Trying New Things: Cross-country Skiing

There are some things that are just unacceptable. Like the fact that I've lived in Colorado for nineteen years, and had not been on skis until yesterday. (And no, I don't snowboard, either.) In fact, I can count the number of times I've been sledding on one hand. Honestly, my favorite thing to do when it is snowing is drink coffee and sit by the fire. I'm a sissy.

But alas, it was time. And so we decided to rent some skis and take the girls cross-country skiing. Fact of the matter is, I married a man who actually enjoys this sort of self-inflicted pain in frigid temperatures. And he wanted to share that, um, pleasure, with our daughters. And me.

To be fair, it wasn't as bad as I expected. And happily, I can still walk today which I thought was a nice bonus. And I wasn't actually cold the whole time, despite the fact that it was 25 degrees outside. Probably because cross-country skiing is an incredible amount of work, and using muscles I didn't know I had makes me sweat.

The best part was watching the girls though. Giving them new experiences is so much fun. And unlike me, they really, really love anything to do with snow.
 
The Oldest was a natural. She was ahead of the rest of us the whole time, going up ahead, then coming back to see where we were, then off she went again. She's apparently fearless, going down downhill slopes without a second thought, never afraid of falling. It was good fun watching her. I just hope she doesn't think this is something we'll do regularly now...

 
Littlest One wasn't quite as adept. The good news though, is that she thought falling down was all kinds of fun. Good, because that's mostly what she did. Over, and over again. But at least she didn't get upset.


Eventually we traded in her skis for snowshoes, mostly so The Daddy could actually ski instead of just holding her up by the back of her coat. Then The Daddy and The Oldest could go up ahead, while Littlest One stayed back on her snowshoes to make sure I was doing okay. She was concerned about how slow I was going, I think.
 
All in all, though, it was a good day. Life is about trying new things, which is something I'm really not good at, especially when it involves something I'm guaranteed not to be good at. Or when it involves snow. I want my girls to try new things fearlessly, and this is the kind of thing we have to do to give them that confidence.

Also, it made them sleep really well. 

The Best Tooth-Losing Story Ever

I love the tooth-losing stage. I love the the gaps in the smiles, the lisp when they try to talk, the Tooth Fairy, the constant wiggling. And I love the awesome tooth-losing stories that inevitably come with this stage.

Every kid should have at least one really cool "How I Lost My Tooth" story, and Littlest One managed to create herself a pretty great one.

I haven't yet written about Princess (I haven't written about much lately, actually) but Princess is the puppy we got around Christmastime, especially for Littlest One. Every kid should have her own dog, we decided, to have grow up with and to have grand adventures with. And the grand adventures, apparently, even include the losing of teeth.

She was trying to leash train her pup, making her 'heel' around the living room and rewarding her with treats. When she ran out of treats in her pocket, she needed to get more out of the jar. Which requires two hands. So instead of just dropping the leash for a moment, she decided to put the leash between her teeth to hold her pup there while she got more treats.

And then the cat walked by.

Princess loves the cat, and the cat loves her. And Princess wanted to play. So she promptly took off after the cat. And she took the loose tooth with her.

I wasn't watching much of this ordeal, but when Littlest One came up to me with eyes big as saucers, she said, "Princess helped me lose a tooth!" It took a minute to figure out what happened. She looked like she couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh.. but eventually we all decided it was a great way to lose a tooth! That's a story she won't ever forget!

Notes on Jury Duty

So I sat in a courtroom today for eight hours, only to be dismissed before I was even interviewed.

