Mommy Mojo

About two weeks ago, I lost my mommy mojo.  I meant to write about it at the time, but the boys kept doing cute things I had to write about instead.  Besides it was happier.

For three days, I had no patience for the boys’ antics as they tested the weaknesses of the line.  On the last day of no patience, I started screaming.  Ok, not screaming because I didn’t increase the pitch of my voice.  I yelled extremely loud.  Enough to make Evan cry.  Enough that through his tears, he kept saying “Calm down, Mom.  Calm down.”  I just thought I would be calm if you did the goddamn thing I told you to the first time, instead of the twelfth.

After a long talk with the BFF and highly encourage evening off to read (as in “Fae, if you don’t take a break, I swear I’ll drive out there tonight and tie you to a chair”), I was able to gain my patience back.  I missed not laughing at the cute moments that were passing me by because of my I-had-to-go-I-had-to-get-this-done-this-is-a-priority attitude.  I know if I’m calm I can deal with the problems in a better way without escalating them to yelling, “That’s it!  You’re living outside!”

But the boys are still testing the lines.  I find myself ready to lose it at any moment.  Errands are nearly a disaster as they dance around and antagonize each other by touching.  Naptime is a constant fight of telling them to stop giggling, spitting, burping, talking.  Toys must be dumped everywhere and fought over even if there are TWO of the same exact toy.  They’re wrestling, fighting, touching, pushing, hitting, ramping it all up.  Bath time has become a war.  I am sounding like my mother and wondering if it’s time to go find a switch.  Because they’re not even listening to the simplest of requests.

The thing that sucks is I’m so pissed off that I can’t even laugh at it after the matter.  I just take a deep breath and wait for the next onslaught of the raptors.

So until I get my patience/humor back, I’ll leave you with this little quote:

“They show extreme intelligence, even problem solving.  When they look at you, you can see they’re thinking, working things out.  They just keep attacking the lines.  They never attack the same place twice, unless they’re sure they can get through.  They’re testing the lines for weaknesses.  Systematically.  They remember.”

The Pirate Ship

So of course, we had to get Sean his own pirate ship.  Since that was all his little heart desired.  The Husband and I stayed up until midnight putting things together for the surprise.  Yet another Christmas Eve of us bickering our frustration at each other because including directions with the toys is now so not cool.

The next morning, Evan woke first and looked at his toys before coming and getting us.  We smiled as he exclaimed over each toy.  After 45 minutes and no Sean, I went in to check on him.  He was just lying in bed, thinking, contemplating, relaxing.  When he saw me he climbed out of his bed, and I ran into the family room for the perfect spot to catch a picture of the look on Sean’s face when he saw his pirate ship.

Sean came out into the family, taking in the magical scene.  I lifted the camera up, focusing it.  His eyes landed on the pirate ship.  Those dark brown eyes lit up.  A smile burst on his face.  He took a running step forward.  I started to press down on the button.  Then Evan jumped up and bumped his brother out of the way.

Yup, Evan cock-blocked his little brother from Sean’s own toy.  Nice. 

Sean was determined.  They raced to the pirate ship, getting there at the same time.  Sean let out a yell as Evan grabbed the pirates and the ship.

I have spent the last several days trying to make sure everyone is sharing and not hitting, punching, kicking, scratching, biting, pushing, bludgeoning each other over a toy pirate ship.

Christmas is magical.

Where’s Ho Ho?

Christmas Eve is when my dad’s family get together.  Five out of the six siblings with their significant others were there.  All but one of their children was accounted.  Three great-grandchildren.  Plus both sets of the parents/grandparents/great-grandparents where there.  At least it was held in my parents’ house, not my grandma’s double-wide.

One of my uncles dressed as Santa again.  Both my boys were hesitant to approach the stranger, but another uncle threw some presents to Santa to entice the boys, which worked.  The boys took their gifts, thanked him, and gave him a hug before getting the hell out of dodge.

About twenty minutes after my uncle got back to the party, Sean wandered the house.

