrick has never noticed before, and although he talks incessantly, he has never even indicated that he can smell anything. He does bend to flowers as we pass them and sniff, because that's what I do, but that's been the extent of it. He surprises me with this:


"TINKY MAMA!" scrunching his face and covering his nose with his big little boy hands. And laughing. At me. It's true.


I asked Brett if he taught him to say that. No, he hadn't. Lovely.

I am thankful this happened at home and know that I can never again ask my son if he needs his diaper changed (when he doesn't) in the grocery store as my cover. End of an era.


Confirmed by the following: Last one, I promise.


6. We're at the park. He notices, shortly after I do and realize what could very well happen and does, a very large man or boy on the swings. I don't know how old he was because this sweet individual had some obvious mental limitations. Today, it protected him from embarrassment by my son. I will only be factual because I do not want to sound cruel. That is not my heart at all and I truly believe that very very often our sweet Lord allows us to be blinded to things about ourselves so that we are not utterly discouraged.



And other times, for which I am humbly thankful (and also annoyed), He exposes things so that we are prompted to change, to cooperate with His perfect and gentle (and not so gentle if you are prone to resist . . . . yours truly ) leadings. Only God can reserve this power to totally rewrite who we have become and make something beautifully new. Oh . . . the Sweet Redemption.


This blissfully large person was exposing a considerable amount of his stomach below his shirt. Warrick stared and stared and stared and then said "TUMMY!" "TUMMY!" "TUMMY!" His interest for the playground equipment and the other children entirely disappeared as he stood, paralyzed, continuing to yell, "TUMMY!"

Do you know that I actually sat down to write this about my son? About my close encounters with him and who he is now? What I enjoy about him . . . . why I laugh with him . . . the ways he is unique . . . . that will happen another day. Well . . . maybe today, if the kids both keep sleeping . . . .

My boy

This is for me and Brett.

And for Warrick, for later, when he wants to know what he was like as a child.

I know that every parent thinks their kid is the greatest. I'm no exception. I really like my kids. I really enjoy them and still get that same silly giddy every once in a while that I used to feel before a date. Well, before a date with my husband. I've thrown up before dates (and on them) because I was so uncomfortably nervous. It's a very attractive way to get a guy's attention.


So, Warrick turned 2 yesterday. People have been thinking he was 3 already. He's in the 97% for height, not surprisingly. He talks alot. He calms himself down at night by talking to himself, reviewing the things of the day. "Bike ride. Fun. Char-Char. Dustin. Daddad. Miss Teacher."


A couple weekends ago, we had a party for him in the park. His little friends came. We had brunch and Brett and I made a monster truck. Funny that moms usually get the credit for these things, when in reality, I'm usually just the idea behind the work horse. Plus, Brett is much more versed in truck body designs than I. We made it of brownies, cause I thought they might be more maleable if I needed to curve the windshield more, etc....


An aside. I am keeping my concerns about my son's interest in motorcycles (motormichaels) and monster trucks at bay - hoping it is a phase. If it is not something that passes, we may have to make dramatic changes in our health insurance plans, our community of friends and our propensity to take risks and enjoy loud environments. Mercy....


Turns out, I'd never frosted a vertical surface before and found very quickly that I should have read directions. There is a reason the label says, in all caps, "Frost when icing is COOL." Whatever . . . . anyway, he ate it and I enjoyed using marshmellows for lights and chocolate donuts for the giant wheels. Brett had the ingenious idea of using an upside down casserole pyrex dish beneath it, to give the illusion of lift.


I am thankful that Warrick knew what it was.


Enough about that . . . I want to remember Warrick . . . who he is right now. I know that he will change and I will forget - will live only in the present. That someday he'll have body hair and want to hang out with his friends and not me. That singing the alphabet won't be fun anymore. Some things, I'm sure won't change. He'll probably want to play in the dirt for many more years, will still like trucks, still poke his sister. Still throw his clothes on the floor.

