I am lucky enough to live on our family's beautiful farm in MT, and I have a big wonderful family of 6! My amazing husband and I have a 1-year old little boy, and he has 3 awesome older half-brothers from his daddy's previous marriage. I manage a commercial office building; I taught in an elementary school too until baby came along, and now I attend baseball games almost every night to cheer on the boys! My blessings are many and heart is full!
As a life-long lover of language, one of my very favorite parts of motherhood is watching our little man figure out how to communicate. We have been compiling a list for the last two months or so, of our favorites from his own funny little vocabulary.
I never want to forget these adorable Hank words, because I know he will replace them with the “right” ones before we know it! (If only I could freeze time–I would–rightnow.)
BIG Dede: Grandma Dede
BIG Pop-pop: Grandpa Gil
Dig-Dig: Excavator or skid-steer
Beep-Beep: Dump truck
Co-Co: Roscoe (or any dog)
Tiny home: camper
Num-num: any food, or also any meal
BIG bath: lake or pool
Co-Co Bee: a stuffed dog
Big up: high
HoHo: Santa Claus
And his favorite request, currently:
“Hum-mum’s house, eat, NOW, pwease?!”
Hank is our dinner bell–
“Num-num time, boo-boosh!!”
Our compassionate little helper when mommy is sick–
“Is ok, mommy!”
And our reminder that even the littlest ones with the fewest words want to be part of the conversation–
“Talk Hank, too.”
May we never forget to listen to his tiny words; they carry such great meaning!
I couldn’t be more blessed with this beautiful child, and each new day with him is a gift. Watching his world get a little bigger every day is my truest joy!
I’ve made stunning 4-tier wedding cakes, perfectly iced in homemade buttercream; cakes which took days to bake, ice, assemble and decorate.
It was nothing for me to crank out 4 loaves of bread from scratch on any old Saturday morning, or whip up a few dozen cinnamon twists to send to work with my hubs for his crew.
I LIVED for brioche, trying every recipe I could find until I finally made the perfect, airy loaf. (I’m pretty sure this is the exact brioche Marie Antoinette was talking about.)
I used to be one hell of a baker.
Until I had a baby, that is.
These days, I feel good when I get a box cake made on time for a birthday in our household, and even better if I actually remember the candles!
So when my sister stopped by with a dozen gorgeous red apples, fresh off their tree a few days ago, I was inspired. I just HAD to bake something. Something GOOD.
“Hank!” I said. “Let’s bake a pie!”
Now, friends, this is NOT what a perfect apple pie is supposed to look like. Not even close.
What it does look like, is exactly what it is: a pie a toddler baked.
Old Me would never have stood for it. Old Me would have thrown out the torn-up, over-worked pastry that sat in our fridge two days longer than it should have, and made fresh. She would have rolled it and lined that pie plate smoothly and evenly, then pinched perfectly-even flutes all around the edges to seal the top.
Today though, for the first time ever, I had a helper. And Hank wanted to do it ALL. He wanted to roll the crust out with the big huge rolling pin. And mix the ingredients. And peel the apples with that fun old crank peeler his great-grandma gave us. He wanted to do all of it.
All. By. Himself.
So, you know what I did?
I let him!
I’m NOT that perfect baker I used to be–I just can’t be. I’m way too busy being mom. (And that’s even better.)
When that sweet two-year-old woke up early from his nap today, we spent that extra hour making the ugliest apple pie I have ever made.
It may be the ugliest pie I’ve made, but it is the pie I’m proudest of.
(And it tasted far sweeter than any of the pretty ones ever did.)
“We’ll go when he starts sleeping through the night,” my husband and I promised each other.
We both missed those kid-free, not-a-care-in-the-world nights when we used to go out dancing, or to dinner and a movie. Those glorious mornings when we could sleep in til 8:00 am (8:00 am!) without a baby monitor waking us up before the sun came up.
