sueeeus

Two thirty a.m. A small boy, wide awake.

Him: I want restaurant food.

Me: Groan. How ’bout tomorrow?

Him: Whine, whimper. Pitiful strained little voice. I’m hungeeeee.

Me: Groan. How ’bout a peanut butter sandwich, Mister Eats- Two- Noodles- for- Dinner- So- He- Wakes- Up- Hungry?

Him: Okay.

So I stumble downstairs, make a sandwich and debate about the sanity of giving him some milk in the middle of the night, having washed four loads of bedclothes already this weekend. But it would be cruel to give him peanut butter without milk. He wins. I’m such a good mother.

Later that morning, somehow he’s managed to nestle himself in MY bed. Wide awake again.

Him: Time to wake up! It’s a sunny day (pointing to the window, using that tone of voice in which the mere fact that it’s a sunny day is all the reason in the world), Wook! Time to wake up!

Me: Groan.

Him: I want restaurant food.

Me: Groan. Later. Not for breakfast.

A little later. (A few hours, anyway, and after a breakfast of apple slices and milk.)

Him: I want restaurant food.

Me: Groan. Give in. (Actually, there was a demand request for Cheetos prior to the restaurant food, but perhaps it was merely a ploy to get me to concede to the restaurant leftovers.)

We met the cousins for lunch yesterday, and Mister Noodle Face had all of two noodles at the restaurant. I really need to find a way to get him to behave while out. And to actually eat. In fact, I need to find a way to get him to eat, period. Before six p.m., preferably.

He has a helicopter fascination in which all items that find themselves in his grubby little paws are whirled about at great speed, the consequences of which could sometimes be disastrous. Especially in public. Or around expensive electronics.

But who can resist a spaghetti faced* child? It’s such a classic. Note the FOD** radius.

An hour or so later. Just finishing this post. A small child appears, a crinkly sound coming from behind his back.

Him: Know what I got? Know what I got?

Me: What?

Him: Suppwise! Cheetos. I got Cheetos!

Me: What are doing with the Cheetos?

Him: Opening dem.

Me: Did I say you could have those?

Him: Yes.

Me: I did not!

Him, ignoring my response: You open my Cheetos? Hey Mommy? You open my Cheetos?

Me: Groan. What do you say?

Him: Pweeeeeese.

*Why are my pictures so blurry? Don’t answer that. I don’t see anything in focus in these pictures. Whah, whah, whahhh.

**Foreign Object Debris (in some circles).

Bath time has become quite the event, chez sueeeus. We have a giant tub that has, until now, had very little use. I’m just not a soaker, much as the idea of candlelit baths with wine, roses, and soft music sounds appealing. I’m far too functional. Even if I try to soak, I invariably end up washing, and once washed there seems little point of remaining, so I get out, shower (one must rinse the residue, after all), and that’s that. So. Not much of a bather. But Harry, on the other hand, has quite taken to it. Boats, frogs, cups, bubbles. What could be better?

Another nice thing about having a palatial bathroom is that I can drag a body pillow in, lie down and rest while he’s playing bathing. Because these days? I’m tired. T.I.R.E.D. All.The.Time. Attributed to high progesterone, for which I am grateful, because it means that the pregnancy is progressing well.

Harry demonstrates the versatility of homespun bath goodness.

Yesterday I dropped by Costco to order a birthday cake for Mr. Gadget, what with his 40th birthday looming.  I was distraught, distraught, I say, to find that no longer is the white whipped frosting an option.  Heretofore, it has been the only reason to buy such a cake.  It requires a major occasion to justify the acquisition of a half-sheet cake.  It’s not the only unfavorable change, either.  For some reason they changed their take-and-bake pizza options from plain cheese (our family favorite), plain pepperoni, and combo to ‘gourmet’ meat lover (disgusting concoction loaded with an abominable amount of salty greasy meat products), ham/pineapple, and mozzarella/basil/tomato.  I would probably like the fresh basil kind, but I don’t think Mr. Gadget would go for it, and we generally end up with the ham/pineapple, which we like, but it just isn’t as good as the previous plain cheese*.  We tried the meat version, but had to scrape off all the meat to make it palatable.  Not to worry.  That meat found a home in a future meal in which it was not so overpowering.  So.  As devoted a Costco customer I am, these changes are not to my liking.

