Yeah, I'm not feeling sorry for you . . . not even a little.

Some days, there's a lot of whining and crying in our house.  I'm talking like every five to seven minutes.  These are usually the days when Gavin is cranky or tired or hungry or any combination of those things.  Normally, I'd feel bad for him.  It must be rough being three and not knowing how to effectively handle your tiredness, your hunger, or your crankiness.  But, the truth is, I don't feel bad.  Why?  Because I'm a cold-hearted person?  Well, maybe a little, but also because most of the dramatic events that lead to the crying are caused by none other than Gavin himself.

Scenario:  Gavin comes to me in hysterics.  Tears streaming down his face.  "Mommy, Charlie scratched me."  Why did Charlie scratched you?  "I don't know.  He just did.  And I didn't like it.  It hurts, Mommy."

Now, normally, I'd say "Bad dog, Charlie," give Gavin a kiss and send him on his way.  But, sometimes I know to dig a little deeper for the real story.

What were you doing when Charlie scratched you?  "He was digging a hole outside."  So, he was digging a hole outside and you were telling him to stop?  "Uh huh."  (I survey his person.)  Why do you have dirt on your hands?  "I don't know."  Were you digging, too?  "I don't know."  Wait.  Why do you have dirt on your feet?  Were you digging in the dirt with your feet?  (Now, he's laughing.)  "Yeah."  Okay, so you were digging a hole with Charlie, and he scratched you, and now you want me to feel bad for you?  Ain't gonna happen kid.  Go wash your hands and feet.

Scenario:  Gavin has been playing in a box all day (leftover from some probably unnecessary purchase).  Commence screaming and crying.  "Momma!  Charlie is chewing on my box!  Stop it Charlie; stop it!  Momma, make Charlie stop.  I don't want him chewing on my box."  I enter the living room to reprimand the dog, and I find that the dog is inside the box.

Why is Charlie in the box?  "I don't know."  How did Charlie get in the box?  "I don't know."  Did you put Charlie in the box?  "Yes."  Why did you put Charlie in the box?  "I don't know."  Okay, honey, you can't put the dog in the box and then get mad because he's trying to chew his way out.  If you don't want him to chew on the box then don't put him in it.  Seriously.


Scenario:  Loud crash.  Screaming.  Hysteria.  I run into the kitchen to find Gavin laying partway under the kitchen table.  What happened?  "Owie, Momma!"  What's wrong?  What happened?  "I fell."  How did you fall?  "I don't know."  What were you doing when you fell?  "I don't know."

The bench that goes with the table is tipped over, laying on it's side.  What happened to the bench?  "I don't know."  Well, how did you get on the floor, and how did the bench get tipped over?  "Because I was jumping."  You were jumping?  "Yeah."  Where were you jumping?  "On that."  (Points to the bench.)  Oh, so you were jumping on the bench, like you know you're not supposed to, and it tipped over and you fell?  "Uh huh."  Yeah, you're not getting any sympathy from me, kid.

So, we have a new rule in the house: You don't get to cry if you were being a goon, and you got hurt.

http://lovelinks.freefringes.com/

Who's YOUR Daddy?

Over the past few months, I've been trying to explain family relationships to Gavin.  We've been talking about who his cousins are, who is grandparents are, who his aunts and uncles are, and so on.  He knows that Ashtyn, Hayden, Havyn, Braylen, and Keegan are his cousins, and he knows that some of them are brothers and some of them are sisters.  But, he gets a little confused sometimes.  For instance, when talking about Ashtyn or Hayden, he'll say, "Where's my sister?"  Well, they're not your sisters.  They are sisters, but they're not your sisters.  They're your cousins.  "Oh."

I also explained to him that Grandpa Ronnie is my dad and Grandma Paulie is my mom.  "Oh."  Except, he really seemed to latch onto this idea.  Shortly after I explained this concept to him, he started saying things like:

1.  (when getting ready to buckle him into his carseat) "No, Momma, I want your dad to buckle me."  You want my dad?  You mean Grandpa Ronnie?

2.  (when driving to my parents house) "Is your dad going to be there?"  Well, he does live there.

3.  I'll say something like, "Hey, Dad, can you hand me that?"  Gavin will immediately follow this by saying something like, "Yeah, Dad, can you hand me that?"  He's not  your dad; he's your grandpa.  That's why you call him Grandpa Ronnie.

