Pretzel Time #sol19

Our kids woke us up too early this morning. We had hoped to sleep in considering we had a family wedding in Virginia last night. No such luck. Both of them woke up at 6:30 a.m. Neither one was quiet. But amidst their singing and giggles came a request from Ari, “I want a snack. I want pretzels!”

We told Ari he’d have to wait for the car ride home if he wanted to eat pretzels. First, he had to eat breakfast. The pretzels would come later.

So what do you think was the first thing Ari asked when we drove away from the hotel?

“Is it pretzel time now?”

It was just a touch after 10 a.m. It was still too early for pretzels in my book. “Let’s wait until 10:30 a.m.”

Isabelle was busy with a Highlights book at 10:30 so she requested we push “pretzel time” back ten more minutes. Ari seemed cool with that plan — at first — but then he protested. By 10:37 a.m., it was pretzel time. The kids noshed on pretzels until 11 a.m., when I declared “pretzel time is over.” (They would’ve eaten the entire bag if I let them.”

Ari napped in the car this afternoon. What do you think he asked for as soon as he woke up? That’s right. “PRETZEL TIME!”

Isabelle was eating honey graham bears so it would’ve been hard for her to hold two bags while doling pretzels out to Ari. He must’ve sensed what I was thinking since Ari declared, “I’m gonna hold them like a good boy.”

“Do you mean like a big boy?” I asked.

“Yes!”

Reluctantly, I handed the pretzels bag back for pretzel time, part two.

Everything was fine for a few minutes. Suddenly, I heard Isabelle say, “No, Ari! Don’t turn the bag upside down!”

I turned around, reached back, and managed to take back the pretzel bag. Ari let out a disappointed yelp, but got over it quickly.

The backseat of my car, however, won’t get over it quite as fast. It’s going to need a good vacuuming!

Road trips with kids… they’re always eventful!

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Awaiting Our Forever Home

I wrote a post for SOL Tuesday. I was in the midst of revising and editing it when I attempted to save the post, I was met with this:

A screenshot of the post I attempted to post today.

Then I tried to publish. I could go back and fix it up after it went live. That didn’t work.

So here I am. I’m frustrated. So I’m pushing myself to write something new, as opposed to retyping.

How many more days will it be
Once the siding and shake are up?
My daughter is impatient because she is
Eager to move in so we can start the rest of our lives.

Surprises

Sometimes Isabelle surprises me.

Take this morning, for instance. After a rough start to the day, I found Isabelle reading books quietly on the living room floor. I asked her what she wanted for breakfast. She responded, “English muffin with cream cheese, please,” and went right back to her book. So, when it was time for her to come to the table, I was met with, “Not now, I’m reading a book.”

Here’s the thing. I don’t want to stop her from reading, but she needs to eat. So I invited her to bring the book to the table for breakfast. Unlike the other times I’ve made this offer, she opted to come to the table with the book. Despite the fact it was a book (one from the Katie Woo series) she read before, Isabelle was glued to it throughout breakfast. AND — she ate without any reminders, which is almost unheard of. Who is this child? I kept thinking to myself throughout the meal.

After school, and after Isabelle finished her daily reading, I called her over to my desk to look at her spelling words. I offered to make her a word sort. I thought she’d decline, but she said “yes.” I typed up all 15 spelling words in large font and then cut them into pieces. We talked about the word endings (-ed and -ing) and how there were at least three different patterns to the words. She found four patterns independently, but after having a calm discussion about the words, we discovered six different patterns since some words had double letters before the suffixes while other letters lost the e of their base word. Not once did Isabelle push back or argue with me. She stayed engaged the entire time.

School isn’t always easy for Isabelle. Reading and word work definitely don’t come easily for her. But today, she was eager to engage in both things on her own terms and with a positive attitude. Both were small, surprising victories on my journey of raising a literate human.

Tall Tales of Cletus and Roscoe

We found Oregon Dairy not long before we moved to Lancaster. And not long after we found Oregon Dairy, Ari became acquainted with Cletus and Roscoe.

Who are Cletus and Roscoe? Allow me to show you.

I have no idea which goat is Cletus and which one is Roscoe.

That’s right. Cletus and Roscoe are goats. But not just any goats. They’re two male kids who live outside of the Milkhouse Ice Cream Shop at Oregon Dairy. Ari refers to them affectionately as “my goats.”