Even though we missed those nights, we also adored the chaos of our big crazy family. With four kids between us, we never seem to find much “alone” time. But you know what? Even so–we wouldn’t change it. We both understand that someday, we will have more “alone time” than we will know what to do with. So right now, we are all-in on our “six-pack” family.
In my recent evolution from (half-time) step-mom to full-time mom, I learned that life with the littlest of littles is basically parent, work, sleep, repeat. While it is the most glorious blessing; one thing I found it doesn’t allow for much is dating of your husband!
But a few weeks ago, on a short break between sports seasons, we realized we had some rare free evenings on our hands. And miraculously, the two-year-old was still sleeping through the night like a champ.
The fur-baby that stole my heart was 165 pounds of Blue Merle muscle–a majestic Great Dane named Roscoe.
Roscoe was more than a dog–he was a full-on family member. He got me through several moves, a difficult divorce, and countless single nights when every creak and crack in my big empty house kept me up at night.
I knew that my beautiful behemoth of a dog was special, but I never truly appreciated his full worth until he became a watchdog for not just me, but for my baby boy, as well.
When our little bundle came home from the hospital two years ago, Roscoe didn’t complain–even when he got moved from his cozy living room corner to a bed in the heated garage. (It was the baby’s turn to nap in that nice warm spot by the fireplace, you see.)
So, he let him.
Somehow from day one, Roscoe knew it was his job to watch over that little boy, and watch over him he did.
For two blessed years.
Sadly–we just buried our almost 12-year-old, geriatric gentle giant a week ago, under a big cottonwood on the family farm. I know his spirit will keep on watching over all of us–especially Hank, who over the last two years had become his very best friend. Those two sweet boys taught me some pretty big life lessons–one of which is how meaningful animals can be to little people.
I hope that as you read along, you nod in agreement because your little ones have a furry friend to love on like Hank did. But if you haven’t gotten a pet for your child or children (yet!), dear reader, here are five reasons why you may want to consider it!
Our big dog and our little boy were two peas in a pod. Anywhere the toddler went, the dog was sure to follow. And vice versa. On the swingset, digging in the dirt, playing ball on the lawn, picking strawberries–these two adored each other’s company. We couldn’t go for a walk unless Roscoe came with us, even when it meant he had to give up his beloved afternoon nap.
If Hank could have slept on Roscoe’s dog bed with him every night, he absolutely would have.
From the time he could walk, our toddler helped me with all of our dog chores. He understood that the first thing we did each morning was let Roscoe out, and he looked forward to it every day. He helped me fill his food and water bowls, and he even helped me clean up the “land mines” in the yard. (He was the “locator,” and I ran the shovel.)
Having a dog taught our toddler a world of responsibility, and most importantly–it taught him how to care for a loved one.
3. Teachable Moments
From learning a universal nickname for dogs–“Coco”–to learning that dogs will do almost anything for a milk-bone; our gentle giant was also a wonderful teacher for our little boy. He taught him that dogs don’t really like to be ridden like horses, even if they are the perfect size. He taught him that “woof” means “come open the door please.” He taught him that Great Danes make wonderful pillows for naps on the lawn. He taught him that it is important to hold still when you are getting your toenails clipped. He taught him that sometimes when we get old, our bodies just can’t keep up anymore. He taught him that even though saying goodbye is scary and hard, it is something that we can get through.
He also taught him the true meaning of the phrase “loyal friend.”
Our huge dog kept an amazing eye on our little boy. Roscoe was Hank’s shadow, never venturing more than 10 or 15 feet away from the tornado toddler–even when that meant a LOT of getting up and laying back down! I loved knowing that whenever I watered flowers or weeded beds in the yard, I had an extra set of eyes on Hank while he played.
Roscoe truly loved his “job,” and Hank loved having his own personal watchdog.
5. Lifelong Memories
Even though he is gone now, Hank still talks about his big buddy “Coco” everyday. Any dog we see gets a chubby little finger point and a loving “Coco!” exclaimed with a huge smile. Whenever I tear up or mention how much I miss Roscoe, Hank grabs his stuffed puppy and gives me a kiss with it. I have countless amazing pictures of these two together, and I will never forget their two years filled with those special moments. Their relationship–although much too short–gave all of us a lifetime of heartwarming memories, which I thank God for everyday.
