When girls will be boys?

Since I seem to love pointing out when my boy is a boy and my girl is a girl, I suppose I should be equally eager to point out when my boy is a girl and my girl is a boy. At least, if we enjoy gender stereotyping and choose to pigeonhole our children in that way. And apparently, I do.

Take, for example, my children's relationship to dirt and mess. Nicky has always been a very clean and neat baby. He did not spit up. He was not a violent pooper. You dressed him in the morning, and most of the time, he was in the same clothes at night. He has always been meticulous, dare we say feminine?, about not getting his hands dirty. Long before he could talk, if he had one speck of something on his baby fingers, he held out his hands imperiously, waiting for one of the servants to come wipe them off. You may wipe the royal fingers. . .

On the occasion of his first birthday, we gave him a piece of cake that was his to mash and smear all over his face as he pleased. He played with it a little, then gave me a look like, um, lady, you gonna start feeding me that cake -- WITH A FORK? He doesn't like the feel of food on his face. As an infant, when he learned to spoon feed himself, he also learned to wipe the corners of his own mouth with the spoon -- who are those ill-mannered babies with goop all over their face? Not MY baby. At least, not my first baby.

And to this day, when my kids come in from playing outside all day, Nicky is rarely worse for wear. A little dirt here, a grass stain there.

But Laney? My little girly princess. She has been something else entirely. We changed her clothes three times a day from the day she was born. I don't know if the diapers in Norway suck or what, but they could not adequately contain my daughter's output. She doesn't give a darn if she's got food on her fingers. Heck, she doesn't give a darn if she's got food all over her face, her hands and her clothes. And at her first birthday party, she dug into her cake with relish. She had cake all over her face. All over her high chair. In her hair. She knew how to enjoy a piece of birthday cake.

And today, when they come in from a day of earthworm hunts and other outdoor activities, my Laney is covered from head to toe in grime. Her face is covered in dirt. Her hair is covered in grass. Last night, she even had grass inside her clothes and underwear. I don't know how she manages to get so boyishly dirty all of the time, but she does. If I wanted her to be in clean clothes all day, I would still be changing her clothes three times a day. She gets messy when she eats. She gets messy when she plays. There is no prissy wiping of the hands for her.

Changing of the times

There was a time, oh, about five years ago, when words like fart or snot made me cringe. I've never been one for toilet humor. It's always grossed me out more than made me laugh. I never developed an appreciation for snot/booger humor either.

However, after the last five years of dealing with all sorts of unpleasant bodily secretions and functions, i.e.-snot, farts, poop in technicolor --who signed me up for this job, anyway? -- I suppose it's a little hard to be uppity about anything of that sort anymore.

Laney and snot
If you have a tissue handy and ask her to blow, she might humor you by breathing heavy into the tissue. Her preferred method of nose-blowing is to wait until her parents are occupied doing something else and blow really hard so that the contents of her nose flow down her face in two little disgusting snot rivers.

I don't know when she started this. She used to blow her nose like a normal little girl, namely, when we had a tissue handy. Now, she just stops whatever she's doing blows really hard and waits for the tissue to come to her.

I'm debating on whether or not I should continue to try and break this little habit. I'm thinking it might work out in our favor down the line. This lovely behavior will ensure that we won't have to chase the boys away when she's 15.

They'll be having an enlightening conversation about how their parents just don't 'get' them, about the importance of love, about how to save the world. He'll be thinking about how pretty she is and if he should try and kiss her. HONK! He, shocked and horrified, runs for the door as she sits in confused silence, little snot bubbles under her nose.

Five years ago, that little story would have made my stomach turn. Now it just makes me laugh. My, my, how times have changed. Kids have made me a gross person. Lovely. Maybe I can start lifting my ass and let a big one rip during the middle of a conversation and not blink an eye. Why not? My kids do.

Sounds like fun

We were playing hide-and-seek. Nicky hid under the bed. When I found him, he kicked his leg out. I moved my head so as to avoid a black eye.

"Mommy, can you put your head back," he asked me.

"No, Nicky," I responded. "I don't want you to kick me in the face."

"I won't kick you in the face really hard. Just a little."

Gee, kiddo, sounds like a win-win situation all 'round. . .

Silly me. I didn't actually think he was aiming for my head.

She's so pretty. . .

Just because I thought this picture was adorable and the World Wide Web would be lacking without it.

Bedtime Stories

Once upon a night, I told the kids I was too tired for bedtime stories. They decided they would tell me bedtime stories instead.

