If my mom ever reads this one, she'll immediately comment "He gets it from you" or something (exactly) like that. Let's just say that Kai has an insane gift for speaking. He talks non-stop. I mean really ALL THE TIME. Sometimes it is interesting. Yesterday, he was trying to decide if the articulated bus had more horsepower than a semi-truck. He was wondering all this aloud of course, and usually in a just loud enough voice that cannot be tuned out. "Articulated buses are pretty strong. Maybe stronger than a semi!" Then the questions start: how many horsepower does a bus have? What about an articulated bus? What about a diesel fueled bus? Diesel fueled articulated bus? Semi-truck? How many horse power does a diesel fueled semi-truck hauling articulated buses have?
These are all very good questions. The conversation continues for about 45 minutes until I realize that while he is talking I am actually trying to look this stuff up on the internet. I cannot continue with my train of thought at this point because I am interrupted by another stream of questions. Now he's onto construction equipment and bio-fueled cars. This thirst for knowledge is both endearing and annoying. This makes me swear to work on his reading. Maybe then I can tell him to "go look it up." (Remember that one, mom?)
Oh he can read. This little guy can read pretty well- but not enough to find out the answers to life's deepest thoughts. If he wanted to know the names of all the Cars characters, or what happens in the next Bob book he's all set. But no. he wants to know why ships float if the stapler sinks. (Yes, he sank the stapler.)
So I have decided he is "gifted." That way, if my mom is right and he really does get it from me, I can deal with that. It makes me proud in fact. I do wish he would learn to speak a little quieter. Volume control (a.k.a. mute) would be wonderful. Nonetheless, he is adorable. I can't wait until schools starts and this thirst for knowledge gets even stronger. Until then, he'll keep talking away. Probably right through my trying to tell him that buses have anywhere between 143 and 190 horsepower, depending upon the engine specifications and model.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Hazards of a Home Studio
I have been teaching lessons out of my home now for 12 years. Usually, it is just fine. My mother instilled an unnatural level of paranoia when it comes to making sure my house is clean and then add to that people coming by every day, well- let's just say that a home studio helps me stay on top of the dusting. But now- I am done. I am going to find a way if I have to beg, borrow or steal in order to no longer teach in my home.
Most of my students have kids. Okay- all of them have kids. They get it when it comes to the occasional lego or toy left out. I am going to tell myself that they readily forgive the sometimes sticky chair. I can't forget the likely countless lessons I must have taught with spit-up on my shoulder. No one said a word. The baby screaming his head off with the sitter- not a flinch. The reason I am done with the home studio? The cats.
Buster and Hobbes may have single-paw-edly justified my giving up the tax break of having a home studio. Hobbes loves to curl up in the cases. Adorable. He loves to cuddle with the shoes. Charming. He even tries to win over the parents by nuzzling and cuddling with them until they pet him. He's clever and sweet. But he has developed a nasty habit of puking on shoes. I cannot tell you how mortifying it is to have to clean your student's shoes due to one too many whisker lickin's treats. And its not like the plastic flip flops my kids wear. Its the leather dress shoes the mom wore to work. This is going to be expensive. Not to mention gross. Oh and they hardly puke at other times. Just when there are Cole Haan's or suede uppers lying around.
So now I am all worried that my house will get dirty. I may actually need people scheduled here every week to keep my generalized other in check. The rent on outside locations pretty much cancels out any profit. Unless I can hire a government trained tax guy to find candidate style loopholes, I am not sure I can afford teaching elsewhere. For now I suppose I will just pop the cats a pepcid, lock them in the bedroom during lessons and pray they don't puke out their aggressions on the bed. Its a cheap bedspread, so it should be okay.
Most of my students have kids. Okay- all of them have kids. They get it when it comes to the occasional lego or toy left out. I am going to tell myself that they readily forgive the sometimes sticky chair. I can't forget the likely countless lessons I must have taught with spit-up on my shoulder. No one said a word. The baby screaming his head off with the sitter- not a flinch. The reason I am done with the home studio? The cats.
