Mr. Button

Over the last year, I have been absolutely amazed by Jonas’ language growth. To go from using a few words to full sentences, paragraphs and even stories has been such an incredible thing to watch. Of course being the sponge he is as his vocabulary ever-grows, we must be careful of what we say. Perhaps that is why our son sometimes sounds a bit similar to a little old lady.

I have been known to use the phrase “oopsy daisy,” much to my husband’s chagrin. He firmly agrees with “Notting Hill.” To paraphrase Julia Robert’s character, “That’s a phrase used only by little old ladies or girls with pigtails.” Or apparently 3-year-old boys. Feeling it had directional significance, Jonas soon morphed it into “upsy daisy” before creatively stepping it up a notch, believing it should work in the opposite direction as well. He can now be heard saying, “downsy daisy” as he pulls down his pants or puts down a toy. Couple this with the fact that his favorite expression is “Actually…” and he told me earlier today, “Mommy, I’ve been thinking about going to Chicago…,” and suddenly I’m beginning to wonder if this child is 3 or 83. Maybe he’s our very own Benjamin Button. But, I suppose in the grand scheme of things, having him talk like a granny is preferred to that of a trucker.

Strength

During a garage sale adventure a while back, I came across an item I always wanted as a child, but never got. So, as most parents do, I decided to live vicariously through my children and purchase said item for their amusement (and mine, too). It would be a few years before they reached the appropriate age. I tucked it away for another time until Jonas discovered it during one of his pillaging adventures. He begged to use it though he had absolutely no idea what it really was. “We’ll save it for your birthday,” I promised him, thinking it would be a fun activity for the kids and adults alike.

The big day arrived and with much excitement, we dusted off the Snoopy Sno-Cone Maker and put it to use. We quickly realized that this “child’s toy” was meant for an abnormally strong kid or a willing adult. And so, my friend Carrie and I proceeded to push and crank until we produced enough shaved ice to satisfy the impatient 3-year-olds. The result: 3 cups of juice with a hint of ice, 4 tired biceps and 1 blister.

I believe Snoopy will go back into the box for now. Sure, he will probably make a return visit on another birthday, but not until Jonas has the strength to bench 100 pounds. It’s funny how I don’t remember Snoopy requiring freakish strength or calloused hands when we were children. Or maybe we were just tougher back then because let’s face it: these delicate writer’s hands were made for typing, not strenuous sno-cone making.

Trophy

Over a year ago, I asked the doctor if we should try to potty train Jonas ahead of Kenna’s arrival. “Nope,” he told me without hesitation. “When he’s ready, he’ll let you know. Until then, just relax.” As much as I would have liked having just one child in diapers, I took his advice. We didn’t push the topic with Jonas. If he showed interest: great. If not, he’d get there some day. We went merrily on our way. During Kenna’s early months, I didn’t mind him still being in diapers because I didn’t have to worry about emergency potty visits at inopportune moments. So, we kept chugging along with the “relax” attitude. The whole move thing came up and we thought: why push it now when his whole world will be turned upside with the move?

But then it happened. I tried to stay calm, but the move was done, Kenna was settled and two of his friends who are his age mastered it. Maybe we should start “encouraging” him a bit. You see, he had gotten to the point where he would pee with our guidance, but the number two just wasn’t happening. Perhaps he just needed some further assistance to get there. So the bribing began. There was candy, money and visits to the “train store” (a.k.a. Barnes and Noble that has a Thomas layout). Each would stir up enthusiasm for a bit, but eventually fade away. We resorted to getting a frog potty chair, letting him sit in front of the TV while he tried to do his business. And still nothing. Then I offered something nearly irresistible to him. He was running low on toothpaste and I asked if he would like to get some Thomas toothpaste at the store. His eyes lit up. He jumped up and down with excitement. He sat down on that froggy potty and squeezed with all his might. The only problem was his cheeks seemed to clench just as they hit that chair. To both our dismay, we did not get the toothpaste.

So, we go to the doctor for Jonas’ three-year exam and he asks, “How’s potty training coming?” With an exasperated laugh, I say, “Not as well as I’d like it to be.” So I ask again, “Is there something we should do? Or should we just relax and let it happen in his time.” The doc looks at me and smiles, “Yep. When he’s ready, it will happen.” But why can’t he be ready now? Maybe because he’s scared or uncertain, or he realizes this is a big deal and he kind of likes the control thing. Or maybe it’s not about that psycho-babble at all. Perhaps he just doesn’t get it yet. Maybe we do just need to chill out and in time we’ll finally get there. And when it does happen, we shall spare no expense as we proudly and with great satisfaction present him with his trophy of accomplishment: Thomas toothpaste.