*~*~*~*~*

I cooked four chickens last night.  Costco had a buy one, get one free coupon, and one in this case is a two-pack.  So I had four chickens to deal with.  I’ve been pining for some nice home-made soup so decided to roast them up and then make stock with the remains.  I could only fit three in the oven, so I cooked the fourth in the pressure cooker.  Fully cooked whole chicken in 20 minutes.  Woot.  The other three took two hours.  Every time I do this, I tell myself not to do it again, ever, due to the mess and effort.  I’m not a big fan of skin peeling and decarcassing.  I figured I’d do it in one fell swoop and get it over with, though, rather than on four separate occasions.  So I cooked them all.   I won’t be doing that again soon.

*~*~*~*~*

We had chicken with mashed potatoes, and mushroom gravy for dinner last night.  I was going to do the gravy from scratch, using the roast drippings, but that would have meant waiting for the chicken to cook, and I decided we’d dine on the pressure cooked chicken instead.  So I used a poultry gravy mix and added fresh sauteed mushrooms.  Not long after, Harry said, “Mommy, you itch my back?”  I lifted his shirt to comply and was horrified to find a sheet of bright red rash covering his entire back.  I tore off his shirt and inspected the rest of him, and it was spreading to his chest.  Luckily I had bought a pack of Benadryl skin cream and had it on hand.  I doused him with it and gave him a dose of cold/allergy medicine, only to find, upon closer inspection of the lotion label, not to cover large areas of skin, and not to mix with any other antihistamine.   Oops.   I was ready to call the doctor and/or race to the ER, but the lotion started to take effect and he showed no signs of anaphylaxis, so I waited.  And Googled.  It’s obviously an allergic reaction, but I’m not sure if it was the mushrooms or the flavor enhancer additives in the gravy mix.  I think he’s had mushrooms in tiny quantity before, but he tried tasting one raw last night.  I wonder if it was the gravy.  It’s enough to scare me away from prepackaged foods for a while, even though he’s had plenty of convenience crap like mac & cheese, ravioli, and canned soups, all of which probably have those same additives.  I’m going to have to be even more vigilant with my label screening.  Meanwhile, I need to find the culprit.  I might try a scratch test tonight**.  That year of breast milk was supposed to shield him from this sort of thing.

*~*~*~*~*

Did I mention the latest exclamation heard shouted about the house?  This, from a three year old.  “What the HELL?”  You see, we let him watch the Spiderman movies**, all three of them, and in the last movie, Eddie Brock makes that exclamation when the black Spiderman (the dark side of Peter Parker) destroys his camera.  So it stands to follow that that is an appropriate expression for moments of frustration and consternation.  He says “Dammit” alot too.  I tell him these aren’t very nice words, or they’re grown-up words (and still not nice). 

*It sounds as though we eat a lot of pizza.  But we don’t.  Honestly.  It’s all relative, though, right?  Okay.  Truth.  Maybe once or twice a month.

**Please don’t call cee pee ess.

A certain someone turned 3 today. Three!

He still loves anything superhero.

But boxes never cease to entertain.

I want to write one of those fabulous posts that mothers write their children, but I think I’ll have to wait until I’m more inspired. Or at least in a different hormonal state.

I was going to put something in the title about being a good mother, as I was ruminating over the fact that I committed myself to accompanying one very big boy and two small boys to the Monster Truck Jam next weekend. At which time, the girls are having a hair day at the salon. That is, all the girls except me. So I was feeling the sacrifice and having a moment of martyrdom.  I would so much prefer getting chunky highlights and a fresh new do to sitting in an arena with thousands of people watching ridiculous behemoth vehicles and their antics.  Grave Digger will be there.  My nephew is VERY excited.  I even got pit passes so we could go early and take pictures among the vehicles on display.  And if they’re so inclined, they can stand in line for autographs.  I do hope they are not so inclined.  Hair day.  Truck day.  Hair day.  Truck day.  Such a martyr.