Buster and Hobbes may have single-paw-edly justified my giving up the tax break of having a home studio. Hobbes loves to curl up in the cases. Adorable. He loves to cuddle with the shoes. Charming. He even tries to win over the parents by nuzzling and cuddling with them until they pet him. He's clever and sweet. But he has developed a nasty habit of puking on shoes. I cannot tell you how mortifying it is to have to clean your student's shoes due to one too many whisker lickin's treats. And its not like the plastic flip flops my kids wear. Its the leather dress shoes the mom wore to work. This is going to be expensive. Not to mention gross. Oh and they hardly puke at other times. Just when there are Cole Haan's or suede uppers lying around.
So now I am all worried that my house will get dirty. I may actually need people scheduled here every week to keep my generalized other in check. The rent on outside locations pretty much cancels out any profit. Unless I can hire a government trained tax guy to find candidate style loopholes, I am not sure I can afford teaching elsewhere. For now I suppose I will just pop the cats a pepcid, lock them in the bedroom during lessons and pray they don't puke out their aggressions on the bed. Its a cheap bedspread, so it should be okay.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
I was right. Again.
I am not always right. Usually, yes. Always? No. Except for when it comes to the health of my kid. With that topic, I am always right. I don't know a mother alive who didn't "know" when something wasn't "right." We may not always know exactly "what" is "wrong", but we know when "something" is not "right." Enter Brody. Specifically, Brody and his latest tendency to say 'owwie" and point to his diaper a lot. Upon investigation- he looks fine. Since I am distinctly lacking in the boy bits and pieces department, I have daddy check him out to confirm. Yep- he looks normal. Still, he says "ow" over and over. So, I take him to the doctor. Most likely a urinary tract infection that requires routine antibiotics. Easy enough.
Our regular doctor whom we adore is not available. The B team doctor pronounces that he is fine. Contributes his exclamations of pain as most likely a new habit to get attention. Hmmm. I am puzzled. I did not think 19 month old cherubs would do such a thing to their mommies. Proving the mother wrong usually rears its head in the teen years as a vengeful act that allows parents to feel better about willingly sending the youth off to college. On top of all that, this act of attention getting just cost us $30 in a co-pay. On top of all that, I hate being wrong.
Brody continues to complain about diaper changes and struggles a lot when needing changed. We switch brands of wipes. No help. We switch to water on wash cloths. No good. Just more laundry. I am THIS close to subjecting us all to the dramas of potty training to avoid diapering. Then he starts waking up in the middle of the night and crying "owwie." Mommy alarm. This is not an attention getting ploy. He hurts.
Upon talking to the nurse, we decide he has a bladder or urinary tract infection. He needs a urine test to be sure. I ask how they get a sample from a now 20 month old. The reply is that we come to the office and try to get him to go into a cup. Right. If that fails (it will), then we wait around with him diaperless until he has to go and try our best to catch it. Seriously people? Medical science has advanced to the point of bionic limbs and organ transplants, but there is no better method of collecting a urine sample from a baby? I make the appointment for the late afternoon. Out comes the Ziploc.
Brody naps. Upon waking, the one strategically placed ziploc had done its job and collected just enough pee to suffice for the test. The doctor runs the test despite the sample "looking normal." If I am wrong, I want to be proven wrong by a lab.
Monday I get the call with results. Here's the shocker- he has an infection that requires simple antibiotics. The doctor (our regular adored physician) tells me that 1. not only is he impressed with my ziploc strategery but that 2. babies this age don't usually make this stuff up and 3. moms are usually right. Thank you. I requested he put that in writing for Brody's future reference. Instead, we got the bill for the $30 copay. Small price to pay for being right.
