Love In Life

 My Kids Love To...

empty toy containers that have just been filled.

cry over spilled milk.

spend the better part of each day asking me to look up the Spanish translation for every English word they hear.

“help” me with the dishes... and the laundry... and the dusting... and the vacuuming...

sing and dance loudly - especially during naptime.

make something out of nothing (both artistically and figuratively).

smile and laugh and tell jokes – especially during church.

call their dad by his first name even though it drives him bananas.

call Grandma and Grandpa 10 to 15 times every weekend (and occasionally during the week) because Grandma and Grandpa won't admit that it probably drives them bananas.

fight and play together so often and so similarly that sometimes I mistakenly recite to them my well-rehearsed 'stop fighting and behave yourselves' speech for no reason, causing them all to stare at me as though I might be nuts for few seconds before resuming play.

smear mass quantities of food to the four corners of my freshly scrubbed table despite the fork and spoon they were each given for the express purpose of preventing this.

create a bookshelf avalanche every time they pick out a book, then attempt to remedy the situation by carefully replacing only that one book – incorrectly.

track mud and snow and the occasional creepy crawly critter into my as-well-maintained-as-can-be-expected house on a semi-daily basis.

Just a few examples of why a mom like me requires daily reminders that What I Love Most Is... To See Them Having Fun.

Logan made this rose for me out of Cheerios.

It's amazing how one Cheerio Rose can make up for at least twenty Bookshelf Avalanches.

Let The Sun Shine

 So today I'm having some groundhog issues...

Groundhog Issue #1: I just found out they have their own groundhog here - in Wisconsin. His name is Jimmy. This strikes me as an odd name for a groundhog, but I suppose it really isn't any more odd than Phil. At any rate, now I'm wondering if every state has its own groundhog and if so, the weather can't possibly be similar enough in every single state at the same time on the same day for fifty groundhogs to all see the same thing. So which groundhog's prediction is correct? Or will winter last longer in some states than it will in others? And doesn't spring officially start around March 21^st regardless of what some crazy old guys in top hats think a groundhog sees?

Groundhog Issue #2: If the weather is sunny, the groundhog will see his shadow and there will be six more weeks of winter. If the weather is cloudy, he won't see it and then (drum roll please) there will be slightly less than seven more weeks of winter. Why all the fuss over six hypothetical extra days of spring?

Groundhog Issue #3: If we're assuming that sunny weather on February 2nd means six more weeks of winter and cloudy weather means less than six more weeks, then why do we need a groundhog at all?

Groundhog Issue #4: Since groundhog meteorology is pretty high on my list of pseudosciences, I think I'd really prefer a beautiful, sunny day on February 2^nd over a gloomy, cloudy one. I feel comfortable taking my chances with the week of March 21^st if I can have a nice, sunny winter day as a guarantee. Besides, according to the National Climatic Data Center, the overall groundhog weather prediction accuracy rate is only around 39% anyway. That's less than a 50/50 shot. Bring on the sun.

Groundhog Issue #4: Groundhogs don't write poetry.  I'm just saying...

Bananarama

Mo Willems began his career as a writer and illustrator for Sesame Street. Since then he's won widespread acclaim for television and, more recently, literature, possibly the most notable of his many accomplishments being inspiring my children to resume eating bananas.

I'd hardly say that everything Mo Willems pens is the gold standard for literature. For example, I see where he's going with the pigeon books, the kids enjoy them, and even for me, the pigeon has his moments, but overall I could live without seeing him for a day or two... or much, much longer.

Elephant and Piggie, on the other hand, have rapidly endeared themselves to the entire family to the extent that they are discussed on a daily basis, mainly as a result of this well-worded quote:

“I have more to give!

More words! More jokes!
More “bananas!””

My kids used to literally eat bananas by the bunch, but then came the dark times: the Great Banana Boycott of 2010. Suddenly no one would even dare lay eyes upon this dreaded yellow menace and at least once a week banana bread was piled high at the Washa House, occupying valuable counter space that Mom was saving for other undesirable items such as excess lollipops and food processor attachments.

