Author: callsignmommy2

One…. Two… Two and a half…

This is a real book… maybe it has an answer.

I used to substitute teach preschool when I was earning my teaching credential (which I never used… this is one of about a gazillion jobs I’ve had in my life … that will be another post for another day…) As a result, I believed that I really liked young children and that I had scads of patience and would therefore be one of those very composed and put together mommy-types who did not need to scream at their children to get their point across.

I was wrong.

My temper is vertically challenged. It’s shorter than Tatoo on Fantasy Island. It’s shorter than the smallest member of the Lollypop Gang. It’s… well, you get it. I’ve got nothing but more jokes about dwarves and little people and really, that just isn’t all that nice. Nor is it the point of this post.  The point is that I have found myself literally shaking in an effort to avoid doing something to Turbo that will scare him so badly that he will hate me for the rest of both our lives. I am working on this, I really am. That being said, I haven’t done that thing yet (not sure what that thing really is… I’m not gonna find out, I promise). But I have tried lots of other things in an attempt to get the little monster to step back in line. The worst thing is that Turbo has what I have decided is a nervous habit. When he is in a lot of trouble and is most likely uncomfortable and slightly scared because mommy’s face is turning crimson and spit is flying out of her mouth as she yells at him, he does the worst thing he could possibly do. He laughs. And if you’ve ever been pissed at a 3 year old, and find yourself telling ’em how it’s gonna be, the last thing you’re going for is to make them laugh. Be silent? Yes. Tremble in fear of my sinister sounding mommy-threats? Oh yes. But laugh? No.

I’ve done things in efforts at discipline that have mostly come to no fruitful conclusion. Probably the best example is when, not a half mile from our house, Turbo was doing something — of course now I have no clue what it was — that led me to offer the lamest threat that my parents ever used, “Don’t make me pull this car over!” Well, he did. And I did. And then I had no bloody idea what to do. I pulled over, braked hard and jumped out, furious. And then I stood there wondering what parents are supposed to do once they’ve pulled the car over. The best I could come up with was to open his door and get my face right in his tiny face (which did look scared at this point) and tell him to cut. it. out. It actually did work. But I hate feeling like I’ve working  a plan with no idea how it’s supposed to turn out.

My greatest parenting tool (which will reveal how utterly clueless I am at this) is to count slowly to three. What is weird is that it usually works. It’s even starting to work with Lunchbox. They do something crappy, I give them the look, issue my warning and then start counting, and whatever it is usually stops before three. My mom was in town one day when I had reason to count, and she leaned over and whispered, “What happens at three?” I was honest with her. “Mom, I haven’t got a clue.”

So, what happens at three? Anyone? Anyone?

Fighting the good fight

Like lots of moms in their thirties (I thought about adding a modifier there, but “late” just makes me sound almost dead, so we’ll leave it alone), I am fighting the battle of the ever-expanding waistline.  I shouldn’t make it sound like this is something I’m focused on only as a result of being a mom (though 2 pregnancies definitely added to the struggles). I’ve been focused on the physical — probably far more than is healthy — since I was a kid. I was a ballet dancer all through school, missing lots of school stuff for rehearsals and performances, and taking classes every day after school into the late evenings.  Which meant that I spent a lot of time in a leotard and tights, comparing my body to the bodies of others. And if the scrutiny had been only my own, I might be somewhat healthier, but I had a ballet teacher who taught with a long black cane, and asked questions like, “been in the cookie jar again, have we?” I’d get home and my dad would refer to me as “chubs” whenever he found me eating (I actually think he may have some fairly unhealthy attitudes about food, but that’s another story).  Anyway, add it all together and I had no clear picture of what I looked like. Now that I look back at photos from those years, I can see that I was perfectly healthy and pretty thin.  College brought ups and downs with weight — I quit dancing and struggled with having no physical outlet and gained and lost 10 or 15 pounds.  By my senior year, I’d found the gym and replaced ballet with step aerobics and treadmills.  The photos from college vary, in some I’m thin, in some I’m chubby.

As an adult, I knew that I needed to work out as a sanity insurance policy, and that has helped keep things steady for the most part. I actually became a personal trainer for a while and keep my certification current though I don’t train clients at this point (because of my “real” job, which annoyingly seems to take up quite a lot of time.) So I know how I should be eating and how to get myself in shape when things have slipped. And sometimes now I think that maybe my distorted vision has gone the other way. I’ve looked in the mirror recently and thought, “not bad,” when the swimsuit shopping experience, complete with double “check-out-your-own-ass” mirror says otherwise.

As a result of the swimsuit shopping experience, I’ve had a bit of a talk with myself, and seeing as how I’m still here after the rapture occurred and all, I think I’ve got till around October to get myself into a bit firmer shape. (Isn’t October when the rest of us, those who didn’t get “saved” yesterday are supposed to be taken to hell? Well, it’s hot in hell and I’m sure I’ll want to wear shorts, so I’d like to look good in them…)

And this long drawn out stream of consciousness boredom you are experiencing is nothing more than my way of mentioning that I’m trying to work out more often and eat better. So you may be hearing about that at times. Apologies in advance. And the eating part will have to start tomorrow, since we just arrived home from a sushi and Baskin Robbins feast. Tomorrow, look out!

