The Crocheted Snowsuit (a.k.a. Fistfights Over Imaginary Things)

My children are insane. I've told you this before, but to be a good, imaginative child I think its required that one be off one's rocker just a titch.

A few weeks back I taught myself to crochet.

I know, I know. How very Ethel of me.

I've heard its therapeutic and gives you some sense of purpose and accomplishment as you physically create things. I've also heard that crocheting is like working worry beads - your mind is half engaged on the project, leaving the other half to wander and ponder things, leaving some of your woes behind with each stitch.

Or maybe that's just my friend and I overanalyzing the scarves we're making in the work cafeteria. Whichev.

Anyway, I set out a few weeks ago to make a giant comfy scarf for myself. My sons have seen me working on it, and Nick's even sat with me a few times, mesmerized as my fingers looped and pulled the yarn. I may just have him convinced that magic's involved but either way, they're both impressed I actually made something.

See? FUN WITH GREAT BIG GIANT SCARVES! Winter in the Midwest I tell ya...

So Sunday afternoon I took my kids out in the dreary cold January rain so that I could get some needles from the craft store with which to weave in the loose ends of my completed scarf. After that quick trip we stopped at the grocery store.

As we pulled into the parking lot, the following wisdom flowed from my eldest child's amazing little brain:

Nick: "So Mom. I know what we can do. We should get, like, a whole messa yarn. Like a WHOLE WHOLE BUNCH. And we could all - you know - we could all - what's that called?"

Me: "Uh, crochet?"

Nick: "Yeah. CROCHET - a whole bunch all together. And then your piece can get sewed to my piece and then we'll sew those onto Will's piece. And we'll have one big giant piece that we can sew into like, pants and a coat all together. For all of us to be all cozy in outside at the same time."

Me: "You mean like a snowsuit?"

Nick (eyes wide): "YEAH! A snowsuit! And we'd all go into it together so that if we go sledding then all we need are boots!"

Me: "Wow. A crocheted group snowsuit?" {Regretsy flashed to mind} "That'd be...awesome, Nick." {Awkward Family Photos flashed to mind}

Nick: "Yeah! And we could get one of those...wood things?"

Me: "Wood...wood things? What?"

Nick: "You know - that are like loooong sleds?"

Me: "Uh, a toboggan?"

Nick: "YEAH! A big long toboggan so we can all go sledding on it together."

Me: "In our crocheted family snowsuit?"

Nick: "YEAH!"

Me: {thinking that some mother probably tried making something like this back in the 70s} "So if we're all in this snowsuit together, how are we going to fit in the car? How will we buckle our seat belts?"

Nick: "We don't. We'd haveta walk. Or, you know, put it on at the sledding hill, DUH."

Me: "Watch your mouth little man! What if someone has to go potty?" {trying to get him to see the impracticalities of a group crocheted snowsuit}

Nick (shrugs): "We could put a potty in there somewhere."

Will: "Yeah. The potty goes behind you, Mom!"

Me: "Lovely. Just how exactly am I supposed to be able to sit on the toboggan with a potty in my pants?"

Both: "Hee! Potty in your pants!"

Me: "Hee! Potty in my pants!"

Nick: "Or we could just hold it."

Me: "Yeah, I think that's the wiser option."

By this point we're dashing through the puddles in the parking lot. I needed literally FOUR ITEMS.

So I don't need a cart, right?

Moms? NEVER THINK THAT. Just get the damn cart anyway, even if your kids are like 16.

At this point, my kids are still stuck on the idea of the family-sized crocheted snowsuit and I'm cursing Dr. Seuss, who seems in some way responsible.



You NEED a THNEED!

 Will: "I GET TO GO IN THE MIDDLE!"

Me: {wait, wha???}

Nick: "NO. I DO. It goes by age, dummy. First Mom, then me, THEN you. You're on the end."

Me: "Don't call your brother dummy."

Will: "NOOOOO! We take TURNS in the middle. DUMMY."

We get to the deli counter. The ancient old ladies behind the counter are s l o o o o w w w and unorganized. There also seems to be some disagreement as to just who's turn it is to shave more ham.

Nick: "Nuh uh!"

Will: "Uh huh!"

Nick: "Nuh uh!"

Will: "Uh HUH!"

Nick: "NUH UH!"

Will: "UH HUH!"

Me: "OK, OK! You both get turns being in the middle of the imaginary crocheted family snowsuit! Knock it off!"

