It's amazing to me how fresh memories can be. If I let them.
It was early Sunday morning and my three-year-old got up at his normal six-ish something with his normal wake up call which is opening up our door and exclaiming, "I'm a fireman!" As if we didn't know, of course.
I'm guessing my husband was already kind of awake and just laying there like he sometimes does because he bounded cheerily out of bed saying, "Why don't we snuggle on the couch and watch Fireman Sam!" to which my son squeeled with delight.
I thought, Sweet. He's got it covered. I'm just gonna close my eyes then, for just a few minutes.
Two hours later...
At 8 o'clock, which is totally sleeping in these days, I wake up in my own homemade Folger's commerical, smelling that coffee that's been brewed (my elixer! Yay!) And my 22 month old Mini, who recently learned that not only can he now reach door knobs, his tiny hands are now capable of turning them and opening them (to my chagrin), flings the door open yelling, "Mama!!!" and runs toward the side of the bed where I could only see the top of his head and one hand reaching up at me.
I've still got the sleepies in my eyes and my hair is like Medusa but knowing I have the happiness that is a full cup of coffee in my future, I pull him up and he nestles his head into my armpit and snuggles me and for a moment I close my eyes and remember those very first days. The sleepless ones, where he would wake me up around 7 to nurse and afterward, he'd fall asleep on my chest and I'd struggle with whether to chance waking him up by putting him back down in the bassinet or snuggle until he woke up again to eat. On the weekend, when my husband would be home to watch the other one, I'd choose snuggle.
I would feel his tiny breaths on my chest, feel his chest moving up and down next to mine, the soft flutter of his heart and the softness of his babyskin. I'd lay there with my tiny son as the sun would start to creep in through the white curtains in my bedroom, the birds would begin their morning songs, and I'd gently rub one tiny foot that would poke out of his little sleeper gown.
On this morning, that memory was so fresh I could just feel the autumn upon me despite the still 90-degree Augustness that it really was. There was a stillness to those mornings, a peacefulness that was a new morning after a sleepless night, where for just a couple hours, there was a satisfied, sleepy baby with a full belly and a safe place next to his mama. Ahh. Heaven.
Those were wonderful mornings and I remember them so vividly that I actually feel like I am there, in that moment again fully, if I just close my eyes.
Later that very same day, as I was reading one of my very favorite blogs, a post stirred more memories of something entirely different. It was late and my husband had already gone to bed. I was about to shut down but I read her post about how she and her husband are going to help support parents with children in the NICU through an organization they founded.
I left my comment, and began to read the comments of the 200 others before me (yes, she is a very powerful writer and blogger who has found such meaning through tragedy and quite a following to say the least), most of them talking about their own experience in the NICU and for a few minutes, there I was, right back there myself. I hadn't gotten through but three comments of other mommies before the immediacy of everything, the terror of giving birth to a baby too early, the unknowing, the crying, the alarms, the rushing, and the panic, all set in.
I closed my eyes and decided I would let it sit in my mind for a minute because it was a memory that was mine and I should never rush to put them away. Then I thought about how wonderful everything turned out, how happy everyone is, how healthy my son is, and how the only real problem with my son being born early was how difficult it was for me. Physically, everything was fine. It was me who couldn't seem to get past it at the time. And with that, I put it away, logged off and went to bed.
But I lay awake, finding my mind cluttered and wandering and before long, I found myself in my bed, home without my baby, the one night I had decided to leave the hospital to get rest because I had been sleeping at the hospital even after I was discharged (they had let me pay each night to stay there if there was a room available). Oh the emptiness that is leaving the hospital without your baby. The failure. The sadness. It all rushed back and blanketed me. Just as if it were really happening. Three and a half years later, so vivid. So fresh. And overwhelming. Crocodile tears started flowing from my eyes, uncontrollably, silently overtaking me. Even though, across the house, a healthy three-year-old was asleep soundly in his bed.
Right at that moment, Mini, who never wakes up at night, started whimpering. His whimpers turned to cries, and I wiped my tears and checked the monitor. He was up for some reason, and really upset about something. So I went to his room to check on him and it was really much ado about nothing. He was bothered by something but I never did figure out what, so we snuggled for just a little while in the rocking chair until he fell asleep and I put him back in his crib.
Because how would he, how could he, know his mother was sad, thinking about what was once, right at that moment? How did he know that his needing comfort was really the comfort his mother needed right then?
But it was. It was perfect. His timing, really was impeccable.
Sigh.
So many memories are put away, tightly wrapped, zipped up and locked only to resurface when we least expect it, aren't they? Some of them we try to forget, others just fade away like the seasons. I am sad to think they could be lost if I let them. What if nothing comes along to open the safe? They might always stay there right where I put them.
Even the pain of a memory is sometimes a good memory, to me. It reminds me to feel or that I once felt. It reminds me of who I am today and why. It reminds me of how blessed I am in every way, even if it's just knowing that I am able to feel. Because to feel something, anything, is so much more than feeling nothing. And I think, despite how painful some of my memories are, I'd so much rather feel something.
Monday
Fresh
Thursday
The Cirque-us
Last week we went to the circus. Not the real circus with tigers and elephants, but the other one with lots of people in tights and heights.
A little thing called Cirque du Soleil. You may have heard of it.
Of course I didn't know how to explain what Cirque du Soleil was to a certain three-year-old so I told him it was the circus with lots of gymnastics. Because he's in gymnastics (I suspect it's mostly for the girls...) and I thought it would help him aspire to do things like stand in line after his turn instead of running all over the gym after he's done trying out a cartwheel. You know, help him maybe want to focus. A girl can dream.
Anyway, this is the Cirque du Soleil: Saltimbanco version and I was lucky enough to get tickets through Mom Select . And I'm so glad I did because not only have I always wanted to go to a Cirque du Soleil of any type...
!!!!!!
But I have to admit I was scared. I googled the show and couldn't find anyone who had dared to take a three-year-old and an 18-month old to the show who had lived to tell about it afterward. And after 7pm. Yes, the show started at bedtime. Aye-aye-aye. But I really wanted us to all go.
So here's what happens when you take two toddlers to Cirque du Soleil after their bedtime.
First of all, people look at you kind of funny. I got all gussied up and so did the husband (he wore his good khakis) and the kids wore their little polo shirts. There were actually plenty of children ages three and up accompanying their parents. But it was also opening night, so there were lots of couples. Oodles of them.
