I feel pretty lucky to live so close to the Little Man, Dashiell. He and Lisa visited yesterday and i took a couple of decent shots of Dash and Tills together. (You try getting a 2 year-old to hold a newborn, and for both of them to look remotely close to the camera without someone's head getting dented!) Please note how much Dash is starting to look like Uncle Mark, down to the ugly orange outfit.
I think i have posted this before, but a friend was pondering if it was bad that his young daughter knows all the words to the song, "Greased Lightning." I wanted to find the video of my kids dancing and singing to the Black Lips song, "Bad Kids." Couldn't find it on my blog, so I'm just posting it again for good measure. It still cracks me up, especially that Rollie knows the "Timeout" and "A Penis on the Wall" parts so well. Not bad dancing, either. That boy loves the Dance.
Anyway, Pierce, if you are bad for teaching your daughter about gettin' tit and pussy wagon, well, then, call DFACS on me. The lyrics go a little something like this:
Bad kids all my friends are bad kids product of no dad kids kids like you and me
Bad kids aint no college grad kids livin life out on the skids kids like you and me
In Class We are a minority Got no Respect for authority And won't Play well with others And steal From all your mothers They'll try To give us pills Oh wait Give us all the pills Go cry Mom I gotta go to court Dad won't Pay his child support
Well you gotta understand we only do these things because all we are is
Bad kids all my friends are bad kids product of no dad kids kids like you and me
Bad kids aint no college grad kids livin life out on the skids kids like you and me
At home he throws a hissy fit Time out he doesn't give a shit Got drunk Off all of grandmas schnaps Got caught Runnin from the cops Toilet Paper on the yard Six f's On my report card Smoke cigs In the bathroom stall Spray paint Penis on the wall
Well you gotta understand we only do these things because all we are is
Bad kids all my friends are bad kids product of no dad kids kids like you and me
Bad kids aint no college grad kids livin life out on the skids kids like you and me
Because Steph Brought Up Potty Training And We Won't Be Outdone!
Concerning Dagny, Steph and Doug's little girl, and her fellow October birthday girl, Tiller, we are also on the Potty Train. I just got completely fed up with all things diaper - Changing them, smelling them, buying them. We bought a buttload of undies (pun intended) - Hello Kitty, Dora, etc. At first she was resistant, and at this point, she is peeing on the potty regularly, but we are having poop problems. She comes to us and says "I want to poop on the potty." We check her and she has already pooped in her undies. We tell her poop goes in the potty. She cries and says, "But i want to poop on the potty." We say, "You already pooped in your pants!" She falls on the ground and kicks her legs and flails around on the ground like a fish out of water. Repeat at least once a day, sometimes twice.
I know that sooner or later she will get it, but so far, we got nothin.' We're sticking with it, though, because as soon as we are off diapers, we are also going to stop getting the stupid plastic Kroger bags that we currently use to dispose of dirty diapers, and instead, we're gonna be all green, with cute totes to take to the grocery store.
That's what I call parental incentive to stick with potty training. It's all about the cute bag. Like this bitchin' number made by our friend Nikki in Seattle. She is very crafty, that Nikki. . . .
Me: "Tiller, you wanna watch t.v. while Mama gets dressed?" Tiller: "Yes, Dora, please. It's on pbskids. . . "something garbled that I couldn't understand. Then it occurred to me. Me: "On Pbskids.com, Tiller?" Tiller: "No, Mama," shaking her head as if I'd said the silliest thing ever, "it's on pbskids.ORG!"
I look at her in amazement as Todd busts a gut laughing from downstairs.
What is everyone doing for the 4th? We're off to the Lake for the weekend, but here's hoping everyone has a safe and fun 4th of July. Good luck to my peeps running the Peachtree!
We've been using M&Ms to bribe Tiller into using the potty. (I don't want to hear the "you are going to give her an eating disorder" comments, either.) So far, it's not working well, but I can totally use them as good-behavior-inducing after-dinner treats. I've been counting Weight Watcher's points again, hoping to kick my weight loss back into gear (working out alone just doesn't do crap for me), but when i saw the diminutive little individual bags, i thought, "Oh, I'll just have one and count the points later." Big mistake: Four points!!!! They are the devil.
I went into the den, turned on Jeopardy, opened the bag and dumped them out on the coffee table. I separated the M&Ms into colors, then put each color group into a little line, so that i could see how many of each color I had. Then, i ate from the colors with the most candies, until i had evened out the lines. Then, I proceeded to eat the m&ms one at a time, taking one from each color line (brown first) until they were all gone.
At some point, Tiller came in, having inhaled her M&Ms, asking for more. "Nope," I said, "you need to go put your dishes in the sink and then go up and wash your hands." Finishing up my own neatly-ordered portion, I realized I hadn't heard much out of Rollie. Cleaning up my wrapper and grabbing my drink glass, I walked back into the kitchen, belting out a "Rollie, what are you doing, buddy? It's time to clean up and hit the showers!"
