We Love Advertising

Apparently, I'm not the only one in my family highly susceptible to the power of advertising. My little sister will ask our parents to buy her anything for which she sees an infomercial. She was inordinately upset when Billy Mays died. Seriously, it was sad to see her so broken up, and then, when Michael Jackson (on of her favorite artists) died as well, it was like the universe was personally picking on her. When she stayed with us last summer, she must have asked me to buy her an "instyler" a thousand times. I threatened to beat her with one if she asked again. At that point, she realized she had better luck asking for something cheaper and switched to a ped egg. I started heaving giant sighs and wishing I hadn't made so many empty threats over the past 15 years that they lost all meaning.
I can't condemn her too much however, because as I mentioned, I am highly likely to be swayed by a commercial, just perhaps not as much as Maddie. We both come by it honestly, however. My father has purchased impulse items from both QVC and Skymall. I kid you not--Skymall. Can you say "sucker?"
Since I love a good commercial, of course, I watch the Super Bowl--even when it's a team I only care marginally about (the Packers) playing against a team I completely hate (the Steelers).
Sam woke up from her nap just before halftime, and got to take part in the snacking and football watching that is the Super Bowl at our house. Eating a dinner of various chips and honey roasted peanuts elicited an excited "I like the Super Bowl!" out of her. I also discovered that she pays a lot of attention to me when I don't think she is. Once, when I booed at a Steelers touchdown Sam asked "Mommy, why you say 'BOO?'" So I told her, "Mommy doesn't like the Steelers." Sam's response--"Okay! GO HOME STEELERS!" See, smart kid.
Later, when I cheered for the Packers, she asked me "What a Packers?" Technically, I don't know what a "packer" refers to, but I do know they were the team against the Steelers and I will root for them every time in that case.
The other thing Sam has been paying attention to, apparently, are the talks Daniel and I have been having with her about money. She has been asking for a lot of stuff lately. A lot of stuff. Like pretty much anything she sees. We can't drive by Jamba Juice without her asking for one, she asks to go to McDonalds for lunch and dinner all the time, and when we started explaining to her that (nutrition of french fries temporarily aside) those things cost money and we don't always have extra money to spend on treats, she started changing her tune. At that point she started to ask "If we don't have enough monies for Jamba Juice, can we go to QT? That is less monies." So true, but not at all the point--and can someone please explain to me how on earth my two-year-old figured out the relative costs of smoothies and slurpees? Finally, after several weeks of trying to curtail her maneuvers and alternate options, when she wants something and I say no, she will automatically answer with me in unison--"We have to save our money."
So, yesterday, she was playing on the floor while we watched the Super Bowl, when a commercial for Progressive insurance came on. I wasn't paying much attention to it, as I'd seen it before, and Sam didn't seem to be even looking at the screen. All of a sudden, her head snapped up, riveted to the TV. After a few seconds, she looked right at me and said "Mom--we need this! They SAVE YOU MONEY!"
There you go--the answer to all our money problems is to purchase Progressive Insurance. I'm sure the Progressive people would be thrilled to realize their message is being absorbed by impressionable young minds. Now I get to deal with the reality that there is yet another generation of my family who will be so easily swayed by the suits on Madison Avenue. This one is being raised in a time where there are commercials playing on the endcaps of the aisles of Wal-mart, so it's extra scary to think about! On the other hand, if Sam was paying that much attention to Super Bowl commercials, I guess I should just thank my lucky stars she wasn't asking for a big giant truck or Bud Light, right? It could be worse.

That Warm Fuzzy Feeling

Sometimes, you just have moments in parenthood that give you that warm and fuzzy feeling...
you know the one...frustration.

Normally, Sam is really sweet, and generally, she's a super good kid. We aren't exactly desperately searching for the "Supernanny" application online or anything. But, recently, I've had moments of wondering to myself if Sam has some sort of selective hearing loss, for all the listening and obeying I've been getting lately, I can't help but wonder (maybe even hope a little) that there's a legitimate reason getting her to listen to me has been more of a completely vertical rock face, as opposed to the uphill climb I was used to. Of course, I don't want her to have any actual problems, but feeling like a total failure as a parent isn't really working for me either. The fact that she still obeys her teachers and her father (for the most part) perfectly well doesn't escape me either, and irritates me to no end.

Then, the other day, Sam was lining up and playing with some random toys. I overheard her announce sternly to them, "Okay guys, I DO NOT want to hear ANY tantrums today!"

