Today, I dropped something off at a friend's house and Sam and her brother waited for me in the car. I left the radio on and when I came back, Sam announced "Mom! My favorite song from Gnomeo and Juliet came on while you were gone!"
I told her I was happy for her and asked what song it was. She didn't know what it was called, but "It's totally my favorite song!"
Okay, well, all the songs from Gnomeo and Juliet are Elton John songs, so I started fishing around a little--she just told me a few days ago that she also loves "Bennie and the Jets" so this kid is clearly a fan of Sir Elton. I am too, so I think that's kind of adorable.
"Sam, does it go 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart?'" I sang?
"Yes." Well then problem solved. "Oh, wait, Mom. No. No it doesn't."
Hmmmm....was it the new one "Hello, Hello?" I sang a little more. Not well. I'm no singer.
"Nope."
I pretty much gave up on trying to sleuth the song she was talking about until she mentioned it again a few hours later. Plus, I'm really stubborn and it was going to bug me.
I asked her to sing it for me, and she told me she couldn't. She was trying to think of a way to help me though. "But mom...it's about 'if I was a scorcher.'"
Carefully, I repeated "If I was a scorcher?"
"Yeah."
"A scorcher? What's a scorcher?"
Sam looked at me and said "I have no idea."
I thought about that for a few minutes while Sam and Peyton had a snack and then suddenly I yelled excitedly "If I was a SCULPTOR!!?? Sam? Could it be sculptor?"
Sam smiled and said "YES!"
I tried a few more of the lyrics to see if they rang a bell and Sam was saying "Yes, yes!! That's my favorite song! The one from Gnomeo and Juliet!"
Oh. "Your Song." It's one of my all time favorite songs too.
Carry on with your day, citizens. That's exactly what we did.
I am so glad I figured it out though. I also think it's funny that Sam is an Elton John fan. I mean, she's three, and first "Bennie and the Jets" and now "Your Song" added to her "favorites" list in less than a week. Still, it's way less weird than that intense little obsession she had with Neil Diamond when she was two. In all seriousness, she loved him and only wanted to listen to "Sweet Caroline" for a month or two. At least I also like Elton John. Makes this phase much easier to handle should it continue.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Rock-afire Implosion
So, Netflix suggested I watch a documentary called "The Rockafire Explosion." (Netflix also thinks I'm really weird, but that's a whole different post.) It popped up because I watched and loved "Being Elmo" so I figured they must be pretty similar.
Anyway, my first thought upon seeing it listed was "No way! The Rockafire Explosion, there's some way back memories. Sweet." I do remember the Rockafire Explosion, and Showbiz pizza. I even had my 3rd or 4th birthday party there. Here comes a good little dose of 80's nostalgia, right? Wrong.
The whole documentary is about people who really love the Rockafire Explosion. Really really love it. Like this was more a prolonged episode of TLCs "My Strange Addiction" than a documentary about an audiomatronic 80's band for kids. There were creepy tattoos. There were a lot of people who basically felt that nothing good had happened in their lives since the 80's and they just wanted their Showbiz pizza back. The main story was about a guy who saved up his money from his job as a roller skating rink DJ (yes, they still have those, and talk about living in the past!) to buy and put an entire re-created show of the original robots in his basement. This was in 2008. Yep. He saved up thousands of dollars to buy a set of robots that hadn't been opened since 1983 and dedicate a home to them. He programs them to sing more current songs, which is kind of awesome on YouTube until you realize that he's not some bored millionaire with money and time to burn--he's put his whole life into this.
I was watching in amazement, unable to look away, when Sam came down and asked what the animals were. I explained that they were what we had as a kid, before Chuck E. Cheese came along and replaced them (I didn't get far enough into the show to see how the people felt about Chuck E. Cheese, but I get the distinct impression they're out for his blood, or motor oil, or whatever.)
After a few minutes of watching the performances with me, Sam says "So, uh, was it supposed to be scary when you were a kid?"
Me: "No, it was supposed to be fun, like Chuck E. Cheese is for you." Apparently the 80's technology doesn't translate, and a friendly mouse is a lot less scary than a full size gorilla, wolf with a creepy puppet, or giant bear.