"Mama, I'm not finished yet!" he yelled back.
I looked at the kitchen table and came to a screeching halt. Rollie was intently looking down at his M&Ms, all laid out neatly in piles, organized by color. I watched him for a moment.
"Rollie, what are you doing?"
"Eating my M&Ms!"
"You put them in little piles?"
"Yup."
"By color?"
"Yup."
"I used to do that when i was a little girl."
"You did, mama?"
"Yeah, I did," I said with a smile. "You come on up and get ready for a bath when you get done with the M&Ms, okay?"
"Okay, Mama," he replied, not once taking his eyes off the little colored piles, his eyes scanning them, as he carefully picked one and popped it into his mouth.
Sometimes genetics are just downright weird. And sometimes they are kind of sweet.
Lately, we've been reading The Little Engine That Could. Not the short dumb versions, but an old complete edition that was mine as a little girl, with brilliant illustrations and lots of repetition of the phrase, "I think I can."
So, the other day, a neighbor brought by two small girls' bikes that her daughters had grown out of, to see if Tiller might be interested in them. Um, yeah, she's interested!
I planned to go back in and finish some work, but the kids saw the new bikes and any idea of working was out the window on two wheels. "NEW BIKES!!! BIKES FOR ME? MOM, NEW BIKES!! MAMA, DID YOU SEE THE NEW BIKES!? WHY DID THAT LADY LEAVE TWO NEW BIKES? WHY SHE NOT WANT BIKES?"
Indeed, why would someone not want a bike? Certainly not because of the complete chaos-inducing nature of bikes upon those under five.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon in the driveway, Tiller practicing a loop that involved arcing through the back of the garage, down the slight incline of the drive and into the sharp right turn of the sidewalk leading to the front door. (I am not sure what they do once they are at the front steps, but it usually is imagined as Grandma's house, or the bakery, or the MACDonald's drive-through. Frighteningly, Rollie can do an exact impersonation of me at the drive-thru, down to all of our exact orders.) Then Tiller would come whipping back around the corner, with a big grin under her Hello Kitty helmet, ready to fly back into the garage for another loop.
Except that when she came off that sidewalk onto the drive, she would slow down, her little legs struggling to crank up the incline into the garage, and, i realized after a few loops, whispering to herself, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . . " and "I did it!" (Dora the Explorer-style, of course) when she made it to the peak and into the garage.
I've written numerous times about my mixed marriage. The kids are completely on the fence. They see a G on a car in front of me and yell, "Bulldogs!" or "Georgia for you, Mama!" or they see that AU on a car and say, "Auburn!" Course, Rollie says, "Aubrun," and Tiller actually says, "Bullgogs." Which is really cute.
If they see a G and Todd is in the car, they will ask? "Daddy? You like Bulldogs, right?" And we are good parents, who try to consider if certain things we say might interfere with a child's self-esteem; Who knows if Todd telling Rollie that he doesn't like GA, when Rollie likes both UGA and Auburn, will harm R's burgeoning self-worth?
So we lie.
The standard answer for this from Todd is "Yes, I like them. I like Auburn the best, and then my second favorite team is whoever is playing Bama that week, and then Georgia." Very diplomatic, and not really untrue.
Standard answer from me is also the truth: "Yes, I like Bullgogs first." "Then Tigers, mama?" I think for a minute.
"Well, Bulldogs first, then Panthers, then Tigers.
Everyone in the car, even my 2-year-old, look at me like I am crazy.
"Panthers? Who are Panthers, mama?"
"Dillon Panthers, baby. Dillon Panthers."
Yeah, I seriously have a Friday Night Lights problem, and it's not just about the hot Coach Taylor, either. I cried last night watching them win state in the first season finale. No, I'm not kidding.
Plus, it gives me satisfaction to choose a fictional high school football team over Todd's Tigers. Always the rivalry exists.
"Mama's my heart!" It was very sincere, too. None of that sarcasm exhibited in other women in the family.
That's what Tiller just said. Cute-o-rama. Also? She can get away with wearing carrots on her pants. Not all girls can get away with a look like that. . .
"Mama, when i was outside in the snow, I made a ball and I threw it on you and it was fun."
Yes, Rollie, it was. It was the most fun I've had in ages. I threw an icy, wet snowball today. But it was a snowball. And I showed you how to make a really sad snow angel. And I showed you how the best place to get a snowball from is a clean surface like the car and then we tried to throw snowballs at Daddy in the bedroom window above while he was on a conference call, while Quint did the low-butt run around the cul-de-sac, like he was a pup.