Ahhhh. She is hearing me. She just does not remotely care. Total failure it is.
Fabulous.

X is for X-ray

Sam came home from preschool today with a white stick-figure on black paper that said "X is for X-ray." She was very excited about it because she had to stay home sick on Friday and was beside herself with worry that she had missed "the letter X."
Anyway, as she was showing me her picture, and it's googly eyes--a very big plus in her book--I asked "So is an X-ray a picture of a skeleton?"
Sam looked at me very seriously and said "No, no, Mommy. An X-ray is a picture of your bones.
A skeleton is scary like a monster that goes roar."

Oh. Okay then. Point taken.

Lazy Saturday

This morning, I have a cold on top of normal woes of being nearly 9 months pregnant, and Daniel had to go into work, so Sam and I are having a pajama morning (which may or may not become pajama afternoon and pajama evening). Pretty much, I'm letting her do crafts and watch movies while I lay on the couch feeling bad for myself as much as possible. At one point, Sam decided she would like to get dressed and took her feet out of her fleece pajamas before changing her mind about going upstairs to pick out an outfit--which means she has spent the entire morning wearing her pajamas like a cape, sleeves on, feet free, fleece flailing, underpants showing. It's actually pretty darn funny, albeit a little sad as I do realize it is now nearly 11:30. Lest you think I'm utterly negligent--I did shower today, and I just cleaned the kitchen. There's brownies baking in the oven. And during an hour plus of playing playdoh, I did help her with whatever she needed (although I HATE cleaning out that stupid fun factory thing where it squishes out the playdoh and manages to get little pieces wedged in a thousand nooks and crannies). I even vacuumed up all the little reject shreds from the carpet when she was finished, so Daniel would not come home and drop dead at the sight of the floor. I just happen to find pants for Sam on a lazy Saturday overrated at best. So, my kid is wearing a pajama cape, and her hands are covered in marker (eh, they're washable) from the egg carton caterpillar she's currently coloring, and I just realized some of the color is actually on the white playdoh that is still firmly planted under her fingernails. She's fed, she's happy, and her caterpillar looks cute--so what if I'm too embarrassed by both of our appearances to open the door for the salesmen that always come pestering on Saturdays? Trust me, I could look like I'm ready for the Oscar red carpet and I still won't open the door for solicitors.
As part of our morning of chill, I let Sam watch her old home movies. She loves to watch "Baby Sam" and I like that it helps her to see what babies are really like before her brother shows up and she's shocked to see a lump that doesn't do anything but yell and poop and hopefully sleep. She was watching a video of her right around her first birthday when she suddenly yelled "Oh no! Mom! I'm not cute anymore!"
I asked her what she was talking about and she replied "Look at that cute baby! I'm not cute anymore." Although I remember the feeling that I was not as cute as I once was (nothing is more humbling than looking at cute five-year-old self when you're smack in the middle of awkward Junior High years), I don't remember feeling it at two. However, as I look at my playdoh and marker-covered nearly three-year-old, with her undies showing and pajamas hanging down her back, and the small amount of hair she possesses still sticking straight up just as it did when she rolled out of bed--I have to respectfully but adamantly disagree. I think you are still very cute, Samantha. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you are dead wrong.

Pearls of Wisdom

Sam has been asking me constantly "When does baby Peyton come out?"

I wish I could give her an exact answer on that, mainly because it would really help me out to know that exactly myself. She seems just as dissatisfied as I do with my canned responses: "Soon," "Sometime after Valentines' Day," "Near President's Day," or "five to seven weeks." That last one usually merits a well deserved "HUH? What?" I can't say I blame her. How do you explain weeks to a kid who measures time in episodes of Team Umizoomis? (As in, "we will leave for preschool in an hour, that's like two Umizoomis.") I can just picture the look of disdain as I explain that the baby will come in several hundred Umizoomis...

Today, she threw me another baby related monkey wrench as we drove by the hospital:
"So, when baby Peyton does come out...how does that work?"
Uhh....Uhh...hey kid, how about a pony? I decided that given her age she was probably asking more how the whole birth process will effect her, and not necessarily me, so I started explaining that mom and dad would go to the hospital, and when she could come visit and meet her brother, that someone would stay with her overnight, like a sleepover, and that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. Boy, am I glad I didn't launch into an anatomical explanation of the birthing process. Sometimes not having a clue what to say has become my saving grace by preventing me from saying way too much.

