Category: Carter

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

The Poop-Sponge

I came down to breakfast this morning and John said, “I’m having a bad day. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just feel angry. I’m experiencing your kind of irrational anger and I don’t know what else to do, so I’m just going to express myself.” He then went on to vent about the two things which had him completely wound up by 9:30am on a Saturday morning: my burning dinner in his griddle (which is actually a non-stick skillet) the night before and the fact that I did not delineate clearly enough which sponge was the “poop-sponge.”

Let me back up.

Carter has been using the “potty-chair” all week. As an instrument in potty-training, it is debatable whether cleaning the potty chair is in fact preferable to changing a poopy diaper. I have to admit, I’m glad Eliott never took to using it. Carter, however, immediately recognized it as the one thing in the house that could only possibly be fully hers, and loves it. So I got out a new sponge to clean the potty-chair all week, and casually mentioned this fact to John. Unfortunately, there is no visible difference in the poop-sponge and the other sponge. They are both relatively new, blue, and located near the kitchen sink.

So part B of his anger this morning was over the fact that my poop-sponge directions had caused confusion, to say the least. Paranoia was the natural result of my inattention to detail in both location of sponge, and explanation of location. (It turns out he did mistakenly clean the entire kitchen with the poop-sponge. In hindsight, I might not have pointed this out today ever and/or attempted a better job of convincing him otherwise.) It also does not matter to John that the possibility of even a trace of Carter-feces on the sponge in question was negligible at best. I had, after all, mostly cleaned the potty chair with the flushable wipes first, and then merely disinfected it with a sponge and anti-bacterial soap. Seriously.

But remember, this is the man who refused to allow me to wash cloth diapers in the same machine that his own clothes would also be washed. Nevermind the logistics here and the fact that clothes and diapers would never actually intermingle within the machine. Remember too that the entire conversation started this morning with the disclaimer that John was experiencing my irrational anger, which cannot be appeased with logic, no matter how hard one tries. I actually understand this.

For the first time in my life (I dare admit), I responded in a way that put only John’s interests at heart. This is to say, I did what he always does to me, when I’m in such a mood. (Because, as my mother oft explains, this is how men work. They communicate best by showing, rather than telling, and treat others as they wish to be treated, rather than taking the female verbal cues to “LEAVE ME THE EFF ALONE WHEN I’M IN THESE MOODS!”)

Completely against my nature and desire, I climbed on top of him and enraptured him in a full body bear hug, right there at the kitchen table. I soothed him with loving reassurances that “Everything will be okay, honey,” and “It is all my fault if the entire family contracts Hepatitis-C,” and finally, the clencher, “Don’t worry.  I still love you.” Unsurprisingly, he reacted exactly like I do, which is to stiffen, whine, and attempt to back out of the hug. Though my size is no advantage in such a situation, I did have him pinned to the chair. This is about the time Carter noticed someone usurping her spot, became jealous, and proceeded to angrily kick at me saying, “No Mommy.  Stop it.  No hugs.  NO HUGS!” (I thought, where are you when I’m the recipient of such torture, huh kid?!)

Unfortunately, the hug had little to no real effect on The Undertoad, which has lingered throughout the day, bouncing back and forth between Dad and Mom, Mom and Dad, 2 out of 3 meals, and plans to have the house clean by bedtime.

I’m not sure how they do it, but children manage to pick up on these sorts of “I got nothing today” moods. It’s even worse when Mom and Dad are experiencing it at the same time. The children develop a vague awareness of control, who has it and who does not. John and I both admit, the best thing to do on days like this is to just mentally hunker down, whisper when we feel like yelling, laugh when we feel like crying, and close our eyes a lot. Oh. And whiskey doesn’t hurt.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel. With the girls both in bed at exactly 8:01, John opened the Netflix envelope downstairs to reveal Project Runway Season 8 Disc 1.

Take that, Undertoad.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

Just So I Don’t Forget

When I was about 10 years old, I got on a chair in my closet and brought down a very old box which had been through a couple of moves without being re-opened. Inside were a handful of relics from my childhood: my christening gown, a children’s china tea set, my baby book, and a small box of various cards, newspaper clippings, and pre-school awards.