There’s nothing quite like the magic of big dogs and little children.
So, please. If you have a family dog, let your little ones climb all over him, even when he’s a little bit muddy. Let them snuggle up to him and get those trademark slobbery dog kisses, right on their little faces. Let them help carry the water bucket, even though it splashes all over the garage floor.
I promise–it’ll all be worth it.
And if you don’t have a family dog?
Then someday–if only for your kids’ sake–I hope you’ll change your mind.
The funny thing is–I didn’t really even notice that I had lost it, until last night. Not officially.
The fact that I didn’t even notice further solidifies the fact that I truly have LOST the battle. For good.
My Type-A personality has now officially been replaced with a new type: Type Mom.
Without even realizing it, I stopped doing the one thing I ALWAYS did, every morning, to keep my sanity.
As long as I can remember, I have religiously made my bed each day–perfectly, and arranged it like a Threshold ad for Target: six pillows, two throws. Two standard king pillows, two big shams, the minky sable body pillow that I sewed before I got pregnant; then the square burlap/chevron accent pillow as my finishing touch.
Then of course–at the foot of the bed–one robin’s egg blue throw, and one sable throw.
My perfect bed.
My happy place–perfectly in order, even if just in one little corner of our crazy house. My nice, organized landing spot to fall into after each kaleidoscope day in this blended family of six.
The one thing I could make look perfect, and walk away from; knowing it would still look exactly how I left it at the end of the day.
Unlike the rest of the house, hit by all of our daily tornados of little league and toddler toys and dirty clothes and clean folded clothes and grocery shopping and LIFE.
But last night, when I went to pull off those perfectly arranged pillows, they weren’t there.
They were in a heap on the floor, exactly where I’d left them the night before.
And when I really thought about it hard–they were there the night before that, too.
How did I stop this tradition–this thing I’d tried so hard to maintain for so long–and not even notice?
I’m a mom now, that’s how.
I think my brain simply needed those brain cells, that little extra bit of RAM, to deal with more important things.
Like explaining to a two-year-old why he can’t, in fact, go to the moon, even though he really, really wants to.
(This has occupied a surprising amount of time, over the last three days. He REALLY wants to go.)
My effort is much better spent worrying about Big, Important things like that, than making sure the bed looks perfect. Because I am finding, in these crazy, wonderful, (numbered) days, just how big and important they actually ARE.
So, somewhere in the last month, I subconsciously gave up the ghost on the perfect bed.
And you know what?
Because right now, in the crazy trenches of mamahood, I guess I don’t need that little corner of perfectly folded and tucked organization, anymore.
My life now can only be summed up appropriately in one word: chaos.
The sun shined down on us through big white clouds, and every corner of the farm was lush, green, and happy.
We played catch in the backyard, ate lunch on the deck, and kicked back in our Adirondack chairs on the porch while Hank blew a gazillion bubbles on the lawn.
All the strawberries I planted last summer went crazy this past week, so when my mama-in-law brought over a big fresh-cut bundle of rhubarb, I knew I needed to whip something up to ring in the sweetness of summertime. We had a big bucket of vanilla ice cream to break out too, so a strawberry rhubarb crisp sounded like just the right mix of tart and sweet.
(Kind-of like my rhubarb-loving hubs and myself–the perfect blend of tart and sweet!)
Unlike many of my home-grown recipe experiments, this one turned out beautifully! Not only is this recipe quick and easy, this crisp is good enough to share! Heat it up and serve with ice cream or eat it right out of the pan.
Here’s my recipe:
Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp
Prep time: 20 minutes
Bake time: 50 minutes
3 cups rhubarb, cut into 1/2″ pieces
1 cup fresh cut strawberries
1 3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup flour
1 t cinnamon
3/4 t nutmeg
1/2 cup oats
1 stick butter (or margarine)
Preheat oven to 350F.
