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Guest Blogger! Potty Training Times Two

11/14/2012

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We have a guest blogger today! My very sweet friend Erika agreed to share some of her stories as a parent of identical twin toddler girls. She and her family are relatively new to Vegas; we met this summer as we watched our kids splash around in the shallow end of the pool. I was initially charmed by her daughters' adorable personalities (one was trying to drown the other; this is amusing to everyone except the parents), but then she disclosed she is originally from Indiana and I was all, "OMG! Now we totally have to be friends." Not only is she a Hoosier, but she is also wickedly funny and shares the same dry sense of humor about the challenges and awakenings of Parenthood. Here, she examines the trials of potty training a deux and how she eventually found hope in the most unlikely of places.
Potty Training Times Two

I’m not one for bathroom humor, but I do want to talk about something no one else will: potty training twins. Certainly there’s no dearth of advice for potty training one child, but when it comes to twins, I’ve found zilch. Even my twin parenting books are silent on the matter, jumping directly from chapters about transitioning to solid foods to those on preparing for kindergarten. But if it’s true what they say and no one starts kindergarten in diapers, clearly there’s an information gap here.

I’d been dreading the inevitable potty-training milestone since my identical twin daughters, Zoe and Yael, hit 18 months old and Baby Center began e-mailing me newsletters entitled, “Early Potty Training: Is Your Child Ready?” My daughters were not ready, as neither of them had expressed any interest beyond throwing the occasional Sesame Street figurine *into* the toilet. But still I knew the day would come. It had to. As Elmo says in the film Elmo’s Potty Time (perhaps the most significant contribution to our modern-day potty-training canon), “Everyone learns to use the potty sooner or later.” Which means even twins. (Case in point, my ninth grade boyfriend was a twin, and though he was by no means the brightest bulb in the box—by several watts—he was in fact potty trained.) So what was the trick for training, times two?

 Many of my singleton parent friends touted the success of a three-day “boot camp” approach. From what I understand, you strip your child naked from the waist down and let them pee on themselves for two full days, and by the end of the third day, they are potty trained. I did consider this, since we were at the time renting a house with hardwood floors. But rental or not, the thought of me chasing two naked toddlers through the house with paper towel and a Swiffer Wetjet made me physically ill.  

Opting for a more low-key approach (or better yet, hoping the girls might decide to potty train themselves), I stuck a pink princess potty in their bathroom a few days after their second birthday and prayed the peer pressure of preschool might push them in the right direction. For several weeks, the girls alternated between pushing the potty up and down the hallway and wearing it on their heads like a hat. Then one spring day, Yael did ask to “go pee-pee in the potty.” She asked the day before we left Memphis to drive 1500 miles cross-country to our new home in Las Vegas. I suggested she hold that thought.

By the time August rolled around, I was out of excuses and knew the time had come to launch Operation Train the Twins. I laid in supplies: one Elmo’s Potty Time DVD (of course); a number of girl-specific potty training books; three princess potties and a random green potty my husband picked out “just to mix it up” (side note: no one liked the green potty and it soon became just a stool);  two cushioned potty seats (one Sesame Street and one Disney Princess); a Costco box of Pull-Ups; every make and model of toddler underwear including thick cotton training pants, plastic training pants, regular underwear, and plastic covers to put over the regular underwear; one bottle of Woolite carpet cleaner/ pet stain remover; one box of donuts and a giant bag of Skittles (I’m a stress eater, don’t judge).  

 I kicked off Day One with a morning “sit” on the potty and a dramatic reading of Princess of the Potty, followed by the first of what would become daily screenings of Elmo’s Potty Time. I also whisked a plastic-pants wearing Yael to the potty every 20 minutes. Yael was my primary focus during this initial stage for a number of reasons, but mostly because I thought maybe I could get away with potty training like the singleton parents do—one at time. Also I had hopes that either (a) Zoe would catch on and potty train herself or (b) Yael would catch on and then train her sister without my involvement.

