Bittersweet

A few weeks ago I watched from some silly chore as James played on the dining room floor with the boys. It's something he actually does quite often. I remember him looking over at me, calling my name, and suggesting that I put down the dishes in order to come sit with them. I wish I had his knack for knowing when to set aside my adult stresses, sit down with the boys, and just be a playmate. One day I came home from work, and the entire basket of laundry I had folded that morning was back to rumpled glory. He told me that by the time he saw the boys, they had already destroyed every bit of neatness that basket once held, and he had dismissed his first reaction in order to sit down with them and start a clothes fight. He told me they sat in the dining room for over an hour, laughing hysterically as they hurled socks and shirts to each other. They had a blast. This morning I went into the dining room after looking up a recipe for chocolate waffles, and found that the boys had taken their entire drawer of sippy cups and thrown them in a scattered mess on the floor. I got on my meanest mommy face and demanded that they put the cups all back in the drawer. Ethan toddled over and threw a cup in, Jonathan followed suit. I praised them for a tiny second, and went back to being drill sergeant. James, hearing the commotion, fueled by 4 hours of sleep, and faced with an 8-hour church day, came into the dining room and made the whole thing into a game. Before I knew it, the boys were laughing their heads off, dumping whole armfuls back in the drawer. I was amazed at what he can accomplish (and persuade them to accomplish) without so much as making a sour face. My husband is the one who excels at quickly cleaning a room, or a house or a child. He is the one that can figure out a quick lunch when there is nothing in the fridge or the cupboards. He is the one who knows when it's time for a treat, and when it's time to scold. He knows when it's naptime, and when it's time for a story. I remember one day when I was getting Ethan lunch, and James warned me about putting more than a mouthful in front of him at a time. If you put more than that, he throws the excess on the floor. He thought I was being sarcastic when I said, "I'm glad you're home, you know the best way to feed them." I wasn't.
One of my favorite jokes as a young mother (which can be easily found with a Google search of "I didn't do it!") casts a very humorous light on the truly taxing work a SAHM does every day. I always thought it was the mothers who were blessed with the gift of keeping a house in order, and the little ones tended to. I thought it was the mothers who always knew best. Turns out things are just a bit different in my house... but then again, when you are raising a Monkey and a Pickle, I guess it's to be expected that things won't always go according to plan.

Sunday Snacks

I nearly laughed myself to tears one day in the LDS bookstore. I had picked up some book written by another mother, who, like myself, felt some disconnect between actual motherhood and preconceived ideals. In comparison, she had 7x more children than I do (well, approximately; it might have been 8x), but I still felt a sense of camaraderie. She wrote of a Sunday morning where she scoured the cupboards for a snack. In desperation she grabbed a loaf of bread.
My mind revisited a time where my only church snack was banana chips. The boys hate banana chips. I knew that when I threw them in there, and so I spent the car trip developing some elaborate facial gesture to show my shock that the boys no longer loved their favorite banana chips. Another day I left the diaper bag home. We've had some fun ones for sure. Occasionally Jonathan will mooch snacks off surrounding mothers (he looks half-starved, so I think people feel they are doing a public service by feeding him), and Ethan mooches off his brother.
I've learned to spend time preparing snacks on Saturday. Last week, for example, Jonathan found some sort of treat in the ethnic aisle at Wegmans (some Japanese package with strawberry covered pretzel sticks-- Yan Yan?). I felt like such an attentive, prepared mother as I tucked it in the diaper bag with homemade rolls and the little organic veggie sticks Jonathan calls "snakes."
We were sitting in the pew when I saw all of my good intentions begin to unravel. Jonathan tired of eating the veggie snakes, and lunged from his seat in a mad dash for the hallway. I lured him back with the strawberry cracker things. I silently groaned as I opened the package, realizing that Yan Yan's have a strawberry dip, almost reminiscent of Handi-snacks. Before long, I was brushing up roll crumbs from the floor while Jonathan painted his shirt, hair, and seat with strawberry sugar.
I think I will be bringing banana chips next Sunday.

Sharpie!

Jonathan is definitely going through a phase where he enjoys sporting black ink (or any color, really), and matching surrounding decor to his semi-permanent skin designs. Several months ago, I ran out of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers (I know, something a good parent should never do) and spent 15 minutes Googling before I discovered a testimonial involving some hairspray trick someone else blogged about. I figured I had nothing to lose, except perhaps some momentos of my son's childhood, and I practiced being an invisible "graffiti artist" in my own hallway. When I was finished, I had a very sticky wall with dark gray squiggles, and a very confused husband. "But James," I explained, "they said it worked even better than a Magic Eraser." He looked from me to the wall and sadly shook his head.

Several weeks later, Jonathan wandered into the living room, where I had briefly drifted to nap-ville. I woke up to Jonathan attempting to recreate a black and white TV picture. I told him how naughty he was and sent him to time out, moments before discovering that every appliance or piece of furniture in the living room and dining room had also caught the Black plague.

Practically the only thing Jonathan hasn't artistically re-touched is his brother. Probably because he knows Ethan will scream.

Lullaby

Generally speaking, our little guys have made it a habit of sleeping through the night. We couldn't be happier. There is, of course, the occasion that Jonathan comes into our room in the wee morning hours, but we aren't convinced he wakes up. The only time we are sure he is awake is when mom accidentally rolls over and he makes an abrupt trip to the floor. He settles back down easily enough, and as long as he has "A cup, a cup! Dwink!!" he goes back to his own bed just fine.

Ethan has learned to love sleep as much as he loves food. OK, not quite that much, but nothing really compares there anyway. There are some nights, like last night, that he wakes up every couple of hours. I know there really is no substitute for a mother on these occasions. Someone to rock, cuddle, and sing; bundle them up and let them feel the comfort and security of their mother's arms. Even so, James and I generally take turns going in with a bottle, where it takes about 7 seconds to lay him down, cover him up, and tell him to go to sleep. Such was the case last night. Around 3 in the morning, I had the brilliant idea to change the little guy's diaper. We certainly got our money's worth from that one. Ethan, at this point, had kifed his bottle of sleep juice (relax, people, it's just milk. Promise) and was well on his way to meeting sugar plum fairies. As I zipped up his pajamas, I noticed some moisture on them. I was torn. I knew if I changed his pajamas, I would have an awake little Ethan for the next hour. Instead I sprinkled half a bottle of baby powder inside his blue footed star pajamas. Pat, pat. See you at 5.

A Cookie

Lately, the young Jonathan has a thing for "cookies." A cookie, in Jonathan's definition, is anything that tastes good, or he thinks will taste good, at a given time. Usually when he asks me for a cookie, I have to follow his little pointed finger to figure out his secret wish. Yesterday, it was a frozen waffle. The kid could care less for a fresh waffle, could care less for a toasted waffle; he likes them frozen from the L'eggo factory. Sometimes a cookie is a lolly pop, sometimes it's not even food. For example, my little scented, wax "tarts" for my tart burner. He smelled like Christmas for an entire evening after chowing one of those down last month.

Last night I found a recipe for chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Jonamonk begged for one from the time I first started mixing the ingredients. When they were finally ready, I gave him his Spiderman plate and a cookie. He promptly thanked me and brought it out to the living room for dinner and a movie (Cars, of course). Before he had even finished his first, he came back out to load up his little plate. Meanwhile, Ethan baby was enjoying finger and face painting with melted chocolate chips.

This made for the best bed time ever. Nothing washes down a cookie better than milk, so to bed they both went with little milk sippies. Score for babies, score for mom.