Sam: "Are you sure? Because this is kind of scary." Seriously--this from a kid who watches the old 1990's Disneyland sing-along-song with the Country Bears without so much as flinching. Her favorite song is "Grim Grinning Ghosts" with the Witch from Snow White, and the Rockafire Explosion was creeping her out.
Me: "I know, Sam. I know." And it was scary, on many levels. Not the least of which is that I found it in the Netflix category "Popular with people like you" so I spent the whole hour I watched thinking "Holy Crap! These are my people? What does that mean? What do you mean by THAT, NETFLIX?" Not a good feeling.
I've learned that some memories are most definitely better left in the past. Way in the past, looking through that beautiful haze of nostalgia.
Also, if Sam ever got a tattoo of Yo Gabba Gabba in 20 years, it would kill me. I might keep this documentary in my back pocket as a cautionary tale for the teen years.
Anyway, my first thought upon seeing it listed was "No way! The Rockafire Explosion, there's some way back memories. Sweet." I do remember the Rockafire Explosion, and Showbiz pizza. I even had my 3rd or 4th birthday party there. Here comes a good little dose of 80's nostalgia, right? Wrong.
The whole documentary is about people who really love the Rockafire Explosion. Really really love it. Like this was more a prolonged episode of TLCs "My Strange Addiction" than a documentary about an audiomatronic 80's band for kids. There were creepy tattoos. There were a lot of people who basically felt that nothing good had happened in their lives since the 80's and they just wanted their Showbiz pizza back. The main story was about a guy who saved up his money from his job as a roller skating rink DJ (yes, they still have those, and talk about living in the past!) to buy and put an entire re-created show of the original robots in his basement. This was in 2008. Yep. He saved up thousands of dollars to buy a set of robots that hadn't been opened since 1983 and dedicate a home to them. He programs them to sing more current songs, which is kind of awesome on YouTube until you realize that he's not some bored millionaire with money and time to burn--he's put his whole life into this.
I was watching in amazement, unable to look away, when Sam came down and asked what the animals were. I explained that they were what we had as a kid, before Chuck E. Cheese came along and replaced them (I didn't get far enough into the show to see how the people felt about Chuck E. Cheese, but I get the distinct impression they're out for his blood, or motor oil, or whatever.)
After a few minutes of watching the performances with me, Sam says "So, uh, was it supposed to be scary when you were a kid?"
Me: "No, it was supposed to be fun, like Chuck E. Cheese is for you." Apparently the 80's technology doesn't translate, and a friendly mouse is a lot less scary than a full size gorilla, wolf with a creepy puppet, or giant bear.
Sam: "Are you sure? Because this is kind of scary." Seriously--this from a kid who watches the old 1990's Disneyland sing-along-song with the Country Bears without so much as flinching. Her favorite song is "Grim Grinning Ghosts" with the Witch from Snow White, and the Rockafire Explosion was creeping her out.
Me: "I know, Sam. I know." And it was scary, on many levels. Not the least of which is that I found it in the Netflix category "Popular with people like you" so I spent the whole hour I watched thinking "Holy Crap! These are my people? What does that mean? What do you mean by THAT, NETFLIX?" Not a good feeling.
I've learned that some memories are most definitely better left in the past. Way in the past, looking through that beautiful haze of nostalgia.
Also, if Sam ever got a tattoo of Yo Gabba Gabba in 20 years, it would kill me. I might keep this documentary in my back pocket as a cautionary tale for the teen years.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Girl Scout Bond
As we headed into Wal-mart today, the girl scouts were lying in wait.
It was going to be a tough one. I had the kids solo today so Daniel could work a full shift. I had to wake them up to take Sam to soccer, which was a lot more like water polo in a swamp than soccer. Sam managed to soak not only her cleats, but her socks and toes (in the 50 degree weather), and get her butt wet, since it was picture day and she ended up sitting in the soaking grass in the first row. Then Peyton decided to chime in on the fun by throwing up on himself. He still does that just a little bit after almost every meal, even though he is now officially one. He eats real food and drinks real milk, so I refuse to call this spit up, and am on the verge of slapping people who correct me when he does it in front of them. If I call it barf, they say "No, it's just a little spit up--he's a baby!" Augh!!! He's not a baby, he's one, and he has the diet of a toddler--and why don't you come over here and take a sniff or clean it up if it's just a little spit up?! One day I'm going to say that, and my guess is, there will be no volunteers. Which is a shame, because the smell of barf makes me gag, and I'd really rather not be the one handling it all the time.