A few days in, it seemed clear neither of these scenarios would take shape. Zoe regarded potty training as Yael’s “thing” and wasn’t too interested in joining. Meanwhile Yael seemed irritated that she was the only one called to abandon the Little People farm to take a potty break. I had no choice but to level the playing field and get everyone on board. And so it was I found myself potty training both twins at the same time.

How is potty training twins harder than potty training one child? I’m not entirely sure, since having twins is all I know, but I can share a few quandaries twin parents face that maybe singleton parents haven’t considered. For instance…

·         What do you do at the park when one child has to go NOW and her twin is sprinting for the hills?

·         In a situation where there’s only one potty and two toddlers who have to go, how do you decide who’s most desperate and who could maybe hold it for a couple minutes?

·         What do you do when you’re in a public restroom precariously holding one two-year-old on the potty and the other one crawls under the door into the neighboring stall?

·         What do you do when you have one twin on the potty trying to go number 2 and the other one keeps coming in with toys to coax her sister off the potty?

·         When both twins are on the potty  in two separate bathrooms (one upstairs, one downstairs), how do you keep one from climbing off the potty into the bathroom sink and finger painting on the mirror with toothpaste while you check on her sister?

August was a dark, difficult time as I grappled with these and other maddening dilemmas. I spent my days shuttling the girls to the potty every 20 minutes, often getting there too late. During naptimes, I’d shove Skittles into my mouth, pace the kitchen, restrategize. It seemed like one day we’d take a huge leap forward; the next, several steps back. I wondered if I should give up, if I’d started too soon, if I should stop and try again in six weeks?

 One day I found myself inexplicably weeping during Elmo’s Potty Time as Elmo sang, “Boys do it, girls do it, big kids all around the world do it.” I realized then that Elmo wasn’t just talking to the toddlers; Elmo was talking to the parents. His message of hope and encouragement—to soldier on with potty training, because everyone can learn to use it, even total morons (I paraphrase, but that’s what he means)—wasn’t just for little ears. It was for mine.  And I heard him loud and clear.  Operation Train the Twins carried on.

Eventually the every-20-minute potty breaks became every 30 minutes became every 45 minutes became an hour. Preschool resumed the last week of August. Yael started the first week in thick cotton training pants, Zoe in Pull-Ups. By the second week, they were both in regular underwear all day. By mid-September, we’d returned to a pretty normal life.

We’re still not there yet. It’s been three months and we’re still very much “potty training” versus “potty trained.” But we’ll get there; we’re getting there. The trick to training two at a time, I’m learning, is just that—time.  

Picture
On the front lines
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State of the Toddler

8/22/2012

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Age: 3 years, 4 days

Height: 39.5 inches

Weight: 35.2 pounds

Clinical impressions: the Bear appears to be on target for all of his developmental milestones. However, Dr. Awesome felt as though some of his speech was "unclear" and this may warrant further assessment.

Huh?

I tried to keep calm as she told me this, but I will admit, I'm confused. I was really excited for our three-year well check. I sat in the exam room with a mixture of eagerness and anticipation, happy to show off our young child like he was a potted plant or something. Look, Doc! We managed to keep it alive for another year! Gold star!

And then her comment just totally deflated me. I'm trying really hard to not assume the Defensive Mom Posture (i.e. "No, he's perfect. Where did you get your medical degree again?") but I don't really see a problem with his language. I understand every word he says perfectly. Hell, I practically read his mind most days. Isn't that what Moms are supposed to do? I know that all mothers report they can understand their children, even when the rest of world has no idea what they are saying, so I understand I am not a reliable source of information. But really? Does this really warrant further evaluation?

I know I can be a difficult patient (somewhere, my husband and  my mother are nodding their heads quietly), so I did not take the news kindly. I hammered questions at her in a vaguely snotty tone. "What exactly do you mean? Can you elaborate? Can you tell me what you are hearing or seeing that is a concern? What is our next step? What do you recommend? How significant is this?"

