Worry

I worry about my Peanuts so much.

Peanut One, especially.

He's having a tough time right now and doesn't have the words to tell me what is bothering him.

It feels like it is literally killing me to watch him go through this.

I want to fix it. I want to make it better. I want to make it go away.

What I realize is that I can't. Even if I could, something else would come up.

I need to merely be with him, let him know he's loved; care for him and let him know I'm here. I need to advocate when necessary, yet not step into everything. I need to relax and be a conscious parent instead of reacting and being a dazed parent.

It's hard.

Thankfulness

Each night we say prayers with the Peanuts. After a few of the standards, I ask them to tell me what they are thankful for today. Peanut One has had a tough time lately naming anything and tends to look around his room and state whatever his eyes fall on.

I'm thankful for . . .

geckos,

pirates,

my rug. . .

This morning, after a Sunday of snow in Atlanta (on March 1, nonetheless!), I woke Peanut One with the news that school was cancelled.

He grinned, rolled over and mumbled something.

"What did you say, honey?"

"Thank you God!"

At least he has his priorities straight.

So True

I was playing with Peanut Two yesterday and seeing how many of her senses she knew.

I asked her what she saw with and she pointed to her eyes.

I asked her what she heard with and she pointed to her ears.

I asked her what she smelled with and she pointed to her nose.

I asked her what she felt with and she look at me with her question mark face.

She thought about it for a while.

Then she pointed to her heart.

So true. . .

Lost Children, Lost Parents

I'm sure you've heard that Nebraska has recently run into some challenges with a law it passed in July. Short story is they agreed their state would be a safe haven, allowing parents to drop children off at hospitals if they were overwhelmed and couldn't care for their child (for more info, go here). The last of the fifty states to pass such a law, Nebraska lawmakers interpreted it quite leniently - defining 'child' as anyone under 18.

Since July, 19 children (22 months to 18 years, I believe), have been dropped off at hospitals. Some parents and grandparents even drove in from out of state to leave their children.

Nebraska's answer was to quickly amend the definition of child to mean anyone 3 days old or younger. This moved their state's definition from the most lenient to the most restrictive.

To do the math for you, none of the abandoned children and their overwhelmed parents would have been allowed refuge under the revised law.

19 children would still be living in a situation that was apparently so overwhelming for their caregivers that they chose to give them away.

I'm not sure what the answer is, but clearly status quo wasn't working for these parents and children.

As a parent myself with an abundance of resources at my fingertips, things feel crazy for me at times. I can't imagine what the parents of these 19 children were facing and how stuck they must have felt.

Something is wrong.

I'm sure we can do better.

What do you think?

Candy Goblin

Tonight Peanut One and I went outside to throw some stuff in the compost bin (perhaps a failed experiment, but we keep trying!).

I asked Peanut Two if she wanted to join us, as the trip to the bin is undoubtedly a favorite adventure.

She coyly snuggled under the blanket on the couch and said "no".

Peanut One and I did our duty and came back, no less than four minutes later, to find Peanut Two on the couch, under the blanket, with a handful of chocolate candies in her lap.

The little urchin must have sprinted to the kitchen, climbed the stool, grabbed the candy and sprinted back to the couch in record time.

A girl after my own heart!

Fill 'Er Up

I sat on the floor last night as the Peanuts were doing everything possible to avoid getting ready for bed.

Suddenly Peanut One came charging at me with a huge hug.

I hugged him back and then he started blowing vigorously into my shoulder as he still held on with his hug.

"What are you doing Peanut One?"

"Filling you up with love Mom."

Does it get any better than that?

A Rose By Any Other Name

When we chose Peanut One's name (while not being super creative) we thought it was a bit different and surely wouldn't be the next Owen or Olivia or Madison.

He started at a new school this year. Whose cubby is next to his? A girl with the same name! As she was named after her grandfather, we had a little laugh with her parents and shrugged it off.

Today though, I opened the Pottery Barn catalogue. There, on the heavily monogrammed products, was Peanut One's name emblazoned for all to see.

Just as Owen was splattered all over the pages last year.

I must admit defeat.

We should have named him Bob.

The Little Sneaker

On our good day days, Peanut Two is incredibly easy to parent as she is an independent, content little gal.

On all of those other days, she continues doing her own thing and if it isn't in sync with whatever else is going on drama ensues. On top of that, she doesn't seem to respond to sticker charts, praise or other types of good-behavior tactics that worked so well with Peanut One.

Because of this - and because quite frankly I just dread it - I've been dreading toilet training with her. It was relatively easy with Peanut One, but he loved sticker charts and once we figured out the exact right amount of celebration he needed for each accomplishment (not too much, not too little) he swiftly moved to underwear. For whatever reason, though, it inspired anxiety in me. I thought about it way too much and worried about it way too much.

Thus, I've been completely avoiding the idea of toilet training Peanut Two. Even though she has had all the signs of readiness, I've had in my mind that we'll just wait until the New Year.