Now thanks to Elephant and Piggie, the kids are once again bananaholics and even little Baby Corinne has learned to request them by name. Well, by “nana” anyway. Whenever Logan or Julianne are in the mood for a tasty yellow treat, this is what I hear: “Mom, guess what snack I want? More words, more jokes, more bananas!” at which point I will inevitably look up to see a child gleefully waving a bunch of bananas overhead. Logan has even begun learning how to peel a banana for himself, although he's a bit perplexed by the whole pulling back the stem until it snaps and then tearing it open from the side business.

Julianne normally allows someone else to handle all of that complex peeling business for her, but one day when I was temporarily unavailable for banana peeling but still in the room, I was privileged to witness her own unique brand of banana peeling: She pulled each individual piece of peel (about 5 in total) cleanly free of the banana before ever taking a bite and as each piece pulled free she said, “Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, Sorry.” Fruit gentility really is an undervalued art, but just for the sake of argument, I asked her why she was apologizing to the banana. Solemnly, she bowed her head and uttered pathetically the words, “I don't know.”

Big brother Logan on the other hand, in one fell swoop proudly whips the entire peel free of the banana, then looks me squarely in the eye and says, “But Mom, I don't want the whole banana.”

Knowing that Baby Corinne will gladly accept the leftovers, I say “That's fine, just eat as much as you want,” to which he angrily screws up his face, stomps his foot, and pouts, “I don't want as much as I want.”

Obviously.

Meanwhile, Julianne has finally completed the unnecessarily arduous task of peeling her banana and proceeds to tear the banana in half. She then gently places the two halves on the table, picks up a piece of peel from her intricately constructed modern banana peel art design, and asks me, “Can I just --- eat the banana?” (She always pauses right in the middle of a question, like she's trying to come up with the right word or something. I can't explain it. There are many things about Julianne that I can't explain.)

I tell her that she can eat the banana, but that what she is currently holding is not the banana, it's the peel. She says, “Okay,” and I foolishly consider the matter resolved and move on to my next task: removing large chunks of smushed banana from the baby's clothing, to be immediately followed by scraping dried bits of slightly older smushed banana from her clothing and face.

Almost immediately, I hear a distressed yell from Logan's side of the table and turn to see Julianne peacefully munching not the banana, but the piece of peel. Returning to what I can only think to refer to as her Banana Station, I point out the actual banana, now decoratively draped in what remains of the pile of banana peels.

Angrily she shoves the banana halves aside yelling, “No! Those are peels. Those are no good!”, then, point made, resumes chomping away at the peel. So the peels are bananas and the bananas are peels. Nothing confusing about that. Technically I'm pretty sure it's safe and maybe even healthy to eat the peels, but for whatever reason, I can't just sit idly by and watch her do it. So I take the path of least resistence and remove the peels. (Technically, I suppose this is more like the path of slightly more resistence than just letting her eat the peels, but less than leaving the peels in front of her and spending half the day arguing about why they're inedible). Without another word, she double fists the banana pieces (the actual bananas, not to be confused with the peels that were previously posing as bananas) and devours every last bite.

Logan also finishes his banana in its entirety. I guess now we know how much he wanted... or didn't want... or something.

By this time, Julianne has wandered off in the direction of the living room, but about 5 minutes later, having “napped” on the couch, she strolls back into the kitchen asking if she can have a banana. I tell her that she could, but for the fact that she and Logan have just eaten the last two bananas. You can imagine that hearing the news that there are no more bananas does not go over especially well. Indignantly she responds, “Yes there are more bananas.” When I ask her where they are, she can't tell me, but there are definitely more bananas somewhere.

Within a few minutes, having finally come to terms with the disappointing banana shortage, she pouts, says, “Logan ate mine!” and storms out of the room.

Logan didn't eat hers. Just for the record.

Book Mania

I have a theory (you'll hear me say this often, usually immediately proceeding something insanely asinine, but no matter) that beyond basic necessary survival instincts, there are a few

other universal character traits that are common to all babies from birth:

1. The ability to love and the desire to be loved.
2. Rhythm. I haven't met a baby yet who didn't love a good tune. Any kind of tune. Babies aren't nearly as discriminatory about music genres as us crotchety older folks are. And babies can rock in rhythm to anything. The faster the music plays, the faster the baby rocks. Sometimes mine rock so hard they tip over, but that helps them learn to crawl – and is entirely irrelevant.
3. Book Mania.