I am pretty sure we broke the record with the Mini. He was definitely the youngest one there.
I did get some looks from mommies and non-mommies alike that said, "Are you freaking crazy?" Actually, the mommies were thinking that; the non-mommies were probably thinking that the 18-month old I had on my hip didn't go with the dress I was wearing. (Oh I'm kidding!) And all of their manfriends were oblivious by the way, stopping to make goo goo faces at him. That was kind of cute.So when we got in, we found our seats and the husband took Poops to the potty and to get popcorn. If all else fails, have snacks. That's my theory.
I happened to have a 100 calorie-pack of Oreos on hand because we were about 20 minutes early, which meant it was 7:10, which also meant it was 10 minutes after bedtime and 20 minutes before the show started. This 20 minutes was precious. It could make or break the whole show.
So then it was Mini and me - and he sat on my lap and we danced to the music pumping as people flooded into the arena, pausing only for more crackers. The time went quickly, the lights dimmed, the family was back together and the show went on. Success.
The show opened with a bunch of Cirque-ish clowns doing silly things, some of them to the people in the audience, then the dancing and flipping and juggling and swinging and the "Oooh!"-ing and the "Ahhh!"-ing began. And the kids were pretty entertained.
Mini eventually became very squirmy and wiggly but was kept at bay pretty nicely with his popcorn. Poops was entranced. An hour and a half in (yes, we made it a whole HOUR AND A HALF with no major incidents to report!), there was an intermission where there was ice cream and two very happy ice-cream eaters. But on the flip-side of intermission, things started to go downhill.
Mini began talking in his loud gibberish, and only to hear his own voice. Which would not have been a problem except that it was during the silent parts. And silence in Cirque usually means that there is some sort of death-defying act happening and, well, the acrobats were really trying to concentrate. People who are suspended from the ceiling usually want to be able to do this.
But they lived and the only people who seemed annoyed were the "date couples" around us. Sorry guys.
He did pipe down (I think that must've been the last gasp) and he was almost asleep. He started the eye-rolling and the nodding off. And I briefly thought, SWEET! We were going to be able to stay! Yay! But at this exact same point, it turned out that Poops was now laying down in his seat with his head on Daddy's lap. So we decided to let a good thing be a good thing. We decided to take off.
Overall, I'd say: take the three-year-old? YES! The 18 month old, nah. I'd spare him, if you could, but you know, it's not the end of the world if you take him. It's like baby roulette. It could work out and he'll fall asleep, or it could end badly. Really badly.
Cirque in general, I loved it. It was silly in parts, it had some over-the-kids'-heads' jokes, it had beauty, it had a tiny bit of scary (a monster-sounding voice) but that pretty quickly turned funny (to my relief), the music and singing was absolutely unbelievably beautiful and there was even a point where they played just two notes that was unmistakenly from "Billy Jean", a little moment for Michael Jackson because the news reports were just coming out about him. There was daring and amazing and stunning and breathtaking.
I loved it. (Can you tell?) Maybe an earlier time would have been better for the kid(s). But honestly, I judge "success" on whether or not there was tantrum-throwing-crying-wailing-hitting-or just overall embarrassment. So, no we didn't finish the show. But there was none of that other stuff, so I consider the trip a success! Besides, I had a great time with the family, Poops saw real gymnastics (and really is totally excited about going to classes now!) and we knew when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. I think that part is key.
The show's moving out of Tampa next week, so find out when it's coming to you! It's a great show.
Tuesday
What do you do all day?
As a stay at home mom, I get this question a lot. And I never know quite how to answer it.
Because the truth is, really, I have no freakin' idea. None. All I know is that the week goes by in a flash and when I look back and think, "What did I get done all week?" the answer every single time is, pretty much nothing.
Why is that?
And even more recently, since school's been out, it's been even busier. It's 10 o'clock at night right now and I feel like I just put the kids to bed.
They were in bed at 7:30.
I haven't gotten a single thing done since then.
I haven't a clue what I've been doing this whole time.
I've been with myself the whole time. I should know what I've been doing. And I've been busy. But I've nothing to show for it. There is still a pile of laundry waiting to be folded. There are dishes in the sink. Two episodes of Family Guy have just passed and there is a husband snoring on the couch.
What is happening that time is moving but I seem not to be?
Let me analyze my day. Maybe I can be useful with this blog and figure it out.
OK. Here, we are made up of tiny windows. I discussed this briefly when discussing my brief girl weekend staycation. My day is made up of windows of time that are either filed under the "naptime window" or the tiny sections of time between naps. When the day is split up into these tiny windows, one has to prioritize and choose what tasks one has the time to perform within a given window.
The windows usually consist of 2 1/2 to 3 hour increments. But it's never long enough to get any one thing really done because instead of picking one thing, I try to cram a zillion things into each window. Actually that's not entirely true. I start one thing and then like a cat who gets sidetracked by shiny objects, I see something else that needs to be done and start that, forgetting entirely what I was working on before until I pass it on the way to doing something else and then another shiny object appears as if out of nowhere and perhaps maybe the phone rings, and before I know it the kids are up from their second nap and I'm making dinner and putting them to bed (again.) And now, instead of having a few things completed, I have a few more things that are only halfway done!
I've resorted to making lists, but then I get sidetracked somehow from the list...
Either way, it all just seems very tedious and boring on paper (or computer screen), doesn't it? And try explaining all of that to someone who asks you what you do all day. Because all I know is that at the end of the day I am completely wiped.
There is just not one thing that I do. And rarely is there even one substantial thing completed or done for the day. It's not like we sit down as a mom and her two kids to finish that thesis we've been working on...
The day is filled with a million little things like diaper changes and "Go sit on the potty, honey. Willyougositonthepotty? Wewillnotgo to Steven's unlessyougopottyfirst!" times 1,000, minus the accident where there was poo on the floor, plus "CanIhaveasnack -- No you just ate!" multiplied by 100, mulitplied by 500 questions like, "Mommy can you hear my heart? Where is my brain? Does Lightning McQueen have a brain? Do robots have brains? I'm a fireman!" divided by the number of times I empty and refill diaper bags, cups, snack cups and coffee cups, make meals, wash the dishes from those meals, multiplied by errands that I wish I could avoid at 5pm with two hungry children, plus whatever it was that I just slapped myself with my palm on the forehead about because it was really really important, and of course, inevitably, I forgot it.
