Why One Should Avoid Blogging Past Midnight

Has it really been a week since I've written here? Yes. It really has. Have I really only written six posts this month? Yes. I really have. Am I really lying here, awake, at 2 am, writing instead of sleeping? Yes. I really am.

It's a funny thing, this writing. The times I have the most to say are the times when, really, nothing much is happening. Which might explain the week-long absence--after all, there doesn't seem to be a single moment anymore in which something isn't happening. And if there does happen to be a moment when there's nothing happening in the physical sense of the word, there is certainly no end to the happenings in my mind.

Lately, the focus of my musings has been work. Or rather, working outside the home. As much as I enjoy staying home with these children, as much as I don't want to leave them, I wonder if this is a choice I will regret. Will I, in ten years, look back and think, If only I had maintained a presence in the outside world...

Will it be harder for me to re-enter the working world, whenever that happens? Am I showing my boys that men work and women stay home? Am I setting myself up for trouble by not having an income of my own, just in case? Am I living in a bubble of a world, insulated from reality, as was recently suggested to me?

And the only answer I have to any of that is Maybe. Maybe I will regret these years. But if I chose to go out and find a job, would that serve to inoculate me against regret? No, of course not. If I made that choice, would I, in ten years, look back and think, If only I had more time with them when they were babies...

At the end of the day, the real question seems to be this: Which regret would I rather have? And of course, that's an unanswerable question. Regardless of which regret I choose, simply by virtue of it being regrettable, I would wish that I had chosen differently. But man, these choices seemed easier when they were hypothetical.

(Actually...this is STILL hypothetical because "going back to work" implies that I have some kind of work to go back TO, which I don't. Let's hear it for Highly Useless Master's Degrees!)

Outsmarted

When all his peers were going through the hitting-kicking-biting-pushing stage, Luke breezed right on through it like a little angel. Now, the halo is getting a quite tarnished. It's mainly the pushing--no, really, it's mainly the TACKLING that concerns me. If someone pushes him just a tiny bit, he tackles them to the ground and lies on top of them. If someone takes a toy from him, he hits them and then takes the toy back AND THEN tackles them to the ground and lies on top of them. If someone hits him, he hits them back AND THEN tackles them to the ground and lies on top of them. Surely, you're seeing a trend.

Yesterday, we were at open gym and he wanted all the little cars. Now, there were enough other toys that he probably COULD have had all the cars and there would still have been plenty for everyone else to play with, but, uh, are you familiar with toddlers? And the fact that they really only want the toys that someone else has? So of course, as soon as he started hoarding little cars, the little cars became the MOST COVETED TOY EVER. Hence the ensuing grab for power...and cars.

I talked to him about sharing...and then talked to him again...and then left the gym for a few minutes so he could be away from the situation. Before going back in, I told him that he could play with as many cars as he could carry IN HIS HANDS because as soon as he put them down, other kids came to play with them and that was escalating the pushing-hitting-tackling behavior. So I figured that there were, like, thirty cars there, so if each toddler could only carry two--or at the very most, three--then, there would be more than enough for everyone, right? Silly me.

Not five minutes later, I noticed my child walking around carrying one of the plastic boxes that they use for toy storage. And inside the box were about 20 cars. Because technically, TECHNICALLY, he was carrying them all "in his hands."

Standing Man

Here are a few more pictures from last month

This was the first time Weston pulled himself up on a piece of furniture.
Which would make this the first time he pulled up and then tried to let go. (It was soon followed by the first time he pulled up, tried to let go, and then fell on his face.)
As it turns out, standing is great fun. Especially standing and chewing on furniture. The other day, Luke observed that, "Weston is like a doggie...he just chews on everything!"
So very pleased with himself.

Winter Weather

A few weeks ago, we had our first--and presumably, last--snow of the season. It wasn't the six inches I was unrealistically hoping for, but it was about an inch and it did stick enough that we were able to go out and play in it. Usually, I get very excited about the mere possibility of snow--and usually, I'm disappointed because they always seem to predict more snow than we get. This time, the week before had been so warm and spring-like that I flat out didn't believe the forecast, so it was a very nice surprise when we actually did get snow. Luke absolutely loved the snow and stayed and played in it for far longer than I thought he would...and then, woke up the next morning and played in it some more. Raleigh being what it is, it was upward of 50 degrees that next day, so it melted much faster than he might have liked, but he did get some good snow play in while he could.

I told him to find a winter hat...this is what he came up with.
Weston: dressed, ready, and utterly unimpressed.
Why, yes, I did borrow McMoose's ludicrously puffy jacket. And why not?
McMoose let Weston feel the snow. I believe his reaction was, "I am touching something cold and wet. I do not approve."

