Tag Archives: Little Ones

DUS DORGE!

9 Replies

I’ve written about my quirky “middle child” George and his very distinctive turns of phrase. And I know I really should be working on this with him now that he’s approaching age five… But I’m sorry – it’s just so damn cute.

I dread the day when he stops saying “Hey AY-body!” (“Hey everybody!“) I’ve started a list of favorites in my head so I don’t forget them:

elebator and eccalator (elevator and escalator)

Ice wah’er COLD (ice water)

Pinkie bank (piggy bank)

EEEmember? (remember?)

Ah OR did! (I already did!)

Miss Kelfer (Mrs. Kelleher – his teacher)

Slow ho (slow poke – I KNOW!)

Ah don wan be AY-thing. I wan be DUS DORGE! (I don’t want to be anything. I want to be just George! – in response to a suggested game of pretend)

See Mai – you gah do lak dat! (See Mommy – you have to do it like that!)

Ah don know fer eat! (I don’t know what I want to eat.)

Last time ago… (a long time ago…)

Ah lak a zert! (I like dessert!)

Notice the trend of exclamation points? My boy is quite vehement  in his self expression. A neighborhood friend with a son the same age calls this patois, George’s “preschool jive.”

Eleanor is endlessly entertained by my imitations of George. As am I (since I find MYSELF endlessly entertaining). So we tend to repeat his little sayings until they become part of our daily lexicon. Not great for teaching him proper English…

But not everything George says could be classified as preschool jive. His speech is sometimes quite clear. But he generally makes up for clarity with hilarity. For example, this exchange that took place as we encountered a miasma of mixed perfume scents in the cosmetics department of Macy’s:

Eleanor: It smells like cooking in here.

Me: Do you think it smells like “cookies” or “cooking?”“

Eleanor: I think it smells like cooking.

Me: I think it smells like incense.

George: I think it smells like fashion.

This just may be my favorite thing that anyone has ever said… So I think I’ll end with that, AND a clip I posted recently of my favorite thing that anyone has ever done:

Oh George…I don’t know anyone like you. You’re a true original.

Where Did the Week Go?! (Alternatively Titled: Oliver Turns SIX!)

21 Replies

All I posted this week was a list of OTHER people’s posts that I liked? That’s just sad.

But I have to say, I’ve been pretty busy with setting up the new Style Key West website. And you, know – being a mom and all the usual stuff. I’ve actually just gone to bed at a normal hour a couple of nights this week instead of catching up on my blog reading. Selfish! I swear, I think those two days of lying around in bed after surgery spoiled me. It’s like I think I should have time to just relax and read books at night or something.

Whatever – everyone is busy, there aren’t enough hours in the day, and we all wonder exactly what we did during those years between leaving school and settling down. Why weren’t we traveling the world, writing a novel, learning to sew, founding Etsy or Google or something… Me? I spent a lot of time shopping. Wasted youth…

But back to the present… Yeah – I totally dropped the ball this past week. And it’s not like I didn’t have anything to write about either. I mean Oliver turned SIX! He’s losing teeth left and right and his speech is improving like gangbusters and he’s as cute as all…another cliche I can’t come up with. (Side note: does it bother you when people end sentences with prepositions? Because “with which I cannot come up” just doesn’t sound right.)

But back to Oliver… He’s SIX! I did post some footage of his new bike. But it was George riding (crashing) it. So maybe that doesn’t count. Here is a picture I was able to catch the other day.

Check out those training wheels! He went out with his Dad to pick out his bike a couple of weeks before his actual birthday, but that was the big present. The timing hasn’t been ideal for me since people recovering from abdominal surgery tend to shy away from chasing novice bike riders up and down the street all afternoon… But now that it’s been a few weeks, I don’t dread those few hours of daylight between school ending and dinner time.

Seriously though – who buys their child a bike immediately after the primary care giver (and watcher of children playing outside) has surgery? Oh yeah – that would be my husband.

Here is the timeline:

Friday, 3/11: Kate has abdominal surgery

Saturday, 3/12: Kate can barely move around the house

Sunday, 3/13: Oliver spends some time riding another little boy’s bike, Chris gets really excited and says, “I think we need to buy Oliver a bike today,” and Kate pops two more Percocet before saying, “GREAT IDEA!“

Monday, 3/14: Chris goes back to work

The rest of the week: Kate spends every afternoon outside, teaching Oliver to ride his new bike.

Epilogue: Ouch.

What is wrong with this time line?

Ah well – lessons learned. I won’t have surgery a few days before buying the twins their first bikes.

Chris and I don’t always think things through as well as we should – but it all generally works out well enough. And we’re so proud of that little boy. I mean look at that face!

He’s six… How is that possible when just yesterday he looked like this?