Back on topic, since Peyton's clothes and our car now smelled to high heaven, and Sam had no back up shoes to replace her cleats (my bad!), even though we needed to go to the Wal-mart right next to the soccer field, I had to take them home to get changed first and then go back. I had promised Sam I would get the traditional after-soccer Jamba Juice once she was changed, which I did manage to do, considering it was now almost 11 and I hadn't had breakfast anyway. Carrying the Jamba Juice with Peyton, the diaper bag, and Sam alongside screaming that if she couldn't hold my hand she would get hit by a car and die, proved harder than I had thought it would be. It also made me re-evaluate my very rigid and possibly borderline crazy teaching of Sam to hold hands in parking lots. It's possible I inadvertently exaggerated the consequences. Still, I wasn't going to leave my Jamba in the car to melt while I went to Wal-mart!
This was my third (count 'em, three!) attempt to pick up a prescription that had been not ready twice already through the week for various flimsy reasons, so I was already cranky that I had to come back to this same location AGAIN, when it's not the closest to my house (it is closest to preschool, and silly me, I thought it would be done on preschool day, or the second preschool day of the week)!
I was halfway across the parking lot when a car nowhere near us started to back up and Sam freaked out that they would hit her because she wasn't holding hands. I shifted the hand the Jamba juice was in to get her attention and calm her down really quickly, and that was all it took. I was trying to watch both kids and failing when Peyton grabbed the straw out of the smoothie and promptly flung it and it's contents all over both of us, the parking lot, and possibly the car we were next to (I was too scared to look). You can lick smoothie off your hands, but that doesn't help with the stickiness. The wipes were no where reachable with my lack of hands, and Sam was sure she was dodging death every second and kept telling me to "get out of the road!"
I think the girl scouts saw us coming, sticky, stressed, and overloaded, and thought I was the easiest target they'd have all day. Normally, they'd be right, but today, I was feeling strong. Also weak. I could not, under any circumstances, let those cookies into the house today. I've been working so hard on not eating emotionally. I said "No thanks!" and wrestled Peyton into a cart. (Adding to the theme of the day, it would prove to be the ridiculous loudly squeaking cart).
As we walked into the store, Sam said "Did they say 'cookies?'"
Me: "Yes, Sam."
Sam: "But...we're not buying any."
Me: "That's right."
Sam: "Are they gross cookies?"
Me: "No. (sigh) They're fabulous."
Sam: "Why aren't we buying any?"
Me: "Because Mommy can't handle cookies in the house right now."
Sam: "I can. I can handle it!"
Me: "Sam, no you can't. You think you can, but then...well, you get a bite of thin mints and...well, it just changes you and the whole sleeve is gone. Trust me."
Sam: "Oh."
I thought that "oh" meant she got me. I thought we made a connection. I thought we were bonding over our shared helplessness around sugar.
Then in the car on the way home, Sam said,
"So, WHY can't we buy those girls' cookies?"
Me: "Because I said no!"
We'll bond later.
It was going to be a tough one. I had the kids solo today so Daniel could work a full shift. I had to wake them up to take Sam to soccer, which was a lot more like water polo in a swamp than soccer. Sam managed to soak not only her cleats, but her socks and toes (in the 50 degree weather), and get her butt wet, since it was picture day and she ended up sitting in the soaking grass in the first row. Then Peyton decided to chime in on the fun by throwing up on himself. He still does that just a little bit after almost every meal, even though he is now officially one. He eats real food and drinks real milk, so I refuse to call this spit up, and am on the verge of slapping people who correct me when he does it in front of them. If I call it barf, they say "No, it's just a little spit up--he's a baby!" Augh!!! He's not a baby, he's one, and he has the diet of a toddler--and why don't you come over here and take a sniff or clean it up if it's just a little spit up?! One day I'm going to say that, and my guess is, there will be no volunteers. Which is a shame, because the smell of barf makes me gag, and I'd really rather not be the one handling it all the time.