Some notes on my experience:
*Don't try to take knitting needles through the metal detector. It won't work. Apparently you just never know when some crazy knitting lady will go all psycho in the Jury Commissioner's office and stab everyone with 6 inch dpn's. (Note: Arguing with the security officer on this matter will not help your cause.)
*The benches in the court room aren't comfortable. If you sit on one of them for eight hours, your butt will fall asleep.
*Don't have jury duty on a day when a pipe breaks in the judicial building. They'll close the bathrooms and not think twice about only giving you one break at lunch time in which to relieve yourself of the four cups of coffee you drank before you got there.
*You can't smoke in restaurants, bars, or city parks, but you can smoke inside the court house, of all places. (No, I'm no longer a smoker. But I found this little tidbit fascinating.)
*If you really don't want to serve on the jury, tell the DA you absolutely think convicted felons ought to be allowed to own guns. They'll dismiss you promptly. (This isn't my trick. But it worked for the guy who tried it.)
*Court rooms are open to the public. If you have kids who are older than mine (and who are capable of sitting still) it would make a very cool homeschool field trip.
*It became clear to me why they call them "public pretenders". That poor girl might have just graduated law school yesterday, I couldn't be sure. I was kind of embarrassed for her. And sort of pitied the defendant, who clearly didn't have a chance as long as she was speaking on his behalf. Definitely don't get accused of a crime if you can't afford better representation than that.

All in all? A court room isn't the kind of place I'd like to spend any more time than necessary, no matter which seat I was sitting in. But at least I can say it was an interesting experience. Happily, I was able to retrieve my children from my mother at the end of the day and prove to my oldest that Mommy was not going to court because she was going to jail. I think she was actually a little bit worried about that. I think it's time for our first civics lesson.

It sure is quiet in there...

A friend and I were discussing recently the pros and cons of tattling. She's of a mind that tattling is unnecessary and often irritating. While I do agree with that, I tend to think there are times tattling is useful.

For instance- if Big Sister had been home, she definitely would have tattled if she'd seen this in progress:

She would've come running right into the kitchen, where I was up to my elbows in tomatoes, peeling and slicing and canning, and she would've said, "Mom! Cora's covering her entire leg with lipstick!"

But Big Sister was not home, and so no one stopped her.

There are times that really, all you can do is laugh. Like when you've just scrubbed the bathroom from floor to ceiling, and two hours later it's tinted a greasy, really-hard-to-clean sort of pink.

Because you know, when one is covering their entire leg in lipstick, it's very hard to keep the lipstick only on the leg.

She had to climb up on the toilet...



To wash her hands in the sink.


Half an hour of scrubbing later and the bathroom is no longer pink. Sadly, I can't say the same for the child. Lipstick is hard to get off of porcelain. It's even harder to get off of skin.

Homeschool Humor

We went to the music store in the mall the other day. A well-meaning teenage employee came up and asked if she could help us find something. I asked her where the classical section was, and told her we were looking for Beethoven. She guided us in the right direction, pulled out a CD, looked at it, and said, "Oh, this is the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. You want something that's actually Beethoven playing it, don't you?"

Heh.

Camping with The Toddler

Ya know what's kind of funny?

When a two year old little girl wakes up in a tent, peeks into her pillow case, and calls out, "Squirmy? Are you still alive in there?" because she stuck a caterpillar in her pillowcase so she could save it 'til morning.

Buffalo

I was brushing Chloe's hair the other night, and I put some leave-in conditioner in. As I was working in the conditioner she asked me, "Mom, how come you don't use buffalo any more?"

I was confused. "Um, buffalo? I've never used buffalo in your hair before, darlin'. I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Yes you have," she said. "You used to use it when I was little."

I assured her that she must have misunderstood what I was saying, because I knew of no such thing.... she told me, "It came in a long skinny can, and when you squeezed it, stuff like shaving cream came out."

"Oh!" I said. "You mean mousse!"

:o) Kids are funny

===

We're packing and cleaning and trying to be ready to leave at four in the morning for Montana De Oro State Park on the central coast of California. I don't imagine I'll have internet access, so everyone have a great week, and I'll be back to write about our adventure next weekend!

Sharing my space - the garden compromise

I love letting my girls help in the garden. There's only one problem - unless its picking tomatoes, they're very rarely actually helpful. And the garden is a very fragile place this time of year, with teeny little seedlings that have barely poked their little green leaves through the soil, and many seeds just planted, trusting me not to compact the soil they'll have to push through soon.



Little legs wobble precariously, and little feet come crashing down in places where they weren't intended. It's a fact of life with Two Little Girls. And so I find myself saying "No! You can NOT go in the garden any more! No digging! You could step on my baby plants and KILL THEM! And then you will not have any spinach and you will STARVE!"

