Costly slipper...

I finally broke out my sewing machine... and produced a tiny Soleful Slipper for Izzy.

Will I attempt to complete the pair? Maybe after both kids are attending preschool...

Before slipper:

After slipper:

(Yep, that's the same room in both shots.)

They Make Me Laugh

I love my babies, and they remind me of that everyday in every way. Today, when I was reminding Rigel to include "please" with his demands, he stubbornly refused. His response was clever enough to make me smile and relent (just this once):

Rigel: Mom, you do it. I don't want to.

Me: How about asking a bit more politely?

Rigel: (sigh)...please.

Me: Nope. That doesn't count. Start your request over, and then say please.

Rigel: (Begrudging sigh)...That was my last one. I don't have any more left.

Me: You don't have any more pleases left?

Rigel: Nope. Maybe later, if you ask me again, I might get some more. Then, I can prob'ly say please. But not now.

Also, as an attempt to describe a complicated task, I caught Rigel swearing: "What a pain and a heck!" That's his version of Mama and Daddy's "grown-up words."

As for Izzy, we haven't quite gotten into conversations, yet, but communication is definitely not a problem. She surprises us continually with just how much she picks up on. Tonight, for instance, I made chocolate truffle cookies (from Trader Joe's Brownie mix), and she noticed from across the room. She ran to the bathroom, grabbed the step stool, and stood peering over the counter at the cookie sheet as it filled up with rows of chocolate globs. "What doin, Mama?" she asked. When I told her I was making cookies, she replied, "No! Not koookies! It brawn-ies!" Now, how she knows what brownies are is a mystery to me, since I've never made them for the kids before. They've never been alone with anyone else long enough to bake brownies elsewhere, so I'm stumped. And, for the rest of the night, Izzy followed me around the house saying, "Ont brawn-ies!" and, "just ooooonnnne more. Okay, Mommy?"

A couple days ago, while Rigel was in pre-school, Izzy entertained me. She dumped out a bag of blocks and refilled it with her chips, then perched on the side of our pillow basket to watch the Halloween ghosts flying around on our front porch whilst munching. It's those silly little actions of hers that amuse me, so confident and yet so innocent. Like the next day, when we visited the museums at Balboa Park: while taking a restroom break, she discovered a hand-drying machine. This was more fascinating to her than any of the exhibits thus far. She stood beneath the hot air blower as if taking a shower, running her fingers through her hair with her eyes squeezed shut. Coaxing her out of there was a challenge, as she kept insisting, "not yet. Ooonne more."

And yes, I took a picture (in a public restroom, no less!)

Having a Blah Day

Since today I am feeling pretty yucky (some sort of cold or flu), we stayed home and had a nothing day. The highlight of our day (besides nap time) was making chocolate chip cookies, because I think the healing properties of cookies are second only to chicken noodle soup. The kids like to take the liberty of unwrapping the paper from the butter, and if I turn my back for less than a minute there are bite marks and greasy sculptures to contend with. This time they were also given the job of whacking the bag of whole pecans with their toy hammers, and since I didn't learn the first time with the butter, I was later ushered under the dining room table where a cup of pecans was presented to me as a "surprise," (not to mention all the pecan crumbs that were strewn across the hardwood floor). When the kids caught me taste testing the raw dough (I know, yuck!), Rigel declared, "you're gonna get sick! No more eating raw eggs!" And he disappeared for a moment, only to return with a bottle of children's ibuprofen (which he climbed up onto the bathroom sink and retrieved from the medicine cabinet's top shelf), and told me to "take some of this pink stuff." When Izzy spotted the bottle, she exclaimed, "Izzy really sick, too!" They both think medicine tastes like candy. (Don't worry, I am moving all the medicine to a different, more child-proof location).

Even though it has been a nothing day, it has been enjoyable. The kids found a lot of entertainment with silly nothing things, like singing along with a toy radio in silly voices, making trains out of empty Costco boxes, racing our rolling pin across the floor, and making a train track out of popsicle sticks. It's such a comforting feeling to see them entertaining themselves and interacting with each other, despite the occasional squabble.

Owl Obsession

Rigel and Izzy have a somewhat strange obsession with owls. I think it all started before Izzy was born. Rigel and I would do a lot of reading together, and one of his favorite books was P.D. Eastman's Sam and the Firefly (among a few others). Then, when Izzy was about a year old, he had his first owl encounter in Grandma's garden (via a plastic hardware store owl that functions as an animal deterrent). Grandma gave the owl to Rigel and Izzy, and it is permanantly perched in our Ficus tree. Now, when he streaks half naked through the house and I inquire as to where his pants and underwear went, he replies, "an owl flew in the window and stole 'em. He took 'em and built a nest with 'em." When we are in line at Costco, Izzy will solemnly stare at the rafters pointing, "Wook, Mama, Izzy see a ow-all." If a spooky Halloween-themed Thomas-the-Train episode comes on, Izzy gets truly terrified of any and all images of owls, and Rigel scoots out of the room and watches from a distance. If we are in a store, they go nuts over anything relative to owls, and when we are traveling in the car, they enthusiastically point out the animal deterrent owls perched on gas station overhangs. Rigel has informed me that, "once, when I was big like you, I had an owl" ... I could go on and on.

