Monday, December 30, 2013
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Remy: Year One
With the new year approaching and the start of birthday season in our family, my mom has felt the pressure of the mounting backlog of annual movies upon her. While I am closing in on two years of undocumented activity, Remy didn't have a single movie to show for all her efforts and hard-earned milestones.
Almost one year's worth of procrastination in the movie-making department increases the nostalgia factor exponentially. Hard to believe it's been nearly two years since Remy was her tiniest self!
Almost one year's worth of procrastination in the movie-making department increases the nostalgia factor exponentially. Hard to believe it's been nearly two years since Remy was her tiniest self!
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Bringing the outerwear in
If there's one thing we can say with certainty about Remy, it's that the kid knows what she wants. And generally what she wants is to wear her outerwear indoors.
It started with the cheetah coat, which she was very disconcerted to learn was not an option for wearing into the tub.
The coat obsession expanded to shoes.
Anybody and everybody's shoes.
Attempts to convince her that certain shoes are too large are met with a particularly fierce form of toddler rage and an insistence that we find a way (i.e., tie them tighter).
This week, the mayhem expanded to include hats.
Trying to convince her of the lack of necessity and overall impracticality of her newfound obsession is futile, which is why at any given time during the day, you may find Mom or Remy's teachers hiding coats or shoes. Because underneath a lot of outerwear, sometimes it's hard to hear a little logic.
Particularly when you're one.
It started with the cheetah coat, which she was very disconcerted to learn was not an option for wearing into the tub.
The coat obsession expanded to shoes.
Anybody and everybody's shoes.
Attempts to convince her that certain shoes are too large are met with a particularly fierce form of toddler rage and an insistence that we find a way (i.e., tie them tighter).
This week, the mayhem expanded to include hats.
Particularly when you're one.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Thanks-Kim-ing
The weekend before Thanksgiving, Rowan and I were thankful for an impromptu visit from our cousin Kimmy. After meeting her for the first time last year in New York, we deemed her to be a small slice of awesome and have been calling her on "Face Phone" every now and then to catch up (or stare at our tonsils in the tiny corner screen -- she's cool with that, too).
Since she'd never been to Chicago before, we committed to showing her all the beauty, culture and culinary brilliance our hometown has to offer -- including the theatrical magic of "Pinkalicious" at the local community children's theater, dinner at the restaurant where they pitch broccoli into your mouth, brunch and shopping on the Magnificent Mile and a farewell dinner at our favorite glorified hot dog stand.
It's worth mentioning that Kimmy's idea of a good trip is one in which she defies death at least once -- whether it's jumping out of an airplane or bungeeing off a bridge. And in thinking through the weekend carefully, she did sit for an hour in a theater filled predominantly with preschoolers, so I'm pretty sure this trip qualified.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
True colors
A few weeks ago, Rowan got out of bed and pulled on a pair of black leggings. Over the leggings she layered grey and hot pink athletic shorts, into which she tucked a hot pink sleeveless shirt before hiking those shorts up to a location not even in the general neighborhood of her waist.
She then proceeded to eat breakfast and go to school.
Although my mom pondered for a moment staging a fashion intervention, she elected to bite her lip. In part because she believes that the older we get, the more space and freedom we need to express our unique personalities. And in part because, after spending six months in vain trying to convince Rowan that hiking your socks up over your leggings is not really "a thing," my mom doubted she could make much headway in the 30 minutes before we had to leave the house.
It was in this spirit that my mom agreed to execute upon Rowan's decision to paint her new big-girl room pink, despite the fact that it would stand out just a skosh amongst the warm and neutral tones in the other parts of the house. Making only the vague promise of "pink," my mom set out to find the most subtle, unobtrusive shade on the market.
After deciding that every swatch from the paint store was, in fact, too pink, my mom turned to Restoration Hardware, believing that if anybody could make pink classy, it would be them. She didn't bother throwing a bit of it on the walls to test it out. It looked so dignified on that tiny swatch.
Had she bothered to look at a picture of the paint in one of the catalog photos, she would have realized that this pink packed a little more of a punch than she had bargained for.
After the initial shock wore off, my mom smiled, because she knew that Rowan would L-O-V-E it.
Subtlety's never been Rowan's thing anyway.