Well, this past weekend we were all at my sister's house celebrating my dad's birthday.  All of the kids were very excited to sing "Happy Birthday" to their grandpa, but they had to wait until after we ate and presents were open.  As we're waiting to begin the cake-eating and sing-along, I hear Gavin, on the other side of the room, singing "Happy Birthday."  It went like this:

Happy Birthday to you.  Happy Birthday to you.  Happy Birthday, Momma's Dad.  Happy Birthday to you.

I just about died laughing.  And, as if he couldn't get any cuter (secretly I think he had been storing away this cuteness, waiting to bring it out at just the right time - right when I was ready to put him in a perma-timeout for his incessant naughtiness), he climbs in bed with my the following morning, gives me a kiss, and says, "Happy Birthday to your dad, Momma."

That may or may not buy him another week of life.

I See You Wore Your Sassy Pants Today

I've got a problem on my hands.  A serious one.  My 3 1/2 year old is full of sassiness.  You know - talking back, arguing, defying, negotiating - all that fun stuff.  I wasn't expecting this for a few more years, but he's already a pro at being a pre-teen in toddler clothing. 

It's not just him telling me, "I don't want to."  That would be a simple matter.  Gavin, pick up your toys.  "I don't want to."  Tough.  Do it or go in time out.   Problem solved.   No, it's more than that.  A lot more.  And, I'm not really sure what to do about it.

You see, one thing he's really good at is using my own words against me.  For example:

Me:  Gavin, get off of the table.  (For some reason he thinks it's completely appropriate to stand and sit on the table at all times.  Even in a restaurant.  I'm pretty sure he learned it from the dog.)

Gavin:  I will, Momma.

Me:  No.  Get off of the table NOW.

Gavin:  Be patient.

Huh?  Be patient?  No.  I told you to get off the table, and I mean RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.  Yes, I tell you to be patient all the time, but you don't get to tell me to be patient.  Children need to learn important skills such as patience so they can completely abandon them when they become adults.  So, get your ass off of the table or you're going to spend some time in timeout.

Example Number Two:

Me:  Gavin, stop pushing buttons on the computer.

Gavin: (cautiously reaches one finger towards the keyboard and slowly pushes down the A button).

Me:  Gavin, I asked you to stop pushing buttons.  Do it again, and you're going in time out.

Gavin:  But, I don't want to go in time out.

Me:  Then stop pushing buttons.

(fast-forward three hours)

Gavin: Momma, let's read Baby Bear again.

Me: (exhausted from reading it six times already) I don't want to read it again.  (I set the book on the table)

Gavin: Don't put the book on the table, Mommy!

 Me:  (ignoring him, I walk away)

Gavin:  I said don't put the book on the table.  (Grabs the book off of the table, marches over to me, and shoves it in my hand.)  You do it again, and you go in time out.

Funny story about that, kid. We're not equals, even though that's clearly the idea you've formed at this point.  You don't get to decide time outs, I do.  Wait.  On the other hand, please put me in time out.  In my room.  On my bed.  With a book.  That would be awful.

Gavin is not really a morning person - unless it's the weekend.  I have to work really hard to wake him up during the week - and he's often not very friendly.  (No idea where he gets that from.)  Of course, on the weekends, he wakes up bright and early, chipper and fully of energy . . . but that's another story.  The other morning, as I was fighting to wake him out of a deep slumber, I asked him what he wanted for breakfast.  Me:  "Hey Gavin.  You've got to get up.  What do you want for breakfast?  Cereal or toast?"  He opens one eye, glares at me, and says, "Will you just leave me alone?"  Huh?  And I was trying to be nice.

Lately, our on-going dialogue goes a lot like this:

Me:  Gavin stop doing that (this could be anything from drinking his chocolate milk like a dog, hitting the dog with a sword, or putting his feet in his applesauce).

Gavin:  I don't want to.

Me:  Then you can go in time out.

Gavin:  I don't want to go in time out.

Me:  Then stop doing that.

Gavin:  I don't want to stop.

Me:  Then go in time out.

Gavin:  But I don't want to go in timeout.

(Repeat previous conversation 60 times)

Me:  Gavin, stop doing that and stop talking back or you're going in time out.

Gavin:  (very quietly)  I don't want to.

So, at this point, I'm pretty much thinking I might sell him on eBay.  I'll start the bidding at $1.

Remember when I thought getting a puppy was a good idea?

It's okay.  You can say it.  Go on.  I know you want to.  Just say, "I told you so," so we can move on.  There.  Feels good doesn't it?

