They're Not Called "Greenies"

Me: "Did you take the brownies out of the oven?"
Cara: "Yes. I tested them and they came out fine."
Connor: "I hope they're sneeze-free!"

Mother's Day 2013

When Craig and I were at the hospital during Connor's birth, Cara and her grandmother planted petunias along side our garage.  When we came home, our path up to the house was lined with flowers.  For months, the petunias thrived, continuing to bloom until the snow stamped them out (and even then, they hung on until the snow was serious about sticking around).  Seeing the flowers each time we arrived home was such a sweet reminder of that day, that I wanted to continue that in the following years.  Mother's Day seemed to be the perfect opportunity to do so.

I should note that I am NOT one of those people that find the act of planting particularly relaxing.  I garden for the same reason I vacuum: It's a chore that needs to be done. The first Mother's Day we did this, Cara and I spent hours in the yard, cleaning out the flower bed and then planting our carefully-selected petunias.  Each time I passed the flowers, I was reminded of that wonderful, sunny day spent with my daughter.

The years following, however, I could never really get the kids to participate in this activity.  Either one kid was interested when the other one wasn't or I'd find myself yelling "come back here" and "aren't you going to help" over and over again, thereby taking all the fun out of our annual planting.  Finally, I had resigned myself to the fact that, if we were at least in the yard together, that was going to count as a day well-spent.    

Since I wasn't pressuring the kids to help, I was routinely asked to watch them or find something for them or referee one of their arguments. After quite a few hours of outdoor time, I told the kids I was going to go inside for a shower. I was dirty from the other yard work I had busied myself with and just plain tired from the "watch me's" and reffing duties. I guess I really was not destined to get the petunias planted this Mother's Day.  

After I was cleaned up and refreshed from my shower, I went out to check on the kids.  Little did I know, my Mother's Day elves had something in store for me. 

Chalk from the heart.

"You like how I remembered the apostrophe, Mom?" - Cara

Petunias planted by two amazing kids.

These flowers will be yet another reminder at how lucky I am to have such wonderful children and what a blessing it is to be able to call them mine. 

Give Peas a Chance

I'm going to start this post with a confession. My son does not eat vegetables. Not green beans, not carrots, not even corn. The only veggie that he will even entertain the possibility of eating is lettuce, and even then, it's a HUGE ordeal to get him to put it in his mouth, chew, and swallow.

I've tried the whole "present them with the food at least 10 times and then they will get around to trying it". When we have veggies at dinner, there is always some on Connor's plate.  He used to balk at their mere presence, but we're going on the 328th presentation of green beans and it still took 45 minutes of prompting to get him to even agree to put a green bean into his mouth, only to have him spit it right back out.

Now, I know kids go through phases, so I've thought that maybe this would be one that he would grow out of. Our pediatrician is not concerned as his growth and all other vital statistics are right on target. He does have vitamins daily and really loves fruit, so honestly I shouldn't be worried that he's lacking in the nutrition department.  

But there's just something in my mommy brain that says that I need to get him to eat vegetables.  And I am willing to bet that part of my brain is located right next to the part that decided to clean out the bottom of the dryer with a duster without unplugging said dryer. 

I decided that I would fill the refrigerator up with vegetables and give Connor the chance to choose what vegetables we would have with dinner. I thought that giving him control over that would help make dinner time run a little smoother.  Pretty sure the electric shock from the dryer had a longer-lasting effect on my brain because smooth is the last word that I'd use to describe the subsequent dinners.

One evening, Connor had chosen peas to go with our meal.  I thought we might have success as this was not a vegetable we've presented him with very often in the past. Maybe the newness of it would make it more appealing. Before I had even set his plate down on the table, that boy had his nose plugged. Yeah. This was not going to go well.  

