Just Since Christmas

Ah, the holiday season! It's behind us but the Beans find ways to keep bestowing little gifts upon an undeserving Mommy. Gifts of general cuteness:

The gift of finding a new place to play:

The gift of sharing carbs:

(some might call it "shoving bagels and cream cheese up the nose" but I don't see it that way, so there)

Yet more sharing of carbs:

and showing off the carbs:

The gift of focus and concentration:

Time spent watching Baby Einstein together:

A little confusion...

Fairy Ears:

Paparazzi-Evasion Techniques:

Coming clean with the contraband... even if it was on accident:

Finding her own snack:

Yummmmmmmmm!

And giving me one good reason....

(opening the cabinet below)

To move the kitchen into the garage:

(to climb up onto the counter all by herself).

11 AM Hangover

It isn't that kind of hangover. All I remember after the initial shock of the smell, the Bite-Down-On-This-flavored cardboard, and the first stinging whir of the supersonically-charged magical cleaning wand was someone saying, "Please don't kick me," and the dentist herself coming in to turn the gas all the way up. Then something funny occurred to me-- the more kids I have, the more gas I need.


Let's see if I can work down to the root of the problem- yes, pun intended. I'm just spitballing here but my severe dentophobia (and we are so far beyond the howling fantods here it isn't even funny) probably has a little bit to do with the time I was nine (I thought I was twelve but then remembered that I was in fourth grade when it happened and the gas still has me a little foggy). Anyway, it was time for braces and all the BIG teeth coming onto my little mouth needed more space, so the upper deciduous bicuspids had to go. Sayonara! We went to the family dentist who numbed me thoroughly, no complaint there, but who neglected to tell me that I would hear all kinds of stuff nobody should ever hear going on in her own mouth, especially not when she's nine. Metal on enamel, a crazy, wretched wrenching sound emitted when part of the body protests its removal before the natural course of events were allowed to take place, and the people holding my head and even strapping it onto the board, holding my arms down because after he finally yanked out the first one, he actually expected me to LIE STILL AND LET HIM DO IT AGAIN-- it was so terrible. Seriously, some of the worst nightmares I have to this very day involve dental issues.

So after I divorced Biscuit's dad I went to the dentist after about five years and had a ton of shots in order to get a couple of cavities filled only to wake up the next morning with my first-ever migraine, an intense, blinding pain accompanied with severe light-sensitivity and vomiting for the next 36 hours, vomiting that lasted until DPSM took me to the emergency room where I barfed spectacularly in front of beautiful medical personnel who took pity on the overly nauseous girl with the black towel over her head and thoughtfully quelled the raging beast within me with a generous shot of morphine.

The next time, about three years later, another dentist got a great idea and replaced everything the last guy did in addition to some original work of her own. That visit was the first one ever with gas and it went much better; however two of those fillings fell out within a week, prompting a return visit and leaving my bite, to use a clinical term, jacked up.

Then I didn't go for a little over five years. About four years ago, I broke a back molar. Not a problem, said I. I can chew on the other side! And I have. For about four years. Hubby nagged and nagged, saying, "It'll only get worse" and now it is. Boo Hoo! Woes me!!!

ROOT CANAL.

I return Friday for the nasty part. But she gave me a prescription to mellow me out beforehand. I think it's for the safety of her staff.

The One I Took for the Team

Really quickly, I have to post this before I forget it.

Next year's Christmas cards are going to totally rock. How can I be so sure, you ask? Well, my friend, here's the deal. When we take our Christmas card picture, everyone gets dressed in whatever Mom (that's me) told them to wear or put on them, in the case of the under-2 crowd. We sit in front of the Christmas tree and a cool friend / family member snaps some pics. We put them all on the computer , edit the red eyes and cut and paste a little extra tree in the bare spots, paste the photo into a card at one of the online photo printers and they arrive in a couple of days.

The problem this year was the fact that there were living, breathing people in the picture. It was a silly little hangup, really, but one that nonetheless threatened to ruin the whole thing this year. And said little people were not into the whole experience. We ended up taking about fifty photos and there was only one in which all the kids were smiling and looking at the camera. Hubby also happened to be looking at the camera but not smiling. So he got to be Scrooge this year and I got to be...

Mrs. Claus.

Mrs. Claus? What do I mean by that? I mean that the only photo that captured the kids well was the one in which yours truly looks about twenty pounds heavier than actual size. Awesome. I don't know. Maybe red's just not my color. Maybe I was pulling my head back on my neck to avoid falling over. Maybe it was water-weight. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't flattering.