Warrick, I really enjoy you. You are funny and silly, even though you don't like to dance - got that from your dad. You are celebrating your ability to do things by your self these days, saying, "NO mama, Self." You know 17 letters of the alphabet by recognition and several words that begin with some of the letters. Thanks to your dad. You like to swim and are not afraid to put your whole face in the water. Last week you started hitting whiffle balls with a plastic bat. You left a welt on my left thigh and my neck. When you miss, you throw the bat on the ground and bend over, with your head on the ground and your bum high in the air and whine as if you are a complete failure. You are not a complete failure, by the way, and I'm not letting you respond like that. "Don't give up! Try again!" It seems you've inherited high expectations of yourself and a healthy dose of competitiveness - double whammy mom and dad.
You love all things with wheels and like to lay on the floor and closely watch the "wheels moving!"
You love your little sister and giggle at her little noises. You've really turned a corner with your gentleness towards her and understand very well what appropriate behavior towards her looks like. "Hold her baby!" and "Tackle her baby!" which, thankfully means, "mom, lay the baby on my tummy." and not "I'm going to smash her". You laugh, but that is what you used to do just one month ago. You do still steal her "night" even when she's crying, although sometimes you do emphatically shove it in her mouth too. If you find one lying around you'll sneak off with it for a quick moment of dreaminess. If you know I've seen you, you immediately begin the negotiation, "Few minutes. One more minute." Begging with your eyes and being oh so convincing.
You love Veggie Tales.
You love the story of Daniel and Noah.
You poop on the toilet very consistently now and tell us when you need to go.
You are in love with our neighbor, Jen. I think she's in love with you too. She bought you a firetruck for your birthday and got you a cubs shirt when she went to Chicago. I'm nervous for the day when you can really open doors because I know you'll eagerly let yourself in next door.
I caught you straddling the top of your crib the other day saying, "get down!"
You talk about your friends, even when they aren't around and love your aunties.
You learned to gallop like a horsie the other day and are very very proud of yourself.
You are still sparkly and enjoy connecting with people, even strangers. You have been like this since you were tiny - wiggling to get people's attention while your eyes were glued to them. I remember several times when you actually made grown adults blush as they were uncomfortable with the intensity of your stare. You have also made many lonely people smile - people that sometimes really get overlooked. Like the baggers at the grocery store and the guy that empties our trash into the truck in our alley every Monday. He looks for you now and waves.
Lots of people love you. Your Sunday school teachers told me they were dreading your third birthday when you would move upstairs to big kid church. "We like all our kids, but some just have a special place in our hearts. Warrick's one of them."
You love going on bike rides with your dad.
You love to "drive car!" I let you sit in the driver's seat and push all the buttons and turn the dials. I can't believe that only once have I woke to a dead battery because you left the lights on.
Your current mantra is not surprising, "Go outside now. Go outside now. Go outside NNNOOOOOWWWWW!"
You like to cuddle, but not for too long and would definitely prefer a tackle and a tickle. You do really like pillows.
You've become quite a picky eater and mostly just can't be bothered to sit still long enough to finish a decent meal. You do however, without fail, love your avocado. You told me the other day "Don't like it cheese yogurt." Hmmm, that's why you don't eat it well. You also said, as we were packing up to go to small group the other night. "Don't like it Wyatt's house. Stay home." We asked if you liked Wyatt and without hesitation said, "yeah!"
This morning, you told Katie that she was "Too big bottom" and walked around behind her pointing at her backside. Thankfully, Katie is very slender and understood that you were saying she wouldn't fit in our stroller.
For the first time in a long time, you did not get a timeout at the YMCA on Monday for hitting and pushing. I was so proud.
You still say, "BAD BAD BUG."
You like to "shoot hoops" with dad.
I caught you Wednesday morning with a worm in your mouth. In the house, while you were still in your pajamas and before any of us had been outside. Not an earthworm. The gross white ones with black heads and poky little claw feet. Wanted to throw up. Where, pray tell, did you find it?
I hope you always are convinced of and always legitimately feel loved and liked and enjoyed by your dad and me. You are the source of so much of our laughter and joy. We thank God for letting us have you in our family.

What you really wanted

1st day of preschool!

All figured out

Just when I think I've got this whole parenting two babies thing down, something ridiculous happens.

Monday I thought it reasonable to make a trip to the YMCA for my Body Design class - not the Turbo Kick . . . it's for the birds - and Body Design went smoothly (minus the crippling, burning sensation in my butt because of an impossible band exercise). Had a lovely afternoon with Vera and some good down time while both of the kids slept. Then, I thought I would venture to the grocery store with both of them, four WIC checks to cash and a multitude of coupons. All a good thing, except that it means more to put in a cart that is already full of children. To alleviate the loaded cart, I put Vera in her Sleepy Wrap - this long strip of fabric that secures her to me and allows her to face out.