And now I’m tearing up. Too many glasses of wine. One should never drink and blog (or comment…or something). That’s a well known PSA right? Well – it should be.

I think that’s quite enough for me tonight. Blogging or wine? I’ll decide in a minute – but I’m putting my money on blogging.

Hope you have a wonderful weekend and I’ll be back on Monday to let you know what brilliance other people are contributing to the blogosphere in Monday’s Links. And then maybe I’ll have something of my own to say a day or two after that. It could happen…

On Farting and Aging…

13 Replies

I think I’ve mentioned before that we don’t even bother with the cuter, less crude terms for passing gas in my house. Since I, personally never brought it up, my children first learned what this bodily function was called from my husband. And no amount of “call it ‘tooting’ please” admonishing has any effect on this state of affairs.

So I’d like to wish Chris a happy 38th birthday today by reporting two conversations I had with the twins in the car earlier on the subjects of farting and aging.

Discussion #1

Eleanor: I farted. Hee-hee.

Me: Sweetie say, “excuse me” or keep it to yourself.

Eleanor: Mommy, you don’t fart. Daddy says you never do.

Me: Everyone does. Some of us just keep it to ourselves.

Eleanor: I like farting.

Me: Yes, I’m aware of this.

George: I don’t like farting. It’s gross. [point of interest: this is a lie – he just likes to disagree with his sister]

Eleanor: Well I do. I don’t think it’s gross. I think it’s fun.

Me: Sorry honey, I’m with George. I think it’s gross. We can stop talking about it now…

Eleanor: You know Mommy, you’re not always right about everything.

Me: No – I’m not. I’m usually right about things. But in this situation there isn’t a right or wrong. Some people like it and some people don’t. It’s just a matter of preference. “Agree to disagree” and all that.

Eleanor: You and George don’t like it.

Me: Right. But you can like whatever you want. Don’t let other people tell you what you can and can’t like.

Eleanor: Okay. I like farting. And Daddy likes it. And so does Mr. Mike.

Me: That’s great honey. Looks like you’ve found your tribe.

Discussion #2 (transpiring immediately after Discussion #1)

Eleanor: How old is Daddy going to be?

Me: His birthday is today. He’s thirty-eight.

Eleanor: But what is he going to be?

Me: Well, he just turned thirty-eight, so a year from today, he’ll turn thirty-nine.

Eleanor: And what are you going to be.

Me: My birthday is next month, and I’m going to be thirty-nine.

Eleanor: So you’re thirty-nine?

Me: No, I’m thirty-eight now, and in a month I’ll be thirty-nine. Then a whole year from then, I’ll turn…

Eleanor: Thirty-eight!

Me: Exactly.

So now that we have all of that ironed out…

Happy birthday to my wonderful husband who is thirty-eight and still likes farting. Stay gold Ponyboy…stay gold….

I did it!

18 Replies

So tiny, four year old George wanted to ride on HUGE, six year old Oliver’s brand new bicycle. I have not idea how he actually got moving…maybe Chris pushed him? But I’ve been watching this non-stop since we downloaded it.

Now that’s the kind of attitude we all need to adopt.

Brave Hands

13 Replies

My son, George is four years old.

He is small and slim.

He looks fragile – huge brown eyes floating over a wisp of a body.

Tiny shoulders. Pale skin you can almost see through.

In his raggedy, end of season too short pants, he looks like he just walked out of a production of Oliver. Blow some soot on his elfin face for instant street urchin.

He’s scrappy like those pickpockets too. Grabby and squabbley. And LOUD. His voice carries.

Just in case you might miss him.

His looks deceive.

When he was born – the first of two babies in two minutes – he was red and screaming. Skinny legs kicking – a precursor to stamping tantrums that weren’t left behind in the terrible two’s.

He’s an angry elf.

But sometimes I think the rages are an expression of the just too muchness inside of him. He’s too big for his little body. You can see it in his eyes.

And for every frustrated outburst there is an equally spectacular explosion of enthusiasm.

Gathering acorns! Making a pile of rocks! The collections never end.

Money! I found money! My bright shiny penny.

My good luck charm.

Things happen around George. Of his making or not – he’s the Pied Piper of events. The ones that become stories we like to tell each other.

That time George opened the container of hot pepper spice and burned his face and insisted on wearing big superhero bandaids under his eyes like war paint…that time he walked around the community pool wearing a swim shirt, goggles, water wings AND and an inner tube…that time he told some guy in the men’s room that he forgot to flush… George makes an impression.

He’s always seen. You never miss him.

Because he’s brave.

He has no fear of not fitting in…of not being good at something. He’s that kid who won’t leave. The one who doesn’t ask if he can join in. He assumes his acceptance.

If the big kids are playing Wii, then he will learn how. And he will be just as good at it.

If the big kids are climbing trees, then he will climb too.