Which is, okay, maybe a little over the top. But you never know how you might react when someone threatens to harm a tiny little plant that has been placed in your care. I'm actually a little more over protective of my plants than my kids... but it's easier to kill a plant.

I decided I hated feeling like the garden nazi. I want my kids to love this early stage as much as they love the weeding and harvesting that comes later, when plants are established. But how to hand over the job of planting seeds? It's a very exact science, especially with teeny little seeds like carrots and onions. Not easy for little fingers to manage.

So we compromised. I gave them their own space. I moved my garden fence, set up a 1-foot high fence they can step right over, and I gave them about 12 square feet of earth. Their very own garden. They dug it up, they mixed in compost. Then they each carefully planted a row of carrot seeds, watered them, mulched them, and watered again. (Okay, Cora's two. She's got a small patch where she dropped all the seeds in one place. But it pleases her, and that pleases me.) There were also many worms to be found - and played with.



Chloe's got big plans. Pumpkins, green beans, zinnias and daisies, carrots, spinach and maybe celery. She's like me- she forgets that she only has a limited amount of space. And if Andrew won't dig up the rest of the back yard for me, he won't likely do it for her, either.

It's a good compromise. They have their space, right up against mine, so we can still work side by side, and I don't suffer from palpitations at the thought of compacted soil.

And as we were finishing up, ya know what I heard? "Cora! You're gonna step on the carrots! If you step on my carrots, you will kill them, and then you won't have any carrots to eat all summer long!"

Just smile and nod.

If you have a child, you'll know what I'm talking about. You know when they start in on that really, really involved story about the enormous blue two-headed dragon befriending the sea horse and saving it from the ferocious, sea-horse eating whale by scooping out of the sea with a fish net held in it's mouth and flying off to The Land of Rainbows and letting it go in a cozy little pool of water where they live as best friends happily ever after? And you nod and look really intrigued and say a lot of "Uh huh... oh really? Wow, imagine that. Gosh, that's such a creative story."

It's kind of the same way if you ever have a chance to sit down and chat with a conspiracy theorist for awhile. They go on and on about Bad Guy X and his horrible plan to bring the entire world to a fiery demise. And you nod, and look really intrigued, and say a lot of "Uh huh.... Oh gosh, I never thought of it that way... Oh, really? Well, that sure is a unique way of seeing things... " All the while, of course, you're thinking, "This guy is craaaazy." But you don't say it. You might even ask some great questions, getting him to talk more, share more details of this awful conspiracy he's certain will come to fruition the minute our backs are turned. And then as soon as you leave, you call your best friend and it's, "OMGosh, I just sat and talked to so-and-so and would you believe, he actually thinks... blah blah blah." And you giggle, and gossip, and your friend confirms that Crazy Guy must indeed be a few bricks shy of a load.

I've been there. I've nodded and smiled at both the seven year old and the Conspiracy Theorist. In fact, I'm really a pretty good nodder/smiler.

So in the past few days I've reconnected with extended family members that I haven't seen for several years - pre-motherhood years, mostly. And they read my profile, and look at my pictures, and ask a bit about what I've been doing these past years. "I'm a homeschooling mother," I tell them.

They do a great job of asking really good questions: "What subjects are you studying? Do you do a lot of arts and crafts? How is it keeping a toddler entertained while teaching the older one's lessons?" And so I happily write paragraphs back to them via Facebook messages, telling them all about what we do and how we do it and how much fun it is and, hey, my kid can identify a painting by Cassatt on the wall at the craft store and she's reading at a third grade level!

And then they reply with things like, "Oh? Really? Wow, that's really great. Sounds like you're very creative. I'd never have thought to do that."

It actually took me awhile before I realized that those relatives are probably emailing each other back and forth saying things like, "OMGoodness, I just talked with Julie online would you believe, she's homeschooling!" And they giggle, and gossip, and confirm to one another that I must indeed be a few bricks shy of a load.

I'm the one who's getting nodded at, smiled at. Heh! They think I'm crazy.

Heat Wave!

You know you're from Colorado when it's 43 degrees outside and you see people jogging in capris and a tank top, and no one's even wearing a sweater.

Yep, it's a heat wave.