Sean: Where Ho Ho?  Where Ho Ho?

Me: Santa had to go, Sean.  He has lots of other houses to stop at to give gifts to little boys and girls.

Sean: Where Ho Ho?  Where’s my pirate ship?

Did I mention all Sean wanted for Christmas was a pirate ship?

Ho Ho

For some reason unknown to us, Sean has decided to call Santa, Ho Ho.  As in:

It’s Ho Ho!

What’s Ho Ho doing?

Ho Ho is flying!

There’s Ho Ho!

But Evan could do with out.

Evan: I don’t like Santa Claus.

The Husband: Why not?  He’ll bring you presents when you’re a good boy.

Evan: I like the presents.  I just don’t like Santa Claus.

Maybe it has to do with the fact my uncle dressed up as Santa last year for the kids, and it scared Evan senseless.

The Activity Scene

When I was a child, I was fascinated by Nativity Scenes.  It was a natural call because I loved doll houses, miniatures, and the Virgin.  This combined all natural things.  Though my mother’s set was plastic, we were not allowed to touch it.  Until my brother dared, placing The Three Wise Men on the other side of the room because really they weren’t suppose to be there until January 6^th.  This upset me because my brother dared to touch the one thing I wanted to touch but couldn’t break the rules and two The Wise Men didn’t even show up for two more years.  How’s that for accuracy?  Those first years of the new tradition I fought it tooth and nail, moving The Wise Men back to the stable after my brother left the room.  The blood spilt from that religious crusade was ended when my mother declared that she liked my brother’s idea. 

When I set up my own house, my mother bought me a real Nativity set, one with kings and shepherds instead of just the Holy Family.  While I loved the set, I felt I could do better.  I searched high and low for the perfect set, always examining The Virgin for the perfect mother.  I found a really cool stable first.  A year later, I found the perfect set.  Mary looked down with love and joy on her baby.  Joseph looked protective and proud as he looked down at his wife and child.  The detail on all the characters was amazing.  The poor donkey was still loaded with supplies, left alone in the rush to deliver the baby.

This was the first year Evan noticed it.  He learned all about it at school, though he calls it an Activity Scene.  Yeah, I know I feel like a bad Catholic.  So it didn’t surprise me when he asked to see it as I have it up far above their reach.

So I handed him a Wise Man.  Sean asked to see one.  So I handed him a Wise Man.  Then Evan asked to see another figure.  I took the Wise Man out of his hand and gave him another.  Sean asked to see another figure, and I replaced the one he was holding with another figure, explaining what each person was.  We finished the set, except for poor Mary.

In the end, Sean had a Wise Man, and Evan had Joseph.  Evan placed Joseph next to the Wise Man.

Evan: Hi!  I’m Joseph!  Who are you?

Sean: I bad guy. 

Sean clinked the figurines together.

Me: No.  No hitting the people together.

Evan: If you’re a bad guy. . . .

Evan hit Joseph against the Wise Man, sending the container of myrrh a foot away.

Yeah, I should have seen that coming.  I collected the figures and sent the boys away as I glued the myrrh back into the hands of the Wise Man.  So concluded our religious and Christmas discussions.

Of course, Evan is asking where the baby is.

No, I Sean.

Sean doesn’t like picking Evan up from school.  I think he thinks we can just leave him there.  It’s a nice thought some days.  As I convinced Sean into a jacket, out of the house, and into his car seat, I chatted.

Me: Now, we’ll get Evan, baby.

Sean: I not baby!  I a big boy!

Me: Yes, you are!  And soon you’ll be a big brother too.  Would you like to be a big brother?

Sean: I no big brother!  I Sean!

Well, put.

Ready for some fun?

My baby brother is a big guy.  He’s 6 foot 5.  A sturdy 6 foot 5.  He’s a walking giant.  And kids love him, especially my kids. 

Recently my brother taught them everything is more fun with their hands up.  This includes the new nightly ritual when we leave.  The boys are buckled up.  Evan shouts, “Uncle M!  We’re ready for some fun!”  Evan and Sean throw their hands in the air.  My brother grabs a hold of the luggage rack and rocks the hell out of my SUV.