You'd be amazed at how much time that takes up.
And I really do miss working sometimes, but to be perfectly honest I haven't the faintest idea how I'd fit that in!
And I still have nothing to show for all of it!
Because this is the first time I've been home all day other than to make dinner and I am not putting the laundry away with my 30 seconds of solitaryness. (Sorry, honey. But we will move it off your side of the bed and onto the chair next to my side, if that counts for something.)
And honestly as I write this and I think about picking my kids' noses and hugging them in their towels to dry them off after baths and explaining to them where space is and how one might get there, it really isn't that boring. I pretty much love every minute of it. It is very often quite amusing, and very often there is dancing involved. Well, in between some yelling.
I suppose sometimes it's like the movie Groundhog Day and being at home every day could sort of run together like one big day. But on the other hand, I suppose that's why we fill all of our days up with things like play dates and gymnastics and swim lessons and working out. So that I'm not (we're not) stuck in the house all the time doing laundry and washing the floors while they watch drivel on tv and feeling like it's the movie Groundhog Day. Right now our days are kind of like snowflakes; there really aren't two days that are alike and I like it that way. It doesn't matter whether you're staying at home or working or both or whether you're single or a mom or dad, any life could feel like Groundhog Day, right?
Wednesday
Being Present
Sometimes I just feel so selfish.
I (secretly) get angry when potty training goes bad, when one of the boys pushes down the other one, when there are dishes left in the sink overnight, when the house gets messy 5 minutes after I clean it...
I mean, things really get my goat. Stupid things. Inconsequential things. My face gets hot, my head starts to hurt, and I feel the steam building like Frankenstein and the bolts want to burst free from my neck.
And sometimes they do. I completely lose it. And I yell. And maybe a time or two, I've caught msyelf throwing things. We have three cordless phone bases and yada yada yada...only two phones.
Then when all is quiet, I sit down and I think, what for? Why do I let these stupid little petty things bother me? Isn't it ridiculous? I've been thinking (again) a lot about my life as I so often do. How I should worry less and cherish more. And about how things could always be worse. But how I'm not even in a bad place, I'm actually in a wonderful place! The most wonderful place I have ever been in my life! And with each annoyance, each sarcastic remark, I'm letting it all pass by me and losing these moments forever.
I think about things like watching my little boy standing at the sliding glass door making hand prints all over it while watching the airplanes go by overhead and how it's something I want to paste in my memory forever. Because it only lasts one second. And even quicker if I am jerk enough to mutter something like, "Stop that, don't mess up the glass..." and ruin it. (Which I don't, by the way. And I'm thankful I didn't because he just smiled at me while his hands made the squeaky sounds on the glass and then ran away in that toddler sprint to go get his cup of crackers.)
And so what if there's screaming and the house sounds like complete lunacy around 5 o'clock every night because that's when the system seems to break down (like clockwork)? The kind of madness that when someone calls, they sound distracted hearing all of it in the background, forcing them to ask, "Did I catch you at a bad time?" while I respond, "Nope, these are just the sounds of my house! Go on! (Put HIM down!) Sorry. What were we talking about?"
And when it's one in the morning and one of them wakes up crying, out of nowhere, because normally they sleep through the night. I remember there was a time when I wished they both would sleep through the night, but now I know a time where I miss rocking them to sleep and cuddling with them and having a reason to watch terrible infomercials at 3 in the morning. When time seemed to stop and clocks meant nothing to anyone. Oddly, I miss that.
It's not annoying. It's my life. And it all goes so quickly that it makes tears form instantly in my eyes and makes my chest so heavy and tight to think about just how quickly it really all goes. And how selfish I am to want it all to go even quicker sometimes. How could I?? To not stop and relish each moment as a memory, each waking, wonderful moment as something to be gripped on to tightly and held close to me. How could I?!
And the dishes? If I spend the 20 minutes doing them before the kids go to bed because I hate leaving them, then I miss bath time. Where my husband sits there sudsing up the kids in his underwear (because they always splash him when he's wearing his clothes) and they sing songs that make no sense and build things and splash each other and try to drink the dirty bathwater. And who's the winner there? (Not me...)
My house isn't a complete sty. But it's not immaculate. I have three bins of laundry (at any given moment) that need folding right now. But if I sat there folding it this morning, I would have missed out on reading an entire library of Einstein books with my little boy who brought them all out to the living room to read. Every.single.one. Or missed building a "crane" with them, which was really a giant wall of blocks. (And by the way the crane was a crane first, then a castle because of the giant block on top, then a birthday cake because of the way all the single blocks looked on top of the building.)
And then everything inevitably ends up scattered all over the house, the blocks and the books, everywhere. And at one point, I remember thinking, "No one needs this many toys." And almost being annoyed. But why?
Why!
My house shows signs of "family" in it. It's not a model home. It's not four stark white walls with glass tables and furniture with the plastic on it. My walls are painted pretty colors, but they're chipped where the cars have crashed into them a million times (and where I bumped it with the vaccuum...) My couch has crumbled Goldfish in the cushions and a few stains where the sippy cups that aren't supposed to leak, leaked. My floors are constantly covered in crumbs and macaroni despite constant sweeping and mopping, and the bathroom floor, the latest victim of my toddler's accident, needs cleaning. Again.
I'm not going to wish I had someone else's home, because that would be like wishing I had someone else's life. And I happen to like mine. Very much. I realize that life, my life, anyone's life, is just too short to waste on the small things. That getting angry about them really just makes me lose sight of the bigger things. And who can afford to do that? I like my life. Chipped paint, dirty floors, unfinished projects and all.
So if I could just bookmark this piece of very valuable piece of information to read over and over again when I forget as I seem to so often do... No, wait! I have a brilliant idea! I'll print it out, then put it in a little glass box on the wall with the words, "In Emergency, Break Glass!"
Then, it's like killing two birds with one stone! The next time I get mad, not only do I get to break something, I get a zen moment inside! Brilliant!
Then again, I'll have to clean that up. And glass really is quite dangerous for little feet. So nevermind. I'll just bookmark. It's safer for everyone. And in the meantime, I'll just try as much as I can to stop the inner madness for Pete's sake. And be present.
Tuesday
Better than chocolate pudding
A little plastic airplane and little tiny pilot. Long ago we pretended this was daddy's airplane and the little man was daddy. I didn't think he would remember this, but he did. The "Me" in "Meetup".