I had forgotten that snow had a sound and a smell, and that it made dogs frisky, and toes tingle and eyelashes frosted, and that it made little kids and big kids giggle like they were being tickled.
p.s. Mom, I'm real sorry about that mess me and Lisa and Matt and Karen and Sean made in the house, like, every day, throughout the winter in Rochester for two years in a row. We musta been about the biggest pains in the ass ever.
One thing that I don't like about having kids is that even on Saturday morning, I sometimes only drink about half a cup of coffee before having to do something like mop the whole kitchen after the kids dump their milk all over the floor for fun. This of course happened while I was in the bathroom for all of about one minute. Look in kitchen and it's perfectly clean. Go in bathroom for a minute, and come out to hear that "not good" silence that all parents dread. Walk into kitchen to find Tiller sitting at the table eating, surrounded by milk everywhere: Covering the table, in both chairs, all over the floor in an approximately 10X10 foot space. Rollie is nowhere to be found, but I finally locate him hiding inside the pantry doors, a sure sign of guilt if I have ever seen one. He proceeds to blame Tiller for the whole thing, and like a good little sheep, when asked about it, she says yes, she did it.
riiiiigght.
Spent the next 30 minutes cleaning the milk up, then mopping, all the while breaking one of my New Year's Resolutions, the one about raising my voice to the children.
You probably would not know it, even if you know me pretty well, but sometimes I get depressed. It's never enough to make me unable to function (well, there was that one time after I had the baby, but that was just the hormones), but I just get down. Blah. Uninterested. Bluesy. I don't really want to leave the house. I don't really want to clean the house I don't want to leave. I don't want to do anything at all. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and it would be raining, and there was nothing to do, and I kept on driving my mom crazy, but whatever she suggested sounded like absolutely no fun to me, and the feeling was just pure frustration.
When I get this way, i think I hide it pretty well from everyone but my sister and my husband. God knows, Todd has certainly been seeing the ill effects of my recent melancholy in the sorry housekeeping I have been doing. But for the most part, I really try to overcome my down days, to find things to do to pull me out of the depression, or at least keep me busy until it passes. Which I guess means that I am not truly depressed at all, because I can still function, can still see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Well, it just seems like lately i have have been bored, depressed, whatever. Maybe it's the holidays, maybe it's watching both mine and Todd's parents deal with their own aging parents, when they should be enjoying their retirements and their golden years. Maybe it is feeling helpless at not being able to make all of the people I love just have it easier, or just get a damn break once in a while.
I am still feeling a little down, but you know what helps? When one of your oldest and dearest friends calls and asks if you can drop everything and help her out by going to New York with her for the weekend. All expenses paid. Because her husband was supposed to go with her and something came up with work and now she will have to go by herself.
Um, okay. I guess so. What? Hells to the yeah, I'll go! What depression? What boredom?
Who won the lottery?
I did. When I was born to the most awesomest, givingest Mama ever. When I started playing rec-league b-ball with Mealby "Take a Look at My Choices" Barron, and when I met the most understanding, laid-back, fun-loving, hysterical - and yet responsible - man EVER and made my smartest life move yet - Marrying his ass.
My Dad and sister and kids and cutest dog in the world? They are icing on my life cake.
Good, hot coffee at Joe's. Tiller and Rollie sitting on East Atlanta Santa's lap, with not a tear. Meeting nice new people in my great neighborhood. Margaritas with the Reids and my family at La Casita Cantina. Mmmm. Pork Carnitas. . . .
Coming home and cuddling on the couch with my eldest, dozing to the sounds of him watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
Tiller thinks the words to "Itsy Bitsy Spider" are "Bitsy Bitsy Fighter." Cute as all get-out. When we put her to bed, she likes to be held and sung to for a minute. When she was tiny, I started singing "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" to her. We still do that one, but she has started requesting other songs, and now we have three regular ones. I hold her in the dark of her room, and whisper, "You want a a song?" She says, "Bitsy," which is what she calls "Itsy Bitsy Spider." When I finish it, she says, "Sunshine." ("You Are My Sunshine.") Finally, we do "Twinkle."
I love all three of the songs so very much now. They are the soundtrack to a little girl laying her head on my shoulder, her heart beating fast next to my own, totally at peace with her world, and secure in my love for her.
Tiller is the kind of kid that yells out, "Mama, I'm stuck!"
I walk around the corner to the entryway and see that she has put her head through the balustrade. She is on the first step, and crying her eyes out, and saying over and over, "Mama, I'm stuck."
My first instinct is panic. That is a lie. Panic is my second instinct. First instinct was to stare at her and then laugh. I yell up the stairs, "Todd? Can you come down here, please?" in the same faux-calm voice my father used one summer day in the 80s, when we were supposed to leave in a couple of hours for a week's vacation at the lakehouse. I believe his exact words from the parquet hallway at the bottom of the stairs, up to my Mom, were: "Honey, can you come down here? I had a little accident with the lawn mower."