Dr. This-Close-To-Getting-Fired stammered a bit (and probably flagged Scotty's chart with the "Difficult Parent" sticker), so I called a friend and asked for a second opinion. She assured me that Scotty's speech is excellent though she's happy to provide referrals if necessary. (Tip for Parents-to-Be: seek out Mommy friends that also have helpful jobs, like audiologist and pediatrician. Stack the deck in your favor; you'll save yourself a million in co-pays).

So, I don't know. Is our doctor getting kick-backs or something? If cab drivers can get kick-backs from strip clubs, who knows if pediatricians are in cahoots with other specialists. I mean, this is Vegas. Poor Prince Harry can't even party naked without the world finding out. Nothing about this town surprises me anymore.

Despite this little hiccup, the Bear appears to be a healthy and happy little guy. In the meantime, here's a quick run-down of the Bear, Year Three:

Current likes:
Trucks, cars, street sweepers, car transporters, any construction        
    vehicle, tow trucks, ... .... (this list could literally go on forever)
Chicken nuggets
Froggie (as always)
Little white bear and his Momma
his Daddy
Indiana Grandma
Compressors
Windmills
Watching videos of cute kittens on You Tube
Bubble Guppies, particularly the one where Albie falls off his tricycle
    ("Call the Clambulance!)
Looking for "super letters"
Strawberry smoothies
Lollipops
Henry
Building castles
Playing Batman (i.e. playing with his cars on his car table. Not sure how     this one got named...)
His big boy bed with his extra-special pillow cases (from Indiana
    Grandma, naturally)
Uncle Jim
Bossing his parents around
Carson and Sam
Punctuation (no joke...he loves exclamation marks)
Jackson and Alex
Saying "Quesadilla!" to Lauryn
Grocery shopping (in particular, pushing his own cart)

Dislikes:
Camp
Beets
Dogs, except JD ("They chew on me")
His pediatrician (oh wait, that's me)
Walking quickly
Keeping Play-Doh colors separate
The car seat in Brian's car ("It hurts my booty")

The next year should bring some big changes...can't wait to see how it unfolds!



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The First Three Years

7/13/2012

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I just ordered Scotty's birthday invitations today. He'll be three in just over a month.

Three.

Three?

Three.

How did that happen?

Wasn't it just yesterday I was at the perinatologist's office, incredibly pregnant, hooked up to the baby monitor while watching "Shark Week" and eating my weight in Whoopers? It certainly feels that way.

But it wasn't. It's been three years since that, and we've gone through so much in that time.  Bed rest, jaundice, CatheterGate, SwaddleGate, PoopGate, EarGate, and just about any other -Gate you can tack on a word. We've watched as a our tiny, helpless infant has slowly but surely transformed into a sturdy toddler with a mouth like a sailor and grin that melts your heart.

(Please, please, please don't let him get kicked out of preschool when he starts yelling, "Dammit Jesus! Dammit!")

(No, I'm not joking. If anyone has any suggestions on how to stop him from swearing, I'm all ears).

Anyways, looking back at the Bear's development made me think about those first three years. If Motherhood came with a written description,  what would the job look like on paper? What titles do we, as moms, hold? What are the requirements?

YEAR ONE: Orifice Manager

To sum up Year One in a nutshell, it's all about body fluids. From your first day on the job (water breaks! Push that babe out!) to post-pregnancy recovery, you are surrounded by fluids. Hormone levels plummet, you sweat through your sheets at night, and your boobs start leaking. If your body functions weren't enough, you have your new baby's to contend with as well. Food needs to go in through the mouth and come out the other end. This sounds incredibly basic and simple, but when it involves a newborn, all bets are off. Is the baby getting enough to eat? Did his poop transition? Why is he spitting up? Why does he only spit up on you when you forgot the burp cloth? Does he have another ear infection? Why do his eyes look swollen? Is he pooping enough?