Nicky:

There is Red Spiderman and Black Spiderman. They fight, fight, fight, fight, fight. Black Spiderman dies. Wait, first, there is Junior Goblin and Venom. And they die. They are bad. And then. Then. Um. Then. Red Spiderman fights all the bad guys. And they all die. Just Red Spiderman doesn't die. And then. Um. Then. That's all.

Laney (this is a princess story):
The bear ate all her chips. Nam-nam-nam. (Lots of chewing sounds). The princess had no chips. Then she ate poo poo! Noooooooooooooo (said in a sing-song voice). Blech!

That was fun and those beat my lame old stories any day. They lived happily ever after. That's all.

Is it love?

Is it love that makes me want to pull my hair out in chunks? Because if you asked me, I would tell you I love my kids. Yet, they are the reason I want to pull my hair out by the roots. Is that what love is? I thought it was all mushiness and kisses on the nose and looking forward to seeing them everyday. Recently, I've wanted to run screaming from my house -- every bleeping day, as opposed to just some of the time.

They have officially entered into the "fighting all of the time" stage. It starts when they wake up and ends when they go to bed. They fight about everything ALL.THE.TIME. If one has it, the other wants it. They fight about who flushes the toilet. Who sits in which chair. If one is sitting in my lap, the other tries to wrestle the first one off. Nevermind that Mommy would actually prefer to have her lap to herself.

Shouldn't I have a few more years grace period on this kind of thing?

It wouldn't be so bad if I could just tune them out, but they are LOUD. My son has this WHINE. It's enough to make your blood curdle. My daughter has this horrible high-pitched SCREAM she lets out when she doesn't get her way. I'm glad we live far from the street, otherwise, I'd have police busting down the door to find the ax murderer on a regular basis. It would turn out that my son wouldn't give my daughter the orange crayon.

It's mostly my daughter, I know. She's two and a half. If you've experienced a two and a half year-old, you need no further explanation. If you've never experienced one, you'll have your turn. MWAHAHAHAHA. AHAHAHAHAHA. We went through a similar period just over two years ago when my son was that age. He was just a different personality (not so loud) and my daughter was an infant. She couldn't fight back as well.

I remember leaving the room for a few minutes. My then 3-month-old was sitting in her carseat (her own little recliner) happily kicking and babbling away. Her two-and-a-half-year-old brother was in the room, but I don't think he was paying any attention to her at the time. I came back in the room to see a small pile of toys with little wiggly feet where my baby used to be. Nicky had taken his chance and began piling toys on top of her. Luckily, they were all soft toys, and I wasn't out of the room for long. Laney was happy. She didn't know any better. She probably thought, "So this is how big kids play." Now, if he so much touches a toy that she doesn't want him to, it becomes an all-out wrestling match.

A friend of mine told me that growing up he and his sister used to fight all of the time. I think as they got older, hockey sticks were involved. Oh, no! Neither of my children will be playing hockey or golf or any sport with equipment that can be used as a weapon, if they can't learn to get along!

My kids in happier times. There was no fighting then. See how the youngest one's mouth is muffled?

Double Standards

My two-year-old toddler's hypocrisy knows no bounds. It's really quite hysterical.

Take, for example, chewing with one's mouth open. At one, Laney didn't know better and would sometimes start trying to talk with food in her mouth. My son, whose gag reflex is mighty powerful, would begin to carry on and making a big fuss, gagging and whining. "She's showing me her food," he'd complain. "Stop her!" One-year-old Laney didn't understand at first.

Later, she got it, and she realized 'it' came with a lot of attention. So sometimes in the middle of dinner, she'd make sure Nicky was looking and open her mouth wide so he could witness the horror within. Of course, it elicited the very response she wanted. Nicky would gag and complain, "She's showing me her food!" A few seconds of chaos would ensue as we admonished her to chew with her mouth closed and told Nicky to stop complaining and look the other way. If Nicky would ignore her, she would stop. However, that little psychological trick is still lost on him.

So anyway, it was not so long ago, we were eating breakfast, and Nicky began to say something. Laney starts crying and whining, "He's showing me his food! Mommy, he's showing me his food!" She started swiveling in her chair to look away, making a huge show of how grossed out she was. "Make him stop!"

The thing is, normally, Nicky is pretty particular about this kind of thing. He never talks with a mouth full of food. She must have seen a bread crumb on his lip and began carrying on. Of course, Nicky realizing it's payback time, took a big bite and tried to get her to look, thus creating more chaos.