P.S. My mom's camera unfortunately/fortunately distorted the color on the walls, ironically making it appear exactly like how my mom had hoped it would look. My mom did some clumsy Photoshopping to show what the colors really look like, so you'll have to excuse the fact that it looks like our painter cut in the edges with a blindfold.
She then proceeded to eat breakfast and go to school.
Although my mom pondered for a moment staging a fashion intervention, she elected to bite her lip. In part because she believes that the older we get, the more space and freedom we need to express our unique personalities. And in part because, after spending six months in vain trying to convince Rowan that hiking your socks up over your leggings is not really "a thing," my mom doubted she could make much headway in the 30 minutes before we had to leave the house.
It was in this spirit that my mom agreed to execute upon Rowan's decision to paint her new big-girl room pink, despite the fact that it would stand out just a skosh amongst the warm and neutral tones in the other parts of the house. Making only the vague promise of "pink," my mom set out to find the most subtle, unobtrusive shade on the market.
After deciding that every swatch from the paint store was, in fact, too pink, my mom turned to Restoration Hardware, believing that if anybody could make pink classy, it would be them. She didn't bother throwing a bit of it on the walls to test it out. It looked so dignified on that tiny swatch.
Had she bothered to look at a picture of the paint in one of the catalog photos, she would have realized that this pink packed a little more of a punch than she had bargained for.
 |
Subtlety's never been Rowan's thing anyway.
The Big Reveal
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| "Open your eyes, Rowan!" |
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P.S. My mom's camera unfortunately/fortunately distorted the color on the walls, ironically making it appear exactly like how my mom had hoped it would look. My mom did some clumsy Photoshopping to show what the colors really look like, so you'll have to excuse the fact that it looks like our painter cut in the edges with a blindfold.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Deconstructing the Halloween photo
Halloween is one of those holidays that comes with the expectation of a great family photo. It started out easy enough.
Dad takes direction well, I've always been very easygoing and there was only one baby to be wrangled.
2008, piece of cake! Endeavoring to eat a Kit Kat with the wrapper still on kept me busy long enough to get the job done, and there remained only one baby to manage.
The following year, I was old enough to take simple directions and, though we added a baby to the mix, a harness and pacifier assured our success.
Halloween 2010 fell shortly before the start of the Terrible Twos and Rowan was feeling particularly chipper with the promise of candy in her immediate future.
In 2011, Rowan was closing in on three and I was almost five, so capturing a semi-decent picture wasn't one of our more difficult feats.
In 2012, we welcomed another baby into the mix. While her inability to crawl made it possible to squeeze the three of us into a single frame, it did nothing to improve the odds that any one of us would look reasonably decent. We have several photos from 2012, and this was really the best of the worst.
This year, Halloween fell shortly after two separate sessions with our family photographer -- both of which my mom described as "extremely painful" due to the fact that 2/3 of the kids in this family are particularly opinionated in terms of what they are and are not willing to do.
Factoring in the rainy trick-or-treating conditions and Rowan's refusal to wear her Halloween costume due to the fatigue of already wearing it THREE WHOLE TIMES, my mom didn't even pretend as if she was attempting the group shot this year.
Which explains why this year's "official" Halloween photo is delivered in six separate installments. Because on Halloween, we can pretend to be many things, but "cooperative" is apparently not one of them.
Dad takes direction well, I've always been very easygoing and there was only one baby to be wrangled.
 |
| 2007 |
 |
| 2008 |
The following year, I was old enough to take simple directions and, though we added a baby to the mix, a harness and pacifier assured our success.
 |
| 2009 |
 |
| 2010 |
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| 2011 |
In 2012, we welcomed another baby into the mix. While her inability to crawl made it possible to squeeze the three of us into a single frame, it did nothing to improve the odds that any one of us would look reasonably decent. We have several photos from 2012, and this was really the best of the worst.
 |
| 2013 |
Factoring in the rainy trick-or-treating conditions and Rowan's refusal to wear her Halloween costume due to the fatigue of already wearing it THREE WHOLE TIMES, my mom didn't even pretend as if she was attempting the group shot this year.
Which explains why this year's "official" Halloween photo is delivered in six separate installments. Because on Halloween, we can pretend to be many things, but "cooperative" is apparently not one of them.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Party foul
Last year was a very transitional year for us. On top of welcoming another human being into the family, both Rowan and I switched to new schools. About six months of snowballing Mom Guilt and the desire to both foster our new friendships and preserve our old ones led my mom to suggest that we each pick four friends to invite over for a Halloween-themed playdate. And, alas, the Spooky Halloween Playdate was born.