Mothers of little boys will find extra joy in spending the first few months covered in urine as well, since the minute air hits the wee-wee, pee-pee comes out. It's messy, it's hectic, and you, New Mom, are officially in charge of every orifice on or connected to your baby. The child doesn't give a whole lot back to the new mom in terms of interaction, but that's not a bad thing, since you will be doing too much laundry to think about it.

YEAR TWO: Chief Safety Operations Coordinator

Ah, mobility. Your loving bundle of joy will eventually stop puking on you and begin exploring the house. It's right around this time you start wondering why you did not purchase a ranch-style home with padded walls, as everything - and I mean everything - suddenly becomes a danger to the little muffin. Cabinets need to be locked shut, drawers sealed off, stairs gated, dogs muzzled, and shelving bracketed to the walls. That helpless little infant is now a crawling/cruising/walking nightmare that can and will get into whatever you haven't bolted down. You realize your floors are extremely dirty. You vow to wash them more often but realize in your battle against the Cheerios on your floor, you are losing.

Sleep is better during year two, but food suddenly because yet another unexpected element of terror. Does your child understand how to chew? How small do I need to cut this grape? Is he choking or just giggling? Meals become not only incredibly messy but also a giant source of stress. Because if the little tyke isn't choking, there's a good chance he's tossing food around the kitchen in large, happy handfuls. This is the time to either invest in a really good cleaning service or a dog. You figure out which one is cheaper.

YEAR THREE: Socialization Engineer

So you've kept the kid alive this long. Congratulations! Now the stakes are going to be raised. Not only do you need to feed/bathe/sleep the child, but you need to somehow mold them in a mostly-functional member of society. Short of releasing your child to go live with a pack of wolves, this burden falls on you. For this year, you will need an enormous amount of patience, several bottles of wine, good friends, and the direct number to an excellent nanny.

Among the challenges of Year Three are:

-- hosting a successful playdate whereas your child doesn't beat the crap out of other children

-- teaching them successfully to use the potty

-- developing clear language skills so when they yell, 'Dammit, Jesus!' everyone knows exactly what they just said

-- promoting good manners, which includes (but is not limited to) saying please/thank you, asking permission, and not biting their friends

-- encouraging them to use that opposable thumb by writing with objects, eating with utensils, and giving you very adorable "thumbs-up!" when they are happy

"Sharing" becomes a dirty word, and if you had a nickle every time someone under the age of three yelled, 'Mine!' you'd be in the 1%. Seriously. When you watch how toddlers fight over toys, you wonder how modern society was ever built in the first place. So. Much. Yelling.

Of course, Year Three is capped off with the momentous event called PRESCHOOL. This is the moment when all of your hard comes together. It's a combination of all of the skills you've been working on for the last three years wrapped up into one giant stress-inducing package. Will they meltdown? Will they follow directions? Will they eat paste or make new friends? And most importantly, how many times will they swear and take the Lord's name in vain on their first day of school?

                                                        *****************

Scotty is 34 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days old. He starts preschool in 47 days, and I'm praying he doesn't set the landspeed record for getting kicked out of school.

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You Know What Really Sucks?

5/17/2012

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Getting pulled over when your child is in the car with you.

No, it's not because they have a front-row seat to witness Momma getting her ass handed to her by some dude on a motorcycle. And it's not because this event has the potential to plant seeds of delinquency in the very fertile soil of your child's mind.

No, the real reason it is so awful is that the child - or mine, at least - will think Momma getting pulled over is THE GREATEST, FUNNIEST THING EVER,  causing them to squeal, clap, giggle, and shout their excitement through the whole embarrassing ordeal, all the you slink lower and lower in your seat, wishing to disappear completely. And you will want to throttle your child out of total frustration.