Front Row Seat

A year ago today, Kenna Grace made her speedy entrance into the world. She came equipped with the abilities to sleep, cry, nurse and poop…and often did them in that order. In just 12 months time, she can now crawl, stand and nearly walk. She has begun talking, signing a handful of words, giving hugs and blowing kisses. She can feed herself, drink from a straw and use a spoon (sort of). She has a knack for frustrating her brother, sensing when the gate guarding the stairs is down and teasing her dad. She has developed a sense of humor, a love for cats and a special place in our hearts.

I once contemplated birthdays and thought it strange that we celebrate the person who didn’t have a choice, but to be born. After all, the mother really did the work of carrying and birthing the child. Shouldn’t her labor be celebrated? But now, after seeing all these milestones in such a short amount of time, it’s hard to imagine why we wouldn’t celebrate this new, young life. I know that since the earth’s inception thousands of years ago, billions of people have reached these same milestones. But does that make it any less special? Of course not. This is a new life. A new person’s story. And I’m so glad I have a front row seat to watch it unfold. Happy Birthday, Kenna. May you have many, many, many more to come.

Monday

I have dried pumpkin on my, ahem, chest, snot on my shoulder and syrup in my hair. My patience left me hours ago, taking with it any energy I had. I'm afraid my sanity may not be far behind. My to-do list keeps growing, yet all I can do is repeatedly wonder: is it Friday yet?

Mealtime

If there’s one thing I’ve learned to do as a parent, it’s how to eat my own words. It began with rescinding my “no co-sleeping” statement, as both kids shared our room and even our bed at times. I figured at 2 a.m., certain concessions could be allowed because I really do love sleep. From there, I had to re-think not bribing my son to use the potty. Since then, he has received gummy worms, Starbursts and even pennies to do the deed. You’d think I had learned my lesson with the first child and would reconsider being a glutton for eaten words. Instead, I swore that baby #2 would not reject the bottle at 3 months as her brother did. Yet, we got busy, nursing was simpler and the bottles have been collecting dust for nearly 8 months. So, perhaps I should not be surprised that I am once again going back on what I stated in the child-free times of yesteryear. But now it is the mother-load of all words that I must chew, swallow and digest. And it’s all because of that minivan that’s parked in our driveway.

Yes, practicality won out. Please refrain from blurting out the I-told-you-so’s or the eye rolls. Trust me; there has been plenty eye rolling, him-hawing and rationalization going on in the Church household. Yet, in the end, we felt it was time to make the “practical choice” (read: choice lacking any fun) and become the new owners of a vehicle loved by soccer moms, pitbulls with lipstick and the mature in years. As we feast on our meal of once uttered phrases, we realize that in the grand scheme of things, the vehicle one drives doesn’t necessarily define oneself. In reality, it doesn’t matter, but principle can be hard to swallow. I mean at least it’s just a car. We’re not talking toy guns and Barbie dolls. As for those, they will NEVER be in the hands of my children….

Shadow

Kenna has a new love and it’s Thomas the Train. This girl gets such a kick out pushing those little wooden trains around the track. She even makes train noises through her pacifier. But why, out of all the toys we have, has she chosen these as her new love? Is it because she is showing tomboy tendencies at a young age? Perhaps, having discarded pink, frilly toys, she is the youngest member of the women’s lib movement? Nah. It’s simply because she is learning how to be her brother’s 2-foot, 3-dimensional shadow—a role I once mastered.

As kids, I idolized my brother. I spent countless hours playing with his semi-trucks as my dolls collected dust. In Jr. High, I took up golf because he liked it so much. As an early teen, I often played Nintendo and listened to Guns ‘N Roses in his room, while he was out with his friends. Yet, while I longed to follow in his footprints, he got a kick out of giving me rug burns and hitting me in the eye with a driver. He would even force me to go down to the basement first, so if any monsters lurked in the dark unknown, they would consume me as he ran back upstairs to safety.

Now, I see those same traits in Jonas who, much like Josh, is teaching Kenna that life isn’t fair, pain is inevitable and sibling love often hurts. And, much like me, she takes it in stride, dusts off her wounds and gets right back up there for more. So it might sound as if younger siblings aren’t the sharpest crayon in the box…that our carpeting doesn’t quite go wall to wall…that we may be gluttons for punishment. In reality, we are specialists in persevering, leading experts in forgiveness, slayers of basement-dwelling monsters (you’re welcome, Josh).