I'm Gonna Get You

Three words that my one-and-a-half year old can speak clearly and intentionally:

Momma.

Best heard when she has been set in her crib, blanket pulled up to her chin, just before you leave the room and shut the door.  Even if you're Poppa, you get one last Momma for the night.

Ball.

She can throw it.  She can kick it.  She can sing it.

Go.

More like, Goooooooooo!  Steady enough now on her feet to play chasing games around the house with the big kids.  Vocal enough to add to the noise.

Three words my one-and-a-half year old understands and takes immediate action on, without need for context:

Bath.

If you say bath and you're not prepared for a nakey baby in 1.3 seconds, it's your own fault.

Phone.

Oh yes, there's an app for her.  She accidentally calls grandpa with surprising accuracy, but Siri can never quite make out what she's looking for.  I didn't quite get that.  Did you say, Arrrgggghh?

Imgonnagetyouyoubetterrun.

Fine.  It's not one word.  But it might as well be for all the super speedy toddling and squeals of happy.

Dreaming of Snowflakes

I know I vowed to make peace with winter and all.  No lie, I have been a remarkably content girl so far this season.  I can feel myself getting itchy, though.  It's been ages since one giant snowstorm dumped piles and piles of snow on us, and in the meantime a couple of just-a-bit-too-warm days have erased all of it but the dirty patches with bits of grass poking through.  C'mon winter.  We need a fresh coat of this:

Our neighborhood sledding hill is kind of perfect.  When it has snow.

She does not fear cold.

How many more runs before the sun goes down?

 

Headlamps.  We use them more often than you'd think.  Here: night (7 PM) snowshoeing.

I am a puddle.

How awesome is a toothless grin?

Bring back the snow.  Please.

Striking Fear Into the Heart of Mom

This is the email you don't want to get -  e v e r - from your kid's teacher.

Greta:  They checked my hair for bugs today.
Me: {holding breath, trying to still the heart pounding in my ears}
Greta: All they found was glitter.
Me: {exhale, vow to buy that girl more glitter}

This One's For You, Triple-G

Hi, Great Grandma Genevieve.  Remember us?  We're the ones who love you.

Heart shaped box.

No, I will not share my delicious cookie with you.  How about you take this reindeer and scram?

With intensity that is pure Noah Woods, the boy is immersed in chess.  Before school.  After school.  Under his covers on the iPad at night.

My mom tells me periodically that she loves this blog.  Which is nice, coming from the one who is maternally obligated to stand and applaud everything I do.  My grandma occasionally lets me know that she's watching too, and that she really appreciates the photos and words she finds here.  Which makes me blush, and nearly explode with sheepish gratitude.  I think she has figured me out.  She knows people, presumably because she has been circling the sun for enough years to have a lot of us all worked out, with a special interest in those who are fortunate enough to be her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.  She gets that this is something that I like to do, and that for the kids, I need to do; even in spite of all the other obligations and demands on my (precious little) free time.  One tiny word of praise is all it takes to keep me from abandoning ship on this childhood-documentation project.

In my next life, I will be a full time mom blogger.  If I can figure out cold fusion, or string theory, or write the great American novel, or become an art thief, I could probably do it in this life.  Til then, here is the bi-monthly post.

I am trying to learn what to do with sibling v sibling rage.  It gets pretty intense sometimes, and my approach has historically been to leave them alone and let them work it out.  Sometimes I'm not so sure that's the best policy.

Don't worry Tiana, we will find your head.

Why is building forts so much fun, and tearing them done so un-fun?

I know Mom hopes that Lindsey will appreciate Greta's love of the fashion plates.  Funny how she always puts her models in color coordinated outfits.

You know what is great fun when you are a feverish and grouchy baby?  Nothing.  But a new set of bright pastels doesn't hurt.

Excuse me, but I made the sexiest cookies I've ever made this month.  Recipe from, of course, some other mom blogger.

Ginger, chocolate, and small enough to eat a few.  Handfuls.  

Under very close supervision.  Never know when a sister's gonna try to squirrel away some blades in her skirt for a secret hair salon experiment.

Dear God, Maggie is in love with books.   I n L O V E, I tell you.  Good Night, Gorilla is her current favorite.  And by favorite, I mean that it is 11 o'clock in the morning, I got home from work four hours ago, and we have read it nineteen times today.  This is the part after the zookeeper's wife has turned out the light, all the sneaky animals have said, "Goodnight," and she opens her eyes wide in the dark room.  Maggie gasps, then shakes her head at the sassy gorilla.  All nineteen times so far today.

