sac4kids.com Blog

One year for Mother’s Day when I was young, my mother asked for “more time in the day.”

Huh?  Um…okay, Mom.

So I made her a clock with 24 hours on it, rather than our standard 12. What a cutie I was, even then!

And now I get it.  I TOTALLY get it.  Now it is ME who is wishing for more time in the day.  Or maybe just that I could function on just two or three hours of sleep so I’d have more time to get everything done.  (I also now totally get why she wanted a dustbuster for Christmas one year.  My new love is the Dyson..clean carpets all around!)

The husband, the kids, the friends, the house, the job, the website, the BLOG (that never gets written anymore, so sad…), well, they are all vying for my attention.  All at the same time, mostly.  And boy, is it tiring!

Now, my mom says to enjoy it, to not worry about having a clean house, to play with my kids and just take it all in.  They grow up so fast, she says, and someday they will move out and start different lives away from you and then, she says, you’ll have all the time in the day that you need.

And you’ll miss that crazy, busy life that you used to lead when your kids were young.

But really, could I at least just get a few more hours?  How about one hour?  Half an hour?  Fifteen minutes?

“Mommy, the PRESENTS are here!” 

That’s how I was awakened Christmas morning.

Priceless.

Hope everyone had as much excitement in their day as we did. 

Merry Christmas!

Patrick, my dear sweet boy….who told his dad, “No!  I’m not putting my shinguards away!  I’m NOT doing it!” was placed in his room for a time out today.  Me, unaware of the T.O. or what prompted it, went into his room to put away laundry and found a frowning face staring back at me.

“Mommy, I’m stuck.”  he said.  “Stuck where?” I asked.  “In jail.” he replied.

JAIL? (Patrick’s grandpa funnily calls the T.O “jail”).  This, however, was the first time I’d heard Patrick refer to it in such a way.

“Hmmmmm….you must have made a poor choice, huh?” I said.  “But…but…Daddy…but….”  And instantly, I knew he wasn’t being a good listener.  Some things just shine right on through the “buts”. 

I can only hope and pray that this is the ONLY time that I’ll hear those words:  “Mommy, I’m stuck in jail.”  Because I NEVER want to hear them in another context….God help me through those teenage years!

“Mommy, I just washed my hands.”  Music to my ears. 

Generally it’s a  battle to even get the hands under the water. Why IS it that boys fight cleanliness?

And it’s not just the hands.  Getting my four year old (yes, I can’t believe he’s four either!) into the bathtub on a regular basis is such a chore.  He loves playing in the water once he’s in there, but getting to that point…UGH!

Soap?  Bubbles?  One would think the thought of lathering up your hands in frothy bubbly suds would be enough to lure  even the most timid of children.  Nope. Not mine.  He’d rather live with the crusty dirt under his fingernails. “They’re CLEAN!” He tells me.  And then I have to give the “Invisible Dirt” speech.  I hate the “Invisible Dirt” speech.  Makes me feel old and well….just old.

And the reason for the unprompted washing? 

“Mommy, there was a booger on my finger so I washed it off.”

Yuck.  Boogers.  Yes, my dear readers,  a story for another time.  I can only be thankful that it didn’t end up slathered across the couch.

Ewwwwwwwww……

since I’ve seen that toy….

Life’s a-changed here at the sac4kids camp.  We are now a family of four, and no, nobody is sleeping, thanks for asking. 

Logan arrived at the end of July – and we’re adjusting quite well to the change.  Well, some of us are.  The almost  four year old?  Though he LOVES his brother, it’s toward his parents that he directs his frustration. 

Which brings me to the newest addition to our lives  (aside from our newfound fascination with yogurt covered pretzels)   – the TOY TIME OUT.  After numerous times of almost tripping over the disasterous piles of toys strewn about the house, we’ve implemented a new system.  It goes something like this:

Me:  Patrick, please pick up your toys.

Patrick: No.  I’m not doing it! (read with whiny, scrunched up face)

Me:  You may keep all the toys that you pick up.  Otherwise, they will be put in time out.

Patrick:  I’m not doing it…

Mom:  (picks up toys and puts them on top of the TV cabinet)

A few hours later, Patrick decides that he NEEDS his favorite car of the moment (that’s of course, now perched on top of the TV).  Our rule is that he has to do a chore in order to earn the toys back. 

This time, I had him get a rag, wet it, and wipe down the bathroom counter and sink.  He did it, in the cutest, messiest of ways.  In fact, I think he actually liked cleaning! 

