A Letter to My Angel

The other day, my little cherub, as you were ripping the miniature feathers out of our angel halo, I calmly told you to stop destoying it.  "Give it to Mommy", "NO, I ANGEL", you shouted, as you put the bent, half-wrecked, halo on your head.  That cracked me up.  There are times when I feel like I am seriously on the brink of insanity, and then you make me laugh.  Thank you for that.

While I am thinking of it, thank you for pulling the curtains, with rod, plumb off the wall yesterday.  I have been meaning to take them down to clean them.  If it wasn't for you, those curtains would have remained on the wall for at least another month, or so. The bottoms have been looking like a used tissue, lately.  That reminds me, honey, when you need a tissue, just ask Mommy, I would be happy to get you one.  The air-hanky thing really skeeves me out.  The curtains are in the washer, and it will be thrilling to have squeaky clean curtains again.  It's the little things in a hausfrau's life that make her happy.

After having fished some lime green Play Doh out of my dusty breast pump, it occurred to me that you were trying to tell me something.  You are absolutely right, it IS time to start pumping my milk, and work on weaning your 16 month old brother.  While I am proud to say that my relationship with Play Doh HAS evolved, I would still like to have a few words with the inventor - who I swear must not be a parent.

The Crispix cereal in the mini suitcase was a laugh riot.  Afterall, it WAS stale, so it helped me make the decision to put it in the compost bin.  Some lucky worms will have a nice snack, thanks to your thoughtfulness.

Thank you for helping Mommy vaccum yesterday.  When I said, "Pick up your shirt", I didn't mean with the vaccum.  Although, what a good idea. How wonderful it would be to just vaccum things up that you'd rather not see lying on the floor.  How relieved I was that it ruined the vaccum, rather that your Thomas The Tank Engine T-shirt, being that it is the only item of clothing that you will actually wear these days.  What a blessing that it started smoking, and didn't stop for a good, ten, smelly, minutes.  That vaccum came with the haus, and it has been the bane of my existence since we moved in 6 months ago.  Your father believed that it worked just fine, in all of it's non-sucking, (literally, not figuratively), glory.  I do want to mention that I am glad that it did not suck up those 2 little diamonds that we discovered embedded in our god-awful-used-to-be-a-shag-36-years-ago-carpet.  That is a good reminder to take them to the jeweler to have them appraised.  Who knows, they may actually finance a small European vacation.

Yesterday, when you locked yourself in that room we call your bedroom, (although you have never actually slept in there, despite the cool race car bed that we purchased for you) - the first time you caused me quite a panic.  The second time, I was less concerned, knowing that you knew how to insert the skeleton key into it's keyhole and open the door all by yourself.  I was very thankful to enjoy a sip of HOT coffee, for once.  The screams tipped me off, that it might be a good idea to check in on you.  Good thing, because you managed to slide the key under the door to Mommy this time. 

When I am at my wit's end, I will read this letter that I have written to you.  Hopefully, it will serve as a gentle reminder that you always mean well.  I may not be able to find a reason to thank you for ripping the wallpaper off of the wall, or coloring on it for that matter...but I will continue to search my brain for the lesson that I was supposed to learn from it. Thank you.

The Writing's On The Wall

The inevitable happened yesterday - My older toddler drew on the walls with crayon, (black), for the first time.

Another inevitable happened today.  Same toddler cursed in front of his Speech Therapist (of all people).

She visits our home to work with him once every 2 weeks.  She was putting her high heel boots on, (despite a recent broken ankle, and...um, hello, GOBS OF SNOW ON THE GROUND...but who am I to judge?), getting ready to leave our haus.  Heels are just not a part of this momma's wardrobe these days.  Unless of course they are a chunky wedge, which are comfy, and only worn on the rare occasion, so they don't really count.  Anyway, A.M. proceeds to unlock the gate, and go downstairs to retrieve a few trains, that little brother (F.M.), threw down there earlier.  He stops dead in his tracks on the stairs to admire his black-crayon-on-the-wall-artwork that he colored yesterday.  Then he starts saying, "Damn it, damn it, damn it....", you get the picture, about 13 more times.  UUUUGH! 