Well, I have done it. I've officially joined a meetup group. I haven't been to a meetup meeting of this group yet. But I will tomorrow and I'm nervous.
You see, I am not really the "meetup" type of gal.
I've discovered this about myself after having Poops. Lots of moms join these groups when they begin their journeys staying at home. Moms groups, meetup groups, play dates...
It all sounds so nice and social and fun and frilly. It really does. And when I read about them online and even go as far as setting up a profile and contacting the organizer, why is it that I let my free membership run out and completely balk at attending any of the functions? Without fail.
I don't know why. It used to be that I was insecure as a new mom. Like I had my "Hi! My name is NEW MOM and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing" name tag on. I didn't have a view on discipline and organic food and potty training and education and diapering and medicines and all of that. And I worried about not being a member of the "cool" mom club because I had no idea what I was doing and I worried that my identity crisis may be showing.
Then, there was (and is) the fear of saying something stupid. I don't know where it went, but my social skills need sharpening. (Maybe a meetup would have helped me here, yes, I see the irony.)
Even in softball where I joined a group of complete strangers, I'm pretty quiet. We're four games in and I only just found out that none of these people know each other from work at all like I had previously thought. And since they all know each other from playing together forever, they rarely ask me questions about myself so I have to dig and I'm not the digging type (unless I'm conducting an interview or at a press conference where it warrants such). But that's ok, because it's softball, and you're busy doing things. It's not like you're sitting at a mall or playground with people staring at you thinking, "God why isn't she talking!" And there's awkward silence there. Because you're running or hitting or fielding or catching and there's something to fill up the awkward spaces. That's my type of meetup.
Maybe there's something I dread about standing up in front of a group of girls and saying, "Hi, I'm Christie.. and I'm a blah blah blahdy blah and I have two kids blah blah and blah." Because, honestly? You've read all about my reliving-my-youth-how-on-earth-did-I-get-this-old-identity crises here. I'm in the middle of my re-invention! I don't know who I am right now! There's something about journalism in here, I've heard something about being a stay at home mom, I do have a minivan after all that has two carseats in it...I like to think there's some athleticism in here somewhere, I'm ruffling around and finding a wife in here too, maybe even someone who likes to go out and have fun dancing, drinking tea, making jewelry and being a friend, sister, daughter? Or something? But you don't say that stuff in your intro..
So. I really am not sure what to even say at that original stand-up-introduction-thing. Because I know exactly who I was before I had kids, I am working on who I am with kids, but I still don't have a working title-description of myself because I don't think "Stay at home mom" accurately describes it. Not that there's anything wrong with that stand-alone title. Maybe I just don't want a title, ok? Can I just remain title-less for now? Why do we need titles and labels anyway? And since we wear so many hats as women anyway, why do we pick just one title to describe us? And what is the process for choosing that one title above all the others?
It suddenly occurred to me that I may be overthinking things.
The great thing about this particular meetup group is that it is for preemie moms. And I know a little something about that. A dear friend of mine who also had a preemie (30 weeks) found this group and joined it and told me about it. She is totally the meetup type. And I'm glad she'll be there because I don't think I'd have the nerve to fly solo. I'd probably decide last minute not to go like I do every other time.
The funny thing is, during all my self-reflection (with help of blogging), I have come to terms with the "hows" and the "whys" of my having a preemie and I have since healed from the whole scary thing, (having an almost 41-weeker has helped me with that too); so why do I feel the need for a meetup group about it right now?
My husband mentioned this very thing to me in an aside and I realized that mommies and daddies have completely different perceptions and views on the subject. I believe that if you've had a preemie you are always "a preemie mom" (again, why the label? I don't know). Maybe because it is a word that describes an unspeakably scary experience for everyone involved. And while you've gained a million zillion good things out of it (like your baby), you always feel some sense of loss with a pregnancy that ended too early. And guilt. And all of that.
But you see, husbands, (or at least mine), they are able to see the black-and-white of it. Yes, he was born early, but he is healthy now so it's over. Period. End of story. And that's a great point. Because you very rarely hear about someone describing themselves as a "preemie dad". If anyone's doing the describing, it's likely a wife talking about her husband. Because a man just doesn't call himself that. At least my man doesn't.
So then I thought what a wonderful thing this meetup group is. Because even husbands, who are physically there with you while you have this little baby (early) and while you're furiously pumping to try and feed your baby while away from him/her, and when you're going through mental breakdowns because you don't know why your baby came early and you're not allowed to care for him/her yourself or even hold or feed him/her, even he doesn't get the whole scope of it. Simply because it isn't his body. He's watching someone else's body go through all these hormonal, leaky, internal-thinking-nesses. So mommies truly need the support of other mommies who have been there. Because they get it. And some of these mommies in this group still have babies in the NICU right at this very moment. And to that I say HOLY GOODNESS, kudos to them for being able to meet up at all!! Because I never would have been to at that time in my life. (I didn't!) And that is a "strong" I wish I had then. I will remember to tell them that when I go.
Now suddenly my little social vulnerabilities don't seem so important when I type that all out and I think that's why I joined this one. It's somehow easier for me to join a meetup where you have just a little more than "mom" in common. I'll let you know tomorrow what I've come up with for my intro.
Thursday
Thursday Thirteen #11: Milestones, Moments and Madness
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others' comments. It’s easy, and fun! Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Saturday
Decisions, Decisions
Being a mom is difficult sometimes.
I know. That's the understatement of the year.
But I'm serious. There are times when I really want to be selfish. There is an opportunity that you really want to take and you find yourself at that decision-crossroad staring down the road of each choice.
And the one road is beautiful. I mean, beautiful. It has beautiful scenery and serenity and FUN! With no bumps and no hills and it stretches on forever with a beautiful sunset at the end. But as you stare down that road, you realize that if you go down that road, then there will be tremendous sacrifice involved that really doesn't impact you as much as it does other people, and you try and figure out if that proverbial price is worth it. I mean, it WOULD BE SO MUCH FUN!
And today I had one of those decisions to make (kind of). The kind when you realize that a decision is bigger than you.
There is a list of places that I've always told my husband that if he has to travel there for work, that I want to go and to please please please take the wife. The short list is as follows: Italy, Belgium, Denmark, Germany, Ireland and Scotland. OK, so it's not so short. But sometimes he gets to go these places, but more often than not, it is somewhere like China or Taiwan and as much as I do kind of want to go there, I'd rather go to one of those other places first.