Back on topic, since Peyton's clothes and our car now smelled to high heaven, and Sam had no back up shoes to replace her cleats (my bad!), even though we needed to go to the Wal-mart right next to the soccer field, I had to take them home to get changed first and then go back. I had promised Sam I would get the traditional after-soccer Jamba Juice once she was changed, which I did manage to do, considering it was now almost 11 and I hadn't had breakfast anyway. Carrying the Jamba Juice with Peyton, the diaper bag, and Sam alongside screaming that if she couldn't hold my hand she would get hit by a car and die, proved harder than I had thought it would be. It also made me re-evaluate my very rigid and possibly borderline crazy teaching of Sam to hold hands in parking lots. It's possible I inadvertently exaggerated the consequences. Still, I wasn't going to leave my Jamba in the car to melt while I went to Wal-mart!
This was my third (count 'em, three!) attempt to pick up a prescription that had been not ready twice already through the week for various flimsy reasons, so I was already cranky that I had to come back to this same location AGAIN, when it's not the closest to my house (it is closest to preschool, and silly me, I thought it would be done on preschool day, or the second preschool day of the week)!
I was halfway across the parking lot when a car nowhere near us started to back up and Sam freaked out that they would hit her because she wasn't holding hands. I shifted the hand the Jamba juice was in to get her attention and calm her down really quickly, and that was all it took. I was trying to watch both kids and failing when Peyton grabbed the straw out of the smoothie and promptly flung it and it's contents all over both of us, the parking lot, and possibly the car we were next to (I was too scared to look). You can lick smoothie off your hands, but that doesn't help with the stickiness. The wipes were no where reachable with my lack of hands, and Sam was sure she was dodging death every second and kept telling me to "get out of the road!"
I think the girl scouts saw us coming, sticky, stressed, and overloaded, and thought I was the easiest target they'd have all day. Normally, they'd be right, but today, I was feeling strong. Also weak. I could not, under any circumstances, let those cookies into the house today. I've been working so hard on not eating emotionally. I said "No thanks!" and wrestled Peyton into a cart. (Adding to the theme of the day, it would prove to be the ridiculous loudly squeaking cart).
As we walked into the store, Sam said "Did they say 'cookies?'"
Me: "Yes, Sam."
Sam: "But...we're not buying any."
Me: "That's right."
Sam: "Are they gross cookies?"
Me: "No. (sigh) They're fabulous."
Sam: "Why aren't we buying any?"
Me: "Because Mommy can't handle cookies in the house right now."
Sam: "I can. I can handle it!"
Me: "Sam, no you can't. You think you can, but then...well, you get a bite of thin mints and...well, it just changes you and the whole sleeve is gone. Trust me."
Sam: "Oh."
I thought that "oh" meant she got me. I thought we made a connection. I thought we were bonding over our shared helplessness around sugar.
Then in the car on the way home, Sam said,
"So, WHY can't we buy those girls' cookies?"
Me: "Because I said no!"
We'll bond later.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Obedience and Apologies
We're working on the obedience thing at our house. Always.
Last week, Sam had a particularly bad day and had pretty much moved into time out on a permanent basis. I was thinking of having a toilet installed next to the naughty step.
The next morning, Sam was being goofy and silly, and even weirder than usual--and starting all over again with the disobeying and poking of her little brother. I wouldn't mind so much if he was in a position to escape, but she waits until he's in his highchair and buckled in place to turn evil. As she was shaking her head with a open mouth full of breakfast and trying to tickle his feet while he squealed his discontent, I sighed and said "Sam, don't you remember what we learned yesterday about disobeying?"
She swallowed, smiled, put on her ridiculous "funny voice," and sang as loud as she could. "Yeeeeaaaah! It doesn't work out foooooor ME!!!!!!"
So. Um. Yeah. It doesn't. So, you know, knock it off. How can the parenting books expect me to keep a straight face and give a serious answer in the face of that response? She nailed it, in the most obnoxious and bizarre way possible. Story of Sam's life. I can't help but laugh sometimes.