As promised, I removed the toy from its time out and returned it to him. 

Ten minutes later, he left it in the middle of the floor again.

Me: Patrick, are you going to put this car away or am I?

Patrick: I’m not doing it!

And so, the favorite car lives on top of the TV, indefinitely.

Spent twenty minutes turning over rocks and looking for critters this morning.  Everytime we saw a beetle or worm, Patrick said, “I tickle it!”  Which meant poking it with a stick. Gently, of course.  He’s three after all.

Watching Lionel Ritchie on Oprah singing his most popular Eighties love songs:

Patrick: Mom, WHAT is he singing about? 

Me: Love.

Patrick: Oh.

At the dinner table…

“It’s time to eat, Patrick.  Your tummy is hungry.  It’s saying (in silly, squeaky voice) ‘I’m hungry…I want some spaghetti, please!’ “   At which point, he takes his fork full of spaghetti and attempts to feed it to his belly button.

So,a friend of mine just told me that her refrigerator light burned out.  Really?  This really happens?  I thought they lasted forever!  I have NEVER replaced a bulb in the seven years that I have had the fridge.

This news made me giggle.

However, I must admit, having a husband and son who stare at the fridge several times a day (looking to see if anything has changed?) will probably speed up the process of burning out the bulb.

It’s only a matter of time…

So, Patrick is just about potty-trained.  At home, he wears underwear.  Away from home, he wears a pull-up (just in case…)  I would say he’s 95% there.  He’s peed (appropriately) at a friend’s kindergarten classroom, at preschool, and at other people’s houses.  Yippee!!!!

However, there is a new twist on this whole potty training thing that I have found quite comical.  When Patrick has to poop (for lack of a better word…have a bowel movement just sounds too grown up) he has decided that he needs a hug.  Who knew?

“Poop!” he’ll yell.  And Mom comes running.  He sits down, looks me in the face and says, “Need hug!”  which means that I must squat down in front of my beautiful son and hug him tightly as he does his business.

 ”C’mon poop, come out of my butt…” he’ll say in all of his super cuteness.  Meanwhile, I’m about to lose feeling in my toes and/or asphyxiate myself on the smells rising up from the abyss.  You see, when a mother must hug her son as he poops, her face is in prime position for first whiffs.

“Stinky!  PU!” I’ll say.  “Are you finished?”  And nine times out of ten, he responds with, “No, still pooping….need hug!”

So, I make the ultimate sacrifice and…hold my breath.  At least as long as I can without keeling over. 

Ten minutes later, he’s (finally!) done. 

If I’m lucky, he’ll be done for the day. 

My last question to my post-pooping son, “Do you need Daddy to hug you when Mom’s not home?”  He still has yet to answer this one.

This leads me to believe that once again, his father gets yet another get out of jail free card.

So we have one of those small, preschool sized, Little Tikes basketball hoops in our living room. You know, just a few feet tall, strong enough to endure the wrath of an (almost) three year old.  Patrick and his dad play all the time. Me? Not so much.

“Patrick, let’s go have some lunch,” I’ll say. “No, Mom.  I just shooting.  Basket.” is his reply.  He practices dunks, he tries “long” shots.  He uses soccer balls, volleyballs, golf balls, you name it.

I’ve watched my two boys play “against” each other (both in their underwear, I might add). I’ve watched the (almost) 32 year old boy attempt to dribble the ball in and around his legs like a Globe Trotter.  I’ve watched Patrick walk back several feet from the hoop, dribble like he was going to attempt a free throw, then run up to the basket and dunk it as hard as he could.

Funny stuff?  Yes.  But nothing prepared me for the funniest moment in (our) basketball history.  And this time, I was the one who was the cause of the humor!

Patrick decided that it was a good time to play basketball. My husband and I were sitting on the couch together.  They were taking turns making shots into the hoop that was about 4 feet away from us.  Then Patrick said, “Mama’s turn!” and gave me the ball.  So… I was sort of laying down on the couch, and my right arm was tucked under me.   I used my left hand (the non-dominate one) to throw the ball.  And I missed.  Total airball.  My husband said, “Don’t give up!  Try again!”  So I did. And missed again. 

At this point, Patrick begins to sing this silly song from the show Yo Gabba Gabba.  For those not in the know, Yo Gabba Gabba is a show on Nick Jr. – it’s this crazy dj guy who has these dolls that come to life and sing songs about not hitting your friends or that eating too much candy will make you sick. 