After nearly 10 minutes of this I'm still at the deli counter, a bickering kid in each hand, attempting to put distance between them.

Gertie and Dot there, behind the counter, are getting heated. The woman in line in front of me gives up and accepts the .16 pounds of ham that is left, favoring a husband who's possibly irritated over a lunch meat shortage over the insanity that is the argument between my ridiculous children and the plastic-gloved face-slap that's becoming imminent behind the counter.

They ask for my order. My arms are being pulled from their sockets by two little ape children who are now "Uh huh-ing" and "Nuh-uh-ing" over exactly how the pretend family crocheted snowsuit will close - buttons or zippers.

And that's when I heard it. Nick had looped around behind my back and belted his little brother across the face. Because...

Nick: "BUTTONS JUST DON'T MAKE SENSE, MOM!"

Duh.

The Pop-Tart Predicament

Sometime over the summer it occurred to me that teaching my children to toast their own Pop Tarts would buy me an extra 30 minutes or so of sleep on the weekends. I immediately conducted a lesson on the quietest way to drag a chair across the room, the safest way to stand on said chair and the best way to fashion a mitt from a paper napkin so as to not burn oneself on the napalm that is a hot Pop Tart when it first comes out of the toaster.

From there we quickly moved on to toasting other things -- bagels, waffles, bread -- and before I knew it I had a six-year-old who made himself two waffles one morning and a sloppy mess of a bowl of oatmeal brought nearly to boiling because he had "accidentally nuked it for a real long time, Mom."

All small set backs aside, teaching my boys to use the toaster has been, until today, a super big win. They're learning self-reliance, I'm getting a titch more sleep and we're keeping the makers of all toaster pastries from needing a government bailout.

This morning, however, all was not frosting with sprinkles.

I was three rooms away drying my hair when I heard an all too familiar wail. I entered the kitchen to see Will standing on a chair in front of the toaster crying. What he said was this:

"BLAHBAWAAABAAAWAAAAAAHHHHHHH....AND NICK SAYS I HAVETA EAT IT!!!"

I soothed his tears and shooed his older brother away and finally got this translation:

"I accidentally made a chocolate Pop Tart but I don't want a chocolate Pop Tart I want a strawberry Pop Tart but Nick says too bad I have to eat it cuz I cooked it already and he hurt my feeeeelingssss!!!"

Dear God. It was 6:30 in the freakin' morning and I just canNOT handle tears over Pop Tarts at 6:30 in the morning. I told the small boy I'd eat the chocolate Pop Tart and helped him to find a packet of the strawberry kind instead. I left the room to finish drying my hair.

Again -- three rooms away, OVER the sound of the hair dryer which was 5" away from my ear holes -- I heard sounds of not one but TWO children in absolute hysterics.

I entered the kitchen to find two small boys in tears and what sounds like

"BUT I ALREADY COOKED IT AND BLAAAHBAAAWAAAAAAAAAHHHH! NICK HURT MY FEEEELINNNNNGGGSSSS..."

and simultaneously

"I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP CUZ HE WAS DOING IT BAD AND WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE AND HE'S SO MEAN TO MEEEEEE!"

Why, again, did I decide two was a good idea?

And then I saw smoke coming out of the toaster. Oh holy crap on toast I'm going to have to call the friggin' FIRE DEPARTMENT and BEFORE 7:00 IN THE MORNING.

I peered into the top of the toaster to find one very burnt strawberry Pop Tart. I forced the toaster to pop it up, then dumped it onto a waiting paper plate.

The gist of the story was that Nick saw Will trying to get the Pop Tart out of the toaster and for reasons known only to six-year-olds, thought he should "help" his brother by toasting it again for him. After cranking the "darkness dial" all the way up to "black as night."

I dried more tears, sent the older boy away AGAIN, and threw away the burnt pastry. I shooed Will off the chair and put a new strawberry Pop Tart into the toaster myself and stood there, waiting for it to cook. Needless to say I didn't have time to put on any make-up this morning. Sorry office people.

So lucky #3 pops up as I'm coaxing kids into jackets and reminding them not to forget backpacks and I'm only half paying attention as I grab the Tart with a self-made paper mitt. A corner breaks off and I chuckle.

OK bastard Pop Tart you WILL come out of that blasted toaster.

I try again. The SECOND corner comes off.

WHAT IN HOLY HELL -- IS MY FREAKIN' TOASTER MESSING WITH ME?!?