About two months after Ari met Cletus and Roscoe, he began making up stories about them. At first, the stories were simple tales of two goats driving a shuttle bus to and from Wegmans, our favorite local grocery store. As the days passed, the stories became more complex. Ari recounted tales of Cletus and Roscoe taking all of the farm animals to Hersheypark to ride on the roller coasters while KidzBop played in the background. Just this evening, Ari began a new oral story about Cletus taking a shower with body wash while being careful not to get soap in his eyes during the hair-rinse portion of the shower.

Seriously.

I cannot make this stuff up.

Poor kid isn’t going to know what to do with himself once these guys go inside for the winter, right?

Holding My Breath

Obligatory First Day of School Photo Taken in Front of Our Temporary Home’s Door. Isabelle wouldn’t let me take her photo in front of our house that’s being built since she claimed she wanted two different doors in her third grade photo. As much as I wanted to take her photo there, I wasn’t about to let my desire get in the way of her need.

What’s the longest amount of time you’ve ever held your breath? 30 seconds? One minute? TWO minutes? Today I held my breath for nearly seven hours… and it was hard.

Today was Isabelle’s first day in her new school. It wasn’t just a new school. It was a new school, with new kids, in a new city. Yes, she met a few kids at day camp who would be in her school. Yes, she took a new school tour. Yes, she met her teacher a week-and-a-half ago. But none of those things are the same as walking into a school where you know everyone, which she’s done for the past three school years.

Even though I was holding my breath all day, I had a feeling it was going to be a good day. Every person I’ve interacted with at the school and in the district office has been helpful and friendly. However, what I worried about were the typical parent-of-a-new-student fears. Would the kids in the class be nice? Would Isabelle feel comfortable with the noise level in the cafeteria? Would anyone play with her at recess?

Isabelle was the first child lined up a the dismissal door this afternoon. I wasn’t sure what that meant so I took a few deep breaths. I spoke softly and asked her how her day was. Unfortunately, she started admonishing me, “Why are you talking so slow? Why are you asking so many questions? Why don’t you think I’m okay?” I stayed calm because I have found that a steady demeanor gets better results than matching her frustration.

We walked to the car and she climbed into her seat. Quietly, I looked through her bag to see what she brought home. I acknowledged her empty water bottle and made note of the thick school-to-home folder of “homework for mommy.” I asked her to get seat belted and walked around the car. Once I pushed the starter, I turned around and said, “When you’re ready, I’d like you to tell me how your day was.”

I began to drive after her seat belt clicked into place. First, Isabelle told me about a mini zip line on the playground. Then, she told me lots of random things. I learned that her teacher began reading Charlotte’s Web. We talked about how she already knew that story since her teacher read that book aloud last year. I asked some questions like, “Did you do any writing today?” to which I was told, “I wrote some words.” Oh. My. Goodness. THAT answer didn’t please me, but I continued with my calm line of questioning. I got bits of information that didn’t add up to much. But, finally, Isabelle paused and told me, “I think I’m going to like this new school.”

That was it. I was done questioning. I could finally breathe.

No Big Boy Bed… Yet

We had a plan. Sometime over the summer, we’d convert Ari’s crib into a toddler bed. We’d give him time to sleep in the toddler bed while we were still living in our temporary home. Then, as soon as we moved into our house mid-fall, we’d transition him into a full-size “big boy” bed.

Best. Laid. Plans.

Halfway through the dismantling of the crib, Marc realized some of the parts were missing. He went to our garage to search through his toolbox. He came up empty handed. Then, Marc searched through some boxes we’re storing in the garage. He found a whole lot of nothing.

That meant that the “bed” had to be converted back into a crib.

So much for the big boy bed. It’s going to have to wait until we move — again — in October.

I’m wondering what Ari’s thinking as he’s witnessing the transformation back to a crib again. After prepping him for sleeping in a big boy bed tonight, I’m assuming he must be confused.

Naptime for an Almost Three-Year-Old

Head over to http://twowritingteachers.org on Tuesdays for more slice of life stories.

Ari claims he isn’t tired EVERY SINGLE DAY before nap time. Here’s the rub. He IS tired. How do I know? He naps after being placed in his crib midday.

