We had the big Elmo birthday bash here on Saturday. Thanks to everyone who came to share our very special day with us. The day was much fun if a little overwhelming for Sproutie. There’s video of the meltdown that resulted from 30 people singing happy birthday to the birthday boy as he was presented with a flaming cake. Yeah, it’s classic. No doubt you’ll want to see that video, as well as other pics from the party. I get lots of requests for more pictures and as much as I want to oblige those requests … well, it’s the blind thing. I do take most of the photos in the family. Michael and I often get the camera out after big family events and play “what did Kimberly think she was taking a picture of.” Great fun, that. Nothing like a little laughter at one’s own expense. But Michael is always too busy for picture taking or is working the video camera, so sadly, picture duty falls to me. It’s one thing to take the pictures, but it’s a horse of a different color to post them. And let me just say that I have no idea what color that horse is. I could probably follow the steps to post pictures to this blog, but the end result would almost certainly not be what I intended. Likely, this blog would be full of photos of the ceiling and the backs of people’s heads.
So all of that is to say that if you want pictures (and I know that you do) just leave some harassing comments for Michael here and possibly (though I can’t make any promises) pictures and video will appear here. That said, I would not go holding one’s proverbial breath. But at least now you’ll have an appropriate outlet for your demands.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Two Years Old
Dear Sprout,
You aren’t a baby anymore. I might call you my little baby (I probably always will) but you are without a doubt a little boy. This time last year, you couldn’t even walk on your own. Now you run. Everywhere. You just started speaking in complete sentences. Here are a few examples:
Where’s Mommy?
There’s Mommy!
More apple juice.
No more.
No way.
I do it.
Sorry Mommy.
Come here Daddy.
Wiggles please.
Wiggles now.
More Wiggles!
I know.
Mine.
These are just a few examples. You add to it everyday. You no longer have to be put down for bed or nap asleep. You’re a big enough boy that you go to bed awake and drift off to sleep all on your own. Fortunately for me, you still love to cuddle. And everyday begins with me and you on the couch with a sippy of milk and Sesame Street. I can’t think of a better way to start the day. Each day ends with you snuggled with Mommy or Daddy, looking at books or watching TV. You are smart and brave and independent. You’re sweet and gentle and beautiful. My love for you is bigger than I ever thought anything could be. It’s true that you have taught me about patience. But you also taught me about gratitude. I am grateful for every one of these days that go by so incredibly fast. I am grateful that you are my little boy.
My love always,
Mommy
You aren’t a baby anymore. I might call you my little baby (I probably always will) but you are without a doubt a little boy. This time last year, you couldn’t even walk on your own. Now you run. Everywhere. You just started speaking in complete sentences. Here are a few examples:
Where’s Mommy?
There’s Mommy!
More apple juice.
No more.
No way.
I do it.
Sorry Mommy.
Come here Daddy.
Wiggles please.
Wiggles now.
More Wiggles!
I know.
Mine.
These are just a few examples. You add to it everyday. You no longer have to be put down for bed or nap asleep. You’re a big enough boy that you go to bed awake and drift off to sleep all on your own. Fortunately for me, you still love to cuddle. And everyday begins with me and you on the couch with a sippy of milk and Sesame Street. I can’t think of a better way to start the day. Each day ends with you snuggled with Mommy or Daddy, looking at books or watching TV. You are smart and brave and independent. You’re sweet and gentle and beautiful. My love for you is bigger than I ever thought anything could be. It’s true that you have taught me about patience. But you also taught me about gratitude. I am grateful for every one of these days that go by so incredibly fast. I am grateful that you are my little boy.
My love always,
Mommy
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Where does the time go?
The time between when Michael leaves for work and when Sprout wakes up is my time. It is sacred time, although Sproutie does not always regard it as such. Sipping my coffee, I indulge in a book, do computer stuff, or plan the day. What to fix for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner. I make lists—grocery lists, to do lists, people-to-call lists. I have to finish knitting those baby booties before the babies come. Seems like everybody is pregnant these days, doesn’t it? And I have to remember to … Fill in the blank with any number of things there. Then I hear chatter from Sproutie’s room and know that this time, my time, is at an end and too little was accomplished. Where did the time go?
The day proceeds with the usual daily parade of meals, play, and a movie of some kind. Granny visits for lunch and I spend that visit time unloading or reloading the dishwasher. A time-saving device no doubt, but a beast that must be fed just the same. In the back of my mind no matter what I’m doing is always the nagging voice telling me that I really ought to be writing. Yeah, I’ll get right on that, just as soon as … But there isn’t time to even decide when to do it, let alone carry out the actual doing of it. Eventually, if the heavens are merciful, comes the wind down for the nap. Find the pacy, where’s the blankie, now rocking. Finally, he’s asleep. Put him in the crib. Close the bedroom door gently, very gently, behind me. Sit down with the laptop. Check Email, Facebook, now the writing. But really, those baby booties can’t wait. So switching gears. Sit down with the knitting and a reheated cup of the morning’s coffee, and an audio book. Life is good.
For a few minutes.