I thought getting a puppy was a great idea.  You didn't.  You were right; I was wrong.  I mean, I had all sorts of justifications and reasons supporting my decision, but turns out, I should've thought a little harder about it.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying I don't like the dog or that I want to get rid of him.  Nope.  I'm not saying that at all.  I'm just saying that I've made wiser decisions in my life.

My original justifications for getting a dog included the rock-solid reason of "Puppies are Cute."  Rock.  Freaking.  Solid.  And you know what?  Charlie is cute.  He's super cute . . . when he's not chewing up magazines, stealing socks and hiding them under the bed, climbing up on the kitchen table to eat Gavin's dinner while I stole off to the bathroom for five seconds, sneaking off to the basement with a shoe so he can nibble on it without getting caught, and so on.

I mean, I'll be honest.  He's a pretty good dog . . . when he's sleeping.  And he sleeps pretty well . . . when I take him on a long walk or a two-mile run and tire his ass out.  Just to clarify, though, when I say "walk" I mean he pulls on his leash so hard that he almost passes out from choking himself.  And me, I'm trying to pretend that I have some control of the situation - which I clearly don't.

Gavin loves to play with him . . . most of time.  Except when Gavin's tired and Charlie tries to lick the skin off of his face or body slam him to the ground.  And, Gavin's not really a fan when Charlie drops whatever dog toy he's chewing on in favor of one of Gavin's toys.  It goes something like this:  Gavin screams, "Mommy!  Help me!  Charlie has my toy!" while Charlie runs around the house, evading both Gavin and I at every turn.  And looking so freaking proud of himself.  Look at me.  I have a toy in my mouth.  Look at what I got. 

He is a sweet guy though.  He loves to snuggle and be around people - just like a typical lab.  He did learn how to jump up on my bed, though.  This means that I often wake up to find him laying across my neck.  Practically suffocating me.  Or he lays on me head.  Such a sweetheart.

So, it boils down to this.  I like the dog; he's sweet.  And he'll hopefully probably be a great dog once he reaches maturity.  In like a year-and-a-half.  Until then, I'll deal with the naughty puppiness, and you just gloat about being right.  Deal?

I'm totally copyrighting my son's first song

Over the past weekend, we headed north, off into the woods, to do a little hiking, a wee bit of fishing (and by wee bit I mean Gavin mostly got his lure caught in the weeds before it even touched water), some hot dog and marshmallow roasting, and a smidgen of sleeping in a tent that leaked, but just a little.  Even with the few periods of rain, it was a beautiful weekend, we stayed relatively dry (most of the wetness came from a spilled beverage . . . what kind of irresponsible person spills a beverage in a tent?  Oh . . . yeah, that was me.) and everyone had a great time, including Charlie, who developed a taste for charred firewood (he also developed a taste for glasses - the kind you wear on your face to see out of your eyes - but that's a story for another time).

Right before the masterpiece was created.

On one of our hikes down to the river and back, Gavin started singing his ABC's.  It's something he's been working on (and will continue to work on since preschool is putting the pressure on us).   So, as we're casually walking along the trail (and by casually I mean Charlie is pulling so hard on the leash that I'm pretty sure he's going to choke himself to the point of unconsciousness), Gavin begins modifying the lyrics.





His first version was:  A, B, C, D, E, F, Gavin.

This is cute because Gavin starts with "G."  (I realize I just made you feel like a moron by pointing that out.  Sorry.)  Smiles and chuckles all around, which encourage him to make keep modifying.

His second version:  A, B, C, D, E, F, Danion.

Okay, Danion doesn't start with G, but Danion (the dog) was there, and Gavin loves that freaking dog.  More smiles, more chuckles, onto a new version.

His third version:  A, B, C, D, E, F, Charlie.

Again, cute.  What a funny kid, and he sure does like his dogs.  Ha ha!

His fourth (and soon-to-be-copyrighted-version):  A, B, C, D, E, F, you.

Now, if you're sitting there puzzled, think about it (and I'm not mentioning any names of specific family members that are close to my age but just a little younger and live on the west coast and own a dog named Riley).

A, B, C, D, E, F you.

Of course, Gavin had no idea what a  hilarious masterpiece of lyrical brilliance he had just created, but it was hard not to laugh.  And by laugh I mean to the point of tears and peeing my pants.  Because there's no way I didn't laugh at that.

So, I'm going to get a copyright for that song.  It's going to revolutionize preschools across the country.  Every parent will be singing that song with their toddlers.  Never mind the fact that they won't actually be learning the alphabet - in alphabetical order.  It's not that important anyway.  I mean, who needs to know the alphabet these days?  You're welcome.