Pour 1/2 cup sugar over rhubarb in medium bowl, stir to cover. (Let sit while making crumble for crisp topping.)
Mix remaining sugar, flour, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Stir in oats.
Mix in softened butter (or margarine) until crumbly.
Pour rhubarb into 8″ x 8″ pan.
Pour strawberries over rhubarb.
Cover with crumble.
Bake 50 minutes or until fruit is bubbly and topping is golden brown.
Serve with ice cream, whipped cream, or great by itself!
May your summer be full of sweetness, too, and just the right touch of tart to keep it interesting!
Not the lovely kind of “let’s cross over,” though, Liz Gilbert-style. There was no “attraversiamo” here, no “let’s.” I had no say in the matter.
No–the crossing over I experienced today landed me right smack dab in uncharted territory. And it has definitely not been lovely.
Today, my two-year-old-in-one-week cherub and I took a parenting turn for the worse.
We boldly entered the Land of NO.
Andso far, itisterrifying.
Terrifying–because today; in one crazy, irrational display of toddler manipulation, that adorable little cherub figured out that he doesn’t HAVE to do what mama says.
He figured out that he can, in fact, do the exact opposite if he wants to. And all he has to do is say NO.
But here’s what really gets me. He could already say no! And it was so cute–those first few weeks–whenever he used his new word!
Me: Do you want some more strawberries, Hank?
Hank: (in precious singsong) Umm, no-oh!
Me: (still in new-parent la-la-land) Awwwww! Isn’t that cute? He said “No!” He is so SMART! Another real WORD! And look how he makes his mouth into that round little “o” shape! Goodness, that’s just adorable!
Whathappened to THAT no? Howdidwemorphfromdarling baby no to demon-child banshee-screaming NO!?
Whatever it was, it flipped like a switch in that smart little brain this morning. On the stairs. In “time-out.” (Another relatively new concept.)
It went like this:
Me: Hank, please. Mama needs to go to work, so I need you to be a good boy and let me change your diaper so we can get you dressed.
Me: You don’t tell mama NO. We are changing your pants whether you want to or not!
Hank: *rolls eyes*
Me: Don’t you roll your eyes at mama!
Hank: *scrunches both eyes shut. Juts chin out defiantly *
Me: (inner monologue) God, help me. I am clearly not qualified to raise this child.
Hank: *eyes still closed*
The rest of our day brought more refusals, more time-outs, more counting-down-from-fives and a lot more NO. The demon-child version. I have never heard so much unexplained screaming. I have never done so much daytime praying. Or counting to ten. Or taking deep breaths.
All I could think about, all day, was how right all those people were about the “Terrible Twos.” Apparently, we have entered them. Exactly one week early.
I get it, now–all those toddler tantrum jokes and memes. I get the meltdown over not getting “the blue cup.” We had one today because Hank wanted the BLUE paci.
(But not THAT blue paci.)
I see why cutting the sandwich bread the wrong way can cause a full-on come-apart. Hank came-apart over mandarin oranges because the sections had already, (thanks to mommy) come apart.
(Which HE had wanted to do. Himself.)
Drew Barrymore’s picture of her daughter, sprawled across the Disneyland concrete, in full-on kid-fit, makes so much more sense to me now. Because now, I have seen my own child, spread eagle on the kitchen floor, kicking and screaming, for who-knows-why, exactly.
I tried to channel Drew’s cool, collected calm all day while my toddler’s world crashed down all around us. But it is harder than I thought.
Just ignore it.
Just forge ahead, go on with your day.
He will eventually get over it.
How on earth, a small, hardly-speaking toddler can out-wit and out-stubborn a grown adult with a Masters in Education is beyond me. (And more than a little embarrassing.)
Today–in all of its glory–left me wishing for my baby back. The baby who didn’t argue; the one who laid there, cooing and smiling as I changed his diapers, whenever I damn well pleased.