My mom was very careful to qualify it as a playdate, rather than a party. Because parties come with certain expectations, and we like to keep the pressure low up in these parts.
For instance, a party requires concerted effort in the planning department -- thinking about things like activities and schedules. Playdates are a casual affair.
A party suggests the presence of party favors. At a playdate, offering a friend the privilege of playing with someone else's toys and destroying some else's house is the favor.
A party requires decorating -- often in particular color schemes or themes. Playdates require only mild reorganization of our belongings in an effort to present a superficial sense of order and avoid the perception that we are living in utter chaos.
A party requires carefully compiling a guest list, so as not to offend, leading you to invite everybody you have fond feelings for. No one ever said, "You threw a playdate and didn't invite me??"
Parties suggest crazy amounts of fun. Playdates promise nothing.
In an effort to show us how invested she was in the affair, my mom designed a digital invitation, complete with photo.
She put together small treat bags (because, alas, it was Halloween and it seemed necessary) and the event was a raging success (by which I mean nothing in our home was permanently destroyed).
In fact, my mom declared it downright easy.
Which is how the Annual Spooky Halloween Playdate was born.
This year, in an effort to one up herself, my mom bought a large collection of Halloween-themed arts and crafts, all of which could be carried home by our friends in small, colorable Halloween totes. Coloring these totes seemed the perfect activity for kicking off the playdate. She bought a few decorations, because it seemed somewhat unfestive not to give a little atmospheric nod to the holiday.
With the crafts and decorations ready to go and excitement mounting by the day, it was a slight bit unnerving when, two days prior to the playdate, Rowan's teacher called to tell my mom that Rowan threw up all over the classroom. The next 24 hours were spent biting our nails and waiting to see if Rowan would bounce back in time toparty play, or whether we'd need to cancel.
When we were 24 hours in the clear, my mom sent out a reminder, with a special note to the moms in Rowan's class, saying something to the effect of, "Soooooo, you may have heard that Rowan left school in a vomitous blaze of glory yesterday. NOBODY FREAK OUT." She promised Rowan was well.
Which she totally was...right up until the first mom showed up for pick-up at our house just in time to witness Rowan throwing up behind the couch.
It's likely not worth all that much at this point to say that Rowan has been a-okay ever since and, about five minutes after the last guest left, asked for macaroni and cheese and went along with her day as if nothing epically humiliating had just occurred.
Also slightly disappointing was the fact that my mom's overzealousness in the craft-shopping department left us working at the tables a bit longer than we would have liked. The cue to transition to the actual "playing" part of the "playdate" was when my friend candidly said, "I wish there was more time to play."
After all, we had important things to attend to. Like cramming an absurd amount of people into our indoor tent.
So to recap, invitations were sent, decorations were hung, activities were planned, goody bags were distributed, too many people were crammed into a very small space and someone barfed at the end.
Sorry, Mom, this was a party.
Please don't be mad if we didn't invite you.
My mom was very careful to qualify it as a playdate, rather than a party. Because parties come with certain expectations, and we like to keep the pressure low up in these parts.
For instance, a party requires concerted effort in the planning department -- thinking about things like activities and schedules. Playdates are a casual affair.
A party suggests the presence of party favors. At a playdate, offering a friend the privilege of playing with someone else's toys and destroying some else's house is the favor.
A party requires decorating -- often in particular color schemes or themes. Playdates require only mild reorganization of our belongings in an effort to present a superficial sense of order and avoid the perception that we are living in utter chaos.
A party requires carefully compiling a guest list, so as not to offend, leading you to invite everybody you have fond feelings for. No one ever said, "You threw a playdate and didn't invite me??"
Parties suggest crazy amounts of fun. Playdates promise nothing.
In an effort to show us how invested she was in the affair, my mom designed a digital invitation, complete with photo.
 |
| 2012 |
In fact, my mom declared it downright easy.
Which is how the Annual Spooky Halloween Playdate was born.
 |
| 2013 |
With the crafts and decorations ready to go and excitement mounting by the day, it was a slight bit unnerving when, two days prior to the playdate, Rowan's teacher called to tell my mom that Rowan threw up all over the classroom. The next 24 hours were spent biting our nails and waiting to see if Rowan would bounce back in time to
When we were 24 hours in the clear, my mom sent out a reminder, with a special note to the moms in Rowan's class, saying something to the effect of, "Soooooo, you may have heard that Rowan left school in a vomitous blaze of glory yesterday. NOBODY FREAK OUT." She promised Rowan was well.