As the 2nd of four children with a fairly meticulous (and possibly somewhat bored at the time) mother, every single page of my baby book is filled out. Besides pictures (of which there are plenty), my mom documented all of my first doctor visits, saved a lock of hair, and even filled out the date of every single tooth on that weird tooth chart. She admits now that she never got that far with my little sisters’ baby books.

Eliott and Carter each have a baby book. Sadly, though they are my first two, their baby books are more empty than those of my younger sisters. It isn’t that I don’t have enough time, energy, nor creativity to do it. No. I’m blaming modern technology for this. First, when is the last time I actually developed a roll of pictures? (Answer: college.) Second, when the majority of the universe is documenting everything from what we’re eating for dinner tonight to where we’re hanging out RIGHT NOW (and with whom) via Facebook and Twitter, it’s no wonder we don’t see the point in writing down the exact moment that 2 year molar poked through. (For the record, I will say the tooth chart with Eliott seemed stupid until Carter started cutting teeth and then I really did wish I’d had some sort of a guide to go by from the previous child. I’m over it now though, which means, the task was exactly as important as I originally deemed it.)

That said, there is much about my own baby book that I really do love and want my own children to be able to experience for themselves one day. The difference is that rather than piling a chair with books to reach the tops of their closets, they’ll have to search through the archived bowels of Google (if it even still exists by then) to find THIS. Very. Blog.

So here are a few nuggets that I’d like to not one day forget:

Eliott:

I’m not sure if this is true for all 4-year-olds, but it is certainly true for my 4-year-old. You have an imagination and can make things up that reasonable adults would wonder where you first heard them. Likely, you heard them nowhere. Also, you have dreams, remember them, and can talk about them the next morning. Your dreams, in fact, very similar to adult dreams, speak volumes of the things in your life which are important to you and the things you worry about. (Example, one morning last spring you woke up clearly upset and proceeded to explain that you were dreaming about “circle time” but none of the kids were following directions. This had you, my just-like-your-Dad-type-A rule-follower, seriously stressed out. You went to school later that morning and explained the exact scenario to your teacher, all details intact.)

Also, though you don’t fully understand many social conventions yet (such as the true meaning of the word “friend” and the difference between “friend” and “best friend”) you seem to have a very keen grasp on who likes you and who does not. On the other hand, you are completely oblivious to the fact that the 10 and 11 year old boys next door are clearly not interested in your pink princess shoes. It’s pretty cute.

You like to play house with your sister, whom you have pet-named “Gancia” (pronounced Gayne-cee-ya). The two of you pretend like the downstairs powder room is an elevator and the cabinet is your car. You often fight over who gets to drive.

You have already begun to plan your princess wedding to your husband Peyton, which is strange considering you have not yet been to a real wedding. Yesterday you asked if you were old enough to get married and I said no, you have to be a grown up. When you asked why, I explained that there are a couple things you should probably do before you get married. Some examples included: go to school, learn to drive a car, move out of your mom and dad’s house, and probably go on a couple dates. You agreed and said you’ll be ready to get married when you are six. You and Peyton could ride your bikes to the wedding.

Finally, about a month ago, I was getting you and Carter ready for bed and I forgot to grab your underwear after baths. When I told you to just wear your PJ’s without underwear you squealed and giggled, “No! That is SO weird.” Off-hand, apparently I responded with, “No it’s very liberating,” because you are now currently really into not wearing underwear. And every time you do it, you announce, “It’s very liverating.”

Carter:

At the beginning of the summer you could hardly speak two syllable words. Now you are stringing entire sentences together and actually using most prepositions correctly. A few of your cuter common phrases currently include:

“Where did Eliott go?”

“I take a nap.”

“Mommy. Hey, Mommy. Right there. Uh-huh.”

“Daddy not home. Daddy at work.”

“Here! Thank you. Thank you, Mommy. Thank you.”