Well sometime soon, husband may have to go to Germany.
I don't think you understand. That's like my mother ship.
I know some German, having studied it in high school and college, and I took my sister with me on a overseas study/backpack across Germany in college. It is one of my favorite places ever. Ever. I dream about going back. Nightly.
So when he mentioned that he may be going (in a by-the-way I may be going to Berlin type of way), my heart lifted, I got all giddy and excited and my butt came off the seat and my arm shot in the air like there was a team captain standing in front of me looking for a team of great players (Pick me! Pick me! Ooh ooh! Pick me!!). The skies literally opened and sang to me from the heavens and the sunlight peeked through the clouds and shined on me.
It was magical.
And then there were the "poo poo" moments when husband said mean deterring things like "Flights are outrageous though" and "Who will watch the kids" and crazytalk like that.
Then I secretly check flight costs when he's in the bathroom see that they're not actually that bad, I mean, actually they're quite doable. And I think about the week, ok, I can have the kids go here for half the week, then they can go here..." and the plan becomes more clear and visible and doable in my head, and I really start to get giddy and I think WOOHOOO THIS CAN REALLLY HAPPEN WEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Because I so love to travel. I lurve it. Lurrrve it. And I don't do it nearly enough. Hardly ever, really. I mean, sure, I take short trips. And those are fun. But I don't travel. And I'm getting that itch. Bigtime.
Then I go to bed and there is one unresolved "issue" that I have not reconciled yet and it is looming over me and keeping me from sleeping because all I can think about is how to solve this one little eensy weensy issue.
I'm still nursing.
So. I can go to Germany and pump the whole time, but there is the little issue of the actual flight which is something like 7 hours, not including the stopovers at two different airports. And where do you pump at the airport? Or on the plane, for that matter? You just can't. And I would bust! So that's not really an option.
So then I could bring the baby, but let's face it, there's all that gear involved...naps, and I don't know if that would really be worth the trip either. So that's not really an option. I mean it could be. But not really.
Which brings me to the only other possible option: Weaning. He'll be almost 9 months, he is teething, which means there is biting involved right now (but I know that will pass) and sometimes I don't know if he's getting enough milk or if I'm making enough milk and I get frustrated, but still I trudge on. Because I know deep down that it's really ok and not an issue. I think.
So there it is. The crossroad.
And I didn't even have to make the decision, really. It made itself. This morning.
I was nursing Mini before his morning nap and there he was. That little head. He'd fallen asleep while nursing and it was like a picture out of a magazine. The perfect silhouette of his face with his perfect baby head in the crook of my arm. So peaceful, so loving. So trusting.
And then there were tears in my eyes. Because I'm not ready to end this perfectness. Not yet. Not for a trip. Not because of my selfishness.
And I realized that some decisions, even like a (dream) trip to Germany, are actually decisions that are bigger than me. With other people involved. And there's no way I can rationalize going, no matter how much fun and wonderfulness I know that I would experience. It's just not worth it. In the grand scheme of things, it's just not that important.
I mean, there's plenty of time in life to do all that, right? I hope so.
Thursday
First Kiss
My two-year-old isn't the snuggly type. At least not anymore. He's so over snuggling. It was soo last year. It makes me sad.
Gone are the days when he'd lay on my chest and fall asleep with his thumb in his mouth and his legs tucked under him with his butt in the air. Or sit quietly on the couch with his blankie snuggled up in a mommy or a daddy.
He's independent now. He's got people. He's got things to do. A truck to play with. A cat tail to grab and twist. About 26 laps to run around the house. A snack to beg for and devour. You know the type. Busy.
So we've had to take our snuggles when we can get them. And lately, they are few and far between.
When we were on vacation last week, my husband and I reminisced about the "good ol' days". About the constant cuddling and holding and snuggling. And about how one day it all just ended and how much we missed it now that those days have come and gone. And oddly enough, the very next day, the little man woke us up early and since it was still kind of dark out and we were all sleeping in one room, my husband took him out of the pack 'n play and sat him on the bed and agreed to put on Cars for a little bit while everyone was still kind of sleeping. And there he was, my little boy, snuggling up against my husband with his blankie and sleepy eyes, and my husband turned to me and mouthed so proudly, "I got my snuggle."
It was such a sweet moment. But I won't lie. I was jealous.
There is something to those late night cuddles and overnights with a newborn. Despite all that lack of sleep, there's a piece of me that wants to turn back the clock so I can sit in the rocker with him just a few more nights. Where he's content to just close his eyes and breathe softly into my neck while I sing "My Favorite Things" over and over and over again. A time when he wasn't so quick to jump up and run away and find something funner than this old mommy.
Every once in a while, I still try to coax a snuggle out of him, but mostly he just says no -- his new favorite word -- or wriggles away after giving me about 30 seconds of his busy two-year-old schedule.
A few days after we got back from vacation, I was laying on the couch, exhausted from our trip, with the swirls in my eyes and the birdies circling around my head like in the cartoons. A to-do list forming in my mind a mile long. And my little boy started playing on me, climbing all over me, the painful kind of climbing -- a knee in the kidney, a knee in the back -- but the kind you just sit through because he's having the best time climbing all over you and loving you in the way that two-year-old boys do (and remember, I'll take the lovin' any way I can, even if there are charlie horses happening because of it). And he'd stick his big head right in my sleepy face and wait for me to turn and laugh at him because he thinks he's the funniest thing in the world. And of course I would, because, tired as I was, it was so stinkin cute and I am never too tired for that.
But then, there it was. As if out of nowhere.
He just puckered up and planted the biggest two-year-old kiss right on my cheek. A kiss for mommy. Unsolicited. Unplanned.
Just for me.
And I melted all over the couch. I mean, this was unprecedented! Sure, one can hope for the elusive snuggle, but the uninitiated kiss? And his idea? All on his own? Without me having to beg and/or pinch his cheeks or grab his face or run after him or anything?
Wow. This was certainly a first.
I've had a first kiss or two in my life. But I'll take a wet, sloppy, honest, loving kiss on the cheek from my two-year-old over any of those, any day.
ps. I think maybe he likes me after all.
Sunday
The Race is On
Everything just moves so quickly in a baby's life.
I always promised myself that I wouldn't hold my children back because I wasn't ready to move on. But man it's hard. Ridiculously hard.