Then I heard those little feet making their way down the stairs, and I realized that those same little feet had been up the stairs for quite some time now, and very, very quiet. And the last time I’d seen those small feet, in fact, the small hands that accompany them were in possession of a tube of toothpaste. Albeit a child-friendly non-fluoridated Thomas the Train tube of toothpaste. But a tube of toothpaste all the same. A tube, I feared, the entire contents of which could well now be sloshing about in my son’s stomach. So. Awesome martyr-mom quickly replaced with lazy ignorant sorry excuse for a mother.

Did you brush your teeth?

Yes.

Is the toothpaste all gone?

No. (She masks a sigh of relief and continues the interrogation.)

Did you put the toothpaste back?

Yes.

What else were you doing?

I wash my hands.

Did you turn the water off?

Yes.

Did you make a big mess?

No.

Did you make a little mess?

Yes.

Okay. (I’m so proud of him for telling the truth.)

He’s going through a water obsession phase right now. Our fancy new fridge that we bought expressly for the child lock feature (okay, so we also got it with aesthetic considerations in mind as well) locks only the temperature control, but not the water and ice. So what’s the point in that? Now I have to keep a mindful eye on my child and teach him to leave it alone. It would be so much easier if it weren’t possible for him to get to the water until he’s smart enough to figure out how to override the lock, at which point in time he should well enough be able to obey when I say not to play with and waste water.

Child obedience. It’s a lofty goal. How does one actually get a child to obey? I think I might need to start recording Super Nanny again, for some pointers.  Or am I just expecting too much from a three year old?

…Mostly at bed time… 

1. Why?
2. Mommy, I not feel good.
3. I can’t.
4. I don’t want to go a bed.
5. I want chokkut.  (chocolate)
6. Mommy, I want joo-ooce.
7. Just a ‘lil tiny tiny bit.
8. Hey!  I got ideeeeee-uh.
9. Dammit*
10. Want to take a show? (pronounced like how)
11. Want to take a hot tub? (i.e., a bath)
12. I dinn’t.
13. No.
14. I done haffa go poddeee.  I’m good.
15. See?  I tole yewwwwww.
16. I jus’ kiddn’
17. I’m not <real name>.  I’m HARRY.
18. You’n teem ow (you’re in time out)
19. My special prize (surprise, as in gift or reward)
20. My sister gave it to me (does he mean his aunt, or does he know something I don’t know?)
21. I wanna peanut butter and jam sammich.  Jus’ reglar budder (regular butter, not peanut butter)
22. I’m not a jam-face.  YOU a jam face!
23. Oh crap**
24. Pooz me (excuse me)
25. Dat’s duh weeezun (that’s the reason)

What with all these twenty five things memes floating about, I thought I’d throw one in.  I sort of like the TFTTSMTT idea, but don’t want to think too much about things of that nature while I’m riding the high on my wave of mood stabilization.  I could quite likely compile a list based solely on commiserating items from others’ lists.  But I’m too lazy even for that.

*Not from me
**From me. Oops.

No.  Not that one.  (Although…)

This one. 

I’ve decided that mood stabilization does, indeed, work.  At least so far.  For me.  Sometimes I can feel the fringe of the battle raging within, but it’s only the fringe.  I know the battle is there, but I’m no longer on the front line under fire.  Instead, I’m tucked safely away in a watchtower.   Observing, but not being pummeled.

I like that.

Every night as my head hits the pillow, I try to think of the happiest moment of my day.  It’s such a good exercise, because it makes me think of all the moments of happiness, and weigh them against each other to decide which was the best.  So I fall asleep with happiness as the last thing on my mind.

Sometimes I’ll ask Mr. Gadget what his happiest moment was, but I think  he thinks it’s a trick question, so he tells me what he thinks I want to  hear, “Coming home after work, walking in the door, and seeing you and Harry.   Dear.”  I tell him it’s not a trick question, but he must not believe me, because he gives the same answer every time I ask.  (Of course, it is possible that that truly is the highlight of his day. I’m not complaining!)