A few days later, Sam decided to get a little creative. Lately, we've been keeping the TV off pretty much all the time and I've been expecting her to play on her own more often and she's been coming up with adorable new ways to play with her toys. I usually love it. This time, however, I wasn't a fan of her new game. She called it "Bowling for Buddy." From what I saw, "Bowling for buddy" consists of wheedling her newly minted walker of a brother to stand up and come towards her. She does this by saying "Come walk to me, buddy, stand up, you can do it!" and other things exactly like Daniel and I say when trying to get Peyton to walk instead of crawl. When he proudly did stand up and start his precarious toddle, Sam would take a can of Playdough and roll it, aiming at his feet and hoping to take Peyton out. Thus, "Bowling for Buddy." On the tile.
I wasn't a fan and put an immediate stop to the the game. Then I sent Sam to time out because she's been warned several times about intentionally knocking her brother over, especially on the tile floor. (Another favorite of hers is "tickle time" when she comes up behind him and yanks him down on the floor on top of her for tickling purposes. Peyton dislikes occasionally hitting his head on the floor. Oh, and he also very much dislikes her version of tickling.)
After Sam had been in time out a while I let her out with the direction to apologize to her little brother.
She walked up to him and said "I'm sorry Peyton. I didn't mean to frighten you prematurely. Muah ha ha!"
Sigh.
Sometimes, in motherhood, you can only hope for the letter of the law, because the spirit gets totally lost. In other news, Sam was thrilled to have found a practical application for a line she picked up watching You tube videos of The Haunted Mansion, so it was win-win for her at least.
Last week, Sam had a particularly bad day and had pretty much moved into time out on a permanent basis. I was thinking of having a toilet installed next to the naughty step.
The next morning, Sam was being goofy and silly, and even weirder than usual--and starting all over again with the disobeying and poking of her little brother. I wouldn't mind so much if he was in a position to escape, but she waits until he's in his highchair and buckled in place to turn evil. As she was shaking her head with a open mouth full of breakfast and trying to tickle his feet while he squealed his discontent, I sighed and said "Sam, don't you remember what we learned yesterday about disobeying?"
She swallowed, smiled, put on her ridiculous "funny voice," and sang as loud as she could. "Yeeeeaaaah! It doesn't work out foooooor ME!!!!!!"
So. Um. Yeah. It doesn't. So, you know, knock it off. How can the parenting books expect me to keep a straight face and give a serious answer in the face of that response? She nailed it, in the most obnoxious and bizarre way possible. Story of Sam's life. I can't help but laugh sometimes.
A few days later, Sam decided to get a little creative. Lately, we've been keeping the TV off pretty much all the time and I've been expecting her to play on her own more often and she's been coming up with adorable new ways to play with her toys. I usually love it. This time, however, I wasn't a fan of her new game. She called it "Bowling for Buddy." From what I saw, "Bowling for buddy" consists of wheedling her newly minted walker of a brother to stand up and come towards her. She does this by saying "Come walk to me, buddy, stand up, you can do it!" and other things exactly like Daniel and I say when trying to get Peyton to walk instead of crawl. When he proudly did stand up and start his precarious toddle, Sam would take a can of Playdough and roll it, aiming at his feet and hoping to take Peyton out. Thus, "Bowling for Buddy." On the tile.
I wasn't a fan and put an immediate stop to the the game. Then I sent Sam to time out because she's been warned several times about intentionally knocking her brother over, especially on the tile floor. (Another favorite of hers is "tickle time" when she comes up behind him and yanks him down on the floor on top of her for tickling purposes. Peyton dislikes occasionally hitting his head on the floor. Oh, and he also very much dislikes her version of tickling.)
After Sam had been in time out a while I let her out with the direction to apologize to her little brother.
She walked up to him and said "I'm sorry Peyton. I didn't mean to frighten you prematurely. Muah ha ha!"
Sigh.