Long preceding the formation of so many of my own largely unfounded and significantly under-researched theories, young Cereal Mom, as a college Psychology major, was made privy to the often questionably founded, significantly over-researched theories of many long-winded Psychologists who came before me. One such theory that crossed my desk during this particular portion of my edification was the theory that heredity may predispose a person to alcoholism. I may have a theory of my own regarding this theory, but fortunately that theory would, of course, be significantly under-researched and completely beside the point - Said point being that, according to Book Mania Theory (oh yes, I used caps; now it's official) universal heredity with regard to the formation of character traits predisposes all children to the development of book mania.

Symptoms of early stage book mania may include, but are not limited to:

• an unceasing desire to eat, flip the pages of, and/or stare intently at the pictures in books, magazines, or other printed materials for hours on end
• requesting repeated readings of a favorite or new or conveniently located piece of reading material from a parent, guardian, or random person who may be unknown to the child but who bears even the vaguest resemblance to someone who is known to be literate
• attributing human characteristics to books; for example, a child may feel the desire to be close to his or her books even while he or she is asleep, watching television, eating, or otherwise engaged (i.e. in the bathroom); he or she may also feel a sense of loss when an unexpected separation from a beloved book occurs such as when a book has been so beloved that it has basically been rebound in some combination of super glue, masking, packing, and scotch tape, until one day it inexplicably disappears leaving a helpless mom with not a clue as to its possible whereabouts.... I said Mom has no idea where it could have gone... She's looked everywhere and yet the book is nowhere to be found... Can we just drop it already?... Oh what's that? No one said anything? Well, nevermind then. Moving on.

The most popular treatment for book mania is parental apathy, but treatment is not recommended and may be detrimental to a child's future well-being.

My children have all had extremely advanced cases of book mania for as long as I can remember. Baby Corinne is still in Stage 1: The book as geometric chew toy, but we expect somewhat rapid advancement within the next 2-3 years. Logan and Julianne give no indication of entering Stage 5: Recognizing relatively poor literature, anytime soon, but they can also tell the gold from the graphite, so to speak. 

Shock and Aww

Personal parenting styles are basically just glorified amalgams of trial and error techniques. With this in mind, I present today's informative blog topic, one of my favorite personal techniques: The Dave Seville. I won't bother explaining who Dave Seville is because those of you who've seen Alvin and the Chipmunks (the cartoon or the movie) already know, and for those of you who don't, there's Google. Now that everyone is (hopefully) caught up, you know how Dave always tries to get Alvin's attention by calling him a couple of times quietly, calmly, just before he completely explodes? That's me. Dave Seville...Washa.

I've always kind of wondered if Dave is even actually angry when he yells at Alvin or if he's just learned that yelling is the only effective way to cut through Alvin's obvious lack of focus and make himself heard. For me, while I do yell at my children about things that would legitimately enrage most parents (i.e. spilling an entire carton of juice all over the table and the floor – more than once in a day, feeding carefully prepared meals to the dog, using the crayon Mom doesn't know is in the car to create modern scribble art all over the back side windows) I'm really almost never legitimately enraged when I raise my voice. I do it more for the shock value than anything.

When you're raising small children, that moment of pure, frozen shock immediately following what the wayward child perceives as an entirely unprovoked parental outburst is priceless... and fleeting. In this moment, you can turn almost any situation to your advantage.

This is a point perhaps best illustrated through example:

Mom enters the kitchen to find the two children that just seconds ago she left sitting at the table quietly sipping from their cups of milk, now doing something different entirely. The oldest child, Logan, is blowing increasingly large bubbles in his milk, smiling happily to himself each time one of his bubble geysers spouts high enough to overflow the sides of the cup, affixing itself to either the table or his shirt. His partner in crime, Julianne, having not yet figured out the exact mechanics of simulated geothermal activity, has settled for attempting to plunge her entire hand into a cup that may be just barely large enough to accommodate it... were it not filled at least halfway to the top with milk. As it is, this process causes surprisingly (and evidently disappointingly) little milk to actually overflow the cup, but it does present the opportunity for a new activity: Using the drips from the milk-covered hand to paint a lovely lactose fresco on the recently polished surface of the table.  Just as Ms. Washa-Pollock is adding the final strokes to her masterpiece, her brother, Old Cupful, pauses to take notice of the fact that a group of feline tourists have appeared to observe the spectacle and lend a paw in clearing the path of liquid destruction.