These shenanigans began after we weaned Ari off of his afternoon bottle in June. (I know, it was a long overdue weaning. Don’t tell me he’ll need braces because of this. My friend is married to a dentist. When Isabelle was nearly three, she informed me that nearly every kid these days needs braces and therefore her husband doesn’t think we should be ripping bottles out of kids’ mouths as soon as they turn two.) A couple of weeks ago, Ari’s protests grew more intense so I let him sit on my lap while he drank a cup of milk. That seemed to work until we went on vacation a week and a half ago. (Routines go out the window when you’re road tripping!) Now that we’re home, I offered the milk-in-a-cup routine before today’s nap. Ari sat beside me and drank a bit of milk, but ultimately, he kept telling me he wasn’t tired.

But I knew Ari was tired. Therefore, I took him upstairs, closed his black-out shades, turned-on his white noise, and offered to snuggle with him on his chair.

“I wanna snuggle in your bed!” he told me.

“Not in my bed. On the glider,” I insisted.

Ari acquiesced. (Probably because he was tired!)

“Whatta you gonna do now?” Ari asked.

I remembered another thing I learned when the mid-July nap protests began. I could NOT tell him I was going to do work. He’d rather watch me work than nap. And you know what that means? I won’t be able to work if he’s “watching” me. So, I said, “I’m going to take a nap too.”

“Oh, okay,” Ari replied contently.

I turned Ari towards me and felt his warm-toddler weight snuggle into me. I began rocking him in the glider. Ari’s breathing got heavy quickly. He’s probably asleep. Just to be sure, I rocked him for another ten minutes. When I heard light snoring (and started dozing off myself), I stood up, carried him to his crib (Another thing we need to get rid of… I know! Remember, though, we moved to a new city less than eight weeks ago. I’m trying not to change too much too fast.), and covered him with his blankets.

OVER THREE HOURS LATER, I walked into Ari’s room. He smiled when he saw me. The first thing he said was “How did you sleep, Mommy?”

Waking Up with a Smile & a Question

I giggled. I almost blurted out the truth about what I had been doing. Instead, I played along and said, “How sweet of you to ask, Ari!”

See what I did there? I praised him for his kindness without lying.

The Things a Two-Year-Old Says…

Not long after Ari learned how to say “Peek-a-boo,” he began to play Peek-a-boo with his stuffed puppies. About a week or so later, Ari started playing Peek-a-boo with the Puppies using his favorite blanket. Soon after, Ari started telling me that “Puppy is peeking my boo.” I had no idea what that meant. The reference to peeking my boo persisted. Ari would put one of the puppies up-close to his face and would say “He’s peeking my boo” every time. I began to worry since it sounded a little naughty. I consulted the Urban Dictionary and was reassured peeking my boo wasn’t slang. After breathing a sigh of relief, I chalked it up to strange toddler speak.

For the past couple of weeks, Ari has been engaged in pretend play with his stuffed puppies. This time, he has the puppy get close to his nose, makes a sniffing sound, and then says, “Puppy’s sneaking me.” Just like peeking my boo, having puppy sneak him makes zero sense. Yet again, I consulted the Urban Dictionary and — thankfully — came up empty handed.

This morning, Ari was in rare form after he called for me from his room. Both of the puppies were sneaking him when I walked into his room this morning. I snapped a photo of this happening since it made me laugh.

One day, Ari is going to grow up and shed all of these silly expressions. But for now, they’re part of his developing language and I’m all for it… as long as none of his Ari-isms show up in the Urban Dictionary!

Does he think my skin is naturally soft?!?!

I was rocking Ari in his glider this evening. I planted a kiss on his forehead.

“Do you have cream?” he asked.

“Yes, I have face cream on my face,” I replied.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“Since when do you dislike face cream?” I asked.

He didn’t respond. He knows nothing about cream other than the fact that he walked into my bathroom this evening when I was putting cream on my face. He asked me what it was and I told him. I thought nothing of it at the time, but apparently, he didn’t like what he saw or didn’t like the way it felt when I kissed his skin.

I kissed Ari’s cheek. That’s when he dropped a bomb on me.

Face Cream, Kisses, and Laughter

“Don’t kiss me with your cream.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes,” Ari replied. “Don’t kiss me.”

I tried to explain why I put cream on my face. I told him that in the future, he’d probably use cream on his face. I went so far as to tell him he’d probably marry someone who’d use face cream some day.

None of that mattered.

“Don’t kiss me!” he told me again. He didn’t say it meanly, but he said it forcefully.