On the surface you appear to be very polite, somewhat in your own world, and obliviously self-confident. Daddy and I agree that this might work out in your favor one day, as long as you don’t completely lose the love of the big sister who adores you enough to run from any room in the house to fetch your Boo anytime Mommy scolds you. The fact is, you are a bit spoiled, completely by nature and not nurture, which I predict to one day manifest itself in true Paulus style arrogance. Again, not a bad thing in my opinion. You laugh a lot and sometimes it surprises me the things you pick up on that seem funny. You scold the dogs next door with the authority of an 8 year old, but secretly, all animals freak you out. (Even cats. Tiny benign ones.) You have learned from Eliott how to say “Yes, Mommy” or “Yes, Daddy” at exactly the right moments and you seem to know that apologizing instantly after doing anything wrong will get you almost anywhere.

You are scary smart. And like your big sister, you are really stinking beautiful.

I continue to pray that both of you intimidate all men until you are at least 24, when you meet the one who is enough like your father to marry you.

Carter, Confessions

This is How I Know I’m a Good Mom Today

Two nights ago I went into Carter’s room to put away some laundry just after John had put her down for bed.

My almost-two-year-old-offspring was rocking and “Shushing” her doll babies to sleep.  As I opened the door, she looked up, smiled at me, showed me her babies, said, “Mommy.  Baby.”  She smiled again, kissed me goodnight on the lips, and snuggled in to her blanket closing her eyes.

So maybe every time I ask her, “Hey Carter, who’s your favorite, Mommy or Daddy?” she says anything but Mommy.  And maybe she whines with more regularity when I’m around and pretends she doesn’t like (or even need) me most of the time.

But suddenly I get it.

She WANTS TO BE ME.

When I was little and my two younger sisters used to follow me around and take everything I had and copy everything I did I was repeatedly told (mostly by my mother) to take all of it as a compliment.  All they wanted was to be just like me.  Such reminders, as a kid, mostly just gave me the urge to karate chop someone in the throat.

But I get it now.

And it does feel exactly as good as my mother told me it should.

Carter, Confessions

More Carter Stories

As per a recent request, today I have a Carter story.

Carter is 22 months old.  This means she will be 2 in July.  I’m fairly certain that in most things, she’s been right on target for developing at the same rate as the books say she should (or even that her big sister did).  Mind you, both of them have been, for the most part, the right size for their age all along, and seem to be basically average in all the developmental milestones (walking, talking, feeding themselves, etc).  I’m not big on the mom-style competitions of asking others how and when their children learned or started doing certain things.  My thought is, when we reach a milestone, I’ll figure it out.  Knowing how and when others tackled the basics (things like sleeping through the night and potty training) has no bearing on how I plan to tackle them.  On the other hand, if there is a mom or a child whom I particularly admire, I’m not above copying.

So.  Potty training.  Let me say for the record, no, Carter is not potty trained.  Nor am I actively potty training her.  However, she has a very regular poop schedule.  Therefore, when we have the time, it is not particularly difficult to put her on the potty when said “time” arrives.  This simply means one less dirty diaper for me to change.  And believe me, wiping a bottom off the potty is FAR easier, quicker, and more pleasant than changing a dirty diaper.  So last Thursday, Mommy and Carter synchronized schedules, and pooping on the potty happened.  Twice.

A few things that have made this little accomplishment easier than it was with Eliott:

  1. Carter learning, understanding, and loving the action of and the word “toot.”  She announces it every time she does it, with a giggle.  She announces every time John does it, also with a giggle.  When she first did it, it was cute enough at the dinner table that we laughed.  She internalized this bit of attention and has continued it unceasingly (the old, if it is funny once, it is funny a million times tactic).  Though it is no longer funny at the dinner table (well, okay, it still is, but we have to pretend it isn’t), it has made for easy directions when pooping on the potty.  One thing many kids struggle with when potty training is the absence of the comfort of a diaper, and learning to simply let go.  All I have to say to Carter is, “Can you make a toot?” and potty success generally follows shortly thereafter.
  2. Knowing what M&M’s are, knowing she likes them, and her very keen albeit premature grasp of quid pro quo.  Eliott was fully 2-and-a-half before we even began potty training.  Though it only took exactly one weekend (and a very timely accident at Barnes and Noble one evening), Eliott was impervious to bribes.  I created and proceeded to eat directly in front of her a bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce and M&Ms on top, declaring, “All you have to do is go poo-poo and this too, can be yours.”  It just made her confused and angry.  Carter not only seemed to understand, “Go poo-poo on the potty and you can have an M&M,” but she remembered it the next time, and still does.

