You May Think It's Funny But It's Snot

I do love preschool. But if I had to, had to, lodge one teensy, tiny complaint about it, it would be that ever since Berit started school both she and Marta have a perpetually goopy nose. You might notice it on the left there, nevermind the dinner around the mouth. (The goofy look is the result of playing for a very long time in front of the computer camera before actually snapping any photos.)

Anyway, it's not even as though my kids have a runny nose -- it's this completely alien substance, green but not in an infected way, just... just green and sticky, like a plug that their immune systems have ordered up to combat all the new germs Berit is meeting in preschool. It's gross, and worse, it's impossible to get rid of. After blowing the nose, wiping the nose, peeling it out and trying my damndest to scrape it away, all while holding the head of the child with the goopy nose still with my fifth and sixth hands, I turn to throw away the kleenex and like magic, it's back. 

For the most part it just sits there, plugging them up and grossing me out. But every now and then, say, when we meet a new family or when we run into my OB's wife or our priest, or God forbid that mom who's really, really, really nervous about other kids' germs, the slime starts to ooze down the bridge between their noses and lips (sidenote: Berit calls this her "Bem."), all neon green and scary like, threatening to infect any and all children within a sneezing radius with the swine flu. 

Have I mentioned that Berit throws tantrums about blowing her nose? So, awesome.

Anyone Up For A Nursing Bra Burning?

Last night, there was no nursing. Marta has officially not nursed for 38 hours, leaving my shirt a wee bit tighter in all the right places and my future child free for at least an overnight. It was hard last night, though. Trevor went to her once, twice, then the third time she was not having it. Cried and sobbed for Mama, so I filled a sippy with warm milk and let her cry while I held her, telling her stories and singing lullabies. She wasn't happy, but after a while I left and she slept (not without screaming for 20 minutes, but sleep she finally did). This morning she woke up and still loved me, so I think we'll do the same thing tonight. 

However. I believe this weaning process will fall more on my shoulders this evening, since when I went up to her 10 minutes after Trevor had left, I found her freezing and WET. Not her diaper, her pajamas. It took me an hour just to warm her up, and I'm fairly certain my rage at my soundly asleep husband turned me into a right toasty furnace. When I left her room I was tempted to pull his covers off and stick his hand in a bowl of warm water, but I was too tired. This morning he was shocked; said the room felt perfectly fine to him. This from a man who sleeps in practically a loin cloth while I'm wearing my "snowsuit" (his words, not mine), piled with a quilt and a down comforter. 

But don't worry, fellow moms. I just ate the last of his ice cream. And let's not forget how a recently-weaned mom's chest goes through Pamela Anderson-esque changes, yet how it may not be touched, looked at or thought about. So we're even.

Peace and Quiet

"It's The Biggest Pool I Ever Did See!"

"Helping." 

(What you don't see is the pool of water on the chair and floor beneath her.)

I love one-on-one time, even if it is cleaning the kitchen. :)

Blast Off

In the car yesterday, I was singing that jumprope rhyme "Cinderella, dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss a fellow; the fellow was late, she kissed a snake, how many doctors did it take? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!"

And Marta said: "Nine. Ten."

Sure I was hearing her wrong (as in, "My 16-month-old did not just actually really completely count."), I said, "One."

Marta: "Two."

Me: "Three."

Marta: "Four."

Me: "FIVE."

Marta: "Six."

Me: "SEVEN?"

Marta: "Eight."

Me: "NINE!"

Marta: "Ten."

Me: "E-L-E-V-E-N?!?"

Marta: "Gobble-Gobble?"

So close. But hello! She helped me count to ten. And... that's... not... all...

She now walks around the house saying, "Five, four, three, two, one, yay!"

However, I'll admit that we have a favorite song that counts down like that, and whenever we use the microwave we count down starting at 10 or 15, so I'm fairly certain the countdown is memorized. But come on! What about the counting in the car? She should totally be on the Today Show.

The Shirt, And Motormouth Jones

A few months ago I was unloading some clothes at a consignment shop and spotted this shirt. I like wearing pale purple shades because, truly, without makeup on the circles under my eyes are this color (OK, a lot darker) and with makeup on in a strategic way I kind of look like I have this color of liner or shadow on. So I was drawn to it. (Not that I have since actually put makeup on in any sort of strategic way.)