Especially when, instead of years, a baby's life is measured in months. Just a few small chunks of months at a time. And not only do the months move quickly, the changes and the milestones just go whipping by like you're on one of those high-speed rail cars in China. Or Japan. Or whereever those are in the Far East.
The way I see it, their whole personality develops and changes, literally, right along with the size of their clothes.
Like buying something in 0-to-three months. This is what I call, the "nub" phase. Where mainly they eat and sleep and cry and just plain old exist. Sure they look around and maybe begin to recognize you, but mainly it's a one-way street. You're sitting there "itchy-gitchy-gooing" away at them and they're looking at you like you're nuts. But however sleepless and shredded you are, nub phase is cute and cuddly and yummy nonetheless.
But then they grow out of "nub". And they're smiling and laughing and sleeping through the night and by golly me, the three-to-six clothes are on. But this one goes by so fast you almost completely miss it. I seriously almost did! By the time I pulled out three-to-six he was already in almost six-to-twelve. It's like nub to six months in 6 seconds.
The more I think about it, the parallels between their clothing sizes and their personality development is uncanny, really. Because as we changed sizes at three months, he had grown up more than just physically. He was sleeping through the night. Time didn't seem to drag on anymore because everyone was sleeping. And I say drag on because when you're not getting any sleep it seems like it's forever at the time, but then all of a sudden you're at three months and you get mad at yourself for being angry and bitter for not enjoying every second of that non-sleep.
Anyway, after nub phase is over and there's sleeping going on, then you're on solids (and subsequently) here come the 'stinky' poops and bam! He's sitting up and doing that military crawl across the room. And as fast as I pulled out those three-to-six clothes, I put them away and said bye-bye onesies.
Six-to-twelve felt like it was going to last longer because it is a six-month span, after all. But we're already close to 8 months now and I have no idea where the past two months went. I was cleaning out the older Poops' closet, and there was still a straggler shirt in there labeled "12 months" which went directly over into Mini's closet. Any day now, he'll fit that.
Zip zip.
For Poops, we're into the 2T phase. And up until 2T it moved quite quickly. The early months, of course, then the 12-to-18 where he started walking and using a big boy cup and wearing cute big boy clothes and kicking the soccer ball around and talking and understanding everything we're saying and eating with a fork and spoon.
Sigh.
18-to-24 months, his vocabulary quadruplified. He's actually joking around with me. He knows what's funny. He's serious. And he's hilarious. His personality is my husband. I know now, after so many phases and so many months, who he is. Because he's telling me.
This year is big for him. He is older. His clothes are bigger. There will be sentences, and counting, and letters and potty, and school starting next month and the purging of 18-24 month clothes out of his closet (see?) and as of today, a big boy bed with a real pillow and covers and responsibility! At the ripe old age of 2. (Pictures of this to come! They're awesome! I documented every moment of it, but I left the camera in his room and after lots of excitement followed by crying at the realization that this really is his new bed and he has to sleep in it and after lots of mommy and daddy coaxing and story reading because I've found that he already doesn't accept change well, I will not dare go in to get it. He finally is napping soundly in his new big boy bed.)
Anyway, I think it was the great Ferris Bueller who said it best. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
Sometimes I wish that for just a few minutes, my life could be a DVR. And I could just hit pause.
***
This week's Summer of Me Winner of the $30 Giftcard to TitleNine sponsored by Janeen at Our Story (thank you Janeen!) and a teeshirt from One More Mile goes to a non-blogger! Clairanne!! Congratulations!
And the winner of the DirtyRed tee is: Dena at SunEGrl Loves to Shop! Congrats to you!!
Friday
Wow! How exciting! (scroll for FTF!)
As my one little boy nears 8 months and the other nears 2 years, there is sleeping through the night and harmony in the house, the dust has settled and I get to breathe in deep and take a look around my home as a family of four and I feel just so thankful.
For the longest time, I've wanted to send my little Ryan a "thank you" note of sorts.
He saved me.
He took me down a road I didn't think I'd ever be ready for again, a second pregnancy. My prayers have been answered in so many ways I can only believe that I've witnessed a lot of little miracles in my life. How honored I feel that the wonderful ladies at 5 Minutes for Mom thought my story about that experience was worthy of sharing! I am so honored! Thank you!
So if you are here from 5 Minutes for Mom, thank you for stopping by!
Anyway, I hope you get a chance to look around and come back sometime for some tea. I love meeting new people so I hope you say hi!!
Wednesday
Under the Weather: The Sequel to Poo (Scroll for WW Grandma Edition)
My poor poor boy. There is something about seeing your child sick that just makes you die a little inside.
Poops has had a fever for two days now and some "stomach issues". He's not hungry for anything except "fish crackers" and juice. He sits there with those sick eyes and his "geen banket" watching "boo choo choo" (Thomas, the blue choo choo) or George and he just looks so poor and sad. Sometimes he takes his blanket and goldfish into his new "stadium seating" (an old Britax carseat box) to watch his show and is quite content whilst doing so. 
He loves him some medicine, thank goodness, and is very good about letting me take his temperature as long as he has his little red truck, Mack. He's such a good boy. I don't even mind the sick whining (I would do it too!), I just want to pamper him and make it go away.
We're still in our pajamas. It's just one of those days. It's also been raining for two days, which seems fitting because of the mood around here, but the darkness of it makes the rooms cozy and comforting for very sleepy babies so it's actually kind of nice.
It's funny how cleaning up and making your child comfortable is so very matter-of-fact and easy, because it is just something that a mom does. And when someone offers to help, the mother hen in me jumps to say, "No, no! I got it!" because we mothers have to be all over it and in charge. And I love how, somehow, though you've never once been trained in taking care of sick kids (at least I haven't) somehow you know just what to do. I always thought when I was a kid, How does she know that?? But you just do.
So. Of course, there are a few things that are really getting on my nerves today as I try (happily, I might add) to take care of sick baby and the list of annoyances is as follows: baby kitty cat on counter, baby kitty cat on table, baby kitty cat eating other kitty's food, baby kitty cat in garage, baby kitty cat mounting other cat resulting in angry kitty brawl, baby kitty cat climbing to the top of the ficus tree, baby kitty cat playing with the wires in the back of the television, other kitty cat barfing on the carpet and sick two-year-old stepping in it, baby kitty cat whining loudly while children are sleeping because annoyed mommy put him in the bathroom to get out of annoyed mommy's hair, baby kitty cat jumping on computer whilst annoyed mommy is typing out annoyances, stepping in cat litter on the floor in the laundry room while laundering sick baby sheets, forgetting to put on slippers to walk into the laundry room where the cat box is, messy house that occurs whilst house is sick.