Back soon...

The Month of Lazy

I did run that marathon, by the way.

And the whole gang of family that came to cheer for me, they ran too.  From mile 13 and mile 15,

I love this sign even more today

to mile 17 and mile 20,

and all the way to the finish.  We all made it.

See that silver medal?  The kids believe I got second place.  Not bad for my first marathon, right?

Four minutes after the finish, I swore to myself I'd never sign up for this insanity ever again.  Four hours after the finish, I swore to myself that I would beat my time by at least 30 minutes the next time around.  Four weeks after the finish, I have run a total of 5.5 miles.  After the month of lazy, I miss it.  Howl for sure misses it.  We'll be back out on the road this weekend, no doubt.

***

The forecast tomorrow is snow.  Hooray!

We will miss you, autumn.

The Half Decade

I have forgotten - repeatedly - in the last month, that Greta is five.  When asked - at parties, at the park, by acquaintances, by coworkers, by grocery store check out clerks - how old my charming daughter is, I nearly always tell them four.  Or I stand there staring blankly back at them, deep in thought, because I know there is something wrong about the answer four, but I can't bring myself to tell them she's five.  I became very attached to four.  I loved four.  She was a fun four year old.  She became very clever through her fourth year.  She is insightful about religion and relationships.  She is decisive about her style in ways that make me bite my tongue.  Often.  I didn't want to let four go.

Bye, four.

Five.  OK.  I guess.

If we must.

Love Your Latitude

This year, I will not complain about winter.

This year, I will not allow the sparsity of sunshine crush my soul.

This year, I will not feel the immense (emotional and physical) weight of coats, hats, scarves, mittens and boots.

This year, I will take my vitamin D supplements.

This year, I will not curse the wind.

This year, I will cheer when the forecast is snowflakes and sub-zero.

I am a Midwesterner.  I can do this.

Scared You, Didn't I?

Then there was October 31st.  This year, the big kids were amped up about Halloween to a level I didn't think was possible.  How many consecutive days can a parent be expected to patiently answer the question, How many nights til I can wear my costume?  And when there are no more nights until the one that they get to wear their costume, how is it possible to get them to sit and eat dinner when there are friends! and candy! and outside! and you are the only thing standing between them and the most awesome school night ever?

Stop looking at my dirty laundry pile in the corner.

Why does Greta look not totally in love with the Rapunzel Bride costume she chose?

Because she really wanted to be a ninja too.

Three ninjas and an Iron Man

I don't agonize the way I once did about the amount of Disney Princess exposure I have allowed in my home.  She loves them.  They are completely flawed in their representation of beauty and femininity.  She loves them.  Not so much that she didn't ultimately make the choice to wear her puffy coat, pants and socks under her full body "linja" gear on a 40-degree night, though.  We argue over many things.  Let the dress up box not be one of them.  The end.

Next year I will likely be back to my DIY self, inspired to create the kids' costumes from scratch, making a thousand trips to Jo Ann Fabric and spending way too many hours and dollars sewing what ultimately look like homemade costumes.  My inspiration far outstrips my crafting ability.  This year, it was fun to just click through pictures and open the boxes that arrived on the porch.

My favorite Leo:

Maggie only made a handful of houses, but Noah and Greta were on fire.  They may have ding donged some of our neighbors three times with different groups of friends.  Remember when they were shy, had to be coerced to ring doorbells, then prompted to say Trick or Treat on every porch?  Those days are gone.  Now they just need to be reminded to shout Thank you! over their shoulder and to not leave the little kids too far behind as they sprint from door to door.

I remember Halloweens with my cousins in Sheboygan, mostly.  I remember the neighbors who gave out  the full sized candy bars (there is always one), and the post-trick-or-treating piles of loot dumped out on the carpet so we could all compare what we got.  I remember the stash of candy that Natalee would hoard through the winter, after mine was gone in a week.  Where is that candy bowl anyway?

I Voted

Of course I did.  Does anyone else compulsively check at their ballot 97 times before casting it to make sure they really, really marked the right boxes?  Voting is hard.

School pictures: every bit as awkward as yours were.  There was a wardrobe scuffle with Noah on picture day morning.  No one, I was told, NO ONE would be wearing button down shirts.  In terms of Noah v Me power struggles, he let me win this one pretty easily.

And yeah, all the other boys were wearing button down shirts.  Noah was super relieved to be not uncool.

Greta is always not uncool.

Magda wasn't invited to school picture day.  Lucky for her, every day is baby picture day.