Mom walks in quietly, unassumingly, and makes a calm and composed request, “We don't play in the milk, we drink it. Please get paper towels and clean up your mess.” Mom then turns her back, commences scrubbing a large pan, and the milk chaos resumes. Calmly placing the finished pan into the dish drainer, Mom turns around, notes that her request has been ignored, and with slightly more force, renews it, “Don't. Play. In. The Milk. Milk is for drinking. Only. If you do not wish to drink your milk, then please put your glasses in the refrigerator and you can have them later.” Mom leaves the room in order to begin scooping up the myriad of toys that have been haphazardly dumped in the doorway and that are now all but barracading everyone in the kitchen. When she turns around to check on her little ones... well I'll leave you to imagine what she sees.

That's that then. Mom storms into the kitchen eyes flashing, finger pointing, loud enough to scare the felines into abandoning a perfectly lovely and unexpected midday meal. “WOULD YOU TWO LOOK AT THIS HORRIBLE MESS!” (It's actually not that bad.) “I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING SO DISGRACEFUL!” (Today alone I've seen messes worse than this one.) “THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I'VE ASKED YOU TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS, AND THAT ISN'T EVEN COUNTING WHEN I ASKED YOU TO PLEASE NOT MAKE A MESS IN THE FIRST PLACE! I'M GOING IN THE LIVING ROOM TO CHANGE THE BABY'S DIAPER AND WHEN I COME BACK I HAD BETTER NOT SEE ANY MORE MILK ANYWHERE!

As Mom makes her dramatic exit from the kitchen, leaving the startled, suddenly motionless, speechless children to begin their frantic scramble for paper towels, she notices the pile of toys still blocking the kitchen door, and pounces on that opportunity like a gatto on leche (cat on milk; the kids love Spanish). Without missing a beat, she fires back over her shoulder, “AND PICK UP THESE TOYS BEFORE SOMEONE FALLS AND CRACKS THEIR HEAD OPEN AGAIN!” (I know exactly what you're thinking. 'Oh my! Again? How many times has this happened? How many times can a person crack his/her head open without incurring permanent brain damage?' The answer: I have no idea because unless you count the time a few months ago when Julianne fell flat on her face and damaged a couple of her front teeth, which I don't, this has never actually happened. Sure gets 'em movin' though, because really who wants to be responsible for an injury like that? Again.)

If you recall having watched the Chipmunks as a child, you'll probably also recall that Dave's total count of meltdowns per episode is never less than one. Dave hollers at Alvin twice in the slightly over two minute long Chipmunk Christmas Song alone, but if you look at the Chipmunk “family” overall, the kids are happy and well-adjusted, and overwhelmingly Dave is kind, patient, and accomodating, yelling only when he needs to for the purpose of retaining order. And once he's accomplished the challenging and ongoing goal of gaining Alvin's attention, he quiets back down and proceeds with the task at hand. The same can be said, I believe, of the situation at our house.

Most of the time, the kids and I maintain a positive, fun relationship occasionally interspersed with a little yelling and time out, but when I have to make negative comments I try to keep them to the situation. For example, “Look at this horrible mess! I have never seen anything so disgraceful!” as opposed to “You two are so bad! You made a mess again because all you can ever do is disappoint me.” The mess is bad, the behavior is bad, but always the children are good. They just need a little reminder of what good looks like every now and then.

Christmas Christmas Time Is Here....

Stolen Kisses

Here's an amusing toddler-dog cycle: (Assuming you're not the toddler or the dog.)