Sometimes, in motherhood, you can only hope for the letter of the law, because the spirit gets totally lost. In other news, Sam was thrilled to have found a practical application for a line she picked up watching You tube videos of The Haunted Mansion, so it was win-win for her at least.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Good Guys and Bad Guys
Today, Sam wanted to go out on the trampoline, so it was only a matter of time before she wanted her brother out there with her. He loves to bounce up and down when she jumps on the other side ("only little jumps with little bro!" as she yells to me), but mostly, he crawls after her while she runs away from him and they both crack up and get static-y stinky hair. Sam's curly mullet looks koo-koo-ca-choo after a while on the tramp!
So, I put him on there today, and she immediately started running from him, but she also started yelling:
"Oh no!!! It's the Squirm! Everyone, everyone, run and hide from THE SQUIRM! The Squirm will get you and eat you!"
Hilarious. As villain names go, "The Squirm" may not be the best name ever, but it's far from the worst, and is certainly appropriate for Peyton. Later, I noticed he had morphed into a run of the mill scorpion. I asked Sam what had happened to "The Squirm."
She just looked up at me, Einstein hair explosion swaying in the breeze, and said "Eh. Now he's a scorpion. That's the game."
I guess that means "The Squirm" was just a guest star in Sam's playtime. Too bad.
So, I put him on there today, and she immediately started running from him, but she also started yelling:
"Oh no!!! It's the Squirm! Everyone, everyone, run and hide from THE SQUIRM! The Squirm will get you and eat you!"
Hilarious. As villain names go, "The Squirm" may not be the best name ever, but it's far from the worst, and is certainly appropriate for Peyton. Later, I noticed he had morphed into a run of the mill scorpion. I asked Sam what had happened to "The Squirm."
She just looked up at me, Einstein hair explosion swaying in the breeze, and said "Eh. Now he's a scorpion. That's the game."
I guess that means "The Squirm" was just a guest star in Sam's playtime. Too bad.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Nutrition and You
I recently saw a commercial for Lucky Charms that touted that now, whole grains are the first ingredient (in these as well as other pretty much otherwise unhealthy kids cereals), meaning they have more whole grain than anything other ingredient in them!
That's super, but it doesn't really give me the information I need to make an informed decision as a mom. What I want to know is, how much whole grain is a kid eating if she eats pretty much only the marshmallows (and occasional accidental "other piece") and then oh so magnanimously slips those oat parts to her baby brother when she thinks her mom isn't looking, so that both the marshmallow and non-marshmallows get evenly depleted and she doesn't lose her privilege to buy Lucky Charms next time? My guess is, not much.
But, you know, it's just a hypothetical, of course. I wouldn't know too much about that in execution.**
I only feed my kids very expensive local, organic, unwashed on the farm but extra washed at home produce, and local, free range, massaged by an equally organic geisha meat-producing animals, that have only been fed corn (or not been fed any corn, I forget which answer is the right one, but whichever is right, that's what I'm doing). Yep, that's me, the queen of the healthy food movement.
Or I will be, when Hostess tries to save itself from bankruptcy and somehow fulfills their promise to make ding dongs "a healthier option." Yesiree bob, that will be a happy day at our house. I'm thinking of slapping some yellow dye #5 into a mix of butter, sugar, and shortening, and slapping it on a boxed mix cupcake in celebration. Woohoo for health!
**No, lightning didn't zap me. Why it didn't, however, I am unsure--probably because even the big guy knows how I drip with sarcasm nearly constantly.
That's super, but it doesn't really give me the information I need to make an informed decision as a mom. What I want to know is, how much whole grain is a kid eating if she eats pretty much only the marshmallows (and occasional accidental "other piece") and then oh so magnanimously slips those oat parts to her baby brother when she thinks her mom isn't looking, so that both the marshmallow and non-marshmallows get evenly depleted and she doesn't lose her privilege to buy Lucky Charms next time? My guess is, not much.
But, you know, it's just a hypothetical, of course. I wouldn't know too much about that in execution.**
I only feed my kids very expensive local, organic, unwashed on the farm but extra washed at home produce, and local, free range, massaged by an equally organic geisha meat-producing animals, that have only been fed corn (or not been fed any corn, I forget which answer is the right one, but whichever is right, that's what I'm doing). Yep, that's me, the queen of the healthy food movement.
