Boondock Ramblings

Why telling my kid he can't watch cartoons isn't so bad after all. . . .

Jonathan wasn't listening.

When I asked him to put his boots on at the sitters so we could go home, he looked at me with no expression, turned and walked way to continue playing robots.

This happened three times. To say I was frustrated, even angry, is an understatement.

"No cartoons for you tonight if you don't come right over here," I told him.

He scowled at me. I glared at him.

"If you do not come over here right now, no cartoons," I said again.

I approached him and he tried to walk away from me.

"No cartoons," I snapped.

And there was none that night.

On the way home I worried how I would entertain him why I cooked dinner and did other things I needed to do that night. Cartoons are my fall back for such things at times. By no means is the television a babysitter, but it can distract him long enough for me to get the chicken in the oven or the water boiling.

On this night, though, I didn't have an issue.

Finding some way to entertain my three year old wasn't an issue at all.

We played outside, splashed in the mud.

 

We played inside, pretending we were Transformers and monsters and robots.

We splashed in the tub, or he did, while I watched (and played on the computer in the room down the hall while watching him in the reflection of a wall hanging on the hallway wall, let's be honest.) And then we talked.

Or should I say he talked. And talked. And talked.

And laughed. He told me all about his day and what he likes and what makes him laugh. I knew my kid could talk, but not in such an excited tone of voice. It turns out he talks with his hands like his mother and also like his mother, when he gets really excited, he barely takes a breath (my husband can attest to this).

"You're better!" he declared suddenly as we cuddled on the couch while Josh Turner sang from the stereo. He was referring to how miserable I've been feeling with tightness in my chest and a stuffy nose.

Suddenly I realized -- I was better and I could breathe and laugh and cuddle my toddler without thinking about how miserable I felt.

So, dolling out a punishment that involves no television? I might have once steered clear of it.

Now I highly recommend it.

(Even if he didn't really see it as punishment. Darn it.)

  

A little pink eye for Christmas . . .

 

The goo in Jonathan's eye Christmas morning, along with expected freezing rain, signified our family wouldn't be going anywhere for Christmas except to the ER (the only medical facility open) and then back home again.

After a quick Christmas breakfast at Hubby's grandfather's we headed to the ER, expecting to find our wait long with men holding sliced fingers from missing the turkey, or others with odd ailments. Instead we found an empty waiting room and were ushered into an examine room almost immediately. Jonathan was disappointed that he didn't even get to play with the waiting room toys, but with the way his right eye was starting to swell shut, I was glad for the quick service.

Besides, he seemed to think the examine room was his own personal playground as he climbed on the bed and tried to touch everything else in the room. Mommy wouldn't allow him to touch anything, quite sure that the condition she had originally thought was caused by a foreign object in her son's eye was indeed pink eye.

The doctor confirmed it was pink eye. We were given antibiotic drops, an antibiotic for an additional sinus infection (which the kid had not exhibited any symptoms of other than a small amount of clear snot from his nose), and sent on our way.

I only wish the doctor or nurse had told us how we are supposed to convince a 3-year old to open his eyes so the eye drops can be put in. And then how, after some has hit his eye and apparently it burned, we are supposed to accomplish such a task three times a day while the child is flailing, screaming and shaking his head back and forth.

Fortunately, with his refusal to have the eye drops placed in his eye, there is more for mommy, who started to feel the goo coming from her eye Christmas night into Saturday morning.

It sounds like a depressing Christmas, and I was a little sad not to see my family, but spending much of the day cuddling Jonathan and hugging Hubby made up for the disappointments. It took me almost all day to realize what a nice Christmas it truly was, but when I did I held on to the feeling and it was as warm inside me as my son's sleeping form was next to me.

I hope your Christmas Day/Weekend was special and "uneventful" but yet "eventful."

Was it?

A three-year old's birthday . . .

He woke up looking for toys and answering our questions of "How old are you?" with, "Tree!"

He didn't seem to understand the whole "birthday" concept even this year, but nodded his head in agreement when we told him he would have to wait to open his gifts until he arrived at grandpa and grandma's for his party.

He almost ruined the entire "surprise" thing when it comes to gifts after he pushed open the closed bedroom door and discovered the wrapper from his Superman costume. 

Maybe it was weird, but I'd bought him the Superman costume on clearance, left over from Halloween, of course. He'd had the same costume last year and had loved it (wearing it only after Halloween, not on Halloween). Now with a Spiderman costume left from this Halloween, he could be whichever favorite superhero he wanted on any given day. Except Ironman. I haven't got that costume for him yet. Or Green Lantern. Ah crap. Next year, I guess.

Grandma and Grandpa had gone all out for the "party", which turned out actually to be a family dinner, since illness throughout the family kept cousins and aunts and uncles grounded. Instead I simply exposed my parents and aunt to the dreaded Swine Flu (before realizing I had it, but suspecting I did.) Grandma had purchased Spiderman decorations from a tablecloth, to plates, napkins, cups and a banner.

The biggest hit of the day? Green Lantern in all his green costume glory.