The kids are happy. They played outside for a couple hours today. I couldn't convince Cora to come inside at dinner time. Heck, I couldn't even convince her to stop digging in the dirt long enough to pull her drooping pants up.

Candid Camera

Here's an idea for some good home videos... give a seven year old a digital video camera.

Then use the result of the experiment later, when you're needing to embarrass her in front of boyfriends. Way better than naked baby pictures.

The Chiro Office

After two visits to the chiropractor last week, I feel mostly normal again. That's always nice.

The second visit came with it's own version of hilarity...

I had Chloe with me - Cora was home with her daddy. We walk into the chiro office, sign in, and sit down. She settles in with a couple of children's books, I just sat and waited. And overheard.

The lady who was back there was really enjoying herself. He'd crack something or another and she's do this high-pitched, girly giggle. "Ooooh hoo hoo hoo!" And lots of "Oh, oh, that feels so good!" or "Oh, that's so amazing!" (Followed by more giggling.) It kept going on for at least ten minutes. It was strange. I felt uncomfortable. I felt like I had walked in on something I wasn't intended to hear. I felt kind of... dirty.

And what might my poor daughter think as she sits there reading about Minnie Mouse? What does she think I go there for? Sheesh.

I just have to wonder... does Dr. Chiropractor enjoy himself nearly as much as some of the patients? Hmm.

The Helpful Toddler: at Bath time

Every once in a blue moon (usually when it's been long enough to forget all the trouble it was last time) I decide to designate half an hour of Mommy Bath Time. You know, that time when Mommy fills the tub up with water too warm for little bodies, smears on some face cream, closes her eyes and relaxes for half an hour while well-behaved little children stay downstairs and watch some television?

Heh. Yeah.

The first thing to consider is exactly what to do with the bathroom door. Do I lock it? If I lock it and there's an emergency, no one will be able to get to me. Inevitably someone will scream as though the house is on fire (though really it'll be because one heisted the other's snack) and I'll have to spring from the tub, sopping wet and naked, and streak through the house to locate the source of the scream.

Maybe I better not lock the door. Only then I face the inevitable fact that one or the other of the children will ignore the closed door, march right in, and start chattering about whatever might be going on in their happy little lives.

I don't lock the door.

Before I'm even in the tub, standing there wrapped in only a towel and smearing European clay all over my face, there's a little blonde toddler standing on the toilet seat narrating for me (in case I didn't know what I was doing.)

"Mom-mom! Mud! Face! Scaryyyyyyyy."

I enter the tub now and lie back, attempting to ignore the Helpful Toddler that is sharing my sacred Mommy Time.

"Mom-mom! Bath! Wash. Wash boobies?" she offers, holding up a wash cloth. Helpful Toddler, always ready to help wash Mom-mom's boobies for her. "Boobies! More! Two boobies! Looooook! Boobies too!"As she lifts her dress to her chin and informs me that she, in fact, has her own boobies.

Now that's homeschool - a great anatomy lesson.

"Why don't you go watch TV with your sister?"
"Noooooo!!!!!!" she screams cheerfully. "Help. Mom-mom. Bath."

I sigh, close my eyes, and resign myself to pretending I'm back in Mexico lying in a hammock in the sunshine.

It doesn't work.

"Shish. Parkle shish. Preeeetty. Shish parkle more. More shish! Look, Mom-mom! More, more, more shish!"

I realize now that she's reading me her bath book. (10 points to anyone who can guess the book. Really, it should be obvious... if you understand Twoyearoldese.)

The chatter continues until I reach for the razor.

A look of terror spreads itself across her face. "Mom-mom! No touch! Owie!!! No touch!"

I put my leg in the air and lather it up with shaving cream. I bring the razor to my leg and slide it along my skin...

"MOM-MOM!!! NOOOOO!!! Owie! Owie! Owie! No touch!" She runs to the hallway. "Sissy! Mom-mom OWIE!"

Her sister is being the well-behaved child she ought to and is so sucked into Bindi the Jungle Girl that she's completely unaware of her sister's frantic screaming, informing her that Mommy is likely about to kill herself with The-Forbidden-Thing-That-Causes-Owies.

She rushes back into the bathroom to check on me. "Owie?" she asks nervously. "Mom-mom bleed?"