This fun little event happened for us on Tuesday night. With the days getting longer, Scotty and I didn't leave the park until well after 7pm. Yes, I did make a right turn on red (totally legal) and yes, I did speed up to keep up with current traffic. What I did not expect to see was a policeman on a motorcycle peel out of a parking lot across the street,  cross six lanes of traffic, and plant himself directly behind me, lights flashing. I mean, yes, Hualapai is well-known in Vegas as one of the most dangerous streets in town (not, not, not) and with it's many crosswalks (read: zero), yes, pedestrians are getting picked off daily (um, no). Our tax dollars are really going to good use to ensure cars do not go over the ridiculously low speed limit of 35 (what?!?) to avoid more (non-existent) fatalities. And for the record, the only things I've ever seen run over on Hualapai south of Flamingo was a crumpled paper bag and one sad gym shoe.  Oh, the horror.

So as you can imagine, I was mildly annoyed that my car got singled out, literally two minutes from our house. Since leaving the park, Scotty had been playing this new game in the back seat where he screams as loudly as possible until I crack and start screaming back.  When the cop pulled me over, I was thisclose to winning. But with the Bear's attention now diverted  by the nice man at my window, demanding my license and registration, he began chattering incessantly about the events unfolding around him. Gleefully.

"Da motorcycle! Da...da...da police motorcycle! Da lights are on! Momma, look! Look, Momma, look! Da lights on da motorcyle are on! Oh, Scotty love da lights! Scotty LOVE da lights!  Say it Mom! Mom, say it! Say 'police motorcycle!' Say 'lights!' Say it! Momma, SAY IT! SAAAAAAY IT!"

Considering my emotional fragility at this time, from the prior screaming game to having to dig through my purchases at the farmer's market to get my wallet out, which included pawing through the fresh kale I had purchased, I was really about to lose it. I mean, don't I get a break for the kale? How can you ticket someone who has fresh kale in their car? Everyone knows that no one actually likes kale. We only buy it and eat it because it's good for us. It's the most sadomasochistic vegetable known to man, and this cop wasn't going to cut me a break, despite the fact I eat kale not because I want to, but because I should. He was completely unsympathetic towards every aspect of my life - the annoying toddler, the obnoxious leafy greens, the fact that Hualapai essentially poses to no risk to anyone, ever. It was infuriating to say the least.

But I couldn't take my frustrations out on the man in blue (technically, light brown), so I took it out on the tiny person in the car who would not shut up.

"STOP TALKING!!! JUST...STOP....TALKING!" And I banged my hands on the steering wheel for good measure.

It was like Demon Mother erupted out of me. Even I was taken aback at the tone of my voice and the crazy flailing motion of my hands. Motorcycle cop paused for a second and looked up at me as he wrote the ticket, probably thinking this is part where I flee from the car and start ripping out my hair.

Scotty paused for a long second. His bottom lip quivering. His eyes welled up, and then he, too, erupted into all-out wails. Oh, my sensitive little Bear. I had pushed him too far.

And that, folks, is how we returned home - Kim a crying, angry mess, and Scotty, howling like a bee had stung him. Brian arrived home just a few minutes before us and wasn't sure who to look at - or tend to - first. I just shoved the paper ticket in his hands, sniffed, and walked upstairs silently.

Stupid cop. Stupid ticket. Stupid kale.

::sigh::
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The Boss Bear

4/6/2012

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I received a text from our baby-sitter on Wednesday afternoon. It read:

"Scott just put me in timeout. lol."

Seconds later, another text popped up:

"Two minutes."

[the length of her timeout, presumably]

Taking the bait, I wrote back, "What did you do???"

"We were chasing. I caught him, and made the toot noise with my mouth, so he put me in time-out for spitting."

She followed up with, "He made me say sorry afterwards. :)"

Damn. I can't wait to see what this kid does in preschool. I fear for his teacher already.

Picture
Sierra and the Bear, in happier times
Editor's note: Do you have a bossy toddler in the house? May I recommend "The Boss Baby" by Marla Frazee. It was sent to me by my lovely friend Chai who knows a thing or two about opinionated children. Not surprisingly, it is one of Scotty's favorite reads these days. And no, I was not compensate in any way for this plug; it's just a really good book. And so darn appropriate.
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The Most Awkward Place You Can Take a Chatty Toddler...