He had, in fact, cut his toeoff with the lawnmower.
We walked downstairs to find him standing in a pool of his own blood. He then yelled at me to go out in the yard and look for his toe. I never did find that thing.
Okay, so Tiller was not bleeding, but she was screaming, and crying, and trying to pull her head out of the balustrade, and getting a little panicky when it wouldn't come out. I was on the floor of the entry, talking to her, and trying to feel around her head to see just how tight it was, and as Todd came down the stairs, he probably heard me mutter, in true Mother-of-the-Year fashion, "Baby, how the fuck did you manage to do this?"
I told Todd to go get dish liquid from the sink, thinking we could slick her head up with soap and push it back through. He ignored me, walked between Tiller and me, and then gently pushed her head right back through. Much crying ensued, but we think little to no brain damage.
Then we rocked her and held her and looked at each other over her head, shaking our heads and both thinking to ourselves, Typical Tiller. This will not be the last.
Dragging a kicking and screaming Tiller, age two, into Publix. As I lifted her into the buggy, trying to force her legs into the holes of the seat as she attempted to keep them straight and throw herself out onto the cement floor at the same time, the first notes of Stevie Wonder's ever-so-cheery "Sir Duke" came on over the store music system. As my Mama says, sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.
Halloween was ultra fun. We carved the pumpkin (yes, I am a total slacker and waited till the last minute) and then went and had pizza at Grant Central. After that, we walked around East Atlanta Village for the Eav-O-Ween celebration. All of the shop owners hand out candy to the local kids, and the people-watching is pretty fun. The kids were pretty cute, and I have to say that kids don't get hipper than those who trick or treat The Earl and The Flatiron. Nothing like seeing your little ones waltz right up to a bar for trick or treating. Definitely beats the toothbrushes we used to get from Dr. Grove, the dentist who lived down our suburban street growing up. After that, we came home and Todd traipsed the kids down the street, while I stayed back to drink beer, er. . . hand out candy. There is something so heartstring-tugging about seeing your husband walking down the street, holding hands with the costumed kids, their other hands gripping the pumpkins so tightly and with such purpose. I had a lovely time talking with the neighbors and then Todd and the kids returned, the kids dove into the candy, and we sat around talking some more, while handing out candy. Halloween in the hood is a little different than in the 'burbs. The first few years, you are kind of put out by the older kids trick-or-treating (as one neighbor put it, if you are out on a date, you are probably too old to trick or treat) and the lack of discernible costumes, but you start to realize that it's just the way that folks do things here, and you get into the spirit and go with the flow after a while. And I dare say that this year, it seemed like more people dressed up and that they were trying just a little bit harder. Todd hosed the children down from layers of stickiness and put them both down. About nine, we closed up shop (lights out, candles out), and Todd walked down the street to check out the Gay Superheroes. It seems that the money house (what I call the neighbor's house where everyone meets to party while handing out candy every year - a jackpot for the trick or treater) was doing a Superhero costume theme this year. I am sure they went all out and I should have sent the camera. Damn. I'm drinking beer, fucking around with the Halloween photos, and listening to my Creepy mix. Decemberists' Leslie Anne Levine is on right now. Awesome song. Awesome holiday.
Hell is the wonderful municipality of Warner Robins, GA, a town built up around an air force base. It is full of concrete and really ugly buildings. My father said he would never come back here after he finished high school and moved back to Savannah, where he was born. He is back, because no one counted on my grandfather making it to 92 years old, and Pop still lives here. So, now, mom and dad do too. My sister and I are in complete agreement that once Pop dies and Mom and Dad get out of this hell hole, we will never come back again. EVER.
We are watching Pop this weekend while Mom and Dad get away for a couple of days. So far, today:
5 a.m. I wake up to hear Rollie and Pop talking on the baby monitor. Pop has gotten up to go to the bathroom, which we were under the impression he can no longer do on his own. Evidently, he can, and the walker woke up Rollie, who thought it was Lisa and yelled out, "Lisa!" which promptly woke both Lisa and Tiller. I run upstairs, wondering what the hell is going on. Everyone is awake. Pop is sitting on the toilet with the door open (awesome) and Tiller is crying out and Lisa is asking me what I am doing upstairs. We get everyone calmed back down, with admonitions to Rollie that he shouldn't get out of bed until the sun comes up.
5:15 a.m. I am back downstairs in bed with the dog. My stomach hurts like shit. I am trying to go back to sleep. I realize that my stomach hurts because it is upset and then I spend the next 3 hours in and out of the bathroom. I never fall back asleep.
8 a.m. Everyone is up and clamoring for breakfast and the dogs need to go outside and i feel like crap. I slap raisin bran on the table for the kids, while Lisa takes the dogs out, because I just can't risk being that far away from the bathroom.