I do my best to reassure her that Mom-mom is just fine and what I'm doing is completely normal. She looks doubtful but finally relaxes when she sees that I'm not bleeding and have apparently survived the self-inflicted attack from The-Forbidden-Thing.

I gave up at about this point, deciding that Mommies are definitely not meant to have long, quiet soaks in the bath.

Maybe I'll try again when she moves out.

Uh, Mom?

She's reading a book about a French family.

"Uh, Mom? This guy's name is Jackass."

"What?! Lemme see that.....
No, honey, that doesn't say Jackass. It says 'Jacques.'"

April Showers...

It's pouring outside. I woke up to thunder about half an hour ago. Any other time, I love the rain and I especially love thunder and lightening. But it's supposed to continue through tomorrow. I can't remember the last Easter we had when it wasn't raining. It's usually just a drizzle, but still. Decorated Easter eggs sitting out in the rain become a yucky, sticky, smeared mess that stains hands and clothes, and little girls get cold fast when the rain is pouring down on them. :::sigh::: I hope it lets up just long enough to let them hunt their eggs tomorrow. Cora's old enough now, and she'll be fun to watch.

I'm pretty sure Chloe doesn't really believe in the Easter Bunny. She asks me every so often if he's "really real". When we were at the mall (where both of my children eyed the Easter Bunny cautiously and kept a healthy distance of at least 10 feet) Chloe informed me that that was definitely not the real Easter Bunny. It was some guy dressed up, probably, because the eyes didn't move. Hmm. I told her she was right, the Easter Bunny was way to busy to sit at the mall every day. I hope this doesn't ruin Santa. Or I hope, at least, that she keeps playing along, making me think she believes. I still need Santa, and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. When did my little girl grow up?

===

I have a funny story about my niece that I heard second hand from my sister-in-law that is absolutely worthy of sharing.

Little Anna, who is almost six years old, was in Sunday School. The teacher asked her why the Israelites were frustrated and she said "because of the mayonnaise."

Hmm...

"I would be frustrated too, if I had to eat mayonnaise every day," she said.

Yes, Anna didn't realize that they were saying "mana". She was imagining big glops of mayonnaise falling from the sky, the Israelites being forced to eat just that day in and day out. She had no problem understanding why they were so frustrated.

Kids are awesome.

===

Cora's learning a bunch of new words every day. It's funny, if she really wants to say something, she can. She had no problem saying "Je-jo" when she wanted more Jello. But she still hasn't figured out how to say "Thank you." Makes me think it's selective talking...

===

My husband is out traipsing around in the woods while the rain pours down. Why would he do such a thing? Today is the opening day for spring turkey season. He's trudging through mud and muck, hoping his rain gear holds up, trying to find a turkey to shoot. Sounds like fun, dontcha think? I do hope he gets a turkey though. It makes him so happy.

Stories from the gym

So yesterday at the gym, Ashley was having a slight wardrobe malfunction. You know, that kind when the back seam of your pants sinks deeper and deeper into crevices where pants don't actually belong? Right.

Ashley's way cooler than I am in those moments. Instead of doing the "Oh my God, can anyone else tell I have a wedgie from hell?" or "Can I hide against the wall long enough to rescue my pants from my butt crack?" and stressing out and being embarrassed, she faces it head on.

We were walking side by side and instead of trying to hide it, she says out loud to me (in a show of supreme femininity), "Oh my Gawd, my asshole is eating my pants. Rahhhhr!"

And then we realized there were two men walking behind us that were definitely close enough to have heard her lament.

It was splendid. For me, anyway. :o)

===

I've decided to start tanning. (Ashley is, after all, the Enabler of All Things Girly, and we've been spending a lot of time together while our husbands are out of town.)

I have tanned before, but it's been years, and I forgot what it was like. I never did it religiously like some girls, and 6 minutes in that bed was enough to remind me of why.

I'll start off with Jared. Jared is the trainer at the gym, and I'm pretty sure he's a fourteen year old boy that has been trapped inside the body of an over-compensating body builder. He's decided to befriend Ash and I. And by befriend I mean "attempt to flirt whenever possible." Which is exactly the last thing on the To-Do list of two married mothers of small children that are at a gym in the morning with no make-up, teeth un-brushed, and perhaps a bit of chewed up and spit out cereal caked onto our sports bras for good measure. Right.

