Fright Night

It is October 21 and, as far as I am concerned, the scariest part of Halloween is over.  We have carved pumpkins and survived.  No small feat.  Enter Brody.  If you've read these blogs, you know most of these stories are about Kai.  Kai does enter this story, but this one is mostly Brody.

Brody has been slightly obsessed with the pumpkins since we bought them.  He stares at them, says "Hi punkin!" to them, waves at them, tells every stuffed animal we own that we have "punkins" and if we are outside for even an instant - he sits on them.  Usually, I can intercept the pumpkin riding before it happens, but the if there is a second trip to the car for the groceries, I am certain to find him sitting on the big one and using the stem as a handle.  Or licking them.  Ever since I made pumpkin bread he really wants to eat them.  Today we went to Sam's Club which means at least three trips to the car and so I just decided to carve them and get this holiday underway.

Brody was ecstatic.  He was literally screaming with anticipation as we cut open the pumpkins.  Not sure what he expected, but seeds and goo may as well have been gold.  He helped scoop and dig out the goo and loved every minute of it.   Remember how I said he really wanted to eat them?  I have no idea what raw pumpkin will do to a diaper change, but tomorrow I am sure we will find out.  Actually, I am going to be in class tomorrow, so I will ask Ryoji when I get home.  Hahahaha.  I didn't even plan that one....

I TRIED to stop him from eating it and telling him it had to be cooked etc., but it was no use.  That kid chomped away. Since we were also dealing with knives, I had to prioritize my concerns.

I was slightly shocked at how comfortable Kai was with the knives.  He was quite dexterous.  I will file that fact away and choose to ignore it before it creeps me out even more.  Kai did not want any help and did his whole pumpkin by himself!   Major accomplishment for a kid who prefers to let other people do any form of work.  Brody really wanted to help, but I have parenting standards.  No going solo on knives until they are at least 5.  He did not concur, but once he agreed on a silly faced Jack, he helped a little by pushing out the pieces I cut. And then trying to eat them.

It took us till after dark to finish the silly things, so both boys got to see the pumpkin lighting.  Those battery powered candles are quite realistic!  Brody was so happy.  Kai was beaming with pride.  I was exhausted.  There was goo everywhere.  Stupid Martha Stewart's idea about using a shallow cardboard box lid to contain the mess is genius on Pinterest.  It only works if you don't trip over the cat trying to take the box to the recycle bin.

It was a fun evening.  I have pumpkin carving memories from my childhood and hope the boys will as well.  Letting Kai carve whatever he wanted turned out to be a great idea, too.  I guess I expected a face. Silly me.  It IS Kai.  Oh and the pumpkins?  Brody's is the silly smiling one.  Kai's?

It's a masked ninja.  With his eyes closed.

Hidden Abilities....

One of these days these blog posts will center around Brody.  For now, he's adorable and really can do no wrong, which is very boring.  Sorry.  I give it a few more months and he'll be holding his own in the blogosphere.  Until then, enter Kai.
Kai and school do not seem to mix.  Not sure why I am surprised.  School has an agenda that did not consult him, school has a defined timetable of events that occurs during the day, and most importantly, school has rules.  School also has tuition.  Which means school had better enforce said rules, or Mommy and Daddy will go nuts.  Back to my shock and awe of  the stresses of Kindergarten.
I was under the impression that Kindergarten was going to be a happy-go-lucky time where learning is fun and effortless.  His teachers assure me that he has fun while there.  Problem is that fun may be all he has.  He will not write.  Will. Not.  Last week the printing teacher told me to leave it to her and she'll manage to get him to do it.  Today she told me she is frustrated.  I kept calm and said I would speak to Kai about obeying.  Inside I am laughing. Lady- you've only had him 7 weeks.  Let me talk to you about frustration in 5 more years.
You've got to get his number.  You know, hit him where it hurts.  They can't threaten him (legally), but I can.

Me: "Kai.  I am going to tell you something."
Kai: "Is it about toys?"
Me: "Kind of."
Kai: :What?"
Me: "You are not allowed to tell your teachers 'no'.  You must learn to print and that is final.  No tv, computer or discussion of new toys until you are printing at school."
Kai: Stunned silence. Banshee screams of terror.  Head hits the table in a full out attempt to throw a tantrum. Apparantly this hurts.  He stops crying and asks "How long?"
Me: "Until you do it, and your teacher tells me you are good at it."