He may end up crying for mommy to get him down – but the next day, he’ll follow them back up that tree. He doesn’t give up on what he wants.

He’s a good climber. Always has been.

There is a pole in our basement – one with some support function that eludes me. In my everyday life, it’s a source of bumps and bruises – tears to be kissed away. It’s the origin of loud banging noises that let me know the natives are restless. The percussion section of a preschool rock band.

It’s also a good climbing pole. Or at least it is for George.

Oliver can climb trees – but not poles. And Eleanor isn’t much of a climber. But George shimmies up that pole every day.

He smacks the ceiling with the flat of his little hand and calls out to the ant-like forms of his siblings below. He likes his aerial view. He thinks he belongs at the top.

The other morning George came upstairs to tell me about his climbing.

“I’m a good climber! I climb very high!“

“Yes – I know. I’ve seen you.“

“I’m a good climber because I have brave hands.”

Yes he does. I admire this about him.

He’s brave. Always has been. I’ve seen it every day since I first caught sight of his screaming red face.

He’s brave and he has the hands to prove it. And every day, he holds my heart firmly between them.

Sound Byte: WTF Eleanor?

19 Replies

Last week, the day before I left for AZ, I decided that I needed to perform an emergency pedicure.

Since Eleanor is my constant sidekick, I set it up in the bathtub instead of my own little pedi tub (i.e. the old baby bathtub). As usual, the water was a tad more hot than I intended and we could barely dip in our toes without wincing.

Here is the conversation that followed:

Me: [in my best mommy, aren’t we having a fun time voice] Ooooh! It’s hot. Too hot. Ouch – my toes! It’s really hot – isn’t it?

Eleanor: Yeah – it’s really fucking hot.

Me: I’m sorry – what did you just say?

Eleanor: [smirking since she can tell I’m more amused (bemused?) than mad] I said, “it’s really fucking hot.”

Me: Eleanor. That is NOT a nice word and you know it. Where did you hear that? [As if I didn’t already know the answer…]

Eleanor: Daddy.

Me: Mmm Hmm. Let’s give him a call…

Then later in the day when I was in the car with George and Eleanor:

George: Rowan says, “stupid TV!”

Me: Well – we all say things like that when we’re frustrated. But we really shouldn’t say “stupid” since it’s not a nice word.

George: No! We shouldn’t say “stupid” – it’s not nice!

Me: That’s right.

Eleanor: No. We shouldn’t say stupid. And we also shouldn’t say “really fucking hot.” “Really fucking hot” isn’t nice either.

Me: [resigned] No Eleanor, “really fucking hot” isn’t nice either.

It’s all about learning opportunities our our house. Raisin’ ’em right!

Okay – so maybe it’s kind of cute…

11 Replies

On Tuesday, Oliver got off the bus missing – you guessed it – a front tooth.

He looks pretty adorable:

Of course we have no idea what happened to the tooth since he won’t actually pull them out himself. He lets them literally fall out of his mouth. It’s quite possible that he swallowed it during lunch. The only reason that we were able to retrieve the first tooth to fall out was that Chris was standing next to Oliver when it hit the floor. HE was the one to say, “hey Oliver – is that your tooth?!” No such luck at school. The tooth fairy got a note.

Even if he does look sweet with his new pumpkin face – it still hurts my heart a little…


I’m leaving today for Phoenix and won’t be back until Sunday night. I’m going to my sister in law’s baby shower ALONE. As in I-can-sleep-on-the flight-alone. Torn between grinning and pouting…While I love my alone time, I will miss those little boogers.

Anyway – no posting until Monday – so have a great weekend!

MRI Update and My Own Little Shylock

11 Replies

Oliver had his MRI yesterday and for the most part it was pretty uneventful. He was a little concerned about where we were going and what we were doing, but was easily distracted in the waiting room (where we waited for a LONG time).

He generally does pretty well with medical professionals, as long as he doesn’t think he’s going to get a shot. So he willingly followed the admin person leading us through the hospital corridors. And if we hadn’t seen anyone on our way to the radiology waiting room, he would have continued to be unconcerned. But, unfortunately, we passed a gurney with a little girl waiting for her MRI. She was sitting up and smiling, but the sight of her in a hospital gown horrified Oliver. And he immediately started pleading, “don’t cover me” and “I don’t want to be baby Oliver.” No idea what the latter meant – but I’m sure the former was all about that hospital gown. Fear of medical procedures or fashion minded aversion to ass exposure? You be the judge.

Anyway, I spent the next ten minutes in the second waiting room, talking him off the ledge until the anesthesiologist came in to meet with us. You would think that a grownup in full scrubs would look far more menacing that a ten year old in a hospital gown – but no. Not for Oliver. Talking to her seemed to calm him down considerably and once we faced the big scary machine that was obviously meant to swallow him whole (or at least his head), he felt very much at ease and happily breathed into the gas mask.

