A November Day

I walk home from the corner on this cool morning.  Brown leaves spin and twirl and float to the ground where they crunch delightfully under my feet.  Two of the kids are on the bus, on their way to school.  Ella is still in bed, and Henry has just run outside, in his jammies, yelling to me that he finished his homework and now he’s going to play his ds.  Alrighty then. 

It is unmistakably November here in Virginia.  The gray trees painted with lichen are nearly bare now, but for those few brown leaves yet to make their breaks on the wind.  The air is cool.  The clouds are gray and low and cover our little town in a cozy fluff.  Shades of gray.  I love November.

I spend the morning cooking spaghetti sauce and meatballs.  Ella dips her egg in ketchup (ew).  She watches Monsters inc.  She loves Mike.  I know most of the lines in that movie.  She thinks it’s funny when I imitate Roz (I’m watching you Wazowski…).  I have to agree.

After breakfast, we play Caribou and go fish.  We get dressed.  We brush teeth.  I clean up the kitchen.  Contentedness fills me up.  

After lunch, Henry is off to school and Ella and I return to play.  We do puzzles and sing abc’s.  She is tired. 

So the naptime routine begins.  Close the shutters, turn on the fan, and the nightlight.  Read two books.  Olivia is her favorite these days.  She calls her “ia.”  We rock for a few minutes, and she — true to form — fights any type of snuggle I try to provide.  I sigh, and tuck her in bed. 

She delays.  She names all of her dogs.  All of her cats.  All of her babies.  The lamb.  And the bear.  I must repeat the names after her or the fussing ensues.  I realize I am enabling the behavior to continue, thank you.  I covertly remove a few of the aforementioned beings from the bed, kiss night-night, and slip out. 

This is the time of the day that is (supposed to be) my own.  A brief 90 minutes of whatever-I-want.  That usually tends to be laundry or cleaning or something of that nature, but I can do it uninterrupted and in the quiet.  Today, I planned to sit and pay the bills with a hot cup of tea and a soft, fluffy blanket.  I wanted to look out the window and into the deep of those lichen-covered trees.  You can see the landscape clearly now that the leaves have fallen…the hills and the ravines and the fallen trees.  I wanted, today, to enjoy this beautiful gray. 

Ella, unfortunately, is not having any of the nap.  The third time I go in there, I finally understand. Her nose is running.  She is a prickly mess. 

And so I scoop her up.  She says “miss you, Mommy.”  She sweeps the hair from her face, and this time she relaxes in my arms.  She drifts off to sleep so quickly that I want it to slow down.  I hold her, and I watch her sleep.  I watch her eyelids flutter, and I hear her little snuffly breaths puff in and out.  

And I love her so deeply that I can hardly stand it.

Naptime.

“Night-night Ella.”

“Green.”

“Here’s your green blanket.  Time to sleep.”

“White.”

“Here’s the white blanket.  Stay in bed now, Ella.”

“Big.”

“Here’s the big blanket.  Night night.”

She rolls over, nose to nose with jellycat.  I steal one last little glimpse of her and I close the door.

And then, mere seconds after I leave her room, door closed, shutters closed, fan humming a soft, soothing hum meant to lull two year olds to sleep, I hear her on the floor.  She thumps around, playfully kicks the door and the wall in her little melodic way.  And then she drops off to sleep.  On the floor.  She sleeps on the floor, people.  Every nap.  Every night.

I don’t know.  Please enlighten me as to the why.

I used to think it was kind of sad and pathetic.  I imagined her lying there next to the door, staring out underneath the crack, just hoping for a glimpse of the parents she adores, the same ones that have caged her in her room for the night or the nap.  The Man thinks I am nuts for torturing myself that way.  Probably so. 

Every.single.night I go in there to check on her and there she is, sound asleep and curled up with jellycat, on the floor, behind the door.  I tuck her back in bed.  Under her white blanket.  And her green blanket.  And her big blanket. And then every morning she wakes up with a cheek full of carpet marks. 

It is amusing.  And cute, and quirky.  (And possibly slightly sad.)

