My son is apparently 2, going on 16.
We spent spring break in Galveston, TX, with my family. Usually, we go skiing in Colorado, but this year, because of E, we decided to do something a little more family-friendly. Last year, we had to ski in shifts, because the kid was too little for the slopes (obviously, I don't know why we didn't think of that!). So, off to Galveston and the beach we went. We had a blast: rode the ferry to Galveston Island (first time ferry trip for all of us!), took a carriage ride around the town, went on a harbor tour/dolphin watch, toured the Railroad Museum (meaning, we ran around in a bunch of old trains), toured the Bishop's Palace, rode the trolley (or the Twolley Bwown Twain, as E called it), and played in the waves at the beach.
Anyway, one night, as E was drifting off to sleep on the hotel double bed next to me, he gave a big sigh and said "I hate you, Mommy." I looked at him in amazement: his eyes were closed, and he gave all the appearance of being already asleep. I said "what?" My sweet child replied "I hate you, Mommy." Amidst my parents' barely-stifled sounds of glee, I said "I'm sorry??"
I didn't think the parent-hatred was supposed to start for at least 10 more years?
My slightly-insane life and times
3/8/06
Man of the House
My adorable little boy has sudden moments of pure masculinity, where he is overcome by the need to exert his manly influence over my poor femalish self. These moments can be extraordinarily precious: when we read bedtime stories, lying side-by-side in his toddler crib, he will insist on putting his arm around me, and having me rest my head on his shoulder, instead of vice versa. These moments can also be extraordinarily trying: he disdains to wear the cutesy, coordinated outfits I choose for him, and will insist angrily on wearing the same football jersey and jeans for days on end. And when I tell him he can't wear that freaking shirt again because it's disgusting (extra meanness points to me if I remind him that it's because he wouldn't wait for me to cut up his spaghetti), he'll command me to wash it.
We went shopping today, ostensibly to look for clothes. Without skipping a beat, and while ignoring my sugary exhortations to "just look at that beautiful Easter outfit," the bear that is my son dove for the nearest item of clothing with a ball on it. He then glared at me tyranically and stated, "Let's buy it. I'm done." I swear the dislike-of-clothes-shopping gene is expressed ridiculously early. The boys should at least be old enough to buy their clothes before they may start choosing them, right? Right?? Hmph. That's my opinion.
While it may sound strange and not very matronly of me, it can be a comfort to know that I'm not always the one making the decisions and running things around here. At random times, my son says: "I'll take care of you, Mommy," while patting my back, and I know that all of my worldly cares are in the sweet, capable hands of this little boy who loves me more than anything in the world. Even football jerseys.
We went shopping today, ostensibly to look for clothes. Without skipping a beat, and while ignoring my sugary exhortations to "just look at that beautiful Easter outfit," the bear that is my son dove for the nearest item of clothing with a ball on it. He then glared at me tyranically and stated, "Let's buy it. I'm done." I swear the dislike-of-clothes-shopping gene is expressed ridiculously early. The boys should at least be old enough to buy their clothes before they may start choosing them, right? Right?? Hmph. That's my opinion.
While it may sound strange and not very matronly of me, it can be a comfort to know that I'm not always the one making the decisions and running things around here. At random times, my son says: "I'll take care of you, Mommy," while patting my back, and I know that all of my worldly cares are in the sweet, capable hands of this little boy who loves me more than anything in the world. Even football jerseys.
3/3/06
Suzie Homemaker
Gas for late-evening trip to Albertsons's = small amount, but still meaningful!
Needed ingredients for Cheerio applesauce muffins = $8.70
New blender that Mom can't buy = $25
Hand-crushing Cheerios for 3 hours = $400 in physical therapy to recuperate
9 happy preschoolers at 10 AM Friday morning = priceless
Needed ingredients for Cheerio applesauce muffins = $8.70
New blender that Mom can't buy = $25
Hand-crushing Cheerios for 3 hours = $400 in physical therapy to recuperate
9 happy preschoolers at 10 AM Friday morning = priceless
2/27/06
Grown-Ups, Donuts and Holy Beetles
Now, despite some inherent immaturity (I laugh uproariously at movies like "Team America" and "40 Year Old Virgin"), like most young women of 21, I prefer to think of myself as adult. I live on my own (not counting one miniature roommate), I am relatively self-sufficient (considering that I live off of scholarship money), and I don't have to ask for permisison to do things (oh, joy of my "adult" life). As to physical appearance, these days I get mistaken more often for an under-21 rather than an under-18 (although that does happen to me still). However, my maturity is apparently not at all a sure thing, and is indeed very doubtful to a certain 2-year-old.