There wasn't enough on the ground at this point to make a decent snowball, so Luke just got some off the cars instead.
McMoose's rendition of a firebird. Quite the artist, that one.
I'm not sure who brought the bucket out--I suspect it was McMoose. But making snow castles was great fun, according to Luke. Step One: Run crazy circles around the car, collecting snow in a bucket:
Step Two: Plop!
And not pictured here is Step Three, which is also known as The Most Fun Step: Stomp!

Lennonian Wisdom

You know how interviewers love to ask where you see yourself in five years? I'm pretty sure I was asked that question five--okay, six--years ago, when I was visiting graduate schools. I obsessed about my answer to that question beforehand. Ob. Sessed. I saw myself as a researcher. I saw myself holding (or at least being well on my way to holding) a doctorate. I saw myself as a writer. I saw myself as a professor. I saw myself as a clinician.

Here's what I didn't see: A sweet, sleeping baby drooling on my arm. A child who is approaching his third birthday at a rather alarming rate asking me to hug and kiss his imaginary dragon. (I responded that I was worried that the dragon might blow fire at me, to which Luke replied with a great sigh that, "It's just PRETEND, Mama...Did you know that pretend dragons won't hurt you?") A McMoose who is, at this very moment, changing the oil in my car. Six years ago, I had no idea how much love my life would contain.

Six years ago, I also had no idea that I would stay up until midnight, sewing a penguin costume. What's that saying--life is what happens while you're busy making other plans?

Conflicted

There are days. There are days that go so wonderfully well. There are days that are filled with sunshine and music and laughter. Today was one of those days.

We woke up and had a leisurely morning because we had no plans to leave the house today. Luke and Weston are always so thrilled to see each other in the mornings and it's nice when I don't have to rush that reunion. Weston decided he'd like to nap early, so he fell asleep and then, Luke and I got to sing. We got to draw designs in cornstarch. We got to turn on some music and dance around on the landing at the top of the stairs. There were moments, during all this, that I wished I could capture, freeze, so I could revisit them during the difficult times.

There are days. There are days that go so very poorly. There are days that are filled with conflict and tears and a complete dearth of reason. Today was also one of those.

He stated that penguins have holes in their hands and when I tried to ask him what he meant, he jumped around and yelled, "Nooooooooo!" He wanted me to stay upstairs while he played downstairs by himself and when I explained that really, it was lunchtime and I needed to get our food ready, he threw such an unholy fit that I had to carry him, kicking and screaming, down the stairs because I was worried that otherwise, he'd fall down them in the midst of all his jumping and writhing. He didn't want to eat his cauliflower and when I said, "Ok, I'll eat it then," he kicked the table and informed me that he wanted to put it RIGHT THERE in the middle of the table and save it for his friend. He informed me that he was a growing child, and would very much like a boiled egg, but when I went to put in an egg to boil, he yelled that he wanted an egg with a WHITE shell instead of an egg with a BROWN shell. (Guess which kind we had.) And then, THEN, he ate the yolk of one egg and then decided that the other egg was "real." And the "real" egg was his friend. And he wanted the "real" egg friend to take a nap with him. In his bed.

There are days that leave me exhausted and wishing that I had an outside job to go to, a place where I could expect to deal with reasonable adults, a place where I might get a coffee break every now and then. There's a voice that reminds me that if I did have that job, I would have missed out on the dancing.

Fragmented

• There are times when I'm looking out of the bedroom window and I see The Dog wandering around the yard, and the first thought in my head is, "Oh, my goodness, there's an ANIMAL out there!" Which is true enough, but when I think "ANIMAL," I'm not thinking "pet dog," I'm thinking "rabid beast." And though we might describe The Dog as a rabid beast from time to time, he isn't exactly menacing.
• I had trouble sleeping last night, so I lay awake, relishing the quiet and I realized something: Weston wakes up a LOT. I mean, he doesn't always wake ME up or ask for any help in getting back to sleep, but he very frequently stirs, rolls over, picks his head up and looks around, licks the mattress--yes, LICKS the mattress--and just generally moves around.
• Luke is pretty convinced that getting a ticket from the cops is something to be desired. He frequently talks about the prospect of being pulled over in a rather awestruck voice. I worry about that child, sometimes.
• Weston now pulls himself up on everything. Including Yellow Cat, who is not amused by this new development.
• McMoose was trying to toilet train the cats. Apparently, there exists a product that claims to do exactly this and this product actually has decent reviews, so we tried it out. Black Cat took to it superbly. Yellow Cat...well...let's just say he doesn't care for the concept. Ah, if only. But I have to admit, I would feel like I'm living in the house from Meet the Parents.