The baby who weighed nine manageable pounds, not the thirty-plus of rough-and-tumble I can hardly hold onto, kicking and bucking on the carpet, dirty diaper dangling perilously by one tab.
The baby who never told me NO.
I would do anything to swap him out, for one of those again. Maybe just for a few days, just until I can figure out how to handle this new, scary world we just landed in. I would gladly rock the baby keeping some new tired mama up around the clock. That–I was great at. Those days, I knew what I was doing. Because whatever I did, always seemed to work.
Today–nothing seemed to work–except my smart little boy’s brain as it filed away notes on how to outsmart his mama.
I don’t know if I am cut out for this. I need an emergency crash course in Toddler.
I never saw the wrinkles coming until they were just suddenly there. I was admiring a cute picture of Hank that I had snapped of me holding him a few months ago, and once I stopped looking at his adorable mug and glanced up at myself, I freaked! I couldn’t believe that was MY face. . .with this sudden influx of crow’s feet??
When did I suddenly age ten years overnight? (Maybe in those two years when I hardly got any sleep at all?) Hmmm–maybe. But my goodness, those wrinkles sure carved themselves in deep!
After the long hot shower I finally got in at 10:00 p.m. last night, I had yet another realization about my changed life. What the heck happened to my underwear drawer in the last two years? Who snuck in and traded all my fun frilly cuteness for granny panties?
I certainly never dumped out all those adorably-patterned VS under-roosies that used to fill up that drawer, and traded them in for mom underwear. If I had known that was coming, I may have reconsidered the whole idea of motherhood!! Somehow, they must have just slowly replaced themselves while my conscious wasn’t paying attention, one Target 3-pack of stretchy Hanes at a time.
I don’t think I have ever fully realized just how “adult” I am these days. How adult I HAVE to be, that is! It is still sinking in–almost two years later–that I am someone’s mother now.
All of these changes are a whole lot like trying to keep the house clean. You don’t necessarily see it getting dirty, you just notice it once it IS dirty. Once it’s already too late to prevent it.
I just packed up baby clothes that no longer fit my baby because he is no longer a baby. He’s suddenly a little “big kid” now. Who just sported his first pair of pull-ups, because he just started using his big-boy potty. Boy, did that ever help it sink in that he isn’t my little baby anymore. (But wasn’t he, just yesterday?)
Potty–training. And that big-kid baseball cap that just this month became permanently attached to his little blonde head. Just like his bro-bros.
Again–all good changes. All blessings. (Well, maybe except for the wrinkles and the mom undies–I’m going to have to learn to live with those.) But I need to learn how to live with all my changes, whether I like them or not. The only constant in my life these days is change. Isn’t that true for all of us?
My main problem is, I somehow need to figure out how to absorb all that time, all those moments, all the little bits that come in the middle between one stage and the next. Because I don’t want to only remember the milestones. The big moments. I want to remember all of it.
(Because after all–it is all of these beautiful little moments that have earned me such impressive laugh lines. 🙂 )
See those knee-highs scattered all over my closet floor? (You have to look hard–they blend in pretty well!) When I walked in to get dressed after my shower this morning, Hank pointed at them proudly and announced, “Poop.”
“Poop?” I asked him. To which he clarified, “Yeah! Co-co poop.”
Ahhhh, Roscoe poop. My knee-highs, once they were pulled out of the box and scattered around by my toddler, look like dog poops. Gotcha.
(And yes, that is a carabiner in Hank’s mouth. No, I am not sure why there is a carabiner in my closet.)
I call this one: Still Life with Horse, Chocolate Egg, Dump Truck and Diapers
Clearly, we have a digger-obsessed little boy. They ALL have to join him for breakfast, or he will not eat breakfast. So to this, I say: Ok, fine. Line ’em up, digger man.
All the way home from work today, Hank entertained himself (and me) by balancing his goldfish snack cup on his head, then making it fall off. Over and over. (Don’t worry–I took this picture at a red light.)
Hank really REALLY wants to be a baseball player like his big bros. He could not be happier about Little League starting up again!