Crying from Sproutie’s room. Tummy trouble again. Nap is cut short. I go get him and try to cuddle, hoping he hasn’t completely left sleep behind. It’s a futile attempt, and I know it, but hope does spring eternal. Okay, well that few minutes was nice. Pour the stale coffee down the sink, rinse out the cup. Time for Sprout’s snack. I steal bites of a sandwich as I pass through the kitchen on some other errand. Then it’s five o’clock and Michael is home. Where did the time go?
Next is the mad rush to dinner, clean up, and playtime before bath time. After the bath, Sprout and I snuggle on the couch and watch a cartoon on TV. This is calming, this regular moment of peace that we’ve built into every night. Sprout sings the lullaby song. Then it’s time for bed. Sleepy as he is, he clings to me, “Mommy,” unwilling to part for the night. And this time I cling right back because I realize that in a few weeks he will be two years old and I want to remember that this is where the time went.
The day proceeds with the usual daily parade of meals, play, and a movie of some kind. Granny visits for lunch and I spend that visit time unloading or reloading the dishwasher. A time-saving device no doubt, but a beast that must be fed just the same. In the back of my mind no matter what I’m doing is always the nagging voice telling me that I really ought to be writing. Yeah, I’ll get right on that, just as soon as … But there isn’t time to even decide when to do it, let alone carry out the actual doing of it. Eventually, if the heavens are merciful, comes the wind down for the nap. Find the pacy, where’s the blankie, now rocking. Finally, he’s asleep. Put him in the crib. Close the bedroom door gently, very gently, behind me. Sit down with the laptop. Check Email, Facebook, now the writing. But really, those baby booties can’t wait. So switching gears. Sit down with the knitting and a reheated cup of the morning’s coffee, and an audio book. Life is good.
For a few minutes.
Crying from Sproutie’s room. Tummy trouble again. Nap is cut short. I go get him and try to cuddle, hoping he hasn’t completely left sleep behind. It’s a futile attempt, and I know it, but hope does spring eternal. Okay, well that few minutes was nice. Pour the stale coffee down the sink, rinse out the cup. Time for Sprout’s snack. I steal bites of a sandwich as I pass through the kitchen on some other errand. Then it’s five o’clock and Michael is home. Where did the time go?
Next is the mad rush to dinner, clean up, and playtime before bath time. After the bath, Sprout and I snuggle on the couch and watch a cartoon on TV. This is calming, this regular moment of peace that we’ve built into every night. Sprout sings the lullaby song. Then it’s time for bed. Sleepy as he is, he clings to me, “Mommy,” unwilling to part for the night. And this time I cling right back because I realize that in a few weeks he will be two years old and I want to remember that this is where the time went.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Boys Will be Boys
Michael and I make every attempt to raise a broad-minded, well-rounded child. So when Mom called from Toys R Us to ask if she could buy Sprout a Princess castle that he had picked up and wouldn’t put down, we said sure. “It’s pink,” Mom warned, but we still said it was fine. Any reservations we might have had about the toy stemmed from it being a Disney product and its promotion of the Princess Industrial Complex. The color did not rate on our list of concerns. Actually, our criteria for toys is pretty broad: As long as he can’t get hurt on it and it isn’t a gun, toy or otherwise (you really do have to make that stipulation here), then it’s fine.
So Sprout gets the toy home, and it is most certainly pink, but it’s not a castle. It is a barn. A pink barn, but a barn nonetheless. Mom will argue this point, but it has a barrel of apples and a bale of hay in it: It’s a barn. Since it also comes with a fancy horse and a princess, I guess it would be called a stable. Either way, it is most assuredly not a castle. But thanks to Mom’s insistence and Sprout’s love of saying the word “castle,” the toy in question is now and ever shall be a castle—just one containing a stall, apples, and hay. Whatever. Given that Sprout has since made a Lego tower for it, I guess it really is a castle now.
So that’s Sprout’s first girl toy. Michael and I were patting ourselves on the backs for our own broad mindedness and liberated thinking when we noticed that Sprout had put the princess in his John Deer tractor and Sprout and princess were hauling the fancy horse around in the trailer. Oh well. As long as he’s enjoying himself, right?
So Sprout gets the toy home, and it is most certainly pink, but it’s not a castle. It is a barn. A pink barn, but a barn nonetheless. Mom will argue this point, but it has a barrel of apples and a bale of hay in it: It’s a barn. Since it also comes with a fancy horse and a princess, I guess it would be called a stable. Either way, it is most assuredly not a castle. But thanks to Mom’s insistence and Sprout’s love of saying the word “castle,” the toy in question is now and ever shall be a castle—just one containing a stall, apples, and hay. Whatever. Given that Sprout has since made a Lego tower for it, I guess it really is a castle now.
So that’s Sprout’s first girl toy. Michael and I were patting ourselves on the backs for our own broad mindedness and liberated thinking when we noticed that Sprout had put the princess in his John Deer tractor and Sprout and princess were hauling the fancy horse around in the trailer. Oh well. As long as he’s enjoying himself, right?
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