So, what is this combined fascination and fear of owls about, anyway? According to a gift tag on a Pier 1 Imports owl statue, the ancient Chinese considered the owl to be a symbol of yang masculinity as well as the guardian of the afterlife. Lei-gong, the god of thunder, had the beak, wings and claws of an owl, and owl-shaped roof finials were believed to offer protection from thunder and fire. Um, that's interesting. Not quite the explanation I'm looking for, though. Maybe I should further my research... Or, maybe it's all in good fun. Hooo knows?

More on the owl iron-on transfers / appliques

What is it about boys and guns?

Today Rigel caught me off guard with a pretty serious conversation for a 3 year old. Based on the question, I thought the conversation was going the same direction as a recent topic, "Mommy, do police cars have strings on the back...so they can pull over the bad cars?" Not quite, I was soon to find out. While playing at the train table, he asked, "Mommy, do robots have guns?" I responded carefully (yet casually, so as to not call attention to my alarm) in a way that downplayed the significance of guns and emphasized the idea of "good guys" that help people. That didn't seem to satisfy Rigel's curiosity. Again, he inquires, "do robots have guns so they can shoot at the bad guys?...They shoot them and then throw 'em in the trash can." First of all, where did he hear about guns? I just had this conversation with another mom regarding shielding her 3 year old from the reality of guns. Kids figure things out faster than we want them to, that's for sure.

I decided to ask Rigel where he saw or heard about guns and what they were, and got no response (too much interrogation for his age level). Then, I deducted that Rigel and Daddy watch TV together from time to time in Mommy and Daddy's room at the end of a long day, and Daddy loves the history channel. "Did you see guns on TV?" I asked. Rigel lit up and began to talk and gesture faster than he could articulate full sentences. "Yeah, and they were shooting at the bad guys (sound effect), and (sound effect), and then (sound effect)... and the guns shoot all the bad guys and make them broken." I nodded, confirmed that "yep, guns make them broken all right." Time to keep it simple. "Only policemen and soldiers (our word for military personnel he sees on base every time we hit the commissary) have guns because they went to a special school to learn how to use it (more emphasis on good guys who help people)..." By then, I had already lost his attention, and decided not to push the issue. Daddy and Mommy will have to readdress this with Rigel more as the issue arises.

Regarding "throwing 'em in the trash can:" That in Rigel's imagination is the ultimate demise. When he came home from his first day of preschool, he claimed the teacher threw him in the trash can (to let us know he didn't like her), and on another occasion when a play ground kid pushed him down, he cried to me to "throw that boy in the trash can right now, Mamma." Perhaps all innocence is not lost, or do I need to re-examine things a bit?

P.S. Rigel woke up when Daddy got home late tonight, and the two of them lay next to each other talking as I wrote this. I listened in via baby monitor, and guess what I overheared Rigel recapping to Daddy? "...The robots shoot the bad guys (sound effect)...with their arrows (sound effect)...like this (sound effect)...and their heads fall off and they shoot their arms (sound effect) and their arms fall off and and... and their legs come off in pieces--so they can keep people safe from the bad guys." Um, I think I addressed the issue of guns pretty well, right...?

Desperate times call for desperate measures...