Dog licks toddler's face.
Toddler begins whimpering because dog licked her face and it's "yucky".
Dog sees toddler in distress and attempts to cheer her... by licking her face.
Toddler starts to cry because dog licked her face... again. Toddler yells, "Bad doggie! Go away!"
Dog appears a bit confused, but still wants to help. Dog gives toddler several kisses on the face.
Toddler balls up her fists, shakes a little, and yells, "GO AWAY DOGGIE!"
Dog is very concerned about toddler's increasing distress level. Dog climbs into toddler's lap and begins continuously licking her face.
Toddler howls and attempts to fight off her devoted protector.
Mom steps in, removes dog from toddlers lap, praises dog for his caring (if unwelcome) actions, and offers toddler human hugs.

Toddler accepts.  Signs of distress quickly melt away.
Dog is pleased to see toddler cheerful again. Dog jumps excitedly into toddler's lap and gives her another kiss.

Toddler smiles and says, “Look Mom! Doggie's giving me nice kisses! Toddler hugs dog and says, “Aww, thanks doggie! I love you.”

Thanks Doggie. Mom loves you too.

Dish Mania

You've heard the expression about too many cooks I assume. But have you heard the one about too many dishwashers? If your answer is no then you haven't been to my house lately.

Back Story: My house is well over 100 years old with beautiful ancient woodwork and lots of space (well, if you don't fill the space up with a husband, 3 children, 2 cats, a dog, a beta fish, and the occasional outdoor bug-box-dweller anyway). It's a bit outdated in places which isn't at all bothersome in general, the most notable exception being the kitchen. The two modern conveniences our kitchen most lacks are: 1) a dishwasher and 2) sufficient currency in the spare change jar with which to purchase one. (Also, unless I were willing to knock out some cabinets, to which I am not overly attached though demolition is not really my thing, it also lacks an acceptable installation site.

At any rate, assuming that my Cereal Mom income remains stable (i.e. at the official USD exchange rate of next to nothing or less), then my calculations show that I can expect to achieve my by then much needed kitchen remodel with built-in dishwasher in just under 3.5 million years. Oops, guess the great great great great great times infinity grandchildren will have to foot the bill for this one. Sorry about that kiddos.

Since I am more than a bit of a work widow and thus scarcely ever enjoy the luxury of another adult to help with the dishes, the kids and I have settled into what you could call a comfortable routine:

Step 1: Mom quietly secures 6-month-old baby into handy front pack carrier.

Step 2: Mom gets sponge nice and warm and sudsy. Dishwashing commences. Mom attempts to remove all debris from dishes while simultaneously guarding against a) crushing baby by leaning too hard against the countertop or b) Knocking baby unconscious by swinging heavy plates, pots, and pans within dangerous proximity to baby's tiny, soft skull.

Step 3: Despite the fact that baby is strategically positioned in the carrier facing Mom, some instinct of child-destructiveness informs baby of the precise location of barely reachable objects which she then uses her entire miniscule body weight to swing the carrier in the direction of. This awkward swinging motion causes Mom to unwittingly slop water all over the cabinets, the floor, and the surrounding countertops in a somewhat vain attempt to retain control of the temporarily sterile object.

Step 4: Baby, exhausted from the strain of many fruitless attempts to procure stoneware and cutlery, falls asleep. This is only somewhat of a relief to Mom who is now unfortunately faced with a whole new obstacle: baby has gone limp. (Limp being a highly technical term used to describe the appearance of a baby who has recently completed the process of closing her eyes and instantaneously doubling her weight.)

Step 5: With impeccable timing, baby's 3-year-old brother wanders into the kitchen in search of sustenance after a treacherous living room wrestling match involving multiple varieties of pillows, a two-year-old sister, a plastic dinosaur, and possibly a small dog. Upon noticing that he is being excluded from the dishwashing action, he immediately pulls the nearest chair to the sink, digs around until he uncovers a suitable child-size plastic cup, and commences one or all of the following activities: placing the not-yet-clean cup under the faucet stream directly above the already-clean object that Mom is attempting to rinse, changing the flow of the water so that it will look more like a fountain (which is essentially useless to the dish-rinsing process although endlessly entertaining to a preschooler), continually filling the cup with water and then holding the cup as high in the air as possible allowing the water to spill out of the cup and into an already full waiting bowl, thus causing a tremendous splatter of bacteria-infused sink water all over the counters, backsplash, baby, and floor.