My guess is that she decided Nicky can't be the only one who gets attention for being grossed out. She wanted in on that action.

Toddler hypocrisy, take two.

My daughter is an exhibitionist. She likes to run around naked. She likes to run around naked while shouting, "Look at me! Look at me! Look at my butt!" Sometimes she'll assume the pose being demonstrated by my nephew here. . .

. . .and encourage others to look her naked direction. My subtle and modest daughter. Please, please tell me she'll outgrow that behavior!

One day Nicky came in from the bathroom to finish getting ready for the day. He needed to grab a clean pair of Tigger undies. He happened to be undressed from the waist down.

"Æsj! (Yuck!)," Laney said, sticking out her tongue and making a disgusted face. "You have to put on your underwear! Yuck! Blech!"

Oh, the horror! Poor,poor imposed-upon Laney.

Look over there! Diamonds!

So in an effort to bury the profanity-laden post a couple of posts down, I thought I'd throw up a couple of pictures to distract you.

I bought a cage for the kids.

Just kidding! (You knew that right? Laney kind looks like she might be in a cage, though. Funny eyes.) It's actually a soccer net. Seven and I have begun the journey of living vicariously through our children and imposing our dreams upon them. Nicky WILL be a soccer superstar. First, he must learn that it's the ball that goes in the net, not ourselves and little sisters. After that, it's all cake. Just running and kicking a ball. What's so hard about THAT? It's foolproof! We'll never have to work again!

Snug as two bugs in a rug. Awwwwwww, ain't they sweet?

On the off chance that anyone is wondering, and I KNOW people notice everything around here. . .we are all sleeping in one bedroom while we've turned over the kids' room into a guest room. Laney crawled into Nicky's bed, just because.

Happy Father's Day (American)

When I was seven or so, I got into a fight with one of my friends about whose dad was smartest. (Do you remember this, Jackie?) She kept insisting that her father was smarter than mine. She refused to see my side. Clearly, my father was the smartest of the two, because he knew EVERYTHING! Her stubborness and failure to see reason infuriated me. I began to lie about my father to make my point. Well, it wasn't really lying. My father never SAID he had a higher IQ than her father, but I knew it must be so. I just had to make her understand. She never did. Fool!

Growing up, my dad really did have an answer for everything. Of course, I know now, he was making half that stuff up. No one knows everything, even my dad. What a safe world it was to live in, though, the one where Dad had all of the answers.

So Happy Father's Day to the all the men who know everything -- at least in the eyes of the children who love them.

Here's my dad carrying Nicky all over Tokyo a few years ago. Nicky is, of course, fascinated by the train. Dad must have carried Nicky for five hours. Strollers in Japanese train stations are a joke. My dad's arms are still sore from that trip!

Mommy's a bad girl

Two nights ago, my son was telling a story when he said, clear as day, "These fucking pants wouldn't come off."

For emphasis, he added, "These fucking pants are so stupid."

Have I mentioned that he's only four?

I just sat there in shocked silence, unsure of how to proceed. Seven, whose back was turned to Nicky, tried not to laugh. We looked at each other, then I looked at Nicky. What do I say?

Normally, I could have glared at my husband accusingly and blamed him for our son's foul mouth. (I think it was part of our wedding vows. I promise to love and honor you. . .blame you for all that is wrong in my life and use you as a scapegoat when our children act inappropriately. . .something like that.) The problem is that when the occasional curse word slips from Seven's lips, it's not the one my son just used. I could have blamed Nicky's friends or preschool (what the fuck do they teach him there anyway?), but they, too, speak the wrong language. Pooh Bear speaks English in our house, but I don't think it was from him. Can you imagine?

Winnie the Pooh, such a silly bear, stomping around his little house shrieking, "These fucking honey pots are EMPTY! EMPTY! Now what the fuck am I supposed to eat?!!!! Blippety-blip-blip-blip!" Throws honey pots across the room.

No, the only way my innocent young son could have picked up on that word, AND it's correct usage is from. . .me. (Hanging head in shame). I refuse to remember when I've used such profanity around my young children, but apparently I have.

Of course, I don't want my son running around cursing like a sailor on the playground at preschool. However, I didn't want to scold him for innocently using a word he thought was giving emphasis to his story. Pants vs. fucking pants convey a very different meaning, don't they? Come to think of it, perhaps I shouldn't feel guilty at all! I should be PROUD that my son is learning to add color to his story-telling at such a tender age. PROUD, I say. What a fantastic mother I'm turning out to be. um, no? sigh.