Today, after lunch and our Monday trip to the grocery store (which will lead me to another story), E and I went to the park. A park with 2 delightful slides, one a tube slide and the other open. After happily partaking of both "whee's", E decided that I needed to go down the tube slide. I explained that I was too "big" to go down that slide (read: I didn't want my hair to get all static-y). My sweet-eyed son, while regarding me from his lofty position of wisdom at the top of the playground, asked doubtfully, "You're too old? You're almost grown up?" To fall from the heights of age so rapidly is painful. And requires much laughter.
I forgot to pay for E's donut at the store. I don't really know how it happened, because he has one every time we go (it's our secret not-quite-bribe, don't tell anyone), and he had chocolate adorably smeared across his mouth before I attacked it with a handy dandy wipe...Oh, wait, I know, it was because I waited in line with $24.83 worth of groceries for HALF A FREAKING HOUR. Moral of the story: Wal-Mart, if you don't want shoplifters, first of all, don't make distracted mothers have to remember that they bought a single donut, and second of all, don't make the same mothers have to wait in line for more minutes than the amount of money that they spend. Because it will just fry their brains and make it even less likely that they will remember that ring of yeast (another note: don't call them that, it sounds like a "female problem") when they finally get to the cashier. (P.S. Don't worry, crazies, I'll pay my $0.44 next week during the Monday trip. Sheesh.)
Last night we went to the Newman Center on campus for Mass. Halfway through the homily, the sharp-eyed child sitting on my lap informed me of the presence of a black beetle under the kneeler for our pew. I assured my strapping lad that it was dead and couldn't hurt him. He accepted this, but later, the bug apparently became too much for him to handle. During the Eucharistic Prayer, after the bells had been rung for the Transfiguration of the bread (i.e., during one of the most silent parts of the service), my solemn little religious frantically stage-whispered: "I don't like that bug anymore, mommy." Quickly tuning into the muffled giggles of the college students around him, he then proceeded to repeat his statement more firmly and decisively, as if to say "Woman, my mind is made up, and you need to remove that insect this minute." How do you administer discipline not only to your child but to all the children around him? Especially when those children are as old as you are?!?!
Today, after lunch and our Monday trip to the grocery store (which will lead me to another story), E and I went to the park. A park with 2 delightful slides, one a tube slide and the other open. After happily partaking of both "whee's", E decided that I needed to go down the tube slide. I explained that I was too "big" to go down that slide (read: I didn't want my hair to get all static-y). My sweet-eyed son, while regarding me from his lofty position of wisdom at the top of the playground, asked doubtfully, "You're too old? You're almost grown up?" To fall from the heights of age so rapidly is painful. And requires much laughter.
I forgot to pay for E's donut at the store. I don't really know how it happened, because he has one every time we go (it's our secret not-quite-bribe, don't tell anyone), and he had chocolate adorably smeared across his mouth before I attacked it with a handy dandy wipe...Oh, wait, I know, it was because I waited in line with $24.83 worth of groceries for HALF A FREAKING HOUR. Moral of the story: Wal-Mart, if you don't want shoplifters, first of all, don't make distracted mothers have to remember that they bought a single donut, and second of all, don't make the same mothers have to wait in line for more minutes than the amount of money that they spend. Because it will just fry their brains and make it even less likely that they will remember that ring of yeast (another note: don't call them that, it sounds like a "female problem") when they finally get to the cashier. (P.S. Don't worry, crazies, I'll pay my $0.44 next week during the Monday trip. Sheesh.)
Last night we went to the Newman Center on campus for Mass. Halfway through the homily, the sharp-eyed child sitting on my lap informed me of the presence of a black beetle under the kneeler for our pew. I assured my strapping lad that it was dead and couldn't hurt him. He accepted this, but later, the bug apparently became too much for him to handle. During the Eucharistic Prayer, after the bells had been rung for the Transfiguration of the bread (i.e., during one of the most silent parts of the service), my solemn little religious frantically stage-whispered: "I don't like that bug anymore, mommy." Quickly tuning into the muffled giggles of the college students around him, he then proceeded to repeat his statement more firmly and decisively, as if to say "Woman, my mind is made up, and you need to remove that insect this minute." How do you administer discipline not only to your child but to all the children around him? Especially when those children are as old as you are?!?!