So Jared shows me into the "tanning booth", a room behind the office with a door that locks. Of course, what good is the door that locks when the entire top fourth of the wall is missing? Awesome. So we're sitting in there, he's stalling pitifully, trying to discuss with me the merits of pubic hair. (No, I'm not kidding. It was the strangest thing...) Finally, he leaves me to undress, warning me that I have only three minutes to get nekkid before the bed turns on.

So as soon as he's out the door, I strip down to nothin' (Ashley assures me that everyone tans naked. Everyone must be more comfortable in their own skin than I am.) And then I sat there perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for the rest of the two minutes and fifty seconds to go by. When was the last time you sat stark naked in a strange room surrounded by hundreds of ultraviolet lights? Well, lemme tell ya, three minutes can take a looooooong time to pass depending on one's situation.

I was just wondering if Jared was playing some kind of horrible prank on me, hoping to get a glimpse of my not-so-glamourous naked body, when Ta Da! The lights came on, and I lowered that lid down on me, briefly considered the possibility of being stuck inside forever, and then tried to relax for six minutes.

Everything went smoothly. I managed to extricate myself from the bed when it was over without injuring myself or any technology. My face is nicely tanned, and my stomach is a nice pink color that Chloe tells me is quite pretty.

Gosh, I can't wait to do it again.

===

I woke up this morning feeling a little bit dizzy, weak, and light headed. I really wasn't in the mood for the gym, but decided to suck it up. Afterall, I have four weeks left to look good in that Victoria's Secret swim suit. No slacking off is allowed. (For some reason, it really matters to me that it's Victoria's Secret. As if the brand name alone means I must try harder to look good in it. Or maybe it's because I've seen it on a model, and I've seen it on me, and the difference between the two is enough to make me cringe.)

I spent yesterday evening with the in-laws. Which of course required maybe something like half a bottle of wine to recouperate from. Which I'm certain is not the reason I felt dizzy and lightheaded and slightly nauseous, but I suppose it's a possibility.

So Jamye decides we should do the bike class - Race and Pace they call it. It wouldn't be so bad, I think, except that the Bike Nazi is ruler of the class, and she's a monster. I had no idea an exercise bike could hurt me like that. I hurt in places I didn't know I had.

As a result, I've spent the entire day sitting around, reading, drinking coffee, eating carbs, and trying to recover from my date with the Bike Nazi. I think this is the last time I'll be attending Race and Pace. I'll stick with pilates - you spend a lot of time lying down in that class.

Bad Mommy

It's three thirty in the morning, and Cora is fussing in bed beside me. In a sleepy stupor, I feel around in the bed to find her bottle of water, hoping to quiet her. The bottle is empty. I stumble, still mostly asleep, to the kitchen and fill the bottle with more water. I hand it back to her in the dark and lay back down.

Moments later, she's screaming - really screaming. I spring into action, switch on the lamp, and assess the situation: baby is screaming like someone might actually be trying to kill her. Upon closer inspection, I notice baby is sopping wet. Sheets are sopping wet. Bottle is empty.... and there is no nipple on the bottle. Did I honestly not screw it on tight enough? I searched the bed, but could not find the missing nipple.

And then I go back to the kitchen, and look on the counter.

Yes, I did in fact hand my baby a bottle full of ice cold water - without a nipple. She went to put it in her mouth, and poured that ice cold water all over her face.

This happened last week. I'm only now able to see the humor in it, and chalk it up to a "bad mommy moment". I'm glad she won't remember that a few years from now. :o)

Note to self: have an extra bottle ready BEFORE I go to sleep at night.

I'm..... bored.

I accomplished more in the last three hours of yesterday than I have in the past three weeks. Why? I finished the Twlight series AND I finished all of my Christmas knitting yesterday. Ack! What do I do with my spare time?