I turned it into a joke. I changed my voice into a baby voice and said, “Don’t kiss me. I don’t like your cream.” Ari giggled. That’s when I knew it was safe to kiss him without making him mad. When I did, he laughed uproariously while trying to keep a straight face every time he said, “Don’t kiss me.”

Would you like the funny story or the serious one?

Before I begin, I want to let you know I’m intentionally being vague. If you have read this blog through the years, then you know I don’t disclose my children’s medical information publicly. Therefore, I’ll tell you that Isabelle had a planned procedure at the hospital today. It went well.

THE SERIOUS STORY FIRST (It’s been hanging from my heart all day.)

Isabelle could’ve walked out of the hospital on her own two feet, but she insisted on a wheelchair because she had one last time… the time she couldn’t amble out on her own.

“I’m not going to wait 20 minutes for transport to come when you’re perfectly fine to walk,” I told her.

That’s when the nurse rolled up with a wheelchair.

“Here you go, Miss Isabelle,” he said.

“How did it come so fast?” I asked.

“You’re doing the wheeling. Unless you want to wait for transport.”

“No, I’ll wheel her out.”

Isabelle squealed with delight as she hopped into the seat.

“Hold my purse and this folder,” I told her as I handed Isabelle my things. “I may be your transport, but I’m not the schlepper.”

She groan-giggled and took my belongings. We said our goodbyes to the nurse and walked town the hall to the elevator.

Once we reached the lobby, I overheard beautiful music. “I think that’s a harp,” I told Isabelle.

“What’s a harp?” she asked.

The top of the harp caught my eye. “I’ll show you,” I said wheeling her into the lobby.

We listened for a few moments and then the harpist reached the end of the song.

“What do you think?” I asked her.

“I like it,” she replied.

“Would you like to listen to more?” I asked.

Isabelle nodded as the harpist began plucking his instrument. I wheeled her over to a some couches. Before I could put the brake on the wheelchair, Isabelle hopped up and sat down on the couch, tossing my purse on the empty seat.

My breath caught in my throat as I listened to the music because the harpist was playing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Tears welled up in my eyes as my mind flooded with thoughts. If the results of today’s procedure turn out as the doctor expects, then Hallelujah will be the word to express the level of gratitude I have. I wrapped my arm around Isabelle, whose Hebrew name praise. “Praise” and “hallelujah” are essentially the same. So there I was, hugging my daughter while listening to gorgeous music in a hospital lobby. Then I thought about the Cohen tune, which is one of Ari’s favorites for me to sing to him at night (though I sing the tune with the words to L’cha Dodi). All of those things — plus a lack of sleep — led to me crying.

“What are you doing?” Isabelle asked as she stared at me in shock. “Why are you crying?”

“Because, I’m just so happy you’re so much healthier today than the last time you had this procedure done. You were so, so sick last time. I think your medicine is helping.”

“You’re crying because you’re happy?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Why would you cry when you’re happy?”

“Sometimes that happens to adults. Adults cry when they’re happy,” I sniffled.

“You have black stuff under your eyes,” she pointed out.

“Mascara?” I asked.

“Yeah, mascara. It’s running down your face,” she said. And with that, she went back to listening to the end of the song leaving me to search for a tissue in my purse that was sitting in the empty wheelchair seat.

NOW, THE FUNNY STORY (which took place about 45 minutes earlier)

“What would you like to eat?” the nurse asked Isabelle. He listed the choices which included everything from graham crackers to Goldfish to applesauce to ice cream.

“Chocolate ice cream please,” she replied.

“Good choice,” he replied.

“Do you have marshmallows?” she asked.

I looked at him apologetically. “She thinks this is an ice cream shoppe.”

“No, I don’t think we have any marshmallows,” the nurse replied.

“How about sprinkles?” Isabelle asked. “I’d like some rainbow sprinkles.”

“Are you kidding me?!!? They have ice cream. No sprinkles.”

That’s when the nurse interrupted me and answered Isabelle. “I think we may have some chocolate sprinkles. Would you like those?”

“Yeah, okay. I’d really like rainbow though,” she said.

I shot her a take-what-they-have look and Isabelle said, “Chocolate sprinkles are fine.”

The nurse disappeared in the back and reappeared two minutes later with a plastic spoon and a cup of ice cream.

“We’re not the greatest ice cream shop in town,” he shrugged. “I have ice cream, but no sprinkles.” He handed the ice cream to Isabelle. I was grateful she thanked him rather than complaining about the hospital’s lack of toppings.