2/26/06
Anti-stereotypical
This was originally on my other blog, but I've moved it, because this is where it belongs, and I'm all for organization:
I won't sugar-coat it for you: being a student and a single mom is tough. Frankly, at times it tends to just plain suck. Your life can feel completely regimented, and like the spontaneity of the collegiate experience is passing you by. You can never just jaunt off to a party at last-minute's notice. You can't swing by the bar on your way home from a Friday night date. Evening meetings are a no-no, and sick days are never possible. Your image of yourself as an up-and-coming next-generation-er are tarnished by the fact that you carry wipes, diapers, and Cheerios wherever you go. You never seem to have a conversation that is 100% focused on the person you are speaking with (because your son has turned your chic pad into a gymnasium), and the amount of sleep you get could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
The inconveniences are compounded when you do everything by yourself. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a very supportive family who is never slow to offer assistance. But the daily disciplines and trials can be hard to bear, and I sometimes wish I had someone here to at least suffer alongside! I constantly worry about whether my son will have "daddy" issues when he grows up, whether I am spending enough time with him, whether he has strong male influences in his life, whether I am spoiling him with just one set of disciplinary tactics, whether he will resent me for being in school while he is small. The worries and loads can be incredibly tiring, and sometimes I find myself wallowing in self-pity and depression.
But then I am swiftly snapped back to reality and sanity by the spontaneous kiss from a child who thinks I am the end-all and be-all, who calls only for me when he wakes up in the middle of the night. By the never-ending party that is life with a small child: laughter, spills, games and fun. By the realization that I would rather be at home, reading a good book and listening to my son sing himself to sleep, than at a crowded movie theater, spending $8 for a movie I will forget in a month. I will be able to raise a son with a less idealized and more realistic image of women, and the world will have one more man who is comfortable around women and who respects them as equals. And the one thing that always humbles me and brings me back to the light that is my existence, is the realization that mine is the only life I would ever choose. And I would choose it for the Cheerios, the live-in gym, and the sweet, sweet scent of a sleeping child.
I won't sugar-coat it for you: being a student and a single mom is tough. Frankly, at times it tends to just plain suck. Your life can feel completely regimented, and like the spontaneity of the collegiate experience is passing you by. You can never just jaunt off to a party at last-minute's notice. You can't swing by the bar on your way home from a Friday night date. Evening meetings are a no-no, and sick days are never possible. Your image of yourself as an up-and-coming next-generation-er are tarnished by the fact that you carry wipes, diapers, and Cheerios wherever you go. You never seem to have a conversation that is 100% focused on the person you are speaking with (because your son has turned your chic pad into a gymnasium), and the amount of sleep you get could be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
The inconveniences are compounded when you do everything by yourself. Now, don't get me wrong, I have a very supportive family who is never slow to offer assistance. But the daily disciplines and trials can be hard to bear, and I sometimes wish I had someone here to at least suffer alongside! I constantly worry about whether my son will have "daddy" issues when he grows up, whether I am spending enough time with him, whether he has strong male influences in his life, whether I am spoiling him with just one set of disciplinary tactics, whether he will resent me for being in school while he is small. The worries and loads can be incredibly tiring, and sometimes I find myself wallowing in self-pity and depression.
But then I am swiftly snapped back to reality and sanity by the spontaneous kiss from a child who thinks I am the end-all and be-all, who calls only for me when he wakes up in the middle of the night. By the never-ending party that is life with a small child: laughter, spills, games and fun. By the realization that I would rather be at home, reading a good book and listening to my son sing himself to sleep, than at a crowded movie theater, spending $8 for a movie I will forget in a month. I will be able to raise a son with a less idealized and more realistic image of women, and the world will have one more man who is comfortable around women and who respects them as equals. And the one thing that always humbles me and brings me back to the light that is my existence, is the realization that mine is the only life I would ever choose. And I would choose it for the Cheerios, the live-in gym, and the sweet, sweet scent of a sleeping child.
Snakes and Snails
I decided that, what with the amount of cute stuff that I have to share about my small son, I might as well create a separate blog for it! Now I can cruise the mommy blogs and not feel quite as creepy!
To start with, the former title of this blog (Q: What Are Little Boys Made Of?). Before my own little blue bundle of joy came along, I always agreed with that old rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice, and little boys being made of snails and puppy dogs' tails. However, I've since come to the conclusion that no girl-child could ever be quite as particularly sweet as this all-male being that is asleep in the next room. I hope that it's a quality that I can cultivate, or, as it may be, just not ruin entirely.
Today's cuteness item: At dinner, we were eating "noodle soup" and after asking for and receiving a 2nd helping, he looked into his bowl and exclaimed angrily, "How did these noodles get into my plate?!?!"
To start with, the former title of this blog (Q: What Are Little Boys Made Of?). Before my own little blue bundle of joy came along, I always agreed with that old rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice, and little boys being made of snails and puppy dogs' tails. However, I've since come to the conclusion that no girl-child could ever be quite as particularly sweet as this all-male being that is asleep in the next room. I hope that it's a quality that I can cultivate, or, as it may be, just not ruin entirely.
Today's cuteness item: At dinner, we were eating "noodle soup" and after asking for and receiving a 2nd helping, he looked into his bowl and exclaimed angrily, "How did these noodles get into my plate?!?!"
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