4/4/2012

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...is the post office.

During rush hour.

It's dead quiet in there, and people line up like zombies clutching packages. Everyone looks disgruntled, everyone is irritated, and everyone is impatient.

So let's add a toddler to the mix, just to spice things up!

As I took my place in line with the other parcel-walkers, Scotty took it upon himself entertain the entire place. He was like a one-man comedy show.

"Mom. Mom! MOM! MOMMY! Look over there! Look! Do you see it?" [I shake my head no, I don't know what the hell he is talking about] "Oh! Big hummer! No, big truck! Oh wow! Mommy, look at the big truck! Say, 'big truck' Mom! Say it! SAY IT!"

Okay, that wasn't so bad. Just normal toddler talk.

Then he attempted to address the crowd.

"Mommy say last night - " ["last night" is a term he uses for everything from literally last night, to three months ago. We're working on time awareness.] " - 'No, Scotty! No! Put that down!' Then Mommy - " [he begins to shake his index finger violently] " - No! No! No! Bad Scotty! Scotty go to time-out! Scotty bad. Mommy bad. Bad Mommy! Mommy, say, 'Bad Mommy!'"

For the record, I have never, ever called my kid 'bad.' I have stated his behavior has been bad, but never him. Where he gets this, I have no idea.

I think he sensed he was losing the crowd, so he went with some potty humor.

"Poop is brown and pee is yellow! Oh, yes, pee is yellow. No touch poo-poo! Poo-poo is no touch. Da-da made poo-poo on the potty last night! Da-da sat on potty and said - " [insert grunting noises here] " - and then Da-da flushed the potty. Scotty made poo-poo on the potty last night too! Scotty get two marshmallows.Scotty good boy. SO GOOD."

It was at this point I stepped away from my child and stated, very loudly, to anyone who was listening (which was all 38 people in line),

"I do not know this child."

Does UPS offer an in-home pick-up service?
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The Scariest Sound the Parent of a Toddler Can Hear...

4/3/2012

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...is the sound of a toilet flushing when you are in another room.

For us, this happened yesterday. It was after lunch and I was washing dishes in the sink in the kitchen. The Bear had scampered off to get a few more minutes of truck-play in before nap time. I thought he was in the living room, but then I heard the toilet flush.

And I froze.

What exactly did he just flush?

A quick survey of my surroundings yielded this:

Engagement ring? Check.

Wedding ring? Check.

Watch? Yup.

Car keys? Too high for him to reach - not a concern.

TV remote? Well, we'll figure that one out.

Teeny-tiny car?  He has so many cars, there is no way I'd be able to determine if he had flushed one.

I needed to investigate.

I met a very smiley Bear in the bathroom moments later. With a giant grin, he exclaimed, "Froggie go in bubble tub!"

And my heart sank.

Froggie? Froggie got flushed? The same tiny blanket that I had just spent a week blogging about? The Froggie that I only bought one of, so if he did indeed get flushed, there is no way to replace Scotty's beloved lovey? And what is a plumber going to cost me?

Oh God Brian is going to kill me...

The inquisition started. "Did you flush Froggie?" "Yes! Yes I did!" "No, Scott - I'm asking you - did you put Froggie in the potty and flush him?" "Yes! Froggie go bubble tub! Froggie in potty!"

And with that, I plunged my glove-covered hand (thank you, dishwater) into the potty and began rooting around for Froggie.

Unless we have the greatest suction in a toilet known to man, Froggie was not in the nearby vicinity. Either he was already making friends in the sewage pipe (and I'm minutes away from the most expensive toilet repair in recent memory), or he was not flushed.

Once I removed my hand from the toilet (so disgusting, let me tell you), I did a quick lap of the house. Froggie was not in the family room, not in the living room, not outside on the patio, and did not appear to be in the bathroom. Finally, I found him smushed in a corner in the closet. Dry, unharmed, and non-flushed. Oh thank heavens.