As I’ve mentioned before, Carter doesn’t often speak about things she is not looking at, which, among other things, makes for very difficult phone calls with grandparents.  The idea that she can remember for later, ideas or moments which happened hours or even minutes before, is far too abstract for her concrete development to crack.  Or so I thought.  Because on Thursday after lunch (the 2nd potty accomplishment of the day), when she realized what she had done, her eyebrows and ears perked up (much like those of a cat when it senses dinner just before the can is opened), she smiled, and said, “Yaaaaaay…” sort of quietly.  Her hesitation was burst when I joined in with the verbal celebration.  At that, she announced, “I want.  M&M.”  We went downstairs to retrieve two M&Ms, and with her grimy little palm extended she then said, “Daddy.  Poo-poo.  Potty.  Goo-grrrl.”

“That’s right, Carter.  You tell Daddy you went poo-poo on the potty.  He’ll say, ‘Good girl,”  I said, pretending this is what she meant.

This is exactly what she meant.

Four hours later, when John came home from work, and she announced the same Carter-style sentence, his response was, “Yes Carter, poo-poo goes in the potty.”  Thank goodness for Eliott, our translator, who immediately cleared things up.

Let it not be mistaken.  My girls have a favorite.  They know who and what is most important to them.  Accomplishments, and M&Ms, are so much better when Daddy is included.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Carter

7 Minute Lecture: the Results

Just before lunch this afternoon, Eliott was sent to her room for her attitude.  As this truly hasn’t happened in a while, I thought I’d do the right thing in parenting and actually go upstairs for the “What-did-you-learn-and-I-still-love-you” discussion.  I left Carter downstairs in her high chair with some apples.

When I returned, here’s what I found:

My discussion with Eliott could not have lasted more than 7 minutes.  It is now 3:30.  Three bites of apple and a precious 7 minute power-nap was apparently all Carter needed to keep her up for the rest of the day.

(How much am I loving the fact that she didn’t even swallow that last sip of milk?)

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

We’ve Got it Together

Things which encourage me to believe I have it all together:

  1. Waking up on a school day at 8:25am and getting both children dressed, fed, brushed, and out the door, ON TIME.
  2. Taking naps in the afternoon.  Just because I can.
  3. A clean kitchen.
  4. Folded laundry.
  5. Putting my kids to bed at 8 o’clock and being done for the night.  Every night.
  6. Eating Brussels sprouts and meatloaf (childhood punishment foods) and liking them both.  A lot.
  7. Letting Eliott do Play-Doh in my kitchen for the first time in her life under my direction and not having even a single conniption, mental or otherwise.  (Note: this was also well before my 4:30 clock-out-and-start-drinking-time.  Double bonus.)
  8. Spontaneous 4 year old announcements like, “Today I’m going to have a good attitude all day,” and “I have a lot of work to do in my room, Mom.  You can see when I’m done.” (This means she’s picking up.  By herself.)

Things which bring me back down to earth:


One last point about that “having it together” thing:

  1. My presence of mind to take a picture of this.


Carter

Carter Uses Her Words

I realize I do very little writing about Carter.  It isn’t that she’s still a blob of goo with no personality, and it isn’t even that her sister–who we thought would be the most outspoken, hard-headed, strong-willed, and possibly smartest of all our children–outshines her.  I think Carter might actually one day give Eliott’s mouth a run for its money.  My neglect of the Carter spotlight has likely been due to the majority of her cuteness being wrapped up in things that are so small and so fleeting that they are impossible to capture with words.  Until recently.