Or I will be, when Hostess tries to save itself from bankruptcy and somehow fulfills their promise to make ding dongs "a healthier option." Yesiree bob, that will be a happy day at our house. I'm thinking of slapping some yellow dye #5 into a mix of butter, sugar, and shortening, and slapping it on a boxed mix cupcake in celebration. Woohoo for health!
**No, lightning didn't zap me. Why it didn't, however, I am unsure--probably because even the big guy knows how I drip with sarcasm nearly constantly.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Sour Patch Kids
Not unlike the candied kind, first my kids are sour, and then they're sweet.
The other night was going to be a busy one, and Daniel agreed to bathe Peyton before he left for meetings and basketball, if I would put him to bed when he was all jammied up.
I agreed, so I went downstairs, made Peyton a bottle to give him before bed, left it in his room where Daniel was dressing him, and then was in my room going about my business. Soon, I realized Daniel was in and out of our room too, having never come to get me to take over putting Peyton to bed.
So, I asked Daniel if he had decided to just finish the job and put Peyton to bed instead? He said he hadn't, but he thought I was just going to head in there and since I hadn't shown up (why he didn't say anything when he first saw me in our room is kind of beyond me, but it must be a man/woman communication thing), so he had just handed him a bottle in his bed and left.
For some reason, the thought of my little guy getting totally ignored and drinking his bottle in bed all alone at night upset me, so I went running in there to cuddle him while he finished, even though we don't rock him to sleep anymore and haven't for months.
Apparently, the thought of Peyton left alone for his bedtime meal was upsetting to someone else too, since I ran in to find him happily lying in bed, drinking away, while Sam sat on the floor next to his crib, reading him a story.
She looked up at me and said "You guys forgot to cuddle him and put him to bed! I didn't want him to be lonely, so I'm reading him a story." I thought I was going to cry, it was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen. I was also proud of Sam for showing him some empathy, since empathy is not exactly an emotion three year olds are usually all that great at feeling.
Of course, in typical three year old fashion, she read him a story about "Sammy the awesome turtle" followed by a book about "Sam's very favorite cars and trucks" even though none of the books were actually about her--so its good to see she's still perfectly self-absorbed in some ways.
I have to admit to totally loving my sour patch kids! Now, I just have to remember moments like these when they're being sour. Peyton, and your 3-6am chorus of talking/crying, I'm looking at you!
The other night was going to be a busy one, and Daniel agreed to bathe Peyton before he left for meetings and basketball, if I would put him to bed when he was all jammied up.
I agreed, so I went downstairs, made Peyton a bottle to give him before bed, left it in his room where Daniel was dressing him, and then was in my room going about my business. Soon, I realized Daniel was in and out of our room too, having never come to get me to take over putting Peyton to bed.
So, I asked Daniel if he had decided to just finish the job and put Peyton to bed instead? He said he hadn't, but he thought I was just going to head in there and since I hadn't shown up (why he didn't say anything when he first saw me in our room is kind of beyond me, but it must be a man/woman communication thing), so he had just handed him a bottle in his bed and left.
For some reason, the thought of my little guy getting totally ignored and drinking his bottle in bed all alone at night upset me, so I went running in there to cuddle him while he finished, even though we don't rock him to sleep anymore and haven't for months.
Apparently, the thought of Peyton left alone for his bedtime meal was upsetting to someone else too, since I ran in to find him happily lying in bed, drinking away, while Sam sat on the floor next to his crib, reading him a story.
She looked up at me and said "You guys forgot to cuddle him and put him to bed! I didn't want him to be lonely, so I'm reading him a story." I thought I was going to cry, it was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen. I was also proud of Sam for showing him some empathy, since empathy is not exactly an emotion three year olds are usually all that great at feeling.
Of course, in typical three year old fashion, she read him a story about "Sammy the awesome turtle" followed by a book about "Sam's very favorite cars and trucks" even though none of the books were actually about her--so its good to see she's still perfectly self-absorbed in some ways.
I have to admit to totally loving my sour patch kids! Now, I just have to remember moments like these when they're being sour. Peyton, and your 3-6am chorus of talking/crying, I'm looking at you!
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