8:15 a.m. Pop calls and wants someone to get his breakfast and his insulin shot for him. He gets the shots at every meal and before bedtime. Lisa takes pity on me and takes both kids and her Jack Russell Terror, Emily, with her. I lay on the bed with Quint and try to enjoy quiet despite cramping stomach.
8:20 a.m. My mom calls. So much for my stolen moments without children. She wants to know what Lisa wanted. I don't know, but will have Lisa call her.
8:30 a.m. Lisa yelling, "No, Emily! No! No!" Lisa is saying over baby monitor.
8:40 a.m. Everyone comes back downstairs, except Pop, who never leaves his Lazy Boy. Lisa freaking out. Emily ate rat poison. After determining that children never came in contact with rat poison, I google "Dog ate rat poison."
8:50 a.m. Lisa and Emily get in car to go to vet, where she will be given something to make her puke up the poison, and a shot of something to counteract the effects of the poison.
8:55 a.m. I venture out to the carport so that Rollie can ride his bike and Tiller can play with sharp and poisonous stuff, of which there is a ton, because my grandfather has not thrown out a single item since about 1935. Quint gets his leash caught up in the porch furniture he is tied to while I chug Pepto Bismol. Tiller runs around at breakneck speed with a stick and then falls and skins both knees, just as Rollie barrels down the slope of the driveway, narrowly missing my Grandma's c. 1980s Cadillac with 19,000 miles on it. Yes, Grandma has been dead for five years, but why get rid of a perfectly good Caddy only driven to the Beauty Shop on Thursdays and church on Sundays? Swerving to miss Caddy, Rollie's bike flies out from under him and he lands smack dab on his ass, then gets up wailing. He climbs up into my lap for consolation, as I juggle Pepto and a dog leash, and Tiller then comes over to give him a hug, too, which was sweet, but only makes him shriek in my ear.
That's just a taste of a few moments in the alternate reality that is my Grandfather's house. Things have gotten better since about ten. Emily is going to make it, and the medicine might even make her sleep for the afternoon. Lisa took Tiller and Rollie to the store to get stuff for dinner and to give me a break from them. Both dogs are sleeping. Pop doesn't need lunch and a shot until 1:30. Lunch for him is easy, because he eats the same lunch every day: 1 pimento cheese sandwich, one small can of baked beans, and one can of Vienna sausages, all cold and out of the can. Puke-O-Rama.
Certainly things will continue on this upward trend until 3:30, when Cocktail party kicks off, at which point Bulldogs will disappoint me, and I will hopefully be over my stomach deal, so I can drink my sorrows away with a few Saturday afternoon beers.
Hope everyone else is having an awesome Saturday. With less poison, poop, barking, and did I mention the pooping? than we are experiencing here.
Dear Tiller, Today you turned two. We celebrated your party on Sunday. It was a Hello Kitty themed party. Aunt Lisa and Papaw Palmer couldn’t make it, but your Grandma Palmer was there, and also your Johnson Grandparents. Uncle Mark showed up, even though Aunt Lisa didn’t make it – I think he is either in love with you, or cupcakes. Maybe both. Other attendees were Mama and Dada, Rollie, Ned, Vanessa, and Scarlett. We had chocolate cupcakes, and some with colored icing, but everyone wanted chocolate. We ate pizza for lunch, and you received way too many gifts. You received a stroller, baby bed, and infant carrier, a couple of baby dolls, two cel phones (just what a little girl needs), a stuffed dog on a leash, a vacuum cleaner that really vacuums, a tea party set, a doll case, and a ton of clothes. You are a very lucky girl to have so many friends and so many people who love you.
I remember when Rollie was two, and you were about to be born. It seems like just yesterday, and now he is four and you are two, and I am really, really a mother. You have learned so many amazing things in the last year. You learned to walk a little after you turned one. Now you are running and hopping. Of course, you don’t actually leave the ground yet, but you say "I am hopping!" and do a lot of bending at the knees. You like to do whatever Diego and Dora are doing – All the actions: Climbing, swimming, rowing, hopping, swinging, climbing. Thanks to Dora and Diego, you intersperse your English with Spanish words. Sometimes I have to act out actions to figure out what you are saying to me.
Your talking is just amazing – what a vocabulary! You string so many words together in run on sentences and your dada and I just look at each other, wondering what it is you are saying, because we just don’t understand all of it. That doesn’t matter to you, though. You just keep on talking, and are so expressive when you do it, nodding your head convincingly, or holding your hands palm up when asking a question of us. You repeat everything that we say, and think that Rollie’s word is God. If Rollie says or does it, you want to say or do the same thing.