The conversations she has been having about the baby with her father, however, seem a lot more fun and a lot less awkward. Tonight, Sam decided to tell me what she and daddy have been talking about, and it was adorable. She told me "Daddy and I talk about what I am going to teach Baby Peyton. I am the big sister."
I asked her what she would teach him, and here is what she told me:
"How to use the big potty and not diapers!" [I sense some coaching on that one from Daddy, who began trying to convince Sam to use the toilet while she was still in utero. I kid you not. It also did not remotely work, FYI. What a shocker.]
"How to roll over.
How to crawl.
How to brush your teeth.
How to read books.
How to play beads.
How to go to preschool." [She just started last week, but she is an expert. She also loves it.]
Then, a little while later, Sam was running at full speed around the family room rug. Sometimes before bedtime, she just goes a little crazy. She was going around and around when suddenly she stopped, got a huge smile on her face, looked at me and said...
"Mom! I know. I am going to teach Baby Peyton TO RUN!" She looked so excited by her "idea." I also have no doubt she probably will eventually do just that, although it will take much longer than she is anticipating. That's a lot of Umizoomis away.
I can not tell you how fun and touching it is for me to watch my 2 1/2 year old girl decide which of her pearls of wisdom she's going to share with her little brother.
Once he decides to come out, that is...which is still a few weeks away. Or like a zillion Doras.

True Joy

This morning, as every morning since Santa brought it, Sam had to grab her new pillowpet before venturing downstairs for breakfast. She always says she loves it, but this morning she said "Mom. I love my pillow pet--too much. I love it too much."
I totally know the feeling, kid, that's how I feel about you.

Even when she was running around the house naked before bathtime last night, I still felt like I loved her too much. Then, when I yelled "What are you doing!?" and she streaked by and she yelled back "I'm gonna make mischief!!!!" I was just confused. Where in the world did she learn that word? Still, I can't help it--I love her. Maybe too much. Even though she's completely crazy and it took me 10 minutes to chase her naked bum down, during which I wasn't feeling all that loving, I might add.

Christmas Confusion

As my last post illustrates, Christmas can be really confusing for a kid. Further evidence of this mixed up message has popped up around us constantly over the past few weeks...here is how Sam views/hears/understands the trappings of Christmas.

The other day, she came running in and jumped on the rocking recliner in Peyton's soon-to-be-room. She announced "Look, Mom! I'm rocking in a winter wonderland!"

Last week, we tried to get Sam to learn "Silent Night" (I figured we'd get some religion in her, since I overheard her singing "Santa Baby, hurry down the chimney tonight"). She watched us quizzically and when we got to "Sleep in Heavenly Peace," exclaimed "Oh! It's the song from the sleeping baby commercial!" Yeah, you know the Pampers commercial with all the sleeping infants? Yes, it makes me cry, but I cried for a whole different reason upon hearing my beautiful daughter know a great Christmas classic only by its affiliation with a product. We're working on learning about the true meaning of Christmas now. Diapers are good, but the Savior's birth is more important. Never thought I'd have to actually say that.

Sam gathered me around the tree and explained to me how she thinks Christmas morning works, but she managed to mix up most of our traditions in what turned out to be a hilarious and very detailed little plan of hers. I've included the "real" information in brackets for you. "On Kissmas morning, we open my chocolate calendar [the advent calendar is done by the 24th], and come to the tree to find the pickle [hey, that's true]! Mommy will hide it [not true, Santa hides the pickle ornament]. When I find the pickle, THEN I get to open this polka dot present [Not true, whoever finds the pickle gets a special present from Santa, but it is certainly not one wrapped already under the tree]! And then I will get a ladybug pillow pet [Let's hope she gets her wish--the only request Sam has made of Santa has been a ladybug pillow pet. It's a pillow. It's a pet. It's a pillow pet. My husband is appalled that she asked for what is essentially just a bed pillow (and that it happened to cost more than all the other actual TOYS we got her), but it's her Christmas wish. Never underestimate the power of a catchy jingle directly on the heels of a Dora the Explorer episode]" To further complicate matters, I finally looked at the tag for that darn polka dot present she's so excited about--turns out it's from my parents and to her little brother. Seeing as he doesn't exist outside the womb yet, I'm more than happy to let her do the opening, but I doubt she will be excited to find what is probably very small, very boyish clothing that she then has to hand over to Mommy for Peyton. This Christmas, Sam is getting her first dose of sibling rivalry--and the sibling doesn't even show up until February. Ho ho ho!