Serenity?
Poop (scroll for WW Grandma Edition)
It was inevitable. A post about poo.
After all, my last blog was called The Mis-Adventures of Captain Poopy.
There is a lot of poop in my life right now. There is a lot of poop in my life before 7:30 in the morning.
Before coffee.
I won't get into specifics, I am sure poo all on its own is barely -- if ever -- worthy of a post. But when you're exposed to a magnitude of poo and that's pretty much all you've got going on in your life right now, well, that's what happens.
Now I understand the saying, "Poop Happens."
Monday
My Many Colored Days
Have you read the story, "My Many Colored Days" by Dr. Seuss? We've read this to Poops since he was eensy weensy.
Today's a black day. Mad and loud. I howl. I growl. At every cloud.
I have not been a model mommy today.
It's just been one of those days. I'm not proud of it. I've been the yelling, unglued, crazy maniac mommy and I don't like it. I'm not sure who's behaving worse to be honest.
Poops is "learning" how to interact with the kitten. Which means hurling toys at him, smothering him with blankets, and trying to hit him with long objects. He is two. So he plays hard. Sometimes a little too hard. He doesn't know he is playing too hard unless I tell him. And even then, I am talking to myself. Over and over and over again.
He's also very intense at his ripe old age. Having to have water, instead of milk, because we are out of milk, but he wants milk, is met with throwing things and a scream that will make any dog within the 20 mile radius howl.
I don't put up with this behavior. But it is very trying and my patience, well, on days like these, it gets thin.
We can go for actual weeks without my raising my voice. But then, as if out of nowhere, there are a cluster of days when he is a complete maniac. And then, I am too. This morning, this weekend really, has been one of those clusters. Where just as I stop him from trying to hit kitty, I turn around and he's playing in the cat food. Then just as I shoo him away from that, he's on to throwing a toy at the kitty. We did this all morning long. There was calm talking. Followed by timeout. Followed by yelling.
How lame is it that a two-year-old can make me lose my cool?
Nope. Not one of our banner mother and son days. But I guess everyone has them.
He's napped now, and I'm fresh from the gym. We've both had our timeouts. So maybe our black day will turn to green -- cool and quiet. Or pink! Or yellow. One of the fun colors. Because, and I'm pretty sure he'd say the same if he could, I'm spent.
Tuesday
Around the House
I, yes I, am at a loss for words today. Not for any reason. I'm just tired or something. So I was sorting through my photos of my crazy house. I like it here. So this is life in the crazy house. Just me and my three boys and two cats.
And about to have his tail handed to him.
And the other boy with his "happy" face on.
And the other boy, with his crazy-goggle-face on.
And of course, Superbaby. Have I mentioned he's crawling? Not the hands and knees kind. More like a Marine-in-the-mud-type of crawl. He gets places. It's impressive.Saturday
The Volkswagon Beetle
One of my two-year-old's favorite toys is a tiny Matchbox-type orange Volkswagon Beetle. I say Matchbox-type because it's not a stronger model Matchbox or Hot Wheels, instead it is a cheap diecast metal car that was in a package of other cheap diecast metal cars that my husband brought back for him on a trip to Korea.
Not to take anything away from the cars themselves as a gift; they were pretty cool and the look on his face when "Daddy" brought them home for him to open up was priceless. I turned my head on the actual quality of the cars and left it at that.
In the pack of cars was a red double decker tourist bus, a tv satellite truck (which I thought was really cool, given my former profession) a police car and an orange Volkswagon Beetle. The funny thing is, my husband didn't know there was a Beetle in there until we opened it up. But that was my husband's first car: an orange Volkswagon Beetle, the really old kind. So it's even funnier that our child took such a liking to that car.
After hours of non-stop play, the car finally went kaput. First it was the front wheels. My husband tried to fix it by taping them. But the next day, my son ran up to me yelling, "Uh oh!" and I saw that the wheels had broken again, and when I tried to fix it the car just crumbled. Both sets of wheels fell off, the body came apart and all there was left was its sad orange shell.
Nothing short of a soddering iron was going to fix this.
Try explaining that to a two-year-old.
First, I looked down at these big weepy two-year-old eyes. I can see him trying to wrap his tiny mind around what has happened. He looked up at me and said, "Peese?" hoping that if he asked nicely, I would fix it for him. And I really wanted to. I have impressed even myself with my toy-fixing capabilities. Mommy usually fixes everything. But this one was a goner.
So I said, "I'm sorry, sweetie. We have to say good-bye to the car. It's broken. And sometimes when things are broken, they just can't be fixed. I promise we'll try to get you a new one." And I put it in the junkyard, aka the top of my dresser.
But as the words left my mouth, I was thinking about what I said and how I was going to store away this memory because it is a perfect metaphor for life and the many brokens that my little boy is going to have to face in his life and I was sad. It broke my heart to try and explain to him in terms he would understand that his car was no more. I so wanted to fix that car for him. Like I will want to fix everything in his life that is broken or going wrong or missing.
And even though I wanted to run out and replace orange beetle for him right away, I don't think I will. I will let little orange Volkswagon Beetle rest in peace. Besides, he's already run off with a silver car he found somewhere in the living room and forgotten about it. So for now, I'll just thank God for the luxury of a two-year-old's attention span.
Thursday
Sweet Potatoes
It's that time of year again. The time of year whence I pay tribute to the wonderful, very magical Magic Bullet blender. I have the old Windows 2 point 0 version of the Bullet and my ear pricked up when I heard something about a newer version called the Platinum Pro Bullet, but alas, until this one dies, I am stuck with it. And I think that will be a while.
But you must know how much mileage I have gotten out of it.
I made all of Poops' babyfood in it until I ran out of vegetables and fruits to blend up because he tried all the ones I can do myself. (Some fruits you have to stew and I'm not completely anti-jar, especially when it comes to having to stew fruit.)
Yes, he was ready for it. Licking his lips, even.
He's definitely related to me because he kept shoving the spoon in his mouth and wanting more when it was all done. I had to scrape the bowl clean. If you've ever blended anything in your life, I highly recommend the bullet for future blendings. There are few times I could think of in my life where I would actually want a blender for Christmas, but Santa, consider yourself asked.Sunday
Bloody Brilliant
My husband and I both have college degrees. Too bad they're not in child psych. It might have come in handy this weekend.
