The boys and I were driving on our way to the park yesterday. We are finally at the point where I can play just about any music in the car and no one complains. I'm subjecting them to the entire Abba Gold album, when Charlie says, "Excuse me, Mommy. Mommy, excuse me."
I'm trying to ignore him. Maybe he'll work things out himself.
"Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!"
I'm annoyed because the music has really transported me back to the day. I'm in the middle of a day dream that involves me in rainbow leg warmers and a matching rainbow shirt. My hair has achieved a perfect bi-level with flippy bangs. I'm looking fresh and am dancing with Brandon O'Brien (my junior high school crush). Dancing Queen is playing in the background and I'm kind of curious how this day dream is going to play out. The real life version was rather disappointing, and about as achievable as a peaceful car ride.
"Mommy, I'm talking to you."
WHAT?, I ask snappishly.
I can almost predict the litany of questions about to commence. "Who is the Dancing Queen? Can I see her tambourine? Why isn't she playing a guitar? Wait, where's my guitar? Gregory, did you take my guitar?..."
I'm surprised when I hear, "Mommy, we're not on the Earth."
What?
"We're not on the Earth right now."
Of course we're on the Earth.
"No, we're not."
Sure we are.
"No, we are not."
Then where are we? Mars, Jupiter, Saturn?
Using his best 'must I draw a picture for you' tone, he says, "NO! WE are not touching the Earth. Our CAR is touching the Earth, and WE are in the car."
I have no rebuttal, just diversionary tactics. I'm really bad at losing arguments.
Look at that cement mixer!
"That's not a cement mixer."
Sure it is, right over there (will I never learn?).
"No, it's not."
Then what is it, Charlie? Please tell me. I'm dying to know.
"It's a concrete mixer. Water and gravel are mixed with CEMENT dust which all get spinned in the mixer. Then that makes it concrete."
Oh.
"So it's a concrete mixer, not a cement mixer."
Got it. Sorry.
Lessons learned:
1. Do not debate 4 year olds.
2. All future inquiries should be met with June Cleaver-esque responses - That's nice dear. Really, dear. Why don't you ask your father, dear.
3. Immediately start saving for law school.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Get to Know Your Neighbors
Brian is at a software conference all week which means I'm on 24x7 duty with the boys. And no, I don't count the 4 measly hours Charlie is at school as a break.
Tagging it as a 'work event' is just a formality. Each night my husband is out dining at San Francisco's finest restaurants, drinking cocktails with his work buddies while they chat up clients, and then there's all of the marketing hoopla. Aerosmith is headlining the main concert. Coming from this industry, I will concede that after 2 nights of schmoozing, I would be ready to curl up in bed and not utter a word to anyone unless it's Rachel Zoe (love to hate her). But I'd take his week of work over mine.
Night 1 is officially over. The kids are both asleep and none too soon.
Charlie almost drowned his brother in the bath tub tonight. He thought the best way to wash Gregory's hair was to pull his leg out from under him then dump a bucket of water over his head. After the flying macaroni festival at dinner, I lost my cool and yelled. I managed to pull out some real gems. "What is wrong with you that you're trying to kill your brother?...Gregory doesn't want to play in the bath anymore, he's scared of you... Since you don't listen, you should just go right to bed because you're not even going to know that I'm reading you stories..." I'm sure I got my point across and he was listening the whole time - blah blah blah blah.
As I waxed on endlessly, I heard voices at the front door - a man's voice. Someone called the police? Not likely, there was a young boy's voice too. Phew. The mail slot popped open and in dropped a card. It was a thank you note for a birthday present from Charlie's buddy down the street.
I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually shushed my kids and hid. How much of my tirade had Dad and son heard? Common sense told me if it was even a smidgen, they definitely would not have delivered the card or been within a grenade's throw of our house. Plus Mom would have canceled our possible play date for this week. But I couldn't be certain.
The thought of witnesses presented some challenges. A) I really like my neighbors, B) our backyard is mostly cement making it VERY difficult to bury bodies, and C) I'm not ready to be known as 'Charlie's crazy mom who yells a lot and is to be avoided at all social functions.' My kids haven't even entered the public school system yet; so much damage in so little time.
Tagging it as a 'work event' is just a formality. Each night my husband is out dining at San Francisco's finest restaurants, drinking cocktails with his work buddies while they chat up clients, and then there's all of the marketing hoopla. Aerosmith is headlining the main concert. Coming from this industry, I will concede that after 2 nights of schmoozing, I would be ready to curl up in bed and not utter a word to anyone unless it's Rachel Zoe (love to hate her). But I'd take his week of work over mine.
Night 1 is officially over. The kids are both asleep and none too soon.
Charlie almost drowned his brother in the bath tub tonight. He thought the best way to wash Gregory's hair was to pull his leg out from under him then dump a bucket of water over his head. After the flying macaroni festival at dinner, I lost my cool and yelled. I managed to pull out some real gems. "What is wrong with you that you're trying to kill your brother?...Gregory doesn't want to play in the bath anymore, he's scared of you... Since you don't listen, you should just go right to bed because you're not even going to know that I'm reading you stories..." I'm sure I got my point across and he was listening the whole time - blah blah blah blah.
As I waxed on endlessly, I heard voices at the front door - a man's voice. Someone called the police? Not likely, there was a young boy's voice too. Phew. The mail slot popped open and in dropped a card. It was a thank you note for a birthday present from Charlie's buddy down the street.