I peered inside the now reeking toaster. I saw that when I dropped lucky Pop Tart #3 in, it somehow became wedged BETWEEN the little fork-like thingies that normally pop up the item you are toasting. And then, when the Tart got all good and hot and gooey? The fork-like things got stuck inside the Tart, meaning the rest of the damn thing was really pretty stuck. And since I'd broken off the top corners and the toaster had been going for about 30 minutes at this point, it was roughly 687°F and there was absolutely no way in hell that I could get the blasted thing out and NOT burn my knuckles at the same time.

I gave Will a cold Pop Tart and shooed him out the door.

Sorry, kid. Better luck tomorrow!

The Road to Hell

The other night, Will fell asleep in the car on the way home and stayed sleeping after I carried him inside and put him in his bed. That left Nick and I with about 30-45 minutes of "alone time" before his bedtime.

The kid was AMAZING. He was SO funny and cute and talked Non. Stop. It made me realize:

HE WAS DYING FOR MY ATTENTION.

It occurred to me that Nick is often overshadowed by his younger brother simply because Will is, well, younger. And pretty damn adorable. And quirky.

Which doesn't mean Nick isn't. Nick, in his own right, is amazingly cute -- the near stereo-type of the six-year-old American boy, right down to the freckles on his nose and the cow-lick in his hair that just won't ever let it lie down quite right. He says crazy-smart things that sometimes hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. He cannot tell a lie (either he'll admit his fib to me out-right or the smile on his face provides a dead giveaway) and has a pretty awesome imagination.

But the total amount of minutes in any given day where Nick is the sole focus of my attention are sadly very few, and like any working Mom (or any Mom with more than one kid), I hate that. Which led me to think that maybe he could really use some one-on-one time with me, especially considering that our lives have been a little turned upside-down lately.

So I emailed the idea to my Mom and she agreed that one night next week she'd come over after work to watch Will for me so that Nick and I could have a "Mommy Date Night". (Will to get his own "Mommy Date Night" sometime shortly thereafter.) With the boys in their beds last night, I pitched the idea to them.

"Guess what? We're going to have Mommy Date Nights! Won't that be great?" I looked at their faces. They had no idea what the hell I was talking about. "Each of you gets a turn to go somewhere special -- and we'll do anything you want, you get to pick! -- with JUST MOMMY. All by yourselves. Won't that be fun?" They each appeared to be pondering this.

"Nick gets to go first because he's oldest, then it'll be Will's turn. Will, Grandma is going to come over next week to hang out with you while Nick and I go out!" I wanted each step of this to sound as fun-filled and magical as possible, but I could quickly tell by the look on Will's face that he did NOT consider this my best idea. As his face began to fall I added, "You get a GRANDMA DATE NIGHT!"

This was apparently NOT any consolation. Will's bottom lip quickly jutted out and he screwed his little eyes shut tight. He threw his head back, mouth wide open and a loud "WAAAAAH!" came out before the tears began to fall. Nick, on the other hand, was smiling excitedly.

"Will, buddy! What's wrong???" I did my best to hug him up on the top bunk.

"I -- no -- you -- can't -- LEAVE -- ME!!!" He was sobbing as if I'd just taken away his birthday cake.

"No, no, buddy, I'm not going to leave you. YOU get to have a SPECIAL NIGHT, too. And you get to hang out with GRANDMA while its Nick's turn!"

It wasn't working. In fact, each thing I said made him only cry harder.

"I get to be with YOU TOO!" He shouted. "Dad says! When you're not at work I get to be with MOMMY!!! You can't go without me!!!"

There was no consoling him. Finally I just had to say, "OK, OK. Never mind. NO DATE NIGHT." Several minutes of rubbing his back and two tissues later he was ready to be tucked into bed again.

When I sat on the edge of Nick's lower bunk to hug him goodnight he whispered, "We still get to go, right?" To which I just nodded, whispering, "What would you like to do?"

His eyes practically DANCED with excitement as he looked at me and shouted, "WE'RE GOIN' WATER SKIING!!!"

Oh Lord...

There's a reason we have two...

Will, 2, pitching to his brother
Teach 'em young, folks. It just might save your sanity! ;-)

Check out ResponsibleSports.com for more info on promoting involvement in youth sports!

Uh oh!

Reason 319 it sucks to be the little brother.