Being a mother of a 2 and 3 year-old has challenged me many times over, on a day to day basis (I love being a mother almost as much as I love my two babies, so this is not a complaint--just an observation), and still sometimes it can be a minute-by-minute struggle: Wouldn't it be so much easier to run into the store and grab that milk rather than wake the kids from their carseats and bring them with me? (of course I can't and don't)... I can chase the dog as it escapes down the street and the kids will be okay for a minute (of course not)... Is a spanking what it would take to finally get the message through for the 3rd time that it is not okay to squeeze shampoo out all over the floor? (of course not)... Doesn't it seem obvious that stomping all over a mess while I am cleaning it up is inappropriate--why should I have to even explain that one over and over?... How many times do I have to repeat myself before I will be heard?... How many times will my little one ask the same question--over and over--before he, if ever, accepts my original answer?... If I look half as frustrated as I feel, how is it that they still don't seem to understand and/or care that what they are doing is not okay? Why is it that the more obnoxious the sound, the more it amuses these guys?... How ironic is it that my absolute worst displays of frustration become a part of my kids' everyday repertoire? Why can't my best behavior be the examples from which they follow?...Etc., etc., etc.... Anyway, enough venting, back to the point of this story: the many challenges of motherhood. How many times have I been almost out the door or even strapping my child into the car seat (elated to finally be on schedule), when the smell of a poopy diaper permeates the air? Well, at the county fair this year a similar incident occurred. Our family was awaiting the opening of the Monster Truck show (Rigel's favorite thing in the world second only to trains) when the juiciest of diapers intoxicated the grandstands with its stench. I ran (baby in tow) to the nearest restrooms, none of which had any changing tables or counter tops. No benches or grassy areas were in sight, just crowded dirt pathways and sidewalks... what to do? Behind a line of game booths was a patch of AstroTurf, creeping out from the back of a netted batting cage--better than nothing. I laid my baby girl down and quickly began cleaning her up, unnoticed by all until I heard, "Lady, I thought I'd seen everything!" announced on nearby speakers. It was a carnival MC with his headset microphone joking to the small crowd gathering behind him. And, he was pointing to me. I pretended not to notice, hurried through the diaper change, and covered my baby girl's face as we quickly walked away... Another incident relating to potty breaks occurred while walking out of Souplantion. Rigel found the nearest bush, unzipped his pants, and "whipped it out". "Whoah!" I exclaimed, attempting for the sake of all passerbys to look more surprised than I felt. I explained when and where it was appropriate to relieve oneself, trying not to think about how much this was my fault seeing as I allowed him to mark his territory all over the creation when he played outside--why shouldn't it extend beyond the borders of our yard? And to all the guys at our swim school who were ever trying to relieve themselves in peace, so sorry for my intrusion. I have a 3 year old who loves to feel like a little man and therefore races into the men's room before I can stop him, leaving me to stand guard while poking my head in to check on him (praying he is alone in there, and grimacing when a grown man walks out before my son). I'm sure there is not a mom out there who has not experienced trials similar if not more humorous than those described above.

Mommy Nag #1

I posted this sign on our shower door for all to see, particulary my son, so as to remind him that taking "potty breaks" (leaving the toilet in the middle of a poop session) to play trains was not acceptable. I realize I forgot "...pull up your pants?" --Ninety-nine percent of the time, he leaves them on the bathroom floor.

The Pillow Incident

On September 5th, 2008, a mere two days following Rigel's first day of preschool, panic set in at the Fox Den. Rigel's beloved pillow, (the innards of a Little Giraffe baby pillow minus the rejected lining), now a worn and torn satin lump of hand-stitched repairs and missing stuffing, was discovered on our lawn shredded to bits and pieces by our golden retriever puppy. Unbeknownst to Rigel and ever the protective mom (or shall I say over protective), I stealthy gathered all the remains and hid them from view, snuck them into our car and shuttled Rigel off to preschool. Next stop: the little tailor shop tucked between a nail salon and a Rice King. In not so clear English (reminding me of my late Japanese grandmother who also had a knack for sewing), the woman behind the counter explained she could not fix this for me, and instead I should buy replacement fabric and stuffing to construct a duplicate. Could that be possible? What about the corner seam he held so gingerly between his two fingers, the characteristic stains that survived every wash, the delicate texture of the worn, silky satin, and the lumpy stuffing that had long since lost its fluff? This was a possession which he had held, smelled and loved every day since he was approximately 6 months old. Could we possibly pull off a "switcheroo?"

Grandma to the rescue--by bedtime the same evening she arrived undercover with a replacement, identical in measurements, color, texture, etc... complete with the original pillow remains mixed in with the stuffing and pseudo-seams to match my poorly hand-stitched repairs. Daddy took the pillow out of the dryer ("wink, wink"), and took one foot into Rigel's bedroom to deliver the replacement when he was busted. "That's not my pillow. Where's my pillow?" Panic from both parties began to erupt as Rigel's fingers barely touched the new pillow and declared, "It's inside!!! Get it out!!! My pillow's inside!!!"

How the heck did he know? The whole operation was top secret, so either this boy was telepathic, or his bond to this pillow was deeper than we had imagined.

Left with no other alternative, I opened up a "pseudo-seam" and painfully revealed the remains of his pillow, which summoned the most heart-breaking, gut-wrenching cry I have ever heard from my son--mournful cries of loss. I cried. I tried to comfort him with consolations until Dan intervened. "Understand something, Jen. He's a guy. We don't like to drag things out. Let him cry, but let him move on." Within minutes Daddy had him laughing at cartoons in our bedroom, giving me a lesson on male emotion, as well as private time to continue crying--as my emotions were still reeling.

Rigel accepted the replacement pillow with reservation and only after it was tucked inside the formerly rejected Little Giraffe case. And, I don't see any signs of the trauma by which I was fearing he would be forever scarred. My mom told me that if there was one thing she fears she did wrong, it was protecting us too much from life. She believes she may have sheltered us a bit too much rather than letting us fall and pick ourselves back up again. Perhaps this was my first test in letting go (just a tiny bit--not too much).

P.S. Mom, you couldn't have done a better job--I hope I can be as good of a mom to your grandkids.