A.M. pointing to the "Nemo" that he drew.  I was shocked at how much it resembles a fish.

It isn't as if we run around the haus talking like sailors.  Ok, well my husband IS a soldier, and he IS responsible for my son learning this word.  He will swear to you up and down that this is not his fault.  He stopped saying this word months ago, after he heard, finally, with his own ears, our son repeating it, in the appropriate, (if there is one), context.  Part of the problem is, hubby isn't around during the day when all the uber emabarrassing events occur.  Like when our son is picking hot-fresh-boogies and handing them to his Educational Specialist, or cursing in front of the Speech Therapist, or removing ALL of his clothes at his own Valentine party, and then putting on a naughty show, that I am not going to get in to at this time.  Mommy is the one left blushing, feeling like a crappy parent.

So, this tells me that this word is burned into his little 35 month old brain.  What to do?  How do I erase it?   I've tried reasoning with him, I have tried explaining that it is not a nice word, I have even tried ignoring it - with hopes that it would just go away...sigh.  He is to start school in about a month, it's bad enough that I have to worry about him beating on the other children, let alone sass-talking the teacher.  Perhaps he will learn SO MUCH in school, that he will forget all about this pesky word.  That's my theory, and I am sticking to it.

The Artist with his work.

Penis Issues

Penis Issues...yep, I got 'em, and I don't even have a penis to call my own. I am the mother to 2 little boys and the Step-Mom to a tween boy. Never in my life did I ever imagine I would be surrounded by this much testosterone without being at a gay bar. My husband thinks I am destined to only conceive the male species due to some karmic debt he thinks I am paying, for being mean to boys as a teenager. My Scottish friend Lindsey thinks I only make boys because, (before becoming a parent), I told her that I could never get a male dog because their, "lipsticks", freak me out too much. So here I am surrounded by men.

When we first found out that I was carrying a boy, I was freaked out that there was a penis growing inside of my belly. I am not sure if this thought crosses every preggers-with-a-boy Mom's mind or not - but I have heard at least one other friend express this emotion to me. I convinced myself that I vomited for the entire pregnancy (except for a 2 week reprieve at around the 6 month mark), because my body wasn't used to the male hormones that were invading my system. I puked in every square inch of our rented townhouse, on my husband, the dog, (just as she came out of the groomer, of all times), restaurants, in the car, in my Mother-in-Law's passenger seat, in the grocery store; I even vomited en route to the Operating Room.

So, I TOLD my husband that he was in responsible for handling all PENIS ISSUES. After all, he is a man, and that is his turf. Little did I know that these said issues would ARISE (pun intended), so early in my little human's life. So here I am finding myself faced with penis issues (literally) nearly every day with my 2.75 year old, and Daddy is conveniently at work. Out of necessity, I needed to start getting comfortable talking to my son about his penis. Otherwise, I would have a little boy proudly displaying his member in the Post Office (true story). I finally got to use my favorite line of all time from a commercial, "BIG BOYS DON'T PULL THEIR PANTS DOWN IN PUBLIC". I wish I could remember what that commercial was for - I think it should be required viewing for all Mommies of little boys. A fruit snack spot, I think, anywhooooo....

It innocently began when he discovered his penis ala bathtub. It made me feel strange when he found it, over and over again. But I like to think that I am a progressive parent, so we teach him that it is ok to touch himself (in the privacy of his own home, of course). Sex is not dirty, it is perfectly natural. We made an active choice to teach him the anatomical name (penis) for his genitalia. We're still working on testicles - as does not roll off the tongue as easily.

Side story (I apologize for getting off track, but this cracks me up) - When I was teaching Art to 6th Graders (oh, the hormones, and the overwhelming scent of Axe body spray)...the wise-beyond-her-years daughter, of an editor at the Washington Post, told a fellow student that his drawing of a shoe looked like a penis. Talk about the chaos that erupted. My entire class was ready to stone her for saying a word, which is the technical term for this particular organ! I distinctly remember one young man saying, "My Daddy would whoop my behind if he ever heard me say that word". I gently reminded the class that penis is not a bad word; it is the correct name for male parts, but that this was not a discussion that we needed to have in Art class.