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Flashback Friday: When Will was new

There was no Flashback post from me last week - life was a little crazy to say the least. I mean, its usually crazy, but last week was crazy AND I was out of town. So if you wrote a post recently about something that happened a week ago or 357 weeks ago, link up this week. If you don't use a permalink, you'll end up on my "dood, that's soooo uncool" list. Watch out!

Anyway...yesterday I introduced you to Bald Baby, and writing that post made me think about my first days as a Mom of two.

Hubster had a few weeks of sick time built up, and the plan was that he'd be home for the first four and a half weeks of my leave after Will was born.

Nick, 2 and Will, 2 weeks old
March '07

Nick was just barely two, and he'd spent the many days I was in the hospital post-c-section with various Grandmas, no routine and the need for some serious attention. Hubby decided that he'd take him on a special "big brother" trip to the circus the day after we come home.

It was late February, and the day we came home from the hospital it began to snow. It was still snowing the next morning when my brother called, asking for help getting his car out of the alley. Jay headed out to help him shovel and get to work before spring.

I was looking forward to an entire day at home - in my own bed - with my peacefully sleeping adorable newborn in his bassinette beside me. I had TV, I had PJs, I had my big ol' glass of water, the phone and was cozied into my pillows and under my comforter.

Nick came padding into the room in his footie PJs, and I somewhat lamely helped him climb up onto the bed and flipped on cartoons. I had fed Will sometime before and was happy to spend a little time with Nick as he snoozed peacefully beside us.

After awhile, I realized it was getting late. For the boys to make it downtown and to the Circus on time in a snowstorm, they'd have to leave soon. And Nick wasn't even dressed.

Dang it. I'd have to get him ready myself.

I pulled myself out of bed, plodded my still aching body to Nick's room and picked out clothes. As I stood at his dresser trying to find a warm sweater and pants that matched, I heard my brand new baby mew.

Now, Will was born an average eight pound baby, but that kid can EAT. At a month old he weighed 11 lbs, at two months, nearly 14. And he kept growing that way. Needless to say, in those early days, all he did was eat. In fact, the only time he cried was for food - and in his later baby days would suck down 8 oz. of formula fast enough to make you do a double take.

The mewing turned into crying and the crying into screaming before I could even make it back to my bedroom. I return to find Nick jumping on the bed, precariously close to the edge and the baby's basinette.

I get Nick to stop jumping and pick up Will and begin to feed him. Instead of breast-feeding on both sides as I normally do, I do one side, compromising that I'll dress Nick then feed him on the other.

Only baby has other plans. Which include letting me know how irately pissed he is that his feeding has been cut short, but I decide its OK for him to cry a bit for the sake of getting Nick and Hubby out the door and to the circus on time.

So I stand Nick up, unzip the jammies and leave them around his feet while I pull down his pull-up diaper.

"Poop, Mama," he says, and yes indeed, I see too late that there is poop.

Crap. Now what? I have a screaming baby, a toddler with a poopy butt who's pants are around his ankles, and I'm not supposed to lift anything heavier than the baby.

Oh, and did I mention my boobs are leaking? Cuz they were.

I leave screaming baby to, uh, scream, and pick up Nick.

Red. Hot. Pain. In my abdomen. Shit.

I drop toddler to floor, peel PJs and poopy pull-up off his feet and hurry him along to the bathroom, deciding Hubby could clean poo off the floor later if we left a trail.

I get Nick on the potty to do any business he's not yet finished and decide I need to call in reinforcements. Opening the back door, I scream as loud as my re-injured abs will let me, which is practically a whisper over the snowstorm. Needless to say, Hubby does not hear me.

Baby's still screaming. I wipe Nick's butt and get a new pull-up on him. I throw on his clothes and have him climb back onto the bed while I pick up Will and begin to feed him.

Enter hubby, looking cold and oblivious.

"Is Nick ready to go?"

Look of death.

"What?"

And thus began the current chapter of my life.

Reason #127 it sucks to be the little brother

Retaliation!

Sometimes the little brother gets him back.

Reason #41 it sucks to be the little brother

Take down!
He doesn't seem all too upset about it...probably plotting his revenge!

Second in a series of unlimited possible posts

Reason #328 it sucks to be the little brother

The poor kid had pulled off a ton of those before I thought to take a picture.He stuck them on the coffee table. Yay.

First in a series of unlimited possible posts

Wordless #17

Wordless #15

Poor little brother...