Yesterday I picked her up at play-school and she had a substitute teacher who was much more communicative than her regular teacher. Apparently, the little stinker Peanut Two has been using the potty at school.

The substitute told me that she walked right in like she always did it and went to the bathroom. She tried to praise the little Peanut, but Peanut Two blew it off, shrugging her shoulders in a blase way.

I'm wondering now . . . what else has she got up her sleeve?

So That's How It Works

Peanut One has been increasingly interested in how babies are made. A year or so ago he questioned me and I said that Daddies and Mommies make babies.

He asked if we made them on the grill or in the oven.

About six months ago he asked how babies got out of their Mommy's bellies. I told him the Mom went to the hospital and the Doctor helped get the baby out.

That sufficed for a few months.

Now he is persistently asking how babies get into their Mommy's bellies. I try to tell him:

That is hard to explain to a 4 year old.

You just learn how to do it when you are old enough.

I can't really tell you.

Nothing works. . .

Finally tonight I whispered in his ear, because whispering seems to make any explanation better, and told him that Daddy met Mommy, he loved her, we got married and then made a baby.

He thought about it for a while and whispered back that he got it.

Then he told me he was going to get a baby, shove it in his friend's ear and push it down into her belly.

Works for me. . .

The Thrilla' From the South

Peanut One has gotten really into dancing lately except that only a mother could call it dancing. It is really flailing, combined with jumping and hopping, combined with the head shaking thing that white boys do when they boogie.

Tonight I put on 'Love Is A Battlefield' by Pat Benatar, in honor of the haircut I just got which is a little shorter than I wanted. Peanut One began 'dancing' as Peanut Two looked on in awe. Suddenly he grabbed his crotch a la Michael Jackson, threw up his other hand and then continued dancing. Huh? Has he been watching this on You Tube?!

Thanks Mom

My mom and I have had many ups and downs over the years (perhaps, as any good roller coaster, more downs than ups). While things are pretty stable now, she often reminds me that there was a time that she thought we would never be able to speak again. I must admit I've spent a LOT of time trying to understand our relationship and imagining what it was like for her as a mother and wife when I was young.

The other day Peanut One was rifling through my things, as usual. He came upon an old journal of mine and quickly raced through the house with it shedding bits and pieces of paper I had stuffed in there at one time or another. I thought I caught it all and put everything back to rest.

I must have missed something, because the next day I found a card J had put on my dressing table. It wasn't dated, but was clearly written to me when I was in college - about 20 years ago. I opened it up and found it was from my mom. Apparently she and I had a big blow-out before I went back to school and she wrote me a letter lamenting our relationship and wondering what had gone wrong. That, in itself, was surprising enough - even my mom would admit she's not the most open person with her emotions.

What followed was a gift that I probably never appreciated when I read it as an angry girl-woman unable to yet see her mother as a human with a path of her own created and driven by people and events I hardly knew of.

What followed was the most open and emotional expression of her past and her path that I have ever received from my mom. I have read it over and over during the last few days and imagine responding to her letter now.

Dear Mom,

I know it took me a while to respond, but thank you so much for your letter. It means the world to me to hear you express yourself this way and I only wish that I had more letters like these to look back upon. Please write back.

Love,

Me

Jabber Jaw

When I pick Peanut One up at school it is difficult to get a sense of his day. The most he'll usually give (without massive prodding and interrogation) is whether he liked his lunch or not.

Peanut Two is another story. She started play-school a few weeks ago and we now have a running commentary the whole way home about what she did today, what she said, what he said, what he did, what she said, what her teacher said, what they ate, what they will do tomorrow . . . .

In fact, she is upstairs in her bed right now still talking about things to herself.

Before I had kids I never thought boys and girls were different at young ages.

I was wrong.

Serves Us Both Right

J was brought up under the long-standing Catholic tradition of being late for mass and staying until the final blessing.

I was brought up under the long-standing Catholic tradition of arriving to mass on-time and jetting out right after communion.

We were both brought up under the even longer-standing widespread Northern tradition of having mass be about 45 minutes.

This has made it very tense in the Magical Mansion each Sunday. You see, I like the beginning of mass. It's the only part of mass that is different each week. The latter half of mass is the same . . .

. . . every week . . .

. . . week after week. . .

Now I know there is value in this repetition, but I just can't stand the monotony of it all without a little sugar to start it all off.

Unfortunately it seems Catholic churches in the South don't feel they've held a true mass unless it is well over an hour long. Thus unless I am willing to herd cats all Sunday morning AND try to get two children to sit quietly forEVER, we are always late for church. Very late. In fact, I don't think anyone EVER gets there after us.

It seems we've gotten our comeuppance now. We enrolled Peanut One in Sunday School and today learned the schedule.

Kids need to be there at 9:30 - the start of class.

Kids need to be picked up at 10:45 - the end of class.

Seems like God won this time - or the South, depending on how you look at it.

Another Strike Against Mom

Act One, Scene One (Contemplative silence in car as mom and son drive home.)

Peanut One: Mom, I'm beginning to like Dad better than you.

Me: Really . . . why?

