New year's resolution(s) Part 2

So I guess I'll just come out with it, admit it, come clean. A few months back I ranted about my dislike (okay, hatred) of scrapbooking; of creating scrapbooks, of hearing about the creation of scrapbooks by others, of being in a room where there is a scrapbook; of the whole damn thing. Okay, here's my admission: yesterday, I created a scrapbook. I hear you gasping. It's crazy, really. I still think scrapbooks are a sort of symbol of the slippery slope that all moms must be careful of, that thing in us that makes us lean towards helicopter parenting. That thing I dread most as a parent. 

So here I was, I needed to send my mom photos from Christmas. We had a great Christmas, mom came down from NY and my sister and her boyfriend drove up from Wilmington. We got some great photos. I needed to share them with my mom, and make up for not having anything really special to give her Christmas morning. I went to Michael's (which makes me sick to my stomach, by the way, aisles jammed with crafty crap and the lines at the checkout always so long and hideously boring) and found a photo album and then wandered over to the aisle with the stickers and found Christmas ones, with adorable reindeer and kept looking and found more Christmas ones with stars...Suffice it to say, that yesterday my dining room table looked like Michael's exploded all over it. But I had fun, there in my pj's gluing and sticking, and typing up little notes for the pages (here's us chopping down our tree, here's the gingerbread house, here are the boys tearing open presents). Then I really got into it, and it pains me to even admit this, but I made some little decorations. I cut up some nice blue paper and made tiny little presents to glue all over the page, and I cut gold paper to look like tiny little ribbons and white paper to look like tiny little cards that said: to: Miles, and to: Willem, and Love, Santa. 

I enjoyed it. Dear god, I did. And I know my mom will love it. 

New year's resolution(s)

Oh, dear blog, how I've neglected you! A couple of dear friends today encouraged me to return to you. It's been far too long. I need to make a resolution to return to you, if not daily, then often. Right now I'm feeling so grateful for dear friends who make you feel like you've done something entertaining and true and even wonderful, even if they are your only readers. I feel a bit like George Bailey today, feeling wealthy because I have friends. 

Also, momma readers, watch for a special guest momma, hopefully coming soon to merge with me. 

Harry Potter Cheese

My husband has been out of town since Sunday. It has not been easy. I started out all calm and collected, zen, ready to single parent like nobody's business. And I did, for a couple of days. But by last night, it was kicking my butt. The kids can't help it. The three year old can't help that he whines when he's tired, gets mad when he can't wash his hands first because his brother beat him to the sink, or because he wants juice not water. Also, I couldn't get the bathtub drain to work, and he hates showers. I realized this morning that he hasn't bathed in five days. 

My seven year old likes to ask questions. Lots of questions. He can't help it, he's curious, a sign of intelligence, surely. Sometimes driving in the car with him is like being in trapped in an interrogation room with the Kyra Sedgewick character on that show on TNT, the title is escaping me. 

The questions themselves are innocent, often funny, but there are so damn many of them. For example:

"Mom, what's this number: 1-0-0-2-5-7-6? What is it?"

"Ummm, don't know. I'd have to see it written out."

"Can you count that high?"

"Probably."

"So do it."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"Not while I'm driving."

"Because you have to look at the road?"

"Ummm, uh-huh." 

"Is driving hard or easy?"

"Ummmm...."

"I think it's easy. Have you ever gone to 100?"

"Umm, yeah, sure, I mean probably. It's not safe though."

"Why not? "

At this point, I lose it, you might crash, I tell him, no more questions, please. He might give me a minute or so before he's off and running again. 

We had this interesting exchange the other night while eating leftover manicotti.

"Mom, what kind of cheese is this?"

"Ricotta cheese."

"Harry Potter cheese? What's Harry Potter cheese?"

"I SAID RICOTTA CHEESE!"

Momma tries to be patient. It's hard sometimes. Husband comes back this afternoon. Probably just in the nick of time. I hope he's ready for his duties: bathing and answering lots of questions, while I put my feet up and watch a Top Chef marathon or something.

Boys will be boys

I don't know why little boys like guns so much. I never buy guns for the boys, but it doesn't matter. They make their own out of sticks, or tinker toys, or, as one mom told me recently, a piece of toast. So it's not just my boys who like weapons. I guess it has to do with the testosterone bath they get as fetuses. 

The boys act aggressively. They kick things, jump off stuff, hit things with sticks (sticks and more sticks, there are many things you can do with sticks). It used to really bother me. It makes me feel better when I talk to other mothers of boys; they are going through the same things. The moms with toddlers are still adjusting. "No sweetie," they tell their sons, "we don't make guns out of legos!" Those with school-age kids know better. "Just try not to poke him in the eye with your light saber" we say. You have to forgive them for being boys. 

Sometimes that's easier said than done. My seven year-old brought home this picture he drew in art class. It has everything: planes shooting at each other, two sword-fighting pirates, and an erupting volcano. What could I do except laugh? I showed it to my husband. "Awesome," he said. 

Art gone awry

So last weekend we thought our dear sweet three year old was upstairs napping quietly. But he wasn't. I got clued in to this fact when he came downstairs and announced that he had changed his clothes. What mostly clued me that there might be a problem was the paint all over his arms. I asked him why he changed his clothes. I asked him why his arms were covered in paint. Then I very calmly went upstairs to survey the damage. The boy had gotten out of his bed, and sneaked across the hall to the guest room/playroom.  He took out the paint. All the paint. He smeared it all over the floor, painted the wooden toy bins and the rocking horse. His clothes were covered in paint. There was paint on the rug. I calmly went into the bathroom next. I have to give him credit, he tried to wash the paint off himself. It was all over the sink, the white cabinet, the white tile floor. 

Just another destructive act in a lengthening line of destruction done by the boys!

Adorable 3 year-old comment of the day

"Mommy, the birds are cheeping. Do you hear them? Cheep, cheep."

Scrapbooking

I do not make scrapbooks. I tried once, when I had my first dear, sweet baby. I bought a nice album, some papers and glue.  It did not work out well. I couldn't figure out how to make it look nice and cute and "creative". I cropped my photos too small. The little tiny rattle and baby bottle stickers bugged me. The glue was too sticky. I gave up.  

Sometimes I wonder if I'll regret not scrapbooking. People are always trying to convince me to do it. The "scrappers". They really can make you feel guilty. At this point, though, I'm so far behind I could never catch up, even if I wanted to. I take hundreds of photos of the boys, and I do things with them. I frame some. I send some to the grandparents. I make Christmas cards on Shutterfly with them. Mostly they sit on iphoto waiting for something to happen. 

Why are we so obsessed with making and preserving memories? Is it because our own parents could hardly be bothered to take a picture of us? My own mother started a baby book for my older sister. When I came along 21 months later, she simply wrote things about me in the margins. I'm not sure if there are any existing baby photos of my younger sister. 

The main problem I see with all the scrapbooks that are being made is this: What's going to happen to them all?  Imagine for a moment. The year is 2018. Ava is packing up the car, going off to college. Mom comes out to the driveway with a huge box. "Here sweetie," mom says,  "I've been saving these for you." Ava looks in the box. Sees the 19 scrapbooks, every moment of her life from conception to high school graduation, photographed, trimmed with fancy scissors, framed with multicolored papers, hand-lettered comments. 

"I'm not taking that to college!" Ava says. "Ugh, mom, it's so embarrasing!"

With an active imagination, you can justify doing (or not doing) just about anything!