However.

Every now and then, just for fun, she gets under the bed. 

You must tell me how to get her to stop getting under the bed. 

Because seriously, there is like 6 inches of clearance under there.  And she drags her lamb and her jellycat and her white bear under there with her.  And then she falls asleep.  Under there.  And then she wakes up.  Under there.  And then she screams.  And tries to army crawl outta there.  And her shirt gets stuck on a spring.  And that spring tears a big fat hole in her shirt.  Oh, and did I mention it is a new shirt?  Because of course it would be a new shirt.  Yeah. 

And also, the naps don’t last very long when they’re under the bed, as opposed to actually being in it.

And that, my friends, is a problem.

Monday

Well, it was a weekend full of yuck.  I felt miserable.  Luckily The Man came home early on Friday to help me make his birthday dinner.  I started on the dessert and realized that there was no way it was going to be ready to eat with our supper–it had to chill for 4 hours after cooling to room temp (which took three hours).  So we had brownie sundaes instead, and told ourselves we would eat the pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnap crust for breakfast on Saturday.  Which we did.

Then Ella threw up because I gave her a bite of shrimp and I forgot that I think she’s allergic to shrimp because she always throws up when she eats it.  Brilliant deduction, right?  So we were both up half the night with vomit and vomity laundry. 

Saturday morning the weather was gorgeous.  I went to Henry’s t-ball game (picture to follow), and felt gross.  It actually took my mind off of being sick for an hour though, watching Henry instruct each of his teammates to throw the ball to him if they got it, so that he could get an out.  He’s nothing if not confident.  Good for him.

I came home, ate some lunch and put Ella down for a nap.  Then I watched the Hokies online because the game wasn’t televised.  They won.  It wasn’t the best performance.  But they won. 

Then I took Kate to a party where they did her hair all cute and funky with twists and braids and sparkles.  And there was some blue eyeshadow involved.  A little thick, imho, but it was cute for a little girl playing dress-up.  I was exhausted.  While the party was going on, I did a little shopping.  And I coughed a lot.

Sunday morning I felt gross.  Or gross-er if that is possible.  I did some laundry, made a grocery list, hung a fall wreath and took a nap.  (It wasn’t really a nap.  It was more like rest.  And it wasn’t even very rest-y.  Because I couldn’t breathe.)

Then I went grocery shopping.  That was un-fun.  I have to do it, though, because I’m a freak about the food we buy, and I get annoyed when The Man shops because he gets the wrong stuff.  I make life so easy for myself, don’t I?

Then I came home and did more laundry and read books with Ella while The Man made supper.  We ate, showered the kids, read more books and tucked them in bed. 

I searched for about an hour on this computer for a folder of pictures that is apparently gone.  (Did I mention that I have a new computer?  Yeah.  I have a new computer.  The other one croaked.)  I read blogs and went to sleep.  

Today, I woke up with a headache.  I’m tired.  I don’t feel well.  And I have a full week of stuff to do, not the least of which is restoring a bunch of accounting programs.  Which I have been putting off because I dread it.

Before school, William argued with me about wearing a coat.  It is 52 degrees.  I said wear a sweatshirt or a light jacket.  He couldn’t find his sweatshirt.  So he had to wear a jacket.  (I guess that is another instance of how I ruin all the fun around here for him).  This was like a repeat performance of Friday morning.  Only this time I kept it together and hugged him and told him I loved him and completely ignored his anger.

Then I got home from the bus stop, and the first thing I notice is Kate’s homework folder that she was supposed to bring to school.  And I think very briefly about bringing it up to the school for her.  But then I decide that she has to take responsibility for her work.  And it makes me almost cry because she is typically so responsible.  And I think she left it out for me to sign so it’s half my fault.  But she should have completed it before this morning, 5 minutes before we’re supposed to leave. 

Now I’m sitting here, and the reality of it being laundry day creeps in and I know I have a lot of laundry to do.  The washing, the drying, the folding.  The piles of laundry everywhere.  I am swimming in the every-day mundane tasks of motherhood.  Normally, I feel joy in the mundane.  But today, it just feels overwhelming. 