And now Evan insists that we wait for Mommy to be in the car, so that I too can’t enjoy the fun.  I just hope the shocks will last.

A word about this morning

It was a horrible morning.

My wallet was gone.  You decided to be up cage fighting before dawn.  Before Dawn.

There were glimmers of hope.

Your father watched you in hopes I slept in against the noise.  (But that’s his superhero ability.)  I got some emails from some of my favorite people.  It turned out I left my wallet at the last store we were at yesterday, but really that would be your fault.

Then I took you out of the house.

I should have known it was a bad idea.

It took my twenty minutes to get shoes and socks and jackets on you.  By the way, jackets are not optional when your mom declares you have to wear them.  And Sean, it’s not funny to keep choosing the other jacket from the one that’s in my hand.

I nearly had to drag you across the parking lot to get to the store with my wallet.  Then you danced merrily as I talked to three different people in search for my wallet I was told was there 30 minutes before.  At least, they had it.  Then I dragged you back across the parking lot.  Evan begging for lunch at a “restaurant” doesn’t work if you’re being a pain in the butt.

Then I needed to go to the grocery store.  Then my brain must have stopped working because I also decided I might as well hit the dollar store before the grocery store because they’re right next to each other.

Which worked out well for the first two minutes.

Then you had to sword fight with the candy-filled plastic candy canes, ask for different ornaments, and innocently suggest we go down the aisle with the picture frames and candles.

I should have known better.  The aisle led to the toys.  I can only thank God that I can say “We’ll put it on your list” because it makes you leave faster than a no.  We were still there too long.  And Evan, what is it with you and the most disgusting, ugliest toys?

At least you both we’re adorable for the cashier as you entertained her with pirate stories.

The grocery store wasn’t so bad at first either.  You helped me find apples, cucumbers, and onions.  You even liked the broccoli idea.

Then we got to pick out dried fruit.  Then Evan decided, after we made our decision on the dried plums you both just had to have, that he wanted dried cranberries.  Next time, little dude.  Then the whining began.  For three aisles.  Enough for a woman to shoot me a dirty look that I was happily willing to return because it was the third aisle.  Like she knew that my kids acted this way all the time.  He’s whining, annoying true, but he’s not stealing toys.  And Sean, running around, not standing in one place, must move at all times.  Ah, good times.

The whining settled to a dull roar as I finished the grocery shopping.  Could you both not take off at the last five feet before we get to the cookie stand with blinking lights?  Because you almost knocked down some old women to get there, trapping me behind a line of carts.  I hate that.

Evan, the answer is no.  Again.  No to the sting cheese.  No to that cheese.  No to the chips.  No to the cookies.  No to the doughnuts.  No to the Christmas decorations.  No to the toy car.  No.  No.  No.

Then the dire warning about listening to me, standing still, being good in the checkout lane fell out of your ears as we crossed the aisle to the checkout.

Just as you were about to act out, Evan engaged the woman in front in a conversation, who said “Are you listening to your mommy?”  You became quiet and intent on the woman.  Then Evan had a nice conversation with her.  Sean stayed by me.  Evan helped me with emptying out the cart.  I swear the woman was a saint. 

Of course as soon as she left, you tried to follow her.  My attention was torn between the cashier and keeping you in the store.  As we left, I discovered “the treat” I was trying to brag you with, the cardboard gingerbread house, had been moved.  It was gone.  The whining started again as I demanded you climb on the cart, keeping your feet up. 

At least you snacked as I loaded the car.  But if tomorrow is anything like today, I’m packing up, and you’re living with your grandparents.

Raising boys

Browsing throw the library, I came across Raising Boys without Men: How Maverick Moms are Creating the Next Generation of Exceptional Men by Peggy Drexler, Ph.D.  I was curious, so I checked it out.  I am raising two boys, perhaps three.  The book was fascinating!