So he starts singing this song. ”Keep trying, keep trying, don’t give up…you’ll get it right…you’ll get it right…”  And he gives me the ball back. I threw it toward the hoop…and missed AGAIN! (Now remember: I’m lying down on the couch, using my non-dominate arm, not really a sporty kinda girl…)

Patrick, still singing, then proceeds to push the basketball hoop closer to me so I could make the shot.  Smart boy! My young son already knows that atheticism is not his mother’s strength and that she’ll always need a handicap…

Laughing hysterically, I threw the ball into the hoop to the shouts of, ”Yay!  Good job!” from my two biggest supporters.

Fall is finally here.  Yippee!!!!  Nice weather, crunchy leaves, pumpkins…I love it all! 

Last week Patrick and I went on our first field trip…to The Pumpkin Farm with his preschool class.  I was so excited!  This is just my thing – memory making for Patrick, memories from my own childhood, fun, fun, fun.  It was to be one of those days that give you that warm, fuzzy feeling and makes you just love being a mom.

Though it sure didn’t start out that way…

It was raining when we got there, so that was kind of a drag.  The rain, however, was the least of my worries – Patrick, my beautiful son, who I had been prepping all week for the experience, couldn’t get past the “I want to pick pumpkins – NOW” part of the trip.  He’s been talking about picking a pumpkin for days, “We go pumpkin patch Thursday. Babick pick pumpkin.”  Alas, I had neglected to tell him that we pick pumpkins at the end of the day….argh!

When we arrived, of course the first thing he saw were the piles of pumpkins.  How do you explain to an almost three year old that there are other activities first, that you must WAIT in order to do the very thing that your mother has been promising you for a week?  There were animals to see, the corn  maze to walk, the hayride!  But no. All he wanted to do was pick a pumpkin.

Picture this: me squatting down with my backside dangerously close to the muddy ground, manuevering a purse and umbrella in one hand while I attempt to prevent a whining, limp as a ragdoll boy from literally throwing his body down in the mud.

Me:  Let’s go see the animals Patrick. Look, there are chickens!

Patrick:  No chickens!  Pick pumpkin! 

Me: We will pick pumpkins today.  But we have other activities to do first.  Look!  There are sheep and goats too!

Patrick:  Nooooooo….go home!!!!

And at that moment, in the midst of the writhing and whining, we were called for our hayride.  By this time, the rain had stopped (thank goodness) so at least I had two free hands to lug the ragdoll boy onto the wagon and plop him down on a (very wet) hay bale as he yelled, “No!  Go home Mama…go home!”  Even better?  The driver of the tractor thought our group belonged to another class and had us get off of the wagon, walk to another wagon, where he figured out his mistake, turned us back around and had us get on the original wagon.  Ugh!  All the while I’m carrying a whining, muddy child who doesn’t even want to get on the wagon anyway!

My thoughts right then?  “This, my dear son, is a harvest tradition…we will do it every year…you’d better get used to it…and you WILL do it whether you like it or not!”

And with that, we sat (again, on the wet hay) and our ride began.  It was then, as soon as we started moving,  that the (and you moms know exactly what I’m talking about) magical transformation began. “Mama!  Motorcycle!  Train!  Flowers! I see pumpkins!”  The whining boy became the cutest boy in the universe in 2.2 seconds as we rode the wet, dirty, hay bales down the bumpy road. He relaxed. I relaxed. We even giggled a few times.

After the hayride, we went through the corn maze and climbed a haybale pyramid, smiling the whole way.  Patrick didn’t even complain when I told him that we weren’t going on the slide (waaaaaayyyyy too many wild and crazy kindergarteners were in the line).  We looked at the animals, had a snack, and then, finally – he picked pumpkins. 

I let him pick any two that he wanted…he looked around for a bit, then found just the right ones. One is stemless and bumpy (and a little soft, according to my husband), the other a bit lopsided.  But they are PERFECT sitting on our “in between” wall, dividing the living and dining rooms.

Though we had a rough start, the morning ended just as I had hoped, making memories with my son on a beautiful autumn day.  As we drove home, I asked Patrick what his favorite part of the pumpkin patch was. He said, “My favorite part was….ride on tractor!” 

My favorite part?  That warm and fuzzy feeling….loving being his mom and experiencing childhood all over again through his eyes.