Ella is beside me.  I watch her squeeze her bagel and make a complete mess of the cream cheese and think she is just the most precious thing in the entire world.  And my.heart.leaps.  Wow.  I am lucky to be her mother. 

And then Henry asks me if I want to see his muscles.  How glad I am that I am a mother of boys. 

That was what I needed.  A God-sighting.  Right there.

What Part of “It’s time to sleep” Don’t You Understand?

Just in case I ever forget what bedtime is like with a two-year-old, I compiled this lovely list of things Ella likes to do (in lieu of sleeping) at bedtime.   

Talk to Yow, the cat formerly known as Jellycat.

Rifle through her drawers for her Hokie shirt.

Get naked.

Try to get the Hokie shirt on.  Which she cannot do without getting an arm stuck in some wierd position.  Which leads to panic and shrieking. 

Poop.  (Could she not take care of this personal stuff 10 minutes before I leave the room?)

Take the cushions off the rocker and ottoman.

Lay on the floor and peek underneath the door.

Bang on the door.

Open the shutters.

Close the shutters.

Open the shutters.

Slam the shutters closed three times real fast.

Dismember her Madame Alexander dolls.  This is mildly disturbing.

Pull 50 baby wipes out of the brand new package. 

Tear each and every book she owns to shreds.  She is stealthy.  You can’t hear a thing until it’s too late.

Anything other than sleep.

Actually, it rather amuses me, these things she does.  Except for the book ripping.  Totally not amused by that.  At all. 

Oh Ella.  I’m going to miss you when you’re big.  Truly.

Bedtime

We set up the toddler bed this weekend.  I’m not sure how I feel about that.  The Man kind of took the ball and ran with the idea, and I pretty much stood there, like in one of those dreams where you’re trying to run, but your legs won’t move.  Knowing it is the right thing, but knowing what it means…the baby is gone.  The last baby is gone. 

(Of course the last time I thought that, I gave all the baby stuff away and promptly became pregnant.) 

But really this time, the last baby is gone.  Really.

So we have a toddler bed now.  And bedtime with Ella?  It’s always interesting. 

We read books together.

We snuggle.

We sing.

We kiss.  And kiss.  And kiss.

And then I say good night, and close the door.

After a couple minutes, the door handle rattles…she tries to open her door.  It’s late.  I’m exhausted.

So now, admittedly a teensy bit annoyed at her blatant disregard for the stay-in-your-bed rule, I open her door intent on plopping her right back in bed. 

I see her dolls–all of them nude and lined up on the chair. 

Her socks lay in a crumpled mess on the floor.  As does her diaper.  And her jammies. 

And then I see her, behind the door.  Completely naked. 

“Ello” she says, and then she bursts through the door and streaks down the hall, laughing and screeching and smacking her buns. 

Our laughter does nothing to discourage her, I’m sure.

I pick her up, and scold her gently for getting out of her bed.  I put on her ladybug jammies and the Hokie jersey that she simply insists on wearing to bed tonight (I can’t say I blame her–did you see that come-from-behind win against Nebraska?).  And some striped socks.  She’s two.  She has some very definite opinions on fashion.  And they’re questionable, imho.  But whatever, it looks cute on two. 

She settles into my shoulder, and we stand there, rocking back and forth.  Moments like these are fleeting, I know.

“It’s time to sleep now, Ella”  I tell her.

“Oh” she says. 

“No more getting out of bed.”

“Oh.”

“Ella, you’re my baby.” 

“Oh.”

“You’ll always be my baby.”

“Oh.”

“I love you, Ella.”

“Oh.”

 Good night baby girl.

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I’m So Very Sorry

I just want to take this moment to apologize to the two young ladies who will eventually marry my boys.  Because hunnies, they are never ever ever ever ever ever ever going to master the fine art of putting the lid down.  Nor will they flush consistently.  Nor will they admit it when they’re the one who didn’t flush. 