I originally assumed the book would be about single mothers raising sons, but it was much, much more.  Drexler began her Ph.D. thesis studying stable lesbian couples who were raising boys.  For the book, she started studying single mothers by choice as well as some divorced and widowed mothers.  Drexler wanted to see exactly what the issues where for boys who were raised without a father figure.  She found that boys without fathers did just as well as those with fathers.  In fact, the boys studied were more well-rounded, more emotional in touch, and better able to articulate themselves than the boys who had fathers.

Drexler found that mothers encouraged their sons to talk, never allowing them to shut their mothers out with one word answers.  These mothers allowed their sons to embrace their own sense of masculinity.  These mothers actively sought out good male role-models for their sons, and these mothers took an active interest in whatever these boys were.  It is good parenting that raises good children, not a good mom or good dad.

The husband was a little worried at first that I was planning a divorce.  Like that’s something I want to do at five months along.  But I got this book because I’m 50% responsible for turning my boys into men, and I need to be active in their lives.

While reading this book, I realized I do let The Husband take the more physically active role with the boys.  I’m making a bigger effort to wrestle and play sports with the boys.  I’ve started dragging us on hikes and to parks.  I’ve got to make a bigger effort in teaching them to ride bikes and play baseballs, soccer, and basketball.  If I want to be a good parent, I have to be the emotional, physical, hands-on, intelligent parent all at once.

Then I read about one mom allowed her son to wear nail polish when he wanted.  He was a soccer player and love to build things.  He was a typical boy, who just wanted to wear nail polish every once in a while.  Then a few days after reading this excerpt, Evan asked for his nails to be painted blue.  I asked him what his dad would say (because The Husband was at a college football game).  Evan smiled and replied, “He’ll say, ‘That’s awesome, Evan!’”  I called The Husband and explained the whole thing after I painted Evan’s nails.  Unfortunately when Evan did proudly show his blue painted nails, The Husband groaned an oh-no.  We had a little talk about Evan’s self-esteem, masculinity, and that no this does not mean your son is gay.   Because I read this book, I was more comfortable with my choice to let the boys explore everything from baking to nail polish to fairy wings.

The biggest lesson I learned was I didn’t have to let my boys grow apart from me.  I’ve worried from the day Evan was born that one day he would walk away from me because that’s what boys do.  He would create a wall between us, never calling me when he left home, always spending holidays with his wife’s family, leaving me wondering, calling, begging for his attention.  Then I had another boy and possibly another, and before I read this book, I saw my old age becoming a very lonely place.  But Dexler interviewed adult men who were raised without fathers, and they all talked about the importance of their mothers, calling them for advice, seeing them on weekends, and still playing one on one on the backyard court.  I realized I could have that.  I wanted that.  God willing, I will have that with my boys.

I’m going to buy this book because I’m sure I’ll need the advice every now and then.  I think this is an important book to read for all mothers, with sons or daughters, with husbands or not, because it gives some good advice from women who are doing it right.  It also exonerates mothers from being the villain that ruined the kids life because she was too intense with her love.  It’s nice to have someone tell you that you can’t love your kid enough.

Into the bowl

I had pulled the boys from their bath, and they, as their custom, ran into the family room to huddle in their towels.  I made sure that they were watching child appropriate television programming.  Evan was huddled on the arm chair.  Sean stood with his towel like a cape.  I turned my back to get a diaper in the bedroom.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of water hitting plastic.

Sean must have found one of The Husband’s water bottles and is dumping it out.  I turned to scold. 

Only Sean didn’t have a water bottle.

He was peeing, on accident, into a snack bowl someone had left in the middle of the floor.  The pee was perfectly filling the bowl.  I stood in shock, not wanting to say anything in case Sean moved, making more of a mess.  When he was done, I ran out of the room to get paper towels.

Me: Sean!  You peed! 

Sean: I sorry!

Me: No, it was an accident.  We just need to get you to the potty.

Sean: I sorry!

I hugged and kiss Sean.

Me: It’s ok, Seanny.  It was an accident.  Next time we’ll get to the potty.