Daycare Drama

I’m flummoxed. How do parents who work full time manage it? I work 24 hours a week. It’s not a lot, but it feels like full time – and there is always pressure to stay later, work more. And sometimes I do, because the current school/daycare setup that we’ve been lucky enough to work out allows for some flexibility. But we’re moving. I’ve got the kids enrolled in a school in our new home, BOTH at one place, which will be a nice change. BOTH on one schedule, which will be nice too (although, technically, neither of them has to be dropped off or picked up at any specific time here, which is really nice.)  Out there, they’ll be on a “school day” schedule – 8:30 to 2:30.  And it looks like I will be able to keep my job and work in the office out there. But I will have ZERO flexibility, since the new school has made it clear that there is no option for picking them up later or dropping them off much earlier. (Did I mention that this was the cheapest adequate option I could find and that it’s still gonna cost 50% more than what we pay here?)

I have friends who work full time… and I’m starting to wonder how they manage it (or afford it!!) And what happens when the kids are in “real” school, and they get out at like 2:30?  What do parents of school-aged kids do? And how will we get them to and from soccer/band/ piano/basketweaving classes after school?

And what do full time career parents do when schools, like Turbo’s fabulous Montessori program* decides that ohbytheway, the last week of school will be all half days.  That week will also be my last week at work (on this coast) and now I get to mention that ohbytheway BOSS, I’ll be taking half days my last week here. And burning my paid time off because I have no choice – thanks to Turbo’s school.

(*which I actually do love, but I still don’t get how they justify their scheduling…)

This is one of those things that I’m sure will work itself out (with a hell of a lot of footwork on my part), but it’s STRESSING me out. Because we’re trying to sell a house and move across the country and I don’t have enough to worry about. In fact, if there’s anything YOU are worried about, why don’t you tell me so I can help you by worrying about it too? I’m good at worrying. REALLY good.

I think I need a visit with my friend Riesling. What? it’s 10:30 am? Crap.

Giraffes and other signs

Turbo didn’t really talk until he was two and a half. We were actually getting kind of worried about it, but then he began spouting one and two words here and there, and before we knew it, he was into full blown sentence-long Turboisms that might or might not make sense. He often pops off with things like, “How many school days do I have, Mommy?” This question is evidently a complete thought because no amount of clarifying questioning gets any more detail out of it. The answer? I have no farking clue (what you are asking me). He seems okay with that answer.

Now Lunchbox (recently also dubbed “Tiny Whiny” thanks to some two year molar teething that has us all miserable) is beginning to try his hand at this English language thing that we all seem to think is so great. He’s just 18 months – I’m so proud. The Major thinks I’m on crack because I keep declaring new words that Lunchbox has said, although when he actually repeats them for The Major to hear they sound nothing like the actual word. I think that Mommy ears hear things more clearly (maybe this is why the shrieking and whining seem to drive me closer to the brink of utter desolation than they do him). Anyway, I know that Lunchbox says “shoes.” (He has some kind of weird fascination with shoes – he’s definitely my kid.) But when he says it, it sounds like “chewssss.” He definitely says “cracker” or some derivation thereof. And I also think he says “thank you,” though it sounds like “an choo.” When Turbo first worked on the politeness words, we used to mimic him to one another, “Shankoo.” “Y’elcome.”

In my mind (and remember, my experience is limited to mothering kids up to the ripe old age of almost four), this is the hardest stage of toddlerhood – that point where your baby realizes that all these noises you’ve been making were not actually just soothing sounds intended to entertain and encourage him. He realizes instead that all along you’ve been actually saying things, and that OTHER people, but not him, can SAY things back. I think this realization, at least in both of my boys, resulted in more than a little frustration.

A friend suggested that baby sign language might be a good way to head off this angst. Lunchbox has so far mastered “more.” The problem here is that he seems to be inherently lazy when it comes to signing. If it’s a two-handed sign, he’ll figure out a way to do it with just one hand. So basically he signs like he talks – half-assed. I’m working hard to get him to either say or sign “giraffe” because he has a deep and indefatigable love for a stuffed giraffe (there are actually three of them, intended as backup in case the first one ever gets lost, but he’s on to our game and now insists on having all three with him most of the time). The sign for giraffe, like the word, has two parts. When Lunchbox tries either, there is one part only. It’s either “raff,” or one hand shooting straight up in the air for an infinitesimal second. Oh well, any progress is good progress, right?

I don’t know why I’m in such a hurry. Soon he’ll be spouting some of the gems that Turbo has recently shared with me. Favorites include:

“Pass the green beans, Turdwaffle.”
“Get out of the way, idiot.”
“I’m going to cut off your head and throw it in the yarden.” (He hasn’t quite distinguished between garden and yard – I rather like that word…)
And my personal favorite (in an alternate universe where I think it’s cool for my three year old to order me around like an egomaniacal dictator on coke): “You get my hot chocolate RIGHT NOW MOMMY. You DO IT. RIGHT. NOW.” This is usually repeated vehemently, though the last part is often muffled because his face is planted in my chest as I carry him up the stairs and deposit him firmly in his room where he can order around whoever he wants to without having to worry about getting smacked by an infuriated mommy monster and then removed by child protective services.

And though I’ve made Turbo sound like a mean little dude, he also frequently says things like, “Mommy, you’re my favorite.” And I suppose that makes me glad that we taught him to talk after all.