Scotty grabbed for Froggie (once I had removed my gloves after disinfecting them) like the past five minutes had not happened. He marched over to the washing machine, pointed to it,  and stated, "Froggie go in bubble tub! Froggie dirty!"

Ooooh. I get it. He wants to wash the frog, not flush him. 

Needless to say, we'll be working on clarifying potentially disturbing messages prior to alerting Mom. 'Cause Lord knows I don't want to go sticking my arm into any more toilets.
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Speaking of Best Buddies...

3/29/2012

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I don't think a bear and a frog would be naturally compatible in the wild, but in our house, they get along extremely well.

You all know Froggie, right? It's Scotty's little lovey.  This tiny green blanket with a head has quickly become Scotty's object du-jour. His BFF. Gayle to his Oprah. These days, we can't leave the house without Froggie tucked safely under Scotty's chin.

Froggie has literally been with us from the beginning. He's ever-present in most of Scotty's early photographs.
Picture
Note the wisp of green fabric in the upper left corner...that's Froggie, looking over his little Bear.
Froggie even travels well. He came to Chicago with us for Christmas when the Bear was only four months old. On our way home, I accidentally dropped him behind the security check-out at the airport.  I was ready to create an international incident to get that little green blanket back, and thankfully, a security guard took pity on this new mom and fetched him for us. Peace ensued, and I did not get arrested.

Froggie ventured with us to Arizona for that fateful play-off game in January 2010. The Bear was only four months old, but both he and Froggie attended their first Packer game.
Picture
Again, upper left corner - yup, that's Frog. Ever vigilant, ever soft.
(Editor's note: I about died laughing looking back at some of Scotty's baby pictures. Holy cats, can you say "FAT baby?" Good heavens, the kid was plump. I cannot believe we were never reported to CPS for encouraging childhood obesity at such a young age. Look at those rolls. His little brown socks are actually causing indentations on his gigantic non-ankles.)

The Bear starts his day with Frog, and ends it with him. During naptime, Scotty likes to talk to his frog about the day's events - everything from music class to who-did-what on the playground. They sing, they laugh, they cry together. Froggie is an excellent confidant.

Scotty frequently will point out various landmarks and objects to Froggie. On car trips, he likes to smash Froggie's face against the window while shouting, "Flag! Look Froggie! It's a FLAG!" I'm sure in his own mind, Froggie is delighted by the attention.

Here, Scotty shows Froggie one of the hot air balloons that drift by our house every morning.
Picture
Nudie Bear
The Bear does not like it when anyone but Brian, I, or himself hold Froggie. He's very particular. You can tell here by the look on his face that he is very unhappy.  Henry doesn't know it, but he's playing with fire right now.
Picture
Disgruntled Bear
Ahhh, order has been restored in the Universe.
Picture
Placated Bear
The only time the two are apart is when it is forced. Scotty manages to handle it well, however.
Picture
"Stay strong, man! Hold your breath!"
I fear Froggie will be an unintentional student this fall when the Bear begins preschool.

Hell, at this rate, Froggie will likely attend college with the Bear.

It's cool...they seem to be a perfect match. And he mashes into a suitcase fairly well.
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Best Buddies

3/28/2012

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It's a weird moment when your child goes from 24/7 management (with the occasional headache thrown in there) to your preferred dining companion and quite honestly, a really fun little person.

Scott has been a lot of fun for awhile, but on Monday, he became more "companion" than kid. That afternoon, we ventured out to the park at Town Square with plans to play, then eat dinner at Whole Foods.  Yes, I had to instruct him to not throw the peppers in the produce department and to stay by me while in line, but overall, he was an excellent little Bear. He walked on his own, free of the stroller, gripping my hand tightly and pulling me back as cars drove me ("Car coming, Momma," he says cautiously, pulling me out of harm's way. Mind you, the cars are in the street and we are on the sidewalk, but that's just semantics to your average toddler.)  As we walked through the stores, he sat patiently while I shopped (even his father has not yet mastered this). And then, best of all, he ate a great dinner across the table from me - not next to me. It was a major parenting coup, or felt like one, at least. I'm not sure what other families experience - maybe 2.5 years old is really late to hit this stage? - but I do know dinners out are extremely pleasant right now. Cheers to that.