Which she totally was...right up until the first mom showed up for pick-up at our house just in time to witness Rowan throwing up behind the couch.
It's likely not worth all that much at this point to say that Rowan has been a-okay ever since and, about five minutes after the last guest left, asked for macaroni and cheese and went along with her day as if nothing epically humiliating had just occurred.
Also slightly disappointing was the fact that my mom's overzealousness in the craft-shopping department left us working at the tables a bit longer than we would have liked. The cue to transition to the actual "playing" part of the "playdate" was when my friend candidly said, "I wish there was more time to play."
After all, we had important things to attend to. Like cramming an absurd amount of people into our indoor tent.
So to recap, invitations were sent, decorations were hung, activities were planned, goody bags were distributed, too many people were crammed into a very small space and someone barfed at the end.
Sorry, Mom, this was a party.
Please don't be mad if we didn't invite you.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Learning the hard way
Despite her position in the sibling hierarchy as Third Child, Remy is not a flow goer. To her credit, she is capable of quietly entertaining herself for prolonged periods of time (an admirable third-child trait), but with Rowan and I off at camp this summer and both of us back to all-day school this fall, she has taken up the hobby of pretending she is an only child from the hours of 9 to 3:30. Enjoying perfectly silent nap times, unencumbered access to every toy and the convenience of rifling through our belongings without the bother of protest or interruption.
Round about the time Remy started to insist (via a vehemently signed "ALL DONE") that the adults in our house quit following her around all the time while she's trying to play, Mom decided it was time for Remy to experience a bit more of the world. Specifically the part of it that doesn't completely revolve around her every whim.
Which is how two weeks ago Remy discovered she had been dropped off to fend for herself amongst a group of her peers. She rated the experience as somewhere between a root canal and an IRS audit.
We tried to ease her into it with a short visit before The Big First Day. While she grabbed a ball and got right down to work, the first interruption to her personal agenda (when Miss Staci picked her up for a photo opp) went over about like we would have expected.
She's definitely taken a page from the old Rowan Preschool Playbook.
Luckily she had no idea what all the excitement was about on the morning of her first day of school, so she offered her complete cooperation in posing for the obligatory First Day photos on the stairs.
What followed at school was roughly 60 percent angry protest, 35 percent pleasant distraction and 5 percent defeat. Thankfully for all parties involved, Remy's never met a stacking toy she didn't like.
While she seems to lack any real appreciation for the fact that Miss Staci (who was, and still is, tight with Rowan back when Rowan frequented the toddler room) is serving as her spiritual guide for the very beginning of her educational journey, I'm pretty sure she'll come around.
The fact is that she's been preceded at this school by a WHOLE LOTTA personality from our family. Who can blame a third kid for trying to make an entrance??
Round about the time Remy started to insist (via a vehemently signed "ALL DONE") that the adults in our house quit following her around all the time while she's trying to play, Mom decided it was time for Remy to experience a bit more of the world. Specifically the part of it that doesn't completely revolve around her every whim.
Which is how two weeks ago Remy discovered she had been dropped off to fend for herself amongst a group of her peers. She rated the experience as somewhere between a root canal and an IRS audit.
We tried to ease her into it with a short visit before The Big First Day. While she grabbed a ball and got right down to work, the first interruption to her personal agenda (when Miss Staci picked her up for a photo opp) went over about like we would have expected.
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| Clearly the privilege of being with Miss Staci is of no consolation |
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| Rowan's First Week of School (2010) |
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| Ignorance is bliss |
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| Day 1 |
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| Day 2 |
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| Day 3 |
The fact is that she's been preceded at this school by a WHOLE LOTTA personality from our family. Who can blame a third kid for trying to make an entrance??
Friday, October 18, 2013
Collecting a collection
My great grandfather Lou liked to collect things. Coins and stamps, mainly. And, because there seems to be nothing more thrilling to a collector than passing down the love of collecting, he taught my dad to collect, too.
Thinking coins and stamps would be a difficult sell to the six-and-under set, my dad introduced us earlier this year to comic books. Upon learning that being a collector warrants the acquisition of a lot of stuff, Rowan and I were immediately IN.