Poor decision number one: Allow son to take "Digger" into the store.
Poor decision number two: Allow ambition and confidence to supersede rationale

By the time we made it to the milk, I could barely steer the cart it was so heavy. By the time we made it to the milk, I had retrieved the Digger more than once. It's a really cool toy. Don't worry, I don't slave to my son and pick it up and then foolishly give it back to him again and again. However, I did tire of his yelling "DIGGER!" when I had taken it away. By the time we made it to the milk, I was beginning to wonder how on earth I would get all of this, kids included, into my car.

It's not very easy to unload your grocery cart when you have a child strapped to the front of you. It's also not very easy when your son can reach things in the cart (because it was so insanely full) and is "helping" unload. It's also not easy, all other factors aside, when you have WIC checks and all your WIC items are under the massive pile and you have to organize it carefully and can't have help unloading because you're the only one who knows how things need to be organized. I'm not complaining. Thank you gov't for temporary assistance and thank you tax payers. So . . . yes, I'm a high maintenance shopper, but I saved as much as I spent and I'm proud of that.

By the way, at this point, I had given Warrick back his Digger. At one point another child came to me and asked if it was his. Apparently he had thrown it back into the aisles of food from the check out lane.

Pause: A significant rumble in Vera's pants

I check for the damage, pulling her away from me. Nothing. Praise Jesus.

Continue to unload. Warrick is now legitimately helping unload things onto the conveyor belt, including his Digger. I see it last, sigh, under the pile of 88 cent frozen veggies bags.

Pause: More rumbling. More checking. More nothing. More praising Jesus.

Another interesting factor, "Prince" is my check out guy. He's great, but he's usually stocking bread and he usually says, "Have a blessed day." with his flashy silver teeth. I asked him why once, and he indicated that Someone else should get the credit for the good things that happen to you during your day. I agreed. Today, after our complicated and about to be disgusting passage through the check out, I did not get a "have a blessed day." I had, in fact, obviously overwhelmed the guy. I still consider myself blessed.

(Another interesting factor. My receipt said, "Your cashier today was Bobby." )

Pause: More rumbling. still in the clear.

Continue to unload and organize. Yes, plastic is fine for the rest. The tails of my wrap brush my legs. Vera must have spit up a bit . . . . no . . . . ??. Again, more wetness. But no evidence of spit up. And then I see it.

You learn quickly as a new parent that when babies poop, it has impressive velocity behind it. Enough to spray you mid diaper change, enough to erupt up their backs when the exit is blocked by their own weight while in a car seat. In this particular situation, the exit was blocked, AND the back and front were blocked too. Vera pooped and pooped and pooped. All those rumbles had substance to them, and it all poured out the sides onto my leg, but mostly onto the floor.

I did not purchase butternut squash soup on Monday, but you would have thought that I did and then spilled it on the floor. Gross. Gross. Gross. I was already having trouble enough staying on top of the drama. Now I'm cleaning their floors with Digger thrower beginning his melt down and Poopster still strapped and still spilling her waste. I tuck the tails of the wrap around her squishy thighs to contain it, and continue to mop up the mess. Gross.

Usually I do not ask for help to my car, but today I did.

Here is what I am thankful for. My mom bought me a really cool yellow shirt from Old Navy this past weekend. It escaped completely unscathed. We saved lots of money. I have two cool kids. Angel was willing to help me to my car.

Here is what I am kicking myself for: Allowing my son to take his really cool toy to the grocery store when there is plenty, I repeat, plenty of other stimulation to be had.

As I was about to leave, I realize that the Digger is nowhere to be found.

"Did you see a small yellow Digger toy without a SKU go through?"

"I don't know."

"You would know . . . it wouldn't have beeped and it's really cool, the shovels are magnetic and it has big eyes on it. You didn't see it?"

"I don't know. I probably pushed it through and it's in one of the bags."

To bagger: "Did you pack a Digger?"

"What?"

"A little yellow Digger toy, two shovels, really cool?"

"I don't remember."

"Are you sure?"

" I don't know."

Alas, the Digger is gone. Probably flew through the air unnoticed and landed in the gum or slid under the magazine rack. I am genuinely sad about it. I kind of liked playing with the digger too. It even accidentally picked up one of Warrick's spoons once.

So, here is me asking for advice about two things:

1. How do you clothe/diaper/wear your child in a way that will prevent eruptions?

2. Is it customary these days to tip your bagger when they help you unload your groceries into your car?