He even had me giggling by disappearing under the table and popping back up. Silly Bear.
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I *heart* this picture.
Don't get me wrong - Scott and I have no plans to head over to Starbucks and sip coffee for hours, talking about our feelings, but this change is a nice one. Yes, we still have our bad days, like yesterday, when Scotty inexplicably peed on a park bench while I was on the phone (I think he was mad that I wasn't paying attention to him), but those days are few and far between. This is so much better than the word "no" always being the first thing out of my mouth, or dealing with public meltdowns due to buttons he cannot push or dirt he wants to throw but I don't let him.

Even Brian is enjoying our maturing Bear. They snuggled on the couch last night watching "Inside Edition" while munching on popcorn. They looked so content, I hated to take Scotty up for bubble tub.
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"Christie Brinkley said whaaaaat? on the Today Show?"
Silly Bear. It really does keep getting better and better.
2 Comments

Playground Dad

3/23/2012

0 Comments

 
The rules of the playground are simple: Offer support, snacks, and maintain a cool detachment from your child at all times. After all, there are other kids to play with -- that's what the playground is for.

Novice playground goers - mostly dads, from my observations, tend to break these rules frequently. My guess is that they never intended to go to the park in the first place, but the dad, along with all of the children, were kicked out of the house by an overwhelmed mother who just asking for 45 minutes to herself in her own damn house. (um...not speaking from experience here. Just guessing.  ::ahem::) Consequently, these dads, blinking into the sunlight as though they haven't been outside in years, act like young pups: overzealous, disoriented, and slightly hyper.

Playground Dads are easy to spot. They usually roll up in some of completely inappropriate baby apparatus, like strapping their four-month old in an umbrella stroller. (I've seen it, people. It was painful). They then usually attempt to coerce their 18-month old daughter on the "big kid swing" and get frustrated when she cries and is unable to hold on. Playground Dad is incredibly chatting - everything his child does requires a running dialogue. "No Tommy, that's not yours - don't touch that. Oh, okay, Tommy, you can play with it. Okay, say thank you. Tommy,  I said, say thank you! Tommy, don't run away from Daddy. Daddy wants you to say thank you! Tommy, don't climb up there. Tommy, that's too high, Daddy can't reach you. Tommy, go down the slide. No, not that way, the other way. Tommy, the other way. The other way! Tommy, I'm going to tell your mother about this. Toooooooommmmmmmeeeeeeee!"

At this point, the seasoned playground-ers are usually exchanging sideways looks at each other: amateur.

::sigh::

Playground Dad almost invariable breaks the cardinal rule of the playground because he is unable to remain coolly detached from his children. Maybe it's the sunlight or the fresh air or he thinks he is awesome because he's now spent a full 20 minutes with his children without checking his phone or asking his wife to intervene, but he has a sudden burst of energy and decides to engage in a game.

Yes, a game.

Boom, crash.

The kids love it, no question there. But Playground Dad might as well as break out a lute or lyre, because he's become the Pied Piper of the Playground. Children everywhere sense an adult playing - playing! - with another child, and their game of 2 suddenly becomes a game of 14. Like zombies descending upon a still-twitching body, the children race to Playground Dad, insisting he do this or go this way or tag! You're it.

And the one thing I've learned in my two and a half years of doing this, toddlers are like elite athletes: they will outlast you. After fifteen minutes of "chase" or "aliens," Playground Dad is ready for a sports drink and a park bench - but toddler zombies aren't.  They've only just begun. And they want more. They can go on like this for hours. So they suck Playground Dad back in, making him do more pony rides or one more trip down the slide, and the poor fool is going to pay for it tomorrow in Advil and Icy-Hot packs.

Don't worry; he'll learn. They all do.
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