Getting back, my son has trouble keeping his pants on. I hope that I will not find myself saying this during his teenage years. My Mom keeps telling me that I am going to need to keep a close eye on him, because he likes to "make-out", with the ladies. He really likes kissing, he is very passionate, and it scares the heck out of me. The minute he gets an erection - he swiftly removes his diaper and tells me that his penis is "stuck", and that it hurts. No book on toddlerhood could have ever prepared me for the first time this happened. That is why I consider it my civic duty to Mothers everywhere to educate them in the realness of these matters. A good laugh was shared when an acquaintance told me that when her little boy was almost a year old, she called Pediatrics because his penis was hard and red. She remembered that after his circumcision, she was given explicit instructions to call immediately if these conditions presented themselves. This was almost 12 months later, so the office informed her that it was an erection, and that it was normal. She was embarrassed and is quite sure that they had fun retelling her story. Forgive me if you are a seasoned Mother of boys, and this is all old hat to you. You may have teenagers and be dealing with (gasp) sex…

Good thing none of this occurred while the teenage, German babysitter that we decided to try out was at our haus. Her Mother informed me, over coffee, that her daughter would not change boy diapers...besides, she has never seen a penis, and she wouldn't even know what to do with one. Too tempting, I am not even going to go there. Needless to say, THAT relationship did not work out. My boys would have scarred her for life.

"Your penis is just saying good morning to you, it's ok", is my response for erections. Personally, I think it is brilliant. Now if I could just tackle the pesky problem of him stripping down and urinating in the Entertainment Center cabinet, I would be a happy frau.

Soft-Pretzel Envy

What do you do when your toddler has a melt-down, because his friend has a soft-pretzel and he doesn't?  Imagine the scene - an almost 3 year old playing tug of war over a bakery bag, that is not his, with a 7 year old girl.  How embarrassing, but really, can you blame him?  Isn't everyone willing to put up a good fight for a soft-pretzel?  I know I am. 

You think, no biggie, we'll go to the bakery and buy some. 

Then you remember that you are not only without a car this week, but since your double-stroller is in the trunk of that car, you are also stroller-less.  This does not make a trip down to the village bakery very easy.

Older toddler, (2.75 years), would refuse to hold my hand, run out into the street, laugh, and think it is a game of, "catch me if you can".  All the while, I, Mommy, would go into full-blown panic mode.  I  envision myself charging down the hill after him, giving whiplash to the 15 month old strapped to my chest, in an infant carrier, that he outgrew about 6 months ago.  All the while, German onlookers would shake their heads in disgust, thinking to themselves, "Why can't those Americans control their children"?  I know these looks firsthand.

Then I thought, let's bake our own soft-pretzels!  What fun!  I have been wanting to try my hand at baking pretzels, lately.  This was the perfect opportunity.  A recipe for Bavarian Style Pretzels had been floating around my kitchen for a least the last month or so.  Good thing a fresh package of dry-active yeast was purchased on my last commissary run. 

The ingredients were measured, mixed, rested, kneaded, divided, rolled, bathed, salted, and finally, baked.  The aroma that permeated my haus... WOW!  It smelled like a bakery in my very own, funky, little kitchen.   I should have started baking my own pretzels eons ago.  Oh well, now I know how easy and quick (sort of), it is to enjoy delicious, warm, soft-pretzels in the comfort of your own home!  My little boys were VERY happy...and that makes this Mommy, ecstatic.

Yummy Weekend!

It has snowed several inches in our part of Germany and we are committed to staying at home all weekend!  Also, we are BROKE from ordering oil for our heater, so it helps that we enjoy spending the weekend cooking, baking, playing, snuggling, and movie watching!  On the agenda this weekend:  snowman building - with our new Snowman kit - (what fun!), White Wine Cheese soup cooking, Kalamata Oregano Bread baking, movie-watching, Pumpkin Pie baking (hubby's fave), a bit of sewing (curtains for the kitchen, and MOPS craft preparation), and a teensy bit of knitting (finishing up baby booties for a new baby gift)!

This is my idea of a dreamy weekend at home.  Since we moved off-base into a quaint village named Weilerbach - we have the space to really stretch out and be ourselves.  This makes us want to stay home, instead of run out the door!

Poop and Chocolate Cake.