Chloe went to Mark's last night. I used the time to organize and clean out her closet and book shelves, throwing away all the bits and pieces, McDonald's toys, and other junk. I don't want to have a pile of Christmas presents with nowhere to put them. In the process of that, I made her an "I'm Bored" list: all of the things in her room she never really uses because they kind of get forgotten. Puzzles, beads, tracing paper, board games. Now, when she tells me there is nothing to do, I'm going to make her choose something from the list. Either she'll enjoy it, or she'll stop telling me she's bored. At least, that's the plan.

After organizing, I also went through the three tubs full of 18-month sized clothing in the basement, pulled out the winter things we can use now, since Littlest Miss is growing longer by the minute, and put it all in the washer. Today I'll pull the too-small things and put those in their appropriate tubs.

Did I ever explain how we do that? It's the greatest organizational system ever. I started it when Chloe was born, and have kept it up since then. One of our basement walls is lined with large Rubbermaid-type tubs stacked about four high. Each tub is labeled: 3-6 month, 6-9 month, 12 month, etc. Sometimes there are two sizes in one tub, or more than two tubs per size, but you get the gist. There's also one for maternity clothes, diapers, shoes, etc. The label is always visible as soon as you look at the tub, right there on the outside in big black letters. So when Cora grows into a new size, I pull the tubs, take out what I want, and put them back. Then the outgrown stuff goes into the appropriate tub to be used if we ever could manage to produce another girl. It's so effective, and makes things so easy. And if we never do get to have another girl, everything will be neatly organized when I set forth to sell the clothing, likely making a killing because we have enough baby girl clothes to outfit an entire small nation.

===

Littlest Miss is at that incredible age where she is more than happy to help Momma with whatever she can. Time to clean up? Sure, she'll help! Folding laundry? Washing dishes? She's always by my side.

And that means it takes 15 times longer to accomplish anything. Babies have this keen ability to generalize EVERYTHING. She knows when we change her out of her jammies or into them that the clothes she was wearing go into the laundry basket. But she has no ability to distinguish between dirty and clean. This means she puts every piece of clothing she can find into the laundry basket, waiting for me encouraging cheers. Yesterday she had the bottom drawer of my dresser open and was carefully moving each clean piece of clothing into the laundry pile. She I saw her, she gave me that "I'm such a BIG girl! I'm Mommy's helper!" look and I couldn't help but smile. Then I moved everything back into the drawer. When she saw this, she changed her method: she began moving each bit of dirty laundry from the basket into my pajama drawer. ;o)

Dishes are especially fun. She loves the silverware. I pile the silverware on the open door of the dishwasher and she is supposed to put them in the silverware holder, which she does, on occasion. Mostly though, she'd rather steal the silverware and stash it somewhere - under a bed, in her toy basket, anywhere besides where it ought to be. Or, she'll throw it all deep into the back of the dishwasher and giggle while i grunt and groan trying to fish it out.

She loves to hear me cheer when she throws trash in the trash can. Of course, she doesn't distinguish between "trash" and "Important Paper", but she keeps trying. I've lost knitting patterns, receipts I intended to save, some of Chloe's drawings, a grocery list.... It's almost time to put the trash can in a cupboard or closet somewhere, I'm afraid.

And then there's the drama. When you tell her no about something, she puts her hand over her face and whimpers. And then she separates two fingers and peeks out between them to make sure you're watching her performance.

This toddler stage is definitely not my favorite stage. It makes me mildly crazy. But oh, there are some adorable parts to it! She has so much personality now.. :o)

Smitten :o)

Two days ago, I was in tears, convinced that I was a crazy person for ever having a second child and that I was just not cut out to be a mother. It was a rough day.

Today, after two splendid days with my kids, I'm once again certain that I am the mother of the two sweetest, cutest little girls in all the world.

Cora is a flippin' riot. She's so smart! She understands nearly all of what we're saying, I'm sure, but pretends not to because she can still get away with it. I'm teaching her a terrible habit, because every time she does something and I tell her not to, and she gives me that cute little "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're saying" look and proceeds to do it anyway, I just laugh. How can I not? She's just too stinkin' cute. She's going to get away with anything she wants, I can see it already.

===

As would any responsible mother, I have tried to instill a general appreciation for healthy foods in my girls.

I have failed miserably.