Second biggest hit? Handy Manny. Later the next day it was the Lincoln logs from Grandma and Grandpa which got some attention. On the actual day, Grandpa seemed to have the most fun with those logs.

Really, there isn't much to say about "the day" or "the party." It wasn't overwhelming. It wasn't terribly exciting.

Yet it was all of that because Jonathan turned three and the world did not explode; tantrums were not thrown; a crumpled face did not transform my cherubs smile into the Devil's snarl. No, that "Terrible Threes" I braced myself for did not come that day, nor the next.

Eh, who am I kidding? It's only been a few days. The Terrible Threes could be just around the corner.

But, if there are days this good mixed in between those bad days then I can handle it.

See more photos of Jonathan's birthday HERE.

Put your arms up and ride the rollercoaster! Whee-haw!

Dearest Jonathan,

You didn't have much say about mommy taking your picture when you were first born. I simply took the photos while you watched me with curiosity in your eyes.

It wasn't until about two weeks ago that you started holding up your hand and saying, "Mama! No. Not that!" or "Mama! Stop! Not me!"

It was a sad day, but one very much expected considering you've been the subject of my paparazzi ways for three years now. Three years Saturday that is.

That's right. You're turning three. That's very weird to me.

You've gone from chewing on anything you could get your hands on, to holding up Spidermen figures for me to take photos of, simply so I won't take anymore of you. It's like you turned Amish overnight and think each click of the shutter is stealing even more of your soul.

You never were one to cuddle with stuffed animals. Instead you fell asleep with a plastic Superman or Ironman clutched in your tiny grip. You still do.

You're opinionated now. Mommy and daddy have to "pay wit" you, but when we do we also have to "pay" the way you want to, playing with only the figures you tell us we can play with and how. Last night we (you and I) had to play "daddy" by putting on daddy's shirts while you said, "Me like Daddy.

You refuse to have your hair cut. You hate water being poured over your head to wash your hair. You whimper and scream your disapproval when we announce it's time to brush your teeth, take a bath, go to bed, turn off the cartoons, eat dinner, go to the babysitters, ask you to put your shoes or coat on, or suggest you might prefer sitting in time out for awhile to us freaking out and screaming as loud as you do.

You have an amazing imagination, always finding new household products to turn into armor or a laser blaster. You amaze your daddy and mommy with your ingenuity. You stun us with your inventive ideas. You exhaust us with your creativity. You create pride in us with each new scheme you conjure up.

 
This week you've clung to us as we leave you at the sitters and then cling to the sitter when we pick you up.

You are a source of contradictions. Your are up and then you are down. You are happy, then you are mad.

You are nasty, then you are sweet. You are Batman, then Spiderman, then Superman, then Ironman. Often I guess wrong and you tell me so.

Sometimes it is hard to keep up with the roller coaster. Other times it's easier just to strap ourselves in, put our arms up and enjoy the rush of wind in our hair.

Hosted by Cecily and Emily

Some girls are just particular, that's all

When you're three you want to be sure the adults around you listen to you and know exactly what you want.

I'm sure that is why Nora and Kailee were so astute in expressing themselves during childrens church, which Hubby and I taught at our church through the month of October.

Kailee wanted me to write her name on her paper and she told me just how to spell it.

"It's K-A-I-L-E-E," she told me firmly and even as I wrote it she said, "No. No. K-A-I-L. . . ."

"I did write that," I said, feeling slightly indignant at her insistence that I was making some kind of error.

I had to remind myself that she's three and that, as I learned with my niece (The Boss) and am learning with Jonathan, three-year olds are just starting to develop their own voice and opinions. And those opinions had better be respected. 

"Throw this away," she instructed Hubby at one point.

"Oh, don't we say, 'please?'" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Please. Throw this away."

Last week Nora was building a tower with some blocks. She wanted the small, square blocks with four holes in them. A little boy wanted to add a longer block, with eight holes.

Nora was disturbed by the addition of the longer blocks.

"Oh no," she said. "I don't like that. No. That's not right."

After all, only a few moments earlier she'd reminded the boy, who isn't yet two, that he could only use blocks with four sides, not the ones that only had three. What was his problem anyhow?

I am sure she'll one day be the woman starring over someone's head during a conversation, shifting nervously, and then jumping up to straighten a picture that is tilted ever-so-slightly on the wall.

Nora used her playtime with play-do to pile several colorful blobs together, press them lightly with her fingers and then tell anyone who came near her not to touch it.

"We're going to leave that right here," she said. "It's for my mommy."

I asked her if it was her creation. She agreed that it was and later she invited another little girl to admire her work.

"This is my creation," she said. "Now, you can look at it, but you can't touch it, OK? Because it's for my mommy."

The other little girl, Adrienne, didn't appear to be very impressed and frowned a bit. Of course, Adrienne, also three, was not impressed with much. During our second week of teaching Hubby helped her color a picture.

"Do you want this to be blue here?" he asked.

She sighed, looked away and said, "Do whatever you want."

Brace yourselves, mamas, grandmother, aunts, and others. Three is the new 16.

____________

On Views Beyond the Lens: You Capture: Autumn and WordFUL Wednesday: Halloween.