But it's great! I've seen two friends on the Christmas card list since the holiday and they've both seemed surprised, saying things like, "Wow! You look... great!" and I'm always so pleased and happy until I figure out that they're comparing the me before them to the Christmas-card me. "Oh, yeah, the cards... We just picked the best picture of the kids. Did you notice Scott didn't even smile?" I ask. The inevitable answer is always "No, I didn't notice that," and it figures.

So I figure that no matter what we end up sending out next year it'll be great. Because there's really no way I could possibly look any dumpier / washed out / more beat-down-and-haggard than this year. So I will look absolutely awesome (right!) and Hubby will probably still not smile--because he will be what? What was that? OOOOOOHHHHHHHH! HE'LL BE FORTY!!!!!!! Bah Humbug.

Non- Verbal Communication-- In Other Words, Passive Resistance

The holidays have come and gone. They were fun and happy and joyful and I'm so glad they're over. The Beans and Biscuit thoroughly enjoyed everything-- the food, the festivities, the company, and of course, the new toys and blinking-lights shoes.

Along with the new year comes a lot of new developments for Biscuit and the not-so-little-anymore Beans. Biscuit is doing admirably well in endeavors of his own and we're very pleased and proud. And Ghandi wold be so proud of the Beans and the new manner of passive resistance they've learned to employ.

Language is a funny thing. It enables us to build institutions like marriage (what were early humans thinking?!?!) and declare George W. Bush the President of the United States (what were present-day humans thinking?!?!). But language does a lot more than just that. I'm not talking about just the words we say-- I'm also referring to the language our faces and bodies use to get a point across, particularly when we can't speak yet.

The Beans have quite a few signs in their vocabularies. Little Pipsi Christmas, obsessed with the Christmas tree signs both "tree" and "lights" incessantly from the moment she wakes up. Both Beans say "shoes", "Dada", "Mama", "Gary", "ball", "Katie", "Grandma", "block", "baba", "uh-oh", "more", "tree", "shower", "bath" and a few others I can't think of right this second. Some are clearer than others but they're getting pretty good at getting the point across. Both Beans are terrible flirts and SparkiParki is particularly adept at looking up at someone from under her long, gorgeous eyelashes-- and both she and Pipsi getting good at another form of body language.

The Beans are daredevils and either one is never more so than when her sister has me occupied with a diaper change. Lots of toys end up in time-out as a result of this and I go to bed more nights than not with three big tension knots in my back from the stress of keeping them alive all day, saying phrases like, "On your bottom, Bean! Sit on your bottom," uttered with one eye on the Bean climbing on the ride-on toy or the sing-along chair that's currently a makeshift ladder pushed up against her crib, looking back over her shoulder at me with a self-satisfied grin on her face while one leg's working its way up the crib slats, and my other eye is on the mound of poop I'm desperately trying to clean off the other Bean while simultaneously trying not to smear any on myself to be found at a later, inopportune moment when someone asks, "What smells like poop?" and then gradually her eyes follow her nose and come to rest on yours truly.

It's the little grin I get, sometimes accompanied by a little chuckle, when they're in open defiance of the "sit on your bottom, now" bit that gets me. It's like looking into the mirror a few years ago, or like the photos of a semi-smirky Hubby from his childhood. It's the echo of a word they have yet to utter yet it oozes from their very essences:

"No."

The most extreme example of this came the other night. It was a first for the Beans and me: our first time for me to give the two of them a bath together, unassisted by either Hubby or any of those handy-wandy bathing gizmos that cost a fortune and end up moldy and disgusting and looking like nothing you'd want your child coming into contact with, especially in the endeavor of getting them clean. The little Beans were in heaven. Just like the younger Biscuit and any other little kid, Bathtime is the most fun ever and they were having a blast. The only glitch was that Bathtime was coming at the end of the day-- a single-Happy-Nappy-day, and they were becoming a bit oncooperative toward the end. Pipsi was in front of me on her bottom and I was rinsing her off when quick little Parki scooted over toward the faucet and stood up with her hand on the spout. I repeated the phrase I'd already said about a billion times that day, "Parki, sit on your bottom, NOW. That isn't safe,"

Parki, standing with her back to me, turned her head halfway so that she could just see me out of the corner of her eye, turned her face back toward the faucet, and ripped a short but very loud fart. Immediately she whipped around to face me with a huge smile on her face and Pipsi burst out in a big belly laugh and started pounding the surface of the bath, splashing water and raucous laughter everywhere.

While the words may be coming slowly, the Beans obviously still find ways of communicating, even things as complex as open defiance. It's frustrating for all of us sometimes, hilarious at others and occasionally it's a little bit of both, but the most encouraging thing I find in it is the emergence of a great sense of humor in each one of them. And we're all going to need that because Parki is not the only person in the house willing to employ the Fart of Defiance. I'll just leave it at that today.