So I wanted to emphasize that we shouldn't use that word without making him feel bad for his little language experiment. I also wanted to acknowledge my own role -- before he could point out the obvious -- in why he thought it was okay to use it. Don't worry, I'm not running around my house screeching profane words at every turn, but I admit to having muttered naughty words on occasion. Thankfully, I don't live in Hawaii and drive on the highways there. Otherwise, my son would have been cursing a lot earlier. I seriously don't cuss all that much anymore, especially since having kids. However, behind the wheel of a car, on the H-1, some other foul-mouthed, psycho-woman takes over my soul.

I just told Nicky that it was a bad word and that no one should use it. He heard it from Mommy, though, didn't he? Yeah. Mommy is wrong to use that word. I should never use it. Maybe he could help me. I will remind him not to use that word anymore, if he will help me remember that I can't use that word either. Could he help me remember? He said he could. Thanks, honey. What a kid!

As for his mother, that woman needs to watch her fucking mouth. What's wrong with people?!

Like mother, like daughter

I'm happy to have passed on many wonderful characteristics to my daughter, and my photogenic quality is one of them. My uncanny ability to look good for the camera in every situation is really quite remarkable. And it is a true testament to the loving eye of the photographer that he was able to capture us both in a moment of such sublime beauty.


And do you THINK that he took that photo again? Perhaps to try and catch us in a non-zombie like moment? Do you? Ha!

When kids dress themselves

Submitted as further evidence that boys and girls simply come out of the womb wired differently.



Nicky, in his four-plus years on this Earth, has never cared about what he wears. Okay, that's not totally true. He did, for a brief period, insist on wearing a towel draped around his shoulders as a Superman cape, and he hates to wear shorts, even on hot summer days. Other than that, he doesn't really pay attention. Spiderman undies? Check. Socks pulled up to the knees? Check. Pants? Shirt? Check. Check. Good to go. I don't even bother asking him what he wants to wear. In the past, if I did, then he gave me this look, "As if I have time to worry about those things! That's YOUR job, Mom!"

Laney, on the other hand, has already begun to pick out her own clothes. Obviously, details like color coordination are incidental. She insisted on the outfit above. I picked out the leggings in the belief that I would actually get a matching dress over them. I was wrong. So very wrong. She had to have on those two shirts, and she had to have on those shoes. I could fight her on it and risk the impending meltdown or I could just let it go. She's two and a half. There is many a battle to be fought when you have a two-and-a-half-year-old in the house, and you must pick your battles wisely. And you will still lose. Often. So if that's what she wanted to wear, then that's what she would wear.

It amazes me to see how insistent she is about her clothes. It doesn't matter how it looks, it's the fact that the decision is hers. I've heard other mothers of young girls complain about the clothing battles they have with their daughters. It is inevitable that there will come a time when you want to put a sign on your child's head that says, "My mommy DID NOT pick this outfit. I like to dress myself."

Luckily, I heard about this struggle when my son was two. I had no idea of what these other mothers were gabbing on about, but I listened anyway. MY two-year-old never fought me about which shirt to wear. It was, of course, because my two-year-old was a boy, but I didn't know that it made that much difference at that age. Now, I know better. (I also know how to handle it, thanks to those who've come before. Pick two or three color-coordinated options, then let her pick one of those. Everyone wins.)

I realize that not every child wears every gender stereotype comfortably. There are fastidious-dressing boys in the world, just as there are girls who prefer Spiderman underwear to princess ones. It's just that my kids seem to fall into their gender 'roles' time and again without my having anything to do with it. Nicky likes trains. Laney likes bling. I had nothing to do with any of that. I have no doubt that with time, Laney will not be caught dead in lilac, red, and pink with silver shoes. Instead, she'll spend hours hogging up the bathroom trying to get her look just so and shrieking in frustration that she has NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, to wear! Really, I should enjoy this time that the fun of clothes is simply in the putting them on.

Like father, like son

One of my favorite stories about Seven is from when he's five or six years old. One night, his mother read him the story of The Ugly Duckling. When she came to the part about the other ducklings making fun of the young swan, little Seven began to cry. His innocent heart just couldn't understand how anyone could be so mean. How could they tease the swan and call him ugly? Seven's little heart hurt because the 'ugly' duckling's heart hurt.