Since we had discussed the fact that he needed to try the vegetables he picked out, he knew he was not going to leave the table without trying the peas.  I told him that I only required him to eat three peas. He offered to eat just one and as soon as I heard myself stand my ground at my triple pea deal, I wanted to hit me. I'd done it now. Again. Drew a line in the sand for no other reason than to draw a line in the sand.  This is probably the biggest source of conflict between my son and I. The battle of wills. The quest to see who is the most stubborn. Sure I had my reasons for him trying three peas (you can't really tell what they taste like when you only have one; they're so small, two more shouldn't make a difference; even three peas isn't a mouthful).  But, honestly, would it have been so terrible if I had let him just try one?  

After much back and forth with the three peas/one pea/just put something green in your mouth so we can get on with our lives, Connor finally put the peas in his mouth and then spit them right back out.  If I'd have gone with his number, that would have been two less peas I had to track down when he jettisoned them out of his mouth with his tongue (still plugging his nose, mind you).  I counted that as "trying", told him that he could be done with his peas for this evening, and said that he should eat the other food on his plate. Little did I know (and I, of all people, really should have known), the peas had touched the steak, rendering the meat completely inedible. 

If you're looking for me at dinner time, I'm the one dusting the dryer.

The vile peas.

One Walkie Short

"Knock knock." Connor says into a walkie talkie. The other walkie talkie is right next to him, clearly not on.

"Knock knock," he repeats, pauses,  and then gives a final "KNOCK KNOCK!"

He shrugs, turns off the walkie talkie and says, "Guess no one wants to hear something funny."

Ski Bunny

This weekend, both of the kids went to a winter park where Cara skied and Connor tubed.  Cara has only been skiing about a half dozen times but, based on her description of this outing, she's pretty sure she's awesome at it.

While describing her first time down the big slope, she told me, "I looked at the hill and saw that it wasn't that steep, so I decided that I was just gonna french fry it." (French fry being the term used where your skis are parallel to each other. The other ski position option? Pizza.)

Then she began talking about a boy she met at the slopes. I began to panic. What? She's meeting and talking to boys? In public? Without complaining about cooties? Unacceptable!

Before complete mommy meltdown commences, she says, "He told me he tubed. That's not even a sport. It's like sledding. You can't get good at sledding."

Ahh, my daughter. Regulating her mom's blood pressure with her ability to knock the wind out of a boy's sails.

Garbage Men

If my conversations with my son were a movie, my character would be the girl in the horror film that decides to walk backwards directly into the crazy guy with the axe. 

For example, I watched incredulously the other night as Connor removed a piece of tape from his pajama pants, reached his hand over the edge of the bed, and then dropped the tape onto the floor.  

"Who do you think is going to pick that up?" I asked.  He paused to reflect on what I thought was a near-rhetorical question and then replied, "The garbage men."  I got comfortable. I really wanted to hear how this was going to play out.

I then asked, "Have you ever seen the garbage men in our house picking up our garbage?", thinking I was questioning him into a corner where he'd obviously have to admit that he was going to have to pick up that piece of tape. Rookie mistake.

"Well, the garbage men come when we're sleeping," was his quick response. 

"So, the garbage men are like Santa?"

He responded, "They are like secret agents, but with trash. They don't have guns or bombs. Just garbage trucks." He went on to give examples of the garbage men's exploits in refuse, getting more and more animated with the more details he added. I start envisioning having to wade through trash-covered floors in the house, having been unable to disprove the existence of magical, invisible, garbage-collecting men. I try a different approach.

"Haven't you seen Mommy sweeping and vacuuming the floors before?" 

"Yes, but that's because the garbage men only come once a week. On Saturday nights."

"Well, we're in luck. Tonight is Saturday night. When we wake up, we'll look and see if the garbage men came and picked up the floor."

Sunday morning came and my victory was so close, I could taste it.  "Connor, is the trash picked up off of the floor this morning?"

He paused, smacked himself on the forehead, and exclaimed, "I forgot! Garbage men night is Thursday night!"  

And the theater of people watching our conversation horror flick would be yelling, "WE TOLD HER NOT TO GO DOWN THERE!"

Whoopie

An original song by Connor

(sung to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town)

You better watch out. 

You better not cry. 

There's going to be a fart sound. 

You better guess why.