You are starting to show a bit of stubbornness. When we say “time to change your diaper,” or “Let’s put on pjs” your first reaction is to take off running. We spend a lot of time chasing you down. You love the water and will pour water over your own head when in the bath and then laugh and laugh. You are the laughingest goofball of a child I have ever known. Your sense of humor is corny and quick. You love to sing in goofy voices and then laugh at yourself. Did I mention the dancing? You love music and singing and love to dance. Your dances are a sight to behold, too – You do one where you move your arms around. I couldn’t explain it if I tried, but will have to show you the video someday. Your favorite songs are “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,“ “The Wheels on the Bus,” “You Are My Sunshine,” and “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
You love animals and babies. You crack us up, because when you talk about the other kids in your Mommies’ Morning Out class, you call them “babies,” but you think you are a big girl, even though you are all the same age. You started the MMO this fall, and I was worried you would miss me, but you love the class, and the other kids (Kai, Claire, and Abby) and your teachers, Miss Betsy, and Miss Janet. You cry on the days when Rollie has class, but you don’t.
You are kind of a bruiser. Sometimes I am in another room, and I hear Rollie screaming bloody murder and I walk in, and you have him in a headlock, or you are lying on top of him and won’t get off. I am hoping you will turn out to be a gentle soul, but it is nice to know that you stand up for yourself, too.
You love swimming. I am amazed at how much you love the water. You laugh and laugh in pools, and you love the kiddie pool at the lake. When we take you in the lake, you lie back as if you could just float on your back, all by yourself.
When we go to the park, you like to swing, swing, swing. You are not scared to climb or slide, but swinging is where it’s at for you. I have pushed you on a swing for almost an hour at a time before. You cry when I make you get out of the swing.
In the mornings, you scream and cry, “Mama” or “Daddy, come get me.” “Mama, Help!” You sound pitiful and sick, but as soon as we walk in, you start chirping away in your excited, sweet morning voice, asking "Where's Dada?" or "Where's Rollie?" You start talking in a waterfall of words and if other people in the house are still sleeping, I try to shush you, and you just won’t quiet down. It is endearingly annoying. When you wake up from your nap, you are the same way, except crankier, just like your Mama and Aunt Lisa, and Grandma Palmer. I carry you down the stairs, you crying the whole way, and when we get to the bottom, I ask if you want a snack, and you turn the tears off immediately, a smile breaks across your face, and you say, “Sack” while nodding your head at me.
Let’s see. What else:
You sleep well at night, usually going to bed between 7:30 and 8, but you aren’t a great napper. Most of your naps are 35 to 45 minutes long. I am thankful when you give me a whole hour. You never let me fix your hair, which I guess is part of the curse. I never liked having mine fixed either. You love eating. I have been lucky that both kids have healthy appetites. I try to feed you healthy stuff, and you do a pretty good job with it. You do love gold fish. You call them, “Olefish.” So cute. You are starting to love to read, and we read to you every night, but you also will grab a book and sit down with it, turning the pages and pretending to read.
Since your birthday party, you have been walking around saying, “I’m a baby!” and then “I’m a big girl!” You may be growing up to be a big girl, a young lady, but you will always be my little baby girl, even when you are fifty. I am so lucky to have you for a daughter. I knew that being a parent was special, but I never knew how amazing it would be to have a boy and a girl. Mom always said that there was something so very wonderful about having a daughter, and now I understand what she meant. You are sweet and mercurial, tough and sensitive, beautiful and ornery, girly and tomboyish, smart and silly, all wrapped up in the cutest, roly-poliest package I have ever seen. You are a little like your father, and a lot like me, and better than both of us put together. I have learned so very much from you and Rollie. Having a little girl, though, is a slightly more daunting task for me. I know that I am your foremost role model, the woman from whom you will learn so very much in your life. You bring out so many things in me that I didn’t know I had inside. You make me a better person. You make me want to be someone you can look up to, someone you can learn valuable life lessons from, and someone you can respect. I hope that I do as wonderful a job as my Mom did. I hope that I set an example for you that will make you as proud of me as I am of you.
Happy Birthday, Baby Tiller.
With love, Mama
Thanks to Uncle Mark for the cute Tiller with Stroller vid.
I cannot believe that I dropped off my little Tiller for her first day of school today. Okay, not real school, but the Mommies' Morning Out program. She goes Tuesdays and Thursdays for three whole hours. She was so excited to put on her big girl backpack. Keep your traps shut about the fact that it is Rollie's hand-me-down backpack; He got a brand spanking new Diego backpack for his birthday, and it just seemed ludicrous to throw the old one out, so I just crossed out his name and put hers on the backpack. I also drew her a nifty flower to girl it up a little. Then I felt guilty for not drawing anything on Rollie's backpack, so I drew him a car. Two more fun things about being a Mom - 1) You can guilt yourself about just about anything where your kids are concerned and 2) You will need a Sharpie. Often.