This is the quick explanation for why we currently pass on Strawberry Shortcake and Barbie in favor of Superman, Raven, Wonder Woman and the Green Arrow (among many, MANY others). We have unspeakable quantities of Justice League action figures (some in duplicate), piggy banks, statues and trading cards and can identify every character (and their superhuman abilities) like it's our job. We frequent the local comic book shops, buying comics in triplicate (one for Dad, one for Rowan, one for me), because apparently serious collectors do not share.
This also explains how we found ourselves at Comic Con a couple months ago -- the greatest convention of "comic-book enthusiasts" that ever was. (My mom says "comic-book enthusiasts" is the nicest, most PC way to refer to the kinds of people who go to Comic Con.) Which is how we came upon the opportunity to shake hands with a real live hunter of zombies.
Although we are not allowed to watch The Walking Dead for the indisputable fact that we would never sleep again (ever), it is well known in this house that Daryl Dixon (or Mr. Reedus, as we call him) is a zombie hunter. Despite his obvious celebrity status (LOTS of people were waiting in line to say hi), Rowan gave him the Heisman when it came time to shake hands, citing cleanliness issues.
She did not take issue with the fact that Mr. Reedus has been sprayed by zombie guts on MANY occasions. Nor did she care that he's clearly a man who forgets to wash behind the ears at times.
It was the black Sharpie all over his hands. CLEARLY a sign of the unclean.
Thinking coins and stamps would be a difficult sell to the six-and-under set, my dad introduced us earlier this year to comic books. Upon learning that being a collector warrants the acquisition of a lot of stuff, Rowan and I were immediately IN.
This is the quick explanation for why we currently pass on Strawberry Shortcake and Barbie in favor of Superman, Raven, Wonder Woman and the Green Arrow (among many, MANY others). We have unspeakable quantities of Justice League action figures (some in duplicate), piggy banks, statues and trading cards and can identify every character (and their superhuman abilities) like it's our job. We frequent the local comic book shops, buying comics in triplicate (one for Dad, one for Rowan, one for me), because apparently serious collectors do not share.
This also explains how we found ourselves at Comic Con a couple months ago -- the greatest convention of "comic-book enthusiasts" that ever was. (My mom says "comic-book enthusiasts" is the nicest, most PC way to refer to the kinds of people who go to Comic Con.) Which is how we came upon the opportunity to shake hands with a real live hunter of zombies.
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| OMG, it's Daryl Dixon, people! |
She did not take issue with the fact that Mr. Reedus has been sprayed by zombie guts on MANY occasions. Nor did she care that he's clearly a man who forgets to wash behind the ears at times.
It was the black Sharpie all over his hands. CLEARLY a sign of the unclean.
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| Pardon me, Mr. Reedus, but I'm just going to stand over here. |
Monday, September 16, 2013
Pushing and hugging
Now that she's a walker, we are looking for new and innovative ways to keep Remy challenged around the house. I've got about 50 pounds to donate to the cause!
When she's not busy showing off her fancy footwork, she enjoys passing the time ambushing people with her signature hugs from behind.
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| "And for my next trick, I will tighten the doorknob through osmosis." - Remy |
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Finding her stride
As I sit down to start catching up on an overwhelming backlog of events considered momentous most generally by those to whom I am genealogically connected, it is hard to figure out where to start. Given that my and Rowan's lives have played out in this blog chapter by chapter, whereas Remy's has generally been the Cliff's Notes version, seems only fair to catch up on her first.
Most notably (and with the utmost of gratitude expressed by my mom and her very toned biceps), Remy is, as of August 30th, a full-time walker. After months, and I mean MONTHS, of intermittently striding here or there, she decided to commit herself fully to the cause, sparing untold numbers of leggings from holes in the knees. Can I get an Ayyyy-men??
TRUE STORY.
While some would suggest awarding her with a Gold Medal for walking, the fact of the matter is that she likely owes her walking to Gold Medal. Specifically Gold Medal's Unbleached, Unbromated & Enriched Better for Bread Flour, which Mom used to prevent the stroller from tipping backwards while Remy did her practice laps around the house.
Thanks to my mom's culinary challenges, that bag was nice and full, for added stability.