Seriously, I will walk into the bathroom and the lid will be up and the water will be, um, not colorless, and no one will admit to being the one that did it.  Either that or they’ll blame each other. 

Did I mention the time I caught them “yellowing the water” together?  This was quite some time ago.  I 86′d that behavior.  But that’s normal behavior, right?  I mean for boys, that’s normal, right?  Anyone?   

Oh, and Ella drew a picture of poo, isn’t that nice?  I don’t know where she came up with that idea.  Truly.  Not one of the other children has ever drawn poo.  At least not that I can remember anyway. 

I swear we are civilized.  I swear it.  I have the pretty smelling soaps and fresh towels and I make them wash their hands.  I even put product in their hair.  And I made snickerdoodles today.  Snickerdoodles are civilized, right?

Cute as a Button

I love you baby girl.  Even though you give me the dark circles.  And you pierce my eardrums with your screeching.  Still, I really, really love you.

For more, go here.

Five Drips

There were five drips…possibly six.  In the little potty. 

I should mention that I did not make the drips. 

It was #4.  I am so proud.  We’re not even potty training. 

But when you see a two year old, standing by the potty, saying “psssss” (yes she did say it) you put her on it.  And she makes drips.

And then you make such a big deal about those five drips.  And then she is proud.

And then you make gingerbread cookies.  Because your love for your baby girl (and gingerbread cookies) knows no season. 

(And sometimes you might find a ball of frozen dough in the freezer that has been there since Christmas.)

Then you smoosh a scoop of black cherry ice cream between two gingerbread cookies.  Black cherry and Ginger?  Um, oh my word yes.

And then you celebrate the tinkle.

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Sunshine, Sandcastles, Ice Cream, Laughter

It was a ten hour drive to the beach.   A Ten.Hour.Drive. 

That was sucky. 

And as we entered the Outer Banks, mother nature blessed us with a downpour.  Wind.  Torrential rains.  

So to recap:  trapped in car for ten hours;  rain. 

Then we arrived at the house.  We let the kids run around for an hour and then tucked them snuggly in their beds.  Luckily, we brought the pack-n-play for Ella, because the crib that was supplied was not assembled.  Isn’t that useful?  So I layed Ella in the pack-n-play, and closed the door.  Fifteen seconds later I could hear her screaming at the door.  Because she just climbed right on out of that pack-n-play.  The pack-n-play was also, clearly, very useful.   

So she slept in the bed with me that night.  And to be honest, I’m rather thankful for that crib being disassembled that night.  Sleeping with that little redheaded cherub by my side was not really restful.  But lying there watching her sleep and feeling her curled up next to me was nothing short of wonderful.   

I awoke to the sound of that little girl, two inches from my face, saying “Mommy.  Hi.”  She makes my heart come all undone…      

Then The Man put the crib together. 

And it rained some more.  And was cloudy.

But on the third day, the clouds parted and the sun fell on our faces and warmed the sand.  We did very little but play all day.  And eat ice cream.  All week. 

(Look at his round belly…he’s just all sorts of cute…)

This week was sun-bleached hair, freckles, pink shoulders and pink cheeks. 

And sandy little feet.     

And building sandcastles. (Which William takes very.very.seriously.  Don’t mess with his castles). 

We collected shells.  We chased sandpipers.

 

We played in the surf.

 

We laughed. 

(There may have been a couple tiny little tantrums.  Or something.  But whatever.)

Four little children, drawn to the swirls of foamy surf.  Squealing with delight and fear and anticipation of the sea, crashing on their little feet.    

This past week at the shore reminded me what childhood should consist of…sunshine, sandcastles, ice cream, laughter.  

It was lovely.

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Sticky Vanilla Mess

She sits, grass tickling her feet…red curls tickling her cheeks…chubby hands clutching a melting treasure.

Ice cream dripping,

dripping,

d

r

i

p

p

i

n

g

right down to her elbow.

Sticky, vanilla cheeks.  

Sticky, vanilla nose.

Sticky, vanilla chin.  And hair.  And fingers.  And toes. 

A beautiful, sticky, vanilla mess.