Both kids got out of the van, with Todd's help. He followed us over to school for her first day, since we did it last year for Rollie's first day. Yes, Todd is the best Daddy ever. They were so cute, with backpacks and raring to go. They humored me while we took some pictures to commemorate the big event. Rollie was cracking me up, saying hello to the Pastor and to his friends from last year. We took him to his classroom first. He went right in, found his hook, hung up his backpack, and started playing. He said, "Hey guys!" when he walked in the room. Tiller followed him in at a run, with her backpack too big for her body, and mimicked big brother with a very cute, "Hey, guys!" to the big kids in Rollie's class. Luckily, she was not upset when we put her in the room with kids her own age.
We walked her down to the room, and the door was shut. She went right in, starting to play before we could get her backpack off her. We showed her where her hook was and hung up her backpack, because she wasn't able to reach the hook yet. She went right back to playing with cars. Todd and I said bye-bye, and slipped out. No tears, not even a glance.
Then I went to meet Lisa for coffee and unadulterated adult conversation (can adult conversation be unadulterated?) for over two whole straight hours. It was good. Really, really good.
It is very strange to watch the bonding experience between a 22-month old little girl, and a 91-year-old man. They don't have a lot to talk about, and she can't enunciate well, and he couldn't even hear it if she did. They both like food. And they hug a lot, which is not at all how I remember my grandfather being with me and my sister when we were little. He keeps on telling her that she is such a sweet little girl that we should've named her "Love." Who is this man?
This was the man that when you told him, "Goodbye! I love you, Pop!" would grunt in reply. I think he is either dying or possessed. The funny thing about him, though, is that I honestly think he thinks he is going to live forever. He told her tonight that it was good she liked books, because maybe she would get a scholarship, and that he would help her out with tuition. That's like 16 years away. He would be 107.
The sad part is that i could sooner see him living till 107 than actually paying for all of someone's college. He is that stingy. He cuts one paper towel into four pieces, then uses one piece for days on end. I put tin foil over his dinner and then threw it in the trash can; He pulled it back out and then washed it and folded it up for later.
You can't make this shit up. Someday I'll have to write about the mountain of fast food jelly packets he was hording. Good stuff.
A funny thing about kids is how they take you down a notch, at just the right time, usually when you are feeling really good about yourself.
Yesterday, rather than do my usual run, I decided to do a little test of myself. My friends Natalie and Steph are both running the Hansgrohe Triathlon in a couple of weeks, and I had thought about doing it, but decided that I was taking on too much too soon and declined. I have always wanted to do one, because I love swimming and because I get bored easily, and I think training for three sports sounds a lot more fun than training for only one. In fact, before Nat and Steph decided to do this one a couple of months ago, I was already eyeing one for either May or June of next year (there are a couple that time of year just for beginners). In preparation for that, I had already starting swimming and biking on my cross-training days in my run schedule.
When I found out they were doing this one in August, I was so tempted to try it with them, but I am pretty glad that I decided to wait until next year. Travel, knee pain, and a host of other engagements between that time and early August would have made me a basket case. That being said, I have been following their training and getting very excited for them. Their last couple of posts have been about estimating their times in the race, based on trials they did in the last few weeks.
Well, I have many flaws, and one of them is a highly competitive nature; I haven't met many games, matches, fights, or challenges that I didn't like. Obviously, this can be a good thing at times, and it is not to say that I am not a graceful loser, because I am. One of the many lessons learned by playing sports as a kid is that there is always someone better. (I wonder at those professional athletes who are so good that they never had to learn this very valuable lesson.) But I really don't like to lose, and I love the act of playing, racing, and meeting in competition. (By the way: One thing I do not like is to be chased, as in a game of Hide and seek or Kick the Can. It scares the bejeesus out of me, even if it is just a game. It is right up there with snakes, flying, and wet paper.)
An interesting thing about running was that I first took it up to a) lose weight and b) to give myself some competitive goals to shoot for, because I so miss the competition that I was constantly experiencing growing up. I am mentally a better person when my body is physically worn out. Odd but true. As I ran more and more, though, I realized that I was slowly morphing into a more competitive runner. I am not a good runner when compared with those who have been doing it for years, or people who are in tip-top shape, but I am slowly and surely beating my expectations for myself; I am improving.
Anyway, the point is that I saw that they were testing how well they were going to do in this triathlon, and I immediately felt the need to know a) if I could even finish the distance and b) what my time might actually be. So, when I got to the gym, I did the distances required to finish the sprint triathlon that they are running in August.
