A Week in the Life - Day 1 (My Wake-Up Call)

4:12am.  That’s the time the clock read when my bleary eyes finally focused on it after I had heard Cal shuffle into our room and felt his finger poking me gently in the arm.  4:12am.  I think that’s one of the worst times to be awakened by your kid – it’s way too early to get up for the day but way too late to fall back into any semblance of a quality sleep.

At least he’s gentle and quiet about it.  Perhaps he really does realize the spot he’s putting me in – disrupting the sleep I so desperately need in order to help him get back to the sleep he should get.

If we exchanged any words at 4:12am, I couldn’t tell you what they were.  I hauled myself out of bed and followed him to his room, hopeful that I wouldn’t find what I knew was a distinct possibility.  4:12am was a good 8-1/2 hours after we got him into bed, and who knows how long after he had last gone potty.  I insisted he try to go potty right before bed, which he did and squeezed out one drop.  “I can’t do it,” he said repeatedly.  I still made him try and made him try again after I saw the single drop come out.  One last “I can’t do it,” and “we” gave up.

Anyway, back in his room just after 4:12am, Cal started to crawl back into his bed when I stopped him with my hand on his shoulder.  “Wait,” I said and then brushed my hand over his sheet.  It was wet.

I turned to him and said, “we have to take your jammies off,” and the proceeded to help him do so.  I threw an Underjam on him and told him, “okay, go crawl into Mommy’s bed.”  And then off he scurried, no questions asked, no complaints lodged.

I pulled the sheets off of his bed, wiped down the vinyl mattress cover where I had felt the pee and then grabbed another set of sheets and blanket from his closet.  I used to keep them in the hallway closet, a few steps outside of Cal’s room.  If I’ve learned anything, convenience is important to survival – having them in his closet saved me a few steps and mitigated the risk of waking our sleeping Ella.

Sheets back on, I grabbed a pajama top from Cal’s dresser and then headed back to my room to get Cal.  “Cal,” I whispered from the door to my room.  I couldn’t see much of anything, but I did hear the familiar shuffle of his feet across my room toward me.

Like a basketball hoop waiting for the arrival of a basketball, I was waiting at the door with his shirt ready to plop over his head.  When he reached me, I steered the shirt over his head, and he then followed suit by slipping his arms in the armholes.  We exchanged no words.  It was remarkable, really, just really well orchestrated as if we had hours of practice behind us.

Cal then shuffled himself back to his room and clumsily tried to hoist himself back into bed.  It really is a tall bed, so I helped him and then pulled the sheet and blanket over him.

“I want a different stuffed animal, please,” he announced.  I looked down and saw Walter (his wolf and initial bed partner) lying on the floor amongst many others.

“Who do you want?” I asked.

“Foxy.”  I looked down and fortunately saw the familiar red tail of foxy sticking out from under the bed, grabbed him and then placed him under Cal’s arm.

Cal proceeded to suck his thumb, something we’ve been all over him to stop.  But I didn’t stop him. At about 4:25am now, I just wanted to get back to try to salvage what I could of the rest of my slumber.  With the alarm set for 5:03am, I didn’t have much time to do so.

Looking back, I am amazed at Cal’s full cooperation.  Rarely do we have together time when he’s not saying “no” to the simplest of requests or when he’s not flat out ignoring me.  Bless his heart, I think that deep inside, the kid just needed some help from his mommy and wanted to help his mommy help him however he could.

10 Things I Never Would Have Thought I’d Say to my Toddlers but Have

Below are 10 things that never even crossed my mind that I would have said to my kids at 4 and 2 years old... but that I have said to them.