Step 6: Aforementioned 2-year-old sister, having presumably recovered from a brief wrestling-match-induced stupor, wanders aimlessly into the kitchen and is of course magnetically drawn to the sink. Her attempts to wedge a rather sizable kitchen chair into the pea-sized gap between Mom and Brother are repeatedly thwarted by shoves, screams, and newly-awakened-baby kicks to the head. Undaunted, she laboriously heaves the chair into place on Mom's as-yet-unoccupied side and begins leaning over... well let's just say basically laying on the counter, propped up only by Mom's formerly dish-scrubbing, but now essentially immobile shoulder and the thankfully nearly full dish drainer.

Step 7: While baby entertains herself by grabbing fistfuls of now-easily-accessible toddler hair, preschooler continues to douse everyone and everything in the immediate vicinity, toddler steps down from the chair momentarily returning naked due to a drop of water having touched her clothing, and Mom breathes a tentative sigh of relief having noticed a bare spot in between the many remaining dirty dishes where a glimpse of metal sink is finally visible.

Step 8: Preschooler notices naked toddler, suddenly becomes aware that his shirt sleeves have become damp, tosses all unnecessary garments to the floor (for him the term unnecessary refers to all objects of clothing other than underwear), then breaks into hysterical tears upon realizing that Mom has usurped his precious plastic cup under the unlikely pretense of it “just being time to wash it”.

Step 9: Mom turns off the faucet, herds the nudist children in the direction of the table, hastily (and sloppily) reclothes them (still with baby in pouch) and all commence soiling the lunch dishes.

Step 10: Munch and repeat.

Note: I only said you could call it a comfortable routine.

Could You Be A Cereal Mom?

Assuming that the middle class has, in fact, shrunken into oblivion and is therefore for all intents and purposes non-existent there remain two classes of people. You know what they are, so I'll leave the class warfare conversation to trudge onward without me.

If all households in America can be lumped into two income ranges, then it stands to reason that only two classes of moms exist as well. I started thinking of what these classes might be called. Certainly not upper and lower class. That's not creative enough for us crafty mom-types. As a stay-at-home mom, pretty much everything I do from baby care to preschool snacks and crafts and beyond revolves around what I buy at the grocery store. Based upon this information, what follows are my proposed Mom Class Divisions:

Cereal Mom: At our house there have been more weeks than I care to think about where we've lived on little to no meat, boxed 'flake' potatoes, and some frozen corn that my husband's aunt and uncle grew in their garden last year. The main beverages we consume at our house are milk and water and while we're waiting for payday, most often when the milk is gone, the milk is gone. One thing we are never without, however, is cereal. I realize that cereal is not the cheapest item on the supermarket shelves, but just as there are (or were) subdivisions in the middle class (upper, lower, was there one in between? The middle middle class?) so too are there various levels of Cereal Momdom. I personally am what I'd call a Malt-O-Meal Mom. I purchase the ginormous 39 oz. bag (that's well over 2 lbs. for those mathematically challenged moms such as myself). I try to select a reasonably healthy, low calorie variety and then let those kids go to town. They eat cereal for snack, breakfast, and sometimes other meals as well. Does this happen on a regular basis? Of course not, but you know how the old saying goes: A Cereal Mom is always prepared... to feed her family cereal.

Caviar Mom: Obviously to be considered a Caviar Mom one need not buy caviar exclusively or even often or even ever. Just as there are various levels of Cereal Momdom, so too are there many levels of this class status. In my humble opinion, which matters because I'm the only one doing the writing (and most likely the reading) here, the lowest level of Caviar Mom is simply the ability to make a grocery list, go to the store, buy everything that is on that list, come home, and pull up your bank account online without wincing and/or scrambling for the nearest calculator. In other words, if you're familiar with the choice between paying the bills and eating, then you are not a Caviar Mom.

One day... I aspire to become a Special K Mom (that's a couple of rungs above Malt-O-Meal Mom on the cereal hierarchy, just above Generic Store Brand Cereal Mom). I know it's a stretch, but hey, let a mom have her dreams...