Some of my happiest moments take place on mornings of days in which I stay home.  Early morning, in my office.  Eventually I hear soft steps making their way carefully down the stairs.  I hear the gentle tinkling sound of the safety gate opening and closing.  I hear little footsteps, padding towards the office.  And there he is, my sweet little man, groggy and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  Looking for me.  It makes the heart swell.  I open my arms, he climbs into my lap, and we have our morning conversation, which always goes like this:  “Did you wake up?”  I ask. “Yyahh…” he replies in his sweet young voice.  “Did you have a nice sleep?”   “Yyahh…”   “Did you have some dreams?”  “Yyahh…”  (And then sometimes we talk about spiders and he tells me of the time that he woke up screaming, thinking there was a spider crawling on his face, but it was just the curtain.  Or a spider on the curtain.  Or a dream about a spider on the curtain.  Or all of these things.)

And he lets me snuggle him for a few moments.  Those are the moments I love best, because usually he has so many other things he’d rather do than let me hold him close and bury my nose in his hair.  I treasure those moments, fleeting as they are.

Christmas Eve coincides with Mr. Gadget’s eldest brother’s birthday. Typically, the Gadget side of the family convenes at Grandma Gadget’s home, and we indulge in much food and celebrate with birthday cake and presents for Uncle D. Uncle D is now 52, but is developmentally around 10. We try to make a big deal of his birthday so that he doesn’t feel as though his special day is bypassed and overshadowed by Christmas. He lives in care of his mother, and is generally a bit snarly in nature. He’s a big giant of a man. It can throw one off, to find oneself in a social situation with him without a prior explanation as to his condition. Once that is understood, all is well, and one can simply adjust one’s perceptions to accommodate the incongruent choices of words and actions.

This year I wanted to bring the birthday cake. I have a collection of Best Recipe books, which the engineer in me loves for the detailed descriptions of all the tests taken to reach the conclusion that these are, indeed, the best recipes. I’ve been looking forward to making the cover cake. It’s a beauty to behold. That is, when ATK bakes it and posts it on the cover of their best of the best for 2008 book. But when I make it. Well. Another story. I went to the trouble of purchasing cake flour, rather than all purpose. And that beautiful frosting? I followed the instructions to the letter. And it never peaked. I had to try again, and this time reached soft peak stage, but not firm peak. By this time, however, Mr. Gadget was tapping his watch telling me it’s time to GO, alright already, and besides, I was out of sugar anyway.

Harry did his part. Isn’t that the best part of helping in the kitchen? Getting to lick the whisk or spoon?

I thought sprinkles might forgive some of the shortcomings in the icing.

I will say, I think the way I wrapped the cake made up for all its other deficiencies.

It did taste good. The lemon custard filling was divine. The cake itself wasn’t as fluffy as I imagined it should be, though. I’ve made 79 cent box mix cakes that are much fluffier and taste better.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Inspired by the holidays, I decided to start a new tradition. Christmas Eve cookies. An earlier attempt at making rolled and cut holiday cookies proved to be altogether disappointing. Not enough beautiful product to show after far too much effort. It’s come to light recently that I am just not much of a baker. Or else I am just plain lazy. Ahem. The original rolled and cut cookies got two thumbs up for taste from Mr. Gadget, so I thought that I would take the recipe, double it, make plain round cookies, and put the effort into the fun part — the icing. A single recipe is supposed to make three dozen cookies. I doubled the recipe and this is what I got.

Mind you, I did make several giant cookies so that I could personalize them for the family members.

Superman Harry was very excited to see his special surprise cookie.

I tried to put clouds and a butterfly on mine.

After returning home from Grandma Gadget’s, some of my side of the family arrived on Christmas Eve. I loved seeing little shoes so thoughtfully lined up next to each other near the door.

There was karaoke. Crooning and rocking out, both.

There was a magic show.

Complete with an amazing disappearing act.

We said the magic words. Abracadabra! Shazzam! And they magically reappeared!

There were smiles and moments of bliss (and mountains of presents).

There were moments of exhaustion. Is that not the cutest alligator you ever did see? I had a stuffed alligator when I was young, so when we saw this at IKEA, I couldn’t resist. Overindulgent mother. I know, I know. Overindulgent paparazzi mother. I know. I know.

Now he can learn the art of paparazzi too. Boys were happy with their toys.

Girls were happy with their high fashion ensembles.