1. "Don’t draw on the house."  With a carless driveway prime for sidewalk-chalk art, my kids chose to use the sidewalk chalk on the house instead.
2. "Wipe your buns after you poop."  This baffles and frustrates me to no end.  My threats to Cal that he’ll get a rash if he doesn't wipe doesn’t keep him from not wiping.  Fortunately for Cal, he's a pretty "clean" pooper.
3. "Don’t pull on your brother’s penis."  I suppose this shouldn’t be surprising, but curious Ella on more than one occasion has pulled on Cal’s penis in the shower.  Maybe I shouldn’t giggle as I tell her not to do that.
4. "Don’t kick the cat."  I can’t even relate to this.  I love animals and believe that even non-animal lovers know not to do this.  Not Cal.  He kicked our old cat, Squeaker, on more than one occasion; and I’ve seen him do the same to our current cat, Zoe.
5. "You don’t like Macaroni & Cheese?"  I thought every kid likes Mac and Cheese.  It’s supposed to be our go-to!  While it is for Ella, for Cal it’s not.
6. "Don’t eat dog food."  Cal followed Grandpa’s lead under my watch and ate a pebble of dog food.  I can’t even get him to eat Macaroni and Cheese – did I think he’d actually eat the dog food?  No.
7. "Do you have your purse, Cal?"  Every once in awhile, Ella wants to carry a purse with her as we head somewhere.  Sometimes when she has, Cal has, too.  “Wait, I need to get my purse,” he’ll declare.
8. "That’s not very nice, and it hurts my feelings" <in response to “I don’t like you, Mommy.”>.  Call me naïve, but I never expected to hear this from my 4- and 2-year-olds.  As teenagers, yes; but as sweet little innocent toddlers?
9. "You can't wear long sleeves and long pants in the summer."  This I will never understand.  Given the choice, Cal will pick long sleeves and long pants to wear every day regardless of temperature.  In most cases, he has the choice; in 90-degree weather, I insist on short sleeves and short pants.
10. "Don’t run over your sister."  Somehow our wagon-pulling Ella got in front of our Dora tricycle-riding Cal, got tripped up by the Dora tricycle’s wheel, fell and was almost completely run over by Dora tricycle-riding Cal.  It remains to be seen whether he had enough momentum to roll over her body, but luckily I was there to stop him.

Cal's Black Running Shoes

Cal said this morning just before we were heading out to school that he wanted to wear his black running shoes today.  I about jumped out of my skin with excitement.  I bought these shoes several months, maybe a year ago when I visited a New Balance shoe store on a whim, and they’ve only hit his feet twice since – briefly the first day when I insisted he try them on and slightly longer about a month ago when he said he wanted to wear them to school.  That second time, I sent him to school with his Velcro Asics running shoes as a backup just in case he decided he really didn’t want to wear the black shoes.  He came home that day wearing the Velcro running shoes, and I never asked about the switch.

Cal’s gripe about these shoes is that they have laces.  He doesn’t like them “sticking out,” nor does he like them bouncing and hitting his leg.

Me, I love these shoes.  If I could have a pair myself, I would.  First of all, they’re black – I love black running shoes.  Secondly, they’re New Balance, a legitimate maker of quality running shoes.  I am so tired of those Velcro, Disney-character, light-up shoes for which Cal is a magnet.  Though we stopped buying those, I still haven’t fully recovered.  I mean, I really hated those shoes – cheap and cheesey.  It pained me to buy them every time we did.  I always caved, fearing the endless fighting that was ahead of me in the store and at home if I actually had a backbone and insisted we buy better shoes.

Anyway, when Cal re-emerged in the family room with these wonderful gems in his hands this morning, I quickly volunteered to help him put them on his feet.  It would be a delicate operation, so I had to make sure the conditions were right.  I lifted him onto the coffee table (saying “we’re only doing this so I can easily get your shoes on”), handed him my cell phone as a distraction and then started to work my magic.  I grabbed the right shoe, loosened up the laces, slipped it onto his foot and then gently tightened the laces.  I stopped and asked him, “Is this okay?”

“Tie them,” he responded.

“I know, I just wanted to make sure this isn’t too tight.  Is it too tight?” I asked.

“No,” he responded as his attention turned back to the cell phone.

I had achieved a satisfactory tightness of the right shoe.  I proceeded to tie it.  As I did so, I asked him, “What bothers you about the shoelaces, that they bounce or that they stick out?”

“I don’t want them to stick out… or hit my legs,” he responded.

Just as I figured.  I tied the laces in a double knot, twisted them so they were more parallel with the ground and then tucked the longer pieces under the taut part of the laces against the shoe.  As I did all of this, I felt myself holding my breath.  I mean, I really wanted him to wear these shoes, and I didn’t want anything to disrupt his interest in wearing them.  I was nervous.

Everything tied and tucked in, I asked, "How's this?"

Cal examined my work and responded, "Good."