P.S.  Gavin's other recent masterpiece:

Take that academically rigorous preschool!

Preschool is stressing me out and not because the curriculum is hard

Preschool is stressful.  I'm not kidding.  I'm about to have a nervous breakdown over this.  (Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating a little but not a lot.)  Let me explain.

Last week, I got a form from Gavin's preschool telling me what they were working on that week in class.  (He goes to preschool in the mornings and daycare in the afternoon - even though it's all the same place.)  From said form, I learned that last week's theme was nature, that they talked about the letter "C", that Gavin spent most of his time playing with Carson in the block area and housekeeping area (did I mention he loves to help me clean?  I am such a lucky lady.), and that they were practicing the letter "C" in their Zoo-phonics program. 

Then, I got to the "Child's Notes" part.  It started off well - letting me know that Gavin was doing well during group activities.  After that, it gave some suggestions as to how we can help extend his learning at home. It said, "Gavin needs to work on recognizing letters of the alphabet and writing his name."  Okay, I can handle that.  We've been working on his letters all summer, so we'll keep on working at them, and we'll throw in some writing practice.  Not a big deal, right?

Well, today, not even one week later, I get another form.  It tells me that this week's theme is fall, they're going to discuss what leaves are made of, and they're going to be practicing letters and numbers.  Super!  But then I got to the "Child's Notes" part . . .


Gavin does well with one-on-one activities but struggles in a group setting when learning new things.

Wait a second.  Did you just tell me that last week he did well with group activities?  And now you're telling me he doesn't?  Which one is it?!?!

Then . . .


It would be beneficial for you to work with Gavin at home by helping him recognize letters of the alphabet and practicing his name.  He also needs help holding a pencil/writing utensil.

But I have been!  You just told me this last week!  And since last week, I've been working with him.  We read books, we look at letter flashcards, we sing the alphabet song, we talk about the different letters in the words on the pages of a book . . . I'm working with him!  Is he supposed to learn this all in a week?  Do you want me to wake him up six times during the middle of the night, shove a flashcard in his face, and scream, "What letter is this!?!  Tell me now!!"  And, if he gets it wrong, I'll throw cold water in his face?

As a teacher, I know how important it is to work at home with your children - to read to them, teach them basic math and letter sounds - so, I appreciate the friendly-reminders, but you're stressing me out people.

Then, I started worrying. . . Is he behind?  Can all the other 3-year-olds recognize all the letters of the alphabet, hold a pencil correctly, and write their name?  Am I not doing enough at home?  Should we be spending more time learning and less time playing?

So, tonight, after being gone from the house for 12 hours, teaching classes, commuting two hours round-trip, making dinner, and doing a load of laundry, we spent time working on this:

Look at those beautiful g's!

And, you know what?  I'm not going to stress about it.  We'll keep working slowly, and he'll get it all eventually.  And I'm just gonna ignore those friendly reminders from preschool for awhile . . .

A Brief Lesson in Naughtiness

There is usually a lot of naughtiness that takes place in my house.  I mean, with a toddler and a puppy, what do you really expect (besides utter and complete chaos)?  The amount of naughtiness fluctuates daily.  Some days, it's completely manageable, and laughable, and other days, it feels like every time I turn around I'm saying, "What the &$#@ are you doing?  Why would you do that?!?!"  Those are the days I feel like pulling my hair out (or locking myself in my bedroom).  Here is just a glimpse of some of the naughtiness that took place one day:

Naughty:

What?  Why can't I sit on the table?

Naughtier:

Oh this?  I colored it.  Do you like it?

Naughtiest:

Look!  I colored my belly, too!

So, not too naughty, right?  Wait.  It gets better!

Naughty:

Don't mind me.  I'm not doing anything.

Naughtier:

I'm just taking inventory.  Don't worry.

Naughtiest:

Fruit snacks?  What fruit snacks?  I have no idea what you're talking about.

Coloring household items and body parts?  No big deal.  Sneaking food right before dinner?  Amateur.  But, he's not done.

Naughty:

We're just hanging out.  Nothing going on here.

Naughtier:

Just cleaning up any leftover crumbs.  You're welcome.

Naughtiest:

Why are you looking at us like that?

A few moments later . . . 

Oh, you wanted this roll of toilet paper?  Sorry.

Thirty minutes later . . . all that naughtiness must have worn them out . . . 

Never mind that the dog isn't supposed to be on the couch.