It's a big weekend for Poops. We're painting his room and converting his crib to a toddler bed. It's going to be cars and trucks, including some of the characters from the movie Cars, of which he has recently discovered a passion for.
So yesterday, we had a brilliant idea. I'd take him to Home Depot to get the paint and get him his own special paint brush so he can help us. 
Home Depot was having a block party, and there was face painting for kids and I had another brilliant idea, let's get him a special little red car that looked like his favorite Lightning McQueen painted on his hand! This is so much fun! I'm the best mom ever!
Our Home Depot trip took a while but I figured, hey, we're out, let's go to Target and pick up the sheets real quick for his bed oh and hey, Michael's is right there, we'll just run in and grab the paints to paint the road I'm painting on his wall! Brilliant idea! (Man I'm good. Can anyone say "Mom of the year?")
Well, by now we're on our way home and it's about 12:30 (Wow -- where did the time go?!) and we're hungry so we run for the border and swing through Taco Bell (my day off) and head home. (Tacos! How much fun are tacos!! What a treat! I really am a fun and hip mom.)
We walk in the house and in preparation for painting, Poops' entire bedroom is now in the living room.
Well you can just imagine what happened next. You can literally see the panic wash over Poops. Then it starts. The slow cry, followed by the uncontrollable wailing, the can't-breathe-tears-streaming-open-mouth kind. He's running from the living room to his room and back and forth, (my heart is breaking at this point watching this little head in a state of utter panic) wondering what the heck is happening and what he did to deserve this. And because of mommy's brilliant mind, he's overtired (naptime is at 1), starving, he now has red and black paint all over his forehead because he wiped his face with his car-hand, and he's somehow lost his room.
This is not good.
We sit him down to eat tacos (it's crackers with cheese and meat inside! want some applesauce? Here, try mommy's soft taco, yum! OOh this is so good, aren't you hungry?).
But all there is is wailing.
Wanna take a nap?
More wailing.
Wanna watch the Cars?
Wailing. (I'm now developing my own inner panic over how we're gonna get out of this.)
So husband decides to fix up his crib again, put all his "friends" back in and after calming him down a little, he takes him inside to lay down. About an hour later (after more wailing and at least one climb out of the crib) the poor thing tuckers himself out and falls asleep. We get started painting, oh let's see, around 5?
So, as it turns out, our failed experiments are good lessons for everyone else on how not to do things. Lessons learned:
-Do as much preparation in advance, like getting the paint and sheets ON A DIFFERENT DAY!
-If we must have him involved in the process, also include him in moving stuff out of his room so he doesn't FREAK OUT AND GO BALLISTIC. However -- I might recommend having him do an over-nighter at the Grandma's house while you do all of it. (I should be writing this down. Please remind me about this in about two years when we're doing this again for Mini.)
-Finally, the best tip ever: START EARLY. After being well-rested and with full-belly.
Yes, we are the brilliant minds of today. Lessons learned. But it wasn't all bad. He eventually woke up refreshed and did get to help us after all.
And so did Mini.
So today, we're almost there. We'll hopefully be finished by tonight and I'll publish the grand before and after.
Monday
Apparently I saw it coming
Call it an apparition, mother's instinct, (passion for redecorating) whatever.
But he did it. He got out. (Re: poll from last week about whether or not to ditch the crib).
Usually Poops luuurves him some sleep. He voluntarily takes his blankie, pops his thumb in his mouth and stands at the edge of the crib, actually wanting to get in. ("Seep!")
It takes him a few minutes of talking to his "friends" (Pooh, George, Froggy) and he's out like a light. At bedtime, his body clock is spot on. The eyes get druggy-drowsy-rolly-looking during the 7 o'clock hour and his head gets all bobbly. He's asleep before the first round of songs on his aquarium ends.
Other times, he's overtired, and he cries a little as we put him down and maybe plays for a few minutes, but always he falls right asleep. He's a good sleeper and a good napper. We're lucky that way. We were lucky that way.
For some reason, and completely uncharacteristically of him, Sunday afternoon we put him down for a nap like usual, just a tad early because we were hoping to go to a friend's house for an afternoon. He spent a while doing a whine-cry-combo -- not crying enough to go get him, just a low whine with an intermittant "Hi!" thrown in there. (He talks to the monitor.) But he was super-overtired (he was falling asleep in the cart at Wal-Mart) so I knew he was going to fall asleep soon, even though he was protesting. (You win this time, Sleep! But I'll get you next time! is how it goes.)
Then I hear it.
Thud. (followed by click of door opening.)
Hmm. I don't remember seeing husband going in there. I immediately get annoyed because I think my husband walked in there -- which could wake him up even more. (Later my husband tells me he was thinking, "Hmm. I don't remember hearing her get up and go in there" and was wondering why I did. -- which of course I didn't.)
As I rounded the corner of the kitchen to go into his room, I see a tiny head walking toward me and I realize this is it. He's figured it out. He flipped over the rail of the crib and got out. Great Scott we're in for it.
So we put him back in the crib (no climbing out of the crib -- you'll get hurt, it's sleepy time, look, all your friends are tired and are waiting for you...)
He falls asleep what seems like forever later (no crying, just hanging out and talking in there) and my husband leaves to have an afternoon with friends while I sat by watching Karate Kid II waiting for him to wake up which was hours later. No curry chicken for me at said friend's house. whine.
So what now? Now I get to think about painting? And new sheets and a new theme? Should I be excited about this? Is it big-boy-bed time? Why is this making me the slightest bit panicky and nauseous inside?
Is the start of another round of sleepless nights when we just got into a nice routine between the both of them? (Picturing a visitor in our room at 3 a.m., hearing the front door unlock at 5 a.m., little boy wandering around dark house in the middle of the night, looking for snacks, opening the fridge, waking up the baby -- my mind is wandering here and it is not good!)
I wasn't ready for this! Stomping feet. I was only beginning to think about this and for superficial selfish redecorating reasons only! I didn't really mean it! I take it back! I was just kidding!
Maybe it was a fluke. A one-time thing. Maybe he was just testing and he realized he can't get past the iron fist (yeah right.)
Sigh. Target had some pretty cool car sheets in the toddler bed section.