I liked it because it's sort of clean-cut but still very comfortable for my 9-5 job of child wrangling. However, from the first time I wore it, Trevor has made jokes about it and flat-out told me not to wear it anymore. I agree that it might make me look bigger than normal, since it's not fitted, but whatever, right? RIGHT?

Well Trevor isn't home this evening, so when I dressed earlier I reached for my comfy, baggy shirt. And this afternoon, Berit and I were playing airplane and when I brought her down so she was at eye level with me, she ran her hands over my shoulders and said, "Mama, why are you wearing this shirt?" I said, "Because I like it." And she said, "But Mama, are you going to the dentist today?" I said, "No, why?" And she said, "Because this is the kind of shirt the dentist wears over his clothes."

Nice. At least Marta likes to bite the buttons.

Speaking of things Berit has said today, here's a brief clip of what today, and every day since about early last week, has sounded like:

Berit: Mama are you hungry? I'm not hungry. If you were hungry would you eat oatmeal? Marta likes oatmeal. I can jump. Can you jump? I can jump high. Mama watch me jump. Can you help me jump? I want to color. Can I use this pen? Can I make a house? Mama help me make a house. Can you do it for me? I love Mosey. Mosey-Rosey-Posey. Hey Rose. Rose! Rose! ROSE! Come HERE Rose. Mama he's not coming. Mama can you help me make Mosey come here? Mama do you like purple? Do you really like purple? Do you like purple so so much? Mama I'm cold. Get my slippers! Ma-ma, can-you-get-my-slippers-pl-eea-se? Do you want to see me run in my slippers? Watch me. Watch me! Watch out Marta. Marta! MARTA! (Shove) Sorry Sarta. Mama I call Marta Sarta. Sarta-Sarta-Sarta-Sarta! Mama I'm hot. Mama can you help me take off my slippers?

Seriously, this goes on nonstop, all day long. It drive me crazy but I keep telling myself it's because she's had an explosion of brain development and she's just too darn smart to contain herself. It helps. So does wine. 

Breathe In, Breathe Out

A little rundown of our day today:

12 A.M.: Berit wakes due to tummy ache. Trevor and I position ourselves for throwing up, while he convinces her to put her head on the floor and butt in the air and toot, toot, toot. She claims she needs to poop, but does not want to poop on the potty (no surprise here) and finds herself far too taxed to stand upright to finish the job, hence she whines and cries and complains that the couch is too slippery. Since Trevor seems to be laughing on the inside about this, I declare that the two can enjoy themselves with their heads buried in the living room floor and their rears in high salute, and I go to bed.

12:30 a.m.: Berit falls asleep on the floor, no poop having materialized. 

7 a.m.: Berit wakes, crying out, "Daddy! I have to poop NOW and I WANT TO POOP ON THE POTTY!" Riiiight. Not only does she not poop on the potty, she doesn't poop anywhere. She declines food all day and, since she has school tomorrow and I don't want her to spend the entire 2 1/2 hours there convincing a kind room mother she's going to poop on the potty ANY MINUTE, I CAN FEEL IT COMING OUT!, I spent my entire day today bribing, threatening and coercing her to poop. Which did not work.

12 p.m.: Dance class. 45 minutes of bliss for Berit, 45 minutes of torture and restraint for Marta, who wants desperately to join the Big Girls' dance class. I let her play in the drinking fountain in the hall to distract her.

1-5 p.m.: General play during which Marta climbs, then jumps off, everything and neither girl eats anything close to an entire meal. Marta has a runny nose, caused by: a) Berit's foray into preschool, b) the shopping cart "car" she insisted on riding in at Glen's yesterday that I couldn't get spotless with my baby wipes, or c) the trip to the doctor's office Monday, when I took her to be sure her two-week-long hoarseness wasn't anything serious (it wasn't), and where she may have glanced at a toy for a prolonged enough period so the germs on it leapt off and crawled through her adorable nose into her immune system. 

5:30 p.m.: I load two tired girls into the car so I can pick up a double order of guacamole from Jose's to eat for dinner, since I'm dining solo tonight. Berit falls asleep in the car, hallelujah Mother George. 

Present: Marta screams in her bed. I eat the universe's best guacamole and write blog.