Other significant milestones in the past two weeks include wandering into the pantry and signing "more" in an effort to eat on demand, followed soon thereafter by a newfound ability to open the freezer drawer -- a maneuver which requires her to grab onto the handle and pull back with the strength of a thousand men.
And then scream because, darn it, she can't actually reach anything.
Apparently realizing that you can walk around to the side of the freezer and easily access the ice cream is a 19- to 20-month milestone.
Most notably (and with the utmost of gratitude expressed by my mom and her very toned biceps), Remy is, as of August 30th, a full-time walker. After months, and I mean MONTHS, of intermittently striding here or there, she decided to commit herself fully to the cause, sparing untold numbers of leggings from holes in the knees. Can I get an Ayyyy-men??
It's worth mention that this commitment to walking came only after Mom went through the hassle of getting Remy qualified for physical therapy, which apparently you're eligible for if you're clinically stubborn. Remy celebrated her admission to the program by spontaneously walking around the house when the physical therapist came for her first session -- which, it turns out, qualifies you for immediate expulsion.
Approximately 10 seconds after the therapist said her first and final goodbyes, Remy dropped to her and hands and knees and resumed crawling for another two weeks.
While some would suggest awarding her with a Gold Medal for walking, the fact of the matter is that she likely owes her walking to Gold Medal. Specifically Gold Medal's Unbleached, Unbromated & Enriched Better for Bread Flour, which Mom used to prevent the stroller from tipping backwards while Remy did her practice laps around the house.
Thanks to my mom's culinary challenges, that bag was nice and full, for added stability.
As part of her continued efforts to put floortime behind -- or, perhaps, beneath -- her, Remy has also started insisting on doing many of her favorite activities at the table.
Other significant milestones in the past two weeks include wandering into the pantry and signing "more" in an effort to eat on demand, followed soon thereafter by a newfound ability to open the freezer drawer -- a maneuver which requires her to grab onto the handle and pull back with the strength of a thousand men.
And then scream because, darn it, she can't actually reach anything.
Apparently realizing that you can walk around to the side of the freezer and easily access the ice cream is a 19- to 20-month milestone.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
OH MY (cotton balls of) GOODNESS!
Although we're all-around good kids, Rowan and I most certainly have our moments of staunch defiance and overwhelming whininess. Although my Mom pushes an agenda of "treating each other with kindness," we occasionally become bossy or angry or unwilling to share with each other. No one's overly concerned, as these seem to be common symptoms exhibited by small children.
While we've done motivational charts over the years for various things, being rewarded with small toys and/or chocolate chips constantly enough to maintain our interest in the system felt more like a pay-for-(good)-play approach. Bribery, if you will.
My mom feared the experts -- particularly those in the field of dental care -- would frown upon this kind of parenting.
A few weeks ago, though, my mom was browsing Facebook when a Pinterest repost caught her eye. It was a beautifully hand-decorated mason jar that read, "Caught Doing Good," half filled with colorful glass marbles, each one representing an instance in which a kid had been caught doing something really wonderful.
My mom studied the picture for a moment and felt inspired.
Inspired but, unfortunately, not particularly motivated. Which is why this post lacks a picture of any kind of clever handiwork intended to incite both wonder and envy amongst her mom friends.
Finding herself short two mason jars and in possession of no marbles (perhaps they had all been lost!), she stopped to think about what she could possibly use that we already had around the house. Which is how she settled on brown lunch bags (which she made us decorate ourselves) and an economy-size bag of cotton balls.
Not just regular cotton balls, she explained. Cotton Balls of Goodness. And every time we demonstrated behavior that was better than average, we could reward ourselves by putting one in our bag.
Brilliant, we thought. BRILLIANT!
Lucky for her, we've never been on Pinterest, so we don't know how UnMarthaStewartly she truly is. And the truth is, it doesn't matter one bit, because two weeks into the Cotton Balls of Goodness program, the Random Acts of Goodness continue to overwhelm.
Now, not only do we work out our differences when we both want the same toy/lollipop flavor/spot in line, we practically fight over who will sacrifice for the other person. Now, not only do we put away our toys without whining, we often do it before we are asked. We are self starters. We are self solvers. We are self seekers of random opportunities to do good.
Tonight, after bedtime, Mom discovered my bed was empty. She thought it was quite uncotton-ball-like behavior, until she found me organizing the counter top in Rowan's bathroom.
Just to clarify, instead of watching my iPad in bed, I was organizing the counter top. In Rowan's bathroom.