And what better way is there to end a crazy day than with a lovely bubble bath (with your favorite excavator)?
Tomorrow, we get to do it all over again, and I am sure by the end of it I will have even more pictures that need explanations.
**Good night all, from one crazy toddler and his Tired Mama!**
Two words have been bouncing around in my brain a lot over the past year, as my barely-walking 1 year-old baby rounded the corner on toddlerhood and headed towards that looming milestone of horror–the Terrible Twos.
The two words I am referring to are: Parenting Style. While taking Advanced Human Development, I studied the three main types, so I thought I had it all figured out. I was prepared to be an effective parent someday. It was as simple as this:
Be too strict: you’re authoritarian and they’ll resent you. Be too lax: you’re permissive, and they’ll run all over you. Be perfectly balanced–authoritative–and your kids will turn out respectful and responsible. How hard can it be to achieve a balance of being both demanding and responsive? Not that hard, right?
It can’t be!
I mean–we don’t want to raise complete hooligans, but we don’t necessarily want silent little soldiers, either!
Seriously, how hard can this be?
Well. . . I’ll tell you. Here I sit, a month away from the TERRIBLE TWOS where all hell promises to break loose, and I am pondering just how well my “Parenting Style” is actually fitting in with the above logic. Am I doing a great job of being the perfect Authoritative Parent?
Honest to goodness–I couldn’t even tell you. While I shoot for authoritative, I like to call my current parenting style “A Wing and a Prayer.”
Parenting, it turns out, is WAY HARDER than I thought it would be when that little plus sign miraculously appeared on the pregnancy test.
I have found, that as hard as you try to do all the mom things just so and devote enough time to all the age-appropriate brain-stimulating activities, life happens. Things get real. Houses get dirty. You still have to figure out how to pay all your (steadily increasing) bills.
And then; just when you think you have finally gotten a handle on the whole baby thing, theyturnintotoddlers. (I’m convinced toddler must translate into tornado in some language, somewhere!)
All the things I promised myself I’d do or not do, suddenly went out the window. To avoid complete insanity, I evolved into practicing a new Parenting Style centered around one premise: what works. (Hence the wing and DEFINITELY the prayer.)
Here is what that looks like in my house on any given day.
“Ok, so let me get this straight–you absolutely must wear your glow-in-the-dark pajama shirt all day today instead of getting fully dressed?”
“The only way you will let mom take a shower is if you get to watch Bob the Builder on the iPad?”
“You suddenly hate everything I just cut up for you for lunch–which I should point out, are all things you loved yesterday?”
And–“You WILL NOT go to bed unless ALL your diggers are IN your crib with you?”
Well, ok then!
This is why my new Parenting Style is such a beautiful panacea for stressful parenting! I finally figured out that while it may feel like it, these are not mom fails.
These are simply tornado survival tactics.
Did we still get out the door, fully clothed (in something) and get to grandma’s in time for me to get to work? Check.
Did mama get a shower without a screaming fit? Check. (And he’s learning technology skills, right?)
Did he still eat a healthy lunch? (Even if today’s first lunch all got packed back into tuppers for another attempt at dinner?) Check.
Did he still sleep through the night, (even though he may have rolled over onto a hard plastic toy a few times)? Check.
These days, I consider even a fair amount of cooperation from the little tornado a huge success. I may not be hitting the qualifications for perfect Authoritative Parenting, but you know what? That’s OK. I don’t have a perfectly-behaved soldier, but I also don’t have a complete hooligan. What I do have is a little boy who knows he is loved, loves us back, listens to us (most of the time) and most importantly–gets to love being a kid.
I call that a huge win!
If you happen to be one of the elite Authoritative Wonder Parents out there, perfectly balancing your demanding with your responsive, I applaud you, and I envy you. (Can you let us in on how you do it?)
And to the rest of you out there, parenting littles the best you can. . .maybe even identifying somewhat with my ‘Wing and a Prayer’ Parenting Style–cheers to us! We may have a little lower bar, but you know what I call it?