As I put the finishing touches on the right shoe, I noticed that Ella had the left shoe in her hand, babbling something about wanting to put the shoe on Cal’s foot herself.  “No, thanks, Baby Girl.  I’ll do it myself,” I responded.

“I do it,” Ella insisted.

“No, Mommy do it,” I insisted more, grabbing the left shoe from her hand at the risk of her disrupting the calm Cal and I had established.  Ella doesn’t take the word “No” very well, oftentimes breaking into a tearful meltdown once she’s gotten over the shock that someone had the nerve to tell her, “No.”  For whatever reason – I’ve learned not to wonder why – she actually let me have the shoe without contention.

I proceeded to put the left shoe on Cal’s foot using the same approach I had used with the right.  Not too tight.  Double-knot the laces.  Tuck the ends under the lacing against the shoe.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Good.” Two "goods" with these fantastic black running shoes on his feet.  Today would surely be a great day.

Cal hopped off of the table and then asked me, “Mommy, do you want to see how fast I can run?”

“Of course,” I responded.  And Cal took off in a mad sprint to the front door.  He turned, smile plastered across his face, and then sprinted from the front door to the back door.

“Was that fast?” he asked me.

“Holy cats!  It was fast!” I exclaimed.

Cal smiled big, a nice compliment to the beautiful black shoes on his feet.  And then we headed to school without a backup pair of shoes for the day.

Ella's Open Door

Since she was about 8 weeks old, Ella has been sleeping in her own bed through the night.  We put her to bed sometime between 7pm and 8pm; and, until recently, she’d fall asleep quietly and sleep solidly until the morning, sometimes even after 7am.  Sure there were some instances where she’d cry for 30 seconds at 2am; but as quickly and randomly as that would start, it would end.  I chalked it up to her having some kind of slightly disturbing dream.

Not by her own choice, Ella was a door-closed sleeper.  We wanted to promote a quiet, peaceful zone for her to sleep; and with Cal not far down the hall from her, there was too much risk that quiet zone would be disrupted.  Plus, having the door closed made for a simple rule for Cal to follow – DO NOT OPEN ELLA’S DOOR, a rule he generally followed.  At any rate, at bedtime, we’d lay Ella in her crib, give the goodnight spiel and then leave her room, closing the door behind us.  This would be followed by silence… for the rest of the night.

Recently, Ella asked that her door be left open, a request that I thought was a simple tweak to the bedtime routine and one that I was certain would now not disrupt the routine’s effectiveness.  So, I left her door open, gave my goodnight spiel and then left her room without closing the door behind me.  The first night, this was followed by silence and a sleeping toddler.

Then she started talking about it minutes, sometimes hours in advance of bedtime.  “Leave the door open,” she’d say many times whether she was already in her crib for bed… or putting her jammies on… or sitting at the dinner table.  This, alone, is just annoying.  “Yes, Ella… we’ll leave the door open,” we respond with an “alright-already” tone.

Unfortunately, keeping the door open at bedtime has also brought us some troubles.  For one, Ella doesn’t like Zoe (our cat) to come into her room at night when Ella’s in her crib.  I’m not really sure why this is.  I mean, Ella is the unfortunate recipient of scratches from Zoe more often than anyone else in the house, but it’s generally accidental and never vicious in nature.  Ella loves Zoe, and I’m sure Zoe feels the same way about Ella.  “Zoe not come in my room,” she’ll say.  Initially I’d respond, “Well, your door is open, so Zoe might come into your room.  If you don’t want Zoe in your room, we need to shut the door.”  And then this would lead to a heated back-and-forth between the two of us about what we were going to do with the darn door and Zoe.  This inevitably ended with me exiting Ella’s room, leaving the door open and grabbing Zoe to take her downstairs with me.

I tired of this fairly quickly and decided to play a game of odds and just agree with Ella that Zoe would not come into her room at night even with the door open.  For the most part, this approach worked pretty well – our pre-bedtime conversation was cut short and Zoe usually didn’t go into her room.  When she did, I’d hear about it.  “Mommy, Zoe’s in my room!”  Ella would exclaim when Zoe did make her way into Ella’s room at night.  “Mommy, Zoe’s in my room!”  she’d repeat.  I had no choice but to go get the cat.  As I did, I couldn’t leave it at just retrieving her; I found myself complaining to Ella about the whole situation, that this is what happens when we leave the door open… we should really shut the door… she needs to choose between the door open and the cat out of the room… this is ridiculous.  Her response was consistently, “Leave the door open,” and “Zoe not come in my room.”  In one ear and out the other.   And like a good mommy being totally controlled by her 2-year-old, I left with the cat in hand and the door open.