What a little freak.

But I was very proud of him for being so brave when the chips were down.

Coming out of the anesthesia wasn’t pleasant for him. Or me. But it wasn’t anything unexpected and within an hour of being at home, he was back to his usual happy, Thomas Train playing, pantsless self.

We’ll hear from his neurologist after she looks over his films (scans? images? I’ll have to pay better attention next time I watch Grey’s Anatomy). But to be honest, I’m not really expecting any revelations. It would be nice to have some new information to add to the picture. But if not, I’ll just take the “no news is good news” perspective.

On a completely unrelated note, four-year-old Eleanor was working on her negotiation skills with me last night.

She had several pipe cleaner bracelets that I made for her and very generously offered one to me. She even allowed me to choose the color I wanted…

Me: I’ll take the silver one.

Eleanor: Okay – that will be twenty-five dollars.

Me: I didn’t realize I had to pay for it, but fine – here you go. [hands her imaginary money and collects bracelet]

Eleanor: Do you want another one?

Me: Sure – why not? I’ll take the blue one.

Eleanor: You can have that for fifteen dollars.

Me: [hands over the money and takes the blue bracelet]

Eleanor: Do you want more?

Me: Yeah – okay. How about the gold one?

Eleanor: Ten dollars.

[Lather-rinse-repeat through two more bracelets and fourteen more dollars. The prices kept decreasing and I was impressed with her innate understanding of frequency rates.]

Eleanor: Do you want the last one?

Me: I thought I bought all of them! Well – no thanks. I can’t afford anymore. You’ve bled me dry. I can’t spare one more penny.

Eleanor: Okay – just one more penny.

Yikes! I don’t even want to know what her loan rates are like. A pound of flesh indeed! But I do admire her ability to get the most out of a business transaction. I’m bringing her to the Diamond District this weekend. I’ll never pay retail again…

Past Perfect

7 Replies

Okay – so it was cute when Oliver lost two bottom teeth…if only because you can’t really see the difference until he opens his mouth to show you. But I thought we had at least another year before he lost his TWO FRONT TEETH!

I recently noticed that it looked like they were starting to overlap a bit and on a hunch, asked him to wiggle one for me. Sure enough – it’s loose.

My five year old (FIVE!) is too young to have visible gaps. True – he will be six in a month, but I know seven year olds who are only just starting to lose teeth. Honestly – he’s taking this growing up fast thing too far.

He’s already HUGE for his age and now he’s growing adult teeth like it’s some kind of race or something. What’s next? SHAVING?

Seriously though – I’m feeling a little sad. I love Oliver’s smile. It’s sweet and perfect and there is nothing early or late about it. People look at him and say “BIG BOY.” Then they hear him and think, “huh – that’s not what I expected.” But no one, and I mean NO ONE could ever catch sight of that beautiful smile and not gush about what a good looking kid he is. And it’s not that he’s so handsome (although he is), it’s just that he lights up a room with that smile.

It’s hard on him sometimes – looking so much older and feeling so much younger. And this recent early bloomer development is not going to help. At one time his little guy face (with that smile) helped others understand that no, he’s not eight. Not seven. NO – he’s five. FIVE. And he has some delays. So stop asking him questions about his favorite chapter books already. Now he’s going to look even older.

But that’s not what makes me want to cry. I’m not worried about the expectations that people will continue to have of him. I’m mourning the loss of my baby. Regardless of his size, he’s always been my little boy, and I’ll miss that little boy smile of his. The one he’s been working on for five years.

I know that he’ll still have a joyous and contagious smile – but it won’t be the same. And we all know how much I embrace change…

Oliver will be six at the end of March. I’m so proud of him for growing up. For catching up. For confidently doing everything at the pace best suited to him.

But some of that growing up is happening just a little too fast for me. I’m the one who needs time to catch up. My own pace is reluctant and dragging. I’ve never been a natural runner.

I don’t like sprinting – chasing my children through their all too short babyhood. It leaves me winded and dizzy. And sad.

Every change is bittersweet. But in the end, pride wins. I never mourn for long. I’m too dazzled by who they’re becoming. Baby teeth or big teeth…little and cuddly or grownup and independent. They’ll always be perfect to me. Past, present and future.








She Knows What She Wants and…

12 Replies

Yesterday, Eleanor was playing Barbies and conducting a rather sweet little dialogue with herself:

Eleanor: I love my Barbie… She was the BEST present.

Me: [Awww! She loves her Christmas present…she’s actually grateful for the things we give her. Maybe this is a step toward not demanding more all the time…]

Eleanor: My Barbie is the BEST present I EVER picked out for myself.

Oh.

Well – she comes by it honestly. Here’s to a new generation of discerning women who would rather pick out their own presents.


The beat goes on…