Being a parent requires that you become familiar with other people's poop.  VERY familiar.  Once my husband actually had to help one along from an extremely constipated toddler.  He will probably die of embarrassment when he reads that I am posting this on the internet.  Sorry dear, I love you.

Why do I feel compelled to tell these tales of feces?  Because frankly, they make life hilarious, sorta.  Usually, they are not funny in the moment, but become hysterical with the passage of time!  Everytime I fart, my 2 year old asks me if I pooped.  "Mommy poop"?  "No dear, Mommy just farted". A typical exchange in our household.  I began thinking a lot about just how prevalent poo is a part of our everyday dialog last night when I was baking our 1 year old's first birthday cake.  Why?  I'll get to that.  The Birthday cake was 18 days belated, I know, some Mom.  I told you I don't have much time!  This was my second attempt at baking this cake.  Funny, I baked this same cake multiple times last year - and never had a problem.  Suddenly, I have a second child, and BAM!, I suck as a baker.  Such is life.

First attempt at Chocolate Birthday Cake (only 2 days belated):
We had a kid's Halloween party to go to the morning before Halloween.  I was feeling fairly unstoppable - so I thought, "I will bake a Ruby Red Plum Upside Down Cake to take to the party, and since I have time I will bake the chocolate layers for Baby's birthday cake too"!  The Plum cake was a disaster - which I didn't discover until I took a bite of it at the party.  The horror!  Toting a failed culinary experiment to a party, with real live humans there to taste!  Before I left the party, best believe, I dumped it in the trash. Hazardous waste - as far as the Germans are concerned.  My thoughts exactly.

Moving on.  Baked the chocolate cake before going to the party.  Each layer separately, because that is all my tiny German convection oven will accomodate.  Everything seemed to be going well.  However, I think I left them in the pans too long to cool.  Because when I flipped them to remove from the pans, they wouldn't come out.  I even tried coaxing them out with a sharp knife along the edge.  The cake decided it was in love with the pan - and was never leaving it.  Despite the greasing with butter, and dusting it, ever so lovingly with flour.  UUUGH, why?  Why I ask you, did I not line the bottom with Parchment paper?  I have no idea,  perhaps I was feeling a bit cocky.  The cake was a failure.  It tasted delicious, stuck to the bottom of the pan in all of it's glory.  Would have made an excellent parfait, but I couldn't bear to look at it any longer.

Second attempt at baking birthday cake (18 days belated):
This time I was sure to use Parchment paper.  First layer was a dream.  Second layer sure to be the same.  But then I got caught up on the phone w/Mom.  I didn't set a timer. Dummy, tempting fate.  DH opened the oven, and smoke billowed out.  Yep, burnt to a crisp.  How irratating.  Made a new batch of cake batter.  This time I was going to bake one big replacement layer, and 2 small heart shaped cakes.  One for each of my offspring.  Well, the heart pans were new, springform pans.  They leaked all over the bottom of the oven.  I smelled something burning, and thought, "No way, those cakes have not been in long enough to burn".  I saw the chocolate mess on the oven floor, that would continue to be a menace if I did not swiftly remove.  So, I scraped the burnt chocolate cake bits onto the floor, as they were piping hot.  Toddler walks in to kitchen, and very nonchalantly asks me if I pooped on the floor. Oh, if it were only that simple!

As much as I do not want to bore you with elaborations on some of our other "crappy" stories.  I can't possibly leave this one out.  One extremely challenging day, Aidan's bowel movement made it's way out of his diaper.  He is really in to taking off his diaper the minute it is soiled as of late.  Potty training is imminent, we're working on it.  I took notice of this as a log was flying through the air.  Most of the time I can intercept this action, but 4 whatever reason, on this particular day, I could not. Sophie (the dog) ate it....YUCK, YUCK, TRIPLE YUCK!  She is 6 years old, and has never done that before.  While I was trying to do damage control with some butt wipes, 2 year old was brushing my hair with the used toilet wand that came with our German Haus...and we all know where that has been.  

Getting your hands dirty, (or carpet, or hair), comes with the territory.  I have embraced this.  File away these stories until they become funny, and tell myself that I will not be wiping other people's asses 4ever.