For a Cotton Ball.
Of Goodness.
Once our bags are full, we will be heading out for ice cream. And we don't care one bit that, given the roominess of our "extra large" lunch bags, this reward is surely weeks away.
My Mom insists that several years from now, we will laugh that we worked SO HARD for cotton balls. Given the success of the program thus far, she is confident that we will be laughing as intrinsically good people with a heart of gold and a desire to do good.
While we've done motivational charts over the years for various things, being rewarded with small toys and/or chocolate chips constantly enough to maintain our interest in the system felt more like a pay-for-(good)-play approach. Bribery, if you will.
My mom feared the experts -- particularly those in the field of dental care -- would frown upon this kind of parenting.
A few weeks ago, though, my mom was browsing Facebook when a Pinterest repost caught her eye. It was a beautifully hand-decorated mason jar that read, "Caught Doing Good," half filled with colorful glass marbles, each one representing an instance in which a kid had been caught doing something really wonderful.
My mom studied the picture for a moment and felt inspired.
Inspired but, unfortunately, not particularly motivated. Which is why this post lacks a picture of any kind of clever handiwork intended to incite both wonder and envy amongst her mom friends.
Finding herself short two mason jars and in possession of no marbles (perhaps they had all been lost!), she stopped to think about what she could possibly use that we already had around the house. Which is how she settled on brown lunch bags (which she made us decorate ourselves) and an economy-size bag of cotton balls.
Not just regular cotton balls, she explained. Cotton Balls of Goodness. And every time we demonstrated behavior that was better than average, we could reward ourselves by putting one in our bag.
Brilliant, we thought. BRILLIANT!
Lucky for her, we've never been on Pinterest, so we don't know how UnMarthaStewartly she truly is. And the truth is, it doesn't matter one bit, because two weeks into the Cotton Balls of Goodness program, the Random Acts of Goodness continue to overwhelm.
Now, not only do we work out our differences when we both want the same toy/lollipop flavor/spot in line, we practically fight over who will sacrifice for the other person. Now, not only do we put away our toys without whining, we often do it before we are asked. We are self starters. We are self solvers. We are self seekers of random opportunities to do good.
Tonight, after bedtime, Mom discovered my bed was empty. She thought it was quite uncotton-ball-like behavior, until she found me organizing the counter top in Rowan's bathroom.
Just to clarify, instead of watching my iPad in bed, I was organizing the counter top. In Rowan's bathroom.
For a Cotton Ball.
Of Goodness.
Once our bags are full, we will be heading out for ice cream. And we don't care one bit that, given the roominess of our "extra large" lunch bags, this reward is surely weeks away.
My Mom insists that several years from now, we will laugh that we worked SO HARD for cotton balls. Given the success of the program thus far, she is confident that we will be laughing as intrinsically good people with a heart of gold and a desire to do good.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Milestones
A few months ago, right around the time Rowan's head and feet started to graze the ends of her toddler bed, Mom introduced the concept of a big-kid bed -- an idea Rowan quickly rebuffed, as she only enjoys change, generally speaking, about never.
Luckily for her, the 2-month lead time to make the new bed gave Rowan plenty of time to bid adieu to the bed formerly known as her crib. And the fact that the mattress was delivered a day before the new bed allowed her to more manageably digest the change.
A good night's sleep in front of the old bed on only 50 percent of the new bed was the perfect way for Rowan to dip her toes into the pool of Big Kiddom.
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| Change is hard to fight when it comes in the form of a 5-foot velvet tufted headboard. |
Speaking of moving onwards and upwards, Remy has been busying herself for the past couple months with the stairs. It didn't take long for her to take note and full advantage of the fact that the construction of our stairs doesn't allow for a baby gate. At every opportunity, she makes a beeline for the stairs, climbs up and signs "all done" in the hopes that you'll carry her back down so she can climb again.
In those few fleeting moments when she is not stair climbing, she has been busy chatting on the phone ("Eh-WOH!")...
...reading...
...trying out new hairstyles (this first pigtail required tweezers, a microscope and the patience of someone other than my mom)...
...and keeping up with old friends.
She even got to spend some time with Grandma and Poppy last week.
And so this week it is officially official. In what can only be described as the most passive of victories, Remy has snagged the titled for Longest Hold-Out Walker. 16-and-a-half months and stiiiiiill counting.
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