It is from this that I believe Ella learned that she could speak from her bed and be heard.  She made attempts at engaging Cal in conversation from their respective beds.  When Cal didn’t bite, she started making things up.  All of a sudden, it was very important that she sleep with big Minnie… or with her pink blankie on top of her usual “blue” (mostly white but with blue-tipped edges) knit blankie… or with her fan on… or with her closet light on as if her bright nightlight just wasn’t comforting enough.  “Mommy!” she’d exclaim. 

“Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

I wait to respond as if I have some magic number in my head for how many times I hear Ella call for me before responding or heading back to her room.  (I don’t – it’s generally just as much as I can tolerate that evening.)  At my break point, I head back to her room to fulfill her request and then lay down this law, “Ellie, if you cry or if you talk to us when it’s time to sleep, we’re going to have to shut your door.”

Oddly, this usually works.  Of course, like leaving the door open and Zoe not coming in her room, she talks about this sometimes well in advance of bedtime, other times as we lay her down for bedtime.  While I’m saying, “I love you and I’m proud of you, Baby Girl.  Have big dreams, get lots of sleep, you’re going to change the world,” she’s saying in parallel, “Leave the door open.  Zoe not come in my room.  If I cry, you shut the door.”  I don’t think she ever really hears what I have to say to her at night other than things about the door and Zoe.

We’ll never know if it was the door-closed routine or just Ella getting older and exercising her right to choice that brought on the bedtime back-and-forth.  I do miss the days when we didn’t have it, but I guess it’s really just a little additional banter.  In the end, she’s still a pretty good sleeper… once she gets there… which isn’t too much longer than it used to be… not really… but do we have to talk about leaving the door open so much?

Baby Bear Makes His Bed

It was only within the last month or so that Cal got a big-boy bed with a top sheet to be tucked in, two pillows and a warm comforter.  For the first 4-1/4 years of his life, he slept on a crib/toddler-bed-sized mattress about 6 inches off the floor.  This thing needed only a bottom sheet and barely had room for only one pillow.  We just threw a blanket on top of Cal at night as he slept, and this blanket remained wadded up (sometimes folded, if I felt the urge) throughout the day until bedtime the next night.

Cal’s big-boy bed is BIG.  My feet don’t even come close to hitting the ground when I sit on it.  When he first got it, Cal needed a stool to get onto it.  Now he’s learned he can just step on the bedframe and pull himself up.

This morning, Cal watched me make my bed, something I do every day.  I’m not sure why he took particular interest in it today – I’m certain he’s seen me do this before.  Anyway, he asked me, “what are you doing?”

“Making my bed,” I replied.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I like to have a made bed and get into a made bed at night,” I told him.

“I’m going to make my bed,” he then said and darted off to his room.

A few minutes later I heard him yell, “Mommy, come see my bed!”

I, of course, obliged immediately.  On many occasions, my kids have presented me with an “accomplishment” so very ordinary or, frankly, unimpressive that I find myself having to dig really deep to muster an enthusiastic, prideful response to them.  This… this self-initiated bed-making feat could be something worthy of my sincere pride in his real accomplishment.  Even better, I had a captive audience at that moment – my kid was interested in and taking initiative to make his bed himself.  I had to jump on this good-habit-making, independence-building moment.

I walked into his room to find him standing on the side of his bed, and Dan and Ella standing at the foot of it.  Cal looked at me, proud smile plastered across his face, “See, Mommy.”

What I saw really was impressive.  Notre Dame comforter pulled up relatively straight and wrinkle-free.  Notre Dame-trimmed pillows neatly placed at the headboard.  I don't know if Dan helped him in any way and didn't ask.

“That IS really good, Cal!  I am SO PROUD of you!”  I said with tons of excitement and pride, all genuine.

He left his room, and I peeked under the comforter, not at all to judge but just to know.  Under his comforter, his top sheet was pulled up most of the way and a little cockeyed, I’m sure as best as he could do given his little reach.  I gave his sheets a whiff, and they smelled a little of urine (he’s in an Underjam at night and often pees through it) and needed to be washed.  But not at that moment.  That would come later after he was gone to school.  At that moment, his bed needed to stay made.