I love that story for many reasons. Mostly because I can still see the sensitive little boy in the grown-up Seven. The small boy who cared so much for the feelings of the ugly duckling grew into a kind-hearted man who is caring and considerate of the feelings of people around him.

Seven has a son.

A few nights ago, Nicky, Laney and I sat down to watch Piglet's BIG Movie. Nicky was very drawn into the movie. At one point, I asked him how he was doing. He turned to me and I could see that something was wrong immediately. His whole face began to crumple and his eyes filled with tears.

"Mommy, why did Piglet lose his scrapbook," he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Well, I hate to give away the exciting climax of the movie to those of you who haven't seen it. . .but at one point Piglet's treasured scrapbook is lost. Piglet kept a book filled with carefully-drawn pictures of happy memories and good times he'd had with his friends. It was very obviously something precious to Piglet. Nicky was simply heart-broken that something so special had been lost. His mind reeled at the unfairness of it all. At the end of the movie, Piglet's friends made it up to him, drew him new pictures and everything was fine again. For Nicky, it was not quite so simple. He understood the value of the original book and wasn't as easily satisfied as Piglet. He wanted Piglet to get his precious original back! In the end, though, Nicky, too, came to terms with the loss.

I can only hope the little boy who cared so much for Piglet and his scrapbook will grow into a man who cares deeply for the people around him. On those days I worry most about my son's sensitive heart and wonder how much I should protect him from a world that sometimes plows right over people, I remember that Seven was just like him as a little boy. Seven turned out just fine. My son could do much worse than to grow up to be like his father. Actually, he'll be all the better for it.

Reflection upon lint

Have you ever wondered when cleaning out the lint tray on your dryer, how it is you have clothes left, when so much of the material seems to be trapped in that tray?

Feeding of the Lambs

Yesterday we visited a sheep farm. What a great experience for the kids and me. Seven enjoyed himself, too, but he's "been there and done that" before. I've never been within 10 feet of a real sheep before.

The farm belongs to Seven's cousin. There are about 180 sheep on the farm. Bestefar*, who is in town for a short visit, arranged the visit for us. It's lambing season. (Is that the correct terminology?) There were a lot of new calves, and the kids got the opportunity to bottle-feed some of them. Sheep may be docile animals, but when it comes to feeding, only the strong survive. Those that are weak and don't get enough milk are left behind to starve. That's where the bottle-feeding comes in. Seven's cousin and wife feed the weakest with special-made formula.

Before we left, I grabbed the camera. I thought briefly about whether or not I should take some extra batteries, just in case. I checked the camera, and it seemed fine, so I figured, "Nah. It'll be fine." Why? Why did I figure, nah, it'll be fine? It is NEVER fine, when I figure, nah, it'll be fine. You would think that 34 years of experience would have taught me this by now. . .

It reminds of the song lyrics by Pink, "Don't let me get me. I'm a hazard to myself." Know that song? I digress (again). See, having an extra set of batteries on hand, just in case, has never killed anyone. Having the camera die as you are trying to capture images of your children the first time they are feeding lambs (or doing anything really) is enough to bring on a sudden heart-attack. . .especially when you factor in that the cause of your own untimely demise is really your own fault. AAAAAAAAAAACK!

Deep breaths, Miki. Deep breaths. In the grand scheme of things, this is no big deal. It's all about perspective. Throughout most of human history, people have been content to live life and experience its beauty without feeling the need to capture every second for posterity. Sometimes people get so wrapped up in taking pictures, they forget to actually BE present in the moment. It's like they live their life when looking back through their photographs. We got to take in the full experience -- the sights, the sounds, the smells (ew!) -- because it wasn't all about taking photos.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Whatever. The only thing that made me feel better was that digital camera's battery death didn't give me time to regret not having brought the video camera, which is what we really SHOULD have brought. The still images wouldn't have been able to catch Laney's enthusiastic little jaunt as she went to grab full bottles to replace the empty ones. They couldn't capture her desire to be near the animals, to touch them, to pet them, while being scared of them at the same time. They wouldn't have captured the way Nicky held onto his bottle, looking around for a hungry lamb to feed. He's quiet, my son, but I knew he was having a good time by the way he refused to let go of the half-full bottle. He wanted to feed a lamb until the bottle was empty.

SoI didn't catch most of the day's events on a recorded medium. I have those images only in my memory. That's why I have this blog. It'll help me remember.

This is the one picture we took before the camera died.

* Bestefar means grandfather and refers to Seven's father.