I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually shushed my kids and hid. How much of my tirade had Dad and son heard? Common sense told me if it was even a smidgen, they definitely would not have delivered the card or been within a grenade's throw of our house. Plus Mom would have canceled our possible play date for this week. But I couldn't be certain.
The thought of witnesses presented some challenges. A) I really like my neighbors, B) our backyard is mostly cement making it VERY difficult to bury bodies, and C) I'm not ready to be known as 'Charlie's crazy mom who yells a lot and is to be avoided at all social functions.' My kids haven't even entered the public school system yet; so much damage in so little time.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Double Trouble
Gregory is beginning to assert his independence. He uses the word 'no' a lot, throws tantrums if his demands are not met, gets into everything he's not supposed to - open cereal boxes, toilets, dishwasher, makeup drawers - the usual toddler type stuff. Brian and I have taken to calling him The Menace. The idea of him still being my 'easy baby' left with the notion that yellow toilet water should be enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from drinking it (yes I'm saying my kids play with pee water - gross).
Gregory has also taken a few pages out of Charlie's rule book on treatment of siblings. Though Charlie is much more cautious and predictable; knowing that when he pushes Gregory down, steals his matchbox car, then pokes him in the eye with it, he should run. Gregory is just outright brazen. I've seen him kick his brother in the ankle, bite him in the back of the neck, and give a quick hair pull for good measure, then stick around. Kind of like those police dramas where they are at the murder scene, the camera slowly pans to the crowd, and the killer is standing there, surveying the scene, emotionless yet quietly pleased with himself and the attention.
Now that I have 2 trouble makers on my hands, upon hearing cries in the distance, I can no longer come running under the assumption that my eldest is the evil doer. This is a very difficult habit to break after almost 2 years of Charlie being the sole committer of transgressions in our household.
The worst part is that Gregory knows he can get away with anything simply by using his arsenal of cuteness. I am a complete sucker no matter what his weapon of choice - batting of eye lashes, coy smile, spontaneous hugs, etc. It's really quite an embarrassment to authority figures everywhere. But he is the perfect combination of looks, charm, humor and cunning; destined for a future of criminal activity.
The other morning, I heard the highest pitched shriek my 2 ears have ever experienced. I refrained from yelling, 'Charlie, what the hell did you do now?' As I entered the living room to survey the damage, there stood Gregory, wielding a Tinker Toy weapon, banging his brother in the head with all of his might. Charlie was curled in the fetal position, shrieking like a trapped animal. Gregory simply smiled then hit, smiled then hit, over and over.
I said, Gregory, no! No hit. We do not hit our brother! He actually laughed, then smiled at me like I was giving him a compliment and said, "Uh hammer."
'I'm very happy you made a hammer out of Tinker Toys, but we do not hit people with it.'
Still smiling he responds, "Dawry hit."
'No, we don't hit Charlie' (aka Dawry).
Looking up at me with huge blue eyes, he bats his lashes and says in a whisper, "I sowy, Mommy."
His sweetness increases exponentially with the amount of trouble he's in. All it takes is an "I sowy" and he is forgiven. He could be stabbing the neighbors cat to death with his Elmo toothbrush that he fashioned into a shiv and I'm like, 'Okay, but just don't do it again.'
"Aw wight, Mommy."
Gregory has also taken a few pages out of Charlie's rule book on treatment of siblings. Though Charlie is much more cautious and predictable; knowing that when he pushes Gregory down, steals his matchbox car, then pokes him in the eye with it, he should run. Gregory is just outright brazen. I've seen him kick his brother in the ankle, bite him in the back of the neck, and give a quick hair pull for good measure, then stick around. Kind of like those police dramas where they are at the murder scene, the camera slowly pans to the crowd, and the killer is standing there, surveying the scene, emotionless yet quietly pleased with himself and the attention.
Now that I have 2 trouble makers on my hands, upon hearing cries in the distance, I can no longer come running under the assumption that my eldest is the evil doer. This is a very difficult habit to break after almost 2 years of Charlie being the sole committer of transgressions in our household.
The worst part is that Gregory knows he can get away with anything simply by using his arsenal of cuteness. I am a complete sucker no matter what his weapon of choice - batting of eye lashes, coy smile, spontaneous hugs, etc. It's really quite an embarrassment to authority figures everywhere. But he is the perfect combination of looks, charm, humor and cunning; destined for a future of criminal activity.
The other morning, I heard the highest pitched shriek my 2 ears have ever experienced. I refrained from yelling, 'Charlie, what the hell did you do now?' As I entered the living room to survey the damage, there stood Gregory, wielding a Tinker Toy weapon, banging his brother in the head with all of his might. Charlie was curled in the fetal position, shrieking like a trapped animal. Gregory simply smiled then hit, smiled then hit, over and over.
I said, Gregory, no! No hit. We do not hit our brother! He actually laughed, then smiled at me like I was giving him a compliment and said, "Uh hammer."
'I'm very happy you made a hammer out of Tinker Toys, but we do not hit people with it.'
Still smiling he responds, "Dawry hit."
'No, we don't hit Charlie' (aka Dawry).
Looking up at me with huge blue eyes, he bats his lashes and says in a whisper, "I sowy, Mommy."
His sweetness increases exponentially with the amount of trouble he's in. All it takes is an "I sowy" and he is forgiven. He could be stabbing the neighbors cat to death with his Elmo toothbrush that he fashioned into a shiv and I'm like, 'Okay, but just don't do it again.'
"Aw wight, Mommy."
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