About two weeks ago, Carter’s vocabulary included approximately 10 words, none of which was Mama, by the way, but all of which included the things she loves and/or needs the most in the day: Daddy, Eliott, Boo (her blanket), milk, more, ray-rays (raisins), cookie, CA-EEKE!, toot, and nope.  Girl loves her daddy, has a sweet-tooth like her mom, and farts like a grown man.

So here’s the thing with communication.  For several months (or years, for some), kids know exactly what they want but they rely on about 3 choice noises to express themselves.  Though different, each of these noises has equal potential to make a mother’s head explode.  We repeat over and over, “What do you want, child?!  Use your words!”  But what we should be saying is, “Use MY words!  Your words are insufficient and hurt my brain!”  Even though I have two children (and have therefore been through this before) it is amazing how many things about Eliott’s verbal development I have forgotten.  Though I was very keen about keeping my high school classes up to date on the different parts-of-speech she was mastering (because they were not), I’m pretty sure I blocked out the transition from noise, noise, noise, to… WORDS.

All of a sudden, Carter decides to start talking.  And, now I live in The Busy World of Richard Scary.  This girl is verbally labeling everything, and don’t get me wrong, I live with her, but even I have a hard time understanding half of what she’s trying to say.  Eliott is the best interpreter of Carterese, but with this new surge in vocabulary, we’re all having a hard time keeping up.  And when I say the girl is relentless, what I mean is that she will repeat something like a scratched CD (absolutely no change in inflection or volume whatsoever, and no chance of growing tired before I do) until I decipher the word correctly and repeat it back to her.  Sometimes, even then, she continues repeating it out of what I can only imagine is a new found sense of pride and power.

A few nights ago John and I were on a semi-date (got rid of Eliott for free at church but they wouldn’t take kids under 3) with Carter.  From the back seat of the car she was pointing up and to the right and repeating “chis.”  So begins the guessing game (which is much more difficult from the front seat of the car, thus eliminating context clues).  John and I tag teamed her for about 4 straight minutes:

Chis
This?
Nope.  Chis.
Cheese?
Nope.  Chis.
What are you saying, Carter?
Chis.
Where?
Chis.
This?
Nope.
Cheese?
Nope.
Window?
Nope. (Now she’s smiling, I think we’re getting closer.)
Drink?
Nope.
These?
Nope.
…
CHEES!  CHEES! Chees-chees-CHEES! (Waving arms toward the window.)
Tree?
CHIS!
Oh.  Trees!  Yes, Carter.  Trees, those are trees.  Good girl.

(Carter starts clapping.)

I believe that now that she’s overcome the fear of being misunderstood, she’s trying to make up for lost time.  I cannot get the girl to shut up.  Even when it comes to this (most often in the car or the high chair): “Oh-KAY!  Enough!  Carter.  Enough.  It is time for you to hush,” she begins repeating, “Hussshhh, hush.  Hush.  Hush.  Shhhhhh, sh.  Hush.  Hush.  Hussshh.  Hush.”  At this point I’m either flooring it and looking for a cliff or slamming my head in the refrigerator door.

The best news in all of this, is that everyone gets to look forward to the imminent Carter Status Updates, which are just around the corner.  If child #1 thinks she hears donuts and smells stop signs, I cannot wait to see what child #2 has in store.

Carter, Parenting

Carter Sings Her ABC’s

I realize I do very little writing about Carter.  It isn’t that she’s still a blob of goo with no personality, and it isn’t even that her sister–who we thought would be the most outspoken, hard-headed, strong-willed, and possibly smartest of all our children–outshines her.  I think Carter might actually one day give Eliott’s mouth a run for its money.  My neglect of the Carter spotlight has likely been due to the majority of her cuteness being wrapped up in things that are so small and so fleeting that they are impossible to capture with words.  Until recently.

About two weeks ago, Carter’s vocabulary included approximately 10 words, none of which was Mama, by the way, but all of which included the things she loves and/or needs the most in the day: Daddy, Eliott, Boo (her blanket), milk, more, ray-rays (raisins), cookie, CA-EEKE!, toot, and nope.  Girl loves her daddy, has a sweet-tooth like her mom, and farts like a grown man.