Peanut One: Well . . . he carries me around more than you do.

Me: Hmmm.

Peanut One: And Mom . . . do you have any wood?

Me: No, I don't.

Peanut One (disappointed): Oh.

I Don't Recall

Oh how much I loathe love the: cheap plastic toys, coloring book pages, pieces of paper, 'art' projects, junk creative expressions my kids bring home from school or parties.

I admit it.

I tend to sometimes toss it.

Well . . . a lot of times.

I keep the projects that actually demonstrate some learning, that the Peanuts really love, and that touch my heart or funny-bone in some way. That still leaves about ten million tossable items a week.

As the Peanuts get more aware, I am beginning to have empathy for Roger Clemens, Bill Clinton and OJ Simpson:

Peanut: Mom, where are my two big bags full of rolled-up paper telescopes I made?

Me: hmmm

Peanut: Mom, I put them right in the middle of the living room here in my special spot!

Me: Oh, did you?

Peanut (agitated): Mom, did you throw them away?

Me: I'm not sure.

Peanut: Mom, where are they?!

Me: I don't recall.

Peanut (clamoring through the recycle bin): Maaaaahm!

Me: I can't remember.

Anyone know a good lawyer?!

Halloween Huh?!

Peanut One wants to be a hyena for Halloween. How on earth am I going to find a hyena costume - because I am not making one.

When he told me this two months ago, I assumed it would pass.

It hasn't.

Today I started my subconscious campaign talking about how it would be so fun if the Peanuts could dress up as characters from Winnie the Pooh.

Peanut Two loved the idea and claimed she would be Piglet and Peanut One would be Tigger.

Peanut One thought it was a great idea also.

For next year.

This year he wants to be a hyena.

Growing Up

Peanut One started a new school a few weeks ago. J and I were very concerned about how he would fare in a new environment (worrying about the Peanuts seems to be one of our favorite pastimes). We were all nervously excited as the big day approached.

He has loved it, thank goodness.

Something I've realized during these transitional weeks is that he is gaining control over his emotions. It is a bitter-sweet evolution to watch.

On one hand, it is exciting and moving to see him growing up - able to take a worry/anxiety/uncomfortable situation, add a deep breath and bust his way through it without tears or whining.

On the other hand, Peanut One's sensitivity is one of his strongest assets. As we developed our special mother-son relationship over the past four years, I often imagine him as an grown man with the sensitivity of a little boy - the willingness to wear his feelings on his sleeve and unabashedly claim his emotions.

Is this slipping away?

Is he on the path to monosyllabic grunts instead of conversation?

Am I losing my little sweetheart?

If so, who will he become?

What's That Mommy?

The other day I was holding Peanut Two and she began her latest endearing activity. If she is relaxing and her favorite bunny is not around, she'll leap into my arms, stick her thumb in her mouth and begin rubbing my shirt between her fingers. It's pretty sweet.

This particular day I had on a tank top and Peanut Two began rubbing my arm instead of my shirt. Her hand slid down as she relaxed and her thumb and forefinger started touching the oh, so glamorous skin under my upper arm.

Her big eyes opened and she looked at me inquisitively.

What's that Mommy?

Thanks for noticing my under-arm flab, girl. I'll remember this when you are older!

1, 2, 3

While I never understood it, counting to three has always gotten the Peanuts to do whatever I wanted them to. The big whammy after three is that I pick them up and take them to the dreaded destination.

Trying to get them into their car seats . . . one. . .two. . .done

Trying to get them to lay down to change a diaper . . . one. . .tw-. . .done

Trying to get them to the bathroom to brush teeth. . . one. . .done

So I just went with it and it has become a way to get through the day sometimes. Even Peanut Two got in on the action, urging Peanut One to do whatever she had to do before I got to three.

All has changed at the Magic Mansion.

Last week, Peanut Two started getting brave. I'd be trying to get her in the car seat and she'd wait until the very last bit of 'three' was out of my mouth, poised and tense, and then dive into her seat before I could get her.

Then one day when I was not pressed for time and didn't start counting but instead waited patiently, she told me - "you need to count, Mommy!".

Today, in a mad rush to get everyone out the door, I smelled a dirty diaper. I quickly got the changing gear and called her to me. She didn't come, but stood there looking at me expectantly. Finally, I started the counting.

One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .

. . . and she was off! Peanut Two started tearing around the house as I tried to grab her, enjoying every minute.

I guess it's time to find a new tactic.

Peanut One Asks

I'm at the beach with the Peanuts and having trouble with my internet access. While somewhat freeing to not have the option to go online all week, I'm glad to be back up.

I thought today I'd share some questions from Peanut One - in case you have any brilliant answers. As a solo parent this week, I'm sort of stymied!

What makes the wind?

Who is meaner, pirates or robbers?

Could a pirate beat Shere Khan (the tiger from Jungle Book)?

Who could crunch 139 people?

What if the kids had to throw their food and

knock the grownups off their seats?

What came first, fire trucks, police cars or ambulances?

As you can tell, I need some help!