Our regular doctor whom we adore is not available. The B team doctor pronounces that he is fine. Contributes his exclamations of pain as most likely a new habit to get attention. Hmmm. I am puzzled. I did not think 19 month old cherubs would do such a thing to their mommies. Proving the mother wrong usually rears its head in the teen years as a vengeful act that allows parents to feel better about willingly sending the youth off to college. On top of all that, this act of attention getting just cost us $30 in a co-pay. On top of all that, I hate being wrong.
Brody continues to complain about diaper changes and struggles a lot when needing changed. We switch brands of wipes. No help. We switch to water on wash cloths. No good. Just more laundry. I am THIS close to subjecting us all to the dramas of potty training to avoid diapering. Then he starts waking up in the middle of the night and crying "owwie." Mommy alarm. This is not an attention getting ploy. He hurts.
Upon talking to the nurse, we decide he has a bladder or urinary tract infection. He needs a urine test to be sure. I ask how they get a sample from a now 20 month old. The reply is that we come to the office and try to get him to go into a cup. Right. If that fails (it will), then we wait around with him diaperless until he has to go and try our best to catch it. Seriously people? Medical science has advanced to the point of bionic limbs and organ transplants, but there is no better method of collecting a urine sample from a baby? I make the appointment for the late afternoon. Out comes the Ziploc.
Brody naps. Upon waking, the one strategically placed ziploc had done its job and collected just enough pee to suffice for the test. The doctor runs the test despite the sample "looking normal." If I am wrong, I want to be proven wrong by a lab.
Monday I get the call with results. Here's the shocker- he has an infection that requires simple antibiotics. The doctor (our regular adored physician) tells me that 1. not only is he impressed with my ziploc strategery but that 2. babies this age don't usually make this stuff up and 3. moms are usually right. Thank you. I requested he put that in writing for Brody's future reference. Instead, we got the bill for the $30 copay. Small price to pay for being right.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Today was a typical day for us. Dawn cracked loudly when I woke to the sound of my youngest singing "Mama, Mama,Mama" with the self accompaniment of him smacking his head against the crib. By singing I mean screaming. Happy, shrill high pitched toddler screams-but screams none-the-less. The head smacking baffles me. Why does he do that? It has to hurt. I go in and swoop him up showering him with kisses and good mornings while simultaneously mommy-checking for injury. He's good. He screams "No, no no!" Wants down. I put him down. "No, no, no!" Wants up. I pick him up. "No, no, no! NO!" Really wants down. I really put him down. "No, no, no!" Wants up. I pick him up. Now that we have that delimma figured out, we're on to coffee.
The baby "helps" make the coffee by standing on my feet and smacking his head into the back of my legs. Yes, we've had the head banging checked out and he is perfectly normal. Which means there are lots of other toddlers smacking their heads into things, too. I tried it once to see if it helped my frustration. Not really. People just looked at me more strangely than usual. It did help me forget about what was so frustrating, so maybe there is something to it after all. Anyway, he's fine. A healthy, happy boy who likes to bang his head on things. Back to the coffee. I pour a cup for me and we get breakfast ready. I am informed the coffee is "hot!" and I should "no touch." Good advice for a toddler, bad for a mommy. Every attempted sip is greeted with the reminders. I try distracting him with fruit. Usually works. I swear he's part fruit fly. It works. I can drink my coffee while he enjoys a banana. Kind of. The banana dissection was very thorough. I am told texture is important at this age. The squishing, smearing and crushing of the fruit was extremely fun until he realized it was on his hands. "Hand, hand hand!!" is joined by the necessary two inch distance of his hand to my eyes in order to be sure I see that there is banana on his hands and he wants it OFF. NOW.
Phase two. Caffienated (juice for the tot), fed and cleaned up we go to play. I adore playing. If I could, I would sit and play all day with the boys. No cleaning, no laundry, no work. I try to play as much as I can and when the obnoxious world creeps in telling me to get back to work, I only comply if I have to. And then very begrudgingly. Today- no work. The best kind of day. We are joined awhile later when my 5 year old wakes up and joins the fun. Morning hugs and kisses interrupt an intense Thomas the Tank Engine run, but no one minds. Especially not me.