A Leatherkid Kind of Morning

Cal arose from his makeshift bed on the floor next to our bed at what I thought to be after 7am today.  I don't remember exactly what he said after uttering "Mommy" as he peeked over the top of my bed, his eyes just-woken-up puffy looking at me.  But he was talking about something.  Eventually, I found myself engaged in this conversation with him:

Cal: "If you have grey hair and you're old, you're going to die."

Me <uncomfortable with how casual he was with the topic>: "No, that's not really true.  We don't need to talk about stuff like that."

Cal: "Nanny had grey hair.  She died when I was born."

Me: "Well, you were 8 months old <a clarification that was probably not needed>, and she was 94 years old.  She lived pretty long -- that's pretty old."

While I was having this wonderful conversation with Cal, Dan was getting Ella out of her crib (yes, at 2-1/2 still in a crib) and taking her potty.  Once finished, Dan marched an undied Ella into our room to join the "fun" and climbed back into bed next to me.  Nuts! I thought.  He had no plans to take the kids downstairs and let me sleep in.

Still lying in bed, groggy and foolishly believing I was relaxing and didn't need to get up yet, I thought maybe they'll play together for a bit.  They did, noisily.  At one point I popped up to peek at the goings on at the foot of our bed and saw a now bare-bunned Ella smiling wearing her undies on her head... and face.  It looked like she had on one of those contraptions you might see in one of the "Saw" movies.  Nice.

The next thing I knew, a long-sleeved button-down shirt was being shoved in my face.  "Mommy, can you put my shirt on me?" Cal was on the other end of it.  I responded, "Okay," ignoring natural questions popping into my head like long sleeves in the August heat? and a button-down shirt on a lazy Sunday? and proceeded to unbutton it so I could put it on him.

As quickly as he was handing the shirt to me, Cal was changing his mind.  "Nevermind.  I don't want to wear that shirt."  Fine by me.

Meanwhile, Ella was standing next to me (still in bed) saying something important:

Ella <pointing to her undies, now back on her buns>: "I don't have peanuts in there."

Me: "No, you don't have a penis."

Ella: "Cal Daniel have peanuts."

Me: "Yes, Cal Daniel has a penis."

Ella: "I don't have peanuts."

And then I looked at my watch.  6:54am.  Ugh. Only 6:54am... so much more time in my day than I originally thought... so much more time for more Leatherkidisms... I am a lucky mommy.

Cal Gos tuw Soccer No More

That was MY KID who loudly, repeatedly refused to run onto the soccer field tonight for his last night of soccer camp… this, after talking all week about how Ella would go to soccer tonight to watch him… after wearing his soccer t-shirt to school today in anticipation of soccer this evening… after inviting his grandparents and cousin to come watch him… which they did… or, at least, which they tried to do.

That was MY KID announcing to his dad and me within earshot of many other parents that he “HATES soccer,” his reason for not joining his soccer friends on the field for their last night of soccer camp tonight.

That was MY KID who snapped, “No!” when I politely asked him to stand up from the chair he was sitting in to let his grandma who had come to watch him play soccer sit down.

That was MY KID who, when pulled aside to talk calmly about the situation, insisted that he never said that he wanted to play soccer and who sharply noted that I knew that (see Cal Gos tuw Soccer Now).

That was MY KID whose ears caught none of my words about having certain fun once he got on the field and started playing… about sometimes doing things you may not want to just because you made a commitment to do them… about just getting out there one more time if only so his grandparents, cousin and sister could see him play.

That was MY KID, my sharp-tongued kid, who clearly did not respect his parents as we attempted to get him to join his soccer friends for his last night of soccer camp tonight.

That was MY KID screaming that he wanted to play soccer after his dad, his grandparents and I had had enough of his mean words and refusal to play, packed up our stuff and headed back to our cars.  He screamed all the way to the car and half way home… “I WANT TO PLAY SOCCER!” he exclaimed over and over again, sobbing and catching his breath between each exclamation.

I am not embarrassed nor am I angry.  I am not really even wondering what was at the root of his behavior.  Rather, I am sad and completely defeated.