Now this may sound harsh.  It kind of is.  But I cannot bear the idea of him telling teachers "No."  The teacher told me he was polite and said "No, thank you" but etiquette does not enter the picture here. Kai tells me writing is the hardest thing and he hates it.  I explain that it is because he never does it and blah blah blah......then somehow or another the words slip out of my mouth "You cannot color well, so writing would be very hard."
Kai: "I can too color."
Me: "You never color and tell me it is no fun.  All your color pages are scribbles.  We could practice coloring to help your writing you know..."
Kai: "Okay."
I am a bit shocked, but get him some paper and crayons.  I tell him to draw some shapes.  He does.  Squares, triangles, circles- they are pretty good.  I explain that writing is all about crayon control and we try to shade in the shapes, staying inside the lines.  Enter the scribbles.  You know, the kind where the crayon tip is flattened out from pressing so hard.  We try a little bit of light shading.  Progress.  I told him to draw something- anything he wants. He then proceeds to draw this incredible picture of our house.  The house, the roof, the windows, the steps, flowers, oak tree, driveway- even the fence and the cats.  Acorn on the lawn.  Flippin acorns.  On the lawn.  I am stunned.  He has NEVER drawn a recognizable object in his life.  EVER.  Leave it to Kai to pull this talent out of thin air.
He decides we should write a story about the cats to go along with the picture.  I will "scribe" and he will illustrate.  Deal.  The story is of course about our very unusal cats who possess special abilities like combine harvester driving, tap dancing and in this case: crystal mining. So far, the story is about a page long, and needs two more pictures.  He tells me he can't wait to get up in the morning to draw them.  The cats are assembling a model snake train for crystal mining, and the "readers need a snake train picture to give them the full effect."  Of course they do.

Hush, Little Baby.....

I have no idea why Daddy cannot get them to bed.  Really.  It isn't that hard.  8:00- begin sleep sequence of PJs, brushing teeth, inevitable "I'm starving" snack, brush teeth again, tuck in, read book, re-tuck because they won't stay in bed, get glass of water for the parched mouths of babes and repeat reading sequence.  I mean, really- it is predictable as the sunrise and happens the same way every time.  So WHY upon WHY am I the only one who can knock 'em out?
I rarely entertain the insistence of "I'm not tired" or "But, I can't sleep" that is so often a chorus for Daddy.  Sometimes I hear Daddy trying his best to get them to bed and getting sucked into the whirlpool of "more water," a "different" book, "another" song- whatever.  Half the time (okay- more like 75%) Daddy falls asleep on the bed before they do.  Although humorous, it leaves me with a snoring husband and two wide awake shorties.  Me?  Okay, I have been known to rock my self to sleep with the baby, but at least he's asleep too.  And Kai- well, he hasn't slept since birth so that is becoming the new norm.  God help us- we try with that boy.  Brody needs a cuddle, a bear, his blankey, some water and a song in the rocking chair and he's out like a light.  8:29 p.m. sharp.  Then there's Kai.  Exhibit A:
Kai: "I can't sleep."
Me: "Lay very still and imagine you are floating."
Kai: Incessent laughter.  "This is fun!!!"
Me: Sigh.
Kai: "I can't sleep.""
Me: "Count sheep."
Kai: "Why?"
Me: Sigh.  Good question.  He's got a point. Why is it sheep?
Kai: "I can't sleep."
Me: Sigh.

This is our routine.  SO we started having him count whatever he wants.  No limit on the species here, we are equal opportunity types so he can go for it.  Once he got to 841 stag beetles.  I swear it is true.  It is highly possible he got further.  841 is the last number I remember. I woke up several hours later and he was asleep in our room.  Sigh.  Again.
Well, tonight he tells me he's had a nightmare because a shark came along and ate one of his counting bugs.  Poor critter.  We say a prayer and move on.
Finally- and I mean finally- Kai and Brody are alseep.  Somehow Kai resolved the nightmare of sharks and beetles and Brody got the rocking and song he needed.  The light, steady breathing of the two beautiful faces I adore is calming and pure.  I give them a good night kiss and thank God or their place in my life.  Daddy is near asleep himself and worn out from a long day of Daddy-ing. I'm worn out too, but for some reason it is okay.  I love these boys and their funny ways.  I also know I will see them in an hour or two when they wander into our room...Until then, sweet dreams to the men in my life.  I am having a glass (or two) of wine.

He's Gifted.

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.

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.

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.  

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.