So here’s the thing with communication.  For several months (or years, for some), kids know exactly what they want but they rely on about 3 choice noises to express themselves.  Though different, each of these noises has equal potential to make a mother’s head explode.  We repeat over and over, “What do you want, child?!  Use your words!”  But what we should be saying is, “Use MY words!  Your words are insufficient and hurt my brain!”  Even though I have two children (and have therefore been through this before) it is amazing how many things about Eliott’s verbal development I have forgotten.  Though I was very keen about keeping my high school classes up to date on the different parts-of-speech she was mastering (because they were not), I’m pretty sure I blocked out the transition from noise, noise, noise, to… WORDS.

All of a sudden, Carter decides to start talking.  And, now I live in The Busy World of Richard Scary.  This girl is verbally labeling everything, and don’t get me wrong, I live with her, but even I have a hard time understanding half of what she’s trying to say.  Eliott is the best interpreter of Carterese, but with this new surge in vocabulary, we’re all having a hard time keeping up.  And when I say the girl is relentless, what I mean is that she will repeat something like a scratched CD (absolutely no change in inflection or volume whatsoever, and no chance of growing tired before I do) until I decipher the word correctly and repeat it back to her.  Sometimes, even then, she continues repeating it out of what I can only imagine is a new found sense of pride and power.

A few nights ago John and I were on a semi-date (got rid of Eliott for free at church but they wouldn’t take kids under 3) with Carter.  From the back seat of the car she was pointing up and to the right and repeating “chis.”  So begins the guessing game (which is much more difficult from the front seat of the car, thus eliminating context clues).  John and I tag teamed her for about 4 straight minutes:

Chis

This?

Nope.  Chis.

Cheese?

Nope.  Chis.

What are you saying, Carter?

Chis.

Where?

Chis.

This?

Nope.

Cheese?

Nope.

Window?

Nope. (Now she’s smiling, I think we’re getting closer.)

Drink?

Nope.

These?

Nope.

…

CHEES!  CHEES! Chees-chees-CHEES! (Waving arms toward the window.)

Tree?

CHIS!

Oh.  Trees!  Yes, Carter.  Trees, those are trees.  Good girl.

(Carter starts clapping.)

I believe that now that she’s overcome the fear of being misunderstood, she’s trying to make up for lost time.  I cannot get the girl to shut up.  Even when it comes to this (most often in the car or the high chair): “Oh-KAY!  Enough!  Carter.  Enough.  It is time for you to hush,” she begins repeating, “Hussshhh, hush.  Hush.  Hush.  Shhhhhh, sh.  Hush.  Hush.  Hussshh.  Hush.”  At this point I’m either flooring it and looking for a cliff or slamming my head in the refrigerator door.

The best news in all of this, is that everyone gets to look forward to the imminent Carter Status Updates, which are just around the corner.  If child #1 thinks she hears donuts and smells stop signs, I cannot wait to see what child #2 has in store.

Carter, Eliott

Some things I’m loving this morning…

  • The lingering scent of John’s cologne on Carter’s head, from where he got her out of bed this morning.
  • The “Attitude Chart” we started yesterday, which seemed a bit of flop.  Eliott’s first words this morning: I’m going to get lots of stars on my chart today Mommy.  (Yes – you – are.)
  • The pear trees in our back yard are in full white bloom.  From the upstairs windows they look like snow.  I’m loving that they are not, in fact, snow, and that there is no chance of another snow in the near future.  (*When outside, I am not loving the way these same trees smell like feet.)
  • Every time I get Carter out of the high chair, I love the way she last-second-grabs two hand-fulls of whatever is left on the tray, for the road.  I recall Eliott did the same thing.
  • The upcoming St. Patrick’s Day party (I refuse to use the word playdate, which is what this really is) at the home of a real Irish Catholic friend, and the promise of Guinness and/or Bailey’s before noon.  (I’m skipping Thursday morning Bible study for this.  Remind me why I’m not Catholic anymore?)