They are both candy-holics! How on earth did this happen? In a house filled with fresh grapes, bananas, oranges, apples, and carrots, and whole wheat breads and organic snacks, they are able to find every single piece of processed sugar in the house. They're both also mastering the "wear down your enemy" tactic. "Mom, can I have candy?" "No, not until after lunch." "Mom, can I have candy?" (five minutes later.) By the fiftieth time, I've either yelled, threatened to throw away every piece of candy in the house, or given in. Sadly, the latter is probably the most common. And it's not any better with Cora, who has the exact same wants, just not so many words. "Uh?" (She points to the candy, smacks herself on the head, and does the sign for 'more'.) "No, Cora, you have to wait until after lunch." (A toddler-tantrum ensues, with her face down on the floor and whimpering, or saying "Hmphh.")

Of the four advent calendars in our home, none of them has the proper number of candies left. Chloe actually got a time out the other day for sneaking life savers off of one of them. Cora realized earlier that I'd hung some candy canes on the Christmas tree. She proceeded to try climbing the tree, and when she realized that was a futile attempt, she retrieved the stool from the bathroom to try and get up just a little higher. I can't stop them! It's as though they crave sugar! (My mother-in-law would probably cry if she saw them.)

Since it's Christmastime, there are little jars of candy here and there all over the house. Cora can tell you where each of them is.

"I'm not going after the candy, Mom!" (Note the jar of candy near the lamp on the end table...)


"I'm just here to snuggle with Isabel."

"Ha ha! Tricked ya!" (This is where I should scold her... but isn't she just so cute?!)

I tried, but failed, to get a good picture of my goofy kid walking around with stolen chocolates, still wrapped, in her mouth. So I'm sharing the not-so-good picture.

She knew there was chocolate inside. She just couldn't figure out how to get to it. Until...

Yep, wrapper and all. See, I told you! My kids are candy-holics. So much so that they'll even eat wrappers. I hope that gold foil isn't toxic...

Standard (and not so standard) playground chatter

If you have ever taken your small child out anywhere in public, you are aware that the standard question asked by all adults about your little cherub is "how old is he/she?" This is a general ice-breaker amongst parents at the playground, a topic of conversation in the Wal-Mart line, and a way for parents to generally compare their children's development and personality.

We were at the playground the other day, and a mom was playing with an adorable little boy, just starting to toddle around. I was enjoying watching him put so much effort into walking, and since I was sitting there with my almost-toddler myself, I thought I'd strike up a bit of generic conversation to help pass the time.

"Aww! He's adorable! How old is he?" The mother looked at me as if I must be entirely stupid. "One."

What kind of answer is that? Everyone knows that before a baby is two years old, his age should be measured in months. "One" is such a vague answer at that age. Obviously this woman was unaccustomed to being asked this Standard Question, which I can only assume means she has not made it out of the house with her child since he was born.

One the other end of the spectrum, there are definitely questions that are NOT standard, and should just not be asked. Some things are not any of anyone else's business.

Another day at the playground, two mothers were there with their four year old little girls, and my five year old was playing with them. We were sitting around just chatting, when one of the mothers says, "I know you!" That statement is generally enough to make my heart skip a beat. Please, please just don't say you know me from high school or StarTek. (A very rough time in my life. I was a teenager, and struggling with finding my identity. I don't like looking back on that now.) "Oh?" I say. "I'm afraid I don't remember you. Where do we know each other from?" "We worked at StarTek together. You were my trainer. But didn't you have your head shaved....?"

I smile, say yes, but that I've moved into a different part of my life now, thankfully.

Shortly after, she asked what my husband does for a living. I gave her the answer I'm sure she expected - the answer of 90 percent of all stay at home mothers in Grand Junction, CO: "Oil Field."

Her response? "My husband does too. How much does yours make in a year?"

I stared at her as though she'd suddenly grown a second nose. "I'm sorry, what?"

She looked at me like I was either stupid or deaf to have not understood such a clearly asked question. She certainly hadn't beat around the bush. "Mine makes 85 thousand." She had a very smug look on her face. At least no one can say she isn't proud of the man she married.

"Oh? That's really great...." I reply.

Who the heck cares how much money her husband makes? And who the heck thinks that's an acceptable topic of conversation on the playground? Good God, just ask me how old my kids are, and let's start there, lady.