I didn't push myself as hard as I could have, because I didn't know how my legs would react to it on the run. I definitely could have done the swim faster. By the bike, i was worried about the run, so I put it on random hills, level 8 (because I remembered that is what Nat had done, I believe) and took it pretty easy, not remotely doing it at top speed. Also, riding a stationary bike is, frankly, fucking boring. I got distracted from my mission, watched a little Oprah, and forgot to push it very much. It didn't matter that I took it slowly, because either way, my legs felt like i was wearing concrete fucking ski boots by the time I got to the run. That first half mile was sucky beyond belief, but after that, the legs seemed to come back to me and I actually ran pretty well.
My results: Swim - 400 yds - 7 mins 49 secs Bike - 13 mi - 39 mins 50 secsRun - 3.1 mi - 35 mins 02 secs
Steph posted a link to a site that calculates your estimated triathlon time based on time trials and your weekly training mileage. I could barely figure out how to use the thing (what the hell is a 20 minute time trial, and are they even talking about the bike?), and I haven't really been training or keeping up with my biking or swimming mileage, but this is what I came up with. I plugged in my above times, except that for the bike, I had to figure out at what speed I could do 20 minutes of biking, based on how fast I did the 13 miles. (Why don't they just have you bike the 13 miles and put that time in?) I put in the minimal allowed training mileages.
I came out with a final time of: 1:37:15. Not exactly on par with Nat's or Steph's estimated times, but then I didn't expect to be on par with them - they run ridiculously fast compared to me. Evidently, the calculator also adds time in for the transitions, or something.
I really wasn't shooting for a particular time. I really just wanted to do the distances and see how it felt, if it was harder or easier than I thought it would be. Mostly, I wanted to know that I could finish it. I learned both that I could pretty easily finish, that I have a lot of room for improvement through just giving it more, especially on the bike, and that my ability to improve on the run would vastly improve my finish time. Running is definitely my weak link - there are people who run 7 and 8 minute miles and I am still doing more than ten minute miles. And then there is the weight. I need to lose at least a good 30 pounds. All in all, though, I kind of like the idea of having plenty of room for major improvement. I also looked at the 2006 results for the triathlon they are doing, and I was a little stunned to see that I was right around in the middle of the times. I could do this, and not come in last. I could do well. So, of course, I am a little bummed now that I'm not doing it, but I'm just telling myself "think how much better I could be in another eight to ten months."
I was pretty elated when I got to the restaurant for dinner afterwards. Todd had an after-work drinks thing, and I decided I was too tired to go home. We headed over to La Casita, where i ordered a modest, weight-watcher's friendly meal, and a beer (not so WW-friendly, but light!) The kids ate their weight in beans and rice. I was feeling good, full of endorphins and accomplishment. I knew that if I wanted to do the triathlon, I could do it, and that I even had a base time to work from and strive to beat. I looked forward to taking the kids home, giving them baths and putting them to bed, and then showering and lounging on the couch, making love to Tivo and a couple more beers.
I paid the check, stood up, downed the last of my beer, and took Tiller's hand to help her down the step on the patio where we were eating. As we came down to the lower level of the patio, she pulled up, stopping in her tracks. Then she projectile-puked all over the patio floor, with about six patrons looking on and in smelling distance. Like I said, just when you are feeling good, kids know how to take you down a notch. Fucking awesome.
Rollie had his first field trip today. I had my first experience chaperoning a group of three and four year olds. Me being in charge of a group of kids is kind of funny, as I think I still need a guide when I am out in public. I had total flashbacks of my middle school getting kicked out of the Atlanta Symphony Hall one year for bad behavior.
It was also pretty scary to put other people's children in my car and drive them around, even if I do drive like a Grandma. I had two other kids in my van, in addition to Rollie and Tiller, who seemed thrilled to be hanging with the big kids.
Note to parents: If you want someone else to take your kid in their car, do that person a big favor and know how to install your own car seat.
Note to self: Next time you volunteer to chaperone a group to a puppet show, or to anything else for that matter, don't stay out till one a.m. drinking wine with the girls the night before.
I thought sleep-deprivation and a slight hangover were bad with two kids. If I had three-year-old triplets, i would never touch a drop of alcohol ever again for fear of experiencing what I experienced on the 15 minute ride to the puppetry theater. Every time I write "puppet," i keep thinking Metallica's Master of Puppets, which my friend Owen blasted for a good year in the car on the way to high school, which was actually quieter than what I experienced this morning. Those three wouldn't shut up for a minute. There was one point where I was trying to merge onto 85 South and all four kids were screeching and screaming at top volume, and I thought momentarily about driving the van off an overpass just to shut them up.
Also, while one kid was a joy, the other one kept saying things like, "Rollie, why does your Mom drive so slow?" and "My Mom's car is faster than yours" and I know it is not a sign of maturity that I wanted to tell the kid to shut the fuck up before I kicked his mom's ass. Instead, I made myself feel better by telling him in a sweet voice, that "Yes, I think your mom is fast."