Phase three. So I have two boys. Two very active, very physical, very smart boys. They also have very large heads. Most likely they will be newscasters with heads that size, but only if they survive the challenges of gravitational pull on those heads. The emergency room nurses are extremely nice, but I hate visiting them with head wounds. I would much rather see them without an injured child. They seem like such nice people. Alas, today is an ER visit day as the toddler tries to cheat the system of universal physics. So you know, he's fine. But he has learned recently to climb up on the couch and try to jump off. Not sure which 5 year old taught him that one, but I am guessing its the one he's related to. Problem is, the 5 year old can jump, and the toddler can't. So the jump becomes a face plant and today an ER trip. I swear I watched the whole thing in slow motion, too. I AM RIGHT THERE. He miraculously slides through the safety zone of my arm's reach and conk. Maybe I am too scared of head wounds. Every day he bangs it on something on purpose- but I saw it, heard it and felt it. Off we go. Clean bill of health and a four hour nap later, he's trying to jump off our friends couch. I am pretty sure he's testing me.
We survived another day. No small task, but we did it.
The baby "helps" make the coffee by standing on my feet and smacking his head into the back of my legs. Yes, we've had the head banging checked out and he is perfectly normal. Which means there are lots of other toddlers smacking their heads into things, too. I tried it once to see if it helped my frustration. Not really. People just looked at me more strangely than usual. It did help me forget about what was so frustrating, so maybe there is something to it after all. Anyway, he's fine. A healthy, happy boy who likes to bang his head on things. Back to the coffee. I pour a cup for me and we get breakfast ready. I am informed the coffee is "hot!" and I should "no touch." Good advice for a toddler, bad for a mommy. Every attempted sip is greeted with the reminders. I try distracting him with fruit. Usually works. I swear he's part fruit fly. It works. I can drink my coffee while he enjoys a banana. Kind of. The banana dissection was very thorough. I am told texture is important at this age. The squishing, smearing and crushing of the fruit was extremely fun until he realized it was on his hands. "Hand, hand hand!!" is joined by the necessary two inch distance of his hand to my eyes in order to be sure I see that there is banana on his hands and he wants it OFF. NOW.
Phase two. Caffienated (juice for the tot), fed and cleaned up we go to play. I adore playing. If I could, I would sit and play all day with the boys. No cleaning, no laundry, no work. I try to play as much as I can and when the obnoxious world creeps in telling me to get back to work, I only comply if I have to. And then very begrudgingly. Today- no work. The best kind of day. We are joined awhile later when my 5 year old wakes up and joins the fun. Morning hugs and kisses interrupt an intense Thomas the Tank Engine run, but no one minds. Especially not me.
Phase three. So I have two boys. Two very active, very physical, very smart boys. They also have very large heads. Most likely they will be newscasters with heads that size, but only if they survive the challenges of gravitational pull on those heads. The emergency room nurses are extremely nice, but I hate visiting them with head wounds. I would much rather see them without an injured child. They seem like such nice people. Alas, today is an ER visit day as the toddler tries to cheat the system of universal physics. So you know, he's fine. But he has learned recently to climb up on the couch and try to jump off. Not sure which 5 year old taught him that one, but I am guessing its the one he's related to. Problem is, the 5 year old can jump, and the toddler can't. So the jump becomes a face plant and today an ER trip. I swear I watched the whole thing in slow motion, too. I AM RIGHT THERE. He miraculously slides through the safety zone of my arm's reach and conk. Maybe I am too scared of head wounds. Every day he bangs it on something on purpose- but I saw it, heard it and felt it. Off we go. Clean bill of health and a four hour nap later, he's trying to jump off our friends couch. I am pretty sure he's testing me.
We survived another day. No small task, but we did it.
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