Nearly.

This morning I woke up, ready to conquer the world. Or, at least, to conquer my to do list. They sometimes appear as one and the same. I got the boys all dressed and ready, and got out the door before 9:30. That's practically unheard of for a person such as myself. We can't even manage to do it well on Sundays, when we sort of have to. Anyway, our first destination was Rite Aid, to take and develop a picture for the Monk's birthday invitations. Everything was looking great. Jonathan actually took a nice picture on the first try (never mind the fact that it was a "driving" picture, and he was thrilled to sit in the front of the car), the Rite Aid that is only a mile from our house had a picture kiosk, and Jonathan actually was willing to sit in their shopping carts. I remembered the little adapter to make my SD card go in the kiosk, and was on my way to checkout bliss. This is where life started to get sad. I opened up my purse and discovered there was no wallet. Craptastic. I figured it must have fallen out in the closet where I keep my purse, but I was a dreamer. I called work. "Chris? Hey... could you see if I left my wallet in my locker, and if it is put on my combination lock??" Long pause..... and, hooray! Chris found and locked my wallet! I grabbed a spare checkbook figuring I could get through life with that. Alas, my work ID wouldn't cut it, and since my drivers license is in my wallet at work, I had no choice but to come home, an hour later, with nothing accomplished except mailing my rent. Thank goodness I had a quarter and two dimes.

Ethan's 1st haircut

I think it's a common, unspoken tradition for babies to get their first haircuts somewhere around their first birthdays. I am also fairly certain that it is a more common, and more binding tradition for all of the world's good mommies and daddies to save a lock for a remembrance book. Kinda weird, isn't it? Well, it is what it is.
Ethan, my bright-eyed 4 1/2 month old sweetheart, was not blessed with the greatest head of hair. It's always been kind of patchy, with a long strip on top which has alternately been styled into spikes or a unicorn horn for most of his young life. There was also, of course, the occasional spiked Mohawk, which I think is awesome, but the grandparents did not approve. Any way, yesterday was the day we set aside to assimilate our little patchy unicorn into the rest of society by finally doing something about that hair. Having been cut completely from hair styling privileges myself, we decided it was up to James to transform our son. He eventually decided, after a few hesitant near-attempts, that it wasn't worth the risk of lobbing off wiggly Ethan's little baby ears. Conservative. So, we took Ethan to the nearby Super Cuts for a really super cut. Somewhere between the car and the entrance, I realized I had nothing available for storage of said precious lock. At first I was panicked, but that melted away as soon as I realized it could be a golden ticket-- if I didn't have hair saved from my second son's first haircut, I was absolved from having to keep that silly bag of hair we have from my first son's haircut. It's all about fairness, and a motherly duty to keep all things equal. I was feeling very empowered- today was the day that I, Danielle, would throw away hair.
Of course, that dream was never to come to fruition, for as we were checking out, that blasted hairdresser produced a tiny keepsake packet that held Ethan's little baby hair. She apparently took me to be that kind of mom. Ugh.

P.S.

In the few minutes I spent writing my previous entry, the Monk got into an entire carton of eggs and smashed them individually on the floor. This one is much easier. Go straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200. This is exactly why I buy expensive carpet cleaners, and not expensive eggs.

To punish, or not to punish?

My little Jonathan knows he is not supposed to play on the table. He is not welcome to anything that may be lying on the table. He knows.
So, here I am, making dinner (eggplant parm... :) and I turn around to find him with a freshly poured glass of water, sitting at the table. Five minutes ago I set him there with a juice box. Being a so-so housekeeper, I still had the Brita pitcher and an empty water glass sitting on the table from lunch time. My first thought is that I am so stinkin' proud of him for pouring a glass of water and not even spilling....much. My second is that he really shouldn't be playing on the table, and if I let it go, it will just reinforce to him that it's ok.
In the end, I decided not to punish him. After all, in his little 2 year old mind, mommy doesn't even know that he had to get on the table to pour the water. So I sit with him and help him drink it. I've created a monster. I guess if I am going to make one, I had better at least enjoy him.

absence makes...

When I called tonight to say I was on my way home from work, I was greeted with "say goodnight to the Monkey!" On comes my (nearly) 2 year old, speaking his random nonsense language, making me laugh and miss him even more. His little voice is the best thing I have heard in some time. There is nothing in the world I would rather listen to. When I am home alone with him, however, I can only take so much "ah ba da doleum, yaw!" I swear the only sentence he can say is "hole in it." ?.
It's like that with a lot of little things. Like when James recanted stories tonight of the naught-a-monkey-- "He climbed up on the table, took his little pants off, and poured an entire box of frosted miniwheats into them!" This sounds adorable to me right now. The naughty little things always are when you aren't there to be responsible to clean up the mess and teach the guy manners.

Bed.

I often think how nice it would be to go to bed early. By early, I mean anything on the pm side of midnight. Every so often, I even have a night like tonight, where there is nothing to really keep me from bed-- except that nagging list of things that never seem to get done. Today I had the whole day off of work, and I had ideas of wondrous activities-- go to the park with the boys, grocery shop, fold laundry, wash clothes so we don't look like homeless people... I know it doesn't sound like much, but that is an extraordinarily busy day in Danielle world.
I found I spent little more time than usual in the bathroom, today, and not in a gross way-- it is the only room my toddler is incapable of destroying. When I need reassurance, or a minute away from my desperate attempts to manage the chaos, I poke my head in and just revel in the fact that there is one room in my home I am proud of. If only I could use the bathroom for all of my family time and entertaining needs, I suppose there would be little reason to even bother with the rest of the house. Alas, people would talk.
We did manage to make it to Target today. It was time to get Jonamonkey his very first pillow (he wasn't quite sure what to do with it, and ended up falling asleep curled at the foot of his bed. This is an improvement on last night, however, when he fell asleep atop a pile of books he pulled off the shelf). Target is one of my favorite places. It's the one place where I don't try and pretend I am a calm, cool, collected, sane individual. It all started when I was pregnant with Ethan, and went on a shopping excursion with the Monk. It was nearly bedtime, he was exhausted, and I think I had forgotten to feed him dinner (oops). I can't remember if he was in the front part of the cart or piled underneath all of the items I intended to purchase. I do remember that he had kicked off a shoe in one of the aisles, and a kind employee found and returned it. I couldn't help but notice that he gave me that look-- the look of mixed pity and caution, the one you might use with someone who is indigent, that you don't want to offend by making any show of the fact that you noticed. I couldn't figure out why he might be giving me the look, but then I saw myself. My shirt didn't match my pants, I had toddler snot and cookie crumbs all over my shirt, my hair was in a ragged half ponytail, half bun, and my shoes were caked with mud. Add that to the screaming, unkempt toddler, and I instantly knew that I should be embarrassed. I called my sister in law, delighted-- "I am that person Tammi! I am the one who is the pity of every shopper and employee of Target; and I don't even care!" It was the turning of a new leaf for me. From that day forward, I have had an image to maintain. I could get used to this.