I think this is the most ingenious toy ever. It’s a Thomas the Train Aquadoodle. It has a felt tip pen and roller that you fill with water. You write on the mat with the water pen. The train has a sensor and follows the tracks. The instructions say to keep the radius around 3 inches, but Harry likes Thomas to work for it, so he makes swirls and impossible junctions. Thomas gets a bit confused, but chugs merrily along the tracks. The tracks fade as the water dries, and you can do it all over again. FUN! Ingenious!

And as for me? I sent Mr. Gadget some email links to photos of trinkets I like, so he would know my style.

They are styled after David Yurman. Gorgeous. Unfortunately, I didn’t do the research and read the fine print, and it’s silver color, not sterling silver. I prefer white gold (such a primadonna), but sterling will do. Anything else though? Can’t quite handle it. So. I may not be able to wear them, due to skin sensitivities. He got them in pink and green. I love them! Should I tell him I can’t wear the earrings? I didn’t tell him that I wanted earrings, so he was trying to go above and beyond, bless his heart. Now that I discover they’re not sterling, I also realize they are overpriced! What to do.

Sometimes, though… My Mr. Gadget? He delivers. This is the Rolls Royce of microwave ovens. I absolutely LOVE it. Being married to an appliance man has its benefits, for sure.

Christmas is a fabulous time full of love, food, family, and fun. I love having so many children and family members around. (And hats off to all mothers of more than one. Good LORD, how do you manage?) But when they all leave and we’re back to our quiet little threesome, I must say it’s a welcome and blissful feeling.

Was it Seals and Crofts who said that?

Three years ago, around this time of year, my child swirled and rolled in my enormous belly. I would sit in my chair and watch the undulations, marveling at the wonder of it all.

I’ve been remembering, and missing, those fleeting moments from the fullest bloom of pregnancy, when I could feel my child moving inside me. It was a glorious experience, for which I am ever grateful. I try to hold on to the memories of those feelings, and to relive for a moment those experiences, but they are fading. I would so much like to have another chance. A healthy and stress-free pregnancy, and to savor each and every moment. But I know that if I were to pass that way again, I would still worry. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. But I like to think that I will savor each and every moment inasmuch as possible. I’m not giving up, just yet, but I have to accept that I may never pass that way again.

It’s nothing short of remarkable, what can happen in three years. Who knew that the child within me would grow to nearly ten and a half pounds before his arrival in this world? And in less than three years, grow into forty seven pounds of boisterous little boyhood.

He looks so grown up. It’s hard to believe that he came from me. I love how he’s grown, that he’s learned so much, that he has so much to say, and such imagination. Tonight he was telling me, “I’m wukking,” “at da offiss, on the pooter,” “because I have a badge.” (Some mornings he pleads with me to take him to my office instead of daycare, and I tell him that he can’t come to my office because he doesn’t have a badge.)

I’m looking forward to introducing him to the magic of Christmas. He loves the lights. And of course he loves buttons. His special job is to turn the Christmas tree lights on when we get home, and off before we go to bed.

This journey called motherhood is the joy of my life.  As I knew it would be.  I am so blessed.

Making gingerbread houses is one of those childhood memories that Mr. Gadget wanted to share with our little gadget guy. It wasn’t such a big deal when I was growing up. I don’t think a gingerbread house could survive construction in the home and surroundings of my youth, what with nine of us storming the castle on a constant basis. I do remember wonderful smells and treats around Christmas time. I especially remember a decadent Christmas in which my mother made cookies AND peanut brittle, and set it OUT, in dishes. I think we could even HAVE some. It was a magical memory.

So. A gingerbread house. I bought a kit. The first and last. If ever we do this again, I’ll make my own icing and gingerbread, or just use graham crackers. At least then it would taste good. That commercially packaged stuff was just gross. Blech. Not that anybody really eats gingerbread houses. Do they? Everything will be long stale and hard by the time Christmas comes. I think the young gadget, oh wait, we now call him Harry*. I think Harry had a good time.

*Harry Osborn, Peter Parker’s best friend, and son of Mr. Osborn who became the Green Goblin.

He tells me, “I’m Harry. I’m not <real name>, Silly.” <pause> “Just kidding!” <pause> “No, I’m Harry. I yam Harry.” <giggles> <eyes twinkle>

I love this age. I’m excited about making Christmas magical for him.  Next year we’ll bake cookies and decorate them.  We will all enjoy that, and this time, they’ll taste good too.